"His verbes, consenus rescissus est," Wesley concluded firmly, and he opened his clenched fist, allowing a handful of dried herbs to scatter on the floor of Cordelia's apartment.

"That's it?" Gunn asked.

Wesley brushed his hands together. "That's it."

"There's no..." Gunn made a vague rolling motion with his hands, "...bright lights, magic smoke, maybe a little 'no entry' sign popping up over the door?"

"It's a low-key charm, not a David Copperfield show. There are no visible effects."

"Then how do we know it worked?"

From the sofa, Cordelia said, "When Angelus comes to vamp us all, if he can't get in, it worked."

"That's the test?" Gunn looked at the apartment door for a few seconds more. "I'm gonna go check the locks on the windows."

Wesley watched him go, frowning. When he was alone with Cordelia, he said, "I'm afraid that's something of a redundant exercise. If the disinvitation spell worked, all the thresholds are protected. If it didn't -- well, whether the window locks are secure is the least of our worries."

"He just needs something to do." Now it was Cordelia's turn to glance doubtfully at the front door. "Will that keep both of them out?"

Wesley sat down beside her. "To be perfectly honest -- I'm not sure. This is a novel situation. But I'm confident it should revoke the invitation that was made to the Angel from this universe, and he is the greater threat."

Angel. In his mind's eye, Wesley could still see him slipping out of the door and out of their lives. The last time they'd parted like that -- a non-goodbye, loaded with silent recriminations -- Wesley had been the one leaving, carrying his few possessions with him out of the Hyperion. He'd glanced back at the hotel one last time, to see if Angel had followed them to apologize, to ask them to come back. There had still been time then to make things right.

But he hadn't, and now the time for making things right was long over.

Angel had been able to walk out of Cordelia's apartment without even looking back, Wesley thought. Maybe it's that easy, for him. Or maybe he finally realizes there's no going back.

After Angel had gone, for a few minutes everything had seemed -- better. Absurdly relaxed. Wesley had never kidded himself about the makeshift nature of their renewed partnership; however, he hadn't realized just how much distrust and, yes, fear of Angel still lurked beneath the surface. Coming to this universe had intensified everything -- but now that Angel was gone, he had felt certain that everything was going to get better. A ridiculous feeling, perhaps, but one he didn't seem able to shake.

Until the last reality quake struck, and the ceiling turned chartreuse, and all the uncertainty came rushing back in.

Cordelia leaned back into the cushions and Wesley was glad to note that, although she still looked tired, some color was returning to her cheeks. "I don't know, Wesley. I keep playing it over -- and over -- in my head, and I don't understand..."

When a minute or more had passed and she still hadn't spoken, he prompted, "Understand what?"

"Why we all blew up like that. How we went so long without realizing how we felt." She shook her head. "And how we could have been so wrong about Angel. I thought things were getting better, and then we go and find out --"

"We thought Angel could get better," Wesley said. "Obviously, he can't. Whatever apparent helpfulness or goodness he projects at any time is just -- just -- another phase he's moving through. Angel's essential nature tends to evil; in the end, he'll always return to it." He was silent for a few moments, considering this; he'd never said it aloud before. Only since reaching this universe had he allowed it to form, as a conscious, acknowledged thought, in his mind. "I only wish we'd understood that before."

"He saved me," Cordelia said softly. Then she frowned. "Well, he saved me from himself. I'm not sure if that counts as saveage, technically." She shook her head. "I can't even think about it now. Maybe -- when we get home -- if we get home."

"Oh, we'll get home," he reassured her, forcing a note of cheer into his voice. "I've got a few ideas we can work on. I'm becoming something of an expert at interdimensional portal creation."

Cordelia smiled back. "Something else to put on the resume, right?"

"We'll be back home before you know it. Back to a nice, dependable universe where no more than the usual number of vampires are trying to kill us." Wesley envisioned this new life -- a lot like the life they'd led without Angel before, although, in his imagination, greatly fortified with cases and money. "We still have the lease on our old offices, so we can start over without Angel right away. We can concentrate on the things that matter. Our work, and each other, and nursing the other Cordelia back to some semblance of sanity."

At that, her smile faded and a strange, clouded expression passed over her face. "Wesley -- about that other me," she began.

Wesley covered one of her hands with his own. "I know it's difficult to imagine," he said. "I suppose it will be even more difficult to see. But we're going to make things better for her, Cordelia. You'll see."

"How?" she asked harshly. Wesley looked down, surprised; instead of the weak, uncertain Cordelia he'd expected, he saw a woman who was anguished, almost angry. "I'm -- she's blind. She's insane. Knowing Angelus, she's insane for good. And you want her to go on suffering like that?"

"No! Cordelia, I'm trying to help her. Even if she's never -- stable -- again, I know she could come to recognize she's surrounded by people who care about her. Who love her," Wesley said, getting the last words out quickly. "What a comfort that would be to her. We can't just leave her here alone, with nobody to care for her."

Cordelia shook her head. "Wesley, she won't be alone if she stays here. She won't be anything. After this universe ends, she just -- won't be."

Wesley realized, with a jolt, that she was right; the blind, helpless Cordelia he'd seen earlier would vanish along with the rest of this splinter universe when it reached its violent end in a few days. But the thought did not reassure him. "All the more reason to rescue her. We can't just leave her here to die."

"You're not listening to me --"

"You're the one not listening to me," Wesley snapped. He knew, on one level, that it was insane to attack one Cordelia to defend another. But the image of the poor, broken woman in the asylum bed hung in his mind, drowned out every other thought. "Angelus is trying to end this universe and kill everyone in it. Maybe we can't save this universe from collapsing forever, but we can save one person. We can undo one wrong that he's done. Just this once, I want to stop him."

Cordelia face contorted into something very like anger. "I thought when Angel left, this would all be over."

"What would all be over?"

"The idea that somehow this is all about him," she said, visibly struggling to remain calm. "That he's so much more important than --"

She was interrupted by a noise behind them. Wesley turned quickly, surprising himself anew with how tense he was, and relaxed when he saw Gunn.

"Bedroom window's open," Gunn said.

"I shouldn't worry," Wesley began, then stopped as he noticed the recent cut on his face. Before he could say anything, another Gunn -- their Gunn -- came back into the living room.

Cordelia looked first at one Gunn, then the other. "Just when I thought today couldn't get more confusing."

Affording Wesley and Cordelia no more than a cursory glance, Other Gunn crossed the room to face himself. "Man, I know you got your own problems. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't --"

Gunn held up a hand. "What's up?"

"Angelus got one of my people. He got George."

Cordelia looked up at Wesley. "George? Didn't he help us the night you got shot?"

Wesley nodded, thinking about the young man who they'd met just a few hours earlier. The man who'd been able to talk and joke with Gunn that afternoon and who was now gone, wiped out of existence here as suddenly and violently as he had been in their own reality.

For the briefest of seconds an expression of deep, raw hurt passed over Gunn's features. "George is dead --"

"If he was, there'd be nothing we could do about it, and I wouldn't be here," Other Gunn finished. "But he's still alive."

"How can you be so sure?" Wesley asked.

Other Gunn shrugged. "Full moon."

"And that means... Angelus is on a diet?" Cordelia hazarded.

Wesley shook his head. "It's the ritual. Angelus is going to sacrifice him -- extract his liver. And bring this reality one step closer to complete collapse."

Now he had Other Gunn's full attention. "This is what you were talking about before, isn't it? Down in the tunnels."

"Yes. The bizarre occurrences which have been happening here -- the breakdown of reality -- Angelus is causing it." Wesley wondered briefly why he was still using the name Angelus -- but apparently Angel had taken it back, in this reality. "He's trying to destroy the world."

"So how do we stop him?" Other Gunn said.

Gunn answered, "There's this whole magic blue fire thing with the livers you can do to stabilize the universe. But it's not gonna come to that, because we're gonna get to George in time."

Wesley took in the fierce determination on both Gunns' faces; he'd never seen either of them so dead-set on anything. He hated to say anything to upset them further, but -- "Well -- we don't know where Angelus has taken him."

"The library," Cordelia said suddenly. "It's gotta be the library. Wes, the ritual has to happen where the portals are, right? We know there's a portal at the library. I'm thinking Angelus wasn't there today just because he wanted to borrow the latest Harry Potter. He was, you know -- casing the joint."

"Ain't you one with the street talk," Other Gunn said, his lower lip crinkling in something that was almost a smile. "If we go now, we might get there in time. My truck's outside." He scowled. "If I'm lucky, it's still a truck. I keep on thinking one of these days I'm gettin' a Maserati out of this, but not yet."

He headed for the door, and Cordelia started to follow him. Wesley put a restraining hand on her arm. "Are you sure you're up to this?"

"I'm still feeling a little light headed, but I'm okay."

"That's not what I meant. Cordelia, you had a very -- traumatic experience today. To face Angelus again..."

"...is exactly what I want to do," she said firmly. "Regardless of what you seem to think, I'm not victim girl, Wesley. I don't cower." She raised her head, jutting her chin out with determination. "Besides, if we're wrong about where Angelus is and what he's doing -- I don't want to be spending tonight here alone." Without giving him time to respond, she left.

Other Gunn was heading toward his truck, which was parked at the side of the road. It appeared, Wesley noted, still to be displaying the major characteristics of truckhood, but no evidence of Maseratihood.

He hung back, waiting until Cordelia and Other Gunn were at the vehicle. When he turned away from the door, he saw that Gunn had not moved either. "I was hoping we'd get an opportunity to speak privately," Wesley said. "I'm not certain going on this rescue mission is a good idea."

"Not a good idea?" repeated Gunn. "What part of letting George get killed again is a good idea?"

"It's not that," Wesley said quickly. "I want to help, too. But the four of us will hardly be a match for Angelus. And this -- well, to be blunt, this isn't our universe. In fact, if Fred is to be believed, it isn't a real universe at all."

"And what about the Cordy from this dimension? The one you want to bring back with us?"

"That's different," Wesley said before he could stop himself.

Gunn's face was stony. Finally, he said, "Yeah. I guess it is. You didn't seem to have a problem making the big decisions in Pylea. Acceptable losses, right? But it's different when it's someone you know."

"I sent Angel into battle."

"Okay, then. It's different when it's somebody who matters to you. That's when it gets under your skin. Well, I know George. He matters to me. I know I wasn't there before to stop him getting killed. And I know I'm sure as hell not gonna let that happen again."

Abruptly, he pushed past Wesley, walking out of the apartment and toward the two people waiting in the truck without looking back.

After a moment, Wesley followed.

"We are not setting up our headquarters here," Angel said.

"Headquarters?" Lorne said. His green skin looked almost blue in the light from the neon sign. "We're not setting up a mobile army unit, Sarge. We're just waiting in a place where the others can find us."

"That blue shape," Fred said uncertainly, "is that Texas?"

"Indeed it is, sweetpea," Lorne said. "You're coming along just beautifully. But keep those synapses firing on the question of us getting home. We can play Carmen Sandiego some other time."

Angel looked doubtfully at The Longhorn, nee Caritas, which had been a tranquil oasis of serenity by comparison. He could hear country music blaring and people talking and cheering at the top of their lungs. The rhythmic pounding from inside sounded a lot like boots on wood, suggesting dancing was going on inside.

In other words, everyone inside The Longhorn was having a wonderful time, and Angel was scarcely in a mood to witness it.

"This is where we came back from Pylea. So this is a portal," Fred said.

Angel stared at the club again, examining it in a light he never had before -- considering it in terms of attack and defense. "The ritual -- Angelus could come here. He probably already has."

"And that clears up the mystery as to why I sold the place," Lorne said. "One little evisceration during happy hour just kills a club's reputation."

Angel had decided to not to seek out Angelus for a meaningless battle -- but he realized that guarding a location where Angelus might take a victim was, in fact, just about the most prudent action he could take right now. "Let's go, then," he said, squaring his shoulders and preparing for the worst.

Sure enough, the jukebox was blaring as they stepped into the bright lights of the club. Fred pushed her glasses up her nose as she gawked at the various dancers and drinkers. Many of the women were wearing skimpy tank tops and skin-tight jeans; Fred looked down at her oversized T-shirt and sighed. Angel thought idly how much line dancing looked like certain forms of demon possession. Coincidence? He'd have to ask Lorne sometime. For his part, Lorne was gazing at a Miller Genuine Draft neon sign at the bar with something approaching real sorrow.

The bouncer sidled over to them, then fixed Lorne with a stare. "Your skin --"

"It's actually a very funny story," Lorne said, settling his cowboy hat a little more firmly onto his head so that it covered his horns entirely.

But the bouncer was grinning sympathetically. "Them damn shakeups will get you every time, won't they? You're going along, mindin' your own business, and bam! Your TV's turned into a rutabaga or something. One time last month, I sprouted a beard went down to my knees. Looked like damn Fu Manchu for the rest of the day. But I got off easier than you!"

"It's not easy, being green," Lorne said sincerely.

"Tell ya what. In honor of your new skin tone, we'll fix you up with a round of margaritas. Compliments of the house," the bouncer said.

Lorne smiled even more broadly. "You, sir, are the soul of generosity. If my friends here will just get us some seats --"

Angel took Fred's arm and led her to one of the few empty tables. She looked after Lorne, who was ingratiating himself with the bartender. No doubt asking if he could get a Sea Breeze instead, Angel thought, and if his mood had been any less dark, he would have smiled.

But he was also remembering standing on that stage, in that last second of terror before beginning to sing, and looking out into the audience for Wesley and Cordelia. Knowing that, no matter how bad he might be, they were going to support him no matter what.

He shut his eyes tightly.

"Are you okay?" Fred's timid voice made him open his eyes. She was leaning toward him, her expression as grave and intent as a serious child's. Gently she laid one hand on his forearm, her skin warm through his thin shirt.

"I'll be all right," Angel said dully. "Don't worry about me. Worry about those equations."

"I can't worry about them much until I get some more paper," Fred pointed out. "Besides -- I do worry about you. I mean -- I don't worry because I'm scared -- I worry in, in a good way."

She blushed so deeply that Angel could see it, even in the dim lights of the bar. He wondered at his own blindness before. "We'll get you some paper, then --"

Lorne sauntered up, carrying a tray of drinks. "I took you both for salt-on-the-rim types. Bottoms up, everyone; whatever else you want to say about our day, I'm pretty sure it's earned us all a stiff drink."

Angel obediently drank from his glass; his tongue registered the cold, but nothing else. Fred's eyes went wide as she took her first sip. She pulled back, stared at the frozen green concoction in the glass, and then began gulping the drink down. "Whoa, whoa, honey. We don't want you manipulating dimensions under the influence," Lorne said.

"Sorry," she said. "It just tastes so --" Fred hung her head for a moment; then, as she looked at the table, her face lit up. "Napkins! Can I have your napkins?"

"Um, sure," Angel said. As she snatched them up, he looked over at Lorne. "Is this some Pylea thing?" Lorne shook his head.

The mystery was solved moments later when Fred took out her pen and busily began scribbling equations on the napkins. Lorne smiled and reached across the table to pat her on the shoulder. "There's more where that came from."

Fred didn't answer. Her mouth was screwed up in a very strange way, and the tip of her tongue poked through her lips. Angel half-smiled, recognizing what he already thought of as Fred's "game face."

"So, how are you, slugger?" Lorne said.

"Your fake nonchalance is normally more convincing," Angel said. "You're slipping."

"Rough day," Lorne said. "Tough crowd. Speaking of which, I can't believe these guys are still listening to Garth Brooks. Take it from someone who's met a lot of sewer demons in his day: you really do NOT want the friends that come from low places. And you haven't answered the question yet."

"I'm fine," Angel said.

"I may be less convincing than usual, but you're just less convincing, sweetcakes."

"What do you want me to say?" Angel's exasperation dimmed down to unease. "You don't want me to sing, do you?"

"I think your day's been traumatic enough. God knows mine has," Lorne said. He leaned forward and put one arm on the table, a gesture Angel had learned to associate with an impending lecture. "But it's still your responsibility to keep going. You can't afford to derail again, not here and not now."

"I know," Angel said. "You don't have to worry about me."

"And that business in the restaurant --"

"Was a mistake," Angel finished for him. "I didn't want to think, didn't want to communicate. I just wanted to fight. But it didn't solve anything."

Lorne looked at him. "So you're going to stop fighting?" he asked.

"No. I'm going to start thinking." Angel leaned forward a little. "What happened to me here -- it doesn't make any sense."

"Pray, elaborate."

"Angelus having his soul," Angel explained. "I mean, I slept with Darla and didn't lose my soul in our universe. And I didn't start trying to destroy the world. I didn't hurt Wesley and Cordelia. Even if I hadn't come to my senses that night, I wouldn't have wanted to do anything like that. I -- all I wanted to do was close myself up in the dark with Darla, so I wouldn't have to think anything or do anything ever again. So why was it so different here?"

"Good question," Lorne said. His expression was one of grudging respect. "Any theories?"

"Maybe -- maybe Buffy's death," Angel began, then shook his head. "No. If anything ever happened to Buffy, I'd want to be on this side of the fight more than ever. That would have woken me up if nothing else did."

"Even with the guilt?" Lorne said. "I know what Little Miss Slayer means to you. And I know you felt like you'd let her down before."

"I'd feel -- even more guilty," Angel said. "But I'd have to go on for her. I wouldn't have any other choice." He paused, then looked at Lorne. "How did you know about Buffy? I never talked to you about her."

"When you sing," Lorne said quietly. "There's this moment -- right before people start singing, that last second when they open their mouths and take a deep breath -- that's when their souls open up. You can see a lot there, in that first flash; usually you see what's most important or precious. You see what matters most to people. You see what they love."

Angel didn't trust himself to answer aloud, but he nodded. Fred kept scribbling away on her napkins; she'd need some new ones, soon. Lorne finally said, "I thought you were going to need a Host-patented verbal bitch-slap, young man, but you're -- you're doing all right. You're staying focused on the actual problems at hand, keeping yourself together. I hereby move that epiphany of yours a few notches up the credibility scale."

"It's not that I don't care," Angel blurted out. "My friends -- I hoped that we -- " He shook his head. "Never mind. I can't change it now."

"Admitting defeat already?" Lorne said. But his voice wasn't needling, the way it often was; he was looking at Angel sympathetically. "You guys have bonds than run deep. Deeper than any of you will admit, these days. But Buffy's not the only person I've seen when you start to sing."

Angel looked down at the table. "I don't think they'd believe that any more. We reached a point where -- Lorne, I can't go back."

"Those three get their backs up, sometimes," Lorne said. "You know that. Not like you guys haven't had a falling out before."

"This is different," Angel said. He didn't know exactly why he was so convinced that this separation was irrevocable -- only that it was. "I don't think they'll ever want to work with me again, after this. But maybe -- after we're back, and safe, and some time has passed -- maybe we could -- just know each other --"

He looked down at the table again. Fred looked up long enough to pat his shoulder softly and then went right back to her work.

Lorne, ever tactful, changed the subject. "So, something's not right with Angelus. You think maybe he lost his soul after all?"

"No," Angel said. "I know what I saw, and I know what he did. Angelus has his soul, but something else happened to make him act like this. Something besides Darla."

"What would that be?" Lorne said.

Angel shook his head. "That's what I don't know."

Cordelia had already had one crazy ride through L.A. today, courtesy of Fred; now Other Gunn was streaking through the streets as though he'd had driving lessons from Mr. Toad. And if she'd thought the streets were strange before --

The roads were all cobblestone now, which looked cool and quaint for about two seconds until she was reminded, with a jolt, that Gunn's truck had no shock absorbers. The scarlet-tinted streetlights above their heads cast a feverish red glow over the city. A few buildings had collapsed into rubble, but there was no sign of rescue crews. In fact, the buildings looked more like ruins -- as though they had fallen apart centuries before. Cobwebs the size of sails drifted from intact buildings, and Cordelia hoped fervently that they'd sprung into existence on their own, not been spun by four-story-high spiders.

In short, what had looked surreal this afternoon had become nightmarish now it was night. As much as Cordelia hated to admit it, it looked like Fred was right -- things were falling apart, and fast.

"Almost there," Wesley said, somewhat nervously. Other Gunn didn't slow down.

"I swear to God, this time I'm staking him," Other Gunn muttered as he shifted gears. "This is the night. As soon as I see him, that son of a bitch is dust."

That was weird to think about -- Angel-Angelus-whoever, soul intact, getting staked. To her surprise, Cordelia felt her eyes start to tear up at the thought. Remember, she thought savagely, you still have eyes. This version of you doesn't, thanks to him, thanks to him, thanks to Angel --

She didn't feel much better, and finally seeing the library didn't help either. The building showed signs of the damage it had suffered earlier that day -- but it too looked as though it had been abandoned for years. Vines had grown up the walls, creeping over the columns and into the windows. And even in the gloom, Cordelia could see that the vines had thorns.

"One more reason why I just rent movies," Gunn and Other Gunn said in unison, then stared at each other for one moment. Then, again in chorus, they said, "Let's move."

Cordelia opened the door and slid off Wesley's lap. Wesley got out behind her, stretching his legs as he stared up at the forbidding building. "It looks as if the power's out inside," he pointed out.

"The Stakemobile should still have flashlights in the back," Other Gunn said. Gunn fished around for a minute, then held up two of them.

"All right, then," Wesley began. "We'll have Cordelia handle the lights, as she's not really strong enough for --"

"Excuse me," Other Gunn said, "but who died and made you king? This is my man in here. His too," he added, with a shrug in Gunn's direction. "Nice of you to come along for the ride, but you don't call the shots around here."

Wesley looked cowed for a moment, but quickly straightened up and squared his shoulders. "Actually, I do. You know George better than we -- and you know this universe, as well, but I'm in charge of this unit."

Other Gunn looked over at Gunn, apparently expecting violent opposition. Gunn fidgeted sheepishly. Other Gunn said, "How the hell did that happen?"

Cordelia frowned. Exactly how had Wesley ended up in charge, anyway? They'd all gone into this as equals, but now he was the one who made the decisions. She wasn't sure exactly how that had come about, but she suspected it had something to do with being the first one to show up in the mornings.

"It doesn't matter now," Gunn said. "If I tell you that we can trust him to come up with a good plan, is that enough? Because we gotta get in there after George."

"Fine. Whatever. Get us in there," Other Gunn said, pointing a finger at Wesley. "But I warn you right now, you make up the game, you take the blame."

"Precisely what is that supposed to mean?" Wesley said.

"It means George better be okay when you're through." Cordelia was surprised to realize it was their Gunn who had answered.

This is all wrong, she thought. We're still angry and upset and scared, and we still don't know what to do -- I thought we had this figured out --

Wesley handed her a flashlight and grabbed one of the stakes Other Gunn offered him. "Where were you today when Angelus found you?" Wesley asked her.

"The fourth floor," Cordelia said. "It was the physics section, though God only knows what it is now."

"We'll find out," Gunn said grimly, gripping his hubcap axe.

Other Gunn threw him a look as he took up his own axe. "How come you got a bow on yours?"

"Shut up."

Fortunately, it appeared that the library's basic inner structure was much the same. It still had stairs, and floors, and books -- but the fact that they were all covered in a faintly smelly, slick ooze cut down on Cordelia's enthusiasm.

They made their way up the stairs gingerly -- the ooze was slippery -- and in total silence. Cordelia held the flashlight in her good hand so tightly it hurt. Wesley did not ask me what I think, but I think this is a bad idea, she decided. Angelus is not going to like being interrupted --

For one moment, she felt her wounded arm throb -- not along the scar, but along the band of skin where the tourniquet had been.

And then she heard it. A voice speaking words in no language she had ever heard -- but she still knew the voice.

Cordelia turned and mouthed, Angelus.

The others all nodded. Other Gunn breathed out once, a short huff; he was ready. But Cordelia could see her own hesitancy reflected in Wesley and Gunn's eyes.

The words of the spell continued to ring out, and Gunn nudged Wesley's arm. Wesley shook his head; apparently he didn't know the language either. But it didn't really matter, Cordelia realized. They knew what Angelus was about to do. And they had to stop him.

Other Gunn, tired of even this brief pause, went to the door. When nobody said or did anything to stop him, he pushed it open and slowly walked through. The others followed.

Cordelia quickly clicked off the flashlight, leaving them in darkness -- but that was better than giving Angelus extra warning.

What had been the physics reading room was now filled with romance novels and yet more of the ooze, thicker here than it had been anywhere else. A faint glow shone from the stacks; little slits of light flickered unevenly through the books and on the ceiling.

Angelus was still chanting, so apparently he hadn't heard them. Faintly -- almost beyond Cordelia's hearing -- another voice groaned in pain.

Both Gunns tensed. That had to be George, Cordelia thought.

Wesley motioned for them to split up and come at Angelus from different directions. Other Gunn scowled, but he moved to Wesley's side. Gunn went with Cordelia as they tiptoed toward Angelus.

Toward Angelus, Cordelia thought, aware that her mood was shifting from "troubled" to "panicked." This is a bad direction. The wrong direction. I don't want to do this, I just got away from him, what will he do this time?

They got to the last row of shelves. The chanting stopped suddenly. Cordelia's blood turned to ice -- but Angelus didn't yell at them or come springing out in attack. Must just be a pause in the ritual, she thought, trying to control her breathing lest he hear it. That's it, just a pause.

George cried out. Wesley signaled for them to move, but the Gunns didn't see it -- they just jumped. Cordelia gasped in a breath, as though diving underwater, and jumped too --

-- to see Angelus standing at the other end of the corridor, clutching Other Gunn's throat in his hand. Candles lined the floor of the passageway between the books; in the middle was a table. And on the table a figure who could only be George was strapped down, bleeding and dazed.

A series of ugly knives lay on the tabletop, near George's face, where he had no choice but to look at them.

"You again," Angelus said to Other Gunn, his voice almost bored. He lazily tossed away that version of the axe. Other Gunn clawed at Angelus' coat, but ineffectually; he couldn't even seem to get the breath to scream.

"Let go of him," Wesley said, appearing from the darkness.

"Oh, God, thank God, help me, help me," George whispered.

Even in the faint light of the candles, Cordelia could see Angelus' face shift from vampire to human. He actually smiled -- not a cruel smile, but something that was genuine, almost shy. "Wesley," he said. "You're here too."

"And we're going to stop you," Gunn said, taking his first running steps toward -- Angelus or George, Cordelia wasn't sure --

Angelus threw Other Gunn, with force; his body flew through the air, hitting Gunn hard. They fell to the floor in a tangle at Cordelia's feet.

George chanted helplessly, almost mindlessly, "Help me, help me, help me, please, man, help me --"

Wesley took advantage of the moment to lash out with his stake -- but Angelus, moving more quickly than Cordelia could see, turned back and grabbed Wesley's wrist in his hand. In a pain-hoarsened voice, Wesley croaked, "You won't do this. We're going to stop you."

"You don't understand," Angelus said. "And I can't let you stop me."

He shoved Wesley savagely backwards; he fell into the darkness, out of Cordelia's sight.

Both Gunns seemed stunned; they were trying, ineffectually, to pick themselves up. Okay, Cordelia thought, it's up to me. She grabbed the axe Gunn had dropped and stepped forward. "Back off, you -- big -- creep," she said.

"You're okay," Angelus said. He sounded glad, Cordelia thought, genuinely relieved that she was all right after their encounter that morning. In his eyes there was a kind of naked caring, even love, that she'd almost never seen from Angel himself -- oh, God, she thought, it's like I can see his soul.

But then his expression iced over again, into something equally familiar and far more horrifying. "You're in my way," he said. "Don't make me move you."

Cordelia froze for an instant, then swung the axe at him with all her strength.

Angelus ducked it, grabbed the axe himself and pushed it against her, knocking her back. She cried out in pain as she involuntarily took part of the fall on her wounded arm; in the faint candelight, she could see Angelus wince.

"I can't let you stop me," he repeated, and Cordelia realized that the only thing scarier than a crazy, ensouled Angelus was a crazy, ensouled Angelus with an axe.

George's voice was thick with tears now. "Oh, God, oh, God, please, please, help me, please --"

The two Gunns were getting to their feet, and Angelus spun, slashing the axe at them. Cordelia screamed -- but Angelus had used the broad side of the axe. Instead of bisecting them, he knocked them both down once more. Almost before she realized that, she felt the hard slam of metal against her back; her face hit the floor so hard she tasted blood.

She looked up in time to see Angelus grabbing Wesley -- who had apparently jumped back into the fray -- and slamming him hard into the bookshelves. The shelves shuddered but didn't fall; Wesley did both, slumping to the ground.

The shelves kept shaking. Then began shaking harder. "Quake," Cordelia whispered, then shouted, "QUAKE!"

Suddenly, the confined space was flooded with bold, blazing light. The candles had flared up and changed into torches, and the only reason the whole place didn't go up in smoke was that the shelves had suddenly become stone walls. The table George was strapped to looked a lot like an altar now. Cordelia's legs suddenly felt cold -- and when she looked down, she was wearing a Sunnydale High cheerleader's uniform.

Vines like the ones she'd seen outside were slithering their way in now, growing so quickly they writhed across the floor like snakes. Cordelia cried out and pulled herself free as the vines tried to wind around her ankles; Gunn, not fast enough, was quickly bound to the floor. Other Gunn jumped up, unsteady on the still-trembling ground. "What the hell --"

The wall was already starting to crumble. Angelus worked a loose stone free without difficulty and threw it, hard, into Other Gunn's gut. He fell again, toppling over near Cordelia. "Not much time left," Angelus said.

"Help me, help me, help, help, help --" George gasped.

"Angel!" Wesley yelled. He was pinned to the stone wall by the vines, as neatly as though he'd been tied there. "Damn you --"

For one moment Angelus froze. "Angel," he said softly. Then he shook his head. "No time left at all."

Angelus grabbed one of the knives and plunged it into George. For one long moment, there was no sound but George's terrible last scream.

"No," Gunn said, struggling so hard beneath the vines he was bleeding. "No!"

"I'm sorry," Angelus said, looking down into George's face, which was frozen in a rictus of terror and pain. Then, quickly and deliberately, he sawed through George's abdomen, cutting deeply, apparently unhampered by the shuddering earth. Cordelia could see the blood flowing down the table-altar in sheets, could taste her own blood from her cut tongue in her mouth, and thought for one moment she was going to pass out.

He has his soul, he has his soul, he has his soul --

Angelus reached into George's convulsing body. For a second, his hand disappeared entirely, making a sickening, sloshing noise as he delved into the ruined flesh. Suddenly, he pulled out a dark, glistening mass that had to be George's liver. Nausea washed over Cordelia, and she dropped to her knees; the thorns cut her legs, but the pain seemed to be coming from a great distance.

Angelus lifted the liver up, as if examining it. George's body went taut beneath its chains, then went limp again, then slumped into unconsciousness, if not death.

Other Gunn, holding his ribs in pain, got to his feet and saw what was left of George. His face creased in pain, and Cordelia saw him mouth the word, No.

He's dead, Cordelia thought. Oh, God, we didn't stop him, we can't get the liver, that's it --

The quake was stronger than ever now, and the ceiling was shot through with a dull orange glow that looked as though it were melting.

This is it, Cordelia thought wildly. The thing she'd fought against and feared and avoided time after time was finally coming to pass.

This is what the end of the world looks like.

Angelus reached into his pocket with his clean hand -- the other was red with George's blood -- and threw some powder and herbs at one of the torches. Then he spoke one word -- something Cordelia didn't know. But Wesley did; he stopped flailing uselessly against the vines and stared, shock-still.

The flame from the torch changed.

Instead of the usual orangey-yellow, the torch's light began shining a bright, steady, blue-white.

Blue-white -- Veldar's flame, the spell we needed, Cordelia thought.

Angelus dropped the liver into the flame. The blue-white fire leapt high -- almost to the ceiling -- and consumed it instantly.

The quake stopped. The ceiling quit melting. The vines started to wilt, then disintegrated into so much ash. The stone walls changed back to bookshelves -- and the books were all physics journals. The altar with George's dead body became a table once more; it was a wooden picnic table now, but still closer to what it had been. Cordelia saw her sweater shift from Razorback yellow to Trek-geek gray, and her skirt unfurled, went dark, and molded itself back into a pair of sweatpants. She felt a tingling up her arm, where Angelus had cut her, and then the pain vanished; Cordelia suddenly knew that if she pushed up the arm of her sweatshirt, she would see smooth, uninjured skin.

Other Gunn's body shimmered with a strange light, went transparent, and then vanished as though he had never been.

George still lay dead on the table. That did not change.

Angelus looked around, pressed his lips into a tight line, then nodded. "That'll do for now," he said.

Then he walked off into the darkness. Cordelia didn't have the strength to even yell for him to stop, much less do anything to make it happen. To judge from the shocked expressions on Wesley and Gunn's faces, neither did they.

She heard the door swing, heard Angelus' heavy footsteps as he went down the stairs.

I don't believe it, she thought.

Angelus just saved the world.