25.
On any given day, the hallways of Wolfram and Hart bore witness to a dizzying array of occupational hazards. Successful employees soon developed the useful skill of keeping their heads down and minding their own business. Survival among the corporate jackals–something taken literally among this nine to five crowd–depended on it.
As a result, water cooler conversation focused not on the often strange clientele or unusual intrigue but on the most recent episode of whatever reality television show held prominence. Demons at ten paces didn’t merit much notice but singing, larva eating bachelors locked in windowless houses playing Texas Hold ‘Em with hungry supermodels? Now that was something to philosophize over. Not much caught the attention of the handsomely compensated worker bees, but Wesley Wyndam-Pryce red faced in near panic and at a lung busting sprint managed more than a few second glances.
His distress did not register alarm but rather mild curiosity. Instead of ‘run for your lives’ the silent observations leaned toward restraint. ‘My, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce is in a hurry’ or ‘slow down, where’s the fire?’ expressed most of the anonymous thoughts. There was, however, one silent speculation on the contours of Wesley’s muscled thighs and buttocks and how much weight he might be able to bench press. Once Wesley was long gone down the corridor only the sound of shuffling papers and an appreciative sigh were left in his wake.
Wesley cleared the mail cart hurdle with Olympian grace and then barreled down the staircase, past Angel’s vacated desk toward Harmony’s office. Angel could have used the excitement to boost his uneventful day but he was in the copy room with a technician supervising the dissection of the perpetually temperamental machine.
“We need to talk.” Wesley spoke in a flurry as the door to the big office swung open. “This can’t wait another second.”
“What is it, Wesley?” Harmony looked up from a length of red yarn she wiggled in front of Mr. Pussy. While she valued the together time between herself and the energetic feline, when Wesley whooshed into her office with that wild, breathless expression Harmony knew it was time to tuck the yarn away.
Wesley struck a dramatic pose before speaking. “The Apocalypse is nigh,” he announced in a sober voice. It wasn’t everyday Wesley Wyndam-Pryce got to say those momentous words and mean them.
“Our schedule is pretty tight this week. Are you sure?”
“Yes. I have information that a shadowy demon alliance has been planning on opening a hellmouth right here in Los Angeles to coincide with the feral equinox of the D’x’tiq confederacy.”
“Huh?”
“Tomorrow, after sundown to be precise.”
Harmony immediately shuffled through her “Josie and the Pussycats” coil bound day book. It documented meetings, wardrobe fittings, dance sessions, Mr. Pussy’s play time and other vitally important, top secret business details, but nowhere was anything apocalypse related penciled in.
“Wesley, that’s got to be wrong. I would have heard about that. Hello? I’ve got my finger on the pulse of demon activity and everything. I’ve never even heard of a furry equinox and why would the Dixie Chicks be having one anyway?”
“Feral equinox, Harmony,” Wesley’s pronunciation sharpened, “an annual harbinger of grim tidings.” He paused and waited for the scope of his message to sink beneath Harmony’s polished exterior. From her blank expression, Wesley thought that might take a while. “I’ve not five minutes ago confirmed this information. It’s solid.”
“But…I’m bringing the clans together.” A puzzled furrow deepened between Harmony’s sculpted eyebrows.
She had hopes of a vast collective of fashion forward demons united under her own billowing pink satin banner: “With liberty and shoes for all.” Of course, that motto wasn’t finalized yet and technically, not all of her demonic brethren had feet but that wasn’t the point. The point was that disenfranchisement–a word Wesley taught her–was yucky. Everyone needed to feel part of something greater than themselves, and shoes just went with that like frosting on cake.
With demons in the mix the possibility of subterfuge was always ripe; however, recent progress toward a unified pro-demon collective had raised hopes of some stability far and wide.
“These are my peeps…” Harmony’s voice quieted. “They wouldn’t…would they?”
“Not all demons share your visionary abilities, Harmony.”
“But I’m working for the good of all and not just the pretty demons either. Why would somebody want to wreck it?”
“Anarchy knows no reason,” Wesley spoke tersely. “Whoever is behind this nefarious scheme knows that we would stop it.”
“And you’re sure this is bad? I mean, we could manage one little hellmouth, couldn’t we?” Harmony raised her eyebrows in an almost innocent question.
Running a notorious conglomerate was exhausting even Harmony’s seemingly inexhaustible reservoir of strength. Bathing in a little hellmouth mojo couldn’t be a totally bad thing, could it? All she could think of was the benefits of an evil sauna to her beleaguered pores and mental health. What she really needed was a vacation but, as her contract stipulated, there was no rest for the wicked.
“Harmony,” Wesley interrupted her wandering thoughts. She valued his brain power and knew when he quirked his mouth just as he was doing that she should be paying extra close attention. “Hellmouths aren’t to be bandied about lightly. Opening such a chasm where one was never meant to be pretty much defines apocalyptic.”
“And that’s…bad.” Harmony reached for the word, hoping it was the right answer.
“The demise of Sunnydale would seem like a doused firecracker by comparison.” Another manly quirk. Wesley hands came to rest on his hips. This was big.
Harmony sat in stunned silence, a sure sign that she was thinking. She could go for mindless destruction just like the next demon, but threatening Rodeo Drive? And all the pretty cabana boys at Augousto’s spa? Not to mention her Think Pink team. She’d worked long and hard to assemble her posse and nothing was going to mar that stellar career achievement, not even the allure of a sexy hell spout in her backyard. Further, her vampire status alone was by no means a guarantee that she would be impervious to danger. Fire and brimstone were standard hellmouth fare and vampires didn’t mix well with fiery spurts and such.
Typically, she gave little thought to the rest of the hapless citizenry of the City of Angels.
No. This wasn’t going to happen. Not today and not tomorrow after sundown. Not on Harmony’s watch.
“Get everyone together.” She met Wesley’s steady gaze. “We’ve got stuff to do.” With a nod Wesley was out the door.
*
Lorne, Fred and Gunn gathered in Harmony’s office for the impromptu meeting. Wesley summarized what he knew so far.
“How can that be possible?” Fred spoke after an extended pause. “I mean, the laws of physics are reliable and–not that I know everything about inter-dimensional physics–as far as I know, they’re fairly reliable too.”
“From a geological perspective it wouldn’t be too hard just to make a big hole in the ground.” Gunn offered up an unavoidable truth. By the expressions on his friend’s faces it was clear no one wanted to be reminded how easy it could be to create a hellmouth. Lorne fought the compulsion to chew his fingernails. “Hey, I’m just saying,” Gunn assumed his best don’t shoot the messenger look. “We live on some nasty fault lines, people.”
“But that’s just it, Charles,” Fred continued. “A hellmouth isn’t a hole in the ground at all; it’s a vertex, a specific convergence of mystical axes. These things just don’t pop up where they’ve never existed before. I mean, there’d have to be–“
“My information is quite specific,” Wesley interrupted firmly. This was a briefing and not a discussion; the team needed to stay focused. “A new hellmouth in the heart of Los Angeles, and given the geologic instability of the area, destruction could well be measured on a planetary scale.” The prospect ahead of them was grim. Wesley let his gaze rest lightly on Fred. She looked up at him and their eyes met and locked. It was enough. He was able to continue. “I suspect the increase in demonic activity of late has been specifically orchestrated to divert our attention away from this matter.”
“We have been swamped.” Gunn thought of the endless treaties he’d been tackling of late. Honestly, he’d been subsectioned to death and demands for further revisions were still choking his inbox. Could it have all been a conspiracy to divert the attention of the Wolfram and Hart team?
“There was that creepy sarcophagus thing,” Fred bristled at the memory.
“And the assassination attempt,” Wesley narrowed his eyelids in thought.
“And the whole casual Fridays nightmare,” Harmony twisted her lips with suspicion.
“Everything is suspect,” Wesley declared and looked at Harmony. She didn’t grasp his subtle reference. “The alliances?”
“But…how?”
“Someone knows our every move.” Wesley stated the obvious.
Gunn turned toward Wesley. There was only one plausible explanation. “Inside job.”
“Of course.” A list of suspects began to form in Wesley’s mind.
“That’s why my big toe has been twitching on overdrive?” Lorne tried to introduce some levity into the somber gathering. “And here I thought it was the gout.”
“I hesitate to say it,” Wesley began, “but this can be ignored no longer. Spike has been acting oddly. I’m sure everyone has noticed.” He didn’t think that Spike could have orchestrated the slew of incidents they’d encountered but his persistent and unusual behavior couldn’t be accounted for.
Harmony’s incredulous response flew from her lips. “Someone who could sabotage us would have to have, like, a super brain, impeccable style and ruthless ambition. Spike puts on a good act, but let’s be serious; he’s not smart enough to be an arch villain. Even I’d give him A plus for the talk but, come on, F minus for the follow through. And he’s a total grumpy hermit in that stupid leather coat–like that’s vintage. It’s just old! If I cared at all I’d schedule a style intervention at the spa but he’s not my issue, not anym–“
“It’s not Spike,” Lorne pronounced with confidence. All eyes turned to him expecting an explanation. He kept it short and sweet. “The dude’s working through some woman troubles and I’ve been, uh, counseling him.”
“No offense Lorne, but Spike needs professional help or maybe a rubber room.” Harmony sat in satisfaction that she’d evaluated Spike correctly.
“Still that greeter girl?” Gunn asked.
“Uh-huh,” Lorne confirmed. “Spike’s been mucho preoccupado with the personal agenda lately. It’s going to be ironed out and then he’ll be back to his sunshiny self.”
Harmony snorted a huff of disbelief while a collective murmur arose from the other assembled friends. They all knew something of the singular nature of Spike’s obsessions. The explanation satisfied.
Just then Wesley caught sight of Marcus Hamilton exiting the elevator. One look at Gunn and an unspoken communication passed between them. The door to the office opened to reveal an imposing silhouette.
“Hamilton.” Wesley’s deep voice resonated with accusation.
“Is this a private meeting or can anyone join in?” It was a neutral question but a hint of menace perfumed the air.
“Okay gang,” Harmony jumped to her feet. “We can pick this up later. Oh, Wesley, find that little video guy. I have a project in mind for him.” The group filed out of the office. Wesley shared a quick look with Harmony just as the door closed.
Harmony cast an alluring pout in Hamilton’s direction. His regular absences were beginning to annoy her. With an inconvenient apocalypse in the air she needed some calming desk top polishing time with her preferred chamois, Marcus Hamilton, and damn it, she was going to get polished but good.
“What’s up, sugar-puss?” Hamilton crinkled his nose in appreciation of Harmony’s best vixen pose.
Her hard façade crumbled immediately. “God, where do I start? There was another assassination attempt, accounting still looks like a bunch of skater boys, some idiots are trying to open a hellmouth in L.A. and just look at the state of my nails!” Harmony held up her persecuted fingernails for his inspection.
“Is that all?” Hamilton quipped. “And I thought it was something big. Come tell Hammy all about it.” He opened his arms and Harmony snuggled happily into them. “There, is that better?”
“No,” she groused. “You know when things get hectic around here my system goes into overdrive.”
“I do recall something about that–“
“Nobody knows how hard it is to make all the decisions around here. Yes, no, yes, no all day long. It’s very stressful!” The embers of Harmony’s neglected sexuality smoldered. The tip of her tongue began to swish mischievously in her mouth as her fingers gripped his chiseled pectorals. “I’m so worked up I could burst!”
“Looks like I got back just in time.” Hamilton managed a coy, half smile before Harmony pulled him toward her waiting desk top. Mr. Pussy mewled in protest and jumped out of the way back to his fortress of solitude, the carpeted tower.
*
After Harmony spent some considerable time interfacing with the muscled enigma that was Marcus Hamilton, she wandered into Wesley’s cramped office where he, Gunn, Lorne and Fred awaited her.
“How did that go, Harmony?” Wesley inquired as he offered his seat to her.
“Oh, okay,” she spoke in the dreamy tones of the sexually satisfied. “He’s all skeptical about the making a hellmouth thing though.”
“You told Hamilton?” Gunn blinked in disbelief. Wesley didn’t appear as shocked.
“Well, he is my boyfriend, and a girl needs support from her honey when the world’s about to end.”
“Harmony,” Wesley began in a soft voice, not wanting to come across as unduly patronizing. “You do understand that Hamilton is most likely the insider behind this diabolical mess and that includes the impending apocalypse.”
“Well, technically, the big bad guys have to be the Senior Partners,” Harmony rationalized. “Marcus is just their evil eyes and ears and glutes–“
“Just so we’re clear on one point,” Wesley interrupted. “Hamilton is not an innocent in this.”
“But that’s what makes him so sexy,” Harmony straightened to attention in the chair, practically shivering with zeal. “He’s, like, totally corrupt and demanding.” A coy smirk tugged at her mouth. “It’s really hot.”
Wesley feared another repulsive Hamilton centric anecdote was imminent. “Harmony.”
“And he does this thing with his tongue–“
“Harmony!” Wesley snapped, already beyond the confines of comfort.
“Well he does.” Harmony pouted but soon her lips wiggled at the arousing recollection. “It’s not my fault if I’m evil conduit candy!”
Wesley arched his eyebrow to an acute angle. “Can we move on?”
“Okay, I’m over it,” Harmony relented. “I’m prepared to consider options. Wesley?”
Wesley took the opportunity to outline what he’d put together so far. Surveillance was required and the clock was ticking. Lorne didn’t have time to offer even the few pointed barbs that begged to be spoken. Wesley had a way about him when things got sticky and Lorne knew something big was coming.
Enchantment or no, he was still on the side of the good guys and they needed him. More importantly, Harmony needed him and he wasn’t going to let her down. Loyalty meant something to Lorne. If loyalty meant he put himself at risk then so be it. He could be just as fierce a fighter as Gunn or Wesley if he put his mind to it. Of course he’d add his own inimitable fabulousness to whatever was ahead but heroism was definitely doable.
Plans came together quickly. Lorne donned a chartreuse fedora for some in house prowling. Fred suggested using the security video cameras to advantage by investigating their recorded secrets. Gunn volunteered to hit the streets to see what was what among his varied contacts. Angel was brought in to scour the files.
Wesley seemed to have everything under control so Harmony retreated to her penthouse suite for some needed personal pampering and a couple of rounds of discreet pillow pummeling. Duplicitous boyfriends brought out the demon in her. It was a good thing her bottle of bubble bath was full. She was going to need every last drop.