Cordelia:
God, look at Buffy. Could she be any more obvious?
Leaning over Angel like that to see the book in his lap, brushing against his
arm, giving him those little-girl-lost eyes. It's like she's got every male in the
room eating out of her hand. Even Gunn's drooling over her (when his attention
isn't totally fixated by the virtual porno-flick that it Willow and Tara
cuddled up together in the corner – I mean, hello, public display of affection
alert!). Why did we all have to come here, anyway? Buffy makes one tearful
phone call to Angel and suddenly we're all rushing around as if the world is
going to end. OK, so the world is going to end, but it's not like she
hasn't dealt with that sort of thing before.
What
did she have to go calling Angel for and getting all of us involved? Hasn't she
got her own big, strong boyfriend to protect her now? The one she was so keen
to remind Angel of last time she was in LA, the one he brooded about for weeks
afterwards and, presumably, the one that just hightailed it out of here without
as much as a word of goodbye. Hmm, perhaps there's trouble in paradise after
all, but that still doesn't explain why Buffy had to drag us all back to
Sunnyhell. Angel better be paying me for this or else I'm out of here. I'm not
staying another minute and I mean it.
I
hate being back here in Sunnydale with all the reminders of my past. It makes
it painfully obvious how far I've fallen in such a short time. I used to be so
powerful, so popular. I had everything I could have possibly wanted. Money,
designer clothes, an adoring entourage of friends, a cute little convertible
with a personalised number plate. Then I went and lost it all. I went from
somebody to nobody overnight. I lost my friends, my possessions, my social
status. The name Cordelia Chase used to mean something. Boys desperately wanted
to date me, girls wanted to be me. People actually envied me. Now,
Cordelia Chase is just another of Hollywood's failed actresses. Another
insignificant person in a long list of them.
OK,
so maybe that's not true. That's not how things really are to me and to my
friends. I actually like my life in LA now, I mean a little superstardom would
spice things up a bit – I could even drop the 'super' part and just settle for
some simple stardom – but generally I think I'm doing all right. I help people,
I actually make their lives better, in fact in a lot of cases I even save their
lives. And that feels good. The skull-splitting, migraine-inducing visions that
I get in the process of helping these people aren't so great, but I'm still
trying to negotiate with the PTB on that one.
So,
in LA I feel good about who I am and what I'm doing. I'm an integral part of
the team there. I have the visions, bring in the cases, deal with the clients.
Angel needs me. It's like we have a family there that I'm right in the centre
of, and no matter what happens in the rest of my life I still have that special
place where I belong. But here in Sunnydale our little family doesn't exist,
the team dynamic is totally gone and I'm left sitting on the sidelines. And
what really stings is that neither Angel nor Wesley even gave a thought to how
difficult it might be for me to come back here, how painful it was to drive
past my old house with its ten bathrooms and its paddock at the end of the
gardens that used to hold my pony Keanu. Angel was too busy worrying about
Buffy and Wesley about the end of the world. These people (well one person and
one vampire) are supposed to be my best friends, and they don't even stop to
think about how monumental returning to by hometown for the first time in
one-and-a-half years might be for me.
"Men,"
I don't realise I have spoken aloud until the whole room is staring at me
strangely. "Well, I'm just saying," I shrug.
"Cordelia,"
Wesley admonishes me. "Do you think you could possibly concentrate on our
discussion rather than drifting off into your own little fantasy world?"
"Well,
I would if your discussion was even remotely interesting," I shoot back at him.
"I
know it's not interesting," Angel tells me in a patient tone of voice. "But it
is rather important. I want you to know all this, Cordelia, in case you get a
vision, or so you're not put into danger in any way."
"Yeah,
yeah, whatever." I wave my hand dismissively and settle down to listen to their
conversation about what hideously ugly demons are ending the world this time.
"So,
there are three rituals, correct?" Wesley is skimming through a sheaf of notes.
"And it was the performance of the first one, three nights ago that first
alerted you to the demon's presence and their malevolent intentions."
"Uh-huh,"
Buffy agrees. "I managed to crash the tail end of their party. Killed two of
the revellers, but the rest got away, leaving all their spell stuff behind."
"Buffy
brought all the ingredients back here," Willow jumps in enthusiastically. "And
Tara and I analysed them to see what kind of spell it was the demons were
casting. It was quite a challenge – they were working with some pretty advanced
magicks."
"Well,
I'd imagine how to end the world isn't exactly the kind of thing you learn in
your first Wicca lesson," I remark, only to receive collective glares from the
rest of the group.
"Anyway,"
Willow continues. "We finally worked out what the ritual was – the first in an
ancient trilogy which can only be attempted every thirty years on certain days,
with 48 hours between each of the spell castings."
"And
last night was supposed to be the second ritual – only the demons tricked you
with the fire?" Angel asks.
"Yeah,"
Buffy says in a quiet voice, acting all vulnerable around Angel again. That
girl really has no shame. "They must have planned it to distract us, so that
they could get on with phase two of their fun-for-all-the-family,
Armageddon-inducing schemes."
"These
guys sound pretty organised," Gunn interjects.
Buffy
nods thoughtfully. "They are. They seem to have every possible base covered."
"So,
there's one more ritual tomorrow night, which if we don't stop the world's
gonna end, right?" I butt in, both bored and impatient with all the doom and
gloom this group is projecting. We've faced the apocalypse plenty of times
before – it's no biggie, send Buffy and Angel a-slayin' and we'll be fine.
I
don't even wait for a response before jumping up and heading towards the door.
"Consider me fully briefed on the situation, okay?" I call over my shoulder
before leaving. "Now, if the world's going to end tomorrow I can think of far
better things to do to fill the intervening 24 hours than sit around looking
depressed. See you guys later!"
I
breathe a sigh of relief as I walk out the door. I had forgotten how immensely
irritating it was to be around Buffy. She's never happy unless she's the centre
of everybody's attention. It's like just because she's the Slayer she expects
everyone to be at her beck and call. Ooh, pass me that book. Listen to my
tales of killing demons. Come help me avert the apocalypse. It's not like
she's even anything special – I mean apart from the whole, 'I'm the one girl in
all the world' stuff – little blonde Barbies like her are ten a penny in LA.
And that isn't even her real hair colour – believe me, I can tell.
I
drive around Sunnydale, trying to push thoughts of Little Miss Slayer 2001 out
of my head. I realise on some level I am just jealous of her, because she's
popular and self-assured, which I used to be and now I'm not. But the idea that
Buffy might have things I don't (like a family that actually gives a damn about
her, or the college opportunities I lost to the IRS along with my Trust Fund)
just makes me even angrier at her, so I rev the car's engine and deliberately
break the speed limit down Sunnydale's main street. This'll show them just how
little I care about their crappy town!
I slow down as I pass the Bronze, however, and gaze hard at the lines of teenagers filing inside. That used to be me every Friday and Saturday night – I used to rule that club. I even had my own table reserved for me and the Cordettes, which nobody else would dare sit at. I suddenly feel melancholy for those lost days when everything was simple and easy. The only thing I ever worried about was whether anyone else would show up wearing the same shoes as me. I thought I was happy back then, but I wonder if I really was. I was so shallow and superficial that it didn't take much to please me on the outside, but on the inside I was empty.
It
took a long time for that to change and I know I'm a better person for it –
unfortunately I'm a poorer person too, which doesn't score so highly in the
plus column for my new life. Couldn't it be in any way possible to have money and
humility? Or is that just too much to ask? I try to think back to what
caused this difference in me, when I began to measure what's inside a person
more than what is on the outside. I guess it was when I first started dating
Xander. To bring myself to date someone like that I must have been able to see
past the physical and to the personality underneath. In some ways I still kind
of miss Xander, like how he was the only person I could truly trade insults
with or how he'd get this funny look in his eyes before he went to kiss me. I
remember how Buffy said he was in the hospital, still recovering from their
botched mission last night, and I change the direction I am driving in, heading
towards the hospital rather than the motel on the edge of town.
The
nurse on the front desk tells me that visiting hours are over, but I manage to
talk her into letting me see Xander anyway. I barge into his room, a bright
smile on my face and an insult on my lips then I see him and am shocked into
silence – something that doesn't exactly occur very often. Xander looks sicker
than I have ever seen him before. The skin on his face is bright red and blotchy
and he wears and oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. Where his hands used to
be are now a mass of bandages and there is a deep cut above his left eye.
"Cordelia,"
he croaks out, removing the mask to do so. "Come to pay your last respects have
you?"
My
mouth falls open in horror. "You better be joking, Harris – or I'll kill you
myself."
He
chuckles slightly at this. "It's okay, you can't get rid of me that easily."
I
smile and sit down next to his bed while I think up my next barb. "You know," I
begin, gesturing to the spot above his eyes where the flames have scorched away
the hair. "I never thought the whole eyebrow-less look could ever work on
anybody. And I'm glad to say you've proved me entirely right."
"Thank
you, Cordy," he replies. "In my time of need your health and beauty advice is
proving utterly useless."
"Well,
that's what I'm here for," I remark ironically. "To be no use to anybody
whatsoever."
"You
could have done that in LA." He quips. "Why grace us with your
presence?"
"I
came with the rest of the gang. Buffy called Angel and asked him for help."
Xander
raises his eyebrows, or would have done if he had any left. "That serious is
it?"
I
survey his battered and burnt body, and suddenly the full extent of this crisis
comes home to me. This isn't just any other apocalypse, there is a real risk we
won't come through this one, or at least a risk that not all of us will. Xander
and Giles have already been hurt and no progress was made against the demons in
the process. Things are in a pretty bad way and I'd just dismissed it all as
another one of Buffy's big fusses over nothing, some way to keep both Angel and
her new commando-type boyfriend wrapped around her little finger at once. How
wrong could I possibly be?
"Yeah,
it is," I answer Xander quietly. "I really think it is."
Spike:
After leaving Finn in the bar I just wonder around for a
while. I chain smoke, catch a few vicarious thrills watching a fledgling
vampire hunt down its latest victim. Stupid arsehole made a right mess of it,
though. Got caught following her home and the bint screamed and ran. I could
have done so much better in my chipless days, that woman would have been
half-dead with my fangs in her neck before she even knew what hit her. I always
was a master at stalking people, hiding the shadows, watching, waiting for the
perfect opportunity, savouring the anticipation almost as sweet as the eventual
taste of the blood tinged with fear and shock. But then I learnt from the best,
didn't I?
Captain Cardboard doesn't even have a clue who he's
friggin' dealing with. He doesn't realise the absolute power Angelus wields,
over Buffy, over that little crew who follow him about, over me even, if I'm
honest with myself. How do you ever break out of the influence of the bloke who
was virtually your Sire? The one who taught you everything you know about your
existence. Even one hundred years of separation, an army-issue chip and a
goddamn soul can't diminish a blood bond that deep.
And that's why I hate the prick so much. That's why I'd
like to see him explode into dust, his ashes scattered into the wind. Because
no matter what the distance or the time we put between us, he's always there,
he's always better than me and older than me. He always has the women, and the
fancy clothes, and the posh houses, and the superior glint in his eye. Strange
how that never left, even when he was at his lowest ebb, even when he was
feeling his worst and his guiltiest he could still look at me with that sneer
that said 'you're nothing William, you're barely even worth my
consideration'.
Even
my Dru, my Princess of the Night, even she preferred her darling daddy to me.
He destroyed her, he drove her insane, took away everything in her life that
was important to her and still she loved him more than she ever cared for me,
the one who would have done anything for her. Angelus abandoned her and abused
her, and she continued to ask for him. Then finally she left me, because I
refused to be the obedient childe and bend to his whims any longer. I betrayed
my Sire and my family and now I'm paying for it.
And
I want to make Angelus pay too. I want to stake him through the heart and
finally show him I had the nerve, that I'm not just his whelp anymore – I'm a Master
too. But I can't do it and that's what makes me the angriest. I guess I found
that out when I came after the Gem of Amara. I had big plans to kill Angel for
the ring, to come back and take my revenge on his little plaything the Slayer.
I was going to be the victor for once. I was going to prove my greatness. But
then I fought with him, a crazy, impassioned brawl where I failed my fists more
out of pure rage and pain than any deadly intentions. I realised then that
there was no way I could fight this man and win – I'd lost too many battles to
him already. So, I hired someone else to do it.
I
could have tortured Angel myself, God knows I've had enough practice, but I
couldn't bring myself do it. I couldn't destroy him with my own hand, because
it was him who made me in the first place. Even if he didn't Turn me in the
literal sense, it was still him who moulded me, who raised me and trained me. I
know Angelus killed his father, but I never did. I always let mine live,
because to destroy what created you is to lose a part of yourself.
Still,
though, I held out the hope that even if I couldn't target Angelus personally I
could ruin his life. I could take away everything that mattered to him. The
irony of the idea was beautiful – I could use the same mind games and torment
Angelus spent years teaching me to break his spirit, I could beat him at
his own game. And top of the list came the Slayer. Magnificent, stunning Buffy
– the only person other than Angel himself who could beat me. I knew that if I
could kill her, drain her blood into my throat then Angel would never forget
it. He would finally be beaten. I would have taken his most treasured
possession from him.
But
then the bloody army had to get in the way didn't they? I can say with absolute
certainty that being rendered the vampire equivalent of impotent was not part
of my agenda. But I decided in my usual pragmatic way to make the most of it.
Maybe I could still continue my offensive with the Slayer. An even more
fantastic idea occurred to me (and admittedly it was that little lesbian witch
and her incompetent spell casting that helped here) – what if I didn't just
kill the Slayer, what if I possessed her in a way that would drive Peaches even
crazier. What if I actually had her, you know, shagged her in the way
that he couldn't because of his stupid curse. Then who would feel less of a
man?
So,
I started my charm offensive. Okay, so maybe I wasn't particularly charming,
but then it's not exactly my forte. I did the best I could under the
circumstances and it seemed to be working too. She was actually beginning to
trust me. She told me about her Mum having cancer and let me look after her
sister. She even invited me into her house. And all the time something strange
was starting to happen, something that I'd never anticipated. I was actually
starting to want her.
I
mean the idea of bonking Summers had always been a pretty attractive one,
because let's face it – she's a pretty attractive woman. And obviously bedding
the Slayer is considered a major coup in the vampire community, definitely
something that would earn me back some of the respect this damn chip has caused
me to lose. So, there are of the two plus points to the whole operation, not
including, of course, the big get-revenge-on-Angelus aspect. But soon it became
more than just that. It evolved into an obsession to touch her, to taste her
skin and her blood, to have her calling out my name. It's not just about
my Grand-Sire anymore, it's about me and her and my obsessive desire to feel
her tight little body pressed against mine.
But
then he had to come and spoil it again. He had to turn up just as I was
getting somewhere with Buffy. Commando boy is hardly a threat, he's too weak
and pathetic to ever keep hold of someone as powerful as the Slayer, but
Angelus is different. He's the one who invaded her heart first and he's never
left it since. She's never going to transfer her affections to me while he's
still around. It's like Drusilla all over again – Angel always gets who he
wants, and in a way so effortless it makes me want to burn his eyes out with
holy water. Peaches wins again and Spike loses. I've been playing these games
for 130 years already and now I'm sick of them, sick of always coming fucking
last. I can't bloody well do this for the rest of eternity. It's time to change
the rules – but if only I knew how.
I
wonder back to my crypt as I sense the dawn coming. I think I'll sleep for a
while so I'm awake in time for my daytime soap operas. Tomorrow shouldn't be
all that bad a day – beer, fags and telly, what more could a bloke want? Apart
from fresh human blood and a good lay, but as neither of those seem forthcoming
I'll just have to make do with the six pack I've got in the fridge and a double
bill of Passions. I am just thinking how far I've fallen from those
heady days touring Europe, staying in the best hotels, nights spent full of
death and debauchery, when I am grabbed from behind by persons or non-persons
unknown.
I
let out a colourful string of curses, chastising myself for not realising
someone was following me home. Well, that's what happens when you have too much
to drink, I suppose.
"What the Hell do you want?" I croak to the owner of the arm that is wrapped securely around my throat. This is one opportunity in which I'm glad I don't need to breathe, because I probably couldn't even if I tried. I'm guessing this is a demon rather than a human that's holding me, as I can feel sharp little spines digging into my skin. I try to fight back, knowing that it won't activate the chip, but the creature's grip is too secure and I can't move.
"To
make a deal," a low gravely voice replies to my question. "We think we can help
you, if you're willing to help us…"
End of Part Three