by Various
“A gift from Whittiger. He gives them to all the girls. It’s engraved with the agency’s logo,” Fred explained. Cordelia had showed off it to her earlier that week, on the day of her first meeting with Whittiger.
“Yes, well, regardless of how uncomfortable Cordelia’s behavior was making us, I think we need to consider the idea that something is…” Wesley peered more closely at the etchings that bordered the small metal mirror. “Hmm…”
“‘Hmm’ what? I don’t wanna be hearing no ‘hmm,’” Gunn said. He’d been sitting next to Fred at the computer, surfing the Whittiger Web site. Research was rarely less painful than the experience of watching Fred scroll past the roster of newly signed models, but at the first sound of Wesley’s musings, the parade of hotties was all but forgotten. Anything that starts in “hmm” usually ends in “gross,” “monster,” or “dead.” Which is not exactly in the holiday spirit.
“No, I suppose not. Speaking of familiar—this logo—I don’t believe it is a logo. I recognize it.”
“Recognize it, copyright-infringement, or recognize it, bust-out-the-books-there’s-a-demon-on-the loose?”’Cause, with the ‘gross,’ monster,’ and dead’…Cordy’s going to be so disappointed.
Wesley sighed. “The latter, I’m afraid.”
Mortification, thy name is Cordelia.
The would-be ingenue could barely believe her own behavior. Since Whittiger had descended the staircase she had joined the throng of Stepford models in their adulation. Something about the scene didn’t feel right—she didn’t want to seduce him—he was her boss, or would be soon, after all—but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. And neither could any of the other girls.
“Please to let me hang your jacket, Mr. Whittiger,” Katia, a willowy brunette, was saying. Cordelia turned to her.
“Excuse me,” she whispered, “but do you think it’s odd that we’re all so desperate to cater to this man? And where is his coat-gathering help? People who aren’t invited guests, after all? Don’t you think something’s going on here?”
Katia stared at Cordelia. “I must go and hang jacket,” she explained, as if to a two-year-old.
Cordelia grabbed her by the arm. “Wait. Listen to me. I know from what I’m saying. Something about this scene feels a little”—she paused and flashed a bright, sunny grin at Whittiger—“I love that tie”—and tugged again at Katia—“brainwashy.”
Katia giggled and languidly burrowed back into the throng.
You’ve barely been here an hour. How brainwashed can you be? Get to the bathroom and call Angel, she commanded herself. She steadied herself as Whittiger drew closer. Mmm…I can smell his cologne.“Mr. Whittiger. So wonderful to see you again. May I get you a drink?”
“Of course, Cordelia.”
Wine plus glass, Cordelia reminded herself, bracing herself against the counter. That’s all I need.
“Are you actually fixing him a drink?!”
Cordelia gasped and leaped at least two feet into the air. “Angel!” She looked around. “And Gunn and Wesley and Fred, and there’s something not kosher about my new job prospect. What’s going on here?” She wriggled closer to Angel. “How’d you get in here?” She paused. “I knew you’d save me.”
“All I had to do was ring the bell. One of the girls invited me in,” he explained in a rush. “They were actually pretty eager to bring me inside. Friendly women.” Redirecting his thoughts, he continued, “The compact. Does Whittiger give one to all of the girls?”
“Uh-huh. He’s so generous…and kind…and sexy…” She pinched herself. “Again I say, gross. Stop me before I flirt again.”
“We believe the mirrors are enchanted. Wes cross-checked the engraving and it’s consistent with runic symbols used to initiate women into a cult of succubi.”
“It looks like Whittiger is the human identity of the demon Gilgor,” Wesley explained, obviously struggling not to be distracted by the models, “believed possibly to be a descendant of Lilith and an overseer of the succubi of the underworld.”
“I’m a succubus? Mucho ew. But it does explain a lot.” She hooked a finger into Angel’s back pocket. “I should have known you’d figure it out.” She pushed him away. “Ugh, behold the humiliation.”
“So I get why all of the foreign imports are playing at empty-headed, but why I am the only girl here who senses something of the funk?”
“It’s likely that the demon part of you renders you less pervious,” Wesley explained.
“No perv, not me. An enchanted succubus, maybe, but not a perv. So you think he was using us to seduce his clients—and feed his ego—and keep his agency on top?”
Fred nodded. “Yeah. We’re sorry.”
“We know how much you wanted this,” Angel added.
She threw her arms around him and smacked her lips against his cheek loudly. “So how do we stop him?”
“Wes has a theory,” Angel explained, unwrapping himself—however slowly—from her grip. “Wes?”
In the doorway, Wesley was gazing into the eyes of a Scandinavian swimsuit model. “Why, yes, I could certainly use a drink,” he was saying as she linked an arm possessively through his. “That would be lovely.”
“Wes!”
Wesley snapped his head up. “Right, then…ah…There should be a source here, perhaps a large mirror?”
Cordy nodded. “In the living room. It makes my legs look way long.” She struck a Jessica Rabbit pose as demonstration, then pointed. “Back there.”
“I’m gonna get with the smashing,” Gunn offered, indicating the sledgehammer he brandished. He kicked aside the large duffle in which he’d transported it. “Shouldn’t be too hard….” he trailed off as he noticed the chorusline of lingerie models fluffing their hair along the mirrored wall. A perky redhead caught his gaze in the mirror and winked at him.
“Ah, ah, my dear—you cannot come between a model and her mirror,” Natascha chided him playfully, sidling up next to him and tapping a manicured index finger on his nose. “But you can come nearer to me, if you like.”
“It’s a thought,” Gunn mused cheerfully.
“Oh, please,” Fred groaned, “Charles, give me the sledgehammer.” Careful to avert her eyes from the glass, she made her way to the mirror.
Cordelia and Angel were following close behind when Whittiger suddenly appeared. “Cordelia. Whatever happened to my drink?”
“You know, Whittiger, it’s been an enchanting evening, but I think I’m going to, uh, get you that cocktail and be on my way.”
He grabbed her by the wrist. “I can’t let you do that.”
She pressed against him sensually. Sex appeal, don’t fail me now.“Of course you can. I think you can let me do exactly what I want to do.”
He pushed her off of him. “Come now. If you know about the magick, then you must know that as the person who enchanted the mirror, I am not susceptible to your seduction. Your feminine wiles won’t work on me.”
“But something tells me this will.”
Thwack! Without warning, Angel plunged a pointed tip into the demon’s back. With a roar, Whittiger’s visage gave way to the horrid countenance of Gilgor. His eyes flashed red and his skin became gunmetal gray and scaly, before his entire being melted into an oozing, bubbling puddle on the floor.
“Silver tipped. Gets ’em every time,” Angel explained, twirling the stake in his hand like a baton.
“Clean up, aisle one,” Cordy said, stepping daintily aside before the sludge could run onto her kitten heels.
A lanky model of the heroin-chic aesthetic wrapped her arms around Angel from behind. “My hero, no?” She breathed into his ear. Despite himself, Angel shuddered.
Fred snorted. “Really. A little self-respect, ladies,” she grumbled. She grunted and brought the sledgehammer up, hard, slamming it into the mirror with adrenaline-fueled fury. In a blinding flash of light, the glass shattered, showering the room in disco hues and dusting the floor in the closest approximation of snow the coast ha
d seen in decades.
Simultaneously, the models shivered.
“And may I say again, ‘bleah,’” Cordelia exclaimed, rubbing her hands over her bare arms. “The sex puppet wants to go home and shower. It’s good to have me back again.”
“Right,” Fred agreed, dropping the sledgehammer in exhaustion. “Besides, what guy really wants a mindless love-slave, anyway?…Anyway,” she cleared her throat in the direction of Wesley.
He dropped the Scandinavian’s hand guiltily. “Well, now that she’s no longer enchanted, it’s safe to say her interest is genuine. Right, Inge?”
She beamed, exposing every last gleaming, capped tooth. “I fix you drink now, no?”
“No,” Cordy answered firmly. “Not meaning to break up what is obviously the most sexually charged evening you’ve seen in a while, Wes, enchanted or no, these women are clearly not playing with a full deck. Let’s face it, modeling, not so much a job for the big-brained. More like big…smiled.”
“If they’re so empty-headed, they’ve probably never known true happiness….,” Angel mused.
“Focus,” Cordy commanded, rounding up her crew. “What have we learned?”
“Some models have beauty but not brains,” Fred suggested carefully. “Which is why it’s great, Cordelia, that you’ll always have Angel Investigations to keep you grounded.”
“And what else?”
“Mirrors—why bother?” Angel suggested, holding open the front door.
“Now you’re just talking crazy,” Cordelia protested.
“I got it. Sex is bad,” Gunn said.
“That we all knew,” Angel agreed.
“Romance is dead,” Wesley said dully, casting a forlorn glance at Inge as she giggled at something another model was saying. She seemed to be over him.
Angel threw a completely platonic arm across Cordelia’s shoulder. “But we’ve got your back.”
She ruffled his hair affectionately. “That’s good news.” Her hands dropped mischievously behind his back.
“Ow!”
“Kidding.”
11 P.M.
Have Gunn, Will Travel
by Nancy Holder
It was late, and the hotel was hopping.
Hey, that is one good-lookin’ man, Gunn thought. Kinda hairy, though. The man was nappy, but Gunn had to admit, it worked for him. Maybe someday I’ll grow my own hair back.
He didn’t make a habit of finding other guys attractive, but there was something about the tall, dark, and handsome stranger that made him look twice. The light was dim in the lobby so Gunn couldn’t completely make him out. But he was curious, and even more intrigued by the large numbers of guys milling around Handsome Guy, some of them with earphones and a lot of them with weaponry. Something happened to threaten this guy, it was going to be raining bullets.
Wouldn’t be the first time, in this old hotel.
Wesley and Angel were talking intently with the man and his security team, so Gunn decided to see if Fred and Cordy knew what was going down.
He crossed from the lobby to Wesley’s office, only to find Cordelia and Fred primly seated on the edges of their chairs, knees locked together, ankles pressed against each other so hard they were probably leaving bruises. Their posture was total military school and their pinkies saluted the ceiling as they perched dainty teacups in pastel decorator colors on their laps.
“Hey,” he said, figuring they were doing some kind of trendy new chick-yoga or something, “I am not of the flexible Y-chromosome persuasion, but I gotta say, there is one good-looking man in the lobby. And I ain’t talking about Duster Boy.”
The girls traded looks. Then Cordelia turned her attention back to Gunn and said in a flat monotone, “Oh, great master, would you care for one lump or two?”
“No, no, you must bow,” came a veddy propah English-style voice behind Gunn.
Gunn turned. A man was sitting in the corner of the office on a rollaround chair. He was extremely dark-complected and his hair was slicked down. He wore a suit that probably cost more than there was in East Los Angeles, even counting all the illegal gang activity that went down over there. There was an earpiece dangling from his left lobe, and Gunn knew the bulge of a .457 in a jacket when he saw one.
Gunn watched as Fred grimaced, fighting with the tea as it threatened to slosh over the rim, and awkwardly dipped her head over her cup.
“Bowing as in face to the floor,” the man said impatiently.
Clapping his hands, he stepped around Gunn with nary a “’scuse me, brother,” minced over to Fred and Cordelia, and took their teacups away. They both whined and he said, “Now, now, ladies, you may have your tea back after you’ve shown proper obeisance. On your knees.”
Fred looked to Cordelia for guidance. Cordelia put on her best don’t-mess-with-me-face and said, “Uh-uh, no way.”
“Protocol demands it,” the man said.
“We need the job,” Fred murmured. “Please, Cordelia.”
Cordelia rolled her eyes and gave Gunn a don’t-evenask look as both women moved to obey.
Huh, will grovel for tea. Those have to be some good leaves…
Then Cordelia stopped and said, “Wait, this is not the prince and…”
“And you must pretend that he is the prince,” the man informed her with thinly disguised impatience.
“Cordy, please. Just do it.” That was Angel, from the doorway. “We agreed to do it their way.”
“All right, all right,” she grumped. She glanced at Fred and muttered, “Geronimo.”
Both the women lowered themselves to the floor on their hands and knees, then dipped forward to touch their foreheads to the floor. Gunn had to admit it was not a hideous sight. Fighting demons kept the women of Angel Investigations in fine shape.
“Now.” The man turned to Gunn as he handed both the teacups to Angel, who held them awkwardly. “You are the imposter, correct?”
Before Gunn could say, “Say what?” Angel cut in.
“He is.”
“Very good.” The man scrutinized Gunn, walking around him in a little circle, glancing up, down, clucking his teeth. He smelled like roses and limes. Beyond them, in the lobby, the good-lookin’ guy and Wesley were still talking to the man’s people. Then two of them started upstairs.
The man said to Angel, “He’ll need a wig.”
From their slave girl positions on the floor, Cordelia and Fred tittered. Gunn raised one corner of his mouth and narrowed his eyes and said, “Okay, I think it’s time for me to hear the punchline.”
“Oh? He doesn’t know?” Fancy Suit Guy asked Angel, who shook his head.
“Nor has he agreed to do it,” Angel added, still juggling the teacups, which looked like tiny doll cups in his large hands. “It’s up to him.”
“Ah.” The man placed his fingertips together and put them under his chin. “Mr…. Gunn, is it?”
“Yeah,” Gunn said.
The man elegantly cleared his throat. “I represent His Royal Highness Prince Govinda, of the nation of Bodisahtva. He has been invited to a Christmas party given by the French ambassador.”
“That’s great,” Gunn said with only a slight edge. “He’s a lucky Royal Highness.”
“He is the Crown Prince of Bodisahtva,” the man continued, pointing out to the lobby. “His father is ailing, and he stands to come to the throne very soon.”
Gunn took that in. He glanced through the doorway at Prince Govinda. With a better opportunity to study him, Gunn noted that his suit was even more awesome than this guy’s, and his loafers were wafer-thin. Dude, was that a Rolex on his wrist?
The lesser suit added, “As you may imagine, the heir to a throne is a vulnerable man. Other ambitious princes wish to get rid of him, so that they may become sultan.”
“Speaking of wishes,” Cordelia said, “I wish to get up now.”
“I wish it, too,” Fred murmured.
“Ah. In our country, you would be whipped for speaking like that,” the ma
n said jovially. “America, land of freedom. Please, ladies, rise.”
Grumbling, both girls creaked up and sat back down on the sofa.
“Tea?” Angel asked eagerly, handing each girl back her cup.
“Bonus?” Cordelia rejoined, through clenched teeth.
“Here’s the situation,” Angel said to Gunn. “You probably noticed that you could be this guy’s reflection in a mirror.”
“Oh.” Gunn was surprised. He hadn’t actually caught that, in the dim light. That explains the attraction. He was very relieved about that.
Angel continued, “There’s a plot to assassinate him at the party. They want you to impersonate him and take his place.”
“At the hors d’oeuvres table, not the morgue,” Gunn said archly.
“Correct.” The prince’s lackey smiled with very large white teeth. “Although it will be very dangerous, of course.”
Cool.
“We will dress you as the prince, and your protocol advisor will meet you at the party. He will help coach you. He will tell you at all times with whom you are conversing. There will be kings, sultans, and many beautiful women,” the lackey added, with a slimy smile. “The party is being held in a very luxurious, very private home. It could be a very pleasant evening.”
“Please say yes, Gunn,” Cordelia begged. “Fred and I were given these amazing dresses to wear.” Fred nodded vigorously. Then Cordelia smiled with her own big white teeth at the lackey. “And to keep?”
“If the prince allows it.” The man smiled at them. “He is a very generous man.”
Those were musical notes to the ears of Miss Cordelia Chase, if Gunn knew his materialistic stick-figure, stand-up Barbie-doll.
“Why am I taking Cordelia and Fred into a dangerous situation?” Gunn asked Angel.
“The prince requires concubines,” the man explained.
Gunn shook his head. “Well, I don’t require dead friends.”
Cordelia muttered, “But we still want to keep our dresses.”
Gunn looked at Angel, who had crossed his arms and was leaning against the doorjamb, taking it all in. “Who’s behind the plot to kill the prince?”
