~~ Tuesday, the 19th~~

There are times when one must question the capricious sense of irony the Powers That Be possess.

Or perhaps our plight is in actuality funny and I'm just not getting the punch line.

For example, today – a resplendent day for those of us with bills accruing beyond our means and jobs with little, or to put it more accurately, no income-generating work – I decided to delay the inevitable account keeping and take in the beauty of Southern California. It was on my stroll along the esplanade that I happened across a man, frail and distraught, sitting on a bench contemplating the vista. I should like to think that Fate brought me to him in order that I might be of assistance, but in fact, the seat next to him was the closest to the vendor.

I purchased a hot dog, sat down and whinged to myself about the rubbery texture of overcooked processed meat and the vinegary aftertaste of American mustard. I must have spoken aloud, for the man, whose name I later discovered is Robert Andersen, chuckled and said how much he would miss the indistinguishable taste of Sam's hot dogs. He looked me square in the eye and laughed again. It was then that I heard the phlegmy rattle in his breathing and noticed the pallor of his skin, the visible loss of weight and atrophy of muscle.

I must have let my guard down and shown my shock and dismay, for he added, "Yes, I'm dying. No one knows why. No one can help. This time next week, I'll be gone, and she'll never know."

Immediately puts one's own plight into perspective.

After making my apologies and introductions, we spoke for a while, about whatever mundane things struck his fancy, pausing whenever Robert coughed or struggled to catch his breath. I should amend that last statement. In light of his inexplicable illness, nothing is mundane for Robert anymore.

I lost track of time listening to his poetic and poignant descriptions, for when I next glanced at the horizon, it was ablaze with the setting sun. I turned to Robert and offered my assistance in finding his friend, the one he mentioned at the onset of our conversation, explaining that I was an investigator (of a sort) and that nothing pressing was in my caseload at this time.

Actually, there's nothing at all in the caseload, but that is neither here nor there.

His mouth in a soft but distressed smile, his brown eyes glazed with pain and painkillers, he corrected me. "She's more than a friend. Libby's the love of my life." He took a ragged, deep breath, then continued, "If you could find her, I'd appreciate it. I have money, believe it or not. I can pay whatever you charge."

I nodded, told him we could meet here, tomorrow, next to Sam's vending cart, thus giving him time to bring photographs, addresses, anything that would help me in the search.

He shook his head and replied, "She has no address. Not really." He sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm tired and need to get home. I'll bring what I can, but I'll understand if you choose tomorrow not to take the case. Most people can't handle the impossible."

He rose before I could venture explanation or encouragement, turned to shake my hand, then collapsed.

After the paramedics came for Robert yesterday and whisked him away to Memorial, I went home and studied all who, or what, would stoop to use love as an excuse to poison someone. I came up with a long list of the usual suspects, then narrowed the field further by cross-referencing them with Robert's symptoms.

Bubkes, as Sam Spade would say. Nothing matched; there were always clauses that were negated by one or more of Robert's symptoms.

I visited Robert this morning and, much to his surprise, told him I was ready to begin. Since the ward sister who guarded him with an iron fist and a demeanour straight out of Roald Dahl granted us only ten minutes to visit, he gave me his address and free reign to scour his apartment. In return, he asked if I could bring him a particular photograph taken at the Santa Monica pier, a file folder from his desk and his Fil-o-fax. I promised to return later that afternoon with the requested items. However, after hazarding a glance at Dragon Lady, I amended that to tomorrow morning.

As Robert's wellbeing has deteriorated dramatically since yesterday, I conscripted Gunn's assistance. Angel overheard and volunteered as well, despite the blazing daylight. Gunn drove us to the West LA address, where I convinced the doorman we were there to pick up items Robert had requested. Visibly saddened by my report of Robert's failing health, he granted us access into the residents' underground parking and offered to escort us into the apartment. Obviously, he had not seen the keys in my hand.

Robert's flat is meticulous, as one might expect from an accountant, if one were into such stereotypes and clichés. However, Robert appears to be an exceptionally successful accountant. The rich mahogany bookcases lining the walls of the living room and surrounding the expensive Bose home theatre system made my wallet scream with jealousy. Makes my décor look like a cheap set discarded after a failed West End production.

From a quick perusal of his shelves, it is safe to say he has a predilection for science fiction and fantasy, with works ranging from Beowulf to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to Lovecraft, as well as complete collections of Zelazny, Gaiman and Pratchett. Not bad, really. Of course, amongst those are a plethora of texts concerning tax laws, inheritance laws, valuations and other subjects I cannot begin to fathom.

Maybe that's why I can never balance our records. That and persons, living and otherwise, who forget to tell me when they take petty cash.

Scattered throughout the home are photographs. Most are older pictures of family; one would assume they are now departed, judging from the style of clothing and patina on the photos. But among those are photographs of one woman who must be Robert's Libby: she is by far the most extraordinary woman I have ever seen in my life. She has a lustrous mane of chocolate brown hair, radiant with highlights of copper and gold, not unlike Cordelia's when it was longer and darker. Her eyes are a striking pale blue colour. She stands with confidence and ease, emanating an aura of inherent sensuality. Her smile is captivating, dazzling in its brightness and with sincere affection for the man often standing next to her.

As absolutely exquisite as the woman appeared, Robert was the opposite – nondescript. Except that he, too, was clearly enamoured.

And although it is apparent that he is the same Robert now languishing away in hospital, the difference is heart wrenching. I showed a number of the photographs to Angel and Gunn and explained that the once heavy-set, six-foot-three (he seemed at least as tall as I) man with the receding hairline and thick glasses was my client. Our client, I was corrected.

While Gunn stared at the woman's picture, extolling her virtues with his own peculiar Americanisms, Angel popped a photograph out of its frame and inspected it more closely.

"This Libby," Angel said callously, "is a succubus. She's loved him to death and she's already seeking out another victim. It's her nature. Give it up, Wesley." He then abruptly left.

Gunn returned the photograph to its frame and watched while I digested the news and wrestled with indecision and the realisation that I should have recognised her for what she was. Eventually, he told me to do what I think best, but asked, "If, like he said, it's her nature, maybe Robert's better off not knowing?"

I, myself, am not certain.

I went to Memorial, only to be told by Dragon Lady that Robert had been transferred to a nearby hospice. Along the short drive there, I prepared what I would say and how I would tell him that I felt Libby would not be found.

When I entered the room, he looked to have a bit more colour, but was definitely in discomfort. He seemed pleased to see me, which made my predicament all the more disheartening.

I commented on his apartment, the choice of reading material, his home entertainment system, which still astounds me, then hesitated before continuing with my explanation. Better to get it out in the open, I reckoned, and did so.

"I know," he replied. He then proceeded to tell me his story, which I will relate here as well as I can. Since it is now officially an AI case, much to Angel's curiously obstreperous, but largely ignored, disagreement, Cordelia has agreed to transcribe the interview (I had thought ahead for once and took my recorder and extra batteries) and will put a copy in the office file.

Until two weeks ago when he fell terminally ill, Robert worked as the junior-most senior partner in a large accounting firm, near a Border's bookstore. To quote Robert, he "happened one day to be bored beyond believability and stopped in to look for something enticing." Out of habit, he went for the tax references, but stopped short when he spied the most astonishing woman he'd ever seen in his life, stocking books in the fantasy section. When she noticed his attention, Robert claims he was drooling, she smiled and asked if he needed help. He said he fled in panic, but returned daily after work to see if he could catch a glimpse of her again.

He did, and every night she left in the company of a different man. According to Robert, they were of the same ilk: wealthy, attractive, well read and "effervescent". Not at all like himself, he professes. Nevertheless, he continued to "shop" for new books, eventually rediscovering his adolescent enjoyment of the fantasy genre.

One day, five months after he started his daily visits, she again came up to him, and handed him the latest in the Goodkind series he had started the month before. She introduced herself (unnecessarily as it turned out) and asked him if he actually had a chance to read all the books he'd bought in the past weeks. Robert maintains that instead of answering her, he invited her out for coffee. He said she grinned, looked toward the in-store coffee shop, then said she'd prefer ice cream.

That was nine months ago, and they've been together ever since. Robert said that for the first month, they met once or twice after work, and went for a light dinner. Typically, she made excuses, claiming shift work, and left around nine o'clock.

One night, she stayed.

Two months or so later, Robert awoke and found Libby in the living room, crying. Distraught that he had somehow hurt her, he pressed her to find the reason. She explained that because she'd been lax in her calling, she was growing weak. Robert thought she meant drugs or prostitution, but she explained that she was a succubus and her nature demanded she seek out victims nightly. She has a "type" to which she is drawn, and that was the reason she chose to work at a city bookstore.

The problem was not that she couldn't find victims; they abounded. The problem was that she had fallen in love with Robert.

Robert suggested that she simply find victims, and return to him when she was done. He still understood nothing of succubi, despite her attempts to edify him, and so, through his love-blinded perspective, he saw little wrong with the arrangement. And thus they carried on for another three months. She always returned to Robert, no matter what the hour.

Until she stopped leaving the house after dinner.

Robert said that her answer, when he questioned her, was that she had no appetite to venture beyond her home, which by this time was Robert's flat. She would get by with what little sustenance she could garner from her life with him. That was a little less than four months ago.

At that point, Robert's attendant cut our visit short to tend to his medications. With a heavy heart, for I now believe Angel is correct in his assessment of Libby, I promised to visit again tomorrow.

I was late arriving at the hospice this morning. Not that I had an appointment, but it meant I was greeted by Dragon Lady. She informed me that Robert was meeting with his lawyer, and since he would be exhausted afterwards, she would grant me no more than twenty minutes.

I have no doubt she dislikes me, although I cannot determine her reasoning, because at precisely eighteen minutes, she brusquely ordered me out. Robert thought it extremely humorous, but unfortunately his laughter resulted in a painful coughing spasm.

At any rate, I hadn't the heart to tell him I had no positive news. Instead, I asked for ideas of where Libby might have gone, in hope of searching out possible hunting spots, as she gave notice at Border's three weeks ago.

Robert said that they usually stayed in and watched DVDs, the Sci-Fi channel or F/X (I should have known). But if they did decide to venture out, they would seek a quiet restaurant, a classic movie or jazz club. I asked why that was so, if it had anything to do with Libby's predatory nature. Robert thought briefly and responded, "We just wanted to be able to hear what the other had to say. It's nice to just sit and talk to someone interesting and interested."

I could hear Angel's snort of disbelief and derision in my mind. I'm still uncertain exactly what is bothering him about this case.

After I was unceremoniously led from the room, I headed for the one place where I could be miserable and no one would take it upon themself to try and force me to be otherwise.

I went to Caritas.

Although it was still rather early in the day, I was admitted entrance and within minutes a lovely, room temperature Newcastle appeared at my table. I drank my ale and tried to assess the situation as a professional, to find the precarious balance between the romantic sop and the pragmatic, albeit redundant, Watcher. I found I couldn't; both ended up equally discouraged and depressed.

The second Newcastle was delivered by Lorne himself, who suggested that I either cheer up or unload. Seems my "blue funk" was contagious. I must have shot him a look, because he hastily assured me that I needn't sing, and that his sports coat had Scotch Guard protection.

I told him Robert's story, staring either at the stage or into my drink as I relayed the information, and so missed his rapt attention. When I finished, I turned to look at him and noticed how his normally bright complexion had gone ashen. He studied my face for a while – much longer than usual, I felt, which made me exceptionally uncomfortable. After some length, I asked, "What do you suggest?"

Wordlessly, Lorne stood and gestured that I follow. We went through to his apartment where he paused at his bedroom door, and called out, "Liebchen, are you decent?"

After a few seconds, the door opened and I stood face to face with Libby. She looked much like her photographs: the same hair, albeit pulled up on top of her head, the same pale blue eyes now tinged with red and beset by dark circles, the same aura of unmistakable sexuality.

But the smile was completely gone. Not a trace remained.

Lorne spoke to her gently, explaining who I was and why I needed to talk to her. Rather, why she needed to talk to me. She beckoned me in, and settled herself into a far chair, pulling her legs up on to the seat, wrapping her arms around them and virtually pulling herself into a closed shell.

I told her of my meeting with Robert, of his admission into a hospice. She asked how long I felt he had, and when I told her his prediction, and that Robert was pleading to see her before then, she let out a low keen that reverberated throughout my marrow.

Rather than relate to her Robert's version of events, I asked her to tell me how they met, etc. I hoped that I would be able to ascertain her true motives (nature or not).

Unfortunately, I forgot the blasted recorder in the office, so my memory will have to serve in its stead.

Knowing that I fully understood what she was, she told me she had asked to work in the fantasy section at Border's as that seemed somehow fitting. She'd been at the job for a month or so when Robert first came in. She paid him no more attention than any other customer who required assistance, but thought it rather endearing that he fled in a panic after she addressed him.

She gave him no further mind, as she had quotas to fill, both in the store and outside of it, until she realised that he was in the store on a regular basis, often venturing into her section, and always departing hastily before she could speak to him. Curiosity got the better of her one day and she looked up recent credit card purchases to find his name and which books he liked. It was then that she found they enjoyed the same genres and authors, more or less. But still, he persisted in refusing to speak to her and consciously avoided her whenever their eyes would have made contact.

One day, bored beyond belief (her words exactly, interesting parallel), she decided *that* was going to be the week she spoke to one Robert Andersen. And he was going to utter a complete sentence in response, no matter what. He became her personal challenge. It just so happened that a shipment of Goodkind's latest novel, the series she'd seen him purchase during the course of the month, had been delivered Monday morning, and Robert had not yet appeared in the store. She put a copy aside and waited. On Tuesday, at five-fifty (she said she was watching the clock as he was later than usual), she spied him in the accounting software. As craftily as she could manage, she sneaked upon him and thrust the book into his hands. She told him that she had noticed he liked the series and that she had thought of him when it arrived. Libby said Robert didn’t utter a sound for a few minutes, just stared at the book, then suddenly asked if she'd like to go have coffee. Libby hates coffee, especially Starbucks, so she suggested ice cream instead.

Libby assured me that all they did was talk. She actually never intended to seduce Robert. All she wanted was a change of pace. Instead of sexual partners, she wanted a friend. Someone with whom she could discuss what she was reading, films, anything other than which position was more satisfying.

She found in Robert such a friend, one who was not only interested in what she said, but actually listened. He asked questions, ventured an opinion and accepted that she had hers. The evening turned out to be very pleasant, with no pressure from Robert, but ended abruptly as she still had to meet her needs. Not wishing to ruin a potential friendship, something she had not experienced since her arrival in LA, she sought fulfilment elsewhere that night.

Robert came into the store later that week, and thus they began their thrice-weekly dinner dates. It turns out she recommended Pratchett and he Doyle and Lovecraft. They continued dating, with Libby learning about a phenomenon called shift work and making such excuses in order that she might hunt in the city after he dropped her at what he thought was her home.

Except one night she forgot (her words) to hunt. Instead, she stayed with Robert and suffered no unpleasant after effects. Quite the contrary, she enjoyed being with him. But over the course of the following weeks, she began to feel ravenous and knew she'd have to choose the hunt and nourishment or what she had come to figure out was love and starvation.

Robert found her on the sofa one morning, contemplating her predicament. She tried to explain, and although he obviously could not fathom the presence of demons in his real LA, he offered a number of possible solutions. And so they struck upon the agreement Robert described: they'd come home and have dinner, she'd go on her hunt whenever necessary and return when done.

It suited her for a while, until one night, in the middle of Wilshire Boulevard, she realised she no longer desired to hunt, she now thirsted after more than cruising Hollywood could give her: she wished to be with Robert. When the time came that one of them showed the symptoms she knew would eventually appear, she would leave. No discussion.

But neither life nor love is ever that simple. Robert's illness struck first and struck hard, as a lightning bolt out of the blue. One morning, he could not get out of bed. His condition deteriorated rapidly and, according to modern science, inexplicably. But Libby knew the cause and the end result, and so did Robert by then. The only way he could possibly live was if she left. Which she did one afternoon while he was at the doctor's. Eventually, she made her way to Caritas.

I asked if she would grant Robert his wish and visit him.

She looked at me and said frankly, "I cannot."

Shocked at her blunt refusal, I begged her to reconsider. Lorne stepped in and suggested that Libby be given time to ponder my request. I pointed out that while Libby had all the time in the world, she was a demon after all, Robert had no more than a week, if that. Libby withdrew more tightly into herself, and Lorne escorted me out of the room. He assured me that he would try to talk to her, but could not guarantee the result I wanted.

Dolt that I am, I drove not to my home, but to the hotel.

There I summarised the day's events for all those present. Angel once again boisterously argued against the case and insisted that I was only adding to Robert's pain by blatantly ignoring the inescapable nature of the beast. I reiterated, or rather attempted to reiterate what Libby had told me and my impressions of her, but was cut short by a diatribe on the behavioural patterns of succubi.

Angel explained that his vampiric nature, sans soul obviously, is inherently different from that of a succubus. He kills for the blood; the sport of the hunt and the dalliance with his victims were idiosyncratic traits. Typically, a succubus tempts, toys and teases with lust and sex until she can kill her victim, draining her victims of their life force with what is often confused with love. That is their defining characteristic.

Cordelia, despite agreeing with Angel (no surprise there) that I was in all likelihood doing Robert more harm than good, tried valiantly to calm him down and remind him that we have often seen changes in demons, himself and Darla included. Who was to say that a succubus couldn't change her outfit? as she succinctly worded it. To demonstrate such a change, I again described the remorse evident in Libby's demeanour. To that, Angel replied that my chivalric fantasies had no place in reality. Fred quietly pointed out that we had indeed helped Robert with his dying wish and whether Libby visited him, or not, was not our concern. Gunn, having already told me he would support me in whatever I decided, remained silent throughout the heated debate.

Tired and angered at having to justify my choices in this matter, I reminded them that they had placed me in charge of Angel Investigations, and as a result, I determined the cases we took on.

At that juncture, Angel sneered something about how all too often humans deluded themselves with fantasies of a true love that overcomes all obstacles, grabbed his coat and stormed out of the hotel.

The argument with Angel, and the air of tension that it left in its wake, coloured my mood considerably this morning: a deep midnight blue tinged with crimson. I feared it might take a long time to get over the discord this case has sown.

Thus, it was much to my surprise that, first and foremost, Dragon Lady smiled when she saw me enter. And secondly, that Angel was sitting outside Robert's room. He did not look up as I left the sign-in area, so I sat down next to him. I dreaded the idea that he had told Robert the unadulterated truth about Libby.

Instead, Angel leaned back and said simply, "I was wrong. I'm sorry." He told me that he read the transcript in Robert's file and came to the misguided conclusion that I had seen in Libby only what I wanted. I started to retort, but he broke me off by saying that I was in fact a die-hard romantic who believed in love but was afraid I'd never find it for myself. Because of that, he asserted, I search fervently for it for others' sake.

For the record, that's poppycock, but I didn't get chance to say that as he continued without pause.

He said that after he left, he reviewed incessantly all I had said about Robert, what Libby had told me, and decided to drive to Lorne's to speak to Libby himself. He wanted to tell her how Robert should be allowed to die with a belief, albeit a false one, that he had been loved. He realised, he said, after less than a minute in her presence, that he had erred. Greatly. Libby did not refuse to see Robert because of her nature as a succubus. Angel said she told him she refused because she was convinced she was weak: too weak to walk away when he could have been saved, too weak to be at his side and watch him die.

At that point, Angel stopped speaking, and I assumed he had finished.

I stood, thanked him for his apology and made to enter Robert's room. Angel grabbed my arm and shook his head. "You can't," he said and granted me an irritating smirk. "Only one visitor at a time."

When I sat back down, stuttering like an idiot, he flashed that insipid smirk again. He explained that, having never known either as a demon, Libby confused fear with weakness. Once they had talked and she had understood how Robert didn't need her to be strong, just to be there, to say good-bye, she came. She's still scared, but she's most assuredly not weak.

"And she does love him," he added.

We waited for two hours, but were rudely dismissed by Dragon Lady and told to come back. We left a message for Robert, a cab number and money for Libby to get her back to Lorne's and decided to get Angel home before he went up in smoke.

Shattered mentally and physically, I went home instead of staying around the hotel.

I woke with a start at two a.m., only to find that my window had blown open in a gust of wind. Unable to fall back asleep, I watched a little of the Sci-Fi channel and dozed intermittently on the settee.

At ten a.m., I called the office and said I was going to stop and visit Robert before driving in. I was told Libby had left the hospice yesterday at dinnertime, and that she had called to thank me for everything, especially for being such a good friend to Robert in his time of need.

I drove to the hospice, but was met at the door by the doctor who had been attending to Robert. It seemed my visit was for naught, as Robert had passed away in his sleep in the early hours of the morning. They had not been able to get a hold of Libby to inform her, and wondered if I knew where she might be.

I thanked the doctor, then asked if I could use the receptionist's phone, as I did have some idea. I phoned Lorne, who said that Libby had disappeared in the middle of the night. He hadn't seen her since, and feared for her safety. I asked if he had any idea as to her whereabouts, but he could not think of any that he had not already searched.

It was then that I remembered the photograph on the bedside table. I drove along PCH until I found the spot.

I got out of the car and cautiously walked toward the solitary figure. Libby stood, hugging her arms around herself, staring over the ledge at the raging surf. She sensed my approach and slowly turned around.

Without having said a word, I knew she knew. She tried unsuccessfully to swallow back tears, then hoarsely whispered, "He's gone."

"Yes," I said, then added, "I'm so very sorry, Libby."

She sighed, then nodded.

Then, I, for all the insight I presume to have concerning demons, simply stood there, frozen in place, as she threw herself over the cliff.

I received yesterday a phone call from the offices of Allenby, Waterstone and Mayer, requesting my presence at the reading of the will of Robert Andersen. I went, of course, more out of a sense of morbid curiosity than anything else. After all, I had known the man for less than two weeks.

Dragon Lady, a mother of four whose name is actually Harriet McGonnagal, and I were the only two in attendance. Turns out Harriet had insisted on personally being with Robert in his last days and took unpaid leave from Memorial to do so.

Seems I am not a terribly astute judge of humanity, either.

Robert left his apartment and its entire furnishings to the hospice. As per his request, his entertainment system is to be installed in the family/visitor accommodation. His books are to be donated as well, with the exception of his tax references which he requested be burned and marshmallows be roasted over the fire to make samores (?) for the children. Household furnishings are to be used as the hospice sees fit, and whatever they do not need, in addition to the apartment itself, which he owned outright, is to be sold, and the money to go to the hospice.

All financial assets –savings, cheque, a number of bonds and two long-term deposits set to mature within the year – were left to Angel Investigations for services and friendship rendered.

Fin