by Various
Angel tossed aside a blue demon in a terrifying orange plaid, met the next one with a precision punch to the throat, grappled with a third…grappled with a third…
The third just smiled at him. The third stood unmoved, as muscle-bound as any of them and more. As Angel gave swift consideration of his alternatives, the demon quite deliberately flexed all those muscles. Even the other demons paused to watch, respectful of their comrade, starting to bare their own gruesome smiles.
“Yo! Angel!” This time, above the closely gathered and bobbing heads, metal flashed.
“Excuse me,” Angel said to the demon who faced him, and thrust his hand up. Over their heads, skimming the tops of their mulchy, Spanish moss hair, a familiar battle-ax whipped through the room. Angel snatched it out of the air and watched the demon smiles fade. For a single charged moment they stared at one another, weighing the change in odds. Then the demons released a collective gurgle of a roar and surged forward.
Angel waded in.
Within moments the cocoons were stained blue with an entirely different demon goo than intended. Gunn and Wesley fought their way into the room as half the demons fought their way out, and Cordelia and Fred, their hands still protected by mittens, slashed the cocoons open—starting with the only one calling for help. Kath tumbled out to the dank floor and immediately joined in the rescue efforts.
And then the demons ran. They dropped their scrolls and vessels and left behind their dead and they ran. It took Angel a moment to realize it, hunting for the next muscle-bound enemy and finding only those they’d already vanquished. He and Wesley bumped into one another, exchanged a startled glance, and slowly straightened from their battle-ready stances. Gunn surveyed the results of the encounter, flipping his ax up and catching it in the most casual of ways. “Good thing I brought two,” he said, and grinned.
“Isn’t it,” Angel said, handing off the borrowed weapon as he walked by, catching Gunn by surprise so he fumbled his nonchalant ax-tossing and both weapons clattered to his feet.
“Great,” Gunn muttered. “Cool, really cool.”
But Angel had eyes only for the cocoons and their former occupants. They sprawled across the floor and across each other, an untidy heap of sleepers still dressed in whatever they’d been wearing when they were snatched. Carolers in coats and gloves…a few party-clad revelers. They all looked wrinkled and a little damp, their skin waxy. “Will they be okay?”
“It might take time for some of them to come around,” Fred said, sounding authoritative as she occasionally did when she forgot to be uncertain and wary. “The longer they’ve been in there, the longer it’ll take for the effects of these…these…” she waved in the direction of the gutted cocoons, “these things to wear off.”
Kath looked up from where she crouched over a young woman who looked slightly older than she and remarkably similar of feature. Her sister. She stroked Nola’s hair with trembling relief. “Thank you,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“All right?” Angel flexed his shoulders, taking a deep and unnecessary breath simply because it felt good. He grinned at her. “More than all right. I feel like a new man.”
Oh Holy Night, the stars are brightly shining.
It is the night of the Sun King’s rebirth.
Long lay the world in winter’s darkness pining,
Till he appeared to bring warmth to the earth.
They walked the middle of the street in the dark of the night. Behind them, reviving members of the caroling group stayed to help those who emerged more slowly from what had been a very long sleep. But Kath walked with them, at least for a little way, carrying the gratitude of her friends and offering them a serenade in her sweet clear voice.
“That’s really pretty,” Fred said. She plucked a strand of webbing from her arm and shook it free of her fingers. “It’s been so long since I heard Christmas carols. I’ve even forgotten most of the words, I guess. I don’t know those.”
“How about ‘Deck the Halls’?” Kath asked her. “That’ll work for both of us.”
Until then Cordelia had been content to walk along without thinking too closely about the words, but just—finally—enjoying the music itself. Kath’s words brought her from her tired reverie to say, “Both of us?”
Kath grinned. “Sure. Didn’t you know those were pagan songs? We were caroling Solstice, not Christmas.”
Gunn said, “But ‘Deck the Halls’—”
“Was ours before it was yours. But it shares nicely, don’t you think?”
Unexpectedly, Angel said, “It does, doesn’t it?”
“Wait,” Cordelia said in abrupt trepidation. “That doesn’t mean you’re going to—”
Gunn said, “Whoa, whoa, I’ve done danger duty for the night—”
Wes said, “You’re not going to—”
Fred said, “What—?”
“Sing,” Angel said. And he did.
5 A.M.
The Sun Child
By Christie Golden
Earlier that night…
The moon was a waxing crescent, no longer the Maiden’s slim bow but not yet the Mother’s ripe fullness. It silvered the ocean, beach, rocks, and the few hardy trees that could survive in such briny soil, and shone down benevolently upon the Coven of the Singing Stars.
They stood in a circle around an altar, hands joined, voices raised in a resonant, single-syllable chant. Upon the altar were the antlers of a stag, a knife with an intricately carved hilt, a slew of unlit golden candles in various shapes and sizes, and a cup filled with a dark red fluid.
The chant faded away. The figures clad in black released their hands. All eyes turned toward Ravenwing, the High Priestess. She was pale and tall, with hair as black as the raven’s wing from whence her magickal name had come. She turned her face up to the moonlight, closing her eyes.
“Blessed Lady, Maiden, Mother, Crone, tonight we celebrate your aspect of the Mother. We salute you, Lady.”
Ravenwing bent, took the cup of red liquid, and drank. Solemnly, the large ceramic goblet was passed around the circle and all drank. When the cup returned to Ravenwing, she gave it to Frey, the High Priest.
He lifted the cup and intoned, “Blessed Lord, Dying God and Dancing God, Holly King, Oak King, we welcome you on this most sacred night.” He too toasted and drank, and when the cup had again made it around the circle, he poured its remaining contents on the earth. “So mote it be.”
“So mote it be,” the coven members replied as one.
Frey knelt and lit the candles. Warm, golden illumination joined the cool, fey light of the moon. They stood in silence, awaiting the precise moment.
It came. As one, they sang the traditional song, one they had performed every Yule, finishing up with:
Happy Birthday, dear Oak King,
Happy Birthday to You!
No one could resist grinning. Mirth bubbled in Ravenwing’s voice as she said, “The circle is open, but unbroken. Merry meet, merry part, and merry meet again!”
Now that the circle had been officially closed, the air of formal ceremony dropped like an old cloak, and everyone began chatting and laughing. Ravenwing refilled the now-empty cup with more grape juice and again it was passed.
“Ta-da!” said Morganna, flourishing the special treat she had made for the “cakes and ale” portion of the evening, which Frey referred to as Snacks for Witches.
“Oh, Morganna, that’s soooo cute!” squealed Ravenwing. Morganna had made a birthday cake with a smiley-faced sun on it.
“Nice ritual, you guys,” said Dove, licking yellow frosting from her fingers. “Wish we could do something about that, though,” she said, indicating the digital clock with red letters that sat next to the candles. “It kind of spoils the mood.”
“Yeah,” said Frey. “But there’s really no other way to get the exact moment right. Watches are too hard to read.”
They ate and drank for another half hour, and then Frey said, “Who wants to start drumming?”
Everybody yelped “Oh, yeah!” and hurriedly rushed to get their drums out of their tents. Everybody, that is, but Ravenwing and Morganna. The High Priestess put her hands on her hips and sighed.
“The Park Service is awfully nice to let us use this site, but they’ll stop letting us have it if we trash it.” She frowned, stooped, and picked up a cigarette butt. “Damn it, Ra, you need to pack this stuff out!” She waved the butt in the air in Ra’s direction, though he was off hooting and hollering with the others. She wished he’d quit. These things could kill you.
“Nobody thinks if I’d like to drum up the sun,” Ravenwing muttered, putting the offending butt in the trash bag along with the paper plates and cups.
“Here, why don’t I take care of this?” offered Morganna. “You’ve told me how to put away the coven tools.”
“Are you sure? You love to drum.”
“Hey, it’s only twelve thirty,” said Morganna, pointing to the bright red numbers on the clock. “We have hours yet.”
“Well, all right. Thanks, hon.” Ravenwing hugged the younger woman, then scurried to fetch her own bodhran.
Morganna smiled after her. You are such a suck-up, she told herself. She looked at all the trash and the altar and grimaced. She set to it, humming a pagan chant to make the time pass more quickly.
She heard a rustling in the forest. “Too close, I’m over here,” she called, thinking it was one of the guys trying to find a good spot to take a leak. “And remember to bury it with the trowel,” she called as an afterthought.
The sound grew louder, and she heard a low growl. Morganna froze, her heart racing. There had been something said about bears…and mountain lions…and who knew what kind of weirdos liked to play in the woods after dark.
Slowly she turned around.
They were upon her before she could draw breath to scream.
Her last thought was a desperate wish that they hadn’t dismissed the protective circle after all….
Angel closed the door to his room and fell on the bed. It had been a long, long night. He was very grateful that it was after five and things had finally settled down. Wesley had sent them all home. “Unless, naturally, there is some pressing emergency,” he’d added, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a forefinger.
“Naturally,” echoed Cordelia, making the single word a monument to sarcasm.
“Never an emergency around here,” said Gunn. Wesley had frowned and was about to retort when Angel interrupted with a “Great, thanks,” and made for his room. He thought he’d had his eyes closed for about a minute when the door opened.
“Angel?” It was Fred’s sweet, tentative voice. “Gosh, Angel, I’m so sorry to wake you, but you’d better come down.”
He rolled over and glared at her with eyes that itched from lack of sleep. “Emergency.”
“Oh, yeah.” She nodded her head vigorously. “Really big, urgent, girl-and-baby-being-chased-by-spiky-nasty-demons kind of emergency.”
Soon, soon this night would be over. He groaned, rolled out of bed, and followed Fred down to the lobby.
The client had her back to him. She was tall and slender, but curvy in all the right places. Blond wavy hair fell to the middle of her back. A long dress of midnight blue hugged her body, and yet somehow managed to be formal. Gunn and Wesley had stupid grins on their faces even as they were clearly trying to be businesslike, and Cordelia just looked pissed.
“What seems to be the trouble?” At the sound of his voice, she turned to look at him. Angel almost collapsed. Outside of an old-master painting, he’d never seen anything that gorgeous.
Her eyes were large and sapphire blue. Her face was a perfect oval with high cheekbones and the sort of mouth that made the term rosebud suddenly seem like not much of a cliché at all. Her arms cradled a small child, who seemed amazingly well behaved. But what made her more than beautiful, what made her exquisite, was the look of hope on her face. Whatever she wanted, Angel was going to see to it that she got it.
The moment their eyes met, though, the look of hope died. Resigned sorrow filled her face, and she shook her head sadly.
“You are not Angel,” she said. Her voice was like a breeze, like a bell, like every corny phrase he’d ever heard.
“Oh, yes, yes I am,” he said, aware that his voice had a desperate edge to it.
She smiled a little, sadly. “What I meant was, you are not an angel,” she amended.
Gunn snorted. “Got that one right.”
The woman gathered the baby closer in a protective gesture. “Then you cannot help me,” she said, and her eyes filled with tears.
“I’m certain there’s something we can do, Miss…?”
She stared blankly at Wesley.
“Mrs.?” offered Gunn helpfully. Still the radiant woman looked at them, clearly not understanding.
“You got a name?” Cordelia asked bluntly.
She smiled. “You may refer to me however you would like.”
“Serena,” said Fred abruptly, startling them all. Everyone turned to look at her and she turned bright red. “It suits her,” she insisted.
Angel had to admit that it did. “That work for you?” he asked. She smiled and again he felt all quivery in his legs. Was it really just because she was that beautiful? There was something almost overwhelming about her…. He took a deep breath, steeled himself againsther charms, and valiantly tried to get down to business.
“I’m not an angel,” he said, “but we do run a good investigative business. We specialize in things that aren’t…that aren’t of this earth.”Damn, that sounded lame.
Serena brightened and cuddled the child closer. It still hadn’t done anything but look at them with bright blue eyes, and as Angel guided Serena to a seat, he saw that the infant wasn’t just young, it was clearly only a few hours old.
Wesley had apparently come to the same conclusion and asked, “Are you well enough to have left your bed?”
“Bed?”
“Your baby,” said Wesley. “It’s clear you just gave birth a few hours ago.”
Serena threw back her head and laughed. Angel swallowed hard. “Oh, no, he’s not my child.” As Wesley formed the next obvious question, she added, “But he is in trouble, and I must protect him. They want to kill him. Before sunrise. I’ve been running from them since midnight, when he was born.”
“Who would want to kill a baby?” asked Gunn.
Serena’s blue eyes were steady as she turned to look at him. “Demons,” she said.
“Ah,” said Wesley, nodding and looking very wise. “No doubt newborn’s blood is part of a ritual.”
“Ew,” said Fred, recoiling and looking with pity and horror upon the child.
“Very ew,” said Cordelia, “and so last millennium. You’d think these demons would get bored using the same ingredients all the time. No wonder they’re so cranky.”
“Cordelia has a point,” said Wesley. “It’s a grim fact that baby’s blood is commonly sought after for use in dark magick. It’s going to be difficult to narrow it down. Do you know what specific ritual they’re planning on performing?”
Serena nodded, and pulled the baby closer to her impossibly perfect breasts. “Yes,” she said. She turned to Angel. “You know about tonight,” she said.
“It’s a dead man’s party,” said Cordelia. “All night long. Believe me, we’ve had a taste of it. We’re all going to be real happy campers when tonight’s over.”
“That’s exactly what they don’t want,” said Serena. “They have found a way to make tonight last forever, and if they slay this child, it will indeed come to pass.”
“They’ve got a way to stop time?” asked Fred.
“No,” replied Serena. “A way to make sure the sun never rises again.” Her voice grew thick as she spoke and she clasped the child fiercely. Tears slipped down her cheeks to trickle into the swaddling blanket. The baby looked up at her, but didn’t cry.
Angel felt a chill. “Eternal dar
kness,” he said softly, more to himself than to them. “Endless night. I can see how that would be a goal worth striving for—for some.”
“But they’ve already failed,” said Wesley, with the authority of one who knew he was right. “The sun has already risen on most of the world.”
Everyone visibly relaxed except for Serena. Her gaze was disconcertingly steady and solemn as she regarded Wesley.
“Are you sure?”
They all stared, and then Cordelia ran for the computer as Angel picked up the phone.
“We’re closed, come back tomorrow.” As Lorne spoke, he looked at the spilled drinks, crumbs on the tables, and trash on the floor that was mute testimony to a long night of hearty partying. Business was always good on Winter Solstice, but the cleanup seemed to take until the new year.
“Lorne!” Angel’s voice had a tinge of desperation to it, making Lorne all the more anxious to hang up. He was far too tired to tango with anything Angel was having trouble with.
“Angel, it’s bedtime,” he said. “Night-night, or dayday, as the case may be.”
“I need a favor.”
“No, really? Why, you’ve never asked anything of me before,” the Host replied, turning the Sarcasm-O-Meter from Laconic Ironic to Searingly Scorn-Dripping.
“Turn on the TV,” Angel continued.
“You’ve got one, turn it on yourself.”
“Kicked in by a Skrak demon two weeks ago. Turn on the TV.”
“Now this is getting ridiculous,” muttered Lorne as he trudged into his bedroom and grabbed the remote. “You’re starting to live vicariously through me, and that’s scarier than a…” He stared, frozen, at the images on the screen.
“Are you watching the news? Lorne?”
“Yeah,” said Lorne, barely hearing Angel repeating his name. “Heavy mojo, Angel.”
“What’s going on?”
Lorne tried to form the words as he watched the local L.A. anchor, his blow-dried hair askew and his eyes a bit wild, describe the “strange meteorological phenomenon” that had begun at 12:01 at the international date line.
