by Various
“Tell me what you see, Angel,” Cordelia ordered. He started to pull away but a gentle hand on his elbow—Fred’s—stopped him. “I mean it. Tell me what you see.”
He cleared his throat. “You,” he finally said. “And Fred, Wesley, Gunn.”
“That’s right.” Cordelia stared into the mirror and the eyes in her reflection were piercing. “What makes a man is not just the man himself, Angel. It’s everything he is—his life, his friends. Maybe you can’t see yourself in this mirror, but you can see the other parts of your life, and those parts count for a lot.”
Wesley’s hand fell on Angel’s shoulder. “She’s right, Angel. While it’s true that an attractive surface can mask unpleasantness, the opposite is also true—something that looks ordinary and everyday, something you see every day, can provide the foundation for good in a person’s existence.”
Angel frowned and started to argue, then felt his objections melting away. Cordelia was right, as was Wesley—he had friends in his life, comrades who would fight at his side against the very same kind of evil that had brought these so-called “gifts” into their lives today. They would probably die for him, and he for them; a smile slowly spread across his face and he threw an arm across Cordy’s shoulder and gave her a hug.
While it was true he might not be able to see his reflection in a mirror, he was meant to be in Cordelia, Fred, Wesley, and Gunn’s world, as they were meant to be in his.
1 A.M.
The Anchoress
by Nancy Holder
It was nearly one A.M., and the adventures appeared to be over.
“Which is interesting,” Wesley commented, as he hung up his Bavarian fighting adz in the hotel weapons cabinet. “That we’re finished, I mean. This is the longest night of the year, when evil holds sway over the earth. And yet, it’s quiet now.”
“That’s not interesting, English,” Gunn drawled, as he munched on a taquito. They had gotten some Mexican takeout at the lone open eatery down on La Cienega. Everyone was starving. And cautious. They had made the food run while fully armed. Now Angel had gotten some pig’s blood out of the fridge and was sipping it discretely while he helped Wesley store the weapons. “That’s good news.”
The others wearily nodded in agreement. Fred took some crossbow bolts out of her pockets and gave them to Angel, who replaced them in their box next to a row of crossbows still hanging in the cabinet. Fred was to the crossbow born, Angel thought, rather like another young woman warrior on the side of good—the reigning Slayer, back in Sunnydale.
“Yet it’s not what I would have expected,” Wesley persisted. “The lack of activity,” he added. “If anything, I would have expected things to really shake up about now. The hour between one and two in the morning has been called the hour of darkest magicks. It’s that dark night of the soul one reads about.”
“When one has time to read,” Cordelia grumped, “and not spend the longest night the way we have. By the way, just in case any of you has forgotten, my Christmas list is hanging up in Angel’s office. Also, I made a.pdf file, suitable for downloading.”
Gunn snickered, and Cordelia narrowed her eyes at him. Still grinning, he raised his hands in a “don’t shoot me” gesture and dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin.
“More heart attacks occur between midnight and three A.M.,” Fred offered, then shrugged and giggled in her Fredadorable way at the dismayed reaction she got from Cordelia. Gunn and Wesley both gave her smitten looks, which Cordelia caught and Fred completely missed. “Just thought I’d mention it.”
“And on that happy note,” Cordelia drawled, “I’m going home. Home to my pretty apartment, which is quiet, and only has one supernatural thing in it, who is my very nice and unobtrusive house ghost. Not to have a heart attack, not to have a dark soul thing, just to sleep.” She sighed with contentment at the thought. “Although I guess I have a nice unobtrusive ghost because his mom had a heart attack after she walled him up. Hmm.”
“It’s the circle of real estate,” Gunn suggested.
Angel gestured toward the stairs. “Maybe you should just stretch out here.”
She cocked one eyebrow at him. “Because you think your wage slave is going to get up in a few hours to do some typing and filing? No way, Nighttime Super-strength Vampire Guy. I’m beat and I’m taking tomorrow—or rather, the rest of the day—waaaay off.”
He looked mildly hurt. “You can stretch out here so you don’t have to drive when you’re so sleepy.”
“Oh.” She scratched her head and moved her shoulders. “That’s so thoughtful.”
“I can be Thoughtful Guy.” He looked to the others. “You’ve seen me be Thoughtful Guy.” He tried again. “Cordy, you should stay. It’s too late for you to drive.”
Fred nodded. “Very thoughtful.” She dimpled and blushed.
Cordelia yawned. “Tempting as that is…and you’re the only man who’s tried that line on me lately…I think I’ll go home.”
“Maybe Dennis will give you a loofah,” Fred said, smiling hopefully. “That would be nice.”
“A bubble bath.” Cordelia wiped the blood and demon goo off the machete she’d used and handed it to Gunn, who was passing beside her with an armload of other slicing objects. “Thanks, Gunn.” She moved her head in a slow circle. “That sounds so…ohhhhh…ohhhh…ohhhh…”
Wesley cleared his throat. “Yes, I’m sure that his loofah gives you a great deal of…pleasure, but must you be so Herbal Essences about—”
“Ooooh,” she moaned, and Angel said, “Vision!”
“She’s having a vision!” Fred cried, racing to the sofa to get Cordelia a pillow for soft landing.
Cordelia spun around like a top and collapsed into Angel’s arms. She was nearly convulsing, and Angel held her tightly. The others crouched around, trying to lend support, unable to help, as always. The visioning “gift” was Cordelia’s burden to shoulder alone, and there was nothing anyone could do until she got through the ordeal of receiving one.
As it concluded, she slumped and went limp, and Angel eased her head onto the pillow Fred had so thoughtfully provided. Cordy pressed the fingertips of both hands against her forehead, taking a deep breath, then dropped her hands to her chest and said hoarsely, “Ow.”
“That looked bad,” Fred announced.
“It was.” She licked her lips and touched Angel’s shoulder as he bent over her. “Listen, it’s that weird Stonehenge thing they set up for the Druid Days of Christmas. There’s some wanna-be sorcerers or something…white robes…they’re going to sacrifice a girl.” She took another breath and looked up at Angel. “We have to stop them, Angel.”
“Griffith Park,” Wesley filled in. “They put up a dolmen ring for the Druid Festival. Tonight’s the winter solstice. It makes perfect sense that someone would want to sacrifice someone.”
“They’re going to do it soon,” Cordelia said urgently. “Really, really soon.”
“During the dark night of the soul, just like you said.” Fred grimaced sadly at the others. “No rest for the weary, huh?”
“Or the wicked,” Angel said. To Cordy, he added, “You stay here.”
“No. I’m going,” she insisted, pushing herself up to a sitting position. Angel rose and carefully helped her to her feet.
“You don’t need to go,” Wesley pointed out. “You’re exhausted, and now this…”
Cordelia looped her dark, bobbed hair behind her ear and shrugged. “I do need to. I’m supposed to be there.” She looked at Angel. “I don’t know why, but I know I should go.”
He nodded. She could be stubborn in situations like these.
Wearily, but with determination, they all got their weapons back out of storage. Cordelia traded the filthy machete for a broadsword. Fred put her crossbow over her shoulder. Gunn kept his specially made hubcap ax and Wesley hefted his adz. Angel put a few stakes in his pockets, but other than that, he was his own best weapon.
Moving briskly, they retraced
their steps back out of the hotel. The engine of Angel’s convertible was still ticking as it cooled down. As they began to cram into the front and back seats, Angel said, “Maybe we should buy a special Angel Investigations van.”
“Can’t afford it,” Cordelia shot back. “Hey, maybe the sacrificial victim is rich. And will be grateful.”
Wesley’s face grew shadowed, and Cordelia knew he was thinking about Virginia, his old girlfriend. Not realizing that his little girl was no virgin, her father had planned to sacrifice her to the goddess Yeska. Wesley had saved her, and they had had quite a relationship. Then reality intruded—Wesley had been shot by a zombie cop—and Virginia had realized she couldn’t handle it if Wesley got killed. And hey, with demon-fighting, it could happen any day.
Or night…
“Anybody want a taquito?” Gunn asked, raising the large bag.
“Me,” everyone said…everyone but Angel.
Armed and chewing, they drove to Griffith Park.
Griffith Park was home to many things—the famous observatory, an exquisite view of glittering downtown Los Angeles, and a strange little place called Train Town. The rolling lawns and palm trees were recognizable in many Hollywood films. A noteworthy amount of demonic activity also took place there. Lorne, the Host of Caritas, had informed the group that in Los Angeles, demons hired location scouts, justas film and TV producers did, to search out convenient and useful places to conduct their rituals, battles, and killings, and Griffith Park was one of the most popular locations in Los Angeles to foment evil.
“My guess is that there’s some kind of inharmonic convergence there,” Lorne had offered. “Like a hell-mouth.”
That would explain a lot, Wesley thought now, including the strange, queasy feeling I have right now.
Or it might be that taquito…
Angel parked as closely as possible to the Stonehenge re-creation. They were actually behind it; the parking for the public faced the base of the ravine in which it had been built. They had a bird’s-eye view from where they stood of the large stones circling a natural amphitheater-like basin. As the Druid Festival closed at dusk for each of its five days, no provisions had been made for illuminating it for public view; now, torches on staffs flickered and billowed in the chilly December predawn night.
Wesley took point, grimly watching as six white-robed figures pranced ridiculously around papiermâché recreations of the huge stones out on England’s Salisbury Plain. They’d gotten the placement of the stones correct—there was the interior set of bluestones, and the outer lintels and sarsens he knew so well from many a field trip to the site. The props were crudely done, especially considering that they had been fashioned in a local special effects shop, at least according to yesterday’s article about the Druid Festival in the Los Angeles Times. But the construct itself was sound. And yet, to what purpose?
Americans, Wesley thought. Who on earth out here in Los Angeles actually knows or cares a fig about the Druids? Yanks have more Renaissance fairs and Scottish games than all of the British Isles put together. They threw us out, insisted upon defining themselves as something other than Englishmen, but when it comes down to it, they spend an awful lot of time watching British sitcoms and reading up on the exploits of the Royal Family…and prancing about in inaccurate getups sacrificing virgins.
Wesley began to climb down the ravine. The others fell in behind him and did the same.
As if on cue, the six men below them began to chant in a sort of low-grade hum that quickly grated on Wesley’s nerves.
“Hey,” Gunn whispered to him as they crept through the manzanita and white sage underbrush, “is it my imagination, or do those guys remind you of the guards in The Wizard of Oz?”
“It’s your imagination,” Cordelia whispered behind the two of them. “And stop making so much noise, Gunn.”
“Excuse me?” He looked over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes at her. “You tellin’ me how to run my game? I was sneaking into vampire nests while you were still shakin’ pom-poms and praying for field goals.” He gave her heeled boots a glance that dripped with ridicule. “And I’m not the one lookin’ like a Charlie’s Angels wanna-be, makin’ too much noise with my damn shoes.”
“For your information, our team always made their field goals,” she hissed.
“Rah rah,” he snickered.
“Hey.” Angel waved a hand at them. “Hush, you two.”
“Who you tellin’ to hush?” Gunn challenged, but he hushed. Cordelia did too.
It was uncharacteristic of Gunn and Cordelia to spar during a sneak attack. They’d actually moved past that point in their relationship…or so Wesley had assumed.
We’re all very tired, Wesley thought. The longest night of the year is proving to be just that.
Then the Druid guys drew away from the stones and raised their arms toward the bright full moon. Their sleeves slipped down, revealing circular Celtic knot tattoos. Each man—all six of the figures were male—held a curved, jeweled knife in his right hand, the wicked-sharp blades flashing in the moonlight.
Blood dripped from the crescent-shaped weapons.
On the altar lay a girl clad in a white robe. She had long flowing hair like Fred’s, and a wreath of laurel leaves was twined across her forehead. Her feet were bare. Her arms and legs were bound to the altar by wicked-looking hooks. She was gagged.
Blood trickled from each of her wrists.
“O…kay. I know I’d rather be shopping,” Cordelia said anxiously.
So would that girl, Wesley filled in.
Fred murmured, “She’s a little cyanotic, which means that she’s already lost a lot of blood.”
Then Wesley raised a hand and pointed to the left, giving Gunn the signal to move out. The tall street fighter nodded once and began to make a circle through the brush toward a towering palm tree. Wesley made a similar gesture to the right, giving Angel that direction.
Cordelia, he gestured to angle between the path they were on, and the wider half-circle Angel was making. Fred, toward Gunn.
He hefted his adz and made straight for twelve o’clock.
Or a little thereafter, he thought, as the Los Angeles Druids registered the attack and began to wildly shout.
One hour, to be precise.
He broke into a run.
And then everything began to shimmer.
Salisbury Cathedral,
the Salisbury Plain, England.
A. D. 1329
Sister Elizabeth broke into a sweat as she rolled in a delirium on the rushes of her cell. Faithful Brother Thomas knelt by her side, praying his rosary, his tonsured head bowed in fervent prayer. He had lowered the wooden window that was her only portal to the outside world and locked it tight. But as it was situated at ground level, to the right of the main facade of the cathedral, she was afforded little privacy.
Anchoresses were thought not to require privacy. In fact, moments when they were left alone might prove to be the moment when Satan came to violate God’s chosen handmaidens…
But I don’t believe that is what has happened, in her case. No matter the evidence to the contrary.
Yet he was terrified…for himself and for her.
“It is he…the demon and his followers,” she panted. “He comes at last! He is here, to steal my soul!”
“Hail Mary,” he chanted in Latin, but her writhing and her suffering distracted him from his office. “My sister, be calm, be still.”
“I see him, with his glowing eyes and his fangs. He is the drinker of blood. They worship him…there is another demon who follows him, one with green skin and crimson eyes. He is the leader’s troubadour.” She tugged at her wimple. “I’m burning with fever, Brother Thomas. The fires of hell itself are consuming me!”
“Hush, my child, hush,” he begged her, casting an anxious glance over his shoulder. If the others should hear her…
“Don’t you understand? He is here!” she screamed, grabbing at his sleeves.
“You�
�you are dreaming,” he said firmly.
There had already been whispered accusations of witchcraft against her. She was in a precarious situation…as was he, her spiritual confessor and, perhaps, her only remaining friend within the cathedral walls. Perhaps it was because he was a little bit in love with her that he continued to trust in her; or maybe, as the second son of a widely traveled family with holdings in many lands, which he had visited, he was more sophisticated and worldly than many of his brother monks. Whatever the case, he did not view her strange visions as evidence that she should be burned alive for witchcraft.
Others did.
An Anchoress was said to enjoy a special, private communion with the Sacred Heart of the Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Her ability to see into the spiritual realms was bestowed upon her at His holy will. Such a daughter of the Church must be safeguarded and treasured like any other special gift. Accordingly, she was walled alive into the cathedral, into the sanctuary of Holy Mother Church herself, and guarded night and day. The only entry into her sanctuary lay deep within the church itself, behind the altar…a narrow, gated door through which only men who had taken holy orders were allowed to go. Three were chosen for this special task: Brother Thomas, Brother Mattias, and Brother Joseph.
Mattias had died soon after being given his new duty. And Sister Elizabeth had tearfully demanded that Brother Joseph be forbidden entry into her cell again, casting much suspicion upon his conduct with the lovely young girl. But since he denied any impropriety, the Abbot had declared that the only thing to do was to honor Sister Elizabeth’s request. The special honor was taken from Brother Joseph…and thus it was that Brother Thomas became the only monk to enter Sister Elizabeth’s cell, to bring her food, and to hear her confession.
Jealousy was rampant.
It was then that mutterings against her began.
The world outside was oblivious to the politics inside the cathedral. As far as the laity were concerned, the monks took care of the precious Anchoress, providing and caring for her—and some said, treating her as a prisoner.