Angel Fanfic: The Dead Church (Part 2)

[juliefortune]

Angel Fanfic: The Dead Church (Part 2) ... continued from Part 1



Mexico.

Wesley woke with the first dawn, as was his habit; the threadbare curtains didn't do much to keep the rising sun out in any case. It took him ten long seconds to remember where he was, and with whom.

He was lying curled against Justine, his numbed arm still around her waist.

Recriminations came and brought their guilty relatives, and he had time to luxuriate in all of the myriad ways this was wrong, so very very wrong, before a full bladder reminded him it was time to attend to some basic needs.

When he moved, though, he felt her come awake in a flash. She tensed all over, like a startled animal, and he froze for just a second before he continued drawing his dead-weight arm back against his body.

"Sorry," he said. It sounded inane and inadequate, but there was no taking it back. He slipped out of bed and padded into the grimy bathroom, closed the door, and did his business in a gratifying rush. As he washed his hands he realized that he well and truly reeked; heat, stress and the uncongenial atmosphere of the bar had taken its toll. He got the creaking shower spraying and started to strip off the pajama bottoms, then reconsidered and opened the bathroom door to look at Justine.

She was sitting up in bed, looking blankly at the sun-rotted curtains. There was a certain tension in her still that he didn't quite understand, and didn't want to. "Want a turn in here before I take my shower?"

She didn't answer. He shrugged and started to close the door. Her voice stopped him. "We need to find that fucking portal." She might have been talking to the wall; she certainly didn't seem to be talking to him. But he assumed she was, and he was faintly offended.

"I've been looking. You, on the other hand, have been looking for something else entirely -- I'm guessing it might be oblivion. I suggest you start helping me, if it's that important to you."
"Looking? You've been reading," she said. "I've been talking to the sleazy bastards who probably know where this thing is."

"Or would be willing to tell you they did for the price of a glass of tequila. Sleazy bastards not being the most reliable of sources."

She pulled her knees up under the covers and rested her crossed forearms on top. Still not looking at him. "You should know. Anyway, the one last night said we could find it in a place called La Iglesia Muerta."

"The Dead Church," Wesley translated automatically. "Promising, in a particularly unpleasant way. If you can trust the word of a would-be rapist."

"Please, it's got to be a vamp nest. Put down your books for a few hours, we can go in, stake the suckers and find the portal. Unless that's too much for you."

"It's not me who's been beaten bloody," he replied. "Do you really think you're in any shape to fight?"

She slid off of the bed. Bruises tattooed her thighs in the shape of men's hands, clear as blueprints. He saw it and froze.

"Try me," she said. She pushed past him and slammed the bathroom door. He heard the lock click -- insulting, that, because it implied that a lock that flimsy could keep him out in the first place.

He waited until he heard the rattle of the water change and knew she'd taken his turn in the shower, and decided to go for a run. Sweat pants, socks, shoes, a loose sleeveless t-shirt. He swung the door open on a bright morning glare, then blinked as it was blocked by a large, dark shape standing in the way.

Something hit him hard in the stomach, maybe a fist but it felt like a wrecking ball. Breath rushed out of him in an uncontrolled gasp, and he gagged helplessly for more. Knees like water. Someone or something grabbed him by the arm and shoved him out into the boiling hot sun.

"Not so easy now, is it, little gringo?" a thick Spanish-accented voice said. A fist clenched a handful of his hair, and dragged his head up so fast and hard he felt a jolt of fear that his throat wound would break open, finish the murder Justine had started. "Not so easy in the daylight. But we don't want you. I let you live."

He blinked away haze and saw three men, didn't know the faces, and then they clicked into focus. Of course, from last night. Two of them pinned in the beam of his flashlight as they held Justine between them like a particularly delicious wishbone, ready to pull.

The man let go of his hair and the one holding him shoved him, hard, tripping him in the process. He went down hard on asphalt, scraped skin from his palms and hit his head hard enough to daze him. Tasted blood.

"Run away," the man jeered behind him. "We don't want your scrawny white ass. But the woman's ours. We owe her something."

They laughed, all of them. One of them thrust his hips, holding an imaginary partner by the throat. Wesley spat blood and stared at them. Just men, all of them. He'd fought demons and vampires and worse, much worse, but here was the full ugliness of the human race. He knew these men. He knew them because Billy Blimm had once forced him to be one.

"Run away, little man," the taller one said, and stamped his booted foot at Wesley, like he might run off an annoying dog. "Even a skinny piece of shit like you can get another bitch. This one's not worth dying for."

"You afraid we kill her? We won't," the other added. More laughter. "We just break her wide open so she could fuck a horse and never feel it. ¿Comprende? Maybe you like 'em that way. You Americans are crazy, anyway."

He wiped blood from his mouth and got slowly to his feet. He didn't know what was on his face, but whatever it was, it wiped the grins off of theirs.

"Actually," he said in his most reasonable voice, "I'm not a bloody American. But on behalf of my colonial cousins, why don't you all bugger off before I have to dismember your bodies and hide the pieces?"

No grins now. No mercy, either.

"Kill him," the one in the center said.

And it began.

###

When she squeezed the last of the hot water out of the pipes, Justine shut off the faucets and stepped out to scrub herself raw with the thin sandpapery towels. A cold shower would be just what the Brit deserved, anyway. And she had to get the feel of other men's hands off her skin or she was going to have to strangle somebody.

It was suspiciously quiet beyond the bathroom door. She toweled her hair into a tousled mess and listened for a few seconds. Wondered what he was doing. Maybe he'd gone back to bed. Maybe he was lying there listening to the running water, thinking about her naked --

Dear Penthouse, she thought, disgusted with herself. Jesus, he was just a guy. She'd slept with better-looking men; she'd killed nicer ones. It wasn't like she needed him or anything. Except that there was something in those midnight-blue eyes that made her want to be -- someone else.

"Shut the fuck up," she growled at herself, and swung open the bathroom door. Better to get this over with now, before it all got too complicated, before she made it something it wasn't and could never be. Screw him, forget him. That was the plan.

Except he was gone. Front door open on a square of harsh desert light.

She darted over to where her clothes were draped, dragged on what she needed and dispensed with what she didn't. Gun -- she needed that. Stakes. Holy water.

She jammed battered sneakers on her feet and ran outside, into a hot parking lot where sand blew in waves across the cracked tarmac. Wesley's car was still there, and there was blood on the pavement near it. Not much, but she had an eye for that kind of thing. She dragged a finger through it and stared at the red smear.

Fresh. It didn't take blood long to draw insects, and to burn dry in this heat.

Somebody had Wesley, and dammit, she needed him if she was ever going to get Daniel Holtz back from Quar-toth. Son of a …

Instinct tightened the skin on the back of her neck, and she rolled forward in a dive that wrenched hard at her sore shoulder. No way to know what was behind her, except it wasn't likely to be a vampire in full sun. She continued the roll sideways, got her knee under her and came up ready to fight.

Wesley fell into her. She caught him awkwardly, fists still clenched, and his weight overbalanced her back onto the pavement. She protected her head by turning instinctively on her shoulder, which sent a bolt of white shooting pain through her to warn her she was pushing her luck.

"Jesus!" she spat, and shoved him off her with one hand, scuttling backward at the same time. Wesley rolled limply over on his back. Breathing, at least. Eyes open, blind blue staring at the sun. She stopped her retreat, staring at him, then came back. Cautiously. He didn't move. She put out one hand and touched him. His eyes slowly blinked.

"Still alive," he whispered. A trickle of blood escaped his mouth and chased red over skin mottled pale blue, hematomas that would be bruises in minutes. He startled her by making a sound that might have even been laughter. "You poncy bastards. Can't even kill me properly."

Instinct was all over her again, driving pins and needles down her spine; she took her hand away from Wesley and focused on the shadows, the ones thrown ahead of her by the morning sun.

Three men coming up behind her. Three she could see. One of them made a comment in Spanish; she didn't get the content, but the context was pretty plain when the other two laughed. She knew the laugh, had heard it from the lips of a hundred predators. Human, vampire, didn't matter. They all had the same cold, dark laughter, the false glitter of humor over teeth.

She saw the shadow of something blunt raised behind her, took a hot second to calculate, and then pivoted on a knee and a bracing hand. Her foot smashed into the bend of the closest man's knee. He toppled sideways into his friend, and she let momentum spin her farther, pushed up, came to her feet light and free and ready to fight.

A tire iron caught her squarely on the side of her head.

She had no memory of the impact, only of falling; no pain when she hit, just a vast confusion as to where gravity was taking her. Two seconds later, maybe three, she opened her eyes and saw the man leaning over her. He was familiar. Under the cuts and bruises, she saw the man she and Wesley had put down the night before at the bar. She heard a phantom Daniel Holtz whisper in his warm, seductive voice, I taught you better than to leave an enemy breathing behind you, Justine.

She was still trying to think what to say to that when the man raised the tire iron again and she knew, knew deep in her guts, that he was going to smash her skull open and batter her face into a stew of blood and bone, she could see it in his eyes, she recognized the hungry lust of it. Move, she begged her body. It fumbled at the rough asphalt instead, like a punch-drunk boxer fighting the earth.

"Excuse me." Wesley's voice. She blinked and saw drag himself to his knees, brace himself with one hand. "She's no good to you dead. Or to me, come to think of it."

"Stay down, you stupid pig," the man with the tire iron snarled.

Wesley got to his feet. She had no idea how he managed it, but he did; he wiped blood from his mouth and gestured to the man with the tire iron. "Make me."

The other two flanked him, pinning him in the center of the triangle.

As the weapon swung at him, he stepped into it, caught the blow on his arm, kicked back at the second man and got him squarely on the kneecap with enough force to crunch bone. Justine shivered at the scream; it poured adrenaline over her like cold water, and she forced muscles and nerves to work together. She got up to her knees, dug in the waistband of her jeans and found the hard smooth weight of the only weapon she needed for this fight.

Dizziness rushed over her. She wavered, blinked, felt death rushing close enough to brush her with his dark wings. Fucking head wound, just what I need.

When the world steadied again, heartbeats later, Wesley was down. So were two of the other men. The third -- the one with the tire iron -- raised it over Wesley's head for a killing blow.

Justine fired the gun. The shock jammed her shoulder hard enough to steal her breath, but she stayed focused as blood misted out of the man's back. He stiffened, stumbled, dropped the tire iron and spun around to face her.

"Puta," he whispered. He went yellow-pallid. "Fucking whore. I'm going to fuck you with a shovel before I -- "

She shot him once more, cleanly, between the eyes. "Before you what, motherfucker?" she asked the dead body as it fell, and turned the gun on the other one, who was crawling away and dragging his shattered leg behind. "How about you?"

The man cursed under his breath and kept crawling. She almost shot him anyway, but then someone touched her, gently, and she knew it was Wesley as much by the feel of him as by the sight.

"Don't," he said.

"Give me a reason not to. Give me a fucking reason." She didn't feel anything except cold satisfaction, but she was trembling, hair-trigger ready to kill.

"Because I hurt too much to clean up your mess," he said. "Please."

She snapped the safety back on and holstered the gun at her back.

"Get in the car," he ordered. "We can't stay here now."

"No shit." She dabbed at her head, found blood and sharp grating pain. "You okay to drive?"

"Better than you, it appears." He went on a couple of steps, looked back when she didn't follow. "What the hell are you doing?"

She dropped to one knee next to the dead man and stuck a hand in his trouser pockets. Nothing much to show for it -- a few hundred pesos, a photograph she didn't look at because she didn't want to know she'd just killed a father, a husband, a son.

"Robbing the dead, what the hell does it look like? Shut up and get in the car. If we're running, we'd better have gas money."

He didn't argue. She rolled the second man, still unconscious on the ground, and got even less for her troubles. That left the wounded one.

"Take it!" he spat, and shoved money toward her. "Crazy bitch gringa."

She gave him a wild, hard smile and shoved the cash in her pocket. "Better fucking believe it. Now … where do we find the Dead Church?"

###

I am strong. I am woman. Well, I'm a woman who's part demon, so that's even better.
I can do this. Sure. No problem.

Cordelia looked down at her handiwork, which was not all that handy -- she'd never really paid much attention in arts and crafts. Arts and crafts, in her back-then-opinion, had been for pudgy girls with thick glasses and no sense of style.

At least the circle looked circular. That was kind of important, Willow had emphasized. Just to make sure, Cordelia had hammered a nail into the center of the much-abused kitchen floor, tied a three-foot string to it, and marked out the circle the old-fashioned way. She'd chalked it in just the way Willow had said, but now that it came down to the nasty part she was started to rethink.

She transferred the phone to her right shoulder and reached for the sealed container with her left. The contents sloshed slowly, too thickly. Ugh.

"You're sure it has to be blood?" she asked. "Okay, I know you said blood and I know, you meant real blood, it's just ..."

"Blood," Willow confirmed. She sounded farther away than just Sunnydale, or maybe that was Cordelia's imagination. "Accept no substitute. Well, I mean, the Powers you're dealing with won't. Accept substitutes. They're all about the bodily fluids."

This was not going to be pretty. Cordelia held the container at arm's length and popped off the top.

"Got blood," she confirmed. "Oh yeah, definitely with the blood. It's pretty old, though. Past its sell-by date." She tried not to think about the word clotting. "Doesn't have to be fresh, right?"

"Uh, no, old's good. They like old. Now, just pour it over the chalk outlines."

It poured out in a yak-inducing splat, and Cordelia almost dropped the phone. "Ummm ... this part doesn't have to be really neat, does it?"

"No, they like splatter. Just not, you know, Jackson Pollack or anything."

"They like splatter," Cordelia sighed. "Too much information there, let me tell ya. Okay, splattering away. Hang on."

It took about a minute to splash the dark-red, sticky stuff all over the floor -- more or less in a non-Jackson-Pollacky circle -- and by the time it was over Cordelia was wishing she'd worn something more blood-resistant, and had thought about a gas mask. She coughed, choked, and swallowed a taste she didn't want to think about.

"Done," she said into the phone. "Candles?"

"Five black candles at the points of the pentagram. Plus two you hold, one in each hand. Um, Cordelia?"

"Hang on, I'm putting you on speaker." She pushed the button and set the phone on the counter. Black candles, raided from one of those dusty shops Wesley had dragged her into ... they had a sticky, greasy feel to them, and God only knew what they smelled like because she couldn't smell a thing, her nose had gone numb.

"Don't forget the talismans!" Willow said, too loudly. "You're channeling a lot of power, here, make sure you -- "

"Yeah, talismans I got. I've got so many talismans around my neck, I look like I'm from South Central. Anything else I should know?"

"I should talk to Angel. About what to do when, you know, he gets there."

"Which I would so love you to do, only he's in the bathroom," Cordelia lied brightly. She had no qualms about the lying, not to Willow, not today. Okay, she never had qualms about lying to Willow, but that was another thing entirely. "I need to get this finished. What else?"

"Well, tell him that when he goes through the portal he'll need to be ready to fight, because there's all kinds of -- he does know where he's going, right? 'Cause his last trip to Hell didn't go so well, and Buffy's worried -- "

"Nothing to worry about, we've got his back." God, she was such a good liar it scared her. "Wesley's here, and Lorne, and Fred and Gunn. The whole crew." She held her breath and tried to think about the vision, about what was at stake. Connor. Connor was at stake, and a little discomfort and nauseatingly stinky blood wasn't that big a deal, now, was it? Perspective.

Willow sounded immensely relieved. "That's good. So, light the candles, step inside the circle, light the last two from the five burning already, don't step on the blood or on the chalk, and hang on. Oh, and the weapons would be pretty important."

Weapons. Right. Cordelia looked down at her loaded-down toolbelt -- the biggest hand axe she could safely wield, a sword, stakes, crossbow. She was also wearing about a ton of Kevlar, which sounded good in practice but was making her itch like a fool and there was no way a woman had designed this vest, it felt like a steamroller sitting on top of her breasts.

"Weapons," she said aloud. "Check."

"Lots of weapons. 'Cause going to Hell isn't exactly like a trip to Sacramento -- or wait, maybe it is, remember that field trip -- "

"When Jonathan got chased by the homeless guys through the museum?"

"Who turned out to be kind of Hell-demony."

"Jonathan?"

"Well, no, the homeless guys," Willow amended. "Remember Buffy was late to the bus?"

"Eww, and looked like she'd crawled through the sewer? Oh, wait, she probably did, right?"

"She had to get her ax back," Willow said. "Which makes a cool segue back to the weapons. Well ... I guess we're ready. Can I talk to Wesley? About the chanting part?"

"Bathroom," Cordy said. She was busy making sure the crossbow was ready to fire.

"I thought Angel was in the bathroom."

"Oh! Right! Well ... two bathrooms. No waiting."

"Fine, I'll talk to Fred." Willow sounded firmer. Also more suspicious. "No, wait, let me guess, she's in the bathroom with Angel?"

Willow had gotten way too much with the insight, these days. Cordelia manufactured some mouth-static and said, "Oh, we're breaking up -- sorry -- see you!"

She hung up. No goodbyes. Nobody in the Scooby Gang, whether ex or current, was good at saying goodbye, because they all knew it might be final. Naturally, it started to ring again, but she put the phone down and ignored it.

She clicked the Aim 'n Flame and lit the five black candles, picked up the last two, and stepped into the circle. She bent to light the last two candles, and the second they caught fire she felt energy sweep around her like an invisible wind.

This is it.

She opened her mouth to start the chant ...

... and discovered she didn't need it, after all, as the world disappeared around her.

###

The phone rang, out in the lobby of the Hyperion, but Angel didn't consider moving to get it. Fred and Gunn were here, and Lorne flitted in and out … and the phone wasn't important. None of that was important now. Connor was gone, an empty place in his arms and in his heart. And …
… and Cordelia was as good as gone, too. He'd reached for that beautiful light and he'd fallen, fallen so far into the dark that she might as well have been a distant, unreachable star.

Just like with Buffy, he'd let himself feel too much. He'd lost himself in the sensation of warm silk skin, the sharp, urgent scent of need. All the anger, all the pain, all the desperation -- he hadn't been strong enough.

It wasn't only bliss that could break Angelus' chains. Rage was even more dangerous. He couldn't afford anger now, or loss, or even love. He had to become what he'd been before -- alone, untouched, untouching. That was the only way he could be sure he would never hurt her again.

"Angel?" Fred's soft, Texas-blurred voice. "You in there?"

He didn't answer. He was in the dark, of course, sitting in a straight-backed chair with his hands resting on his thighs. Eyes closed. Thinking of nothing but the Void.

It was a long way from the Hyperion. A long way from memories.

"Angel?" She was closer. Light blazed. He kept silent, kept dark, kept the Void close. "Angel, can you hear me?"

She wasn't going away. She was touching him now, even though he'd made it clear he didn't want to be touched, ever. Warm female hand against his marble-cold face. "God, you're freezing! Not that you're usually warm, but ... Angel?"

He'd almost forgotten how to speak. When he finally was able to move his lips enough to make sound, he was gratified to hear himself say, "Go away."

"Well, look, that's not gonna happen," she said. "You've got a phone call. From Sunnydale."

As much as he tried, he couldn't break that tie. Sunnydale, and Buffy. He'd be living with that, or the memory of that, the rest of his long undead life. Too bad. He didn't need more acid poured in open wounds, not now. Buffy had died. The hardest thing he'd ever faced in his life had been a world without her, until he'd lost Connor. The mourning stayed with him, even though he'd seen her, touched her, knew she was breathing again.

He didn't think he could stand to hear her voice right now, not with Cordelia's blood still a memory in his mouth.

"Buffy?" he whispered. He hadn't meant to say her name, but there was some part of him that couldn't ever be controlled on that score.

"No, it's Willow. She sounds upset, I think you'd better -- "

He was up and moving past her before he had any conscious intention to do it. Lorne and Gunn were having a conversation near the weapons cabinet, but they shut up and turned to look as he stalked over to the counter, picked up the phone, and said, "What's happened to her?" He knew his voice sounded harsh, but it was less from anger than from disuse. He cleared his throat. "Willow?"

"Angel! She's in trouble!" Willow sounded half-frantic, and Angel felt that ill-defined sense of dread get stronger. Buffy was always in trouble, but her friends didn't usually make long distance calls to tell him about it.

"What kind of trouble?" Please, not the kind that kills.

"Look, she kind of lied to me, she said you were all together and she wouldn't be the one to step into the circle. But she was the one, right? Because I can't get her on the phone, and when I did the locator spell I couldn't find her -- "

"Slow down, Willow." He wished he had a heart, wished he could hear it pound; without it, dread just made his chest ache like an empty socket without a tooth. "You're not talking about Buffy."

"Buffy? No! No, Buffy's -- well, it's not Buffy." Willow pulled in a deep breath. "It's Cordelia. She said you wanted the ritual for opening a portal to a hell dimension -- "

He understood, then, completely, with a sickening click of connection that was like something breaking inside. "No," he whispered. "She couldn't be that stupid."

Willow was silent. He could feel how wretched she was, how much she hated to admit her own mistake. "I told her how to do it," she finally said. "She told me she was just getting everything set up for you to do it, I swear, if I'd known ...I tried to call back, but her phone just rings. I think -- "

She was talking to empty air. He was already gone, running for the car and leaving the rest of them to scramble after him.

###

Justine opened her eyes, squinted at the setting sun, and opened her mouth.

"I swear, if you ask how much longer a drive it is, I will knock you unconscious," Wesley snapped. "One hour since the last time you asked. I trust you can do the math."

"Excuse me for living, head injury?" Actually, it was just a concussion, nothing much; she'd dry-swallowed aspirin at the same time she'd forced more pain pills down Wesley. Doing drugs together. Ah, the bonding. "Looks different."

"Yes. We've crossed from desert into a more tropical zone. According to the map, we're still about four hours from the turnoff. Roads won't be this good after that."

"Yeah, and this one's a real prize." Narrow, curving, choked with oil-spewing rustbuckets and blocked by the occasional flock of sheep. At least they weren't going to run out of gas. Wesley had taken the precaution of filling up four industrial-sized cans; they were in the trunk next to the arsenal of weapons and what was left of their luggage. Even Wesley was down to his last change of clothes. She was starting to look back on her time with Holtz as living in the lap of luxury. "How're you holding up?"

He didn't answer. In the full glare of the late afternoon sun, he looked bad -- pale, unshaved, bruised where he wasn't scraped. The scar on his throat looked more prominent than usual. If he had broken bones, he was keeping it to himself; she was more worried about internal injuries, but he'd have passed out by now if they'd ruptured his spleen or something.

"Drink your juice," he said. That was orange juice from the carton, pure Minute Maid from a dusty little store a few hours back. The label was in Spanish but it tasted just the same. She gulped some down, passed him the carton. He shook his head. "How much money did our friends donate?"

"About three thousand pesos." More than enough for the next week, maybe two if they lived on the cheap.

"Good." He turned the wheel and bumped them from pavement to a rutted dirt track overhung with tropical scrub. There was another motel up ahead, she saw. Not any better than the last one, but the prospect of a bed and a shower sounded unexpectedly welcome. "I need rest."

"You need a hospital," she said, and caught the edge of a rare, cynical smile.

"Look who's talking."

Money changed hands. The proprietor gave them a key to the third room on the row; unpainted cinderblocks outside, she swung the door open on a bare, clean room with a sagging bed, a single lamp, a round side table, and a tiny black-and-white TV.

Wesley went straight for the bed and collapsed onto it, staring up at the ceiling. She shut the door, locked it, and checked out the curtains for any sign of movement. Nothing. The whole place looked deserted. Now all they had to worry about was an ambush by the old guy who'd checked them in. She didn't discount the possibility.

"What are you doing?" Wesley's voice was thick with weariness. She took the gun from the back of her waistband and checked the ammunition. One round expended, one in the chamber, nine more in the clip. Probably should clean it, but she was fresh out of cloths and oil. A strip off her shirt would probably do …

"What's it look like?"

He put an arm over his eyes. "Looks like you're spending time with your best friend."

She put the gun down, changed her mind, picked it up and brought it over to the bed. It was clichéd to put it under the pillow, but she wasn't afraid of a cliché or two. "Actually, I have a couple of knives pretty near and dear to my heart. And at least one stake."

"I don't suppose the phallic nature of that has occurred to you."

"Shut up and rest."

She cleaned the gun as best she could, given the lack of tools, and as she set it aside under the pillow she realized she was just about as tired as she'd ever been. She sat down on the bed and gravity did the rest; she kicked off her shoes, skinned out of her jeans without getting up again. Wesley didn't move. She checked him and found his eyes closed, his breathing deep and regular. Poor bastard hadn't even taken off his shoes.

She got up and slid them off for him.

Which was as far as she needed to go. But then ...

What the hell? It isn't like I haven't seen it all before.

She untied the drawstring of his sweat pants and started to slide them off. They slid a couple of inches, just far enough to give her an interesting glimpse of pale skin and a luxuriant growth of dark hair, and then his left hand grabbed hold and halted the progress.

"Leave it," he murmured.

"No underwear? My, my. Aren't you just the rebel."

More force this time. "I said leave it, Justine."

She let go. He pulled them back up to his waist. She got back into bed, slid under the thin sheets, and closed her eyes. God, her head pounded. Trying to sleep just made it seem worse. Still, her muscles were grateful for a release of tension, an excuse to go loose for a change.

If only she could sleep. Forget for a little while. Heal. She envied these Slayers Wesley had talked about, the ones who could shrug off a head injury here, a cracked rib there. Damage accumulated for her, and painkillers and uppers could only do so much to counter that.
The bed creaked. She cracked an eyelid and saw that Wesley was getting up. He braced himself for a long moment, looking pale and drawn, and then walked slowly into the bathroom.

Ah. His turn for the shower. The sound of running water lulled her into a light trance, and while she was in that warm, safe place she had a flash of his body naked under the water, those long, lean legs, narrow hips, those deceptively dense muscles on his chest and arms ...

She punched the pillow. Jesus. You'd think nearly being raped twice in two days would put her off the subject, but no. Now that she had that image in her head, she didn't think she could ever move it offstage again.

He just got himself beaten for you, you ungrateful bitch. And now you want more? She was almost ashamed of herself. Almost.

This time, when she closed her eyes, she didn't see the fantasy. She remembered reality. She saw him climbing to his feet with blind, focused intensity to face the men who had almost killed him. He could have stayed down. Could have let them have her.

That heart-stopping look of courage ... she craved it as much as the touch of his skin. She wanted that feeling that she was worth that risk. Devotion. How did you start being worth something like that?

The water shut off. She closed her eyes and tried to think about sleep, but the rustle of cloth in the bedroom distracted her down deep, wakened heat and moisture and longing that made her breath come quicker and her body hum.

He opened the bathroom door. She couldn't help it, she looked.

And kept looking. He was naked except for a thin towel held around his hips ... so much to see she couldn't take it all in at once. Water beaded on his skin, caught and shimmering in the curls that started on his chest and wandered seductively beneath the towel.

Bruises. Lots of darkening bruises on his ribs, his chest, his legs.

She sat up, watching him; he didn't speak. After a while, she said, "You never told me why."

"Why what?" He'd put his glasses aside. Without them, his eyes were almost too blue to be real.

"Why you didn't walk away. You said you would, the next time."

He considered it in silence for a heartbeat. "Apparently, I lied." He didn't move toward her. She couldn't tell what he was thinking. "Justine ... "

"Daniel would have," she said flatly. "If it had been a choice between him and me ... there wouldn't have been any choice. It wouldn't matter what they did to me before, during or after. He'd have turned his back and gone."

Still watching her with those tired, perfectly steady eyes. "I hope by now you know I'm not Daniel Holtz."

She just nodded. For long seconds neither of them moved, pinned in place by the feeling that was vibrating the air between them, humming under their skin.

"Would you rather I was?" he asked. His voice was deeper, rougher, slower.

"I'd rather you were over here," she whispered. It was the single bravest thing she'd ever said to him, because it wasn't cool, it wasn't mocking, it wasn't meant to hurt.

Because it was true.

She wasn't sure which of them moved, or how, but somehow they met in the cool silent middle, lips meeting and melting, a gentle hot kiss that lingered and deepened and grew. He had lips like silk, lips that knew how to make love to her without forcing or demanding, and she let herself be robbed of strength for the first time in her memory. He pressed her back to the bed.

"You should be resting," she whispered, and felt his smile against her lips.

"And you shouldn't? Want to compare scars and bruises?"

"Later."

When his hands touched her skin she shivered, ached, wanted to feel them everywhere, all at once. Ten fingers drew lines of heat over her shoulders, down her arms, then cupped the weight of her breasts in warmth. She gasped into his mouth as his thumbs gently traced the hardening points of her nipples.

"Shhhh," he whispered, and put his tongue there, tracing a slow circle around the thickening flesh, then taking one in his mouth. She shuddered and arched her back, wanting -- wanting -- she couldn't even put words to the things she wanted. Only for that liquid golden heat to continue. The scrape of his beard against tender flesh was almost unbearably intense.

Her hands were above her head now, grabbing the rusted iron rails of the headboard; she felt Wesley's hands travel up the long lines of her arms, then back down as his lips teased and his teeth nipped. When he blew gently on the slick wet skin she couldn't hold back a tormented moan. He whispered words against her skin. Magic. It felt like magic, pulsing under her skin.

Wesley raised his head to look at her, and close up those eyes were deadly in their focus. She was panting, shaking, almost crying from the force of the storm inside. It felt so shatteringly good to have a man's strength against her, not to wound but to worship.

"Trust me?" He made it a question. She managed to nod, somehow. Words had abandoned her completely. "Relax."

His hand touched her bare leg, chased goosebumps slowly up her thighs. She felt hot sparks of pain as his palm brushed discolored bruises, but it was distant sense-memory, unimportant as the idea that the sun might burn itself out in a few million years.

He slid his hand between her legs. Slowly. Gently. Moved it up ...

She froze.

She couldn't open for him. Couldn't. Felt the hot burn of panic start deep in her guts. Oh God no ...

The bruises on her thighs were suddenly white-hot, aching, fresh, and she could feel their hands on her, feel their strength wrenching her legs apart, their hands --

She must have made some sound because he stopped, moved his hand away, brought both up to cup her face. His wide eyes were guilt-stricken.

"What did I -- "

"I couldn't stop them," she blurted, and buried her face in the damp skin of his neck. Shaking. Shaking as if she might fly apart. "I couldn't. All my training, I couldn't stop a couple of stupid drunken bastards from taking me by surprise and posing me like a doll and God it was so fucking humiliating, you don't know how ... I let them -- "

"No. No, you didn't let them," he said, and his eyes commanded her to believe it. "You lost. That's why it's important you don't fight alone. The two of us could have stopped it -- "

"Stopped it?" She laughed and it came out wrong, it came out bad, it brought all the darkness bubbling up from the sticky unclean bottom of her soul. "Why in the hell would you want to? Why not cheer them on? Why not wait until they're done and take your turn and then cut my fucking throat, you stupid bastard, it was your chance, don't you get it, it was your chance to hurt me like I'd hurt you -- God, how could you do this to me, how could you make me feel …"

She couldn't go on, the tears were in the way, shattering her into pieces. He held her so close she knew every line of him, every inch of velvet skin and hard muscle, and she felt the mercy of it break her heart in two.

"No," he whispered. His breath stirred her hair and was a caress on her flesh. "Enough. Let it go."

"I can't." She put a trembling hand out to rest over the red scar on his throat. "This isn't a fairy tale. We're just a couple of fucked-up left-behind losers. Don't trust me because I will let you down, understand? I can't help it, that's what I do, let people down."

"You too?" He stroked her hair back from her face. "Welcome back to the human race, then. This is all the reward there is, Justine. Moments where we forget."

She had wrapped her arms around him, instinctive as a wounded child, but now she relaxed a little and put some space between them a her heartbeat slowed from a panicked race to just a steady, heightened rhythm. Moments where we forget. She'd been looking for that for a long time -- in the bottom of a glass, in a hit of meth, in a handful of tranquilizers and oblivion.

And now all she had to do was trust.

His breath caught unsteadily when she put her hands flat against his warm, damp skin and began to read his body with her fingertips. Old scars, here and there. The warm tactile blur of hair softening hard planes of muscle. Marks of experience, of survival, of pain.

He made a sound deep in his throat when her slow-searching fingers brushed the hard velvet heat of his erection, and every muscle in him tensed toward her when she folded her palm around it. She felt the strong, racing beat of his heart move faster.

"Help me forget," she said, and tasted his mouth again. His tongue touched and twined with hers, and she drank in the taste of him, the musky rich smell. This time, when his hands asked for entrance between her legs she relaxed.

Fingers drew a hot shivering line up the inside of her thigh. They touched the damp curls of her pubic hair, found the aching slick center of her, dipped gently into that moisture and then moved on to begin a slow hot assault on the bud of her clitoris. She pushed her hips into him and felt him respond; his fingers probed and lightly pinched and stroked until she was trembling and desperate from the force of it.

"I want to taste you," he said, and her eyes flew open again, blind with pleasure. "Say yes."

"Yes." It came out unsteady. She didn't want to let go of him, wanted to keep touching and stroking, but the idea had sent a bolt of pure lust through her like nothing she'd ever felt. "Yes, God yes."

His mouth was back on her nipples now, and she reached for the iron steadiness of the headboard, shackling herself as he slid down her body, lips and tongue tracing a warm wet trail on her skin down to where his fingers still played. She opened wider for him, bracing her knees apart.
When his bent his head down his eyes stayed on hers, fierce and bright and challenging. She felt the cooling, shivering touch of his breath first, then the burning-hot caress of his lips, the rough sweet brush of his tongue on her enflamed flesh. She jerked hard enough to rattle the iron bars, cried out. He licked and lapped and sucked, probing with his tongue, slipping two fingers into her wetness. She felt herself thrown helplessly higher on the wave of her pleasure, all the way to the blinding sun, and she came, shuddering, in a spasm so intense it went on and on and on like the sea, carrying her far away.

Moments where we forget.

She wanted him inside of her with an intensity that shocked all the thoughts into silence. As if he knew that, he moved up her body again, and this time when she reached for him she felt the warm bead of moisture at the tip; she smoothed it over with her palm, spread it slick over the soft velvet head. She wished she had time to taste him, too, but she knew what they both needed now. Release. Absolute, final release.

She gasped when he slid inside, kissed him and tasted herself there, faintly bitter and oddly sweet. It had been a long time, and she felt exquisitely tight; he groaned and she felt shudders ripple through him. He was fighting an urge, she knew. Fighting away an urge to plunge into her hard, let himself go.

So she told him it was all right, whispers in his ear, hands on his hips, her body rising up to meet his, and then it was a blur of sweet, hot friction, sweat gliding down their bodies, racing hearts. Yes, faster. His eyes were closed. He opened them and the drugged beauty of what was in them made her lunge harder against him, want to bury him in her all the way, deep enough to hurt. She was crying out to him now, every stroke of his body against hers, as if it was torture instead of the purest pleasure she'd ever felt. Please …

She didn't even know what she was asking for until she felt him push deeper, hold hard in her, shuddering. Felt the warm sticky unraveling deep within and wanted it to go on, wanted the moment to never end.

He collapsed on top of her, gasping, but still moving, still moving in her until she came again, arching against him as the tide threw her higher, and higher, to the white flare of complete release.

Quiet. Aching, tender quiet. This was the quietest place in the world, just now.

Then he began to laugh. When he lifted his head to look at her, she saw raw delight in his eyes.

"What?" she challenged. There was an unfamiliar warm champagne feeling inside her, something she barely recognized. Joy.

He traced the line of her cheek with one finger.

"Just thinking what your side and mine would have to say about this."

She captured his hand in hers. Strong, both of them. Capable of anything.

"Who says we have a side?"

###

"First, can I say this is a bad idea?" Gunn asked. He handed Angel a hand axe, which Angel tucked one-handed into his coat pocket, steering with the other. "And am I gonna sound like a wimp if I ask you to slow down?"

"Yes," Angel said.

"No," Lorne and Fred said, simultaneously. Lorne craned to look over his shoulder at the speedometer. "Uh, muffin, that's just a leetle too fast even for the Autobahn, much less Sunset. And you haven't told us -- "

"Cordelia went after Connor," Angel said. Streetlights and neon whipped by in a blur; a light changed to yellow ahead, and he floored the convertible to blast through on orange. "She got Willow to tell her how to make a portal. Somehow, she found out how to get to Quar-toth."

In the back seat, Fred audibly gasped. Angel glanced in the rear view -- one thing he'd always been grateful for, his lack of reflection made it easier to see what was going on back there - and saw her clutch Gunn's hand in a death-grip. She'd been trapped in a demon dimension. He could see the terror sweeping through her, dragging her back to memories she wanted buried.

Well, she wasn't the only one. His memories kept rising from the dead, too. The ones he most wanted to avoid were the ones that crowded close ... agony, endless, searing agony while things capered and laughed at his pain, while he forgot who he was and what he'd once loved.

One difference. He'd deserved his summer in Hell. Cordelia didn't.

"I'm hoping you have some other plan than 'let's all go to the fiery pit of evil,'" Lorne said somberly. "Not that I'm not all about going to the muffin's rescue."

"Not us," Angel said. "Me. I'm going to get her. The three of you need to keep the portal open. Willow can help. Whatever you do, don't let it close."

"Uh ... correct me if I take an offramp, but if we keep the portal open, doesn't that mean things can come through it other than you and Cordelia? 'Cause I've seen some of those Hell-beasties back at Caritas, and believe me, Cordy's not going to thank you for inviting them into her -- "

"Lorne," Angel interrupted. "Shut up."

"Sorry. I babble when I'm nervous, sweet potato, it's just that I -- "

"Lorne."

"Sorry." Lorne turned toward him, red eyes almost strobing black and red in the passing streetlights. "I'm scared for her."

"I know. So am I." Angel pressed the gas and rocketed through a red light.

###

Cordelia's apartment reeked of death. Even Angel, unbreathing, could barely stand it; Fred folded up like a paper doll at the front door, eyes streaming, chest heaving; Lorne made it exactly three steps in, then turned a paler shade than usual and ran for the exit.

Gunn came all the way to the kitchen, but he was swallowing convulsively and hiding his nose in the sleeve of his jacket. He'd mumbled something that sounded to Angel like a protest, but Angel didn't listen. He was looking at the floor.

Cordelia's artistic-rather-than-precise protective designs overlaid older, darker bloodstains. Cordelia's blood, a week old, souvenir of their night of -- what could you call it? Love? Abuse? Mutual mortification?

Angel ripped his gaze away from it and saw that all the candles had snuffed out. Easy enough to repair. He reached for the phone sitting on the kitchen counter and hit redial.
Willow picked up on the first ring. "Cordelia?"

"It's us," Angel said. "She's gone. The portal's closed, but it looks like I can reopen it with the candles."

"Yeah, just light them. There'll be wind, but I can chant to keep them going." She was tense, but businesslike. "You're sure she ..."

"I'm sure." He wished he wasn't, but the stench in the apartment confirmed that she'd opened the doorway at least once. "Hang on."

Gunn took his sleeve away from his nose long enough to say, "Don't got any fresh air spells, do you? 'Cause it's pretty much rancid around here."

"Um, I'm not supposed to ..." Willow said. Angel could almost see that little frown between her eyes, the one she got when asked to do something patently illegal. Just before she rationalized that doubt out of existence ... "Sure! Here it comes!" Cheer in her voice; Willow was never quite so happy as when she was being useful. He felt a strong wind stir his hair and tug at his coat. "How's that?"

Gunn carefully sniffed. "Not so bad. Thanks."

"No problem."

Angel took the lighter from the counter where Cordelia had placed it, looked at Gunn ... at Lorne, who was helping Fred into the kitchen.

"Be ready," he said. "This is going to get ugly."

"It's already pretty much on the putrid side," Fred answered. Angel fixed her with a look. "I mean, okay. We're okay."

Angel nodded and flicked the lighter. He lit all the candles but the two lying on their sides inside the circle, then reached in a retrieved them.

"Willow," he ordered. On cue, she started a low, droning chant, nothing he had ever heard, that sent crackles of power up and down his spine. When had she come into that much knowledge? How much was it costing her? He backed off ... one problem at a time. "I'm going."

"Luck," Gunn said, and took a firmer grip on his axe. "Bring Barbie back, man."

Angel touched the wicks of the two black candles in his hands to one of those already burning ...

... and Hell sucked him down.

###

Hell was familiar. Old home week, reeking of rot and burning flesh. Angel shut his ears to the screams and the pain, willed himself not to acknowledge any of the memories that kept struggling to surface like vampires clawing out of a grave. The landscape stretched on, flat and featureless, an endless pain of ash and despair and blood-hot red light. Shadows everywhere, moving at the corners of his eyes. The only good thing about Hell was that everybody saw it differently, so whatever horrors stalked out there were for some other poor bastard.

Where was Cordelia? She couldn't have gone far, could she? She's part demon, something reminded him, and he felt a little tingle of unease. What happened to part demons in Hell, anyway? He knew what happened to him - permanent game face, the urge to rend and kill perilously close to the surface. A panicked fury gouged at him like a tiger in his stomach.

Something caught his eye in the distance. Something ...

Something radiant.

He wasn't the only one moving that direction. There were other things heading that way, twisted, dark, shadowy things. Some limped, some ran, some crawled, but they were all moving toward it. He let himself be drawn in; it wasn't hard, there was something very ... attractive about it. In the literal sense of the word.

The glow got brighter the closer he approached. Most of the Hell-beasts fought the pull, pulling back like cattle being driven to the slaughter, heads lowered - but whatever drew them was so strong it didn't need their cooperation as it dragged them closer, blinded and whimpering. He felt the light like a pressure all over his skin, like hands exploring him. Squinting against the brilliance, trying to see beneath that veil of light.

It was so ... beautiful. Unbelievably beautiful. There was no room for anything else next to it, not pain, although pain ripped through him in continuous, nauseating waves; not fear, although some powerless part of him was drowning in it. It was like drowning in cream, being crushed under smooth, perfect pearls. A sensation so gut-level orgasmic that it reduced every pleasure he'd ever known to bare whispers. Whatever this was, it stripped away all the confusion, reduced it to one simple, profound priority.

I need.

And then he caught the outline of a face, familiar as a dream.

"Cordelia?" he blurted, blocking the glare with his hand. He could barely see her, in the center of that radiance, but she was unearthly, stunningly gorgeous ... he'd seen supernaturally beautiful women, and God knew Cordelia had always been as close to physically perfect as it was possible for a woman to get, but this ...

He was in the presence of something ... divine. And it was destroying him, burning him away in a rush of utter joy. Destroying everything it brushed with its pure white wings, and it was like being burned in a crucible, being distilled down to the most basic essences. Dissolving into light.

"Angel," she whispered. Her voice was rich with music, deep as the ocean. Warm as the sun that burns. "I see you. Cold flesh and fire burning, all that darkness ..."

He took another step toward her. It was like moving through thick, sweet acid, but he couldn't stop, couldn't retreat. He had to go to her. The loneliness of staying away burned like liquid nitrogen, freezing him solid. So cold out here, away from her. So terribly, unthinkably cold.

"I know," she said sadly. "You're so alone, Angel. So lonely. But you don't have to be alone here."

She stretched out a hand that glowed brighter than the sun, and when it touched him, he caught fire. He fell into her arms, burning, and managed to croak a sound that was her name, or as close as he could come to it when all that was left was the kind of exaltation that came at the end of pain, when nerves no longer knew the difference.

"Shhh," she soothed him, in a voice as rich and sweet as poisoned chocolate. "It's all right, baby. I've got you now."

This time he couldn't control the scream.

###

Hell isn't something human senses can understand, but then Cordelia's not human here. The landscape is black ash, stretching flat in every direction, the light a featureless gray that comes from everywhere and nowhere. Smoke rises, shimmering the horizon with heat, and sometimes -- sometimes -- she can see bodies writhing in the ashes, like slow-turning worms. Things stalk at the edges of her vision, but she doesn't fear them anymore. They fear her, instead.

Her demon parts have taken over, but instead of some Goth-demon she's finding that she's bright, glowing, beautiful, strong, powerful. She feels saner than she has in years, here among the damned.

And the damned are so ... damned ... tasty. As the shadow-things crawl closer, she feels them coming apart, being ripped into meat by the force of her presence. Mmmmm. Tingly.

When she sees Angel, it's with new eyes. He's magnificent, wounded, flawed, full of fury and pain and a burning desire to do right. God, he's so beautiful. His suffering is so incredibly eloquent, and his yearning tingles in her mouth and spreads through her body like the finest, lightest champagne. Having the power to save him, to bring an end to all that pain ... it's so right it feels wrong. She wants desperately to heal him, wants it the way she once wanted his body moving on hers.

She can't help but hold him, wanting that power, that pain, that passion.

"Stop," he whispers, and she understands, finally, that she's hurting him, maybe killing him. He's in demon-form too, scrunch-face and glowing yellow eyes, but he still looks vulnerable, is vulnerable. Like everything here, except her.

The smell of this place is incredible -- the richness of human blood, the sweet heat of rot, the red fizzy tang of pain and unvoiced screams. Hell is a place of silence, but she can hear every drop of blood, every whimper, every moan. And it's like the richest music in the world, better than sex, better than anything.

She looks down at Angel, burning white with the light of her love, and knows that here, in this place, she has the power to destroy him. She's stronger, faster, free as she's never been free before. All she has to do is hold him, and he's doomed.

Oh, God.

She's killing him. Sucking him dry, the way he'd suck a human's blood, only what she's consuming is sweeter, purer, more intimate.

She's killing him, and it tastes so good ...

So good she knows, with a sick lurching sense of finality, that she can't stop. A flash of cold blue eyes, smooth golden skin. An eerie sense of being pressed.

She lets go. Angel falls to his knees before her, hiding his eyes. The cool heat of his blood on her hands soaks into her like fog.

"Cordelia," he whispers, and she can see him shaking. "Please. We have to go."

She's not sure she wants to leave. Here, there's nothing to regret, nothing to fear. She is what she is, and it's something she's chosen for herself. She chose to take on demon qualities, for him, and back home it scared her; here, it's a thing of beauty, of joy, of power. Angel can't see that, but it's true. Maybe she's finally found her place. Her destiny. Hell, everybody else has one, why not Cordelia Chase? Why not be the goddess she was always meant to be?

"I like it here," she says, and smiles at him even though he's not meeting her gaze. "Stay with me."

She's draining the life out of this place, sucking it into herself in a rich white swirl. Angel, too. She's drinking pain and eating agony and it's a better meal than the time David Nabbit took her to Chinois on Main and she met Wolfgang Puck ...

Across the boundaries of Hell, she sees something flash gold - a woman, walking in the shimmering heat. It should be impossible to see details, but Cordelia senses the rich flat blue of the woman's eyes, and in that instant she's locked in, locked down, completely helpless before the sense of the inevitable that flows out of the Oracle's gaze.

The Oracle's lips move.

"The portal," Cordelia says in echo. Her voice has layers to it, layers of beauty and meaning; she knows its sound hurts Angel, would hurt anyone with any human blood in them at all. "We need to find the portal."

Angel rasps, "No, we have to go back."

"Not until we have Connor. I saw it, Angel. I saw what would happen." This, too, she's seen in the flash of Oracle's eyes, a reminder of the midnight vision that had brought her sweating and shaking out of a sound sleep. Echoes of it rolled through her, still vivid, and her demon-half responds with a snap of will and purpose. "We can't let it happen. Ever. You don't know how bad this is. How much suffering ..."

She thinks of the baby, cradled warm against her breast, his soft silken skin, the tiny feet that have never been set on a path. Connor. Connor. Connor. It beats in her like a human heart, although she knows that she isn't human right now. Isn't thinking like one, either.

Angel keeps his eyes averted from her radiance. "Why do you want to find Connor? So you can kill him, too?"

And she realizes that's what it is, after all, this odd tenderness inside. Not love, nothing human to it -- this is what demons feel, when they crave human flesh, want the hot spurt of blood and the tough resistance of muscle. Ah. Now she knows. For all the beauty and radiance, she's still a killer. Like Angel. The corruption she radiates is just prettier, and a hell of a lot more powerful.

"I want to save him," she says, and her human parts are panicking, beating at the door of her soul, trying to save her from this terrible thought because saving Connor doesn't mean the same thing to her demon side. Saving and destroying are two halves of the same whole. "I will. No matter what."

She pulls away from him and runs across the flat black landscape, feeling power flooding her as she draws in life and pain from those under the ash. Behind her, Angel stumbles into a run in her wake, barely on his feet; she feels her demon-self reaching out toward him again, pulling him on, sucking the life out of him to build her strength. Things skitter out of her path, and she lets them go, their little lives aren't enough to matter now, not when a feast so big is coming ...

Something huge rears out of the darkness but Angel is there, fighting like a human, like a vampire, with fists and feet and the hot sweet glow of a sword.

She leaves him fighting and continues on, tasting the air, the blood, the pain. The tantalizing hint of something else.

"Cordy!" His shout behind her. She runs on.

Connor. Connor. Connor. She will get him back. Hold him in her arms, with his fragile heartbeat beating fast against her hands ... precious and frantic, beating at her like the wings of a trapped bird ... so easy to set it free ..

There it is, just a shimmer in the dimness. Flickers of red like flame, but it gives no heat, no warmth.

She lunges for it and feels something slam hard into her back. She falls, rolls on scorching ash that burns like acid, and looks up to see Angel standing over her, glaring with beast-eyes, his sword held high and dripping.

"Stop," he says. The word tears out of him like ripped flesh. "I can't let you. Not like this."

She laughs, the way demons laugh, a hard, hot, brittle sound, and flicks him away with a shove, gets to her feet and touches the portal. It shimmers, eddies, closes hot around her.

Halfway through it, she feels her demon-self slide away, stripped raw, and she falls back into Cordelia flesh, Cordelia confusion, Cordelia fear.

And then the pain really begins, until she feels Angel's arms close around her, dragging her through the fire that's no longer cool, no longer a portal to anything but death.

And then … like magic … they're in Quar-toth. She knows it's Quar-toth because it looks a whole lot like Hell, only worse.

Much, much worse.

She screams and hides her face against Angel's chest.

###

Justine woke up the next morning exhausted and still humming; when she eased out of bed and stood up her legs trembled as if she'd been at sea for a month. She felt scraped raw, sunburned with passion. The beaten ache of yesterday was different now, sweeter, more intimate.

As she showered she waited for regrets to sink their fangs in, but nothing happened. No regrets, no shame, nothing. Just a vast, unfamiliar sense of peace, and an unexpected absence of the hatred that had driven her since the day her sister died.

Glowing and damp, she inspected the filthy clothes that were all she had left to wear. She decided the ragged underwear was too much to stand and skinned the pants on without them. She wanted the rough caress of denim on her still-sensitized areas, anyway. No bra, just the thin t-shirt, stained here and there with Wesley's blood.

She heard sheets rustle and looked over to see that Wesley was awake, watching her dress. She twisted her damp hair into a knot at the back of her head and secured it with a rubber band.

"Going somewhere?" he asked. Back to the controlled British facade, but there was a purring undertone that hadn't been there before.

"Yeah, and so are you. Better get up. If we leave now, we'll get to the vamps two hours before dark."

He didn't move. She reached over and slapped his feet under the covers.

"We could just go," he said. "Have you thought of that?"

"Just keep driving," she agreed. "Yeah. I've thought about it. We could."

She turned to face him. His eyes were dark indigo this morning, the color of the sky just before dawn.

"But we won't," she said. "You can't leave this unfinished. Neither can I. Not if there's a chance we can make all this right and get the baby back."

"Justine …" He shook his head. "I'm sorry. I wish -- "

"Wishes, horses, etcetera. Just get your fine Limey ass up and let's do this thing." She smiled. "Unless you were thinking of doing something else."

He smiled back. Warm. Uninhibited. "Tempting. On the other hand I don't have any real desire to explore a place called the Dead Church after sunset."

She opened up her knapsack and spread out a clatter of wooden stakes, crossbow bolts, plastic bottles of holy water, crosses.

"After sunset," she said, and checked the point on a stake, "we'll be back to thinking of new ways to shock each other."

"You think there's something left?" He got out of bed. She paused to watch him, lost in the gleam of skin in shadow as he pulled on a clean pair of underwear and blue jeans.

"Mmmm," she said. "I'd be willing to bet you have one hell of an imagination."

###

All business in the car. Wesley rested in the passenger seat while Justine drove; all in all, he was worse off. The bruises he'd collected yesterday had turned spectacularly vivid, and when he moved they stabbed so painfully it almost took his breath.

Amazing, the anaesthetic the human body could produce when in pursuit of pleasure. He hadn't felt a single twinge until after he'd come awake this morning. Come awake. Well, the dream had been spectacularly, lazily sexual, and then he'd opened his eyes to find it hadn't been entirely fiction, which was an unexpected surprise.

His fingertips still ached to stroke her skin, particularly that elegant curve down her spine and over the ripe swell of her buttocks. He closed his eyes and concentrated on reliving it in imagination, where it was safer and less luridly painful to his battle scars.

From time to time, she made a comment, mostly about the weather or the road or the prospects of painful death; his replies were polite, distant, all surface, but in his mind she was lying naked against him, sealed with sweat, still hungry. He didn't think he'd ever actively fantasized about a woman sitting just inches away, who'd moreover already proved herself willing and able to respond. But then this was business, after all. The last business he'd have with Daniel Holtz, Angel, the lot of them.

It was just safer to dream, for now.

Until it was over. And then ...

He had no idea what would happen then. It was amazingly hopeful to have such a wealth of possibilities.

Around mid-afternoon, they found the barely-visible turnoff into the thickening jungle; the shaky map Justine had drawn from her victim's descriptions hadn't been that exact. Another hour until the road dead-ended outside of a poor, dirty village in a wall of unwelcoming green.

"Well," Justine said, and turned the engine off. "I guess now we walk."

Continued in The Dead Church (Part 3) ....