For One Night Only 4: Point of View

"How many people is it holding down here?"

"How should I know?"

"Scent, Cordy. Just inhale and concentrate."

Cordelia backed up deeper into the alcove where she and Angel were hiding, finding it surprisingly easy despite the necessity of folding away limbs which were bulkier than she was used to. Vampires really did possess a natural talent for lurking.

Some yards away, in the cavernous interior of the main underground parking lot, she could hear the dull roars of the demon as it patrolled the perimeter of its territory. They hadn't caught sight of it yet, but Cordelia figured anything that could make that kind of noise had to be very big and scary indeed.

Okay, trying not to think about that.

She inhaled, and tasted the air. "There are four people."

"You're sure?"

She nodded. "One Eternity, by Calvin Klein, one Eau D'Issey Miyake, one Tommy Girl and—" She wrinkled her nose in disdain: "Something by Yves St Laurent. I mean, who wears Yves St Laurent any more?"

To her surprise, Angel actually smiled. "Not how I would have done it, but I'll take your word. Are any of them injured?"

She couldn't smell any blood, so… "No. Not so far, anyhow."

He thought about that for a second. "Then the priority is to get them out safely."

"And how does demon-slaying fit in with that?"

"It doesn't. We get in and out and make sure it doesn't notice us."

"Liking that plan a lot," agreed Cordelia. She looked around the corner of the alcove and around the parking lot. "Looks clear."

"Then let's do it."

She steeled herself and slipped out of the alcove, Angel beside her. Moving quietly wasn't as difficult as she had expected it to be: all she had to do was concentrate a little harder on where she put her feet, how she spread this body's weight. And hey, this stealth thing was actually kind of fun once you got into the swing of it—

She saw something move in the shadows ahead, and stopped dead. Angel, lacking her night vision, bumped into her. "What is it?"

There were four human figures, struggling against bindings, writhing in fear and confusion. The stench of fear was almost overpowering. "I see them. It's got them roped together."

"That isn't rope. Eterlucs secrete a kind of mucus that solidifies…"

"Too much detail," interrupted Cordelia quickly. She held up her dagger: "Let's just do this and get out of here."

Angel pulled out his own knife and started to move forward. Cordelia was about to follow him when she felt it.

Vibrations, ringing through the concrete floor and the soles of her boots and shaking her body to the core. The thud, thud, thud of something approaching.

And the thuds were getting closer as it picked up speed.

Angel was cutting at the gloopy, fibrous strands encasing the demon's victims. Without a vampire's heightened senses, he hadn't yet realised the demon was coming back for its meal.

She had to do something. But, oh God, what? She just needed a couple of seconds to think—

Too late. Cordelia turned and the demon was in front of her. Angel had been entirely accurate regarding the Eterluc's green skin and the spines. He had neglected to mention its savage claws, or the razor sharp teeth and strings of foul mucus hanging from them like obscene Christmas decorations.

Play for time, Cordy.

Brightly, she said, "Hi there. I can see you're annoyed but, you know, violence is not the only way to resolve conflict. What do you say we sit down and talk this through like adults?"

The demon roared at her. Its breath carried the fetid stink of decay and she had to fight not to retch. Still, if bad breath was the worst it could do, maybe she had a chance of getting out of this alive. Or not more dead, anyway.

Then the Eterluc hit her, and she flew backwards, straight into a pillar.

She heard Angel call her name urgently as she gasped and slid on to the floor. She felt—well, she felt like she'd just slammed into a concrete block at high speed, but she wasn't unconscious. And she didn't hurt nearly as much as she knew she should.

She stood up, swayed, but remained on her feet. "I'm okay."

"Get out of here!" yelled Angel. "Run!"

God, that was a tempting strategy. But even as he said it, Cordelia knew she had to stand her ground. The demon's attack was focused entirely on her, and if she could keep it occupied for long enough, Angel might just be able to free its victims. If she ran, they would die. And so would Angel, because now the only way out was past the Eterluc.

She picked up a loose chunk of masonry and threw it at the demon. The block clipped it on the shoulder. "Hey! Did anyone ever tell you you've got a serious halitosis problem?"

The Eterluc glared at her, and tipped its head to one side. She wondered if it understood English.

"That's right, stinky breath! I'm talking to you!"

The demon roared, and charged.

"Cordy, fighting stance!" yelled Angel.

She didn't even know what that meant, exactly, but her feet shifted and her arms raised to the level of her chest almost of their own accord. Then she understood: he had practised these actions so often and for so long that they had become patterns this body was familiar with, movements it was ready to make at the slightest trigger.

"Cool," said Cordelia: "Reflexes."

"Crescent kick!"

She kicked, and the demon stumbled.

"Left roundhouse!"

She kicked again, and it fell.

This was going pretty well, considering—

The Eterluc bounced to its feet, and she realised with a sick, sinking feeling that she hadn't even bruised it.

"Cordy, feint right! Now!"

She ducked to her right, narrowly avoiding the swipe of the demon's claws. Fine so far, but she was beginning to tire, and she didn't know how much longer she could keep this up.

She got her answer seconds later, when she moved an instant too late to deflect one of the Eterluc's attacks. She felt something rip in her shoulder, and pain shot through her left side. The demon loomed over her, ready to make the killing blow.

Then something in her changed.

It happened by instinct, not choice. A red mist descended just behind her eyes and for a second she revelled in the pure, sweet thrill of violence. For the first time since she'd been Angel, Cordelia felt at one with this body, in tune with its needs and desires. In harmony with the vampire.

"You picked the wrong girl to mess with," she told the demon, and growled. It felt good.

She rolled out from under it, ignoring the pain in her arm and shoulder as she jumped with precision to her feet. She was behind the demon now, and had the advantage. It began to turn, but its size was now working against it, and it couldn't move quickly enough.

She was distantly aware that Angel was still shouting, but she wasn't listening any more. She didn't need to.

Cordelia had a few moves of her own.

And now she was back on the field at Sunnydale High, cheerleading for the Razorbacks in the championship finals, spinning and punching and kicking her way through the routine she'd been practising for at least a couple of hours after school every day for months. The moves were easy and familiar, and it wasn't difficult to alter them ever so slightly to make the blows connect.

The demon staggered, off-balance. Cordelia kicked, pirouetted, kicked again from another angle, again from another, and again and again—

The demon thudded to the ground.

She reached down and retrieved her knife from where she had dropped it on the floor. With an easy, brutal motion, she rammed it into the soft hollow of flesh just below the lowest of its spines.

The Eterluc howled, and died.

She'd killed it.

She looked at the knife in her hands. It was stained with something that was deep purple in colour and stank of tar and salt and other things she couldn't name.

She'd killed it.

"Here. Let me take that."

She started as Angel relieved her of the bloodied dagger; she hadn't heard or smelled him approaching. She looked up to see how far along he was in freeing the demon's intended meals, and saw with surprise that they had gone, leaving only a mound of sticky grey fibres heaped in the corner.

She wondered how long she'd been standing staring at the Eterluc's body.

"I killed it," she said numbly.

Angel put one hand on her uninjured arm and one on her other shoulder, and turned her around. She let him move her until she didn't have to look at the dead thing on the floor any more.

"I killed it," she repeated, "and I never killed anything before—I mean, I've staked a couple of vampires but they just go poof so you don't have to deal with it but now there's a body and I think, I think—I think I might have enjoyed it."

"It's okay," said Angel. "It's over now; it's all right."

And then, unexpectedly, he pulled her towards him and held her. She was cold, chilled all the way through, and she wasn't prepared for how comfortingly, intoxicatingly real the warmth of a living touch was. She wanted to stay like this, just being held, until she absorbed as much of that heat as she could. Maybe then she'd feel alive.

A sudden unnerving thought struck her and, raising a hand, she ran her fingertips over her face.

"Angel? How do I, uhhh, stop doing this?"

For a moment he didn't reply, and she wondered if perhaps he didn't know himself. Then, just as she was verging on panic, he said, "Close your eyes."

She closed them.

"Imagine a box. A big, solid box, with a heavy lid and a lock."

She could see it: an old-fashioned chest, made out of oak, held together by iron nails. "Okay."

Softly, he went on, "Imagine yourself, taking off this face and everything that goes with it. Putting it in the box. Shutting the lid. Walking away."

She pictured it, step by step. And when she opened her eyes again she didn't need to feel her forehead to know that the thing that had relished the kill was safely locked away. Not gone, but under control. For now.

She looked at Angel curiously. "Is that what you do?"

"Sometimes. If nothing else works." He touched her arm: "Are you badly hurt?"

"I'll live," responded Cordelia automatically. Then it struck her what a stupid thing that was to say under the circumstances. This body didn't live; that was the point. It would simply repair itself, skin and tissue knitting together unscarred and with impossible speed, ready for the next round of abuse. This body stayed perfect and never aged a day, but was perpetually cold and needy and leaden. This body didn't express the spirit within so much as hold it prisoner.

She didn't think she could stand feeling this way a second longer.

"How do you exist like this?" she asked Angel. "I mean, how do you keep from going crazy?"

"Actually, I have gone crazy. More than once." He gave a small, rueful smile. "Turns out sanity's a hard habit to break."

She looked at him. "Is that what the last few months have been about? You stepping out of the Reason Room for a quick cigarette?"

The smile vanished. "No. Although maybe it would make more sense that way."

Cordelia shook her head. "I don't understand you, Angel. And now I am you and I still don't understand you."

"If it makes you feel better, for the past couple of months I haven't really understood myself."

"Well, try," she instructed him. "The world and Cordelia Chase want to know."

Angel hesitated. At last he said, "I wanted… I needed to save her. And when I couldn't, it felt like nothing else I'd ever done or ever could do was worth a damn."

Cordelia shook her head. "What makes Darla so important?"

"Because she made me," said Angel simply. "The bond matters. You can't understand unless you're a vampire."

"In the first place," she told him firmly, "right now I am a vampire and that argument still looks shaky from this side of the fangs. And in the second place—what about the other bonds I thought you had? The ones with Wesley, and Gunn, and me? When did they stop mattering?"

Angel said, "They didn't. I had to learn that the hard way." He shook his head tiredly. "Darla owns a piece of me, Cordelia. That's how it is with us. It makes her stronger and me weaker."

"But you killed her once already," pointed out Cordelia.

"Yes," said Angel, "and at first I couldn't figure out why it was so much easier then. I thought the only way to be stronger than her was to get back to where I was the first time I staked her. To put aside everything that's made me different since."

And suddenly it did make a weird kind of sense, thought Cordelia. Because that was just the way she was used to Angel—pig-headed, noble, self-sacrificing, stupid Angel—seeing things. Here, at last, was the Angel she remembered.

"And that included us," she said. She sighed. "Didn't work, did it."

"No," he admitted quietly. "I got to exactly where I wanted to be and found out I didn't want to be there. I wasn't strong; I was just empty. Brittle. You're the only real strength I've got. That's what I found out when I slept with Darla."

Cordelia stared at him. Mentally re-wound that last part. Re-played it in her head.

No, she hadn't imagined it.

"You. And Darla. Had sex."

He nodded.

"Ewww," said Cordelia. She took a step backwards, breaking contact with him, and started brushing herself down. "Ewww! Oh, ewww, yecchhh! Angel, how could you?"

"Not one of my better decisions, I admit."

But Cordelia wasn't listening. "I don't believe this! This body has done it with Darla! Jeez, Angel, you don't have sex for years and then you have to go and prang Darla right before I get here?"

He was staring at her now with an odd expression. The side of his mouth twitched upwards, very slightly.

"I'm gonna shower," said Cordelia. "Then I'm gonna shower again. In fact, I might just stay in the shower forever and I can do that because, guess what, immortal now—" She broke off.

Angel was laughing.

It was her laugh—throaty, hoarse, kind of snorty around the edges—coming out of her mouth, but there was no doubt that it was Angel doing the laughing. She glowered at him, just about ready to explode because this was so not funny and of all the moments he had to choose to rediscover his sense of humour—

Then it struck her that maybe it was kind of funny, after all.

"The look on your face," said Angel. He was gasping for breath. "My face. You look so disgusted."

Cordelia started laughing too.

And that was strange, because she'd never heard Angel laugh, not properly, and she wasn't sure what to expect. But it sounded good and once she got used to the idea that she had to remember to stop and inhale occasionally, it felt pretty good too.

She laughed until she couldn't stand up straight any more, and when the fit finally passed, she was sitting on the cold floor beside Angel, leaning shoulder-to-shoulder against him.

She twisted around to face him, and saw he had managed to turn her face an interesting shade of red. "Breathing while laughing," he said at last: "Is there a technique to that?"

Cordelia shrugged. "I don't think so. It's a design flaw."

"We should go," said Angel. He stood up and offered her his hand. It felt no less strange than before when she took it, but at least this time she was a little more prepared.

She allowed him to help her as they made their way back up the parking lot's entrance tunnel. Through her shirt and the leather jacket she wore, Cordelia could feel the faint but definite press of Angel breathing in and out, as well as the warmth his living flesh threw out and the steady beat of his heart. Strange to walk next to him and know the body she inhabited wasn't doing any of those things. Strange and lonely.

They were almost outside when Angel said, "Thank you."

"Yeah, well, it was kinda fun. I might just have invented a new sport: combat cheerleading."

"Not the fight. Just now. I haven't laughed since…" He stopped. "I'm not sure I've ever really laughed."

"I don't think that wry chuckle thing you do counts." She frowned. "So you slept with Darla and you're not, you know, evil?"

"No."

"Weird."

"Not really. It was about as far from perfect happiness as it's possible to get."

"Oh."

Angel said, "Cordelia, I'm…"

"Don't," she interrupted him. "Don't say it. We're… we're okay here. I mean, right here, right now, you and me are okay. Don't go and spoil it by doing something stupid like apologising."

He looked at her out of her own eyes, and she could tell he didn't understand.

"I know you're sorry now, Angel. That's your whole problem. You're always sorry afterwards. The point is, it's too late by then. The cars are piled up, the ambulances are arriving and the cops are stringing yellow hazard tape around the scene."

She'd meant to yell at him, to let out the anger which had been building for so long. But somehow when she opened her mouth the vitriol drained away, and she heard herself using his voice to speak gently and without rancour.

"I can't change what I am," said Angel quietly.

"Pffft," said Cordelia. "This has nothing to do with being a vampire or cursed or whatever. It's about you and your stupid obsessive-compulsive tendencies. You not being able to let go of things. You not being able to move on. And that's just—that's just you." She sighed. "I'm still mad, you know. And I haven't forgiven you. You, Mister, are not even ten per cent forgiven."

"I know."

"But I'm giving you another chance. That's a pretty big deal."

There was a second's silence. Finally Angel said, "I appreciate that."

They had reached the mouth of the parking lot's entrance tunnel and the entrance barrier. Cordelia pointed to the convertible which she could see perfectly in the darkness and Angel couldn't, then leaned on him as he helped her the final distance to the car.

She was leaning on the hood when the cell phone in her coat pocket rang shrilly. She hunted it out and answered it. "Hello?"

"Cordelia?" Wesley sounded agitated. "I've been trying to contact you for the past hour. Why hasn't your phone been turned on?"

She started to tell him it had been on, then realised what had happened. "Oh. I was in an underground parking lot. No signal."

"Is Angel there? Where are you?"

"Yeah, he's here. We're in Pasadena."

"What the hell are you doing in Pasadena?"

Wesley was swearing? Cordelia blinked, nonplussed. "Well, Angel had a vision and—long story short, it was the usual 'big nasty demon innocents in mortal danger' scenario. Hey, Wesley, I got to fight and I totally whipped demon-guy into next week. How cool is that?"

"Cordelia, just be quiet and listen to me."

There was a forcefulness in his manner Cordelia had only rarely heard, and she shut up. Angel was looking at her, frowning. The volume on the phone was sufficiently high, she guessed, for him to pick up Wesley's tone, if not his words.

Wesley said, "I'm with Gunn. We've rounded up all the original participants, as well as the materials needed for the ritual. We're ready to start."

"Wesley, that's great news—"

"And we're back at the warehouse at the airport."

"No problem. The car's here, we'll leave now."

"Cordelia!" said Wesley: "You've only got twenty minutes."

Suddenly, she felt cold. Colder. She looked at Angel's watch, as if there was even the slimmest chance that Wesley was wrong. As if.

It was 06.11. At half past six, twelve hours would have passed since they had disrupted the ritual.

There was no way she and Angel could make it across the city in fifteen minutes. Not even the remotest chance.

She looked at Angel, and saw he knew it too.

"We're screwed," she said.

"What the hell are they doing in Pasadena?" asked Gunn.

"That's exactly what I said." Wesley switched off his cell-phone and stared at it, as if by sheer force of will he could make the liquid crystal clock in the corner of the screen stop. When that didn't work, he looked around the assorted group of part-time acolytes, who were shrugging on their robes and chatting with each other as if this was just another kind of social gathering, a Tupperware party with entrails. To them, he supposed, it was. "They can't get here in time," he said. "There's no way."

Gunn ran one hand over his shaved scalp. "Okay. Say they're a little late. Is that such a big deal?"

"They could be a little late or a lot late, it doesn't matter now. Half a second longer than twelve hours and that's it. The change is permanent." Wesley shut his eyes. "Oh God. Poor Cordelia…"

Gunn wasn't ready to give up. "Let's do the ritual anyway. Maybe it'll work even if they're not here."

"With translocation magic, the subjects have to be physically present. Otherwise it won't…" He trailed off, as a fragment of half-remembered text flitted into his thoughts. "Wait. That's not strictly true. Perhaps if we had some kind of talisman from each of them: a personal item, a lock of hair—"

Gunn was shaking his head, and Wesley felt his momentary hope crumble again. "Man, I like Cordy and all, but I don't carry bits of her around with me."

Wesley sighed. "Well, it was an idea." He looked at his watch again, gaze drawn to it with horrible fascination. Ten minutes left.

An electronic rendition of Yankee Doodle Dandy rang out, its tinny cheeriness clashing with Wesley's despair. He looked up, annoyed, and saw one of the acolytes talking into his cell phone.

"No, I can't talk. Sweetie, it's kind of awkward right now. Marlene, that's not true. I did tell you. Honey—"

Wesley stared at the man's phone, then at his own. He had an idea.

He limped across the warehouse and snatched the acolyte's phone away from him.

"Hey! That's my phone! What are you—"

"Hello Marlene," said Wesley. "This is just to let you know that your husband or boyfriend is an underachieving, self-deluding fool who spends his free time dabbling in the occult. If I were you I'd take the car and your jewellery and make sure you're long gone by the time he gets home. Goodbye."

He ended the call and went back to where Gunn stood, looking confused.

"Granted, the guy was irritating, but is that gonna achieve anything?"

"It might," said Wesley. He tossed the acolyte's phone to Gunn. "Call Cordelia," he instructed, while paging through the numbers in his own phone's address book until he found Angel's.

"What am I gonna say?" asked Gunn. "Aside from, sorry to hear your bad news?"

"Just listen. I won't have time to explain twice."

Angel answered his cell phone almost immediately. In Cordelia's voice, he said, "Wesley?" Another phone rang in the background.

"Tell Cordelia to answer that. It's Gunn."

"Right."

The ringing stopped. Wesley nodded to himself. "I have an idea. I'm not sure it'll work, but it's about the only thing we can do."

"We're listening."

"You can't get here in time; there's no point trying. I'm going to perform the magic anyway."

"But if we're not there—"

"You will be," said Wesley. "In a manner of speaking. Now, you need to be in physical contact with each other, so hold hands. Don't put the phones down."

There was a short pause, followed by, "We're ready."

"Very well. Remember, whatever happens: do not break the contact."

"Right."

Wesley held the phone away from himself for a moment, and raised his voice over the hum of conversation. "Places! Now!" He glared at Doug Kluggerman, who was kicking his heels at the edge of the group. "You. Get over here. Bring the litany with you."

The ritualists fell into their allotted positions in the circle, and Wesley took the sheaf of dusty pages from Doug as soon as he was within reach. He glanced at the first sheet for less than a second before flipping past it to the next part. "Flesh of flesh, mind of mind, soul of soul," he began.

"Hey!" interrupted Doug. "You've missed out the whole intro! What happened to spirits of other places, we call on thee?"

"It's just padding for atmosphere. We can lose it," said Wesley tersely. He glanced at his watch, and guessed he had eight minutes to cast the spell, with no room for delays. Damn, he'd have to cut out whole swathes from the middle section. He was going to have to think fast, edit the litany as he went along, pray he didn't leave out something crucial—

"But that's the best bit," complained Doug. "I love that bit. You're butchering it."

"Gunn," said Wesley.

The cracking noise and the sudden gasp from Doug which followed told Wesley exactly what happened next without the need to look up from the ritual. "Thank you, Gunn."

"Always a pleasure."

Wesley checked his watch again. Seven minutes.

He took deep breath, and began to read.

Cordelia stood facing Angel, her cool hand interlocking with his warm one, fingers interlaced. With her other hand she held the cell phone to her ear. From the other side of LA Wesley's electronically filtered voice—bounced around through God knew how many transmitters and satellites—raced through the spell's litany at comical speed.

"This isn't gonna work, is it?" she said.

"It's going to work," said Angel.

He didn't believe it. Cordelia didn't know where that certainty came from—a scent-trace of anxiety of which she wasn't consciously aware, or some instinctive knowledge of the shape and set of her own face—but she was sure of it all the same. It felt odd to be able to read him so clearly now, having spent so long in recent months trying to guess what might be going on behind impassive features and distant eyes.

On the other end of the phone, Wesley recited, "Let these spirits leap unfettered from their vessels," firing out the words so fast that they bled into each other.

"It's okay to say it," she said.

Angel paused. Finally he admitted, "If it works, I'm pretty sure it'll be a first."

"And return these wayward spirits to their own true homes," said Wesley: "as it was let it now be again, so let it be."

The sudden silence on the other end of the line was unsettling. Speaking into the phone, Cordelia said, "Wesley? Why have you stopped?"

"Because that's it. It's finished. You're not…?"

She shut her eyes. "No."

With determined hopefulness, Wesley asked, "You're sure?"

"If it had worked, I think we would have noticed."

"I suppose," said Wesley reluctantly. Then, quietly, and with palpable disappointment: "Damn it."

"Thanks for trying."

"This isn't over yet," said Wesley, attempting reassurance and falling well short. "Come back to the office. We have to decide what to do next."

"Yeah."

She turned off the phone and pocketed it, then disentangled her fingers from Angel's. "Y'know, I didn't think it'd happen like this."

He looked at her, puzzled. "What would happen like this?"

Cordelia shrugged. "The prophecy. The Shanshu thing. The whole 'vampire with a soul becomes human' deal. Because here you are, alive. The Powers That Be must have a real screwball sense of humour."

Angel said, "I've never wanted it less."

"It's okay," she told him softly.

"It isn't," he told her. "You were right. I should have stayed away."

She shook her head. "No, I was wrong. Because if we hadn't come here when you had the vision, those people would have been killed by the time we got ourselves straightened out. So we did the right thing. Even if it means being stuck like this for good, it was still the right thing. And that's what you and me are about, right? Before Wesley arrived and before Gunn came along, there was us. Me with the visions and you with the fangs." She stopped. "Or vice versa."

Angel said nothing. He nodded.

She looked at him. "Okay. Now I can't tell what you're thinking, and it's weird."

"I'm thinking… we've both come a long way from where we started."

"I guess we have," she said.

The matte blackness of the sky overhead was lightening, replaced by a hazy greyness spreading from the east. "It'll be day soon. Cordelia…" Angel nodded in the direction of the car.

Time to be brave, thought Cordelia. Focus on getting through the next five minutes; the next hour. Just that long. Don't think about the rest of today or tomorrow or, oh God, the next hundred years. Most of all, don't think about being this alone forever.

Would she have to be alone?

She opened the car door and got into the passenger side. "Hey, Angel? Promise you'll stick around and, you know, help me deal?"

"I won't leave again."

"Good," she said, relieved. "And I can give you the lowdown on living. That body you've got now needs looking after. It's top of the range: low mileage and one careful owner; the visions come free." The eastern horizon was more than grey now: it was bright. She couldn't look at it any more, so she raised a hand to shield her eyes. "Angel, can we please go now? It's getting really light out here and I don't like it."

"You've got the car keys," said Angel.

Of course she did; she'd driven here. Cordelia started to feel in the pockets of her leather coat, but her arm hurt and the growing light bothered her and there was a weird pounding in her ears that hadn't been there a second earlier.

She froze.

PaPump. PaPump. PaPump.

Her heart was beating.

She looked down, and saw she was digging around for the car keys in the empty pockets of her pants. She pulled out her hands and held them up in the faint light that no longer disturbed her. They were grubby, slim-fingered and delicate. A woman's hands. Her hands.

And yes, her manicure was ruined.

"Angel?" she said, and heard the words emerge in her own voice.

He looked at her from the passenger seat of the car, where she had been moments before.

Cordelia put her hands to her chest and pressed hard, feeling a growing sense of wonder as the touch confirmed the thud of life inside her. "Ohmigod. Angel?"

"Apparently."

"What—? I mean, when—?

"Just now."

She shook her head, amazed. "I didn't even—"

"Neither did I."

For a moment, they stood in silence. Then Cordelia lifted a hand and punched the air exuberantly. "Way to go, Wesley! You rock! You rock the house, the garage and most of the garden too!"

She spun around, hopping on the spot until she was literally dancing for joy. "Hello toes, hello ankles and calves and knees, hi there stomach, missed ya, how ya been fingers and hands and arms and, oh look, breasts—"

"Cordelia," said Angel. He pointed at the horizon. "Small issue of sunrise?"

She caught herself and looked up, giggling. "Oh, yeah. I'll get properly reacquainted later." She hopped into the car and took the keys from him. "Let's go share the good news."

"I'd like to say I had no doubt that the spell would work…" began Wesley.

"Liar," interrupted Cordelia equably.

He smiled and held up a hand to show he hadn't finished: "I'd like to say that, but I really can't. We were extremely lucky."

"The Angel Investigations improvisation school of crisis management triumphs again," she agreed, dipping her spoon deep into the ice cream sundae she was attacking with gusto. Normally anything containing this high a concentration of chocolate chips, marshmallow pieces, nuts and hot fudge sauce would have been firmly on the forbidden list, but today Cordelia didn't care. Calories and fat content be damned; she could taste it all, and it was divine.

Wesley said, "In retrospect, I should have realised that the magic might not work immediately. It didn't the first time." He frowned, and sipped his tea, looking out at the outdoor café's other tables without, Cordelia could tell, really seeing them.

"Wesley, what is it?"

He shrugged. "It's probably nothing to worry about. It's just…" He hesitated: "The first spell Mr Kluggerman cast created a magical backwash that affected you and Angel later. I'm wondering if that was due to an error on his part, or whether it's inherent in the ritual he was using."

The last spoonful of ice cream and fudge sauce hovered in the air in front of Cordelia's mouth, dripping slowly. "You mean, I could be walking around later today and suddenly, boom, I'm Angel again?"

"Oh, no, not at all," said Wesley quickly. "I'm quite sure that won't happen." He reached out and patted her hand, the one she had been using to steady the sundae while she ate. The cold glass had chilled her skin, and for a moment she felt his warm touch on her frigid flesh, and remembered.

Quietly she said, "It's not fun. Being him, I mean. There's a lot of stuff he has to deal with he never talks about."

"Yes. I imagine there is." Wesley looked at her sternly. "None of which excuses his recent behaviour."

Cordelia nodded. "I know. But it makes it a little bit more understandable."

"Well, perhaps," said Wesley. He didn't sound convinced.

She dug into the depths of the near-empty ice-cream sundae, retrieving the last gooey spoonful of fudge sauce. Then, pushing the dish to one side, she began to study the laminated menu. "Hey, Wesley, how about pancakes and syrup?"

"I'm quite full, thank you."

"Not for you, for me." She turned the card over. "Oooh, pastries! Do y'think they have the ones with the cinnamon swirls and the icing?"

The sun shone in the L.A. sky above them, and Cordelia decided it was good to be alive.

Life sucked, thought Doug.

He had woken up in an empty warehouse to find his acolytes gone, along with the limping English guy and his thuggish friend. What was worse, they'd taken the only written copy of the spell's litany with them. Doug cursed himself for not having the foresight to make a copy.

By the time he'd gotten home and washed and changed, he'd been late for work, and now the supervisor, Mrs Makiewitz, was eyeing him with suspicion, if not outright hostility. He didn't think she'd believed him when he told her he'd sustained the black eye while re-papering his hall.

It was over, he realised morosely. The best six months of his life had come to a sudden and undignified end. No more extra money for cars and vacations. No more mastering the dark powers of the occult. No more being treated with respect and awe by his very own acolytes. Now he was just dull Doug Kluggerman, stuck in a crappy dead end job, forced to spend all day every day talking to other crappy dead end people who didn't want what he had to try to sell them.

"Doug," snapped Mrs Makiewitz from her station: "Your line's idle but you're not on a scheduled break. What's wrong with this picture?"

He sighed and adjusted his headphones and speaker set, then clicked his PC's mouse, instructing the machine to dial the next random number from the company's database. The details flashed up on the screen: Bekki Styles, age 23, unmarried, four kids. Trailer trash, thought Doug. She probably didn't even know what insurance was. Maybe she'd be out.

She wasn't. The phone line clicked, and a woman's voice answered, young but already hoarse from too much booze and too many cigarettes. "Yeah?"

"Good afternoon, Ms Styles. I'm calling on behalf of RestWell Life Assurance."

In the background, children screamed. "Whaddya want?"

"Ms Styles, I want to make your life anxiety free. Do you ever worry about what your dependants would do if something happened to you, Ms Styles?"

"Who's this? You threatenin' me?"

Doug gritted his teeth and continued, "No, Ms Styles. I'm calling from RestWell Life Assurance—"

"Don't need none."

Doug felt himself starting to get angry. Breaking from the cold-call script he was supposed to follow, he said, "Yes you do. Everyone needs insurance."

"Look, I got—Savannah! Don't do that to LaToyah!—I got kids here, whatever you're selling, I don't want it."

Something in Doug snapped. "And what happens if you're knocked down by a bus tomorrow? Or get some really horrible disease? You know, you're exactly the kind of person who turns up horribly disfigured on Ricki Lake and talks about how the world's screwed them over, when really you were just too stupid to think more than two seconds in advance and frankly I hope you get lung cancer or cirrhosis of the liver and die soon."

Doug stopped. Something wasn't right.

His voice, for a start. It was too high pitched.

And he was standing up.

And where had the call centre gone?

"Ma," said a child's voice from somewhere around his knees.

He looked down and saw a three year old whose mouth was smeared with jam tugging at the hem of his—at the hem of his—oh God at the hem of his—

Skirt?

"Hello?" he said into the telephone. The line was dead.

"Ma!" said the kid, more urgently. "Ma, I done peepee."

Doug looked down and saw a rapidly expanding pool of liquid spreading out from around the toddler's bare feet on to the filthy linoleum.

A second child—a girl—was standing in the doorway of the tiny kitchen, pointing and giggling. "Ma, Donny done pee."

"Ma!" said Donny, pulling at Doug's clothes.

"Ma!" said the girl.

"Ma!"

"Ma!"

And Doug knew his problems had just started.