Angel dragged himself up the short flight of steps to the Hyperion's swing doors. The air was humming with the approaching dawn, but he calculated he maybe could have searched for another thirty minutes before being in real danger of catching the sun.
The problem was, he'd run out of places to look over an hour ago.
All was normal in the lobby, apart from the collection of herbs and bones lay arranged in a wide circle on the floor, and the prominent placing of an orb of thessala, so he slumped into an armchair, unable to raise enough energy to propel himself any further. He could feel the coldness of the room; it was too early for the antique heating system to be on. A dull ache penetrated his shoulders, and the soles of his feet were tender and swollen. Intermittently his lungs contracted and sucked in air without warning, usually accompanied by a rattling motion in his chest.
"I don't think I can take much more of this."
He spoke out loud, creating a warm puff of air that left his mouth like smoke.
Wesley's head appeared from the office.
"Any luck?"
Angel shook his head mutely, recalling the stark failure of his night's work. He'd been everywhere. Every one of Kate's favourite spots. Every place Darla had ever been seen in LA. Every demon haunt he knew about.
He'd even sang a couple of verses of "Yellow Submarine" at Caritas. Singing was even more difficult now he had to remember to breathe, and besides, a distracting tide of uncomfortable warmth rose further up his neck with every line. The Host seemed to realise his predicament and waved him off the stage.
"Let it be, kiddo," he smiled sympathetically as Angel gulped at a Bloody Mary. "She's a woman who can get by without help from her friends, if you catch my drift. You have more pressing matters to worry about. And please, never sing Ringo Starr in my club again. They may not be written down, but I do have rules."
The Host had never been wrong before. Angel couldn't force him to talk. Nevertheless, he tried once more, and got an exasperated scarlet glare for his trouble.
"She can come back to you if she wants to. I'm saying no more and even that's probably too much. I have client confidentiality to think of, you know."
Angel stared at the ritual unfolding in front of him, and for the fiftieth time that night, wished he could stop the sick feeling in his stomach. He closed his eyes and asked Wesley how Cordelia was coping.
"OK, I think. Gunn has been looking after her. I'm just waiting for Giles to fax me the words and then we can start. Actually ..."
Angel looked up. "What?"
"I've been doing a little research into your problem. You know, to pass the time. I think I may have found something interesting."
"It can wait until we've got Cordy back."
Wesley frowned and handed Angel a foolscap volume. "I think it may have a bearing on her case as well. Here ... read this ..."
The words swam about the page and besides, they weren't in an alphabet Angel recognised.
"Wes, I can't ..."
"I know." Wesley indicated a small sheet of typewritten paper, resting on the pages. "Executive summary, see?"
In room 212, Cordelia dozed peacefully on the mildewed mattress. She was chained as before, but Gunn had given her a little more slack.
If there was anything of Cordy left in there, he wanted her to know they still cared. He still cared.
Restless, Gunn prowled the room, looking for chinks in the moth-eaten curtains where sunlight might poke through, trying to eke a little more warmth out of the fire he had started. The Hyperion wasn't really designed for wood fires, and he was pretty sure the hearth and fireplace were just for show. Nevertheless, the smoke was disappearing, and at present, he didn't particularly care where it was going.
"Vampires can't feel cold, you know."
Cordelia was lying on her side, smiling at him.
"No, but I can."
"Are you here to guard me, Charles?"
"No. I'm here to take care of you."
She sat up in her chains and patted the bed. Gunn acknowledged the unmistakable pull of her onyx gaze, and felt a pang of sadness that she'd never looked at him like that before, when she was human. He wasn't about the be hypnotised by a vampire this wet behind the ears, but Cordelia ... well, that was a different thing.
"Hungry?"
The vampire licked her fingertips and smiled again, saying nothing.
In the lobby, Angel tried to make his fuddled brain accept the arguments Wesley propounded so convincingly. The upshot seemed to be something so incredible, that even though he knew Wesley was usually right and in his exhausted state he would have dearly loved to give in and end the discussion, something inside him rebelled.
"I just don't see how it could have happened."
"I know! It's incredible. But, if the manuscript is to be believed ..."
Angel gulped. "Forget the manuscript, Wes! I was there. I - I mean we - Darla, Drusilla, Spike - we turned the whole village. It was ... a joke. Because ..."
"... they were an isolated community known for their piety and the monastery was a destination of pilgrimage for many of similar levels of virtue. I know. You told me, remember?"
"It isn't possible."
"It's here, in black and white. The Slayer went to the village after rumours of a massacre reached London. The entire community survived, and was free of vampirism for several centuries afterwards."
Angel shook his head and gave up the attempt to understand. Wesley beckoned him over and indicated a glass of deep ruby liquid on the counter.
"I don't think I can, Wes. It tastes bad to me now."
"No ..." Wesley explained, "... it's for Cordy. Would you take it up to her? She and Gunn are in 212."
Angel climbed the stairs wearily. As he rounded the corner into the main first floor corridor, a snarl and a crash came reverberating through the walls. He threw the glass down and ran to the door, flinging it open in time to see an unconscious Gunn pinned down under Cordelia.
"Cordy!"
She looked up, amber eyes flashing, and then deliberately dropped her head towards Gunn's neck.
Angel threw himself across the room, but Cordelia seemed to have the ability to move ten times quicker; he could almost measure the split seconds between his brain making a decision and his body responding. Muscles in his back and legs screamed in protest, the air about him was a glutinous fluid holding him back, and he was still several feet away when her fangs touched Gunn's neck.
"No!"
Before he reached them, Cordelia's head flew back from Gunn's throat. She squealed in agony, clutching her head and stumbled back to the bed where her chains lay limp and broken on the quilt.
"Angel, please, make it stop."
Gunn's pulse was steady and strong. After checking he was alive, Angel approached Cordelia slowly and placed a hand on her forehead. It felt cold. He felt warm.
"What is it?"
"A vision. I had a vision. It hurts. It still hurts."
"What did you see?"
"Me. I saw me. Oh! It was ..."
"You saw yourself? What was happening?"
She smiled, "I was feeding. Corpses everywhere. Oceans of blood. All for me."
Angel moved quickly while Cordelia's eyes were closed in rapture. Before she could react he snapped the chains back on one of her wrists and retreated several feet from the bed.
"Why would The Powers send you visions of blood?"
"What's the matter? Jealous?" Cordelia snarled.
Angel picked up the bedside telephone and pressed the button labelled "Reception".
"No, I can see you wouldn't be. Not much of a vampire these days, are you Angelus?"
Wesley took several rings to answer.
"She's taken Kate you know. She's going to kill her. Very slowly. She told me."
"Wesley? Do it now, for heaven's sake. She's getting stronger ..."
As he replaced the receiver in its cradle, he noticed the reflection of his own hand in the sheen of the Bakelite surface, and whispered an afterthought.
"... and I'm getting weaker."