(1)

My eyes flicker open and alight on a vast, white expanse, that could be a

ceiling, or a floor, depending on which way up I'm lying.

Which way up *am* I lying?

Oh, it's a ceiling. Wait, the whole room's white. At least I think it's a

room. Lots of white, as far as I can see. This is probably what the fitting

rooms in Macy's are going to be like after the new modern upgrade. In fact,

this could be the fitting room in Macy's after the new modern upgrade, and I

fell asleep while I was getting changed. Only I can't see the door, or a

curtain, or any mirrors, and I'm fully clothed. So maybe I'm asleep and I

fell into a Gap advert. Wait, wait. Cordelia Chase does *not* dream about

Gap. In fact --

Oh. Oh, God, I -- I --

"Sure did, honey."

Okay. Someone who sounds like the male version of Megan Mullally is in my

dream? I mean, I died already. This is the worst nightmare ever. Then

again... I haul myself to my feet, dusting down my shirt and skirt. Icky

white dust clings to me. Euuww. Whoever is in charge of this place should

look at the price tag of my outfit before they destroy it. Well, at least

someone's talking to me. That indicates that my previous suspicion was

wrong. I turn around and see Mr Mullally. A guy with long, greasy black

hair, wearing a white Japanese robe thing (Prada's latest collection, if I'm

not mistaken), filing nails painted black (or maybe just really dirty) and

sitting on a white breeze block. Oh, I see what's happened here. I'm awake,

but I somehow passed out in Buffy's Mom's art gallery. Only that art gallery

doesn't look like this, and there's not another one in Sunnydale. And I

*know* I would've remembered passing out in the Tate Modern. What the heck

is going on here? Have I gone crazy and nobody thought it was important to

tell me? Yeah, that'd be typical of Willow, and Buffy, and probably Oz with

all his stoicy -- stoicness.

"What's going on?" I demand, hands on slender hips, full on pout. "And for

the record, you're a leather man. No Hell's Angel has ever been able to

carry off white Prada, especially not with a complexion like that."

The guy looks at me lazily for a moment before breaking into a laugh. "Oh

dear, Cordelia," he rumbles in a voice that sounds like oil on gravel, if

you can imagine that. "You haven't got it yet, have you? This isn't a

promotion for the Prada Spring/Summer collection. This is God's fashion

show. God label. Don't you know where you are?"

I frown. "Does Stella McCartney design for you? I don't think I've heard--"

"Take a look around," he suggests, and goes back to filing his nails.

I spiral slowly, trying to take in all my surroundings. It's not hard. The

color scheme is pretty much... well, white, as far as I can see, and there's

something pretty disconcerting about it. I mean, you can't see where the

floor turns into the walls and the walls turn into the ceiling. A girl like

me could walk into stuff. "God's fashion show. God label," I repeat

thoughtfully. "Some kind of weird art gallery, right? Or am I having a

really awful dream?"

"Your dreams are usually worse than this," he tells me bluntly. Which I

already know, but I don't get how he does. I mean, he couldn't know that I

dream about Willow being turned into a test tube and Xander bursting into

flames. That one's more recent. "You're wrong on both counts. Did you ever

see the film Ghost?"

"Oh, please. Just because one nerdy guy cheated on me does not mean that I

have to surrender to complete unending geekiness. I do *have* a life."

"Not strictly true," he replies, and I wish that he'd be a little less blase

when talking about my whole entire existence. "Allow me to introduce myself.

I'm Azrael. Official title, Angel of Death. And you, Cordelia Chase, are

currently in what I like to call Halfway House."

I roll my eyes. "And I guess that has some dorky official title too. Who do

you think I am? Did Xander put you up to this? I'm not stupid, you know."

"Official title: The Stopping Point Between The Gutter And The Stars. But

that's irrelevant. And I can assure you that a), I know exactly who you are,

b), Xander did not put me up to this, and c), your intelligence is currently

debatable." I continue to glare at him, and he sighs. "Cordelia, must I

spell it out?"

"I guess you must," I retort.

"You're dead."

*

When my eyes flicker open (again), I'm still trapped in the Gap advert, and

Azrael (stupid name, stupid haircut) is standing over me, still filing his

stupid nails (I hope the polish chips) and looking amused. If I wasn't so

pissed off I'd take back the comment about his complexion. He actually has

pretty great skin.

"How's the view from down there?" he mocks me, then laughs hoarsely. Ugh,

he's so irritating!

"Listen, you," I say crossly, clambering to my feet (thank God none of

*them* can see me now). "One, I cannot be dead. I'm young, I'm healthy, and

most of all, I'm pretty. I should be in hell, okay? It's a sin to look this

good. And two, the view from down *there* is exactly the same as the view

from up *here*, get it? So I think that maybe I get the right to laugh at

*you*, seeing as how you're stuck in this same boring place for your whole

entire -- forever, and at least *I* am going to get a change of scene!"

"Rant all you like, honeybunch," Azrael says smoothly. "But get used to it.

You. Are. Dead. No if's, but's, or refunds. D-E-A-D. And as it happens, I do

get a change of scenery. Once a month, I get a weekend in my Hawaiian

penthouse. So, nerr."

"Oh, penthouse schmenthouse," I say childishly, and slump onto another

breezeblock. "So, I'm dead. Explain. Defend. Since when, and how? 'Cause I

don't remember a thing, and before you say anything stupid, I bet girls say

that to you *all* the time."

Azrael ignores my newfound immaturity (damn Xander ! I knew there would be

some effect from hanging with him!) and replies, "A couple of vampires got

you, in your high school library. About an hour ago, allowing for your

fainting fit. Do you black out often? Just so I know whether to get smelling

salts in."

Now it's my turn to block out his immaturity. "In the library? Vampires?

This is like the wackiest game of Clue ever. Read my lips: Buffy -- you know

about Buffy, right? -- Buffy makes sure that vampires don't get me.

Particularly in the high school library. That's like Slayer central. So why

don't you toddle off and recheck your file and I'll wait on the breezeblock

looking smug."

Azrael raises his eyes heavenward and gets ready to reply when a high pitch

beep starts emitting from the pocket of his robe. "Excuse me," he says,

pulling a beeper out.

"Oh, what-*ever*. Now I know you're kidding me. Am I supposed to believe

that angels -- even ones that want to be the Fonz -- have beepers? Does

Xander know how deeply unfunny his practical jokes are getting? Tell him

from me: as the scale rises, the humor fades. Okay?"

"If I were you, I'd step back."

"What? I'm trying to argue with you! Look, the joke's over, okay? So I don't

have to step--"

"Cordelia, if I were you, I'd just do it."

Despite everything, I'm about to move when I'm knocked to the floor by

something extremely heavy. I shriek and drop to the ground. Winded, I shove

at the dead weight in an attempt to get it off me and grab a handful of hair

in my eagerness to be freed from this lump -- and scream again. It's blonde.



"Ewww! Ewwwww!" I squeal, crawling away from the body quickly and staggering

to my feet. "Azrael! You let a corpse drop on me! Do you know how much this

skirt *cost*?"

"I warned you," he says, uninterested. "You should have a closer look,

really examine this 'corpse'. You might understand something about your

earlier comment."

"What? What comment?" I poke at the corpse gingerly with my toe and then

dance back as the corpse sits up.

It's Buffy.

"Cordelia!" she yells, jumping to her feet.

"Buffy!" I shout back. "You're -" I look at Azrael. "Her too?"

He nods gravely. "'Fraid so. Oh, and another thing. Your fault."

"My fault? I didn't kill her!"

He sighs. "It's a long story. Let me explain..."