PART 1

Miserere

Part 7

Fred watched Angel from the doorway to his bedroom. He shifted restlessly on top of the comforter, eyelids fluttering behind closed lids.

She looked down at the empty blood bag in her hand. “Only six today,” she said to Gunn.

He pulled the door closed behind him. “That’s a lot closer to normal. Maybe he’s catching up.”

“I hope so. I was beginning to worry that he’d drink the whole city.” Fred stopped, halfway down the staircase, and looked up at him. “I just wish he’d wake up.”

Gunn took the used bag from her. “I know. But all the books say it’ll take awhile.”

“Maybe if Cordy was here.” She glanced at the closed door. “Kye-rumption, and all.”

“Yeah.”

Fred sighed.

“What?”

“Coming home alone….” She looked down at the straps of her cork-soled sandals. “I know how he feels.”

Gunn gathered her close. “You’re good for him, too, ya know. No one else can understand this the way you do.”

She slipped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his shirt. “Guess five years in a hell dimension should be good for something.”

Gunn stroked his free hand down her back. “Guess so. And now that we’ve got Angel taken care of for the night, I could sure use a breather.”

She pulled away and started down the stairs again. “Shouldn’t we look for Cordy?”

“We will later.”

“I am tired,” she admitted. “A break would be nice.”

Good.” Gunn pitched the empty bag into the garbage can and pulled her over to one of the sofas. “How about a short nap?”

She let him pull her down onto the cushions. “Sounds heavenly.”

***

Lilah was beginning to think that Wesley led her on a wild goose chase. Then she came across the boy at the last possible location on the list.

He glanced up when the headlights brushed him. For a moment he stood, perfectly poised, a young buck caught in the sights of a hunter’s rifle. Then he moved, muscles rippling like water, and disappeared.

“Go,” she said, slapping the glass panel between her and the driver. He followed, but it was obvious, after several frustrating blocks of tracking him, that the only reason she found him was that he let her.

“You’re following me,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest in a move so reminiscent of Angel that her breath caught.

“I am,” she said, stepping from the car. Her hair fluttered against her throat, carried into movement by the early morning breeze.

He leaned against the chain-link fence, eyes dancing to the street beyond. He was never still—she noticed that right away.

She approached him as if he were a skittish horse. “I’m Lilah. What’s your name?”

He smiled, a bright, sharp flash that threw back the street lamp’s glare. “Depends on who you ask.”

A shiver crawled over her shoulders, part thrill, part terror. “I like you,” she said. “And I think, if you gave it a shot, you could like me, too.”

He laughed and pulled a gleaming knife from a scabbard on his hip. “The only thing I like is killing.” He advanced.

Her legs carried her back until she hit the trunk of the limo. “And that’s why I’m here,” she squeaked.

He stopped two paces from her. The breeze carried his scent to her nostrils: young, green sweat and old, dried blood. Her mouth watered.

“Really?” he asked, and his voice was suddenly simple and childlike, stripped of all affectation.

She wondered which father he got that from, or if it was uniquely his. “I represent a local law firm, Wolfram & Hart.” She pulled a card from her pocket and held it out to him.

He reached with his free hand and his fingers brushed hers. His cuticles were stained the color of rust.

He glanced at the card then dropped it to the ground where it fluttered to a halt against the sticky concrete. “I don’t read very well,” he said. “Maybe you could explain exactly what you have in mind. Lilah.”

He drew her name out, making it sound like an exotic flower. Or a death knell. Her better instincts hummed, telling her to run. The others, the ones she lived by, made her reach for his hand. “Come with me,” she said, feeling her voice drop into the range she used primarily for seduction.

The corner of his mouth quirked and but for the eyes, she could have been staring into Angel’s face.

“You’re heart’s racing,” he said, gliding his fingers over her pulse.

“Why, so it is,” she said, sliding into the limo.

She waited only seconds before he followed.

***

“Cor,” he moaned. The edges of reality pressed in on him; he could almost see it shifting between the Point and the familiar shape of his bedroom.

He waited for her to come back, to make him real again. He must have reached out because his hand jerked against something. There was an odd, metallic rattle.

He blinked. “Cordy?” Still no answer. He reached again and this time, he recognized the sound. Chains.

“Hello?” His voice echoed through a chamber much bigger than the one he was used to. He took a deep breath, letting the familiar scent of his own things wash over him. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “Am I home?”

The last time he felt this way Holtz forced him to drink melted silver. It left him raw, exposed. He could hear the cars on the streets below, could smell the wool of the carpet and the soap in the shower’s soap dish. His skin crawled and the scratch of fabric on flesh shocked him to stillness.

He lost himself in the ancient habit of breathing. Gradually the sensory overload lessened.

“Cordy?” He listened for her footfalls to come clear from the white noise. Nothing. The hotel was quiet. He shook his head and the room spun woozily. “Cordy!”

Still nothing. He jerked frantically against the chains. They were wedged around the bed frame and no matter how he moved, they held tight.

He had to get out of them. Now. Had to find her. His stomach swooped, and he tasted the metallic rush of water on the back of his tongue. He was going to be sick, going to….

He stopped, went back to breathing. The nausea receded, leaving him clammy and shaky, but he could deal with that. He could do this. He just had to break it down into steps.

See? No steel cages holding him in, keeping him buried alive. Just light and air and normal things. His things. His cuffs.

His key.

He honed in on the bedside table. The drawer. That’s where he always kept it. But when he tried to reach it, the chain brought him up short. “Dammit,” he muttered.

He lay back down on the bed and began rocking his body against the mattress. The bed moved by inches, scooting closer to the table with each motion. Soon, he had butted right up against it, though all he could do then was lie still and wait for his system to level.

He had no idea how long he’d been down there—or how long he’d been back for that matter. The most vivid memories he had were the dreams. And of all the dreams, the one of Cordy stood out the brightest.

In her eyes he saw apology and love. And good-bye.

That did it. He reached for the drawer, brushed the handle with his finger tips. Couldn’t quite get a grip on it. Reached again. This time, the cuffs gave just enough that he was able to nudge it.

The gap was only about half an inch, but it was enough for him to stick his fingers in and wedge the drawer open. Then he twisted, turned and shimmied, until he was finally able to crane his neck and see in the drawer. Sure enough, there, on top of the latest issue of Swordsman, was the key.

He glanced quickly around the room, looking for something to grab it with. No luck with his hands—he couldn’t reach that far into the drawer. But maybe, if he scooted the bed just right, and lay down on his stomach, he could pick it up with his teeth.

The mattress was firm beneath his back, and to his exhausted body it felt warm and inviting. He had to fight slipping back into the darkness; it would have been so easy to slide back under the surface and wait for someone to come and get him out.

But no one was coming. And he had to find Cordelia.

He began rocking again, more with his hips than his shoulders, and the foot of the bed started to angle around. He drew his feet up and under him, and rolled over his knees, landing on his stomach. His shoulders twisted painfully, grinding in the sockets.

His arms quivered as he balanced his chest against the side of the bed and the hard corner of the drawer. He dipped his head in, grabbed the key with his teeth and spat it on the mattress. Then he slid over, picked it up with one, trembling hand, slid it into the lock and turned. One cuff fell free, then the other. He threw the key into the drawer and stood.

The world spun like the arm of a major league pitcher. He collapsed, sucking in air, and waited impatiently for everything to calm down again. Then he braced his hands on the mattress and pushed to his feet. This time, things stayed upright, and he fought his way across the room to his closet.

There he grabbed a shirt and pulled it on then stuck his feet in his boots, though bending over to lace them brought the fireflies swarming. “Come on,” he barked impatiently. “Get your ass in gear.”

His wallet and keys were where he always kept them, on the table next to the reading chair. He slipped them into his pocket and stole quietly from the room. He had to be quiet or he’d wake the baby. Cordy would kill him if he woke him up after she finally got him down.

Angel shook his head as time lurched back to the present. God, where was he? Beneath his hand the wall was vertical, which helped him remember to be vertical, too. Yes, that was right. He was going to find Cordy.

He shoved off, a boat leaving dock, and made his way slowly down the stairs. Gunn and Fred slept on the couch, curled up around each other in such a sweet embrace that he could only stop for a moment and look.

“Thank you,” he said, because he knew that they’d brought him back somehow. That was a story for later. After he’d found her.

And he knew just where to start looking.

***

Angel found him in the parking lot of a 24-hour Walgreen’s.

“Connor.”

The boy whipped around, sword in hand, foot on the throat of the man he’d been paid to kill. “Angelus?” He tilted his head, squinted in surprise.

“Let him go,” Angel said, pointing to the struggling man.

Connor looked down at his victim. “Why should I?” The guy squirmed under Connor’s boot. In the harsh glare of the streetlights, his face was turning gray.

Angel gathered his strength and in one, violent burst, shoved Connor aside. The man, freed, gasped twice and rolled, coming up against the tires of a car parked near the dumpster.

Connor whirled, sword flying, and Angel arched back and away. The point grazed his jacket, leaving a long slice in the leather.

Connor smiled coolly. “Welcome back. Dad.”

Angel vamped. He had Connor by the throat and against the dumpster before the kid could blink. “Tell me what you did to her.” His hand tightened and under it he could feel the muscle and bone grate.

Connor’s eyes widened. The sword clattered to the ground.

Angel heard Connor’s mark scrabble to his feet and the fading scent of his sweat told him that the guy had made a run for it. Under his forearm, Connor’s heart raced, but he had to give the kid credit. Even in a life and death situation, he had a poker face.

Pride flared through him though he pressed his face close, deliberately menacing the boy. “Tell me.”

Connor jerked reflexively and the move sent his scent spiraling in the night wind. It was nearly too much, the green-wood smell of his son’s body. Like a fingerprint, it had been his since birth.

This child had been his touchstone. He was what kept him from flying off the deep end when Cordy left him for Groo. Angel owed him his sanity. And as his parent, he owed him his protection. And here he was, hand wrapped around the throat of the only child he would ever have. A child who, by all rights, shouldn’t even exist.

“Tell you what?” Connor gasped. His eyes were flat, his mouth pulled back into a grimace. He was having trouble breathing, but he didn’t give an inch.

Angel rattled him, thrusting the kid’s whip-like body against the harsh metal of the dumpster. “What you did to Cordelia,” Angel growled. “Did you take her before or after you drowned me?”

Connor’s eyes narrowed. “Let me go and I’ll tell you," he negotiated through clenched teeth.

Angel shook his head. “Tell me where she is or I’ll kill you.” It was a lie. But from the way Connor’s eyes widened, he knew the kid bought it.

He tightened his hand. Tell me, he thought. Tell me now, so I can let you go.

He ignored the dizziness that crouched at the back of his skull. He’d known coming into it that he was too weak to do this. But he had to save her. He couldn’t rest again until he did.

“I don’t know, and if I did, do you think I’d tell you?” As if he sensed Angel’s weakness, he jerked his arms up, breaking Angel’s hold and sending him sprawling on the pavement.

Angel’s head knocked the bumper of the car and he saw stars. The next thing he knew, the point of Connor’s sword was rammed against his throat.

“I don’t know how you got out, and I don’t really care,” Connor said. His eyes flashed hot in the purgatorial light. “I will tell you this. I didn’t hurt Cordelia. I only wanted you.” He drove the point of the sword into the flesh, carving out a gouge.

Angel yelped, jerked his head. The crouching dizziness sprang, sending him back, back into darkness.

When he finally came to, Connor was gone, and someone was standing over him, a shadow in the street lamp’s glare.

“I see you’re back,” Wes said. He shifted, and the light caught him, throwing shadows on his face, a noir film come to life.

Through the haze Angel could see his tidy, American-cut suit and open-collared shirt. His glasses were gone and his hair was wind-whipped, as if he’d been outside for much of the night and hadn’t bothered to bring a comb.

Rage, hot and thick as hellfire, surged through Angel’s chest. He rolled, tried to find his feet, and landed on his knees, instead. “You son of a bitch.”

Wes came forward and stood just within striking distance. “That’s no worse than what I’ve called myself in the last few weeks. Believe me.” He didn’t make a move, either toward Angel or away. Instead, he just stood. Watching.

“What are you doing here?” Angel gasped. He struggled to his feet. The earth pitched beneath him and he put a hand on the trunk of the car. The wound in his throat stung and the grassy scent of Connor’s sweat hung lightly in the air.

“My job.”

Angel glared at him. “Back with the Council?”

Wes laughed and the sound was raw and bitter as sea salt. “Hardly.”

They stared at each other, and years of friendship stretched between them and snapped like an overused rubber band.

Wes turned and walked toward the limo parked at the curb.

It took Angel a moment to realize what that meant. Then it hit, and the betrayal cut deeper than any knife. “You traitor.”

He launched himself and the two men tumbled to the ground. Wes fell loosely and Angel pinned him, then got his hands around Wes’s throat. The skin under his fingers was hot and damaged and he could almost hear the bones cracking.

“How could you,” he raged, spittle flying. “You fucking Judas. Hell’s too good for you.” He shook Wes furiously, cracking his head on the pavement. The smell of raw, scraped flesh filled the air, igniting blood lust and fueling his fury.

Wes’s face turned a mottled red. His lips worked, as if he were trying to form words.

Angel leaned on his right knee and bent his elbows, ready to make the move that would sever Wes's head from his body.

Then he saw his eyes. Bright with righteous anger.

It stopped him cold.

He jerked his hands away and rolled off, cursing his redemption and everything it meant. He couldn’t kill Wes. It would be walking through Hell’s gate and locking it behind him.

Wes gulped air greedily, then reached up and massaged his abused throat. “That’s the second time you’ve stopped before the deed was done,” he croaked. “What are you waiting for?”

“You already took my son. I refuse to give you my soul.”

He laughed, a harsh, rasping sound. “If it hadn’t been for me you would already have lost your soul.”

“What are you talking about?” Angel growled. He leaned back against the fender of the car, looking for any support he could find.

Wes sat up slowly. “You were one drink away from unleashing Angelus.”

Angel’s lip drew back over his teeth. “Nothing gave you the right to take him. Not even that.”

“Someone had to do the right thing.” He shuffled slowly to his feet. “God knows, you never will.”

“I hate you.”

Wes turned toward the limo.

Angel gritted his teeth. “Wesley.”

He looked over his shoulder. Rapidly forming bruises left twilight marks on his pale skin. “What?”

“Cordelia.”

Wes’s fist clenched. “You’re the detective.”

“Goddammit, Wes. It’s Cordelia.”

After a moment of taut silence his hand relaxed. “I’ve heard rumors. Black magic. Senior partners. Even Lilah’s kept her mouth shut, which is an impressive feat for her.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Yes, well, it’s not the brightest picture.”

“No, I meant you and Lilah.”

Wes’s lips thinned. “When that becomes your business I’ll let you know.”

Angel stood in the shadows and watched as the man he once considered a brother drove off in the enemy’s car.

Part 8

Angel sat in his reading chair listening to the Nocturnes. Only the bedside lamp was on, casting a warm yellow shadow on the bed and leaving the rest of the room in sepia.

It was still his favorite way to pass the time. Cordy would call it brooding, and he supposed she’d be right. But to his way of thinking he had a lot to brood about.

Fred had nearly killed him when he'd dragged his butt home. Claimed he looked like death on toast, which would have made him laugh if he hadn’t been so busy collapsing into a heap on the lobby floor.

They hustled him upstairs, got some blood into him and poured him in bed. Now he was under house arrest until she decided he was well enough to go back out. The only thing that kept him here was the fact that he was too weak to move and that Gunn and Fred had promised to follow every lead on Cordy.

He didn’t tell them about seeing Wes, though he did mention Connor. Wes was his ace in the hole—an irony that wasn’t lost on him. Too weakened by the confrontations, he couldn’t afford to burn energy on hatred, so he’d become pragmatic.

He’d use Wes’s influence with Lilah and the law firm to beat a path to Cordy’s door, wherever she was. Maybe he’d get lucky and Wes would be killed in the process. He’d get Cordy back; he’d never have to look at Wes again. It’d all be good.

His head fell against the back of the chair. In his hand, the glass of blood felt smooth and a little cool. His body temperature, which had been low since his rescue, was returning to normal. That was a good sign.

He took a sip, grateful that Fred had somehow gotten the blood bank to give up the O pos. Pig’s blood was nearly as good, but if he wanted to regain his strength quickly, human was the only way to go.

He yawned groggily. “Time for bed,” he muttered, realizing he was about to fall asleep in the chair. He set the glass on the table and pushed to his feet.

When he looked up, Skip stood right in front of him. “God!” Angel gasped. He stutter-stepped back and ran into the ottoman.

Skip reached out and steadied him. “Whoa, there.”

Angel glared at him. “Don’t *do* that! Jeez!”

“Sorry. I kinda thought you saw me.” He waved his hand. “This whole dimension-hopping thing…can’t ever seem to get it quite right, ya know?”

Angel crossed his arms over his chest. “Right. And now that the small talk is over, what are you doing here?”

“You’re a man of few words,” Skip said. “I always liked that about you.”

“Oh, boy. Knowing you like me? I can rest easy." He raised his eyebrow. "I have to say, if you’re here for revenge, your timing couldn’t be better.”

Skip looked him over. “So I see. Looking a little peaked there.” He sniffed the air experimentally. “Smells like you got the good blood workin’ for ya, though. That’ll get you back to rights in no time. As for the revenge….” He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Already got it.”

Despite feeling almost transparent with exhaustion, Angel lunged toward him. “What does that mean?”

Skip took him by the arm. “You’re about to drop. Why don’t you sit down? That way I can talk to you without worrying that you’re gonna pass out on me.”

Angel jerked his arm loose and sank down on the ottoman. “Skip, so help me God….”

“Now, now. No need to invoke any deities,” he replied. “I’m just here to deliver a message.”

Angel’s eyebrow arched. “I thought you weren’t a messenger.”

His look turned sour. “Yeah, well, things change.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Angel said.

“You should be. You’re the reason it happened.”

Angel made a come-on motion with his hand. “The message?”

“Don’t go looking for her.”

“What?”

“She’s in a higher place, Angel.”

His worst fears, realized. “She's dead?”

“I didn't say that,” Skip said.

"Then what did you say?"

“Just that. Don't come looking for her.”

Angel’s eyes went flat. “You know I can’t make that promise.”

“Oh, right. I keep forgetting you only work for the Powers when it’s convenient.”

“I work for the Powers unless Cordy’s life is at stake. Then I work for her.”

“Yeah, well, you might wanna rethink that.”

“Why?”

“If I tell you will you promise not to go after her?”

“Skip.”

He laughed. “Hey, man, I’m just messin’ with you," he said, faking a punch at Angel's nose. "Your Seer’s got a major role to play in the higher realms.”

Angel suddenly remembered his conversation with Wes. “How do I know you're working for the Powers?”

Skip's joviality fled. "You trying to piss me off?"

"I've heard rumors. Wolfram & Hart? Hoodoo voodoo? Ringing any bells?"

"Keep going pal. I can kick your butt from one end of this dimension to the other."

“Yeah, well, until I hear different, I'm not promising you a thing. Tell the Powers--or whoever's paying your fee--that I'm going after her. Even if that means storming the gates of heaven."

"What about the rest of the world?"

"What about 'em?"

"Nice sentiment for a Champion.”

“I’m only a Champion if she’s with me. I'm getting her back, Skip.”

“Yeah, well, good luck with that.” He stepped back, started fading. “Oh, hey," he called, almost as an afterthought. "Want me to tell her you said hi?” Then, with a laugh, he melted into shadow and vanished.

***

The blood told him when to move, and it was telling him to move now.

Connor raised his mace high over head, making just enough noise to wake her.

"Steven?" she asked. "What are you doing?"

"You killed my father," he said.

"I...what?" Justine sat up, glancing uneasily at the weapon he held above her. "What? Of course I didn't." She adjusted the neck of her sleep shirt, surprised to see the sun slanting late afternoon rays through the crack in the curtains.

He smiled, eyes arctic blue above his beautiful mouth. "I've seen enough vamp bites, Justine. Do you think I wouldn't put it together? The oddly even holes, the fact that you weren't applying pressure to the wound."

Her eyes widened.

"I see you understand what I'm referring to," he said, eyes glinting.

She scuttled back on the mattress, coming to rest against the wall. "Steven, listen to me," she begged. "He asked me to do it. He said it was the only way.... No!" Her arms flew up to protect her face, but they offered little cover against Steven's rage.

The first impact stunned her and sent her flying out of the bed, where she landed, nose broken, cheekbone crushed, in a heap on the greasy hotel carpet.

***

Angel learned early that a warrior fights best when prepared for anything. Each fight was a song, melody and harmony, point and counter-point, and if you listened hard enough, you could pick it up and it would lead you through.

Once before in recent memory he re-trained his body. Then it had been too many years of soft beds, of living like the human he wasn't. So he returned to those early, hungry days, when fighting was the only way to stay alive.

He recalled the third night after he rose from the grave.

They discovered him and Darla in the barn behind his father's house and chased them with pitchforks into the woods. The biggest men, the sailors and farmers, came after him with ham-sized fists and workingman's boots.

He'd already gotten used to being the strongest and was beginning to hone his skill as a predator. That didn't stop him from hitting the loam ass-first courtesy of a man he'd known since childhood. Who now looked at him with hot-eyed hatred.

Old Shamus taught the young Liam to ride; slipped him bits of carrot to give his horse. The memories made Angelus slow, sluggish and unsure.

He scrabbled for footing on the dewy grass and fell. The smell of night rose up around him—damp, sleeping earth and what he'd yet to identify as the pure scent of moonlight.

It was only when Shamus pulled out a stake that Angelus realized he must get past his human ties and see him for what he was: the enemy, fighting for his life, and willing to fight to the death.

Shamus's arm flew up and back; the point of the stake gained size and heft as it barreled toward him. Angel threw up his arm and the wood went straight through his palm.

The pain ignited a powder keg in him. He roared, ripped the stake loose and grabbed the man by the head. Then he twisted.

There was a horrible crack and the big body crumpled on top of him. He shoved it aside and jumped to his feet. He stood, a walking corpse, over the remains of a person he'd once known and loved.

He looked up at the moon and wondered what was next.

More than 250 years later, he knew what was next. The waiting now wasn't any easier than it had been then. At least when he'd gone after Darla and Dru he'd been able to train. On the other hand, he might now be feeding and napping like a baby, but it gave him the luxury of planning.

He thought again about using Wes to get to Cordy. He could convince him to do it, one way or another—and the "another" was almost tempting enough to go that route.

In the end, he decided to use that as a back-up plan. What he needed was someone who would do as he’d done two-and-a-half centuries ago: give up everything but the fight and a willingness to win.

At all costs.

***

He knew by the way the air shifted that someone had entered the room. And yet he stood, back to the door, watching the last rays of the sun fall below the horizon.

By the scent it was his son. Still, he didn’t move, not until the last second. Then, in one fluid motion, he turned, caught Connor’s raised hand and twisted the stake to the floor.

“You weren’t committed,” Angel said, kicking the sharpened wood away with the toe of his boot.

“I let you take me.”

Angel dropped the boy’s hand and crossed his arms over his chest. “Never make excuses.”

Connor lifted his chin. “You’re right. A man doesn’t make excuses.”

Angel nodded. He sensed that Connor was here for a reason beyond the requisite attempt on his life, and so he waited silently while he worked up the courage to say whatever he’d come to say.

Finally he raised his head. The look on his face was nearly enough to bring Angel to his knees.

“I know you didn’t kill my father,” he said, and despite the ache in his eyes, his voice was full and firm. “I will not apologize for putting you in the ocean. You deserved that for what you did to his first family.”

“I deserved that and more,” Angel admitted. “What I did to Holtz’s family was unforgivable, and I’ve paid in my heart for it thousands of times.” He shrugged. “The thing is, once something’s done, it can’t be undone.”

Connor nodded. “But sometimes other things can be done, as well,” he said cryptically.

It took Angel a minute to get it. When he did, his eyes widened. “You killed her, didn’t you?”

He answered without hesitation. “She was a liar and a murderer.”

“And what are you?”

Connor’s mouth dropped open. “What do you mean?”

Angel stepped around him and walked to the refrigerator, where he took out a packet of blood. “What do you think I mean?” He emptied it into a cup, set it in the microwave, and hit 30 seconds on the timer. Then he turned and faced his son. “You grew up in a hell dimension with a man who hated me and in many ways rightfully so.” The timer dinged and he pulled out the mug and sipped.

Connor’s eyes followed every move. He was testing him deliberately. How far could he go, throwing his vampire nature in Connor’s face?

“He made you a fine man and a good warrior. But he also taught you that any action was worth taking as long as it got you what you wanted.” He drank several swallows of his meal then set the nearly-empty mug down beside him.

“You have no right to talk about my father.” Connor moved, short agitated motions of his hands and feet. Not really pacing, but dancing, a fighter warming up for the next round.

Angel watched his face tighten and he knew he’d pushed too far, too fast. Which meant it was time to push farther. “I need your help.”

“What?” Connor looked caught between outrage and intrigue.

Angel picked the mug up, finished the blood, and rinsed the cup in the sink. “Remember Cordy?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

“She’s missing.”

Connor rolled his eyes. “Duh.”

Despite the tension in the room, Angel laughed. “Where did you hear that?”

Connor giggled. It was a musical, childlike sound, and he looked nearly as surprised by it as he did by Angel’s request. But all he said was, “I get around.”

Angel wondered how often he’d laughed in the harsh world he’d grown up in, and damn it, he couldn’t afford to get side-tracked on how awful Connor’s life had been. He could wallow in his guilt later. After he had Cordy back.

“I need you to help me rescue her.”

Connor’s entire demeanor changed. It was like watching a plant draw water up through its roots. The shifting, flying boy who had stood before him a moment before, squared his shoulders, leveled his eyes and stilled his hands. “Why me?”

He looked at him without judgment. “I need someone who’s willing to win at all costs.”

“You have a team. Use them.”

“This is too dangerous for them. It’s strictly undercover, two men in, two men out. I need someone who can move, who will risk his life, and who I can trust.” He cocked his eyebrow. “I know I can’t trust you with my life, but I’m pretty sure I can trust you with hers.”

Connor crossed his arms over his chest. “She did something to me. She’s not human.”

Angel shook his head. “No. She’s not. This will require you to stretch. To grow. It may require you to let go of some of your prejudices.” He held out his hands. “If you’re not up to it, I understand..”

Connor’s jaw set and his eyes flared.

What a little hothead, Angel thought. He nearly smiled, but knew that he was too close to let pride screw this up.

It was the perfect set-up. If he pulled it off, he'd not only have a seasoned warrior working for him, but he’d also be getting very sweet revenge against Wolfram & Hart. On the other hand, it was a huge damn risk, and one or both of them could die because of it. He wasn't so concerned about himself. But Connor.... “You know,” he said suddenly. “I’m not sure if this is such a good idea, after all.”

Connor huffed. “What, you don’t think I can do it?”

“It’s not that.” He shook his head. “Connor, I don’t want to lie to you about this. Wolfram & Hart may be the ones holding her hostage.”

“W-what?”

Angel nodded. “I know you’ve done some work for them. And on top of everything else--” He waved his hand. “You may be right. Gunn could—and probably should—be the one to help me.”

Connor grunted in frustration. “You can’t do that! You can’t make up my mind for me!” He slapped his chest. “I’m a man. I say what I do and what I don’t, and I say I’m doing this. Wolfram & Hart don’t own me!”

Angel looked unsure. “Connor, look. I don’t want you to get hurt. And Wolfram & Hart could really hurt you.” He was playing the boy and he knew it, but in this matter he was perfectly serious. Connor would be risking his life, not just now, but well into the future if he allied himself with Angel. And there was no way he could fully understand what he was getting into.

“They can’t hurt me,” he growled.

“You’re good at what you do. I wouldn’t be asking you otherwise,” Angel agreed. He waited a beat, as if considering. “Why don’t you take some time, think it over?”

Connor was shaking his head even before Angel even finished speaking. “I don’t need any time. This woman may be your friend, but she needs rescuing. I cannot let a woman go undefended.”

Angel hadn't hunted Holtz for years without learning his soft spots. Obviously he'd passed at least some of them on to the boy. “If you’re sure….”

“I am. Perfectly." He put his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and Angel could practically see the warrior’s wheels start to turn. “Now. What plan have you made so far?”

***

"So we're just gonna kick back and drink a beer while you and Connor do all the work?" Gunn glanced at Lorne and Fred. "That sit right with y'all?"

Fred, already shaking her head, said, "No way. We found you. We can help you find her."

Angel sighed. "Look, you did a great job rescuing me. But this is different. It requires the strongest warriors available."

"Dog. You sayin' I'm not strong?"

Angel shook his head. "No, what I'm saying is that Connor was bred to fight. He's willing to do whatever it takes to make the mission work."

Gunn opened his mouth.

"I'm obviously not explaining this well." Angel folded his hands on the table. "I need you guys to hold down the fort." Angel turned to Fred. "You and Lorne research. Use his contacts to dig up whatever you can on where she might be. Narrow the field."

"When's this heist going down, Mr. Ocean?" Lorne asked.

"The sooner the better."

"Guess that means you've still got some recuperating to do." Lorne raised his eyebrow. "Not that you're looking at all bad, Angelcakes."

Angel shook his head. "Right. Fred, Skip said something about higher planes. Find out what that means. Lorne, Wes said he heard something about the Senior Partners and black magic. Gunn, you'll be trolling the bars with me. We'll tap the underground, find out the scuttlebutt. You don't lose a Seer without people hearing something."

Gunn's eyes glinted. "I get to crack some skulls?"

"If you think it'll help."

"I might need some more ego-stroking before it's done, but that was a pretty good start."

"Thanks."

"Too bad Merle's dead," Gunn said.

"Little weasel."

"Angel!" Fred gasped. "That's not nice."

"Hey, just because I wasn't friends with him doesn't mean I didn't appreciate his help. Besides, he was fun to pick on."

Gunn laughed. Fred glared. "What?" he said. "He's right." He shoved away from the table. "If this meeting is adjourned, I think I'll start my recon now."

Angel stood. "No time like the present. Thanks, guys."

"You weren't really clear on your timeline back there," Fred said. "It'd help me to know what to shoot for."

"Two days."

Fred squeaked. "That's all? That's not enough--"

"That's all you get."

"Good," Lorne said. He went to the phone. "The sooner we find her the better.

Part 9

Fred propped her head in her hand and sighed. “We’re never gonna find her.” She sat in the floor surrounded by open books and trade journals.

“Sure we will, chickadee.” Lorne snagged a donut from the box on the counter and took a bite. “’S juss gonna take more time than we espected,” he said around a mouthful of pastry.

Gunn strolled into the lobby. “Any luck?” He leaned his hubcap axe carefully against the round couch.

Fred shook her head. “Nuh uh. You?”

He crossed to the reception desk and helped her to her feet. “Nope. Nada. Nothing. Goose Egg.”

“Thanks for drawing us such a clear picture,” Lorne said. He popped the last bite of the donut into his mouth and delicately brushed the crumbs off his melon-colored shirt.

“Hey, where’s Angel?” Fred asked.

Gunn’s brow wrinkled. “He’s not back yet?”

“Nope,” Fred replied. “I thought he was with you.”

“We split up to cover more ground about midnight.” He pulled out his cell phone. “I’m gonna call him, make sure he’s okay.”

“Yeah, we need him here.” She glanced at Lorne, who was propped against Cordy’s desk shooting her a look. “You did happen to notice the sun’s already up, right?” She pointed to the front door.

It opened almost on cue to reveal a dark figure haloed by sunlight.

“Still helping the helpless, I see.”

The pen in Fred’s hand fell to the floor with a clatter. “Cordelia?” she squeaked.

She stepped out of the light and into the hotel. “In the flesh.”

Fred ran across the lobby, Gunn and Lorne on her heels. “Oh, my God! We’ve been looking ev….” She skidded to a halt. Like Larry and Curly, the other two ran right into her back.

“What?” Cor asked, glancing down at her sleeveless white tunic and leggings.

Fred’s mouth opened and closed. Over her shoulder, the guys stared wide-eyed.

“Damn, girl,” Gunn sputtered. “What happened to your hair?”

Cor ran her left hand through strands that had gone pure white. It was shaved nearly to her skull, except on top, where it stuck up in 2-inch spikes. “Oh, it’s easier to take care of this way.” She shrugged and her hand dropped to her side where a long, curved sword hung, blade up, in a black lacquered scabbard.

Fred reached out with trembling fingers and brushed Cor’s bicep. “What’s that?” she breathed.

She glanced down at her upper arm, encircled by an intricately braided twist of silver. “Oh, that’s my medal from when I helped close a Hellmouth outside of Chicago a couple of years ago.” She rolled her eyes. “I’d take it off, but the Powers sort of made it permanent. At least it’s pretty. You shoulda seen the ones they gave the guys.”

She grinned up at them, and when the familiar Cordy-smile flashed, the energy in the room changed. Suddenly she was their girl again, returned home after a long, unexpected voyage. They dove at her in a messy pile-on and a babble of voices rang through the lobby.

The basement door slammed. “What’s going on?”

They turned toward his voice. “Angel! It’s Cordy! She’s back!” Fred bounced on the toes of her feet. “And she’s…different!”

Angel stopped so fast the hem of his black duster flared around his calves. “Cordy?” His face took on a fragile, hopeful look.

She stepped out of Lorne’s embrace and for the first time Fred noticed the tiny lines that fanned out from her eyes and the long, pale scar slashing her cheekbone.

She moved with the coiled power of a warrior or an empress, and her body, always beautiful, was lithe and sculpted. “Just Cor, now,” she said. “How are you, Angel?” Her smile, so easy before, seemed overly bright.

He stood staring. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

The smile died. “I know. I’m sorry. I…it’s been….” She looked away.

Angel walked slowly across the lobby and the other three backed away, leaving a clear path between the two of them.

“Cordy?”

She looked up, blinking rapidly, and one silver tear tracked down her tanned skin. “Just Cor,” she repeated.

He lifted a trembling hand and ran his finger down the scar, drying the tear.

She shuddered but she held his gaze. “How long have I been gone in your world?” she asked huskily.

“Almost a month.”

Her laughter rang through the grand room, the least happy sound Fred could remember hearing since Angel came out of that box. “A month?” She fingered the handle of her sword and glanced around the lobby. “Well, that’d be about right, I suppose. I needed to get here early to stop it.”

Angel was looking at Cordy with such stark need that Fred felt her chest tighten. She caught Gunn’s eye and nodded toward the office. “Let’s go,” she mouthed. He reached over and tugged Lorne’s sleeve.

“Shh,” Lorne said, eyes locked on the couple in front of him. Gunn tugged again and Lorne glanced over in exasperation. “Stop it. I’m getting the wildest vibe here.”

Gunn motioned toward Angel and Cor, who were standing perfectly still, staring at each other. “Let’s give them a little privacy,” he whispered.

“But….”

Gunn jerked his arm again.

“All right, all right. But watch the shirt. It’s silk.”

They faded out of the lobby.

“Stop what?” Angel asked once the room was quiet.

She fidgeted. “Stop staring, for one thing. You’re freaking me out.”

His mouth fell open. “Stop staring?” He shook his head. “We’ve been looking for you for a month, Cor, and suddenly you appear looking like…like--” He waved his hand. "-- and you want me not to stare?”

She closed her eyes. “Right, sorry. It’s just….” She caught herself yearning and cut it off. She couldn’t afford to let him make her feel this way. “I’ve been gone more than ten years, Angel.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Long story.”

He pressed closer. “Shorten it for me.”

He was bigger than she remembered and he radiated an eternal power that called to mind the holy mountain she’d lived on in Japan. Her body tightened. “Remember Skip?”

“Sure.”

She stepped around him and wandered restlessly through the room. “After you released Billy for me, Skip got fired from his job.” Under her fingers, the blue velvet of the round couch was a memory come to life. “Wolfram & Hart pulled some strings, got him reinstated.”

Angel’s eyes narrowed. “He still working for them?”

The agitation melted away to a warm glow and she nearly laughed. He’d always been her champion. “Wolfram & Hart? God, no,” she said with a wave of her hand. “No, the Powers bought out his contract with good old W&H ages ago. But before they did I was one of his projects. You know, the ever-popular kidnap-the-Seer game?”

He jolted. “What?”

“Yeah, the night you got dunked by Connor.”

“You knew about that?”

She did laugh now, a sound like rusted metal. “Oh, please. I’m a Seer. I know everything.” She glided over to the reception desk, fingered one of the business cards. “The Powers got me out pretty fast, but once they had me, they didn’t want to let me go either.” She picked the card up, drew the tip of her finger across her name then set the card carefully in the holder again. “I spent the first few years training,” she said, turning to him.

He blinked, obviously surprised, by her words or her sudden move, she couldn't tell.

“You laid a good foundation.” She smiled. “They just built on what you started.”

“I’m, um, not sure what to say. I…how old are you?” He squinted at her in that befuddled way she’d always found so endearing.

“Even where I’m from now, which is basically nowhere, it’s rude to ask a woman her age.”

He shuffled his feet. “Sorry. I just—“

“Thirty-three.” She snorted, amused by him. “I’m thirty-three, Angel.”

“White hair aside, you don’t look it,” he said, shaking his head.

She laughed. “Hey, thanks. Considering all I’ve been through, I’ll take that as a compliment.” She leaned over the reception desk and glanced into the open rooms beyond. “Where’d the rest of your crew go?”

He shrugged. “Dunno.” He glanced at the door to his office. “Probably in the office eavesdropping, why?”

She turned around and leveled her gaze on him. “I don’t want them to hear this.”

He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Hear what?”

Her dark eyes went blank. “I’m sorry, Angel,” she said quietly. “I’m here to kill Connor.”

A line appeared between his eyes. “What?” Under her silent gaze, he stumbled back. “No.” His hands came up in front of him in what she knew was an instinctive move to protect his heart.

She, who had learned to face the toughest foe and win, was knocked off center.

“Why come here, then?” He looked wildly around the room. “Why not just go do it?” His gaze honed in on the weapons cabinet.

“Don’t bother.” Her palm landed on the worn handle of her sword. “I could dust you before you took a step.” She stepped toward him, took her hand off the sword and held it out in supplication. “Look, Angel, I’m not even supposed to be here. I just thought you should know.”

“What do you want me to say? Thanks? Dammit, Cor, I’m just getting through to him. You can’t--” He slapped her hand out of the way and stalked toward the door.

“You’re not getting anywhere with him, Angel,” she interrupted. “I know you want to believe that, but Connor’s path was chosen before he was born.”

He was shaking his head. “No. No one’s path is chosen fully.” He spun toward her. “He still has choices to make, paths to take. You don’t know—“

“Forget who you’re talking to?” she asked pointing toward her eyes. “Look, if you think this is fun for me—“

“I don’t know what to think!” He headed straight for her. “You come to my home, wearing a warrior’s medal and a katana—“ He flipped the sword. “You tell me you’ve been gone ten years. And that you’re here to kill my son, the child you—“ He ran his hands through his hair, spiking his already spiky ‘do. “Jesus, Cor, the child you *mothered.*”

He towered over her, a black-clad avenger with eyes like open wounds.

A howl rose up in her chest and God, she wanted to let it out. Instead she clenched her teeth and forced the energy to stay in until it boiled in her, water in a lidded pot. “I’m a warrior for the Powers, Angel, just like you,” she bit out. “We’re fighting for the same thing here.” She ran her hands across her head in frustration, mirroring his earlier move, and standing her own hair at attention. “I thought I was doing you a favor!”

“By telling me you’re gonna kill my kid? Hey, thanks!” He advanced on her. “Well here’s a favor in return.” His eyes were cold and level as an iced-over lake. “If you touch him, I’ll kill you.”

It took everything she had not to let the fire raging in her chest burn him to a crisp. “You really don’t want to test that theory.”

“Get out.”

“Gladly.” She whirled, and the katana made a graceful arc around her. “You won’t stop me,” she said over her shoulder. “I never lose.”

“You’ve never fought me before.”

She stopped mid-stride and turned, slow and measured, until she was facing him. Then she raised her hands and pressed them together in front of her heart. She bowed solemnly. “I look forward to it.”

The smile was only a quirk of lips, but the scar pulled her face into a death-mask’s grin.

Then she was out the door and into the harsh sunlight where Angel couldn’t follow.

***

The phone on Wesley's desk buzzed. "Mr. Pryce?"

He punched the intercom button. "Yes?"

"You have a phone call on line two. The caller wouldn't tell me his name, but he says it's regarding Steven Holtz."

Wes put down his pen and stared at the blinking light.

"Mr. Pryce?"

"Yes. Yes, I'll take it." His brow furrowed as he picked up the receiver. "This is Wesley Wyndam-Pryce."

"Don't hang up."

His hand hovered over the disconnect button. "Why not?"

"Because I need you to take Connor to a safe place. Now."

Wes laughed. "That's rich, coming from you."

"Believe me, I'm aware of the irony. I don't have time to explain. Just get him out of here."

"For how long?"

"I don't know a day, maybe two. Just long enough for me to track her down and kill her."

Wes leaned over his desk. "Kill who?"

"Cordelia."

"What?"

"I told you, it's a long story. Just get him out of here. Then call my phone and let me know where."

Wes shook his head. "Ang--"

The dead line buzzed in his ear. He dialed Angel's number from memory.

"What."

It sounded as if Angel were under water. Or underground. "No," Wes said calmly. "You can't just call and order me around. I no longer work for you. And you saw to it that we're no longer friends. Find someone else to help you." The phone clattered in the cradle.

He hit the intercom button. "Patricia, I'm leaving for lunch. I'll have my cell phone if you need me." He grabbed his jacket and walked out the back door.

Angel met him in the stairwell. "I knew you wouldn't do it without some convincing." He smiled with anticipation.

"Vampire detectors," Wes said, standing his ground. "Guards'll be here in less than a minute."

Angel shrugged. "Not since I made Linwood Connor's godfather." He buffed his nails on his untucked black shirt. "So, what do you say we go a few rounds? You can whine about how you don't work for me and then I can rip your head off."

Wes made it halfway to his office before Angel caught him. "Oh, good," he said. "I need to work up an appetite."

"Stop it," Wes said. He gasped, knowing his heart sped more from terror than exertion. "You don't scare me."

Angel vamped. "Oh, please. You're shitting your pants."

Wes ran a finger under his collar. "Fine. You're the big scary vamp. Kill me if you're going to. I'm tired of the threats."

"If I didn't need you, I'd take you up on that. I still may." He grabbed Wes's arm and hauled him the rest of the way into his office. Wes stumbled and fell into his chair.

Angel rolled him backward into the desk then slapped his hands down on the arms of the chair. "Now," he said, and his razor-sharp fangs glimmered, bone-white. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

Wes shifted so he could look Angel in the eye. "What's the easy way?"

"You do what I say. I don't kill you. Yet."

"And the hard way?"

"Same thing, only I get to torture you first." He smiled. "I'm really hoping you'll say 'hard way.'"

Wes took a deep breath. "Instead of playing Angelus, why don't you just tell me what happened?"

Angel's eyes narrowed. "I'll give you the Cliff's Notes. Cordy came back. She's a warrior for the Powers. She's going to kill Connor because he's the Destroyer."

Wes's eyes widened. "How does she--"

"Know? Besides the fact that she's a Seer, she's been living in an alternate dimension. Our month has been ten years for her." He stepped back from the chair and prowled from desk to bookcase.

Wes froze. It was true, then. Connor chose the path of darkness and pulled the rest of the world down with him.

Unless he could be stopped. If Angel spoke the truth, then Cordelia was now Wes’s strongest ally. "Let me find her."

"Why, so you can talk her to death?"

He shook his head. "Steven's your son. You take him. Let me handle Cordelia."

Angel stared at him. "Why the sudden change of heart, Wes?" His eyes narrowed. "Are you two in on something?" He materialized in front of the chair. "You planned this." He hulked over him, eyes firing vamp-gold.

Wes shook his head. "No, I didn't know anything about it. I admit, I've been watching out for Connor. But I didn't know-- I mean, I suspected--"

"That he was the Destroyer? Oh, isn't this convenient? The little Watcher joins forces with the Big Bad. Did you hope to use their resources to stop him when he turned?"

When Wes flinched, he laughed. "I was hoping to kill you myself, but now it looks like I don't have to." He glanced around the room. "Oh, hey, aren't these offices bugged? Guess what, guys, our little Wesey-boy's got a plan. He's gonna kill your pet project!" He jerked Wes away from the desk and spun him in his chair. "Tell ya what, Wes, you put those Wolfram & Hart resources to use to save my boy, and I'll see if I can get you spared from the White Room or wherever they put traitors these days."

Wes, pale and shaken, stared up at Angel. "You let him survive and he'll destroy the world."

Angel's lips were cool against his ear. "You seem to have forgotten the part where I don't care." He stood, hands on his hips. "We got an agreement? You get Connor out while I find Cordy. After that, we'll talk." He smiled. "If they don't kill you first, of course."

"I can't make any promises. I've only been here--"

"Put that British charm to good use." He walked to the door, his duster flaring around him. "Make sure you call me when you've got a location."

Wes swallowed. "What about Cordy?"

Angel held the door open with his hand. He looked over his shoulder. "After what happened with you she should know not to mess with my kid." The door slammed shut behind him.

Wes stared at the door.

"Mr. Pryce?"

"Yes, Patricia." He cleared his throat to stop the trembling.

"You're back already?"

"Yes, Patricia. And, ah, could you please get Ms. Morgan on the line?"

"Of course, sir."

He laughed, a harsh, rasping sound. “Ironic, isn’t it?" he whispered. "I try my damnedest to do the right thing and I screw it up. I do the wrong thing, and I succeed.”

He turned the chair until he could see himself in the mirror over the credenza. His first instinct was to look away, but something kept him there.

The haircut and the suit were new. The face the same as always. But it was the eyes that held him.

Oh, God, he thought, as the trembling intensified.

They were his father's.

He clenched the arms of the chair. They felt real and solid in his hand, but it only made him acutely aware that real and solid, flesh and bone, those things were a lie. One slice of a knife or one leap through a portal, and life as you knew it disappeared.

He closed his eyes but still the images came, of his father, hand raised to hit him; of his own face in the mirror, lip split and eye blackened; of his mother, cowering while her son was beaten.

How was Connor any different than he had been?

You can help him, a voice said.

His eyes popped open. How in the hell could he help anyone, trapped in the quagmire like he was?

And then, as he gazed into his own reflection, it hit him. Like Saul on the road to Damascus, he nearly fell to his knees.

He and Angel traveled parallel paths. One, the good man gone bad for the right reasons; the other, the bad man gone good for the wrong ones. They met somewhere in the middle, their common denominator atonement.

Redemption.

What if the Powers never meant for him to kill Connor? What if they meant for him to save him?

"Mr. Pryce?"

He turned slowly toward the phone. "Yes."

"I have Ms. Morgan for you."

"Thank you, Patricia. Please put her through."

Part 10

She peered at the small cabin that perched on the edge of the woods. Wes had chosen well. Only two hours from LA, it rested in the foothills of the Sierras. One road in—which meant only one way out—and four guards already stationed at points on the perimeter.

The silver Ducati the Powers loaned her stood hidden next to the road about a mile away. If she needed it, she could get there in six minutes at a full run, assuming she wasn’t injured.

And she didn’t plan on getting injured.

Movement at the cabin. She raised the field glasses, grateful that the trees shaded her from the sun. The last thing she needed was a glint giving up her location.

The first of the limos parked and Wes stepped out. He wore a trim navy suit that fit too well to be off-the rack. He'd always had expensive taste and it looked as if he finally had the income to indulge it.

Otherwise he looked exactly as she remembered: thin and elegant and bookish.

She was hammered by the memories of high school crushes and mellowing friendships and betrayal. It wasn't the sun's glare on the windshield that made her eyes water, but it was all she'd admit to.

She blinked the tears away and turned her focus to the target.

He’d grown in the last month, was all she could think as he disembarked. They’d cuffed his hands—probably because he refused to go otherwise. Then he turned to face her and her heart rolled in her chest.

God, he had the look of his father, tall and panther-ish. She shook her head. Don’t go there. He’s not Connor, he’s not Angel. He’s the Destroyer.

And you’re here to destroy him.

She glanced at her watch. Four-thirty. She couldn’t take him in broad daylight but she had to do it before Angel got there. Sunset was at 9:24.

No coincidence, she supposed, that this was going down on the longest day of the year.

God knew it felt like the longest day of her life.

The limos emptied out and all but one drove off, leaving behind six more guards. Three followed Wes and Connor into the house. Three stayed outside.

As they took up their positions, she counted carefully. Seven guards outside, three inside, plus Wes. Eleven men between her and the target.

Eleven to one—just the kind of odds she liked. The death-mask smile creased her face.

Until she thought of Angel. Then the smile disappeared

He hadn't changed in the ten years she'd been gone. The mission came second to family. His threat hadn't been idle; he'd kill her if he could. And if he couldn't he'd die trying.

No matter what she said earlier, she didn’t want to fight Angel. And if--when--she got past him, she still had to face the target. He was young in this dimension, untested. But he'd already earned the name.

She could get through eleven men easily. She could get past Angel with a bit more work. It was the target who worried her.

He was bred to fight. She had been trained to fight. The difference was subtle, but it was there. And more, she knew him. She'd never killed anyone she knew before.

It was a test of the highest order. One she knew she had to pass or forfeit her life.

The water in the canteen was warm and metallic. She swished and spat quietly, then took a sip.

And waited.

***

“Can’t you drive any faster?” Angel barked from his position under the tarp.

“I’m doin’ ninety already,” Gunn said. “Last thing we need is a ticket.”

Angel grunted.

“We’ll get there. In the meantime, make yourself useful and navigate.” He pitched Wes’s directions over his shoulder.

***

The guards found their positions. The sniper on the roof lay on his belly and peered through his rifle’s sight. She held her breath as his gaze passed over her. She was so highly sensitized that when something rustled at the base of the tree she glanced down, just a quick cant of her eyes.

It was a squirrel. She felt him sense and tense, heard him run. And then something flashed in the distance, pulling her up and out.

It was the third guard’s field glasses. Idiots.

Or they wanted her to know they were there.

***

“Next turn,” Angel said. “Go left.” He glanced at his watch. “They should be there by now.”

“And so should she.”

His mouth thinned. “Don’t remind me.”

“You didn’t really think you could catch her, did you? Kinda hard to hunt someone in broad daylight.”

Angel went silent.

“Look, I know you’re worried—“

He jerked the blanket off and sat up, ignoring the sun slapping the back of his neck. “Right,” he spat, catching Gunn’s eye in the rearview. “That’s exactly the term I’d use, too. Worried.”

The air grew ripe with the smell of cooking flesh. “Someone in my family is gonna die tonight, Gunn. And you think I’m *worried*?” He jerked the blanket back over his head and rolled down in the seat.

Gunn shut his mouth and drove.

***

They hit the main road to the cabin half an hour before sunset. Angel sat up and dumped the blanket in the floor. “How close are we?”

“You had the map last,” Gunn said curtly.

It wasn’t in the seat next to him. He patted his pockets, came up empty, then kicked the blanket aside. The map was a white wad in the mothball-smelling wool. He reached for it, and when he did something caught his eye.

“Stop the car.”

Gunn hit the brakes and went for his weapon. “What is it?”

“Wait here.” He opened the car door slowly, let his senses take over. He could smell her, faint on the breeze.

The sun’s last rays rendered the air a shocking gold. It burned his retinas clean through. “Give me your sunglasses.”

Gunn whipped them off and handed them over the seat.

“Wait here.” He slipped the glasses on and got out of the car. In three quick, nearly smoke-free steps, he was in the woods. In five more he stood next to her bike.

He ran his hand over the seat, and against his cool palm the leather was warm flesh. If he closed his eyes he could almost feel her thighs clenched around the vibrating machine. His hand fisted. Thoughts like that would keep him from doing his job.

He reached down and stripped the ignition wires. If she made it back here alive, she wouldn’t be leaving. Not by this route, anyway. He put the wires in his pocket and stood, listening to the woods’ near silence.

And waited for the sun to drop.

***

At 9:22 she slithered out of the tree. Her legs prickled with the haze of pumping blood and she gave up a precious thirty seconds while the feeling to returned to her feet.

A tingle crossed her neck and shoulders. She turned, certain she'd heard something in the forest behind.

He was here. She could feel him.

Angel could track her by scent and his night vision was far better than hers. It put her at a distinct disadvantage.

The sun slid down the sky, a liquid jewel.

She kept to the trees, slipping around the gnarled, ancient live oaks, a shadow in woods that were succumbing to night.

The first guard had his back to her. She leapt silently, took him down too quickly for a struggle. In her hands his head was large and heavy. She twisted, and in one, violent surge, he was dead.

She stood, looked down at the body. Let the image of his red-haired wife, his dimpled, blue-eyed baby boy, wash over her. The Powers gave her these visions, sometimes before she killed, sometimes after, so she’d know that her actions had consequences.

Even the actions she took for them.

For one, reverent moment she stood, breathing in the still, scented air.

Then she stepped out of the woods, and left the body behind.

***

Angel went in on foot. He was fifty yards from the cabin when he found the first body.

The guard lay in a heap, head twisted at the wrong angle. She was as efficient and deadly as she looked, then.

A movement caught his eye. Something on the roof. He went still, let his demon track it. A flash, then a grunt. A body slid silently down the shingles and landed on the ground with a dull thud.

Angel ran.

Death. He could smell it on the air.

He followed her scent through the fear. Clean as moonlight, just like he remembered. It led him to the cabin door.

Through the three small windows high in the door he could see Wes hunched over his cell phone. Connor wasn’t with him. Angel edged across the porch and stepped down onto the grass.

A hand grabbed his shirt and yanked. He went tumbling and came up face to face with Gunn.

He jerked his fist back at the last second, barely missing Gunn's nose. “I told you to stay in the car,” he hissed.

Gunn drew his finger across his throat. “She got ‘em all.” In his tight whisper was a glimmer of respect.

Angel glared. The light from the window cut a swath across his shoe and reminded him how visible they were. “Get out of here.”

“No way.” Gunn adjusted his grip on his axe. “I’m not letting you do this alone.”

“Boys, are you gonna spend the night talking, or are you gonna turn around so I can kick your butts?”

It was her voice, but so different. Focused. Electric. She stood just outside the light. He could barely see her in the black ops clothes and painted face. But he felt her like a tazer’s stun.

Next to him Gunn tensed. “Barbie,” he said quietly.

“Gunn, go back to the car. Now,” Angel said in a deadly voice.

“Like hell.” He raised his axe. Before he got to the top of the arc, she leapt. The axe fell to the ground with a soft thud. Gunn followed.

“Don’t worry,” she said, less than a foot from Angel’s ear. “I didn’t kill him.” She smiled that wicked smile.

Then, on the night wind, she vanished.

He heard a sound and looked up. Saw her foot disappearing over the edge of the roof.

He followed.

***

The tar shingles smelled of creosote and clung stickily to her feet. She used that to her advantage, climbing nimbly and cresting the summit.

She let gravity take her--falling, rolling--and grabbed the gutter on her way over the edge. Her fingers looped, slipped, held.

She bounced once and the tendons in her shoulder stretched with a sharp pang. Then she hung, one-handed, while she waited for Angel to figure out where she was.

There. He’d gotten to the top. He was more than half cat, but he was also a good fifty pounds heavier and there was no way he could disguise his presence.

Sure enough she heard Wes’s voice at the window. “Steven, get into the bedroom! Someone’s on the roof!”

Perfect. Now she knew where he was. She let go, fell a story, and landed in a somersault. Rolled up, ran two steps to the porch. Kicked in the door.

Over its ricochet she heard three things, clear as day: Angel hitting earth, Wesley’s intake of breath, and the target’s delighted laugh.

She drew the sword and its razor-sharp edges sang.

Wes stared, open-mouthed, phone hanging limply at his side. The target was not in sight.

The air behind her shifted. She ducked and came up swinging. The katana caught Angel on the upper arm and the smell of blood hit the air with a metallic tang.

His nostrils flared. "First blood," he growled. Then he drew his favorite broadsword.

“Back off, Angel,” she warned, holding her stance.

"Wes, get him out of here," Angel called. He grabbed the hilt with both hands and swung right at her head.

Cor dodged him easily and, sword flashing, cut his shirt to ribbons.

Down the hall a door slammed and locked. Then glass shattered.

They were going out the window. Dammit, if they got to the car....

She took her eyes off Angel just long enough to gauge the distance to the bedroom door. When she looked again he was coming at her like a line backer.

Instinct had her ducking, blending into the wall, and his bulk went flying. He skidded across the planked floor on his belly.

She tore down the hall and let momentum take her through. The reverberation of flesh against wood sang through her, rattling her teeth and sending an aria of pain through her already stressed shoulder. The door splintered and swung open, leaving her staring at an empty room.

The window was a jagged hole on the other side. She hurtled the bed and propelled herself through. Glass caught her hand and the spike of pain brought the hot, hazy night into sharp relief.

Her feet hit the ground just in time to get tangled in the sniper’s body. She went down hard. Heard someone grunt--realized it wasn't her, but the sniper. Surprised, she glanced at him, at the scatter-shot rise and fall of his chest. Dammit. He was supposed to be dead.

A sound pulled her attention up. It was the target, resisting Wesley's instructions. She heard Wesley's voice, low and angry. Saw the target jerk away, his white t-shirt flashing in the light from the full Solstice moon. The intense look he leveled at Wes was Angel at his most stubborn.

Her thoughts scattered, marbles on a tile floor.

Tick tock, Cor. Where's your focus?

The pounding throb of blood in her sliced palm ripped her back to reality.

She shoved to her feet and ran.

They were in the car by the time she got there. Wes fumbled the keys in the ignition.

"Get out, Wes," she said calmly. "I don't want to hurt you."

The engine fired and he grabbed the door handle and tried to yank it closed. She blocked it with her hip, reached through the open door and jerked him out. Then she raised the sword and brought the handle down hard on his temple.

“Doesn't mean I won't.”

He crumpled into a messy pile next to the car.

The target sat in the back seat staring at her, his hungry, panther’s eyes glinting. She knew then—with a stunning, mind-expanding flash—that he'd duped them.

His resistance was an act. He agreed to come to the safe house because he hungered to face her alone.

It threw her off just long enough for Angel’s tackle to send her sprawling. She came up with a mouthful of grass. Spat. "Dammit."

"Don't do this, Cor," he said, raising his sword. He stood, an avenging angel, broad-shouldered and dark-eyed.

And in that moment the past caught up with her.

She rolled out of the way of the whizzing blade and sprang to her feet.

"When did you lose the mission, Angel?" She parried, missing his face by a scant inch.

"When did you lose your heart, Cordelia?" He lunged, and the tip of the sword skated past the curve of her waist.

A car door rattled. "Angelus, uncuff me," the target ordered.

In the driver's side mirror, she saw his jean-clad hips, his hands braceleted in silver cuffs.

"Get back in the car, Connor," Angel said, cutting his eyes to his son.

It was all she needed. The spin kick sent him flying across the turf ass-first.

Then she was face to face with the target. He was cuffed--it was hardly fair. But she raised her sword anyway.

He smiled and the glint in his eyes was fevered, pulsing. Then his eyes shifted to something behind her.

A hand twice her size slapped her arm down, sent the sword flying. She turned on Angel in bare-fisted fury and rammed her hand into his jaw.

He shook it off and hit her back.

He hadn't been kidding when he said he held back in training. It was like meeting a speeding car.

It spun her so fast she hit the ground face-first. He fell on top of her and the air left her lungs with a balloon-like pop.

He thrust his hips against her ass and she lay, stunned by the pure charge of sexual energy, until she realized he was digging something out of his pocket. Over her gasps she heard jingling keys.

"Get out of the cuffs and run!" Angel yelled.

She rocked and rolled but couldn’t get him off. Her sword lay at her fingertips--if she could just reach it....

"Stop," he ordered. "He's gone."

She struggled, looking for ways to dislodge him. The target—she had to find the target.

His big hand pinned the back of her neck and shoved her face into the grass.

"Cor," he said, riding her bucking body. His voice was harsh and pleading and it ripped through her, a mortar shell through her heart.

She went limp.

He let go.

She smiled. Up and up she came, energy surging through her in a tidal wave.

He flew hard and fast—hit the side of the car with a spine-cracking crash. He struggled to his feet.

And beside him, the target stood, holding her sword.

"Nice blade," he said, swinging it at her head.

Part 11

When Gunn came to the first thing he noticed was that there were two moons. Big, round and shiny as new quarters.

Then he blinked and the two became one. That was when he noticed the dull, pounding headache.

Someone must have cracked his skull—again.

“Nice blade.”

He unfurled slowly and turned toward the voice. Three figures in a stand-off next to the car, two in black, one in white—so fuzzy it could have been a dream. Beneath his cheek the grass was cool and fragrant. His eyes slipped closed, too heavy to hold open.

“Thanks.”

Cordy. He jerked awake gasping. Oh, God. She was here to kill Connor and-- She was the one who conked him. He touched his temple gingerly and the pain crashed into his skull, a sprinter slamming a hurdle.

Girl was good, he thought, as he wiped his bloody fingers on the grass. But he was better.

He struggled and planted his knees, only to be overtaken by the spins. “Shit,” he moaned.

That’s when he heard Angel. “Don’t do this, Cordelia.”

In his wavering sight it looked as if Angel was pleading, one hand outstretched, a human barrier between Cordy and Connor. Even from here Gunn could see the determination on his face.

Which only fueled his own. He had to get over there to help.

But then his stomach clenched and sent a wave of clammy nausea spiraling through his gut. He closed his eyes and spat metal-water into the dirt.

Someone shouted, “No!” and the sound echoed so loudly that fireworks went off behind his eyelids.

When he opened them again the figures had changed position. Now Cordelia, hard to see except for the flash of white hair under the moon, stood over Connor, a new blade in hand. Her arm flew up and started in its downward slash.

He saw it then, a hunter’s knife, ferociously curved and serrated on the tip. He grimaced, imagining the rip-and-suck of those teeth meeting flesh. Gonna be nasty--

Before Gunn could move, Angel’s roundhouse swing brought the flat of his sword across Cordy’s shoulders like a paddle.

The momentum carried her into a body slam with Connor, and they went down in a tangle of limbs. They came up fighting, katana to hunter’s blade, steel flashing in the short, bright night.

**

Angel stumbled back, back, avoiding the flashing blades. "Connor! Cordy! No!"

Connor had reach and speed and the longer blade but Cordy fought with heart and guts. In her twirling, dancing style he saw remnants of the girl he'd known--the cheerleader, the Homecoming Queen. Proud, athletic, graceful.

He barreled in, sent them spinning in opposite directions. Then she whipped, turned and they were face to face.

"Back off," she spat. Her eyes glowed gold.

"No way." He ducked his head and lunged, plowed the crown of his skull into her shoulder. She went down so hard he heard her teeth rattle.

Connor, where was Connor? He turned, saw his son watching them with narrowed eyes.

"You gonna kill her for me, Angelus?" The look on his face wasn't spite, but it was close.

"If I have to."

"Better turn around then. She's getting up."

The serrated blade ran through the outside of his thigh. He screamed, looked down to see the tip of the blade, black with his blood. Then it was gone, and the sucking wound it left behind felt like a bath in holy water.

She rounded him. "I will kill him," she said through gritted teeth.

"You have to kill me first," he spat. The pain ratcheted through him, red and hot.

"Gladly," she said, rising over him, feet inches off the ground. She slashed the hunting knife at his throat.

His arm flashed up, met her wrist, and the knife went flying. She grunted. He drew the sword back, prepared to bury it in her skull.

She spun, leg flying, and knocked it out of his hand. He watched it go, watched it bounce, watched it land in the grass next to the car.

She beat him to it. Next he saw her she was standing on the hood of the limo, swinging the broadsword in great arcs over her head. Then she leapt and planted her feet against his chest.

He went down like a felled tree.

***

She could feel him in the sword. You didn't make a sword your favorite without leaving something of yourself in the metal. And this one felt like him, hard and sturdy; big and graceful.

Beneath her feet he lay perfectly still. Her toes met his collarbone where the point of the sword now rested.

To be killed with your own sword was either the greatest compliment or the greatest insult. She intended to make it a compliment.

His eyes were glittering, black. "You gonna do it?" His brows settled low over his eyes, his mouth went straight and flat.

Her racing heart stuttered.

She knew that look. Unstoppable. Proud. It was the battle standard that drove her through the hard, lonely, transcendent years.

Before the Zen masters and the weapons experts and the battle tests was Angel. He taught her more than the basics of self-defense. He encouraged her, believed in her, laid the foundation for the life she now lived. In her weakest moments—and her strongest—she drank from his well.

To kill him now would dishonor the gift.

But she had to stop him. So she did the only thing left. She drew on the light.

It flew through her feet, went through him, a knife through his soul. He screamed, loud and long, and his eyes went from black to fiery gold.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, because she knew that this would be worse for a demon than any blade.

But she also knew he'd walk away from it. Eventually.

He fell limp beneath her, and the telltale signs of a purge marked his face. Vacant, staring eyes; open mouth. The demon in him convulsed, knocking her loose, and she stumbled aside.

The she was left, sword in hand, to face the one thing she'd hoped to avoid.

He leaned against the car, eyes wide, katana resting loosely at his side. "Wow," he said. "Is that what you did to me?"

She nodded. "I don't use it often. It's too powerful for most people to survive."

His eyes flickered to Angel, who lay, trembling in the driveway. "What about him?"

"Oh, he'll make it. He'll feel like crap for awhile, though."

"I didn't feel like crap," he said thoughtfully.

"That's because you got purged of something you didn't need." She turned to consider Angel. "His darkness balances him, keeps him focused. Yours was killing you." She looked at Connor. "That's why I'm here, you know."

"What do you mean?"

"What you become, Connor. It's pure darkness."

Defiance flickered in his eyes. "I fight the good fight."

"Holtz corrupted you."

Now it was anger, pure and powerful. "Do not speak of my father."

"He was only doing what he came here to do."

"Turn me into a fiend?"

She nodded. "And it's my job to stop you."

"Then why are you still talking?"

"Good question." She drew herself over the centers of her feet, where she connected with earth. The sword rose in front of her nearly of its own accord, lead by the energy pumping through the live-wire of her body.

She drew in the light, sucked it deep. The thrumming power burned in her belly, incense uncoiling light, smoke and heat. “I’ll make it quick,” she swore.

He came at her with a driving kick and landed his foot in her belly.

Her breath exploded out and she fell to the grass gasping.

God, he was fast. She whipped to her feet.

But she was faster.

She came at him, a propeller, dancing and spinning, her sword flashing streaks of light.

He ducked, rolled, sprang like a cat.

***

Angel groaned groggily. His insides felt hot, electric.

Laughter, giddy and free, rumbled through him. God he felt amazing. This was like smoking opium without the side effects. Whatever she'd done to him, it was good, good, good.

The sound of clashing steel caught his attention and he hummed along with it. Mozart or something even purer, though it was hard to imagine what that might be. Maybe if the moon wrote music.

Zing, sing, ting.

Without looking he caught the rhythm of the fight, and his fingers tapped on his chest in time with them. Dancing, and God, he loved to dance.

Well Angelus loved to dance; he avoided it like the plague. But maybe now that he felt this way, light and happy and free, he'd start again. He'd buy Cordy something beautiful, maybe red, he'd always loved her in red. And he'd take her...take her....

Cordy, God, no. She'd come to kill his child. His boy, his baby, his miracle. Now the warm golden feeling turned to water, leaving his eyes wet.

Not Connor, too. He couldn't possibly live without them both.

***

Connor bore the katana as if it were his own. He fought as she'd imagined and feared, with such integration that he not only owned the fight he *was* the fight.

The clang of steel meeting steel rang up her arms and sent her skull vibrating.

He was the most powerful foe she'd faced.

Not just by his birthright, but by his birth. Behind his warrior's eyes lay the boy she knew, the baby she loved. The child she had mourned.

Her jaw clenched as memories flooded, memories of how he’d felt in her arms, of how he smelled, sweet and powdery after his bath.

The memories made her slow. Stupid.

He landed a blow and she went tumbling, spinning.

She came up, lip busted, head pounding and went for him again.

***

He rolled, finding his way to his hands and knees. Head spinning, mouth watering, he drooled into the grass just like Conal, the village idiot. He giggled. He’d loved Conal; actually, he’d loved torturing him. Even after Darla turned him, he and Conal had some fun. The hot rush of blood from Conal's smooth, young throat coated his lips. He licked greedily, but still in the grip of Cor’s love light, it turned his stomach.

Blood--could he ever drink it again?

Blood. It caught his attention. Someone had spilled it recently. He raised his head and sniffed like a dog. The world spun and spun, and he could only spin with it.

In his peripheral vision he saw them dancing together, so lithe and beautiful. So young, just getting started, really. They had no idea what it meant to live forever, and he prayed they never would. He also prayed he'd go first so he never had to be without them.

Fey and fairylike, straight out of tales he'd heard as a boy. Swords flashing, eyes blazing, mouths set in the same grim line.

Pride wrapped himself around him, a warm blanket. His eyes focused, his heart twisted. His family, they were, and dear God, how he loved them.

He struggled to his feet never taking his eyes off the dancing pair. Getting caught in the dazzle and sparkle of light on blade, of light on hair and skin. Living, pulsing.

***

The memories flashed a second time. Of her sleeping with Angel, this child between them, as night cradled their family in her cool, soft arms.

Her breath caught in her chest and the light dimmed. “I *will* do this,” she said between clenched teeth.

With a great, sucking breath, the light expanded, throbbing in her chest as she fought—throbbing and pulsing, and guiding her through the fight.

It was only when her movements synchronized with the target’s that she realized he was doing the same, drawing on breath and life to lead him through. His eyes flashed with recognition, and he stopped and stared at her open-mouthed.

Then his fist rammed into her face.

She flew back ten feet and hit the ground with a jarring thump. Her strained shoulder muscles seized and the screaming flash of pain became her entire world. Then she scrambled up, shook it off, and went back for more.

***

He was drawn back to the dream, of him and Cordy, of her--a coat full of moonlight. Now she wasn't simply that girl--she *was* moonlight.

And Connor, he was night. And he held her, the sky holding the moon.

Then she eclipsed him. Angel blinked, startled when his son went down. Where's your balance, boy? Lose your balance and you lose it all.

***

The vision flashed through her, intense as heat lighting.

It radiated from her core, spinning and pulsing, spilling over her edges. She cried out, flung her head back. Saw the stars, spinning, pulsing--felt their ancient, cold light morph into something so hot that it burned her from the inside out.

But she couldn’t stay with the stars for long, not when Connor’s pulse drew her gaze back down to earth. He stared, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, and she realized then that the vision wasn’t meant for her alone.

Together they traveled into the future, to Angel, weeping over Connor’s grave. To her, fighting empty and angry and alone in a battle she no longer believed in.

It flashed again, taking them back to a night years before. When she’d rocked this boy to sleep in the chair next to the window. She saw his eyes, blinking owlishly, his rosebud mouth quirking in his secret smile, the one he saved just for her.

She felt him heavy against her breast. Smelled his milky-sweet smell.

Connor’s face softened as he remembered being cradled in love.

The memories flooded, water breaking a dam. Her heart gave a horrible, grieving wrench.

And then the vision flashed again and she saw herself lying still and cold, dead eyes staring at the blank night sky.

It was clear as the moon on this cloudless night: his life or hers.

She looked deep into Connor’s eyes and let them guide her into her own heart. Turned her head and looked at Angel, kneeling in the grass. Saw in his eyes the same truth she already knew.

Death was a choice. Just like life.

She lowered the sword.

***

Angel’s heart, twisted and tense, suddenly relaxed. Because he knew in that moment that they’d won.

His son was safe. His family was safe.

The bliss of her touch washed over him again and he fell to his knees in the grass weeping in gratitude.

***

Gunn's eyes blinked open slowly. Someone had scrubbed the inside of his head with sand.

A flash caught his eye, Cordy, arm high over her head, Connor pinned beneath her foot.

"No," he breathed.

But instead of following through, Cordy lowered the sword. A wave of helpless relief flowed through him. They were safe. Thank God. They were safe.

Then he heard a rustle, fabric on grass, and turned his head toward the sound.

One of the guards, a man he had thought was dead, was rolling onto his belly. The moonlight flashed on something long and gleaming.

A quiet "ka-chunk" rattled his ears.

***

The ear-shattering report of a rifle shot split the air.

The bullet ripped through her shoulder and blew out the front of her chest, spattering blood and flesh in a messy arc.

She blinked in confusion, not quite understanding what had just happened.

Angel screamed “NO!” in a voice that came from under water.

She got it then.

They hadn’t wasted any time, had they?

All she could do was laugh.

Part 12

“You know how much I hate this astral thing,” she bitched at Skip.

They were in the temple on the holy mountain in Japan where she once studied. The priest of the temple, well over one hundred, taught her to use the katana in the yard outside. She remembered the frail-looking man and the freight train of power that tracked from his fist. She wondered idly if he was still in residence, or if he'd already moved on to higher planes.

“If you’d quit trying to die, it wouldn’t be an issue,” Skip replied, drawing her attention back to the conversation. They stopped to light incense at the altar where a golden statue of Buddha glinted in the pearly light. “You know why you’re here, right?”

“Because someone tried to kill me again?" she teased.

“Yeah. Wanna see?”

She shrugged. “You know they’re gonna make me anyway. May as well get it over with.”

The swirling incense clouded then shimmered and she saw herself on an operating table, chest held open by metal spreaders as the surgeon tried to put her back together.

“Not my best look.”

“Hardly,” Skip said.

She blinked and the scene shifted. “Oh, my God, Angel!”

He stuck to the shadows in clothes spattered with blood. Hers and his, she could smell it from here. His face was drawn, tired, but his eyes were still lit with the flame she'd burned through him. She could feel it, warming him from the inside, connecting him to her and she knew, intuitively, that he clung to it, wanting to feel her in him for as long as he could.

Wes entered the room, cups of coffee in his hand, and behind him was Connor. White bandages decorated his arms and face.

She ran her hands over her arms, suddenly chilled. “Didn’t take ‘em long, did it?” she whispered.

“What do you mean?” Skip waved his hand and chased away both incense and vision.

“To follow up on their promise.”

“What promise?” Skip asked, head tilted to the side, a kid figuring out a math problem.

“My life or his. I chose his.”

“Oh,” Skip said. And then his eyes widened. “OH.” He pointed at the coiling smoke. “So you think that’s…. Huh.”

“Huh?”

“Huh.” He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at her, long and hard. “You know, for someone who sees so much, you can be surprisingly dense.”

The wail of a monitor split the air. She jumped. “What's that sound?”

“You’re flatlining.”

Sure enough, the vision swirled again and the medical team bustled around her, pulling up crash carts and loading stuff into her IV lines.

"So this is it? They're cutting me loose?” Her voice broke.

Skip shrugged. "You could say that.”

In the room below the shrilling beep stopped.

The surgeon called time of death.

***

He’d been a doctor way too long on nights like this.

His hands were hot on his face as he scrubbed his cheeks. Grief. No matter how many he lost, he always felt it. Raw and slick, a rocky path in a storm.

And, as always, he locked it somewhere deep to deal with later. He couldn’t afford to show his own grief to the family—not over someone he’d only met tonight, even someone who’d died on his table.

These people had lost someone they knew and loved. And now he had to tell them.

He shuffled out the swinging double doors and down the hall to the waiting room. It was a small hospital and they were the only ones there.

The man who carried her in, the tall brooding one in black, stood in the shadows. He leaned against the wall with a preternatural stillness that spoke of exhaustion. His skin was pale in the green of the fluorescents and the doctor wondered when he last ate. And understood that food was the last thing on his mind.

The man’s eyes opened as soon as he walked into the room and he was startled by their glittering, gold film. He shook it off, knowing he was just trying to distract himself with inconsequential things.

This was never easy. There was no kind way.

So he put his hands in the pockets of his scrubs, held the man’s gaze, and shook his head.

He watched it go in, a rock thrown into a moving engine, and stop him in his tracks.

Someone moaned, a feral sound in the silence.

“Doctor?” One of the men they’d treated for a head injury, the British one, stepped forward.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He cleared his throat. “We did everything we could. The damage was too….” He pulled his hand out of his pants pocket and gestured. “There was too much damage,” he finished lamely.

The Brit nodded, a brisk twitch of his head. His eyes were fierce and wet, but they were steady. “I’m sure you did your best. Thank you.”

The boy stepped forward, a stunned look on his face. “She’s dead?” He paled. “No.” He turned his eyes to the man in black. “No!”

The doctor nodded. “I’m sorry. She just…. You did a good job of keeping her alive on the way over. But the trauma to her heart was just too much. We did everything we could,” he said. He heard his voice break and he turned his head away.

***

Cordy stared open-mouthed at the scene before her. One nurse pulled the clamps out of her chest and began sewing her closed. Another unhooked IV lines and monitors. They were silent, efficient. Her body, once so full of color and life, lay on the table, a wrung-out rag.

“You sure that’s what you want?” Skip asked quietly.

She blinked at him. “I don’t have a choice now, do I?”

He shrugged. “Always got a choice, Cor. I thought you figured that out back at the safe house.”

“What are you saying?”

“Ever heard the old adage, ‘Fork in the road’?”

She turned back to the quiet nurses who tended her body. “Ever heard the old adage, ‘Stick a fork in me, I’m done?’” Her eyes traveled the length of her body, taking in every bruise, every scar, every dip and curve that told the story of her life.

As she watched she was reminded of that night when Skip took her to Wolfram & Hart. How she knew with such intensity that everything would work out for the best.

Oh, she’d been so naïve. She thought she’d been passing some sort of test—choosing the mission over love--and she'd failed, miserably.

And now she’d failed again, for choosing love over the mission.

She looked at Skip. “Get me out of here. I’ve seen enough.”

“You sure?”

“Ye—“ She stopped, closed her eyes. “Just let me see him one more time,” she whispered.

Angel’s face, drawn and pinched, wavered before her. She saw him leaving the hospital, saw him standing over an open grave—hers now, not his son’s. Saw him trudging through life eternal, broken by her death in a way he’d never been broken by Buffy’s.

“Oh, God,” she whispered.

“What?” asked Skip.

“Oh, my God, Skip. I love him. Still. And he loves me.” She closed her eyes. “Why isn’t that ever enough?”

Skip wrapped his hand around her arm, drew her attention to him. “What if it isn’t about love?”

She ran her hands through her hair, looked at her face, lax and bloodless. “What does that mean?”

“What does any of this mean?” Skip waved his hand. “It’s all just an illusion anyway, right? Hey,” he said as if a thought suddenly occurred to him. “Did you ever see Thelma and Louise?”

Cor fumed. “Dammit, Skip, now’s hardly the time to talk about movies.”

“Hey, now, Susan Sarandon—who doesn’t love her?”

She tugged on her hair in frustration, set the white spikes on end. “Okay. Fine. I saw it. Now what’s your point?”

“Well, you know, at the end, when they’re driving toward the canyon and everyone’s chasing them?”

She tapped her foot against the stone floor. “Yes, Skip, I remember that part.”

He smiled happily. “That was a great moment in movie history, wasn’t it? Where they realize they’re either gonna go to jail for, like, ever, or—“

“Or they can make a sacrifice that might end up killing them but preserves the purity of their mission?”

Skip nodded. “Bingo!”

Cordy blinked. “What, bingo?”

“Bingo!” Skip repeated.

She stared at him. “What?” A thought glimmered. “Are you saying I’m…. That what I did was…?”

“Make a sacrifice that preserved the purity of the mission? Yeah, pretty much.”

Her mouth opened and closed several times before anything came out. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” He waved his hand and the scene shifted back to that moment where she stood over Connor, sword raised, caught in the grip of the vision. “Looks to me like you made a choice.”

“I did. His life for mine.”

“Even though you knew he might wind up destroying the world.”

She closed her eyes. “I loved him too much.”

When she looked at Skip he was shaking his head. “What if that was the whole point?”

***

Jenny, the head nurse, careened down the hall toward him, face glowing with an odd light. He shook his head. She knew he didn’t want to be disturbed when he notified the families.

But she kept coming.

“Doctor!”

He looked back at them, all staring as if waiting for him to pop up and say, It’s all a joke! “I’m sorry,” he said, blanketed by their grief. “Could you excuse me a moment?”

She skidded on her clogs, nearly ran into him. “Could you come with me, please?” Her gaze flickered to the grieving family and when she caught the eyes of the man in black, her smile bloomed.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, taking her by the elbow.

"Just...come with me," she said urgently.

***

Angel sat at Cordy's bedside watching her heart beat on the monitor. It was regular, the same as her breathing, but she was so pale and still that he kept waiting for the beeping to stop.

His eyes closed and he took her hand. Drew it to his face and kissed the smooth skin near her wrist. "Don’t leave me, Cor," he whispered brokenly.

"Angelus?"

He didn't turn. "Yeah," he answered, and his voice felt rough and thick.

"The nurse says visiting hours are over. We have to go now."

He shook his head. "Tell her I'm not going."

He heard his son's breathing stop then resume its normal, quiet rhythm. "All right," the boy said. "I'll see that the others get to the hotel safely. Then I will come back and sit with you."

Angel shook his head again. "No, Connor. The morning will be soon enough."

A pause again. And the rustle of weight shifting from foot to foot. "Morning, then," Connor replied.

The door drifted shut behind him and left Angel alone with the sound of Cordy's heart.

***

She was dreaming, wild, fractured dreams. Angel floated above her, his face shadowed and beautiful in the moonlight. The ocean breeze whipped his hair, a lover's careless fingers.

It was an old dream, a soldier’s careworn letter carried next to her heart.

"Rip them off. I've got more in the car." The words burned her tongue and lit Angel’s eyes.

He slid his hands under her hips, buried himself deep.

They rocked the car on its chassis, shocks squeaking, metal popping.

When she came, she flew out to the stars and hung, wrapped in the soft, black blanket of space. Under her feet Earth twirled, following its trajectory through the heavens.

Insight flashed, bright and shining as morning. Like Earth, she followed her own path. As did Angel, and Wesley and Connor. Everyone she’d ever seen or heard in a vision, every person she’d killed or defended. They followed a trajectory, one suggested by the universe but molded by choice.

She closed her eyes and pulled up her battle standard. Angel’s dark eyes challenged her to see it all, to know the full truth.

And in that moment she glimpsed it: her future. The one in which their paths, once divergent, united again, forging a life stronger, deeper and better than either of them could have imagined alone.

She dropped her old flag and in its place raised the new, gold dream. Then she twined her fingers with his and let him draw her back to earth.

***

The golden light surged through him, the vestiges of the purge lighting his dreams. He was with her again, at the Point. They were making love and he knew, with a sinking heart, that when they finished, she'd leave him again.

This time for good.

"Angel?"

He wasn’t surprised. In his dreams she always called his name. Then her fingers fluttered, jolting him awake.

Her eyes were dim but her smile was pure Cordelia.

"Cordy.” He pressed her hand to his cheek. "You're...you're...."

"Alive?” She cleared her throat, and when she spoke again her voice was clearer. “Wild, huh?"

He blinked back tears. “Yeah. Wild.”

“I thought I failed.”

“No. Cor, *no*. You didn’t, you couldn’t--”

“Angel, I’m trying to talk here.”

His laugh rumbled through his chest. “God. I missed you.” He kissed the back of her hand once, twice.

“Hey, you had it easy. I was only gone for a month in this dimension.” She reached up to stroke his face but got tangled in the white, fabric sling and the twining IV lines. “Man, what’d they do to me?”

He pinned her with his gaze. “You died, Cordelia.”

“Only for a minute. And now I’m stuck with all these stupid bandages and things.” She blinked at the sterile room. “Hospitals suck.” She cleared her throat again. “You gotta spring me soon,” she whispered.

“Not till you’re ready.”

Her eyes started to close. “’M’ready now,” she slurred.

“I can see that.”

She drifted then startled awake. “Angel?”

“I’m here.”

She squeezed his hand. “Don’t let go.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

***

Wes stood in his kitchen staring out the window. His head still ached; his nerves still jangled, but between the Ibuprofen the doctor recommended and the herbal tea he sipped, he was starting to feel better.

He’d been thinking more and more of Cordelia. Of whether she would stay or go and what that meant for Wolfram & Hart. For him, too. He was tempted--

A knock on the door stopped him mid-thought. He waited in the dark, hoping she’d go away. But Lilah was nothing if not persistent and so he crossed the apartment and opened the door.

She was dressed down tonight, in soft, loose pants and a short-sleeved t-shirt. The sweater she wore over her shoulders was lilac—very feminine and surprisingly it suited her. It shocked him to see her without her armor, all hard lines and lacquered polish. But he didn’t mention it. He simply stepped back and held the door open.

She strolled in with the catlike grace that was her trademark and went to the kitchen. Silently she put the water on for tea. He followed, watching closely as she completed the chore and not at all sure he liked her being so comfortable in his home.

Finally, she turned to him. “Heard you had an exciting evening.”

He raised his eyebrow.

She took down a cup and opened the tin of tea. “Your Cordelia seems to have nine lives," she said, as she drew out a tea bag.

He set his mug on the counter and crossed his arms, instinctively protecting himself. “She's not my Cordelia,” he said coolly.

Lilah smiled. “Whatever. I hear she's recovering well." She dropped the bag into the empty cup. "Shouldn't take her long, what with the demon blood an all. Hey,” she said, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to her. "Wonder how long it'll take her to boff Angel." She laughed. "Wouldn't it be funny if she released Angelus?"

The apartment suddenly felt quite chilly. He cupped his elbows with his hands. “Hilarious,” he said in a measured voice.

Lilah shrugged. “Not that I'm saying it'll happen. I mean, perfect bliss--how often do you think that comes around?”

Wes felt his voice go arctic. “I wouldn't know.”

Lilah picked up the whistling kettle and poured boiling water over a tea bag. “Gosh, Wesley. That doesn't say much about our relationship, does it?” She took her steaming mug and leaned against the counter.

His heartbeat slowed just enough for him to catch his breath. “I wouldn't presume to call what we have a relationship.”

Lilah sipped from the mug she cradled in both hands. “It's why I don't bother with love, you know," she said thoughtfully.

Wes studied her, baffled by her unguarded comment. “I thought that was because you had no heart.”

She chuckled. “That's just a myth. Actually it's because I'm smart enough not to use it.”

“That's sad, Lilah." It was the first truly human thing he'd ever said to her.

She shot him a look. “Maybe. But at least I'm not sitting up nights worrying about it.”

Wes thought of the family he lost and the bitter road he'd started down as a result. He trod a different path now, one as uncertain as any he’d known. But on this one, at least, he wasn’t becoming his father.

"I'd consider myself lucky to sit up nights worrying about that," he said.

***

Connor watched them from the shadows. Through the open door to the bedroom he could see Angel, sitting on the bed next to Cordelia, who was so securely tucked into the blankets that she resembled one of Fred’s enchiladas.

She was pouting charmingly and Angel was smiling and shaking his head. Connor could easily have listened in, but he figured skulking was enough of an invasion of privacy without adding eavesdropping.

Besides he already knew what she was saying. “Angel, if you don’t let me out of this bed, I’ll….” It was an argument that had been running the whole week she’d been there, though it was one she seemed happy enough to let Angel win.

Connor knew he should leave them alone. Go back to his apartment and prepare his weapons for whatever foe he’d be facing that night. And yet the idea of going back to an empty, echoing room did not appeal to him.

He felt ungrateful when he thought of his apartment that way, considering he’d once slept on the ground near lakes of sulfur and pits of bubbling tar. Quar-Toth. It had been home, but now it was a distant memory.

Angel laughed at something Cordelia said and stroked his hand down her face with such reverence that it took Connor’s breath away. He realized, then, with a flash of insight, that the fight had been his home. And that ever since that night at the safe house he’d been adrift, even from that.

It was still in his blood—he could feel it, pulsing through him every time he faced an opponent. But she’d shown him something through her vision and her sacrifice. Something shining and pure.

All he knew now was that he was waiting. For some sign to move forward or back. To choose the life he’d lived in Quar-Toth, or the life she’d shown him in the field that night.

Cordelia, as if sensing his presence, turned her head and smiled at him. And in that moment all his questions vanished.

He walked into the room and took her outstretched hand.

End.

Notes: The working title for this story was Leave Tomorrow Behind, which is exactly what I wanted to do after I saw Tomorrow. Frustrated with the way Mutant Enemy threw the pieces off the board, I vowed to do something to fix it. After I finished, I found that, in my attempt to get the characters back to square one, the story had actually grown a theme.

So I changed the name to Miserere.

I like the fact that it means "mercy." It's also another name for the 51st Psalm, which is a plea for mercy, but more, it's a story of forgiveness.

In that Psalm God reveals that forgiveness is a revolutionary form of sacrifice. It requires us to leave the old ways behind. To see ourselves for what we really are: flawed, insecure, righteous, and frail—and to allow that knowledge to humble us in the true sense of the word. Not by making us less, but by showing us our true place in the world.

It's the kind of sacrifice that the main characters in this story are forced (or choose) to make. And though they all give up something precious as a result, what they gain in the end is an expanded knowledge of forgiveness—and love.

AUTHORS INDEX <adultfic.html>

SCRIBES OF ANGEL

Fan Fiction

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PART ONE <miserere.htm>

Miserere

Part 7

Fred watched Angel from the doorway to his bedroom. He shifted restlessly on top of the comforter, eyelids fluttering behind closed lids.

She looked down at the empty blood bag in her hand. “Only six today,” she said to Gunn.

He pulled the door closed behind him. “That’s a lot closer to normal. Maybe he’s catching up.”

“I hope so. I was beginning to worry that he’d drink the whole city.” Fred stopped, halfway down the staircase, and looked up at him. “I just wish he’d wake up.”

Gunn took the used bag from her. “I know. But all the books say it’ll take awhile.”

“Maybe if Cordy was here.” She glanced at the closed door. “Kye-rumption, and all.”

“Yeah.”

Fred sighed.

“What?”

“Coming home alone….” She looked down at the straps of her cork-soled sandals. “I know how he feels.”

Gunn gathered her close. “You’re good for him, too, ya know. No one else can understand this the way you do.”

She slipped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his shirt. “Guess five years in a hell dimension should be good for something.”

Gunn stroked his free hand down her back. “Guess so. And now that we’ve got Angel taken care of for the night, I could sure use a breather.”

She pulled away and started down the stairs again. “Shouldn’t we look for Cordy?”

“We will later.”

“I am tired,” she admitted. “A break would be nice.”

Good.” Gunn pitched the empty bag into the garbage can and pulled her over to one of the sofas. “How about a short nap?”

She let him pull her down onto the cushions. “Sounds heavenly.”

***

Lilah was beginning to think that Wesley led her on a wild goose chase. Then she came across the boy at the last possible location on the list.

He glanced up when the headlights brushed him. For a moment he stood, perfectly poised, a young buck caught in the sights of a hunter’s rifle. Then he moved, muscles rippling like water, and disappeared.

“Go,” she said, slapping the glass panel between her and the driver. He followed, but it was obvious, after several frustrating blocks of tracking him, that the only reason she found him was that he let her.

“You’re following me,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest in a move so reminiscent of Angel that her breath caught.

“I am,” she said, stepping from the car. Her hair fluttered against her throat, carried into movement by the early morning breeze.

He leaned against the chain-link fence, eyes dancing to the street beyond. He was never still—she noticed that right away.

She approached him as if he were a skittish horse. “I’m Lilah. What’s your name?”

He smiled, a bright, sharp flash that threw back the street lamp’s glare. “Depends on who you ask.”

A shiver crawled over her shoulders, part thrill, part terror. “I like you,” she said. “And I think, if you gave it a shot, you could like me, too.”

He laughed and pulled a gleaming knife from a scabbard on his hip. “The only thing I like is killing.” He advanced.

Her legs carried her back until she hit the trunk of the limo. “And that’s why I’m here,” she squeaked.

He stopped two paces from her. The breeze carried his scent to her nostrils: young, green sweat and old, dried blood. Her mouth watered.

“Really?” he asked, and his voice was suddenly simple and childlike, stripped of all affectation.

She wondered which father he got that from, or if it was uniquely his. “I represent a local law firm, Wolfram & Hart.” She pulled a card from her pocket and held it out to him.

He reached with his free hand and his fingers brushed hers. His cuticles were stained the color of rust.

He glanced at the card then dropped it to the ground where it fluttered to a halt against the sticky concrete. “I don’t read very well,” he said. “Maybe you could explain exactly what you have in mind. Lilah.”

He drew her name out, making it sound like an exotic flower. Or a death knell. Her better instincts hummed, telling her to run. The others, the ones she lived by, made her reach for his hand. “Come with me,” she said, feeling her voice drop into the range she used primarily for seduction.

The corner of his mouth quirked and but for the eyes, she could have been staring into Angel’s face.

“You’re heart’s racing,” he said, gliding his fingers over her pulse.

“Why, so it is,” she said, sliding into the limo.

She waited only seconds before he followed.

***

“Cor,” he moaned. The edges of reality pressed in on him; he could almost see it shifting between the Point and the familiar shape of his bedroom.

He waited for her to come back, to make him real again. He must have reached out because his hand jerked against something. There was an odd, metallic rattle.

He blinked. “Cordy?” Still no answer. He reached again and this time, he recognized the sound. Chains.

“Hello?” His voice echoed through a chamber much bigger than the one he was used to. He took a deep breath, letting the familiar scent of his own things wash over him. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “Am I home?”

The last time he felt this way Holtz forced him to drink melted silver. It left him raw, exposed. He could hear the cars on the streets below, could smell the wool of the carpet and the soap in the shower’s soap dish. His skin crawled and the scratch of fabric on flesh shocked him to stillness.

He lost himself in the ancient habit of breathing. Gradually the sensory overload lessened.

“Cordy?” He listened for her footfalls to come clear from the white noise. Nothing. The hotel was quiet. He shook his head and the room spun woozily. “Cordy!”

Still nothing. He jerked frantically against the chains. They were wedged around the bed frame and no matter how he moved, they held tight.

He had to get out of them. Now. Had to find her. His stomach swooped, and he tasted the metallic rush of water on the back of his tongue. He was going to be sick, going to….

He stopped, went back to breathing. The nausea receded, leaving him clammy and shaky, but he could deal with that. He could do this. He just had to break it down into steps.

See? No steel cages holding him in, keeping him buried alive. Just light and air and normal things. His things. His cuffs.

His key.

He honed in on the bedside table. The drawer. That’s where he always kept it. But when he tried to reach it, the chain brought him up short. “Dammit,” he muttered.

He lay back down on the bed and began rocking his body against the mattress. The bed moved by inches, scooting closer to the table with each motion. Soon, he had butted right up against it, though all he could do then was lie still and wait for his system to level.

He had no idea how long he’d been down there—or how long he’d been back for that matter. The most vivid memories he had were the dreams. And of all the dreams, the one of Cordy stood out the brightest.

In her eyes he saw apology and love. And good-bye.

That did it. He reached for the drawer, brushed the handle with his finger tips. Couldn’t quite get a grip on it. Reached again. This time, the cuffs gave just enough that he was able to nudge it.

The gap was only about half an inch, but it was enough for him to stick his fingers in and wedge the drawer open. Then he twisted, turned and shimmied, until he was finally able to crane his neck and see in the drawer. Sure enough, there, on top of the latest issue of Swordsman, was the key.

He glanced quickly around the room, looking for something to grab it with. No luck with his hands—he couldn’t reach that far into the drawer. But maybe, if he scooted the bed just right, and lay down on his stomach, he could pick it up with his teeth.

The mattress was firm beneath his back, and to his exhausted body it felt warm and inviting. He had to fight slipping back into the darkness; it would have been so easy to slide back under the surface and wait for someone to come and get him out.

But no one was coming. And he had to find Cordelia.

He began rocking again, more with his hips than his shoulders, and the foot of the bed started to angle around. He drew his feet up and under him, and rolled over his knees, landing on his stomach. His shoulders twisted painfully, grinding in the sockets.

His arms quivered as he balanced his chest against the side of the bed and the hard corner of the drawer. He dipped his head in, grabbed the key with his teeth and spat it on the mattress. Then he slid over, picked it up with one, trembling hand, slid it into the lock and turned. One cuff fell free, then the other. He threw the key into the drawer and stood.

The world spun like the arm of a major league pitcher. He collapsed, sucking in air, and waited impatiently for everything to calm down again. Then he braced his hands on the mattress and pushed to his feet. This time, things stayed upright, and he fought his way across the room to his closet.

There he grabbed a shirt and pulled it on then stuck his feet in his boots, though bending over to lace them brought the fireflies swarming. “Come on,” he barked impatiently. “Get your ass in gear.”

His wallet and keys were where he always kept them, on the table next to the reading chair. He slipped them into his pocket and stole quietly from the room. He had to be quiet or he’d wake the baby. Cordy would kill him if he woke him up after she finally got him down.

Angel shook his head as time lurched back to the present. God, where was he? Beneath his hand the wall was vertical, which helped him remember to be vertical, too. Yes, that was right. He was going to find Cordy.

He shoved off, a boat leaving dock, and made his way slowly down the stairs. Gunn and Fred slept on the couch, curled up around each other in such a sweet embrace that he could only stop for a moment and look.

“Thank you,” he said, because he knew that they’d brought him back somehow. That was a story for later. After he’d found her.

And he knew just where to start looking.

***

Angel found him in the parking lot of a 24-hour Walgreen’s.

“Connor.”

The boy whipped around, sword in hand, foot on the throat of the man he’d been paid to kill. “Angelus?” He tilted his head, squinted in surprise.

“Let him go,” Angel said, pointing to the struggling man.

Connor looked down at his victim. “Why should I?” The guy squirmed under Connor’s boot. In the harsh glare of the streetlights, his face was turning gray.

Angel gathered his strength and in one, violent burst, shoved Connor aside. The man, freed, gasped twice and rolled, coming up against the tires of a car parked near the dumpster.

Connor whirled, sword flying, and Angel arched back and away. The point grazed his jacket, leaving a long slice in the leather.

Connor smiled coolly. “Welcome back. Dad.”

Angel vamped. He had Connor by the throat and against the dumpster before the kid could blink. “Tell me what you did to her.” His hand tightened and under it he could feel the muscle and bone grate.

Connor’s eyes widened. The sword clattered to the ground.

Angel heard Connor’s mark scrabble to his feet and the fading scent of his sweat told him that the guy had made a run for it. Under his forearm, Connor’s heart raced, but he had to give the kid credit. Even in a life and death situation, he had a poker face.

Pride flared through him though he pressed his face close, deliberately menacing the boy. “Tell me.”

Connor jerked reflexively and the move sent his scent spiraling in the night wind. It was nearly too much, the green-wood smell of his son’s body. Like a fingerprint, it had been his since birth.

This child had been his touchstone. He was what kept him from flying off the deep end when Cordy left him for Groo. Angel owed him his sanity. And as his parent, he owed him his protection. And here he was, hand wrapped around the throat of the only child he would ever have. A child who, by all rights, shouldn’t even exist.

“Tell you what?” Connor gasped. His eyes were flat, his mouth pulled back into a grimace. He was having trouble breathing, but he didn’t give an inch.

Angel rattled him, thrusting the kid’s whip-like body against the harsh metal of the dumpster. “What you did to Cordelia,” Angel growled. “Did you take her before or after you drowned me?”

Connor’s eyes narrowed. “Let me go and I’ll tell you," he negotiated through clenched teeth.

Angel shook his head. “Tell me where she is or I’ll kill you.” It was a lie. But from the way Connor’s eyes widened, he knew the kid bought it.

He tightened his hand. Tell me, he thought. Tell me now, so I can let you go.

He ignored the dizziness that crouched at the back of his skull. He’d known coming into it that he was too weak to do this. But he had to save her. He couldn’t rest again until he did.

“I don’t know, and if I did, do you think I’d tell you?” As if he sensed Angel’s weakness, he jerked his arms up, breaking Angel’s hold and sending him sprawling on the pavement.

Angel’s head knocked the bumper of the car and he saw stars. The next thing he knew, the point of Connor’s sword was rammed against his throat.

“I don’t know how you got out, and I don’t really care,” Connor said. His eyes flashed hot in the purgatorial light. “I will tell you this. I didn’t hurt Cordelia. I only wanted you.” He drove the point of the sword into the flesh, carving out a gouge.

Angel yelped, jerked his head. The crouching dizziness sprang, sending him back, back into darkness.

When he finally came to, Connor was gone, and someone was standing over him, a shadow in the street lamp’s glare.

“I see you’re back,” Wes said. He shifted, and the light caught him, throwing shadows on his face, a noir film come to life.

Through the haze Angel could see his tidy, American-cut suit and open-collared shirt. His glasses were gone and his hair was wind-whipped, as if he’d been outside for much of the night and hadn’t bothered to bring a comb.

Rage, hot and thick as hellfire, surged through Angel’s chest. He rolled, tried to find his feet, and landed on his knees, instead. “You son of a bitch.”

Wes came forward and stood just within striking distance. “That’s no worse than what I’ve called myself in the last few weeks. Believe me.” He didn’t make a move, either toward Angel or away. Instead, he just stood. Watching.

“What are you doing here?” Angel gasped. He struggled to his feet. The earth pitched beneath him and he put a hand on the trunk of the car. The wound in his throat stung and the grassy scent of Connor’s sweat hung lightly in the air.

“My job.”

Angel glared at him. “Back with the Council?”

Wes laughed and the sound was raw and bitter as sea salt. “Hardly.”

They stared at each other, and years of friendship stretched between them and snapped like an overused rubber band.

Wes turned and walked toward the limo parked at the curb.

It took Angel a moment to realize what that meant. Then it hit, and the betrayal cut deeper than any knife. “You traitor.”

He launched himself and the two men tumbled to the ground. Wes fell loosely and Angel pinned him, then got his hands around Wes’s throat. The skin under his fingers was hot and damaged and he could almost hear the bones cracking.

“How could you,” he raged, spittle flying. “You fucking Judas. Hell’s too good for you.” He shook Wes furiously, cracking his head on the pavement. The smell of raw, scraped flesh filled the air, igniting blood lust and fueling his fury.

Wes’s face turned a mottled red. His lips worked, as if he were trying to form words.

Angel leaned on his right knee and bent his elbows, ready to make the move that would sever Wes's head from his body.

Then he saw his eyes. Bright with righteous anger.

It stopped him cold.

He jerked his hands away and rolled off, cursing his redemption and everything it meant. He couldn’t kill Wes. It would be walking through Hell’s gate and locking it behind him.

Wes gulped air greedily, then reached up and massaged his abused throat. “That’s the second time you’ve stopped before the deed was done,” he croaked. “What are you waiting for?”

“You already took my son. I refuse to give you my soul.”

He laughed, a harsh, rasping sound. “If it hadn’t been for me you would already have lost your soul.”

“What are you talking about?” Angel growled. He leaned back against the fender of the car, looking for any support he could find.

Wes sat up slowly. “You were one drink away from unleashing Angelus.”

Angel’s lip drew back over his teeth. “Nothing gave you the right to take him. Not even that.”

“Someone had to do the right thing.” He shuffled slowly to his feet. “God knows, you never will.”

“I hate you.”

Wes turned toward the limo.

Angel gritted his teeth. “Wesley.”

He looked over his shoulder. Rapidly forming bruises left twilight marks on his pale skin. “What?”

“Cordelia.”

Wes’s fist clenched. “You’re the detective.”

“Goddammit, Wes. It’s Cordelia.”

After a moment of taut silence his hand relaxed. “I’ve heard rumors. Black magic. Senior partners. Even Lilah’s kept her mouth shut, which is an impressive feat for her.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Yes, well, it’s not the brightest picture.”

“No, I meant you and Lilah.”

Wes’s lips thinned. “When that becomes your business I’ll let you know.”

Angel stood in the shadows and watched as the man he once considered a brother drove off in the enemy’s car.

Part 8

Angel sat in his reading chair listening to the Nocturnes. Only the bedside lamp was on, casting a warm yellow shadow on the bed and leaving the rest of the room in sepia.

It was still his favorite way to pass the time. Cordy would call it brooding, and he supposed she’d be right. But to his way of thinking he had a lot to brood about.

Fred had nearly killed him when he'd dragged his butt home. Claimed he looked like death on toast, which would have made him laugh if he hadn’t been so busy collapsing into a heap on the lobby floor.

They hustled him upstairs, got some blood into him and poured him in bed. Now he was under house arrest until she decided he was well enough to go back out. The only thing that kept him here was the fact that he was too weak to move and that Gunn and Fred had promised to follow every lead on Cordy.

He didn’t tell them about seeing Wes, though he did mention Connor. Wes was his ace in the hole—an irony that wasn’t lost on him. Too weakened by the confrontations, he couldn’t afford to burn energy on hatred, so he’d become pragmatic.

He’d use Wes’s influence with Lilah and the law firm to beat a path to Cordy’s door, wherever she was. Maybe he’d get lucky and Wes would be killed in the process. He’d get Cordy back; he’d never have to look at Wes again. It’d all be good.

His head fell against the back of the chair. In his hand, the glass of blood felt smooth and a little cool. His body temperature, which had been low since his rescue, was returning to normal. That was a good sign.

He took a sip, grateful that Fred had somehow gotten the blood bank to give up the O pos. Pig’s blood was nearly as good, but if he wanted to regain his strength quickly, human was the only way to go.

He yawned groggily. “Time for bed,” he muttered, realizing he was about to fall asleep in the chair. He set the glass on the table and pushed to his feet.

When he looked up, Skip stood right in front of him. “God!” Angel gasped. He stutter-stepped back and ran into the ottoman.

Skip reached out and steadied him. “Whoa, there.”

Angel glared at him. “Don’t *do* that! Jeez!”

“Sorry. I kinda thought you saw me.” He waved his hand. “This whole dimension-hopping thing…can’t ever seem to get it quite right, ya know?”

Angel crossed his arms over his chest. “Right. And now that the small talk is over, what are you doing here?”

“You’re a man of few words,” Skip said. “I always liked that about you.”

“Oh, boy. Knowing you like me? I can rest easy." He raised his eyebrow. "I have to say, if you’re here for revenge, your timing couldn’t be better.”

Skip looked him over. “So I see. Looking a little peaked there.” He sniffed the air experimentally. “Smells like you got the good blood workin’ for ya, though. That’ll get you back to rights in no time. As for the revenge….” He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Already got it.”

Despite feeling almost transparent with exhaustion, Angel lunged toward him. “What does that mean?”

Skip took him by the arm. “You’re about to drop. Why don’t you sit down? That way I can talk to you without worrying that you’re gonna pass out on me.”

Angel jerked his arm loose and sank down on the ottoman. “Skip, so help me God….”

“Now, now. No need to invoke any deities,” he replied. “I’m just here to deliver a message.”

Angel’s eyebrow arched. “I thought you weren’t a messenger.”

His look turned sour. “Yeah, well, things change.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Angel said.

“You should be. You’re the reason it happened.”

Angel made a come-on motion with his hand. “The message?”

“Don’t go looking for her.”

“What?”

“She’s in a higher place, Angel.”

His worst fears, realized. “She's dead?”

“I didn't say that,” Skip said.

"Then what did you say?"

“Just that. Don't come looking for her.”

Angel’s eyes went flat. “You know I can’t make that promise.”

“Oh, right. I keep forgetting you only work for the Powers when it’s convenient.”

“I work for the Powers unless Cordy’s life is at stake. Then I work for her.”

“Yeah, well, you might wanna rethink that.”

“Why?”

“If I tell you will you promise not to go after her?”

“Skip.”

He laughed. “Hey, man, I’m just messin’ with you," he said, faking a punch at Angel's nose. "Your Seer’s got a major role to play in the higher realms.”

Angel suddenly remembered his conversation with Wes. “How do I know you're working for the Powers?”

Skip's joviality fled. "You trying to piss me off?"

"I've heard rumors. Wolfram & Hart? Hoodoo voodoo? Ringing any bells?"

"Keep going pal. I can kick your butt from one end of this dimension to the other."

“Yeah, well, until I hear different, I'm not promising you a thing. Tell the Powers--or whoever's paying your fee--that I'm going after her. Even if that means storming the gates of heaven."

"What about the rest of the world?"

"What about 'em?"

"Nice sentiment for a Champion.”

“I’m only a Champion if she’s with me. I'm getting her back, Skip.”

“Yeah, well, good luck with that.” He stepped back, started fading. “Oh, hey," he called, almost as an afterthought. "Want me to tell her you said hi?” Then, with a laugh, he melted into shadow and vanished.

***

The blood told him when to move, and it was telling him to move now.

Connor raised his mace high over head, making just enough noise to wake her.

"Steven?" she asked. "What are you doing?"

"You killed my father," he said.

"I...what?" Justine sat up, glancing uneasily at the weapon he held above her. "What? Of course I didn't." She adjusted the neck of her sleep shirt, surprised to see the sun slanting late afternoon rays through the crack in the curtains.

He smiled, eyes arctic blue above his beautiful mouth. "I've seen enough vamp bites, Justine. Do you think I wouldn't put it together? The oddly even holes, the fact that you weren't applying pressure to the wound."

Her eyes widened.

"I see you understand what I'm referring to," he said, eyes glinting.

She scuttled back on the mattress, coming to rest against the wall. "Steven, listen to me," she begged. "He asked me to do it. He said it was the only way.... No!" Her arms flew up to protect her face, but they offered little cover against Steven's rage.

The first impact stunned her and sent her flying out of the bed, where she landed, nose broken, cheekbone crushed, in a heap on the greasy hotel carpet.

***

Angel learned early that a warrior fights best when prepared for anything. Each fight was a song, melody and harmony, point and counter-point, and if you listened hard enough, you could pick it up and it would lead you through.

Once before in recent memory he re-trained his body. Then it had been too many years of soft beds, of living like the human he wasn't. So he returned to those early, hungry days, when fighting was the only way to stay alive.

He recalled the third night after he rose from the grave.

They discovered him and Darla in the barn behind his father's house and chased them with pitchforks into the woods. The biggest men, the sailors and farmers, came after him with ham-sized fists and workingman's boots.

He'd already gotten used to being the strongest and was beginning to hone his skill as a predator. That didn't stop him from hitting the loam ass-first courtesy of a man he'd known since childhood. Who now looked at him with hot-eyed hatred.

Old Shamus taught the young Liam to ride; slipped him bits of carrot to give his horse. The memories made Angelus slow, sluggish and unsure.

He scrabbled for footing on the dewy grass and fell. The smell of night rose up around him—damp, sleeping earth and what he'd yet to identify as the pure scent of moonlight.

It was only when Shamus pulled out a stake that Angelus realized he must get past his human ties and see him for what he was: the enemy, fighting for his life, and willing to fight to the death.

Shamus's arm flew up and back; the point of the stake gained size and heft as it barreled toward him. Angel threw up his arm and the wood went straight through his palm.

The pain ignited a powder keg in him. He roared, ripped the stake loose and grabbed the man by the head. Then he twisted.

There was a horrible crack and the big body crumpled on top of him. He shoved it aside and jumped to his feet. He stood, a walking corpse, over the remains of a person he'd once known and loved.

He looked up at the moon and wondered what was next.

More than 250 years later, he knew what was next. The waiting now wasn't any easier than it had been then. At least when he'd gone after Darla and Dru he'd been able to train. On the other hand, he might now be feeding and napping like a baby, but it gave him the luxury of planning.

He thought again about using Wes to get to Cordy. He could convince him to do it, one way or another—and the "another" was almost tempting enough to go that route.

In the end, he decided to use that as a back-up plan. What he needed was someone who would do as he’d done two-and-a-half centuries ago: give up everything but the fight and a willingness to win.

At all costs.

***

He knew by the way the air shifted that someone had entered the room. And yet he stood, back to the door, watching the last rays of the sun fall below the horizon.

By the scent it was his son. Still, he didn’t move, not until the last second. Then, in one fluid motion, he turned, caught Connor’s raised hand and twisted the stake to the floor.

“You weren’t committed,” Angel said, kicking the sharpened wood away with the toe of his boot.

“I let you take me.”

Angel dropped the boy’s hand and crossed his arms over his chest. “Never make excuses.”

Connor lifted his chin. “You’re right. A man doesn’t make excuses.”

Angel nodded. He sensed that Connor was here for a reason beyond the requisite attempt on his life, and so he waited silently while he worked up the courage to say whatever he’d come to say.

Finally he raised his head. The look on his face was nearly enough to bring Angel to his knees.

“I know you didn’t kill my father,” he said, and despite the ache in his eyes, his voice was full and firm. “I will not apologize for putting you in the ocean. You deserved that for what you did to his first family.”

“I deserved that and more,” Angel admitted. “What I did to Holtz’s family was unforgivable, and I’ve paid in my heart for it thousands of times.” He shrugged. “The thing is, once something’s done, it can’t be undone.”

Connor nodded. “But sometimes other things can be done, as well,” he said cryptically.

It took Angel a minute to get it. When he did, his eyes widened. “You killed her, didn’t you?”

He answered without hesitation. “She was a liar and a murderer.”

“And what are you?”

Connor’s mouth dropped open. “What do you mean?”

Angel stepped around him and walked to the refrigerator, where he took out a packet of blood. “What do you think I mean?” He emptied it into a cup, set it in the microwave, and hit 30 seconds on the timer. Then he turned and faced his son. “You grew up in a hell dimension with a man who hated me and in many ways rightfully so.” The timer dinged and he pulled out the mug and sipped.

Connor’s eyes followed every move. He was testing him deliberately. How far could he go, throwing his vampire nature in Connor’s face?

“He made you a fine man and a good warrior. But he also taught you that any action was worth taking as long as it got you what you wanted.” He drank several swallows of his meal then set the nearly-empty mug down beside him.

“You have no right to talk about my father.” Connor moved, short agitated motions of his hands and feet. Not really pacing, but dancing, a fighter warming up for the next round.

Angel watched his face tighten and he knew he’d pushed too far, too fast. Which meant it was time to push farther. “I need your help.”

“What?” Connor looked caught between outrage and intrigue.

Angel picked the mug up, finished the blood, and rinsed the cup in the sink. “Remember Cordy?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

“She’s missing.”

Connor rolled his eyes. “Duh.”

Despite the tension in the room, Angel laughed. “Where did you hear that?”

Connor giggled. It was a musical, childlike sound, and he looked nearly as surprised by it as he did by Angel’s request. But all he said was, “I get around.”

Angel wondered how often he’d laughed in the harsh world he’d grown up in, and damn it, he couldn’t afford to get side-tracked on how awful Connor’s life had been. He could wallow in his guilt later. After he had Cordy back.

“I need you to help me rescue her.”

Connor’s entire demeanor changed. It was like watching a plant draw water up through its roots. The shifting, flying boy who had stood before him a moment before, squared his shoulders, leveled his eyes and stilled his hands. “Why me?”

He looked at him without judgment. “I need someone who’s willing to win at all costs.”

“You have a team. Use them.”

“This is too dangerous for them. It’s strictly undercover, two men in, two men out. I need someone who can move, who will risk his life, and who I can trust.” He cocked his eyebrow. “I know I can’t trust you with my life, but I’m pretty sure I can trust you with hers.”

Connor crossed his arms over his chest. “She did something to me. She’s not human.”

Angel shook his head. “No. She’s not. This will require you to stretch. To grow. It may require you to let go of some of your prejudices.” He held out his hands. “If you’re not up to it, I understand..”

Connor’s jaw set and his eyes flared.

What a little hothead, Angel thought. He nearly smiled, but knew that he was too close to let pride screw this up.

It was the perfect set-up. If he pulled it off, he'd not only have a seasoned warrior working for him, but he’d also be getting very sweet revenge against Wolfram & Hart. On the other hand, it was a huge damn risk, and one or both of them could die because of it. He wasn't so concerned about himself. But Connor.... “You know,” he said suddenly. “I’m not sure if this is such a good idea, after all.”

Connor huffed. “What, you don’t think I can do it?”

“It’s not that.” He shook his head. “Connor, I don’t want to lie to you about this. Wolfram & Hart may be the ones holding her hostage.”

“W-what?”

Angel nodded. “I know you’ve done some work for them. And on top of everything else--” He waved his hand. “You may be right. Gunn could—and probably should—be the one to help me.”

Connor grunted in frustration. “You can’t do that! You can’t make up my mind for me!” He slapped his chest. “I’m a man. I say what I do and what I don’t, and I say I’m doing this. Wolfram & Hart don’t own me!”

Angel looked unsure. “Connor, look. I don’t want you to get hurt. And Wolfram & Hart could really hurt you.” He was playing the boy and he knew it, but in this matter he was perfectly serious. Connor would be risking his life, not just now, but well into the future if he allied himself with Angel. And there was no way he could fully understand what he was getting into.

“They can’t hurt me,” he growled.

“You’re good at what you do. I wouldn’t be asking you otherwise,” Angel agreed. He waited a beat, as if considering. “Why don’t you take some time, think it over?”

Connor was shaking his head even before Angel even finished speaking. “I don’t need any time. This woman may be your friend, but she needs rescuing. I cannot let a woman go undefended.”

Angel hadn't hunted Holtz for years without learning his soft spots. Obviously he'd passed at least some of them on to the boy. “If you’re sure….”

“I am. Perfectly." He put his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and Angel could practically see the warrior’s wheels start to turn. “Now. What plan have you made so far?”

***

"So we're just gonna kick back and drink a beer while you and Connor do all the work?" Gunn glanced at Lorne and Fred. "That sit right with y'all?"

Fred, already shaking her head, said, "No way. We found you. We can help you find her."

Angel sighed. "Look, you did a great job rescuing me. But this is different. It requires the strongest warriors available."

"Dog. You sayin' I'm not strong?"

Angel shook his head. "No, what I'm saying is that Connor was bred to fight. He's willing to do whatever it takes to make the mission work."

Gunn opened his mouth.

"I'm obviously not explaining this well." Angel folded his hands on the table. "I need you guys to hold down the fort." Angel turned to Fred. "You and Lorne research. Use his contacts to dig up whatever you can on where she might be. Narrow the field."

"When's this heist going down, Mr. Ocean?" Lorne asked.

"The sooner the better."

"Guess that means you've still got some recuperating to do." Lorne raised his eyebrow. "Not that you're looking at all bad, Angelcakes."

Angel shook his head. "Right. Fred, Skip said something about higher planes. Find out what that means. Lorne, Wes said he heard something about the Senior Partners and black magic. Gunn, you'll be trolling the bars with me. We'll tap the underground, find out the scuttlebutt. You don't lose a Seer without people hearing something."

Gunn's eyes glinted. "I get to crack some skulls?"

"If you think it'll help."

"I might need some more ego-stroking before it's done, but that was a pretty good start."

"Thanks."

"Too bad Merle's dead," Gunn said.

"Little weasel."

"Angel!" Fred gasped. "That's not nice."

"Hey, just because I wasn't friends with him doesn't mean I didn't appreciate his help. Besides, he was fun to pick on."

Gunn laughed. Fred glared. "What?" he said. "He's right." He shoved away from the table. "If this meeting is adjourned, I think I'll start my recon now."

Angel stood. "No time like the present. Thanks, guys."

"You weren't really clear on your timeline back there," Fred said. "It'd help me to know what to shoot for."

"Two days."

Fred squeaked. "That's all? That's not enough--"

"That's all you get."

"Good," Lorne said. He went to the phone. "The sooner we find her the better.

Part 9

Fred propped her head in her hand and sighed. “We’re never gonna find her.” She sat in the floor surrounded by open books and trade journals.

“Sure we will, chickadee.” Lorne snagged a donut from the box on the counter and took a bite. “’S juss gonna take more time than we espected,” he said around a mouthful of pastry.

Gunn strolled into the lobby. “Any luck?” He leaned his hubcap axe carefully against the round couch.

Fred shook her head. “Nuh uh. You?”

He crossed to the reception desk and helped her to her feet. “Nope. Nada. Nothing. Goose Egg.”

“Thanks for drawing us such a clear picture,” Lorne said. He popped the last bite of the donut into his mouth and delicately brushed the crumbs off his melon-colored shirt.

“Hey, where’s Angel?” Fred asked.

Gunn’s brow wrinkled. “He’s not back yet?”

“Nope,” Fred replied. “I thought he was with you.”

“We split up to cover more ground about midnight.” He pulled out his cell phone. “I’m gonna call him, make sure he’s okay.”

“Yeah, we need him here.” She glanced at Lorne, who was propped against Cordy’s desk shooting her a look. “You did happen to notice the sun’s already up, right?” She pointed to the front door.

It opened almost on cue to reveal a dark figure haloed by sunlight.

“Still helping the helpless, I see.”

The pen in Fred’s hand fell to the floor with a clatter. “Cordelia?” she squeaked.

She stepped out of the light and into the hotel. “In the flesh.”

Fred ran across the lobby, Gunn and Lorne on her heels. “Oh, my God! We’ve been looking ev….” She skidded to a halt. Like Larry and Curly, the other two ran right into her back.

“What?” Cor asked, glancing down at her sleeveless white tunic and leggings.

Fred’s mouth opened and closed. Over her shoulder, the guys stared wide-eyed.

“Damn, girl,” Gunn sputtered. “What happened to your hair?”

Cor ran her left hand through strands that had gone pure white. It was shaved nearly to her skull, except on top, where it stuck up in 2-inch spikes. “Oh, it’s easier to take care of this way.” She shrugged and her hand dropped to her side where a long, curved sword hung, blade up, in a black lacquered scabbard.

Fred reached out with trembling fingers and brushed Cor’s bicep. “What’s that?” she breathed.

She glanced down at her upper arm, encircled by an intricately braided twist of silver. “Oh, that’s my medal from when I helped close a Hellmouth outside of Chicago a couple of years ago.” She rolled her eyes. “I’d take it off, but the Powers sort of made it permanent. At least it’s pretty. You shoulda seen the ones they gave the guys.”

She grinned up at them, and when the familiar Cordy-smile flashed, the energy in the room changed. Suddenly she was their girl again, returned home after a long, unexpected voyage. They dove at her in a messy pile-on and a babble of voices rang through the lobby.

The basement door slammed. “What’s going on?”

They turned toward his voice. “Angel! It’s Cordy! She’s back!” Fred bounced on the toes of her feet. “And she’s…different!”

Angel stopped so fast the hem of his black duster flared around his calves. “Cordy?” His face took on a fragile, hopeful look.

She stepped out of Lorne’s embrace and for the first time Fred noticed the tiny lines that fanned out from her eyes and the long, pale scar slashing her cheekbone.

She moved with the coiled power of a warrior or an empress, and her body, always beautiful, was lithe and sculpted. “Just Cor, now,” she said. “How are you, Angel?” Her smile, so easy before, seemed overly bright.

He stood staring. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

The smile died. “I know. I’m sorry. I…it’s been….” She looked away.

Angel walked slowly across the lobby and the other three backed away, leaving a clear path between the two of them.

“Cordy?”

She looked up, blinking rapidly, and one silver tear tracked down her tanned skin. “Just Cor,” she repeated.

He lifted a trembling hand and ran his finger down the scar, drying the tear.

She shuddered but she held his gaze. “How long have I been gone in your world?” she asked huskily.

“Almost a month.”

Her laughter rang through the grand room, the least happy sound Fred could remember hearing since Angel came out of that box. “A month?” She fingered the handle of her sword and glanced around the lobby. “Well, that’d be about right, I suppose. I needed to get here early to stop it.”

Angel was looking at Cordy with such stark need that Fred felt her chest tighten. She caught Gunn’s eye and nodded toward the office. “Let’s go,” she mouthed. He reached over and tugged Lorne’s sleeve.

“Shh,” Lorne said, eyes locked on the couple in front of him. Gunn tugged again and Lorne glanced over in exasperation. “Stop it. I’m getting the wildest vibe here.”

Gunn motioned toward Angel and Cor, who were standing perfectly still, staring at each other. “Let’s give them a little privacy,” he whispered.

“But….”

Gunn jerked his arm again.

“All right, all right. But watch the shirt. It’s silk.”

They faded out of the lobby.

“Stop what?” Angel asked once the room was quiet.

She fidgeted. “Stop staring, for one thing. You’re freaking me out.”

His mouth fell open. “Stop staring?” He shook his head. “We’ve been looking for you for a month, Cor, and suddenly you appear looking like…like--” He waved his hand. "-- and you want me not to stare?”

She closed her eyes. “Right, sorry. It’s just….” She caught herself yearning and cut it off. She couldn’t afford to let him make her feel this way. “I’ve been gone more than ten years, Angel.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Long story.”

He pressed closer. “Shorten it for me.”

He was bigger than she remembered and he radiated an eternal power that called to mind the holy mountain she’d lived on in Japan. Her body tightened. “Remember Skip?”

“Sure.”

She stepped around him and wandered restlessly through the room. “After you released Billy for me, Skip got fired from his job.” Under her fingers, the blue velvet of the round couch was a memory come to life. “Wolfram & Hart pulled some strings, got him reinstated.”

Angel’s eyes narrowed. “He still working for them?”

The agitation melted away to a warm glow and she nearly laughed. He’d always been her champion. “Wolfram & Hart? God, no,” she said with a wave of her hand. “No, the Powers bought out his contract with good old W&H ages ago. But before they did I was one of his projects. You know, the ever-popular kidnap-the-Seer game?”

He jolted. “What?”

“Yeah, the night you got dunked by Connor.”

“You knew about that?”

She did laugh now, a sound like rusted metal. “Oh, please. I’m a Seer. I know everything.” She glided over to the reception desk, fingered one of the business cards. “The Powers got me out pretty fast, but once they had me, they didn’t want to let me go either.” She picked the card up, drew the tip of her finger across her name then set the card carefully in the holder again. “I spent the first few years training,” she said, turning to him.

He blinked, obviously surprised, by her words or her sudden move, she couldn't tell.

“You laid a good foundation.” She smiled. “They just built on what you started.”

“I’m, um, not sure what to say. I…how old are you?” He squinted at her in that befuddled way she’d always found so endearing.

“Even where I’m from now, which is basically nowhere, it’s rude to ask a woman her age.”

He shuffled his feet. “Sorry. I just—“

“Thirty-three.” She snorted, amused by him. “I’m thirty-three, Angel.”

“White hair aside, you don’t look it,” he said, shaking his head.

She laughed. “Hey, thanks. Considering all I’ve been through, I’ll take that as a compliment.” She leaned over the reception desk and glanced into the open rooms beyond. “Where’d the rest of your crew go?”

He shrugged. “Dunno.” He glanced at the door to his office. “Probably in the office eavesdropping, why?”

She turned around and leveled her gaze on him. “I don’t want them to hear this.”

He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Hear what?”

Her dark eyes went blank. “I’m sorry, Angel,” she said quietly. “I’m here to kill Connor.”

A line appeared between his eyes. “What?” Under her silent gaze, he stumbled back. “No.” His hands came up in front of him in what she knew was an instinctive move to protect his heart.

She, who had learned to face the toughest foe and win, was knocked off center.

“Why come here, then?” He looked wildly around the room. “Why not just go do it?” His gaze honed in on the weapons cabinet.

“Don’t bother.” Her palm landed on the worn handle of her sword. “I could dust you before you took a step.” She stepped toward him, took her hand off the sword and held it out in supplication. “Look, Angel, I’m not even supposed to be here. I just thought you should know.”

“What do you want me to say? Thanks? Dammit, Cor, I’m just getting through to him. You can’t--” He slapped her hand out of the way and stalked toward the door.

“You’re not getting anywhere with him, Angel,” she interrupted. “I know you want to believe that, but Connor’s path was chosen before he was born.”

He was shaking his head. “No. No one’s path is chosen fully.” He spun toward her. “He still has choices to make, paths to take. You don’t know—“

“Forget who you’re talking to?” she asked pointing toward her eyes. “Look, if you think this is fun for me—“

“I don’t know what to think!” He headed straight for her. “You come to my home, wearing a warrior’s medal and a katana—“ He flipped the sword. “You tell me you’ve been gone ten years. And that you’re here to kill my son, the child you—“ He ran his hands through his hair, spiking his already spiky ‘do. “Jesus, Cor, the child you *mothered.*”

He towered over her, a black-clad avenger with eyes like open wounds.

A howl rose up in her chest and God, she wanted to let it out. Instead she clenched her teeth and forced the energy to stay in until it boiled in her, water in a lidded pot. “I’m a warrior for the Powers, Angel, just like you,” she bit out. “We’re fighting for the same thing here.” She ran her hands across her head in frustration, mirroring his earlier move, and standing her own hair at attention. “I thought I was doing you a favor!”

“By telling me you’re gonna kill my kid? Hey, thanks!” He advanced on her. “Well here’s a favor in return.” His eyes were cold and level as an iced-over lake. “If you touch him, I’ll kill you.”

It took everything she had not to let the fire raging in her chest burn him to a crisp. “You really don’t want to test that theory.”

“Get out.”

“Gladly.” She whirled, and the katana made a graceful arc around her. “You won’t stop me,” she said over her shoulder. “I never lose.”

“You’ve never fought me before.”

She stopped mid-stride and turned, slow and measured, until she was facing him. Then she raised her hands and pressed them together in front of her heart. She bowed solemnly. “I look forward to it.”

The smile was only a quirk of lips, but the scar pulled her face into a death-mask’s grin.

Then she was out the door and into the harsh sunlight where Angel couldn’t follow.

***

The phone on Wesley's desk buzzed. "Mr. Pryce?"

He punched the intercom button. "Yes?"

"You have a phone call on line two. The caller wouldn't tell me his name, but he says it's regarding Steven Holtz."

Wes put down his pen and stared at the blinking light.

"Mr. Pryce?"

"Yes. Yes, I'll take it." His brow furrowed as he picked up the receiver. "This is Wesley Wyndam-Pryce."

"Don't hang up."

His hand hovered over the disconnect button. "Why not?"

"Because I need you to take Connor to a safe place. Now."

Wes laughed. "That's rich, coming from you."

"Believe me, I'm aware of the irony. I don't have time to explain. Just get him out of here."

"For how long?"

"I don't know a day, maybe two. Just long enough for me to track her down and kill her."

Wes leaned over his desk. "Kill who?"

"Cordelia."

"What?"

"I told you, it's a long story. Just get him out of here. Then call my phone and let me know where."

Wes shook his head. "Ang--"

The dead line buzzed in his ear. He dialed Angel's number from memory.

"What."

It sounded as if Angel were under water. Or underground. "No," Wes said calmly. "You can't just call and order me around. I no longer work for you. And you saw to it that we're no longer friends. Find someone else to help you." The phone clattered in the cradle.

He hit the intercom button. "Patricia, I'm leaving for lunch. I'll have my cell phone if you need me." He grabbed his jacket and walked out the back door.

Angel met him in the stairwell. "I knew you wouldn't do it without some convincing." He smiled with anticipation.

"Vampire detectors," Wes said, standing his ground. "Guards'll be here in less than a minute."

Angel shrugged. "Not since I made Linwood Connor's godfather." He buffed his nails on his untucked black shirt. "So, what do you say we go a few rounds? You can whine about how you don't work for me and then I can rip your head off."

Wes made it halfway to his office before Angel caught him. "Oh, good," he said. "I need to work up an appetite."

"Stop it," Wes said. He gasped, knowing his heart sped more from terror than exertion. "You don't scare me."

Angel vamped. "Oh, please. You're shitting your pants."

Wes ran a finger under his collar. "Fine. You're the big scary vamp. Kill me if you're going to. I'm tired of the threats."

"If I didn't need you, I'd take you up on that. I still may." He grabbed Wes's arm and hauled him the rest of the way into his office. Wes stumbled and fell into his chair.

Angel rolled him backward into the desk then slapped his hands down on the arms of the chair. "Now," he said, and his razor-sharp fangs glimmered, bone-white. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

Wes shifted so he could look Angel in the eye. "What's the easy way?"

"You do what I say. I don't kill you. Yet."

"And the hard way?"

"Same thing, only I get to torture you first." He smiled. "I'm really hoping you'll say 'hard way.'"

Wes took a deep breath. "Instead of playing Angelus, why don't you just tell me what happened?"

Angel's eyes narrowed. "I'll give you the Cliff's Notes. Cordy came back. She's a warrior for the Powers. She's going to kill Connor because he's the Destroyer."

Wes's eyes widened. "How does she--"

"Know? Besides the fact that she's a Seer, she's been living in an alternate dimension. Our month has been ten years for her." He stepped back from the chair and prowled from desk to bookcase.

Wes froze. It was true, then. Connor chose the path of darkness and pulled the rest of the world down with him.

Unless he could be stopped. If Angel spoke the truth, then Cordelia was now Wes’s strongest ally. "Let me find her."

"Why, so you can talk her to death?"

He shook his head. "Steven's your son. You take him. Let me handle Cordelia."

Angel stared at him. "Why the sudden change of heart, Wes?" His eyes narrowed. "Are you two in on something?" He materialized in front of the chair. "You planned this." He hulked over him, eyes firing vamp-gold.

Wes shook his head. "No, I didn't know anything about it. I admit, I've been watching out for Connor. But I didn't know-- I mean, I suspected--"

"That he was the Destroyer? Oh, isn't this convenient? The little Watcher joins forces with the Big Bad. Did you hope to use their resources to stop him when he turned?"

When Wes flinched, he laughed. "I was hoping to kill you myself, but now it looks like I don't have to." He glanced around the room. "Oh, hey, aren't these offices bugged? Guess what, guys, our little Wesey-boy's got a plan. He's gonna kill your pet project!" He jerked Wes away from the desk and spun him in his chair. "Tell ya what, Wes, you put those Wolfram & Hart resources to use to save my boy, and I'll see if I can get you spared from the White Room or wherever they put traitors these days."

Wes, pale and shaken, stared up at Angel. "You let him survive and he'll destroy the world."

Angel's lips were cool against his ear. "You seem to have forgotten the part where I don't care." He stood, hands on his hips. "We got an agreement? You get Connor out while I find Cordy. After that, we'll talk." He smiled. "If they don't kill you first, of course."

"I can't make any promises. I've only been here--"

"Put that British charm to good use." He walked to the door, his duster flaring around him. "Make sure you call me when you've got a location."

Wes swallowed. "What about Cordy?"

Angel held the door open with his hand. He looked over his shoulder. "After what happened with you she should know not to mess with my kid." The door slammed shut behind him.

Wes stared at the door.

"Mr. Pryce?"

"Yes, Patricia." He cleared his throat to stop the trembling.

"You're back already?"

"Yes, Patricia. And, ah, could you please get Ms. Morgan on the line?"

"Of course, sir."

He laughed, a harsh, rasping sound. “Ironic, isn’t it?" he whispered. "I try my damnedest to do the right thing and I screw it up. I do the wrong thing, and I succeed.”

He turned the chair until he could see himself in the mirror over the credenza. His first instinct was to look away, but something kept him there.

The haircut and the suit were new. The face the same as always. But it was the eyes that held him.

Oh, God, he thought, as the trembling intensified.

They were his father's.

He clenched the arms of the chair. They felt real and solid in his hand, but it only made him acutely aware that real and solid, flesh and bone, those things were a lie. One slice of a knife or one leap through a portal, and life as you knew it disappeared.

He closed his eyes but still the images came, of his father, hand raised to hit him; of his own face in the mirror, lip split and eye blackened; of his mother, cowering while her son was beaten.

How was Connor any different than he had been?

You can help him, a voice said.

His eyes popped open. How in the hell could he help anyone, trapped in the quagmire like he was?

And then, as he gazed into his own reflection, it hit him. Like Saul on the road to Damascus, he nearly fell to his knees.

He and Angel traveled parallel paths. One, the good man gone bad for the right reasons; the other, the bad man gone good for the wrong ones. They met somewhere in the middle, their common denominator atonement.

Redemption.

What if the Powers never meant for him to kill Connor? What if they meant for him to save him?

"Mr. Pryce?"

He turned slowly toward the phone. "Yes."

"I have Ms. Morgan for you."

"Thank you, Patricia. Please put her through."

Part 10

She peered at the small cabin that perched on the edge of the woods. Wes had chosen well. Only two hours from LA, it rested in the foothills of the Sierras. One road in—which meant only one way out—and four guards already stationed at points on the perimeter.

The silver Ducati the Powers loaned her stood hidden next to the road about a mile away. If she needed it, she could get there in six minutes at a full run, assuming she wasn’t injured.

And she didn’t plan on getting injured.

Movement at the cabin. She raised the field glasses, grateful that the trees shaded her from the sun. The last thing she needed was a glint giving up her location.

The first of the limos parked and Wes stepped out. He wore a trim navy suit that fit too well to be off-the rack. He'd always had expensive taste and it looked as if he finally had the income to indulge it.

Otherwise he looked exactly as she remembered: thin and elegant and bookish.

She was hammered by the memories of high school crushes and mellowing friendships and betrayal. It wasn't the sun's glare on the windshield that made her eyes water, but it was all she'd admit to.

She blinked the tears away and turned her focus to the target.

He’d grown in the last month, was all she could think as he disembarked. They’d cuffed his hands—probably because he refused to go otherwise. Then he turned to face her and her heart rolled in her chest.

God, he had the look of his father, tall and panther-ish. She shook her head. Don’t go there. He’s not Connor, he’s not Angel. He’s the Destroyer.

And you’re here to destroy him.

She glanced at her watch. Four-thirty. She couldn’t take him in broad daylight but she had to do it before Angel got there. Sunset was at 9:24.

No coincidence, she supposed, that this was going down on the longest day of the year.

God knew it felt like the longest day of her life.

The limos emptied out and all but one drove off, leaving behind six more guards. Three followed Wes and Connor into the house. Three stayed outside.

As they took up their positions, she counted carefully. Seven guards outside, three inside, plus Wes. Eleven men between her and the target.

Eleven to one—just the kind of odds she liked. The death-mask smile creased her face.

Until she thought of Angel. Then the smile disappeared

He hadn't changed in the ten years she'd been gone. The mission came second to family. His threat hadn't been idle; he'd kill her if he could. And if he couldn't he'd die trying.

No matter what she said earlier, she didn’t want to fight Angel. And if--when--she got past him, she still had to face the target. He was young in this dimension, untested. But he'd already earned the name.

She could get through eleven men easily. She could get past Angel with a bit more work. It was the target who worried her.

He was bred to fight. She had been trained to fight. The difference was subtle, but it was there. And more, she knew him. She'd never killed anyone she knew before.

It was a test of the highest order. One she knew she had to pass or forfeit her life.

The water in the canteen was warm and metallic. She swished and spat quietly, then took a sip.

And waited.

***

“Can’t you drive any faster?” Angel barked from his position under the tarp.

“I’m doin’ ninety already,” Gunn said. “Last thing we need is a ticket.”

Angel grunted.

“We’ll get there. In the meantime, make yourself useful and navigate.” He pitched Wes’s directions over his shoulder.

***

The guards found their positions. The sniper on the roof lay on his belly and peered through his rifle’s sight. She held her breath as his gaze passed over her. She was so highly sensitized that when something rustled at the base of the tree she glanced down, just a quick cant of her eyes.

It was a squirrel. She felt him sense and tense, heard him run. And then something flashed in the distance, pulling her up and out.

It was the third guard’s field glasses. Idiots.

Or they wanted her to know they were there.

***

“Next turn,” Angel said. “Go left.” He glanced at his watch. “They should be there by now.”

“And so should she.”

His mouth thinned. “Don’t remind me.”

“You didn’t really think you could catch her, did you? Kinda hard to hunt someone in broad daylight.”

Angel went silent.

“Look, I know you’re worried—“

He jerked the blanket off and sat up, ignoring the sun slapping the back of his neck. “Right,” he spat, catching Gunn’s eye in the rearview. “That’s exactly the term I’d use, too. Worried.”

The air grew ripe with the smell of cooking flesh. “Someone in my family is gonna die tonight, Gunn. And you think I’m *worried*?” He jerked the blanket back over his head and rolled down in the seat.

Gunn shut his mouth and drove.

***

They hit the main road to the cabin half an hour before sunset. Angel sat up and dumped the blanket in the floor. “How close are we?”

“You had the map last,” Gunn said curtly.

It wasn’t in the seat next to him. He patted his pockets, came up empty, then kicked the blanket aside. The map was a white wad in the mothball-smelling wool. He reached for it, and when he did something caught his eye.

“Stop the car.”

Gunn hit the brakes and went for his weapon. “What is it?”

“Wait here.” He opened the car door slowly, let his senses take over. He could smell her, faint on the breeze.

The sun’s last rays rendered the air a shocking gold. It burned his retinas clean through. “Give me your sunglasses.”

Gunn whipped them off and handed them over the seat.

“Wait here.” He slipped the glasses on and got out of the car. In three quick, nearly smoke-free steps, he was in the woods. In five more he stood next to her bike.

He ran his hand over the seat, and against his cool palm the leather was warm flesh. If he closed his eyes he could almost feel her thighs clenched around the vibrating machine. His hand fisted. Thoughts like that would keep him from doing his job.

He reached down and stripped the ignition wires. If she made it back here alive, she wouldn’t be leaving. Not by this route, anyway. He put the wires in his pocket and stood, listening to the woods’ near silence.

And waited for the sun to drop.

***

At 9:22 she slithered out of the tree. Her legs prickled with the haze of pumping blood and she gave up a precious thirty seconds while the feeling to returned to her feet.

A tingle crossed her neck and shoulders. She turned, certain she'd heard something in the forest behind.

He was here. She could feel him.

Angel could track her by scent and his night vision was far better than hers. It put her at a distinct disadvantage.

The sun slid down the sky, a liquid jewel.

She kept to the trees, slipping around the gnarled, ancient live oaks, a shadow in woods that were succumbing to night.

The first guard had his back to her. She leapt silently, took him down too quickly for a struggle. In her hands his head was large and heavy. She twisted, and in one, violent surge, he was dead.

She stood, looked down at the body. Let the image of his red-haired wife, his dimpled, blue-eyed baby boy, wash over her. The Powers gave her these visions, sometimes before she killed, sometimes after, so she’d know that her actions had consequences.

Even the actions she took for them.

For one, reverent moment she stood, breathing in the still, scented air.

Then she stepped out of the woods, and left the body behind.

***

Angel went in on foot. He was fifty yards from the cabin when he found the first body.

The guard lay in a heap, head twisted at the wrong angle. She was as efficient and deadly as she looked, then.

A movement caught his eye. Something on the roof. He went still, let his demon track it. A flash, then a grunt. A body slid silently down the shingles and landed on the ground with a dull thud.

Angel ran.

Death. He could smell it on the air.

He followed her scent through the fear. Clean as moonlight, just like he remembered. It led him to the cabin door.

Through the three small windows high in the door he could see Wes hunched over his cell phone. Connor wasn’t with him. Angel edged across the porch and stepped down onto the grass.

A hand grabbed his shirt and yanked. He went tumbling and came up face to face with Gunn.

He jerked his fist back at the last second, barely missing Gunn's nose. “I told you to stay in the car,” he hissed.

Gunn drew his finger across his throat. “She got ‘em all.” In his tight whisper was a glimmer of respect.

Angel glared. The light from the window cut a swath across his shoe and reminded him how visible they were. “Get out of here.”

“No way.” Gunn adjusted his grip on his axe. “I’m not letting you do this alone.”

“Boys, are you gonna spend the night talking, or are you gonna turn around so I can kick your butts?”

It was her voice, but so different. Focused. Electric. She stood just outside the light. He could barely see her in the black ops clothes and painted face. But he felt her like a tazer’s stun.

Next to him Gunn tensed. “Barbie,” he said quietly.

“Gunn, go back to the car. Now,” Angel said in a deadly voice.

“Like hell.” He raised his axe. Before he got to the top of the arc, she leapt. The axe fell to the ground with a soft thud. Gunn followed.

“Don’t worry,” she said, less than a foot from Angel’s ear. “I didn’t kill him.” She smiled that wicked smile.

Then, on the night wind, she vanished.

He heard a sound and looked up. Saw her foot disappearing over the edge of the roof.

He followed.

***

The tar shingles smelled of creosote and clung stickily to her feet. She used that to her advantage, climbing nimbly and cresting the summit.

She let gravity take her--falling, rolling--and grabbed the gutter on her way over the edge. Her fingers looped, slipped, held.

She bounced once and the tendons in her shoulder stretched with a sharp pang. Then she hung, one-handed, while she waited for Angel to figure out where she was.

There. He’d gotten to the top. He was more than half cat, but he was also a good fifty pounds heavier and there was no way he could disguise his presence.

Sure enough she heard Wes’s voice at the window. “Steven, get into the bedroom! Someone’s on the roof!”

Perfect. Now she knew where he was. She let go, fell a story, and landed in a somersault. Rolled up, ran two steps to the porch. Kicked in the door.

Over its ricochet she heard three things, clear as day: Angel hitting earth, Wesley’s intake of breath, and the target’s delighted laugh.

She drew the sword and its razor-sharp edges sang.

Wes stared, open-mouthed, phone hanging limply at his side. The target was not in sight.

The air behind her shifted. She ducked and came up swinging. The katana caught Angel on the upper arm and the smell of blood hit the air with a metallic tang.

His nostrils flared. "First blood," he growled. Then he drew his favorite broadsword.

“Back off, Angel,” she warned, holding her stance.

"Wes, get him out of here," Angel called. He grabbed the hilt with both hands and swung right at her head.

Cor dodged him easily and, sword flashing, cut his shirt to ribbons.

Down the hall a door slammed and locked. Then glass shattered.

They were going out the window. Dammit, if they got to the car....

She took her eyes off Angel just long enough to gauge the distance to the bedroom door. When she looked again he was coming at her like a line backer.

Instinct had her ducking, blending into the wall, and his bulk went flying. He skidded across the planked floor on his belly.

She tore down the hall and let momentum take her through. The reverberation of flesh against wood sang through her, rattling her teeth and sending an aria of pain through her already stressed shoulder. The door splintered and swung open, leaving her staring at an empty room.

The window was a jagged hole on the other side. She hurtled the bed and propelled herself through. Glass caught her hand and the spike of pain brought the hot, hazy night into sharp relief.

Her feet hit the ground just in time to get tangled in the sniper’s body. She went down hard. Heard someone grunt--realized it wasn't her, but the sniper. Surprised, she glanced at him, at the scatter-shot rise and fall of his chest. Dammit. He was supposed to be dead.

A sound pulled her attention up. It was the target, resisting Wesley's instructions. She heard Wesley's voice, low and angry. Saw the target jerk away, his white t-shirt flashing in the light from the full Solstice moon. The intense look he leveled at Wes was Angel at his most stubborn.

Her thoughts scattered, marbles on a tile floor.

Tick tock, Cor. Where's your focus?

The pounding throb of blood in her sliced palm ripped her back to reality.

She shoved to her feet and ran.

They were in the car by the time she got there. Wes fumbled the keys in the ignition.

"Get out, Wes," she said calmly. "I don't want to hurt you."

The engine fired and he grabbed the door handle and tried to yank it closed. She blocked it with her hip, reached through the open door and jerked him out. Then she raised the sword and brought the handle down hard on his temple.

“Doesn't mean I won't.”

He crumpled into a messy pile next to the car.

The target sat in the back seat staring at her, his hungry, panther’s eyes glinting. She knew then—with a stunning, mind-expanding flash—that he'd duped them.

His resistance was an act. He agreed to come to the safe house because he hungered to face her alone.

It threw her off just long enough for Angel’s tackle to send her sprawling. She came up with a mouthful of grass. Spat. "Dammit."

"Don't do this, Cor," he said, raising his sword. He stood, an avenging angel, broad-shouldered and dark-eyed.

And in that moment the past caught up with her.

She rolled out of the way of the whizzing blade and sprang to her feet.

"When did you lose the mission, Angel?" She parried, missing his face by a scant inch.

"When did you lose your heart, Cordelia?" He lunged, and the tip of the sword skated past the curve of her waist.

A car door rattled. "Angelus, uncuff me," the target ordered.

In the driver's side mirror, she saw his jean-clad hips, his hands braceleted in silver cuffs.

"Get back in the car, Connor," Angel said, cutting his eyes to his son.

It was all she needed. The spin kick sent him flying across the turf ass-first.

Then she was face to face with the target. He was cuffed--it was hardly fair. But she raised her sword anyway.

He smiled and the glint in his eyes was fevered, pulsing. Then his eyes shifted to something behind her.

A hand twice her size slapped her arm down, sent the sword flying. She turned on Angel in bare-fisted fury and rammed her hand into his jaw.

He shook it off and hit her back.

He hadn't been kidding when he said he held back in training. It was like meeting a speeding car.

It spun her so fast she hit the ground face-first. He fell on top of her and the air left her lungs with a balloon-like pop.

He thrust his hips against her ass and she lay, stunned by the pure charge of sexual energy, until she realized he was digging something out of his pocket. Over her gasps she heard jingling keys.

"Get out of the cuffs and run!" Angel yelled.

She rocked and rolled but couldn’t get him off. Her sword lay at her fingertips--if she could just reach it....

"Stop," he ordered. "He's gone."

She struggled, looking for ways to dislodge him. The target—she had to find the target.

His big hand pinned the back of her neck and shoved her face into the grass.

"Cor," he said, riding her bucking body. His voice was harsh and pleading and it ripped through her, a mortar shell through her heart.

She went limp.

He let go.

She smiled. Up and up she came, energy surging through her in a tidal wave.

He flew hard and fast—hit the side of the car with a spine-cracking crash. He struggled to his feet.

And beside him, the target stood, holding her sword.

"Nice blade," he said, swinging it at her head.

Part 11

When Gunn came to the first thing he noticed was that there were two moons. Big, round and shiny as new quarters.

Then he blinked and the two became one. That was when he noticed the dull, pounding headache.

Someone must have cracked his skull—again.

“Nice blade.”

He unfurled slowly and turned toward the voice. Three figures in a stand-off next to the car, two in black, one in white—so fuzzy it could have been a dream. Beneath his cheek the grass was cool and fragrant. His eyes slipped closed, too heavy to hold open.

“Thanks.”

Cordy. He jerked awake gasping. Oh, God. She was here to kill Connor and-- She was the one who conked him. He touched his temple gingerly and the pain crashed into his skull, a sprinter slamming a hurdle.

Girl was good, he thought, as he wiped his bloody fingers on the grass. But he was better.

He struggled and planted his knees, only to be overtaken by the spins. “Shit,” he moaned.

That’s when he heard Angel. “Don’t do this, Cordelia.”

In his wavering sight it looked as if Angel was pleading, one hand outstretched, a human barrier between Cordy and Connor. Even from here Gunn could see the determination on his face.

Which only fueled his own. He had to get over there to help.

But then his stomach clenched and sent a wave of clammy nausea spiraling through his gut. He closed his eyes and spat metal-water into the dirt.

Someone shouted, “No!” and the sound echoed so loudly that fireworks went off behind his eyelids.

When he opened them again the figures had changed position. Now Cordelia, hard to see except for the flash of white hair under the moon, stood over Connor, a new blade in hand. Her arm flew up and started in its downward slash.

He saw it then, a hunter’s knife, ferociously curved and serrated on the tip. He grimaced, imagining the rip-and-suck of those teeth meeting flesh. Gonna be nasty--

Before Gunn could move, Angel’s roundhouse swing brought the flat of his sword across Cordy’s shoulders like a paddle.

The momentum carried her into a body slam with Connor, and they went down in a tangle of limbs. They came up fighting, katana to hunter’s blade, steel flashing in the short, bright night.

**

Angel stumbled back, back, avoiding the flashing blades. "Connor! Cordy! No!"

Connor had reach and speed and the longer blade but Cordy fought with heart and guts. In her twirling, dancing style he saw remnants of the girl he'd known--the cheerleader, the Homecoming Queen. Proud, athletic, graceful.

He barreled in, sent them spinning in opposite directions. Then she whipped, turned and they were face to face.

"Back off," she spat. Her eyes glowed gold.

"No way." He ducked his head and lunged, plowed the crown of his skull into her shoulder. She went down so hard he heard her teeth rattle.

Connor, where was Connor? He turned, saw his son watching them with narrowed eyes.

"You gonna kill her for me, Angelus?" The look on his face wasn't spite, but it was close.

"If I have to."

"Better turn around then. She's getting up."

The serrated blade ran through the outside of his thigh. He screamed, looked down to see the tip of the blade, black with his blood. Then it was gone, and the sucking wound it left behind felt like a bath in holy water.

She rounded him. "I will kill him," she said through gritted teeth.

"You have to kill me first," he spat. The pain ratcheted through him, red and hot.

"Gladly," she said, rising over him, feet inches off the ground. She slashed the hunting knife at his throat.

His arm flashed up, met her wrist, and the knife went flying. She grunted. He drew the sword back, prepared to bury it in her skull.

She spun, leg flying, and knocked it out of his hand. He watched it go, watched it bounce, watched it land in the grass next to the car.

She beat him to it. Next he saw her she was standing on the hood of the limo, swinging the broadsword in great arcs over her head. Then she leapt and planted her feet against his chest.

He went down like a felled tree.

***

She could feel him in the sword. You didn't make a sword your favorite without leaving something of yourself in the metal. And this one felt like him, hard and sturdy; big and graceful.

Beneath her feet he lay perfectly still. Her toes met his collarbone where the point of the sword now rested.

To be killed with your own sword was either the greatest compliment or the greatest insult. She intended to make it a compliment.

His eyes were glittering, black. "You gonna do it?" His brows settled low over his eyes, his mouth went straight and flat.

Her racing heart stuttered.

She knew that look. Unstoppable. Proud. It was the battle standard that drove her through the hard, lonely, transcendent years.

Before the Zen masters and the weapons experts and the battle tests was Angel. He taught her more than the basics of self-defense. He encouraged her, believed in her, laid the foundation for the life she now lived. In her weakest moments—and her strongest—she drank from his well.

To kill him now would dishonor the gift.

But she had to stop him. So she did the only thing left. She drew on the light.

It flew through her feet, went through him, a knife through his soul. He screamed, loud and long, and his eyes went from black to fiery gold.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, because she knew that this would be worse for a demon than any blade.

But she also knew he'd walk away from it. Eventually.

He fell limp beneath her, and the telltale signs of a purge marked his face. Vacant, staring eyes; open mouth. The demon in him convulsed, knocking her loose, and she stumbled aside.

The she was left, sword in hand, to face the one thing she'd hoped to avoid.

He leaned against the car, eyes wide, katana resting loosely at his side. "Wow," he said. "Is that what you did to me?"

She nodded. "I don't use it often. It's too powerful for most people to survive."

His eyes flickered to Angel, who lay, trembling in the driveway. "What about him?"

"Oh, he'll make it. He'll feel like crap for awhile, though."

"I didn't feel like crap," he said thoughtfully.

"That's because you got purged of something you didn't need." She turned to consider Angel. "His darkness balances him, keeps him focused. Yours was killing you." She looked at Connor. "That's why I'm here, you know."

"What do you mean?"

"What you become, Connor. It's pure darkness."

Defiance flickered in his eyes. "I fight the good fight."

"Holtz corrupted you."

Now it was anger, pure and powerful. "Do not speak of my father."

"He was only doing what he came here to do."

"Turn me into a fiend?"

She nodded. "And it's my job to stop you."

"Then why are you still talking?"

"Good question." She drew herself over the centers of her feet, where she connected with earth. The sword rose in front of her nearly of its own accord, lead by the energy pumping through the live-wire of her body.

She drew in the light, sucked it deep. The thrumming power burned in her belly, incense uncoiling light, smoke and heat. “I’ll make it quick,” she swore.

He came at her with a driving kick and landed his foot in her belly.

Her breath exploded out and she fell to the grass gasping.

God, he was fast. She whipped to her feet.

But she was faster.

She came at him, a propeller, dancing and spinning, her sword flashing streaks of light.

He ducked, rolled, sprang like a cat.

***

Angel groaned groggily. His insides felt hot, electric.

Laughter, giddy and free, rumbled through him. God he felt amazing. This was like smoking opium without the side effects. Whatever she'd done to him, it was good, good, good.

The sound of clashing steel caught his attention and he hummed along with it. Mozart or something even purer, though it was hard to imagine what that might be. Maybe if the moon wrote music.

Zing, sing, ting.

Without looking he caught the rhythm of the fight, and his fingers tapped on his chest in time with them. Dancing, and God, he loved to dance.

Well Angelus loved to dance; he avoided it like the plague. But maybe now that he felt this way, light and happy and free, he'd start again. He'd buy Cordy something beautiful, maybe red, he'd always loved her in red. And he'd take her...take her....

Cordy, God, no. She'd come to kill his child. His boy, his baby, his miracle. Now the warm golden feeling turned to water, leaving his eyes wet.

Not Connor, too. He couldn't possibly live without them both.

***

Connor bore the katana as if it were his own. He fought as she'd imagined and feared, with such integration that he not only owned the fight he *was* the fight.

The clang of steel meeting steel rang up her arms and sent her skull vibrating.

He was the most powerful foe she'd faced.

Not just by his birthright, but by his birth. Behind his warrior's eyes lay the boy she knew, the baby she loved. The child she had mourned.

Her jaw clenched as memories flooded, memories of how he’d felt in her arms, of how he smelled, sweet and powdery after his bath.

The memories made her slow. Stupid.

He landed a blow and she went tumbling, spinning.

She came up, lip busted, head pounding and went for him again.

***

He rolled, finding his way to his hands and knees. Head spinning, mouth watering, he drooled into the grass just like Conal, the village idiot. He giggled. He’d loved Conal; actually, he’d loved torturing him. Even after Darla turned him, he and Conal had some fun. The hot rush of blood from Conal's smooth, young throat coated his lips. He licked greedily, but still in the grip of Cor’s love light, it turned his stomach.

Blood--could he ever drink it again?

Blood. It caught his attention. Someone had spilled it recently. He raised his head and sniffed like a dog. The world spun and spun, and he could only spin with it.

In his peripheral vision he saw them dancing together, so lithe and beautiful. So young, just getting started, really. They had no idea what it meant to live forever, and he prayed they never would. He also prayed he'd go first so he never had to be without them.

Fey and fairylike, straight out of tales he'd heard as a boy. Swords flashing, eyes blazing, mouths set in the same grim line.

Pride wrapped himself around him, a warm blanket. His eyes focused, his heart twisted. His family, they were, and dear God, how he loved them.

He struggled to his feet never taking his eyes off the dancing pair. Getting caught in the dazzle and sparkle of light on blade, of light on hair and skin. Living, pulsing.

***

The memories flashed a second time. Of her sleeping with Angel, this child between them, as night cradled their family in her cool, soft arms.

Her breath caught in her chest and the light dimmed. “I *will* do this,” she said between clenched teeth.

With a great, sucking breath, the light expanded, throbbing in her chest as she fought—throbbing and pulsing, and guiding her through the fight.

It was only when her movements synchronized with the target’s that she realized he was doing the same, drawing on breath and life to lead him through. His eyes flashed with recognition, and he stopped and stared at her open-mouthed.

Then his fist rammed into her face.

She flew back ten feet and hit the ground with a jarring thump. Her strained shoulder muscles seized and the screaming flash of pain became her entire world. Then she scrambled up, shook it off, and went back for more.

***

He was drawn back to the dream, of him and Cordy, of her--a coat full of moonlight. Now she wasn't simply that girl--she *was* moonlight.

And Connor, he was night. And he held her, the sky holding the moon.

Then she eclipsed him. Angel blinked, startled when his son went down. Where's your balance, boy? Lose your balance and you lose it all.

***

The vision flashed through her, intense as heat lighting.

It radiated from her core, spinning and pulsing, spilling over her edges. She cried out, flung her head back. Saw the stars, spinning, pulsing--felt their ancient, cold light morph into something so hot that it burned her from the inside out.

But she couldn’t stay with the stars for long, not when Connor’s pulse drew her gaze back down to earth. He stared, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, and she realized then that the vision wasn’t meant for her alone.

Together they traveled into the future, to Angel, weeping over Connor’s grave. To her, fighting empty and angry and alone in a battle she no longer believed in.

It flashed again, taking them back to a night years before. When she’d rocked this boy to sleep in the chair next to the window. She saw his eyes, blinking owlishly, his rosebud mouth quirking in his secret smile, the one he saved just for her.

She felt him heavy against her breast. Smelled his milky-sweet smell.

Connor’s face softened as he remembered being cradled in love.

The memories flooded, water breaking a dam. Her heart gave a horrible, grieving wrench.

And then the vision flashed again and she saw herself lying still and cold, dead eyes staring at the blank night sky.

It was clear as the moon on this cloudless night: his life or hers.

She looked deep into Connor’s eyes and let them guide her into her own heart. Turned her head and looked at Angel, kneeling in the grass. Saw in his eyes the same truth she already knew.

Death was a choice. Just like life.

She lowered the sword.

***

Angel’s heart, twisted and tense, suddenly relaxed. Because he knew in that moment that they’d won.

His son was safe. His family was safe.

The bliss of her touch washed over him again and he fell to his knees in the grass weeping in gratitude.

***

Gunn's eyes blinked open slowly. Someone had scrubbed the inside of his head with sand.

A flash caught his eye, Cordy, arm high over her head, Connor pinned beneath her foot.

"No," he breathed.

But instead of following through, Cordy lowered the sword. A wave of helpless relief flowed through him. They were safe. Thank God. They were safe.

Then he heard a rustle, fabric on grass, and turned his head toward the sound.

One of the guards, a man he had thought was dead, was rolling onto his belly. The moonlight flashed on something long and gleaming.

A quiet "ka-chunk" rattled his ears.

***

The ear-shattering report of a rifle shot split the air.

The bullet ripped through her shoulder and blew out the front of her chest, spattering blood and flesh in a messy arc.

She blinked in confusion, not quite understanding what had just happened.

Angel screamed “NO!” in a voice that came from under water.

She got it then.

They hadn’t wasted any time, had they?

All she could do was laugh.

Part 12

“You know how much I hate this astral thing,” she bitched at Skip.

They were in the temple on the holy mountain in Japan where she once studied. The priest of the temple, well over one hundred, taught her to use the katana in the yard outside. She remembered the frail-looking man and the freight train of power that tracked from his fist. She wondered idly if he was still in residence, or if he'd already moved on to higher planes.

“If you’d quit trying to die, it wouldn’t be an issue,” Skip replied, drawing her attention back to the conversation. They stopped to light incense at the altar where a golden statue of Buddha glinted in the pearly light. “You know why you’re here, right?”

“Because someone tried to kill me again?" she teased.

“Yeah. Wanna see?”

She shrugged. “You know they’re gonna make me anyway. May as well get it over with.”

The swirling incense clouded then shimmered and she saw herself on an operating table, chest held open by metal spreaders as the surgeon tried to put her back together.

“Not my best look.”

“Hardly,” Skip said.

She blinked and the scene shifted. “Oh, my God, Angel!”

He stuck to the shadows in clothes spattered with blood. Hers and his, she could smell it from here. His face was drawn, tired, but his eyes were still lit with the flame she'd burned through him. She could feel it, warming him from the inside, connecting him to her and she knew, intuitively, that he clung to it, wanting to feel her in him for as long as he could.

Wes entered the room, cups of coffee in his hand, and behind him was Connor. White bandages decorated his arms and face.

She ran her hands over her arms, suddenly chilled. “Didn’t take ‘em long, did it?” she whispered.

“What do you mean?” Skip waved his hand and chased away both incense and vision.

“To follow up on their promise.”

“What promise?” Skip asked, head tilted to the side, a kid figuring out a math problem.

“My life or his. I chose his.”

“Oh,” Skip said. And then his eyes widened. “OH.” He pointed at the coiling smoke. “So you think that’s…. Huh.”

“Huh?”

“Huh.” He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at her, long and hard. “You know, for someone who sees so much, you can be surprisingly dense.”

The wail of a monitor split the air. She jumped. “What's that sound?”

“You’re flatlining.”

Sure enough, the vision swirled again and the medical team bustled around her, pulling up crash carts and loading stuff into her IV lines.

"So this is it? They're cutting me loose?” Her voice broke.

Skip shrugged. "You could say that.”

In the room below the shrilling beep stopped.

The surgeon called time of death.

***

He’d been a doctor way too long on nights like this.

His hands were hot on his face as he scrubbed his cheeks. Grief. No matter how many he lost, he always felt it. Raw and slick, a rocky path in a storm.

And, as always, he locked it somewhere deep to deal with later. He couldn’t afford to show his own grief to the family—not over someone he’d only met tonight, even someone who’d died on his table.

These people had lost someone they knew and loved. And now he had to tell them.

He shuffled out the swinging double doors and down the hall to the waiting room. It was a small hospital and they were the only ones there.

The man who carried her in, the tall brooding one in black, stood in the shadows. He leaned against the wall with a preternatural stillness that spoke of exhaustion. His skin was pale in the green of the fluorescents and the doctor wondered when he last ate. And understood that food was the last thing on his mind.

The man’s eyes opened as soon as he walked into the room and he was startled by their glittering, gold film. He shook it off, knowing he was just trying to distract himself with inconsequential things.

This was never easy. There was no kind way.

So he put his hands in the pockets of his scrubs, held the man’s gaze, and shook his head.

He watched it go in, a rock thrown into a moving engine, and stop him in his tracks.

Someone moaned, a feral sound in the silence.

“Doctor?” One of the men they’d treated for a head injury, the British one, stepped forward.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He cleared his throat. “We did everything we could. The damage was too….” He pulled his hand out of his pants pocket and gestured. “There was too much damage,” he finished lamely.

The Brit nodded, a brisk twitch of his head. His eyes were fierce and wet, but they were steady. “I’m sure you did your best. Thank you.”

The boy stepped forward, a stunned look on his face. “She’s dead?” He paled. “No.” He turned his eyes to the man in black. “No!”

The doctor nodded. “I’m sorry. She just…. You did a good job of keeping her alive on the way over. But the trauma to her heart was just too much. We did everything we could,” he said. He heard his voice break and he turned his head away.

***

Cordy stared open-mouthed at the scene before her. One nurse pulled the clamps out of her chest and began sewing her closed. Another unhooked IV lines and monitors. They were silent, efficient. Her body, once so full of color and life, lay on the table, a wrung-out rag.

“You sure that’s what you want?” Skip asked quietly.

She blinked at him. “I don’t have a choice now, do I?”

He shrugged. “Always got a choice, Cor. I thought you figured that out back at the safe house.”

“What are you saying?”

“Ever heard the old adage, ‘Fork in the road’?”

She turned back to the quiet nurses who tended her body. “Ever heard the old adage, ‘Stick a fork in me, I’m done?’” Her eyes traveled the length of her body, taking in every bruise, every scar, every dip and curve that told the story of her life.

As she watched she was reminded of that night when Skip took her to Wolfram & Hart. How she knew with such intensity that everything would work out for the best.

Oh, she’d been so naïve. She thought she’d been passing some sort of test—choosing the mission over love--and she'd failed, miserably.

And now she’d failed again, for choosing love over the mission.

She looked at Skip. “Get me out of here. I’ve seen enough.”

“You sure?”

“Ye—“ She stopped, closed her eyes. “Just let me see him one more time,” she whispered.

Angel’s face, drawn and pinched, wavered before her. She saw him leaving the hospital, saw him standing over an open grave—hers now, not his son’s. Saw him trudging through life eternal, broken by her death in a way he’d never been broken by Buffy’s.

“Oh, God,” she whispered.

“What?” asked Skip.

“Oh, my God, Skip. I love him. Still. And he loves me.” She closed her eyes. “Why isn’t that ever enough?”

Skip wrapped his hand around her arm, drew her attention to him. “What if it isn’t about love?”

She ran her hands through her hair, looked at her face, lax and bloodless. “What does that mean?”

“What does any of this mean?” Skip waved his hand. “It’s all just an illusion anyway, right? Hey,” he said as if a thought suddenly occurred to him. “Did you ever see Thelma and Louise?”

Cor fumed. “Dammit, Skip, now’s hardly the time to talk about movies.”

“Hey, now, Susan Sarandon—who doesn’t love her?”

She tugged on her hair in frustration, set the white spikes on end. “Okay. Fine. I saw it. Now what’s your point?”

“Well, you know, at the end, when they’re driving toward the canyon and everyone’s chasing them?”

She tapped her foot against the stone floor. “Yes, Skip, I remember that part.”

He smiled happily. “That was a great moment in movie history, wasn’t it? Where they realize they’re either gonna go to jail for, like, ever, or—“

“Or they can make a sacrifice that might end up killing them but preserves the purity of their mission?”

Skip nodded. “Bingo!”

Cordy blinked. “What, bingo?”

“Bingo!” Skip repeated.

She stared at him. “What?” A thought glimmered. “Are you saying I’m…. That what I did was…?”

“Make a sacrifice that preserved the purity of the mission? Yeah, pretty much.”

Her mouth opened and closed several times before anything came out. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” He waved his hand and the scene shifted back to that moment where she stood over Connor, sword raised, caught in the grip of the vision. “Looks to me like you made a choice.”

“I did. His life for mine.”

“Even though you knew he might wind up destroying the world.”

She closed her eyes. “I loved him too much.”

When she looked at Skip he was shaking his head. “What if that was the whole point?”

***

Jenny, the head nurse, careened down the hall toward him, face glowing with an odd light. He shook his head. She knew he didn’t want to be disturbed when he notified the families.

But she kept coming.

“Doctor!”

He looked back at them, all staring as if waiting for him to pop up and say, It’s all a joke! “I’m sorry,” he said, blanketed by their grief. “Could you excuse me a moment?”

She skidded on her clogs, nearly ran into him. “Could you come with me, please?” Her gaze flickered to the grieving family and when she caught the eyes of the man in black, her smile bloomed.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, taking her by the elbow.

"Just...come with me," she said urgently.

***

Angel sat at Cordy's bedside watching her heart beat on the monitor. It was regular, the same as her breathing, but she was so pale and still that he kept waiting for the beeping to stop.

His eyes closed and he took her hand. Drew it to his face and kissed the smooth skin near her wrist. "Don’t leave me, Cor," he whispered brokenly.

"Angelus?"

He didn't turn. "Yeah," he answered, and his voice felt rough and thick.

"The nurse says visiting hours are over. We have to go now."

He shook his head. "Tell her I'm not going."

He heard his son's breathing stop then resume its normal, quiet rhythm. "All right," the boy said. "I'll see that the others get to the hotel safely. Then I will come back and sit with you."

Angel shook his head again. "No, Connor. The morning will be soon enough."

A pause again. And the rustle of weight shifting from foot to foot. "Morning, then," Connor replied.

The door drifted shut behind him and left Angel alone with the sound of Cordy's heart.

***

She was dreaming, wild, fractured dreams. Angel floated above her, his face shadowed and beautiful in the moonlight. The ocean breeze whipped his hair, a lover's careless fingers.

It was an old dream, a soldier’s careworn letter carried next to her heart.

"Rip them off. I've got more in the car." The words burned her tongue and lit Angel’s eyes.

He slid his hands under her hips, buried himself deep.

They rocked the car on its chassis, shocks squeaking, metal popping.

When she came, she flew out to the stars and hung, wrapped in the soft, black blanket of space. Under her feet Earth twirled, following its trajectory through the heavens.

Insight flashed, bright and shining as morning. Like Earth, she followed her own path. As did Angel, and Wesley and Connor. Everyone she’d ever seen or heard in a vision, every person she’d killed or defended. They followed a trajectory, one suggested by the universe but molded by choice.

She closed her eyes and pulled up her battle standard. Angel’s dark eyes challenged her to see it all, to know the full truth.

And in that moment she glimpsed it: her future. The one in which their paths, once divergent, united again, forging a life stronger, deeper and better than either of them could have imagined alone.

She dropped her old flag and in its place raised the new, gold dream. Then she twined her fingers with his and let him draw her back to earth.

***

The golden light surged through him, the vestiges of the purge lighting his dreams. He was with her again, at the Point. They were making love and he knew, with a sinking heart, that when they finished, she'd leave him again.

This time for good.

"Angel?"

He wasn’t surprised. In his dreams she always called his name. Then her fingers fluttered, jolting him awake.

Her eyes were dim but her smile was pure Cordelia.

"Cordy.” He pressed her hand to his cheek. "You're...you're...."

"Alive?” She cleared her throat, and when she spoke again her voice was clearer. “Wild, huh?"

He blinked back tears. “Yeah. Wild.”

“I thought I failed.”

“No. Cor, *no*. You didn’t, you couldn’t--”

“Angel, I’m trying to talk here.”

His laugh rumbled through his chest. “God. I missed you.” He kissed the back of her hand once, twice.

“Hey, you had it easy. I was only gone for a month in this dimension.” She reached up to stroke his face but got tangled in the white, fabric sling and the twining IV lines. “Man, what’d they do to me?”

He pinned her with his gaze. “You died, Cordelia.”

“Only for a minute. And now I’m stuck with all these stupid bandages and things.” She blinked at the sterile room. “Hospitals suck.” She cleared her throat again. “You gotta spring me soon,” she whispered.

“Not till you’re ready.”

Her eyes started to close. “’M’ready now,” she slurred.

“I can see that.”

She drifted then startled awake. “Angel?”

“I’m here.”

She squeezed his hand. “Don’t let go.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

***

Wes stood in his kitchen staring out the window. His head still ached; his nerves still jangled, but between the Ibuprofen the doctor recommended and the herbal tea he sipped, he was starting to feel better.

He’d been thinking more and more of Cordelia. Of whether she would stay or go and what that meant for Wolfram & Hart. For him, too. He was tempted--

A knock on the door stopped him mid-thought. He waited in the dark, hoping she’d go away. But Lilah was nothing if not persistent and so he crossed the apartment and opened the door.

She was dressed down tonight, in soft, loose pants and a short-sleeved t-shirt. The sweater she wore over her shoulders was lilac—very feminine and surprisingly it suited her. It shocked him to see her without her armor, all hard lines and lacquered polish. But he didn’t mention it. He simply stepped back and held the door open.

She strolled in with the catlike grace that was her trademark and went to the kitchen. Silently she put the water on for tea. He followed, watching closely as she completed the chore and not at all sure he liked her being so comfortable in his home.

Finally, she turned to him. “Heard you had an exciting evening.”

He raised his eyebrow.

She took down a cup and opened the tin of tea. “Your Cordelia seems to have nine lives," she said, as she drew out a tea bag.

He set his mug on the counter and crossed his arms, instinctively protecting himself. “She's not my Cordelia,” he said coolly.

Lilah smiled. “Whatever. I hear she's recovering well." She dropped the bag into the empty cup. "Shouldn't take her long, what with the demon blood an all. Hey,” she said, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to her. "Wonder how long it'll take her to boff Angel." She laughed. "Wouldn't it be funny if she released Angelus?"

The apartment suddenly felt quite chilly. He cupped his elbows with his hands. “Hilarious,” he said in a measured voice.

Lilah shrugged. “Not that I'm saying it'll happen. I mean, perfect bliss--how often do you think that comes around?”

Wes felt his voice go arctic. “I wouldn't know.”

Lilah picked up the whistling kettle and poured boiling water over a tea bag. “Gosh, Wesley. That doesn't say much about our relationship, does it?” She took her steaming mug and leaned against the counter.

His heartbeat slowed just enough for him to catch his breath. “I wouldn't presume to call what we have a relationship.”

Lilah sipped from the mug she cradled in both hands. “It's why I don't bother with love, you know," she said thoughtfully.

Wes studied her, baffled by her unguarded comment. “I thought that was because you had no heart.”

She chuckled. “That's just a myth. Actually it's because I'm smart enough not to use it.”

“That's sad, Lilah." It was the first truly human thing he'd ever said to her.

She shot him a look. “Maybe. But at least I'm not sitting up nights worrying about it.”

Wes thought of the family he lost and the bitter road he'd started down as a result. He trod a different path now, one as uncertain as any he’d known. But on this one, at least, he wasn’t becoming his father.

"I'd consider myself lucky to sit up nights worrying about that," he said.

***

Connor watched them from the shadows. Through the open door to the bedroom he could see Angel, sitting on the bed next to Cordelia, who was so securely tucked into the blankets that she resembled one of Fred’s enchiladas.

She was pouting charmingly and Angel was smiling and shaking his head. Connor could easily have listened in, but he figured skulking was enough of an invasion of privacy without adding eavesdropping.

Besides he already knew what she was saying. “Angel, if you don’t let me out of this bed, I’ll….” It was an argument that had been running the whole week she’d been there, though it was one she seemed happy enough to let Angel win.

Connor knew he should leave them alone. Go back to his apartment and prepare his weapons for whatever foe he’d be facing that night. And yet the idea of going back to an empty, echoing room did not appeal to him.

He felt ungrateful when he thought of his apartment that way, considering he’d once slept on the ground near lakes of sulfur and pits of bubbling tar. Quar-Toth. It had been home, but now it was a distant memory.

Angel laughed at something Cordelia said and stroked his hand down her face with such reverence that it took Connor’s breath away. He realized, then, with a flash of insight, that the fight had been his home. And that ever since that night at the safe house he’d been adrift, even from that.

It was still in his blood—he could feel it, pulsing through him every time he faced an opponent. But she’d shown him something through her vision and her sacrifice. Something shining and pure.

All he knew now was that he was waiting. For some sign to move forward or back. To choose the life he’d lived in Quar-Toth, or the life she’d shown him in the field that night.

Cordelia, as if sensing his presence, turned her head and smiled at him. And in that moment all his questions vanished.

He walked into the room and took her outstretched hand.

End.

Notes: The working title for this story was Leave Tomorrow Behind, which is exactly what I wanted to do after I saw Tomorrow. Frustrated with the way Mutant Enemy threw the pieces off the board, I vowed to do something to fix it. After I finished, I found that, in my attempt to get the characters back to square one, the story had actually grown a theme.

So I changed the name to Miserere.

I like the fact that it means "mercy." It's also another name for the 51st Psalm, which is a plea for mercy, but more, it's a story of forgiveness.

In that Psalm God reveals that forgiveness is a revolutionary form of sacrifice. It requires us to leave the old ways behind. To see ourselves for what we really are: flawed, insecure, righteous, and frail—and to allow that knowledge to humble us in the true sense of the word. Not by making us less, but by showing us our true place in the world.

It's the kind of sacrifice that the main characters in this story are forced (or choose) to make. And though they all give up something precious as a result, what they gain in the end is an expanded knowledge of forgiveness—and love.

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