III
I woke up in hell. I knew it must be hell because Cordelia wasn't there.
She wasn't there, and her absence was a huge, all-consuming void that was about to swallow me whole. She wasn't there, and I needed her presence, her voice, her touch, needed her the way the living need air to breathe. She wasn't there, and every second that passed was more terrible than the one before it. She wasn't there, and there weren't words for the horror of being without her.
I could feel my throat starting to tighten as a scream began to rise in my chest.
Somehow I managed not to cry out. Instead I balled my hands into fists, and lay where I was -- somewhere cold, somewhere hard, I knew that much -- with my eyes shut. No need I'd ever experienced, no hunger or thirst or desire or terror, had ever been this overpowering. I had no thoughts, only the searing, brutal agony of want.
Back at the apartment, I'd told her that whatever we felt wasn't real. I'd barely been able to bring myself to believe it then, and I sure as hell didn't believe it now.
Time -- seconds, minutes, longer -- passed. The crushing sense of loss and need didn't abate, but after a while I managed to focus enough to realize it wasn't getting any worse. When I could think about moving again, I sat up slowly and opened my eyes. I unclenched my fists and looked at my palms, and saw blood oozing sluggishly from the wounds my nails had made in them. The physical pain actually provided some measure of relief; at least this was something I was used to tolerating.
I was in a cramped, metal-floored room which had the unmistakable shape and design of a ship's cabin. The room was barely larger than a closet and -- fortunately -- windowless. But sunlight wasn't going to be a problem for hours yet; I knew it was still dark outside because the buzzing sensation at the top of my spine that heralded each sunrise was barely a hum. Or maybe it was simply being drowned out by every nerve ending in my body screaming for Cordelia.
I wanted to see her face again, to hear her voice, to feel her skin, smooth and warm against mine, to taste her, to inhale the scent of her hair as I'd experienced it in the shower, sweet and unique and crisply clean from washing with my soap --
Wait. I wasn't imagining that. I really could smell her.
Her scent hung on the air. She was somewhere close.
I looked around. Opposite the door, there was a small, circular vent, covered by a metal grille. As I stood still, I could feel the faintest of drafts coming from it.
In a second, I was at the vent, my face pressed so hard against it I could feel the metal wires cutting into my cheek. I listened, and heard a noise I doubted human ears would have picked up -- the sound of ragged, frightened breathing.
"Cordelia?" I called. "Cordy?"
"Angel? Oh, God, Angel? Where are you?"
Her voice echoed down the ventilation system's pipes, hollow and faint. Hearing it filled me with a mixture of insane joy and intense relief, and at the same time increased the torture of not being able to see her. But, like an addict, I couldn't stop now. "Not far from you. Are you okay?"
"Sure, if you zero out the shuddering, icy, heart-palpitating PANIC." She made a noise that was half-way between a gasp and a sigh of misery. "Is it as bad as this for you?"
"No heart palpitations. Otherwise, yeah." I closed my eyes, breathed in her scent, and pretended she was in the room with me. That way, I almost felt normal.
"I woke up and you weren't there," she said. "I couldn't breathe. It felt like there were metal straps around my chest and someone was pulling them tighter and tighter and my heart was thumping so hard I thought it was gonna burst and I was gonna die right then and you weren't there and --"
"Cordelia," I interrupted, "Cordy, it's okay. Listen to me. I'm going to find a way out of here and come and get you. But, in the meantime, I need you to keep talking. Just -- keep talking."
I heard her take a deep, steadying breath. "It's easier when we're talking, isn't it?" she said finally. "I still want to throw up because you're not here, but when I hear your voice, it's not just so terrible."
"Right," I said. "But I pretty much suck at conversation. And I need to figure out how to get out of here."
I started to explore the cabin. It was an effort to move away from the ventilation grille, where her scent was strongest, but as I began to prowl around the confined space, the sound of her voice followed me, calming and comforting me.
"Sure. Keep talking. I can do that. I mean, I talk all the time anyway, right? So, talking now -- that's gotta be a cinch." There was a short silence, then her voice floated uncertainly out of the ventilation grille again. "What should I talk about?"
Under my feet, I could feel the floor rolling gently from side to side, and I realized we were headed out to sea. Since it was still night, we couldn't be more than a few hours' distant from land, but that was far enough to make escape more problematic. And it raised other unsettling questions, too. Such as, where were they taking us?
"Anything," I said. "Anything you like."
There was a second's silence. "Angel?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you really want me to leave L.A. and go back to Sunnydale?"
I put my shoulder to the cabin door and pushed experimentally. It didn't budge. "I want you to be safe."
"Right, and Sunnydale and safety go together like ketchup and ice-cream. Try another line, buddy."
"You could have broken your neck when you fell last night," I said, feeling the familiar stab of guilt as I recalled just how lucky she'd been. "How many other times have you nearly gotten killed just in the last couple of months? If you stay here with me, sooner or later you'll end up dead. Like Doyle. And I don't want your death on my conscience as well as his."
"So, what you're saying is, it's okay if I go back to Sunnydale and get turned into chowder for some vamp or Hellmouth freak -- just so long as I'm nowhere near you when it happens so you don't have to feel guilty about it."
I knelt at the cabin door and began to examine the lock mechanism. It was rusting at the edges, and several screws looked as if they could be removed without too much difficulty. I started to twist them, making them looser. "That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying -- I can't protect you."
"That's right. You can't." There was a note of triumph in Cordelia's voice, as if I'd just conceded an important point. "I figured that out already, Angel. When I was high school, I thought that being pretty and popular would protect me from all the bad stuff, but it didn't, 'cause Xander still cheated on me. And then I thought Daddy being rich would keep me safe -- and then all the money went away. And then, when I came to L.A. and met you and Doyle, I started to think maybe being good was the answer, but it's not, because Doyle was good and he still died." She took a deep breath, and I realized her voice had started to shake a little. But it was steady again when she concluded, "I KNOW you can't protect me from the bad stuff, Angel. I'm not asking you to."
She spoke with a sadness that didn't belong in the voice of a girl as young as she was. It reminded me of the way Buffy had sounded during our last conversations.
"Cordelia," I said at last, "I've been responsible for a lot of bad stuff myself, in my time. Now I'm trying to make up for it. You're not obligated to be part of that. My mission --"
From the other side of the vent, I heard a noise that sounded suspiciously like Cordelia blowing a raspberry. "Mission, shmission! Get over yourself, Angel."
I jiggled the door lock again, and was rewarded by two of the screws falling out. The lock was now definitely loose. Dryly, I said, "It's so nice to know my quest for redemption has your respect and support."
Cordelia laughed. It was the best sound I'd heard in days. "It does. You do. But sometimes you talk as if nothing happens that isn't because of a prophecy or a mission or Doyle's Powers-That-Be. You want to know why I'm still here?" Her voice softened, became gentle. "It's because you're my friend, Angel. The only real friend I've got in this city. I like you, and I'm not gonna stop liking you."
I stopped working on the door's lock mechanism and instead stared down at my hands -- the same hands I'd used to hurt and torture and kill in the years before the gypsies had cursed me. I remembered the long decades during which my existence had consisted of nothing except days of guilt-disturbed, fitful sleep and tortured, empty nights. When Whistler had found me in New York and told me I had a purpose other than to suffer, I had fallen on the idea with the hunger of a starving man. Since then, I had grown so used to the idea that my fate was to fulfill whatever prophecies and missions had been allotted to me as punishment for my litany of sins that I had stopped even considering the possibility that anything could happen to me that wasn't pre-ordained, outside of my control. Even falling in love with Buffy, for all that it had freed me, had sometimes felt like my destiny rather than my choice.
And now Cordelia said she liked me. That we were friends. As if that were the simplest, most natural thing in the world, and not the greatest and most unmerited gift a creature like myself could receive.
"Thanks," I said.
Cordelia didn't reply.
Hesitantly, I added, "I like you, too."
Still no reply. The cabin felt unnaturally silent.
Then I realized why -- I could no longer hear the gentle susurration of Cordelia's breathing coming from the ventilation grille, and her scent was already growing stale on the air.
"Cordelia!" I yelled.
She was gone. She was gone and I didn't know where she was --
Unthinkingly, I began to pound the cabin door, kicking and shoving it until it started to rattle in its frame. It would have made more sense to finish the job I'd started on the lock and make a quiet escape instead of creating enough noise to attract the attention of everyone on board. But I wasn't thinking about anything except the overriding necessity of finding Cordelia.
Lowering my shoulder, I rammed the door. It started to buckle and, ignoring the pain, I backed up and made ready to do it again.
As it turned out, I didn't have to. The door opened.
Two of Hunter's hench-demons were standing in the corridor looking in at me. They were each over seven feet tall, including their curled horns -- they had to stoop in the yacht's low corridor -- and in appearance they most resembled the unwanted by-product of a genetics experiment carried out on a lizard and a goat. I recognized them as Xohotical demons: stupid, vicious and insanely loyal to anyone who gives them fresh raw meat and scratches between their horns.
"Boss wants to see you," growled the first demon.
"Where is she?" I demanded. I wasn't in a position to demand anything, but I figured I had nothing to lose trying.
"Boss wanted to see her," the second demon said, roughly grabbing my arm and pulling me out of the cabin. "Boss wants to see you." It smiled unpleasantly at me and added, "Boss has special job for both of you."
That should have been enough to tell me the bad situation we were in was about to get even worse. Yet, as they dragged me along the yacht's corridor, the only thing I felt clearly was relief that Cordelia was still okay and we were going to be together again soon.
***
Our route to the Delilah's wheelroom took us outside and along the yacht's deck, and I seized the opportunity to try to pick up any clues as to where we were going. In front of the yacht, the sea stretched ahead, ink-black under the clear night sky. Off to starboard, I could see the faint, flickering lights of the city. That, at least, was good news: we weren't headed straight out to sea, but were instead maintaining a course parallel to the shore.
I squinted at the distant lights, trying to judge how far offshore we were, but before I could make a guess, my demon captors hauled me up a set of steps and into the Delilah's wheelhouse. And then every other thought evaporated from my mind, because Cordelia was there.
She was being guarded by two more of the Xohotical demons; she looked frightened and pale, but she didn't seem to be hurt. She looked around as my captors pulled me through the door and tried to come to me, but the demons held her back. So did the two flanking me when I tried to get to her.
For an instant I felt a tide of red rage rise up in me, felt my teeth sharpen into fangs and my face harden. Dimly, I was aware that losing control now was more likely to get both Cordelia and myself killed than solve anything, but that didn't quell the mounting fury I felt at the idea of anyone keeping us apart.
"Let her go," said a man's voice.
The demons holding Cordelia hesitated, then released her. She ran the few paces it took to get to me, and we clung on to each other. Suddenly I wasn't thinking about Hunter or Jameela or the really, really bad situation we'd somehow gotten ourselves into; everything I needed and wanted was in my arms.
"Are you okay?" I asked when I could speak.
"Better now," Cordelia whispered back. I knew exactly what she meant.
We maneuvered ourselves so that we were standing side by side, although we were still holding hands. Our enforced separation hadn't done anything to weaken the enchantment -- if anything, our need to be close to each other had intensified to the point where we couldn't even think straight unless we were in physical contact. Now that we were holding hands, I didn't think either of us was going to be able to let go; we weren't handcuffed together, but we might as well have been.
But at least now I had the reassurance of Cordelia's hand in mine, I could concentrate sufficiently on other things to look around properly. The Delilah's wheelroom was as redolent of money and taste as the rest of the yacht. The instrument panels were finished in dark wood, the antique effect a pointed contrast to the abundance of hi-tech navigation aids which probably had more to do with indulging the owner's love of gadgets than helping to point the boat in the right direction. A sweeping, curved window gave whoever was at the yacht's wheel a comprehensive view of the yacht's prow and the ocean beyond.
Right now, that person was Michael Hunter. He was standing at the Delilah's wheel, wearing the rich man's weekend uniform of chinos and a khaki sweater, and looking urbane and relaxed and very much as if kidnapping and drug-running were part of his normal daily existence. Jameela stood close to him, one hand clutching his sleeve. Her gaze was lowered to the floor.
"We know all about you, Mister," Cordelia said. "We know about the drugs, and the magic, and the -- and the creamer!"
"The creamer isn't actually illegal," I pointed out quietly.
"Yeah, but two things is a pretty lame list," she whispered back. Then she raised her voice again and demanded, "Where are you taking us?"
Hunter didn't reply; he didn't even look around. He turned the wheel a fraction, and adjusted his stance. As he moved, I saw there was a gun sitting on the edge of the Delilah's navigation panel. It was resting where Hunter could reach it easily -- but it was also within Jameela's reach.
I decided to try another approach.
"Jameela," I said.
She didn't look up from the floor, or meet my gaze.
"Jameela, what he's doing is wrong. You know that. What you think you feel for him isn't real -- it's just magic." Jameela still wouldn't look at me, but I saw her glance toward Hunter. Encouraged, I continued, "He's not even a person, Jameela. He's a creature called a Siren, pretending to be a person. He doesn't love you and you don't really love him. Look inside yourself and you'll realize that's true."
Hunter respond to that at all, but Jameela tightened her grip on his arm. But I saw her other hand start to work its way across the Delilah's instrument panel, toward the gun. "Michael," she said quietly. "Michael, you love me, don't you?"
Now Hunter turned and looked at her. "I adore you."
"That's a crock!" Cordelia exclaimed.
"I would do anything for you," Jameela said. "Would you do anything for me?"
"Baby," Hunter whispered, "you know I would." His hands had fallen from the yacht's wheel; he seemed to have forgotten he was supposed to be steering it.
A sudden and unpleasant suspicion formed in my mind.
Jameela's hand tightened around the gun. She lifted it. "I would die for you. Would you die for me?"
"In a second," Hunter said.
A human in a siren's thrall is a pitiful thing, Sorcha had said.
Oh shit.
"Then die for me," Jameela said, and gave Hunter the gun.
He was smiling at her as he blew his brains out.
It happened so fast there was no time to intervene. Cordelia cried out, and there was a horrible, wet splattering sound as most of Michael Hunter's brains exited his skull and hit the inside of the cockpit's window. The air thickened with the scent of blood as his body thudded limply on to the floor.
Jameela straightened up, tossed her hair back and dropped her little-girl-lost act for the first time. Looking at us with a gaze that was as composed as it was utterly malevolent, she said, "I'm impressed you've heard of Sirens. There aren't many of us, and we like to keep a low profile." She nudged Hunter's body with her toe. "For obvious reasons."
Cordelia was still staring in horror at Hunter's body. "You killed him."
Jameela shrugged. "He killed himself. Humans are pathetic -- they take pheromones and biochemistry and they slap the word 'love' on it and pretend it's somehow transcendent. Look at you," she added, waving contemptuously at Cordelia and myself, "a vampire and his lunch, holding hands. Do you have ANY idea how ludicrous you are?"
Regaining some of her composure, Cordelia said, "I am no one's lunch."
The Xohotical demons quietly moved around so that they flanked Jameela, two on either side of her.
"You know, this used to be so much less work," Jameela said wistfully. "Back in the day, all we had to do was sit on a rock singing and wait. The ships practically dashed themselves, you know? And all that lovely gold just washed up around us..." Her eyes grew unfocused as she fell into reverie. "Coins and jewelry and rings. So many beautiful things. Do you know how wealth is stored now? Stocks and bonds and options, little pieces of paper or electronic pulses moving between bank accounts. Money doesn't go clink anymore."
Jameela's eyes were shining as she warmed to her topic, and I realized this was probably the only thing Sirens felt real affection for.
"That's why you targeted Hunter," I said. "You realized his legitimate business was just a cover for the real source of his money."
Jameela shrugged. "No one ever got that rich from creamer. All I had to do was wait until he told me everything I needed to know -- the sources, the contacts, the channels." She glanced disparagingly at the body on the floor. "He was too dumb to realize everything he told me was bringing him closer and closer to permanent retirement."
"Wow," Cordelia said. "I mean, demons are evil. Got that, down with it. But -- drug trafficking demons? You're in a whole new league of evilness."
Jameela smiled. "Why, thank you, my dear."
"Well, now you're sunk," Cordelia said. "Because Angel and I know all about you, and we're gonna go straight to the cops, and, and --" She broke off abruptly, and I felt her hand tighten around mine. "And you're gonna kill us before we can do that, aren't you?"
"That's the plan," Jameela conceded. "But not before you help me."
"I don't think so," I said.
"Oh, but I do." Jameela was smiling again. "Tonight, a sudden and mysterious fire will sink the Delilah. By the time the last charred timber sinks to the bottom of the ocean, I'll be a hundred miles away -- with the real cargo."
"It's not that easy to disappear," I said. "The authorities will expect to find a body."
"And they will." Jameela was looking at Cordelia in a way I didn't like at all.
Nervously, Cordelia said, "You think that'll work? The cops check things like dental records, you know."
"They won't be able to," Jameela said sweetly, "if you don't have any teeth."
She motioned at the nearest demon, which lumbered threateningly toward Cordelia. Raising a clawed hand and smiling unpleasantly, it casually swiped at her face. It was just playing with her, taking the opportunity to cause a little terror before it got down to the serious business of maiming, but Cordelia didn't move back quickly enough, and one claw grazed her cheek. A tiny scratch just below her eye started to well with blood.
She was bleeding. They had hurt her.
Suddenly, everything -- Jameela, the demons, Michael Hunter's dead body, the yacht, the night and the wide Pacific ocean -- faded, became insignificant and inconsequential. My world began and ended with Cordelia; for each drop of her blood that had been spilled, I wanted to wring pints from whoever had hurt her.
I brought the first demon down without difficulty -- nothing could have prepared it for the violence of my attack. The second demon put up more of a struggle, but made a fatal error when it lowered its head to try to ram me with its horns. I grabbed one of them and twisted it until it broke off in my hand, leaving the demon writhing on the floor, clutching the bloody hole in its head where the horn had been. When the third demon charged at me, I threw the horn at it like a missile. The point slammed into the middle of the demon's chest, and it flew backward into the wide window at the front of the cockpit. It hit the window and kept going, sailing out into the night in a shower of shattered glass, before landing on the deck below with a satisfying crunch.
I was only warming up.
"Angel!"
Cordelia's voice. Was she in trouble?
I looked around, and saw with relief she wasn't. But she was glaring angrily at me, and for a moment, I couldn't figure out why.
"Angel, you're gonna dislocate my shoulder!"
I looked down, and realized I was still holding her hand -- gripping it so tightly her fingers were white and bloodless. Somehow I'd made it through the whole fight like that.
"Sorry," I said. I loosened my grip, but didn't let go, and Cordelia didn't ask me to.
"THANK you," she said, rubbing her shoulder with her free hand. "Where'd skanky Siren lady go?"
I looked around the wheelhouse, and saw it was empty. The door was swinging in the breeze blowing in through the shattered window, and I could hear the sound of footsteps, rapidly growing fainter.
"Come on," I said, and together we ran out of the wheelhouse and down the steps, still holding hands.
We raced toward the yacht's stern, following the sound of Jameela running ahead of us. We hadn't gone far when I caught the first scent of smoke in the air. The next porthole we passed glowed with an orange-red, flickering light.
"Great," Cordelia said, gasping a little as she ran next to me. "You know what's worse than being trapped with drug-smuggling demons in the middle of the ocean on a boat? Being trapped with drug-smuggling demons in the middle of the ocean on a boat THAT'S ON FIRE."
"We're not trapped," I said. The Delilah had everything else; it had to have a lifeboat --
We rounded the next corner, and I saw the Delilah did have a lifeboat. Jameela was already in it.
The fourth Xohotical demon was loading small, plastic-wrapped packages into the dinghy while Jameela untied the ropes securing it to the side of the Delilah. She looked up at us as we ran on to the aft deck, the look on her face one of faint annoyance. "The other three were supposed to take care of you." She snapped her fingers and barked a command at the demon.
The demon rushed at us. "Don't move," I said to Cordelia. "And get ready."
"Get ready for what --?"
I didn't have time to answer -- the demon was nearly on us. I put my hand on Cordelia's shoulder, leaped, twisted, and kicked, using her body as leverage. I heard her gasp in surprise, and her shoulder dipped a little, but she didn't move. My foot connected squarely with the demon's throat; the force of the blow knocked it back, and as I landed I saw it skid across the deck and over the side of the yacht.
Cordelia glared at me. "Next time, a little more warning, please." She looked toward the side of the deck. "Do you think it can swim?"
"Oh, yeah, Xohotical demons can swim," I said. From the side of the yacht, we heard a scream, followed by an unpleasant hissing, bubbling sound. "Salt water, on the other hand..."
Jameela looked at the spot where the last of her demon helpers had gone into the sea. Sounding more irritated than anything else, she said, "You people are starting to piss me off."
As she spoke, her voice changed, becoming rougher and more guttural. Then she stood up, her body twisting and warping as she rose. Her hair rose and hardened into poisonous-looking spikes and iridescent scales appeared on her skin, exactly the same as the one I had found in Hunter's bedroom. Her eyes reddened, the pupils shrinking and disappearing, and webbing grew between her fingers, at the same time as they lengthened and sharpened into claws.
Jameela -- in her real and not at all attractive form -- stepped out of the lifeboat and on to the Delilah's deck. With one scaly and powerful arm she -- it? -- broke off a portion of the yacht's boom. Apparently she was much stronger in her true shape.
"Cordelia?" I said.
"Yeah?"
"I think I'm going to need both hands for this."
With effort, we let go of each other. Immediately, I felt worse -- lifeless, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, or a TV with the plug pulled. Just staying on my feet was a struggle.
Jameela wielded the boom like a club, swiping it low through the air. I jumped, and looked around frantically for something I could use as a weapon. I didn't see anything.
Jameela roared, and attacked again. This time, I wasn't fast enough, and the blow glanced off my shoulder. I lost my balance and fell on to the yacht's deck, landing hard on my back. I heard Cordelia yell, and when I looked up I saw Jameela towering above me, making ready to bring the boom down on to my skull.
Suddenly, a thick coil of rope dropped over Jameela, temporarily pinning her arms to her sides. She dropped the boom, and I rolled out of the way. When I got to my feet, I saw Cordelia holding on to the other end of the crude lasso. She wasn't going to be able to hold Jameela for long.
I dived for the boom and retrieved it. Behind me, I heard a snap, and when I turned around I saw Jameela break the rope with a roar. Cordelia staggered backward, losing her balance as the rope went slack. I only had a few seconds. It was all I needed.
Launching myself at Jameela, I knocked her over, and we rolled together across the yacht's deck. When we stopped, I was on top of her. I hefted the boom and made ready to slam the sharp, splintered end into Jameela's chest.
Jameela smiled, mouth twisting back to reveal several rows of teeth. A black tongue flicked over her lips. In a quiet, deceptively soft voice, she said, "When I die, she won't want you anymore."
I hesitated.
Jameela reached up and grabbed the boom out of my hands. Then she threw me off herself with such force that I slammed backward, only stopping when I collided painfully with the main mast. As I picked myself up, I saw Jameela heading back to the lifeboat. And I saw Cordelia running toward her, clearly intent on stopping her reaching it. She was going to get herself killed.
I heard myself shout Cordelia's name. As if in slow motion, I saw her turn around and look at me. And I saw Jameela wielding the boom, knocking Cordelia sideways, across the deck and over the yacht's railings.
I ran across the deck, ignoring Jameela, who was lowering the yacht's lifeboat into the sea. I skidded the last couple of yards on my knees, and looked over the side of the boat with a sick sense of fear.
Cordelia's face was about six inches below mine. She was clinging on to the edge of the deck with both hands. Her knuckles were white and I could see every muscle in her arms was stretched and taut.
"Take my hand," I said, reaching down to her.
Through gritted teeth, she said, "I thought you'd never ask."
I grasped Cordelia's arms and wrists, feeling an intense and almost physical sense of relief as I touched her, and pulled her back up on to the yacht. When she was safely back on the yacht's deck, I enfolded her in my arms, and we stayed that way for several minutes.
Cordelia spoke first. "Did Jameela take the lifeboat?"
I looked around, and saw the dinghy was gone. "Yes."
"Great," Cordelia muttered. "So much for women and vampires first. You know what? The only way this could possibly be worse would be if the boat was on fire." A pall of smoke drifted above us, blocking our view of the night sky. I could hear the crackling of flames. "No, wait, the boat IS on fire, and this situation cannot, officially, get ANY WORSE."
"Maybe there's another lifeboat," I suggested.
A quick tour of the parts of the yacht which weren't yet impassable due to the fire dashed that faint hope. When we returned to the aft deck, Cordelia leaned over the rails and waved at the distant lights of Santa Monica. "Hey!" she yelled, "Hey! Help!"
"We're too far away," I said. "No one will hear."
Cordelia looked desperately toward the shoreline. "It looks so close. We can't be more than a mile or two out. I used to swim in the sea when we spent summer at the beach house. I know we could swim that distance." She turned around, her voice and face alight with sudden hope. "Angel, we could swim to shore."
I looked at her, and knew with cold certainty there was only one way out of this. "You could swim it."
Cordelia stared at me in confusion for a moment, and then her face took on a look of dismay. "Oh -- Angel. Oh, God, I forgot." She shook her head. "This would usually be the point where I would make a nice speech about how I can't leave you behind. Except --" She held up her hand, in the process raising mine, too. Our fingers were entwined tightly around each other. "Except it happens to be literally true. I can't leave you, Angel. I can't."
"You'll have to," I said. "Look, I'm not going to drown. The worst that can happen is I'll sink to the bottom and have to walk back to land."
Caustically, Cordelia said, "Using what -- the map of the ocean floor you always keep handy? There are no signposts at the bottom of the sea, Angel. If you pick the wrong direction, the next stop is Japan." She screwed up her face in something not unlike pain. "Besides, that's not the point. The point is, we'd be apart, and I -- just -- can't --"
I knew exactly what she meant. The idea of being separated from her was making me feel physically ill.
Making my voice deliberately harsh, I said, "If you stay here, with me, you're going to die. You have to swim." I looked around, and saw a lifebelt hanging on hooks on the deck's railings. I pulled Cordelia toward it, took it down, and pushed it into her free hand. "Take this."
"We already had this argument!" Cordelia yelled, and pushed the lifebelt back at me.
"And this is exactly why I was right!" I was shouting back at her, now. I thrust the lifebelt back at her so hard she had to take a step back.
Cordelia looked at the lifebelt, then at me. "No, you're wrong," she said, "and we're gonna prove it."
Then she hugged me, grabbed me with one hand and the lifebelt with the other, and deliberately pulled us both over the deck's railings.
I woke up in hell. I knew it must be hell because Cordelia wasn't there.
She wasn't there, and her absence was a huge, all-consuming void that was about to swallow me whole. She wasn't there, and I needed her presence, her voice, her touch, needed her the way the living need air to breathe. She wasn't there, and every second that passed was more terrible than the one before it. She wasn't there, and there weren't words for the horror of being without her.
I could feel my throat starting to tighten as a scream began to rise in my chest.
Somehow I managed not to cry out. Instead I balled my hands into fists, and lay where I was -- somewhere cold, somewhere hard, I knew that much -- with my eyes shut. No need I'd ever experienced, no hunger or thirst or desire or terror, had ever been this overpowering. I had no thoughts, only the searing, brutal agony of want.
Back at the apartment, I'd told her that whatever we felt wasn't real. I'd barely been able to bring myself to believe it then, and I sure as hell didn't believe it now.
Time -- seconds, minutes, longer -- passed. The crushing sense of loss and need didn't abate, but after a while I managed to focus enough to realize it wasn't getting any worse. When I could think about moving again, I sat up slowly and opened my eyes. I unclenched my fists and looked at my palms, and saw blood oozing sluggishly from the wounds my nails had made in them. The physical pain actually provided some measure of relief; at least this was something I was used to tolerating.
I was in a cramped, metal-floored room which had the unmistakable shape and design of a ship's cabin. The room was barely larger than a closet and -- fortunately -- windowless. But sunlight wasn't going to be a problem for hours yet; I knew it was still dark outside because the buzzing sensation at the top of my spine that heralded each sunrise was barely a hum. Or maybe it was simply being drowned out by every nerve ending in my body screaming for Cordelia.
I wanted to see her face again, to hear her voice, to feel her skin, smooth and warm against mine, to taste her, to inhale the scent of her hair as I'd experienced it in the shower, sweet and unique and crisply clean from washing with my soap --
Wait. I wasn't imagining that. I really could smell her.
Her scent hung on the air. She was somewhere close.
I looked around. Opposite the door, there was a small, circular vent, covered by a metal grille. As I stood still, I could feel the faintest of drafts coming from it.
In a second, I was at the vent, my face pressed so hard against it I could feel the metal wires cutting into my cheek. I listened, and heard a noise I doubted human ears would have picked up -- the sound of ragged, frightened breathing.
"Cordelia?" I called. "Cordy?"
"Angel? Oh, God, Angel? Where are you?"
Her voice echoed down the ventilation system's pipes, hollow and faint. Hearing it filled me with a mixture of insane joy and intense relief, and at the same time increased the torture of not being able to see her. But, like an addict, I couldn't stop now. "Not far from you. Are you okay?"
"Sure, if you zero out the shuddering, icy, heart-palpitating PANIC." She made a noise that was half-way between a gasp and a sigh of misery. "Is it as bad as this for you?"
"No heart palpitations. Otherwise, yeah." I closed my eyes, breathed in her scent, and pretended she was in the room with me. That way, I almost felt normal.
"I woke up and you weren't there," she said. "I couldn't breathe. It felt like there were metal straps around my chest and someone was pulling them tighter and tighter and my heart was thumping so hard I thought it was gonna burst and I was gonna die right then and you weren't there and --"
"Cordelia," I interrupted, "Cordy, it's okay. Listen to me. I'm going to find a way out of here and come and get you. But, in the meantime, I need you to keep talking. Just -- keep talking."
I heard her take a deep, steadying breath. "It's easier when we're talking, isn't it?" she said finally. "I still want to throw up because you're not here, but when I hear your voice, it's not just so terrible."
"Right," I said. "But I pretty much suck at conversation. And I need to figure out how to get out of here."
I started to explore the cabin. It was an effort to move away from the ventilation grille, where her scent was strongest, but as I began to prowl around the confined space, the sound of her voice followed me, calming and comforting me.
"Sure. Keep talking. I can do that. I mean, I talk all the time anyway, right? So, talking now -- that's gotta be a cinch." There was a short silence, then her voice floated uncertainly out of the ventilation grille again. "What should I talk about?"
Under my feet, I could feel the floor rolling gently from side to side, and I realized we were headed out to sea. Since it was still night, we couldn't be more than a few hours' distant from land, but that was far enough to make escape more problematic. And it raised other unsettling questions, too. Such as, where were they taking us?
"Anything," I said. "Anything you like."
There was a second's silence. "Angel?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you really want me to leave L.A. and go back to Sunnydale?"
I put my shoulder to the cabin door and pushed experimentally. It didn't budge. "I want you to be safe."
"Right, and Sunnydale and safety go together like ketchup and ice-cream. Try another line, buddy."
"You could have broken your neck when you fell last night," I said, feeling the familiar stab of guilt as I recalled just how lucky she'd been. "How many other times have you nearly gotten killed just in the last couple of months? If you stay here with me, sooner or later you'll end up dead. Like Doyle. And I don't want your death on my conscience as well as his."
"So, what you're saying is, it's okay if I go back to Sunnydale and get turned into chowder for some vamp or Hellmouth freak -- just so long as I'm nowhere near you when it happens so you don't have to feel guilty about it."
I knelt at the cabin door and began to examine the lock mechanism. It was rusting at the edges, and several screws looked as if they could be removed without too much difficulty. I started to twist them, making them looser. "That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying -- I can't protect you."
"That's right. You can't." There was a note of triumph in Cordelia's voice, as if I'd just conceded an important point. "I figured that out already, Angel. When I was high school, I thought that being pretty and popular would protect me from all the bad stuff, but it didn't, 'cause Xander still cheated on me. And then I thought Daddy being rich would keep me safe -- and then all the money went away. And then, when I came to L.A. and met you and Doyle, I started to think maybe being good was the answer, but it's not, because Doyle was good and he still died." She took a deep breath, and I realized her voice had started to shake a little. But it was steady again when she concluded, "I KNOW you can't protect me from the bad stuff, Angel. I'm not asking you to."
She spoke with a sadness that didn't belong in the voice of a girl as young as she was. It reminded me of the way Buffy had sounded during our last conversations.
"Cordelia," I said at last, "I've been responsible for a lot of bad stuff myself, in my time. Now I'm trying to make up for it. You're not obligated to be part of that. My mission --"
From the other side of the vent, I heard a noise that sounded suspiciously like Cordelia blowing a raspberry. "Mission, shmission! Get over yourself, Angel."
I jiggled the door lock again, and was rewarded by two of the screws falling out. The lock was now definitely loose. Dryly, I said, "It's so nice to know my quest for redemption has your respect and support."
Cordelia laughed. It was the best sound I'd heard in days. "It does. You do. But sometimes you talk as if nothing happens that isn't because of a prophecy or a mission or Doyle's Powers-That-Be. You want to know why I'm still here?" Her voice softened, became gentle. "It's because you're my friend, Angel. The only real friend I've got in this city. I like you, and I'm not gonna stop liking you."
I stopped working on the door's lock mechanism and instead stared down at my hands -- the same hands I'd used to hurt and torture and kill in the years before the gypsies had cursed me. I remembered the long decades during which my existence had consisted of nothing except days of guilt-disturbed, fitful sleep and tortured, empty nights. When Whistler had found me in New York and told me I had a purpose other than to suffer, I had fallen on the idea with the hunger of a starving man. Since then, I had grown so used to the idea that my fate was to fulfill whatever prophecies and missions had been allotted to me as punishment for my litany of sins that I had stopped even considering the possibility that anything could happen to me that wasn't pre-ordained, outside of my control. Even falling in love with Buffy, for all that it had freed me, had sometimes felt like my destiny rather than my choice.
And now Cordelia said she liked me. That we were friends. As if that were the simplest, most natural thing in the world, and not the greatest and most unmerited gift a creature like myself could receive.
"Thanks," I said.
Cordelia didn't reply.
Hesitantly, I added, "I like you, too."
Still no reply. The cabin felt unnaturally silent.
Then I realized why -- I could no longer hear the gentle susurration of Cordelia's breathing coming from the ventilation grille, and her scent was already growing stale on the air.
"Cordelia!" I yelled.
She was gone. She was gone and I didn't know where she was --
Unthinkingly, I began to pound the cabin door, kicking and shoving it until it started to rattle in its frame. It would have made more sense to finish the job I'd started on the lock and make a quiet escape instead of creating enough noise to attract the attention of everyone on board. But I wasn't thinking about anything except the overriding necessity of finding Cordelia.
Lowering my shoulder, I rammed the door. It started to buckle and, ignoring the pain, I backed up and made ready to do it again.
As it turned out, I didn't have to. The door opened.
Two of Hunter's hench-demons were standing in the corridor looking in at me. They were each over seven feet tall, including their curled horns -- they had to stoop in the yacht's low corridor -- and in appearance they most resembled the unwanted by-product of a genetics experiment carried out on a lizard and a goat. I recognized them as Xohotical demons: stupid, vicious and insanely loyal to anyone who gives them fresh raw meat and scratches between their horns.
"Boss wants to see you," growled the first demon.
"Where is she?" I demanded. I wasn't in a position to demand anything, but I figured I had nothing to lose trying.
"Boss wanted to see her," the second demon said, roughly grabbing my arm and pulling me out of the cabin. "Boss wants to see you." It smiled unpleasantly at me and added, "Boss has special job for both of you."
That should have been enough to tell me the bad situation we were in was about to get even worse. Yet, as they dragged me along the yacht's corridor, the only thing I felt clearly was relief that Cordelia was still okay and we were going to be together again soon.
***
Our route to the Delilah's wheelroom took us outside and along the yacht's deck, and I seized the opportunity to try to pick up any clues as to where we were going. In front of the yacht, the sea stretched ahead, ink-black under the clear night sky. Off to starboard, I could see the faint, flickering lights of the city. That, at least, was good news: we weren't headed straight out to sea, but were instead maintaining a course parallel to the shore.
I squinted at the distant lights, trying to judge how far offshore we were, but before I could make a guess, my demon captors hauled me up a set of steps and into the Delilah's wheelhouse. And then every other thought evaporated from my mind, because Cordelia was there.
She was being guarded by two more of the Xohotical demons; she looked frightened and pale, but she didn't seem to be hurt. She looked around as my captors pulled me through the door and tried to come to me, but the demons held her back. So did the two flanking me when I tried to get to her.
For an instant I felt a tide of red rage rise up in me, felt my teeth sharpen into fangs and my face harden. Dimly, I was aware that losing control now was more likely to get both Cordelia and myself killed than solve anything, but that didn't quell the mounting fury I felt at the idea of anyone keeping us apart.
"Let her go," said a man's voice.
The demons holding Cordelia hesitated, then released her. She ran the few paces it took to get to me, and we clung on to each other. Suddenly I wasn't thinking about Hunter or Jameela or the really, really bad situation we'd somehow gotten ourselves into; everything I needed and wanted was in my arms.
"Are you okay?" I asked when I could speak.
"Better now," Cordelia whispered back. I knew exactly what she meant.
We maneuvered ourselves so that we were standing side by side, although we were still holding hands. Our enforced separation hadn't done anything to weaken the enchantment -- if anything, our need to be close to each other had intensified to the point where we couldn't even think straight unless we were in physical contact. Now that we were holding hands, I didn't think either of us was going to be able to let go; we weren't handcuffed together, but we might as well have been.
But at least now I had the reassurance of Cordelia's hand in mine, I could concentrate sufficiently on other things to look around properly. The Delilah's wheelroom was as redolent of money and taste as the rest of the yacht. The instrument panels were finished in dark wood, the antique effect a pointed contrast to the abundance of hi-tech navigation aids which probably had more to do with indulging the owner's love of gadgets than helping to point the boat in the right direction. A sweeping, curved window gave whoever was at the yacht's wheel a comprehensive view of the yacht's prow and the ocean beyond.
Right now, that person was Michael Hunter. He was standing at the Delilah's wheel, wearing the rich man's weekend uniform of chinos and a khaki sweater, and looking urbane and relaxed and very much as if kidnapping and drug-running were part of his normal daily existence. Jameela stood close to him, one hand clutching his sleeve. Her gaze was lowered to the floor.
"We know all about you, Mister," Cordelia said. "We know about the drugs, and the magic, and the -- and the creamer!"
"The creamer isn't actually illegal," I pointed out quietly.
"Yeah, but two things is a pretty lame list," she whispered back. Then she raised her voice again and demanded, "Where are you taking us?"
Hunter didn't reply; he didn't even look around. He turned the wheel a fraction, and adjusted his stance. As he moved, I saw there was a gun sitting on the edge of the Delilah's navigation panel. It was resting where Hunter could reach it easily -- but it was also within Jameela's reach.
I decided to try another approach.
"Jameela," I said.
She didn't look up from the floor, or meet my gaze.
"Jameela, what he's doing is wrong. You know that. What you think you feel for him isn't real -- it's just magic." Jameela still wouldn't look at me, but I saw her glance toward Hunter. Encouraged, I continued, "He's not even a person, Jameela. He's a creature called a Siren, pretending to be a person. He doesn't love you and you don't really love him. Look inside yourself and you'll realize that's true."
Hunter respond to that at all, but Jameela tightened her grip on his arm. But I saw her other hand start to work its way across the Delilah's instrument panel, toward the gun. "Michael," she said quietly. "Michael, you love me, don't you?"
Now Hunter turned and looked at her. "I adore you."
"That's a crock!" Cordelia exclaimed.
"I would do anything for you," Jameela said. "Would you do anything for me?"
"Baby," Hunter whispered, "you know I would." His hands had fallen from the yacht's wheel; he seemed to have forgotten he was supposed to be steering it.
A sudden and unpleasant suspicion formed in my mind.
Jameela's hand tightened around the gun. She lifted it. "I would die for you. Would you die for me?"
"In a second," Hunter said.
A human in a siren's thrall is a pitiful thing, Sorcha had said.
Oh shit.
"Then die for me," Jameela said, and gave Hunter the gun.
He was smiling at her as he blew his brains out.
It happened so fast there was no time to intervene. Cordelia cried out, and there was a horrible, wet splattering sound as most of Michael Hunter's brains exited his skull and hit the inside of the cockpit's window. The air thickened with the scent of blood as his body thudded limply on to the floor.
Jameela straightened up, tossed her hair back and dropped her little-girl-lost act for the first time. Looking at us with a gaze that was as composed as it was utterly malevolent, she said, "I'm impressed you've heard of Sirens. There aren't many of us, and we like to keep a low profile." She nudged Hunter's body with her toe. "For obvious reasons."
Cordelia was still staring in horror at Hunter's body. "You killed him."
Jameela shrugged. "He killed himself. Humans are pathetic -- they take pheromones and biochemistry and they slap the word 'love' on it and pretend it's somehow transcendent. Look at you," she added, waving contemptuously at Cordelia and myself, "a vampire and his lunch, holding hands. Do you have ANY idea how ludicrous you are?"
Regaining some of her composure, Cordelia said, "I am no one's lunch."
The Xohotical demons quietly moved around so that they flanked Jameela, two on either side of her.
"You know, this used to be so much less work," Jameela said wistfully. "Back in the day, all we had to do was sit on a rock singing and wait. The ships practically dashed themselves, you know? And all that lovely gold just washed up around us..." Her eyes grew unfocused as she fell into reverie. "Coins and jewelry and rings. So many beautiful things. Do you know how wealth is stored now? Stocks and bonds and options, little pieces of paper or electronic pulses moving between bank accounts. Money doesn't go clink anymore."
Jameela's eyes were shining as she warmed to her topic, and I realized this was probably the only thing Sirens felt real affection for.
"That's why you targeted Hunter," I said. "You realized his legitimate business was just a cover for the real source of his money."
Jameela shrugged. "No one ever got that rich from creamer. All I had to do was wait until he told me everything I needed to know -- the sources, the contacts, the channels." She glanced disparagingly at the body on the floor. "He was too dumb to realize everything he told me was bringing him closer and closer to permanent retirement."
"Wow," Cordelia said. "I mean, demons are evil. Got that, down with it. But -- drug trafficking demons? You're in a whole new league of evilness."
Jameela smiled. "Why, thank you, my dear."
"Well, now you're sunk," Cordelia said. "Because Angel and I know all about you, and we're gonna go straight to the cops, and, and --" She broke off abruptly, and I felt her hand tighten around mine. "And you're gonna kill us before we can do that, aren't you?"
"That's the plan," Jameela conceded. "But not before you help me."
"I don't think so," I said.
"Oh, but I do." Jameela was smiling again. "Tonight, a sudden and mysterious fire will sink the Delilah. By the time the last charred timber sinks to the bottom of the ocean, I'll be a hundred miles away -- with the real cargo."
"It's not that easy to disappear," I said. "The authorities will expect to find a body."
"And they will." Jameela was looking at Cordelia in a way I didn't like at all.
Nervously, Cordelia said, "You think that'll work? The cops check things like dental records, you know."
"They won't be able to," Jameela said sweetly, "if you don't have any teeth."
She motioned at the nearest demon, which lumbered threateningly toward Cordelia. Raising a clawed hand and smiling unpleasantly, it casually swiped at her face. It was just playing with her, taking the opportunity to cause a little terror before it got down to the serious business of maiming, but Cordelia didn't move back quickly enough, and one claw grazed her cheek. A tiny scratch just below her eye started to well with blood.
She was bleeding. They had hurt her.
Suddenly, everything -- Jameela, the demons, Michael Hunter's dead body, the yacht, the night and the wide Pacific ocean -- faded, became insignificant and inconsequential. My world began and ended with Cordelia; for each drop of her blood that had been spilled, I wanted to wring pints from whoever had hurt her.
I brought the first demon down without difficulty -- nothing could have prepared it for the violence of my attack. The second demon put up more of a struggle, but made a fatal error when it lowered its head to try to ram me with its horns. I grabbed one of them and twisted it until it broke off in my hand, leaving the demon writhing on the floor, clutching the bloody hole in its head where the horn had been. When the third demon charged at me, I threw the horn at it like a missile. The point slammed into the middle of the demon's chest, and it flew backward into the wide window at the front of the cockpit. It hit the window and kept going, sailing out into the night in a shower of shattered glass, before landing on the deck below with a satisfying crunch.
I was only warming up.
"Angel!"
Cordelia's voice. Was she in trouble?
I looked around, and saw with relief she wasn't. But she was glaring angrily at me, and for a moment, I couldn't figure out why.
"Angel, you're gonna dislocate my shoulder!"
I looked down, and realized I was still holding her hand -- gripping it so tightly her fingers were white and bloodless. Somehow I'd made it through the whole fight like that.
"Sorry," I said. I loosened my grip, but didn't let go, and Cordelia didn't ask me to.
"THANK you," she said, rubbing her shoulder with her free hand. "Where'd skanky Siren lady go?"
I looked around the wheelhouse, and saw it was empty. The door was swinging in the breeze blowing in through the shattered window, and I could hear the sound of footsteps, rapidly growing fainter.
"Come on," I said, and together we ran out of the wheelhouse and down the steps, still holding hands.
We raced toward the yacht's stern, following the sound of Jameela running ahead of us. We hadn't gone far when I caught the first scent of smoke in the air. The next porthole we passed glowed with an orange-red, flickering light.
"Great," Cordelia said, gasping a little as she ran next to me. "You know what's worse than being trapped with drug-smuggling demons in the middle of the ocean on a boat? Being trapped with drug-smuggling demons in the middle of the ocean on a boat THAT'S ON FIRE."
"We're not trapped," I said. The Delilah had everything else; it had to have a lifeboat --
We rounded the next corner, and I saw the Delilah did have a lifeboat. Jameela was already in it.
The fourth Xohotical demon was loading small, plastic-wrapped packages into the dinghy while Jameela untied the ropes securing it to the side of the Delilah. She looked up at us as we ran on to the aft deck, the look on her face one of faint annoyance. "The other three were supposed to take care of you." She snapped her fingers and barked a command at the demon.
The demon rushed at us. "Don't move," I said to Cordelia. "And get ready."
"Get ready for what --?"
I didn't have time to answer -- the demon was nearly on us. I put my hand on Cordelia's shoulder, leaped, twisted, and kicked, using her body as leverage. I heard her gasp in surprise, and her shoulder dipped a little, but she didn't move. My foot connected squarely with the demon's throat; the force of the blow knocked it back, and as I landed I saw it skid across the deck and over the side of the yacht.
Cordelia glared at me. "Next time, a little more warning, please." She looked toward the side of the deck. "Do you think it can swim?"
"Oh, yeah, Xohotical demons can swim," I said. From the side of the yacht, we heard a scream, followed by an unpleasant hissing, bubbling sound. "Salt water, on the other hand..."
Jameela looked at the spot where the last of her demon helpers had gone into the sea. Sounding more irritated than anything else, she said, "You people are starting to piss me off."
As she spoke, her voice changed, becoming rougher and more guttural. Then she stood up, her body twisting and warping as she rose. Her hair rose and hardened into poisonous-looking spikes and iridescent scales appeared on her skin, exactly the same as the one I had found in Hunter's bedroom. Her eyes reddened, the pupils shrinking and disappearing, and webbing grew between her fingers, at the same time as they lengthened and sharpened into claws.
Jameela -- in her real and not at all attractive form -- stepped out of the lifeboat and on to the Delilah's deck. With one scaly and powerful arm she -- it? -- broke off a portion of the yacht's boom. Apparently she was much stronger in her true shape.
"Cordelia?" I said.
"Yeah?"
"I think I'm going to need both hands for this."
With effort, we let go of each other. Immediately, I felt worse -- lifeless, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, or a TV with the plug pulled. Just staying on my feet was a struggle.
Jameela wielded the boom like a club, swiping it low through the air. I jumped, and looked around frantically for something I could use as a weapon. I didn't see anything.
Jameela roared, and attacked again. This time, I wasn't fast enough, and the blow glanced off my shoulder. I lost my balance and fell on to the yacht's deck, landing hard on my back. I heard Cordelia yell, and when I looked up I saw Jameela towering above me, making ready to bring the boom down on to my skull.
Suddenly, a thick coil of rope dropped over Jameela, temporarily pinning her arms to her sides. She dropped the boom, and I rolled out of the way. When I got to my feet, I saw Cordelia holding on to the other end of the crude lasso. She wasn't going to be able to hold Jameela for long.
I dived for the boom and retrieved it. Behind me, I heard a snap, and when I turned around I saw Jameela break the rope with a roar. Cordelia staggered backward, losing her balance as the rope went slack. I only had a few seconds. It was all I needed.
Launching myself at Jameela, I knocked her over, and we rolled together across the yacht's deck. When we stopped, I was on top of her. I hefted the boom and made ready to slam the sharp, splintered end into Jameela's chest.
Jameela smiled, mouth twisting back to reveal several rows of teeth. A black tongue flicked over her lips. In a quiet, deceptively soft voice, she said, "When I die, she won't want you anymore."
I hesitated.
Jameela reached up and grabbed the boom out of my hands. Then she threw me off herself with such force that I slammed backward, only stopping when I collided painfully with the main mast. As I picked myself up, I saw Jameela heading back to the lifeboat. And I saw Cordelia running toward her, clearly intent on stopping her reaching it. She was going to get herself killed.
I heard myself shout Cordelia's name. As if in slow motion, I saw her turn around and look at me. And I saw Jameela wielding the boom, knocking Cordelia sideways, across the deck and over the yacht's railings.
I ran across the deck, ignoring Jameela, who was lowering the yacht's lifeboat into the sea. I skidded the last couple of yards on my knees, and looked over the side of the boat with a sick sense of fear.
Cordelia's face was about six inches below mine. She was clinging on to the edge of the deck with both hands. Her knuckles were white and I could see every muscle in her arms was stretched and taut.
"Take my hand," I said, reaching down to her.
Through gritted teeth, she said, "I thought you'd never ask."
I grasped Cordelia's arms and wrists, feeling an intense and almost physical sense of relief as I touched her, and pulled her back up on to the yacht. When she was safely back on the yacht's deck, I enfolded her in my arms, and we stayed that way for several minutes.
Cordelia spoke first. "Did Jameela take the lifeboat?"
I looked around, and saw the dinghy was gone. "Yes."
"Great," Cordelia muttered. "So much for women and vampires first. You know what? The only way this could possibly be worse would be if the boat was on fire." A pall of smoke drifted above us, blocking our view of the night sky. I could hear the crackling of flames. "No, wait, the boat IS on fire, and this situation cannot, officially, get ANY WORSE."
"Maybe there's another lifeboat," I suggested.
A quick tour of the parts of the yacht which weren't yet impassable due to the fire dashed that faint hope. When we returned to the aft deck, Cordelia leaned over the rails and waved at the distant lights of Santa Monica. "Hey!" she yelled, "Hey! Help!"
"We're too far away," I said. "No one will hear."
Cordelia looked desperately toward the shoreline. "It looks so close. We can't be more than a mile or two out. I used to swim in the sea when we spent summer at the beach house. I know we could swim that distance." She turned around, her voice and face alight with sudden hope. "Angel, we could swim to shore."
I looked at her, and knew with cold certainty there was only one way out of this. "You could swim it."
Cordelia stared at me in confusion for a moment, and then her face took on a look of dismay. "Oh -- Angel. Oh, God, I forgot." She shook her head. "This would usually be the point where I would make a nice speech about how I can't leave you behind. Except --" She held up her hand, in the process raising mine, too. Our fingers were entwined tightly around each other. "Except it happens to be literally true. I can't leave you, Angel. I can't."
"You'll have to," I said. "Look, I'm not going to drown. The worst that can happen is I'll sink to the bottom and have to walk back to land."
Caustically, Cordelia said, "Using what -- the map of the ocean floor you always keep handy? There are no signposts at the bottom of the sea, Angel. If you pick the wrong direction, the next stop is Japan." She screwed up her face in something not unlike pain. "Besides, that's not the point. The point is, we'd be apart, and I -- just -- can't --"
I knew exactly what she meant. The idea of being separated from her was making me feel physically ill.
Making my voice deliberately harsh, I said, "If you stay here, with me, you're going to die. You have to swim." I looked around, and saw a lifebelt hanging on hooks on the deck's railings. I pulled Cordelia toward it, took it down, and pushed it into her free hand. "Take this."
"We already had this argument!" Cordelia yelled, and pushed the lifebelt back at me.
"And this is exactly why I was right!" I was shouting back at her, now. I thrust the lifebelt back at her so hard she had to take a step back.
Cordelia looked at the lifebelt, then at me. "No, you're wrong," she said, "and we're gonna prove it."
Then she hugged me, grabbed me with one hand and the lifebelt with the other, and deliberately pulled us both over the deck's railings.