Or so he thinks.

Illyria appears from behind him.

“Still mourning the one who was lost?” she asks.

He is not shocked or even fazed by her presence. He has grown numb to everything around him.

“Always,” Wesley replies.

“I also grieve for that which is gone. I don’t like grief,” she says with a hint of disgust in her voice.

“You’ll get used to it,” he whispers almost too softly for her to hear…but she does.

The demon walks over to Wes and cocks her head, studying him intently. This creature, this human fascinates her. Illyria does not know what draws her to the man standing before her. Perhaps it is the connection he shared with the Shell, but whatever it is, she cannot deny it.

“You are not like the other primitives. You act like a warrior, yet you are not one. Your grief has turned you dark. I know darkness. I had to live with it while trapped in my tomb. We both grieve. We both have lost. We are bonded by this common thing.”

He turns his head and the raging fire in his blue orbs locks with the icy blue of hers, the intensity of the stare practically burning right through her. Wesley doesn’t know whether to hate her or feel sorry for her.

His anger decides for him.

“The only thing you and I have in common is damnation.”

Illyria is shocked by his answer.

“You think you are damned?”

Moving his attention back to the window, Wes answers, “I have committed murder, I am more than likely clinically insane, and I work for an evil law firm. So, yes, I think I will most certainly go to Hell when I reach my end. I believe it to be my fate now.”

He touches his hand to the glass, and it’s cold to the touch…cold just like Illyria’s eyes.

He ponders her last question for a moment then looks out at the city and all the twinkling lights.

‘None of them know what’s coming. I don’t think any of us do.’

It is times like these that Wes wonders if his living hell will ever end.
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