On the House

Chapter One

Although the Great Smoky Mountain National Park in proximity had plenty to keep him occupied in the form of a few Brothers of Appalachians - aka redneck werewolves - Angel couldn't deny this place had its...charm? Yeah, charm.

It hadn't been this establishment's gaudy flashing sign that had attracted his attention (hell they all had them!) and if asked he would mention the fondness the local packs had for a certain Tennessee-based country singer's theme park but in truth it was the haunting strains of a tone deaf man and woman intensely into their rendition of "Islands in the Stream," originally sung by Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers.

The moment the woman had belted out Dolly's lines it had conjured the image of a certain scaly bar owner's charming smile. Angel had always thought Lorne could have sold a cross to a vampire with that winning grin. Needless to say he'd decided to wait for Fred's update (who had sent him on this wild-goose chase across the country for hillbilly shape-shifters) at the second-favorite roost for the werewolves in question, a rustic-looking old-western-saloon-type karaoke bar.

Being in Tennessee, hunting for a werewolf pack that frequents the Dollywood theme park? That was Fred's idea. Becoming the patron of a karaoke bar called Chasing Rainbows? Totally Lorne's fault.

As he moved through the front door he felt the Sanctuary spell. He paused a moment as it broke over him, it was small, probably not powerful enough to do more than cover Chasing Rainbows itself but it was enough like Lorne's bar that he felt a stab of nostalgia for Caritas. There wasn't any difference in the wood of the doorjamb, but it didn't stop him from pressing his fingertips to the dark-stained wood.

Homesick Angel? Angel scoffed as he continued into the bar. He bought an overpriced bottle of water to occupy his hands and lounged at a tiny table in the back of the bar, his body obscured from most sides by a decorative wooden partition. Obviously he couldn't see auras like Lorne, but after unwillingly volunteering to watch so many crooners just to get information from the demon, Angel had learned there were things anyone could see if they actually observed.

The couple responsible for the siren's song that had drawn Angel in from the people-choked thoroughfare, were very enthusiastic karaoke singers and Angel found himself - like he too often did - cursing his heightened senses.

Over a mere fifteen minutes Angel found out it was "Duet Night" and that people that sang well, didn't sing near enough. Or Ms. Parton and Mr. Rogers sang far too much, Angel couldn't tell anymore. He was seconds from flashing his fang face at the woman as she stepped up with her beau for what had to have been their eighth song, when a waitress approached his table.

A cowboy-hat-shaped name tag stated her name was Tandy, very blond with bright blue eyes to match and dressed in what appeared to be standard uniform - cowgirl slut chic Cordelia would have called it - a tiny tray balanced on the palm of her hand. "Compliments'a th' house sweetie," Came thick with drawl.

"Compliments...?" Angel's eyes darted to the small wine glass perched on her tray and for half a second he thought it was blood. His eyes scanned the bar before Tandy plunked the delicate glass down in front of him and his nostrils caught the woodsy alcoholic scent of a good red wine.

Before he could utter another word Tandy turned to leave, but just as quickly found her wrist captured by his fingers. She turned, her blue eyes so wide they showed far too much white and Angel quickly released her, not wanting to fake a reaction to mace or pepper spray.

"Excuse me. Compliments of whom?"

"Dunno, got it from th' temp," Tandy shrugged, smile a bit more forced. "I think her name's Abigail." She gave a vague wave of her hand toward the bar that ran along the entire west wall of the large theater-seated room. "She's th' one jugglin' th' bottle over there."