"Wes, man, maybe you should slow down."

"Perhaps you should keep up," Wesley said. He was walking as quickly as he could along the blazing-hot sidewalk, paying no attention to where he was going, whether Gunn was still with him, anything. All that mattered was getting back to Cordelia's apartment, back to Cordelia, where they could see her alive and well again.

And tell Angel just what --

No, no. There was no time for anger now, no place for it. Wesley knew this, and yet it kept roiling within him, pushing its way to the surface.

"Good thing I wore my Nikes," Gunn said. "But I still think you should consider slowing down sometime soon."

"I'm not slowing down," Wesley snapped. "And I'm not going to stop until --" Sharp pain lanced from his gut, stopping him in his tracks.

"Until you rip your wound open and spill yourself all over the sidewalk," Gunn said as Wesley clutched his stomach. "Don't guess that's gonna be long now. So keep at it."

"Point taken," Wesley gasped. Though he was almost entirely recovered from his gunshot wound, he was still in no shape to run halfway across town. "Remind me why we let Angel have the car?"

"Partly because walking in the sun ain't really an option for him anywhere except Pylea; mostly because we are two stupid, gallant lunkheads who caved in when Cordelia gave us that look. It's hotter than hell out here. You want to take a shortcut in the shade?" When Wesley frowned, Gunn explained, "There's underground tunnels that'll get us halfway to Cordy's in a whole lot less time."

"You could have mentioned it before," Wesley said.

"Like you were listening to a word I was saying," Gunn replied. "Anyway, you ought to know -- sometimes there's vamps down there." He paused, then continued. "Angel knows those tunnels, too. Which means --"

"We might run into Angelus," Wesley said. Briefly, he weighed the remote possibility of an unwanted encounter in the city's extensive tunnels against the overwhelming desire to get back as quickly as possible. It wasn't a difficult decision. "We'll take the risk. Do you have a stake with you?"

"Sure. Fixed one up this morning." When Gunn lifted his T shirt and pulled a stake out of his belt as evidence, Wesley took it into his own hand. His fist closed tightly over the wood.

"Let's not lose any more time," Wesley said.

Wesley had, of course, taken the underground tunnels before -- usually with Angel by his side. For safety.

Gunn was with him now, walking through the dank, black tunnels, and confident though Wesley was in Gunn's ability, he did not feel safe here at all. He knew that Angel could appear at any moment -- and no doubt the vampire would take delight in killing him for a second time.

Though perhaps he'd at least be surprised by the sight of one of his victims returned from the dead -- and maybe that moment of surprise would give Wesley the opportunity he needed. He could envision it now, the stake plunging into Angel's chest, Angel turning into so much dust --

Angelus. He meant Angelus.

Then he heard it, began slowing down. Gunn didn't seem to notice.

"Gotta love the smell down here," Gunn said. "I was just messing with Cordy's head, but you know, we really might want to pick up some Old Spice or something. Because when we get up to the surface again, we are going to be mighty ripe, if you know what I mean --"

"Shhh," Wesley said. "Listen."

Gunn leaned back on his heels, then tensed as he, too, heard the sound. Footsteps -- distant, but coming closer.

Wesley peered through the darkness -- a grate not far ahead offered the only light, filtering sunlight through in faint beams. He could still see nothing, but the steps were getting closer now. "Walk into the light," he whispered.

"Oh, great plan," Gunn muttered. "Why don't we send up a flare while we're at it?"

"He can see us in the dark," Wesley said. "But he can't touch us in the light. Not without pain."

Gunn nodded, understanding, and the two of them moved as one into the light from the grate. Wesley glanced quickly at his friend; bands of darkness crisscrossed his face, as though he were in a cell, staring back from behind the bars.

The steps came closer, and Gunn whispered, "Hand that back over here, will you?"

Wesley's hand tightened around the stake. "I won't fail."

"That's not what I --" Gunn froze as a shape became distinguishable at the end of the corridor. Wesley squinted as he made it out: a tall figure, all in black, long coat that reached to his knees, heavy boots --

"Well, this is new," the figure said.

He spoke in Gunn's voice.

Gunn's jaw dropped as his double stepped forward into the sunlight and crossed his arms against his chest. Strangely, this other Gunn didn't seem all that surprised to come face to face with himself. "Now, here I was feeling all jaded, you know? Like I'd seen all there was to see. Then my identical twin shows up, hanging out in the sewers and wearing a stylin' shirt. Any chance we can trade? Trust me, this coat would look good on you."

"You're Charles Gunn. This universe's Charles Gunn," Wesley said. "Good Lord."

Gunn kept staring at the Other Gunn, his jaw still slack. After a moment, he finally said, "It's gonna take me a while to come up with something here. You guys talk without me."

"What's going on up there?" A figure jogged up out of the darkness to Other Gunn's side.

Gunn somehow managed to look even more surprised. "George! George, man, you're alive!"

"So far," George said. "Hell, now I have two of you to deal with."

Wesley remembered George's face, though it seemed to be coming back to him from a great distance -- oh, yes. George had helped him the night he'd been shot. According to Gunn, George had died in a vampire fight just before they'd all gone to Pylea in search of Cordelia. At least this universe was a better place for someone, he thought.

"I thought you were dead," Gunn said, briefly grasping his friend's arm. "I mean -- you are dead. You were one of my best friends, and you died because I wasn't there to back you up. George, I'm so sorry. You meant a lot to me, and I never told you --"

"Hey!" Other Gunn said. "You want to hold off on revealing my inner Hallmark card?"

"Sorry," Gunn said, still unable to look at his double. "But -- he was dead."

"Lotta that going around," Other Gunn said. He was looking at Wesley almost coldly. "Last time I saw you, you were flatlining in a hospital bed. If you weren't standing in the sunlight right now, I'd have to wonder."

"I can explain," Wesley began, but Other Gunn cut him off with a gesture.

"You know, these days, I really don't care about explanations," Other Gunn said tiredly. He stepped a little closer, and Wesley took in a deep breath. Other Gunn looked far older than the Gunn who stood at his side. He was unshaven, had bags under his eyes and radiated none of Gunn's remarkable vitality. He had a long, jagged cut that curved down the side of his face -- a recent one, to judge from the pink color of the scar.

"Angelus," Wesley said, indicating the cut.

Other Gunn smiled bitterly. "How did you guess?"

"He tried to kill you," Gunn said.

"And this surprises you?" Other Gunn said. "Why the hell I ever trusted that serial-killing son-of-a-bitch, I'd like to know."

"Serial murders?" Wesley said. He was surprised at first -- most of Angelus' career was dedicated to seeking out new and more reprehensible crimes to commit, not to repetition. But then he reminded himself of all the crosses cut in the cheeks of long-ago victims; if Angelus found something that amused him, he could keep it up long enough to form a pattern. "What is he doing? Be precise. If it matches his old habits, we might be able to track him down."

"Since when are we trying to track him down?" Gunn said, jolted out of silence.

"I'm with your good-lookin' friend here," George said to Other Gunn. "I personally try to avoid Angelus. Call me crazy."

"You should listen to George," Other Gunn said. "Unless you want your liver ripped out. Because you're not gonna stop him with a bottle of aftershave."

Wesley froze and looked down. Where he had been clutching a stake in his hand, he now held a bottle of Old Spice. He stared at it for a few seconds. "This is all starting to make sense now," Wesley said.

"Glad to hear you say that," Gunn said. "'Cause it ain't making a whole lotta sense to me. And where the hell did the Old Spice come from?"

"Give me a moment," Wesley said, looking back up at Other Gunn. "Angelus is removing his victims' livers?"

"Bet that's not all he does," Other Gunn said. "Not by a long shot. But yeah, he's developed a taste for livers. Rips 'em out, leaves the person there to just bleed to death. Sometimes it takes a while to die like that, and it's no fun. I've been with a couple of them when -- I mean, I try to patrol this place, but sometimes you just get there too late."

"Is he doing this in specific locations?" Wesley said. "The same places, over and over?"

"English, are you on to something?" Gunn said. Wesley motioned for him to be quiet.

"Seems to me, you understand him a little too well," Other Gunn said, his eyes narrow. But he nodded, and Wesley knew he had guessed correctly. "He does go to the same places. He's got a thing for the Paramount Gates."

"And the Hollywood sign," George added. "Plus this one weird-ass bar in town -- The Longhorn. You know it?"

"I'm afraid we do," Wesley said.

"Portals," Gunn said. "They're all portals. That means something, doesn't it?"

"Yes," Wesley said. Then his eyes widened -- "Dear God. The library. There's a portal in the library."

"Oh, shit," Gunn said. "We sent them right to him."

There was no possibility of calling for help.

Angelus had looped his right arm almost casually around Cordelia's waist; he held her right hand loosely in his left, pulling her arm across the front of her body. As he led her between aisles of books and through public reading areas, a few people looked up to see them pass, then looked away again. Cordelia guessed they saw nothing more unusual than a college student and her boyfriend, taking a study break to make out in the stacks.

If she took a breath to scream, he'd break her neck before she made a sound. And then he'd probably kill everyone who witnessed it.

Stay calm, she thought, then repeated it to herself, over and over. Stay calm, stay calm. Panic kills you right now; calm keeps you alive maybe an extra couple of minutes. Not long, but maybe just long enough for someone to come -- for Angel to come --

Angelus stopped outside a door bearing a familiar symbol and pushed it open. Cordelia's mind was halfway numb with terror, and it took her a second to realize where they were. When she did, the absurdity of it almost made her giggle.

She was going to die in the women's restroom.

Still holding her, Angelus walked along the row of stalls. When he had made sure they were all empty, he pushed the trash can with his foot from under the sinks to jam it against the door that led back to the library. There was no other exit, and the room had no windows. She was closed in with him.

Angelus let go of Cordelia. She was weak with fear, and her legs nearly buckled under her. She staggered backwards several paces, almost losing her balance before previously unsuspected reserves of strength kicked in and kept her on her feet. She put a hand against the wall for support and looked at Angelus, expecting to see a cruel victor's smile, or mocking sympathy for her distress.

Nothing.

Angelus watched her, blank-faced and impassive. It was crazy, she thought, but he looked exactly how Angel did when he was steeling himself to do something he really didn't want to do. She'd never realized before just how much they were still alike --

Then he vamped out, and a second later she felt his teeth at her throat.

Cordelia struggled, kicking and twisting as hard as she could, desperately trying to loosen his grip on her wrists, to shift his weight off her. It was useless; she was jammed up against the cold, hard tiles of the wall, and even if she could have pushed him off her, there was nowhere to run.

He was holding her so tightly she was sure she should be in pain, but the only sensation Cordelia was aware of was the needle-sharp tips of his fangs pressing into the soft skin on her neck. Does it hurt a lot? she wondered. I hope it doesn't hurt a lot -- please don't let it hurt --

But the bite never came.

Angelus let go and backed away as quickly as if she'd struck him. The ridges on his forehead and around his eyes made it hard to tell, but she thought she saw his expression change for an instant, to something more -- more what? She couldn't tell. Then his face smoothed, and by the time he was recognizably human again, the blankness was back.

Behind him, the door jerked as someone tried to open it from the outside. The trash can he had wedged under the handle rattled but stayed stuck. Cordelia considered screaming -- then realized she was less likely to save herself than to get whoever was trying to come in killed as well. After a few more attempts, the person outside the door apparently gave up and moved on.

Angelus reached down and pulled something from a sheath at the side of his boot. As he straightened up, Cordelia saw with terror he was holding a knife. It had a carved ivory handle and a blade that was at least four inches long. Angelus held it up, examining it critically under the flat white glow of the toilets' strip lighting. He appeared dissatisfied with what he saw.

Reaching into a pocket, he took out a Swiss Army knife and flicked it open. With short, precise movements, he began to hone the edge of the ivory-handled knife. Making it sharper.

"You have beautiful eyes," he told her without looking up.

Cordelia didn't say anything.

Still sharpening the knife, Angelus asked, "Did I ever tell you how beautiful your eyes are?"

"No," Cordelia said. It was barely a whisper.

"I should have," Angelus said. "I'm sorry."

He sounded so sincere. So like Angel.

"There are so many things you want to say," he went on. "But you don't. And then the moment's gone. You can't change it. It's too late." He blinked, as if he'd just noticed something. "You're frightened. Don't be."

With every last ounce of courage she could summon, Cordelia said, "I'm not."

At that, he raised his head. Unexpectedly, she saw something that resembled pride in his expression. "You're brave. She was brave, too. Right up to the point where her mind snapped."

As he spoke, Angelus held up the knife and flipped it over so he could examine each side in turn. He nodded to himself. Then he slipped the Swiss army knife back into his pocket and brought up his free hand to touch her face softly. His fingertips brushed ever so lightly against her eyelashes. "I was too careless, before. I won't be this time. I won't lose her again."

Suddenly the knife in his hand was being raised toward her head, her face, ohgodohgod, please no, not her eyes, nottheeyes --

She heard a snip. When she dared look up, Angelus was holding a lock of her hair between the thumb and forefinger of one hand. In the other, he held the knife. "Sharp enough now," he said.

He stepped back. Cordelia was shaking so hard she could hear her teeth chattering in her skull, as if from cold. Angelus held the knife in his left hand while he used his right hand to roll up the sleeve of his shirt, exposing the arm below the elbow.

Then, calmly, he transferred the knife to his right hand and began to cut.

The blade sliced through his skin easily, and in seconds he had made an incision that ran from the inside of his elbow to his wrist. Cordelia stared, horrified, half expecting the wound to gush blood like a fire hydrant. In a living person, it would have. But the cut Angelus had given himself only oozed dark fluid sluggishly. Beads of blood welled up from within his flesh, then slowly ran down his forearm, criss-crossing and joining to form a delicate web of red on his pale skin.

He wiped the blade clean on his jacket and drew close to Cordelia. "Give me your arm."

"No." The defiance was instinctive and immediate, and useless. He came closer to her again, dominating her. He was holding the knife at the level of her chest, and without thinking she raised her hands to protect herself.

It was the wrong thing to do. Angelus took hold of her wrist and sharply tugged the sleeve of her sweatshirt upwards.

The blade shone as he cut her.

For several seconds, it didn't hurt at all. She looked dumbly at her arm, and at the blood seeping, welling, and very soon flowing out of the incision he'd made across her wrist. Then the pain hit, raw slivers of it crawling up her muscles and into her shoulder, and she gasped.

Almost immediately she began to feel dizzy. She heard the patpatpat of rapid dripping and wondered why she hadn't noticed before now that one of the sink faucets was still running. But the faucet was her fingertips, and the liquid streaming off them wasn't water. Cordelia watched as red drops of blood spattered, as if in slow motion, onto the green-and-white tile.

She thought, he's going to cut me to pieces --

Fear took the last of her strength, and she started to fall.

Angelus caught her.

She felt him lower her on to the cold floor. Or maybe the floor was warm and she was cold, Cordelia wasn't sure any more. Blood loss and panic were pushing her toward a place that seemed disconnected from everything else, even from her own body. The edges of her vision were closing in, and when she looked up at him, it was as if he was at the other end of a long tunnel. But he must have been close, very close, because she felt his hand on her cheek, his body against hers. Cordelia felt something cool and wet on her arm, a soft lapping against her skin. His lips, she realized; it felt as though he were kissing the pulse at her wrist.

He slid his fingers inside her mouth. They were slick with his blood; it tasted thick and salty and -- something else. She was by now dazed with panic, and she was chilled to the core. The world around her no longer felt important or real. The only thing that was real was the taste that filled her mouth and made her throat tingle. It wasn't life but it was the next best thing.

She swallowed, feeling the pressure of his fingers against her tongue. Faintly, she heard his voice.

"You'll never grow old," he was saying. "Never suffer. Never die --"

With horror, she realized what was happening. He was drinking from her, making her drink from him. He was turning her.

Cordelia clamped her jaws together, as hard as she could. Angelus cried out and snatched his fingers from her mouth. As he swore, Cordelia spat a mixture of blood and saliva on to the floor, where it disappeared instantly into the rapidly expanding red pool.

Angelus held out his hand again. "Drink."

Cordelia's breathing had shortened to shallow, fast gasps, and it was difficult to speak, so instead she turned her head away.

"You'll drink in the end," he said. "In the end, everyone drinks."

She felt the truth of that, as clearly as she felt the blood leaking out of her. When it came down to a choice between taking what he was offering and sliding down into the darkness, Cordelia didn't think she'd be strong enough to resist. What kind of vampire would she be? Would she be worse than Darla, or Drusilla? Would Wesley be the one to drive the stake through her heart, or Gunn --

"No," she gasped. "No. No!"

To her surprise, Angelus smiled fondly. "So defiant. So vital. Just like she was."

So he wasn't just psychotic, Cordelia thought distantly; he was deluded too. Because if there was one person she was certain she was nothing like, it was -- "Buffy?"

The smile vanished, and that unnerving blankness settled over him again. "I already have something like Buffy. Now I want something like Cordelia." He lifted his other hand and brushed the fingers through her hair, softly, like a lover would caress her. "Stop fighting. Give in. I promise it's easier."

She coughed, gulped air. "I don't want -- to be -- like you --"

Angelus stared at her. His impassive, blank expression cracked open and an inner well of raw pain flooded his face. With grim determination, Cordelia struggled to stay conscious, aware it was a lost cause.

He stood up, and a second later she heard a metallic clink as he unfastened his belt. She could only think of one reason he might do that, and she began to shake. Cordelia's last despairing wish was that he would just let her die in peace, without this final act of violation. Her only small consolation was that she had very little time left to be awake -- or even alive.

Just when you think things can't get any worse, Cordelia thought, and blacked out.

Cordelia was angry, Fred was misguided, and the universe was just plain wrong. All in all, Angel wasn't sure how things could get worse.

Cordelia said Fred had a crush on him. Could she be right? Angel hadn't thought so -- but then, Angel had had other matters on his mind both in Pylea and after they had left. He stopped for a moment, and gave Cordelia the benefit of the doubt.

Under other circumstances, he might have been flattered, if a little confused. He might even have sought Cordelia's advice on how best to deal with the situation. But everything was different now; there was a tension between him and Cordelia that Angel didn't know how to heal. Now that the truth about Darla was out, Fred's harmless affection had become, in Cordelia's eyes, something potentially dangerous, even destructive. And Angel knew that had nothing to do with Fred and everything to do with him.

Images from that night with Darla flickered in his mind. He'd pushed the memories of having sex with her out of his mind as quickly and forcefully as possible, so this was the first time he'd allowed himself think back to it in detail. He couldn't deny, even to himself, that mixed up with the remembered guilt and desperation was something else. Release. Reckless, self-destructive pleasure. He'd told himself, once or twice, that what had happened had been for the best -- if that was what it took to wake him up, then --

But that rationalization seemed so cheap, so small, when compared to the price his friends had paid for it in this universe. For his own enjoyment, he had endangered his soul --

Angel stopped and forced himself to focus. There was a time and a place for guilt, he reminded himself, but there was also a time and a place to put it aside. He'd gotten a lot better at remembering this the past few months; something about this place threatened to drive that lesson from his mind.

His immediate priority was finding a way to discount Cordelia's fears without embarrassing himself, Fred or both of them beyond endurance. No immediate means of doing this were springing to mind. After all, there wasn't really any good way to say, just in case you were thinking of falling in love with me, don't bother.

Feeling apprehensive, Angel returned to where they had left Fred and sat down beside her. She was typing at the computer with a speed and dexterity he'd rarely seen. "I guess it's all coming back to you," he said.

"Oh, yeah," Fred said. She looked over her shoulder and smiled at him, her face radiant with discovery. "I can't believe how many search engines there are now. And there's so much out there! Every university seems to have one, and all this lovely data is just --" Fred sighed contentedly, and tapped the computer's screen; the monitor's light made her skin glow warmly. "You put in the words you want, and the information comes flying to you. I never appreciated how wonderful it is. And everybody here -- they all take it for granted."

"Like having other people to talk to. Or walking around in the sunlight," Angel said, leaning back slightly as Fred began busily clicking on links. "Or not having to worry about cheese."

"Don't say that word. Hmmm, that's interesting." Fred's mouth screwed up in the strange expression Angel was learning meant "intense concentration". She grabbed up her pencil and began jotting down some notes. "Odd measurements this lab published --"

She was about to dive back into her work, and Angel already sensed that this was something likely to absorb her completely until she was done. Better speak now. "Fred? There was something I wanted to -- ask you, I guess -- "

"Well, this isn't right at all," Fred said. She was scowling at the computer; she'd jumped to another site, another set of measurements. "I mean, none of this matches. Some discrepancy between different observers, sure, you expect that. But Stanford's numbers don't bear any relationship to M.I.T.'s. I mean, none."

Angel briefly considered trying to contribute to the conversation she wanted to have, looked again at the long columns of numbers streaming out behind each decimal point, and realized that impulse was utterly futile. "If we could just talk for a second, I'd really appreciate it."

"Oh, go ahead! I'm listening," Fred said. She looked back over her shoulder and gave him that smile once more.

"Well --" How did you do this? Best to spell out the main problem first; she'd realize the rest on her own, most likely. "You remember how we've talked about -- about Buffy?"

Fred's fingers stopped their brisk clicking on the keyboard. "Buffy. The girl you love."

"Right. And how we've talked about Angelus --"

"The bad man here who looks like you." Fred was typing -- and frowning -- once more.

"Exactly. And how we'd met him before -- how I became him, before. And that it could happen again."

"It won't happen again," Fred said, her voice warm with confidence in him. She tapped the computer screen with her finger. "Oxford's got the strangest numbers of all. Nothing works together! These measurements don't just not match the other schools, Angel -- they're not even internally consistent. They don't create a coherent picture of -- of -- "

She grabbed his arm, her fingers surprisingly strong. "Oh, no. No, no."

"What?" Angel leaned over her shoulder to look at the screen with her; the numbers were as meaningless to him as ever, but her urgency demanded a response.

"These measurements I've been looking up -- they're the data I need to establish this universe's unique parameters. But the parameters aren't here. The structure's not here. There's no foundation to stand on --"

When she turned back to him, Angel was shocked to see that she was afraid. Her eyes were bright, her breath was speeding up, and her quick heartbeat was rushing blood to her cheeks. Then, suddenly, he realized how close they were and wondered if it was fear she was feeling --

The earth moved.

Fred cried out as the floor began to tremble beneath them. The light fixtures began to swing back and forth as books started tumbling off shelves. Angel could hear screaming all around them as the power flickered.

He grabbed Fred and ducked beneath the table. "Hold on," he shouted over the din as he rolled on top of her for whatever protection he could provide. "It's an earthquake."

Fred's hands were tense as she gripped his shoulders. "I don't think so. I think it's more than that."

The floor lurched again, and Angel curled around her more tightly. He reminded himself to find out exactly what else Fred thought this could be, after they were all safe --

Oh, God. Cordelia.

In a few moments, the shaking stilled. The screaming died down as people began hurrying for the stairs. Angel shifted his weight off Fred and pushed her toward the others. "There might be aftershocks. Go outside and wait for me there."

Fred shook her head. "I'm not leaving this library. Not until I know --" She pulled herself up, then stared at the bookshelves for a moment.

Angel frowned as he looked at them with her. A moment earlier they had been in the academic section, surrounded by dusty, hardcover tomes in black and tan. But now shelves of romance novels ringed them, pink and gold dust jackets displaying titles in decorative cursive script. Angel lifted a copy of "Bandit's Embrace" and opened it up, just in case it was about astrophysics. It wasn't.

"I knew it," Fred said. Then she glanced back at the computer and yelped in distress. Angel instinctively pulled her back as he leaned forward to read the screen; instead of reflecting the hard work of Oxford University's astrophysics department, the webpage now belonged to the American Dairy Council and proclaimed, "Behold the Power of Cheese!"

"What are the chances?" he muttered.

"It's not chance," Fred said. "We need to get back to Wesley and Lorne and that guy with no hair. Right away."

"I need to find Cordelia first. Fred, it's not safe here. Go outside and wait for us. And -- stay in the sunlight."

Fred didn't argue this time, just took off running toward the steps. For his part, Angel went back into the stacks, trying to find the place where he and Cordelia had spoken before. But none of the shelves looked the same -- where he remembered novels, he saw frying pans. Something that he would've sworn had been a magazine rack was stuffed with hay. He actually paused as he saw that, where a light fixture should have been, a candelabra -- with real candles -- hung from the ceiling.

And he'd thought Pylea was a strong contender for the "weirdest dimension" prize.

"Cordelia? Cordy?"

No answer.

He rounded another corner and saw the sign for the bathrooms. Not a bad room to duck into, if you were in a library during an earthquake and wanted to avoid being crushed by toppling bookcases. Angel went to the door of the ladies' room. "Cordelia?"

Very quietly, too softly for any human to perceive, Angel heard a low groan. He tried to push the door open, but it wouldn't swing more than an inch or two. Metal echoed against tile -- something must have fallen against the door. Angel started to push again --

And then he smelled it. Blood -- Cordelia's blood. Enough of it that the scent was overpowering.

"Cordy!" he yelled, throwing himself against the door with as much force as he could bring to bear. "Hang on --"

Angel slammed his way through the door; a trash can crashed to the floor with a metallic clang that echoed in the small room. In the mirrors, he could see a reflection --

Angelus! His mind leaped to the thought, but then Angel realized -- no, those were mirrors. And those really were his reflections, one right after the other.

Until the end, when the mirrors ran out and he was still standing there.

Angelus was drenched in blood -- Cordelia's and his own. He stared at Angel with glassy, unreflective eyes.

Angel braced himself, dropping into fighting stance even as panic welled up within him. He couldn't see behind Angelus -- Cordelia was behind Angelus -- oh, please, don't let Cordelia be dead, Cordelia can't be dead --

"Cordelia can't die," Angelus said.

Angel froze. Angelus ran past him, out into the library. For a split second, Angel considered going after him. Then that thought, and every other, left him, because he could now see Cordelia lying on the floor in a pool of blood.

He dropped to his knees by her side, desperately pressed his fingers to her throat. Her pulse was still steady; it wasn't as strong as it should have been, but not so weak as to be life-threatening. His vampire senses told him that she had lost a pint or two; she'd feel weak for a while yet, but she was in no danger of dying. There was blood -- Angelus' blood -- smeared on her chin and around her mouth, but her face showed no sign of harm. The blood was flowing from a nasty gash across her wrist. But at her elbow --

-- her arm had been bound with a tourniquet.

Angel touched the leather strap. The pattern on it matched the belt he was wearing exactly.

Perhaps in response to the touch at her arm, Cordelia moved her head. Her eyelids fluttered open, and Angel leaned over her to ask her what had happened. Before he could speak, she focused on him and began to scream.

"Get away from me! Don't you touch me!" She lashed out at him with pitifully little strength, but he still winced as her hand slapped his face.

"Cordy, it's okay. You're going to be all right."

His words did nothing to reassure her. She was shaking and sobbing -- but then she grabbed his left arm and stared at it. "You're not cut," she whispered. "It's you. Oh, God, Angel, it's you --"

"Yes," he said, holding her to his chest as he closed his eyes tightly. "It's me."