Eleventh Hour
Just after sunrise, having survived the whole night with the Sulksquelawtna sequentially drinking up all of Nighna’s exquisite
prized liquors, Oz taught Sabnock and his boys how to play rugby.
“I didn’t know you knew how to play rugby,” Lorne had whispered in bounteous gratitude.
“I don’t,” Oz admitted. “But it’s violent, and apparently they have no quota for violence. The bloodier, the merrier.”
“I see your point,” Lorne said, thinking that a Bloody Mary would go down quite nice right about now, and he held up one of
the half-thawed 24 lb. turkeys they were using as a ball.
The rugby game ended eight hours later when one of the Sulksquelawtna split the last turkey with an astounding kick into
the end zone. Sabnock and the stunning punter rent the flesh of the turkey with gut-churning efficiency and devoured the
unfortunate beast in two gulps each.
For a moment, the entire Sulksquelawtna clan looked sated, like they might have actually tired enough to rest. This wish was
quickly quashed when one demon excitedly suggested that they “Useth the head of the flabby one for rugby!” which was
met with cheers so enthusiastic, the remaining glass from the back windows fell out like too-rotten teeth.
“No!” Oz shouted, clambering onto the rubble-strewn playing field, getting dangerously into the middle of the clan. “No, we
like the flabby one, for entertainment purposes. Remember?”
Clem performed a little pas de chat followed by jazz hands, which Lorne applauded, but the demons did not seem impressed.
Sabnock said, “His superfluous wrinkled flesh infuriate-eth us. We desire-eth to see it caked with the debris of this hall’s
destruction as his head doth roll upon the ground. This would amuse-eth us, and would spare you, Host, and your tiny
human.”
Clem paled. He took a step toward the door, which was countered by three Sulksquelawtna who would snap his neck, he
knew, before he could say rigatoni.
“Has he not also served you well?” Oz asked, bowing his head slightly, speaking in the tone of high logic and reason. “He has
brought much food and drink.”
“Chili cheese fries,” Lorne supplied.
One of the Sulksquelawtna moaned. “Chili cheese fries,” he muttered, his thorned tongue lolling.
“He is the keeper of the, um, sacred recipe, your dastardliness,” Lorne said. Clem and Oz nodded in agreement.
Sabnock squinted at them. “Thou hast a point,” he said. “We require-eth more, droopy fry cook. Bring-eth thou them, and
we shall consider sparing you.”
Clem glanced at Lorne and Oz, panic in his eyes, conveying to them that they had no more makings for much of anything in
the kitchen. Lorne shook his head ever-so-slightly, grateful for the lack of subtlety among the demons, and shoo-ed Clem
toward the kitchen. He didn’t have to be told twice.
Sabnock planted his fists on his hips and snuffled the air, like a pig scenting a truffle. Distractedly, the demon wandered
away from the rest of the group, crushing the triangular base of a crystal vase as he went.
Lorne inclined his head toward Oz. Through his teeth he said, “Any plans, Einstein?”
“At this point, I’m coming up show tunes,” he said flatly.
“Maybe a drag show,” Lorne suggested with a shrug. He imagined the picture: Lorne as Liza, a black ostrich feather on his
head, Oz as Judy Garland in a blue gingham pinafore, and Clem? Well, maybe Clem could pull off a present-day Debbie Reynolds?
Lorne laughed.
Sabnock spun around, eyes blazing. Lorne felt his throat squeeze shut.
Sabnock looked over the heads of Lorne and Oz, as if they were puny and insignificant, which, compared to the
Sulksquelawtna, they were. He stretched his arms out to his sides, palms flexed.
“My brethren,” Sabnock said, pressing the air with his enormous hands. “Feel-eth that? The Master come-eth.”
The other demons mimicked Sabnock, arms outstretched, looking for a moment like a demon sobriety test. After a few
seconds of this, the clan uttered a collective rumbling chuckle that iced Lorne’s and Oz’s bones.
“Aye,” Sabnock said, his voice dark with pleasure. “The Master is nigh.”
Cordelia had driven 31 miles north on Interstate 5 in the direction of San Francisco before the part of her that thought she
should go back to the Truxtop to find Dawn won out over the part that thought she, Connor, Angel, and well, everyone on
earth, would be better off if the girl really did vanish from the face of the planet.
Connor had fallen asleep in his baby-gray Eddie Bauer car seat, and a thin trail of drool slicked his chin. When Cordelia pulled
into the tar-black parking lot, an hour had passed since she left, putting her burgundy Ferragamo sling-back to the metal,
leaving Dawn where ever she had disappeared to.
In that time, she had not heard from Angel. She had called Wesley, who told her they would wait in a holding pattern until
they heard from Angel.
Meanwhile, Cordelia was supposed to be one-fifth of the way to the arms of the Halliwell’s by now, she thought as she hauled
open the door to her white BMW sedan. She should be sipping tea while talking about spells, and shoes, and how precious
Connor’s chubby chubby cheeks are. Instead, she was here, crossing the baking asphalt with a groggy toddler on her hip,
while slobbering Troglodyte truckers ogled her over the diesel pumps.
The more she thought about it, the more irate she became. As she stalked across the parking lot, her shoes clicking
savagely, she thought of Buffy’s stringy-haired sister – a grasping, devious little hoax! Not so much an invalid, but an escape
artist, and now she was putting Cordelia’s family in danger. It was such a Summers thing, it made Cordelia just sick.
Cordelia flung open the door to the Truxtop. Come On Eileen played softly on the music system. At the counter, a woman
with the face of a painted-up pug dog fished up donuts for a couple of teenagers. They all looked at Cordelia, who gave them
a ‘better yet, go to Hell’ glare before she ducked into the bathroom.
Only, instead of the sterile white bathroom tile she’d seen with her own two eyes an hour before, when she went in looking
for Dawn, she found herself standing in a dank corridor beset at intervals with dim-wattage bulbs that sputtered and spit as
if they were running on a generator that was nearly out of juice. A chilly breeze whisked around her ankles, and she smelled
salt and sea.
At the end of the corridor stood a grimy metal door, the kind you see in police stations, the ones with reinforced glass
windows and handles on the outside only. Cordelia traipsed toward the door and peered through the dirty glass to find the
room empty except for a creepy old dentist’s chair fitted with arm and leg restraints…
A mallet struck Cordelia’s heart, accompanied by a tiny hammer of guilt. She knew, beyond doubt, that this was where
they’d done it. This was where they blinded Dawn.
Cordelia pressed Connor’s face against her chest to keep herself from collapsing in shock. After a moment of trained
breathing exercises, she managed to get a grip. She’d seen enough weird to know that this meant something. Cordelia dug
out her cell phone and speed-dialed Angel again.
Five rings, and several muttered (quietly muttered) curses later, Angel picked up.
“Did you find her?” he whispered.
“I found something,” she said.
“Cut the cryptic, Cordy,” Angel said impatiently. “What is it?”
“The last place Dawn saw, before they took her eyes away,” Cordelia said.
There was a long pause on the other end. Finally, Angel said, “That’s in Sunnydale.”
“It’s also in the bathroom of a Conoco truck stop,” Cordelia said. “If this is where she went…”
“Then she’s come home,” Angel finished. Cordelia heard muffled speaking on the other end, followed by scratchy sounds of
movement. When Angel came back on, she could hear the wind in the receiver. “Cordelia, you and Connor get safely to San
Francisco…”
Cordelia didn’t like the finality in his tone. “What’s going on? Angel!”
She heard other voices, shouting, the sounds of struggle, and then the connection went dead.
On the last remaining wall of the hallway in the Flat, Dawn drew a rough sketch of the grand ballroom of Triumvirate, as
dictated to her by Thellian. Even as she outlined the form and perspective, the Flat crumbled around them, and they
crowded close, holding onto each other, holding onto their weapons, holding their breath.
As Dawn drew, her forehead beaded with cold sweat, she struggled to force the connection, but she was so tired and weak,
and before long she understood.
“It’s destroyed,” she panted. “The Triumvirate doesn't match up to your memory anymore. Something’s there…”
Thellian lay his hand on her elbow to stabilize her. “Steady now,” he said. “Feel your way.”
Her thoughts swam in a sea of confusion. Clouds of vague images swirled behind her eyes – memories mixed with other
realities. Faces drifted in and out of focus: Buffy, Spike, Andrew, her mother, Doc, Glory, Lorne, Oz. Other places. Other
fates. Dawn gnashed her teeth and forced her hand to be still.
Thellian said, “The boundaries between our worlds grow thin. Can you feel it? It is difficult for her to locate our version of
Triumvirate.”
“Can we help her?” Willow asked.
Through clenched teeth, Dawn said, “You can stop talking as if I’m not here.”
The spark of anger and irritation she felt toward them bloomed in her heart and radiated to her hands. She felt it sharpen
her focus like a razor’s edge, and she managed to cut her way...
Through the dust-moted air, a flame of brilliant orange ignited. Lorne leapt back with a yelp. Oz eyed it coolly. The
Sulksquelawtna turned to face it, their scimitars drawn like a standing wave of shining steel. The flame spread in a widening
circle, like a sheet of paper catching fire from behind. The ashes flaked apart to reveal a girl with straggly black hair
shrouded in an aura of shadows.
Her features were so drawn and intense, Lorne at first didn’t recognize her. Not until she stepped across the brink,
followed by Thellian and Mr. Giles, did Lorne understand the five Ws of the situation. The how, though, still eluded him.
The others followed her: Willow and little Maya, each with a backpack and a velvet pouch; Xander wielding a two-handed
sword, a pack of his own over his back; another blonde girl sporting a dagger and a Watcher’s haughty stance; Morna,
looking dazed and slightly amused, a lithe black kitten curled around her shoulders; Faith, sporting her Scythe and a blood-
thirsty gleam in her dark eyes; and Connor, gaunt, pale, determined.
They formed a semi-circle around Lorne and Oz. With a swell of elation, Lorne noted that the Sulksquelawtna Clan no longer
looked quite so confident as they had a moment before. The playing field was leveled now that the cavalry had arrived, and
judging by the look on Dawn’s face… this cavalry meant business.
All of that changed, however, when Sabnock stepped forward, turned to face Connor, and bowed.
“Master,” Sabnock said, reverently. “Thou hast come. We hath prepared the way for you.”
Connor’s expressionless eyes soon twinkled with a mischievous green light. With deliberate steps, Connor strode across the
ruined floor to stand looking up into the almost adoring face of Sabnock.
Pressing his palms together, Connor said, “So you have.”
“What?” Willow yelled, indignant. She started forward, but Oz caught the strap of her pack to hold her back.
Connor turned on his heel, grinning, to face the others. His eyes settled on Faith’s.
“Faith,” he said. “It’s been real. You were good to me. I won’t forget it.”
Faith’s grip tightened on the haft of the Scythe. She trembled for a heartbeat, but then it was over.
“Go to Hell,” she said flatly.
Connor exchanged a tight smile with Sabnock. The demon, flanked by the rest of the Sulksquelawtna, took a menacing step
toward the Scoobies.
“Gladly,” Connor said.
Just after sunrise, having survived the whole night with the Sulksquelawtna sequentially drinking up all of Nighna’s exquisite
prized liquors, Oz taught Sabnock and his boys how to play rugby.
“I didn’t know you knew how to play rugby,” Lorne had whispered in bounteous gratitude.
“I don’t,” Oz admitted. “But it’s violent, and apparently they have no quota for violence. The bloodier, the merrier.”
“I see your point,” Lorne said, thinking that a Bloody Mary would go down quite nice right about now, and he held up one of
the half-thawed 24 lb. turkeys they were using as a ball.
The rugby game ended eight hours later when one of the Sulksquelawtna split the last turkey with an astounding kick into
the end zone. Sabnock and the stunning punter rent the flesh of the turkey with gut-churning efficiency and devoured the
unfortunate beast in two gulps each.
For a moment, the entire Sulksquelawtna clan looked sated, like they might have actually tired enough to rest. This wish was
quickly quashed when one demon excitedly suggested that they “Useth the head of the flabby one for rugby!” which was
met with cheers so enthusiastic, the remaining glass from the back windows fell out like too-rotten teeth.
“No!” Oz shouted, clambering onto the rubble-strewn playing field, getting dangerously into the middle of the clan. “No, we
like the flabby one, for entertainment purposes. Remember?”
Clem performed a little pas de chat followed by jazz hands, which Lorne applauded, but the demons did not seem impressed.
Sabnock said, “His superfluous wrinkled flesh infuriate-eth us. We desire-eth to see it caked with the debris of this hall’s
destruction as his head doth roll upon the ground. This would amuse-eth us, and would spare you, Host, and your tiny
human.”
Clem paled. He took a step toward the door, which was countered by three Sulksquelawtna who would snap his neck, he
knew, before he could say rigatoni.
“Has he not also served you well?” Oz asked, bowing his head slightly, speaking in the tone of high logic and reason. “He has
brought much food and drink.”
“Chili cheese fries,” Lorne supplied.
One of the Sulksquelawtna moaned. “Chili cheese fries,” he muttered, his thorned tongue lolling.
“He is the keeper of the, um, sacred recipe, your dastardliness,” Lorne said. Clem and Oz nodded in agreement.
Sabnock squinted at them. “Thou hast a point,” he said. “We require-eth more, droopy fry cook. Bring-eth thou them, and
we shall consider sparing you.”
Clem glanced at Lorne and Oz, panic in his eyes, conveying to them that they had no more makings for much of anything in
the kitchen. Lorne shook his head ever-so-slightly, grateful for the lack of subtlety among the demons, and shoo-ed Clem
toward the kitchen. He didn’t have to be told twice.
Sabnock planted his fists on his hips and snuffled the air, like a pig scenting a truffle. Distractedly, the demon wandered
away from the rest of the group, crushing the triangular base of a crystal vase as he went.
Lorne inclined his head toward Oz. Through his teeth he said, “Any plans, Einstein?”
“At this point, I’m coming up show tunes,” he said flatly.
“Maybe a drag show,” Lorne suggested with a shrug. He imagined the picture: Lorne as Liza, a black ostrich feather on his
head, Oz as Judy Garland in a blue gingham pinafore, and Clem? Well, maybe Clem could pull off a present-day Debbie Reynolds?
Lorne laughed.
Sabnock spun around, eyes blazing. Lorne felt his throat squeeze shut.
Sabnock looked over the heads of Lorne and Oz, as if they were puny and insignificant, which, compared to the
Sulksquelawtna, they were. He stretched his arms out to his sides, palms flexed.
“My brethren,” Sabnock said, pressing the air with his enormous hands. “Feel-eth that? The Master come-eth.”
The other demons mimicked Sabnock, arms outstretched, looking for a moment like a demon sobriety test. After a few
seconds of this, the clan uttered a collective rumbling chuckle that iced Lorne’s and Oz’s bones.
“Aye,” Sabnock said, his voice dark with pleasure. “The Master is nigh.”
Cordelia had driven 31 miles north on Interstate 5 in the direction of San Francisco before the part of her that thought she
should go back to the Truxtop to find Dawn won out over the part that thought she, Connor, Angel, and well, everyone on
earth, would be better off if the girl really did vanish from the face of the planet.
Connor had fallen asleep in his baby-gray Eddie Bauer car seat, and a thin trail of drool slicked his chin. When Cordelia pulled
into the tar-black parking lot, an hour had passed since she left, putting her burgundy Ferragamo sling-back to the metal,
leaving Dawn where ever she had disappeared to.
In that time, she had not heard from Angel. She had called Wesley, who told her they would wait in a holding pattern until
they heard from Angel.
Meanwhile, Cordelia was supposed to be one-fifth of the way to the arms of the Halliwell’s by now, she thought as she hauled
open the door to her white BMW sedan. She should be sipping tea while talking about spells, and shoes, and how precious
Connor’s chubby chubby cheeks are. Instead, she was here, crossing the baking asphalt with a groggy toddler on her hip,
while slobbering Troglodyte truckers ogled her over the diesel pumps.
The more she thought about it, the more irate she became. As she stalked across the parking lot, her shoes clicking
savagely, she thought of Buffy’s stringy-haired sister – a grasping, devious little hoax! Not so much an invalid, but an escape
artist, and now she was putting Cordelia’s family in danger. It was such a Summers thing, it made Cordelia just sick.
Cordelia flung open the door to the Truxtop. Come On Eileen played softly on the music system. At the counter, a woman
with the face of a painted-up pug dog fished up donuts for a couple of teenagers. They all looked at Cordelia, who gave them
a ‘better yet, go to Hell’ glare before she ducked into the bathroom.
Only, instead of the sterile white bathroom tile she’d seen with her own two eyes an hour before, when she went in looking
for Dawn, she found herself standing in a dank corridor beset at intervals with dim-wattage bulbs that sputtered and spit as
if they were running on a generator that was nearly out of juice. A chilly breeze whisked around her ankles, and she smelled
salt and sea.
At the end of the corridor stood a grimy metal door, the kind you see in police stations, the ones with reinforced glass
windows and handles on the outside only. Cordelia traipsed toward the door and peered through the dirty glass to find the
room empty except for a creepy old dentist’s chair fitted with arm and leg restraints…
A mallet struck Cordelia’s heart, accompanied by a tiny hammer of guilt. She knew, beyond doubt, that this was where
they’d done it. This was where they blinded Dawn.
Cordelia pressed Connor’s face against her chest to keep herself from collapsing in shock. After a moment of trained
breathing exercises, she managed to get a grip. She’d seen enough weird to know that this meant something. Cordelia dug
out her cell phone and speed-dialed Angel again.
Five rings, and several muttered (quietly muttered) curses later, Angel picked up.
“Did you find her?” he whispered.
“I found something,” she said.
“Cut the cryptic, Cordy,” Angel said impatiently. “What is it?”
“The last place Dawn saw, before they took her eyes away,” Cordelia said.
There was a long pause on the other end. Finally, Angel said, “That’s in Sunnydale.”
“It’s also in the bathroom of a Conoco truck stop,” Cordelia said. “If this is where she went…”
“Then she’s come home,” Angel finished. Cordelia heard muffled speaking on the other end, followed by scratchy sounds of
movement. When Angel came back on, she could hear the wind in the receiver. “Cordelia, you and Connor get safely to San
Francisco…”
Cordelia didn’t like the finality in his tone. “What’s going on? Angel!”
She heard other voices, shouting, the sounds of struggle, and then the connection went dead.
On the last remaining wall of the hallway in the Flat, Dawn drew a rough sketch of the grand ballroom of Triumvirate, as
dictated to her by Thellian. Even as she outlined the form and perspective, the Flat crumbled around them, and they
crowded close, holding onto each other, holding onto their weapons, holding their breath.
As Dawn drew, her forehead beaded with cold sweat, she struggled to force the connection, but she was so tired and weak,
and before long she understood.
“It’s destroyed,” she panted. “The Triumvirate doesn't match up to your memory anymore. Something’s there…”
Thellian lay his hand on her elbow to stabilize her. “Steady now,” he said. “Feel your way.”
Her thoughts swam in a sea of confusion. Clouds of vague images swirled behind her eyes – memories mixed with other
realities. Faces drifted in and out of focus: Buffy, Spike, Andrew, her mother, Doc, Glory, Lorne, Oz. Other places. Other
fates. Dawn gnashed her teeth and forced her hand to be still.
Thellian said, “The boundaries between our worlds grow thin. Can you feel it? It is difficult for her to locate our version of
Triumvirate.”
“Can we help her?” Willow asked.
Through clenched teeth, Dawn said, “You can stop talking as if I’m not here.”
The spark of anger and irritation she felt toward them bloomed in her heart and radiated to her hands. She felt it sharpen
her focus like a razor’s edge, and she managed to cut her way...
Through the dust-moted air, a flame of brilliant orange ignited. Lorne leapt back with a yelp. Oz eyed it coolly. The
Sulksquelawtna turned to face it, their scimitars drawn like a standing wave of shining steel. The flame spread in a widening
circle, like a sheet of paper catching fire from behind. The ashes flaked apart to reveal a girl with straggly black hair
shrouded in an aura of shadows.
Her features were so drawn and intense, Lorne at first didn’t recognize her. Not until she stepped across the brink,
followed by Thellian and Mr. Giles, did Lorne understand the five Ws of the situation. The how, though, still eluded him.
The others followed her: Willow and little Maya, each with a backpack and a velvet pouch; Xander wielding a two-handed
sword, a pack of his own over his back; another blonde girl sporting a dagger and a Watcher’s haughty stance; Morna,
looking dazed and slightly amused, a lithe black kitten curled around her shoulders; Faith, sporting her Scythe and a blood-
thirsty gleam in her dark eyes; and Connor, gaunt, pale, determined.
They formed a semi-circle around Lorne and Oz. With a swell of elation, Lorne noted that the Sulksquelawtna Clan no longer
looked quite so confident as they had a moment before. The playing field was leveled now that the cavalry had arrived, and
judging by the look on Dawn’s face… this cavalry meant business.
All of that changed, however, when Sabnock stepped forward, turned to face Connor, and bowed.
“Master,” Sabnock said, reverently. “Thou hast come. We hath prepared the way for you.”
Connor’s expressionless eyes soon twinkled with a mischievous green light. With deliberate steps, Connor strode across the
ruined floor to stand looking up into the almost adoring face of Sabnock.
Pressing his palms together, Connor said, “So you have.”
“What?” Willow yelled, indignant. She started forward, but Oz caught the strap of her pack to hold her back.
Connor turned on his heel, grinning, to face the others. His eyes settled on Faith’s.
“Faith,” he said. “It’s been real. You were good to me. I won’t forget it.”
Faith’s grip tightened on the haft of the Scythe. She trembled for a heartbeat, but then it was over.
“Go to Hell,” she said flatly.
Connor exchanged a tight smile with Sabnock. The demon, flanked by the rest of the Sulksquelawtna, took a menacing step
toward the Scoobies.
“Gladly,” Connor said.
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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
Mea Culpa
Things Unsaid
Home Sweet Gone
Eleventh Hour
Last Call
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
Mea Culpa
Things Unsaid
Home Sweet Gone
Eleventh Hour
Last Call
.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
Mea Culpa
Things Unsaid
Home Sweet Gone
Eleventh Hour
Last Call
Time Is Running Out
Primal
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
Mea Culpa
Things Unsaid
Home Sweet Gone
Eleventh Hour
Last Call
Time Is Running Out
Primal