Lilah stares at me for a long moment, then starts to laugh. Then she laughs harder. She grabs at her side and winces -- it's hurting her to laugh -- but she can't stop. The sound is a little grating as it echoes off the tiles. At last she gasps, "Of course. Fire you. Because if you're not an employee of the firm anymore --"

"-- then the Beast leaves me the hell alone. Takes care of my half of the problem. And you get the book to help you with your half of the problem -- along with my best wishes, of course."

"Of course." She shakes her head, dirty hair swaying heavily. "As many times as I wanted to kick your ass to the curb -- and the one time I get my chance, I can't do it."

"You're gonna," I say through clenched teeth. I'll beat it out of her if I have to, and I won't even pretend not to enjoy it.

Lilah holds up her hands. "I'm not just being obstinate, for once. Lindsey, I really can't fire you. Once you became a, what was it, 'independent contractor,' you moved out of the control of the Special Projects Division. I moved up the corporate ladder after you left, but I never quite reached the center square. I couldn't fire you any more than I could give you a raise." She laughs once more, a short, bitten-off sound. "You thought you could drive out here and end all your problems just like that. Nice thought. But it doesn't work that way."

I realize she's telling the truth. She can't fire me. There are other ways I could stop being an employee; I didn't spend $45K on law school not to learn how to read the fine print. I could sacrifice an infant to one of the demigods who's aligned against Wolfram & Hart, or a pregnant woman to one of the demons aligned with them. I haven't exactly made Eagle Scout since I left the firm, but I can't do that. I could commit suicide through a specific ritual that takes a really long time and hurts worse by the second, but frankly, I'd be better off letting the Beast get me. Oh, or I could accept employment with another law firm within 100 miles of Los Angeles. You think Wolfram & Hart would leave out the standard noncompete? But to judge by the fact that half the buildings in L.A. are on fire, there are corpses in the streets nobody's gotten around to burying and a demon swallowed the sun last week, I kinda doubt anybody's hiring.

Were there other ways out? I don't know. I didn't go beyond the limits of my own contract. I told myself it was because it didn't matter; the firm had let me go as far as it ever would, as far as I needed to go. If I pushed away any harder, there was every chance they'd cut off my head and leave it in the lobby as a cautionary tale.

So I didn't bother getting another answer, a final termination of employment, and where has it gotten me? I'm in a Los Angeles that looks worse than the worst hells the firm ever described. The thing that did all this wants me dead, and I just spent days driving cross-country to get closer to it. All to help out Lilah.

Shit.

Lilah says, "I think this brings us back to the book."

I hand it to her without a word. She grabs it so hard she's got white knuckles. As she starts flipping through it, I tell her, "He's on page 177 or so. Looks pretty run-of-the-mill to me."

"He's not," Lilah says. She gets to the right page and holds it up to me. "Objects in this illustration are larger than they appear. And significantly more invincible."

"Nothing's invincible." That's the one and only thing I ever learned from Darla. I learned it the moment she appeared in the crowd, five seconds from destroying a Senior Partner.

"Nice theory," Lilah says. "I'd prefer some proof. Is there anything in the book?"

"Not that made any sense to me. But there's probably people out there who could do more with it." I've been in Los Angeles for -- I check my watch -- two hours. That's longer than I thought I'd go before suggesting this. "Have you gone to Angel?"

She gives me that sly, sideways smile again. "Wondered when you'd bring him up. I don't think he's really in lifesaver mode right now."

"I know he hates you. He's got that much sense," I say. "But there's no way Angel's not trying to stop the Beast."

"He was, up until a couple of days ago." Lilah pauses, waits for me to ask.

The words burn in my throat. I hate that it hurts to say it. I hate that I'm such a stupid fuck that it could hurt me. "It killed him."

She laughs again, and I think I'm going to punch her lights out for it until I see her shake her head. "No, no. Then he might have had some dignity for once. But those idiots he works with -- Lindsey, they removed his soul."

"Angelus." The name isn't something you say lightly. Even at Wolfram & Hart, he defined evil. Pain. Carnage. Destruction. The hell I just drove through would be his idea of a high old time. "How the hell is that supposed to help?"

"Don't know." She shrugs, the movement still elegant despite her filthy clothes and surroundings. "They don't exactly CC me on their interoffice memos. I know he's not out on the streets, so they must have him chained up or something." Angel in chains. "But they had to have done it on purpose. What are the chances the guy would find perfect happiness in the middle of this?"

I hate it when Lilah makes sense.

Angel's -- gone. Just like that. And in his place is the only guy I ever fantasized about more. Angelus.

They're the same guy, and they aren't. I spent months trying to figure out the answer to that one, before I finally realized there wasn't an answer. All I know: They share one body, one set of memories, and more desires than Angel ever liked to admit. Angelus just doesn't let anything get in the way of what he wants.

I like the sound of that. And I know how fucked-up that makes me.

"You're right about getting help with the book," Lilah says. She's frowning down at the pages. "This is -- well, archaic would make it sound too fresh. Wesley, um, Wyndham-Price, who worked with Angel, you remember him? He could probably make some sense out of this."

Wesley. Skinny guy, glasses. Lilah's voice is weird as she mentions him. Don't know why, don't care. "This the same brain trust who let Angelus out?"

She glares at me, ready to bite my head off for God only knows what reason. "It's the end of the world. It's not like the situation's going to get much worse."

Back up a sec. "Wait -- the world is ending?"

"Where were you during orientation?" Lilah jabs one finger toward the ceiling, toward the black and fiery sky above. "I'd think you'd remember the signs. They were all in the handbook."

"Yeah, they tell you about it, but really seeing it -- that's different." I expect Lilah to mock me for that, but she doesn't. Something flickers in her eyes that might almost be understanding, but as soon as I see it, it's gone. "You didn't think this was worth mentioning before?"

"What's the difference? I don't have to pretend that I'm doing all this for the greater good to make it seem worthwhile. I'm out for myself. If the rest of the world gets saved in the bargain, I'll bill them later." Her eyes light up. "Lindsey, there's only one reason they could have let Angelus out."

"They thought it would help." I say, supplying the obvious answer for her. "The question is, Why? I really don't think the good folks at Angel Investigations are going to be in a hurry to tell you. It's been about two years since I tried to kill any of them, but I bet I'm not on their buddy list either."

Lilah looks tired all of a sudden. I can tell she's asked herself just that -- would they tell her? -- and she doesn't know the answer. It bugs her that she doesn't know, too much, as far as I can tell. Living down here must be taking it out of her. She says, "They might not tell us. But Angelus would."

Why does she think Angelus would do us a favor when that crew wouldn't? Then I get it. "You want to let him out."

"If that's what it takes," she says. "I'd rather make him think I'd let him out, then leave him hanging. But I'll let him out if I have to. It's not like there's a lot left in L.A. for him to destroy." She tucks the book in with her belongings, and I realize she means to go there right now.

I should probably go with her. Not for her safety, about which I still could not care less. My own safety's still pretty high on the priority list, though, and if Lilah could get out of this by selling me out, she'll do it.

Truth is, I don't think she can get out of this. I don't think I can either.

"I'm going to the firm," I tell her. "There's some shit I want out of there before the cops go through the place."

"The city's on fire, and all you're worried about is your paper trail." Lilah looks like she wants to argue more, but she doesn't. "You can get in. The wrecking crews broke through the emergency frame a couple days ago. They were looking for survivors who didn't exist, not evidence of your sordid past. I don't think the cops are really focusing on white-collar crime these days."

I don't either. But if Wolfram & Hart is really gone, I have to see it for myself. It won't be real until I see it. "I'll be back here by this time tomorrow," I tell her. "Or I'm not coming back at all."

"I'll be waiting breathlessly," she says dryly. "Who knows? I might have company."

I don't know whether to hope that she will or pray that she won't.

I remember drunks and addicts, homeless people and whores, human litter on the streets. The smell of exhaust, heat radiating up from the pavement for hours after the sun sets. Billboards of Angelyne. On its best days, Los Angeles still bears a strong resemblance to hell, and this isn't one of its best days.

The sky is dark -- not the normal nighttime dark of L.A., where the sky is slightly red from electric light and smog. Whatever's hanging above us now is blacker than black, but you can kinda tell it's moving. The streets are almost deserted; the few cars darting around my truck drive fast, without any more need to worry about pedestrians or cops. Some buildings have been burned to the ground, but instead of being set off with yellow tape, they're just abandoned. Whole city looks like somebody crumpled it up and threw it away.

Every now and then, I drive by a packet of activity -- usually a few people gathered around what used to be an apartment building or place of business, and is now just so much rubble. Some of them carry sticks or bats or guns, defending the perimeter. Others grab whatever junk they think is worth risking their lives for. It's hard to imagine what that could be. Any fool who'd come out in this for some baby pictures deserves whatever he gets.

The President sent in the National Guard a couple weeks ago, or so the news said, but you don't see them here, not in the mean streets. Bet every multimillion-dollar house in Malibu or Beverly Hills has its own private guard division. The inner city gets to fend for itself, and from the looks of things, it's not doing so hot.

As I get near Wolfram & Hart, I enter a part of the city that doesn't have power back on yet. My truck's headlights are the only illumination for 300 yards in any direction, so maybe that's why I don't see it at first.

Then I squint through the darkness and realize -- no, that's it. That's the firm.

The building's made of bronze glass in black stone; I've seen it reflecting light outward during the day, absorbing the glow of the spotlights at night. It's not illuminated at all now, and it looks duller. Smaller. I can see the metal that wrapped itself around the building to protect everyone inside, when really they were just the bars on the jail.

Jail. I've called Wolfram & Hart a thousand different obscene things over the years, but that's all it boils down to: jail. I wasn't inside the bars when they snapped shut, but from the sound of things, I might still be locked up, waiting to die.

>From not too far away, I hear a scream. A crash. Another scream. My hand goes to the crossbow on the passenger seat. I tell myself I ought to drive toward the sound, investigate, help out. Then I tell myself that I'm probably too late already. Then I call myself a chickenshit bastard, and I drive over there. I don't see anyone. There's a pool of blood on the sidewalk, but there's no telling how old it might be, or what it might be from. Nothing left for me to do here. I tell myself it's okay to feel relieved.

"Hey -- hey, mister?" The voice makes me jump. Embarrassed and alarmed, I look around to see a young girl, maybe 16 or 17, Latina, with dark curly hair pulled up into a ponytail atop her head. A few other people are half-crouched behind her, at the corner of a building. They look too scared to be vampires. In the past couple of weeks, they've probably figured out -- along with the rest of L.A. -- a lot they didn't know about vampires.

"Yeah?" I say.

She jerks her chin up toward the building. "Me and my friends, we gonna get in my aunt's place. We don't know if she in there or -- well, she got food, a couple guns. We cut you in on the food if you help us watch out."

"I don't need food," I tell her, though I wonder if, in a few days, that will still be true.

The girl shifts on her feet. Apparently she's figuring out that talking to me isn't worth the delay. But they must want help pretty bad, because she blurts out, "Fifty bucks. Take it or leave it."

"Keep your money," I tell her, like I'm doing her a favor. I don't look after them in the rearview mirror as I drive off.

When you've got a truck, everybody thinks you're going to help them move.

I get back to Lilah's about three hours after I left. She's not back yet. I wonder just how she decided to bribe Angelus for information, and for one second, I'm so envious I want to kick something, preferably Lilah's head. Whatever. She'll get back here, with or without him.

Then I realize -- she's been back and left already. A crate that was next to the wall is out in the middle of the floor, the book is missing, and both the credit cards and her purse are now out of sight. Damn. I wouldn't have minded taking what she owes me out of the Neiman Marcus card.

Is she gone for good? I wouldn't put it past Lilah to promise cooperation, get me all the way out here with the book, then take off with it and leave me stranded. If I were her, that's probably what I'd do. But no. She left her sleeping bag, and she left her box of granola bars, a backpack that looks like it's stuffed with socks and underwear. I get the feeling this stuff is worth more than it used to be; Lilah wouldn't have left it. She's coming back. The only question is when, and with whom. The world might be ending, but until she (they?) get back, there's not a damn thing I can do about it. Might not be a damn thing I can do about it anyway.

After about an hour, I make myself "comfortable." I help myself to one of the granola bars, read a little of the battered paperback novel by her sleeping bag. The novel's no good. Who would've figured Lilah reads this softcore girly crap? It's all country houses and love confessions, with everyone's outfit described in detail. Maybe she didn't have a lot of time to make her selection. That, or Lilah's actually got a sentimental side.

The idea of Lilah having a sentimental side is good for a laugh, and that keeps me entertained for a while longer.

After about six hours, I start to worry. Well, not "worry," exactly. If Lilah's dead in a ditch somewhere, the number-one problem with that picture is that I didn't put her there. But I'd damn sure like my book back. Plus the credit cards. Plus some idea how the hell I'm going to get out of this mess.

Do I go to Angel Investigations or not? I know that's where Lilah was headed, and if I want to find her, and more to the point my book, that's the place to start. Then again, the conversation might have to go something like this: "Hey, guys, how've you been? Remember that time I tried to kill Wes and Cordy? Those were the days. Oh, Lilah let Angelus out? Yeah, I knew she was going to do that and I didn't stop her. By the way, I've come to you for help." Champions for good or not, they'll rip my throat out long before I stoop to asking them to save me.

After about ten hours, the waves of panic have gotten narrower, and the waves of exhaustion have gotten wider. I've probably been awake for two days straight, and the combination of mortal terror and driving takes it right out of you.

It can't be safe to sleep here -- but it must be, or else Lilah wouldn't have made it as long as she has. I leave my shoes on as I slide into the sleeping bag. I take a stake in each hand and cross them over my chest like a dead man. If Angelus comes in here and finds me, at least he'll appreciate the irony.

The Beast? I get the impression he's not an irony kind of guy.

I sleep as deeply as I have in months, and for God knows how long, but I still jolt upright the moment I hear voices.

Breath shaking, I strain to hear past the heavy thudding in my ears. The voices are far away, but coming closer -- female and male --

But not Lilah. And not Angelus.

They've already stopped talking, but I can hear their footsteps now. Moving as quickly and quietly as I can, I get out of the sleeping bag, step closer to the entryway. Their feet echo in the tunnel, and I'm so out of practice that I can't tell if it's just two people or more.

Two against one: still bad odds. I step backward, look for any other way out of here. Sure enough, there's another door. I pull it open slowly, praying the hinges won't squeak, praying to nothing. They don't squeak, not so a human would hear. If they're vampires, they've heard my heartbeat already. I clench the stakes harder, let the door close behind me just as slowly.

The door leads to what must have been an emergency exitway. Even though it's almost pitch-dark -- the only light is the pale, flickering stuff that leaks in through the edges of the door -- I can tell I'm in a narrow hallway, and the musty smell is thicker here, like it was never used regularly, not even years ago. I think about Roman catacombs, and the passageways in the pyramids, and then I wish I'd never taken that fucking archaeology class because all that stuff does is distract you when you need to concentrate like your whole life depends on it. I'm pretty sure it does.

I hear their footsteps in the bathroom. Only two. I want to sigh with relief, like that makes any sense. Then I hear the woman speak. "She was living -- here?"

Southern accent. Unfamiliar. And she's talking about Lilah in the past tense.

"I don't know how long she stayed here." That's Wesley's voice. He sounds -- older than he used to. More than two years older. "But whatever she has here, I wanted to -- if she had the book, she might have other things that would help us." A pause. "It wouldn't have been unlike her, to have more information than she was telling."

Okay. Lilah's dead. I don't feel glad about it. I don't feel upset. I know I'm not surprised. The main question is, Do I poke my head out and say hi or not? I decide to wait and hear more.

"Wesley --" The Southern girl hesitates, then blurts out, "It's okay, you know. To want her stuff just because it's her stuff. I mean, I don't understand -- I don't pretend to understand why you --"

"Fred, she -- I mean, you shouldn't --" Wesley's voice thaws for a moment, then freezes again. "We haven't time to discuss this now. We should hurry." I hear a few things being picked up, the sleeping bag being bundled into a ball.

I can pick up on subtext as well as the next guy. Wesley and Lilah? Now I know it's the end of the world. I remember the crappy paperback novel, wonder if maybe she didn't have a lot of time to choose on the sex front, either.

Wesley was screwing Lilah. Therefore, he's not in automatic kill-and-destroy mode for members of Wolfram & Hart. Therefore, if I walk out there and make my case to Wes and this Fred person, I'm probably going to live long enough to explain. These are the best odds I've had in a while. I'll take them.

I take both stakes in my left hand (the original), and put my right hand (the loaner) on the doorknob, ready to push it open. And then cold fingers close over mine.

I jerk my head around. Behind me stands Angelus. He's smiling at me, lips closed, eyebrows raised, his entire face lighting up with glee. The hand over mine on the doorknob crunches down so hard I swear I feel my bones crack. With his other hand, he brings a finger to his lips.

Shhhhh.