Women have been inexplicably disappearing in Los Angeles. The Angel Investigations team of Angel, Cordelia, Wesley, and Gunn are on the case. While undercover, Cordelia is targeted as the next victim. Angel helps her prepare for her role as an artist’s model by sketching her in the nude.

• CONTENTS:   C/A in AtS
• RATING:   NC-17 / Explicit Content
• LENGTH:   Short Story / 11,000 words / Refreshed 2026
• STATUS:   Completed
• CHALLENGE CREDIT:   manders-21 / Lysa Says: Challenge Me / Challenge #7
• FICPIC CREDIT:   Lysa

Immortal Beauty

Walking around the far end of the Olympic-sized swimming pool, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce took one last sweep of the area confirming that nobody was around. The glistening pool, lounge chairs, and the striped cabanas were all empty. Everyone was inside allowing him a moment of privacy to call in a preliminary report.

Angel picked up the cell phone on the first ring having been pacing across the lobby of the Hyperion for the past hour. There was no suppressing the growl underlying every word. “I expected your call ages ago.”

“First opportunity,” explained Wesley somewhat distractedly as he maintained watch on his surroundings. “Our cover worked. The mystical glamour has convinced everyone I am a local art patron.”

Giving him his due, Angel had been confident of the former Watcher’s success. “Good work.” Locating a shaman with the ability to perform such a complex task and managing to convince him of their good intentions had been all Wesley’s doing. It was a necessary deception, and one that was only beginning.

“The estate is hardwired with high-tech security devices,” Wes informed him. Not that they expected any less after preliminary research on their target resulted in the discovery that Clayton Vandemere was a reclusive millionaire whose only public interests surrounded fine art. “Manpower is no less impressive. Guards are dispersed throughout the mansion and grounds, nothing unexpected. No immediate evidence of demonic influence.”

Before Angel could press for more, Wesley added quickly, “Gunn’s on standby in the city. He says to tell you he’s got the truck loaded and ready for a daylight extraction if this goes south. ‘You owe me, man,’ were his exact words.”

Angel’s mouth twitched in something almost like a smile. “Tell him I’ll buy the beer. And the blood.”

Staying behind during this first part of their undercover infiltration of the weekend gathering of artisans and their patrons had Angel on edge. He preferred to be in the middle of it, especially when they knew so little going in. “What about the woman in Cordelia’s vision?”

Stepping back into the shadow of a marble Poseidon statue, Wesley told him, “Cordy has been sticking to her like glue, and enjoying every moment of it. Apparently they have similar taste in shoes, designers, and wealth in general.”

After a pause, Angel asked, “How is she?”

“Oh, no sign of any trouble at all. Friendly young woman,” Wesley sounded almost chipper as he spoke. Remembering that according to the vision she was supposed to disappear like all the other victims, his voice darkened as he revealed a few specifics, “Cordelia learned that Marnie Mitchell is the girlfriend of one of the artists. She has no previous connection with Vandemere. Never met him before last night.”

Angel frowned into the phone. “Interesting, but I meant Cordelia.”

“Ah, naturally,” he muttered barely above a whisper. Wesley knew there was a fine line between friendly concern and the overprotective vibe he perceived when it came to Angel’s feelings. Vampire instincts aside, Cordelia was important to him. Well, to both of them, but Wesley had argued the point in her favor that she could handle herself far better than either of them in these social situations.

Still, allowing Cordelia go off on this mission without Angel immediately by her side was most likely tearing the vampire apart with worry, Wesley realized. He’d barely agreed to the plan in the first place. Ever since the attack by Vocah that assaulted Cordelia with a constant stream of terrorizing and pain-inducing visions, Angel had been excessively careful about getting her directly involved in their cases. They had all grown closer since the incident, though it remained a mystery precisely what Wolfram & Hart was up to in arranging the nearly deadly distractions.

“Cordy is in her element,” Wes assured him that she was in no imminent danger. “It appears to be a never-ending party, with the rich rubbing elbows with the richer.”

After a heavy pause where Angel had nothing to say at all, Wesley added, “She is determined that we stop Vandemere from claiming another victim. Our only problem remains that we have no idea how he is involved in the disappearances of the eleven young women in Cordelia’s vision or how Marnie Mitchell may play into this scenario.”

“Sounds like you’re having as much luck as I am,” Angel commented drolly as he went on to explain that he managed to contact Detective Kate Lockley. “She’s still as angry and bitter as ever and made it perfectly clear to me that I shouldn’t be nosing into police business.”

Wesley sighed. How could he have expected otherwise? Now that the detective blamed Angel for her father’s death no matter how indirectly, and for all of the deaths he had caused in his years as Angelus, she looked at him as an enemy. “So you didn’t get the information.”

“Actually, I did,” Angel countered much to his surprise. “Not that it helps. Kate was willing to confirm that Vandemere has no police record. Only that his name shows up in connection with all of the victims. They all attended a party at his estate within a few days of their disappearances, but the evidence shows that they all made it home after the party ended.”

Based on Cordelia’s vision, they suspected that much already. What they didn’t know was how Vandemere was involved or how the women disappeared. “I’ve arranged for your arrival tonight as planned.”

Wesley felt a tap on his shoulder and nearly dropped the phone, “Yiiiaahh! Cordelia, what are you doing out here?”

He glanced around to see how it was possible that she snuck up on him. Cordelia was grinning, “Just practicing a few stealthy techniques.” She rolled her eyes and then held up the high-heeled shoes she had removed.

“Wes, put Cordelia on,” Angel’s voice sounded in his ear as he still had the cell phone in his hand.

Cordelia grabbed the phone away before Wes could even make a move, “Angel, hi! This is so great. My bedroom is to die for and the bathroom has a sunken tub and the food is like…well, I guess you wouldn’t be interested in the food, but it’s wow.”

“I thought you were focused on figuring out why Marnie Mitchell is in danger?” It certainly didn’t sound that way.

“Oh, I am,” Cordelia assured him, but her voice dropped a fraction, the party-girl brightness cracking just enough for Angel to catch the undercurrent of unease. “That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy myself a little. Clay told me to make myself right at home.”

She hesitated, then added softer, “He’s… a little heavy on the leering, but he has great taste.”

What was she doing talking to Vandemere or calling him Clay for that matter? As far as her undercover identity was concerned, Cordelia was supposed to be Wesley’s assistant, not spending time with their potentially dangerous host. “Be careful.”

With a laugh, Cordelia told him, “I’ve got it handled.”

“You’re supposed to be gathering information,” Angel reminded her, raging inwardly at the idea that their target was leering at his friend, “not smooth-talking Vandemere.”

“He came to me, not the other way around. Marnie and I have been bonding. If you thought I knew anything about fashion, you should hear her talk. She’s not really into art— other than her boyfriend,” Cordelia added with a snort trying to assure him that she was doing her job.

Angel tried to redirect her back to the fact that she’d been involving herself in the more dangerous part of the case, direct contact with Vandemere. He heard her soft ‘pfft’ over the phone. “Don’t talk to him again, Cordy. Not unless I’m with you.”

“Sheesh! Overprotective much, Angel? Kinda hard to avoid the host of the party and even harder to make sure you’re there,” she pointed out. “What do you want me to do– hold the cell phone up so you can hear the conversation?”

Standing next to her, Wes gave her an exasperated look. “Will you finish up, please, Cordelia. We’ll be missed.”

“Mister Bow Tie is harassing me to get off the phone,” Cordelia said as she wiggled her feet back into her high-heeled sandals one by one. “See you soon.”

“Sooner than you think,” Angel commented grimly, ending the call.

Cordelia stared down at the phone now buzzing with a dial tone. Glancing at Wesley, she asked him, “You don’t think Angel would do anything silly, do you, like find a way to come across town in broad daylight?”

Angel stood in the middle of a large foyer, his leather jacket still warm from the sun as it had acted like a blanket of protection all the way across town. Determined not to wait a minute more, Angel had called upon Charles Gunn to drive him to the Vandemere estate and deliver the rest of his clothing and supplies. Gunn wasn’t too keen on pretending to be the vampire’s lackey, but he offered to help out.

“Getting me here is enough,” Angel thanked him as they stood in the shadows of the columned entryway.

Now inside, he was immediately greeted by members of Vandemere’s staff who had already informed him of the newcomer’s presence. A minute later, the man himself appeared, tall and trim with longish golden-brown hair and a short beard. From the research, Angel knew him to be in his mid-forties, but he looked younger. He carried a confident air about him, as if nothing could touch him. Suited in expensive, yet casual clothes, Clay Vandemere still maintained a formidable presence.

His hand was cupped around the elbow of the beautiful young woman walking next to him, Cordelia, wearing one of those short little pieces of nothing that left her legs long and bare to his view. As Angel’s eyes swept over Cordelia and saw the way that their target touched her, he fought to maintain the mask of his human features. The demon in him shouted in rage that Vandemere had his hand on her, that once again Cordelia had defied him by putting herself in danger. He also noted that Wesley was nowhere in sight to protect her.

Cordelia caught the dark glint in Angel’s eyes as he met her gaze. Keeping her smile as sunny as possible, she kept to the game. This was not a moment to get trapped in lessons that included the words ‘I told you so’. Grabbing the lead, Cordelia decided to make introductions before Angel skipped the whole undercover scenario and ripped off Clay Vandemere’s head. Not that he would really follow up on that rather obvious thought, but the look in his eyes wasn’t exactly the friendliest at the moment.

“Mr. Wyndam-Pryce showed me some of your work,” Vandemere commented as he took in the fact that the artist appeared to be short on manners. Dealing with any number of eccentric artists, he would normally brush off the fact as being something unworthy of his attention, but he’d seen the flash of gold in those dark eyes. “I have been looking forward to meeting you and seeing more. My instincts tell me you’ll be an interesting guest, Angel.”

“I’m paid to be here,” Angel got into character, his own instincts warning him that the man before him was talking in subtext. “Wyndam-Pryce keeps my wallet flush and gives me anything I want so long as he gets to play show and tell with my work.”

As the hand clutching Cordelia’s elbow started to move to a more intimate position along her lower back, Angel reached out and slowly tugged her toward him. She gave him a look of surprise, but Angel was too focused on staring directly at their host and making his point, a smirk twisting his handsome mouth at one corner as he added, “Anything.”

The too bright smile on Cordelia’s face wavered a bit as she felt Angel’s large hand close around her ribs, sweep along her waist and spread out over the rounded curve of her bottom. Plastered against his side, Cordelia felt her heart leap up in her throat as his iron grip held her in place. She was too busy counting up the number of ways to turn Angel into a dust pile to notice Vandemere’s reaction.

“Then I assume you will not require separate accommodations,” Vandemere nodded without blinking an eye. “My assistant will show you to Cordelia’s room shortly, but as your host, I must ensure you have everything you need during your stay.”

With a brief nod, Angel thanked him. The sooner they got to that room, the better off they would be. A storm of hurricane proportions was building up inch by inch in the tense woman in his arms and he wanted them out of hearing range before she let it blow. He’d just reacted and now it was all he could do not to squeeze the lush curves beneath his hand.

“You are a sketch artist with the eye of a master. The detail is superb,” Vandemere was quite free with the compliments. Then he quickly got to what he assumed would be the interesting part of this conversation, “I suppose that your only other medium is flesh— and blood. That is usually the way with vampires.”

Cordelia’s eyes snapped back to their host, wide with shock. She grabbed a handful of Angel’s jacket, promising, “I didn’t tell him.”

Vandemere laughed as he watched their reactions. Panic settled across that beautiful face as Cordelia nibbled on her lower lip realizing she should have kept her mouth shut and let Angel do the talking. There was a first time for everything.

“Do not fear that I will alert the other guests,” Vandemere assured smoothly, but his blue eyes gleamed with something colder. “Money buys many connections in this community. I hear quite a lot and have learned to trust my instincts. A man learns to recognize the signs—the way light bends just wrong around certain skin, the hunger behind a polite smile.”

He leaned in fractionally, voice dropping to a velvet murmur meant only for the two of them. “I once painted a portrait of a creature very like you, back in Florence in ’68. He thought he could hide among the Medici. I captured every exquisite inch of him… before he faded. Beauty should never fade, don’t you agree?” His gaze flicked to Cordelia, possessive and hungry in a way that made Angel’s demon surge. “Yours is particularly… immortal.”

“There aren’t many who can identify my kind by sight alone,” Angel commented, the danger signals glaring by this point. Their host was no ordinary human, but what he was Angel had no idea.

With a brief flash of a smile, “Money buys many connections in this community. I hear quite a lot and have learned to trust my instincts.”

“I’m not here to snack on your guests, Vandemere.” Angel hoped to end this discussion soon. This required a little time for regrouping.

“I am delighted to hear that,” came the amused response. “However, I would be happy to arrange provision of a supply of fresh blood…unless you already have one,” his gaze drifted back to Cordelia. “I don’t see any obvious marks on that lovely skin.”

Cordelia snapped, “There are none,” and felt Angel’s hand tighten in response.

Telling another male that he let his property go unmarked did not produce a calming effect for the vampire even if Cordelia didn’t actually belong to him in the way that Vandemere suggested. Angel quickly explained, his emotions masked firmly behind a practiced poker-face, “Cordelia is unmarked because I choose to enjoy the perfection of her skin. I like her warm and willing.”

Angel felt her gaze burning into him. He’d guess she was pretty damn hot right now. Forget the hurricane. Mount Vesuvius was going to blow no matter her professed acting skills. He hoped she realized he was trying to convince Vandemere that she was off limits to protect her, not that his words contained hidden truths.”

Barely maintaining her hold on her tongue, Cordelia kept repeating a mantra to hold off the urge to tell both of them exactly what was running through her head. Any other time, she wouldn’t hesitate, but there was a mission at stake.

“She is indeed lovely,” Vandemere’s blue eyes wandered down her frame despite the possessive hold of the vampire. Then joking, “Keeps your drawing pencil sharp, does she?”

Angel heard Cordelia’s soft, “Eew!” close to his ear.

“Your Cordelia will make a lovely model for my next commission. I have a yen to see her on canvas,” Vandemere tapped his finger to his chin thoughtfully.

Reminding him, “I don’t paint,” Angel closed that subject.

Or thought he did.

Clay Vandemere stepped within arm’s reach of the vampire and the beautiful woman he had claimed to be his. Ignoring the dark glare and possessive tone, he chuckled as his hand lifted to curl a finger along one of Cordelia’s silky chestnut tresses. “My dear Angel, I plan to paint her myself.”

Cordelia stormed up to Angel the moment the door to their room closed behind the servants who carried up his bags. “What the freakin’ hell did you think you were playing at?”

Their room, the thought resonated in her head. It was their room, not hers just because Mister Big Mouth Vamp had to go all Super-Psycho just because she was talking to the potential bad guy.

Rubbing the tension at the nape of his neck, Angel tried to get out of this without appearing to whine and beg forgiveness. Not that he was anywhere near feeling sorry for the fact that he’d tried to make it clear that Cordelia was off-limits to their host. If anything, his spontaneous strategy only seemed to draw more interest. Now Clay Vandemere was adamant about painting Cordelia and only after Angel’s assurance that he would consider allowing it did he allow them to head upstairs.

“Drop it, Cordy,” Angel told her, stance wide, hands on his hips and making his body appear even larger engulfing hers as she approached like an angry whirlwind.

“I’m not dropping anything,” she snapped, “until you tell me where that lamebrain act came from. Clay was behaving like a gentleman until you came along and turned him into Mister Male Chauvinist Pig.”

Nostrils flaring, Angel made an attempt to put a damper on his own temper. After all, if Cordelia had stuck with the girl instead of letting Clay Vandemere put his hands on her, this would have been a non-issue. “Think about it. Your own vision showed you that he’s the one behind these disappearances. It stands to reason that he puts on a performance for the public. You just caught a glimpse of the man behind the façade.”

Raking both hands through her hair, Cordelia tucked it behind her ears. She swiped her tongue across her lips, glared at Angel and then poked him in the chest hard enough to make sure she had his full attention. “He’s a creep. I get that. For the record, I’m not some simpering twit who’s going to drool all over him because he’s kind of a hottie and has money to burn.”

The description startled Angel for a moment. She thought Vandemere was a hottie? Maybe it was the beard. Shaking off the flash of jealousy distracting him, Angel got back to the point of his whole charade. He didn’t care if his words cut too close to the truth that he hadn’t fully admitted to himself yet as he said, “I don’t want him near you, Cordelia. You saw how he looked at you.”

“What— like a man looks at a woman?” Cordelia questioned hotly, anger glittering in her brown eyes. “Maybe it has escaped your notice, but guys actually find me attractive. Just because you’re a eunuch doesn’t mean the rest of the male population has to be.”

Angel dropped his hands to his sides balling them up into tight fists as the urge to grab hold of her hit him. Not notice? A eunuch? If she had any clue just how often and how much he did notice, he was certain Cordelia wouldn’t be screaming in his face and all, but daring him to show her just how wrong she was about that eunuch comment.

Jaw tight, Angel ground out the words, “I’m not a eunuch.”

“Pfft!” Cordelia crossed her arms, turned her head to one side and refused to look at him.

“You were there when Wes found the loophole that made my soul permanent,” Angel reminded her taking one step closer so that his towering form brushed against her. “Don’t yank that chain, Cordelia, unless you want it wrapped around you.”

The sound of her own pulse thundered in her ears as Cordelia slowly peeked up at him from the corners of her eyes. Teeth clamped down on her lower lip as she realized maybe, just maybe she’d pushed him just a little too far bruising his male ego in the process.

“That still doesn’t give you the right to paw me,” she took it down a notch, “even for show.”

Dammit, now he had to say it, “I’m sorry, Cordy.”

“You should be,” Cordelia told him not leaving well enough alone. “Personally, I think some serious groveling is in order here.”

Amazed that she’d actually suggest it, he could only question her sanity for doing so, “Groveling? You’re crazy if you think I’m crawling and begging to gain forgiveness for something that was your fault in the first place.”

“My fault! I’m to blame for that testosterone challenge in the lobby?” Her voice gave off a shriek as her temper flared again. “That was all you, buddy. And don’t talk to me about yanking your chains, Angel, because after that act, I think you need to take a hard look in the mirror.”

Angel’s jaw snapped shut again just as his hands moved with incalculable speed to pull her hard against his chest. One moved up to bury itself in her hair, tilting her head back and her face toward him. “Vampires don’t have reflections,” he reminded her, closing in on the soft circle formed by her mouth.

A short gasp was all Cordelia had time for, her eyes wide saucers as Angel closed in on her lips. Just as the distance between them vanished to naught but a sliver of light, a knock sounded at their door followed quickly by the turning of the handle. In the space of a second, Cordelia was left standing alone with Angel on the far side of the room leaning up against the wall and taking great interest in a crack on the ceiling.

Wesley entered quickly, shutting the door behind him. Noting Angel’s presence and immediately picking up the tense vibes, he had no doubt they’d been arguing. As he approached, the sound of their raised voices had been audible, but indecipherable. No doubt it had something to do with Cordelia spending more time with Vandemere than Angel thought safe and the fact that Angel had somehow arranged to get here in broad daylight.

“So you made it,” Wes said by way of an opening hoping the tension would dissipate.

Angel nodded without explaining the details. He was slowly forcing himself to calm down. Cordelia had him so stirred up he’d almost kissed her. Dammit, what the hell was he thinking? That was the problem, Angel realized, thinking had nothing to do with it.

Moving forward, Wesley noticed that Angel’s suitcases were lined up at his feet. This was potentially interesting. “Why are these not in your room?”

It was Cordelia who answered, her fake smile showing again. “This is Angel’s room.”

A furrow appeared on Wesley’s brow, “But this is your room.”

“Try explaining that to Don Juan the Artiste over there,” Cordelia nodded her head in Angel’s direction.

Pushing away from the wall, Angel stalked over to join them. “I thought it necessary to tell Vandemere that Cordelia wasn’t up for grabs.”

“Says Mister Grabby Hands himself,” she muttered and drew a wide-eyed look from the Englishman.

“So you’re saying that you informed our host that you two are sleeping together,” Wes deduced while attempting not to let his imagination run away with him. Since they had recently moved offices from Cordelia’s apartment to the Hyperion, he had hoped the building tension between the vampire and seer would cool off a little. That hadn’t happened and now Wes saw that it was reaching a boiling point. “Strangely, I have to tell you that I’m glad you made that inference.”

Cordelia’s nose crinkled in reaction. “Huh?” Even Angel raised a brow.

“I’ve garnered a little more information from our outside sources on the women who have disappeared,” Wesley explained. “Kate confirmed the victims all had ties to the art world—girlfriends or companions of the artists invited here. And I caught a glimpse of one preliminary sketch earlier. The figure… moved. Just for a second. Like the paint was alive.”

“So what?” Cordelia shrugged, not getting the connection. “You’re saying that Clay is the jealous type. There’s plenty of that to go around.”

Angel ignored the verbal barb to comment, “Maybe he covets what he can’t have as his own.” Then making a leap, “He paints them. Captures them on canvas.”

“He wants to paint me.” Cordelia’s hand crept up to her throat remembering the way Clay commented on her unmarked skin.

Conceding that there could be a connection, Wesley pointed out, “That still doesn’t explain the cause of the disappearances.”

“Pack up,” Angel ordered decisively having never taken his eyes off of her. “You’re going home tonight. We’ll handle this.”

Turning on him and completely ignoring Wesley’s presence, Cordelia laid into him again. “Don’t pull the macho protective stuff with me, Angel. I’m part of this team— Vision Girl, not just your secretary and certainly not someone who’s going to run at the first sign that it’s getting dangerous.” Then her voice softened, “I’ve come a long way since Sunnydale and I’m not going to let you endanger this mission because you think I can’t take care of myself.”

“Cordy…,” Angel couldn’t deny any of it and found that his words were suffocated by the truth.

After seconds of silence that felt like eons, Wesley cleared his throat. Addressing Angel, he put on a practical expression before saying, “I assume you’ll be sleeping on the couch.”

“Guess so.”

“Pfft! Duh!”

After that, it seemed like a non-issue to Wesley who informed them both that it might be a good idea for Cordelia to sit for Vandemere’s painting. This might be the only way they would gain access to the evidence that would prove him guilty of a connection to the disappearances. Angel was dead-set against the idea. No way was he going to let that happen. Just to prove her point, Cordelia took the opposite argument, even though the idea gave her the creeps.

“Two against one,” she quipped sticking out her tongue at Angel when the urge hit.

“Fine,” he ground out. “Just keep in mind that when you do this, he won’t have you wearing anything except your skin.”

Cordelia’s spine stiffened at the thought of those leering blue eyes, but she wasn’t about to back down now. “You don’t know that.”

A harsh laugh sounded from the vampire’s throat. “After the way he went on about your flawless silky soft golden skin? Bet on it.”

Just as Cordelia was trying to recall if Clay had used those words, Wesley decided he had heard more than enough. He didn’t like the idea any more than Angel, but if he had his way, things wouldn’t get that far. “This is a good time to snoop around a bit. Vandemere is supposed to be otherwise occupied until suppertime. Cordy, you might want to get back to Ms Mitchell.”

Cordelia didn’t even make it into the same room as Marnie Mitchell before Clay found her. He was anxious to learn about Angel’s decision in allowing her to pose for him. “I can assure you that your cooperation will only help him. My contacts in the world of art are innumerable. Through them, I can make your Angel a household name.”

Marnie leaned in conspiratorially over her champagne flute later that evening, voice bright but edged with something Cordelia couldn’t quite name. “Clay’s been so generous with us. My boyfriend swears this weekend is going to make his career. He even mentioned a private viewing room—says Clay keeps his very best work there, the ones that ‘last forever.’” She laughed, oblivious. “I told him I’d pose if he ever asked, but I’m not the artistic type. Not like you, Cordy. You’ve got that timeless look.”

Vandemere’s approach gained one extra line of oily charm as he passed their table: “Your Angel may think he’s claimed you, but art has a way of outlasting even the strongest bonds. I paint what I want to keep… eternally.”

“I’m a little nervous,” Cordelia admitted, pressing her lips together.

“No need, my dear,” patting her cheek, he commented, “I am a professional.”

Winging it, Cordelia accepted his offer. She was told that an assistant would take her to his studio at ten o’clock in the morning. Before he went, she had to ask, “Should I wear anything special or is there a costume?”

Amused by her naivety considering that Angel’s patron had basically pimped her out to the vampire, he cooed, “The only costume you’ll need is that gorgeous skin.”

The fact that Angel had been right wasn’t lost on her, but Cordelia wasn’t about to back down now. This might mean finding out the truth.

Cordelia spent the rest of the evening making small talk with Marnie Mitchell who was enjoying her stay at the mansion and was completely clueless that anything might happen to her. When asked, she told Cordelia that Clay Vandemere hadn’t talked to her since the three of them were together earlier in the day. Interpreting the scenes from her vision, Cordelia had to wonder if somehow, she had replaced Marnie as Clay Vandemere’s next victim.

Dinner went by in a haze as Cordelia contemplated what would happen tomorrow morning. Neither Angel nor Wes had found anything during their brief search of this wing of the mansion. That meant she would have to go through with posing for Clay.

Oh God! What now? Just show up, drop her clothes in front of the potentially evil guy with leer-o-vision? How was she going to do this without freaking out? Cordelia had always thought she was comfortable with her body. Hello, cheerleader. That usually gave her the ability to ignore leering men, but not while she was bare-assed and posing for one.

Maybe this was a bad decision. Maybe she should change her mind. But no, that would be giving into Angel’s concerns and confessing that he was right all along.

As soon as Marnie excused herself to follow her artist lover to their room, Cordelia made her own escape upstairs. The bedroom was still empty suggesting that Angel was either occupied in his role as artist extraordinaire or that he was busy snooping around the other wing of the mansion. Cordelia didn’t really care which it was at that moment; she darted into the bathroom, shed her clothes and turned the water on in the tub until hot steam covered her wide-eyed reflection in the mirror.

After a long soak, Cordelia finally climbed out, pulling up the stopper to drain the tub and took her time in drying herself from head to toe. The body lotion came next. She donned the terry cloth robe that hung on the back of the door having forgotten her pajamas in the rush to feel clean again, wrapping it around her slim form and then knotting the belt in place. She brushed her teeth until they were sparkly and her breath minty fresh. Afterward, combing and drying her hair until it fell in a mass of wavy tendrils down the length of her back, radiating a healthy shine.

Finally, Cordelia could find no other excuses to remain in the bathroom. She’d come to a startling conclusion while soaking in the tub. The steam had cleared her mind and she realized that there was only one way she was going to be able to pull this off in the morning.

Practice.

Cordelia reached for the door, her breath catching in her throat. She could sense him beyond the wooden barrier. Angel was out there and she was about to ask him to do something that wasn’t exactly the normal thing one might expect between friends or between boss and assistant or between vampire and seer.

Angel had his back to her as Cordelia padded barefoot across the thick carpet, but turned just before she came to a stop. His eyes slid over her flushed skin and the determined expression.

“What is it, Cordy?” he asked when she didn’t immediately say what was on her mind.

Gathering her courage, Cordelia sucked in a deep breath and then blurted in one fast plea, “Iwantyoutosketchme.”

Even with vampire hearing, Angel hoped he’d heard it wrong. “You want me to do what?”

“Sketch me,” she repeated carefully and then waited and waited and waited for him to respond, clarifying the last part so that there was no doubt about her request, “in the nude.”

Angel stood frozen by the chair, lapdesk and pencils in hand, every instinct screaming that this was a terrible idea. He hated it. Hated that Cordelia would have to bare herself to Vandemere’s leering eyes tomorrow. Hated even more that the only way to keep her safe was to give her this practice run himself. But he could see the logic—mission logic, the kind that had kept them alive more times than he could count. If he could show her exactly what to expect from a sleazy bastard like Vandemere, maybe she’d be ready. Maybe he could armor her.

“I want you to do whatever Vandemere might do,” Cordelia said, chin high, voice steady even if her fingers trembled at the robe’s belt. “The full experience, Angel. No holding back on the lesson.”

His jaw tightened. The demon surged at the thought of another man’s hands on her, and the soul recoiled at the same time. “Cordy…”

“Just do it.”

He set the sketch supplies down. “Take the robe off, Cordelia.” His voice came out lower than he meant, already rough.

He set the sketch supplies down and stepped close, close enough that the cool air between them warmed from the heat of her body. Slowly, deliberately, he circled her once, letting her feel the weight of his gaze the way Vandemere would. His fingertips brushed the terry cloth at her shoulder, then trailed lightly down her arm, raising gooseflesh.

“He’ll start like this,” Angel murmured, voice low and rough. “Testing how far he can go under the excuse of ‘art.’”

Cordelia’s breath hitched. She stood perfectly still, but her pulse hammered visibly at the base of her throat.

Angel’s hands slid to the belt of the robe. He untied it with agonizing slowness, letting the sides fall open but not yet pushing the fabric from her shoulders. Cool palms skimmed just inside the lapels, tracing the outer swell of her breasts without quite touching the nipples that were already tightening. “He’ll touch you like this. Any excuse. Every excuse.” His thumbs brushed the undersides, feather-light, and Cordelia shivered hard.

Only then did he ease the robe off her shoulders. It pooled at her feet. Angel’s gaze dragged over every inch of her—golden skin flushed from the bath, the gentle rise and fall of her breasts, the soft triangle of curls between her thighs. His cock thickened instantly, pressing hard against the front of his pants, but he forced himself to keep the lesson going. “Turn for me, Cordy. Slow. Let him look.”

She did, cheeks pink, nipples pebbled, but her eyes when they met his again were dark with something far beyond nerves.

“Good,” he breathed, stepping in until his chest brushed her back. His hands settled on her hips, guiding her posture the way a sleazy artist would—tilting her shoulders, arching her spine just enough to lift her breasts, sliding one palm down the curve of her ass to adjust the angle of her leg. Every touch was deliberate, possessive under the guise of instruction. “He’ll want you like this. Open. Available. His to arrange.”

Cordelia trembled under his hands, a soft sound escaping her throat. Angel was rock-hard now, aching, and the scent of her growing arousal filled the room. He was losing the battle with himself, but he kept the slow, sensual wind-up going because she had asked for the full experience—and because he needed her to feel exactly how dangerous this could be.

“First pose,” he finally said, voice gravel-rough.

“Do you like it harder, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce?” the feminine voice inquired softly through the restful haze surrounding him.

A smile slowly appeared across his lips as he answered, “Oh, yes. Let’s do try it that way.”

Skillful hands kneaded the muscles of Wesley’s shoulders and upper back increasing in pressure. Draped in a towel on the massage table, he appeared to any who entered the room to be enjoying one of the many perks of being a guest.

In fact, he was sleuthing having discovered that Tasha was tasked with giving Vandemere’s models a massage at the end of a long day of posing. The masseuse was a talker and a few questions here and there gained Wesley quite a bit of information.

“The private viewing room is something else,” Tasha confided, fingers working a knot. “Master Clay says the best pieces never leave the estate. They just… last forever.” She shivered theatrically. “Gives me the creeps sometimes, but the pay is fantastic.”

He would confirm his suspicions tonight, contact Angel with the news, and they would put this investigation to an end before it ever became necessary for Cordelia to go to Vandemere’s studio in the morning. Finally, Wes simply settled his brain and relaxed into the remainder of the massage.

Later, creeping down the corridor, his steps silent on the burgundy carpeting, Wesley located the hidden panel exactly as Tasha’s gossip had described. What he found overwhelmed him. From a purely artistic standpoint, the paintings that lined the walls from floor to ceiling were masterpieces of their kind. One theme was instantly clear.

All were of women. Most of them nude, though posed quite tastefully or draped in the sheerest cloth. He counted all eleven victims amongst the women depicted on the walls.

Catching a movement from the corner of his eye, Wes turned his head, but saw only the painting on the other wall. The female subject was beautiful, as were the others, her russet hair tumbling over her shoulder. Her pale skin almost touchable with its flawless beauty. Eyes of emerald green held Wesley’s attention. They held him fast, staring deep, almost pleadingly into his.

Blinking, Wesley turned his head away for a moment and then slowly lifted it again. This time, the eyes were turned away. In fact, the woman with russet red hair was posed in a completely different manner.

“Eureka!” Wesley exclaimed aloud, then cupped a hand over his own mouth to quell the excited noises threatening to gurgle from his throat.

Turning on his heel, he stared at another of the paintings. Then another. The images moved. Close inspection showed that they consisted of paint, not flesh, but the light in those eyes belonged to living beings. Wesley scowled as he realized the extent of Clay Vandemere’s involvement with the disappearances of the women in Cordelia’s vision.

After painting them, Vandemere had used powerful magick to draw their lifeforces into the canvas. A wall of living images resulted, their beauty immortal, never fading, and all for his eyes. This revelation couldn’t wait until morning. He needed to tell Angel and Cordelia now before she walked straight into Vandemere’s trap.

One last time, Wes looked up into the emerald eyes, planning to promise that this would all end here. Only the soft plea was replaced by intense fear and it was only when Wesley felt the presence looming behind him did he realize too late that the look was meant as a warning. A dull object crashed into the back of his head and Wesley fell to the ground unconscious.

“I can’t be bothered with you tonight, Wyndam-Pryce,” stated Clay Vandemere as he stared down at the prone form of the Englishman. “My strength and magicks must be conserved for the morning. After I have what I want, expect me to deal with you and the vampire appropriately. Until then, enjoy my beauties. I treasure each and every one of them.”

Exiting, Vandemere locked the door, closing the hidden panel behind him.

Angel’s hands never left her as he guided Cordelia to the bed for the first pose. He eased her down onto her stomach, taking his time—fingers lingering on the backs of her thighs, brushing the sensitive skin just beneath the swell of her ass, tracing the sun-and-moon tattoo as if memorizing it. “Shoulders up. Breasts pressed forward against the mattress. That’s it… just like he’ll want you. Exposed. Waiting for his approval.”

He picked up the pencil and began to sketch, the soft rasp of lead on paper the only sound for long, charged moments. Cordelia could feel every stroke as if the pencil were touching her skin instead of the page—his eyes moving over her, drinking in the curve of her spine, the lift of her breasts, the way her hair spilled across the pillow. She trembled, hyper-aware of her nudity, of the way Angel’s gaze lingered, of the fact that this was safe only because it was him.

“He’ll say things like, ‘Hold still, darling. Let me capture how perfect you look right now,’” Angel continued, voice low and rough, never stopping the slow, deliberate strokes of the pencil. “And he’ll expect you to obey. To stay there and let him look as long as he wants.”

Cordelia’s breathing had gone shallow. She was trembling harder now, but not from fear.

She tried to imagine Vandemere’s cold blue eyes on her instead—clinical, possessive, reducing her to just another beautiful object for his private collection. The thought made her skin crawl. But this was Angel. His gaze was dark, intense, and burning with something far deeper than mere leering. Every slow pass of his eyes felt like a caress, reverent and hungry at the same time. She felt desired, not objectified. Safe, even while completely exposed. The difference sent fresh waves of heat through her body.

Their eyes met again across the short distance. The pencil had gone still in Angel’s hand.

Angel’s thoughts fractured. She was exquisite—more beautiful than he had any right to witness. The graceful line of her spine, the soft swell of her breasts pressed to the sheets, the way her hair spilled like dark silk across the pillow… He wanted her with a ferocity that terrified him. The demon inside snarled at the idea of Vandemere ever seeing her this way, ever putting his hands on her. This “lesson” was supposed to prepare her, but it was tearing Angel apart. He couldn’t bear watching her lie there so open and vulnerable for another moment without claiming her properly.

Setting the pencil aside with a clatter, Angel rasped, “Time for another pose,” his voice rougher than before.

He helped her roll onto her side, propping her head on one hand, the other arm draped along the curve of her hip. But he didn’t stop there. “Lips swollen like he’s been kissing you senseless.” He spent long minutes adjusting her—thumb brushing her lower lip until it glistened, fingers skimming the side of her breast until the nipple pebbled tighter, palm sliding down her thigh to part her legs just enough that the cool air kissed her slick folds. “Open just enough to tease.”

Cordelia’s breath hitched. She rubbed her thighs together once in restless need before deliberately opening them wider just for him, letting the cool air kiss her slick, heated flesh. This was for Angel alone—no one else would ever see her like this.

“He’ll want to see everything, Cordy. Every wet, perfect inch. He’ll tell you to stay exactly like this while he sketches… and he’ll expect you to do it.”

Again he picked up the pencil, sketching with slow, heavy strokes. Even now, he caressed her with his eyes—dark, intent, devouring every curve as the pencil captured her on paper. Cordelia felt that gaze like a physical touch, every bit as potent, hotter and more intimate than anything their host could ever manage.

Cordelia’s arousal was mounting rapidly, a slow, liquid heat spreading low in her belly and making it increasingly difficult to stay still. Her nipples tightened almost painfully in the cool air of the room with every breath, and the slick ache between her thighs grew more insistent. Unable to help herself, she wriggled against the pillows and silk sheets, hips shifting in a futile search for relief.

A low, warning growl rumbled from Angel’s chest. “Don’t move, Cordy,” he rasped, the pencil pausing for a moment. “Stay exactly where I put you.”

She did, for him, watching with hungry eyes as the pencil stroked upon the sketch pad. His eyes flicking over a peak or curve, or to that part of her aching for his touch. Angel started out as a stand-in for Vandemere, but this had taken a hard turn straight into her lustiest fantasies. No way would that creepy guy get this far–or turn her on by doing it.

“Last Pose.”

Cordelia’s toes curled at his approach, her teeth digging into her bottom lip to prevent herself from telling him to stop. Lessons learned. Check. A wanton little whimper escaped as his hand closed around her hip repositioning her again. This time he wasn’t just teasing. His hands lingered everywhere—cupping her breasts fully now, rolling the nipples between his fingers until she arched and moaned, sliding down to spread her thighs wider, thumbs stroking the crease where leg met body, then dipping just inside her folds to gather the slick heat there and spread it slowly upward.

Angel’s voice dropped to a near growl. “Vandemere won’t see any of this. I want this—you—spread open and dripping for me alone. No one else.” The stroke of his fingers was teasing and deliberate all at once, slowly driving her insane. Her hips canted to the tune he set, her breathing heavy. “I’m the only one who ever gets to touch you like this.”

Clenching around his deft fingers as they swept into her heat, Cordelia figured she’d set him straight on turning into a possessive vampire type later on. Right after they finished. “Less talk, Angel. More action.”

That was all it took. The last thread of his control snapped. Angel surged forward, but instead of kissing her mouth he dropped low between her spread thighs, broad shoulders shoving her legs wider. His mouth closed over her in one hot, hungry stroke—tongue dragging through her slick folds, circling her clit with slow, deliberate pressure, then plunging deep inside her. Cordelia’s back arched off the bed with a sharp cry, fingers tangling in his hair as he devoured her like a man starved. He held her hips down with one large hand, the other sliding up to pinch and roll a nipple while his tongue worked her relentlessly—licking, sucking, fucking her with deep, possessive strokes that left no doubt she was his to claim in every possible way.

Cordelia’s thighs trembled around his ears, her hips canting up to meet every thrust of his tongue. “Angel—oh God—” She was so close, right on the edge, when she suddenly pushed at his shoulders with a breathless laugh. “Clothes off. Now. I want you naked and inside me.”

Angel pulled back just enough to look up at her, eyes dark and gleaming, lips shiny with her arousal. A low, appreciative growl rumbled in his chest—he loved this side of her, loved the way she took what she wanted. “Bossy,” he rasped, but he was already shoving his shirt off and kicking his shoes aside.

Cordelia sat up, hands greedy as she yanked his pants and boxers down in one determined motion. “My turn to play.” She wrapped her fingers around his thick, aching cock, stroking him slowly from root to tip, thumb circling the leaking head until his hips jerked and a guttural sound tore from his throat. Angel didn’t stop her—he couldn’t have even if he wanted to. He let her set the pace, let her pump him with that perfect, confident rhythm while her free hand cupped his balls, squeezing just enough to make his fangs ache.

Cordelia leaned down, tongue flicking out to tease the broad head in slow, wet circles, tasting the salt of him, dragging the flat of her tongue along the underside just to watch his abs clench.

Before her mouth could close around him, Angel’s hands shot down, gripping her hips and hauling her up his body in one powerful motion. “Not yet,” he growled, voice wrecked. He thrust up hard as he pulled her down, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth, relentless stroke. Cordelia gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as he filled her completely, stretching her wide. He lowered them both to the bed, rolling so she was straddling him, and drove up into her again and again, hands guiding her hips in a punishing rhythm.

“Like that—fuck, Cordy, just like that,” he rasped, the words slipping out between gritted teeth. She rode him hard, breasts bouncing with every downward slam, her slick heat gripping him tighter with each thrust. Angel’s hands roamed—cupping her ass, pinching her nipples, sliding up to tangle in her hair and pull her down for a messy, desperate kiss.

Without warning he flipped them again, this time pressing her onto her stomach and yanking her hips up so he could take her from behind, deeper, harder, the new angle making her cry out into the pillow. He was relentless, one hand braced beside her head, the other reaching around to circle her clit in tight, slick strokes while he pounded into her. The bed creaked under them; sweat slicked their skin. Angel’s rhythm never faltered chasing every moan and gasp from her throat.

In the midst of it all, the demon surged forward without conscious thought. Ridges rippled across his brow, fangs lengthened, his cock thickened inside her as he drove deeper still. Angel didn’t notice—he couldn’t have stopped even if he had. The need to mark her, to bind her, simply was.

Cordelia felt the shift, the sudden extra girth stretching her perfectly, and she clenched hard around him with a broken moan. “Yes—Angel—now—”

He buried his fangs in the soft join of her neck and shoulder at the exact moment she came, the bite deep and necessary and perfect. Her orgasm ripped through her, milking him until he followed with a guttural groan, spilling deep inside her as the bond snapped into place between them.

They stayed locked together long after the last shudder, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to hers. Angel licked the fresh mark gently, sealing it with his scent, his claim. “I didn’t plan that,” he whispered, voice raw.

Cordelia winced a little at the sting, fingers brushing the mark as she tried to process what had just happened. “You… bit me. Like you meant it. Vandemere said vampires mark their women, but I figured it was just… you know, snacking. Not this.”

Angel’s thumb traced the fresh bite, eyes dark and serious. “In vampire terms, that means I have claimed you. It means you’re mine.”

Cordelia’s eyes flashed with that familiar Chase fire. “It better work both ways, buddy.” Before he could answer she pushed him onto his back, straddled his chest, and sank her teeth into the thick muscle of his shoulder—hard enough to break skin. Angel hissed, but the sound turned into a low, hungry growl as fresh heat flared between them.

“Cordy—”

She didn’t let him finish. She rocked against him, already wet and ready again, guiding his still-hard cock back inside her in one smooth slide. “If I’m yours, then you’re mine too.” The second round was slower at first, almost tender—her riding him with deep, rolling hips while she kissed the mark she’d left on his shoulder. But Angel’s hands soon gripped her ass, urging her faster, and the pace turned fierce again. He flipped her onto her hands and knees, taking her from behind with long, powerful strokes, one hand reaching around to circle her clit while the other tangled in her hair.

“I love you, Cordy,” he rasped against her ear, the words torn from him as he drove deep. “Have for a while now.”

Cordelia pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, voice breaking on a moan. “I love you too, you big idiot. Guess that makes you stuck with me.”

The admission sent them both over the edge again—her clenching hard around him, him spilling deep inside her with a guttural groan as the bond between them burned brighter, permanent and perfect.

They collapsed together, tangled and breathless, Angel’s arms wrapped around her like he never planned to let go.

“What if I told you I don’t want you to go?” Angel leaned up against the table as she lightly buttered her toast.

Cordelia paused, silently pointing out that it was too early in their new relationship to play the you-have-to-do-what-I-say card. “We went over this yesterday. This is all part of the mission. I’m going.”

Grumbling, Angel commented that he didn’t want Clay Vandemere looking at her and thinking about sex. To which Cordelia countered, “I don’t care what he thinks, pervy man that he is. I don’t care about him. I love you. That’s the difference.”

Conceding that he wasn’t going to get his way, all Angel could do was plan to protect her if things got bad. Who knows what Vandemere did in his private studio. All of the models went home safely. It was afterward that they’d disappeared. That was what they were trying to discover.

“Where is Wes?” asked Angel, suddenly realizing that they hadn’t heard from him all night.

With a shrug, Cordelia swallowed her bite of toast. “Haven’t seen him. Wasn’t he going to come by this morning?”

Glancing at the bedside clock, Angel’s face darkened grimly. “He’s an hour late.”

“Wes is never late,” Cordelia rose from the chair in a hurry.

A knock sounded on the door followed by a voice announcing, “I’m here to collect you, Ms Chase.”

“Already?” Cordelia realized it was earlier than planned. Calling out, “I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Dammit,” Angel cursed low so that only Cordelia heard it. “You’ll have to go. Just be careful. I’ll look for Wesley. Something tells me this isn’t good.”

Cordelia grabbed onto Angel’s arms, staring worriedly into his eyes. “Look where?”

“Vampire senses go a long way when it comes to tracking down people,” Angel told her encouragingly. He didn’t bother to add that the trail might already be cold.

Before she left, his phone buzzed—Gunn checking in from the perimeter. “I’m parked near the service road with weapons. Just in case this art thing goes south. Don’t make me come in after your ass, bro.”

Angel’s grin was grim. “Stay ready.”

Sharing one last lingering kiss, Cordelia and Angel parted at the door, the servant blushing under the passion burning in that intimate caress. “This way, miss.”

Angel waited until they vanished around the corridor before heading up the back stairs to the third level of the mansion. He crossed over to the far wing believing that this was the area Wesley had been searching earlier in the day. After a few minutes of random searching, he picked up the familiar scent of Wesley’s aftershave and the other combined scents that were unique to his friend.

He stopped in the hall. Wes was close. He could sense it, but there was nothing here. No doorway, no indication of a room. Unless it was well-hidden. Angel experimentally tapped on the wall panel, a hollow echo sounding back.

A satisfied glint lit his eyes and Angel was about to turn the paneling into kindling when he discovered that he was no longer alone. Three burly security guards were standing at the end of the hall, armed with nightsticks and brass knuckles. “Nice to see you boys. I haven’t had my morning workout,” Angel quipped and waited for their attack.

Seconds later, the guards were piled up at his feet.

Angel broke the paneling into pieces, tossing it on the ground and revealing the hidden door behind it. Flexing his leg, he aimed one powerful kick at the door. The lock broke and the door flew off its hinges sliding across the floor and stopping just inches away from Wesley who was sitting on the floor holding a hand to the back of his head.

“Are you okay?” Angel asked as he rushed in to help his friend to his feet.

Wesley nodded and winced in pain. “I will be. Where is Cordelia?”

“With Vandemere.”

“We’ve got to stop him,” Wesley said, eyes wide behind the rims of his glasses. “He’s using magick to transfer the lifeforce of the models to the paintings themselves. Just look them.”

Following Wesley’s direction, he looked to the painting he was pointing at. Realizing that this was what Vandemere intended to do to Cordelia, to trap her in canvas for his own visual pleasure, he felt his demon pulling at his restraints. “Lucky for us that he can’t produce a painting even if he does manage to convince Cordelia to remove her clothes.”

“Angel,” warned Wesley who had all night to examine the rest of the room, “some of the framed art appear to be preliminary drawings. As if the models sat for him, but changed their mind about posing for the final painting. How long does it take to sketch one of those?”

Wesley stared after him as the vampire darted out of the room faster than he could follow. He realized the answer to his own questions was ‘not long’ and cried out to Angel who was already rounding the corner, “Wait for me!”

It didn’t matter where Vandemere had his studio. Angel knew he could find it with his eyes closed. Cordelia was there and that was all that it took to show him the way.

“You can disrobe anytime, my dear,” Clay Vandemere offered smoothly. “I don’t bite, you know. Unlike your lover. I see you’ve been marked since I last saw you.”

Cordelia had discarded her clothes behind a large silk screen, taking her time doing so and donning an ivory robe that was draped over a chair. “Sorry if that ruins my flawless skin. Vampire thing.”

“On the contrary, Cordelia, that raw spot of flesh will give my painting a uniqueness that is solely you,” he told her waving a hand toward the chaise set up in one corner of the room.

She must have made a face, because he laughed, telling her, “Did your Angel think that by marking you, I would not want to look upon his property? I assure you that I find you just as beautiful. It will be a pleasure to paint you, and to keep you as my own.”

“Just my image,” Cordelia tried not to snap at him. She was supposed to be stalling, not making him angry.

Fortunately, Clay Vandemere appeared as cool as a cucumber. Dressed simply, head to toe in white, he crossed the space between them and took hold of Cordelia’s arm, leading her to the chaise lounge at a slightly faster pace. She settled on it, feeling the soft seat give way to her slight weight.

Taking a seat across from her, the artist explained, “We’ll do some quick sketches to get started. After I decide which pose will be best, we’ll begin.”

Giving herself a silent pep talk, Cordelia kept telling herself that she could do this. It was part of the job. Later, she’d have a little discussion with the Powers that Be about her job description, but right now, if the mission required it, she’d do what had to be done.

As she reached at an infinitesimal pace toward the tie of the ivory robe, Cordelia looked around the room. It appeared to be full of props for the paintings. Objects both modern and medieval filled shelves lining the walls. Various drapes and materials hung in organized fashion in an open closet while several yards of sheer fabric were laid out across a table as if he had been making selections.

Cordelia stood, turning away from the watchful gaze of Clay Vandemere. The robe fell loose and she pulled back slowly so that it slipped off her shoulders, baring her back.

The door flew open, rattling against the wall with sheer force, and Angel burst through. “Get away from her, Vandemere. I know your game and you won’t be victimizing anyone else in the future.”

Closing and knotting the robe around her waist, Cordelia whirled around greeting Angel with a bright smile and then telling the painter, “You are so gonna get your ass kicked.”

“I am hardly defenseless,” warned Vandemere as he stood facing Angel. Words of magick sounded on his lips even as the vampire moved closer. Angel went flying into the wall, crashing into an old set of armor and knocking it to the ground along with a stack of books piled up on the bureau next to it.

Vamping out, Angel grabbed the stray sword knocked free of the armor and flipped to his feet, “Neither am I.”

As Vandemere prepared another spell, a ball of fire appeared to be growing in the palm of the hand held close to his heart. Cordelia saw the flames and knew the permanent damage that could result if they touched Angel, or worse turning him to dust. She picked up a small metal urn on the table next to the chaise, one of the props Vandemere had set in place prior to her arrival, and struck out at his head.

Angel aimed the sword and threw it at the same moment, passing through the flames and sending Vandemere to the ground, his clothes afire, a screaming death stare and defeat lighting his now unblinking eyes. With his death, the mystic flames petered out.

“Beauty is meant to be shared,” the dying man gasped, eyes wild. “Not hoarded by one jealous vampire.” Fire consumed him as the spells shattered.

Finally arriving at the artist’s studio, Wesley entered the room to the scent of slightly charred flesh and the sight of Cordelia and Angel kissing madly in the center of the room. Rubbing the knot on the back of his head, Wes closed his eyes, waited ten seconds and then opened them again. No, still kissing.

Clearing his throat, Wesley commented, “With Vandemere dead, his hold over the spells cast upon his victims has vanished. I presume that his private viewing area is now full of confused, frightened young women. Not to mention a house full of guests and such.”

Angel didn’t immediately answer. He swept Cordelia up into his arms eliciting a soft laugh from the brunette who wound her arms around the vampire’s neck as he made a move toward the door. Pausing next to Wesley, he leaned close to say, “You should handle the details, Wes. Cordelia and I have things to do.”

The End.

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