* * * * * * * * * * ** * *

The young man pushed past the guards at the gate, leather sandals slapping against his feet as he ran across the courtyard. "Ziusudra!" he shouted, turning to see from which passageway the priest would emerge.

Escorted by a servant, the temple priest hurried into the courtyard and stood before his friend. "What is it, Sargon?" he asked.

"Ashur’s dead! Dead!" Sargon yelled. "The wind rose, screeched, then he was dead."

"How is this possible?" Ziusudra asked, then grabbed the other man’s arm. "A wind, you said? You saw them bury Shahmat?"

"Yes, I saw it with my own eyes."

"Entrance must have been denied," the priest mumbled to himself. "She has to be the one killing Siduri’s family."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, she loved you, you married someone else. If she’s been refused entrance to Kurungi –"

"She’s ekimmu," Sargon finished for him. "What do we do?"

The priest took his friend by the shoulders. "Take Siduri and her family out of the city. Go to one of the royal resorts. Bring Siduri back here later. I’ll have something worked out by then."

"When?"

"Give me six days. Go, hurry."

The moment Sargon left to do as instructed, Ziusudra sent one of his personal servants out to purchase three small, clay vessels from the potter. They had to be soft for the cuneiform to be carved, then they would be painted and fired before the prince returned.

The young priest entered his scriptorium and pulled down the tablets he had been working on months before his appointment in the temple had been approved. As an apprentice, he’d learned the magic handed down to his father’s ancestors by the god Enki himself. Surely one of those incantations or spells would aid his friend, fifth son of the present king, in his combat against an ekimmu. This ekimmu, the vengeful spirit of the woman scorned by Sargon, now sought to kill Siduri’s family as recompense for the love she felt had been stolen from her in life. He stacked the clay tablets on the table and began to read through them.

"Do you really think you can rid us of her?" a subdued female voice asked.

Ziusudra glanced up from the table at his best friend’s young wife. "Siduri," said, saddened by her grief-stricken appearance. "I’ll try my best. You have my word. I’m sorry about your brother."

"Shahmat, if indeed it is her, is targeting those members of my family who are married or about to be married. Ashur was to be married in spring."

"I know. She wants revenge because Sargon didn’t love her." He walked up to the small woman and cupped her cheek in his hand. "I have a plan, princess. We’ll entrap the ekimmu somehow, and then you two will be happy again, as it has been ordained."

Siduri moved to one side and hugged herself against a sudden chill. "What if it doesn’t work?"

"Would I do this if I didn’t believe it would work?" She looked at him askance, frowning. He went over to her again and lifted her chin. "Is my father not the greatest of all en-priests in the court?"

"Yes, yes," she agreed. "And you are his prized pupil. Fine, Ziusudra, but only since Sargon agrees."

"You will not regret it, Siduri. Now, leave the city, make love to your husband, and come back in six days."

~~~*~~~

"Don’t get me wrong. I like Lydia, have since she got here," Angel started.

"But?"

"She’s, well," he hedged, "She’s –"

"’Touchy-feely,’ to quote Cordelia?"

"Yeah, that’ll do it."

"Entire family’s like that. It can be a terrible shock when your own background is devoid of such physical affection." Angel shot him a glance then turned his eyes back to the road when Wesley kept his own averted. "There’s construction ahead," Wesley interjected, "so you’ll have to circumvent the block. Mary’s the worst. She was a sickly child and has this over the top melodramatic flair. Drives Lydia balmy. They all call her Bramette." Angel glanced at Wesley again. "After Bram Stoker – theatrical background, vampires and supernatural on the brain," he explained.

"Just how many of them are there? You know them all?"

"The parents, five children, all but Lydia married, and I’m certain a multitude of grandchildren by now. Luckily, I’ve been spared meeting any of the grandchildren. Second right. Endured a month of intemperate pampering in Ireland, LongVac, around the time of Mike’s wedding."

"A while month being hugged and mollycoddled?" Angel shuddered. "Long Vac?"

"Summer holidays. Lydia’s mother insisted. Of course, it rained almost the entire time. Otherwise, a remarkably wonderful holiday, really. Turn right here. Back entrance to the garage."

Angel parked the car and followed Wesley to the elevator. Wesley seemed to be deep in thought, so Angel decided not to inquire about the unexpected invitation. He still wasn’t sure why Lydia wanted him to see this precious package that had arrived from Saudi Arabia. What did he know or care about Saudi Arabia, anyway? He’d never even been there – alive or dead.

At their knock, Lydia flung the door open and squealed, jumping into Wesley’s arms. Angel now knew what had so pre-occupied Wesley in the elevator: mental preparation and fortification. How these two emotionally polar opposites stayed "just friends," when it was obvious to everyone else that –

Lydia interrupted Angel’s thoughts by dragging him into the apartment.

"I am so very pleased you’re here, Angel," she said as she linked her arm through his and escorted him inside. "I need you to witness the genius’ stunning defeat. And as payment, I bought you some Guinness. It’s on the table."

"Young lady," Wesley said. "I sincerely doubt –"

"Lydia," Angel stopped and chuckled. "What are you up to?"

"You’ll see. Stand here," she ordered, placing Angel with his back to the dining room table. She grabbed a can and handed it to him. "To your health. Now, watch the rogue demon hunter squirm," she whispered, before turning an impish grin to Wesley.

"Let us see, what was that wager? If you win, I take you out for dinner at any pathetic restaurant you choose. Knowing you, probably to some pub for chips and steak and kidney pie." She waited for Wesley to roll his eyes at her insult, then continued. "But if I win, then you shall take me out for Thai followed by Moulin Rouge so I can publicly drool over Ewan McGregor." She batted her eyelids at Angel. "You’re witnessing this exchange, hmm?"

Wesley grunted in disgust and crossed his arms over his chest. "Whatever, Lydia. Some of us have demons –" His eyes widened as Lydia directed Angel to a nearby chair and, in a gesture normally seen only on television game shows, waved her hand in front of the small wooden crate propped up on the dining room table. Inside the crate, surrounded by styrofoam packaging maggots, was a cardboard box. Tightly packed in styrofoam specially cut out for the trip were three small, earthenware containers.

"Oh. Good. Lord."

He inched closer to the table and bent over the package, curtailing his urge to pick one up and examine it more closely. "You said one."

"I know. That’s what they found the day I was there. But Mike told me that when the boy took it out, he only got the corner of cloth and the others rolled further down into the cave. They were in a bag but that seems to have not weathered as well."

"Good God, Lyds. These are phenomenal."

"I know," she said, her voice threatening to erupt in another squeal. "Look at the painting. I’ve only seen the one, and for a short while mind you, but I’m fairly positive it’s Nergal. The cuneiform talks of protecting a warrior from something. It’s awfully idiosyncratic writing. Almost like it was done in haste."

"Which is why Niall gave it to you."

"Niall?" Angel asked, looking between the two for an answer.

Wesley stood up and sighed at the name. "An archaeologist friend of Lydia’s from Oxford. He’s a lecturer–"

"Reader, now."

"Good God. He’s a Reader? Bloody hell."

"Niall?" Angel prompted.

"Wes doesn’t like him, never did. But that’s because he slept with me before Wesley did."

"That most assuredly is not–"

Angel laughed. "Really? Wesley’s jealous?"

"Oh, indeed. Well, that and the only reason Niall Smuts got firsts in Ugaritic was because I got Wes to tutor him."

"And now the bloody prat is a Reader."

"At Cambridge."

"You’re obviously enjoying this, Dr. Wentworth."

"Oh, immensely, Mr. Wyndham-Pryce." She moved in front of him and, stretching onto her tiptoes, grabbed his lapels, pulling him within an inch of her. "Because once again you are going to save his hoity-toity ass. And I get to see Ewan, because that is Sumerian temple pottery."

~~~*~~~

"Well?" Fred asked at Cordelia’s urging.

"As obvious as the nose on Gunn’s face," Angel confirmed.

"Don’t make cracks about my nose. Or I’ll crack on your teeth."

"Come on, spill," Cordelia demanded. "You were over there for three hours yesterday."

"Absolutely nothing. Lydia gave me some Guinness, then sat me down. I felt as invisible as Dennis and Erin. Wesley ooh’ed and ah’ed over some Mesopotamian crockery and Lydia ooh’ed and ah’ed over the books Wesley’s going to take over today. But that’s all; nothing happened."

"Argh!" Cordelia threw her hands up in disgust. "Let’s lock them inside a cupboard or something!"

"Well, Wesley did get jealous about some guy Lydia slept with."

Cordelia spun around, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Jealous?" she repeated. "Jealous is good."

~~~2~~~

Ziusudra stared the wax tablets before him: two of the three had registers of cuneiform stretching across their width; the third was completely blank. The priest picked up the second of the vessels, and returned to the task of inscribing the entreaty to Nergal to protect the young prince in his battle against those who sought to destroy his family. The first vessel had already been engraved and painted, asking the principal goddesses of the heavens and the underworlds to protect the young bride from her adversary and grant her the many children she so desired. Those two were easy, standard-issue benedictions and supplications. But the third was beyond the ordinary and would have to be carefully worded.

"Sir," the priest’s chamberlain interrupted.

Ziusudra put the clay pot aside. "What is the situation in the royal household?"

"Precarious. One of the princess’s slaves was found dead. She collapsed shortly after the couple and the rest of their entourage left. Those remaining are terrified. Plus, there has been extensive wind damage to their quarters."

"Fine. See to the slave’s burial. Have one of the apprentice priests tend to it. After you have dispatched that job, you are to go to my father’s residence and tell him I have sent you there until next week."

"Yes, but–"

"Just tell him it’s Shahmat."

~~~*~~~

"We concur that that is Nergal, the Sumerian war god," Wesley said, frustration obvious in his pacing and tone of voice. "But what has war or plagues to do with this other fellow? Ereshkigal, on the reverse side of the vessel in your hands, I understand. They were wed. But who the blazes is that last one? It’s impossible to recognize him. And those eccentric cuneiform –"

"Stop fretting. Even when we finish the translations for two of the three, we’re farther than anyone else. That’s why Niall sent them. Give yourself some leeway, Wesley. There are no demons to fight here. Just clay pots. Now, breathe easy and reevaluate. We’re agreed this, across from Ereshkigal, is Inanna?"

"According what we infer to be the supplication, yes. Which means that particular vessel," he said, pointing to the cylinder in Lydia’s right hand, "is either to prove love or to enhance fertility. A test between two women? The vessel with Nergal must have been for the one either testing or being tested, since the god himself was tested. Maybe he was the prize. But who is this last one? And what’s he got to do with harlots?"

"Whores, and women, and gods, oh, my!" She giggled, then hugged Wesley when he sat back down with a groan. "Could it be poetry? You know how clueless you are with poetry."

"Very amusing, Dorothy. I’ll have you know I did quite well in poetry."

"Oh, yeah. Childe, Shakespeare, Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Chivalry, unrequited love, guilt, and all that nonsense."

"You’re as frustrating as an albatross and millennia old pottery combined, Lydia Wentworth. Now, hand me those books, please." Lydia reached to her right. "No, the Assyrian dictionaries. You get the ANET back out and let’s see if we can discern what the priests could have possibly wanted these four gods to do."

"Ohhhh, hang about. I’ve a brilliant idea." Lydia met his curious gaze as she handed him the requested volumes. "Maybe it’s pornography and that’s why we can’t figure it out. Well, why you can’t. Niall, on the other hand, had the most extensive collection of videos."

"For the love of –" he groaned. "Lydia, please."

~~~*~~~

Siduri usually took great pleasure in the well-tended gardens for which her family was famous. Normally, to be out of the city, away from the intrusive eyes of the rest of the royal court would be a godsend, but to be forced to flee ahead of death cast a pall over the reprieve. Emerging from the intricate labyrinth of flowers and approaching the riverbank, she lay back on the grass and basked in the warmth of the spring sun.

"It’ll be over, soon," Sargon said, joining her, running his fingers through her sun-lit hair, marveling in how elegantly the copper strands melded with the ebony.

"Soon," Siduri repeated.

"Ziusudra said your family is safe here."

"Are they? What if your ex-lover can travel beyond the confines of her earthly home?"

"She cannot. And I never loved her."

"Do not lie to me, Sargon. You are my husband, but I am not an idiot."

"I never said you were. However, you’re the wife the gods chose for me, and you’re the one I love. Not Shahmat. I never loved her, and the gods knew it."

"I doubt she thought that when you slept with her."

"That was my right as prince. I never promised her more than that."

"I don’t care what you promised her. She killed herself. My family is now suffocating, one by one." Siduri stood up and towered over her husband. "You are going to be a father before the end of winter, but my child will have no family if your priest does not find a way to rid us of this evil spirit."

~~~*~~~

Wesley looked out the window and stared at the meticulously manicured lawn. Why they cut the grass so short even during a drought is beyond me, he mused. That portion of his mind which continued its preoccupation with landscaping while the rest of it corrected the rote translation, registered a flash of sun-lit auburn. He turned his head and noticed Lydia walking along the gravel path, next to the wisteria, hand in hand with an unfamiliar man, a ridiculously expensive camera slung over his shoulder. Their conversation was warmly animated: Lydia waving her hands and chatting excitedly, the other person smiling and laughing, their loving embrace before he departed the complex.

"Bloody shame you never get anywhere with her. She’s something, let me–"

"Get back to work. That passage is crucial."

"Right. You never did say why you were doing this for me."

"A favor. One shouldn’t look gift horses in the mouth, Smuts." Wesley returned his attention to the window as Lydia …

"Wesley? Are you even on planet earth?"

"What? Oh, yes. Right. Inanna. Love. Fertility. War."

Lydia laughed. "Where were you? That wasn’t what I asked. Besides, you’re working on Nergal’s vessel."

"Sorry, Lyds love, tad distracted. What did you ask?"

She gazed at him and sighed softly. "Never mind. So, about –"

"Lydia, if I think on it, I’ll recall what you said, so repeat it and save me the effort."

"It’s truly not important, terribly trivial," she said, returning to the cuneiform on the pot in her hands.

Wesley narrowed his eyes and processed the missed conversation. "Fine. I’ll ask you, then." He put the first vessel back into the styrofoam packing. "Why aren’t you married? Not met Mr. Right yet?"

She kept her pencil moving, absently copying the ancient symbols so that Wesley could confirm them before they moved on to the third vessel that had eluded them thus far. Knowing he would sit sullenly until she answered, she put her pencil down but kept her focus intent on the clay artifact while she set it reverently on the foam cushion.

"No. I met him, but he had other plans. Satisfied?"

"Other plans? And he couldn’t fit you into them? Do I know this dolt?"

Lydia snapped her latex gloves off. "Want some tea?" While Wesley stared in confusion, she rose from the table and went into the kitchen. Filling the kettle with water, she took deep, even breaths and tried to think of any topic that would divert his attention. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she repeated, waiting for the water to come to a boil.

He reached over and snapped the burner off. "Lydia."

"So, what kind of tea do you want? I do have Earl Grey, of course, as well as –"

"I don’t want tea," he said and taking hold of her hand.

Lydia chewed on her lower lip. She snatched her hand from his, then moved to take her grandmother’s favorite blue teapot from the cupboard. In silence, she warmed the pot, then put two tea bags inside. She reached for the kettle, only to find his hand holding it down on the burner.

"You had your destiny," she answered softly. "To protect the future. The great Watcher’s Council. Remember that disgusting sandstone mansion in the Cotswolds? You started to drift away in my honors year, and I realized I might hold you back. I didn’t fit in."

"You had no right, Lydia."

"I had every right!"

"You lied to me," he told her. "You said you needed to concentrate on your thesis work."

"And you started seriously studying to be a Watcher. You poured your heart and soul had into those books, the magic, the training. It was everything to you. I was in the way."

"No, you weren’t. Besides, you were only twenty and I was –" He matched her defiant expression. "I was older."

She sniggered. "You were always older. Still are. Older than Angel sometimes."

"Lydia, you should have talked to me. Not decided for me."

"I know that now. I mucked up royally. But I saw those people you were with, those others who wanted what you wanted, had what you wanted, and none of them had partners."

"What are you talking about? Watchers marry all the time."

"None that wanted to be Slayers’ Watchers. And we both can deduce why." She grabbed the kettle and poured the lukewarm water into the teapot, trying to contain the emotions she had buried once before. "Then you disappeared, you know."

"You found me."

"Oh, yeah," she said, then faced him with a wry smile. "Lydia the Irish wolfhound. Woof, woof."

"Lyds." He wove his fingers through her hair and titled her head back to look into her eyes. "I’m no longer a Watcher."

"I’m no longer twenty."

"Thank God." He let go of her hair and slid his hand down her arms, to grab her hands. "No longer as ridiculously thin, either."

She followed him as he walked backward out of the kitchen and down the hallway. "I never heard you complain before."

"My, ah, mind was usually pre-occupied with other thoughts."

"Yeah? Such as?"

He grinned and pushed the bedroom door open. "Allow me to show you."

~~~*~~~