4.

Washington D.C.

Xander blinked and reached back to grab the alley's wall to steady himself, his legs rubbery and head spinning after their disconcerting voyage through time, the journey an accumulation of dizzying flashes\images, watching history unfold in reverse. The moment his head cleared, Xander looked up to feel the night's cool, refreshing air on his face. And gasped as he took in the starry skyline, belatedly registering just how few of the landmark skyscrapers and buildings were there. "Wow," Xander shook his head and tried again, but the vista remained unchanged. "Guess we're not in Kansas any more, Toto."

"You notice how quiet it is?" Connor suddenly commented. "Even at night there'd be noise, cars, buses, trains, the sound of concerts, heavy industry."

"Yeah, that's another thing," Faith inhaled deeply, shapely chest expanding. "Damn, that air tastes good, real fresh."

"It should," Kennedy commented, "the roads are almost empty."

"We're not sight-seers people, we have a mission," Riley grunted.

"Right," Xander nodded. "Faith, Ken, you're with me, we'll find the museum and steal the gun. Riley, you and Conn get us five tickets on the first train to New Orleans. Then we'll meet you at that hotel across the road." Xander pointed at a grey-bricked 3 storey boarding house with a whitewashed stepped entrance across the road.

New York

Marcus sipped delicately at his fresh-ground coffee, the beans' strong aroma rising into his flared nostrils even as he watched his guest stride across the busy, upper-class teahouse's floor and towards him. His guest was a short man in a rough-cut suit and bowler hat, a short man but one with a blacksmith's shoulders and chest, his dark, deep-set eyes were constantly moving, and the flattened nose of a practiced pugilist, an assumption that was backed up by the latticework of scars covering his swollen knuckles. The man stopped at his table and stared at him for a long second before speaking, his voice throaty. "Len Denton, I represent Mr. Allan Pinkerton and his company," the man paused. "May I have a seat?"

Marcus nodded. "By all means."

The powerfully-built Pinkerton sat down. "Your contract is one of the more unusual my employer's company has ever been offered. However your employer's reputation for the odd is well-known. As is its generosity, so we're more than ready to accept and complete your contract."

"Excellent," Hamilton smiled. "Have your men ready to leave in the morning. I'll meet them at the railway station."

Denton raised an eyebrow. "You comin' west with us? Only beggin' my pardon for my bluntness, the west is civilised some, but it still can be a rough place for greenhorns. 'Appen you'd be smart to leave this job for us to finish on your behalf?"

Marcus managed not to smirk. "I've been west a time or two." He might look like a dandified gent in his mid-late thirties, but Marcus' origins went back far before this new world. Although in the recent past he'd been the force behind the disappearance of the Roanoke colony, the start of the American Revolution, and the Texas War of Independence, all actions he'd undertaken to further the interests of business concerns and clients of his firm, his origins long pre-dated the New World. Originally he'd been a minor warlord in the service of Attila the Hun, his craftiness, ruthlessness, and martial skill bringing him to the attention of Wolfram & Hart who offered him immortality and power beyond his wildest dreams in return for his service.

And this mission would be just another step in ensuring his rise up the ranks and in turn, his firm's supremacy in the decades to come.

Boston

The man who strode through the smoky Boston bar was tall and broad-shouldered with hard eyes beneath thick grey eyebrows, and a lantern jaw with an ugly knife scar running down his left cheek. Various toughs lurking in the bar's dark corners eyed him, but his healthy tan and air of unassailable confidence caused them to give him a wide berth. "Travers? Sirk?" He waited a beat for them to acknowledge their identities before announcing his own and sitting. "Colonel Sebastian Moran, 1st Bangalore Pioneers Retired."

"I assume by your arrival here this job is agreeable?" Travers snapped.

Moran's smile didn't reach his flinty eyes. "I'm here aren't I? There aren't many clean jobs offering the sorta money you lads are offering."

"Your skills as a tracker and a sharpshooter make you a man of renown at the Diogenes Club, just the sort of man we need for the job," Sirk replied. "The first half of your payment has already been credited to your account." Sirk pushed a thick envelope across the worn table. "Here are your agreed expenses. I trust that will be enough to hire any assistance you require. Alternatively, we've travelled here with a number of our operatives. You could borrow them if you want?"

"Dr. Moreau has already been most helpful in that area, supplying me with a number of his creations." Moran rose. "If that'll be all my friends, I'll be on my way."

"I don't like working with him," Travers commented to his companion the moment the bar's door slammed shut behind their hireling. "He might have held the rank of Colonel, but the man's nothing more than a scoundrel and a thug. Why didn't we go with Roxton or Quatermain? Men of quality!"

"I can appreciate how you feel," Sirk replied. "The only problem is, neither would agree to work with us. And both are placed too highly in society for us to pressurise or move against."

"Well," Travers huffed as he rose, "Moran has a certain directness to him. He'll do in a pinch."

Sirk smiled slightly. "At least we can leave this godforsaken nation and return home now."

Toronto

The woman sat on the throne was breathtakingly beautiful, a brunette with flowing locks, fine cheekbones, rich red lips, and luminous dark eyes. She looked to be only in her late twenties, but the truth was far stranger and far more complicated than that.

As Morrigan, she was the leader of the Dark Fae in her territory. It was a position of great power, but one constrained by the laws of her people and the whims of the Fae Elders. And if there was one thing she couldn't stand it was being beholden to anybody, moreover she wasn't about to settle to one Dark Fae territory when she could have it all, all Dark & Light Fae territories under her iron grasp.

But first, she needed the Weapons of the Apocalypse.

To get them she intended to send her two major enforcers, a tall, lean male whose dagger-sharp features were framed by his flame-red locks, while his disturbingly feline eyes were set deep within his face. Brimstone was a Fire Fae, with the powers over fire.

The second of her enforcers was a short thin woman with wild eyes, sunken cheekbones, crooked teeth, and an ungainly nest of cloud-grey hair. Bluster was a Storm Harpy, a weather witch with the ability to manipulate lightning and wind.

Together with these two, she intended to send some muscle, a quartet of Beserks. Unfortunately she had information that other interested parties were ahead of them, and so she'd send the group over the ghost roads to catch up.

She doubted they'd enjoy the trip, but comfort wasn't important, only results.

A Castle In The Foothills of the Austrian Alps

"Come in."

Klaus opened the door and strode in, the crackle of the study's open fire set by the door and opposite the formidable desk the first he noticed. It was a study to rival any other, the walls were covered with shelves bending under the weight of the first editions stuffed upon them and the space on the opposite side of the door to the fireplace was occupied by a table with a grandiose globe stood upon it. The desk itself was wide and antique-looking, yet pristinely maintained despite its age, with three columns of neatly stacked papers, a quill pen with ink well, and writing pad stood upon it. The man sat in the brown upholstered chair behind the desk was immaculately dressed in a velvet smoking jacket, complete with silk cravat. He was a tall thin man with iron-grey parted hair, deep-set grey eyes, hollow cheekbones, and a pointed chin. Klaus nodded respectfully as he took up position opposite the man. "Your majesty."

"Klaus? I trust our agents are in play?" The king's voice rasped, like a knife being dragged over gravel.

"Yes sire," Klaus was certain to keep his eyes averted, conscious that to invite the merest suspicion of disrespect was also to invite his host and employer's violent rage. "I received a telegram to that effect just two hours ago."

The king stared at him, keen eyes taking in every detail. "And what sort of wessen are our agents on the ground?"

"A trio of Hundjägers and a pair of Mauvais Dentes. Their leader's an old trainee of mine, a Lowen by the name of Édouard Carpentier. Dealt with that business in France five years ago, and that Balkans mess last year. Good man."

"All very deadly," the king nodded, "your agents mustn't fail, Klaus. This is very important for the Renard family. With these artefacts in our possession, our family will finally be the one in control, the first amongst the Seven Houses!"