3

Some place were naturally depressing. Asrahar seemed to be one of those places.

It didn’t help that it seemed to have a past steeped in misery. For the last three years, it had been ruled by a military strongman, General Assad Muhammed, who took the country over in a bloody coup, deposing his former boss. On the good side, ethnic violence between the Hindus and the Muslims was at an all time low; the fact that Muhammed was so dictatorial and repressive that no one could hurt anyone without his approval was the bad side of this equation.

His regime was notoriously corrupt, and the police - generally referred to as “Muhammed’s men” - were as feared as the old KGB: a lot of people who went to prison were never seen again. But almost no one cared beyond Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch, especially since it was a tiny flyspeck of a country whose main export was opium, heroin, and Human rights violations. It was weird that Black Fire would make that their home base, especially since they fell squarely in the “mutants are a product of Western decadence” camp, but that just told him Black Fire had money. Muhammed and his men were happy to look the other way, as long as you greased their palms with lots and lots of cash.

There had been a rather large earthquake two months ago, killing several hundred people and doing a few million dollars in damage. Muhammed had strict rules for the aid agencies coming in - namely, he wanted a cut - and as a result, little had been done in the way of recovery. It was so sadly typical of countries with tinpot dictators that it hardly raised an eyebrow.

One of Lafayette’s people came to him with a briefcase and a knapsack, all of which had everything he needed to get past with his Logan Chandler identity, as well as a change of clothes. He didn’t know if that was a comment on what he was wearing, or simple thoughtfulness.

There weren’t a lot of flights directly to Rasiva - even though it was, in a purely technical sense, an “American ally”, after several kidnappings and killings of Western journalists and missionaries, it ended up on the “watch list” of several Western nations, and planes just didn’t go there much anymore. Cargo flights did, though - how else could they get the heroin out? - so that’s how he’d inevitably get there. Right now, he was on a first class flight to New Delhi, which is where he’d catch a lift on a cargo plane. It was typical of cargo planes in the area to offer seats to missionaries, aid workers, journalists, and the world’s stupidest “adventure” tourists.

First class was really nice. He wasn’t used to it - plush seats, lots of leg room, full sized drinks, staff that was actually nice to you. It was pretty cool, and he could see himself getting used to it.

At some point he must have nodded off, because he suddenly found himself laying in a bed, next to the warm and soft body of a woman. It could have been Faith or Mariko or Srina or Yasha (okay, not Yasha - Genevieve?); for some reason, he was unable to discern her smell, or see her face. But he didn’t really care, as he was warm and comfortable, and more than content to sleep.

Except there was a noise. A creak of a floorboard that made him sit up and look around, and that’s when he saw a door open up in a solid wall, its hinge squeaking like a coffin lid. After watching it for a moment, he got up and approached the door, wondering if something was coming out, or if it wanted him to go in. He wasn’t much for waiting, so he pushed the door open and went in.

He was briefly blinded by a bright flash of light, but then he found himself in an empty Way Station, the jukebox playing the Ramones’ “Pet Semetary”. It looked a bit more stark and sad now that it was empty, like all the freaky beings gave the place a certain spark of life and character it didn’t otherwise have. “Okay, I get it,” he said aloud. “You’re trying to send me a message. About what?”

He was hoping for a response, but he didn’t get one. Scowling, he went down the narrow corridor that led to the bathrooms, the back exit, and Bob’s office. He figured if Bob would be anywhere, it would be in his office, but as soon as he shoved his door open, he stumbled into another place.

This time he was in a tasteful, soothing Japanese style garden, one that looked familiar somehow. He stood on a gravel path before a koi pond, where he could see golden flashes of the fish as they swam just beneath the surface of the wind rippled water. Looking around, he saw a Buddhist temple, and understanding clicked into place. This was the Buddhist temple he visited in London, where he meditated so he could figure out how to fully unlock the Bob powers within him. It was heavily symbolic, with him having to drink water the color of Bob’s blood.

“Is that what this is about?” he asked thin air. “You locked up your powers in me, and I’ve got to unlock ‘em to use ‘em, is that it?” He sighed and shook his head. “What the hell’s wrong with just givin’ ‘em to me, huh? That’s just too simple for you, isn’t it?”

He crouched down beside the pond, and confirmed the water was clear. He couldn’t possibly expect him to drink from a koi pond anyways, could he? Unless he was in a perverse mood. Why lock the powers in him in the first place? He’d be the first to admit that he couldn’t handle all of Bob’s power, but some he could manage. Maybe Bob just wanted him to embrace Buddhism.

He kept expecting him to show up, but he hadn’t, and Logan got the feeling he wasn’t going to. He didn’t even have a rudimentary sense of his presence; he was alone here. Wasn’t that what he ultimately wanted? To finally be alone in his own head, to have nothing but his own mind. He thought about that while staring down into the pond, and realized - not for the first time - that that was actually kind of scary.

Suddenly he saw himself across the pond. He was dressed a bit differently, with combat boots, olive drab pants, a white tank top, and his once ubiquitous dog tags, but it was him. He crouched down to be at his eye level, and said, “This is familiar. You know this.”

What? This temple, this intelligence shit? He already knew that. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I am. Think beyond this.”

He grunted in annoyance. “We hate this cryptic shit. Just tell me what you mean.”

He stared at him, as if trying to decide if he was really him or not, and then -

Logan was jolted awake literally, just as the pilot came on to advise everyone to put their seatbelts back on, as they were experiencing turbulence. He groaned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, wondering what he’d missed. What had he done before - what was he supposed to know?

Déjà vu he couldn’t explain afflicted him so much that he pretty much ignored it. Had he been to Asrahar before? Well, that wouldn’t be overly surprising … but he had a feeling it couldn’t be that simple. Nothing ever was.

He glanced out the window at the dark sky, and wondered if he’d figure out what he was missing before he lived to regret it.

*****

Elias French was one strange man.

From the records they were able to find, he didn’t seem to exist until the early ‘90’s, where he made a fortune in the early internet boom, and got out just before the bubble burst. Wise investments kept him bringing in the dough, and he owned the biggest demon brothel in Southern California, as well as the only demon strip club in L.A., Exotica. He also had a controlling interest in a soft core production company, Dark Desires Limited, which produced adult films for both Human and demon markets, and he seemed to be famous, although for what wasn’t clear. He had a Malibu beach home between two celebrities, and a Google search found photos of him at the occasional film premiere, where he appeared - for all intents and purposes - Human. He was a doughy looking man with a preference for white suits, ala Tom Wolfe, occasionally paired with a brightly patterned shirt, and his face was soft and round, almost avuncular. He had a close cropped mustache/beard combo, and a fringe o! f brown hair that was a slightly darker color than his stubble, and his bald pate was usually covered by a white fedora style hat. In most of the movie premiere pics, he had a big Hollywood smile, revealing blindingly white teeth and perfect caps, and you’d think there’d be something comforting about him if not soothing in his general anonymity. But there wasn’t, and it took Angel a minute to figure out what the problem was. It was his eyes - they were dead.

They were these small, hard spots in his broad face, piss holes in snow, so reflective in their emptiness they could have been made of glass. They were shark eyes in a Human face, and they were enough to give him a bit of a shiver at the base of his spine. Was he really a demon, or was he just a Human predator? Which would make him feel better?

Giles came back during their research, and once he saw a picture of him, he thought he looked familiar, but couldn’t place it. He’d gone off to do his own personal search, leaving him and Faith alone again. Her frustration with surfing the web and coming up mostly empty was starting to show. “We have his address,” she pointed out. “Why don’t we just pay him a visit and make him talk?”

“And be unprepared? We could be walking into a trap.”

“So? We’re good at getting out of ‘em.”

True or not, he didn’t want to risk it, especially after losing so many people. There was something that just didn’t jibe here, and it wasn’t just his lack of records previous to 1990, or his dead eyes; something about this just felt wrong. After all this time, he had to trust his instincts; sometimes it was the only useful part of the vampire in him.

Giles came back into the office, holding an old leather book that smelled of age, and the crow’s feet gathered at the corners of his eyes stood out in relief. He knew before Giles said it, “We have a problem.”

“Don’t we always?” Faith countered, as Giles laid the book open on Brendan’s desk.

The book Giles had was a Watcher’s journal, and the page he had opened it to had a small black and white photograph of a man in the top right hand corner. He had a thin mustache, no beard, but it was clear it was French; the dead eyes were a giveaway. “This man isn’t Elias French - he’s Elijah Finch, an actor from the nineteen hundreds who was so desperate for fame and immortality that he made a deal with demon Ays for both. He received them, but the problem was Ays demanded a payment for continuing to give Finch what he wanted.”

“Let me guess,” Angel interjected. “Human lives.”

“No, just Human souls, and an occasional heart. From what we can tell, Finch just killed people for the fun of it.”

“Lovely.” Angel scanned the entry, which was written in a more stilted, formal version of English, reminding him how much he disliked the late 1800’s. It probably didn’t help that that was around the time frame he was cursed.

Faith scoffed, tucking her hair behind her ears. “So he’s a demon possessed, serial killing, old fame whore. Should be easy to take care of.”

Giles shook his head, his lips pressed into a tight line. He didn’t like what he had to say. “No, it’s not. As long as their bargain holds, Finch - or French, whatever he calls himself - is indeed immortal. We can’t kill him; I’m fairly certain he can’t even be hurt. This Watcher, Francine Barrie, tried to vanquish him with mysticism, but that backfired on her.”

“Backfired as in it killed her instead?” Angel guessed.

Giles nodded. “It … wasn’t pretty. Finch moved across the globe, changing his identity every now and again so as not to garner too much suspicion, not only about his strange fame and ageless appearance, but about the trail of bodies he left behind. Speaking of which, I found this while I was reading Francine’s journal.”

Giles pulled a piece of paper out from the back of the book, and Angel saw it was a computer print out before he read the contents. There were several newspaper headlines about a series of murders in the Southern California area, done by someone dubbed the “Loveless Killer”. Faith, reading over his shoulder, asked, “Why Loveless?”

“Because the first body was found in a Dumpster off Loveless Street. It seems to follow the pattern of previous killings attributed to Finch - heart removed, and signs of … mutilation.”

Faith pointed at one headline and sub headline that was slightly different from the rest on the list. “This calls him the S&M Killer.”

“Yes, well … I’m afraid the mutilations seem related to that. Finch seems to have some … disturbing perversions.”

“Vanilla isn’t enough for him?” Although it sounded like a question, Faith didn’t mean it that way.

Angel put the read out aside, swallowing back a general distaste that stung like bile in his mouth. “Are these sex crimes?”

Giles grimaced and looked down at the floor, straightening his glasses in a nervous gesture. “Umm … going by past occurrence, it would seem to be.”

“Eww,” Faith commented, wrinkling her nose. “Necrophilia?”

“Amongst other things, yes,” Giles reluctantly admitted.

“Okay, that’s it,” Faith said, heading towards the corridor and presumably the weapons locker. “You know, I can roll with kinks, I’m cool with that, but I draw the line at some of this shit. Necrophilia is just … eww. I can’t even imagine what kind of mommy issues you gotta have to do something that sick.”

“It’s not a “kink”; it’s a full blown perversion and psychosis.” Giles said in disgust. Clearly he was holding back details that were more repulsive than what little he’d hinted at.

He knew he’d regret it, but Angel went to the L.A. Times home page and did a search for the article on the latest “Loveless” killing. The article that came up contained few details on the actual killing - the police always held those back, so they had something that could help them identify the real killer, and make copycat killings pretty obvious - but as soon as he saw the victim and her stats, he couldn’t help but groan inwardly. “Fifteen,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. It made sense, of course - the younger the soul, the more of a “delicacy” it was to some demons. Although some liked the “tradition” of virgins, all they really wanted was a “fresh” soul.

Faith stopped in the doorway, and looked back at him sharply.

Giles sighed, and he almost seemed disappointed that he looked it up. “The latest victim, Susan Reyes, was a fifteen year old prostitute.”

She seemed to take a moment to process that, then her look turned savage. “Okay, that’s fucking it. A child molester and a necrophiliac? Tell me you got a chainsaw in that armory of yours. I’m gonna take his dick off before I kill him.”

“I understand your feelings, I share them, but he can’t be hurt,” Giles replied wearily. “Not while his deal with Ays is still in place.”

“So we break the deal with Ays, or we drive it out of him.” Angel closed the web browser, because all it was doing was making him angry, and he needed to have a dispassionate focus right now.

“Drive him out?” Faith repeated. “What, like exorcism?”

Giles snorted in distain. “Bloody performances, that’s what those are. Holy water only works on vampires, and then it only burns them. It doesn’t drive demons out, and certainly reading them the Lord’s Prayer in Latin isn’t going to do anything. Except perhaps make them laugh.”

Angel knew he was right. There were certain rituals that could expel demons, but usually those were astonishingly weak demons to begin with. The stronger the demon, the harder they were to kick out. “There are spells we can use to trap it.”

Giles rubbed his forehead with his palm, a rare nervous gesture that was frightening for its simple scarcity and sudden appearance now. “Ays is an elemental demon. No spell is going to work on him while he’s a part of Finch. Francine discovered that the hard way.”

An elemental demon meant he was tied to this plane. He could displace almost any other demon if he wanted to - he could take over a vampire or a Berserker if he really wanted to.

“Shit!” Faith kicked the door jamb in frustration, and left a dent. The only comfort was if she hadn’t held back, she’d have collapsed the whole frame.

“There has to be a way,” Angel told her, or maybe he was telling himself. He honestly wasn’t sure. “Can we lure him out of Finch?”

Giles pondered that, concern and distaste making the lines on his face stand out. He looked tired, as if just the thought of a man like Finch had drained something vital out of him, and he couldn’t say he blamed him. The demon was only responsible for some of this; the Finch part, the Human half, was responsible not only for some of it as well, but possibly the most stomach turning part. He tortured and slaughtered fellow Human beings because it was the only thing that gave him pleasure anymore. Finally, Giles said, “We might be able to. If we can discover what Ays wants - above his deal with Finch - it should be easy to lure him out. Once out, Finch will be extremely vulnerable, and Ays might be easier to contain.”

Faith ran a hand through her hair, and came back into the room, placing her hands on her hips like she couldn’t believe how long it had taken to get them to this point. “Fine, great. What the hell does the freakazoid want?”

Giles didn’t have to think about it for long. “Souls. But Finch has been supplying him that with great regularity, so I don’t see how that would work.”

“We offer him a lot?” She said hesitantly. “More than he could?”

Giles grimaced as he considered that, but he’d already started to shake his head. Giving a soul eater lots of souls would only work if it was greedy or starving, and it had been with Finch for well over one hundred years - it had probably had ample opportunities to leave him behind for greener pastures. No, if they wanted to lure Ays out, appealing to his avarice probably wouldn’t work.

But what if they offered him something he couldn’t otherwise get? Something Finch couldn’t give him, something he’d have to get himself? Appeal to his vanity by offering him a rare delicacy. All demons had some sense of vanity, save for Persaids, who simply couldn’t have it due to their abilities as a negative energy sponge.

He knew what he had to do. But how they’d go about it was another matter entirely. “I know what we can offer him,” he finally said.

Giles and Faith both stared at him in curiosity, although Faith looked a tad more annoyed. “What?”

“My soul.”

From the looks they were giving him, this was going to be an extremely hard sell.

4

By the time he actually landed in Asrahar, he was ready to kill something.

Now he knew the first class trip to New Delhi was a set up, a way of making up in advance for the shitty ride in the cargo plane. And shitty it was - it had no air conditioner, and it seats were little more than jump seats, little fold down ones that put your ass to sleep after ten minutes. And you couldn’t walk around, because the plane seemed to hit every goddamn patch of turbulence it could find, so it was like being inside a very large salt shaker that a giant was constantly smacking because there was a clog in the top. Or something like that - it felt like his brain had been rattled straight out of his ears.

So when the clumsy plane squealed and screamed to a stop on the broken tarmac of what passed for the Rasiva airport (part of it had been destroyed when a surface to air missile meant for a plane misfired and hit the terminal; it had yet to be rebuilt, and functioned with half of it a regular, Third World style airport, while the other half was cordoned off rubble), he didn’t see it so much as disembarking but escaping. Before the co-pilot/ cargo handler could come to the back, Logan had already lowered the hatch and got the fuck out of there.

The heat was sweltering, the air humid enough that it felt like someone was holding a damp rag over his face, but the worst part was the smell. It wasn’t just exhaust from the plane, or the old but lingering smell of burnt wood, glass, chemicals, and flesh from the old airport explosion; it was raw sewage and death, the smell of a country that was dying an acre at a time. The sky was a hazy sepia, as if he’d arrived just before or right after a sand storm, The air was full of dust that he could taste - he paused to spit two times before he even left the tarmac - and he wondered if they had included a bandana in his luggage. He could tie it over his face.

He never would have gotten through what passed for “customs” if strings hadn’t been pulled, but obviously they had. Someone in the government had slipped Muhammed’s men a hefty payment, and because of that, they just looked at all his papers and rubber stamped them with the boredom of people given a job as a punishment. They made insulting remarks about him and journalists in particular, and Logan pretended he didn’t speak the language so they could talk freely. As he left, he told them he didn’t really care for other journalists either, but in their own language. They stared after him in slack jawed shock, and it made him smile. There, he felt a little better now - but he still wanted to beat the shit out of something as soon as possible.

He didn’t think he’d find a taxi, as the “airport” was abandoned, save for the poor sacks of shit that had to be there whenever a cargo plane landed. But there was what passed for a taxi out front; a battered looking, pale blue Honda with a broken left headlight. The driver asked, in halting English, “You want ride?”

He told him, in his native tongue, that he did, and got in the cramped back seat. He pulled the book out of his knapsack to see where it was he was supposed to go. Someone - and he thought it was Abrams - had included reading material, namely a dog-earred French language edition of Albert Camus’ “The Plague”. Inside, acting as a bookmark, was a piece of paper that told him exactly where he wanted to go. He told the driver Hotel Eurasia, and he figured that that was probably one of the few hotels still in existence in Rasiva. With a name like that, it was probably a holdover from when England had colonized a good chunk of this part of the world, and probably was an old Victorian style edifice gone to seed. How had it escaped being bombed? Maybe Muhammed wanted one thing that just might appeal to tourists.

He put the book away and looked out the window at the sad, broken scenery, the wasteland of a landscape ravaged by war and grinding poverty. This was a country bound to break your heart if you started to care, so he made a mental note to try really hard not to, or he’d never be able to sleep again.

And yet, while he had braced himself for that, the explosion caught him completely off guard.