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Disclaimer: Characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer are property of
Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, the WB, and UPN.

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Part I

There was a deal going around a while back (did they call it a meme? I can’t remember if that term had come in yet, and even if it had, things like that tended to take time to trickle down into such circles): Did I ever tell you about the time I almost killed the Slayer?

As far as I could tell, some of the claims were in earnest — and some of the claimants could get belligerent, or even actively violent, if they thought they detected any doubt from their audience — but some were clearly presented for the entertainment value, and almost all the listeners were in it mainly for the pleasure of the story being told. Part of that was the fun of hearing the latest variation on a familiar theme, watching for any new twist or approach; a lot of it, though, had a strong flavor of Man, wouldn’t something like that be sweet?

I heard the stories, even enjoyed some, but never with that last element of wistful if only. I had goals of my own, but none of them included seeing a Slayer die. I wasn’t hugely dismayed by the prospect of such a thing happening, it just wasn’t necessary.

Even though it was never my own aim, though, it came to me anyhow. So sit back, and let me tell you about the time I almost killed the Slayer.

… Or a Slayer, at any rate.

*               *               *

The first time I saw the interior of Willy’s wasn’t actually that long ago, but it might as well have been a century in terms of how naïve I was: I had just learned about the existence of this new world, and was determined to learn more, but I was the greenest FNG imaginable. (Honestly, I suspect the only reason I didn’t get eaten on the spot was that all the patrons were watching to see exactly how I came to grief, rather than anyone pushing forward to do the job himself.) My first impression at the time was of something like the Star Wars cantina scene, only viewed through hell-glasses. Years later, with more experience under my belt, I think of it more in terms of an actual watering hole: a place where unlikely species converge for a common purpose, seldom on anything like friendly terms but mostly leaving each other alone.

One thing is for sure: if a city or even a town has any kind of substantial demon/occult population, you’ll find a place like Willy’s. Another thing, it’s almost always a human owning and running the joint, even if the bouncer and bartender are demons (and sometimes even the waitresses). Which makes sense, if you think about it. First, it’s a lot easier for a human to deal with other humans in arranging for licenses, utilities, inventory, things like that. Second, humans of a particular type are more likely to overlook the conflicts of a variable and occasionally violent customer base if there’s money to be made.

Maybe if I ever get tired of my current lifestyle, I’ll take a try at the business myself. I definitely know the fundamental ins and outs of the subculture, and I’ve seen how enough different proprietors handled things, in enough different joints, to have picked up a pretty solid sense of the ground rules. But that would have to come after I’ve completed certain … shall we say, matters of overriding priority.

The place in Fort Wayne was called Del’s, and it had all the externals I was accustomed to seeing: no sign, darkened windows, general air of shabbiness. Demon bars don’t want to be noticed, customers who can’t find them by word of mouth are customers that aren’t especially welcome.

Me, I’m always welcome. I’m a people person … or I can fake it, if needed, plus I’m fairly liberal as to what I include in the ‘people’ class. Tonight, for example, I was hanging out with Merl; not even business, just keeping up the acquaintance while I waited for an opportunity to follow out business elsewhere. I like spending time with Merl because I know I can take him on physically, five times out of five, and he likes hanging out with me (not that he’ll ever admit to actually enjoying something) because he knows I won’t kill him — or even just beat the hell out of him — purely on a whim. Circles we run in, that makes us bosom buddies.

We were in the middle of an argument about baseball (I know very little about baseball, and care even less, but Merl has violent opinions on the drop-third-strike rule, and I was feeding him cues so he could have the pleasure of loudly and offensively disagreeing with me) when he broke off, glancing over my shoulder and then just as quickly looking away again. “I don’t know, man,” he muttered. “We might want to take this someplace else.”

I had a fairly clear sense of where that lizard-eyed gaze had been focused, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by obviously swiveling around to look. Instead I shifted in my seat, very casually, so I’d be placed to jump up and sprint for the exit if need be. “Trouble?” I asked him.

“Could be.” Merl was slouching in the booth, doubtless trying to sink below ready notice. “Either bringin’ it, or havin’ it follow her, that’s how it usually is with this type.”

That didn’t sound like immediate threat, so I turned to reach for some napkins from the table to my left, which was enough to let me scan, at the edge of my vision, what Merl was wanting not to be spotted watching. It was just a glimpse, but even in that half-second I could see some justification for Merl’s unease. Female (or at least female-shaped) and maybe five-foot-ten, except some of that came from thick-soled, extremely clunky shoes … only, the shoes themselves might be designed to conceal the shape of the feet they covered, because other details argued against this being an actual human. Even though she wore some kind of yellow-tinted glasses, like those things that are supposed to reduce night-glare for driving, I could tell from across the room that there was something wrong with her eyes; pale green streaks shot through her hair, which wasn’t that unlike some current styles, but the color matched both her outfit and the short horn-like things protruding downward toward her jawline from behind her ears, and there was prominent hair (also greenish) on her knuckles. She had her back to the bar and was watching the room with a kind of hostility that didn’t seem to be centered on anything in particular, just general bad temper, and sticking up over her shoulder I could see the hilt of a sword, doubtless in a back-slung sheath and pretty damn big if the blade was proportionate to the rest.

I’d swung back to Merl without pausing, simply letting the image register and then assessing the details from memory. “She doesn’t look happy at all,” I observed, low-voiced. “Don’t know the species, is that kind given to berserker brawls? or do they, or she, just have some kind of grudge against you in particular?”

Merl looked disgusted (okay, he always looks disgusted, but there are degrees that you can learn to recognize) and said, “You didn’t turn far enough. Not the green one, the tweenager just a little more toward the door.”

This time I swiveled far enough to get the salt shaker from that other table, and caught what Merl had to be talking about. Also female, maybe five-foot-two; not really a tween, she looked maybe fifteen but that could be deceptive. She was wearing cargo pants and lace-up half-boots, and a Muppets t-shirt under some kind of long vest made of gauzy scarf material, and she couldn’t possibly have seemed any more out of place. This wasn’t a heavy night at Del’s, but there were dozens of demons of various species spread around the interior, unmistakably non-human even in the areas of low lighting, and she wasn’t fazed by any of it. She looked a little impatient, a little annoyed, a little uncertain … but even that last wasn’t What am I doing here?, more like I know it’s got to be one of these doors, which one do I knock on?

Figuratively speaking, of course; not actual doors, just deciding on her next step. She’d come a bit farther into the room, so I could track her without turning my head again. Keeping her in my peripheral vision, I murmured to Merl, “Slayer?”

“What else?” he grumped. “Had to dump my favorite bar ’cause they were all over it, even moved to a different state, but there’s just no gettin’ away from ’em.”

I knew what Merl had meant by trouble. There were only two reasons a Slayer would come alone to a place like this: looking for a fight, or looking for information but ready for a fight. Okay, some of the newer ones just liked to see the stuff they’d been hearing about, but they tended to show up in small groups chaperoned by more combat-blooded big sisters. I could hold my own in the rough places, and had, but supernatural smackdowns were chancy at best, and I’d never gone up against a Slayer or had any desire to do so. It’s a tricky balancing act, pursuing my current goals without closing off future possibilities, and Slayers are not known for caring about such fine distinctions. In fact, the more zealous among them might consider me to be a legitimate target simply because I made the occasional deal with the occasional demon, disregarding the fact that nobody (well, hardly anybody) was ever hurt by said dealings.

Which might pose a problem, because after a few words with the barman — who seemed genuinely to be a man, even if you can’t take such things for granted — she turned and was headed for our table. “Aw, hell,” Merl moaned, eyes darting in all directions. He’d chosen to sit on the inside of the booth, though, where he could see the rest of the bar, and my position blocked a quick escape for him. He could run only if I did, and I’d already decided to play things differently.

She stopped, just outside the reach of any weapon I might have decided to swing. Up close she looked all that much more preposterously unthreatening: freckles, hair growing out from what had been a pixie cut, maybe even the last vestiges of baby fat. Even her voice sounded like something out of junior high, bright and chipper, but again the tone didn’t match how that kind of person should be behaving in a place like this. “Hi, I’m looking for Merl. Guy at the bar says you’re him.”

Merl was frozen where he sat: panic-paralysis, but you’d have to know the body language of his species to recognize it. I laughed. “Hear that, Bart? They still can’t tell you from Merl.”

That snapped him out of it, and he sneered at the newcomer. “Always the same thing with you bunch. Merl is Hweet, I’m Krim. Not the same thing at all.” She tilted her head slightly, clearly doubtful but not really seeming to particularly care, and Merl went on. “He’s more gray than I am. — Well, not gray, but you humans don’t have a word for the color because you don’t see in that register. Different color, different species … different guy. Sorry, I can’t help you.”

She was listening, but didn’t look impressed. “You seem pretty gray to me.”

“Yeah, I know, we all look alike.” Merl shook his head in disgust. “Thanks for the stereotype, lady. Maybe I can do the same for you sometime.”

We had the conversational momentum, even if I didn’t think the girl was completely buying our schtick, so I said, “Take it easy, Bart. You and Merl know some of the same people, so maybe you might be able to help with whatever she wants from him.” I grinned. “I know you’d enjoy telling him you snagged a commission that would’ve been his otherwise.”

She glanced at me warily. “I’m not carrying enough money to manage a decent bribe, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

I gave her a smile. “Then we’ll have to see if we can work out some kind of mutually beneficial trade. All part of the negotiation, pull up a chair.”

Merl watched unhappily as she snagged one from the next table and set it down beside me. He didn’t know where I was headed on this (I was still pulling it together in my own head), but he knew enough to play along, and I had deflected the Slayer who had come seeking him, even if that only lasted a few more minutes. “Not crazy about the whole ‘negotiation’ thing,” she said, “but whatever. So if he’s not Merl, who are you?”

“I go by Cale,” I told her easily. “Cale Parker.”

Her mouth turned slightly in something that wasn’t quite a sneer, and her tone was ironic. “Yeah, ’cause that’s totally your real name. Got it.”

I kept my smile exactly as it already was. “It’s the name I’m known by in places like this, which is what matters.” I cocked my head toward her. “And what should I call you?”

She shrugged, either genuinely not caring or really selling it. “Katie, Katie from Cali.” She did a half-turn in her chair to look around us, and observed, “The good thing about demon bars? nobody asks to see an ID if I want a beer. The bad thing? I wouldn’t trust anything they gave me to drink.”

“Understandable,” I said. “How’s about this, then? Decide what you want and I’ll order two in unopened bottles or cans. When they arrive, pick whichever you like, then watch while I drink from the other one before you start. That should make it safe enough.” I shrugged. “As safe as being in here in the first place, at any rate.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Pretty slick.”

I was still smiling. “Like I said, part of the negotiation.”

She made her choice, and I ordered and paid, with Merl — as usual — sticking to Dr Pepper. When the beers arrived, she left hers untouched at her elbow, and watched closely while I popped my can and took a solid swallow. I gave her a winning smile, asking, “Satisfied?”

She shook her head. “Not yet.” I shrugged and raised the can again, and she held up one hand. “Just wait a little bit, okay?”

Merl’s face held its customary instinctual sneer, but I was actually feeling the good humor I made sure to project. This kid was so cute, and earnest, and nowhere near as naïve as she looked. Yes, there were definitely some folks who would happily poison an entire table to get an edge against a Slayer … and if they knew she was a Slayer (because why go for sneaky otherwise?), they’d use something that hit hard and fast. She kept an eye on both of us, my hands especially, while seeming to take in everything around her at the same time; when a couple of minutes had passed without me going into convulsions, she reached across to take my beer, tested it with a cautious sip, and then chugged about half the can. “Wow,” she said when she paused for breath. “That hit the spot.”

I shot her a quick grin and reached over to get the unopened can in front of her. “So,” I said as I popped the tab. “Who is it that you need Merl to put you in touch with?”

“That’s part of the problem,” she admitted. After the first good belt, she seemed in no huge hurry to glug down the rest of her drink, just sat with one hand casually over the top of it. “I don’t have a name for him, or a species. Just the kind of overall stuff he deals in, and a tip that Merl” (she looked straight at ‘Bart’ as she said it) “could probably point me in the right direction.”

I thought about it. “Yeah, that’s pretty general, all right. So what kind of ‘stuff’ are we talking about?”

She glanced at me, then Merl, then back, probably trying to decide how much she could afford to give away to a couple of hustlers who might not actually know anything. “I guess you’d kinda call it materiel and support,” she said at last. “Like, if somebody had a big project to put together, they’d get him to arrange special equipment, supplies, maybe even some contractors who could do custom construction and keep their mouths shut about it afterward.”

Okay, that actually sounded interesting. I wasn’t working anything along those lines right now, but you never know when some little bit of knowledge might come in handy. “Big project, you said. How big would we be talking about?”

Again the Okay, how much can I afford to give away? look. “Let’s say the size of … of a North Sea oil platform.”

Yes, that would be impressive, demanding, and yet still doable. I looked over to Merl. “That ringing any bells, Bart?”

“Still kinda vague,” he grunted. “This ‘guy’ you’re lookin’ to find: we talkin’ human, demon, or demon passing for human?”

She frowned, but this wasn’t like her previous hesitation. “I don’t actually know. My source was … cryptic.” She took another respectable pull at the beer, her eyes briefly somewhere else. “Just from all the other stuff, I’d guess either human, or enough humanlike that he could make deals with regular people without them totally freaking out.” She shrugged. “Like I said, it’s a guess, but it seems to make sense. Human, human-looking, or else really good at schmoozing.”

I’d felt something in Merl jitter when she said the part about an oil platform, so he did know something even if he was trying not to show it. The girl didn’t seem to have noticed, but she might be hiding it just as I was; on the other hand, I was fairly sure you had to know Merl really well — or his species, at the least — to catch the cues. “Okay, not a lot to go on,” I said after a thoughtful pause. “I’d still say we’re narrowing it down a little.” I tilted an eyebrow at her. “So why do you want to find this guy? why is it important?”

Her face tightened just a bit, and the look she gave me was distinctly unpromising. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

I smiled at her. I’d been focusing on charm — I’m very good at that — but now I was sending another message. “See, that’s where opinions differ.” I made a small, generic gesture to indicate our surroundings. “How many of the customers in here are keeping an eye on this table right now?”

Without looking around, she answered, “Just now … pretty much all of ’em.”

“Uh-huh.” I nodded. “And to you, that’s normal. Slayer walks into a demon bar —” (Her eyes showed the reaction, she had to know we knew she was a Slayer, but saying it aloud put things on a different footing.) “— they’re watching her, she’s watching them right back, that’s just how it is. Only that’s not the whole picture.” I leaned toward her, letting my voice go quiet. “See, they’re not just watching you, they’re watching us talking to you.”

She took that in, and her mouth crimped a little in annoyance. “And that’s a problem for you.”

“Could be.” I shrugged. “At the very least, some of them will wonder about us. I’m not saying we won’t help you, but it’ll cost us no matter what, so we need to know it’s worth the hassle to us before we go any further.” She was starting to look stubborn, and maybe a little pissed, so I asked, “And you can decide for yourself how important it is to you: as in, does it matter enough to be worth answering a few general questions?”

She frowned and then sighed, and the combination told me she was going to give a little ground even if she didn’t much like it. “It’s not exactly business,” she said reluctantly. “I mean, it’s starting to look like it might be business-related, but mostly it’s personal.” She bit her lip. “Somebody I know, somebody I used to work with, he got word that a favorite aunt had died overseas. Details were slow coming in, and when they did arrive, they seemed maybe a little funny.” Again that slight twist to her mouth, but this time the exasperation wasn’t aimed at me. “Nothing you could put your finger on, but I’ve heard enough cover stories — and told a few — to pay attention when something starts to sound familiar.” She eyed me speculatively. “Dustin … I mean, the guy with the aunt … we’re not close, but we used to be, and since then he’s had my back a few times when I needed it. He wants to know what happened to her, and I owe him enough to ask a few questions.” She shrugged. “So I’m asking.”

I thought about that. “And the aunt was working on a North Sea oil rig at the time?”

“I didn’t say that,” she snapped back … and then, grudgingly, “But maybe something like that. You pull threads, and they connect to other threads, and after a while you’ve got this, this vague framework of maybes. She was out of the country. She died in some kind of large-scale industrial accident, and not just her, either, there were nearly twenty fatalities that I know about so there might be more. And there was something about something that makes it sound like somebody was trying to keep the whole thing outside maritime jurisdiction.” She shook her head. “So I’m figuring oil platform, cruise ship or freighter or tanker, maybe even some big factory thing on some little island. Something like that. And now, yeah, I’m trying to find a guy who’s been known to help set up that kind of stuff.”

The tension from Merl had spiked enough that she might be able to start feeling it herself, so I drummed my fingers on the table to hopefully distract her for a moment. “What you said about threads connecting to other threads,” I told her. “I might be getting something like that myself … hmm.” I gave her a ‘we all know how the game is played here’ smile, and asked, “Is it okay if I have a private word with my associate?”

She took that in, her eyes weighing me and not giving much impression of being especially pleased with what she was seeing. “Yeah, sure, I guess. Just so you know, though: you try anything, I’ll make sure to break both of you before I deal with whatever else might be coming at me.”

I upgraded to a grin at that. “You wound me … and I’d prefer that it stay figurative, so I’m not looking to pull any double-crosses. A minute should be enough, thanks.”

She shrugged, the teenage whatever hanging in the air without her having to say it; stood up, took both beers, and stepped away from the table, turning her back to provide the requested privacy and beginning to sip alternately from either can. The green woman at the bar stiffened, bristling at her, but Katie just cocked her head in that direction (I could feel the challenging lifted-eyebrow from where I was), and the other one settled back with a snarling twist of her mouth.

Once I could see that no fight was immediately in the offing, I turned back to Merl. I had a good idea how keen Slayer hearing was, so I kept my voice low. “You know something about what she’s asking,” I said. Not a question.

“Maybe,” he mumbled. “More I hear, more it sounds like she’s starting to zero in on something I mighta been a little bitty part of a while back. Man, I don’t want to know something a Slayer wants to learn about, those chicks are deeply bad cess.”

“Know what you mean,” I said even though I didn’t; Merl is a world-class wuss, he’ll occasionally take some risks in order to get what he wants but he’s never learned to enjoy himself while he does it. “But she’s here, and better we give her something than she starts to think you’re holding out on her. So what you know, does it include … oh, for instance, the name or location of the person she’s looking for?”

He glared at me. “You’re gonna love this one. In fact, if I couldn’t see Skipper over there doesn’t like you or trust you, I’d think you set up the whole thing, ’cause the guy she wants? he’s the same one you been tryin’ to sweet-talk me into givin’ you the inside track to get at.”