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[After this.]

"They're about a mile ahead."

Wesley had been cultivating a grim--not to say, homicidal--expression ever since they left Benny a shattered wreck, but now he stops in his tracks and blinks at Angel. "...Sorry?"

"I said, they're about a mile--."

"Vampire senses are one thing. When exactly did you become a bloodhound?"

Angel squints in annoyance. "Suresh demons really smell, ok?"

"So, not having much fun here, by the way," he adds, grumbling under his breath. It was a good thing he didn't actually have to breathe or he'd probably have passed out before they even got halfway there. As if the sewers beneath L.A. weren't bad enough.

Wesley makes a face as he steps around an especially dodgy looking puddle. "Lofar does have a reputation for moving in very low-class circles. Suresh demons shouldn't surprise us."

"Because they'll do what other demons won't?"

"No, because Lofar is a cheapskate."

Angel shrugs and gives Wesley a 'well, ok' kind of look. "Let's hope he thinks good security isn't worth the money either."

"That would be helpful," Wesley agrees.

The sewer system is only slightly less awful to human senses, but Wesley manages to get his game face back on as they start walking again. They're both relieved to see the narrow walkway they're on continuing into the distance, because it means they won't have to wade through the waist-deep channel of water and--other things--on their right.

Wesley is keeping the beam of his flashlight tight on the ground before him, both to avoid alerting any guards ahead and to keep it from interfering with Angel's night vision. But it's been at least an hour since they first climbed down through that entry duct, and despite his lust for violence (Illyria....), Wesley is starting to long for some bright light and fresh air. Little chance of that tonight, though.

The silence in the tunnel is oppressive, but that's better then the occasional scuffle or splash of....rats they both hope. Any alternatives would probably be even worse.

As would, for example, heavy concrete slabs slamming down into the tunnel right in front and in back of them. Which is what happens next.

"It seems Lofar thinks good security is worth paying for after all," Wesley murmurs.

[Next]

Wesley Wyndham-Pryce would never say he's used to L.A. as Hell on Earth, but he's reached the point where he's no longer preoccupied by it. It's simply a fact, the new reality he has to cope with. It's the fact he's a living, breathing person again that he's having trouble dealing with. That and a certain, impossibly stubborn, blue goddess.

"...but did you really have to slaughter him there?!"

Wesley has no idea how long it's been since he returned to L.A. He'd gotten used to ignoring time while in Milliways. There was little reason to do otherwise. Despite the passing of seasons, one was always at the End of Time. Finer distinctions had always seemed more than a little pointless.

Two weeks? A month? Longer?

However long it had been, things hadn’t gone any worse than they’d been that first day. They certainly hadn't gotten any better either. With Angel away, the entire city seemed held in place, each player waiting for another to make the first move--and be chopped down by the others for his trouble.

That wasn't the only problem. Angel's continuing absence was inexplicable. Wesley knew perfectly well that Angel’s visits to Milliways should be taking no time all from this side of the Door, but it was just as hard to imagine Angel being anywhere else but here if he wasn't in the bar. And yet, the days went by.

Meanwhile their allies—-or rather, "allies"--had joined the status quo: Connor remained bunkered down, protecting his flock, while Spike continued plumbing new depths in decadence. Wesley had thought to motivate the vampire when he first arrived, but Spike only threatened to ransack the shattered hearth of Cyvus Vail until he found something to make Wesley's spirit shove off for good. Wesley had little choice but to keep his distance after that.

Wolfram & Hart had been there immediately, of course. They’d even been tactless enough to keep up the pretense of using... her, or rather her simulacrum, as their liaison. Then again, perhaps that’s what it meant to be truly evil. Going for the empty, humorless joke even when both sides knew exactly how meaningless it was, but doing it anyway. If only because both sides also knew doing so would grind him down just that infinitesimal fraction more.

After all, every little bit counts.

If he’d allowed himself to dwell on that he would have gone mad before the first week was done. Fortunately, he had a serious mission to give focus to his thoughts, and it had nothing to do with the designs of Wolfram & Hart. The city had changed--drastically, disastrously--since the night of his death, and if he was to be of any use to Angel, Wesley would need an encyclopedic knowledge of the players and their strategems. The Senior Partners were more than happy to supply him with that information, but for just that reason, Wesley had refused their every offer.

He’d observe the demon lords himself, witnessing their every depravity, taking note of every weakness, every vulnerability he could find.

So that, when Angel did return, Wesley would be ready.

Then the retribution would begin.

[After this.]

Roger is talking. It’s been over a week, and he is still talking.

“...Of course, upon my return, I presented my superiors with a full report of my success. It was said to be the most auspicious first mission in the history of the Watchers Council....”

Fortunately, Wesley has a lifetime’s experience in tuning his father’s voice down to an accusatory drone.

Angel, meanwhile, has spent the last week longing for a sharpened stake.

“...Little did I know that my second mission would herald an even greater triumph....”

”GAH!!” Angel yells. “Nine DAYS, and we’re only up to your SECOND mission?”

Roger glares, “I had thought, given the length of our journey, that a full account would pass the time most effectively.”

“It took you five hours to tell us about your first day at the Academy! At least they beat you up.”

Roger huffs, “I should have known a ruffian such as like yourself would have no appreci--.”

“Who are you calling a ‘ruffian’!?”

”Excuse me--, Wesley interrupts (for he’s-lost-count how many times). “But I believe that is what we’ve been looking for?”

Angel and Roger manage to stop glowering at each other long enough to look where Wesley is pointing. Roger squints, then gives a grunt of triumph. “Indeed, yes! You see? The Pillar of Diomedes.”

Angel looks skyward. “You know what? I don’t even care that he’s right. Just don’t let that be a mirage.”

The last twenty minutes pass quickly. The Pillar is a tall, dark line, nearly fifty feet high, rising up from the pale gray landscape. As they come near to it, Wesley can see its fine-lined surface, as if the pillar were wrought from weathered basalt.

“Father. You still haven’t fully explained the importance of this place.”

“Because I shouldn’t have to. If you had read the Testament of Kolanus in your sixteenth year—-as I distinctly remember having recommended to you--you would now recall that the Pillar of Diomedes is one of the foremost structures in the whole of Geburah.”

“The Testament of Kolanus says no such thing!”

“...Wesley. Must you interrupt everything I say?”

Wesley sighs. “No, Father.”

“Very well. The Pillar is vitally important in several respects, but foremost among them is the protection it confers on the Threshold Stone. An artifact of untold age, reputed to have the power to shepherd a soul safely across the passage from life to death. Or even, it is said, the other way. As you can imagine, the Council considers the safety of the Stone to be of utmost importance. If the Stone went missing, if it fell into undeserving hands, the consequences might be—-almost certainly would be--disastrous.”

They are close enough now to see it. Angel has lost count of how many ancient artifacts he’s seen over the centuries, but this one is different. The way it glows. He can feel the demon stir deep within him, trying to make him walk away from it. Even Angelus doesn’t want anything to do with this, a thing too wondrous for any one person to possess.

Yet they cannot help but be drawn closer to it, until they have entered the chamber in the heart of the Pillar and stand, almost hovering over the lapis-colored, silk pillow on which the Stone rests. None of them can take his eyes off of it.

“The loss of the Stone would be incalculable. Under no circumstances will the Council tolerate its removal from this cradle. Such an act would be unthinkable. Even if one were to try stealing it and then fail in the attempt, the most extreme sanction would instantly fall on the would-be thief’s head. He would not only risk disgrace, but banishment to the very worst of the hell dimensions. And worse, should he succeed in stealing it, the Council would muster all its resources to find him, and thereby render his life and soul forfeit.”

Roger falls silent. Then leans forward and picks up the Stone. “Here.”

Wesley is stunned. “...But you said--.”

“I know what I said, boy! Now take it!”

“I... don’t understand.”

“It will protect you. The spell of precognition. What I saw--. It was much more than they realized.” Roger’s face grows stern. “Wesley, you must take this.”

Wesley eyes him suspiciously. “Father, what did you see?”

“Dammit, this is no time to argue! I have taken the Stone from its resting place. The act is done. There’s no point in hesitating now.”

Slowly Wesley puts his hand out. Roger places the Stone in his hands.

“Why?”

“Because I--. I--,” Roger stammers, then steadies himself. “Your mother. She was beside herself when she heard what happened to you.”

Wesley cannot even begin to decipher the shifting look in his father’s eyes. “She was upset?”

“Wesley, I--. She. Yes, she would have things put right again. So, of course, we must see it done.”

His father blurs for a moment, but Wesley quickly blinks away any show of the emotion passing through him.

Angel is perfectly still, unable to believe what he’s seeing. Then, finally, Wesley nods.

“Yes, Father. We must see it done right. For her sake.”

[After this]

Geburah feels colder to Wesley this time. And, perhaps because he last journeyed here with Illyria, the solitude feels much more intense. He can almost imagine the wind whistling mournfully over desolate hills and ancient ruins.

Of course, there's never so much as a breeze in the Death Realms.

Hardly any sounds either. Other than the crunch of gravel, sand, and bone beneath his feet.

Which begs the question, really. How did one get gravel and sand in the absence of wind or water? Perhaps he can ponder that on his way to wherever he's going.

The Great City, most likely. Where he had gone the first time, though not when he returned with Illyria. But now, once again, he feels the same, subtle pull that led him to it before, though it must still lie some distance away. There is certainly no sign of it from here.

Marvelous. He'll have plenty of time to reflect on how ill-advised this all is.

He has some protections, at least. What wards and charms he could cast and assemble at Milliways and still bring with him here. They won’t be much good if something actually finds him, but they should make that detection a good deal more difficult. Stealth remains his best defense along the way. A pity, then, that the Door has left him in the middle of a miles-wide plain. He must remember to thank the Landlord for that.

If something does find him? Wesley looks down at his right hand, clenched in a fist. He has the strength for a strong blast. Perhaps even two now. Much more than he’d been able to raise against Vail. It will have to do.

Time wasted, really. To have been in Milliways as long as he had and not sought out one of the mages to help him hone his ability. To have spent so much time instead re-reading texts he had read so many times already. Foolish.

Wesley can't help but notice that his self-critiques still come to him in his father’s voice.

It's going to be a long journey.

Wesley shifts the haversack more comfortably on his shoulder and passes over the crest of another 'hill' (barely high enough to notice, really), and starts down into another shallow 'valley'. He's almost near its bottom when a portal abruptly opens and deposits a protesting Angel right at his feet.

Angel.

Angel.

“--NO!! NOT AGAI—UNH!!! ....Unhhhhh.”

Wesley stares open-mouthed.

Angel’s tumble to the ground has left one arm flung over his eyes and a fine covering of dust over his long coat.

“OK,” Angel’s voice comes from under the arm of his coat. “I can tell you’re there. And I'm really hoping you're not an enemy, because I was having this great moment.”

“Ghhhh,” Wesley says.

“Not much of a talker, huh? I know how that is. At least you don’t smell like an ene--.” The arm jerks away from his eyes.

Angel stares.

”WESLEY?”

Wesley is still with the open-mouthed gaping. It seems to be really working for him at the moment.

Angel’s face lights up with a triumphant “Ha!” as he rolls to his feet. “Look at you!” He waps Wesley’s arm a couple of times. “Solid and breathing, just like Illyria said.”

“...Angel," Wesley finally voices in disbelief.

And does the thought of embracing a compatriot and ally--a friend thought lost forever--in a full and heart-felt manhug occur to both of them? You bet it does!

And, look! There it instantly goes away again! Replaced by a whole lot of stammering and manly coughing!

“So... Wes!” Angel grins winningly as if he had anything remotely to do with his sudden arrival here. “Should have known I'd find you here at..." He looks around. "...Milliways? Doesn’t look like much of a bar.”

“Uh, no. Actually, this is Geburah. Otherwise known as the Death Realms.”

“I thought you were at the End of the Universe.”

“Normally, yes. But I decided to come here.”

“...Why?” Angel turns back to Wesley, really hoping he’ll have a sane answer ready.

Wesley has to admit that’s an excellent question. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“You’re trying to fix everything on your own again, aren’t you?”

Wesley looks away. ”Yes.”

“Yeah.” (Some things never change..) “Even Illyria figured you’d be trying to do that. She’s been acting all protective about you. It’s... weird.”

“I imagine.”

“Anyway," Angel's confident smile is his story and, by the Powers, he's sticking with it. "Not a problem. We’re both here. Now we can get you out.”

“Angel... I really don’t think it’s going to be quite as easy as all that.”

Angel is already looking around again. “Uh, Wes. There’s not really a lot of--.”

“No, there isn’t. Other than rock and shattered bone. Those seem to be the only resources the Death Realms have in surplus.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came here to find out what I can about the intentions of the Senior Partners and Cyvus Vail.”

“You were at a bar that connects to the entire universe, and instead you came here for that?”

“Yes.”

“...OK?”

Wesley sighs. “There is some kind of connection between this place and Vail. I can feel it. I’ve felt it before. And I have reason to think there may be a similar connection of some kind between Geburah and the Senior Partners. I just need to keep walking that way until I find it.”

“Why that way?”

“It’s how things are done here.”

“Oh. Right. Got it,” Angel replies, making a mighty effort to sound still confident, and to his credit, nearly succeeding. Though not quite.

Wesley appreciates the effort, nonetheless. It's a Champion thing, he recognizes well.

And even if it isn't entirely convincing, it still makes Wesley feel better than he has in a very long time.

[Continued]

Wesley is up in his room putting a last few items in a canvas haversack. He would have liked something more rugged, but he needs to travel light, and anyway, there's little chance of severe weather where he is going.

When was the last time he had actually done something? Was it his last journey to where he must return yet again? Back to the Death Realms.

It seems, Wesley muses with an unhappy smirk, that for him, at least, Milliways is itself Bound to Geburah. Or perhaps he simply has a way of bringing some form of Death with him wherever he goes.

No matter. The threat to him, and to Illyria, has come from there all along. And by his reckoning, he’s allowed that threat to go unanswered for at least a year-and-a-half now. Only the Powers would know what his adversaries have been up to there in all that time.

Come to that, the Powers probably haven’t a clue either.

He closes the outer flap of the haversack and cinches it. Durable enough, he supposes. And certainly light. His coat had proved warm enough on his two previous visits, and he's had worse pillows than one made of canvas.

Putting the haversack over his shoulder, he walks over to the small table by the door and picks up on the amulet he had left there. The very last thing he would need.

He takes a moment to study it. How long has he had the thing now? Must be nearly two years. Ever since he first found it in that shadowed cathedral. An eight-pointed silver star within a ring, all fused to a silver chain. Eight points, symbolic of the Sephiroth of Tiphereth. Or so his best guess would have it. At least it fit an item that allowed him to journey from the bar safely, if never to the safest places.

It's been well over a year since he's used it. No wonder he feels so trapped here.

But that had been Fred and Illyria, each in her own way demanding he exercise more caution, and stop endangering himself by leaving the bar. But neither of them were here now. And there were matters to be settled.

The Senior Partners. Cyvus Vail. Perhaps even his own father. Any of them could be out there waiting.

Well. They wouldn’t have to wait any longer.

[Continued]

From the final chapter of the Scrolls of Marius:

"And so it came to pass that in the land of eternal twilight, the disciples assembled to set their path to the future. And the signs they did take onto themselves were those of the Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart...."

Wesley read that, and the passages which followed it, two hours and a bottle of scotch ago. He really has no business being surprised, but scotch is too easy to come by here, and he sees no reason to deal with this sober. At least until Bar cuts him off.

But he should have known. The scrolls had been tormenting him for months now. At first, there was the struggle just to translate them. And then the sudden discovery of that first message from Cyvus Vail, addressing him directly from a document at least four thousand years old. Taunting him. Mocking him.

Then followed days of feverish obsession. Translating line after line, until the agony of Vail's scorn became too much, and he shut the scrolls away for months. And finally, his change of heart only a few days past, which took him back to the scrolls' final passages. Where the connection was made between his presence here in Milliways and the earliest days of Wolfram & Hart.

He had suspected the Circle of the Black Thorn. He had never suspected their Masters.

Is the Landlord himself one of Them? Who better to be a Senior Partner, after all? Perhaps, even the Senior Partner. No one could deny the possibility.

And yet, no. Probably not. Surely if the Senior Partners had arranged for his passage here, They wouldn’t have made it so obvious as to place him under the thumb of one of Their own. That would have made it too easy. Disoriented as he was, he would have guessed the truth after only a matter of days. Instead, it has taken him nearly two years.

And so. Wolfram & Hart. What role, then, for Cyvus Vail? Is he their collaborator? Or had he discovered Wesley’s presence here by other means? Is he a distraction? Hired by Wolfram & Hart to keep him preoccupied so he wouldn’t discover Their part too soon? But why bother? He hadn’t been able to do anything to them when he'd been in L.A. and alive. What good could he do here, and dead?

Why not let him know? Why deprive themselves of a chance to gloat? Of the chance to show him They could move him about the multiverse at will, deprive him of any hope of determining his own destiny?

....Or is he missing the point? Does this mean he isn't so helpless, after all?

And now Wesley begins to wonder if, perhaps, he's been reading the wrong texts all along.

He’d given it the best try he could. For a few days, he'd made the effort to come down to the bar, to give at least the appearance of being social, of possibly even giving a damn about the place. He had tried.

But that was weeks ago now.

He was done. He had been done for some time. If he was honest with himself, he'd been done even before Fred had departed. But now that she was gone, Wesley was finally beginning to understand why he had never made a serious effort to keep her from walking through that Door to her final end.

It was, of course, because he had been envious.

Hers was a decision he had yearned to make for himself. Had he only the guts to follow through with it.

No. That was too harsh, even for him. It wasn't a matter of courage. It was a simple matter of breaking out of a rut. The rut of continued, banal existence because he lacked even one compelling alternative to draw him away from it. Because what was Death but empty Oblivion?

Until these past few days, when all the boredom and all the meaninglessness were finally making Oblivion seem compelling indeed.

But if he was going to Pass On at last, there were questions he was going to see answered first. And this time, there would be no delays. No excuses.

He would have his answers, the consequences be damned.

Even if he damned himself in the process.

Wesley is up in his room. He is quite drunk. He has been so for days.

She is gone.

One might have thought he would be reliving the first time he lost her. The first time he held her in his arms as she slipped away forever. He has no need to. He has been haunted by that night ever since.

Now she has slipped away again.

This time he was not there.

But, then, how many times would the universe tear her away from him? How many times would it demand he relive her death? It wasn't a question of cruelty. He expects that. But a little courtesy, a simple notice of how many times he would be visited by this particular agony. Surely, that wasn't too much to ask?

In defiance, he had vowed never to endure another moment like that. But then he came here, and there she was. And for the briefest moment he had allowed himself to hope this might be a heaven, and that his pathetic attempt at heroism had won him a reward in the end.

But, of course, that wasn't it at all. Her presence here was no reprieve, only a respite. The fate of this Fred as certain as that of the Fred before. So he had vowed once again not to endure it. This time, he would not let her in. How easy it would have been to begin the whole glorious, miraculous, horrific cycle anew. Instead, he let the burning hope fade until he saw only the bitter lie that fueled it.

He turned away. He kept his distance. Even though he knew how cruel that would be for her. But there was no help for it. One of them would have to bear the greater share of pain, him or her.

And so he had taken the coward’s way.

But what had that gained him? He might at least have lived the lie for a while. He had, after all, embraced it once before, as he felt his own life leaving him. He had been given a wondrous opportunity, only to throw it away.

He always did have a knack for making a hell of heaven.

No wonder his ‘life’ here seemed pointless. Directionless. Ever since his arrival, he had only drifted from one patron to the next, until finally withdrawing to the library, and then again to this room.

Much like Fred had done.

He doubted those few patrons he had met even remembered him now. All he had left were the Scrolls of Marius, sitting there on his desk, mocking him by their presence. The Scrolls were a symbol of Enemies left to face, but Wesley hadn't the slightest notion how he might face them.

Milliways was a trap. A dead end.

No way forward. No way back.

How ironic that Fred should have an escape when he had none.

He doesn't want it to come to this.

No, that's a lie. He's actually hoping that it will.

He can't strike at them now. Not yet, anyway. There will have to be preparations. And given the way these things tended to go, there would surely be sacrifices required as well.

No matter. He would do whatever was necessary.

The pen in his hand completes the list almost before Wesley realizes he's started to compose it. Not a particularly long list. Quite short, really. But what it lacked in quantity it made up for in purest evil.

The last known leaders of the Circle of the Black Thorn:

Sebassis
Izzerial
Helen Brucker
the Fell Brethren's Potentate
leader of the Sahrvin Clan

And, of course, Vail. It always came back to Cyvus Vail.

Wesley shifts in his chair. He can still feel the sorcerer's blade driving deep into his gut. Stealing away his life, releasing it, spilling it drop-by-drop unto the cold floor of his inner sanctum. Wesley remembers every precious moment.

Vail isn't dead. Wesley's certain of that now. Perhaps the sorcerer was responsible for the messages left for him in the Scrolls of Marius, perhaps it was someone else. But in the end, Wesley knows he'll find Vail had had something to do with it.

And if Vail isn't dead, might the others still be alive as well?

It hardly mattered. Whether they were dead or not, the Senior Partners must already be recruiting. Building a new Circle to rise from the ashes of the old.

So they would be the enemy now. And Vail.

Always, always, Vail.

In the Library, Wesley is reading:

The Circle of the Black Thorn has always concerned itself with the acquisition and exercise of Power. It is their only goal, their foremost desire. And so, those who stand in their way, or in the way of the Entities whom they serve, must be crushed, if only to act as examples to others.

The origins of the Circle are obscure, even to those accustomed to trading in the deep secrets of the World. Indeed, scholars of the occult must take special care, for even the most casual of queries must be posed with the greatest caution. The Circle’s minions have ever been few in number, but they are unceasingly vigilant. The slightest misstep will bring doom, not only on the one seeking knowledge, but on all his descendents as well. In such cases, when a family has had the great misfortune to be noticed, the Circle will take a particular interest in the first son born to the seventh generation descended from their would-be discoverer.

Mark this: the seventh son will suffer the harvest sown by his ancestor's folly.

When the time has come for the Circle to make the seventh son their own, they will first deprive him of any opportunity to bear a child of his own. Were the seventh son to sire an eighth, the puissance within him would be spent, undoing his potential as a vessel for the will of the Circle and the Will of their Masters. The Circle may even slay the son to prevent his achieving parenthood. In such cases, arrangements will have been made to trap the seventh son's spirit on the material plane, forcing him to wander the Earth for many a day as a ghost or shadow, bound to the city that in life he called home. The hapless soul might well spend as much as a year in this state before becoming aware of the true nature of his existence.

Occasionally, a seventh son has managed to escape the Circle for a time, though only if he can attract the interest of another Entity of extraordinary power, and only if that Entity bestows upon him a great displacement of Space and Time. Even so, this reprieve will invariably be short-lived and when the Circle comes upon him again, the seventh son will pay grievously for making himself an inconvenience.

Once firmly in their grasp, the son will first come into possession of an item closely associated with the ancestor who made the fatal inquiry. The seventh son will be visited with this object and will soon become obsessed with it. Whatever the item may be, even if its existence was entirely unknown to him before, he will feel compelled to study it and understand it thoroughly. And as he does so, his dreams will grow increasingly dark and terrifying, the better to break his will and prepare him for the rituals to come…..

Wesley sits back, allowing the scroll to roll shut with a quiet rustle. He'd never given it much thought before, but he now finds himself grateful that the line of Wyndham-Pryce was not an unbroken chain of sons....

The scotch helps. Not as much as the shower did, but it helps.

While waiting for Illyria to finish cleaning up, Wesley carefully removes the last traces of the symbols from the floor of his room. The odds are low that they would be used by Something to escape from the Death Realms, but it was best not to take chances.

That done, he settles heavily into the chair at his desk, and sifts idly through the loose pages from the Pnakotic Manuscripts. The scotch sits well within reach for a refill. He's made quite sure of that.

It's late. Very late. And he's been drinking since... twilight. Or what passed for twilight in this place.

Wesley sits in the most comfortable chair in his room, shirt collar undone, sleeves rolled up, clothes thoroughly rumpled. A glass of scotch is in his right hand, held so barely by his fingertips it might just as well be hovering in the air beside the armrest.

Something is weighing heavy on his mind, has been for days. But try as he might, he simply can't identify what it is.

And so Wesley bears witness to the passing of minutes, then hours. Waiting for dawn (or what passes for dawn), without any expectation that it would bring true illumination.

The Pnakotic Manuscripts were bound when he first brought them to Milliways for safe-keeping in Asar-Suti's library. Now several of them are scattered across every horizontal surface in Wesley's room.

Their binding has been carefully undone, such that he can return them to their original condition once he's done with them, but the care he took in doing that was entirely an after-thought. Wesley is trying to learn more about Illyria, and whenever his attention focuses on that subject, obsession seems sure to follow.

Little wonder he's hardly been downstairs in weeks.

It's been a quiet evening, but then most of them have been that way lately. The bar has just seemed a bit too much.

Though Wesley wonders if perhaps getting away from the place altogether for a while wouldn't be a good idea.

[After this]

The four candles were in place again, each one set at a corner of the altar, and this time their flames flickered as gusts of icy wind passed through the ruined cathedral. Wesley was glad again for his jacket.

He poured water from a small flask into a chalice, then lit the incense in the brazier beside it. Bar's shoulder bag had contained everything he needed except an atheme, but a generic one would have done Wesley little good anyway. He made a mental note to create his own once he returned to the bar. What he had would have to do.

"The Circle is complete?"

"Yes, Father, as complete as it can be here."

"Excellent. You, of course, recall the ritual of summoning as it is recorded in the Journals of Saetama?"

From the tone of his father's voice, Wesley was not expected to remember, but in fact, he could recall the ritual in full. Wesley had last consulted that text in the presence of a cyborg bearing a glamour in the likeness of his father. Seeing him again had jogged Wesley's memory, and the lore of Saetama was fresh and clear in his mind.

"Dae nah, !kali-ura-tan.... Yes?"

His father was grudgingly impressed. "Very well. Now. We shall stand opposite one another across the altar. We then recite the ritual in full--without a single error--and the dimensional sanctuary in which the manuscripts are kept should appear between us, hovering above the altar. Are you ready?"

The unnecessary caution against error had grated, but Wesley let it go. Now he simply nodded and walked to the far side of the altar. Once in place, they nodded again, and began the ritual.

Even before they had finished it, Wesley could see the air above the altar begin to shimmer, and as the vibrations of their voices intoned the final syllables, the very space itself began to twist and bend. A portal was opening.

The last syllables brought the sanctuary into sharp relief. If the space within was anything like the outer surface, it was large enough for a codex, perhaps two of them. His father's spirit was already moving across the dais to get a closer look. Wesley did the same.

"M'yes," Roger mused, studying the symbols adorning one side of the box. "Yes," he gestured.

"The ritual language of the Mok'Tagar. Third dynasty." Wesley said quietly. "A simple binding, by the looks of it."

"Quite so. Shrewsbury claimed the Mok'Tagar sorcerer who placed it here believed a combination of rituals from different traditions would be sufficient to protect the texts from any who came here. Which suggests that sorcerer was even more of a fool than Shrewsbury himself, a thought that beggars the imagination."

"You see why the Council believes we cannot afford to leave such dangerous texts in this state? They must be placed under far greater protection as quickly as possible."

"I quite agree, Father."

Roger was silent for a moment, looking at his son. And then his face changed, as if making a decision. Suddenly Roger's spirit began backing away from Wesley and the sanctuary.

"I had hoped you would agree, my boy."

"Father, what--?"

Wesley tried to take a step backward, but not before his father's hand completed a complex gesture. Wesley's feet were fixed to the dais as if glued there.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Only what is necessary, Wesley. I am sorry. But your being here offers us an opportunity we cannot afford to let pass. If I bind your spirit temporarily to the sanctuary, I can use its energy to cast a far stronger binding. And that will keep the manuscripts safe until the Council has gathered the resources we shall need to mount a physical expedition."

Wesley felt an old, old rage building within him. He had kept it locked for years behind a heavy door deep in his psyche. It had come raging out once before, when the cyborg had threatened Fred and Wesley had unloaded a full clip into what he had thought was his father's chest. Now he was discovering that a rage like that, once loosed, was far easier to summon a second time.

"You cannot be serious, Father. Who knows how long that may take. It could be years, decades before the Council decides to return here. And you expect me to remain trapped in this place until they get around to it?"

"At the risk of being unforgivably callous, Wesley, you are dead What possible difference could it make where you spend the next few months or years? Here would seem to be as good as anywhere. And at least this way you will make yourself useful, helping to protect these texts until the Council can secure them properly."

"I told you I could see them safely away from here. To a far more secure place than the Council could ever manage."

"Don't be foolish, boy. Do you seriously think I believe that story? That you 'know a safe place' for texts as potentially dangerous as these? You've long since squandered your right to such an outrageous benefit of doubt."

The rage was slipping loose, and now Wesley could feel something else. The silver star around his neck was warm against his chest. Later, when he thought back to this moment, he would realize this was the first time it showed him what he was capable of doing.

"I warn you, Father. For one last time. Do not do this thing."

"Trust your betters, Wesley," his father said dismissively, already preparing the final sequence. "We have always understood your best interests better than you, and that has never been more true than--."

Wesley is not sure what happened next. Those minutes which followed his father's casual judgment are a blank and will probably remain that way for some time.

But he does remember falling. Out of the cathedral and out of the Death Realms, watching the rift through which he had plunged closing behind him. He twisted round and blinked several times, hoping his eyes would adjust to the bewildering vistas that were opening around him. He was plunging through a vast, even cosmic, space. Beings of every shape and size were moving swiftly in every direction, from places unknown to destinations unimaginable.

Tiphereth. This must be Tiphereth, the gateway of the Sephiroths. The silver star was hot against his chest, and it was only at that moment that Wesley realized his arms were clutched around a heavy codex. Ignoring the heat, he held the book tighter.

MIlliways. Focus on Milliways, Wesley thought, and as he concentrated, his tumbling fall became steady movement along a deliberate path.

He'd done it. He had journeyed to the Death Realms, found what he was meant to find, and confounded the Watchers' Council and his father in the process. That last part was petty, perhaps, but Wesley felt no less satisfaction for it.

But there was a mystery as well. He had assumed this was all Bar's doing, but he had been wrong about that. Wesley was certain now that some other agency had been responsible, and he hadn't the slightest notion yet who that might be.

As the distant shape of a closed Door came into view, Wesley hoped the book he was holding would have something to offer about that.

[Wesley's return]

[After this]

Roger Wyndham-Pryce did not like surprises, but this one was particularly unwelcome. “Wesley! What are you doing here?”

“I--.”

“Do you have any idea how perilous this place is? Well, of course, you must. Or at any rate, you should, you certainly received the training. Assuming, that is, you bothered to pay attention—.”

“Father!”

Roger stared. “I trust there is a reason for this show of disrespect?"

“Only that the moment demands some explanation, and criticism of me might wait for another time.”

“Quite. Very well. Since you're here, I assume you do recognize this place?”

“Yes, the Death Realms. Specifically the Great City of--.”

“Well, of course, we’re in the Death Realms, boy. I mean this place.”

Wesley looked around them. It took a moment, but the realization struck him soon enough.

Roger gruffed, “And now you understand why I am here?”

“….Father you must leave this place.”

“I intend to, Wesley, at the earliest opportunity. Though your presence here--. No, never mind. We haven’t the time. We must find it, and quickly.”

“It?" Wesley took a step closer to his father. "What? What are you looking for here?"

A look of disgust crossed the older man's face. "You have no idea, do you?" His father stood back on his ghostly heels and assumed the professorial air Wesley had always hated. "There is a reference to this cathedral in the Shrewsbury Codex, which states that one might find here documents once kept in the Library of Caelano. I assume that that name, at least, is known to you?"

"Caelano?" Wesley repeated, feeling a chill. "You believe the Fragments might be found here?"

"The Caelano Fragments, yes, or perhaps, the Pnakotic Manuscripts. Shrewsbury was, as usual, lamentably vague on the matter."

"But why now? Why come for them now?"

"Because his son is dead, Wesley. Dead at last, and the Council has finally gained access to the rest of his father's papers. I have been sent on a spirit journey here to determine their exact location and report back to the Council."

"You don't intend to take them back with you?"

“Wesley, don't be foolish. How could I take them from here in this spirit form? Once I've confirmed their location, I will inform the Council. At which point we will be forced to mount an extremely dangerous physical expedition to this Realm. Only a physical... form..."

His father's expression had suddenly changed, and his spirit took several steps closer to his son. "Wesley, what on Earth...?"

“Yes, Father. I was wondering how long it would take for you to notice.”

It had been many years since Wesley had seen his father at a loss for words, much less concerned for his welfare. But now the expression on the face of Roger Wyndham-Pryce truly surprised his son.

“Wesley--. My boy--. What happened?”

This wasn’t how Wesley had imagined this moment. Not here, in this unimaginable place. And not with his father like this.... Wesley felt a catch in his throat.

“Cyvus--."

“Cyvus? Cyvus Vail? But that’s impossible. What would ever possess you to challenge a monster like—. My god, it was him, wasn’t it? That damnable Angelus! He put you up to it, didn't he?”

“Yes, Father, Angel asked me to confront him. It was my part in a master stroke against the Circle of the Black Thorn."

"The what?"

"The Circle of the Black Thorn. A cabal of the highest Earth-bound operatives in service to Wolfram & Hart. A cabal, I might add, that has never been known to the Watchers Council.”

“Cyvus... this Circle....," his father's eyes widened. "That battle--! The one in Los Angeles. I thought, perhaps, you might know something of it--. (Too much to hope you might have reported to us--.) But in all my wildest speculations, I never imagined--." Roger fell silent again, staring at his son.

“Wesley.” His father's voice was warmer now, betraying a concern Wesley could not remember hearing from him before, one that put him quite off-balance. “Is this where your spirit was sent? Have you been dwelling here? If so, I swear to you, I will find a way--."

“No, Father. No, I came here from.... elsewhere. A.....safe place, but one that's.... difficult to explain.” Made even more difficult by the look of relief that came over his father's face. “I wasn’t sure why I’d been drawn here, but I think, perhaps, this must have been the reason. To meet you here."

“Wesley. This is important.” Roger took another step forward and reached out to touch his son. As his hand passed through Wesley's body, Roger could now see that, unlike him, Wesley was solid—proof of his son's death, for only the dead or the demonic could be physical in this place without powerful magics.

“If you have a physical presence here, if you have the means to take the papers away--. Wesley, you could put them beyond the reach of those who would use them against humanity. This could be a tremendous opportunity."

Wesley was already nodding. “Yes, Father. This place where I live now. The papers could be made safe there.”

“Wesley, I have never been more proud of you than now. This is a great thing you are about to do, my boy.”

Of course, his father assumed the decision had been made. But for once Wesley would let Roger Wyndham-Pryce have his way.

“Yes, Father” Wesley replied, eying the altar, “Now all that remains is the actual doing of it."

And while the altar stood quiet and harmless, he had no doubt that recovery would be perilous indeed.

[Continued here]

[After this]

Wesley woke the following.... night. Of course it was night. It was always dark here, the chronicles had been very clear about that. But Wes was surprised that he woke up refreshed--almost as surprised that he woke up at all. He had only seen two demons so far, but he had still expected something would attack him while he slept.

That thought had kept him restless for several minutes, but then fatalism took over and he slept soundly for several hours. Five, he guessed, though the Watchers' timekeeping mantra was less reliable about hours spent asleep.

And timekeeping was no help at all for telling him how far he had traveled. The ancient texts agreed that the Death Realms had their own logic. Getting to a specific place had nothing to do with how long you took to get there. You just kept moving until you found yourself where you wanted to be. Or until you were hopelessly far away. Or until you were digested in the gut of something that dwelled there.

So, Wesley thought, no point in worrying about the where. Focus on the why. Why would Bar want him here? Or was some other party acting through Bar? But that seemed unlikely. He had yet to meet Bernard, let alone the Landlord, and Wesley could fathom no reason why either of them would want him anywhere.

Wesley rolled to his feet, made a quick check in all directions, and continued his way down the street. He was deep within the City now, and the tall buildings seemed to press from all sides. He was more likely to encounter something, but the shadows were deeper too, and so far the darkness had been his ally.

The cathedral caught his eye at once. All the buildings were spectral and strange, but something about this one drew him. A trap? Possibly. Or perhaps this was the reason he was brought here. He had only one way to be sure.

Wesley moved from shadow to shadow, keeping his back against stone walls and piles of rubble, moving steadily closer to the cathedral. The massive front doors stood open, but taking that way risked making himself an easy target. He moved instead along the left side of the building until he came to the transept where he found a small, open doorway. Wesley hefted the steel rod he had used on the demon and, after taking a deep breath, ducked inside.

The door was long gone, but the walls kept this part of the cathedral shrouded in darkness. Wesley backed into a corner near the doorway and waited for his eyes to adjust. He strained to hear a sound, but the only breaks in the silence were the occasional clatters and echoes of stone falling from the high ceilings above the nave. Wesley could still feel something pulling at his chest, something beckoning.

Nothing about this seemed like a good idea, but he was here now and might as well see it through. The floor of the transept was covered in dust and rubble, so Wesley was careful where he put his feet. Making too much noise might be disastrous, and twisting an ankle--. Wesley couldn't think of a word for how bad that would be.

It took him several minutes to creep up to the crossing, where the transept met the nave. Here a pale gray light spilled through shattered glass and gaping stone walls. Another falling stone made Wesley keep close to the wall as he turned left, toward the raised dais at the end of the nave. He glanced at the ceiling. There might be something moving up there, causing the stones to fall, but the rafters were far too high for him to see. He would have to chance it.

He was being drawn to the altar, of course, and the part of his mind still concerned about self-preservation was screaming at him to stop right where he was and get the hell out of there. But if he did he might never find his way out of the Realms. He moved away from the wall and began walking across the floor toward the steps leading up to the dais.

He almost missed it. It was on the ground, only a few paces away from the steps, and judging by its thick coat of dust, it must have been lying there for ages. A silver star, with eight points, bound within a ring of silver fused to a silver chain. Eight points, like the eight festivals of the old pagan calendars. No, he thought again, that wasn't it.

They were arrows, moving in several directions. A crossroads. A connection, surely, to Tiphereth, the nexus, the gateway of the Tree of Life. A place where all roads come and go. A place very much like Milliways.

A grim smile came to Wes' face. Bar had wanted him to find this, he was sure of it. But he still felt a pull on his chest. It was different now, though it still drew him toward the altar. Wesley slipped the silver chain around his neck, hid the star beneath his shirt and--.

A flash of emerald light from the corner of his eye. Wesley wheeled to face it and took several steps back. There was a figure, shaped like a man but shimmering with the sickly pale glow of a spirit. It was moving quickly up the nave, unconcerned about falling stones, and far too sure about where it was going. Its light flickered against the shattered glass, and Wesley could hear the air once again begin to fill with the sound of whispers.

He was in serious trouble. He tightened his grip on the steel rod, but what good would it do against a malevolent spirit? Bar had given him the components for creating a magic circle, but there was no time now to draw them out of his shoulder bag. The spirit was moving closer. It must be able to see him. His only hope now was the amulet in his pocket, and he could feel it growing warm against his chest as the spirit drew near.

It was close enough now for Wesley to see its features. Human, an older man, with a deathly serious look in his eyes.

And now it was looking at him, as if it could finally see Wesley just as easily as he could see it. And see--. And see--. Wesley's jaw dropped. “Father?”

[Continued here]

[After this]

It was cold in the ghost city. Putting on a jacket that morning had been a happy accident. Now he was warm, even while the chill on his face kept him awake. Staying alert was vital, especially when the clouds blocked the moonlight and cast the city into heavy shadow.

Wes strained to hear what sounds he could. The whispers in the wind had died away, but from time-to-time a stone would shift or a part of a building would fall and clatter on the ground. Sometimes there were other noises, but Wes usually had no idea what they were, and was only too glad they were far off in the distance.

Watcher training was a laughable thing, really. Like Giles, Wesley had lost nearly all his respect for it now that he'd spent years out in the field. But it had given him some valuable skills, including an ancient method for keeping accurate track of time. He had been here for nine hours now, and had walked roughly that many kilometers through the city. So far he hadn't met a single creature, living or undead, but being vigilant for so long was draining. He would need to rest soon, and he wasn't looking forward to that. For all he knew, something had been watching him for hours, just waiting for him to fall asleep before it closed in.

But a few minutes later, he was playing the spectator.

It was a Lei-Ach demon. Tangled, matted hair, a bone white face covered with running sores, and a heavy frame that had once made them feared warriors, even among other demons. But that had been long, long ago. Still, it was odd to find one alone, and since the Lei-Ach had never been known to send out scouts, there was no question this one was solitary. Unlucky for it; fortunate for Wes.

He might not be Angel or Gunn, and he remembered his past blunders and embarrassments better than anyone. But having one's throat cut had a way of focusing one's attention, and in the two years that followed, he had learned to suppress the fear and compassion that made a civilized person prone to fatal hesitation. Wes was no warrior, but he no longer had any qualms about taking a life, demon or otherwise. And that was true even before his guts were ripped to tatters by the savage and merciless blade of Cyvus Vail.

Still, this demon was a problem. He'd have to find some way to kill it, or else risk having it come upon him when he was asleep. There was no breeze to carry Wesley's scent toward it, but not having a ranged weapon meant he would have to get close to bring it down. He could count on this Lei-Ach being much weaker than his ancestors, but it would still be stronger, and possibly faster, than Wes, and if it managed to pin him down, that would be it. The Lei-Ach would then use its sharp tongue to extract his body's bone marrow, and his life along with it. That would be a slow and excruciating second death. As the old chronicles said, the Lei-Ach were "a nasty piece of work."

But how to get close? Countless times, he had watched Angel--large, tall, and heavy as he was--move more silently than Wes' own breath, to bring down a foe before it even knew Angel was there. And Angelus had been even quieter, the very embodiment of a silent yet mocking death. Wes knew his limits fell far short of that. He could not be stealthy enough, especially not here. Nor could he risk making a noise to bring the demon to him. Surprise was his only advantage against this Lai-ach. He could not afford to give it away.

Wes was still pondering his options, when Fate provided another. It was a second demon, this one with long loose ears and baggy skin. Wes had seen its kind before, a peaceful race. Too peaceful, in fact, to have earned a name for themselves among demons. Years ago, he probably would have thought it a non-combatant to be saved. Now it was only convenient prey.

The Lei-ach apparently agreed. It was already moving fast, and only a loose bit of shale gave the peaceful demon any warning of the attack. It looked up and started to back-pedal clumsily, putting up its arms and screaming for mercy, to be allowed to live. But less than a second later, the Lei-ach was upon it. The screams that followed were horrific, all the more because the Lei-Ach was taking its time killing its prey.

Wes leapt up from his own hiding place and moved as quickly as he dared toward the Lei-Ach, taking advantage of the other demon's dying shrieks to cover the sounds of his approach. Wes already had a heavy steel rod in his hand, and he kept a tight grip on it as he came up fast on the Lei-Ach's back.

He was only a few steps away when the Lei-Ach noticed him. But Wes was already close enough to have heard the disgusting sound of the murdered demon's marrow being sucked wetly from its bones. The Lei-Ach spun, but only in time for Wes' rod to come crashing savagely down on its forehead.

The Lei-Ach roared as the cold steel shattered bone and crushed sinew, and it made one half-hearted swipe at Wes' chest. But Wes was now in a frenzy, smashing the rod down again and again until the Lei-Ach finally lay still.

Breathing hard, Wes struck the Lei-Ach hard twice more to make sure it was dead, then staggered back several steps to settle half-way on a low stone wall. His hand still held tight to the rod, and his jacket and pants, now spattered with gore, glittered strangely in the moonlight.

As instinct slowly receded, his thinking mind returned. Did this make him top of the food chain? Wes huffed in derision. Hardly. But he had slain his rival, and for now, that was enough. Using the ragged clothing of the peaceful demon to wipe off his jacket and clean the steel rod, Wes returned to the shadows and kept moving through the city.

[Continued here]

[From here]

Wes wasn't surprised by what he found on the other side of the Door. He had heard all about Bar's sense-of-humor, and after all, where better to send him than to one of the Death Realms? This was the Twilight World, by the look of it, which meant he would have to be careful. Especially when the slate clouds parted, and the icy moon overhead banished all the shadows. He had read about this place, and he knew it was far from empty.

Great holes secretly are digged where earth's pores ought to suffice,
And things have learnt to walk that ought to crawl.

He ducked back against a broken stone wall, and scanned the landscape around him. Cityscape, more like. The Great City, he suspected. An assemblage of urban spaces from many worlds, jumbled together side-by-side. Towering hulks of crumbling cement and buckled steel, surrounded by townhouses and brownstones which seemed huddled together in the vain hope of hiding themselves from the yawning gulfs of starry sky above.

Wes was, to say the least, in over his head.

He held his breath for a time, straining to hear if anything was moving nearby. Nothing.

That was some relief, though he suspected some of the very worst things in this place moved in perfect silence. But Wes knew he couldn't stay where he was. He doubted Bar had sent him here just to view the local colour, or lack of it. Best to keep moving, find whatever it was he was supposed to find, and hope that she had left some means for him to return from here. Though if she hadn't, Wes guessed the final resting place for errant former Watchers probably wasn't far away.

The stone wall at least gave him some protection along two compass points, so he quietly unslung the small shoulder bag Bar had given him and placed it carefully on the ground beside him. Moving quickly but deliberately he pulled from it a stalk of dried yarrow; some bay leaves and other herbs; three short branches: one rowan, one birch, and one ash; a strip of blue cloth; a silver coin, and some silver thread. And finally, the four candles he would have to light, despite the danger that something might see them.

Because if he hoped to survive a journey through this place, he would need an amulet to protect him.

Resigned to the risk he was taking, Wes sighed as he set the four candles in a square and lit them. The air around him began to whisper, but each of the flames burned straight on its wick, untouched by any breeze. That was enough to make Wes move as quickly as he dared, assembling the herbs and branches on the blue cloth, placing the coin on top of them, and then folding the cloth in a special pattern to make a small bundle. Finally he tied his makeshift amulet shut with the silver thread, and immediately put out the candles.

It wasn't much, especially against the sort of things that dwelled here. And the amulet was a mix and match of at least three traditions. But it was better than nothing, and it might even buy him enough time to escape whatever he might encounter here. Anyway, it made him feel at least slightly more confident, and that had to count for something. He slipped the amulet into an inside pocket of his jacket and zipped it shut.

Returning the candles to the bag, Wes slung it back over his shoulder, buttoned the front of his jacket, and taking a deep breath, moved deeper into the sepulchral city.

[Continued here]