She was still in complete darkness when she heard the laughter.

"Hello, Cordelia. Welcome to hell."

She recognized the voice immediately this time. She had heard that same voice whispering to her not too long ago, taunting her with the mocking drawl: "I'm nothin' but ashes now, Princess."

It was the voice of her worst nightmares.

"The Judge will be here in a little while. Remember him? The big blue guy? You helped destroy him, and he's not too happy about that. He's looking forward to burning the humanity out of you. I told him there wasn't any, but he's determined to find out." Then, with a soft chuckle: "But I'm going to have a little fun with you first."

For the first time, she was truly afraid. "Angelus."

"You've gotten in my way once too often, 'Princess.' But, don't worry, I'm gonna get you back."

"Cordelia, I'm going to fix this, I promise."

In Cordelia's hospital room, Angel gently held the hand of his heavily sedated seer. "I'm going to get you back. I need you back."

She stared blankly into nothingness, her face slack and unresponsive.

He turned over her limp hand, noticing for the first time the black mark upon it.

Reluctantly, he placed her hand back on the blanket and stood up. He had no other choice now but to consult the oracles.

He'd have to go find Gunn to watch over Wesley and Cordelia. He wanted to guard them himself, to protect them.

He had already lost Doyle. He couldn't lose Cordelia and Wesley too, couldn't go back to the life he had lived, to what he had been before Doyle arrived to drag him, kicking and screaming, back into the world.

They were more than his connection to the Powers. They were his connection to life.

She wasn't hearing the voice of Angelus any more. There was only silence, and darkness.

This was worse than all the illusions that had come before. She was completely isolated now. She remembered what she had read once about sensory deprivation being the most effective form of torture.

In the velvety blackness, she concentrated on creating a spark of light. This was a place where thoughts became real, she knew that. If she focused, surely she could create some light.

It seemed a long, long time before she finally saw a tiny flame, floating in the darkness, and heard a clicking sound. After the drawn-out silence, it echoed like a shot.

She moved toward the small spot of light, which had narrowed from a flame to a glowing ember. It was only when she was almost directly on top of it that she recognized it.

It was a cigarette. Then the clicking sound returned, along with the leap of that small flame. It was a lighter.

The face that was briefly illuminated by the lighter was one she knew well, but it wasn't Angelus.

"Of course," she breathed softly. "This is Drusilla's hell, after all. I knew you had to be here."

Spike looked up at her, clicking the lighter again so that she could see the dim outline of his face. "It's the May Queen herself, is it? You have looked better, Cordelia. Then again, come to think of it, I really can't argue with the wardrobe choice."

"What?"

In the darkness, he extended the lighter toward her and she jumped back slightly.

"Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to burn you. Dru gets to do all of the torturing here, and she doesn't like to share. I only get to watch. I just wanted to show you how well you're dressed for the party."

Spike flicked the lighter again, and in the momentary flash of light, she looked down at herself.

She was totally naked.

"Wesley, man, you've gotta hear me. You've gotta remember!"

Doyle concentrated as hard as he could, trying to make himself visible to Wesley, trying to make his voice get through to Wesley, but nothing seemed to work.

He felt stronger now than he had before, and he knew why. Cordelia was fading fast. He was sure that by now, he should be able to make himself solid enough to be seen, and yet he couldn't even get Wesley to look at him.

This was going nowhere, Doyle realized. Wesley must have forgotten everything as soon as he came back to consciousness. He was just lying there in his hospital bed, feeling useless, which might have something to do with actually being utterly useless. Meanwhile, Angel had left the hospital, trying to recover the scroll.

Doyle saw a young black man stop by to check in on both Cordelia and Wesley. He'd never met Gunn in the flesh, so to speak, but he recognized him from his months of observing Angel. He knew that Gunn would do what he could, but it wasn't going to be enough.

They were almost out of time. Unless someone did something soon, Cordelia wasn't going to make it.

Unseen and unheard, by Cordelia's bed, Doyle cast his mind again into Cordelia's, pursuing the fading shape of her consciousness back to Drusilla's private hell.

He recognized a presence that might have been Spike, or might only have been another chimera conjured up out of Drusilla's imagination. He started to advance warningly toward the Spike-presence, and then stopped, realizing that real or not, that shadowy figure who might or might not be Spike wasn't harming Cordelia right now. He was simply watching her, not doing anything at all.

Abruptly, he was able to see Cordelia's own image of herself, slumped in a dark corner of nowhere, naked and cold, her arms wrapped protectively around herself, hunched over in a defeated huddle.

She was whimpering something now, in a dull singsong, and as he watched in helpless horror, she began rocking slowly back and forth. With an overwhelming rush of guilt, Doyle realized that the sound she was repeating over and over again was his own name.

He wrenched his gaze away. He wasn't going to add to her humiliation.

"I'm so sorry, darlin'," he whispered hopelessly. "So sorry."

Doyle couldn't do anything in the real world. He had no choice left. He would have to go back and try to find a way to confront Drusilla in her own mad realm, although he had no idea what he could possibly do. But he had to try.

There had to be a way.

Somehow, he would find a way.