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

"What is that infernal noise?" Angel grumbled. The constant vibration from a stereo upstairs was destroying the last remaining shreds of his sanity.

"I can’t remember the title," Fred answered. "It’s by The Offspring, I think. Kinda hard to tell when you can only feel the bass. I know it’s not Destiny’s Child."

"Well, it isn’t music. Real music has moving lyrics, violins –"

"But it ain’t ‘real’ music," Gunn interrupted casually, thumbing through the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated. "It’s a primitive, other-wordly rite of passage. You’re supposed to go to your hut, listen to that while you look through this. Except I confiscated, ah, borrowed … hoo, damn! Those have got to be implants."

Angel snatched the magazine from Gunn, then glanced up the stairs when the heavy bass beat inexplicably stopped. "I have absolutely no idea what to do with him."

"Lock him away until he can legally purchase beer?"

Fred shot Gunn a look. "Talk to him, Angel. He’s just going through teenage stuff. You know, hormones, rebellious streaks, mood swings. I’m sure you went through the same thing a couple of centuries ago. That sort of normal teenagey… you know… stuff."

"Yeah, welding your father in an iron casket and tossing him into the ocean is normal teenage … stuff," Gunn mumbled. Fred shrugged, unable to refute the sardonic remarks.

"When’s Cordy due back? She’ll know what to say to him."

"No," Fred said. "She won’t and that’s not fair, anyway. You have to talk to him, Angel. One, you’re his father. And two, he needs strong male role models and since Wesley isn’t here, you’re it."

"Wesley?" Angel screamed. "Like hell he’d be a decent role model. After what he’s done? I lost sixteen years of Connor’s life."

"Yes," Fred droned. "We know, Angel." Despite the glower, she continued in her attempt to sway his opinion, to break the stalemate. "What Wesley did was wrong, but I’m sure he’s sorry. It’s been months, and you –"

"We’ve covered this ground, Fred. I do not want his name mentioned around me."

"Yeah, but we need his knowledge to help us. And he needs us to pull him out of whatever he’s gotten into," she said. "Oh, forget it. Like talking to a cave wall."

"Male role model," Gunn harrumphed after she gave up her efforts. "What am I?"

Fred hugged him and kissed the top of his head. "Alternate male role model. And you do a fine job. But I don’t think–"

They all stopped and silently watched as Connor descended the stairs, put on his jacket then stormed across the lobby.

"Where are you going?" Angel yelled to the retreating back. "Con– Steven. Stop right there," he snapped. "We need to talk."

The teenager let out a snort. "Yeah? Well, follow me, then. " He opened the Hyperion’s front door and walked backwards into the afternoon. "Come on, Fa-ther. Let’s go for a walk in the sunshine."

With a grimace of open animosity, he retorted, "Didn’t think so."

*******

Basking in the celebrated Southern California sunshine, a petite brunette with broad, golden highlights streaked in her hair licked the dripping ice cream cone.

"So, like, when, Becky?" she asked her companion and pushed a stray curl behind her zirconia-studded ear.

Unpretentious in jeans and T-shirt, face devoid of make-up, blonde hair held off her face by sunglasses, Becky shrugged and finished her iced coffee. "I honestly don’t know, Tracy. I got this job that’ll net me a hundred-fifty grand if I pull it off."

The teenager watched the older woman, trying to decipher the uncharacteristic body language: she was definitely not her vivacious self. Becky stared blankly ahead, ignoring the roller bladers in bikinis and kneepads as they whizzed through the tourists who were desperately seeking the famous and almost-famous along the promenade. She absently fingered the thin silver chain on which dangled a topaz birthstone ring that used to belong to Tracy’s mother. Her emotional distance and rigid posture suggested a concentrated effort to focus and calm herself. Something was agitating her, and agitation in adults was always a bad sign.

"That’s a helluva lot. Is it dangerous?" Tracy asked. "The job, I mean."

Becky snapped out of her introspection. She frowned, leaned forward and whispered, "If it gets those bastards back, who cares?"

"I care!" Tracy grabbed Becky’s hands. "You’re all I have left. What if something happens to you? Like Mom? You promised you’d take care of me! We’re going to Alaska after I graduate."

Becky stared down at their clasped hands and tried to calm her racing heart. Glancing up at her niece, she said, "Of course nothing’ll happen, baby. It’s a simple job. I’ve already located three of the five … things. I just got to go and fetch them."

"You promise?"

Childish eyes waited for the expected answer. "I promise. Now, finish your ice cream. I have to take you back to your foster parents before I go to the airport."

"So cool. New York. Bring me something back?"

"Sure, honey. A nice trinket from Tiffany’s, okay?"

*******

It was the amethyst in the navel ring that captured Connor’s attention. He’d bent down to pick up the CD he’d dropped, and then – like magic – there it was, in front of his face. Amethyst and silver, surrounded by lightly tanned, definitely feminine flesh.

He stood up but – despite the caution he’d exercised – was hit with a bout of light-headedness. He returned the CD to the rack and waited for the world to stop spinning. As he did, he saw more lightly tanned flesh in the form of a slight arm bedecked with more bangles than should be safe reach in front of him and pick up the same CD.

"Nice album," he heard her say.

"Yeah, I guess," he replied. Out of deference, as he’d been taught, he turned to look at her.

"First one was better, though," she said and smiled.

Something in her smile drew his attention upward to her eyes – the roundest, softest brown eyes he’d ever seen on a human. Yet, under the softness lay a foundation of pain.

"I guess," he replied. "Never heard of them before."

"Oh," she said. "Well, catch ya around."

"Yeah," he answered quietly, then realized he hadn’t seen her return the CD to the shelf.

Unsure of his motivations, perhaps just morbid curiosity, Connor searched the store for the girl. When he finally spotted her in cosmetics, he planted himself among the wallets and jewelry and watched her slip something plastic and pink into the inner pocket of her jacket. He also noticed that he was not the only one interested in her movements. Off to his right, near the lingerie, he saw a woman in a security uniform speak into her shoulder unit and quicken her not-so-casual gait.

Connor crossed the aisle. "What’s your name?" he whispered.

The girl started and put a package of eyeliner back into the tray. "Tracy? Why?"

"Steven," he mumbled after a moment’s hesitation, and pushed her against the Maybelline display.

"Hey!" she snapped when his warm hands slid inside her jacket. One went around to her back and pulled her roughly against him while the other fished around in the pockets. "What are you–" The girl noticed the approaching security guard just as Connor bent forward to kiss her.

The security guard tapped him on the shoulder and cleared her throat. "Break it up," the woman said in a smoky voice.

Tracy stared wide-eyed at Connor while he pulled away. He furrowed his brow in warning, then turned to face the security guard. "Sorry. Come, Tracy. We should leave."

"Nah-unh," the guard said. "Empty the pockets. You first, bud."

Connor arched an eyebrow and obediently turned his jacket pockets inside out. He smiled at Tracy, who nervously dumped out the contents of her own pockets – empty, save a small purse, house keys and a cell phone.

"Was there something in particular you were looking for?" Connor asked innocently.

*******

She leaned over him and gazed into his composed, aloof features. He refused to grant her the courtesy of a reciprocal glance, but she could sense his disgruntled attention nevertheless.

"I don’t understand you," she said, then continued despite the snort. "How long has Angel been back from his watery grave? Yet, here you are -- still acting like Anger Incarnate, and they have yet to acknowledge the error of their ways. All the while the perfect opportunity has been handed to you. What are you hanging out for?"

"You to leave," Wesley answered and rose from the bed, never looking her in the eye. He tossed the silk blouse to her. "You’ve said what you wanted to say, earned the frequent flyer points you wanted. Now, go."

*******

"Hey. Steven, right?"

Connor’s head snapped away from the Pacific horizon and toward her voice. "Tracy," he said, surprised to see her again.

"Yeah. Told ya I’d catch up with ya, huh?" He stared at her, unable to find the words to answer. "Listen, about the other day," she continued, then realizing she might lose him to the view again, she moved to stand between him and the ocean. "You didn’t haveta do that."

"No," he agreed. "Nor did you. Your little phone is expensive."

"Yeah, well," she said with a shrug. "Anyway, I wanted to thank you. So, can I get you ice cream or McDonalds or something?"

Connor squinted to look up into her face. "Will you pay for it?"

"Well, duh. It’s like a date, kinda."

His brow furrowed. "Meaning what?"

She clucked her tongue. "Where are you from? Mars? Meaning, I invite so I pay."

"Okay, I guess," Connor said with a shrug and rose from the park bench. "Ice cream sounds good. Do you live around here?"

She pointed north. "Thatta way. Well, for now."

"Are you going to move or something?"

"New foster parents, maybe. Where do you live?"

He pointed southwest. "Thatta way. What do you mean ‘foster parents’?"

"It’s that Martian thing, huh? My dad left us, then my mom was killed. So, these people take care of me until I graduate high school. Then I’ll move with my aunt to Alaska."

"My mother died, too," Connor said softly. "But I live with my father now. Actually, I was taken from my father, then," he paused, "It’s complicated."

"Oh, tell me about it! Life’s a bitch, then you die."

"Or not."

*******

Connor entered the hotel and stealthily crossed the empty lobby, ducking as he passed the office window. He’d spent the afternoon and most of the evening talking to Tracy. She was the first female friend he’d made since Sunny; he didn’t really count Justine, Fred or Cordelia as his friends. He’d left with her phone numbers written on a napkin (which he reassured himself was still in his jacket pocket) and a promise to call if he ever wanted to talk again. Now, if he was lucky, his timing right, Fred and Gunn would still be at the movies, and Cordelia and Angel might be otherwise occupied. That would give him enough time to sneak up to his room without having to utter a single word of explanation.

He crept past the reception counter, but was distracted by Angel’s grunt of exasperation. He tiptoed closer to the door.

"I’m not sure what you expect, Angel," Cordelia said. "He’s an angry little boy."

"Yeah, but all I get from him is grief. And flippant remarks. He won’t even listen to me. I mean, Xander wasn’t even this nasty to his parents."

"Angel." Cordelia sounded hesitant, as if each word was carefully weighed before she spoke it. "Xander’s father was – no, is – a drunk. He may have even hit him. You probably didn’t realize it, but I’m sure Xander was terrified of his father. His answer was to clown around, to deflect the tough situations with humor. I don’t think Quor’toth fostered the same opportunities. Or that Holtz would have encouraged it. So, apples, oranges."

"Well, who else is there to compare him to? Gunn?"

"Wesley?"

"Oh, give me a break," Angel snapped. "I hardly think Connor’s up-bringing is going to lead him down a path of betrayal, kidnapping and –"

"Think again. It already has."

"Well, then … it has to stop."

"What are you going to do?" She paused, obviously letting him think before answering. "Lock him under the stairs?" Connor heard Angel’s chair creak as he turned in it. "Isn’t that what the Ethros demon said Wes’ father used to do?"

"I don’t give a damn what Wesley’s father did to him or how that justifies anything that bastard did to me. To, to us!"

"That’s not what I’m suggesting, Angel. I’m just saying that he’s a lot like Wesley: very strict up-bringing, intelligent, reserved, introverted, a lot expected of him, not sure where he stands in the world. Learn from what Wesley’s father did, and don’t do that."

Connor shifted on his left leg and stumbled into the counter, knocking a book onto the floor. Stifling a curse, he quickly made his way out of the lobby, just as Angel emerged from the office.

"There he goes again!" Angel yelled and made to follow him.

Cordelia grabbed his arm. "What happened to letting him come to you in his own time?"

"Time’s up?"

"Patience and love. Just be there for him, and make sure he knows where to find you when the time comes."

"But where do I find him now? Who knows who he’s hanging around with? What kind of trouble he could be in?"

*******

The knock startled Wesley out of his attempt to fortify his decision: the one he’d made moments after Lilah had left; the one reality had forced him to make. Life-long dreams for saving the world with friends (ex-friends now, mind you) by his side continued to spiral away from him as he descended further into the moral quagmire. With every visit, Lilah glibly kept him informed of the goings-on at Angel Investigations – Connor’s thwarted patricide, Angel’s dogged attempts to reintegrate the boy into his so-called life, Lorne’s Vegas attempt at stardom, Cordelia’s ethereal furlough – and nibbled away at his reluctance to join Wolfram and Hart. Not that he wanted to work with them, as he had repeatedly informed her, but he was quickly becoming insolvent and not much else was open to an ex-Watcher with a ‘ginormous brain,’ as Cordelia had once quipped. He threw back another shot and emptied the remainder of the Walker Red into his glass.

And oh, didn’t he miss being able to afford Glenfiddich.

A second knock, more insistent than the first, resounded throughout the apartment. Wesley stared at the closed door, then slammed his glass on the counter and stomped across the room.

"I told you to come back Thursday!" he yelled as he jerked the door open. Disbelief momentarily replaced anger, only to be returned to its rightful place as he stared at the slight figure standing in the hallway.

"What the bloody hell do you want?"

***2***

"That woman must be taken care of. Are you positive he’ll do it?"

Lilah steepled her fingers in front of her while she stared out her office window. "Absolutely," she responded, hoping the caller couldn’t sense the uncertainty in her rehearsed speech. "He needs the money. Not much open demand for a demon hunter lately. Especially one disenfranchised by former colleagues." She smirked. "As you know, word spreads very fast in this town."

The feminine voice chuckled in agreement, the sound crackling on the speakerphone. "I have a feeling you’ll make sure he earns every penny."

"Consider it done," Lilah answered. "I’ll take the case file to him later this week. Oh, and," Lilah’s face scrunched in disgust, but she kept her tone light, "a belated welcome to the firm." After the connection ended, she withdrew a slip of paper from her purse and dialed. She waited, tapping her fingernails on the desk, until she heard the telltale click.

"What?"

"Where are you?" Lilah asked.

"Seattle," the woman on the other end answered. "Got the third. I’m heading your way tomorrow."

Lilah’s perfectly groomed eyebrows furrowed in a brief moment of panic. "You have all three with you?"

"Jesus H., lady! I’m blonde; don’t ever mistake that for stupid."

*******

Meeting Wesley’s eyes, Connor found himself disappointed.

The person, who – if one eavesdropped on discussions held behind closed doors – was on the precipice of becoming the embodiment of all he’d sworn to annihilate, was just a human. But Connor had a purpose for standing in this hallway, for meeting with this traitor. He’d be damned if anything or anyone would sway him from that course.

"I told you."

Wesley stared at Angel’s son – the first close look he’d had since the abduction. Funny, he thought, how much of each parent one is able to see in a child’s face. Yet, despite his preternatural conception, birth and – by all accounts – upbringing, Connor seemed a typical teenager: right down to the the-whole-world-is-against-me-and-no-one-gives-a-damn disposition.

"You’ll pardon me if I’m a tad interested in your motivations."

The boy returned his scrutiny with a wavering facade of indifference; the same mask Wesley himself tried so hard to perfect. With a flash of insight, he realized why Connor was standing outside his apartment.

"Does your father know you’re here?"

"No," Connor snapped, his eyes flashing with anger and something else Wesley couldn’t discern. "And he’s not my father."

"Sorry, boy. Biologically, you’re wrong," Wesley said, then chortled. "In more ways than one."

Connor’s eyes narrowed and his body instinctively tensed at the affront. He forced his jaw to relax and tried to regain some composure. "Are you going to let me in?" he asked, glancing one-by-one at the doors lining the corridor. "I don’t think your active role in a kidnapping is something the neighbors need to hear. Plus, a statute of limitations wouldn’t apply, would it, since it was less than a year ago, your time?"

Wesley bit the inside of his mouth to keep from sniggering again and gave Connor points for candor. In the end, Alice-like curiosity got the better of him and he opened the door.

"Knock yourself out," he said, walking back toward the sofa. "It’ll save me doing it for you."

*******

"I can’t wait ‘til you get home and meet Steven. But he’s kinda shy. And really strange, sometimes. Like Roswell freaky." Tracy squealed and stuffed more chips into her mouth. "But he’s soooo cute!"

"Hon," Tracy heard her aunt sigh. "Every potential boyfriend is ‘soooo cute’ when you’re sixteen. When you’re thirty, you realize they’re idiots. A useful bit of information that can be advantageous when you’re older: they all think with their dicks."

"That’s like, vile, Becky. Where’re you now?"

"Seattle airport. Waiting for my call to board. Wanna catch up tomorrow afternoon?"

"Sure! Get me anything?"

"Yeah, stocks in Microsoft."

"Haha. Wait. You’re not serious, are you?"

Tracy heard Becky chuckle. "Tomorrow after school, kid. Ditch the bombshell for the afternoon. Hey!"

"Yeah?"

"You two use protection?"

"Gross!" Tracy groaned and slammed the receiver onto the cradle. She rolled over onto her stomach and grabbed the piece of paper next to her phone on the nightstand. Lifting the receiver again, she dialed another number, and as they had agreed waited two rings, hung up then dialed again.

"Heya," she whispered into the receiver. "My aunt’s coming home tomorrow. Can you sneak out and meet me tonight? In thirty? Same bench?" She nodded to whatever was said and put on her brightest smile, then realized he couldn’t see it. "You are soooo cool. See ya in a tick."

*******

Wesley needed a stiff drink. Make that many stiff drinks in rapid succession. Unfortunately, he also needed to think clearly, and so, a brisk walk in the crisp night air would have to suffice. In the past seven days, no less than a ton of surprises had turned up on his figurative doorstep, and as luck would have it, none of them felt propitious.

At the weekend, Lilah came to him with an offer for a once-only contractual job with Wolfram and Hart. The curious expression that flashed across Lilah’s face when she began with a mention of a new senior partner sent warning signals up Wesley’s spine, but he simply put it aside for future reference. According to her, she was to approach him with the assignment before any of their in-house people. Some sort of ‘protection’; he didn’t give her an opportunity to go into detail. He reaped the physical benefits of her visit, as had become their habit of late, but the after-taste remained with him all week. Not even the taste of cheap Scotch washed it away.

Then Connor appeared. Not once but twice: first to find out about Wesley’s involvement with Holtz; later presumably to discuss Ethros demons. Wesley knew he was being used as a pawn in a puerile act of revenge, but he also sensed that the youth was looking for direction, for someone to replace the father figures lost or pushed away. To ensure that Connor came to him, and not a more malevolent choice, Wesley decided his best strategy would be to be honest and forthright. And so, he cautiously answered the questions. Connor hadn’t flinched when Wesley sketched the events leading up to his abduction by Holtz; Connor barely blinked when he had heard Wesley explain how his choice had been no choice at all. Wesley didn’t ask for absolution or understanding; Connor listened without comment.

The second visit was more relaxed. By mutual agreement, Wesley again answered most of the questions asked. In return, Connor watched two classic Star Trek videos: "Plato’s Stepchildren" followed by "The Gamesters of Triskelion." If he wondered at Wesley’s choices, he made no mention of it.

This afternoon, Lilah appeared with a file and an advance on the contract. According to the summary Lilah recited in a monotone, the agency needed a "research guy" of the highest caliber. He, or she, would be someone who could quietly discern the connection between a number of high profile thefts that had occurred over the past year. The victims were linked only by choice of legal representation, exquisite taste in art and the reluctance to report the incidents to the police. Wesley took the file and promptly tossed it onto the dining table, then glanced at the check. If he hadn’t decided beforehand …

And that’s what bothered him.

*******

When the phone stopped after the second ring, Connor pressed the pause button on the remote, leaving the echoes of the heavy bass to reverberate soundlessly off the walls. He bounded across the room and picked up the phone before it rang again.

"What’s up?" he said. "Slow down. What do you mean ‘something’s happened’?" As he listened, he grabbed his jacket from the chair and put it on. "Shush now. I can help. I know people, and … things. Meet me. Yeah, there, but it has to be soon, because my father’s at his best after dark. I promise."

Connor ran down the stairs and was half way across the lobby when Gunn and Fred walked in, discussing a nest of N’gari demons they’d been watching the past week.

"Hey, Con–, er," Gunn started. "Steven. Going somewhere?"

The boy bit back a sarcastic remark and shrugged. "We’re out of, uh … wait." He fished through his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. "Uh, dilithium crystals. Gotta have some to bind N’gari demons. I told Angel I’d go."

"Need a ride?"

"Nah," Connor said and pulled open the front doors. "Thanks, anyway."

Gunn watched as Connor bounded down the steps and onto the street. When he turned around, Fred was grinning and rolling her eyes. "What’s so funny? I think it’s great that he’s –"

"Hey," Angel said, emerging from the basement with a broadsword. "Did I hear Steven?"

"Yeah," Gun replied, suddenly even more confused as Fred burst into giggles. "He went to get those dilithium crystals for you."

Angel closed the weapons’ cabinet and spun around. "He did what? At this hour? What crystals?"

Fred clucked and shook her head. "Y’all are blind as bats. Steven’s got a girlfriend." Both men stared at her, silent and wide-eyed. She patted her forehead to make sure no horns had suddenly emerged, then giggled again. "Dilithium crystals are from Star Trek. He asked me questions about Spock last week. Said a friend told him the show was an ‘essential twentieth-century cultural icon’. At least I think those were his words. Maybe ‘quintessential,’ but that’s a really big word for a teenager. And I don’t remember Angel Investigations ever writing on lavender paper."

"What do you mean ‘girlfriend’? He’s not old enough to have a girlfriend! He just came back into this …"

"Now you’ve done it," Gunn mumbled in Fred’s ear while Angel rambled on.

"Ah, Angel?" Fred interrupted. "Have you had the talk with him?"

"What talk?" He stared at her until comprehension dawned. "You think he’s–? Really?"

"Now you’ve really done it."

*******

"So?" Tracy sniffed and sunk lower in the cinema’s seat. "Whadya think?"

"I think movies are cool. I mean, this fight with the little green guy is – cool."

"Steven," she reprimanded. "Think about my aunt."

Connor tried to find the words to express the dread he was feeling. Finally, he sighed. "I think, Tracy, that your aunt is in trouble – deeper than she realizes. You said she mentioned some kind of ‘special properties’ these statues she’s been hired to steal have. Well, I think they’re magic. And, from what you said about her using them for revenge, some sort of demonic power is involved."

"Come on. Magic isn’t real, Steven. Demons aren’t real."

"You so sure? Then, how did William Shatner get a job acting? He’s awful." He glanced over at her and turned very serious once more. "Magic and demons are real, Tracy. Trust me, I know. Your aunt is messing with the wrong kind of both."

"This isn’t about your dad."

"You’re right. He has nothing to do with this," Connor said bluntly. "This is about Wolfram and Hart. Look, I’m going to make sure you get home, and then I’ll go see someone. He’ll know what to do."

"Won’t you get into trouble?"

"For what? Being out?" He shrugged and snickered. "Nah. They think I’m on an errand for my father. The older you grow in this dimension, the more feeble your brain gets."

"Dimension? You been watchin’ Stargate or something?"

"Star Trek with a, uh, friend." He turned in his seat. "What’s a Stargate?"

*******

Sounds of a scuffle, which from the high pitched timbre of one of the voices involved a woman, forced Wesley out of his introspection. A lifetime of training and years in Southern California taught him to always be prepared, and he neared the corner after making sure he had a stake in his jacket pocket and a knife at the ready.

He approached cautiously, then poked his head around the corner. There, in the dim light, three Gebalgik demons had a petite blonde surrounded. While he watched and entered the alley, one of the demons rushed forward to try and reach a black backpack on the ground next to two silver garbage cans. The blonde wouldn’t allow it, and grabbed the bag. Using both hands, she gave a hefty swing and the backpack made contact with the first demon’s face, with a sickening crack as it hit its nose. The distraction, however, gave a second demon the chance to rush the woman and scratch her right forearm. Wesley grimaced as he aimed the knife; he knew that Gebalgik nails carried a poison that would cause the wound to fester, among other things, if not treated quickly. The woman yelped and tumbled backwards in pain, but kept a hold of the bag as she fell into the garbage cans with a loud clatter.

"Oi!" Wesley screamed and threw the knife as the third demon turned around. It landed square in the demon’s primary heart: the upper left of his abdomen. While the demon screeched and dissolved into a viscous puddle, Wesley threw his stake into the second demon’s only eye. He bent down to retrieve the knife and finished the demon as it stumbled blindly around the alleyway. The first demon stared at Wesley’s handiwork, then fled.

"Wow," the blonde said as she picked herself up. "That was awesome. Thanks."

Wesley walked around the second puddle. "Why were they after you?"

"Ah," she said and brushed her black jeans off. "They want what’s in the bag. I work for a private antique collector and – I’m telling you too much. Must be the accent. Or the just saving my life from those, er, goons."

"Gebalgik demons, to be precise. You’re wounded," Wesley noted and dragged the woman under a streetlight to inspect the wound more closely. "There’s a hospital–"

"Uh, hello! Don’t think ‘Excuse me, nurse, I’ve been attacked by a gaggle of gobbledygook demons’ isn’t going to do much to keep me outta Arkham," the woman ridiculed and glanced down at the cut on her arm. She met Wesley’s eyes and narrowed hers. "Why yes, Miss ER," she continued, "that is green, acrid pus oozing out of the wound. It’s starting to burn, by the way."

"You’ve made your point. I’ve a first aid kit in my flat, which is about a half a block away."

"Shouldn’t you at least buy me a drink first?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Okay, I guess you did save my life. And I do feel kinda faint." She picked up her backpack and held out her other hand. "Before I pass out, Becky Porter."

Wesley stared at her, then reluctantly shook her hand. "Wesley Wyndham-Price."

"Omigod, that name! What the fuck were your parents thinking?" She mocked his confused expression and then collapsed.

Wesley threw her heavy backpack onto his shoulder, scooped her into his arms, then mumbled, "Of England, I suspect."

***3***

"Here he comes," Cordelia said from the entrance, then bounded back to stand next to Angel. "Firm and assertive."

"Strong, united front," he agreed.

"Right, but your front. His hormonal interest in the female front–"

"You’re not helping, Cordy."

"Sorry. Sorta new on the pseudo-parent front."

Angel looked at her quizzically then returned his attention to the front door when Connor stomped inside. "Out late, Steven."

"So glad you noticed," the boy taunted. "Well, now that that’s over, good night."

"No! You. Will. Sit," Angel snapped and pointed to the sofa. "We are going to have a talk, and we’re going to have it now." Connor snorted but sat, scowling in hostile defiance all the while. Angel paced in front of him, arms crossed over his chest, waiting until the silence became heavy with tension. He stopped in front of his son and mirrored his scowl. "Where were you tonight?" he asked.

"Out. I thought we could use some dilithium –"

"Stop. Stop right there. Gunn fell for it; won’t work again. Oh, by the way, Captain Kirk is dead." He watched his son’s lips tighten slightly and his eyebrow arch. The gesture reminded Angel of someone, but he knew that if he took the time to figure out who that someone was, he’d lose his tenuous control of the discussion. "Once more, where were you tonight, young man?"

"Movies. Attack of the Drones."

"Alone?"

"What’s it to you?"

Cordelia moved forward and put her hand on Angel’s arm. "We’re concerned about your well-being, Steven."

Connor glared at her. "You should be concerned, but not for me or the reasons you think. If you’re so worried, why don’t you follow me?"

"Who says we haven’t?" she replied and quirked an eyebrow in response.

Because this wouldn’t be happening, thought Connor, best to deflect attention now. "Fine. I went with a girl. So?" He narrowed his eyes. "Wait. Is this a sex talk? I already suffered through two of those."

Two?, Angel mused silently. "Well," he said in what he hoped was his ‘authority’ voice, "then you know to use protection – condoms –not just against pregnancy but AIDS and other STDs."

"Yeah, yeah. Wouldn’t want to get syphilis like they did in your day." Like he was thinking of having sex when his friend’s aunt was trying to single-handedly screw over Wolfram and Hart. Connor grimaced and wondered why Cordelia had turned up the heat for this ridiculous discussion. "Are we done? ‘Cause I’m tired."

"For now," Angel acquiesced. "Just stop making up lies to see your girlfriend. And perhaps we should meet her."

"Sure," Connor said and started up the stairs. He turned around at the top of the landing and yelled down, "Maybe we can double date? A noonday picnic on the beach? Deep sea fishing? Whatcha think?"

Angel sighed then looked at Cordelia when the door slammed. "Well, at least he waited a few sentences until attacking. That must be some sort of progress."

"You two are like those circus acts, where the guy tosses knives at the person on a wheel and barely misses. You’re the one on the wheel."

"Yeah, I noticed," Angel sighed again. "Do you think every parent has problems like these? Or are we that unique? I mean, I know I –"

"He really is a handful. But you’re doing fine."

Angel shook his head in disagreement. "He’s lying," he admitted. "Hiding something."

"Yeah," Cordelia agreed, then spun around and furrowed her brow. "More than a girl?"

*******

"Finally," Wesley said, then rose from the coffee table where he’d been keeping a vigilant watch over his patient.

"Wow," Becky answered. "How long was I out?"

"Quite a spell."

While Wesley disappeared in the kitchen, Becky lay on the couch and looked around the apartment, mentally appraising the various collectibles, then gazed down at the white gauze around her arm, just below the hem of her T-shirt sleeve. "Hey," she yelled. "White-knight demon-killer guy! You bandaged my arm. Thanks."

"You’re welcome." Wesley returned and handed her a glass of fizzy, red liquid. "Drink this."

"If I do whatever you ask, will you talk some more? Love the way you do that raspy British accent. So snooty." Becky sniffed the glass, then handed it back. "Ugh, no way."

"I can assure you, it’s nothing more than a vitamin drink."

Becky sniffed the glass again, then looked up at him. "No dice, big guy. Sorry. Not even the Hugh Grant accent thing is going to get me to drink this."

Wesley shrugged. "Whatever."

"Wordy, ain’t ya?"

"As loquacious as you are compliant."

"Oooh, and big words, too. I bet you read Shakespeare." She glanced pointedly at the bookcase. "First edition."

Wesley followed her gaze. "Hardly, since Shakespeare wrote in –"

"Joke," she said with a groan and sat up gingerly. "Jesus."

"Light-headed?" he asked as he sat back down on the coffee table and reached out to steady her. If he hadn’t cleaned all the poison out of the wound …

"No. Amazed you have no sense of humor. Such a black mark against an otherwise great start." With two deep breaths, she continued to test her ability to leave his place and get on with her work. Wesley watched her tentative rise from the couch in silence. Once assured she could stand, she downed the drink, then looked at him. "Man, that’s foul. So, what do you want?"

Rising himself, he took the glass from her outstretched hand, and walked back to the kitchen. "Pardon me?" he said.

"You saved my life, tended my wound, saved my job," she said, pointing to the backpack on the dining room table. "So, karma says I have to pay you back. For three deeds, technically."

Wesley shook his head in disbelief. "That’s not–"

"Well, it’s my way, big guy. A deed done deserves equal repayment. I’m not around LA much, so you have to take it while I’m here. I’m flat broke until I get paid for these … this statue. So, within reason, name your price."

"Fine," Wesley said as he rummaged through the refrigerator. "I believe I understand your warped version of karma. I saved your life and livelihood, thus you’re indebted to me. A situation I gather you detest. In that case, Glenfiddich, thirty-year old, would be a good start."

"Hello. Broke. Out of money. Busss-ted, baby."

"I’ll let you figure out how you’re going to repay said debts, then."

Finding nothing he wanted to eat, he pulled out a bottle of white wine and decided he’d order Chinese. She hadn’t responded, so he closed the door and turned to confront her again. He immediately felt a surge of relief that he’d leaned against the refrigerator door, because now he needed the support. His eyes swept over her, then he dryly commented, "Imagine that. A natural blonde in LA."

*******

"Hey, Connor," Cordelia said when she entered the office. "Sorry. Steven. Thought you were tired. Looking for late night reading?"

"Yeah. Sure," he mumbled and pulled a copy of Compost of Ptolemeus from the bookshelf. "So, everybody else out on a vision quest?"

"Something like that," she answered. "You know, you can ditch the belligerent attitude. We’ve all been there, done that. You are so the amateur compared to us."

"Yeah, what with the demonic blood and all." Connor tossed the book onto the desk. "This is absolute shit," he exclaimed and left the room.

"Tell me about it," Cordelia murmured and picked up the phone. She peeked out into the foyer when she heard the front door swing open and closed. Sighing, she returned to sit in the chair behind the desk.

"What took you so long? Been making out?" she asked when the phone was finally answered.

*******

Dreams are an odd nexus of thoughts, where the subconscious insists on telling the conscious what it refuses to heed. Wesley’s were exceptionally disturbing that night: Lilah was in his flat, admiring the pale pink statue, when Becky went to answer an insistent, rhythmic rapping at the door. When she opened the door, a gust of hot wind blew through the lounge, tossing her violently to the side, toppling Lilah to the ground next to her, and scattering his books across the room. Only two lay untouched, placed strategically next to his laptop. As Wesley watched, unable to move, Lilah rose from Becky’s side, blood smeared across her silk blouse.

Wesley woke slowly, trying to shake the imagery from his mind. He glanced at his guest, curled up on her side, dreaming peacefully while he had not. It was then that he heard the pounding. After a cursory glimpse at the clock to see if he could feign sleep, Wesley threw on his pants and a shirt. Steeling himself, on the off chance Lilah had decided to stop by on her way home from a bar, he took a deep breath and cracked open the door.

Connor smashed the door fully ajar and walked inside, settling himself on the sofa. "Tell me about my mother," he demanded.

"A fine greeting." Seeing the impatient expression on Connor’s face, he added, "Darla was a beautiful but evil vampire."

"I already knew that."

"Bully for you. Tell me, why exactly are you here at this time of the night?" When no answer was forthcoming, Wesley looked at the young man and sighed. Mind games were tiresome enough, but at such an ungodly hour, when he hadn’t yet managed any sleep, they bordered on ridiculous.

"She loved you," he eventually said.

Connor bounded off the sofa and started to march around the small room. "Great way to show it! She left me with him! And you all! Look what happened then! Did she love anything else? A puppy? Anyone? Anything?"

"She loved you, more than anything in the world," Wesley answered, then grew angry. "She gave up everything to give you life, you little ingrate. What more in God’s name do you want?"

Connor stopped his pacing and grinned, amused by the outburst. "Answers, Wesley. That’s why I come to you. You give me answers without pussyfooting around my hypothetical feelings." He glanced around the room and sniffed loudly and with disgust, as if the wind had brought in a wisp of burning sulfur along with the ocean breeze. "You have company."

Wesley arched an eyebrow and watched while Connor ruffled through the two areas, in search of signs to confirm his theory. Only after he opened the backpack and peeked inside, did Wesley decide to answer.

"Yes, I do. But she," he emphasized the word to test his reaction, "is sound asleep. So, we can talk awhile longer. If you can see fit to lower your voice, that is."

"That Wolfram and Hart woman?" He made a note of Wesley’s involuntary cringe. "Does she know you’re playing around?"

"What makes you think I am?"

"She doesn’t," Connor sneered. "So, are you in love with this one, or just using her to get a bit on the side?"

Wesley frowned. "I don’t see how that is your any of business. And I sincerely doubt Holtz taught you to speak so disrespectfully."

"Of course he didn’t. Television."

"Ah, yes. There is that. Showtime?"

"HBO and Fox."

Wesley nodded sanguinely and headed for the kitchen. "Tea?"

"Please."

Wesley brought two cups to the coffee table and sat down while the kettle boiled. "Connor, sit down and listen. We need to set something straight between us," he began. "I’ve been giving this quite some thought. I have no problem with you popping round for the odd conversation now and again but I shan’t be a compliant party to your machinations any longer." He watched the youth’s eyes cloud with anger, but continued resolutely. "I understand you better than you think. Therefore, let me make it clear: I’ll not be the tool with which you slice out your father’s heart."

Connor harrumphed and slumped angrily against the sofa. "Can’t tear out his heart. He hasn’t got one."

"Don’t be petulant. Such behavior is beneath someone like you." Wesley rose when the kettle began to steam and warmed the teapot. After filling it with boiling water, he returned to the living room and sat down opposite Connor. "I say again, I’ll not willingly provide you with material to use against him. Or any of them, for that matter."

"Why? What have they done for you?"

"Absolutely nothing lately," Wesley said bluntly, and, trying to keep his own feelings out of the discussion at hand, poured two cups of tea.

"He’ll forbid it," Connor mumbled and pulled the tea toward him with a grunt of thanks. "He hates you. Claims my foul temperament and enmity is ultimately your fault."

"We’ve discussed that already." Wesley shrugged as he added milk to his tea. "Rather, I prattled on and you seemed to listen. Connor, you’re old enough to make up your own mind. I’m willing to be here for you, to be a friend, a guide, a confidant, just not your spy or ammunition."

"You don’t get it, Wesley. I can’t tell him I come here."

"Oh, but I do understand. You’ve no idea how well. My own father did not approve of quite a number of my friends." He laughed bitterly. "Probably never will."

"Yeah? And what would he say of me?"

"That you’re an impertinent brat, most likely. Especially since you haven’t added milk to your tea. A surer indication of a savage, totally uncultured being probably does not exist." Wesley waited for Connor to smirk. "One other thing. Some parts of my life are off limits for discussion."

"I knew it!" he snorted. "She’s a bit on the side."

"Connor," Wesley snarled.

"What?" He glanced up from his teacup and grinned. "Just finish my tea, then take off?"

"That would be extremely convenient, yes. Whatever you really wanted to discuss with me can wait for another visit. At a bloody decent hour."

*******

"He had company, but he told me to come back another time. No, I’ll go back tomorrow. In the meantime, keep an eye out for your aunt. Yeah. Hey! Can you look some stuff up on the computer? Okay, see if anything shows up about where she’s been recently that might help."

Connor paused in his conversation when he saw Cordelia pass by his room.

"Yeah, still here. My father’s girlfriend’s spying on me. I’ll get some money and we can get a hamburger or something. Oh, and," he jumped up and went to the door, checking for more roaming adults, "be prepared. I had to tell them you were my girlfriend. You did? They’re okay with that? Ah, no. Just not what I expected. Six-thirty’s fine."

*******

"Hey, Limey," Becky said and poked Wesley in the ribs. He cracked open an eyelid and regarded her. "Last night made us even, you know, on a karmic scale."

"Actually, I think you more than settled your debt."

"Does karma take American Express?"

"Not real karma. Yours version, perhaps," Wesley replied wryly. "On the other hand, I might be persuaded to start a savings account for you."

"Yeah? And what would we do with the accumulated interest?" She bounded out of the bed and began to gather her scattered clothes. "Would you look at the time? Shit!"

Wesley looked at the clock. "It’s four-thirty. Must you be home before sunrise?"

"Gee, you asking me to stay, big guy? Better hurry because the jeans are on and here goes the T-shirt. Ow. Arm’s still sore."

"Hardly," he answered and sat up. "I’m candidly asking if you’re a vampire, Rebecca."

"Becky. Baptised as Becky Marie. I know my hands can get cold, but gee. And hey! If I wanted to bite you last night, I certainly had the opportunity, -ies." She sat on the chair and pulled on her socks. "You know, talking to you is like talking to Rod Sterling. Night Gallery stuff. Gobbeldygook –"

"Gebalgik," he corrected her.

"See, the voice and the lack of humor. And the drinking." She flounced diagonally across the bed. "So, who dropped by last night? Your girlfriend?"

"If my life is going to become any concern of yours, Becky," Wesley said and with his forefinger, forced her chin up, "then you’re going to tell me exactly what that statue is and why you’ve stolen it." He captured her jaw painfully between his thumb and fingers. "And drop the stupid slut act."

***4***

"I think attacking her with Gebalgik demons less than a mile from his house is a little bit over the top."

"Well, I didn’t ask your opinion, did I?"

"No, ma’am," Lilah said and frowned. "No, you didn’t." You haven’t asked me anything at all, she mouthed.

"Lilah," the impatience in the woman’s voice crackled through the speaker, "I realize you’re protective, since you’ve gone all feral with him," Lilah’s eyes widened at the remark, "but this is my plan, and as senior partner, what I say goes."

"I understand," Lilah said and let the connection die. "Doesn’t mean I have to like it," she whispered to herself. She started when the cell phone inside her purse rang sharply.

"Yes?" she snapped. "Where the hell were you? I didn’t hire you to pick up strangers. Do you have information on the last two statues or what? Will you be able to deliver them on time or not?"

*******

"What’re they doing?"

"Just sitting on a bench. What’s up with that? They’re teenagers. I thought they were supposed to be dating. They ain’t even touching each other."

"Well, keep an eye on him. Cordelia said he’s hiding something and she thinks he’s going at it during the day so Angel won’t find out." Fred munched on her burger, then pointed discreetly. "Ooh, oh! Sideways movement combined with arm action."

"Yep," Gunn agreed. "Wait! Ah, man. She’s crying. He dumped her! I told Angel not to mess with the boy’s love life. I mean, not like he’s going to have a normal – Shit."

"What?" Fred asked, trying to see where Gunn’s attention was directed.

Kissing the girl on the cheek as he rose from the bench, Connor looked at them and saluted.

"Busted," Gunn mumbled. "I told Cordy this wouldn’t work. Boy’s too smart, too vigilant, or something."

*******

Angel came out of the office, a small, worn leather-bound book in his hands. "Hey, Cordy. Who was on the phone?"

Cordelia looked up from the computer screen. "Phone?"

"Yeah, phone. Modern device, pre-dates the e-mail you’re sending," Angel said and returned Cordelia’s blank stare. He pointed to the desk. "You were on the phone, Cor."

Realization slowly dawned and she mouthed a drawn out "oh!" Snickering in embarrassment, she said, "Somebody called, wanted information. They gave me lip, so I said I didn’t ask for their opinion. Got all nasty, but no big."

"Okay." Angel placed the book in front of her and turned it around. "I found this hidden on the bottom shelf. Must’ve fallen during the earthquake and we missed it somehow. Turns out there are three subspecies of N’gari. Any of these look like the vision you had?"

Cordelia glimpsed at the book then looked up at him. "Just found out, huh? After more than a week of surveillance? Admit it, Angel. We suck at research. Wesley would’ve known right away. Without a book. Him and his ginormous –"

"Just look, Cordelia."

After a close inspection and a deep sigh, she pointed to the last etching. "That one, with the rounded ears. We’ve been tailing the ones without ears."

*******

"Becky?" Tracy waited for her aunt to snap out of her daydream. The way she’d been acting since her return from Seattle was alarmingly close to the silent, angry woman she’d become when Tracy’s mother had been beaten by her step-father, and then during the trial where some short guy with a Southern accent got him off on a technicality. He skipped out to Mexico, or further south, a week after that; declared "too old and too rebellious," Tracy was sent to the first of four foster homes.

"Becky?" Tracy called again. "Please. You’re scaring me."

"What?" Becky blinked and focussed. "Sorry, honey. Thinking. What’d you say?"

"I said I want you to drop this, this case thing. I don’t like it. Steven says –"

"You told him about it?" Becky asked, her speech clipped and barely controlled. "I told you, you are never to speak to anyone about what I do. You know that!"

"I had to!" Tears began to cascade down Tracy’s cheeks. "You never miss a call, never miss a date with me. And then you did, not just once but … and things were going on, and, and I needed someone to talk to! Steven listens. He knows –"

"Knows what?" Becky snapped and watched as their waitress cast a cautious glance their way. "What does a sixteen-year old punk know? What did you tell him?"

Tracy twisted the white linen napkin in front of her as she refused to meet her aunt’s angry blue eyes. "I told him everything you told me," she admitted. "He says I should – I thought something went wrong. Or that you met someone and that you’d leave me all alone. I don’t want to be alone again."

"Tracy, look at me," Becky said, calmly, quietly. Tracy tried to focus her gaze on the plate of fettuccine she no longer wanted. "Tracy, I’m sorry. Look at me, please, sweetie." Tracy lifted her eyes from the gingham pattern of the tablecloth.

"Did he believe you?" Becky asked.

Tracy nodded. "He knows all about Wolfram and Hart. He said they’re all gonna burn in hell, but that you shouldn’t mess with magic stuff. That you’ll get caught up with the wrong kind of guys. Demons, maybe, even." Her eyes filled with tears again. "And then when you showed up the other day, tired and hurt and angry –"

"Okay, stop. Enough. First, I am never, ever going to leave you alone. I’m doing this to get us enough money to go to Alaska. You know that. If I need to be away, the Murrays’ll take good care of you. Clara thinks you hung the moon. The only reason they haven’t adopted you is because you told them not to, silly girl. But you can’t go telling people what I do, okay? You gotta lie." Becky gave her niece a half smile. "I did meet someone the other night, by the way."

"Does he know what you do?" Tracy asked bitterly.

"Actually, yeah. He guessed." Becky smiled again and leaned forward. "See, I got attacked by some, ah, let’s just be nice and call them goons. He saw the fight and rescued me. You should’ve seen him! Awesome. And tall, oooh-wee."

"Is he cute? Are you going to see him again?" Tracy asked. Becky motioned for the bill then looked outside the window, pretending to consider the question. Tracy crossed her arms over her chest and harrumphed. "I told you aaalllll about Steven and you won’t even tell me if you’re going to see this guy again."

"Well," Becky answered with a shrug. "He’s cute, he’s smart, but he has this major handicap. I mean, so huge it means I could never be serious."

Tracy’s eyes widened in anticipation of gory details. "What?"

Becky put her finger to her lips, then cast furtive glances around the restaurant. "He’s British," she whispered.

"Gross! Who are you and what have you done with my aunt?"

*******

"Your move," Wesley said and leaned back in the chair. Connor appeared three days after his late night/early morning visit and entered the apartment, tired and forlorn. Uncharacteristically, he’d asked no questions, poised no dramatics, just came in and set up the chessboard at the dining table. "What’s troubling you?"

Connor absently moved a rook. "A girl."

Should have guessed that one, Wesley thought and glanced quickly at the boy, then captured the rook with his knight. "That was careless. Check. A girl. And?"

"I think she’s in trouble."

"Are you the source of this ‘trouble’?" He saw Connor shake his head. "What’s she to you, then?"

"Nothing," Connor answered, absent-mindedly moved another piece, then leaned back in the chair. " I just – I want to help."

"Let me rephrase, since it’s obvious you feel nothing for this girl. What’s in it for you?"

"I feel bad for her."

Wesley shook his head and held back the chuckle. "So, then help her. What’s the moral dilemma?" He smirked. "Unless of course, Angel and company don’t want you to get involved." Connor looked into the kitchen. "Ah, they don’t know about her, do they? Just like our own little trysts. Checkmate. Third time."

"They know about her, sort of. See, I got caught sneaking in one night. Then Cordelia sent Gunn and Fred to follow me two days ago. Of course, I spotted them…" Wesley arched his eyebrow and suppressed a smile while the stream of consciousness continued. "Then Angel decided he was going to deal with these N’gari demons in El Segundo that have been scaring people and of course he forced me to go help. So, I had to call her and cancel a date, in front of the whole stupid lot of ‘em. Well, not a real date, but anyway…" Connor stared at the chessboard. "I played this poorly, didn’t I?"

"I’m sure you’ve played better." He moved the board aside. "I’ll find us something to eat while you tell me about this girl who means nothing to you." He sat silently at the table and waited for a reaction. Which wasn’t forthcoming, since Connor seemed pre-occupied elsewhere.

"Are you teasing me?" Connor suddenly asked, his features dissolving into a deep scowl.

"Let me think how to explain this succinctly without referring to Shakespeare." Wesley glanced briefly at the ceiling, then grinned. "Yes."

***5***

Gunn examined the object closely, took two steps back then leaned forward once more. "That is so freakin’ ugly. Why’d you buy it again?"

Cordelia tsked and pushed him aside. "It grows on you. The antiques dealer said it was carved by a monk named Dougherty or something. I thought Angel would like it because it’s Irish. And old. Like him."

"So is Guinness."

"Yeah, but Guinness doesn’t go with the hotel’s décor."

"And this pink stone thing does? Look at its face! If that is a face. Those wrinkly dogs are cuter than that. After bein’ hit by a Mac truck." Gunn turned to Fred for support and received only a shrug and small grin.

"I think he’ll like it, Cordelia," Fred assured her. "And he’ll appreciate the romantic gesture. But wouldn’t it be a more of a surprise if he found it on his desk?"

Bolstered by the two-to-one vote, Cordelia smirked and grabbed the statue. When she disappeared in the office, Fred admitted, "This way it won’t scare the clients."

"Amazing, ya know? Like her good taste disappeared when she came back down to earth."

*******

Connor watched, bewildered and more than a bit disconcerted, while Wesley cleared the table and cleaned up the kitchen. This afternoon had been his turn to ramble; Wesley’s to sit and listen in silence. No questions, no comments. All the information he’d kept to himself until now – how he met Tracy, her shoplifting, her calm acceptance of the existence of demons – didn’t even raise an English eyebrow. When he’d finished, he’d half-expected a sermon about the disguises and seduction tactics of evil, but Wesley simply rose and set about his present domestic business. Broody silence was more like …

With a slap, two manila folders and a notebook landed on the table in front of him, followed by a rain of highlighters and pens.

"These files were given to me by Lilah. You know about her?" Wesley asked. Connor assumed the question was rhetorical, so he kept his silence and examined the two files while Wesley dragged out and booted up his laptop.

"A series of thefts," Wesley continued, "two hundred and fifty-three to be exact – have occurred across North America, primarily Canada and the continental US, in the past two years. Lilah said one year, but some of them date back fifteen, sixteen months ago."

"You think–"

"I think we should check those folders for statues that are related. They all have magical or ritualistic properties to them but there has to be a pattern. What I’ve done on the computer is an attempt to categorize the thefts. Unfortunately, according to chronology, location and value there’s no connection. Thus, a fresh pair of eyes might be of use. Make a note of whatever strikes you as congruent. While you’re doing that, I’ve some sites to check and a contact who may be able to answer some questions, give us some leads."

Connor opened the blue file and began his reading. "So, you think Tracy’s aunt is stealing from Wolfram and Hart clients."

"Yes, I do," Wesley answered as he typed. "Wolfram and Hart have a finger on everything magical. The lines are intersecting, not running parallel. Why would somebody hire Becky –"

Connor’s head snapped up. "I never said her name."

"No, you didn’t, did you? Bloody hell," Wesley said and slammed his hand on the table. "I should have seen this then. It was she who was here the night of your inconvenient visit, Connor. The very same day I was handed those manila files. The very same day, according to what you’ve told me, Tracy began to worry about her aunt. Turns out she was in the process of stealing the third statue. That night I rescued her from a group of Gebalgik demons–"

"They’re mercenaries."

Wesley cocked an eyebrow. "No kidding. They must have been hired to protect the statue."

"So, someone let it be known that objects were being stolen. And one of them wounded her? Her exhaustion was a result of that?"

"The other choice being?" Wesley chuckled at Connor’s expression of feigned naiveté. "Yes, she got scratched on the arm. Fainted before I could clean the wound. I brought her here, and … are you trying to cajole information out of me?"

"Maybe. Hey!" Connor snapped his fingers and rummaged back to the beginning of the file. "Would the statues be of the same material or complimentary?"

"Meaning?"

"I looked in her backpack. I’ll wager you did as well. We saw the third statue. So, do we look for quartz or something that works with quartz." Connor glanced at the stack of papers, then back at Wesley. "Couldn’t hurt at this stage to do both, huh?"

"You learn well, young Padawan." Wesley returned his attention to the computer when the incoming e-mail message sounded.

"I could kick serious demon butt with Darth Maul’s light saber, you know," Connor replied as he picked up a highlighter and marked one of the items. "So, what do you think?"

"I think I prefer Mace Windu’s."

*******

"Is that it?" Tracy asked. When she saw the nod of affirmation behind the coffee mug, she approached the shiny, pale pink statue. "Can I pick it up, or will it like, ya know, shoot death rays or zap me or something?"

Becky slowly lowered her mug to the countertop. Blinking twice, she stared at her niece. "Death rays? What the hell kind of movies do you and your boyfriend watch?"

Tracy shrugged while she scrutinized her aunt’s latest prize. Steven had asked her to get a close look at it, to try and memorize its features, and he, in return, promised to find a way to keep Becky safe. The statue, heavy for all its twelve inches, was smooth, completely free of rough edges. The hairy creature (in no way could this thing be considered human, or even earthly) sat on cloven haunches and clasped a human skull in its six fingers, more like talons, actually. The gaze was fixed straight ahead, laughter obvious in wrinkles that began around its lipless mouth and creeped up toward its tiny, bulging eyes.

"Where are the others? In the apartment?"

"Nah," Becky said. Tracy watched as she went to the dining room window and closed the curtains. "They’re downstairs in the storeroom below the garage. I’ll keep them there until the buyer comes to pick them all up."

"Oh, God," Tracy mumbled and put the statue down. "Does this thing run on batteries?"

"What?" Becky spat out. Then she laughed. "It’s five, six hundred years old. They didn’t have batteries way back then."

"The fucking thing is vibrating!" Tracy said. She tried to breathe normally and not hyperventilate as she retreated into the living room. "Can’t you hear it humming?"

Confused, Becky spun around to see the small, once pink eyes on the statue burn bright red, then fade back to pink while the buzz reached a crescendo then abruptly stopped.

"I’ll be damned."

***6***

The phone’s shrill ring drew Wesley away from the Internet. He debated for a moment, then decided to let the answering machine catch whomever was calling. Hours – make that days – of searches and e-mails had generated few facts about the statues. Conjecture and speculation, plots and reminisces about childhood escapades, on the other hand, abounded.

Connor, whom he’d sent home an hour ago, had come up with seven sets of possibilities and the theory that most of the thefts were either lies or diversions. While Wesley dismissed his theory as an innate distrust of anything Wolfram and Hart, he admitted to himself that that was the most likely scenario.

******

Lilah let the receiver fall into the cradle and turned to admire another California sunset. Lost in thoughts, plans and entanglements, she hadn’t noticed that the sun was already far below the horizon. She glanced at her watch and steeled her nerves. In two minutes, seven twenty-five precisely, the newest senior partner would phone for an up-date.

And there she is. Lilah pressed the speakerphone button. Right on time. "She acquired the fourth," she said without hesitation, then cringed against a wave of telepathic anger that was sure to follow the next statement. "Our agent tracked down the fifth, but unfortunately, when he actually found the owner, it had been sold."

"There is no problem," the woman’s voice said. "Find the new owner."

Luckily, Lilah’s mental shields were up and functioning. "The transaction was done in cash, no receipt and," here it comes, "the agent killed the seller while trying to discover details."

"He’s been dealt with."

In the window’s reflection, Lilah saw herself in the office three floors below, stepping over puddles of blood and brains, trying not to get her new shoes dirty. "Yes, I thought he would have been."

"Go see your puppy and have him find it."

******

An incoming e-mail summoned Wesley’s attention, just as the phone rang. This time he chose the phone. However, the moment he stood, the ringing stopped. Frustrated, he walked over, intending to use the callback service, when the phone began yet again.

Wesley snatched the receiver from the cradle. "Good evening? I see. So, I’m a diversion now, eh? Of course I’m jesting." He sighed loudly and slowly. "No, that’s fine. I appreciate it. Thank you." He hung up and pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to thwart an on-coming headache. Yet another dead-end.

The answer had to be within reach. If only the heavens – or hells – would open up and send him a flash of inspiration.

Instead, he returned to his latest e-mail. Angus – an old schoolmate, now the Watcher’s Council representative in Tasmania – had been famous for his embarrassing yet harmless (although there was that one time …) experiments on younger or more gullible students. In the e-mail, Angus reminded Wesley of the time when their "one true mission" had been no more than to get into the library cage that contained books "suitable only for mature gentlemen." After their house’s prefect drank the tea into which Angus had slipped an "old and most secretive" potion, Angus got the combination to the lock, Slaughterhouse Five, and – as a boarder whose father made hefty annual donations – a week’s scullery duty.

"Find this woman …" the e-mail continued, "…easily concocted from household ingredients, but you must say the following in order to assure efficacy…" Wesley hit "print" and the phone rang again.

"Find something?" he asked before realizing it was not the previous caller. He listened for a moment then ran to the notebook Connor’d been using. While he hastily jotted down what the caller was saying, Wesley heard the soft telltale click. He straightened up, and in his best imitation of a California accent, remarked, "Sorry. Wrong number."

Wesley glanced at the notes he’d made: four, pink, vibrating, lights. Four out of five statues. At the rate Becky was collecting, he had less than a week to solve the puzzle. And he had so little to go on. He glanced at the printer.

******

This had gotten so far out of hand: the antagonism, lies, secrets, spying …

He needed to speak with someone – someone who might understand how heavily this lay on his shoulders.

Angel picked up the phone.

******

Wesley sniffed the contents in the measuring cup and cringed. Angus had always been devious – Wesley never knew what chaos would happen next– but GAH! How could the prefect have failed to notice the rancid odor? He had been preternaturally bright, alert, aware – he grew up to be an MI6 section chief, specializing in interrogation techniques, for heaven’s sake – but obviously olfactorily challenged. Grabbing the Saran Wrap, Wesley quickly covered the cup, set the potion aside – far from anything remotely edible and sprayed the kitchen with Lysol. Then he ran through an inventory of the unappetizing array of leftover take-aways and frozen dinners, tossed a container of beef vindaloo into the microwave and waited.

He dialed the phone: he had to find a way to convince Becky to visit.

"I need to see you. No sooner? Ah, all right, then. Two hours it is."

Two hours with that stink, which had strangely enough been replaced by the pungent odor of his curry.

And an overwhelming desire for Earl Grey.

Wesley burst into laughter.

******

Cordelia hung up the phone and glanced around the foyer. Things were not getting any better: between Connor and Angel, between Angel and he-who-shall-not-be-named, and their finances. The people who had hired them to rid their neighborhood of the N’gari demons had paid only half of the agreed amount, then absconded with the other half.

"Why does everyone hightail it to Vegas?" she moaned.

"Pretty lights?" Fred answered and glanced up from the demonology she was reading.

"No," Connor interrupted. He opened the weapons cabinet and pulled out a short blade. "They’re lured there by hope." He inspected a Chinese star and put it back.

This is good, Cordelia thought, conversation with a polysyllabic word. "It does sound enticing, doesn’t it? Being lucky enough to make your future bright. But it rarely works out that way. It takes hard work and –"

"No, again." Connor closed the cabinet and secured the lock. "They go there to get their brains sucked out by a demon. Sound familiar? Her name is Hope."

"Connor."

"Steven, Cordelia. Get it right. I’m outta here."

******

The knocking would not stop. Two hours hadn’t passed yet, so he knew who it wasn’t.

"Yeah, all right," Wesley mumbled, clicked "send," then closed his laptop.

"Sorry, not interested in The Watchtower," added as he pulled the door open. "Becky. What a pleasant surprise. I was just, uh, thinking of you."

"I need your advice," she said and pushed her way through to the living room. "I’ll pay you back." She saw Wesley’s bemused smile and mocked him. "Yeah, yeah, if you want, but I’m telling you, when I get paid, I can get you that Glenfiddich you mentioned."

Wesley gestured to the sofa, but Becky started pacing in nervous anticipation, wringing her hands and glancing at the open window. For a moment, he feared she’d see the folders and notebook, which still lay sprawled across the dining table.

"You need my advice," Wesley repeated in an attempt to distract her. "Why? What advice?"

Becky spun around. "Your books. They’re first editions, worth thousands, even though the spines are cracked and worn because you’ve obviously read them." She glanced at the shelves behind her. "A lot. And you knew about Gebalgik demons. You know all about this stuff."

"What stuff? Art? Do you see any art books?" He shrugged and moved toward the kitchen. "Would you join me for a cup of tea? No herbal, I’m afraid."

"Tea? Earl Grey’s okay, I guess. With sugar, please. You’re kidding about the art, right? Look at the stuff you have here. The lady who hired me to steal, I mean retrieve the statue," she glanced at Wesley to see if he caught her gaffe, but he seemed intent on not spilling anything as he crossed the space between them. With a smile and a nod, she took the blue and white porcelain teacup.

Wesley returned to the kitchen for his own drink. When she smiled, he returned the gesture and lifted his cup of Darjeeling in salutation.

"Thanks," Becky said. "Anyway, this broad. She’s got no clue about art. She just wants to collect. But something’s funny about that statue, and I thought maybe you could help me find out what’s what."

To emphasize her point, she walked toward the bookshelves. Wesley bolted out of the kitchen and moved to block her progress. Work, you soddin’ brew, his mind screamed.

Too late.

Becky spotted the files and notebook and changed direction. She stopped at the table just as Wesley slammed his hand down. She stared at his hand on top of the files, squinting as if the firm’s logo under the long slender fingers was unclear. She glanced at the words scribbled on the notebook. Slowly, the situation became clear: as if she’d gone through the past week with blinders on.

"You knew. They know. The demons. You hired them and then killed them."

"No," Wesley said. "I had no idea."

"You work for them." Becky said and stared up into his impassive eyes. "How can you not know what they are? You lied!"

"As did you, Becky. But it’s not what you think," he said and grabbed her arms. "Give me a chance to explain."

"What the hell am I? Just another little fly that’s fallen into your web?" She slammed her body weight against him, sending them both crashing onto the table, then jerked herself free.

Becky ran into the kitchen and grabbed the butcher’s knife, while Wesley picked himself up and assessed the situation. He had to get closer, to say the spell that Angus had transcribed, or she’d simply fall asleep. He began to recite …

She staggered and swung the knife in clumsy arcs. "I trusted you. I came to you. God! So easy. So convenient." As her shoulders slumped, she lifted heavy eyelids to glare at him. "What the hell did you do?"

Wesley approached, staying just out of lunging reach, mumbling just loud enough for Becky to hear the timbre of his voice but not make out the words.

"...dormi cum quies," he finished and rushed forward as her body crumpled in involuntary fatigue.

Second Part