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Disclaimer: Characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, the WB, and UPN.

Part IV

Morning found her little improved. The dreams had come, of course, but so chaotic as to leave no solid memory, only an awareness of turmoil and a slumber that brought no relief. Cordelia got up before sunrise — her alarm clock had been irrelevant for almost two weeks now — and stood in the shower for nearly half an hour. Then she emerged, feeling cleaner and more soothed but not really refreshed, and moved to the next phase of her morning routine.

Her hair really needed a good deep-cleansing shampoo (hand-to-hand combat would work in a few split ends), but she wasn’t in the mood to deal with how long it would take to dry, so she had covered it with a shower cap; she cleared a few snarls with a wide-toothed comb, then brushed her hair thoroughly. Her nails were clipped short, a Slayer simply could not maintain a decent French manicure, but she smoothed the edges and massaged rejuvenating lotion into the cuticles and applied a coat of clear sealer. Different lotion for knees, elbows and heels, yet another brand for her hands, another for her face …

Right. Couldn’t put it off any longer. Time to get a look at her face.

No bruises, her nose was in a straight line, and a cautious wiggle of it with her fingers confirmed that her body had at least begun the process of reattaching the nasal cartilage to the facial bones. She couldn’t see any sign of a bump; there was enough swelling to conceal some possible irregularity, but she’d correct that herself if necessary, even if it meant she had to slit the skin with an X-Acto knife and smooth the underlying structure with a nail file and then let Slayer healing take over.

As expected, the raccoon eyes were very much in evidence. Critical inspection assured her that this was beyond the capabilities of any concealer. Good news was, she had the rest of the long weekend for recovery, so she wouldn’t have to go to school looking this way. Bad news was, she still had to attend the meeting at Giles’ apartment. Maybe — after a muting foundation — go for an even more dramatic make-up style, something with enough contrasts that what still showed of matching shiners would be less noticeable …

… but then, why bother? Nobody at the meeting would care, and nobody would think any better of her just for looking good. In fact, in a reversal of her customary chic-itude as armor, she’d probably get more respect (grudging and mostly subconscious, but there nonetheless) by arriving with enough combat-marks to remind them that she was still the major fighter in Sunnydale’s not-so-secret war.

Even that consideration, however, was really just another way of stalling. All of it — hair, nails, moisturizing, make-up — was serious business, to be sure, a continual attention to bedrock necessities. At the same time, none of those things could compare in importance, today, with what she had been so carefully not thinking about.

She was afraid to let herself hope, and afraid to ask herself why hope would be so frightening. And, recognizing it, Cordelia responded as she did to anything that scared her: she went straight at it.

All her stalking clothes (doing double duty last night for B-and-E) had been secured in the back of her closet. Cordelia reached in and pulled out the hip-pack, removed the floppy disk, and went to the personal computer at the small desk across from her bed. It was already on, she kept nothing on it that she would care if anyone saw, so there was no need to log on or go through any start-up. Just insert the disk into the floppy drive, and click to open the appropriate window. Simplest thing in the world. Nothing, nothing to be afraid of.

Except, maybe, for a large bold-text dialogue box demanding that she enter the password in order to be allowed access.

She clenched her fists. Right. No surprise that a computer teacher, especially one who’d been working as a mole for the last however-many-years, would encrypt her data, even on a back-up disk. Besides, Cordelia’s life for the last three months had consisted of one pie in the face after another; why should this be any different?

Shrug it off, get a grip, focus on the problem. She had the disk, but that didn’t necessarily mean she had the spell. Past that, if she had the spell, that was no guarantee that the spell would work; if she knew the spell would work, she still had to find out how to make it work; and, even if she had explicit operating instructions, it was unlikely that she would have the skill or power to carry them out, and basically zero chance that she could do it by herself.

Sooner or later, she would need help. She’d always known that. She just wasn’t ready to confide in anyone yet. Not now, not with so little to show, not when she’d have to explain where she got the disk and how she’d known what was on it, when she would have to convince them of what it meant and how it could be used …

… Not when it meant asking them to trust her. Because none of them had any reason to do that.

Cordelia sat, eyes fixed on the uncompromising demand for a password. Computers meant Willow, simple as that. The Slay Friends had grown over the last year and a half, different individuals bringing different skills, but for serious hacking there had never been any choice but Willow. (Or Jenny Calendar, for some things, but she wasn’t exactly available now, was she? At least, not this side of a séance, and that kind of thing tended to go very bad very fast.)

To get the proof she had to have, she needed Willow’s expertise. To get aid from Willow, she needed the proof. Stalemate. It was a situational paradox as unyielding as the computer itself, and she couldn’t seem to force her brain out of that repeating, fruitless loop. Proof, Willow. Willow, proof.

There had to be a way, but she wouldn’t find it by glaring at the screen. Or by hurling her PC out the window, however appealing that might feel in the immediate moment.

Sitting in her room, facing a closed-logic problem with no seeming solution, Cordelia found herself confronted by a truth more frightening than anything she could have imagined:

I can’t do this alone.

*               *               *

The gathering at Giles’ apartment was a waste of Cordelia’s time, pointless except for two things. The first was that she couldn’t avoid it, she had to be there to discuss the break-in as part of covering her involvement in same. The second … well, wasted or not, she really didn’t have anything else on her schedule right now. Until she could figure a way to get into the locked disk, she was at an impasse.

Ten-ish, Oz had said. She arrived at a quarter till. Even if the meeting accomplished nothing, at least it was something to do. She catalogued the damage to the door — a section of plywood had been nailed over the hole in the bottom, it would be natural for her to ask — and rang the bell. While waiting, she reviewed everything she’d been told last night … because that, and only that, was what she could admit to knowing.

It was Oz who answered the door, and Cordelia blanked for a second. For him to be standing in front of her, while she’d been focused on her memory of their last conversation, was briefly disconcerting, or perhaps it was something in that unwavering, imperturbable gaze. “I’m here,” she announced unnecessarily. “So, is everybody else?”

“Mostly,” Oz said. “Still waiting for Willow, she should show in a few minutes.” He moved back to give Cordelia room to enter, but didn’t actually invite her to do so. It was a habit they had all fallen into, though no official policy had ever been instituted. As Cordelia stepped inside, he went on, “Willow told me she’d called Owen, but he said he’d pass on this one. He’ll still help with apocalypses, but day-to-day stuff, not so much.”

Cordelia nodded. Owen had been drifting away for some time now. He’d lost heart, rather than nerve, but it was a loss nonetheless. Maybe he’d just been dealt one too many concussions … or, with Nancy Doyle’s death, one too many bereavements.

Giles was waiting in the living room, what he insisted on calling a sitting room. The sight of him was a jolt, one of several. He’d been in the wheelchair for weeks now, but she could never get accustomed to seeing him so. That was followed by recognition that “everybody” now consisted of him and Xander; there was herself, of course, and Oz beside her, and the yet-to-arrive Willow, but it was disturbing to see just how deeply the ranks of the Slay Friends had been reduced. Finally, as her eyes took in the interior of the apartment, she realized that she hadn’t been here in a long, long time: last night’s foray didn’t count, she’d been able to see little more than vague outlines, and even the Slayer dream depicting Jenny’s death hadn’t really impressed any details on her.

They were there now, and impossible to miss. The dead woman had left her stamp on the apartment, a shifting of furnishings with the occasional substitution, small knick-knacks, planters, wall hangings … accents changing the atmosphere in shades of earth browns, dusty greens, slate blues. Even with her personal possessions stowed upstairs, the place showed the imprint of her personality. A casual observer, not knowing the full truth, could be excused for thinking she was still in residence upstairs.

Giles regarded Cordelia with the schooled expression that acknowledged her presence without granting her anything else. The glance Xander gave her brimmed with the usual bleak anger, but not yet at the level that would warn of impending explosion. “Saw the décor on your door,” Cordelia announced without preamble. They might treat her like a leper, but she was damned if she’d act like one. “How’d they manage to saw their way in without waking you up?”

“I don’t believe a saw was used,” Giles said. “Some type of tool — a chisel, perhaps — but the principal penetration was effected by the application of a corrosive substance.”

“Huh.” Cordelia gave the appearance of considering that. “Secretions of some kind? ’cause then you could narrow it down to which demons do stuff like that.”

“I could,” Giles said. “But from the odor, I suspect it was common battery acid. And from the tool marks, and the boot prints found outside, the perpetrator — or perpetrators — would appear to have been human rather than demon.”

“That’s two strikes, and you haven’t been here a whole minute yet.” Xander’s voice held no faint note of humor; it was steady, level, and dead. “Go ahead, show us some more of that keen Slayer insight.”

Cordelia gave him a flat look of her own. “Okay. If it was human, then maybe burglars. Was anything taken?”

“And she’s out, slinking back to the dugout.” His laugh was a mirthless bark. “Oh, yeah, sports fans, yet another disappointing performance by the substitute batter. But then, nobody really held out any hopes —”

“Hey,” Willow called cheerily as she came in. Oz was with her, he must have gone back to wait at the door. “Did I miss anything?”

“No, we just got started.” It was Marcie’s voice, coming from practically over Cordelia’s shoulder, and only long-practiced social poise kept Cordelia from jumping, startled. “Queen Cordy’s being a ditz, as usual. Xander’s being a bastard, as usual. And Oz and Giles are being all soft-spoken and repressed. As usual.”

Oz nodded. “Man’s gotta go with his strengths,” he agreed.

“Cordelia arrived only a few minutes ago,” Giles said to Willow. “At this point, she knows no more than I told you by telephone last night — this morning, actually — so we can proceed from there.”

“I think Xander just said nothing was taken during the break-in.” Cordelia kept her tone even. “Hard to be sure, what with having to dig through all the sarcasm, but that’s how it sounded.”

“Nothing appears to have been taken,” Giles corrected, with a warning look at Xander. “The intrusion was done with such meticulous craft, one must assume that any search or theft might have been equally surreptitious. Still, Marcie and I have done as comprehensive an inventory as possible, with particular attention to mystical artifacts or texts, and been unable to establish that anything is missing.”

“All right.” This time Cordelia really was thinking; she needed to contribute something here, even if only for show. “So, three possibilities. They didn’t find what they wanted. They did find it — and took it or copied it — without leaving anything to tip us off. Or else they had some total different reason for coming here in the first place.” She looked to Giles. “Did they leave anything besides footprints?”

“Scraps of crumpled paper,” Giles said. “Strips of adhesive tape. A rubber doormat. All safely anonymous. We could test them for fingerprints, I suppose, but the types of persons who would concern us would be unlikely to appear in any police database, assuming they left prints at all.”

A chill ran through Cordelia, masked by a measured nod. She’d forgot about the paper-balls she’d used to test for motion detectors. Good thing she’d made sure they carried no traces, in case she’d been forced to make a quick getaway. “What kind of paper?” she asked. “And what was written on them?”

“They were blank,” Giles told her. “And, so far as we could ascertain, they appear to be ordinary paper. I’m afraid I can only speculate as to their purpose.”

“What about the footprints, then?” Cordelia went on. “How many different prints? And could you tell anything from them? like, you know, tribal markings or extra toes or the reverse-stamp of a custom label saying ‘MADE FOR CECIL TALISMAN-STEALER’?”

“One boot-print,” Oz supplied, “and a partial that just showed a heel. Kind of a smooth tread on the bottom, like galoshes or fisherman’s waders. I’d say size twelve, and deep enough to be a fair-sized guy.” He glanced toward Giles and Xander, one eyebrow tilted. “Thing is, it looked like the print went straight down, not sort of rolling the way people actually walk. Not speaking as Daniel Boone here, but I kinda think the prints may have been left on purpose. To throw us off.”

“Yeah?” Marcie’s voice again; she seemed to have moved nearer to Giles’ wheelchair. “Throw us off how? Boots are boots.”

Cordelia shook her head. This was edging too near the truth, she needed to divert it quickly. “We see boot-prints, we think human. A demon might do that, to keep us from checking out the usual suspects.” She looked to Giles. “I could swing by Willy’s tonight, see if he’s heard any rumors.”

“I don’t know,” Willow said. “It just feels wrong.” At a quizzical look from Oz, she went on. “Demons, not really big on subtlety. Even the ones that are smart enough, they’re generally smart in a fiendish-plan way, not a cover-your-tracks way. It’s not … it’s not egotistical enough.”

“She’s got a point,” Xander observed. “When’s the last time we dealt with a modest hell-beast? I’m with Willow: some demons are sneaky, but this is sneaky with a human flavor to it.”

“Which still doesn’t tell us anything about what I asked,” Cordelia pointed out. “Namely, why did they come here? To take something? To leave something? To learn something? We don’t seem to have a clue.” To Giles she said, “Did they leave any hex-marks? Burn any incense? Take … I don’t know, little stuff, fingernail clippings or strands of hair, anything they could use in some kind of personalized spell?”

Giles frowned. “I have some basic charms in effect here, I’m sure I would know if any significant enchantment had been worked within these walls.” His expression stiffened. “Except … the room where we stored Jenny’s things … if someone stole something personal to her —”

Cordelia swore inwardly, though she kept her face blank. All her efforts to lead speculation as far as she could from the facts, and now she’d pointed them straight at the target! While she was still questing for some way to forestall this line of inquiry, Marcie did it for her. “Y’know, I don’t think so, Rupe. The door to that room squeaks like a bitch, and my bed’s like four feet away and a cat doesn’t sleep any lighter than I do. All those weeks in the loft got me permanently set on alert mode, if you know what I mean. No way anybody could’ve gone in there without me knowing.”

Multiple astonishments cascaded over one another behind the mask Cordelia already had in place. Marcie lived here? And Cordelia had passed so close to the invisible girl without either of them being aware of the other’s presence? And the ‘squeaky’ door … Cordelia had felt faintly ridiculous, bringing in and using the two-ounce oil can, persevering only because bitter experience had taught her that huge issues could depend on the tiniest details. One slip, one moment’s carelessness, even the faintest whisper of bad luck, and she would have been caught in the act, Slayer toast …

“You’re positive?” Giles was asking. “Please don’t think I’m doubting you, but this, this is a matter of utmost importance to me —”

Marcie interrupted him, her tone brisk. “When’s the last time you tried to get up, any time of the night, and I wasn’t there to help you within twenty seconds?”

Giles nodded reluctantly. “Point taken. Yes, you’ve been quite vigilant. Still …”

“Besides,” Marcie went on, “you had Xan and Willow check through there as soon as they got here, right? because it was mostly them who’d put everything away, so they’d know if anything was different. How ’bout it, guys? Anything look off to either of you?”

“Not that I could tell,” Xander said. “Wil?”

“I didn’t see anything out of place,” Willow said. “And I think we can trust Marcie on this one. She sneaks up on people, they don’t sneak up on her. Even the ones who know she exists, half the time they forget it. Or forget to remember. Whatever, it’s part of the whole ghost-girl thing she does.”

“Very well.” Some of the tension went out of Giles, and he settled back into his chair. “I’ll, um, I’ll do some further detection spells, to be sure no one attempted to invoke Jenny’s spirit at the place of her death, but I suppose I can accept your assurances that her, her mementoes weren’t disturbed.” His eyes found Cordelia’s. “You are asking … incisive questions. It’s good to see that you don’t take this matter lightly.”

“Just trying to be sure we haven’t missed anything.” Cordelia held her voice absolutely level. “I’ve learned how important it is to check all the angles.”

A flicker in Giles’ eyes showed understanding, but then Xander’s voice broke the moment. “And is anybody else here thinking, ‘A day late and a dollar short’?”

It wasn’t even bitter: only bleak, empty, as if the facts weren’t in dispute but he could no longer summon the effort to care. From nowhere the thought came to Cordelia, baseless and irrational: Xander is dying.

For all their recent animosity, it frightened her. They had been close once, had supported and depended on one another … heck, they’d been a couple, even if only in mutual sublimation of what they couldn’t have with the actual objects of their affection. She’d been facing him down for the last several weeks now, refusing to dodge or give ground, but now she looked at him in study rather than defiance.

He had lost weight, and the circles under his eyes would be a close runner-up to what she’d seen in the mirror this morning. Deep creases had sunk into his face, stress lines, and his mouth no longer held the familiar wry twist that she would have thought was stamped into his DNA. Not dying, no, that notion really was irrational, but he definitely didn’t look good. Giles looked better than Xander did right now, and that was saying something.

Was Xander gradually recognizing what Cordelia had sworn never to hint at, that Buffy had fallen in combat while rescuing him, because she’d had to carry the brunt of the fight at the factory? Or had he begun to understand that the former Slayer could linger forever in unending slumber, body functioning but vacant, her soul slipped away and never to return?

Cordelia had refused to accept that. Refusal did nothing to change it.

The stab of realization had forestalled what otherwise would have been an automatic retort to Xander’s gibe, and he didn’t follow it up. The conversation turned to questions as to whether this might be some new initiative from Angel or Spike (or perhaps from both, though most indications were that Drusilla’s death had permanently ended that alliance), but none of them could see how that might be so. Neither vampire had ever used human agents, nor could Giles’ home have been entered by one of the undead. It was speculation that led nowhere, and eventually they ran out of anything to say. It was agreed that they would gather again in the event of new information or meaningful developments, and the meeting — as such — ended.

Cordelia wasted no time in taking her leave, but unexpectedly found Oz beside her in the courtyard of the apartment complex. Surprised, she asked, “Aren’t you and Willow —?”

He shook his head. “Not every minute. And I already knew she’d be going with Xander after this. To visit Buffy.” His expression was unruffled as always. “We do that together sometimes, but I can see it’s not the same for me as for her. So I give her room.” A millimeter’s shrug. “Everybody needs their space.”

They were walking together, not by design but simply because that was the way to the parking lot. “As far as space goes, is Marcie staying with Giles full-time now?”

“Hmm? Yeah.” Oz flicked a quick glance at her. “Has been for awhile. Since he got out of the hospital, about. You didn’t know?”

“Nobody mentioned it,” she pointed out. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I don’t sit at the popular table these days.”

“I noticed, yeah.” Soft as it was, his tone held no sympathy. “Call it negative feedback. Nobody likes what you did. Nobody meaning not me, either. Far as I’m concerned, you got off way easy.” A frown detectible only by someone thoroughly familiar with his minimalist changes of expression. “We should keep you up on the news, though. Dumb not to. I’ll say something to Giles.”

“Fine,” Cordelia said. “Meanwhile, Marcie. How’d that happen? I mean, I’m independent, but she brings new meaning to the word. Plus, I always figured she kind of tolerated Giles. For them to wind up sharing living space, well, I never would’ve thought to watch for that one.”

“We asked,” Oz said simply. “Told Marcie that Giles needed help, but he’d never accept it. Told Giles that Marcie needed a home, but she’d never admit it. Which was true, for both of them. Neither one would ask, but they were both okay with giving.”

“Ah.” Cordelia smiled. “Sneaky.”

Those eyes were suddenly veiled. “Tactful, maybe. Sneaky would be if we were saying something that wasn’t true. Or hiding something we knew they’d want to know about.”

Cordelia’s step faltered, and Oz stopped when she did. She turned to face him. “All right,” she said. “I messed up. I know I messed up. I’ve been beating myself up over it, and I won’t stop anytime soon. You want to blame me, fine. I’m to blame. We both know it, and I’m admitting it. Just tell me what I can do about it.”

Oz took it without reaction, except to glance away as if gathering his thoughts. At last he said, “Don’t know if there’s anything you can do. But if there is, it won’t be fast. We trusted you, and it went bad. Trust … you lose it quick, earn it back slow. Or maybe not at all.” His eyes met hers. “Main thing, though: don’t use us again. Ever.”

“I won’t,” Cordelia said. “I swear I won’t.”

Oz gave her a flick of an eyebrow. “Easy to say.” He began walking again, and Cordelia fell in beside him. “But you did it once. Moved us around like backgammon pieces. Like you were in charge of who got to know the truth and who didn’t.”

Cordelia nodded. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

“If anything had happened to Willow, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” Beat. “Or any conversation.” Another beat. “If Xander had killed you over how it went down with Buffy, I’d have helped cover for him.”

For Oz, this had become a speech of extraordinary length, and the very steadiness of his words conveyed greater impact than any screaming tirade could have done. Unable to speak, Cordelia simply nodded.

“Remember that,” Oz said as they reached the parking lot. “If you do … well, maybe we can manage something from there. Maybe.”

Then he went his way, leaving Cordelia more stricken than ever.
 

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