It was dark, it was cold, and she had lost all sensation in her hands.

She wished she were unable to feel her arms and shoulders as well.

How long had she been abandoned here for?

A few hours maybe.

Back at the bookstore, they had been outnumbered. The vampires subdued them quickly without any unnecessary violence. They threatened Oz when she made a move towards the closest weapon. And in the end, she yielded.

Lisandra had been snickering all the while.

They were restrained and dragged through the sewer system to a large warehouse. The place was a maze and Morghane had been quickly separated from Oz.

Now she was alone in some kind of cell. The floor and the walls were made of naked, wet concrete. The massive steel door in front of her was locked from the outside. The light was activated from the corridor. She was surrounded by complete obscurity, sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall opposite the door, arms bound securely behind her back. Her coat, boots and socks had been confiscated and she was only wearing Angel's shirt and her 501s. Both had seen better days.

Goddess, she felt like screaming.

The creak of the lock preceded the return of the light by a fraction of a second. She narrowed her eyes, trying to force her vision to adapt faster to her new environment.

When she identified the features of her visitor, she regretted the effort.

"Lisandra," Morghane whispered, not bothering to hide her weariness.

At least there was no First in sight. That was always good news.

She dropped her eyes to the floor because she was going to get a stiff neck, looking up like that.

She sighed. "Why don't you get on with it?"

The vampiress leered at her.

"Get on with what?"

"Just connect the couple of neurons that pass up as your brain and come back to me with an answer when the smoke's cleared up, okay?"

Lisandra stepped away from her.

"Listen," murmured Morghane - dropping the sarcasm. "Just... I'll do whatever you want me to do. Please, leave Oz out of this. He's of no interest to you."

The young blonde ignored her completely.

"Is it... is it time?"

That triggered a reaction. "No. Their orders are to keep you alive as long as possible." Lisandra giggled. "They'll just make you wish for death."

The Guardian frowned. "What?"

Lisandra turned around and exited the cell without a look over her shoulder. She left the door opened.

This could only herald bad things.

Two burly vampires entered the room. They sported matching three-piece suits and she found that funny.

Less amusing were there thick construction work shoes. And she didn't feel like laughing at all when her gaze fell on the weird little wooden bat one of them held in his right hand.

The impromptu image of a cricket game in England flashed before her eyes.

This was going to hurt like hell.

The one whose hands were empty leaned over her and pulled her roughly to her feet without a word. He grabbed her hair in a closed fist and yanked back. She smothered a groan. With his other hand, he seized her bound wrists and pressed them together against the small of her back - slowly pushing her hands up along the path of her vertebrae. She felt like her spine was going to snap in two at any time.

Since she couldn't do anything else at that moment, she concentrated on biting back an instinctive scream - waiting for the blow which was undoubtedly going to land on her ribs.

 

 

"My legs are gone!"

"No, Princess. Your legs are right were they're s'posed t'be... and they're damn fine legs too..."

"You just wan' me for my body! And now my legs're gone so you won't" - hiccup - "won't love me" - hiccup - "anymore."

Whine.

Doyle rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and tried to keep Cordelia from falling down the bar stool she was precariously perched on. Looking for her legs.

As if anyone could not see the shapely limbs that her very short skirt did nothing to conceal from the avid stares of the bar's patrons. Cordelia's loud, drunken voice didn't help them maintain a low profile either.

Why couldn't he have a nice, painful vision of Morghane's whereabouts, so they could go find Angel and stop this insanity?

"They're gone," Cordelia sniffed daintily. "Bye."

The half-demon shook his head and turned towards the barman, nursing his beer.

They had been at it for hours. The meeting with his contact that morning had been a bust. The Bra'ch demon had no information on either the Guardian or the First. In any case, he wasn't ready to share. Unwilling to go back to Angel with nothing to show for their efforts, Doyle had dragged Cordelia on a tour of all his informants. It just happened that all of them were either bartenders or booze drinkers. To them, showing good faith meant sharing a pint.

Now they visited their fifth establishment. Five Guinness were hardly enough to bother Doyle, but Cordelia...

"D'you think m'breasts are too small?"

Doyle sputtered, snorting beer out of his nose all over the counter. He quickly grabbed a napkin to wipe off the mess he had made. "What?" he asked in a strangled voice, looking at his girlfriend with eyes like saucers.

Cordelia wobbled on the stool, a hand on each breast - absorbed.

"D'you like their shape? D'they look 'kay?"

Doyle nodded emphatically. "They are perfect, Princess. Like the rest of ye."

"Oh, yeah," concurred the bartender, openly ogling Cordy's cleavage.

"Hey! Keep yer eyes to yerself, will ye?" growled Doyle. He took his jacket off and deposited it on Cordelia's shoulders. She didn't even notice. He addressed the barman, keeping a possessive arm around his girlfriend. "So spill it. Ye said ye knew someone who could tell us where to find the Guardian. Where is he now?"

The man pointed his chin towards a back room and leaned a bit closer to Doyle, whispering.

"He's a bit off his rocker, but I don't think he's dangerous. Just keep an eye on the lady."

"Cheers, lad."

Doyle put a twenty on the counter and helped Cordelia up.

"Let's go, Princess. Can ye walk?"

She grinned. "My legs are back."

"Good, good. Ye hold onto me and we should be fine."

"Okay, Doyly."

< Doyly? >

She tottered but remained standing - which, considering the height of her heels, was a miracle in and of itself even when she was sober. They made their unsteady way to the back room and Doyle pushed the door open - holding Cordy up with his other hand.

The place was dark and it stunk.

"Ew." Cordelia delicately brought her hand in front of her nose. "Somethin' died 'ere."

"Someone 'ere?" asked Doyle.

A shadow twitched in the far corner of the room. A ragged murmur broke the heavy silence. "We're doomed... all doomed."

"Stay 'ere." The half-demon took a few steps away from his girlfriend and hoped she would obey his command. He squinted, trying to detect a shape in the darkness.

"Don't... don't come any closer!"

Doyle raised a appeasing hand. "Okay, friend. I'll stay right 'ere. Right 'ere. I just want to talk. Good?"

A small, scared silence.

"Okay."

"Now, what do ye know about the Guardian?"

A low, plaintive moan echoed between the dingy walls. "Shh. Don't pronounce that name. It... It'll find me again. They'll find me again."

"Who?"

A panicked movement.

"I didn't know... I swear I didn't know, and then it was too late. But I escaped..."

"Calm down," said Doyle, growing impatient. He twisted his neck to check briefly on Cordelia. She sat on the floor, quiet, looking at her nails. He faced the living shadows again. "Remember to breathe and explain to me slowly what happened to ye. We'll help ye, I promise."

"No one can help me," the silhouette murmured resignedly. "I don't deserve to be saved."

Now that it was quieter, Doyle was sure that the voice was male.

"Tell me."

A sniffle. "I... I was the one who told it where to find her. I'm... I was a Watcher. I didn't know, I didn't realize... I thought..."

"Wow, wow. Slow down."

"S... sorry. My name is Duncan Nesbit. I was sent by the Watcher Council to keep an eye on the Guardian in training. A lot of mages are taught at one time, but only one is marked. That's just the way it's done. If the Guardian doesn't die during the successor's lifetime, nothing happens. They never go through the Rapture. But if... A man came to see me, a friend of mine, another Watcher. I don't know how they found me... who told... I realized too late that it wasn't my friend. Just a thing with his face. And I had already..."

Doyle brought a tired hand to his forehead. "Given the name of the successor."

A meek, agonized "Yes" answered him.

< Dear Lord in Heaven. >

"What happened? Do ye know?"

"I... I tried to call my friend again. A relative of his told me... told me he had been dead for a week. Vampires."

"So yer friend had been turned."

A indignant growl. "No! I'm a Watcher. I'm not stupid. I never invite anyone in, even close friends. But that... thing, whatever it was, it didn't need an invitation. I didn't suspect..."

Doyle's voice softened. "Ye said ye escaped..."

"I guess it wanted to get rid of me before I talked. Vampires set my house on fire... but I made it to the sewer entrance." The shape rose slowly and the meager light spilling from the only window illuminated a face out of a B horror movie. No hair, no eyebrows, the skin was charred, one eye missing. "Think I was lucky?"

Cordelia gasped. Doyle swallowed painfully. "Let us take you to a hospital, man."

"I'll take care of myself. I had to hide... I can't trust the other Watchers anymore. I just don't know... who gave my name. But I knew someone would come looking for the Guardian or the successor. You have to find Lisandra. If she's turned, if the Guardian dies..."

"Any clue?"

Duncan retreated into the shadows again - and Doyle felt uncharitably thankful.

"I can give you an address."