Disclaimer :: The characters herein are the property of their creators. I make no profit from their use.

:: D e a d  M a n ' s  R o p e  ::

written by Starlet2367 { e-mail // livejournal }

Dead Man's Rope - Part 2

Chapter 4

Cordy took a deep breath and stepped on the pad in front of the medical center's doors. They swished open and she walked into the lobby leaning heavily on her cane. A fountain gurgled in the center of the large, tiled floor, surrounded by waving ferns.

At the end of the lobby was an elevator bank. She slid her finger down the directory. "Fitch," she said, under her breath. "Third floor."

Adam Fitch was the doctor recommended by David's HMO. He'd come by right after she woke up, and his office kept tabs on her through Rita's notes.

She'd been working out with Rita every morning but her left leg still wasn't getting any better. Cordy knew Rita was worried when she finally recommended that Cordy go in for tests.

She was down to her last few pain pills, too. She didn't take them often--the woozy, cottony feeling reminded her too much of that last year with the visions.

The only good thing she could see was that this was way different than that first trip to the dentist. No sensory overwhelm. No crying babies, unless she decked them with the cane. "I'm here to see Doctor Fitch. I have a two o'clock ."

She sat and waited, flipping through the magazine, until about 2:20 .

"Miss Chase?"

Cordy stood and followed the nurse, who was clad in pink scrubs, down the shiny, linoleum hall.

"In here." She directed Cordy into an exam room. "Doctor Fitch will be right in."

There was a chair next to the exam table, so she sat. A picture of an anatomical drawing of a man hung on the wall. She was sounding out names like "sciatic nerve" and "crest of greater trochanter" when the door opened.

Wow. Doctor Fitch was cute. "Hi. I'm Cordelia." She stood and stuck out her hand.

"Adam Fitch. We've met, but you may not remember." His bright blue eyes seemed to take in everything about her at once. "Your comeback is amazing, can I just say?"

"Any time you want to use the word amazing to describe me, you go right ahead," she said, shooting him her brightest smile.

He ran his hand through a shock of pool-boy blond hair and opened her file. "I hear you're having some trouble with the leg. That's to be expected." He patted the exam table. "Hop up here and let's see what's going on."

She climbed up and he st art ed probing her hip and thigh muscles and bending her leg. Just as she was about to make a flirtatious comment about the placement of his hands, he turned her leg the wrong way. "Ow!"

"Sorry." His head was almost buried in her breasts, but his eyes were closed as he manipulated her leg--it was almost like he was listening to her body talk to him.

Finally he stood. "Walk for me."

Cordy slid carefully off the table and walked from one end of the small office to another. Dr. Fitch wrote something in her file.

"We need to do some x-rays and see what's going on in there." He glanced at his watch. "If you'll make another appointment at the front desk, we'll check it out."

***

They sat in the quiet kitchen eating peanut butter sandwiches. Cordy had a pile of potato chips and a glass of milk; David put the chips right on his sandwich. "More efficient this way," he said, as he took a crunchy bite.

Cordy glanced at the cane leaning against the wall behind her. She didn't like to think she was clinging to this safe haven he'd created for her. But she was walking now, unsteadily and with a limp, but she was walking.

She'd thought a lot about that day when she'd gotten home from the dentist. Her commitment not to take life lying down--or sitting down. And now that she was standing, she knew she needed to take the next step.

But the thought of letting him go, of living on her own was so overwhelming. That's how she knew it was time. "I need to talk to you about something, David."

He glanced up. "Sounds serious."

Cordy looked down at her hands. "I guess it is, in a way."

His hands covered hers, long-fingered and surprisingly graceful. "What is it. Are you okay?"

Her gaze snapped up. "Oh, David I'm fine. It's just--" She blew out a breath, looked up at the halogen lights over the sink. "I think it's time I moved out on my own."

He did that tilty thing with his head. "Huh?"

"Not now, I mean, obviously. But soon, you know? I can't depend on you forever, no matter how much I--" She pressed her lips together, surprised at how emotional she was feeling. "Anyway. Thank you for keeping me going."

He was still sitting there with his mouth open.

"David?"

"Wow. I just.... Wow." He looked away and his Adam's Apple bobbed. "I kinda wanted you to stay forever."

Oh, crap. She pressed her hands to her eyes, totally confused by what was happening. She didn't want to leave him, and he didn't want her to go, but she felt like she had to.

After what happened with Jasmine, she had to be the captain of her own ship, the ruler of her own life. She could never really explain that to David, because he didn't even know who Jasmine was.

When he turned to her, he looked resigned. "I guess I knew this day would come. And believe me, I understand. Or, well, obviously I don't, since I've never been in a coma." He laughed, a dry, breathless laugh. "But it makes sense. You're an independent woman. You need your own space, and, really who wants to live with a--"

She covered his mouth with her fingers. "If you say 'geek' I will kick your ass."

He went totally still, then pulled away and stared at her.

"David, I'm terrified of being on my own. I can't imagine eating dinner without you. And that's exactly why I have to go. Does that make any sense?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure." His voice broke.

Cordy put her hand over his and squeezed. "Hey, I'm not going far. You *so* need someone to give you clothing tips. Otherwise, it's Queer Eye for you."

"Right. Break my he art , then threaten my life." He took a deep breath then put his sandwich down on his plate. "Obviously you're the perfect woman for me."

She smiled at him shakily. "Obviously."

***

"I had them clean it up really good for you. Not that there was much to do— Evidently everyone who lived here moved out pretty quickly." David bounced on the toes of his Chucks and shoved his hands into the pockets of his loose jeans. "I heard it was haunted," he said, leaning over to whisper it in her ear.

She looked around at her ap art ment. Felt Dennis—oh, God, Dennis, I’m *home*--ruffle her hair, pat her hands, kiss her face. It felt incredible to smile and cry at the same time. A real Hallmark moment, she thought, with a laugh. "It is."

"No way."

"Uh huh." She smiled up into the air. "Dennis, meet David Nabbit. David, Dennis."

David flinched as a breeze tugged at his shirt sleeve. "Uh, hi." But he smiled gamely.

The ap art ment looked just like it did when she first moved in, still furnished with the same couch and tables, and there was that stain on the floor under the window where she’d watered that fern to death.

She limped over to the window and looked out at her view. "I don’t know how to thank you, David. This is just incredible." When she turned to smile at him, he was looking at her with real affection and warmth. She returned the look. He was a geek, sure, but he had such a good he art . "Not that your place wasn’t incredible, though, don’t get me wrong."

He strolled over to stand with her and look out at the hills. "Well, all that space can get kinda lonely. I always thought it’d be nice to have a place like this, small and cozy and…haunted." That boyish grin flashed.

"Lucky for me, Dennis and I had an agreement. No one but me was allowed to live here. Thank goodness the landlord finally figured it out."

"Lucky for you, I bought the building."

Cordy rolled her eyes. "You didn’t."

He nodded. "After that guy told you that you couldn’t have the place for the same price as before? I mean, hey, I always wanted a place like this, like I said. And rent control…well, there’s a reason it exists."

"I’m not sure whether to kick you or kiss you."

David blushed. "Um—" His voice broke. "I’d probably be better with the kicking. I mean, girls are more likely to react that way to me."

"Come here." She reached up and pulled him down by the collar and pressed her lips to his. She pulled away, laughing and blushing, surprised by how soft, how innocent his mouth felt. So fresh, so real.

David’s face was beet red and he tugged at the collar of his shirt. "Uh—thanks."

She grinned. "Well, I figured I owed you, what with getting my ap art ment back for me, not to mention the months of—"

His face went serious. "Cordelia, you don’t owe me anything. Promise me you understand that. I didn’t do this for any reason other than that I respected you and I wanted you to have the best care possible."

There was a funny, warm feeling in her chest. "That’s just— Thanks." She smiled and held out her hand. "Once I get my stuff moved back in…." She didn’t even know where it was anymore. Her clothes, her shoes, her pictures. Having it all back would be really strange, like stepping into someone else’s life.

"Oh, I have it."

"My stuff?"

He went over to the couch and plopped down, propping his feet on the coffee table. "Yeah, I got it from Angel when we moved you to my house." He jumped up, a bundle of energy as always, and disappeared into the kitchen. Cabinet doors opened and shut and the silver splash of water on porcelain hit the air.

Cordy sucked in a breath and forced back tears. This ap art ment had always meant something bigger to her than just a place for her stuff.

It meant she wasn’t being punished anymore. Not for being a bitch in high school, or for being Jasmine’s toady. Thoughts of Jasmine brought a little pill of guilt, hard to swallow, and always on the back of her tongue.

David bopped back into the living room. "So I’ll have your stuff sent over this afternoon and Rita will help get you settled in. They put some food in the fridge for you and, uh—" He stopped, his lightning-quick mind spinning off to the next thing.

"Yeah. So I have a meeting with FedEx. We’re doing the upgrade on their tracking software." He grabbed her hand and swung it loosely between them. "I’ve got my phone if you need anything. Otherwise I probably won’t see you until tomorrow. Dinner with the guys from the Getty museum. They need a big check." He rolled his eyes, then waved and was gone.

She watched the door close behind him. Silence settled over the ap art ment and she felt Dennis wrap himself around her. "Hi," she whispered. "How ya been?"

The words, the horror story of her life since she left over a year before, tumbled out into the quiet ap art ment. She’d never been Catholic—really didn’t even understand why anyone would go to church—but there in the quiet confines of her ap art ment, the concept of confession made sense to her.

Even if Dennis could talk back, she knew he wouldn’t have. That he’d have just listened, without judging, to the story of how she let her pride, a need to be needed, and her desire to help lead her into making a decision that was the mother of all stupid decisions. How she’d fucked with Angel’s head, fucked his son, and nearly fucked over the world.

How she didn’t deserve what David was giving her. She was living a lie, but it was another lie the universe seemed bent on perpetrating with her.

And Connor, God. Connor. The sweet baby who’d been a miracle child, then a pawn in Jasmine’s game, then a hopeless, crazy man who’d given his own life at the hands of his father.

What she wouldn’t give to hit the reset button on her memories. To be as free and clear of all that crap as everyone else in the world seemed to be. But maybe that was her own version of hell. To live with the guilt, the secrets and lies, to know the role she’d played and to never be able to speak of it. With anyone but a ghost.

***

Cordy leaned her cane against the wall, set the groceries on the floor, and stuck her key in the lock. "God, my leg is killing me," she grumbled as she swung the door open.

Grocery shopping with a cane and no car was about as much fun as getting a third eye from a Skilosh. "Dennis, could you get the door?" It swung open and she saw David sitting on the couch.

"Hey, can I help you with that stuff?" He bolted up, dropping his Trio on the coffee table.

"David?"

He kissed her cheek. "Hey. I was st art ing to get worried." He took both bags of groceries and schlepped them to the kitchen. "You look beat. I was worried you would be." He frowned. "I have all these cars to play with. You have to at least borrow one sometime. No one should have to ride the bus in LA."

She hobbled into the kitchen behind him. "Oh, David. You know I can't take a car on top of everything else--" She glanced at the table.

White boxes of take-out sat on the table, next to an open pink plastic bag, full of chopsticks and fortune cookies. "But I can *so* eat. How long have you been here?" She grabbed one of the grocery bags and pulled out the cereal.

David put the half-gallon of milk it in the fridge. "Just a little while." He glanced at his watch and his eyebrows flew up. "Wow, actually, more than a little while. More like a couple of hours." He leaned in like a man with a secret. "Dennis and I were reading baseball stats."

Cordy dropped paper towels and toilet paper on the counter. "Dennis is a huge fan. His main problem is that he likes the Yankees."

"Where do you want the peanut butter?"

"In the cabinet next to the sink. Everyone knows the Yankees suck," she said, winking at David.

Dennis replied by stripping a set of chopsticks from the wrapper and pointing them at her chest. Cordy rolled her eyes and plucked them from the air. "See what I mean?"

David laughed. "Hey, I respect a man who loves his team." He put a loaf of bread on the counter and folded the empty bag. "So, should I even ask how your day was?"

She smoothed her bag flat and put both of them under the sink next to the garbage can. "Not bad, actually." Water streamed out of the faucet and she soaped her hands. "Wanna wash up?"

He took the soap under her and shared the water. Their fingers slipped across each other and Cordy grinned and tangled them together. "You brought me dinner. That is so sweet."

David's gaze slid away. "Yeah, well, I was worried you were overdoing it."

She turned off the faucet and dried her hands, then gave him the towel. "Plus, you wanted to hang with my ghost."

They sat and st art ed dishing food onto the plates he'd set out. "So, your day?"

"I talked to Joanna at Evil Central and we're clicking along for the p art y." She stared down at the white containers, her mind clicking back into planning mode. "I'm thinking, since it'll be a little chilly at night in October, we might want to have heat lamps near the tables. It's hard to cough up the big bucks if you can't grip the pen."

"Well, we want to do everything we can to ensure that they cough it up."

"The next thing on the list is getting me a job. I so need to buy a car."

His face pulled into a frown. "Wait--I thought you knew. I'm paying you for planning the dinner."

"You are?" Taking charity was one thing. Getting paid was entirely another.

"I figure I'd pay an event planner at least ten thousand to pick up the slack, so let's st art there." He looked worried. "Is that okay?"

She eyeballed him. "Ten thousand? I don't know. I'll have to think about--" She gave up and grinned. "Woo hoo! I have a job!" She made her chopsticks do a can-can. "I'm gainfully employed!"

David stole a bite of pork off her plate. "Yeah, but now you have to pay me rent." His eyes twinkled.

She considered it for a moment. "I was paying seven-fifty a month on this before. Will that work?"

He rolled his eyes. "I was thinking maybe you could buy the next dinner."

"That's not fair, though, David. I need to pay you something."

"Okay, buy the next two."

"Seven-fifty. And I buy the next dinner."

When he leaned in, he looked earnest, determined. "What's the use of being rich and all-powerful if I can't help my friends?"

She thought of Angel. Rich and all-powerful and locked away in his penthouse ap art ment. "Not much, as far as I can see."

"Oh, I almost forgot." David hopped up, went to the fridge, and came back with a bottle of wine and two juice glasses. "I know you're not supposed to drink much with the painkillers, but I had this at one of those Rubber Chicken dinners the other night, and it actually wasn't bad." He pulled out his pocketknife and popped the corkscrew free.

"Really? What is it?" She leaned forward to look at the label. It was a Chardonnay from a Sonoma vintner.

"I'm not much of a wine guy, you know?" The cork came out with a quiet pop and he set the bottle down on the table at his elbow.

Cordelia smiled. "I'm sure it'll be great."

When he poured, it was the color of spring sunshine. Green-tinted gold, young and fresh. The sound of the wine hitting the glass was like music and she found herself relaxing, fully relaxing, for the first time since she could remember.

He handed her a glass and toasted. "To California wine and carry out."

"Cheers," she said. It tasted like honey and flowers. "Not bad," she said, surprised. "And you say you're not a wine guy."

He shrugged, sat, and picked up his chopsticks. "I know what I like," he said, looking at her.

From his expression she knew he was talking about more than the wine. She picked up her glass, strangely warmed and comforted by his words. Of her friend, who cared about her. It had been so long since anyone looked at her like that.

She found herself pulled toward him, leaning forward slowly, watching his eyes grow wide, his mouth p art . When she kissed him it was sweet, soft, like the wine.

When she pulled back, he looked dazed. She smiled, pressed her fingers to her lips. Her body wasn't racing, wasn't churning. But she felt warm and content.

Then David spilled his wine and she laughed and the spell was broken.

They finished eating and while they were cleaning the kitchen, David said, "Um, I have a thing--"

She glanced over the dishtowel at him. "A thing? That sounds kinda dirty, David."

He blushed.

"You're so easy," she teased.

David cleared his throat. "Not the first time I've heard that. Anyway, what I was gonna say is, I have a charity dinner. Maybe you've heard of it. The Sutter Fund?"

She smirked. "Never heard of it. Sounds boring."

"Oh, it is. Totally. I wondered if you'd go with me." It came out in a rush, the way an inexperienced high school boy's question-popping would.

She took the next dish from him and dried it carefully. "I'd have to see Angel."

He nodded and swished his hands in the soapy water. "I understand if you don't want to--"

"How can I not? I'm planning it. I've already been stockpiling the armor."

His eyebrows rose over the top of his glasses. "I've got a mesh chest plate if you're interested."

She snorted. "As if."

They turned off the light in the kitchen and went to the couch, settling in on opposite ends. He picked up the remote. "This okay?"

She stretched her tired feet out on the coffee table. "As long as we don't watch any geeky sci-fi, we're cool." The cushions felt wonderful. She was full, relaxed, and with David and Dennis some of that deep loneliness seemed to disappear.

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. When she woke up, the TV was off, and she was snuggled under the afghan. The ap art ment was quiet and dark, and she was alone again. But she smiled when she thought about David, and going back to sleep was effortless.

Chapter 5

Cordy sat in Dr. Fitch's office waiting to talk with him about the results of her first round of tests.

"Cordelia Chase." It was the same nurse as before, only this time she was wearing navy scrubs. "Dr. Fitch will see you now." She held the door open for her, and Cordy brushed by and knocked on Dr. Fitch's door.

He welcomed her in and motioned her to a chair. Then he sat and got right down to business. "We've reviewed your test results." He smiled. "The right leg looks excellent. Muscle tone and bone mass are right on target. You're at about a hundred per cent of operating capacity there."

She arched a brow. "And the left?"

"That's a bit of a different story." He held up the test results and showed her where he'd underlined a portion of the printout. "You can see here that, for whatever reason, the muscle degenerated, and has left you with permanent damage. We don't really know why, though I'm guessing its due to a defect in the structural stability of the sarcolemma."

"The sarco-huh?"

Dr. Fitch chuckled. "The thin membrane enclosing the muscle fibers."

She blinked. "So, what does that mean?

He put the film back into the manila envelope and folded his hands on the blotter. "Well, it basically means that the muscles beneath your left hip bone just aren't responding to the body's prompts to get better."

Cordy sucked in a breath. "And?"

"And we'll do some more tests." He shook his head. "I wish I could give you a definitive answer now, but I think the next round of tests will really help us pinpoint the problem."

She clenched her purse to her chest. "Will it ever improve?"

He looked down at the papers. "I really don't know. We could do surgery to remove any scar tissue, but there's no way to reverse permanent damage." His looked up at her and smiled. "But why don't we let the tests determine that for us? No use worrying till we have something to worry about, right?"

"Right," she said, over the ringing in her ears.

***

She cranked the Coldplay disk as loud as it would go. "Nobody said it was easy…. But it’s such a shame for us to p art …." The breeze carried her tone-deaf voice away, flinging it somewhere toward Japan . David’s classic MG buzzed beneath her like a green bee, carrying her up the coast.

Under her hand the ball of the gear shift was worn smooth. The car was stripped down, bare, primitive next to the Mercedes he preferred her to drive. It was temperamental, good-looking and required a lot of attention, but that’s why she liked it. That and the fact that nothing else handled Highway 1 like this.

After seeing the now less-than-charming Dr. Fitch, all she wanted to do was get away. Be alone for awhile. Think about the direction her life was taking.

Salt wind mixed with old leather and the chemical tang of Armor All and as she breathed, something in her uncoiled and let go. She thumbed off the cell phone and lost herself in the tug of gravity and the shift of gears. Her left leg ached when she shifted the clutch, but screw it. It was probably never work right again anyway.

The glass panel of the ocean cut through jutting black rocks and sliced the sunset in half. As LA dimmed in her rearview mirror, houses became sparser, dark canyons hulking to her right, home of mudslides and e art hquakes, unstable e art h moving somewhere way down below her like a stretching tiger.

She sneered at herself for being so poetic—something about the view always got her thinking, moping, wishing.

Wondering—what if she’d said yes to Groo? What if she’d said no to Skip?

Wrapping a long scarf around her head Garbo-style kept her hair out of her eyes; the black, zip-up sweatshirt kept the chill off of her shoulders. Curves in the road gave way to a long, straight line outside of Malibu then dipped back in, arcing in and out along the craggy coast.

Why her? Why not Buffy or Willow or the guy behind the counter at Perks?

The warbling piano of "Clocks" smoothed the rippling air. "Lights go out and I can’t be saved, tides that I tried to swim against, put me down upon my knees, oh, I beg, I beg and plead…."

She tapped her fingers on the wheel in time to the music and followed the road’s snakelike curves. It was nearly full night now; she’d been driving almost two hours, if you counted the time it took her to make it out of the city.

Ahead lay the silver smudge of light that was Ventura ; behind was long, dark coastline cut only by the glow of the MG’s red taillights. Maybe she’d stop in Ventura , have dinner, call David. Let him know she was okay.

She passed a slow-moving van just in time to see it turn off on one of the canyon roads, leaving her alone in the darkness. Not the first time she thought, remembering the months she’d been trapped in her own, comatose body.

Was it fate? Destiny? What was that Pylean word Fred had used…kyerumption?

Or was it all just a choice?

Suddenly the car sputtered.

She glanced down at the dash, with its big, round dials and strange knobs and instinctively hit the gas. The engine throbbed, shooting the little car forward, and she relaxed. The tires hummed against the tarmac and she patted the dash. "Good girl."

As she rounded another curve, the lights flickered and the car choked. "Oh, come on." She wrestled it to the side of the road just in time for the engine to rattle and die.

Coldplay gave way to silence and darkness and Cordy stared at the blank dash. "Dammit!" She opened the shell on the phone. No service. Flipping it opened and closed didn’t help; the screen stayed as stubbornly blank as the dashboard.

She tried the lights again, but no dice. This far out, there were no street lamps, though when she dug in the glove comp art ment she came up with a small Maglite. She leaned under the dash to pop the hood. Like she’d know what to do with the thing, but it was worth a look.

Her trainers hit gravel with a soft crunch and with a metallic creak, the old metal bonnet rose against the pure night sky. The beam of light dusted the engine with gold.

Okay, that looked like a bunch of metal intestines, and ewwww, where did *that* thought come from? The beam of light traveled up the open hood, over to the slab of rocky hill standing next to the car, and around toward Ventura .

She closed the hood, went back to the car and tried the engine again. The car shook with the effort and finally caught.

"Thank *God*! I thought I was stuck out here all by myself with serious thoughts."

Cordy slipped the car into gear and hit the gas. It rolled for about ten feet then stalled. "Argh!" She banged the heel of her hand on the steering wheel. "Come *on*!" Cranked the ignition, stomped the gas…. Nothing.

She laid her head on her hands. How far away was she from Ventura ? Five miles? Ten? There was no way she could walk that far. Lifting her head, she peered out into the soft, moonlit night.

Of course, she could just stay with the car. Someone would come by eventually. But the thought of sitting out here, isolated and alone, gave her the creeps.

Maybe if she walked back to that canyon road the van had turned on, she’d find a house. She thought about the hills of Malibu , and how densely populated they were, and how, even then, you had to travel sometimes miles to find the next driveway.

The wind blew, shuffling her scarf, and she yanked it off in frustration and threw it into the passenger seat. Under the visors were the latches for the convertible top. She popped them open then leaned into the back seat, undid the straps, and yanked up the top.

"Dammit!" The jagged edge of a broken nail pissed her off almost as much as the car stalling out. Finally she got the top in place, grabbed her bag and cane, and locked the car door behind her. The gravel gave under her feet, so she moved to the road, walking carefully to keep her weaker leg under her. The pavement was straight enough that she could see someone coming and get back on the shoulder.

All those cars in California , she thought, looking down the road, and none of them were here. What was *with* that?

She shivered in the chilly breeze and pulled the stretchy cotton of her sweatshirt tighter. Of course it’d be just her luck when one came by for her to wind up with a psycho, who’d tie her up like that girl from that slasher movie and turn her into a Moonie, or something.

She kicked a rock off the road and watched it skitter away into darkness. Even this far up the surf roared, and the strong arm of the wind elbowed her face. Everything was dark, salty, hard.

It was so dark that it hurt her eyes. She’d turned the light off, hoping to conserve the battery, but the moonlight wasn’t bright enough to guide her. Twisting the flashlight’s head and illuminated her shoes made her feel a little better—she still had some power.

Her ears picked up on something different, a hum that cut beneath the surf and wind. She turned, breath catching. Was it a car?

Cordy stepped onto the shoulder and listened as the hum changed to a whine and then a whoosh. The car came into view, blinding her with its lights. She threw up her arms to cover her face, and realized she’d effectively waved the driver down.

So much for not luring in the psychos.

The hulk of an SUV slowed, its black hide gleaming. The window rolled down. "Everything okay?"

Something in her stilled, tensed.

The truck pulled over and the driver leaned out the window. "That must have been your car I passed. MG? Probably the electrical system. Those cars are really cool, but they always lose power…."

He kept talking and talking, his tone of voice easy, light. And all she could think was, "It can’t be."

The door opened and she stumbled back, stopping when she ran into the sharp bank of dirt and rock. The overhead light turned his face to shadow, and it gave her a minute to catch her breath.

And then he stepped out of the car, and the light’s reflection off the rock face threw his features into shadowy relief.

Maybe somewhere, sometime, she had felt this way. Like she was light, glancing off rock. But she couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember ever—

"Hey, whoa."

She must have wavered because he touched her, steadied her. His hands felt the same. Strong, sure, long-fingered. He gripped her upper arms and she didn’t struggle, just stared at him.

Her lips trembled. "Connor?"

The young man shook his head, longish brown hair trimmed to a respectable cut that suited him, made him look like a college boy back home for the summer. "Nope, Ben. Hey, you all right? You look a little pale."

She nodded, feeling weak, empty. "I’m-- I’m fine." Maybe it was just her fear, and wondering about everything, and being out here alone that had her thinking this was Connor.

Maybe after all that happened, she needed it to be Connor.

"Really, I’m okay. You just-- You just reminded me of someone I knew." She shook her head and smiled, trying to assure them both that she wasn’t going crazy. She held up her cell phone. "I can’t get a signal. Could you maybe help me get to a phone?"

Ben smiled. "Cell phones are iffy near the canyon. Look, why don’t we check the car out, see if we can get it running." He reached in and turned off the ignition, pocketing the keys in his loose jeans. An ancient, white Sex Wax T-shirt fluttered around his lean body.

She followed him to the little car, handing him the flashlight on the way.

"You from LA?"

Something in his voice—envy?—reminded her of the conversation she’d had with Buffy about a thousand years ago. About how LA had everything Sunnydale didn’t: class, style. Shoes. "Yeah. For about eight years."

Connor—Ben—leaned under the hood. His capable hands fiddled with wires, jiggling and twisting and poking, and when he came up, he had greasy hands and a black smudge on front of the shirt. "See if she’ll st art ."

Cordy slid behind the wheel and cranked it. Nothing but a couple of clicks.

"Huh." He brushed his hair out of his eyes with his forearm. "Sounds like the alternator. How old’s the battery?"

"No idea."

The wind ruffled him, from hair to T-shirt to the hem of his jeans, but he managed to look calm, in control. Just like Angel used to. "You got Triple A?"

Did she? "My friend-- It’s my friend’s car. I’ll have to call him and find out."

He gestured down the road toward the truck. "I live just down the road. You’re welcome to use our phone."

She hesitated for just a second, thinking about refusing. Which would net her another wait of who-knew-how-long on the side of a dark road. With even more serious thoughts and chance for psychos than before.

He was probably about as safe as any other stranger she could hitch a ride with. So she followed him again, rounded the back of the truck and climbed into the high seat, slamming the door behind her.

Ben turned down the radio, dimming Eminem’s voice to a whisper. The truck was expensive, with leather and burled wood, but a well-worn baseball glove huddled at her feet, and in the back seat she could see the coiled mass of a sleeping bag and a six-pack of bottled water. When they pulled out, a baseball rolled and banged into her heels.

He laughed. "Sorry about that. I’ve practically been living out of the truck since I got home."

"Home?" She stared at his profile. Angel’s forehead. Darla’s mouth. Such a pretty boy; he’d always been beauti—

"…going to school up at Berkeley but mom wanted me to…."

So, she’d been right. He was just another college boy, home with his family. Probably spent most of his time with his friends playing ball or surfing.

His voice trailed off and the warm hum of the music pulsed through the truck.

She nudged the ball with her toe. He wasn’t Connor at all. His voice wasn’t right. The cadence was different—not that tense, always-on-the-run inflection he’d had, but a light, easy drift. This boy was happy, healthy….

Silence met her, growing tenser by the minute. She realized he’d asked her something. "I’m sorry. I was just--" Her hands slapped against the soft, cotton-covered bend of her knees. "Must have spaced out." The laugh was high, self-conscious.

"What’s your name?" he asked, gamely trying again.

She paused, not quite sure she wanted to tell him the truth. If she told him and he knew her, how awful would that be? But if she told him and he didn’t….

"Cordelia Chase." She’d never been able to lie well. It just wasn’t in her nature.

He shifted and she realized he held out his hand. She took it, shook. Felt him move his eyes from the road to her face, which was probably lit with the same, blue halogen glow as his. "Ben Maddox."

He released her hand and went back to driving, maneuvering the big vehicle over the winding roads with familiar ease. Ahead a green road sign flashed and he turned left onto another winding street.

Live oaks, lacy and sage-green, flared and disappeared in the lights. Ice plant poked its plump fingers through the blowing sand and craggy coastal rock. Ben steered through the dark, singing under his breath to the radio.

Led Zeppelin, driven and otherworldly, wove its spell around her and left her with the feeling that they were the only two people alive. Adrift with Ben, a boy who looked like the son she’d loved—and who Jasmine had used her body to seduce.

"Ooh, it makes me wonder, ooh, it really makes me wonder…."

She let his voice, tuneful and low, soothe her. It was as familiar to her as the roads were to him—even with the different cadence, the tone was achingly right. She could pretend for a minute that he wasn’t dead.

That was fair, wasn’t it? After all she'd been through, to pretend, just for now, that everything was okay?

Ben pulled off the main road and down a long, sloping driveway. They passed a large mailbox with "Maddox" on the side, and then the nose of the truck dipped like a car on the first hill of a roller coaster.

She gasped, grabbing the dash with one hand.

His grin flashed, teeth white and straight. It wasn’t fair—first Angel, now Connor. Dead guys with he art -stopping smiles.

"Sorry about that. Driveway's kinda steep." And then the truck straightened out and the lights illuminated a big, old wood-frame house. Two cars sat next to each other in the driveway. Before he turned off the lights, she saw a tabby cat, curled up on the porch rail and a mountain bike standing next to the door.

They hopped out and threaded through a hedge toward a back-yard patio. Through the screen of bushes lights glowed, showing a butter-yellow kitchen and a den with shelves and shelves of books.

From inside the house a dog barked, and as they got to the patio doors the light from the kitchen spilled onto her feet, golden and warm. An older woman—Ben’s mom?—was leaning on the butcher-block-topped island, talking on the phone. He slid the door open with a quiet hiss and they crossed the threshold from darkness into light.

The woman waved them in. "Yes, tomorrow at nine would be fine." She leaned down to scribble something on a piece of paper and laughed, the same laugh Cordy had heard Ben give earlier. Easy, free, confident. She was a slim woman, with a quietly pretty face and smile lines around her eyes.

"That’s my mom, Barb," Ben whispered, drawing her into the kitchen. A golden retriever burst into the room, barking. "Gandalf! No!" He corralled the dog out onto the patio and closed the door behind him.

"Sorry about that." He went to the fridge, his lean, hungry lines barely filling his loose clothes. "You want something to drink?"

He turned, a can of Coke in each hand, and his eyes flashed, perfect, pure blue.

Oh, God.

She heard the cans hit the cabinet and felt his hands, cool and damp, clamp around her wrists. Then Barb was there, clutching her shoulders and saying something in soothing tones.

She couldn’t stop staring at Ben—at Connor.

Darla’s eyes and mouth. Angel’s forehead and smile. All wrapped up in a happy, healthy, perfect, All-American package.

Oh, God. What had Angel done?

"I’m sorry," she said, feeling her stomach slosh. "I’m sorry—" She ran to the sink and vomited brown, watery stomach acid. There was a flurry of activity behind her, of raised voices.

She was led out of the kitchen to the den she’d glimpsed earlier. The sofa was big, leather, well-used. Comfortable. It opened its arms and drew her in, and she lay on it, panting and sweating, watching as Connor crossed the room.

"Cordy?" It seemed like he wanted to say something else, but just then his mother rushed into the room, a wet towel in her hands.

She leaned over Connor to wipe Cordy’s face with it, then asked, "Are you all right?"

Cordy nodded. "Better, thanks. I’m really sorry about that--"

"It’s okay." The woman was staring at her, a look of suspicion and worry on her face.

"I’m really am sorry," Cordy said, scrabbling for an explanation. Again, she settled on the truth. Or most of it. "I was recently in a coma."

Barb’s eyebrows flew up. "A coma."

Great. Now she was barf girl *and* soap opera girl. "After an accident."

Barb’s face relaxed somewhat. "Oh."

A line flexed between Connor's eyebrows. "A coma?"

She could see something shifting behind his eyes, like a scarf blowing in the wind.

Barb stood and wadded the towel between her hands. "Can I call you a tow truck?"

Cordy drew a breath, tugging her gaze away from Ben’s. "If you could call my friend, David, for me, that’d be great." She gave Barb the number and watched her walk away to make the call.

That left her alone with Connor. He knelt next to her and took her hand, and the look on his face was exactly like the one he wore before, when she’d been morning-sick with rapidly-growing baby Jasmine. Concerned, upset, uncertain. "How are you feeling?"

"Besides wanting to bury my head in the pillows and die of embarrassment?"

He grinned. "Yeah. Besides that."

"A little shaky, but better."

His fingers were soft on her forehead as he brushed back her bangs. It was an intimate touch, more than something an acquaintance would make, and she stilled. He didn’t even seem to realize he’d done it, but simply rose to his feet and left the room.

When he came back he held one of the Coke cans and a glass of ice. "This might help."

His mom followed him into the room. "Your friend is David Nabbit." It wasn’t a question, and if anything, the tone of voice was even frostier.

Connor stopped pouring and turned to look at his mom. "What?"

"*The* David Nabbit?" Barb asked, phone still in hand.

Cordy nodded, suddenly very aware of how crazy this whole thing sounded. "I know it sounds crazy—I mean, how many people do you know who hang out with David Nabbit?" She laughed just a little too loud. "He’s really just a big old geek. I mean, if you think about it, why wouldn’t he be? All those video games—"

Barb cut in. "Maybe you should just call a tow truck. I’ll take you back to your car."

The sound of soda hitting glass cut the tension. "Here," Ben said, handing her the glass. "Mom, don’t be like that. Cordy hasn’t done anything wrong."

Cordy. He kept calling her Cordy. The spinny feeling came over her again. What was happening?

"Look I really am sorry— If you don’t mind, could you maybe call me a cab?"

Connor put the empty can down on the coffee table. "You don’t have to do that." He glanced at his mom. "I can take her home."

His mom looked at him, then at Cordy. "Ben, would you mind joining me in the kitchen for a moment?"

He smiled reassuringly at Cordy and followed his mom into the kitchen. Cordy listened to the low, heated tones of an argument. What now? Could she sneak out? Walk back to the car?

Just then, Ben came back into the room, face flushed, eyes flashing. "I’m going to take you home."

"But, your mom—"

"Says it’s fine." He helped her off the couch.

Crap. Two hours in the car with Connor? "Let me call a cab."

He dropped her arm. "Look, this is stupid." Now he sounded like the boy she remembered. Pushed to emotions he didn’t understand, wasn’t comfortable with. "Let me take you home."

He was right. It was stupid. "You’re right. This is the best way."

Connor guided her out of the house and to the car. "Sorry about my mom," he said as he held the door for her. He buckled into the driver’s seat and st art ed the engine. "She’s real protective of me. Always has been."

"I understand that," Cordy said, remembering how protective she’d felt of him when he was a baby. How tuned she was to his cries, his expressions. How she knew, instinctively, if he needed something.

And now she knew exactly how much could go wrong with a life. There was no protection against the Powers, not if they wanted you for something.

Fate.

Ben was Connor. She knew that the same way she’d known which smile meant "happy" and which one meant "gas." Elemental. Instinctive.

What were the chances of him finding her? How many millions to one?

Destiny.

She dropped her head to the headrest and stared out the window.

Choice. What a joke.

"Cordy?"

She turned to him, realizing that he’d called her by her nickname again. Which she’d never told him. "Yes?"

How much did he remember?

"Where are we going?"

Her laugh sounded slightly unhinged. "Hell if I know." At his uncomfortable pause, she relented. "Silverlake. Just head toward LA and I’ll give you directions."

They drove in silence, and the truck’s big engine hummed beneath them, eating the miles. Finally he spoke. "You said you’d been sick?" He threw her a glance and his eyes slid to the cane resting against the car door. "Do you mind if I ask--?"

Memories of the mall surfaced like grainy video. She’d seen it happen in one of those weird flashbacks, but hadn’t been able to do anything about it. Connor, building a bomb. Strapping it to her and a roomful of innocent people.

Angel’s face as they fought. As he fulfilled the prophecy.

Floating free, high above everything. Dark. Stars. Nothing.

Sort of like now, soaring above the sea, with night pressing in.

Did he know he was living a lie?

"I was in a coma for over a year. I just came out about three months ago."

It was about the same length of time since Connor died. Since Ben was born.

Since Angel st art ed working at Wolfram and H art .

And with a click, everything fell into place.

"God, that's awful. Are you all right now?"

Innocence shimmered in his voice, as if waking up from the coma had solved all her problems. As if a coma was the worst thing that could ever happen to you.

She knew this breakable boy inside and out. Her body had been his; her mind knew everything about him, just like she knew everything about Angelus.

Seeing him again.... It didn't make up for what happened, but God, if Connor was really alive, then at least some awful p art of what happened to her had been reset.

It gave her hope. Until she remembered the truth.

She could never tell him. Or anyone.

The life she'd been living, the *lie* she'd been living had to continue to protect Connor. She glanced at him and remembered how Holtz tied him to trees and left him, teaching him to track. What Connor's back had looked like, riddled and swollen with welts where Holtz had beaten him because he went to sleep on watch. How he'd tried to learn to read as Holtz traced letters in the dirt, slow to retain the information because he was constantly having to shift his attention to the hell-world around them. Talk about an ADD kid.

"What about you?" she asked, desperate to turn the attention away from her. To stop thinking about all the lies. "Do you like school?"

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and thought about his answer. "The first year was tougher than I imagined." His blue eyes glittered in the alien light of the control panel. "I mean, high school, you know? It's pretty easy compared to some of my classes at Berkeley ."

She tried to reconcile the image of the boy, stumbling over "Adam" and "Eve" and "father" with this one, who obviously was sm art enough to get into one of the toughest schools in the nation.

"Yeah. Well, I mean, I know high school. I didn't do college. I, uh--" Went to work for your father. Slayed vampires and demons. Almost blew my head off with killer visions. "Got a job in an office and tried out for small roles in Hollywood ." She laughed, another one of those dry, wry huffs. "I wanted to be an actress."

He didn't answer, which surprised her. Usually saying she’d wanted to be an actress got a response. Instead, they fell into silence. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 9:45. Her phone probably worked again; they were close enough to LA that she should be able to pick up a tower. She reached into her pocket for it when he spoke.

"Do you ever feel like you left the iron on?" Connor's voice was quiet, shy, like a child asking a question he wasn't really sure how to phrase, or even if it would be answered.

Her hand stilled on the cool plastic. Flash of that other life, the one where she was "Cordy!" the award-winning actress, not Cordy, the seer. Time folded in on itself, leaving her feeling unsettled, spooked. "What?" Her voice was loud in the quiet car.

"Do you ever feel like you're missing something? Like you've forgotten something?"

Fragile things came to mind: eggshells, thin ice, antique porcelain. She cleared her throat. "Um, sure. I mean, doesn't everyone?"

Connor's shoulders tensed. "I just-- It was weird, but when I saw you before, I felt like I knew you." He glanced at her, and she could see confusion, fear.

"Well, I was in a couple of commercials," she said, feeling the web of lies tighten. "Maybe that's it."

His fingers drummed the steering wheel again.

"Oh, look," Cordy said, trying not to sound as relieved as she felt. "Here's the PCH. Just go up to Santa Monica Boulevard and hang a left."

Traffic was thicker. Malibu 's strip malls were welcome beacons. Nearly home now. Nearly through this hell ride; this amazing, wonderful, terrifying, sickening hell ride.

They wove through the towers, down toward the freeway, silence broken only by her quiet voice, giving directions. The long day had caught up with her; she felt like an overstretched rubber band, limp and useless. Her body wanted to lie down and not get up again for hours.

How much did he remember?

Sleep would be the door that closed on all those lies, locking her in with them. He drummed his fingers on the wheel again, and the silence went from warm and comfortable to a chilly, thin buzz. Her presence was doing something to him; she could feel it in the car, the edges of the spell wavering.

Drive. Faster. Before this all collapses.

His profile, so familiar, so dear-- She loved him like a mother, like a sister, and yet she carried the memories of him as a lover. First love, so black, so polluted, and delivered through her body like a sacrifice to a hell-god.

Her gaze snapped to the passing streets, the rows of offices and ap art ments and restaurants. This was the last time she could ever see him. It couldn’t be any other way. But watching the final flare of his taillights, feeling her head on the pillow, letting her eyes close and dreams come….

When she woke up tomorrow all of this would be gone.

Grief was like a sucking tide, she thought, as the brightly lit city blurred by. Put one foot in, and it’d swallow you whole. And no matter how hard she flailed, she couldn’t seem to get out.

It was only going to get worse.

For a second she considered disappearing. Leaving this life behind and going somewhere to live an anonymous, quiet life. A trailer in the desert. An ap art ment in Knoxville . A bungalow in Ensenada .

Then she thought of David. Of his goofy laugh and generous he art . How sweet and real his kiss had been.

They turned into her drive and she remembered the last time she’d been here with David. How he’d run around the back of the car and opened the door, bowing like a concierge and holding out his hand for her.

Could she give that up, too? "Here’s my ap art ment," she said, careful to keep her voice steady.

He pulled the truck to a stop. "I’ll walk you up." He was reaching for his seatbelt when she stopped him.

"No, thanks." Hand on the door handle, foot on the curb. Her gaze caught his and held, one beat, two. She filled her mind with him, her he art . Memorized his blue eyes, his sweet cheekbones, the stand-up brush of hair that, with a little gel, could have been Angel’s.

Refused to let her eyes water and block any view of his face, these memories.

Fate?

Or choice?

She smiled, but she knew it didn’t reach her eyes. "Good-bye, Ben. Thank you." And then she closed the door and left him behind.

Chapter 6

"Man, I'll be glad when all this is over," David said. He stuck his finger in the collar of his tux shirt and tugged.

They were in the big, black Mercedes, with tinted windows and leather seats. Max, the driver, looked all official in his uniform, as the car glided up Los Feliz Boulevard toward the Griffith Observatory.

"Stop picking at it. You look fine," Cordy said, shooting him a glare. "I already tied that tie three times for you tonight." She'd sat as still as she could on the drive over, trying not to wrinkle her red sequined dress, and all his fidgeting was driving her nuts.

"Not the least of which is because," David continued like she hadn't spoken, "you've been like the queen of the hags for the last two weeks. I was thinking about naming a troll after you."

She huffed. "You try putting on a charity dinner for two-hundred-fifty of your richest pals and see how you feel." Her leg ached, which pissed her off, but not enough to take a pain pill.

He slid an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. She stiffened and pulled away. "Stop. You'll mess up my hair." She'd spent an hour on it, pulling it up on top of her head in a twist of curls that looked effortlessly loose and sexy.

"Stop," he mimicked, and he primped his hair.

Despite herself she laughed. "Shut up, David."

"It's not just the dinner is it?"

When he looked at her like that, she felt pressured. Like she had to tell him the truth. So she shrugged and stared out the window, instead. Her hand clenched on the head of the cane. The silence stretched then enough to prod her into answering. "No," she said. "It's not just the dinner."

He touched her hand, just a brush. "It must be hard. Seeing them all again, I mean."

"Yeah."

Houses flashed past, with sloping yards and big, old palm trees whose paddle-like branches waved in the warm summer air. She'd always liked this neighborhood, the way it felt rich but cozy, the kind of place you could really settle into.

That's all she wanted, was a place to settle. To feel like she had a mission and a family. And here was David, being all decent, and she was taking her crap out on him.

She turned to him and smiled, eased by his humor and his affection. "I'm sorry I was such a hag. I guess you kinda got the worst of it, huh?"

David shrugged. "You know me. Most of the time I don't even notice what color my socks are."

She snorted. "Please don't tell me you wore the white ones."

"You should know." He raised his leg and hiked up his pants. "You picked them out." The black socks were a concession--black to match the tux pants and patent leather shoes, but Pacmen chased each other around the top band in all their yellow, open-mouthed glory.

"Just promise me you won't get drunk and show them off. Unless one of your big-money guys or gals has a Pacman thing." Her stomach fluttered with butterflies and her mouth was dry--but at least she wasn't ready to bite someone's head off any more.

"I'll stick with Kool-Aid, then."

"I don't think that's on the menu."

He kissed her cheek. "Tell me what you need, and I'll get it for you, Cordy. I just want you to be happy."

Her breath caught.

His eyes were so soft, so open, his hand so warm. He leaned close, closer. She felt his breath, saw his eyes drift closed. And then he was kissing her.

When they pulled ap art , they were both breathing hard. "Wow. Okay, that was unexpected."

David looked intense, serious. "I don't know why." He cupped her cheek.

"We're here, Mr. Nabbit."

Cordy looked out the window and saw the lights of the parking lot, filled with limos and expensive sports cars. When she glanced back, David was watching her.

"You gonna be okay?" he asked.

She smiled at him. "Yeah. Stick close?"

He nodded. "Not hard to do."

Then Max was opening her door and helping her out. Flashbulbs exploded in her face, blinding her, and she stumbled, surprised by the glare, even though she'd been the one who sent out the press releases. But then David was behind her, hand in the small of her back, saying something goofy that had the reporters laughing.

"Who's your lady friend, David?" one called.

Cordy stared into the crowd, trying to place the voice with a face, but couldn't get past the lights of the news cameras. "Cordelia Chase," he said. He squeezed her waist gently. "She's the one who put all of this together, so if you guys have a good time tonight, it's all her fault."

She smiled at him, surprised at his confidence and ease in the face of the press. Then he was leading her across the drive and up the sidewalk to the Observatory. The cane hit the soft lawn and sunk in and they slowed down so she could walk without busting her ass.

The lawn spread from the driveway to the balustrude that lined the edge of the hill. City lights twinkled below, and on the lawn tables and chairs sat under white tents. On the steps leading to the observatory was a stage, lit so it could be seen from the back tables.

A screen hung next to it to broadcast tonight's video, one she'd had Joanna make Wesley do. His plummy voice and James-Bond looks would get the women hot enough to get their husbands to write big checks, and by God, she was gonna see that those kids got some money. Plus, it made her feel good to boss him around, even if he didn't know she was doing it.

Candles turned everything gold, designed to make everyone look beautiful and young, and the place settings glittered white in the sparkling night.

Cordy watched as people spilled out of limos, Lexus SUVs and Porsches. The orchestra played under their tent, something from Broadway with swelling violins and a gorgeous melody. She'd been up here organizing and making sure everything was in place until three hours ago, but it was the first time she'd seen it all come together.

"You should be proud," David whispered, kissing her on the temple. "This is beautiful."

She smiled and nodded. "Doesn't suck, does it?"

And then she saw Buffy by the Wolfram and H art table, tiny and blond, in a silver strapless dress that made her look like a shooting star. Cordy froze. "Oh, crap."

"What?"

"Buffy."

His hand squeezed hers. "Wanna get it out of the way?"

She swallowed. "Guess we'd better."

"Cordelia!" She turned, and Joanna was rushing across the lawn, her fuschia dress setting off her blond hair and creamy skin. "We've had a screw-up with the caterer."

Cordy let out a breath, then glanced at David. "I'll be back. Go have fun."

He nodded. "I'll see you when you get done."

***

Cordy and Joanna made their way slowly around the building from the back parking lot where the caterer's big, white vans were parked. DeRossa's had brought shrimp puffs instead of crab puffs, which--as far as Cordy was concerned--wasn't even on the screw-up radar for an event this big.

But Joanna had proven herself to be a perfectionist, and she'd come this close to sending them back. "You made the right decision to keep the shrimp," Cordy said. "I mean, think about it. It was either that or give yourself the hives again, and rashes really don't go well with fuschia."

Joanna blew her bangs out of her eyes. "I know. I'm glad you talked me down." She scratched her elbow. "I really think I need a drink, though. Will you be okay walking back by yourself?"

Cordy glanced out at the wide expanse of lawn, with bars set up on either end. From the looks of it every single guest who RSVP'd had made it--and then some. "I don't think you could call this 'alone,'" she said, with a laugh. "Go, get drunk. You've earned it."

"Cool." With a wave, she trotted off toward a white-gloved waiter with a tray full of champagne flutes.

Cordy hummed the theme from "Somewhere in Time" along with the orchestra, letting herself enjoy the breeze and the music and the sense of accomplishment. Just as her foot hit the lawn, she heard someone call her name.

She turned. "Angel."

He looked like he did when Darla showed up ten months pregnant. "Cordy?"

If she had to see him, being dressed in Valentino, with her hair up and diamonds in her ears was really the way to do it. "Yeah. Hey." She held herself regally, shoulders back, head up. All those months of putting this off, of waiting until she was beautiful enough.... And of course, she thought, as she clasped her cane, now she never would be.

Angel stepped toward her, looking broad-shouldered and gorgeous in his fitted tux. "You-- You're awake."

Her he art pummeled her chest and she felt light-headed, like she'd fall over if the wind blew in any harder. "Yeah." She cleared her throat and stood there, twisting the cane back and forth, the haunting melody a painful soundtrack for the real drama unfolding between them. "I have been for about four months."

His eyes flashed and he looked over the crowd, like he was looking for someone.

"Don't go after David. I didn't want him to call you."

Those eyes, so dark, so intense, pinned her. Even so, he looked like he wanted to sit down. "Why not?"

"Angel? There you are. I've been looking for you--" Buffy stopped on her silver slippers and stared. It was like watching a computer process code--one minute the screen was blank, and the next it displayed the right answer. "Oh, my God. Cordy?"

Buffy rushed forward and hugged her, her arms like tight bands around Cordy's waist. When she pulled back her eyes were luminous with tears. "Oh, my God. You're awake." She laughed and turned to Angel. "She's awake!"

"Yeah, I got that." Angel's obvious anger, his uncertainty, were like wet wool, heavy and chilly.

"How long...? How...? This is so of the cool. I mean, we thought you were destined for the Land of Nod forever, and now, look at you!" She stepped back and took Cordy in from head to stiletto. Then she focused on the cane. Her beautifully made-up eyes were full of questions.

Cordy shrugged. "Side effect of not walking for so long."

Buffy's face drooped. "That sucks." She stepped back and took Angel's hand, and as always her petite, golden beauty was the perfect foil for his tall-dark-and-brooding-ness.

Cordy smiled, the brightest she could. "If you'll excuse me, I really need to make sure everything's running smoothly."

Angel blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Cordelia! Could you come here? There's someone you need to meet." Joanna raised her glass to wave Cordy down.

"I helped plan it." She nodded to them both and walked as quickly as she could to Joanna's side.

"Hey, this is Doctor Barbara Maddox. She's on the staff at Sutter South."

Already shaken, it took everything Cordy had to smile. "Hello, Doctor Maddox. I'm Cordelia Chase. We met at your house--"

Barb's eyes were blue chips of ice. "Of course, Miss Chase. I remember you. Ben talked about nothing else for days." Her black dress was classic, probably five years old and obviously trotted out only for occasions like this one. But its simple, Grecian lines suited her.

"How is Ben?" Cordelia asked, trying to sound easy. She knew Barb and her husband were on the guest list, but she'd put it out of her mind so she could focus on the p art y--to the point that she'd nearly forgotten they were coming.

"Why don't you ask him, yourself?"

Cordy's breath left her body as she found herself face-to-face with Connor, who held a glass of champagne in each hand. The tux fit him well, like it was his and not a rental. His hair was longer and unstyled, just that pretty, rich brown that showed off his eternal blue eyes.

"C-cordy?" He handed his mother her drink and took a quick gulp of his.

She wished she had a Scotch. Or some Dran-O. Her triumphant return was fast becoming a cluster fuck. "Hi, Ben. It's good to see you again. How's school?"

Okay, Powers, she thought, I made the choice to let him go. Why'd you bring him back? And then she froze. Angel. He couldn't see Angel. She had to get him out of here--now. She didn't know how she knew that, but she knew, somewhere deep, that if they saw each other again....

"Con-- Ben, would you mind helping me with something over here?" She laughed uncomfortably. "I want to make sure all the lights are in place, and I can't lift them, myself." She motioned toward her cane, then, without waiting to see what his mother said, hurried him off toward the stage.

A low hedge ran along the front of the building as p art of the new landscaping that went in when they retrofitted the Observatory. As they rushed along, Connor grabbed her arm. "What's going on?"

"I'll tell you in a minute." She ducked behind the hedge with him, and hid behind one of the B art lett pears growing in the front bed. She pressed as close to the building as she could without picking her dress.

"Cordelia, what's going on?" He looked flustered, confused.

"There's a man here who you can't meet. I don't care what it takes--get sick, cut your finger, whatever. Just go home. Now," she whispered harshly.

He looked at her like she was two p art s crazy, one p art mystery. "What? Why?"

"Just-- Oh, crap." She held her breath and tried to squeeze in behind the tree.

"Cordelia?"

"It's David," she whispered. A quick glance at her watch told her it was time to be seated for dinner.

"Oh, there you are!" He came around the hedge like he walked through flower beds every day. Knowing David, he probably did. "Who's this?"

"David, this is Barb Maddox's son, Ben. We were just, uh, talking about plants. He's, uh, a talented landscaper and--"

Connor stepped forward and shook hands with David. "Nice to meet you, Mr...?"

"Oh, David's fine." His smile widened. "You guys look like you're having way more fun than I have been. But the good news is, steak's on. You ready for some real food?"

Connor shot Cordy a glance. "Sure. Cordelia?"

She plastered on a smile. "You bet." Crawling out from behind the hedge, she took David's arm and let him lead her across the yard.

"Ben, remember what I said about that *landscaper*?"

"Sure, sure. I know--he's not the kind of guy I should be working for." He shot her another of those "what dimension are you from" looks.

"It's good you can talk about so many subjects," David said. "Me? I'm all computers, computers, computers." He laughed. "I even have Pacmen on my socks."

"Really?" Connor stopped walking. "Cool. Can I see?"

"Guys," Cordy said, gaze sweeping the crowd for any sign of Angel. "We really need to be going. And Ben, didn't you have an elsewhere to be?" She shot him a Significant Look.

He shook his head. "I wish I could, Cordy, but I promised mom I'd be her date. Can't let her down."

David said, "You sound like a way better son than me."

"Probably not what mom would say," Connor said, with a wolfish grin.

The closer they got to the tables, the tighter her shoulders got. The Wolfram and H art tables were up front, next to theirs, and they had to pass them to get Connor back to his mom's. She stepped between Connor and the Big Evil, hoping to block him from sight.

Too late. "Cordy? Cordy!" Fred rushed across the lawn to meet them, nearly tackling her in a hug. "Angel told me! This is fantastic!" Her rose-colored dress was wrapped with a burgundy pashmina. She looked rich, delicate.

Cordy hugged her back hard, holding on to the only friendly voice in the crowd. "Fred. It's good to see you."

When they pulled ap art , Wes and Gunn were standing behind Fred like tuxedoed bookends. "Hi, guys."

Wes's smile didn't reach his eyes, and his hug was stiff, formal. "Cordelia. You've engineered this entire p art y, I hear."

She nodded and sank into Gunn's hug. "Cordy-girl," he whispered. "Have I got stories for you."

When she pulled back there was something in his eyes--something more than she remembered. It made her shiver. "Looks like it. Hey, where's Lorne?"

Gunn shrugged. "Sleeping. And, trust me, you don't want to wake him up."

Cordy really hoped Connor had moved on. But when she looked, he was admiring David's socks. And when she looked again, there was Angel, staring at her, Buffy on his arm.

"Oh, God," she said.

Out the corner of her eye, she saw Connor stand, and turn to her.

"Cordy?" he asked. "You ready to eat?"

Angel froze, his eyes locked on Connor's face. She saw him mouth the word, "Connor?"

She couldn't stop watching Angel. Couldn't stop the recognition that flooded her--he knew. He'd known all along. He remembered everything, just like she did.

It was like a building crumbling around her. The careful reality she'd built, the bricks of lies, the mortar of fear. In that one second, in that flash of Angel's eyes, she knew: all of this had been planned from the beginning.

And there was no way to avoid it.

She grabbed David's hand. "I need to sit," she said, and her voice sounded wrong.

He immediately pulled a chair up from the nearest table and hustled her into it. She felt queasy, weak-kneed.

"Are you okay? You look pale."

"Cordy?" Fred knelt beside her, and put her hand on her knee. "Can I get you something? There are lots of doctors here, ya know, if ya think you might faint, or something."

Cordelia shook her head and took a careful breath. The waiters st art ed flowing onto the lawn with huge, silver trays, stacked high with plates full of food. The symphony played Moz art and the breeze blew, carrying the scent of eucalyptus and pear blossoms.

David squeezed in behind Fred. "You need to leave? I can take you home now if you want."

Connor rushed to her side. "Cordy? Want me to get my mom?"

It was like a tidal wave rushing through her. "All of you stop it!" Silence at the tables around them, and then light chatter, covering her faux pas. The clink of silver on china st art ed filling the air as people got their meals.

Fred and David pulled back, giving her space, but Connor stayed close, looking at her like he did that night at his house. When she finally collected herself, Angel was standing behind Connor, staring down at both of them, a grim look on his face.

Cordy eased back, grabbing for the distraction dinner offered. "Yeah, I'm fine now. You guys go find your seats and let's have dinner. Ben, thanks for the offer, but I think I just need to eat something, okay?"

He nodded and stood. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

"Hey, guys, can we switch tables?" David asked.

The Wolfram and H art employees whose seats they'd taken moved to the other table, and the waiters set their plates down in front of them.

Cordy stared down at her petit fillet. She wasn't alone. It wasn't a dream. She pressed her hand to her stomach and swallowed, trying desperately not to be sick.

She turned her head and found Angel staring at her, shock and betrayal clearly written on his face. She wanted to apologize, but had nothing to apologize for, except loving him.

"You sure you're okay?" David asked, looking at her like she was as fragile as the china on the table in front of them.

"I'm fine. Sorry about that. I think all the excitement finally got to me." She smiled and put her hand on his knee. "Thanks. I'm pretty sure I'd be taking up residence at the insane asylum if you hadn't been here." She kissed him on the cheek, ignoring the feeling of Angel's gaze burning between her shoulders.

***

"You sure you want to go home? You can come back and sleep at my house, if you want. That way you wouldn't have to worry about catching the bus for your workout tomorrow morning."

She smiled tiredly and shook her head. "Thanks, but we cancelled tomorrow's workout. I'm planning on sleeping in. Can I call you when I wake up?" Dinner sat like a stone in her belly, and her leg throbbed. "I really just want to sleep."

David smiled. "Sure." He squeezed her hand. "You were great tonight. Any time you want to be my date, you let me know."

Cordy laughed ruefully. "I always wanted to be in the spotlight. Funny how we seem to get what we want, just not like we imagined it, huh?"

David's smile turned sad. "Yeah. Funny, huh?" He kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Call me when you get up."

Max helped her out of the car and she smiled at him. "Thanks, Max."

"No problem."

She leaned into the car, a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. "David, what did you mean just then? What did you think is funny?"

The corners of his eyes crinkled, but his smile didn't look any happier than before. "Just, you know, things you want, they don't always go like you thought. Or, maybe they do. I mean, I knew you'd always--" His gaze slid away. "Anyway, have a good sleep, okay? I'll talk to you tomorrow."

She stepped back, watching as the car drove away, and st art ed the long walk to the elevator. The feeling that she'd just missed an important cue sat as heavy as the steak, but she was too tired to figure it out.

Chapter 7

She wasn’t surprised to see her message light blinking when she got in the door. The clench in her stomach told her it was Angel, so she ignored it and went, instead, to the bedroom to get ready for bed.

As she showered and washed her face, she could hear the phone ringing. Finally, wrapped in a robe, her hair up in a towel, she went out and unplugged it from the wall. "Once was enough for one day," she said to Dennis.

Her hairbrush floated down the hall and a cool hand nudged her to sit. She did, realizing suddenly how exhausted she felt. Like a wrung out towel. Speaking of, she unwrapped the towel and dropped it on her lap, playing with its damp edges.

The brush rose and pulled gently through her hair, and her eyes closed. She drifted, and for a minute she was back in that other world, with Connor dozing in the crib across the room, brushing her hair after a post-fight shower.

She jumped awake at the pounding on the door, feeling disoriented until she realized where she was. For a moment she was so overcome by grief that she doubled over, hurting like someone had hit her.

Then she realized who it was and she sat perfectly still, breathing as quietly as she could, knowing he could hear her breath and he art beat, but refusing to get up and let him in.

"Cordelia. Open the door."

His voice made her shudder. The sense memory of them on the bed together, the baby between them, so *present* that she could hear him whispering. About college funds and ski condos and boats.

Only now, he sounded like he was talking through clenched teeth. When he hit the door again it rattled so hard she was afraid it would break.

Suddenly furious, she shot across the room and opened it. "Stop it. Leave me alone." Dennis fluttered around her nervously, not sure what to do.

Angel’s brows were drawn far down over his eyes, his mouth pursed in a thin line. "We have to talk."

"No. We don't." When she tried to close the door, he pulled his usual bullshit trick and knocked it open with the flat of his hand. She’d seen him do it a thousand times to other people that didn’t want to see him.

She caught it with one hand and blocked the door with her body.

He actually bared his teeth at her and involuntarily stepped back. He muscled in and she stood staring at him, pissed and out of control.

One way or another, Angel got what he wanted. Even if he had to sacrifice his son and their future to do it.

He walked through the door and she noticed again the new luxury to his clothes. The expensive fabric, the tuxedo tailored to perfectly fit his football-player’s shoulders and muscled legs. He looked like what he was: a rich, powerful man who lived in the mainstream.

So, so far away from the vampire she’d run into at that p art y. An outsider. On the fringes. One who turned down the Gem of Amarra so he could keep helping the people at night, who had no one.

Who helped them now?

"What do you want?" She crossed her arms over her robe, feeling chilled and exposed.

Angel closed the door and walked into her living room. He glowered, looking defensive, angry, betrayed.

She knew how he felt.

"How long have you been awake?" It came out as an accusation.

"Long enough to figure out you turned your back on the good fight."

His fists clenched. "Bullshit. I fight the good fight every day. With more resources than--"

"Oh, right, Mr. Armani. Finally got your fancy clothes, your GQ penthouse, your true love?" She clenched her elbows, emotions bubbling up hot and mean. "Good thing you're all redeem-y now. God knows, there are always enough champ--"

Angel bulked up, got in her space. "Enough!" It echoed through the room.

Dennis fluttered, rattling the blinds at the windows. Cordelia's voice went to steel. "Is this how you run your company? By intimidation?"

He took a breath, seemed to get himself in line. "I told him to call me the second you woke up."

Was that regret she heard? Obviously not enough to have actually kept her around.

The one person in the world she trusted. Who told her she was worth more than the visions. That she was enough on her own. "And I told him not to."

She turned away from him and went to the window to look out at the hills. "Look, Angel. We’ve been through this. Earlier tonight, as a matter of fact. I woke up. I’m fine." She shrugged, trying to make it all look okay. "Your job is done. It was when you turned me over to David." And went back to Buffy. But she left that unsaid. It didn’t stop the grinding sense of betrayal though.

He came up behind her. She felt him. Not his body heat, but his presence. Her vamp meters were buzzing at full speed.

So Cordelia moved away, went to a chair and sat. Untouchable. "I'm fine. Really."

He flinched. Then, without a word, he leaned down, grabbed her arms, and kissed her, hard.

She fought him, pulling away, slapping him with her hands. "Let go of me."

He yanked her to her feet and the cane hit the floor, the head bouncing on the hard wood with a loud rap. "No." His mouth devoured her, his lips cold and ruthless. "You're lying. I can see it in your eyes."

She twisted, trying to get away. "Stop it. You're hurting me."

It seemed to slow him down for a second, though the animal flare she saw in his eyes was enough to set off her survival alarms. Angelus was in the house. "You think you can bully your way into anything. You've forgotten your he art , Angel. You gave it up when you sold your soul to buy Connor his new life."

His hands were crushing her arms. "You have no idea why I did what I did."

"Oh, I know perfectly well why you did what you did." She tugged and this time he let her go. She stepped around him, picked up the cane, and put about ten feet between them. "Because you can never stay around for the hard p art ," she said, looking him in the eye.

His edges frayed. It was like watching a life unwrap itself at the seams. "That's bullshit! I *lost* my child! I *lost* you! How can you call that easy?"

The head of the cane bit into her palm. "Because the hard p art would have been keeping me, no matter what. The hard p art would have been letting Connor go." She took a step toward him.

His jaw clenched. "You've been avoiding us for months. You call that honest?"

Cordy dropped her gaze. "No. But I had my reasons."

"And I didn't?" His voice was cold, cutting. "You finally bag yourself a rich one, Cordelia?"

She flinched. "Fuck you, Angel."

When he walked toward her, he seemed to be gliding, like a preternatural force. "Only if you ask nicely," he said, in a voice of silk.

Shivers walked up her arms. "Dennis, show Angel the door, please."

Angel smiled, and it was beautiful and deadly, his demon's smile. "Dennis, lock the door, please."

The air churned, as if Dennis wasn't sure what to do. So Cordy walked down the hall and put her hand on the doorknob.

And then he was behind her, his big body cupping hers, his hand on hers, his breath on the back of her neck. She went still, not sure what he was going to do--it was a toss-up between the teeth and the lips.

She got a little of both. "Angel--"

In reply he ran his hands over her robe, down her ribcage to her hips, and pulled her back against him. He was solid all over, and against her butt, she could feel him, hard through layers of fabric.

He slid his palms around and p art ed the robe, and she gasped when his cold flesh found her shower-warmed thighs. Did she want this? David's face flashed in her mind, and she felt his warm mouth pressing against hers, and saw those sweet, dark eyes.

"Stop," she said.

His fingers brushed her curls, slid between her legs. "Is that what you told him?"

She churned away, unable to get leverage on her weak leg, and collapsed against him. "Angel, stop it. This isn't-- Oh, God."

His mouth was on her throat, her collarbone, in her hair. "Is that what you told my son?" He was cruel, knowing.

Her body betrayed her, and she felt his fingers get slick. God, this wasn't right. She didn't want him, not like this. "Not in revenge, Angel. It wasn't me-- I didn't--" Her eyes watered as he twirled his fingers, as he slid them deep.

When she came, she bit her lip, cutting off the cries. It wasn't pleasure, it was pain, of the worst type. Her body responded, but her he art cried.

Then he was unzipping his pants and lifting the robe. She felt his hand on the back of her neck, pinning her to the door.

She was exhausted from the weeks of stress, of dishonesty. From being on her feet all day, and tonight in heels too high. It was so easy to slide down to the floor.

Too easy to let him spread her legs and pump into her, hard and cold, his hand on her neck, holding her still.

He didn't make a sound as he rocked against her, not even a breath. Just him, pressing in and out. Her hip torqued and she cried out in pain.

Angel gasped and pounded against her, and she knew, instinctively, that he was turned on by her anguished cry.

This wasn't Angel, not her Angel. This was a demon where he used to be. A man without a he art .

His fingers slid between her legs and his body slowed, the motions of his hips becoming soothing, a parody of romance. He was still silent and the air around them fluttered, Dennis, as freaked out as she.

Then the movement of his fingers sparked a fire in her. Her hips jerked and she gasped.

"That's it," he whispered.

The sound of his voice, the only warm p art of him, fanned the flames. She arched against him, crying out in pain, but this time it was mixed with pleasure.

His knees braced against hers, spread her wider. She lay on the floor, on the puddle of her thick, terry robe, and he took her from behind, not even caring enough to look into her face.

She came again, and bit down on the terry to stop the sound. Angel tensed as she came, then let go of her neck and slid his hands down her back. Hands on her hips, he pulled her back against him, slamming into her.

When he came, his voice sounded like glass breaking on pavement. Sharp, violent, a throwaway sound.

Then he pulled away, and his weight was gone. She heard his zipper rasp, heard fabric rustle as he tucked his shirt in.

The door clicked behind him, and she lay on the floor, shuddering.

***

Two days later, Cordelia's cell phone rang in the pocket of her black track jacket. She glanced at Rita, not wanting to interrupt their workout session.

"Go ahead," Rita said, with a nod. "You could probably use a rest anyway."

She was flat on her back, on the workout mat, her left leg high in the air. The phone rang again and she unzipped the jacket and flipped it open. "Hello?" Lowering her foot slowly to the floor made her grimace as her leg muscles trembled and burned.

"Cordelia? Is that you?"

"Uh huh." Her breath came fast, sharp. It was one freaking leg lift, for God's sake. Why couldn't she even do-- Then the caller's voice registered. "Wesley?"

"Yeah. Are you all right? You sound winded."

"I've been running a marathon," she snapped. Then it hit her again. *Wesley.* "Sorry, Wes. I'm working out." She waited a beat, trying to adjust to the idea of talking to him again. After Saturday night when he'd been so distant. "So, what's up?" It sounded anything but casual.

"I need to talk with you. In private." His voice was muffled, hurried.

"Where are you? Sounds like you're in a broom closet." She pulled her knees up so her feet were flat on the mat. The strain in her thighs made her legs shake.

"I don't have much time," Wes said. "Angel will be back soon, and there's no place safe to talk."

"Wes, what's going on? You're acting weird."

"Cordelia, either meet with me, or don't. I don't have time for--"

"Fine," she snapped, brow furrowing in confusion and concern. "I'll meet you. But this had better be good, Wesley."

"Since when can't two old friends meet for a drink?"

Now he was Mr. Jovial? Entering Strangeville, Population 2. That twinge in her gut was either the cheese omelet she had for breakfast or her intuition, telling her that a paranoid Wes was not a good thing. Either way, she'd meet him. "Where and when?"

"Tomorrow night. Midnight . At 3703 Grand Avenue ."

"You want me to go to East Los Angeles ? At midnight ? Wes, this is too strange. Just tell me what's--"

She was talking to empty air. "He hung up on me," she said.

"What?" Rita glanced up from the writing desk where she was updating her paperwork. "Who?"

Cordy dropped the phone on the floor next to her. "Wesley. He's this guy I used to work with. He wants to meet me tomorrow night and he's acting all weird." She sighed. "Now he's got me freaked."

Rita put her pen down. She had blue ink smudged on her fingers, as always. "So, don't go."

Rolling slowly onto her side, Cordy propped her head on her raised hand. "I feel like I have to. He used to be one of my best friends."

"You don't owe him anything." Rita came over and knelt beside her. "The only person you owe is yourself."

Cordy shook her head. "If only that were true." She sat up and crossed her legs, tailor style.

"Look at you, sitting up on your own, walking with a cane." Rita put a blue-smudged hand on Cordy's knee. "You're the one who did that, Cordelia. Not this old friend, or Angel, or anyone else you used to know. You."

Cordelia's fingers knotted together in her lap. She stared down at them, short nails, skin that still had a tendency to puff like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Not the hands she had before. Ugly hands. Injured hands. Frumpy old lady hands. "So what you're saying is, they abandoned me, so now I can just leave them behind?"

When she looked up, her eyes were burning with tears. "But, Rita, I do owe them something. Don't you understand? I--" Cordy pinched her lips together.

Rita looked at her, a question on her face. "What, honey? What do you think you did that was so bad?"

Cordelia laughed, and it felt dry in her throat. "Let's just say that meeting Wes would be the least of my penance." Was that what Saturday night with Angel had been? Penance? How many debts like that would she have to pay before she felt like she'd made up for all the pain she'd caused?

Those big, dark eyes took her in, full of compassion if not understanding. "If you need to meet him, fine. But promise me you won't try to do too much. You've got that doctor's appointment in the morning, remember?"

"Right," Cordy said. "We don't want to undo all this wonderful progress." She smacked her leg with her fist. "They work so well, after all."

Rita's eyebrows arched. "I'm not even going to st art on how well you're doing. Instead, I'll just say, if you want to feel sorry for yourself, go right ahead. If anyone deserves a good bout of self-pity, it's you." She stood. "In the meantime, I'm going out for lunch. You want anything?

Cordy's shoulders squared at Rita’s no-nonsense tone. "I'm coming with you." She rolled onto her hands and knees and pushed herself slowly to her feet.

***

"Are you sure you'll be all right?" Max, looked unsettled. David had really, really not wanted her to go alone, and she’d conceded to the driver. The only other alternative had been a bus or a cab and no matter how much independence she wanted to assert, she wasn’t stupid.

The black Mercedes was edged up to the curb, as close to the door as they could get. Wes hadn't told her they were going to a club. She'd have dressed differently and now she felt at a loss for more reasons than just her cane. "I'll be fine. A friend is meeting me."

Big, old warehouses loomed around them, brick gleaming like dead flesh in the harsh streetlights. The club door was open, and inside she could see a flash of black light, quickly changing to strobe, and even with the car door closed, she could hear the blast of music. A bouncer sat on a stool at the door, taking cover charge.

His bright red hair was gelled into spikes, his jeans covered with safety pins. A razor blade hung around his neck and it glittered against his black tee-shirt. Over the door the sign read "Serpent's Egg."

"I'll wait for you," Max said, sounding as uncertain as she felt. "Call me when you're ready to go."

This was her first time out of the house at night alone. And she was wearing Donna Karan to a goth bar. "Oh, I'll call. Don't you worry." She edged herself out of the car, leaning heavily on the cane. Its twisted, metal head bit into her palm.

Closing the door behind her, she watched as Max pulled away from the curb, off to find safe parking in close range of the building. "You'd better be here, Wesley," she said under her breath. Then she pulled up her courage and turned, an act of will as much as balance, until she was facing the door.

She took a deep breath and st art ed walking. Cane out, right leg first, drag your left leg to meet you. Cane out, take a step.... By the time she got to the bouncer, she felt like she'd been spotlighted, center stage. Mid-vision.

He smiled at her, showing broken, dirty teeth. "Hey, Jennifer Aniston," he drawled. "You missed your stop. It was back there--at the Beverly Center ."

The girl standing next to him laughed, a high-pitched giggle. If her pupils dilated any more, they'd swallow her head.

The sloppily lettered sign at his elbow read, "Ten Gets You In." She really was going to kill Wesley for this, she thought, as she pulled a ten out of her purse and held it out to him. He stared down at it like it was an Hermes tie tack.

Oh, right. Like this guy was gonna give her attitude. "Sid and Nancy, much?" She glanced back and forth between him and the girl with the ripped fishnets and burning eyes. "I thought you guys were dead." She smiled. "Oh, right. That would explain the teeth."

His lip drew back. "Fucking bitch."

"Sid Vicious paper doll." She held the ten out, her fingers as close to the edge as they could get. He probably had fleas. "Now, let me in to your little club, and I promise not to tell anyone you use Miss Clairol hair dye."

He stared at her with beady little eyes. When he didn't answer, she said, loudly, "The words MC Max ring a bell?"

With a quick snatch, he took her ten. "Bitch," he said again. The girl next to him stamped Cordy's hand with a day-glow skull. "Bitch," she echoed, but it didn't carry as much weight, since she wobbled on her Goodwill rejects as she said it.

Cordy smirked. "It's a title I'm proud of." Then she st art ed the long, slow walk into the bar.

The strobe made it tough to track the layout of the room, so she stood, just inside the door, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Finally, everything st art ed to take shape. Dim, blue balls of light trailed along the floor in a path that led to the bar, the dance floor, and in the back, the bathrooms.

The band was a black cardboard cutout on the low stage across from the bar, white faces flashing in the blaring pulse of the strobe. One of them raised a violin high in the air and dragged the bow down the strings. The screech made her teeth ache.

It stunk of too-sweet cigarettes and sweat. There was a scramble of motion to her left, and she turned instinctively. The strobe flashed and she saw a tall, thin man, bare-chested with a raven tattoo covering his back from shoulder blade to shoulder blade.

He pinned a white-blond boy to the wall by the back of the neck. Cordy caught a glimpse of the boy's bare, pale ass as the taller man ground against him. He turned his head, blond hair glimmering in the low light, and Cordy saw his face, twisted in horror or pleasure.

She felt Angel's hand on her neck. His hips, pistoning against hers.

The violin wailed.

A hand groped her shoulder. She jumped. Turned and found herself staring at Wes's blue-shadowed face. "Come on," he yelled. He took her hand and dragged her forward.

She stumbled, fell against him, tripping clumsily over her cane.

He turned, looked down at her legs, and when he looked back up, there was no pity on his face. Just a banked impatience. But he moved more slowly now, and she tapped along behind him, wedging through the crowd.

They made it past the restrooms--more people pressed into the corner, and Cordy didn't look too closely this time at what they were doing--and Wes opened a door at the end of the hall.

Now they were in an office, piled with dusty papers and broken furniture. In the corner was an ancient computer, the blue screen blipping with a white cursor.

It smelled worse in here than it did out front and Cordelia wrinkled her nose. "Where are we?"

"Manager's office." He opened yet another door and they were in the alley, where a black motorcycle sat.

She stared at it. "Okay, enough with the Ninja act. What's going on?"

Wes swung his leg over the seat and buckled on a helmet. "I'll fill you in later. Get on. We don't have much time."

Cordelia stepped back, coming up hard against the metal door. At one end of the sticky, stinking alley was a Dumpster, overflowing with garbage and stench. At the other end was the road, leading back into the hulking, broken warehouses. The feeling of being trapped intensified. "No. Not until you tell me what's going on."

Wes's eyes glittered behind the helmet's mask. "I found something in Lilah's office while she was out. I think it could be important."

In the space of an instant, her world shifted again. "Lilah's dead."

He hit a button and the bike rumbled to life. "Not last time I checked."

A shiver crawled up her spine. She handed him her cane and tried to lift her leg over the seat. Her muscles cramped and she gritted her teeth. She could do this. Damn it. She bent her knee and wedged it behind Wes's body. Felt him brace the bike with his legs, then turn and sling her up with one, very strong arm.

He took off before she'd buckled her helmet.

They flew through the streets, weaving through traffic, pinching off yellow lights just before they went red. She held on tight, hands clenched around her cane and his waist. The sense of urgency she'd felt on the phone was nearly palpable. Wes was tense, focused.

The bike rolled to a stop in front of an Asian grocery store in Koreatown. White heiroglyphs spanned the green awning and the windows were lined with plastic tubs of tofu and packages of noodles. Wes parked the bike and got off, then helped her stand. She felt wobbly, weak, so she grabbed the cane tight and shuffled after him.

He looked over his shoulder just before he entered, then disappeared through the door. Cordy followed him in without the theatrics. She was so spooked that the entire world could be watching and she wouldn't be able to tell the difference. A bell jingled and a young Korean man looked up from his comic book. "Help you?"

Wes nodded. "Do you carry Coconut Palm litchi drink?"

The boy nodded, then hit a button and at the back of the store, a door buzzed. Wes rushed back and pushed it open before the buzzer quit. Cordy followed, that creepy feeling intensifying.

The door slammed shut behind them, and Cordy found herself in another office. This one, dimly lit by a halogen lamp on the Tansu desk, was lined floor-to-ceiling with cardboard boxes.

Something moved in the shadows. Cordy jumped. A light came on and she saw old man, sitting at a rickety table that had been shoved into the corner. A Korean newspaper rested on the table in front of him and Cordy couldn't even begin to guess how he'd been reading it in the near-dark.

"Mr. Wesley," he said, in a strongly accented voice. He was small and white-haired, with a Jetson's tee-shirt covered by a mangy maroon sweater. With a hand he gestured toward the wall of boxes.

Wes nodded curtly and touched the cardboard. A small box disappeared like it'd been sucked into a hole, and then the whole wall shifted and swung inward.

"Oh, for crap's sake," Cordy said. As she passed him, the old man smiled at her, then went back to his paper.

When the door closed behind them this time it did so with a weird sucking sound. She realized they'd just been air-locked in. On trembling legs, she stood staring, while Wesley went to a sleek black desk in the corner of the room.

He hit a couple of buttons on the computer's keyboard and finally glanced up. "We're safe, now. Have a seat." With a quick gesture, he motioned her toward the Danish red leather couch.

She didn't so much sit as collapse. "What gives, Wesley?

"Would you like some tea?" In his eyes, she finally saw a flash of concern.

It calmed her down enough to think a little more clearly. "Yeah. With honey and lemon if you have it." She needed the flash of energy the sugar would give her. So she could kick his pansy ass.

Taking a leaf out of Angel's book, she sat silently, waiting for him to speak. She'd seen it work a thousand times. Whoever was on the receiving end got so uncomfortable, they finally babbled.

Unfortunately Wes had obviously learned a thing or two from Angel, himself. He was a study of economy as he fixed the tea, drawing water from the bottle of spring water in the corner to fill the little carafe from the coffee maker on the desk.

By the time he was settled next to her the smell of steaming green tea was beginning to permeate the air.

He unzipped his leather blazer and reached a hand into the inner pocket. When he pulled it out, he held a long, flat box, about the size that a bow-tie would come in. He handed it to her.

She opened it and found herself staring at a scroll, carefully rolled and stored in a plastic sleeve. Tugging it free, she let the box fall away, and slipped it from its cover. It was fragile, sheepskin, ancient but marked with yellow highlighter. Even she grimaced at the obvious destruction to the art ifact.

"It's not the shanshu prophecy," she said, staring down at it. She glanced at him, wondering what it said. "Did you translate it?"

He nodded. "It says, 'The father will kill the son.'"

Cordy's hands clenched. "What?"

"'The father will kill the son.' See here"? His long finger traced a line of rune-like writing. "Lilah had it in her private safe. I believe she assumed, incorrectly, that even if we did find it, none of us would be willing to use the tarantulas to open it."

"I don't even want to know," Cordelia said. Her mind whirled, trying to find a place to land. "Wes, what do you remember from before I was...hurt?"

His forehead wrinkled. "How is that relevant to this discussion?" The coffee maker steamed hard, but not so loud that he had to raise his voice that much.

"Just tell me."

"I--" He pinched his mouth shut. "Let's focus on the scroll."

She shook her head. "Why did you come to me, Wesley?"

He actually looked stunned, the first real, solid flash of emotion she'd seen. "Maybe I shouldn't have."

"But you did for a reason. Because you trust me. Because, for whatever reason, you think I can help."

Finally, he nodded.

"Then, answer the question."

He stared at her, blue eyes piercing. Then he blew out a breath. "Fine. You got sucked into Pylea. We rescued you. You had visions; we worked on cases. Then you were hurt. The next week we went to work for Wolfram and H art ."

"And you didn't think that was strange? Working for the enemy?"

"If I didn't think it was strange, would I have risked my life to snoop in Lilah's office?"

"Good point."

He got up and poured tea into two, small beaten-metal bowls, added honey and lemon to hers, and walked back to the couch.

She took the cup and wrapped her hands around it, grateful for the warmth in the cool, sterile room. "What do you think the scroll means?"

"I don't know, exactly. But I-- it feels--" He cleared his throat. "It feels like it has something to do with what happened to you. Why we're working for the law firm. It's stupid, I know. I can't verify it, and none of my research--"

She silenced him by squeezing his hand. "Hush for a minute and let me think." Cordy remembered very clearly that other life. So clearly that it was more real than this one. Angel remembered it--she knew it without ever having to confirm it, just by the look in his eyes when he saw her with Connor.

So if she knew, and Angel knew.... Why didn't everyone else? "You say Lilah had the scroll?"

He nodded.

Lilah must know something, then. "Let me take the scroll. I have some ideas."

Wes's eyes narrowed. "No."

"Hey, I'm not the one with something to lose, here." Not entirely true, but it sounded good. "David's got some good resources, some we can use that wouldn't trigger any red flags at the law firm." She set her tea on the arm of the couch, rolled the scroll up and put it back in its tube. "You came to me because you trusted me, Wes. Now show me you trust me with more than the location of your super secret bomb shelter."

Wes must have bought it. "It's probably safer not to have it on premises anyway. I assume Mr. Nabbit has a safe you could lock it in?"

She nodded. "I'm sure we can find one somewhere in his thirty-room mansion." The honey was doing its job, and the warm, grassy flavor of the tea took the edge off the strange evening. She felt like she might be able to make it home, now. "We done here?"

"When will you know something?"

"Next day or two. I'll call you."

This time when she rose, Wes was there with a steadying hand. He gave her the cane and for a moment, he was just Wes. The guy she fought with, fought beside, and loved like a brother. Her he art stumbled. Dammit, she missed him. She missed all of them.

Then he was undoing the combination on the keypad at the computer and bustling out of the room. The motorcycle ride back didn't seem as long or as tense as the one on the way over. He pulled up in the alley and helped her off the bike. "Don't go through the bar," he said. "It's not safe for you to be in there alone."

"But walking through the alley like a cripple is?"

He shrugged. "I'll watch till your driver gets here."

She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Max. "I'm ready." Then she st art ed the long walk to the mouth of the alley.

By the time she reached the street, he was there. And when she looked back, Wes waved. She got in the car and closed the door behind her, then rested her head on the seat.

"You okay, Cordy?"

"I'm fine. Just tired. You okay?"

Max wheeled the car out of the warehouse district and toward the freeway. "I wasn't the one in the alley in East LA. "

"I was perfectly safe." She thought of the boy, pinned to the wall. Of the fevered race through Los Angeles ' streets. Of Wes's face when she asked him what he remembered.

And then remembered Jasmine, and wondered what it all meant.

"Perfectly safe," she repeated, but it was more to comfort him than herself. With the scroll in her purse and the memories in her head, there wasn't a safe place for any of them. Even Wes, who couldn't remember any of it, knew enough to take her to an impenetrable fortress to talk about it.

Whatever was going on, it was big. And she was right at the center of it. "Swear to God," she muttered, "I'm gonna kick the Powers' asses."

back to part one // on to part three