invisiblecompany

Lorne absolutely detested running. He, Krevlornswath of the Deathwok Clan, President of the Caritas Entertainment Foundation, lounge lizard, the epitome of suave, did not do running. Singing, schmoozing, taking his time reading and pondering other people's emotions, those were his strengths. He did not have the build nor the athletic training for running, and he certainly did not have the clothing.

There was nothing in the world that Lorne hated more than running.

Well, except for running through the pouring rain.

So there he was, running through the crowded streets of Los Angeles as if his life depended on it, rudely (the epitome of cool, rude, sheesh!) pushing away any pedestrians who got in his way, weaving his way awkwardly round the traffic, crashing his way through the holo-ads, in the drenching rain. His leisure suit in a very sorry state indeed, his patent crocodile leather shoes (a rarity in these conservation friendly days) in tatters, but still he ran and ran.

He was nearly out of breath when he reached the Hyperion, he crashed past the twin crested doors that slid open silently at his arrival, and headed straight for the i-Beams.

"Angel, and make it snappy," he commanded the beam nearest to him as he stepped inside the transporter.

A minisecond later he found himself outside heavy antique wooden doors that were firmly shut. He turned immediately to the secretary (sorry, Head of the Executive Office) sitting in her own partitioned semi-office by said doors.

"Harm, where's Angel? I need him, now."

The blonde behind the desk, with years of experience behind her, took one look at the normally immaculate club owner standing in front of her with a disheveled suit and desperate eyes, and made a quick decision. With one small flick of her fingers in the array of buttons projected in the air above her desk she bade the doors open.

"Just go in, he's on a conference but it can be interrupted," she said as she motioned for Lorne to go in.

The head of Wolfram & Hart for the past 150 years (a fact not generally advertised, except to very special clients), who did not look one day older than 28, swallowed his annoyance at being interrupted when he saw who his visitor was.

"Lorne, long time no s—" he began.

"No time for talk, come with me. Right now!" Lorne got that out in two seconds flat. With that, he turned around and sprinted off down the corridor without a backward glance.

Angel had known Lorne for longer than he cared to think about, they were friends, colleagues and sometimes bickering family members. They did not see eye to eye on everything but in his long and eventful unlife he had learnt that loyalty and trust were vital ingredients to a continuing comradeship.

He cut off the conference call he was attending in mid-sentence and ran out after his friend, picking up his long coat in one swift swoop as he passed.

*****

What Angel saw astounded him.

Lorne led him and Harmony, who had followed when she saw her boss made like the wind out of the office, to a children's playground several blocks away. The Hyperion was in a commercial district and the nearby streets were usually bustling with activity. But once they turned round the corner of this block all was quiet.

Very quiet.

No noise. No traffic. No passers-by. Even the air was quiet.

The question of why a children's playground full of old fashioned swings and slides was doing there in the middle of prime Southern Californian real estate did not cross his mind because it was too busy processing what his eyes were seeing.

Air did not normally have color did it? Not even a master vampire should be able to see the molecules weaving their way though the empty space, tracing Brownian motion against each other. It was as if his vision had been enhanced through a gigantic microscope.

As he became accustomed to the sight before him, he could gradually make out shapes haphazardly arranged around the area. Human shapes. Children shapes. He was not sure whether it was the bright light or the actual pallor of the children but he found it difficult to focus on any one in particular.

He stayed still and closed his eyes for a moment. Took a deep breath, out of habit. When he reopened his eyes it was much clearer and he could tell that the children were singing, he could tell from the way their bodies swayed in rhythm, and the uniformity of the words coming silently out of their mouths. Yes, they were singing, but damned if Angel could hear the music or the words.

Magic. He could practically smell it.

"Wow, look at that. Demonspawn gospel ensemble," Harmony whispered from his left.

"That's how I found them," Lorne whispered back. "Freaky isn't it? What's going on, Angel?"

He had no idea. "Something's going on for sure. Wait here, I'm going to get in closer."

Before he could, the choir stopped their silent recital and one by one the children started to disperse. The children shapes left their perches on the swings and slides and with a whiff of breeze disappeared into thin air.

"Well, that was ... definitely freaky," Lorne repeated.

Ambient sounds had returned to the playground — birds chirping, distance sounds of car horns, the creak of an abandoned seesaw.

The area was empty except for a figure slumped on the swings, unconscious, or worse.

Angel was the first to reach the child. A teenager, he estimated. Long blonde hair covering the head falling against her chest. Clothing that had seen better days barely providing enough protection against the rain, which had continued unabated. He gathered her up in his arms.

"Is she ... ?" Harmony asked hesitantly.

"Human. And breathing. But only just. Call the hotel, have a medical team on standby," he instructed.

He brushed her hair away from her face and nearly dropped her as recognition washed over him.

Harmony was the first to speak.

"Oh my god. It's Willow's Tara."