Connor Ballard didn't know much about his father other than the man's name--Nicholas. He was an archaeologist and supposedly insane. His memory was patchy at best. After his mother died when he was ten he'd spent more time on the streets or in correctional facilities, even the nuthouse twice, than in foster homes.

The strange dreams, of a man with a British accent and a way of speaking about three centuries out of date. That man called him Stephen. And there was a horribly primitive world with all a manner of strange deadly creatures. Demons. Connor knew they were demons but never said so aloud. His caseworkers thought he was crazy enough.

Other dreams. A woman named Cordelia. Connor had never met anyone with that name, though he was pretty sure he'd read it somewhere--Shakespeare or something maybe. Yes, he read. A lot. It was better than dealing with people. People led to fights. And stints in the youth correctional facilities.

A man named Angel. Connor had known a couple male Angels in his life. Though they'd both been Hispanic and it a nickname for Angelo. The Angel in his dreams was a white guy, broody and kinda spooky, occasionally had fangs and yellow eyes and an Irish accent.

The latest social worker to get stuck with him was young. One of the wide-eyed well-meaning change the world types that there needed to be many more of, but would be burned out with in a couple years and quit after a nervous breakdown or become one of the jaded as long as it added up on paper and all kids were accounted for...good enough types.

She'd been hellbent on finding him some family. Pointless, he'd be 18 and out of the system in less than a month. Who cared by now. If they were going to see if he had any relatives, should have done it 8 years before when his mother died and he landed in social services lap.

It seemed Nicholas Ballard had had a daughter who died in 1972, he left his grandson Daniel Jackson to be raised by social services lovely system too. So Connor didn't feel too bad, when he found out the old man was still alive somewhere. His wife must have raised the daughter, Claire. Connor himself sure as hell hadn't been planned. His mom had been 47 when he came along and most certainly hadn't expected him.

"Connor, your nephew's here to collect you. Come on out and meet him"

Now that sounded wrong. His Nephew. Weird. Off to meet the brainiac with doctorates and masters up the wazoo. Well, if the brainiac was a really annoying geek all Connor had to do was tell him about the dreams about vampires and hell and demons and he'd be packed off soon enough.