For Lorne
Lorne closed and latched the front doors of Triumvirate after the last Brevnar – a stunted rum-pot fellow called Klank - had
finally called it a night.
It was a cold one, and the green-skinned demon more suited to balmy climes, shivered at the skim of frost that had formed
along the seams of the door’s paned window glass. He rubbed his hands together as he left the foyer. Across the dusky
dance floor, he picked out the pale, flabby form of the bartender counting out the till behind the carved mahogany counter.
Lorne crossed the dance floor, moving slowly, his mind drifting over the details of the night – the swank sounds of a 1940s
big band, the gentlemen’s urbane conversations, the ladies’ frisky formal wear. Human and demon alike, the evening had
played out in splendor and peace. Lorne liked it that way.
“Big night, Boss,” the bartender called in his nasal baritone. Lorne glanced up and smiled.
“Like old times,” he answered. He cut a Fred Astaire-ian spin on the dance floor before bounding up the steps to the bar.
“Play it again, Clem,” Lorne said. “You played it for her, now play it for me.”
Clem’s already folded forehead creased three-fold more. “Play… what exactly?”
Lorne sighed. “It’s nothing. It’s a quote from Casablanca. I was just going with it.”
“Oh! Right!” Clem said. He pantomimed shooting himself in the head. “Of course it is. And you worked in my name, ’stead of
Sam. Gotcha.”
Lorne rested his elbows on the bar. He stared out into the ballroom, now cavernous and echoing without its multitude of
patrons. Birds of Paradise and Resurrection lilies streamed down from the second floor loft, their vibrant color scattering
the scant light that filtered down from the skylights. In the summertime Nighna hosted rooftop parties where guests could
look down to watch the dancers weave and spin across the imported marble dance floor.
Triumvirate was a place adrift in time. Like Caritas, it was a place apart from all worlds, where all manner of creatures could
come to just exist.
Lorne adored it. Loved it. He didn’t want to let it go. Not ever.
“Somethin’ on your mind, boss?” Clem asked. He polished a glass tumbler with a damp cloth.
Lorne shrugged. “Just that… when Nines comes home, she’s gonna want this place back.”
“Maybe she won’t,” Clem said, eyeballing the stubborn spots on the glass.
“Nah, she will,” Lorne said, sighing again. “Who wouldn’t? It’s got beaucoup ambience, stellar PR, a varied clientele…”
“Protection spells.”
“…Protection spells,” Lorne agreed, in a whimsical tone.
“Yeah. It’s been a sweet landing pad for me, too,” Clem said. “After Sunnydale, it was run, run, run. Man, I’m too old for
that crap. I’m more like: Jog, sit for a while, drink a Shasta.”
Lorne smiled, but it faded. Today was the last day of November, and the feeling in the air didn’t sit like it should. It felt like…
“Things’re a-changin’, boss,” Clem said. He stepped away from the bar to shelve the tumbler. As he did so, Clem sang,
pitifully off-key, “It’s still the same old story. A fight for love and glory. A case of do or die...”
Lorne staggered, his hands flying to his temples, as he received a ghastly cinematic of precisely how much things were
about to change.
He blinked his eyes to clear them. “It’s the redhead kid. The one who went to Hell with Nines…”
“Wha?” Clem asked.
Lorne grabbed the flabby demon by the scruffs of his neck and jerked him over the bar in one clean motion. He shoved the
stunned, stammering Clem hard between the shoulder blades, herding him in the direction of the dance floor. The light was
the same in the vision; there might still be time.
“Boss!” Clem shouted, throwing his hands up in surrender. “What’s with the sudden Last Man Standing?”
Lorne stood panting, shoulder to shoulder with Clem. Both demons faced the front door, waiting. “On my signal, duck.”
“Duck. Okay,” Clem said, darting a glance at the demon’s face. “Why?”
Lorne swallowed hard. The sharp lines of consternation replaced his normally jovial expression. He clenched his fists.
“They’re coming.”
Lorne closed and latched the front doors of Triumvirate after the last Brevnar – a stunted rum-pot fellow called Klank - had
finally called it a night.
It was a cold one, and the green-skinned demon more suited to balmy climes, shivered at the skim of frost that had formed
along the seams of the door’s paned window glass. He rubbed his hands together as he left the foyer. Across the dusky
dance floor, he picked out the pale, flabby form of the bartender counting out the till behind the carved mahogany counter.
Lorne crossed the dance floor, moving slowly, his mind drifting over the details of the night – the swank sounds of a 1940s
big band, the gentlemen’s urbane conversations, the ladies’ frisky formal wear. Human and demon alike, the evening had
played out in splendor and peace. Lorne liked it that way.
“Big night, Boss,” the bartender called in his nasal baritone. Lorne glanced up and smiled.
“Like old times,” he answered. He cut a Fred Astaire-ian spin on the dance floor before bounding up the steps to the bar.
“Play it again, Clem,” Lorne said. “You played it for her, now play it for me.”
Clem’s already folded forehead creased three-fold more. “Play… what exactly?”
Lorne sighed. “It’s nothing. It’s a quote from Casablanca. I was just going with it.”
“Oh! Right!” Clem said. He pantomimed shooting himself in the head. “Of course it is. And you worked in my name, ’stead of
Sam. Gotcha.”
Lorne rested his elbows on the bar. He stared out into the ballroom, now cavernous and echoing without its multitude of
patrons. Birds of Paradise and Resurrection lilies streamed down from the second floor loft, their vibrant color scattering
the scant light that filtered down from the skylights. In the summertime Nighna hosted rooftop parties where guests could
look down to watch the dancers weave and spin across the imported marble dance floor.
Triumvirate was a place adrift in time. Like Caritas, it was a place apart from all worlds, where all manner of creatures could
come to just exist.
Lorne adored it. Loved it. He didn’t want to let it go. Not ever.
“Somethin’ on your mind, boss?” Clem asked. He polished a glass tumbler with a damp cloth.
Lorne shrugged. “Just that… when Nines comes home, she’s gonna want this place back.”
“Maybe she won’t,” Clem said, eyeballing the stubborn spots on the glass.
“Nah, she will,” Lorne said, sighing again. “Who wouldn’t? It’s got beaucoup ambience, stellar PR, a varied clientele…”
“Protection spells.”
“…Protection spells,” Lorne agreed, in a whimsical tone.
“Yeah. It’s been a sweet landing pad for me, too,” Clem said. “After Sunnydale, it was run, run, run. Man, I’m too old for
that crap. I’m more like: Jog, sit for a while, drink a Shasta.”
Lorne smiled, but it faded. Today was the last day of November, and the feeling in the air didn’t sit like it should. It felt like…
“Things’re a-changin’, boss,” Clem said. He stepped away from the bar to shelve the tumbler. As he did so, Clem sang,
pitifully off-key, “It’s still the same old story. A fight for love and glory. A case of do or die...”
Lorne staggered, his hands flying to his temples, as he received a ghastly cinematic of precisely how much things were
about to change.
He blinked his eyes to clear them. “It’s the redhead kid. The one who went to Hell with Nines…”
“Wha?” Clem asked.
Lorne grabbed the flabby demon by the scruffs of his neck and jerked him over the bar in one clean motion. He shoved the
stunned, stammering Clem hard between the shoulder blades, herding him in the direction of the dance floor. The light was
the same in the vision; there might still be time.
“Boss!” Clem shouted, throwing his hands up in surrender. “What’s with the sudden Last Man Standing?”
Lorne stood panting, shoulder to shoulder with Clem. Both demons faced the front door, waiting. “On my signal, duck.”
“Duck. Okay,” Clem said, darting a glance at the demon’s face. “Why?”
Lorne swallowed hard. The sharp lines of consternation replaced his normally jovial expression. He clenched his fists.
“They’re coming.”
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.Chapter Index.
Anywhere Out
of This World
Blood, Pressure
The Drawing Board
All's Well
Anywhere Out of
This World
Mourning Sickness
Welcome to Hell
Relative
Matters of Time
& Fishes
International Calls
Empty as Houses
Lusty Wrong Feelings
Enthralled
Thanksgiving
Seduced
Innocents Lost
Burn
Flashback
Not A Chance In Hell
Empty Rooms
Two Roads Diverged
Starfall
Blindsided
Not Her Own
Outta Here
The Valley of the
Shadow of Death
Comes the Rain
Smoke and Mirrors
Drawn to You
Team Angel
By Fire Reborn
Salvage
Ashes to Ashes
Life Is...
With A Little Help
Appearances Deceiving
Familiarity
Sweetness
Not All Who Wander
That Old Black Magic
For Lorne
Drawn Together
Lost to Sand
Fall of Triumvirate
Parallel Lives
The Lovers
Avenger
Double Cross
Pursuit
Ripper's Girl
Pandemonium
Negative Space
Raveled Threads
Asunder
Human Hands
Singular
Fragmented
Symmetry
Plans
Rogue Squadron
Legends
Anywhere Out
of This World
Blood, Pressure
The Drawing Board
All's Well
Anywhere Out of
This World
Mourning Sickness
Welcome to Hell
Relative
Matters of Time
& Fishes
International Calls
Empty as Houses
Lusty Wrong Feelings
Enthralled
Thanksgiving
Seduced
Innocents Lost
Burn
Flashback
Not A Chance In Hell
Empty Rooms
Two Roads Diverged
Starfall
Blindsided
Not Her Own
Outta Here
The Valley of the
Shadow of Death
Comes the Rain
Smoke and Mirrors
Drawn to You
Team Angel
By Fire Reborn
Salvage
Ashes to Ashes
Life Is...
With A Little Help
Appearances Deceiving
Familiarity
Sweetness
Not All Who Wander
That Old Black Magic
For Lorne
Drawn Together
Lost to Sand
Fall of Triumvirate
Parallel Lives
The Lovers
Avenger
Double Cross
Pursuit
Ripper's Girl
Pandemonium
Negative Space
Raveled Threads
Asunder
Human Hands
Singular
Fragmented
Symmetry
Plans
Rogue Squadron
Legends
Sometimes I know I become
All that's weak in a man,
and weak in a boy.
But I keep trying and I won't quit,
And that must be worth
something more
Than a strong man who believes
That there's nothing left to try for.
We need to feel the sum of all our parts
Are more than what's laid out in lines
upon our palms.
Although our hands aren't tied,
we move as though they are,
Until we're bound by branching out.
Lines on Palms, Josh Pyke
All that's weak in a man,
and weak in a boy.
But I keep trying and I won't quit,
And that must be worth
something more
Than a strong man who believes
That there's nothing left to try for.
We need to feel the sum of all our parts
Are more than what's laid out in lines
upon our palms.
Although our hands aren't tied,
we move as though they are,
Until we're bound by branching out.
Lines on Palms, Josh Pyke