II
"Keep going," I said. "It's not much further."
I was standing in the open doorway of Cordelia's apartment, as close to daylight as I could safely get. Cordelia was at the bottom of the steps that led up to the door, and was about to embark on the long trek across the street to where my car was parked.
Cordelia took several more faltering, hesitant steps, as if wading against the tide. She kept looking at the Plymouth, focusing on it like a mountain climber aiming for the summit.
She was at the edge of the sidewalk now. This was okay, I told myself. I could still see her, even if I couldn't touch her, couldn't go to her --
I called her name. I couldn't help it.
That was all it took. Cordelia looked back at me, and then she was running back up the steps, through the apartment door and into my arms.
"That time was totally your fault," she said, her voice muffled because she was talking into my chest.
She was right, although now that she was back and I was able to hold her again, somehow I couldn't feel bad about it. "Next time --" I began.
"No next time," Cordelia interrupted, disengaging herself from me. "We're just gonna have to wait until it gets dark to go anywhere. I'm not going to have another panic attack out on street where all my neighbors can see. Especially after last night."
We went back into the living room, where Cordelia flopped back on to sofa and I sat down next to her. There were four perfectly good chairs positioned around her dining table, but if I sat on any of them, Cordelia would be more than an arm's reach away from me, and right now I didn't feel up to dealing with that.
"It's magic making us act this way," I said. "It has to be."
"Now I know why you decided to become a private detective. You're so fast at putting together those subtle little clues other people miss."
I ignored her and persisted, "Last night, on the Delilah, I felt something -- a kind of magical shockwave. Everything started after that. Nobody knew we were going to be there, and no one knew who we were once we were on the boat. So this wasn't done to us deliberately."
As I was talking, I felt Cordelia interlace her fingers with mine, so that we were holding hands. I glanced at her, but her face was thoughtful, and I doubted she even knew she'd done it. Her skin was warm and smooth, her hands delicate, and although I knew I should let go, I didn't. "So we got zapped by a spell meant for someone else?"
"I'd guess an enchantment rather than a spell."
"What's the difference?" Cordelia asked. I touched her fingers, one by one. They were slender but strong, and each one ended in a nail as smooth as polished ivory.
"Enchantments are more powerful than spells, but more difficult to focus tightly. And they don't just wear off -- they have to be reversed," I said. I moved my hand underneath hers, and touched her palm lightly with my fingertips. Her hand flexed in spasm, her whole arm tensing to the shoulder. "What's affecting us is probably only an echo of the full enchantment."
"So this is the bargain basement version. Someone else got the de luxe edition," Cordelia said. Her voice lowered, and she turned her head toward me, so she could whisper in my ear, "Lucky them."
"I don't think whoever's responsible for this magic intended it for fun." Somehow, my hand was moving along the inside of Cordelia's arm, from the inside of her elbow down. Her skin rose in gooseflesh under my fingertips as I traced a path that followed her pulse to her wrist, that hollow between her arm and her hand where the force of her life was so strong it made her skin tremble. "This is about control, and lack of it. This is about putting someone else in thrall, making them helpless and keeping them that way."
"Helpless," Cordelia echoed. She slid down the sofa beside me, just far enough so that her mouth was at my neck and not my ear. I felt her lips brush my skin, just above the collar. "Like... right... now..."
Suddenly I saw she was right. She was nuzzling my neck; any second now I'd turn around and kiss her, and after that was the point of no return. This time, there'd be no angry neighbor to save us from ourselves. "We have to stop this."
"Mmmm. I know. Oh, God, I don't want to. No, no, we have to stop. Okay. So stop."
"I'm stopping." I lifted my arm, fully intending to push her off me, and somehow found myself pulling her closer instead.
"You're not." Her lips were against my throat, and her breath was warm on my neck when she spoke. It felt incredible.
"You first," I said.
"Wait," Cordelia gasped. "Wait, wait. Dennis! Needing a little help here!"
The vase of flowers sitting in the middle of the dining table suddenly levitated and flew toward the couch. When it was directly overhead, it neatly tipped up, pouring cold water and petunias all over us.
It wasn't pleasant, but it worked. We leaped up and retreated to opposite corners of the living room. The vase floated back to the table. Cordelia looked down at her soaking clothes, then at the water-stained couch. I removed a flower from where it had lodged inside my shirt.
"Thanks, Dennis," Cordelia said. She hugged her arms around herself. "This is worse than when I was dating Xander Harris. At least then I could blame teenage hormones. Angel, how are we gonna snap ourselves out of this?"
I tried to focus on the question, and not on the way Cordelia's wet blouse was clinging to her. "First we have to find out what kind of magic it is, and who cast it. And then we need to work out how to undo it." I sat down at the table, realizing for the first time what a tall order that was. "We're going to need some kind of expert help. These are the kinds of things Watchers spend years studying. Maybe if we called Sunnydale --"
The look on Cordelia's face stopped me. She mimed picking up a telephone and dialing a number. "Hello, Giles? Hi, this is Cordelia. I need your help. You see, Angel and I are suddenly incredibly horny for each other and -- Giles? Giles?" She put down the invisible phone. "Gee, he hung up. I wonder why."
I took the point. But the truth was, apart from our various acquaintances and exes in Sunnydale, Cordelia and I had no one to go to now that Doyle was gone. Almost without our noticing it, our world had narrowed until we were the only people in it.
Wait a second. Doyle.
"Did you bring the box of Doyle's things to keep from his place back here?" I asked Cordelia.
She nodded. "It's on the floor, over there. What do you want from it?"
I got the shoebox and opened it. "This."
"Doyle's address book?" Cordelia asked doubtfully. "Angel, this is not the time to start organizing the wake."
"He knew half the demons and magic users in L.A. He must have known someone who could help us."
"Like who?"
I opened the address book and began to flick through it. "Last month we were clearing out a nest of Velga demons out at the coast. Doyle got bitten by one of them."
"So?"
"Their venom is poisonous. I wanted to take him to a hospital, but he said he never went to regular doctors -- being part demon, he couldn't."
"I get that," Cordelia said. "I mean, if the doctor says 'Sneeze' and spikes grow out of your head, you're probably gonna be in quarantine for the rest of your life."
"He said he knew someone who could help. Her name was --" I tapped the open address book. "Sorcha. Here's the number."
"You think she knows about magic spells, too?"
"If she doesn't, she might be able to give us the name of someone who does." I got the phone, and started to key in the number. As I did so, Cordelia came out of her corner for the first time. We weren't exactly close, but we weren't that far away anymore either. Whatever we did, we were going to have to fix this mess quickly, because I didn't think I could stand much more of this excruciating, exhilarating awareness of her presence.
The phone rang three, four, five times. I was about to give up and end the call when there was a click, and a woman's voice said, "Hello?"
"Sorcha?"
"Who's asking?"
Cordelia came closer to me, until she was standing at my side, her ear pressed to the other side of the phone so she could listen in on the conversation. My arm was bent as I held the phone up, and she put her hand on the inside of my elbow so that she was leaning against me.
"We haven't met. My name is Angel. I'm a friend of Doyle's."
There was a pause. "You're the vampire."
"Yes," I said. "Sorcha, about Doyle --"
Sorcha's voice was heavy as she said, "Yeah. Thanks for calling, Angel, but I heard. L.A.'s supernatural grapevine is faster than CNN and more accurate for breaking news. You're pretty famous right now, you know. There's gonna be a lot of people really pleased that the Scourge are off the radar for a while. For the last couple of months, I haven't been able to make enough protective charms to meet demand."
So Sorcha was a witch. "I need a favor."
She sighed. "Doyle may be gone, but his spirit endures. What gives?"
"I need to undo an enchantment. Urgently."
I heard her draw in her breath sharply. "Enchantments? That's a little out of my league."
Unexpectedly, Cordelia grabbed the phone off me. "Listen up, lady. Unless you help us, I'm either gonna be stuck in the world's worst porn movie forever or wearing a chastity belt for the rest of my life. So, for the love of Pete, help."
I snatched the phone back off her in time to hear Sorcha ask in bemusement, "Who was that and what was she talking about?"
"The magic has to do with, uhh, with sexual attraction."
"Oh," Sorcha said. Then, more knowingly, "Ohhhhh. Those are the worst ones to break. Okay, I'll try, but I'm not promising anything. Look, I don't finish my shift until 11.30pm, so the soonest I can meet you is midnight."
"That's fine," I said, and gave her the address of the office. Then I thanked her and ended the call.
"Midnight," Cordelia groaned. "What are we gonna do until then, tie ourselves to chairs?"
"While we're here, Dennis will step in if we get too..."
"Frisky?" Cordelia suggested. Our ghostly chaperone rattled the vase on the table in confirmation.
"Then it'll get dark around seven, which gives us five hours."
"Five hours to do what?"
"To get some answers," I said.
***
Tonight, the deck of the Delilah was empty, and most of her portholes were dark. If we were lucky, Hunter and his guests were at another party somewhere in the city, and wouldn't be back until long after we'd been and gone.
I looked at Cordelia. "Okay. While we're in there, remember --"
"If you're about to tell me to stay with you, that's pretty much a given," she said.
"While we're in there, do what I tell you to. All the time, no exceptions, no arguing back. Understand?"
She nodded, but I still felt uneasy as we trotted up the gangplank and started to make our way around the outside of the Delilah's deck. A little maritime breaking and entering wasn't the most dangerous thing I'd ever done by a long way, but I wasn't used to sharing my risks.
I found an unlocked door, and together we went below deck. Evidently Hunter didn't spend enough time on the Delilah to consider it his home.
Inside, the yacht was as opulent as its exterior suggested. The hallways were carpeted -- a ridiculous impracticality on a seagoing vessel -- and the cabins I looked into were more like bedrooms in a luxury hotel than anything you might expect to find on a boat. The stateroom was a suite, with a bedroom, bathroom and living area. This was where Hunter and Jameela slept, I guessed.
We searched the bedroom first, which was dominated by a huge, circular bed, draped in a fur throw. Cordelia breathed out in awe when she saw it. "Lifestyles of the rich and evil." She ran her hand down the door of a closet which was set into the side of the room. "This is beautiful. What are we looking for, anyhow?"
"Anything that shows what kind of man Hunter really is. And anything that might tell us where he gets his magical power from."
I went to the bookshelves next to the bed and looked through the titles. I didn't see any copies of the Necrocomicon or the Almanac of Demonology. Instead, Hunter had recently been reading "Thriving in the Global Economy" and "The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People." Plenty of evidence that he was exceptionally dull, then, but nothing that linked him obviously to the black arts. I started to put back the books, but as I moved something fluttered to the floor at my feet. I picked it up, and turned it over in my fingers. It looked like a large fish-scale, shining with an oily mix of colors in the dim light. I'd never seen anything like it, but it smelled distinctly demonic. I put it in my pocket.
"Angel, look at this!" Cordelia said suddenly, a note of excitement in her voice.
"What have you found?"
"LOOK at this wardrobe. Prada, Gucci, Valentino -- these people have serious style. And it goes way deep --" She pushed the hangers apart and waved her arm into the dark space beyond for emphasis.
The closet was deep. It was much, much deeper than it had any right to be.
"Help me take out those clothes," I said.
Cordelia looked momentarily doubtful. "You think? I mean, it wouldn't be right to try them on. But then, it's just WRONG for beautiful clothes not to be worn --"
"No," I said, "just take them out of the closet, Cordelia. I want to see what's behind there."
She looked disappointed, but helped me anyway. When I tapped the back of the closet, it rung hollowly. I felt around until I found a recessed handle, and pulled it. I wasn't at all surprised when the back of the closet swung out. It was a door.
And behind it was shelf upon shelf of small plastic packages filled with white powder.
"Oh, my God," Cordelia said. "What is that? Cocaine?"
I didn't know. I haven't taken drugs since the most potent substance available was opium, and I haven't kept up with developments in the area since. But I could guess that the street value of what we were looking at probably would have bought most of downtown L.A.
I put the door back, and began to replace the clothes on the rails in front of it, hiding the stash. "You're just gonna leave it there?" Cordelia asked.
"Can you think of a better plan? Besides, this isn't what we came here to find."
Cordelia sat down on the edge of the bed. "Angel, this is serious. I mean, you can't go to the cops and say, There's a bad guy casting spells on his girlfriend. But 'drug trafficker' -- to a cop, THAT'S a magic word."
She was pale, and I realized what we'd just found had been more shocking to her than any number of demons or vampires. She ran her fingers over the bed's fur cover, and shook her head. "It's not fair," she said. "Why do evil people get to enjoy the best things in life?"
"Mostly because they don't care how they get them." I sat down next to her. The bedcover was real fur, a rarity in this age of environmentalism and endangered species. It felt warm and silky, an extravagance of sensation under my fingertips, and I found myself stroking it again and again.
Everything in the bedroom, in fact, represented a slice of luxury, from the lustrous wood paneling on the walls to the delicate perfume coming from the bowls of roses arranged on the floor. Whoever had designed this room had intended it to be far more than a place to crash out for eight hours. It was a temple where the physical senses were worshiped and gratified, a place to indulge fantasies.
One of the things Cordelia and I have in common is a weakness for luxury.
"Evil or not," Cordelia said suddenly, "this place is making me a little --"
She didn't finish the sentence, but I guessed the word she was looking for was probably 'frisky'. I raised my hand from the fur throw and ran it instead over and through her hair, losing my fingers in dark, shining waves. I wondered if all her hair was as soft and silken as this.
Cordelia's breathing was getting faster, more shallow. "Oh, no," she said. "Oh, no, not here. Someone could find us --"
"Anyone could walk right in."
She stretched out on top of the bedcover, her hair fanning around her head like a dark halo, in places indistinguishable from the mahogany-colored fur throw. "Someone might hear us."
"Anyone who was listening."
She bit her lip and gave a small moan, as insanely and stupidly turned on by the idea as I was. I started to recline next to her, so that our bodies were side by side. I wanted to feel her skin under my hands, to learn her contours like a diver feeling his way by touch along the ocean's hidden floor to find sunken treasure. All I could think was: No Dennis here --
"What are you doing here?"
I sat up; Cordelia gave a yelp of surprise and rolled away from me. Jameela was standing in the stateroom's doorway. For an instant, the look on her face was one of killing fury. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. "What are you doing here?" she said again, and now her voice was pleading, terrified. "You shouldn't be here."
Cordelia sat up, gasping. "We were just -- uh, I mean we were kind of --"
With all the authority and dignity I could muster, under the circumstances, I said, "We know what your boyfriend's real business is, Jameela. You have to get away from him before you get sucked down, too."
Jameela shook her head. "Oh, God. You don't know how much I want to. But I try to go and I can't. Sometimes I feel like he's put a spell on me..."
"That's because he has," Cordelia said matter-of-factly. She was patting her hair back into place, and was rapidly regaining her composure. "Your boyfriend is the scummiest piece of scum that ever clung to the underside of a rock."
I heard a faint noise from somewhere else in the yacht. Cordelia didn't react, but Jameela gave a start and glanced out of the stateroom's open door and into the corridor. A few seconds later a man's voice called, "Jameela? Are you okay?"
Jameela looked at me. I looked back at her.
"Listen to me," I said in a low voice. "Hunter's using magic to make you stay with him. We're going to figure out how to break it, and then you'll be free. You want that, right?"
"Jameela?" the male voice called again.
Slowly, Jameela nodded. Then she raised her head and, never breaking eye contact with me, called back, "Yes, I'm fine. But -- but I thought I heard noises on the forward deck. Go check it out."
Cordelia breathed a deep sigh of relief. I would have, if I breathed.
Jameela was shaking. "Leave," she said. "Leave now, before he finds you."
I took Cordelia's hand, and we went to the door. Cordelia went through, but had to stop when I held back. I dug into a pocket and found a business card. "This is our phone number. If you get scared -- if you need to get away -- call me. I'll come."
Jameela smiled a faint, fragile smile. "Thank you, Angel."
***
"We have to call the cops," Cordelia said as we left the Delilah and started to walk back through the marina.
"Yes, but not right away. They'd impound the yacht, and then we might never figure out what kind of magic Hunter's using, or how to break it."
"You know what the scary part is?" Cordelia said. "Back there, for a couple of seconds I didn't want to break the spell. Angel, the longer this goes on, the harder it's gonna get to --"
She didn't finish the thought, but she didn't need to. If we didn't fix this soon, everything was going to get harder, in every sense.
I heard a shout from behind us, and when I looked around, the Delilah was lit up from stern to prow.
"What does that mean?" Cordelia asked.
"It means we're in trouble," I said, seeing the three -- no, four -- shapes swarming down the yacht's gangplank toward us. "Run."
But running normally was out of the question -- I couldn't concentrate on where I was going without looking back to make sure Cordelia was still close. I grabbed her hand and we ran awkwardly, but faster.
But not fast enough.
The Delilah's security detail was easily catching up with us, and when I looked around I saw why -- they weren't human. The thugs at the previous night's party had been for show -- Hunter's real personal security was demonic.
If they caught up with us, I wasn't certain I could fight them all. Cordelia had the twin advantages of youth and strength, but she couldn't match supernatural speed. We needed inspiration, or a miracle. Preferably both.
Ahead of us, I saw the lights of cars on Venice Boulevard. That was our chance. I pulled Cordelia along faster. "Come on."
"Angel, the way out's in the other direction," she said, gasping. "Where are you GOING?"
There wasn't time to explain. I was guessing that Hunter's demons had strict orders not to leave the marina, or risk being anywhere they might be seen. We'd be safe if we could get to the road.
Cordelia was breathless now. I held on more tightly to her wrist and stopped her from slowing down. Behind us, I could hear the clipclip of hooves -- damn, getting kicked was going to hurt like hell if this came to a fight -- getting closer. But so were the lights of the boulevard.
Thirty yards. Twenty. Fifteen.
That was how far away safety was when I saw the gaping hole in front of us. I nearly didn't stop in time.
Cordelia and I teetered on the edge of a berth which had no vessel in it. The tide was out, and fifteen feet below us there was only black mud. I judged the distance. "We're going to have to jump it."
"Are you crazy? No way!"
"It's not that far. You can do it," I said. Without waiting for a reply, I backed up, ran, stretched and leaped --
-- and for a second or less the darkness was above and below and around me --
-- and then I was on the other side.
I turned around, and saw Cordelia standing on the other side of the gap. She was out of my reach, and the sense of separation was suddenly acute and unbearable. Too late, I realized I'd seriously underestimated the strength of the magic binding us. From the look on Cordelia's face, she was feeling it, too.
Cordelia looked at the gap, then at me. "Oh, God. Oh God," she said. "Angel, I can't --"
I held out my hand to her. "Come on."
"You are SO gonna regret this," Cordelia said.
Then she backed up, ran and jumped --
-- and for a second she seemed to be motionless in the air, suspended and weightless --
-- and then she was falling, falling, falling, and I knew with a sudden and horrible conviction that she had been right, and I might never regret anything as much as what I'd just done ever again.
***
When Hunter's demons couldn't find either me or Cordelia, they quickly gave up looking and went back to the yacht. Our hiding place, at the bottom of the empty berth, waist-deep in cold, foul-smelling mud, was an excellent one. If only I'd thought of hiding instead of jumping, I thought as I cradled Cordelia's still body in my arms. If only.
If only I'd realized there was no way a normal human could make the same leap as a vampire, I thought as I carried her, still unconscious, back to my car. If only I'd realized that she wouldn't have a choice, I thought as I drove away. If only I'd thought it through and realized that, once I made the jump, the enchantment and the compulsion to stay close to me would make her attempt it anyway.
If only I wasn't so damn careless with people's lives, maybe I wouldn't have to live with as much guilt as I did.
Cordelia didn't stir as I drove across the city. She was breathing, and her heartbeat was strong and regular -- I drove with one hand on the wheel and one wrapped around her wrist, so I could feel her pulse -- but beyond that I had no measure by which to judge how seriously hurt she was. I wasn't used to dealing with the injuries of anybody who wasn't a vampire or a slayer or half-demon.
I drove without thinking about where I was going. Not to Cordelia's apartment, where I'd have to face Dennis, if 'face' was the right word to use for a poltergeist. Not to a hospital, where they might take her away from me. No, those weren't rational thoughts, but I was way past rational and in no danger of coming back soon.
I went home.
I put the car in the parking garage and carried Cordelia to the elevator and then to my apartment. I had an idea that if I could just put her to bed and watch over her while she slept, then somehow everything would make itself all right.
I was surprised to find a woman I'd never met before waiting for me in my kitchen.
She was in late middle age, dark-skinned and solidly built, verging on a matronly plumpness. She stood up as I walked in, dripping sand and mud and carrying Cordelia in my arms. She blinked once, and otherwise betrayed no surprise at all. "I was expecting a vampire," she said, "but apparently you're the Swamp Thing."
"Who --?"
"I'm Sorcha," the woman said.
The kitchen clock read twenty five minutes to one. Sorcha stood up, and I saw that she was wearing a blue uniform. I remembered her comment about her shift ending. "You're a nurse."
"Twenty years in emergency medicine," Sorcha said. "And it looks like that's just what we got here. What happened?"
"She fell."
Sorcha made a tsk-tsk noise which indicated that, as answers went, that one wasn't nearly good enough. "On to what? How far? How'd she land? And where's there a bed around here?"
Into deep mud -- about fifteen feet -- on her back -- I answered those questions and more while Sorcha made Cordelia comfortable in my bed. Then I stood to one side as she went through a precise set of rituals which was strangely comforting to watch. She opened Cordelia's eyes and shone light into them, felt her pulse and moved her arms and, very gently, her head.
"Well," she announced at last, "She's going to have a headache when she wakes up, but the worst she'll suffer is some bad bruising. You're lucky she fell on to mud and not concrete." Sorcha wrinkled her nose as she smelt the ripe stench which was coming off me, Cordelia and now the bedclothes. "Maybe not that lucky. She just needs to sleep -- come back to the kitchen and I'll make tea."
I slumped down on to the chair at the end of the bed. I couldn't remember ever feeling as guilty, relieved and helpless, all at once. "I can't," I said, rubbing my hands across my eyes tiredly. "I can't leave her."
Sorcha looked at me. "Would this have to do with that enchantment you were telling me about?"
I nodded.
"Now I know why Doyle liked you -- you're even better at finding trouble than he was," Sorcha said. Her voice was still brisk and business-like, but for the first time there was a note of kindness in it, too. "Okay, you'd better tell me from the start."
So I did.
I told her about Doyle's last vision -- it turned out Sorcha had been brewing him headache remedies for years -- and about Jameela and what I suspected Hunter was doing to her. Then, somehow, I found myself telling her why I should have died to stop the Scourge, and not Doyle, and why Cordelia needed to go back to Sunnydale for her own good, and why I needed to stop pretending I had the right to care about any human beings, when all I did was get them hurt. There was something strangely cleansing about spilling everything to someone I didn't know and would probably never see again after tonight. They say confession is good for the soul. Maybe there's some Catholicism left in me, even now.
"Cordelia can't see that she has to go," I finished.
"Sometimes people are stubborn," Sorcha said. "Sometimes they just can't see what's best for them, even when it's staring them right in the face."
"I forgot she wouldn't be able to make the jump," I said.
"Why?"
"Because she's not a vampire. She's human."
"No, I meant -- why did you forget?"
I hesitated. I hadn't really thought about that. "Because -- because I've gotten used to her always being there, right behind me."
"And right beside you, too."
I shrugged, not seeing the difference. "I forgot we're not the same, and she can't follow me everywhere."
"But you wouldn't want her to be like you," Sorcha said.
I looked at Cordelia, lying peacefully in the bed, her chest rising and falling evenly with the simple miracle of living. "No," I said quietly. "I want her to stay just the way she is."
"Well, then," Sorcha said, as if we'd reached some kind of important conclusion. I looked at her, but she just smiled. "That scale you said you found -- can I see it?"
I searched my pockets and found it, encrusted with silt but undamaged. Sorcha wiped it clean and held it up. "Oh," she said. "I think your problem is more serious than a simple enchantment. You know what Sirens are?"
The word was familiar to me, but only from stories so old they'd never been recorded in books. "Sirens lured sailors to their deaths by singing."
Sorcha arched an eyebrow. "Their methods have gotten a little more sophisticated since then."
I looked at her. "Sirens are real?"
"They're just another type of demon," she said. "Very rare, but real. They disguise themselves as humans -- and, believe me, it's a perfect fake. Not even magic can tell a Siren from a real person. Then they make themselves irresistible by sending out bursts of magic that can send a man -- or a woman -- crazy with desire. A human in a Siren's thrall is a pitiful thing -- they'll do anything and think they're doing it for love."
"Wait," I said. "I thought Sirens were female. It's Hunter who's controlling Jameela."
"Sirens are sexless. They can take male or female form," Sorcha said. She held up the scale I'd found. "The disguise is a lot prettier than the real thing."
I gestured at Cordelia. "So what happened to us?"
"I'm guessing you got too close to a Siren while it was using its power. You caught the fall-out, and you've got nowhere to direct it except at each other."
Cordelia stirred a little in the bed, the first movement she'd made. I wanted to touch her and so, not even trying to check the impulse, I did. I took her hand in mine and squeezed it. When her fingers tightened very slightly around mine, I felt better than I had in hours.
"How do we break the enchantment?" I asked Sorcha.
"The only way I know of is to slay the Siren responsible."
The knowledge that I was going to have to kill something almost cheered me. At last, something I was good at. "Sounds simple."
"It is," Sorcha said, standing up. "The tough part is finding the Siren -- there's no way to tell one from a real person unless it drops its disguise. I'm going to make that tea, now."
***
Sorcha's 'tea' turned out to be a dark, almost viscous liquid she brewed using a variety of herbs she told me she always kept in her car, "just in case". The potion smelt almost as bad as the now-congealing mud and slime that was still splattered liberally over myself and now over my sheets, too, but Sorcha insisted it would help Cordelia. "Let it cool," she instructed me, "and when she wakes up make her drink a cup every hour until it's gone. It's the best thing I've found for concussion. Doyle swore by it."
I sniffed the liquid, and thought it was more likely that Doyle had sworn AT it, but I thanked her anyway. When, shortly before dawn, Sorcha went, she left me with a list of instructions, a flask of evil-smelling tea, and a deep sense that I had received a great and undeserved kindness.
While Cordelia slept out the morning, I stayed by her side -- I had no choice. Once I was certain she was no longer unconscious, but was truly resting, I was able to relax a little. I even managed to read as I sat with her. It was no different to how I'd waited out the daylight hours a thousand times before, except now I had the need for, and comfort of, Cordelia's sleeping presence.
By midday, she was awake, able to sit up in my bed and pull a face when I made her drink the first cup of Sorcha's tea. "Yechhh! It tastes like chemical waste."
"Sorcha said Doyle used to drink it for the vision headaches."
"Yeah, but Doyle used to drink that bright green lime-flavored liqueur from -- where was it from?"
"Ecuador," I said. "I think he used it to unblock drains, too. Stop talking and finish this."
"You have no compassion for the suffering," Cordelia sniffed, but she finished the cup.
By the middle of the afternoon, Cordelia had drunk all Sorcha's tea. Her headache was gone, and she wanted to get out of bed. I helped her to the couch, where she could sit up, and I could finally relax arm and leg muscles that had grown stiff and sore from hunching forward in the wooden chair beside the bed all day.
"If we were at my place, we could watch TV," Cordelia said, and I gave silent thanks we weren't at her place. She scowled. "I guess we're stuck here until it gets dark again."
"Welcome to my life." I indicated the trap door in the floor: "There's always the sewers."
"Ughh, no thank you." She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "I can smell them from here."
"Actually, I think that smell might be us."
The look on Cordelia's face changed to one of horror as she realized I was right. Neither of us had changed out of the clothes we'd been wearing the previous night. The mud and slime into which Cordelia had fallen and I had followed her had now hardened on our clothes and skin, becoming a sour black scum that smelled almost exactly like rotting fish. For the first time, I registered the damage we'd done to the couch just by sitting on it. It was clear I was going to have to get the upholstery cleaned at the first opportunity. In fact, there was a good chance everything that had come within fifty yards of myself and Cordelia was going to need cleaning. And maybe disinfecting, too.
"I don't think," Cordelia said after a second, "I've ever felt less attractive than I do right now. And that includes the time I was with Buffy and Xander when a big, green sploodge demon attacked us and I got slimed."
Sploodge -- ? Oh.
"You mean a Spluije demon," I said.
"That's what I said, Sploodge demon. It looked like a giant, bloated stomach with a mouth and went 'sploodge' when Buffy stuck a knife into it. She SAID she just stuck it where it was vulnerable, but did any of the goo inside that thing spurt all over HER? Oh, no. And yet, strangely, I was dry cleaning for the next month."
Tactfully, I said nothing.
"That was gross. But this -- THIS is worse. I smell like a tray of cat litter and I've got little bits of seaweed down the front of my blouse. As soon as I get home I am getting straight into the shower --" Abruptly, she broke off and grabbed my hand. "Oh, God. That's not gonna work. I can't even think about not being in the same room as you."
Cordelia's breathing had quickened; her fingers were locked around mine so tightly it hurt. But I welcomed the pain, because it eased the surge of raw, uncontrollable panic I was feeling at the idea of not being able to see Cordelia, to reach out and touch her, know she was close by and safe. For a minute or more we sat side by side on the couch in silence, our hands tightly gripped together, fingers intertwined.
"I think it's getting worse," Cordelia said at last.
"I know," I said. "Sorcha said the only way to break the enchantment is to slay the demon responsible."
"I meant the smell," Cordelia said. "Angel, I have GOT to wash. So do you, since I can't get away from you any time soon. I HATE this," she finished, and I wondered if she was referring to the smell, our current situation, or both.
She closed her eyes and sighed deeply, and looked as miserable as I'd ever seen her, as if simply not being able to get clean was worse than concussion or demons or magic enchantments by a factor of thousands.
With sudden insight, I realized that, to Cordelia, it probably was worse. Her world -- which had previously been a safe, predictable place where only good things happened to her -- had lately become messy and dangerous. But Cordelia wasn't about to be brought down with it, and suddenly I saw that her obsession with hair and makeup and having just the right pair of shoes was her first line of defense against a disordered, grubby universe. Without the lipstick-and-heels shield she put up around herself every day, she was vulnerable. I didn't like to see her that way.
"We could use the shower here," I suggested.
Cordelia's eyes snapped open. "Back up there. We?"
I nodded and watched as, on Cordelia's face, unease at what I was suggesting warred with a deep, deep need not to have slime in her hair.
Reasonably, I said, "Look, when I was growing up, there wasn't any such thing as hot running water. The whole family washed once a month, in a tin bath we put in front of the fire. Everybody used the same water and everybody saw everything."
"If you're trying to make it sound quaint and theme-park historical, you're missing by a mile."
"I'm just trying to explain that it'd be no different from how people used to live."
"And did people used to live with weird demony enchantments that made them uncontrollably horny for each other?" Cordelia asked. "Because, if not, then you and me getting hot and wet together is a terrible idea."
"I know something about self control," I said.
Cordelia snorted. "Yeah, I bet. You and every other man on the planet."
There was something in the dismissive way she said it that made me snap, "Last time I looked around, there weren't any other men on the planet who couldn't even let themselves touch the woman they loved in case they got carried away and ended up losing their souls AGAIN --"
I broke off a little too abruptly.
"Sure," Cordelia said, "I know after you came back you couldn't get happy with Buffy, but you could get mostly happy without getting completely, all-the-way happy, right? You must have let yourself get, you know, cheerful sometimes." I looked at her, and the certainty in her face started to waver. "Okay, maybe not. But you could still make out. Although I guess the fun part of making out is what comes after the making out, so that'd get old real quick -- Okay, you could still hold hands. I swear I saw you two holding hands --" She stopped, as if realizing something for the very first time. "Except I never did."
In fact, Buffy and I had allowed ourselves to hold hands sometimes, usually when walking back from patrol together or on one of our increasingly infrequent and strained dates. We'd kissed, too -- dryly and chastely, a goodnight peck on the cheek -- and a couple of times we'd even shared a bed, but only fully dressed and with layers of blankets between us. We'd survived on scraps, knowing that the rest of the world was enjoying the banquet and, of course, in the end it hadn't been enough.
"I guess you couldn't risk going any further than first base with Buffy, after what happened," Cordelia said at last. "I never thought about what that must have been like."
I gave a sour little smile. "I didn't think about much else. But -- nothing happened."
Cordelia's hand tightened around mine. Her skin was warm and soft; I could feel her pulse, beating strongly in her wrist, and for once the incessant thud didn't stimulate my appetite. "I'm sorry," she said. "I know I'm enchanted up to the eyeballs right now, but the idea of being close to someone and not being able to touch them -- it sounds like the worst thing in the world." Then her voice changed, an element of resolve entering her tone. Slowly, she said, "If you can deal, I can, too."
She got up, and pulled me to my feet with her. Still holding hands, we made our way to the bathroom, where I shrugged off my shirt and Cordelia stepped out of her jeans. We had to let go of each other to undress; even though it was necessary, and even though we were standing facing one another, I still felt a stab of discomfort when I lost the reassurance of her touch. I guessed from the reluctance with which Cordelia disentangled her fingers from mine that she felt something similar.
I threw my clothes into the corner, where they landed on top of Cordelia's blouse. Now I was stripped to my boxers and she was down to panties and a coral-colored camisole top edged with lace. The top and panties didn't quite meet, and so a low section of her midriff was bare; she had a small, round scar on her stomach, just above the camisole's lace hem. The top was a snug fit; the material pulled taut across her chest, smoothly hugging the swell of her breasts, except in two places, where the soft skin underneath was hard and puckered. I remembered that the ambient temperature in the apartment was probably a little too cool for a living person. Cordelia hugged her arms around herself and shivered.
"Before we get started," she said, "some rules and boundaries. Because after this magical superglue comes unstuck, we're still gonna have to see each other only every single day, and I'd prefer to avoid the potentially crushing embarrassment, if possible."
I nodded. "Right."
"So -- not wanting to sound prudish -- but you have to keep your eyes shut. And I'll keep mine shut, too."
"Okay."
Cordelia cleared her throat, and pointed at her camisole. "I mean, starting now, Angel."
"Oh. Right. Okay."
Obediently, I closed my eyes. I heard fabric rustling as Cordelia finished undressing, and so I took my cue to shed my boxers.
I felt Cordelia take hold of my wrist. With my other hand, I traced a route along the bathroom's tiled wall until I came to the shower cubicle. I fumbled with the handle until I heard a familiar squeak followed by the gush and splutter of hot water. The air in the bathroom rapidly became warm and moist, and we slipped under the rush of water together.
Cordelia made a small noise of delight, and whatever doubts I'd had about the wisdom of what we were doing evaporated. "Ohmigod, this is JUST what I needed. Au revoir, fishy odors! Where do you keep the soap and shampoo?"
Her voice was almost in my ear, but the only contact between us was her hand on my wrist. The shower cubicle wasn't exactly spacious, and I couldn't figure out where she had positioned herself so that we didn't touch. "There's a shelf," I said, "right above your head --"
She moved, and I felt the water bouncing off her and on to me change direction. "Got them." She pushed the bar of soap into my hand. "Here, you take this. I'm gonna do my hair."
I rubbed the soap into a lather and set about washing my face and arms. At the same time, I could hear Cordelia massaging shampoo into her scalp. "What kind of shampoo is this? It doesn't smell of anything."
"I have a heightened sense of smell, remember? Artificial perfumes give me a headache. I can tolerate unscented products, although they're not unscented to me."
She held a handful of foamy hair under my nose. "So you can still smell this? What's it like?"
Her hair smelled of the chemicals and additives in the shampoo, tinny and artificial. But, beneath that, I caught the scent of something else. No matter how often humans wash, or how heavily they drench themselves in perfumes and deodorants, nothing masks entirely the unique scent of an individual. I purposefully ignored the stink of shampoo and chemically-purified water, and concentrated on what Cordelia's hair really smelled like: Cordelia.
"The way a garden smells after the rain," I said. "Sharp. Sweet. Cleansing."
"Huh," Cordelia said, taking this in. "And all vampires get to experience the world in smell-o-vision?"
"It varies. Spike's sense of smell was never much better than a human's, but he always claimed he kept his sense of taste."
I doubted Cordelia had developed a sudden interest in vampire biology, but while we were talking this way it was easier not to think about more than the simple mechanics of scrubbing, cleaning, rinsing.
"At least we're being environmentally friendly," Cordelia said. She giggled. "Save water, shower with a friend."
I allowed myself a small chuckle, privately amazed at how relaxed I felt. Being this close to her didn't feel wrong or uncomfortable; it was the most natural thing in the world, as if her body was an extension of my own.
Then Cordelia twisted around, probably to wash shampoo out of her hair, and I felt her hip brush against my thigh. The sensation was so potent, so intense, that I couldn't help what I did next.
I opened my eyes.
Her face was barely inches away from mine, cheeks and lips flushed red. Her skin was golden brown, lustrous with warmth and vitality stolen from the sun I couldn't walk under. She'd raised her arms in order to wash her hair, and so the muscles which ran from her shoulders to her chest were taut, lifting her breasts. Rivulets of water and soap ran down between them, tracing a path down to her belly and, below that --
I snapped my gaze up, and found myself staring right into Cordelia's open eyes. "You were supposed to keep your eyes shut," she said.
"So were you," I said, aware that wasn't much of a defense.
"Turn around," Cordelia said. "I'll wash your back."
She took the cake of soap out of my hand; I turned around on the spot, and placed the flats of my palms against the shower's tiled wall. I felt her hands on my back, at first between my shoulder blades, then moving down along my spine in sweeping motions. I could feel the path traced by each fingertip on my skin, as the blast of hot water from the shower nozzle rained down on us.
"You feel warm," Cordelia said. Her voice was lower than before.
"The water heats me," I said.
Her hands were nearing the base of my spine. "Just the water?"
"Not just the water," I whispered.
She slipped her arms around my chest, so that she was hugging me tightly from behind. Her face was against my neck; I could feel her breasts and stomach pressing on my back. "Just a second," she murmured. "Just a second more like this."
Her hands were on my chest, while I was still pressing mine against the wall of the shower. I took my right hand off the slick tiles and put it over hers. Then I lifted her hand to my mouth and kissed her fingers, one at a time. I felt her pulse quicken, and the rapid thud echoed through me, as if my heart had suddenly begun to beat. I was warm to the core, and right then I could have believed I was alive.
I was also very, very hard.
Water poured on to us, beating against the sides of the cubicle, our bodies, drumming incessantly, making coherent thought impossible. We were pressed against each other, stomach to back, skin to skin.
With an effort, I reached up and turned off the shower. Instantly, the pounding water subsided into a trickle, then stopped completely. "The curse," I said hoarsely. "Remember the curse."
"Right," Cordelia agreed, voice strained. "Plus, the morning after embarrassment factor. Which might even be worse than you turning evil."
"So we get dry and get dressed," I said, "and forget this happened."
"Good idea," Cordelia said.
Neither of us moved.
Cordelia shivered against me. "I'm getting cold," she said.
We still didn't move. We stayed as we were, naked, wet, bodies locked together, but we weren't going to stay that way for long, because any second now I knew I was going to turn around and take her right there, up against the shower tiles --
Then the telephone in the apartment's main room rang.
Cordelia let go of me as if she'd just received an electric shock, and stumbled against the shower's opposite wall.
"We should get that," she said.
I nodded, then edged past her, out of the shower cubicle and into the bathroom. I wrapped a towel around my waist and handed another to Cordelia without looking around. I really didn't know what would happen if I looked at her again. Then we went out into the dryer, cooler atmosphere of the rest of the apartment.
I let the phone ring several more times before I answered it. By the time I picked it up, I was able to congratulate myself on sounding almost composed. "Hello?"
"Angel?" The voice on the other end of the line was female, hesitant, and plainly distressed. "You said I could call you -- You said you could help -- I have to get away. I have to."
"Jameela," I said. "Jameela, it's okay. You're doing the right thing."
Jameela was close to sobbing in relief as she said, "I'm on the yacht. I think maybe I can slip away, but if Michael finds out I'm gone --"
"If he comes after you, then he'll have me to deal with." There was no 'if' about it: by the end of tonight, the Siren disguised as Michael Hunter would have a sword through its chest, and I'd be able to get through more than a minute without thinking about Cordelia, who was standing beside me, damp and wearing only a towel --
With effort, I brought my attention back to conversation.
"There's a boathouse," Jameela was saying, "near the Delilah's berth."
"We'll be there as soon as it gets dark."
***
In fact, we were a little later than that, mostly because Cordelia insisted on stopping at her apartment so she could change into clean clothes. I stood facing the wall in her bedroom as I listened to the soft noises coming from behind my back -- buttons being done and undone, zippers purring up and down, studs popping open. I distracted myself by thinking of different ways to kill the Siren pretending to be Michael Hunter. I had forty three by the time Cordelia told me I could turn around.
We didn't talk much as I guided the convertible along the westbound freeway, threading through the nighttime traffic toward the coast. Cordelia seemed uncharacteristically contemplative, and I figured it was best to let her work through the shower incident in her own time. For my part, I felt -- well, the truth was, I was having trouble figuring out just how I was feeling. On the one hand, I felt a deep sense of gratitude mixed with relief that I'd narrowly escaped taking a stupid, extreme risk with my soul, while at the same time permanently damaging the fragile friendship that had begun to grow between myself and Cordelia in the past couple of months. On the other hand, I couldn't stop remembering how warm and soft her moist skin had felt against mine, and how much I had wanted her. How much I still wanted her.
When we reached the Santa Monica exit and Cordelia still hadn't spoken -- thirty minutes' unbroken silence had to be some kind of record for her -- I started to worry that maybe our encounter had left her more upset than I'd realized.
"Cordelia?" I asked hesitantly, "Are you okay?"
She looked away from the lights of the city streaking past us and straight at me with that clear, uncompromising gaze. "Well, yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"
"I thought maybe, after what happened, ah, before, maybe you were feeling awkward, or uncomfortable," I said, awkwardly and uncomfortably. "Because, although we didn't, uh, you know, I know I wanted to, and I know -- I mean I'm assuming -- you wanted to as well, and maybe now it's a little, uh, difficult to be this close and know we can't be, ah, intimate."
I shut up then, thinking that I'd probably have to live another two and a half centuries before I said anything as inarticulate as that again.
But I didn't have long to wish I was better at expressing myself, because right then Cordelia asked, "Why can't we? Be intimate, I mean."
I stared at her, and kept staring for so long that when I finally looked back at the road ahead, I had to pull hard on the wheel in order to avoid clashing hub caps with the car in the next lane. "Well, the curse, for a start --"
"I've been thinking about this," she said matter-of-factly. "You lost your soul when you and Buffy did it because you loved her, right? But you don't love me, and I know I'm not in love with you."
She was using the same assured tone she usually reserved for telling me I ought to apply for a credit card or start investing in the stock market and, rationally, I saw she was right. But instead of feeling relieved that we hadn't taken as great a risk as I'd thought, I only felt a hollow, yawning gap somewhere in the pit of my stomach. It was a moment before I remembered I'd forgotten to feed before we left the apartment.
"So even if we'd really gotten carried away in the shower, the biggest risk we would have been taking was one of us slipping on the wet floor and getting a nasty bruise. Plus," she added breezily, "you're really hot, so if we did have sex, it's not like it'd be a trial."
I wasn't sure how to respond to that. "Well -- thanks. You're very attractive, too."
Cordelia shrugged easily. "I know." Then she looked sideways at me, and smiled. "But it's still nice to hear it, sometimes."
We'd arrived at the marina. I parked the Plymouth, and together we made our way through the network of moored yachts and pleasure-boats to the place where I'd first seen Jameela with Michael Hunter. The Delilah was moored securely nearby; no lights were visible at any of its portholes, and it seemed to have been locked down for the night.
Cordelia peered into the darkness. "I don't see anyone. Are you sure she'll be here?"
"This is the right place. She said she'd meet us here."
"No, I meant -- are you sure she'll BE here," Cordelia said. "'Cause I'm thinking she's chickened out."
I heard -- or, more accurately, sensed -- something move in the shadows behind us. But when I turned around, I saw nothing.
"This isn't right," I said.
"Hell, yeah," Cordelia agreed. "Scum like Michael Hunter picking up some naïve girl like Jameela, thinking he can just use her and throw her away when he's done -- it sucks. And now he's probably terrorized her into staying with him when she'd be --"
"Cordelia, be quiet," I said. "Something's wrong. I think this is a --"
-- Trap, I wanted to finish. But I couldn't say the word, because suddenly I couldn't keep standing. Pain blossomed hotly at the back of my skull, and I fell. The last thing I saw before my vision cut out was Cordelia, backing into a corner as a leering, horned demon bore down on her.
"Keep going," I said. "It's not much further."
I was standing in the open doorway of Cordelia's apartment, as close to daylight as I could safely get. Cordelia was at the bottom of the steps that led up to the door, and was about to embark on the long trek across the street to where my car was parked.
Cordelia took several more faltering, hesitant steps, as if wading against the tide. She kept looking at the Plymouth, focusing on it like a mountain climber aiming for the summit.
She was at the edge of the sidewalk now. This was okay, I told myself. I could still see her, even if I couldn't touch her, couldn't go to her --
I called her name. I couldn't help it.
That was all it took. Cordelia looked back at me, and then she was running back up the steps, through the apartment door and into my arms.
"That time was totally your fault," she said, her voice muffled because she was talking into my chest.
She was right, although now that she was back and I was able to hold her again, somehow I couldn't feel bad about it. "Next time --" I began.
"No next time," Cordelia interrupted, disengaging herself from me. "We're just gonna have to wait until it gets dark to go anywhere. I'm not going to have another panic attack out on street where all my neighbors can see. Especially after last night."
We went back into the living room, where Cordelia flopped back on to sofa and I sat down next to her. There were four perfectly good chairs positioned around her dining table, but if I sat on any of them, Cordelia would be more than an arm's reach away from me, and right now I didn't feel up to dealing with that.
"It's magic making us act this way," I said. "It has to be."
"Now I know why you decided to become a private detective. You're so fast at putting together those subtle little clues other people miss."
I ignored her and persisted, "Last night, on the Delilah, I felt something -- a kind of magical shockwave. Everything started after that. Nobody knew we were going to be there, and no one knew who we were once we were on the boat. So this wasn't done to us deliberately."
As I was talking, I felt Cordelia interlace her fingers with mine, so that we were holding hands. I glanced at her, but her face was thoughtful, and I doubted she even knew she'd done it. Her skin was warm and smooth, her hands delicate, and although I knew I should let go, I didn't. "So we got zapped by a spell meant for someone else?"
"I'd guess an enchantment rather than a spell."
"What's the difference?" Cordelia asked. I touched her fingers, one by one. They were slender but strong, and each one ended in a nail as smooth as polished ivory.
"Enchantments are more powerful than spells, but more difficult to focus tightly. And they don't just wear off -- they have to be reversed," I said. I moved my hand underneath hers, and touched her palm lightly with my fingertips. Her hand flexed in spasm, her whole arm tensing to the shoulder. "What's affecting us is probably only an echo of the full enchantment."
"So this is the bargain basement version. Someone else got the de luxe edition," Cordelia said. Her voice lowered, and she turned her head toward me, so she could whisper in my ear, "Lucky them."
"I don't think whoever's responsible for this magic intended it for fun." Somehow, my hand was moving along the inside of Cordelia's arm, from the inside of her elbow down. Her skin rose in gooseflesh under my fingertips as I traced a path that followed her pulse to her wrist, that hollow between her arm and her hand where the force of her life was so strong it made her skin tremble. "This is about control, and lack of it. This is about putting someone else in thrall, making them helpless and keeping them that way."
"Helpless," Cordelia echoed. She slid down the sofa beside me, just far enough so that her mouth was at my neck and not my ear. I felt her lips brush my skin, just above the collar. "Like... right... now..."
Suddenly I saw she was right. She was nuzzling my neck; any second now I'd turn around and kiss her, and after that was the point of no return. This time, there'd be no angry neighbor to save us from ourselves. "We have to stop this."
"Mmmm. I know. Oh, God, I don't want to. No, no, we have to stop. Okay. So stop."
"I'm stopping." I lifted my arm, fully intending to push her off me, and somehow found myself pulling her closer instead.
"You're not." Her lips were against my throat, and her breath was warm on my neck when she spoke. It felt incredible.
"You first," I said.
"Wait," Cordelia gasped. "Wait, wait. Dennis! Needing a little help here!"
The vase of flowers sitting in the middle of the dining table suddenly levitated and flew toward the couch. When it was directly overhead, it neatly tipped up, pouring cold water and petunias all over us.
It wasn't pleasant, but it worked. We leaped up and retreated to opposite corners of the living room. The vase floated back to the table. Cordelia looked down at her soaking clothes, then at the water-stained couch. I removed a flower from where it had lodged inside my shirt.
"Thanks, Dennis," Cordelia said. She hugged her arms around herself. "This is worse than when I was dating Xander Harris. At least then I could blame teenage hormones. Angel, how are we gonna snap ourselves out of this?"
I tried to focus on the question, and not on the way Cordelia's wet blouse was clinging to her. "First we have to find out what kind of magic it is, and who cast it. And then we need to work out how to undo it." I sat down at the table, realizing for the first time what a tall order that was. "We're going to need some kind of expert help. These are the kinds of things Watchers spend years studying. Maybe if we called Sunnydale --"
The look on Cordelia's face stopped me. She mimed picking up a telephone and dialing a number. "Hello, Giles? Hi, this is Cordelia. I need your help. You see, Angel and I are suddenly incredibly horny for each other and -- Giles? Giles?" She put down the invisible phone. "Gee, he hung up. I wonder why."
I took the point. But the truth was, apart from our various acquaintances and exes in Sunnydale, Cordelia and I had no one to go to now that Doyle was gone. Almost without our noticing it, our world had narrowed until we were the only people in it.
Wait a second. Doyle.
"Did you bring the box of Doyle's things to keep from his place back here?" I asked Cordelia.
She nodded. "It's on the floor, over there. What do you want from it?"
I got the shoebox and opened it. "This."
"Doyle's address book?" Cordelia asked doubtfully. "Angel, this is not the time to start organizing the wake."
"He knew half the demons and magic users in L.A. He must have known someone who could help us."
"Like who?"
I opened the address book and began to flick through it. "Last month we were clearing out a nest of Velga demons out at the coast. Doyle got bitten by one of them."
"So?"
"Their venom is poisonous. I wanted to take him to a hospital, but he said he never went to regular doctors -- being part demon, he couldn't."
"I get that," Cordelia said. "I mean, if the doctor says 'Sneeze' and spikes grow out of your head, you're probably gonna be in quarantine for the rest of your life."
"He said he knew someone who could help. Her name was --" I tapped the open address book. "Sorcha. Here's the number."
"You think she knows about magic spells, too?"
"If she doesn't, she might be able to give us the name of someone who does." I got the phone, and started to key in the number. As I did so, Cordelia came out of her corner for the first time. We weren't exactly close, but we weren't that far away anymore either. Whatever we did, we were going to have to fix this mess quickly, because I didn't think I could stand much more of this excruciating, exhilarating awareness of her presence.
The phone rang three, four, five times. I was about to give up and end the call when there was a click, and a woman's voice said, "Hello?"
"Sorcha?"
"Who's asking?"
Cordelia came closer to me, until she was standing at my side, her ear pressed to the other side of the phone so she could listen in on the conversation. My arm was bent as I held the phone up, and she put her hand on the inside of my elbow so that she was leaning against me.
"We haven't met. My name is Angel. I'm a friend of Doyle's."
There was a pause. "You're the vampire."
"Yes," I said. "Sorcha, about Doyle --"
Sorcha's voice was heavy as she said, "Yeah. Thanks for calling, Angel, but I heard. L.A.'s supernatural grapevine is faster than CNN and more accurate for breaking news. You're pretty famous right now, you know. There's gonna be a lot of people really pleased that the Scourge are off the radar for a while. For the last couple of months, I haven't been able to make enough protective charms to meet demand."
So Sorcha was a witch. "I need a favor."
She sighed. "Doyle may be gone, but his spirit endures. What gives?"
"I need to undo an enchantment. Urgently."
I heard her draw in her breath sharply. "Enchantments? That's a little out of my league."
Unexpectedly, Cordelia grabbed the phone off me. "Listen up, lady. Unless you help us, I'm either gonna be stuck in the world's worst porn movie forever or wearing a chastity belt for the rest of my life. So, for the love of Pete, help."
I snatched the phone back off her in time to hear Sorcha ask in bemusement, "Who was that and what was she talking about?"
"The magic has to do with, uhh, with sexual attraction."
"Oh," Sorcha said. Then, more knowingly, "Ohhhhh. Those are the worst ones to break. Okay, I'll try, but I'm not promising anything. Look, I don't finish my shift until 11.30pm, so the soonest I can meet you is midnight."
"That's fine," I said, and gave her the address of the office. Then I thanked her and ended the call.
"Midnight," Cordelia groaned. "What are we gonna do until then, tie ourselves to chairs?"
"While we're here, Dennis will step in if we get too..."
"Frisky?" Cordelia suggested. Our ghostly chaperone rattled the vase on the table in confirmation.
"Then it'll get dark around seven, which gives us five hours."
"Five hours to do what?"
"To get some answers," I said.
***
Tonight, the deck of the Delilah was empty, and most of her portholes were dark. If we were lucky, Hunter and his guests were at another party somewhere in the city, and wouldn't be back until long after we'd been and gone.
I looked at Cordelia. "Okay. While we're in there, remember --"
"If you're about to tell me to stay with you, that's pretty much a given," she said.
"While we're in there, do what I tell you to. All the time, no exceptions, no arguing back. Understand?"
She nodded, but I still felt uneasy as we trotted up the gangplank and started to make our way around the outside of the Delilah's deck. A little maritime breaking and entering wasn't the most dangerous thing I'd ever done by a long way, but I wasn't used to sharing my risks.
I found an unlocked door, and together we went below deck. Evidently Hunter didn't spend enough time on the Delilah to consider it his home.
Inside, the yacht was as opulent as its exterior suggested. The hallways were carpeted -- a ridiculous impracticality on a seagoing vessel -- and the cabins I looked into were more like bedrooms in a luxury hotel than anything you might expect to find on a boat. The stateroom was a suite, with a bedroom, bathroom and living area. This was where Hunter and Jameela slept, I guessed.
We searched the bedroom first, which was dominated by a huge, circular bed, draped in a fur throw. Cordelia breathed out in awe when she saw it. "Lifestyles of the rich and evil." She ran her hand down the door of a closet which was set into the side of the room. "This is beautiful. What are we looking for, anyhow?"
"Anything that shows what kind of man Hunter really is. And anything that might tell us where he gets his magical power from."
I went to the bookshelves next to the bed and looked through the titles. I didn't see any copies of the Necrocomicon or the Almanac of Demonology. Instead, Hunter had recently been reading "Thriving in the Global Economy" and "The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People." Plenty of evidence that he was exceptionally dull, then, but nothing that linked him obviously to the black arts. I started to put back the books, but as I moved something fluttered to the floor at my feet. I picked it up, and turned it over in my fingers. It looked like a large fish-scale, shining with an oily mix of colors in the dim light. I'd never seen anything like it, but it smelled distinctly demonic. I put it in my pocket.
"Angel, look at this!" Cordelia said suddenly, a note of excitement in her voice.
"What have you found?"
"LOOK at this wardrobe. Prada, Gucci, Valentino -- these people have serious style. And it goes way deep --" She pushed the hangers apart and waved her arm into the dark space beyond for emphasis.
The closet was deep. It was much, much deeper than it had any right to be.
"Help me take out those clothes," I said.
Cordelia looked momentarily doubtful. "You think? I mean, it wouldn't be right to try them on. But then, it's just WRONG for beautiful clothes not to be worn --"
"No," I said, "just take them out of the closet, Cordelia. I want to see what's behind there."
She looked disappointed, but helped me anyway. When I tapped the back of the closet, it rung hollowly. I felt around until I found a recessed handle, and pulled it. I wasn't at all surprised when the back of the closet swung out. It was a door.
And behind it was shelf upon shelf of small plastic packages filled with white powder.
"Oh, my God," Cordelia said. "What is that? Cocaine?"
I didn't know. I haven't taken drugs since the most potent substance available was opium, and I haven't kept up with developments in the area since. But I could guess that the street value of what we were looking at probably would have bought most of downtown L.A.
I put the door back, and began to replace the clothes on the rails in front of it, hiding the stash. "You're just gonna leave it there?" Cordelia asked.
"Can you think of a better plan? Besides, this isn't what we came here to find."
Cordelia sat down on the edge of the bed. "Angel, this is serious. I mean, you can't go to the cops and say, There's a bad guy casting spells on his girlfriend. But 'drug trafficker' -- to a cop, THAT'S a magic word."
She was pale, and I realized what we'd just found had been more shocking to her than any number of demons or vampires. She ran her fingers over the bed's fur cover, and shook her head. "It's not fair," she said. "Why do evil people get to enjoy the best things in life?"
"Mostly because they don't care how they get them." I sat down next to her. The bedcover was real fur, a rarity in this age of environmentalism and endangered species. It felt warm and silky, an extravagance of sensation under my fingertips, and I found myself stroking it again and again.
Everything in the bedroom, in fact, represented a slice of luxury, from the lustrous wood paneling on the walls to the delicate perfume coming from the bowls of roses arranged on the floor. Whoever had designed this room had intended it to be far more than a place to crash out for eight hours. It was a temple where the physical senses were worshiped and gratified, a place to indulge fantasies.
One of the things Cordelia and I have in common is a weakness for luxury.
"Evil or not," Cordelia said suddenly, "this place is making me a little --"
She didn't finish the sentence, but I guessed the word she was looking for was probably 'frisky'. I raised my hand from the fur throw and ran it instead over and through her hair, losing my fingers in dark, shining waves. I wondered if all her hair was as soft and silken as this.
Cordelia's breathing was getting faster, more shallow. "Oh, no," she said. "Oh, no, not here. Someone could find us --"
"Anyone could walk right in."
She stretched out on top of the bedcover, her hair fanning around her head like a dark halo, in places indistinguishable from the mahogany-colored fur throw. "Someone might hear us."
"Anyone who was listening."
She bit her lip and gave a small moan, as insanely and stupidly turned on by the idea as I was. I started to recline next to her, so that our bodies were side by side. I wanted to feel her skin under my hands, to learn her contours like a diver feeling his way by touch along the ocean's hidden floor to find sunken treasure. All I could think was: No Dennis here --
"What are you doing here?"
I sat up; Cordelia gave a yelp of surprise and rolled away from me. Jameela was standing in the stateroom's doorway. For an instant, the look on her face was one of killing fury. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. "What are you doing here?" she said again, and now her voice was pleading, terrified. "You shouldn't be here."
Cordelia sat up, gasping. "We were just -- uh, I mean we were kind of --"
With all the authority and dignity I could muster, under the circumstances, I said, "We know what your boyfriend's real business is, Jameela. You have to get away from him before you get sucked down, too."
Jameela shook her head. "Oh, God. You don't know how much I want to. But I try to go and I can't. Sometimes I feel like he's put a spell on me..."
"That's because he has," Cordelia said matter-of-factly. She was patting her hair back into place, and was rapidly regaining her composure. "Your boyfriend is the scummiest piece of scum that ever clung to the underside of a rock."
I heard a faint noise from somewhere else in the yacht. Cordelia didn't react, but Jameela gave a start and glanced out of the stateroom's open door and into the corridor. A few seconds later a man's voice called, "Jameela? Are you okay?"
Jameela looked at me. I looked back at her.
"Listen to me," I said in a low voice. "Hunter's using magic to make you stay with him. We're going to figure out how to break it, and then you'll be free. You want that, right?"
"Jameela?" the male voice called again.
Slowly, Jameela nodded. Then she raised her head and, never breaking eye contact with me, called back, "Yes, I'm fine. But -- but I thought I heard noises on the forward deck. Go check it out."
Cordelia breathed a deep sigh of relief. I would have, if I breathed.
Jameela was shaking. "Leave," she said. "Leave now, before he finds you."
I took Cordelia's hand, and we went to the door. Cordelia went through, but had to stop when I held back. I dug into a pocket and found a business card. "This is our phone number. If you get scared -- if you need to get away -- call me. I'll come."
Jameela smiled a faint, fragile smile. "Thank you, Angel."
***
"We have to call the cops," Cordelia said as we left the Delilah and started to walk back through the marina.
"Yes, but not right away. They'd impound the yacht, and then we might never figure out what kind of magic Hunter's using, or how to break it."
"You know what the scary part is?" Cordelia said. "Back there, for a couple of seconds I didn't want to break the spell. Angel, the longer this goes on, the harder it's gonna get to --"
She didn't finish the thought, but she didn't need to. If we didn't fix this soon, everything was going to get harder, in every sense.
I heard a shout from behind us, and when I looked around, the Delilah was lit up from stern to prow.
"What does that mean?" Cordelia asked.
"It means we're in trouble," I said, seeing the three -- no, four -- shapes swarming down the yacht's gangplank toward us. "Run."
But running normally was out of the question -- I couldn't concentrate on where I was going without looking back to make sure Cordelia was still close. I grabbed her hand and we ran awkwardly, but faster.
But not fast enough.
The Delilah's security detail was easily catching up with us, and when I looked around I saw why -- they weren't human. The thugs at the previous night's party had been for show -- Hunter's real personal security was demonic.
If they caught up with us, I wasn't certain I could fight them all. Cordelia had the twin advantages of youth and strength, but she couldn't match supernatural speed. We needed inspiration, or a miracle. Preferably both.
Ahead of us, I saw the lights of cars on Venice Boulevard. That was our chance. I pulled Cordelia along faster. "Come on."
"Angel, the way out's in the other direction," she said, gasping. "Where are you GOING?"
There wasn't time to explain. I was guessing that Hunter's demons had strict orders not to leave the marina, or risk being anywhere they might be seen. We'd be safe if we could get to the road.
Cordelia was breathless now. I held on more tightly to her wrist and stopped her from slowing down. Behind us, I could hear the clipclip of hooves -- damn, getting kicked was going to hurt like hell if this came to a fight -- getting closer. But so were the lights of the boulevard.
Thirty yards. Twenty. Fifteen.
That was how far away safety was when I saw the gaping hole in front of us. I nearly didn't stop in time.
Cordelia and I teetered on the edge of a berth which had no vessel in it. The tide was out, and fifteen feet below us there was only black mud. I judged the distance. "We're going to have to jump it."
"Are you crazy? No way!"
"It's not that far. You can do it," I said. Without waiting for a reply, I backed up, ran, stretched and leaped --
-- and for a second or less the darkness was above and below and around me --
-- and then I was on the other side.
I turned around, and saw Cordelia standing on the other side of the gap. She was out of my reach, and the sense of separation was suddenly acute and unbearable. Too late, I realized I'd seriously underestimated the strength of the magic binding us. From the look on Cordelia's face, she was feeling it, too.
Cordelia looked at the gap, then at me. "Oh, God. Oh God," she said. "Angel, I can't --"
I held out my hand to her. "Come on."
"You are SO gonna regret this," Cordelia said.
Then she backed up, ran and jumped --
-- and for a second she seemed to be motionless in the air, suspended and weightless --
-- and then she was falling, falling, falling, and I knew with a sudden and horrible conviction that she had been right, and I might never regret anything as much as what I'd just done ever again.
***
When Hunter's demons couldn't find either me or Cordelia, they quickly gave up looking and went back to the yacht. Our hiding place, at the bottom of the empty berth, waist-deep in cold, foul-smelling mud, was an excellent one. If only I'd thought of hiding instead of jumping, I thought as I cradled Cordelia's still body in my arms. If only.
If only I'd realized there was no way a normal human could make the same leap as a vampire, I thought as I carried her, still unconscious, back to my car. If only I'd realized that she wouldn't have a choice, I thought as I drove away. If only I'd thought it through and realized that, once I made the jump, the enchantment and the compulsion to stay close to me would make her attempt it anyway.
If only I wasn't so damn careless with people's lives, maybe I wouldn't have to live with as much guilt as I did.
Cordelia didn't stir as I drove across the city. She was breathing, and her heartbeat was strong and regular -- I drove with one hand on the wheel and one wrapped around her wrist, so I could feel her pulse -- but beyond that I had no measure by which to judge how seriously hurt she was. I wasn't used to dealing with the injuries of anybody who wasn't a vampire or a slayer or half-demon.
I drove without thinking about where I was going. Not to Cordelia's apartment, where I'd have to face Dennis, if 'face' was the right word to use for a poltergeist. Not to a hospital, where they might take her away from me. No, those weren't rational thoughts, but I was way past rational and in no danger of coming back soon.
I went home.
I put the car in the parking garage and carried Cordelia to the elevator and then to my apartment. I had an idea that if I could just put her to bed and watch over her while she slept, then somehow everything would make itself all right.
I was surprised to find a woman I'd never met before waiting for me in my kitchen.
She was in late middle age, dark-skinned and solidly built, verging on a matronly plumpness. She stood up as I walked in, dripping sand and mud and carrying Cordelia in my arms. She blinked once, and otherwise betrayed no surprise at all. "I was expecting a vampire," she said, "but apparently you're the Swamp Thing."
"Who --?"
"I'm Sorcha," the woman said.
The kitchen clock read twenty five minutes to one. Sorcha stood up, and I saw that she was wearing a blue uniform. I remembered her comment about her shift ending. "You're a nurse."
"Twenty years in emergency medicine," Sorcha said. "And it looks like that's just what we got here. What happened?"
"She fell."
Sorcha made a tsk-tsk noise which indicated that, as answers went, that one wasn't nearly good enough. "On to what? How far? How'd she land? And where's there a bed around here?"
Into deep mud -- about fifteen feet -- on her back -- I answered those questions and more while Sorcha made Cordelia comfortable in my bed. Then I stood to one side as she went through a precise set of rituals which was strangely comforting to watch. She opened Cordelia's eyes and shone light into them, felt her pulse and moved her arms and, very gently, her head.
"Well," she announced at last, "She's going to have a headache when she wakes up, but the worst she'll suffer is some bad bruising. You're lucky she fell on to mud and not concrete." Sorcha wrinkled her nose as she smelt the ripe stench which was coming off me, Cordelia and now the bedclothes. "Maybe not that lucky. She just needs to sleep -- come back to the kitchen and I'll make tea."
I slumped down on to the chair at the end of the bed. I couldn't remember ever feeling as guilty, relieved and helpless, all at once. "I can't," I said, rubbing my hands across my eyes tiredly. "I can't leave her."
Sorcha looked at me. "Would this have to do with that enchantment you were telling me about?"
I nodded.
"Now I know why Doyle liked you -- you're even better at finding trouble than he was," Sorcha said. Her voice was still brisk and business-like, but for the first time there was a note of kindness in it, too. "Okay, you'd better tell me from the start."
So I did.
I told her about Doyle's last vision -- it turned out Sorcha had been brewing him headache remedies for years -- and about Jameela and what I suspected Hunter was doing to her. Then, somehow, I found myself telling her why I should have died to stop the Scourge, and not Doyle, and why Cordelia needed to go back to Sunnydale for her own good, and why I needed to stop pretending I had the right to care about any human beings, when all I did was get them hurt. There was something strangely cleansing about spilling everything to someone I didn't know and would probably never see again after tonight. They say confession is good for the soul. Maybe there's some Catholicism left in me, even now.
"Cordelia can't see that she has to go," I finished.
"Sometimes people are stubborn," Sorcha said. "Sometimes they just can't see what's best for them, even when it's staring them right in the face."
"I forgot she wouldn't be able to make the jump," I said.
"Why?"
"Because she's not a vampire. She's human."
"No, I meant -- why did you forget?"
I hesitated. I hadn't really thought about that. "Because -- because I've gotten used to her always being there, right behind me."
"And right beside you, too."
I shrugged, not seeing the difference. "I forgot we're not the same, and she can't follow me everywhere."
"But you wouldn't want her to be like you," Sorcha said.
I looked at Cordelia, lying peacefully in the bed, her chest rising and falling evenly with the simple miracle of living. "No," I said quietly. "I want her to stay just the way she is."
"Well, then," Sorcha said, as if we'd reached some kind of important conclusion. I looked at her, but she just smiled. "That scale you said you found -- can I see it?"
I searched my pockets and found it, encrusted with silt but undamaged. Sorcha wiped it clean and held it up. "Oh," she said. "I think your problem is more serious than a simple enchantment. You know what Sirens are?"
The word was familiar to me, but only from stories so old they'd never been recorded in books. "Sirens lured sailors to their deaths by singing."
Sorcha arched an eyebrow. "Their methods have gotten a little more sophisticated since then."
I looked at her. "Sirens are real?"
"They're just another type of demon," she said. "Very rare, but real. They disguise themselves as humans -- and, believe me, it's a perfect fake. Not even magic can tell a Siren from a real person. Then they make themselves irresistible by sending out bursts of magic that can send a man -- or a woman -- crazy with desire. A human in a Siren's thrall is a pitiful thing -- they'll do anything and think they're doing it for love."
"Wait," I said. "I thought Sirens were female. It's Hunter who's controlling Jameela."
"Sirens are sexless. They can take male or female form," Sorcha said. She held up the scale I'd found. "The disguise is a lot prettier than the real thing."
I gestured at Cordelia. "So what happened to us?"
"I'm guessing you got too close to a Siren while it was using its power. You caught the fall-out, and you've got nowhere to direct it except at each other."
Cordelia stirred a little in the bed, the first movement she'd made. I wanted to touch her and so, not even trying to check the impulse, I did. I took her hand in mine and squeezed it. When her fingers tightened very slightly around mine, I felt better than I had in hours.
"How do we break the enchantment?" I asked Sorcha.
"The only way I know of is to slay the Siren responsible."
The knowledge that I was going to have to kill something almost cheered me. At last, something I was good at. "Sounds simple."
"It is," Sorcha said, standing up. "The tough part is finding the Siren -- there's no way to tell one from a real person unless it drops its disguise. I'm going to make that tea, now."
***
Sorcha's 'tea' turned out to be a dark, almost viscous liquid she brewed using a variety of herbs she told me she always kept in her car, "just in case". The potion smelt almost as bad as the now-congealing mud and slime that was still splattered liberally over myself and now over my sheets, too, but Sorcha insisted it would help Cordelia. "Let it cool," she instructed me, "and when she wakes up make her drink a cup every hour until it's gone. It's the best thing I've found for concussion. Doyle swore by it."
I sniffed the liquid, and thought it was more likely that Doyle had sworn AT it, but I thanked her anyway. When, shortly before dawn, Sorcha went, she left me with a list of instructions, a flask of evil-smelling tea, and a deep sense that I had received a great and undeserved kindness.
While Cordelia slept out the morning, I stayed by her side -- I had no choice. Once I was certain she was no longer unconscious, but was truly resting, I was able to relax a little. I even managed to read as I sat with her. It was no different to how I'd waited out the daylight hours a thousand times before, except now I had the need for, and comfort of, Cordelia's sleeping presence.
By midday, she was awake, able to sit up in my bed and pull a face when I made her drink the first cup of Sorcha's tea. "Yechhh! It tastes like chemical waste."
"Sorcha said Doyle used to drink it for the vision headaches."
"Yeah, but Doyle used to drink that bright green lime-flavored liqueur from -- where was it from?"
"Ecuador," I said. "I think he used it to unblock drains, too. Stop talking and finish this."
"You have no compassion for the suffering," Cordelia sniffed, but she finished the cup.
By the middle of the afternoon, Cordelia had drunk all Sorcha's tea. Her headache was gone, and she wanted to get out of bed. I helped her to the couch, where she could sit up, and I could finally relax arm and leg muscles that had grown stiff and sore from hunching forward in the wooden chair beside the bed all day.
"If we were at my place, we could watch TV," Cordelia said, and I gave silent thanks we weren't at her place. She scowled. "I guess we're stuck here until it gets dark again."
"Welcome to my life." I indicated the trap door in the floor: "There's always the sewers."
"Ughh, no thank you." She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "I can smell them from here."
"Actually, I think that smell might be us."
The look on Cordelia's face changed to one of horror as she realized I was right. Neither of us had changed out of the clothes we'd been wearing the previous night. The mud and slime into which Cordelia had fallen and I had followed her had now hardened on our clothes and skin, becoming a sour black scum that smelled almost exactly like rotting fish. For the first time, I registered the damage we'd done to the couch just by sitting on it. It was clear I was going to have to get the upholstery cleaned at the first opportunity. In fact, there was a good chance everything that had come within fifty yards of myself and Cordelia was going to need cleaning. And maybe disinfecting, too.
"I don't think," Cordelia said after a second, "I've ever felt less attractive than I do right now. And that includes the time I was with Buffy and Xander when a big, green sploodge demon attacked us and I got slimed."
Sploodge -- ? Oh.
"You mean a Spluije demon," I said.
"That's what I said, Sploodge demon. It looked like a giant, bloated stomach with a mouth and went 'sploodge' when Buffy stuck a knife into it. She SAID she just stuck it where it was vulnerable, but did any of the goo inside that thing spurt all over HER? Oh, no. And yet, strangely, I was dry cleaning for the next month."
Tactfully, I said nothing.
"That was gross. But this -- THIS is worse. I smell like a tray of cat litter and I've got little bits of seaweed down the front of my blouse. As soon as I get home I am getting straight into the shower --" Abruptly, she broke off and grabbed my hand. "Oh, God. That's not gonna work. I can't even think about not being in the same room as you."
Cordelia's breathing had quickened; her fingers were locked around mine so tightly it hurt. But I welcomed the pain, because it eased the surge of raw, uncontrollable panic I was feeling at the idea of not being able to see Cordelia, to reach out and touch her, know she was close by and safe. For a minute or more we sat side by side on the couch in silence, our hands tightly gripped together, fingers intertwined.
"I think it's getting worse," Cordelia said at last.
"I know," I said. "Sorcha said the only way to break the enchantment is to slay the demon responsible."
"I meant the smell," Cordelia said. "Angel, I have GOT to wash. So do you, since I can't get away from you any time soon. I HATE this," she finished, and I wondered if she was referring to the smell, our current situation, or both.
She closed her eyes and sighed deeply, and looked as miserable as I'd ever seen her, as if simply not being able to get clean was worse than concussion or demons or magic enchantments by a factor of thousands.
With sudden insight, I realized that, to Cordelia, it probably was worse. Her world -- which had previously been a safe, predictable place where only good things happened to her -- had lately become messy and dangerous. But Cordelia wasn't about to be brought down with it, and suddenly I saw that her obsession with hair and makeup and having just the right pair of shoes was her first line of defense against a disordered, grubby universe. Without the lipstick-and-heels shield she put up around herself every day, she was vulnerable. I didn't like to see her that way.
"We could use the shower here," I suggested.
Cordelia's eyes snapped open. "Back up there. We?"
I nodded and watched as, on Cordelia's face, unease at what I was suggesting warred with a deep, deep need not to have slime in her hair.
Reasonably, I said, "Look, when I was growing up, there wasn't any such thing as hot running water. The whole family washed once a month, in a tin bath we put in front of the fire. Everybody used the same water and everybody saw everything."
"If you're trying to make it sound quaint and theme-park historical, you're missing by a mile."
"I'm just trying to explain that it'd be no different from how people used to live."
"And did people used to live with weird demony enchantments that made them uncontrollably horny for each other?" Cordelia asked. "Because, if not, then you and me getting hot and wet together is a terrible idea."
"I know something about self control," I said.
Cordelia snorted. "Yeah, I bet. You and every other man on the planet."
There was something in the dismissive way she said it that made me snap, "Last time I looked around, there weren't any other men on the planet who couldn't even let themselves touch the woman they loved in case they got carried away and ended up losing their souls AGAIN --"
I broke off a little too abruptly.
"Sure," Cordelia said, "I know after you came back you couldn't get happy with Buffy, but you could get mostly happy without getting completely, all-the-way happy, right? You must have let yourself get, you know, cheerful sometimes." I looked at her, and the certainty in her face started to waver. "Okay, maybe not. But you could still make out. Although I guess the fun part of making out is what comes after the making out, so that'd get old real quick -- Okay, you could still hold hands. I swear I saw you two holding hands --" She stopped, as if realizing something for the very first time. "Except I never did."
In fact, Buffy and I had allowed ourselves to hold hands sometimes, usually when walking back from patrol together or on one of our increasingly infrequent and strained dates. We'd kissed, too -- dryly and chastely, a goodnight peck on the cheek -- and a couple of times we'd even shared a bed, but only fully dressed and with layers of blankets between us. We'd survived on scraps, knowing that the rest of the world was enjoying the banquet and, of course, in the end it hadn't been enough.
"I guess you couldn't risk going any further than first base with Buffy, after what happened," Cordelia said at last. "I never thought about what that must have been like."
I gave a sour little smile. "I didn't think about much else. But -- nothing happened."
Cordelia's hand tightened around mine. Her skin was warm and soft; I could feel her pulse, beating strongly in her wrist, and for once the incessant thud didn't stimulate my appetite. "I'm sorry," she said. "I know I'm enchanted up to the eyeballs right now, but the idea of being close to someone and not being able to touch them -- it sounds like the worst thing in the world." Then her voice changed, an element of resolve entering her tone. Slowly, she said, "If you can deal, I can, too."
She got up, and pulled me to my feet with her. Still holding hands, we made our way to the bathroom, where I shrugged off my shirt and Cordelia stepped out of her jeans. We had to let go of each other to undress; even though it was necessary, and even though we were standing facing one another, I still felt a stab of discomfort when I lost the reassurance of her touch. I guessed from the reluctance with which Cordelia disentangled her fingers from mine that she felt something similar.
I threw my clothes into the corner, where they landed on top of Cordelia's blouse. Now I was stripped to my boxers and she was down to panties and a coral-colored camisole top edged with lace. The top and panties didn't quite meet, and so a low section of her midriff was bare; she had a small, round scar on her stomach, just above the camisole's lace hem. The top was a snug fit; the material pulled taut across her chest, smoothly hugging the swell of her breasts, except in two places, where the soft skin underneath was hard and puckered. I remembered that the ambient temperature in the apartment was probably a little too cool for a living person. Cordelia hugged her arms around herself and shivered.
"Before we get started," she said, "some rules and boundaries. Because after this magical superglue comes unstuck, we're still gonna have to see each other only every single day, and I'd prefer to avoid the potentially crushing embarrassment, if possible."
I nodded. "Right."
"So -- not wanting to sound prudish -- but you have to keep your eyes shut. And I'll keep mine shut, too."
"Okay."
Cordelia cleared her throat, and pointed at her camisole. "I mean, starting now, Angel."
"Oh. Right. Okay."
Obediently, I closed my eyes. I heard fabric rustling as Cordelia finished undressing, and so I took my cue to shed my boxers.
I felt Cordelia take hold of my wrist. With my other hand, I traced a route along the bathroom's tiled wall until I came to the shower cubicle. I fumbled with the handle until I heard a familiar squeak followed by the gush and splutter of hot water. The air in the bathroom rapidly became warm and moist, and we slipped under the rush of water together.
Cordelia made a small noise of delight, and whatever doubts I'd had about the wisdom of what we were doing evaporated. "Ohmigod, this is JUST what I needed. Au revoir, fishy odors! Where do you keep the soap and shampoo?"
Her voice was almost in my ear, but the only contact between us was her hand on my wrist. The shower cubicle wasn't exactly spacious, and I couldn't figure out where she had positioned herself so that we didn't touch. "There's a shelf," I said, "right above your head --"
She moved, and I felt the water bouncing off her and on to me change direction. "Got them." She pushed the bar of soap into my hand. "Here, you take this. I'm gonna do my hair."
I rubbed the soap into a lather and set about washing my face and arms. At the same time, I could hear Cordelia massaging shampoo into her scalp. "What kind of shampoo is this? It doesn't smell of anything."
"I have a heightened sense of smell, remember? Artificial perfumes give me a headache. I can tolerate unscented products, although they're not unscented to me."
She held a handful of foamy hair under my nose. "So you can still smell this? What's it like?"
Her hair smelled of the chemicals and additives in the shampoo, tinny and artificial. But, beneath that, I caught the scent of something else. No matter how often humans wash, or how heavily they drench themselves in perfumes and deodorants, nothing masks entirely the unique scent of an individual. I purposefully ignored the stink of shampoo and chemically-purified water, and concentrated on what Cordelia's hair really smelled like: Cordelia.
"The way a garden smells after the rain," I said. "Sharp. Sweet. Cleansing."
"Huh," Cordelia said, taking this in. "And all vampires get to experience the world in smell-o-vision?"
"It varies. Spike's sense of smell was never much better than a human's, but he always claimed he kept his sense of taste."
I doubted Cordelia had developed a sudden interest in vampire biology, but while we were talking this way it was easier not to think about more than the simple mechanics of scrubbing, cleaning, rinsing.
"At least we're being environmentally friendly," Cordelia said. She giggled. "Save water, shower with a friend."
I allowed myself a small chuckle, privately amazed at how relaxed I felt. Being this close to her didn't feel wrong or uncomfortable; it was the most natural thing in the world, as if her body was an extension of my own.
Then Cordelia twisted around, probably to wash shampoo out of her hair, and I felt her hip brush against my thigh. The sensation was so potent, so intense, that I couldn't help what I did next.
I opened my eyes.
Her face was barely inches away from mine, cheeks and lips flushed red. Her skin was golden brown, lustrous with warmth and vitality stolen from the sun I couldn't walk under. She'd raised her arms in order to wash her hair, and so the muscles which ran from her shoulders to her chest were taut, lifting her breasts. Rivulets of water and soap ran down between them, tracing a path down to her belly and, below that --
I snapped my gaze up, and found myself staring right into Cordelia's open eyes. "You were supposed to keep your eyes shut," she said.
"So were you," I said, aware that wasn't much of a defense.
"Turn around," Cordelia said. "I'll wash your back."
She took the cake of soap out of my hand; I turned around on the spot, and placed the flats of my palms against the shower's tiled wall. I felt her hands on my back, at first between my shoulder blades, then moving down along my spine in sweeping motions. I could feel the path traced by each fingertip on my skin, as the blast of hot water from the shower nozzle rained down on us.
"You feel warm," Cordelia said. Her voice was lower than before.
"The water heats me," I said.
Her hands were nearing the base of my spine. "Just the water?"
"Not just the water," I whispered.
She slipped her arms around my chest, so that she was hugging me tightly from behind. Her face was against my neck; I could feel her breasts and stomach pressing on my back. "Just a second," she murmured. "Just a second more like this."
Her hands were on my chest, while I was still pressing mine against the wall of the shower. I took my right hand off the slick tiles and put it over hers. Then I lifted her hand to my mouth and kissed her fingers, one at a time. I felt her pulse quicken, and the rapid thud echoed through me, as if my heart had suddenly begun to beat. I was warm to the core, and right then I could have believed I was alive.
I was also very, very hard.
Water poured on to us, beating against the sides of the cubicle, our bodies, drumming incessantly, making coherent thought impossible. We were pressed against each other, stomach to back, skin to skin.
With an effort, I reached up and turned off the shower. Instantly, the pounding water subsided into a trickle, then stopped completely. "The curse," I said hoarsely. "Remember the curse."
"Right," Cordelia agreed, voice strained. "Plus, the morning after embarrassment factor. Which might even be worse than you turning evil."
"So we get dry and get dressed," I said, "and forget this happened."
"Good idea," Cordelia said.
Neither of us moved.
Cordelia shivered against me. "I'm getting cold," she said.
We still didn't move. We stayed as we were, naked, wet, bodies locked together, but we weren't going to stay that way for long, because any second now I knew I was going to turn around and take her right there, up against the shower tiles --
Then the telephone in the apartment's main room rang.
Cordelia let go of me as if she'd just received an electric shock, and stumbled against the shower's opposite wall.
"We should get that," she said.
I nodded, then edged past her, out of the shower cubicle and into the bathroom. I wrapped a towel around my waist and handed another to Cordelia without looking around. I really didn't know what would happen if I looked at her again. Then we went out into the dryer, cooler atmosphere of the rest of the apartment.
I let the phone ring several more times before I answered it. By the time I picked it up, I was able to congratulate myself on sounding almost composed. "Hello?"
"Angel?" The voice on the other end of the line was female, hesitant, and plainly distressed. "You said I could call you -- You said you could help -- I have to get away. I have to."
"Jameela," I said. "Jameela, it's okay. You're doing the right thing."
Jameela was close to sobbing in relief as she said, "I'm on the yacht. I think maybe I can slip away, but if Michael finds out I'm gone --"
"If he comes after you, then he'll have me to deal with." There was no 'if' about it: by the end of tonight, the Siren disguised as Michael Hunter would have a sword through its chest, and I'd be able to get through more than a minute without thinking about Cordelia, who was standing beside me, damp and wearing only a towel --
With effort, I brought my attention back to conversation.
"There's a boathouse," Jameela was saying, "near the Delilah's berth."
"We'll be there as soon as it gets dark."
***
In fact, we were a little later than that, mostly because Cordelia insisted on stopping at her apartment so she could change into clean clothes. I stood facing the wall in her bedroom as I listened to the soft noises coming from behind my back -- buttons being done and undone, zippers purring up and down, studs popping open. I distracted myself by thinking of different ways to kill the Siren pretending to be Michael Hunter. I had forty three by the time Cordelia told me I could turn around.
We didn't talk much as I guided the convertible along the westbound freeway, threading through the nighttime traffic toward the coast. Cordelia seemed uncharacteristically contemplative, and I figured it was best to let her work through the shower incident in her own time. For my part, I felt -- well, the truth was, I was having trouble figuring out just how I was feeling. On the one hand, I felt a deep sense of gratitude mixed with relief that I'd narrowly escaped taking a stupid, extreme risk with my soul, while at the same time permanently damaging the fragile friendship that had begun to grow between myself and Cordelia in the past couple of months. On the other hand, I couldn't stop remembering how warm and soft her moist skin had felt against mine, and how much I had wanted her. How much I still wanted her.
When we reached the Santa Monica exit and Cordelia still hadn't spoken -- thirty minutes' unbroken silence had to be some kind of record for her -- I started to worry that maybe our encounter had left her more upset than I'd realized.
"Cordelia?" I asked hesitantly, "Are you okay?"
She looked away from the lights of the city streaking past us and straight at me with that clear, uncompromising gaze. "Well, yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"
"I thought maybe, after what happened, ah, before, maybe you were feeling awkward, or uncomfortable," I said, awkwardly and uncomfortably. "Because, although we didn't, uh, you know, I know I wanted to, and I know -- I mean I'm assuming -- you wanted to as well, and maybe now it's a little, uh, difficult to be this close and know we can't be, ah, intimate."
I shut up then, thinking that I'd probably have to live another two and a half centuries before I said anything as inarticulate as that again.
But I didn't have long to wish I was better at expressing myself, because right then Cordelia asked, "Why can't we? Be intimate, I mean."
I stared at her, and kept staring for so long that when I finally looked back at the road ahead, I had to pull hard on the wheel in order to avoid clashing hub caps with the car in the next lane. "Well, the curse, for a start --"
"I've been thinking about this," she said matter-of-factly. "You lost your soul when you and Buffy did it because you loved her, right? But you don't love me, and I know I'm not in love with you."
She was using the same assured tone she usually reserved for telling me I ought to apply for a credit card or start investing in the stock market and, rationally, I saw she was right. But instead of feeling relieved that we hadn't taken as great a risk as I'd thought, I only felt a hollow, yawning gap somewhere in the pit of my stomach. It was a moment before I remembered I'd forgotten to feed before we left the apartment.
"So even if we'd really gotten carried away in the shower, the biggest risk we would have been taking was one of us slipping on the wet floor and getting a nasty bruise. Plus," she added breezily, "you're really hot, so if we did have sex, it's not like it'd be a trial."
I wasn't sure how to respond to that. "Well -- thanks. You're very attractive, too."
Cordelia shrugged easily. "I know." Then she looked sideways at me, and smiled. "But it's still nice to hear it, sometimes."
We'd arrived at the marina. I parked the Plymouth, and together we made our way through the network of moored yachts and pleasure-boats to the place where I'd first seen Jameela with Michael Hunter. The Delilah was moored securely nearby; no lights were visible at any of its portholes, and it seemed to have been locked down for the night.
Cordelia peered into the darkness. "I don't see anyone. Are you sure she'll be here?"
"This is the right place. She said she'd meet us here."
"No, I meant -- are you sure she'll BE here," Cordelia said. "'Cause I'm thinking she's chickened out."
I heard -- or, more accurately, sensed -- something move in the shadows behind us. But when I turned around, I saw nothing.
"This isn't right," I said.
"Hell, yeah," Cordelia agreed. "Scum like Michael Hunter picking up some naïve girl like Jameela, thinking he can just use her and throw her away when he's done -- it sucks. And now he's probably terrorized her into staying with him when she'd be --"
"Cordelia, be quiet," I said. "Something's wrong. I think this is a --"
-- Trap, I wanted to finish. But I couldn't say the word, because suddenly I couldn't keep standing. Pain blossomed hotly at the back of my skull, and I fell. The last thing I saw before my vision cut out was Cordelia, backing into a corner as a leering, horned demon bore down on her.