When Mara Comes to Call, pt. 2

~~*~~2~~*~~

There were voices outside – deep, male-like voices – talking about her, the runaway slave: probably how they were going to capture her and make her pay for the slaughter of their comrades, for the consumption of their livestock, for their humiliation in front of the other cows. They were outside the cave, planning, laughing, trying to flush her out with a dust that covered her skin, asphyxiating her as she sat there, panicking, huddling in a corner, knowing she was trapped and that this was most likely her last stand.

Her escape from Pylea had been nothing more than a flight of fantasy. Like her scribblings of a dream of the life before, if there ever had been life before. That meant the man who saved her, who became her friend, who in turn introduced her to his friends, was a figment created from desperation and delusion.

That explained the beast, anyway.

The voices were accompanied by thundering footsteps as they marched past, plotting her apprehension. The tread of soldiers, hunters, and their beasts of burden, dispatched to find her and drag her back to serve as an example to others who might also dream an escape from the nightmare.

Unexpectedly, the would-be captors fell silent, organizing themselves for the snare, waiting since time was on their side, not hers. If she were to flee now, rather than when her stores ran dry, she could give them the fight of her life and die without capitulation, a rebel in her own, small way.

She steeled herself and approached the entry. Silently, she stole out of the cave, tore down the steep hillside, out into the open field where the flowers bloomed and the smog of Los Angeles during a late summer temperature inversion threatened to bring even more tears to her eyes.

Fred looked down at her hands in disgust and tried to wipe the sticky, white powder from them. Unsuccessful, she went to the garden faucet and opened the tap.

"Yech," she said to no one in particular, since no one else was there, then took another look at the delightfully polluted morning sky.

~~*~~*~~*~~

Cordelia yawned and stretched out in front of the computer. She had never fallen asleep at work before. Maybe, without the visions, she was sleeping too much and her body was in over-rested mode?

"Glad to see you’re still with us, Princess," Wesley taunted. "We’re off to Westwood and should return in a few hours. I’d appreciate it if you would take care with the phone messages while we’re gone. Last time your directions had us driving toward Baja."

She approached the counter, confused and still drowsy. "What’s the emergency? I didn’t have a vision."

"You?" he asked with a derisive snort. "Since when have you had visions?"

"What do you mean since when?" she snapped back. "Ever since Doyle died. He passed the visions on to me –"

"Doyle passed the visions on to Angel, Cordelia. Who needs to be on his way to Westwood to meet up with Gunn," Wesley explained, staring at her in puzzlement.

"What do you mean Doyle passed them on to Angel? I – not Angel – kissed Doyle before he died! Then you came here, and I tried –"

"Are you poorly?" Wesley walked behind the counter and put the back of his hand to Cordelia’s forehead. "No fever, so it’s safe to assume that’s not the cause of your delirium. You’re uncharacteristically pale and far too thin to be healthy. I firmly believe you’re taking this starving actor cliché too much to heart. I’ve said it before, Cordelia, if you ever need anything, anything at all: money, a place to stay, a friendly shoulder …"

"Quit the idle chatter, folks. We haven’t got time," Angel barked as he clambered down the stairs. "Cordy, you look ill, go to a doctor. I’ll pay for it."

"I’m not sick. This is wrong. I," she cried out, emphatically pointing to herself, "me. I get the visions! I’m VisionGirl!"

Wesley looked at Angel, confused, and shrugged his shoulders. Trying not to show his impatience, Angel frowned and leaned against the counter. "Cordelia, you don’t get visions, never have. You’re OfficeGirl, if you really want a title. We couldn’t run it without you, since Fred decided not to take the job."

"Fred?" Cordelia squeaked. "You offered my job to Fred?"

"Well, not the receptionist bit, of course. That would insult her, don’t you think? She’s invaluable to us with her knowledge of physics and inter-dimensional travel. And since she decided to work with Wesley on translating the Pylean books …" Angel’s brow furrowed. "You know all this. You were here in the hotel, waiting, when the four of us returned from Pylea and discussed it. You made us coffee and …"

Angel grabbed her hands and squeezed them reassuringly. "I know you’ve had setbacks since you left Sunnydale, but don’t let them ruin your spirit. Not everyone who comes to LA finds fame. No matter what happens, you’re still important to us in your own Cordelia-esque way." He let go and gestured that Wesley should follow.

Wesley stepped forward and turned Cordelia to face him. He brushed her bangs away from her eyes. "Cordy, your agent called last night. At least I believe he’s an agent, although with the information he passed on, I’d personally prefer that you abandon this acting dream. I’d really rather not see you condescend to that genre of movies. The note’s next to the telephone. We’ll be back soon, if you feel the need to talk."

She stared blindly while they left the building, then turned around to search for the message. Walking slowly to the desk, she picked up the pad and read the note. Dejected, tears streaming down her face, she sank into her chair.

"Omigod, my life is a nightmare. How could this be happening to me?"

"Snap out of it," she heard Fred yell. "Quit your dreaming and wipe your face."

"What?" she said, trying desperately to focus through the torrent of tears. She felt the cool cloth against her face, then blinked again.

"I said, it’s a dream, a nightmare. I had one, too."

"Fred?" Cordelia rasped. "You did?"

Fred nodded, but continued to wipe Cordelia’s face. "I think it’s this powdery stuff. Mine stopped when I ran outside and washed it off. You got it all over your face and hands. You look like a baker."

Still in shock, Cordelia glanced down and noticed the fine, white coating on her palms.

Fred smiled knowingly and held out her hands. "Let’s go outside and wake you up. Then we can find the others."

~~*~~*~~*~~

"Yo!" Gunn shouted as the elevator opened. The hotel was deserted, and while he hadn’t counted on seeing Angel at this hour of the morning, Cordelia was usually ready with coffee and her warm smile. And wasn’t Fred staying here while her bathroom was being fixed?

"Hey! Where the hell is everybody?" Arching an eyebrow, Gunn looked around for signs of life. He strolled past the counter, closing a book someone had left behind, glancing at the answering machine as he passed. He opened the door and peered inside, checked the desk for messages. No sign of activity could be found.

"You think they’d page me," he mumbled and pulled the door closed. That’d teach him to stay away two days and nights trying to play catch up with family and friends.

Turning the corner, he noticed it. A surreal color that didn’t belong. Cautiously, in a stricken haze, his heart palpitating with dread, he approached the stairs and let his eyes follow the trickling trail back to its source. On the top of the landing, he saw Wesley lying in a pool of his own blood. He had fallen fighting (it couldn’t have gone down any other way), mere hours after he had returned home.

Swallowing the bile that rose and threatened to gag him, Gunn walked slowly up the staircase. The battleaxe Wesley must have brandished lay just beyond his reach. In front of Angel’s open door. Gunn picked up the weapon and looked inside, but found only chaos and the remains of a pile of dust as it scattered in a breeze blowing in from the open window.

He recalled Cordelia taking sheets and blankets into the second room on this floor. He turned and, after one more glance into Angel’s apartment, gingerly stepped over Wesley’s body, whispering good-bye as he did. Praying to any deity who bothered to listen, Gunn steadied his shaking hands and turned the doorknob. He closed his eyes and held his breath (reckless behavior, he knew) while he pushed the door open. Inside lay the mutilated bodies of Cordelia and Fred, terror frozen on what remained of their beautiful but lifeless faces.

He fell to his knees with a sob. "God, no! Not again," he cried. Once more, it was left to him to dispatch those he had failed to protect. Once more, he was alone. Refusing to yield to the tears that threatened to betray him, he clenched his jaw until the ache in his heart took concrete form and was channeled elsewhere.

Gunn rose to tend to his friends’ bodies when he saw the apparition. Looking like Fred in one of her more pensive – and saner – moods, the spirit floating over Wesley’s body and motioned for him to follow.

Curious, aware that it was more than likely a trap, Gunn did as she bid. Down the stairs, through the lobby and toward the courtyard. Into the warm, hazy Southern California day.

Gunn squinted and saw Fred pointing at him, mouthing something. He shook his head to clear his thoughts; he had to return and bury someone who was now telling him to wash up for dinner.

"You gotta get the flour-like stuff off," she said. He continued to stare. "The powder on your hands. If you wash it off, the dreams stop," she said more slowly and pointed to the garden hose.

"Cordelia’s okay, now. We haven’t found Wesley or Angel yet."

~~*~~*~~*~~

Wesley put the box on the desk and exited the office while reviewing Angel’s written outline of the issues at hand. Reading and walking at the same time had often gotten him into trouble; he’d knocked over quite a number of vases in his time, but nothing lately. At least not since their successful coup in Pylea. Rounding the counter, he folded the paper to put it in his shirt pocket, but brought his hand back down to his side. Wesley halted in mid-stride, tried to smile, yet managed only a tight grimace of surprise.

"What are you doing here, sir?"

"I belong here. This is my home, young man."

Wesley glanced apprehensively around the lobby, no longer decorated with large potted plants and furnishings from the fifties. No longer the lobby of the Hyperion, either. Instead it was a typical English parlor: rich velvet curtains draped over the bay window, oppressive Victorian furniture, antiques lining the mantel, and flower-filled vases on round tables throughout the room.

"I, I don’t understand," Wesley stammered. "How? Why –"

"Why did I cut my trip to Oxford short?"

"Oxford? You were going to Exeter."

The older man circled him, hands clasped behind his back. "If you’d listen when you’re spoken to, you’d know where I was. Perhaps then, you’d not be in perpetual trouble."

"Trouble?" Wesley repeated.

"Wesley developed a severe inner ear infection," he heard her say as she entered from the hallway. He turned to watch her glide into the room, carrying a tray laden with biscuits, a silver tea service and two china cups. Despite the invective he was certain to receive, Wesley couldn’t help but stare. She was the picture of grace and elegance he always remembered, but her hair was suddenly brown – not silver – and rolled into a chignon. "That’s why Headmaster sent him home."

She hadn’t worn her hair like that since he was a teenager.

"Bollocks. Wesley was daydreaming, as usual, and that’s why he performed so disappointingly on his assessments. Isn’t that right, son?"

Wide-eyed, his heart racing, Wesley returned his attention to his father. "Sir?"

"The examination in your hand. A simple Latin test, for which you obviously chose not to revise."

Wesley looked down at the note Angel had written, which now appeared to be a comprehension test over a passage from Plutarch, the one condemning Boccaccio for writing in Italian. A test he distinctly recalled failing, during which he succumbed to a fever and the headmaster had sent him home. He remained absent from school during examinations, but not because of illness. Later, he’d graciously been allowed to re-sit his exams while his parents vacationed in the Channel Islands.

"You lack discipline," his father was saying. "To become a successful Watcher, one must have discipline and the respect of his peers. You have neither. You’ll be an embarrassment to me and an utter disgrace to the family calling."

"The Council said he showed great promise for one so young," his mother interrupted calmly. Even so, Wesley heard the anticipatory tremor in her soft voice, felt it echo in his mind. "And he did exceptionally well on his Art exams."

"I do not recall speaking to you!" his father shouted, jabbing his finger angrily in her direction. "Art does nothing for a member of Council! You cosset the boy and encourage him to dally in ludicrous pasttimes that only simpletons favor. It’s patently clear he acquired his incompetence and sloth at your feet! It’s high time he learned that –"

"Don’t you dare talk to her like that!" Wesley screamed back. His father, face crimson in barely suppressed rage, spun around to backhand his impudent son, sending him sprawling against the fireplace. Dazed, Wesley felt his head hit the ceramic tile, tasted the blood inside his mouth.

Despite his mother’s protests, his father grabbed him by the collar and dragged him through the house to the closet under the stairs. With volcanic ferocity, he jerked the door open, slamming it against the wall, and tossed Wesley among the Wellington boots, sporting and hunting equipment.

"Stay there and contemplate your failure to complete a simple, puerile task. When I’ve finished my tea, we shall discuss this again. Be assured, if I have to, I’ll beat the Latin into you." The door slammed, the key turned in the lock and darkness swallowed Wesley whole.

He knew the nightmare well enough to plot how the second half would play out. A childhood of memories blended into one night of torment that followed him across worlds, haunted him even when he was awake.

Cordelia opened the basement door and flicked on the lights. Cautiously she descended the stairs, searching for the source of the muffled noises, hoping it was either Angel or Wesley and not the demon responsible for this hellish night. By the time she reached the bottom, all sounds had stopped – as if in anticipation of her arrival. Listening patiently, she heard the soft hiccup and whimper. Her footsteps were silent as she approached to the closet under the stairwell and pulled the door open.

In the distant corner, Wesley sat with his forehead resting on his knees and his hands protecting his head. His body shook as he choked back quiet but pained sobs.

"Wesley, please come out of there."

He lowered his hands from his head and looked at her with glazed, unseeing eyes. "Mother, I shan’t fail again. Tell him. Please?"

Cordelia brought her hand to her mouth and stifled a gasp. Quickly regaining some of her composure, she reached out to waken him from his nightmare, but he recoiled, curling himself into a tighter ball, ensuring he remained just out of her grasp. Heeding Fred’s advice, she searched for a cloth. Finding none, she pulled the hem of her satin blouse out of her pants.

"I didn’t mean to make him angry," he explained, tears threatening but never spilling. "For Father to –"

Cordelia bit her lip and knelt down on the concrete floor. "Wesley," she repeated, crooking her index finger under his chin, gently turning his face toward her. He shuddered involuntarily and continued to watch her expression for an answer she was unable to give. Using her blouse, she wiped the powder from his face. "Shhh. It’s just a nightmare."

Wesley blinked, then pulled away abruptly. "Cordelia? What are you doing?" He looked around the small closet. "What the bloody hell is going on?"

Cordelia sighed. Best to let him retreat into Watcher-mode as quickly as possible, she thought, especially since Angel was still at large. She grabbed his hands and turned them over to show him his powder-coated palms. "There’s some sort of dust all over the hotel. Apparently when it gets on your skin, it causes nightmares." Cordelia stood up and officiously brushed her blouse.

"Come out from under the stairs and wash that off. We can’t find Angel."