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For One
Night Only Fandom: Angel
1: Delayed Reaction The place they had found for the ceremony was perfect. The warehouse was in a rough neighbourhood near the airport, and had been empty for years. The interior was cavernous and, apart from the faint flickering light thrown out by a dozen candles, almost completely dark. The voices of the thirteen cloaked figures echoed as they chanted, bouncing off the metal roof and walls with eerie hollowness. Once voice led; the others repeated the incantation in his wake. The two women bound together by silver chains in the middle of the circle shivered fearfully. The air crackled with the raw power of dark forces. Until suddenly a tinny, electronic rendition of Yankee Doodle Dandy destroyed the atmosphere completely. Doug broke off mid-chant and pulled down the hood of his cloak. "Okay. Whose cell phone is that? Own up." Twelve cloaked and hooded figures and the two subjects of the rite shuffled and coughed awkwardly for several long seconds. At last the acolyte four to Doug's left reached into a hidden pocket and pulled out his Nokia. "Hi. Yeah. No. Okay. Uh, Marlene, I'm kinda tied up right now. Call you back? Yeah. Yeah. Fine. Bye." Doug glared at him. "We're gonna have to start again now." "Sorry. I forgot to say I'd be late home from work tonight." Doug sighed and looked around the gathering. "Right. Everybody turn their phones off now." The red-robed figure directly opposite Doug raised his hand tentatively. "Excuse me. I'm expecting a call from my stock broker-" "Off!" There was a moment's stillness, followed by several minutes' shuffling and hunting through folds of red velvet for the pockets of the street clothes beneath. One acolyte helpfully retrieved and switched off the phones of the two bound women, who smiled and nodded their thank-yous. When at last the participants had settled again, Doug nodded and raised his arms above his head. Then, dramatically, he let them drop. It didn't mean a thing but, damn, you had to give people a show. He cleared his throat and adopted his incantation voice, which was not unlike the voice he used for cold calling in his day-job, but deeper. More authoritative, Doug liked to think. He began the ritual again, from the start. "Spirits of other places, we call on thee…" Easy money.
She looked up from the iBook and the celebrity gossip webzine she'd been reading and, because she had nothing better to do except work, started to list in her head everything that was new. There was the office itself, for a start. It was new. Not new in the clean-and-shiny sense, or even in the basically-sanitary sense, but new to them if nothing else. There was Wesley reading an old dusty book-not new-but standing up and leaning on a cane instead of rolling around in the terminally unfashionable wheelchair the hospital had given him. That was a new sight, and a welcome one. As she watched, Wesley put down the book and reached absently for a pen. It scooted out from under his fingers and rolled on to the floor; Gunn, who had been sharpening an axe, leaned down at once and retrieved it for him. He handed it over with a familiar and friendly grin which Cordelia decided definitely merited inclusion on the New Things list. And sitting in the other corner… She pursed her lips. Was this New Angel or Old Angel? Old Angel had driven her to auditions and cooked breakfast and understood what it meant when she'd said she'd stay with him as long as it took. And then, right when he'd made her start caring, he'd gone away and New Angel had arrived. New Angel didn't talk and he didn't listen, and pretty soon he'd stopped being there to catch her when the visions hit. Old Angel was "**An**-gel!", said with a little exasperation and a lot of affection; New Angel was "Boss," and then not even that. Who was he now? He was pretending to read-staring at a single page in that weird, intense way he had when he was just using an open book as an excuse not to have to talk to anyone. But she sensed something different in his attitude now; as if, rather than avoiding conversation, he was desperate to communicate but was no longer sure how to go about it. Cordelia wasn't in a rush to make it easier for him. There was no Old or New Angel. There was just this Angel, and Cordelia wasn't sure she liked him any more. No convenient curse this time. No morning after 'it's okay, it wasn't really you' conversations. No avoiding the unpleasant truth: the Angel who had decided he was now very, very sorry was the same Angel who had systematically cut her out of his existence with the clinical precision of a surgeon removing a tumour. The same Angel who had at first ignored her, then scared her, then finally threatened her with violence. And-no doubt in her mind about this-he had been ready to hurt her. Ready to hurt her? Huh. He already had hurt her. A big part of her wished he'd never had his damn epiphany. Then it would still be just the three of them, getting on just fine by themselves, thank you very much- "Cordy, are you okay?" He'd noticed her staring at him. She straightened up and flipped her hair. **Hah. Don't think you're Cordy-ing your way out of this one.** "Yes." "Are you going to have a vision?" "No." "Pity," said Gunn, not looking up from his axe: "'Cause we could be doin' with one of those about now. It's a little slack round here." "Oh yeah? Well, you know what else we could be doing with?" began Cordelia hotly. "A client," interrupted Wesley, smiling rigidly in the direction of the doorway. "Ahem. Everyone, look. A client." The girl hovering hesitantly in the office's entrance was young-certainly, Cordelia judged, no older than herself-and wore a pair of faded cargo pants and a crop top that showed off her flat, tanned stomach to perfection. And perfection was pretty much the descriptive word of choice for the rest of her: unblemished skin, clear blue eyes, hair golden and light right down to the roots, and a delicate bone structure with none of the telltale pinched sharpness that screamed surgery. Let Gunn have his weapons and Wesley his books: Cordelia's area of expertise was appearance, and she recognised one hundred per cent natural beauty when she saw it. "Hello," said the girl. "Is this Angel Investigations?" "That's us," said Wesley, with a slight but definite emphasis on the second word. He smiled. "What can we do for you, Miss…?" "Trixie," supplied Gunn. Cordelia looked at him, frowning. "Have you two met?" Instead of replying, he nodded in the girl's direction. Cordelia looked her up and down again, and this time saw the word etched in blue ink in a graceful arc just above her navel. "Nice tattoo." The girl made a small whimpering sound, and her hands flew to cover her exposed abdomen. "Oh God. I wanted to wear something else, but she doesn't have any real clothes. It's all straps and thongs…" Sincerely, Gunn said, "Please don't apologise." Oh God, thought Cordelia. Just how pathetic were guys? One pretty girl walked in off the street and suddenly the male contingent was rolling over and begging to have its ears scratched. But Trixie didn't look pleased, or coy, or flirtatious, or any of the reactions Cordelia might have expected. She seemed angry and upset. "You're no different. I walked here and the whole time I could feel everyone looking at me. All the women jealous and all the men hungry and-it's horrible. I thought it would be heaven and it's not. It's awful." On the last word, her voice cracked and she started to cry. Wesley hobbled forward, and patted her arm. "There, there, Miss… ah, Trixie." "I'm not called Trixie," snapped the girl. More quietly, she finished, "It's Judith." Dull, thought Cordelia, but in the 'take me seriously' stakes, a definite step in the right direction. "Judith Forbes-Carson." "Whoah," said Cordelia, "Time out. You're not old woman Four-Cars. I've met her. Wesley, so have you." He nodded. "A… friend of mine introduced us at the country club she belongs to. She's a good deal older than you and, if I may so, not nearly so attractive. Trixie, I appreciate that you're feeling a little nervous, but if we're going to help you, you're going to have to be honest with us. About everything." "I am being honest. You're the first people I've been honest with in weeks." Tears started to well up in her eyes again, and she made a visible effort not to break down. "I remember meeting you too: that's why I came here. You were with Virginia. You spilt red wine on my cream stole." "How would you-?" began Wesley. Then he turned around, slowly, and met Cordelia's gaze. The improbable but unavoidable truth began to dawn. "When I said 'Four Cars'," she said, "I want you to know that was in no way intended in a derogatory sense, Mrs Forbes-Carson." Wesley faced the girl again. "Why don't you tell us just what happened."
Cordelia rolled down the window of Gunn's truck and peered into the night outside. Every street lamp was out within a hundred yards in both directions, and she could see only the vaguest outlines of the neighbourhood's empty stores and buildings. "No. Was she sure this was the place they took her?" "It was about the only thing she was certain of," said Wesley. Cordelia wrinkled her brow. "So, let's review the facts. Mrs F-C says she was out walking when a couple of weird demon-types bundled her into the back of a car. Next thing, she wakes up in an empty warehouse-this empty warehouse-perfectly fine apart from not being herself any more. What doesn't make sense about that story? Apart from, oh, everything?" "It does appear that a motive is somewhat lacking," conceded Wesley. Then he cheered. "Still, that is very much the point of private investigation, isn't it? To investigate." "There are people in there." Cordelia jumped, almost knocking the top of her head on the cab's roof. Angel had appeared soundlessly beside her at the truck's open window. "Could you **please** not freak me like that?" "What sort of people?" asked Wesley. "Weird types in red cloaks," elaborated Gunn as he also rejoined them. "I counted about a dozen. Definitely people, though: no demons." "They could be vampires," pointed out Wesley. "No," said Angel. "I only smelled humans." "And again, less with the freakiness, please." Ignoring Cordelia, he went on, "There are a couple of entrances, and none of them are guarded or locked. They're either pretty naïve or not expecting company. We could get in without too much difficulty." "So what's the plan?" asked Gunn, looking at Wesley. "Reconnaissance only, tonight. Let's wait until we know exactly what's going on before we do anything rash." "Man," said Gunn, sounding disappointed. "And I was really lookin' forward to staking something." "Stick around, you might still get the opportunity," Cordelia told him, with a telling look in Angel's direction. This time, he looked back at her, and Cordelia felt a kind of cold satisfaction at having finally elicited a reaction from him. "I'll take the west side," Angel said shortly, and walked off. "I'll go east," said Gunn. Within a few seconds, both Angel and Gunn were out of sight, and before much longer even the faint echoes of two sets of footsteps were no longer audible. When they were entirely alone, Wesley said quietly, "I couldn't help but notice that you're very… tense around Angel." Cordelia blinked and glanced down at her hands, which were resting on her knees. She was surprised to see her fingers locked together so tightly that her knuckles were knobbly islands of pure white in a sea of red. **Tense?** She thought. **Who's tense? Not me, no sirree.** When she didn't reply, he went on, "Cordelia, this isn't going to work unless we all try to make it work." She unlaced her fingers, one at a time. Finally, and with difficulty, she said, "I'm not sure I want it to." She didn't know exactly how she expected him to respond to that, although her best guess would have been some kind of stiff-upper-lip British pep talk, something about putting aside personal considerations for the good of everyone, probably with some kind of Winston Churchill reference thrown in towards the end for good measure. Softly, Wesley said, "No. I'm not convinced this is for the best either." Cordelia looked at him, surprised, and he went on: "But I do think we must at least try. And this… constant sniping is not helping." "It's not constant," she said defensively. "I've been taking five minute breaks every couple of hours." "Cordelia…" "Yeah, yeah. I know." She looked down, and saw that her fingers had already started to knot together again. "So Angel's ready to come back to us. Well, that's just peachy for him. But I'm not sure I'm ready to take him back." Wesley opened his mouth to reply, but a noise on the street stopped him. Cordelia watched as a red sports car pull up on the other side of the road and the driver got out. "I think another one of them just arrived." "You're sure he's involved?" "Well, the cloak is a bit of a giveaway." "Ahh. It is, isn't it?" Cordelia made to open the door of the truck. "Wait here. I'm gonna do a little reconnaissance of my own." "I'll come with you," said Wesley. He raised a hand to the door handle and almost immediately winced in pain. "Then again, I may just stay here and contemplate the many and varied forms of agony the human body is capable of experiencing." "I'm only going across the street," she told him. "I'll be back in five." "Nevertheless, be careful." Cordelia treated him to her brightest smile. "Aren't I always?"
A couple of people at his day job had noticed the new car, and wondered aloud how a basic grade two telesales operative could afford it, but Doug was certain his 'unexpected legacy' story had been accepted. In one sense, it was the truth. If Uncle Ernie, the black sheep of the Kluggerman family, hadn't died unexpectedly, bequeathing to Doug the sum total of his worldly possessions in a cardboard box, none of this good fortune would have been possible. For the thousandth time since the dull Sunday afternoon when he had finally gotten around to sorting his uncle's belongings and had found the rolled parchment crushed between the June 1978 and August 1982 editions of Playboy, Doug thanked whatever benevolent spirit had seen fit to bless him with such good fortune. And by the time tonight was over he'd be another twenty thousand dollars richer. He locked the car door and turned to go into the warehouse, nearly colliding with the girl coming the other way as he did so. "Sorry," he said automatically. "My bad," she said. "I was just walking along here and-that's a really impressive cloak you've got there." Doug held his shoulders a little straighter. He'd made the cloak himself; he wasn't much with a sewing machine, but he thought the gold tassels along the hem had worked particularly well. "You think so?" "Oh yeah. I saw that cloak, I thought, there's a guy who knows all about-cloaks." The girl smiled at him, and what a smile. Her whole face seemed briefly to rearrange itself to accommodate the stellar wattage of that smile. There was little light in the street, but even in the dimness he could tell that she was young and exceptionally attractive. She was perfect. "I'm Doug," he said, holding out his hand. She took it. "Cordelia." "Cordelia," said Doug, "how would you like to earn yourself a lot of money?"
Doug nodded. "In your hand. Used bills." "And all I have to do in return is… sell you my body?" "Well, it's more of a loan, really. And it's not to me: I'm just the middle-man. All I do is match donors with donees. I'm a professional service provider." "Okaaay," said Cordelia, very slowly. "So, who exactly would be… hiring me?" Doug shrugged. "Well, it depends. I keep a kind of register of interested folks. And then when someone comes along, like yourself, who I think might be suitable for someone in particular, I make them known to each other. Introduce them. Help things along." He smiled the warm, fake smile of a professional salesman. "I know that right now this sounds like the weirdest thing you've ever heard…" **Don't bet on it,** thought Cordelia. "…but really, it's no different to donating a pint of blood or a kidney." "Except that it's all my blood, both kidneys, every other major organ and the fun skin-type wrapping on the package too." Doug said, "I can see you're not comfortable with this concept." He put his hand on her shoulder and began to propel her towards the door. Cordelia made a fast decision. She let him walk her another three or four steps, then deliberately slowed. With just the right amount of interest in her voice, she said: "Ten **thousand** dollars?" He stopped and leaned towards her. In a low voice, he said: "Just between to two of us, someone as attractive as you could certainly get a lot more." "Supposing-just hypothetically supposing," said Cordelia, "that I was interested, what would happen to me? I mean, how do I end up on the other side of this deal? A rich disembodied voice?" Doug was shaking his head emphatically. "This is the beauty of the arrangement. My clients are people of means. They've worked hard to get where they are and maybe, on the way, they've missed out on a few of the fun things in life. So while they get to re-experience their youth, you get the kind of lifestyle it takes forty years to build." "And the kind of body it takes forty years to get too?" "All my clients are in excellent-well, reasonable-health," said Doug. "I promise you won't wake up with terminal melanoma." "Good to know," said Cordelia. "You know, I heard this wild rumour-it sounds stupid even to say it…" Doug smiled conspiratorially. "Go on." "Judith Forbes-Carson?" asked Cordelia. He nodded proudly. "That was one of my most successful exchanges." If Doug considered Mrs Forbes-Carson aka Trixie a success story, Cordelia wondered how he defined failure. "Look, I don't wanna rush into anything here…" "Perfectly understandable." "Maybe if you told me a little more about how this thing actually works?" Quietly, Doug said, "It's magic." Cordelia allowed her eyes to widen. "Real magic?" she said, with just the right amount of breathless wonder. And, oh boy, those acting classes had been worth every last cent, because Doug was eating it up. He nodded with almost infantile enthusiasm. "It's really very straightforward. We're doing one tonight. Would you like to sit in?" "Well, if it's safe…" "Come with me." Doug turned Cordelia around and led her through several storerooms and into the main warehouse, where a dozen men and women were robing and making small talk. Cordelia followed her host through the group to a chorus of 'Hi Doug's to the far wall, where a rotund businessman in late middle age and bronzed surfer-dude type were standing next to each other in awkward silence. They looked, thought Cordelia, like the last guests at a party where all the interesting people had already paired off. "Mr Fernbaum. Brad," Doug greeted them warmly. "I'm just thrilled you've decided to take this step." To Cordelia, he said, "I've a got few things to take care of, but if you stand here you'll get a great view." She smiled. "Thanks, Doug." He smiled back at her then left, ushering his clients to where the acolytes were arranging themselves into a circle. Once he had positioned the two men in the centre of the ring, Doug stepped into the twelve o'clock position. The gathering fell silent. Doug raised his arms dramatically. Show off, thought Cordelia. Then, letting them drop, he reached into his robes and pulled out a frayed and yellowing scroll. He unfurled it ceremoniously and began to read. "Spirits of other places, we call on thee. Be present in this circle now…" In the rafters of the warehouse, a shadow moved. Cordelia looked around the circle, but no one else appeared to have noticed. She raised her hand. "Uhh, excuse me?" Fifteen faces turned and looked at her. "Hi. Sorry to interrupt. Would you mind answering a question?" "It'd be a pleasure," said Doug, sounding as if it would be anything but. "I was just wondering, what if this whole exchange thing doesn't work out?" "It always works out." "Well, yeah. But say it didn't. I mean, could you swap them back again?" She pointed at the two men in the middle of the circle. "Well, of course," Doug told her. "It's just a matter of re-performing the magic." "Have you ever done that?" "I've never needed to. Everybody's always satisfied with the exchange." "Always?" "Always," said Doug firmly. "Now, do you think we could move on here?" "Oh, yeah, sorry. Please, go right ahead. Don't mind me." Cordelia gave Doug a big, fake smile, but didn't move too far from the circle. She watched as the ritual began to build to a climax, not once taking her eyes off the paper in Doug's hands. Maybe, she thought, she could dash in there and grab it. No points for subtlety, but if she could just get outside, back to Wesley and the truck… "Let these spirits leap unfettered by this mortal flesh," read Doug. The acolytes echoed the chant. Mr Fernbaum and Brad held hands nervously in the middle of the circle. No one was paying any attention to Cordelia. She'd have to be ready to move fast, she thought, tensing. There would only be one chance to get this right. She took a single step forward, and prepared to run. And suddenly found herself flat on the floor. Cordelia pushed herself up on to her hands and raised her head. The acolytes were scattering; she looked around for Doug, but all she saw were a dozen red-robed figures vanishing through various exits. After a second, she realised why. Angel. "Oh, God," said Cordelia, rolling her eyes. He was in full scary-as-shit vamp mode, taking on the only two acolytes who had been foolish enough to engage in a fight. It was a matter of seconds before they were running as well. Angel pulled Cordelia roughly to her feet. "Come on." "Wait," she said. "This is so not a good time-" Angel wasn't listening. As he dragged Cordelia out of the warehouse, she looked back in time to catch a final glimpse of red satin vanishing into the storerooms, while Mr Fernbaum and Brad the surfer dude stood in the huge empty space, holding hands and looking faintly ridiculous. "Well, I find this very unprofessional," said Mr Fernbaum. "I'll be demanding a full refund."
She fumed silently in the back of the car, didn't open her mouth once. She felt like a firecracker. She should have a warning sticker, she thought. One that read, **light fuse and retire to a safe distance.** Then, as soon as they were inside, she exploded. "What the hell were you trying to do back there?" she demanded, taking off her jacket and firing it angrily over the back of the chair in the corner. "I was … rescuing you?" said Angel. The sentence began as a statement, mutating into a question as the look Cordelia was directing at him finally began to register. "And did it occur to you **at all** that I might not need rescuing?" He looked at her in frank disbelief. "Well, seeing as you were entirely surrounded by people performing extremely dangerous magic-no." "Cordelia," said Wesley, his tone pacifying: "I have to say I was concerned for your safety too, when you allowed that man to persuade you to accompany him inside." "He didn't persuade me," said Cordelia. "I was playing him, Wesley. He looked at me and his eyes rolled like a one armed bandit and came up 'bimbo'. I just went along with it to see what he'd tell me. Which was pretty much everything." She pulled up her sleeve and began to dab at the graze she had sustained when Angel had knocked her to the ground. "Here's what I found out tonight. One, Mrs F-C is totally lying about being kidnapped: she paid that guy I met to swap her with Trixie, and now she's got a bad case of twenty-twenty hindsight. Two, my new best friend Doug is running a business which will be profitable as long as there are vain and stupid people in the world, so buy stock now. And three-" She glared at Angel: "Three, I was about to grab the spell right off him when Jean-Claude Van Damned here decided to butt in." Gunn looked up from the magazine he had been flipping through, obviously impressed. "Whoah. Nice moves." He glanced at Angel: "Right up to the part where someone else went and messed it up on you." "I'm sorry," said Angel. He sounded confused. "It was… an error of judgement." "No shit," snapped Cordelia. Wesley gave her disapproving look and said, "Well, it does appear that this evening was somewhat less successful than it might have been, but let's try to look on the bright side. No one was hurt." "This time," said Cordelia pointedly. She folded her arms resolutely across her chest and turned around so she was facing Angel. "We let you come back on condition you stuck to our rules." "I am." "No, you're not," she told him. "You're acting like you know best and whatever you do, we'll just fall into step behind you. Well, that's not how it is any more. We've got our own way of doing things and you have to start fitting in around us." Coldly, Angel said, "Perhaps if you'd told anybody what you were going to do before you did it, I might have had the chance to fit in. I thought you needed help." The contrite quality had disappeared from his tone, replaced by something harder and more unpleasant. Some small part of Cordelia knew she was trying to provoke him and that she was succeeding, and was glad. This was the Angel she'd grown used to in recent months, the one it had become increasingly easy to be angry at. The one she could feel good about hating. "Guess what, Angel? I don't want you to help me." Wesley raised one hand. "It's been a disappointing evening. Let's not say things we'll regret later." He was trying, realised Cordelia. Wesley was really trying. He was finding this whole set up as strange and confusing as she was but, because he was Wesley, he was being mature and sensible and trying to make it hold together. Something in her was sad that she was going to let him down by her failure do the same. But right now Cordelia was furious, and she couldn't stop the words tumbling bitterly out of her mouth. "Gee, Wesley, what could I possibly say that I might regret later? What would be really hurtful and threatening and downright creepy? Oh, I know," she exclaimed, as if suddenly struck by a profound insight. She walked slowly across the office until she was toe-to-toe with Angel. She tipped her head back so she could look him in the eye and said quietly, "Don't make me move you." Angel looked at her, his expression cold and unreadable. "If you want me to go, say so." Cordelia decided she'd had enough. "Yes, I want you to go. I want you to go away because every time my life finally starts to hit a groove, you're the one who knocks it off track again. You can't seem to decide who you are and I'm sick and tired of having to guess if you're gonna be good or evil today. I wish you'd never had your damn epiphany. I wish you'd never come back!" The air crackled with something that felt like electricity, but wasn't. Cordelia blinked as the room jumped around her, like an old and jerky piece of film. When her vision came back into focus, she was momentarily disoriented. The office was different. Wesley was in front of her, where he had been behind her seconds before. The chair Gunn sat in was to her left instead of her right. And facing her- She was looking down at her own face, and the expression of surprise and shock on it was not hers. She saw herself stagger several paces backwards, and reach out for the support of the desk. "Cordelia?" said Wesley, a note of alarm in his voice. He reached for his cane, but Gunn was on his feet faster. Cordelia saw him cross the room and take her-or more accurately, take her body-by the arm. She blinked, confused. He was holding her arm. Why couldn't she feel it? "Cordy?" asked Gunn, with concern. She saw her mouth open, heard her own voice say, "I'm not Cordelia." Cordelia said, "I think I'm having an out of body experience." Then she gasped and put her hand to her mouth because when she spoke she sounded just like- "Angel?" said Wesley. Cordelia shook her head. With ghastly but irresistible fascination, she watched a mixture of emotions flit in rapid procession across her own face: confusion followed by anxiety followed by realisation and finally horror. She saw her own eyes dart about the room, searching for something, and when at last their gaze settled on herself, Cordelia recognised what she saw in them. And with a sinking, sick feeling she knew what the only explanation for her altered point of view was. "Guys, it's me. Cordelia. And I'm-I'm in Angel." Gunn looked down at Angel in Cordelia's body, then across the room at Cordelia in Angel's. "Houston," he said: "We have a problem."
2: Role Reversal
"Jeez, Wesley, I think I could probably make a wild stab at that myself." He blinked, and made a conscious effort not to react to the peculiarity of hearing Cordelia speak using Angel's voice. He suspected she was sufficiently distressed already without being treated like the star attraction in a travelling freak show as well. But there was no denying it, this was downright bizarre. Cordelia sat at the far side of the office, holding a cup of coffee in Angel's hands, wearing Angel's clothes, Angel's coat, Angel's body, Angel's face. But the expression on that face, without any doubt, was pure Cordelia. Wesley realised he had not understood until now how much personality defined appearance, how it could be possible for the essence of an individual's character to remain even when separated from the face and form it was meant to occupy. At the office's entrance, Angel leaned against the door frame, wearing Cordelia's brightly patterned sunflower print blouse and a sick expression on her face. He had barely said a word since the exchange. Wesley pushed his glasses up on to the bridge of his nose and nodded. "Well, yes, I suppose what happened is fairly self-evident. What I meant was, I believe I know why it happened." From where he sat on the desk near Cordelia-as-Angel, Gunn said, "This I can't wait to hear." "Delayed effects are not uncommon in magic," explained Wesley. "In this instance, I think that by interrupting the spell while it was in progress, Angel prevented the magical energy which had already built up from discharging fully. That created a kind of backwash of magic, a wave of potential energy that had to find some way to disperse." "But why us?" asked Cordelia. "Probably because you were arguing. Strong emotions have frequently been noted as having powerful catalytic effects with respect to magic." "Let me get this straight," said Gunn. "You're sayin' there was all this loose magic floatin' around, and when Cordy started shouting, it just kinda earthed?" "More or less," said Wesley. "Okay, so how do we un-earth it?" asked Cordelia-as-Angel. "Like, right now?" Reassuringly, Wesley told her, "The magic is reversible. Quite easily reversible, in fact. All we have to do is re-perform the ritual." He hesitated, wishing there was some way to avoid what had to be said next. "There is, unfortunately, a small complication. The spell must be re-cast with the original participants present, and it must be done within twelve hours of the first ritual." Cordelia-as-Angel looked up. "I sense an 'or' looming. What's the 'or'?" As gently as he could, Wesley said, "Or it can't be reversed at all." Cordelia bit her-Angel's-lip. She looked down at the coffee she hadn't drunk, then back up at Wesley and Gunn. "What time is it?" From the doorway, Angel spoke for the first time. He brought a measured, solemn quality to Cordelia's voice, and somehow made her sound much older than her twenty years. "It's eight forty five now. We interrupted the ritual at about half past six." Which put the deadline at the coming dawn, thought Wesley. One night to fix this mess. It wasn't going to be long enough. With an edge of panic Cordelia-as-Angel said, "There must have been a dozen people in that warehouse. And we don't know who any of them are or where they went-how are we gonna find them all before tomorrow morning?" Hiding his concern, Wesley limped across the office until he was next to Cordelia. He put his hand on her knee and tried not to think what that must look like. "We must be positive about this." "Positive?" Her voice began to rise. "Positive? Well, excuse me for not being chirpy enough for everyone!" "Cordy," said Gunn: "Deep breaths, huh?" It was the wrong thing to say. "I'm dead! I don't breathe!" "Cordelia," began Angel. "And you can just shut up. I don't want to hear another word from you!" With alarm, Wesley saw that Cordelia was veering dangerously close to hysteria. He suspected that having to listen to someone else speaking in her voice wasn't helping to calm her. "Angel, please wait outside." Wesley glanced over his shoulder
just in time to catch the wounded, guilt-ridden look which flitted across
Angel-as-Cordelia's new face before he could suppress it entirely. Immediately Wesley felt the tension in the room-or, at least, some element of it-diffuse. When he looked away from the empty doorway, he noted with relief that Cordelia was somewhat calmer. Gunn said, "We gotta be smart about this. Here's what I'm thinkin': that guy Doug you talked to has gotta be the ringleader in this. We find him, he leads us to the others." Wesley nodded, grateful to have found even the thinnest sliver of real hope. "If this was some kind of business arrangement, then Mrs Forbes-Carson probably had dealings with him on a number of occasions before she underwent the ritual. If she lied about how she came to be exchanged with Trixie, perhaps she does know who he is and how to contact him." "Then we start with her," said Gunn. "Meantime, I say we call in every source we've got. You don't play musical bodies for money on a regular basis without someone knowing about it." He looked at Wesley, then Cordelia. "It's a lot of ground to cover in one night. We should split, two and two. How d'you wanna do this?" "Unfortunately," said Wesley, "I don't think we have a choice."
Angel-as-Cordelia looked at him. He was sitting on the fourth-to-last stair in the hallway outside the office, at eye level with Wesley. "Together?" "It's rare, but not unknown, for translocations to reverse automatically if the magic fails to take. But if it happens at all, it'll happen when you're together. So you are not to leave her side all night. Understood?" Angel-as-Cordelia nodded. "Have you, uhh, told her yet?" "Gunn's explaining it to her now," said Wesley. He had barely spoken when he heard the words 'You have got to be fucking kidding me' explode in Angel's voice from the office. He winced. "I believe we can consider her informed." Angel-as-Cordelia looked stung. "What do you need us to do?" "Gunn and I will contact Mrs Forbes-Carson and try to find these people through her. While we're doing that, you'll be contacting every source of information in L.A. you can think of." "Right," said Angel-as-Cordelia. He paused. "Wes, I-" "No," said Wesley coldly. "Not a word. I don't want to hear it, and I certainly don't want to hear it from Cordelia's mouth in Cordelia's voice." For a moment, he saw an all-too-familiar hardness in Angel-as-Cordelia's face. "I didn't intend things to go wrong." "And yet, strangely, when you got involved they did." The silence stretched. Then the anger in Angel's face melted away until the expression that remained was merely tired and pained. For a moment he bore a striking resemblance to Cordelia in the immediate aftermath of a vision, and Wesley felt the first faint stirrings of empathy for him. Rationally, he couldn't hold Angel responsible for what had happened: he had only done exactly what Gunn or Wesley would have, given the same apparent situation and limited information. But the fact remained that it had not been himself or Gunn who had precipitated this crisis-it had been Angel. Angel's mistake had harmed Cordelia, and Cordelia was part of Wesley's emotional landscape now while Angel… was not. "The Wesley I used to know was more sympathetic." Coolly, Wesley said, "You had my sympathy four months ago. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to see how Cordelia's bearing up."
It was a pretty stupid phrase, any way you thought about it. Typical of Wesley in full crisis mode: stoic and chock-full of stiff upper lip Englishness. She'd wanted to tell him as much when he'd asked her; but there was something so earnest and so compassionate in his manner that she had heard herself say, in Angel's voice, that yeah, she was okay, she was dealing. She was bearing up. She was bearing up, and any second now she might start screaming and not stop. Anything to break the silence. She'd never realised how much background noise a living body made, until suddenly it wasn't there any more. The murmured pa-pump of a beating heart, circulating blood hissing somewhere in the depths of her inner ear, the gentle susurration of breathing-all gone now, leaving a vast and quiet void in her head where her thoughts bounced emptily off each other. "Cordelia? Cordy?" She started at the sound of her name spoken in her own voice. Cordelia had done enough screen tests and audition tapes to know what she sounded like when recorded and played back, but this was different again. Angel brought a new timbre to her speech, with inflection which was subtly but definitely not her own. She wondered if she was changing his voice and if so could he hear the difference, and was he as wigged out as she was. There'd been a time when she could have asked him. "I wasn't listening. What was that?" "I said, we could try Kate first, see if she still has contacts in the police. Then Caritas. After that I have a few other ideas." Angel hesitated. "I mean, if that's okay with you." "Fine, whatever," said Cordelia. She stopped. "No, not fine. Since when is Kate back on our Christmas card list?" "It's a long story. But I think she'll be willing to help." It sounded as if she and Angel weren't the only people who'd pulled a major switcheroonie recently, thought Cordelia, but she was too distracted to pursue the matter further. "Yeah. Sure." His tone conciliatory, Angel said, "If you had any suggestions, that'd be fine too." Great. He had to pick now to instigate consultative decision making. Now, when she was a hair's breadth from losing it completely and just wanted someone to tell her what to do to make it all right. She wished Wesley and Gunn hadn't gone already. "No. We'll do it your way," she said, and immediately regretted it, because somehow the words came out sounding stonier and more distant than she'd intended. God, she sounded like Angel. Of course she sounded like Angel. "Let's just go. We're wasting time." "Right. I'm parked just down the street." She watched as Angel put on her jacket and left. After a second she steeled herself, and followed him. Even walking felt wrong, and the strangeness intensified at each step; every movement only made her more aware of the extra height, width and bulk she carried. She ducked to go through the office door because it seemed so much lower than she was used to, and only afterwards remembered she had never seen Angel stoop to enter, so it probably hadn't been necessary. The convertible was parked a block away; she could see it clearly, even though half the street lamps were knocked out and it was a typically starless and moonless smoggy L.A. night. Just walk, she thought. Just focus on getting that far. Hold together that long. One foot in front of the other, see now, you're doing okay, we're good here- She heard a gasp and a grunt from her side and looked around just as Angel tripped and fell into an ungainly heap on the sidewalk, splaying her arms and legs in all directions. "Are you okay?" He sat up, and grimaced. "My ankle hurts." He touched the foot tentatively and said, sounding surprised: "It-really hurts." "Can you move it?" He flexed the joint, and winced. "Oww." Cordelia nodded, satisfied. "It's not broken, you just turned it. It'll be okay in an hour or two. Jeez, Angel, you haven't been me for any time and already I'm injured." "Maybe if you wore shoes that didn't bear so close a resemblance to a modern sculpture installation, I wouldn't have fallen," he said, pointing at her sandals. "They're Jimmy Choos," she said defensively. "They're death traps." Privately, she had to admit he had a point. The sandals were gorgeous, with green suede trimming and three inch heels; they were also completely impractical if the wearer intended doing anything other than standing around looking pretty. "Wait here," she said. "I'll be right back." She went back to the office and found the pair of ancient but comfortable pumps she kept in the bottom drawer of her desk. Returning with them, she waited while Angel put them on. When he started to stand up, she reached out a hand automatically to help him, taking him by the wrist and pulling him to his feet. She felt his-her?-warm wrist,
and the steady beat of a pulse underneath soft, living flesh. She let
go of him abruptly and stared at her big, cold hands. Dead flesh. Angrily, she said, "No. Don't tell me you understand, or that you know what this is like. You've been dead for centuries: I had a pulse at dinnertime." She turned and quickly walked the rest of the distance to the convertible, aware that Angel was limping somewhere behind her. When she was standing by the car and he had finally caught her up, she said, "I don't want to talk; I don't even want to look at you unless I have to. I just want to get back to being me as fast as possible. And what are you waiting for?" she added, irritated. "Let's go already." "You've got the keys. They're in my pocket." "Oh." She reached into the coat and found them. It took several attempts to unlock the car: her hands were too large and she kept fumbling. At last the key slid into the lock, and she turned it with relief and opened the door. She got into the car, revelling in her small victory. She was okay; she could do this. And then, out of habit and without thinking, she glanced at the convertible's wing mirror to check her eyeliner wasn't smudged. She stared into the empty space the mirror reflected back at her. She couldn't take her eyes off it. After a second the wing mirror and the street beyond it began to blur. She heard Angel say in her voice, "Are you all right?" Cordelia blinked hard, and swallowed. She tore her gaze away from the mirror. "I'm bearing up," she said. "Let's go."
Her voice trailed into a breathy sigh. Not quite sure what else to do, Wesley patted the back of one smooth, creamy-skinned hand sympathetically. Judith looked up, her lower lip trembling and her big brown eyes brimming with tears in an expression of pitiable vulnerability which had probably reeled in any red-blooded man Trixie Lavelle had decided she wanted. "You're absolutely sure?" she asked. "I'm sorry," said Wesley. "This particular genus of translocation spell is designed to be permanent. The initial twelve hour period during which it's reversible is only there as a kind of safety clause. The magic's creators probably imagined anyone undergoing the procedure would have thought carefully about what they were doing." Judith looked down at the table top again, and said nothing. The clock above the stove in the kitchenette of Trixie Lavelle's tiny apartment ticked loudly in the silence, striking off each second of the passing night. When Wesley glanced over Judith's bowed head, he saw Gunn standing in the doorway, tapping his watch and silently mouthing exhortations to get on with it. Time moving on, thought Wesley. Time running out. "I did think about it," said Judith. "I mean, I thought I'd thought about it. I was just so sick of-of everything. Of nips and tucks and an hour on the exercise bike every day and never eating anything that tasted good. And then I found out what Jerry'd been doing all those times he said he was working late, and after I made him leave I spent so many hours just looking in the mirror and only seeing the flaws and the wrinkles and then this man contacted me…" She stopped. "I didn't really think about it at all. I'm a vain old woman. I suppose I deserve this." "It's not a crime to make a mistake. No one deserves to be punished for that," Wesley told her, and felt a twinge of guilt. Go tell it to Angel. Judith-as-Trixie smiled a thin, grateful smile, which quickly faded. "You can't imagine what it's like to have to be someone else. It's like wearing a suit that doesn't fit, except you can't take it off, not for a second. And now I can't take it off ever." "Judith," said Wesley: "I sincerely wish we could have done more for you. But now we need your help. Earlier this evening we interrupted a ritual like the one you participated in and, well… We've had a slight-you might call it a technical hiccup." Her eyes widened in surprise, and he saw her look first at himself, then Gunn. "You mean you're-?" "Oh, no," said Wesley quickly. "But our associates-Cordelia and Angel-they're…" "…They're having the identity crisis to end identity crises," finished Gunn helpfully. Wesley would not have thought it possible, but Judith's eyes widened even further. "But they're not even the same-" Gunn held up a hand: "It's worse than that. Trust me, it's a whole lot worse." Wesley leaned forward across the small table. "We need to find the man running this operation, and we need to find him before tomorrow morning. You're our best chance." Judith shook her head, causing Trixie's long blonde curls to bounce around her ears. "I never even knew who he was. He just called me up one day and made me this-incredible offer. I never stopped to wonder, why me." "Think, Judith," pressed Wesley. "Did you have any way of contacting him? A telephone number, an address, anything?" "No," she said, more definitely. "He always called me. I never even met him until the night of the ceremony." Wesley took off his glasses and massaged his temples with his fingertips in a vain attempt to dull the throbbing pain which was blooming inside his skull. His side hurt more than it had for days, and after a second he realised why: in the evening's confusion, he had forgotten to take the second of his two daily doses of painkillers. Suddenly Gunn said, "I bet he'd met Trixie before then." Wesley opened his eyes and looked across the room. He felt a slow smile begin to spread over his face. "Of course. He must have met her-how else could he make sure she was, well, up to standard?" Gunn nodded. "So maybe she knows something more about this guy." "We have to find Trixie." "Oh, that's easy," said Judith Forbes-Carson. "I mean, she's me. She's living at my house."
Kate re-read the instructions in the recipe book. She looked at the glossy photograph on the opposite page and then at her effort, which was currently launching a spirited escape attempt from its bowl. Smooth, creamy consistency. Huh. She lifted the wooden spoon out of the batter and watched large, solid lumps slide off it to rejoin the parent entity below. Well, she'd just have to beat the damn thing into submission. She mixed with a vengeance, cradling the bowl in her left arm and attacking her first ever attempt at dumplings with the spoon in her right hand. She was surprised how relaxed she felt, how enjoyable she'd found the simple tasks of weighing, blending and mixing. Even if the end result was something less than haute cuisine. She'd never learnt to cook; her mother's death and a father who believed the human body's nutritional requirements could be adequately met by a combination of caffeine, nicotine and three day old pizzas had seen to that. And as an adult she had told herself she just didn't have the time. And now suddenly she did. And it was-good. The empty days she had initially found so terrifying were somehow filling themselves more than adequately. She was sleeping more soundly and for longer, and for the first time in months she wasn't waking up at three a.m, chest tight, gasping for air. She'd read a novel, cover to cover; she was eating three meals a day-real food, nothing from cans or containing the word 'quik' in its brand name-and she'd started working out again. She had gained a little weight, and she felt better than she had in too long. Far, far too long. Kate wasn't sure what was happening to her, but she suspected that maybe-just maybe-she was starting to heal. Now, if she could just master the intricacies of batter too… The buzzer of her apartment door sounded. She put down the bowl and spoon and took a moment to wipe her hands clean before answering it. She was mildly surprised but not displeased to see the two people standing shoulder to shoulder on the landing. "Angel. Cordelia. Hi." Angel sighed and rolled his eyes theatrically. "Actually, it's more like, Cordelia, Angel, hi." Kate looked at him. He seemed… off. Not off as he had been lately-bleak, grim, desperate-but in an awkward-gangly-adolescent way. He was standing stiffly, as if he didn't know what to do with his arms. So, for that matter, was Cordelia. "Uhh, okay. Cordelia, Angel, hi." She smiled. "So now you're well and truly hi'ed, you wanna come in?" Angel looked at Cordelia, his expression confused. "Was that an invitation? I mean, am I gonna need something more specific than that, or does the rule not apply 'cause I'm not, y'know, you?" Cordelia seemed to have to think about that. "Well, I've been here before-although I wasn't invited-but if I'm not even me-" She stopped and rubbed the bridge of her nose tiredly. "You know what? I have no idea." Kate stared at them, confused. Slowly, she said, "If I ask what's going on here, will I regret it a lot? Because I think I could cope with regretting it a little, but if we're talking about a major case of 'Why the hell did I ever get involved' later on, I'd prefer to know now." Cordelia said, "Kate, could you invite us both in? We need help." "That much is obvious," said Kate. "Come inside. Both of you."
"Yes." "And you're…?" "Yeah." Kate sat back in her chair and tried to wrap her head around that. Nope, not happening. She pointed at Angel and tried again. "So you're really…?" "Oh, for crying out loud, yes. I'm Cordelia. Cordy. Vision girl. CC. Ms Chase. What do you want-name tags? A diagram?" "Cordy, let's give Kate a minute to work through this, okay?" And that did it. Seeing Angel waving his hands and rolling his eyes in exasperation while Cordelia sat rigidly in her seat, wearing the same preoccupied, vaguely concerned expression which normally haunted Angel's features-something clicked in Kate's head. Mentally, she swapped them over, re-named them. And started to laugh. Cordelia-as-Angel glared at her. "Oh great. Now we're having a funny crisis." Kate put her hand over her mouth in a doomed attempt to stifle the giggling fit overtaking her. When that proved futile, she gave in and laughed until her ribs hurt. "Oh God. I'm-sympathetic-hee!-I really am-but-" She made herself sober up: "It's just that-my whole life's been doom and gloom for so long and this is just so-so-oh God!" She cracked up again. Dryly, Cordelia-as-Angel said, "Yeah, it's hilarious, we get it. Someone sew my sides back up, please." She sighed and, looking at Angel-as-Cordelia, corrected herself: "Sew his sides back up." Laughter under control at last, Kate shook her head, bemused. "What happened?" Cordelia-as-Angel looked glumly down at her coffee. The expressiveness she brought to Angel's usually stony face was so comical it almost set Kate off again. She checked herself just in time. "We picked the wrong magical rite to gatecrash." "Bum deal," said Kate. "But I'm not entirely sure what I can do about it." Angel-as-Cordelia said, "To undo the magic, we need to reconvene the circle with the same people. Which means first we have to find them." "So it's all hands to the pump time," concluded Cordelia-as-Angel, "'cause tomorrow at dawn, we get a bad case of permanence." "Right," said Kate, understanding. She put down her coffee cup and went to get her address book from its home under the telephone. "Tell me the details and I'll see what I can find out. But I gotta tell you, my contacts aren't what they used to be." "Anything you can do," said Angel-as-Cordelia sounding, thought Kate, as close to pathetically grateful as she'd ever heard him. She guessed it was a lot harder to carry off the menacing creature of the night routine when you were wearing a floral print T-shirt and had dimples. As he finished outlining the specifics of the rite they had interrupted, Angel-as-Cordelia looked down at his empty cup, then up at Kate, apparently suddenly uncomfortable. "I think I need to… Uhh, could I use your bathroom?" Kate, who had begun flipping through her address book, nodded absently. "Go right ahead." When she looked up, Angel-as-Cordelia was disappearing down the hallway that led to the rest of Kate's small apartment while Cordelia-as-Angel watched him go. Kate realised something which had never wholly dawned on her before. "Do vampires ever need to pee?" Cordelia-as-Angel stared morosely at her empty mug. "Well, I just drank two cups of coffee, so I guess I'm gonna find out sooner rather than later." She sighed with such heartfelt gloom that the last vestiges of Kate's inclination to laugh disappeared, replaced by sympathy. If that were you in there, Kate, she thought, you'd be having a nervous breakdown right about now. Another one. Evidently Cordelia's coping mechanisms were right at the top end of the bell-curve, and Kate was quietly impressed. She put down the address book and sat down on the edge of the sofa, beside Cordelia-as-Angel. Not entirely sure what do next, she put her hand on one big, solid shoulder. The thought came that she wished that she were better at girl-to-girl bonding, followed almost immediately by the thought that this wasn't strictly girl-to-girl anyway, so it probably didn't matter. "Are you, uhh, holding up okay?" Cordelia-as-Angel smiled, almost convincingly. "I'm getting by. I mean, magic going wrong is practically a theme with me." "It is?" Cordelia-as-Angel nodded. "There was this time at high school, I had a fight with my now totally ex-boyfriend, and he cast a spell to make me love him desperately. Only, instead it made every woman in town adore him except me." Kate blinked. "Sounds like something out of Shakespeare." "It was. Right up to the point where his new girlfriends started chasing us with carving knives and meat cleavers." Slowly, Kate said, "Your high school… wasn't like other schools, was it?" "We had a doorway to hell underneath the library. And the guest speaker at my graduation tried to eat the class of '99." She shut her-Angel's-eyes for a second and rubbed her-Angel's-hand across them. Somehow she made him seem very young. With a sudden and certain insight, Kate realised the bravado performance Cordelia was maintaining in his presence was just that: a performance. She wanted to say something reassuring. "Look, I know squat about magic, but it makes sense that something that's been done can be undone. You won't be stuck this way." "God, I hope not. I don't wanna be dead for the rest of my life." Cordelia-as-Angel frowned. "That didn't make sense. You know what I mean." Kate smiled, gently this time. "I know." "But that's not all. I mean, if I had to be Wesley, or Gunn-well, it'd still be squicky and too gross for words, but it's Angel and… it's all that and other stuff too." She looked up at Kate and finished, "We're not right with each other. It's making this even yeckier. If more yeck were possible." "Take it from an old hand," Kate told her: "With relationships, more yeck is always possible." She heard the bathroom door open and close and looked around to see Angel-as-Cordelia returning to the living room. He was several shades paler than he had been five minutes earlier, but otherwise he seemed to have survived his encounter with mortal, female internal plumbing unscathed. "Cordelia, we should go." Cordelia-as-Angel stood up. "Yeah, I know. Places to go, people to beg for help." She made for the door. Angel-as-Cordelia hesitated, and turned back to Kate. "If anything comes up, better call Wesley." "Not you?" Cordelia-as-Angel shook her head. "They don't allow cell phones where we're going next. Or magic or violence. In fact, anything that might interrupt the singing." "The sing-" Kate started, then stopped. "No. I do not want to know. Look, I promise I'll call him the instant I get anything useful, okay?" "Thanks," said Angel-as-Cordelia. Kate smiled at him, but it was Cordelia-as-Angel she was looking at when she said, "I hope you work it out. I really do."
"Buckingham Palace isn't this impressive," said Wesley. Judith shrugged. "I had a good divorce lawyer." She walked up to the door and pressed the buzzer. A minute passed. Then the door opened slowly, and Wesley found himself face to face with a small, middle-aged man wearing a servant's plain dark suit and tie. He looked at Gunn, then Judith-as-Trixie, then Wesley, and finally at Gunn's battered pick-up, whose tyres had cut deep grooves through the drive's carefully raked gravel. "Good evening." "We're here to see Mrs Forbes-Carson," said Wesley. "I'm sorry, Mrs Forbes-Carson isn't expecting any visitors tonight." The door began to shut. "It's a surprise," said Gunn. "Y'know, we go way back with Mrs F-C, and we were in the 'hood so we thought we'd stop by." The man looked at him in frank incredulity. "Way back?" "Well, not way back," said Wesley, "But we do know her, at least in a manner of speaking, and it's quite important-look here, could you just let us in?" "I'm sorry," said the man, and started to close the door. "Henry," said Judith suddenly. The inch-wide gap stopped narrowing. After a second, it widened again, hesitantly. "Henry," said Judith, "You have worked here for twelve years, and every Christmas you get a special bonus which you send to your poor sick sister and her four children in Pittsburgh. Except your sister is a stripper in Inglewood and you have to pretty damn healthy to do the kinds of things she gets up to every night." Henry hesitated. Then, with dignity, he said, "The preferred term is 'exotic dancer'. It's a good profession. She's in the union." Judith sighed. "I don't care, Henry. I never did." Sensing an opportunity, Wesley said, "Henry, would I be correct in saying that your employer has been behaving somewhat unusually lately? That she hasn't been quite herself, perhaps?" The man hesitated. Then he stood back and opened the door. The noise swamped Wesley immediately. It came in waves from the far end of the mansion's art deco entrance hall, and sounded like someone enthusiastically torturing cats. He winced. "What is that?" "Mrs Forbes-Carson has been demonstrating a hitherto unsuspected eclecticism of taste recently," said Henry. "I believe this is a musical work from the Marilyn Manson oeuvre. Or possibly the Wu-Tang Clan." He went to the archway at the end of the entrance hall and stood just outside it. "Excuse me, Mrs Forbes-Carson, you have visitors." He raised his voice over the noise: "Mrs Forbes-Carson." Judith marched past him. "Trixie Lavelle, I know you're there." Gunn looked at Wesley, who shrugged and followed her. Beyond the archway he found himself in an octagonal sun-room, tastefully furnished with free-standing sculptures and wicker chairs. A variety of carefully placed flowering plants were plainly intended to enhance the atmosphere of quiet contemplation. Unfortunately, thought Wesley, the blaring stereo system and assorted empty pizza boxes and candy wrappers somewhat destroyed the ambience. And sprawling on the floor between two mounds of cushions- "Some folks just shouldn't wear lycra," murmured Gunn. "Nothin' personal. I'm just sayin'." The last time Wesley had seen Judith Forbes-Carson-or seen her body, to be accurate-she had been wearing a flowing silk gown and matching tailored jacket. In a contest between that and skin-tight leggings and a tight T-shirt, he decided, there simply wasn't a decision to be made. Judith-as-Trixie swept across the room and turned off the stereo. Trixie-as-Judith looked aggrieved. "I was listening to that." "We need to talk," said Judith. "Uh-uh," said Trixie, clambering awkwardly to her feet. It was bizarre, thought Wesley, but despite inhabiting a body which was well middle-aged and then some, everything about the way she moved screamed gauche adolescence. "You're not getting back in here. Not yet." "I'm not getting back in there ever." Trixie said, "We made a deal and this is my vacation and it's not over yet so you can't make me and-" A horrible suspicion began to form in Wesley's mind. "-and I like being rich, so there," finished Trixie. "Oh shit," said Gunn. "She doesn't know." Trixie looked at him. "Know what?" Something in Judith's expression changed, anger melting into compassion. "Sweetheart, this isn't a vacation. This is how we are now." Trixie stared around the room. It was a young, frightened stare in a lined face. "But Doug said-" She broke off and, with a series of small, whimpering gasps, started to cry. Within seconds she was sobbing, shoulders heaving as she hugged her arms around herself. Abruptly, Judith went to her. "Oh, honey. I'm sorry. You're only a girl, and I should have known better, I should have…" She drew Trixie to herself and embraced her, rocking her gently. "Henry, fetch some tissues from the box in my bedroom, please." Wesley looked back at the doorway where Henry stood, apparently confounded. He turned to go, walked several steps, then turned back. "Ahh. Who, ahh, who are…?" "Call me Trixie," said Judith. "I'll be staying here for a while." Henry looked no less confused, but he nodded and left. Judith was stroking Trixie's silver-streaked hair and whispering soft, reassuring words to her. Gunn shook his head. "We ain't gonna get anything useful here. The kid was duped." Judith, still holding Trixie, looked up at Wesley. Quietly, she said, "He said he was called Doug, but I never knew his last name. And when we were planning the ritual, he told me it had to be at night because he was tied up during the day. He phoned once in the morning, I heard people talking in the background, like an office. And that's everything I know." "Thank you," said Wesley. Judith-as-Trixie nodded. "We'll be okay now. You'd better go." Leaving the sun room, Wesley and Gunn made their way through the entrance hall and through the still-open front door to the truck parked outside. As he got in, Wesley said, "I should have guessed as much. There must be many more rich people who want to be younger than there are young people willing to give up forty years of their lifespans, no matter how much money is involved. So he lets them think it's just a temporary arrangement." He thought about Trixie, seventeen going on fifty, and felt something within himself harden. "I'm beginning to feel a certain degree of animosity towards this fellow Doug." "Huh," said Gunn. "I just want to kick the shit out of the son of a bitch."
As the song finished, the Host appeared from the wings, clapping with exaggerated appreciation. "Maurice and Maura: not even rigor mortis stands in the way of their love. Give them a big hand-and who knows, maybe they'll swap some other appendages with you too!" He looked down from the stage and straight at Cordelia and Angel. Somehow seeing past the glare of the spotlights, he winked at them. "We're gonna take a little breather now: that is, those of us who do breathe. Order another round; I'm back in ten." The Host hopped down from the stage and made his way to their booth. "Well, now, here's a sight to gladden the blackest of demon hearts. Isn't it nice that you're-gahhhh!" Putting a hand to his head, the Host reeled backwards in apparent agony. Angel stood up and made to help him, and was warded off by one green hand raised in warning. "Oh, no. Not one step closer, you hear?" Cordelia said, "We need your help." "You don't hear me arguing. Sheesh. You're not a melody, you're a cacophony. You're an explosion in an aura factory." The Host took several deep breaths, and straightened up. He tugged the lapels of his jacket flat and took a cautious step closer to their table. "I'm staying; I'm talking. But one condition-don't either of you sing. Don't hum. Don't even whistle a happy tune. Whatever's going on in those pretty heads of yours right now, I do not want to be in on it. I'm getting a migraine just standing here." "We feel your pain," said Cordelia, with sarcasm. "But I think our situation is maybe slightly more serious." "But funny," pointed out the Host. "You two, just sitting here: comedy gold." "Great. We'll pitch it to the networks. Maybe we'll get our own show." "Cordy," said Angel. He looked at the Host. "We've got until dawn to reverse this. The people conducting the rite we interrupted ran off. We have to find them tonight." The Host sucked in his breath. "Sweetie, do you know how many magical rites go on in this city on any given night?" Angel started to reply, and Cordelia tried to concentrate on the conversation, but somehow couldn't. There was a strange and cold emptiness in the pit of her stomach, and she wanted something to make it go away; something she couldn't define, but wanted badly nevertheless. A waiter walked past them, holding a tray laden with an mixture of improbably coloured drinks. The largest was a tall glass of deep red liquid which steamed slightly and threw off an aroma completely unlike anything Cordelia had ever known. It was thick and intoxicating; it smelled like dinner cooking if you hadn't eaten for days, like the sharp sweet scent of rain after a month in the desert, like the only thing she'd ever wanted or ever would want. Cordelia turned her head and followed the waiter's progress through the club. She had to grip the edge of the table to stop herself getting up and following him. "They were running it like a business," Angel was saying to the Host: "People paying money to be younger or prettier or whatever. So maybe they were advertising their services. Someone must know something." "Angel," said Cordelia urgently. The Host pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I can ask around for you." Cordelia reached across the table and pulled at the sleeve of Angel's blouse, stretching the yellow-and-blue sunflower pattern out of shape. "Angel, I'm hungry. I mean really, really hungry." "You're in the right place, honey. We serve the best creature of the night cuisine this side of the Mason-Dixie line," said the Host. He stood up and waved at the nearest waiter. "Paolo, one straight red for the lady in my undead friend's body over here. Bring a human menu too." As an afterthought, he added: "I'm going to see if we have any Tylenol out back. My head's killing me." Massaging his horns, he left. The waiter lifted a menu card from a nearby empty table and gave it to Angel. Then he disappeared in the direction of the bar. Cordelia drummed her fingers against the tabletop. This wasn't hunger; it was unadulterated, all-consuming need. "Oh God. I'm gonna die if I don't get something to eat now." At the other side of the table, Angel was watching her with a kind of saddened helplessness, as if he wanted desperately to do something for her but didn't know what. Cordelia fidgeted and squirmed and finally, out of some instinct she couldn't control, put her hand in her mouth and bit down, hard. She felt a gentle tug as Angel reached across the table and pulled her wrist away. "Don't. It won't help. Trust me, it won't." He looked around and, seeing the menu, seemed to think of something. He turned over the laminated card and pushed it towards her. "Cordelia, help me out here. What should I order?" She scowled at card, too consumed by the craving to focus. "I don't know. Whatever you want." "I don't know what I want. Choice at mealtimes-pretty much a novelty." Cordelia blinked, and made herself stare at the words on the menu until she could concentrate enough to make sense of them. It took effort to think of anything other than the overriding necessity of sating the hunger before it ate her up from the inside out. But Angel was looking at her hopefully, and another instinct-a better one-told her to act like she was in control. To pretend as hard as she could that everything was okay. With effort, she said, "McDonald's not big in eighteenth century Ireland, I guess." "Not really," said Angel. Cordelia realised that he was pretending too, and she was grateful. "What did you eat?" she asked, genuinely curious. "Potatoes figured prominently." Cordelia ran her finger down the options listed. "You can have French fries. They're potatoey. Maybe with the chicken wings and dip." "Will I like that?" "Well, I do. And you've got my taste buds, right?" The waiter returned, depositing a full glass of blood on the table in front of Cordelia. She didn't wait-couldn't wait-for Angel to order before draining it. She gulped it down as fast as she could swallow and oh God it was hot and rich and meaty and satisfying and she wanted to drink and keep drinking and never stop- And then it was all gone, and she still wanted more. "It's not enough," she said. "It's never enough," said Angel quietly. "You just have to pretend it is." Cordelia looked hard at the empty glass on the table in front of her, as if desire alone could fill it again. With difficulty, she ignored the continuing, although lessened, hunger and managed a small smile. "I don't know which is more disturbing, the fact that I just drank a pint of blood or the fact that I enjoyed it so much." Then she burped, and quickly covered her mouth. "Chicken wings and a side of French fries," announced the waiter as he returned. "That's for him," said Cordelia, pointing at Angel. The waiter didn't even blink at the choice of pronoun; a couple of months serving in Caritas was probably enough to eradicate anyone's capacity for incredulity. "The boss says this is on the house. Enjoy your meal." With practised speed, he unloaded a selection of dishes on to the table: a plate of deep-fried bread-crumbed chicken, a dish of light golden French fries still sizzling faintly and, nestling between them, three differently coloured and textured pots of dip. Angel looked at the selection of fare in front of him, and appeared overwhelmed. He looked like he needed help. Cordelia plucked a single French fry from the side dish, plunged it into the mustard-coloured dip and offered it to him. "Go on. Eat." He accepted it and put it in his mouth. Chewed cautiously. Swallowed. "Like it?" Angel didn't reply. His mouth was full again. Cordelia looked on, increasingly perturbed. "Uhh, okay. Angel, it's called dip because you're meant to dip things in it. Hence the term, dip. Eating it by itself is kinda gross." "Mmmph," said Angel. He lifted a handful of French fries and ate them, eyes widening in amazement. It was like watching a three year old discovering chocolate cake for the first time. "Now you're getting grease on my face and it's not attractive," said Cordelia. She handed him a napkin, and waited while he wiped around his mouth. "Sorry." "It's okay," she told him, and found she meant it. "I mean, it's nice to see you enjoy something for a change. But, just so we're clear here, if my body gains one ounce while you're in there, that time you spent in hell will feel like a cruise in the Caribbean compared to what I will do to you." "The sources have been pumped, the room has been well and truly worked," announced the Host, reappearing beside their booth. "And no news, in this instance, is not good news." "Nothing?" asked Cordelia. The Host sounded genuinely sympathetic as he said, "I'm sorry, sweetcakes." "Angel, what are we gonna do now?" Firmly, Angel said, "There's no reason to worry yet. Wesley and Gunn might have found something. And we still have most of the night." "Yeah," said Cordelia. "Plenty of time, right?" She got up and started to slide out of the booth, pausing only to motion to Angel to hurry up and finish the last piece of chicken. As she turned to leave, she almost collided with the Host. "You think you've got problems," he said. "Maurice and Maura the crooning cadavers are sitting over there right now waiting for me to advise them on their love life. Just think about it: zombie sex." He shuddered. "I'd really prefer not to," said Cordelia. The Host smiled and tweaked the collar of the leather coat she wore, straightening it. As he did so he leaned towards her and said, "You're gonna be okay, honey." Then he cast a fast sideways glance towards Angel, who was helping himself to the final French fries and the remains of the dip. "But, word of advice? Lose the floral print. Does nothing for your skin tone."
They were on to him. Kitchen, bottle of vodka from the top cupboard, find a glass, one shot, neat, better make it two, hands shaking, knock it back, grimace, oh God- They were definitely on to him. He lifted the glass and decided he couldn't afford to be drunk at a time like this. He poured the contents of the tumbler down the sink and left the kitchen. Five steps down the hall, he decided he needed to be a lot drunker than he was after all, and went back. Armed with another double-or maybe triple-vodka, he headed for the bedroom. He didn't even know who they were. Were they cops? FBI, maybe? Or even the CIA? He didn't think he'd done anything illegal but, hell, there had to be laws against making this much money this easily. Maybe they wanted to know how he did it; maybe they were going to take him away and put him in some creepy government programme. Maybe, he thought suddenly, they had nothing to do with the government. Because the girl had been just a girl, but the thing that had attacked him- It'd had teeth. He looked around and saw he was in the bathroom; he didn't remember coming in but he was here now, so he turned on the tap and stuck his head under it. He straightened up, gasped, and looked at himself in the mirror. "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to mess with the forces of darkness?" he asked his reflection. Actually no, she hadn't. She damn well should have. He went back to the bedroom and opened the closet. He lifted down a bag and put it on the bed. Then he started to pack, stuffing personal possessions and items of clothing on top of each other in no particular order. He could be at the airport in an hour; he'd never been outside the country and didn't have a passport but, hell, did he need one? The east coast was plenty far away. He'd buy a one-way ticket for NYC, or Miami, or somewhere else he'd never been and they'd never find him. The bag was almost full. There was one more thing he had to pack. Doug fetched the scroll from where he had left it sitting beside the bottle of vodka on the kitchen table. Carefully, almost reverently, he rolled it up and tucked it into the bag. As long as he had the scroll, he would be all right. He'd be able to start over somewhere else. He'd have everything he needed. Not quite everything. He wouldn't have access to the database of the company he worked for, the one he'd been using to select his clients from. He needed that too. No reason why he couldn't take it with him. Doug thought rapidly. His staff card gave him twenty four hour access to RestWell's offices. He couldn't copy the entire database-it was huge-but with most of the night and a supply of zip disks, he could replicate a significant chunk of it. Enough to start him off, wherever he ended up. He could still be eating breakfast on a plane headed over the Rockies. Doug thought for a moment longer. Then he lifted the packed canvas bag containing the scroll, his RestWell swipe card and the keys of his new Mercedes, and headed for the door. He didn't bother locking it behind him; he wouldn't be back.
3: Vice Versa "It doesn't make sense," said Wesley. Beside him, Gunn checked the truck's mirrors and pulled away from Judi |