by Various
Her feet slipped. The frenzied crazy people battered her gate with noise and their bodies. And Cordelia’s eyes opened very wide as two artistically placed garden boulders beside Gunn shimmered and bulged and suddenly became squat lumpy demons. Huge squat lumpy demons.
Gunn gave them a surprised look, and then looked back at the smaller one. “This must be Baby Bear, then.”
“You heard me,” Angel said to them. “You’re not welcome here. Point of fact, you’re not welcome anywhere. But especially not here. Not anywhere on my turf.”
“Or mine,” Gunn said. “And that just about covers the West Coast, wouldn’t you say?”
But Mama and Papa Potato Head didn’t squeak in dismay. They didn’t quail before Angel. Their protruding eyes narrowed and their bulgy surfaces shifted and their mouths—
—their mouths—
Gaping wide mouths were hinged at the back of their heads and filled with rows and rows of sharklike teeth.
“Flip-top heads,” Gunn said in disbelief. “Wesley never said a thing about flip-top heads!”
Annoyance crossed Angel’s features. “Be that way,” he said to the posturing demon—and swung. Cordelia heard the crack of his bench plank—
No. She heard the crack of her own board finally giving way before the assault on the gate. Now she was the one who squeaked, suddenly envisioning herself caught behind the gate as it slammed open and back against the fence. “What is your problem?” she muttered to the mob, a meaningless mumble of protest…
Except maybe it wasn’t all that meaningless. What excuse did they have now? Angel and Gunn had the demons fully engaged—a quick glance confirmed as much, revealing Gunn’s desperate dodge away from what had turned into an amazingly fast dumpy little demon and its gaping maw—and still the people threw themselves at the gate, mindless and heedless of the damage they took. Even as Cordelia felt the darkness of the demon-driven negativity lift from her own heart—the demons were too busy fighting to siphon off everyone’s happies—the crowd pressed on, too far gone to stop now. Here, in the middle of a cold holiday night when they should be indoors spreading what comfort and joy they could take, they spread chaos instead, locked into that which the mimic demons had started. Even as Wes disappeared beneath them, and Angel and Gunn fought for them, they came on.
Cordelia flipped around to face them—a terrifying sight, inches from the distorted faces of those in front. She opened her mouth to bellow at them, to snap some sense into them—
And suddenly realized it would just feed their all-too-human frenzy. That they’d had enough of anger and hardship and cruelty piled on their already cruel lives. That they needed what the mimic demons had already taken from them, all the kindness and understanding and the things this season was supposed to bring out in everyone, no matter their faith.
But her mouth was still open. Still ready to bellow. So bellow she did, squeezing her eyes shut. “Si-ilent night!” Then a deep breath, and even louder, “Ho-oly night!”
In the background, she could hear Angel’s grunt of effort, Gunn’s shout of warning.
“All is calm!” Cordelia bellowed, hitting one or two of the actual notes to the Christmas carol this time. “All is—”
She suddenly realized her voice rang—or shrieked, depending on your point of view—into silence.
She opened her eyes.
The people on the other side of the gate stared at her aghast.
“What?” she said. “It got your attention, didn’t it?” But as much as they reacted to her, they reacted to the scene behind her, which they’d finally noticed. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder just in time to see the last mimic demon, the biggest one, lunge at Angel with its mouth open wide. Angel met it with a powerful kick right on the snout, forcing the flip-top head back even further—and widely enough that he was able to jam the remains of his bench plank past the sharky teeth and into the demon’s mouth, propping it open.
The demon made a gurgling noise and backed away, its stubby Potato Head arms waving in a futile effort to reach and remove the plank. It bit down hard—
And forced the wood right up through the roof of its mouth. As Angel and Gunn backed away, staggering a little in the aftermath of the fight, the demon stiffened, tottered slightly in place, and fell to its side with a meaty thud.
The people looked like they might want to cheer, but as if they also weren’t quite sure it was the right thing to do.
“There,” Cordelia said to them, glad they’d moved away from the gate a few steps. “It’s over. No more fighting!”
They looked at Cordelia, looked at the demons, and looked especially at Angel—no doubt they’d seen him pull some typically inhuman move during the fighting. “Go on,” she said, making a shooing motion at them. “You made so much noise, the cops’ll probably be here any moment. They’re only a block away, after all.”
That did it. Within moments they’d eased into the darkness, most of them heading for the mission and its warm coffee and warm beds. Cordelia saw her hat on someone’s head and patted futilely at her own head. Terminal hat hair. She sighed heavily and said out loud to no one in particular, “To diminish freckles, rub them with a freshly cut eggplant every day.”
“Or…,” said Wesley’s not-too-steady voice, “you can always acquire…a nosebridge…to create that sleek, straight profile the Mayans found so attractive…between those slightly crossed eyes.”
“Wesley! You’re all right!” She reached between the bars of the fence to help him stand.
“I seem to be,” he said, not sounding entirely certain. His glasses hung askew over one ear, and he made a token effort to brush himself off. “The first layer of those who so gleefully piled atop me seems to have protected me from the rest of them. Really, I have no idea what got them started—”
Cordelia nodded at the demons. “Standing right in front of the demons as they sucked all the good out of people?” she suggested.
“So that’s what they look like!” Wesley straightened his glasses just long enough to get a glimpse of the mimic demons—one of whom Gunn suspiciously nudged with his foot as if he thought the demon was mimicking being a dead mimic demon—and then the glasses fell apart in his hand.
“Sorry about that.” Nameless Man came up behind Wesley, reaching past him to remove what remained of Cordelia’s improvised gate latch and tossing the bits of wood carefully to the side with the look of someone who’d marked a thing of value. Firewood, Cordelia realized. “You can see why we needed help.”
Gunn gave the demon a final little kick. “Maybe some of your people can clear these things out before anyone comes around asking questions.”
“Already got someone on it,” the man said. He hesitated. “You know we can’t pay you.”
“We already covered that,” Angel said, lifting the heavy gate so it could open without scraping along the cement walkway. “I told you, we’re being paid.”
The man tipped his head in a highly skeptical look. Without even knowing she was going to say it, Cordelia added, “No, really. It’s true.” And then she guessed it was. Angel had his reasons for taking this job; she’d discovered she had some of her own.
They checked each other over for grievous wounds and found none, made sure Wesley was steady on his feet, and—taking Cordelia’s advice about vacating the area before anyone official showed up—headed for the San Julian entrance of the men’s dorm area. There they took off their borrowed outer clothes, preparing for a chilly walk back to Angel’s GTO and the jackets they’d stowed there. Cordelia apologized for the torn sneakers as she pulled them off and slipped her feet into the flats she’d had stuffed in her sweater’s big side pockets. And then, hesitating, she took off the sweater itself, giving its warm knit sleeves a last pat as she put it in the pile with the other returned belongings.
They took the long way around the Union Rescue Mission, avoiding the park and any attention it might have garnered. As they walked the quiet street back to Angel’s c
ar, he glanced at her and said, “Did that help?”
“Yeah,” she said, thinking again of how good it had been to find him when she’d felt so alone, and so desperate she couldn’t even admit it to herself. Not then, anyway.“A little.” She looked back at him. “You?”
He gave her the smallest of smiles. “Yeah,” he said. “A little.”
3 A.M.
Icicle Memories
by Yvonne Navarro
“Man,” Gunn said. “I never want to go through another night like this one. I’m exhausted.”
Wesley, slumped on one of the chairs across from him in the lobby, gave a small nod. “I’ll certainly second that. I can’t remember when we’ve had such a plethora of difficulties in one evening.”
Gunn smirked. “Plethora?”
Wesley looked at him in surprise. “It means—”
“I know what it means,” Gunn retorted. “I’m just waiting for you to break out the college duds and podium.”
“Humor him,” Cordelia said. “He likes big words.”
Gunn’s eyebrow raised. “I’d hoped wandering around cold on the streets would numb the part of his brain that makes him talk.”
“Very funny.” Wesley scowled. “I hardly think that criticizing me for my vocabulary is appropriate. Surely you can find something else on which to focus.”
Gunn grinned. “Want me to make you a list?”
“For a couple of guys griping about being tired, you sure seem to have energy to rag on each other.” Angel was standing next to Cordy by the lobby’s counter. “Or is this your version of staying in the holiday spirit?”
“Everyone’s cranky,” Cordelia said with a sigh. She leaned forward on her elbows, resting her hands on her chin. “It’s only an hour or so to dawn—I vote we pack it in for the night and head home. Fred’s smart—she already went upstairs to bed.”
“I’m not sleepy,” Angel said.
“Well, bully for you,” Gunn told him. “Us mere mortals are running out of gas here. We—”
“Hey!” Cordelia suddenly stood up straight. “Who spilled water over there by the couch and didn’t clean it up?” She leaned down behind the counter and pulled out her trusty roll of paper towels, then slapped it angrily against her palm. “Since when do I look like a maid? How rude is that?”
“Water?” Angel turned in the direction she was now heading. “Wait—we cleaned up everything from the party, didn’t we?”
“Apparently not.” Wesley got up and joined them as Cordelia tore off a wad of paper towels and tossed it on top of the small puddle, then pushed it around with the toe of her shoe to soak up the moisture. He peered overhead. “I hope we don’t have a leak somewhere.”
“What could be leaking?” Angel asked, following Wesley’s gaze. “Center of the room, no access to the outside walls from here—”
“Darn it, there’s another one!” Cordelia exclaimed. “To the right of the counter.”
Now Gunn got up and joined the two men. “Man, ceiling leaks are the worst, especially in a building like this. They can start at a crack in the brickwork outside, then travel along a beam and not show up until three or four stories later. You got a leak, it could be coming from the freaking fifth floor. Repairmen call it tuck-pointing hell.”
“Marvelous,” Angel said with a sour expression. “That’s just what we wanted to hear.”
“Just keeping you informed,” Gunn said. “Knowledge-edge is power.”
“Rah rah,” Angel muttered. He stared hard at the ceiling. “But I still don’t see where it’s leaking.”
“Okay,” Cordelia said. Now she sounded totally peeved. “Three times is not the charm. Where the heck is this water coming from?” This time she bent down and swiped at it with a pull from the quickly diminishing paper towel roll. Her hand hit the liquid, then pulled back. “And it’s freezing!”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Wesley went over and crouched beside her, then touched a finger to the puddle she was trying to mop up. “It’s probably a good fifty degrees outside, and the water wouldn’t be much colder.”
“Hey, guys?” Fred’s voice filtered down from the railing overhead. “Is it just me, or is it getting colder in here?” She came down the stairs, and they could see she was wearing flannel pajamas under a heavy terry cloth robe. Still, she was rubbing her arms, trying to generate some warmth. “Okay, it’s a little better down here, but it’s not exactly a southern California night. More like…I don’t know. South Dakota?”
Gunn reached out to pat her shoulder, then almost recoiled. “She isn’t kidding—even her clothes feel cold!”
“Are you sure the heating vent is open in your room?” Wesley asked. “Sometimes—”
“Of course it’s open. I already checked.”
The look Fred shot him was gentle but chastising, and Wesley looked appropriately embarrassed. “Of course you did.”
“Well, the furnace fan is working but that’s not enough,” Angel said from across the room. He was bending in front of one of the vents with his hand in front of it. “I can feel the circulation, but the air isn’t very warm.”
“Let me see,” Cordelia said, and hurried over to join him. “You’ve got that whole vampire thing going—you don’t feel tired, you can see at night, you might not even notice if the temperature’s falling.” She waved her hand in front of the vent, then shuddered. “Jeez, who turned on the air conditioner?”
Wesley pressed his lips together. “Looks like I’ll have to go down and check the furnace. Maybe the pilot light went out.”
Cordelia’s eyes widened. “Great—now we could get blown up?”
“No,” Fred told her. “While the fan might still function, there will be an automatic safety shut off to the gas valve.”
“Yeah, well.” Cordelia didn’t sound convinced. “Just don’t go down there and flick any lighters.”
“I’ll take a flashlight. And I’ll turn it on before I get down there,” Wesley promised.
“I’ll go with you,” Gunn offered. “The way things have been going tonight, I don’t think anyone should go in a basement or a closet, or even a pantry, without backup.”
Wesley nodded. “Good deal. Let’s go.”
“Take a coat,” Fred called after them. “If you think it’s getting cold up here, just imagine what it’ll be like down there.” She looked pained. “In the dark.”
“It’ll only take a minute,” Wesley said.
“Yeah,” Gunn added. “If we’re not back in ten minutes, send the big guns.”
“Not funny,” Cordelia said grumpily. “I think we’ve had enough of that today, thank you very much.” But the two men were already gone, headed in the direction of the service stairwell.
“It’s probably just the pilot light, like Wesley said,” Angel said to break the uncomfortable pause that followed. “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”
“We shouldn’t underestimate it either,” Fred began, then dropped into silence at Angel’s warning look and curled up in a ball on one of the chairs, huddling inside her heavy robe. Cordy said nothing as she pulled a sweater off a peg behind the counter and slipped it on, driving her hands into the pockets to protect them against the now quickly dropping temperature. Despite what Cordelia had said, even Angel could feel how chilly it was in here—something was way off-kilter with the furnace. He hoped it wasn’t going to be some three-or four-thousand-dollar replacement deal. Southern California it might be, but heat was still an occasional necessity for nighttime…although it was way colder in here now than the typical West Coast evening, even for December twenty-first. “I know,” he said suddenly. “I’ll go start a pot of coffee to warm things up. Regular or decaf?”
“Regular,” Cordelia said, a little grumpily. “If it’s not real, it’s not worth it.”
“Right.”
He was only in the kitchen for a few minutes, but they dragged past, and the temperature kept dropping. When Angel returned—he was too impatient to wait for the p
ot to finish brewing—he realized he could see the breath fogging in front of Fred and Cordelia and a line of frost accumulating along the edge of the front counter. “All right, how long has it been?”
“It feels like forever,” Cordelia said. “But I think we’re talking about six or seven minutes.”
“That’s long enough,” Angel said decisively. “If they’d found the problem and lit the pilot light, you ought to be feeling some warmth by now. I’m going down to check on them.”
“Not by yourself, you’re not.” Cordelia stood at the same time Fred unfurled and climbed out of her chair.
“I’m a little better equipped to take care of myself,” Angel pointed out.
“Says you.” Rather than stay back, Cordelia and Fred both headed for the service stairway. “Coming?”
Shaking his head, Angel followed, then lengthened his stride to move in front of them before either could open the door. When he put his hand on the knob, the metal was frigid, like touching an outside lamppost in ten degree weather—not a good sign. The blast of arctic air that washed over them when he pulled open the door was anything but welcoming, but at least the light switch on the wall worked; he could see where Wesley and Gunn had left it on. The light itself was more in the not-so-great realm: thin and faraway, a dribble of illumination from a bare bulb down at the bottom of the stairwell.
“I hate basements,” Fred said. She was trying to be brave, but there was a tremble in her voice. Nevertheless, she followed Angel and Cordelia down the stairs.
While each step downward took them closer to that pathetic source of light, it also brought a noticeable drop in the temperature. It didn’t bother Angel, of course, but the girls were quickly shuddering with cold. “What is this?” Cordelia complained. “Northern Alaska?”
“It sure seems that way,” Angel answered. He pointed. “Look.”