I
"You don't have to help with this," I said for at least the fifth time. "I could do it myself."
"It's okay," Cordelia said. "It really is. Active grieving is healthy. Pass the junk bag."
I handed her the plastic trash bag and watched her sweep a pile of yellowing newspapers into it. "I swear," she said, shaking her head, "if I'd realized Doyle was THIS untidy, I would have made him clean up before he died." She smiled, a tight, defiant smile that might have been painted on, like a kabuki performer's. It was a good act, even if I was the only one left to see it.
I seemed to recall that there had been a time when society automatically granted time and understanding to those who mourned; here, at the tail-end of the twentieth century, time had become too valuable to waste on mere grief. Certainly Doyle's landlord had had no compassion to spare when I'd called to tell him his tenant had broken his lease in a very permanent way. He wanted the apartment ready to rent again by the end of the week, and anything still there by Wednesday night was going in the furnace. And so Cordelia and I were clearing out Doyle's life, less than two days after we'd watched him lose it.
Cordelia held up a battered lamp. "Junk, Goodwill or keep?" she asked.
I looked at the three bags in the middle of the apartment floor. The contents of the junk bag were destined for the dumpster in the alley behind the building. Cordelia was going to leave the second bag at the local Goodwill after we were done. The junk bag was already overflowing, but we were struggling to fill the Goodwill bag. Next to these two hefty bags was a single shoebox, where we'd agreed to put those possessions of Doyle's we intended to save permanently.
I considered the lamp. "Goodwill."
She flicked the on-off switch experimentally. "It doesn't work."
"Junk, then."
"Junk," Cordelia agreed, and pushed the lamp into the bloated garbage bag.
Cordelia set to work on Doyle's bookshelves -- he'd been a more avid reader than he liked people to know -- while I continued sifting through the detritus in the dresser drawers. Most of what I found went straight into the trash: red-inked credit card statements, half a pack of playing cards, a broken digital watch. Only one item made me pause -- a small leather-backed book. I flicked through it, and saw it was filled with names and contact details, all rendered in Doyle's spidery scrawl. His address book. It smelt strongly of him, the leather impregnated irrevocably with his scent after years of handling. I turned it over in my hands, then put it into the shoe-box of things to keep.
On the other side of the room, Cordelia made a small noise that might have been a sob, quickly stifled. "Cordelia?"
She turned around and showed me a scrap of paper. It took me a moment to work out what it was, and when I did I couldn't immediately understand what had upset her. She was holding up a lotto ticket.
Quietly, she said, "It's for tomorrow's drawing."
She looked unhappy and teary and very, very young. I left the dresser and started to go to her, wanting -- some way, any way -- to make this better. But I didn't know how, and I ended up standing awkwardly in front of her, just out of her reach.
Cordelia kept looking at the lotto ticket as if mesmerized. "He always said he'd get lucky someday. He never stopped believing he'd get lucky, if he just waited long enough."
I took one more step toward her, and gently took the ticket from her outstretched hand. "Let's take a break from this," I said.
Cordelia looked around, taking in the chaotic apartment, the strewn belongings which a couple of days earlier had been part of a life but which were now just so much garbage. "Yeah," she said, and sat down on the end of Doyle's battered green sofa. She rubbed her eyes tiredly, and I noticed suddenly that she wasn't wearing makeup, for perhaps the first time since I'd known her. She looked tired -- more than tired, exhausted, as if something was sucking the life and youth out of her.
Something like me.
Cordelia and I had stumbled into each others' existences by accident, and I was starting to see that her life was being made needlessly more painful and dangerous by my presence in it. Doyle, at least, had known what he was getting himself into when he searched me out -- then again, maybe he hadn't, because that had been less than three months earlier, and now he was dead.
I'd come to L.A. because I wanted to start making up for my past. And now I had another death on my conscience. In Sunnydale, I'd learned through bitter experience that I couldn't have a romantic relationship; in L.A., I'd deceived myself into believing that in spite of that, I could still work alongside humans. Have friendships. Now I saw even that was too high an aspiration. Whatever mission or purpose I'd been brought back from Hell to fulfill, it was for me to complete alone. Always alone.
"Cordelia," I said, as gently as I could, "I think maybe you should go."
She looked at me, startled out of some sad reverie, and waved a hand around to indicate the apartment. "I'm not leaving you to finish this all by yourself."
"No," I said. "I mean -- I think you should go. Go home, back to Sunnydale. You belong there."
For the first time since we'd left the ship's hold where Doyle had died, Cordelia's grief and distraction seemed to lift a little. She looked at me with something of the spark I was used to seeing. "Go back to Sunnydale and do what? Get a job in McDonald's so I can watch everyone I went to high school with drive past me on the way to college? Or just hang around and wait to be vampire munchies?" She shook her head emphatically. "No, thanks. Besides, I gotta stay in L.A. now."
"You don't," I said. "Nothing's keeping you here."
"Angel, you need me," Cordelia said, as if I were a little slow and needed things explained carefully and clearly. "The way I see it, I'm not just an employee of Angel's Redemption Inc. anymore. I'm a fully paid up shareholder. I've got a seat on the board. Which means I want voting rights."
Sometimes it amazed me how Cordelia could bludgeon a point to death, and yet I still had no idea what she was talking about. "Voting rights?"
"We're partners now, right? Which means things are going to have to change between you and me." She stood up and started to walk around Doyle's apartment, warming to her theme. "For starters, you can't do that thing you do anymore."
"What thing?"
"That thing where you run off to fight demons or vampires or nasties without saying where you're going or why. Oh, and also that thing where you do something all the time and then say, 'I don't do that' -- that's gonna stop, too."
"I don't --" I started, then caught myself. Cordelia was giving me a 'Come on, I dare you' look. "I don't do that often," I amended.
"And I want to be involved more," she went on. "When you're doing your heroic evil-battling thing, I want to be there too. And I want to learn to fight -- I mean, really fight, not just duck out of the way -- and I think I should --"
" --Think about what you're saying for a second," I interrupted. "Cordelia, these are my fights, my risks, my problems. They weren't meant to be shared."
She looked at me steadily. "Doyle wouldn't have agreed."
"And the fact that Doyle isn't around to say so himself anymore proves my point." Cordelia stared at me, her lips clamped together in a thin line of hurt. I was sorry about that, but I wasn't as sorry as I knew I would be if I got her killed like I'd gotten Doyle killed. I gestured around the cluttered apartment. "Now, let's just get on with what we're supposed to be doing here."
"Angel --"
"Cordelia, we're not talking about this now," I snapped.
But she wasn't looking at me -- she was looking at the lotto ticket I was still holding in my hand. "Angel, look at the ticket."
I held the ticket up to the light, and saw what she was talking about. One side was a normal lotto ticket -- apparently Doyle thought the numbers 14, 27, 76 and 63 were especially lucky, although now we'd never know why -- but the reverse was blank. Or it had been, until he had written on it.
In wobbly capital letters he had scrawled:
DELILAH -- BIG PARTY
SANTA MONICA MARINA
JAMEELA
The word "Jameela" was double underlined.
"Gimme," Cordelia said, and snatched the ticket from me. She frowned as she read it. "What does 'jameela' mean? And who's Delilah?" Cordelia examined the ticket for a second longer, then looked up at me, her eyes growing wide and excited. "Angel, this is message from those Powers-That-Be Doyle was always talking about. We have to follow it up."
"Cordelia, we don't know when he had this vision. It's probably already too late."
She shook her head. "This ticket is for this week's drawing, Angel -- he couldn't have bought it more than a day before he died. And Doyle ALWAYS told you about the visions, so the only reason he wouldn't have mentioned this one would have been --"
" --Because he didn't have time," I completed, seeing where she was going. "Because of the Scourge."
"Right!" Cordelia smiled, a broad and real smile. "In other words, this baby's so fresh it's practically steaming. C'mon, let's go to Santa Monica."
She tugged me by the sleeve, like a child promised a trip to the circus. I didn't move. "First of all, WE'RE not going anywhere. I will deal with this, by myself, alone, solo, single-handed. We don't know what's waiting for us in Santa Monica."
"A really great party, according to Doyle," Cordelia said.
"Or a party as in a big party of unkillable demons," I countered. "Go home, Cordelia. Get some rest. I'll take care of the vision, and we'll finish this tomorrow." The night was only a couple of hours old; I had plenty of time to do whatever I had to. I started to leave.
I was at the door, and shrugging on my coat, when I heard Cordelia say my name. I stopped and looked back. "Cordelia, for the last time, you are staying."
"Oh, sure," she said, "I'm staying."
"Well -- good." Okay, I hadn't expected to win that argument so easily. Maybe Cordelia was finally starting to listen to me. "That's good. Thank you."
I was half way along the hallway and heading for the elevator when I heard the words, "In L.A.!" float defiantly out from Doyle's apartment behind me.
***
As it turned out, what was waiting for me in Santa Monica was a really great party. But I didn't realize straight away that I was supposed to be at it.
I left the car outside the marina and began to explore on foot, not sure exactly what I was looking for -- Doyle's note had been a little short on helpful details. I made my way through a lattice of jetties and walkways surrounded by dinghies and yachts, rich men's expensive weekend toys. Nearly all had engines as well as sails, and were clearly not designed for straying further from shore than a Monday morning 9 o'clock meeting would permit.
One of boats was different.
She dwarfed the yachts moored beside her; she was the real thing, and everything around her just a miniature model. She was the most impressive, opulent craft in the marina, and her owner had gone to some lengths to flaunt it. Fairy lights strung along her length and spotlights trained on the deck made her the brightest object in the water -- and the loudest, as the sounds of music and laughter coming from her packed decks floated out toward the dark horizon.
On board, a party was in full swing. The name of the yacht was emblazoned in stark black letters on her pristine hull.
She was called the Delilah.
I drew closer, keeping out of sight behind the piles of packing crates and coils of rope along the jetty's edge. The clothes and bearing of the party guests milling around on the Delilah's deck marked them out as the city's elite, but they all looked human, and I couldn't see any activity more suspicious than a number of couples slipping away from the gathering into the yacht's interior and, presumably, the cabins below.
As I watched, a well-dressed couple walked up the gangplank and waved invitations at the two thugs dressed in tuxedos who formed the welcoming committee. It was going to be near impossible to get past them without causing a scene; the next best option would be to scale the outside of the yacht and climb over the deck's railings unobserved. I was pretty confident of my climbing abilities, less so about how I would mingle with the crowds and pass myself off as a guest once on board. But I had to get on that boat.
"We HAVE to get on that boat," Cordelia's voice said in my ear.
She was standing right behind me, gazing up at the Delilah with unadulterated awe. I almost jumped.
"Cordelia?"
"Hi, Angel," she said, in much the same tone she used when I walked into the room as she was filing her nails. She pointed at the yacht. "How amazingly cool is that party?"
"What are you doing here? And --" I broke off, and stared at her. "What are you wearing?"
Cordelia smiled, apparently delighted I'd noticed that she'd changed since I last saw her. She was wearing a cocktail dress in crushed velvet and holding a matching clutch bag. She looked as if she belonged with the young, rich and beautiful people up on the Delilah's deck, and not lurking down in the shadows with me. "You like?" she asked, giving me a little twirl. "I decided to come down here and help you out. I went home to change first, of course."
I wondered if Cordelia's eagerness to help me mightn't have something to do with the fact that Doyle's vision had mentioned a party as opposed to, say, a dingy back alley. "Thanks, but I don't need your help."
"Sure you do. How were you planning to get on to that boat? You were probably gonna pull some dumb macho James Bond stunt like climbing up the hull, right?"
Patiently, I said, "Cordelia, demon-killing, evil-fighting is a violent, risky and difficult activity." I folded my arms resolutely across my chest. "I am a 250 year old vampire. You are a 19 year old girl. Which one of us do you think has the appropriate skill set for this situation?"
"You want to see appropriate skills?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. "Watch this."
Before I could stop her, Cordelia had grabbed me by the sleeve and was towing me behind her up the gangplank and toward the smartly-dressed security detail guarding the way on to the Delilah. "Cordelia," I hissed, "what are you --"
"Just let me do the talking," she whispered back. "Okay?"
"No, absolutely not okay --"
That was as far as I got, because suddenly we were at the top of the gangplank and facing the grim-faced security thug who was already eyeing us with suspicion. I readied myself for the inevitable confrontation.
"Hi," Cordelia purred at him, wrapping a strand of hair idly around one finger. The security thug's eyes widened, and I felt a certain sympathy for him -- outclassed and outgunned, he didn't stand a chance.
Two minutes and one extremely flimsy story about a lost invitation later, we were boarding the yacht.
Cordelia smiled widely as we walked on to the Delilah's crowded, noisy deck. Leaning closer to me, she said, "I totally rule. Tell me that wasn't easier than pretending to be Pierce Brosnan."
Who? Never mind. "Sooner or later they'll figure out we're not supposed to be here."
"You worry too much. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it," Cordelia said, and lifted a glass of white wine from a passing waiter's tray. "Oooooh, hors d'oeuvre. Hold this." She thrust the wine into my hand and set off toward the buffet like a canapé-seeking missile, leaving me to hover at the edge of the party and try not to look as out of place as I felt.
And I did feel out of place. All around me, people -- humans -- were laughing and talking and flirting with each other. There'd been a time when I would have been able to join in, picking through the party in much the same way as Cordelia was currently selecting delicacies from the buffet spread. And, as much as I hated what I'd been, I wished gatherings like this one held more for me now than merely a painful awareness of just how far removed from humanity I was. I glanced at Cordelia, who had struck up a conversation with a young man at the buffet table, and envied her easy confidence.
"Trying to work up the nerve to talk to her?"
I turned around. The girl who had joined me was young -- probably not much older than Cordelia -- and, like everyone else at the party, unusually attractive. Her skin was dark, and perfect; she wore a clutch of jewels in her hair. They shimmered as she tipped her head in Cordelia's direction. "Would you like me to introduce you? Technically, I'm the hostess, so I could. That's part of the standard hostessing package, right?"
"Thanks, but I don't need an introduction. I already know her -- we're here together."
"Oh." The girl looked back at Cordelia, and appeared to consider her in a new light. "Then maybe you're thinking about telling that guy who's hitting on her to back off."
The young man talking to Cordelia was smiling a lot, I noticed suddenly, and Cordelia was smiling right back. For a moment, I felt an odd surge of something which wasn't quite possessiveness, but wasn't far from it.
Then I remembered that not only were we here to gather information -- which was exactly what Cordelia appeared to be doing -- but that for the first time in days she looked relaxed and happy.
"I'm glad she's enjoying herself," I said, and meant it.
A look which was not unlike sadness flashed across the girl's face. "You're a nice guy. You should give lessons to my boyfriend." She held out her hand to me. "The Delilah belongs to him. I'm Jameela."
"Angel," I said, and took her hand in mine. Jameela's grip was unexpectedly strong; she held on to my hand tightly, and looked straight into my eyes for a long moment.
Then, abruptly, her manner changed, as if I'd just failed some vital test. "Nice to meet you, Angel," she said flatly, turning away from me. "Enjoy the party."
I watched her walk away, feeling puzzled. Had that encounter been as odd as I thought it had been? Or had I just missed -- again -- some unspoken cue that should have been obvious to me?
"Who was that?" Cordelia asked as she returned to my side. She was carrying a plate laden with a collection of tiny, intricately constructed bundles which weren't immediately recognizable to me as food. "The sushi is to die for. "
"Her name was Jameela. She said this yacht is her boyfriend's."
"Then I guess that's her boyfriend," Cordelia said, taking the glass of wine she'd handed me back again and gesturing with it.
I looked where she was pointing, and saw a unprepossessing middle-aged man who was standing on the upper deck, surveying the party. "Who is he?"
"According to my new friend over there --" she pointed back in the direction of the buffet table -- "His name is Michael Hunter. He made his money out of those little foil tubs of milk substitute you put in coffee. He's, like, the King of Creamer."
I watched Michael Hunter as he looked down on his guests. For a wealthy man and the host of the party, he seemed anxious, as if he were searching for something in the crowd. Or someone, I realized a second later when Jameela came to join him. He wrapped his arm around her in a gesture which was superficially intimate, but I saw her wince as his fingers dug into her shoulder. Then he turned abruptly and walked away, taking Jameela with him.
"I'm going to find out where they're going," I said to Cordelia. "Stay here and wait for me."
"No way," Cordelia protested. She waved a half-eaten piece of sushi at me. "Didn't we talk about this earlier? You always run off and leave me behind."
I ran off, leaving her behind.
The party thinned out toward the stern of the yacht, until the only indication it was going on was a faint, irritating buzz from somewhere behind me. The truth was that if I hadn't had to leave it to follow Jameela, I would probably have invented an excuse. Mingling is not one of my skills. Lurking in the dark is.
I found them behind the wheelhouse, in a secluded area of the deck which was obviously intended for private sunbathing. I stayed in the shadows, and found a vantage point that allowed me to watch and listen without being seen.
"I love you," Hunter was telling Jameela. "I love you and I want you to stay with me. Always. Never leave."
"Sometimes I think you don't trust me."
"I do, baby. I do."
"Then tell me everything."
While I was trying to work out what this exchange meant, I saw Hunter lean closer to Jameela. He wrapped his arms around her in an embrace which would have been loving if I hadn't been able to see the crushing force he was using, etched in lines of pain on Jameela's face.
The direct approach was best, I decided. Doyle's vision had brought me to Jameela so I could protect her from Hunter, and the simplest way to do that was to take her away from him. I moved forward a little, and tensed, ready to leap down on to the deck --
"Angel!"
Once again, my concentration was interrupted by Cordelia unexpectedly popping up beside me. It wasn't getting any less irritating.
"Cordelia, I told you not to move. To STAY PUT. What part of that did you not get?"
"Angel --"
"Would it be so incredibly difficult, just once, to do what I ask you to --"
"Angel!" Cordelia hissed. "I couldn't stay where I was."
I glowered at her. "Give me one good reason why not."
From somewhere in the darkness behind Cordelia, I heard the voice of the thug she'd fooled to get us on the yacht. He sounded about as annoyed as I felt, and he was talking to more than one person.
"It's bridge-crossing time," Cordelia said.
I looked back down at the deck, but both Jameela and Michael Hunter had gone. Great. Just great.
And, by the sound of the security thugs' rapidly approaching footsteps, it was time for us to go, too.
I grabbed Cordelia by the arm and vaulted over the railings down to the lower deck where Hunter and Jameela had been seconds earlier. Cordelia's initial protests rose in pitch and tone to become a wordless yelp of surprise as we fell, arms and legs flailing. I managed to twist around so that I hit the deck first, breaking her fall, although I was distantly aware of a drawn-out ripping sound. As I got to my feet, I saw Cordelia was struggling to disentangle her torn dress from the jutting nail it had caught on. "My dress -- "
The material had ripped almost to her waist, a pale slash of her bare thigh visible through the jagged slit. Above us, I heard the heavy footfalls of the security thugs approaching. I leapt up and headed for the side of the yacht, jerking Cordelia with me but leaving a wad of sequined cloth on the nail. I heard Cordelia start to make a protest which became a yelp as we pitched over the side of the yacht and toward the black water below.
And then we were hanging, swinging gently on the end of the rope I'd grabbed as I'd dived over the side.
I was using one hand to grip the rope; my other arm was holding on to Cordelia, whose eyes were screwed shut. She twisted around, causing one of her shoes to slip off her foot. It plummeted in silence before hitting the water far below with a faint splash. "Oh God," she said. "Oh God. Oh God."
"Be quiet," I told her. "And don't look down."
I should have remembered that the fastest way to get Cordelia to do something is to tell her not to do it. Her eyes popped open; she looked down, and swallowed. There was a faint tremor in her voice as she said, "Technically speaking, the only life that's getting risked here is mine."
"You're not going to fall," I said. "I've got you."
"Fine. Who's got YOU?" Her voice was shaking; I could feel her heart pounding, and her scent was sharp with fear. Her arms were clamped, vise-like, over my shoulders and around my chest and I gripped her waist with every last ounce of strength I possessed. We were hanging on to each other as if the world began and ended with each other.
Above us, I heard the security thugs discussing the ripped section of Cordelia's dress they'd just found. I hushed Cordelia, and we hung for long seconds in the darkness as they stood almost directly over us, discussing loudly where we might have gone. When they finally moved off, I allowed myself to relax a fraction. Below us, the water of the harbor rippled.
"Can you swim?" I asked Cordelia.
"Sure," she said automatically. Then her eyes widened. "Ohhhh no. No way. That is SO not an option."
I was about to point out that it was the only option, when I heard voices from overhead again. They were familiar, and for a second, I thought the security thugs had returned. Then I realized it was Hunter and Jameela.
Cordelia fell silent. She looked upward, then at me. I nodded. We listened.
"Stay, baby." That was Hunter's voice. "Stay, you've got to stay. Always and forever."
"Michael. Michael, stop it, you're hurting me."
Their voices grew fainter -- apparently they'd moved away from the edge of the deck -- until the conversation was too indistinct even for my better-than-mortal hearing. Cordelia was mouthing, What? at me; I shook my head, concentrating on the murmurings from above us. When that didn't work, I tried to pull us back up the rope, just enough to make the voices above audible. One inch; two; three --
And then I felt it -- the impact of an unseen force, like a silent peal of thunder directly overhead, or the blast wave from a noiseless bomb. I felt the hair on my arms and neck rise as the air around us crackled and sparked, suddenly saturated with raw power. I knew this sensation, and every instinct I had screamed at me to get as far away as fast as was humanly -- or inhumanly -- possible.
I didn't think; I acted. I let go of the rope.
We fell, still holding on to each other. The lights of the Delilah's lower decks sped past, like decorations on a fairground ride. The night air howled in my ears as we hurtled downward -- or maybe that was Cordelia yelling, I couldn't tell. The world was noise and acceleration and a sickening, yawning void in the pit of my stomach --
We hit the water, and kept going.
For the briefest of moments, the sudden silence and darkness came as a relief. Instead of plummeting, we were descending slowly, as gently as leaves falling to the ground on a windless day. I held on to Cordelia, and a strangely peaceful sensation overtook me.
Then I felt her struggle in my arms, and a stream of bubbles escaped her mouth and nose. With a cold jolt of horror, I realized she was about to start drowning.
I let go of her, and watched as she kicked out, feet and arms driving her back up to the surface. Her long hair rippled out behind her, and the fabric of her dress billowed in slow motion. As I continued on my path downward, the last thing I saw was Cordelia, swimming up and away from me, toward the lights of the harbor.
***
By the time I made it back to dry land, the party on the Delilah had long since ended, and the deck of the yacht was empty and dark, except for cleaners and waiters scurrying to make the mess vanish by morning. I found Cordelia sitting on the edge of a packing crate some distance from the harbor's edge. She was systematically wringing the water out of her sodden, ripped dress by grabbing the material in handfuls and twisting it.
I sat down beside her, squelching a little.
After a second, Cordelia said, "If I get some kind of disgusting illness from the raw sewage they pump into the sea around here, you are paying ALL my medical bills."
I took off my shoes and tipped them up, one at a time. In open defiance of gravity, most of the murky sludge that filled each one refused to dislodge.
Cordelia was having even less success in extracting the Pacific from her dress. "And what took you so long to get here, anyhow?" she said, giving up and turning her attention back to me. "I figured you should have been swimming right behind me."
I have a lot of secrets; maybe, given my unique history, that's inevitable. There are many things about myself I choose not to reveal, and many more I can only bring myself to share when there is no alternative. This fell into the latter category.
"I can't swim," I said.
"No, seriously," Cordelia said, "what took you so long?"
"I can't swim," I said again, waving one sand-filled shoe for emphasis. "No vampire can. No buoyancy."
"But you don't need to breathe -- you can't drown." Cordelia looked at the shoe I held, and then at the layer of silt that covered me below the knees. Her face broke into a wide smile. "You walked along the harbor floor. Like one of those old fashioned divers, except no diving suit."
She started to laugh. I didn't see the joke.
"C'mon, Angel," Cordelia said, giggling. "It IS pretty funny. And tonight you ruined my best cocktail dress, made me lose a shoe and you -- you got sand in my ears." She put her hand to her face to stifle the snorts of laughter.
"I did all that?" I said. "I don't think so. YOU came down here when I told you not to. It was YOUR lie that put security on to us. And YOU interfered before I got a chance to do anything to help Jameela."
Cordelia stopped laughing, her face becoming darker with every word I said. "Excuse me? I had every right to be here, too."
"Not if you're going to treat this as a game and get yourself killed," I snapped.
Cordelia looked angry, but her voice was steady as she said, "I'm not Doyle."
"You're not," I agreed. Then, harshly, I added, "Doyle knew how to take care of himself."
She blinked once, her face as shocked as if I'd just slapped her. I couldn't have felt much worse if I had. "You weren't kidding today, were you? You really do want me to leave."
I should meet her eye, I knew that much. Somehow I couldn't make myself, and instead I stood up and turned away. "I think it'd be for the best, yes."
Behind me, I heard Cordelia get up. "You want me to go," she said again. For a second, her voice wavered, and then it hardened. "You want to be all alone? Okay, fine. I'm leaving."
There was a moment's silence, as if she was waiting for me to say something, and then I heard her bare feet slap defiantly against the pier's wooden slats as she marched away from me. I didn't allow myself to turn around until her footsteps had become faint echoes. Cordelia was nothing more than a fast-vanishing shadow, disappearing into the nighttime haze that rose off the ocean and shrouded the quayside.
The last time I'd played out this scene, I had been the one walking away. But I had done the right thing when I'd left Buffy in Sunnydale, and I was certain I was doing the right thing now.
But it hurt to watch Cordelia go, far more than I had imagined it would.
And then I realized that instead of making sure Cordelia was safe, I'd just sent her away, alone and upset and probably without enough money for the taxi ride home. The night is home to a lot of evil things. I know because I used to be one of them.
I can be really stupid sometimes.
I headed after her.
***
Most humans will tell you that they can sense it when someone is following them. Most humans have no idea at all.
All the way from Santa Monica back to her apartment, I was Cordelia's shadow. I was there as she walked five and a half blocks from the marina, her wet hair and clothes making her look bedraggled and miserable. When she got tired walking and decided to take the bus, I was on the roof of the building opposite, watching over her as she waited at the bus stop. I was there when the bus arrived and she got on it, and I was waiting when she got off it again in Silverlake. When she walked past the group of young men who were drinking on the corner of her street, she didn't know that I was only a few paces away, and ready to harm anyone who so much as looked like he was contemplating doing harm to her.
I watched her from the shadows as she stood outside her apartment door and fumbled in her bag for her keys, and congratulated myself on accomplishing at least one mission that night.
I was more than a little surprised when, instead of her keys, she produced a can of mace, spun around, and emptied most of its contents into my face. As I doubled over, she kicked me squarely in the groin. I may be dead, but I'm still a man. It hurt.
"THAT'S for trying to mug me, buddy -- "
"Cordelia!"
" -- I'm gonna call the cops faster than you can say 'zero tolerance' and you will be SO sorry you ever -- " Cordelia broke off her tirade long enough to blink in surprise. "Angel?"
I could hardly speak; I was still coughing mace out of my throat. If my body had required oxygen, I would have been unconscious by now. "Yes," I croaked.
She looked at me, genuinely confused. "Why are you here?"
I wiped my watering eyes ineffectually on the backs of my hands. "I followed you."
Slowly, Cordelia said, "You followed me." I straightened up, blinked, and my vision started to clear a little. I was greeted by the sight of Cordelia's face, wearing a look of mounting fury. "You," she repeated, "were following me."
"I was making sure you got home safely."
"Safely?" she echoed incredulously. "I thought I had a serial killer stalker -- and now I think about it, hey, not so far off the truth."
"I was just trying to protect you," I said sharply, getting annoyed. "L.A. isn't exactly a safe place."
"And Sunnydale's a regular Sesame Street. Jeez, Angel, make up your mind. First you want me to go away, and when I do you start stalking me." Cordelia still looked furious, but now something else, too. She seemed upset. "Wait, now I get it. You think I can't look out for myself. You think if I stay here you're gonna have to spend all your time making sure I'm okay. That's why you want me to leave."
I thought of Doyle, skin peeling and flesh burning, his face twisted into a rictus of agony as the Scourge's beacon killed him slowly. The truth was, I didn't want Cordelia to leave. But I did want her to be safe. I wanted her never to know first hand the kind of death that had taken Doyle from us. If ensuring her safety meant making her leave -- hell, if it meant making her hate me so much she wanted to leave -- then that seemed a fair price to pay.
Cordelia took a step forward, so that we were standing toe to toe. She jabbed a finger into my chest. "Well, I've got news for you. I can handle being in L.A., and I can handle Doyle dying, and I can handle YOU."
"No, you can't!" I shouted at her. I hadn't meant to raise my voice, and immediately I regretted my outburst. A light in a nearby apartment window snapped on, and I saw the blinds twitch as one of Cordelia's neighbors peered out at us. I tried to force myself to calm down, and failed. "Cordelia, this is about what's best for you!"
"And you're the best person to decide that exactly WHY?"
"Because --" I began. I didn't get any further.
The street, the apartment building, the cars -- everything of the normal world faded and became distant and indistinct, as if Cordelia and I were inside a bubble underwater, alone together. The streetlights' glow took on a strange fluidity, and the night breeze was a wave breaking over us, stirring senses, its draw dragging us under. I didn't want to see the surface again, ever.
When we kissed, it felt like the only thing we could do.
We fumbled for a moment, clumsy in our desperation. Then my mouth found hers, and my hands were on her back, her body fitting against mine as if we had been made for that sole purpose. She tasted of the ocean, salt and sharp and clean, and I followed the taste of the sea from her lips into the welcoming warmth of her mouth. But when I ran my hands down her back, I found her skin, chilled by her still-damp dress, as cool as my own.
All her warmth, all her life, had been compressed into a core deep within her, a well of heat and life I longed to reach.
Cordelia made a tiny sound and exhaled. I took in her breath, savored its sweetness and warmth, and wanted more. Desire made me shudder, and I kissed her harder, pushing her back without really meaning to.
Then Cordelia stumbled, and suddenly she was underneath me on the damp lawn, her scent mixing with the dewy, sweet smell of the soil below. I kissed her again, and shifted my position so that I was on top of her. She was earth and sea; she filled my world, and there was nothing else apart from her.
"Hey, you! You want to screw, don't do it on my goddamn lawn!"
A man wearing an ill-fitting T-shirt and an angry scowl was yelling at us from the lit second floor window, which was now wide open. As I looked up, he fired a another barrage of expletives in our general direction, then slammed the window shut and disappeared.
I looked down at Cordelia, who was lying on her back on the ground beneath me. Then I looked at the straps of her dress, entwined around my fingers.
I didn't know what the hell had just happened, but I knew that if I stayed where I was, it was going to start happening again before very long.
"Umm," I said, and got off her.
Cordelia pushed herself to her feet, paying an inordinate amount of attention to the task of brushing soil off her already salt-encrusted, ripped dress. In a surprisingly even and only slightly strained voice, she said, "People have weird reactions to grief, sometimes. They freak out, do weird stuff, eat nothing but ice cream for a week or vacuum 24 hours a day. It happens, it doesn't mean anything."
"Not a thing," I agreed. I wanted nothing more than to bolt; fortunately we were outdoors, and so every direction except straight up was available to me. I began to back away, toward the sidewalk. "I should, ahh --" I said, making hand signals which I hoped subtly conveyed my intention to leave while at the same time absolving Cordelia from any responsibility for what had just happened. They were pretty vague gestures, and I felt pretty foolish making them, and I pretty quickly gave up. "I should go."
"Yes," she said, too quickly. The door of her apartment opened behind her -- Dennis, providing Cordelia with an escape route of her own.
"And tomorrow we'll --"
"Not talk about this," Cordelia said. "Ever." She walked up the steps, into her apartment, and shut the door behind her.
She was gone.
She was gone and I couldn't see her or touch her and she was GONE --
The world spun around me, lacking any focus or meaning, because she was gone, and I needed her, craved her without reason or logic. She was gone, and I couldn't think except about her, couldn't feel except to want her, couldn't speak a word except her name. A second earlier I had been standing on a normal sidewalk in a normal neighborhood; now I was adrift in a chaotic void, lost in a terrible, empty place I could not hope to navigate without her.
And then -- suddenly, miraculously, wonderfully -- she was there.
For a long time we stayed where we were, on the lawn outside the apartment, clinging on to each other as if we might drown if we let go. When had Cordelia come back out of her apartment? I couldn't remember and I didn't care. All that mattered was that she was back. We didn't kiss, or speak; we barely had the strength to move.
Finally, Cordelia said, "Uhh, Angel? I think we should go inside. Before ALL my neighbors wake up."
I looked around, and saw that the window on the second floor of the building was no longer the only one which was bright with the false glow of electric light. "Good idea."
We got up, arms around each other like drunks offering mutual support, and weaved our way unsteadily into the apartment. Once inside, we didn't make it as far as the sofa; as soon as the door clicked shut behind us -- thank you, again, Dennis -- we sank down together on to the wooden floor.
My arms were wrapped around Cordelia's shoulders; her head pressed against my chest. "This is really uncomfortable," she said, "but I really don't want to move."
I agreed. My arms were beginning to cramp, and yet I couldn't let go of her. Couldn't even think about it.
"What just happened out there?" Cordelia asked me.
"I don't know."
"And what's making us act like this?"
"I don't know."
Cordelia thought for a second. "We're in trouble, aren't we?"
At last, a question I was confident I knew the answer to. "Yes," I said. "We're in trouble."
***
"You don't have to help with this," I said for at least the fifth time. "I could do it myself."
"It's okay," Cordelia said. "It really is. Active grieving is healthy. Pass the junk bag."
I handed her the plastic trash bag and watched her sweep a pile of yellowing newspapers into it. "I swear," she said, shaking her head, "if I'd realized Doyle was THIS untidy, I would have made him clean up before he died." She smiled, a tight, defiant smile that might have been painted on, like a kabuki performer's. It was a good act, even if I was the only one left to see it.
I seemed to recall that there had been a time when society automatically granted time and understanding to those who mourned; here, at the tail-end of the twentieth century, time had become too valuable to waste on mere grief. Certainly Doyle's landlord had had no compassion to spare when I'd called to tell him his tenant had broken his lease in a very permanent way. He wanted the apartment ready to rent again by the end of the week, and anything still there by Wednesday night was going in the furnace. And so Cordelia and I were clearing out Doyle's life, less than two days after we'd watched him lose it.
Cordelia held up a battered lamp. "Junk, Goodwill or keep?" she asked.
I looked at the three bags in the middle of the apartment floor. The contents of the junk bag were destined for the dumpster in the alley behind the building. Cordelia was going to leave the second bag at the local Goodwill after we were done. The junk bag was already overflowing, but we were struggling to fill the Goodwill bag. Next to these two hefty bags was a single shoebox, where we'd agreed to put those possessions of Doyle's we intended to save permanently.
I considered the lamp. "Goodwill."
She flicked the on-off switch experimentally. "It doesn't work."
"Junk, then."
"Junk," Cordelia agreed, and pushed the lamp into the bloated garbage bag.
Cordelia set to work on Doyle's bookshelves -- he'd been a more avid reader than he liked people to know -- while I continued sifting through the detritus in the dresser drawers. Most of what I found went straight into the trash: red-inked credit card statements, half a pack of playing cards, a broken digital watch. Only one item made me pause -- a small leather-backed book. I flicked through it, and saw it was filled with names and contact details, all rendered in Doyle's spidery scrawl. His address book. It smelt strongly of him, the leather impregnated irrevocably with his scent after years of handling. I turned it over in my hands, then put it into the shoe-box of things to keep.
On the other side of the room, Cordelia made a small noise that might have been a sob, quickly stifled. "Cordelia?"
She turned around and showed me a scrap of paper. It took me a moment to work out what it was, and when I did I couldn't immediately understand what had upset her. She was holding up a lotto ticket.
Quietly, she said, "It's for tomorrow's drawing."
She looked unhappy and teary and very, very young. I left the dresser and started to go to her, wanting -- some way, any way -- to make this better. But I didn't know how, and I ended up standing awkwardly in front of her, just out of her reach.
Cordelia kept looking at the lotto ticket as if mesmerized. "He always said he'd get lucky someday. He never stopped believing he'd get lucky, if he just waited long enough."
I took one more step toward her, and gently took the ticket from her outstretched hand. "Let's take a break from this," I said.
Cordelia looked around, taking in the chaotic apartment, the strewn belongings which a couple of days earlier had been part of a life but which were now just so much garbage. "Yeah," she said, and sat down on the end of Doyle's battered green sofa. She rubbed her eyes tiredly, and I noticed suddenly that she wasn't wearing makeup, for perhaps the first time since I'd known her. She looked tired -- more than tired, exhausted, as if something was sucking the life and youth out of her.
Something like me.
Cordelia and I had stumbled into each others' existences by accident, and I was starting to see that her life was being made needlessly more painful and dangerous by my presence in it. Doyle, at least, had known what he was getting himself into when he searched me out -- then again, maybe he hadn't, because that had been less than three months earlier, and now he was dead.
I'd come to L.A. because I wanted to start making up for my past. And now I had another death on my conscience. In Sunnydale, I'd learned through bitter experience that I couldn't have a romantic relationship; in L.A., I'd deceived myself into believing that in spite of that, I could still work alongside humans. Have friendships. Now I saw even that was too high an aspiration. Whatever mission or purpose I'd been brought back from Hell to fulfill, it was for me to complete alone. Always alone.
"Cordelia," I said, as gently as I could, "I think maybe you should go."
She looked at me, startled out of some sad reverie, and waved a hand around to indicate the apartment. "I'm not leaving you to finish this all by yourself."
"No," I said. "I mean -- I think you should go. Go home, back to Sunnydale. You belong there."
For the first time since we'd left the ship's hold where Doyle had died, Cordelia's grief and distraction seemed to lift a little. She looked at me with something of the spark I was used to seeing. "Go back to Sunnydale and do what? Get a job in McDonald's so I can watch everyone I went to high school with drive past me on the way to college? Or just hang around and wait to be vampire munchies?" She shook her head emphatically. "No, thanks. Besides, I gotta stay in L.A. now."
"You don't," I said. "Nothing's keeping you here."
"Angel, you need me," Cordelia said, as if I were a little slow and needed things explained carefully and clearly. "The way I see it, I'm not just an employee of Angel's Redemption Inc. anymore. I'm a fully paid up shareholder. I've got a seat on the board. Which means I want voting rights."
Sometimes it amazed me how Cordelia could bludgeon a point to death, and yet I still had no idea what she was talking about. "Voting rights?"
"We're partners now, right? Which means things are going to have to change between you and me." She stood up and started to walk around Doyle's apartment, warming to her theme. "For starters, you can't do that thing you do anymore."
"What thing?"
"That thing where you run off to fight demons or vampires or nasties without saying where you're going or why. Oh, and also that thing where you do something all the time and then say, 'I don't do that' -- that's gonna stop, too."
"I don't --" I started, then caught myself. Cordelia was giving me a 'Come on, I dare you' look. "I don't do that often," I amended.
"And I want to be involved more," she went on. "When you're doing your heroic evil-battling thing, I want to be there too. And I want to learn to fight -- I mean, really fight, not just duck out of the way -- and I think I should --"
" --Think about what you're saying for a second," I interrupted. "Cordelia, these are my fights, my risks, my problems. They weren't meant to be shared."
She looked at me steadily. "Doyle wouldn't have agreed."
"And the fact that Doyle isn't around to say so himself anymore proves my point." Cordelia stared at me, her lips clamped together in a thin line of hurt. I was sorry about that, but I wasn't as sorry as I knew I would be if I got her killed like I'd gotten Doyle killed. I gestured around the cluttered apartment. "Now, let's just get on with what we're supposed to be doing here."
"Angel --"
"Cordelia, we're not talking about this now," I snapped.
But she wasn't looking at me -- she was looking at the lotto ticket I was still holding in my hand. "Angel, look at the ticket."
I held the ticket up to the light, and saw what she was talking about. One side was a normal lotto ticket -- apparently Doyle thought the numbers 14, 27, 76 and 63 were especially lucky, although now we'd never know why -- but the reverse was blank. Or it had been, until he had written on it.
In wobbly capital letters he had scrawled:
DELILAH -- BIG PARTY
SANTA MONICA MARINA
JAMEELA
The word "Jameela" was double underlined.
"Gimme," Cordelia said, and snatched the ticket from me. She frowned as she read it. "What does 'jameela' mean? And who's Delilah?" Cordelia examined the ticket for a second longer, then looked up at me, her eyes growing wide and excited. "Angel, this is message from those Powers-That-Be Doyle was always talking about. We have to follow it up."
"Cordelia, we don't know when he had this vision. It's probably already too late."
She shook her head. "This ticket is for this week's drawing, Angel -- he couldn't have bought it more than a day before he died. And Doyle ALWAYS told you about the visions, so the only reason he wouldn't have mentioned this one would have been --"
" --Because he didn't have time," I completed, seeing where she was going. "Because of the Scourge."
"Right!" Cordelia smiled, a broad and real smile. "In other words, this baby's so fresh it's practically steaming. C'mon, let's go to Santa Monica."
She tugged me by the sleeve, like a child promised a trip to the circus. I didn't move. "First of all, WE'RE not going anywhere. I will deal with this, by myself, alone, solo, single-handed. We don't know what's waiting for us in Santa Monica."
"A really great party, according to Doyle," Cordelia said.
"Or a party as in a big party of unkillable demons," I countered. "Go home, Cordelia. Get some rest. I'll take care of the vision, and we'll finish this tomorrow." The night was only a couple of hours old; I had plenty of time to do whatever I had to. I started to leave.
I was at the door, and shrugging on my coat, when I heard Cordelia say my name. I stopped and looked back. "Cordelia, for the last time, you are staying."
"Oh, sure," she said, "I'm staying."
"Well -- good." Okay, I hadn't expected to win that argument so easily. Maybe Cordelia was finally starting to listen to me. "That's good. Thank you."
I was half way along the hallway and heading for the elevator when I heard the words, "In L.A.!" float defiantly out from Doyle's apartment behind me.
***
As it turned out, what was waiting for me in Santa Monica was a really great party. But I didn't realize straight away that I was supposed to be at it.
I left the car outside the marina and began to explore on foot, not sure exactly what I was looking for -- Doyle's note had been a little short on helpful details. I made my way through a lattice of jetties and walkways surrounded by dinghies and yachts, rich men's expensive weekend toys. Nearly all had engines as well as sails, and were clearly not designed for straying further from shore than a Monday morning 9 o'clock meeting would permit.
One of boats was different.
She dwarfed the yachts moored beside her; she was the real thing, and everything around her just a miniature model. She was the most impressive, opulent craft in the marina, and her owner had gone to some lengths to flaunt it. Fairy lights strung along her length and spotlights trained on the deck made her the brightest object in the water -- and the loudest, as the sounds of music and laughter coming from her packed decks floated out toward the dark horizon.
On board, a party was in full swing. The name of the yacht was emblazoned in stark black letters on her pristine hull.
She was called the Delilah.
I drew closer, keeping out of sight behind the piles of packing crates and coils of rope along the jetty's edge. The clothes and bearing of the party guests milling around on the Delilah's deck marked them out as the city's elite, but they all looked human, and I couldn't see any activity more suspicious than a number of couples slipping away from the gathering into the yacht's interior and, presumably, the cabins below.
As I watched, a well-dressed couple walked up the gangplank and waved invitations at the two thugs dressed in tuxedos who formed the welcoming committee. It was going to be near impossible to get past them without causing a scene; the next best option would be to scale the outside of the yacht and climb over the deck's railings unobserved. I was pretty confident of my climbing abilities, less so about how I would mingle with the crowds and pass myself off as a guest once on board. But I had to get on that boat.
"We HAVE to get on that boat," Cordelia's voice said in my ear.
She was standing right behind me, gazing up at the Delilah with unadulterated awe. I almost jumped.
"Cordelia?"
"Hi, Angel," she said, in much the same tone she used when I walked into the room as she was filing her nails. She pointed at the yacht. "How amazingly cool is that party?"
"What are you doing here? And --" I broke off, and stared at her. "What are you wearing?"
Cordelia smiled, apparently delighted I'd noticed that she'd changed since I last saw her. She was wearing a cocktail dress in crushed velvet and holding a matching clutch bag. She looked as if she belonged with the young, rich and beautiful people up on the Delilah's deck, and not lurking down in the shadows with me. "You like?" she asked, giving me a little twirl. "I decided to come down here and help you out. I went home to change first, of course."
I wondered if Cordelia's eagerness to help me mightn't have something to do with the fact that Doyle's vision had mentioned a party as opposed to, say, a dingy back alley. "Thanks, but I don't need your help."
"Sure you do. How were you planning to get on to that boat? You were probably gonna pull some dumb macho James Bond stunt like climbing up the hull, right?"
Patiently, I said, "Cordelia, demon-killing, evil-fighting is a violent, risky and difficult activity." I folded my arms resolutely across my chest. "I am a 250 year old vampire. You are a 19 year old girl. Which one of us do you think has the appropriate skill set for this situation?"
"You want to see appropriate skills?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. "Watch this."
Before I could stop her, Cordelia had grabbed me by the sleeve and was towing me behind her up the gangplank and toward the smartly-dressed security detail guarding the way on to the Delilah. "Cordelia," I hissed, "what are you --"
"Just let me do the talking," she whispered back. "Okay?"
"No, absolutely not okay --"
That was as far as I got, because suddenly we were at the top of the gangplank and facing the grim-faced security thug who was already eyeing us with suspicion. I readied myself for the inevitable confrontation.
"Hi," Cordelia purred at him, wrapping a strand of hair idly around one finger. The security thug's eyes widened, and I felt a certain sympathy for him -- outclassed and outgunned, he didn't stand a chance.
Two minutes and one extremely flimsy story about a lost invitation later, we were boarding the yacht.
Cordelia smiled widely as we walked on to the Delilah's crowded, noisy deck. Leaning closer to me, she said, "I totally rule. Tell me that wasn't easier than pretending to be Pierce Brosnan."
Who? Never mind. "Sooner or later they'll figure out we're not supposed to be here."
"You worry too much. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it," Cordelia said, and lifted a glass of white wine from a passing waiter's tray. "Oooooh, hors d'oeuvre. Hold this." She thrust the wine into my hand and set off toward the buffet like a canapé-seeking missile, leaving me to hover at the edge of the party and try not to look as out of place as I felt.
And I did feel out of place. All around me, people -- humans -- were laughing and talking and flirting with each other. There'd been a time when I would have been able to join in, picking through the party in much the same way as Cordelia was currently selecting delicacies from the buffet spread. And, as much as I hated what I'd been, I wished gatherings like this one held more for me now than merely a painful awareness of just how far removed from humanity I was. I glanced at Cordelia, who had struck up a conversation with a young man at the buffet table, and envied her easy confidence.
"Trying to work up the nerve to talk to her?"
I turned around. The girl who had joined me was young -- probably not much older than Cordelia -- and, like everyone else at the party, unusually attractive. Her skin was dark, and perfect; she wore a clutch of jewels in her hair. They shimmered as she tipped her head in Cordelia's direction. "Would you like me to introduce you? Technically, I'm the hostess, so I could. That's part of the standard hostessing package, right?"
"Thanks, but I don't need an introduction. I already know her -- we're here together."
"Oh." The girl looked back at Cordelia, and appeared to consider her in a new light. "Then maybe you're thinking about telling that guy who's hitting on her to back off."
The young man talking to Cordelia was smiling a lot, I noticed suddenly, and Cordelia was smiling right back. For a moment, I felt an odd surge of something which wasn't quite possessiveness, but wasn't far from it.
Then I remembered that not only were we here to gather information -- which was exactly what Cordelia appeared to be doing -- but that for the first time in days she looked relaxed and happy.
"I'm glad she's enjoying herself," I said, and meant it.
A look which was not unlike sadness flashed across the girl's face. "You're a nice guy. You should give lessons to my boyfriend." She held out her hand to me. "The Delilah belongs to him. I'm Jameela."
"Angel," I said, and took her hand in mine. Jameela's grip was unexpectedly strong; she held on to my hand tightly, and looked straight into my eyes for a long moment.
Then, abruptly, her manner changed, as if I'd just failed some vital test. "Nice to meet you, Angel," she said flatly, turning away from me. "Enjoy the party."
I watched her walk away, feeling puzzled. Had that encounter been as odd as I thought it had been? Or had I just missed -- again -- some unspoken cue that should have been obvious to me?
"Who was that?" Cordelia asked as she returned to my side. She was carrying a plate laden with a collection of tiny, intricately constructed bundles which weren't immediately recognizable to me as food. "The sushi is to die for. "
"Her name was Jameela. She said this yacht is her boyfriend's."
"Then I guess that's her boyfriend," Cordelia said, taking the glass of wine she'd handed me back again and gesturing with it.
I looked where she was pointing, and saw a unprepossessing middle-aged man who was standing on the upper deck, surveying the party. "Who is he?"
"According to my new friend over there --" she pointed back in the direction of the buffet table -- "His name is Michael Hunter. He made his money out of those little foil tubs of milk substitute you put in coffee. He's, like, the King of Creamer."
I watched Michael Hunter as he looked down on his guests. For a wealthy man and the host of the party, he seemed anxious, as if he were searching for something in the crowd. Or someone, I realized a second later when Jameela came to join him. He wrapped his arm around her in a gesture which was superficially intimate, but I saw her wince as his fingers dug into her shoulder. Then he turned abruptly and walked away, taking Jameela with him.
"I'm going to find out where they're going," I said to Cordelia. "Stay here and wait for me."
"No way," Cordelia protested. She waved a half-eaten piece of sushi at me. "Didn't we talk about this earlier? You always run off and leave me behind."
I ran off, leaving her behind.
The party thinned out toward the stern of the yacht, until the only indication it was going on was a faint, irritating buzz from somewhere behind me. The truth was that if I hadn't had to leave it to follow Jameela, I would probably have invented an excuse. Mingling is not one of my skills. Lurking in the dark is.
I found them behind the wheelhouse, in a secluded area of the deck which was obviously intended for private sunbathing. I stayed in the shadows, and found a vantage point that allowed me to watch and listen without being seen.
"I love you," Hunter was telling Jameela. "I love you and I want you to stay with me. Always. Never leave."
"Sometimes I think you don't trust me."
"I do, baby. I do."
"Then tell me everything."
While I was trying to work out what this exchange meant, I saw Hunter lean closer to Jameela. He wrapped his arms around her in an embrace which would have been loving if I hadn't been able to see the crushing force he was using, etched in lines of pain on Jameela's face.
The direct approach was best, I decided. Doyle's vision had brought me to Jameela so I could protect her from Hunter, and the simplest way to do that was to take her away from him. I moved forward a little, and tensed, ready to leap down on to the deck --
"Angel!"
Once again, my concentration was interrupted by Cordelia unexpectedly popping up beside me. It wasn't getting any less irritating.
"Cordelia, I told you not to move. To STAY PUT. What part of that did you not get?"
"Angel --"
"Would it be so incredibly difficult, just once, to do what I ask you to --"
"Angel!" Cordelia hissed. "I couldn't stay where I was."
I glowered at her. "Give me one good reason why not."
From somewhere in the darkness behind Cordelia, I heard the voice of the thug she'd fooled to get us on the yacht. He sounded about as annoyed as I felt, and he was talking to more than one person.
"It's bridge-crossing time," Cordelia said.
I looked back down at the deck, but both Jameela and Michael Hunter had gone. Great. Just great.
And, by the sound of the security thugs' rapidly approaching footsteps, it was time for us to go, too.
I grabbed Cordelia by the arm and vaulted over the railings down to the lower deck where Hunter and Jameela had been seconds earlier. Cordelia's initial protests rose in pitch and tone to become a wordless yelp of surprise as we fell, arms and legs flailing. I managed to twist around so that I hit the deck first, breaking her fall, although I was distantly aware of a drawn-out ripping sound. As I got to my feet, I saw Cordelia was struggling to disentangle her torn dress from the jutting nail it had caught on. "My dress -- "
The material had ripped almost to her waist, a pale slash of her bare thigh visible through the jagged slit. Above us, I heard the heavy footfalls of the security thugs approaching. I leapt up and headed for the side of the yacht, jerking Cordelia with me but leaving a wad of sequined cloth on the nail. I heard Cordelia start to make a protest which became a yelp as we pitched over the side of the yacht and toward the black water below.
And then we were hanging, swinging gently on the end of the rope I'd grabbed as I'd dived over the side.
I was using one hand to grip the rope; my other arm was holding on to Cordelia, whose eyes were screwed shut. She twisted around, causing one of her shoes to slip off her foot. It plummeted in silence before hitting the water far below with a faint splash. "Oh God," she said. "Oh God. Oh God."
"Be quiet," I told her. "And don't look down."
I should have remembered that the fastest way to get Cordelia to do something is to tell her not to do it. Her eyes popped open; she looked down, and swallowed. There was a faint tremor in her voice as she said, "Technically speaking, the only life that's getting risked here is mine."
"You're not going to fall," I said. "I've got you."
"Fine. Who's got YOU?" Her voice was shaking; I could feel her heart pounding, and her scent was sharp with fear. Her arms were clamped, vise-like, over my shoulders and around my chest and I gripped her waist with every last ounce of strength I possessed. We were hanging on to each other as if the world began and ended with each other.
Above us, I heard the security thugs discussing the ripped section of Cordelia's dress they'd just found. I hushed Cordelia, and we hung for long seconds in the darkness as they stood almost directly over us, discussing loudly where we might have gone. When they finally moved off, I allowed myself to relax a fraction. Below us, the water of the harbor rippled.
"Can you swim?" I asked Cordelia.
"Sure," she said automatically. Then her eyes widened. "Ohhhh no. No way. That is SO not an option."
I was about to point out that it was the only option, when I heard voices from overhead again. They were familiar, and for a second, I thought the security thugs had returned. Then I realized it was Hunter and Jameela.
Cordelia fell silent. She looked upward, then at me. I nodded. We listened.
"Stay, baby." That was Hunter's voice. "Stay, you've got to stay. Always and forever."
"Michael. Michael, stop it, you're hurting me."
Their voices grew fainter -- apparently they'd moved away from the edge of the deck -- until the conversation was too indistinct even for my better-than-mortal hearing. Cordelia was mouthing, What? at me; I shook my head, concentrating on the murmurings from above us. When that didn't work, I tried to pull us back up the rope, just enough to make the voices above audible. One inch; two; three --
And then I felt it -- the impact of an unseen force, like a silent peal of thunder directly overhead, or the blast wave from a noiseless bomb. I felt the hair on my arms and neck rise as the air around us crackled and sparked, suddenly saturated with raw power. I knew this sensation, and every instinct I had screamed at me to get as far away as fast as was humanly -- or inhumanly -- possible.
I didn't think; I acted. I let go of the rope.
We fell, still holding on to each other. The lights of the Delilah's lower decks sped past, like decorations on a fairground ride. The night air howled in my ears as we hurtled downward -- or maybe that was Cordelia yelling, I couldn't tell. The world was noise and acceleration and a sickening, yawning void in the pit of my stomach --
We hit the water, and kept going.
For the briefest of moments, the sudden silence and darkness came as a relief. Instead of plummeting, we were descending slowly, as gently as leaves falling to the ground on a windless day. I held on to Cordelia, and a strangely peaceful sensation overtook me.
Then I felt her struggle in my arms, and a stream of bubbles escaped her mouth and nose. With a cold jolt of horror, I realized she was about to start drowning.
I let go of her, and watched as she kicked out, feet and arms driving her back up to the surface. Her long hair rippled out behind her, and the fabric of her dress billowed in slow motion. As I continued on my path downward, the last thing I saw was Cordelia, swimming up and away from me, toward the lights of the harbor.
***
By the time I made it back to dry land, the party on the Delilah had long since ended, and the deck of the yacht was empty and dark, except for cleaners and waiters scurrying to make the mess vanish by morning. I found Cordelia sitting on the edge of a packing crate some distance from the harbor's edge. She was systematically wringing the water out of her sodden, ripped dress by grabbing the material in handfuls and twisting it.
I sat down beside her, squelching a little.
After a second, Cordelia said, "If I get some kind of disgusting illness from the raw sewage they pump into the sea around here, you are paying ALL my medical bills."
I took off my shoes and tipped them up, one at a time. In open defiance of gravity, most of the murky sludge that filled each one refused to dislodge.
Cordelia was having even less success in extracting the Pacific from her dress. "And what took you so long to get here, anyhow?" she said, giving up and turning her attention back to me. "I figured you should have been swimming right behind me."
I have a lot of secrets; maybe, given my unique history, that's inevitable. There are many things about myself I choose not to reveal, and many more I can only bring myself to share when there is no alternative. This fell into the latter category.
"I can't swim," I said.
"No, seriously," Cordelia said, "what took you so long?"
"I can't swim," I said again, waving one sand-filled shoe for emphasis. "No vampire can. No buoyancy."
"But you don't need to breathe -- you can't drown." Cordelia looked at the shoe I held, and then at the layer of silt that covered me below the knees. Her face broke into a wide smile. "You walked along the harbor floor. Like one of those old fashioned divers, except no diving suit."
She started to laugh. I didn't see the joke.
"C'mon, Angel," Cordelia said, giggling. "It IS pretty funny. And tonight you ruined my best cocktail dress, made me lose a shoe and you -- you got sand in my ears." She put her hand to her face to stifle the snorts of laughter.
"I did all that?" I said. "I don't think so. YOU came down here when I told you not to. It was YOUR lie that put security on to us. And YOU interfered before I got a chance to do anything to help Jameela."
Cordelia stopped laughing, her face becoming darker with every word I said. "Excuse me? I had every right to be here, too."
"Not if you're going to treat this as a game and get yourself killed," I snapped.
Cordelia looked angry, but her voice was steady as she said, "I'm not Doyle."
"You're not," I agreed. Then, harshly, I added, "Doyle knew how to take care of himself."
She blinked once, her face as shocked as if I'd just slapped her. I couldn't have felt much worse if I had. "You weren't kidding today, were you? You really do want me to leave."
I should meet her eye, I knew that much. Somehow I couldn't make myself, and instead I stood up and turned away. "I think it'd be for the best, yes."
Behind me, I heard Cordelia get up. "You want me to go," she said again. For a second, her voice wavered, and then it hardened. "You want to be all alone? Okay, fine. I'm leaving."
There was a moment's silence, as if she was waiting for me to say something, and then I heard her bare feet slap defiantly against the pier's wooden slats as she marched away from me. I didn't allow myself to turn around until her footsteps had become faint echoes. Cordelia was nothing more than a fast-vanishing shadow, disappearing into the nighttime haze that rose off the ocean and shrouded the quayside.
The last time I'd played out this scene, I had been the one walking away. But I had done the right thing when I'd left Buffy in Sunnydale, and I was certain I was doing the right thing now.
But it hurt to watch Cordelia go, far more than I had imagined it would.
And then I realized that instead of making sure Cordelia was safe, I'd just sent her away, alone and upset and probably without enough money for the taxi ride home. The night is home to a lot of evil things. I know because I used to be one of them.
I can be really stupid sometimes.
I headed after her.
***
Most humans will tell you that they can sense it when someone is following them. Most humans have no idea at all.
All the way from Santa Monica back to her apartment, I was Cordelia's shadow. I was there as she walked five and a half blocks from the marina, her wet hair and clothes making her look bedraggled and miserable. When she got tired walking and decided to take the bus, I was on the roof of the building opposite, watching over her as she waited at the bus stop. I was there when the bus arrived and she got on it, and I was waiting when she got off it again in Silverlake. When she walked past the group of young men who were drinking on the corner of her street, she didn't know that I was only a few paces away, and ready to harm anyone who so much as looked like he was contemplating doing harm to her.
I watched her from the shadows as she stood outside her apartment door and fumbled in her bag for her keys, and congratulated myself on accomplishing at least one mission that night.
I was more than a little surprised when, instead of her keys, she produced a can of mace, spun around, and emptied most of its contents into my face. As I doubled over, she kicked me squarely in the groin. I may be dead, but I'm still a man. It hurt.
"THAT'S for trying to mug me, buddy -- "
"Cordelia!"
" -- I'm gonna call the cops faster than you can say 'zero tolerance' and you will be SO sorry you ever -- " Cordelia broke off her tirade long enough to blink in surprise. "Angel?"
I could hardly speak; I was still coughing mace out of my throat. If my body had required oxygen, I would have been unconscious by now. "Yes," I croaked.
She looked at me, genuinely confused. "Why are you here?"
I wiped my watering eyes ineffectually on the backs of my hands. "I followed you."
Slowly, Cordelia said, "You followed me." I straightened up, blinked, and my vision started to clear a little. I was greeted by the sight of Cordelia's face, wearing a look of mounting fury. "You," she repeated, "were following me."
"I was making sure you got home safely."
"Safely?" she echoed incredulously. "I thought I had a serial killer stalker -- and now I think about it, hey, not so far off the truth."
"I was just trying to protect you," I said sharply, getting annoyed. "L.A. isn't exactly a safe place."
"And Sunnydale's a regular Sesame Street. Jeez, Angel, make up your mind. First you want me to go away, and when I do you start stalking me." Cordelia still looked furious, but now something else, too. She seemed upset. "Wait, now I get it. You think I can't look out for myself. You think if I stay here you're gonna have to spend all your time making sure I'm okay. That's why you want me to leave."
I thought of Doyle, skin peeling and flesh burning, his face twisted into a rictus of agony as the Scourge's beacon killed him slowly. The truth was, I didn't want Cordelia to leave. But I did want her to be safe. I wanted her never to know first hand the kind of death that had taken Doyle from us. If ensuring her safety meant making her leave -- hell, if it meant making her hate me so much she wanted to leave -- then that seemed a fair price to pay.
Cordelia took a step forward, so that we were standing toe to toe. She jabbed a finger into my chest. "Well, I've got news for you. I can handle being in L.A., and I can handle Doyle dying, and I can handle YOU."
"No, you can't!" I shouted at her. I hadn't meant to raise my voice, and immediately I regretted my outburst. A light in a nearby apartment window snapped on, and I saw the blinds twitch as one of Cordelia's neighbors peered out at us. I tried to force myself to calm down, and failed. "Cordelia, this is about what's best for you!"
"And you're the best person to decide that exactly WHY?"
"Because --" I began. I didn't get any further.
The street, the apartment building, the cars -- everything of the normal world faded and became distant and indistinct, as if Cordelia and I were inside a bubble underwater, alone together. The streetlights' glow took on a strange fluidity, and the night breeze was a wave breaking over us, stirring senses, its draw dragging us under. I didn't want to see the surface again, ever.
When we kissed, it felt like the only thing we could do.
We fumbled for a moment, clumsy in our desperation. Then my mouth found hers, and my hands were on her back, her body fitting against mine as if we had been made for that sole purpose. She tasted of the ocean, salt and sharp and clean, and I followed the taste of the sea from her lips into the welcoming warmth of her mouth. But when I ran my hands down her back, I found her skin, chilled by her still-damp dress, as cool as my own.
All her warmth, all her life, had been compressed into a core deep within her, a well of heat and life I longed to reach.
Cordelia made a tiny sound and exhaled. I took in her breath, savored its sweetness and warmth, and wanted more. Desire made me shudder, and I kissed her harder, pushing her back without really meaning to.
Then Cordelia stumbled, and suddenly she was underneath me on the damp lawn, her scent mixing with the dewy, sweet smell of the soil below. I kissed her again, and shifted my position so that I was on top of her. She was earth and sea; she filled my world, and there was nothing else apart from her.
"Hey, you! You want to screw, don't do it on my goddamn lawn!"
A man wearing an ill-fitting T-shirt and an angry scowl was yelling at us from the lit second floor window, which was now wide open. As I looked up, he fired a another barrage of expletives in our general direction, then slammed the window shut and disappeared.
I looked down at Cordelia, who was lying on her back on the ground beneath me. Then I looked at the straps of her dress, entwined around my fingers.
I didn't know what the hell had just happened, but I knew that if I stayed where I was, it was going to start happening again before very long.
"Umm," I said, and got off her.
Cordelia pushed herself to her feet, paying an inordinate amount of attention to the task of brushing soil off her already salt-encrusted, ripped dress. In a surprisingly even and only slightly strained voice, she said, "People have weird reactions to grief, sometimes. They freak out, do weird stuff, eat nothing but ice cream for a week or vacuum 24 hours a day. It happens, it doesn't mean anything."
"Not a thing," I agreed. I wanted nothing more than to bolt; fortunately we were outdoors, and so every direction except straight up was available to me. I began to back away, toward the sidewalk. "I should, ahh --" I said, making hand signals which I hoped subtly conveyed my intention to leave while at the same time absolving Cordelia from any responsibility for what had just happened. They were pretty vague gestures, and I felt pretty foolish making them, and I pretty quickly gave up. "I should go."
"Yes," she said, too quickly. The door of her apartment opened behind her -- Dennis, providing Cordelia with an escape route of her own.
"And tomorrow we'll --"
"Not talk about this," Cordelia said. "Ever." She walked up the steps, into her apartment, and shut the door behind her.
She was gone.
She was gone and I couldn't see her or touch her and she was GONE --
The world spun around me, lacking any focus or meaning, because she was gone, and I needed her, craved her without reason or logic. She was gone, and I couldn't think except about her, couldn't feel except to want her, couldn't speak a word except her name. A second earlier I had been standing on a normal sidewalk in a normal neighborhood; now I was adrift in a chaotic void, lost in a terrible, empty place I could not hope to navigate without her.
And then -- suddenly, miraculously, wonderfully -- she was there.
For a long time we stayed where we were, on the lawn outside the apartment, clinging on to each other as if we might drown if we let go. When had Cordelia come back out of her apartment? I couldn't remember and I didn't care. All that mattered was that she was back. We didn't kiss, or speak; we barely had the strength to move.
Finally, Cordelia said, "Uhh, Angel? I think we should go inside. Before ALL my neighbors wake up."
I looked around, and saw that the window on the second floor of the building was no longer the only one which was bright with the false glow of electric light. "Good idea."
We got up, arms around each other like drunks offering mutual support, and weaved our way unsteadily into the apartment. Once inside, we didn't make it as far as the sofa; as soon as the door clicked shut behind us -- thank you, again, Dennis -- we sank down together on to the wooden floor.
My arms were wrapped around Cordelia's shoulders; her head pressed against my chest. "This is really uncomfortable," she said, "but I really don't want to move."
I agreed. My arms were beginning to cramp, and yet I couldn't let go of her. Couldn't even think about it.
"What just happened out there?" Cordelia asked me.
"I don't know."
"And what's making us act like this?"
"I don't know."
Cordelia thought for a second. "We're in trouble, aren't we?"
At last, a question I was confident I knew the answer to. "Yes," I said. "We're in trouble."
***