 
# Urban Mythic

## C. Gockel

## Christine Pope

## Meg Collett

## C. J. Brightley

## Mark E. Cooper

## Helen Harper

## Melissa Snark

## Debra Dunbar

## Ron Neito

## S. T. Bende

## Nancy Straight

### Contents

About the Books

SOUL MARKED

Foreword

1. Invisible

2. Sweet Home Chicago

3. Away in a Manger

4. Dark Matter

5. Unexpected Visitors

6. Carried Away

7. Owning It

8. Crossing the Sorrows

9. Late Cretaceous Park

10. Stranger in a Strange Land

11. Unbinding

12. A Faery Dance

13. Soulmates

14. Betrayal

15. Return of the Prodigal Son

16. How to Be a Goddess

17. Traitors and Spies

18. Lunch with the Queen

19. The House of Chaos

20. The House of Odinson

21. Cruel Twists of the Fates

22. A New Life

23. Where Will You Be for Ragnarok?

Epilogue

Also by C. Gockel

Contact Information

CHOSEN

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

THE HUNTED ONE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

THINGS UNSEEN

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

WAY OF THE WOLF

Part I

1. Arcadian

2. Lephmann

3. Georgie

4. Mist

5. Anti Monster League

6. On the Run

7. Lost Souls

8. Marie

9. A Promise Kept

10. Dinner

11. Tea and Cookies

12. Slick Willie

13. Investigations

14. Closing In

15. The Ecstasy of Blood

16. Centre Field

17. Undercover

18. Feeding Time

19. Barrows

Part II

20. The Underground

21. Alley Dogs

22. Conclave

23. Blood Drinkers

24. Nspcl

25. Convalescence Sucks

26. Angel

27. House Lochlain

28. House Fabron

29. Aml

30. Michael

Part III

31. Taken

32. Missing

33. Questions

34. Fear No Evil

35. Revelations

36. For Love of Her

37. War Plans

38. Justifications

39. Clean Sweep

40. Old Friends

41. Escape

42. Aftermath

Epilogue

EROS

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Part II

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Part III

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

THE WILD HUNT

License Notes

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

A DEMON BOUND

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

VALKYRIE'S VENGEANCE

Acknowledgments

Praise For Valkyrie's Vengeance

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

THE NORU: BLUE ROSE

I. Book I

1. Important To Humans

2. The Gathering

3. Dear Omnis

4. Off Course

5. Little Boy Lost

6. Peace No More

7. Flesh & Fools

8. My Father Is Marcus Cane

9. The Face

10. Hardly Bleeding

II. Book II

11. Kenmare

12. Who Are You?

Ruin

13. If I Have To

14. This Time

15. The Last Human

16. Bad Move

17. Fight Or Flight

18. The Alago

19. Think Of Me

III. Book III

20. Beyond Reason

Epilogue

ELSKER

The Prophecy of Ragnarok

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

BLOOD DEBT

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Love Box Sets?

# About the Books

**_Soul Marked_ by C. Gockel**

When Tara finds a man passed out in her alley, she hopes he's just a junky, and then she sees his pointed ears...

* * *

**_Chosen_ by Christine Pope**

When a fatal fever nearly wipes out the entire world's population, the survivors of what became known as "the Dying" believe the worst is in the past. Little do they know...

* * *

**_The Hunted One_ by Meg Collett**

Archangel Michaela has been framed for crimes against Heaven and must prove her innocence. Disgraced and wingless, she discovers the holy angels have a plan for Heaven, and it is one that may prove to be the End of Days

* * *

**_Things Unseen_ by C.J. Brightley**

A moment's compassion draws history student Aria Forsyth into a conflict between human and inhuman, natural and supernatural, and she begins to discover the secrets of the Empire, the Fae, and what it means to be human.

* * *

**_Way of the Wolf_ by Mark E. Cooper**

Doctor David Lephmann is attacked when he tries to aid a shifter in trouble, and is thrust into a world of violence and mistrust where he must battle for a place among his new people. Can he survive the challenge?

* * *

**_Eros_ by Helen Harper**

The Greek god of Love and the human who caught his heart—a love story that's endured for hundreds of years. Eros is a contemporary re-telling of the myth of Cupid and Psyche.

* * *

**_The Wild Hunt_ by Ron Nieto**

Lily was meant to become a faerie doctor, a warden of humans and a keeper of balance, but disbelief and pragmatism led her away from the hidden world and into a mundane life. But she will be forced to face the truth, and the fae, if she wants to save her family.

* * *

**_A Demon Bound_ by Debra Dunbar**

Sam is an imp, on vacation from Hel, but when she's blackmailed into tracking a rogue angel, her vacation, and possibly her life, might be over.

* * *

**_Valkyrie's Vengeance_ by Melissa Snark**

A thirty-year alliance that aligned wolves and hunters has shattered. When children are abducted, Victoria Storm, priestess of Freya and Odin's Valkyrie, must work with her worst enemy to rescue them.

* * *

**_The Blue Rose_ , by Lola St. Vil**

The most powerful Angel that ever lived...The dangerous demon who holds her heart... As he scoops her into his arms, away from the flames, he begins to understand, he isn't rescuing her; she's saving him...

* * *

**_Elsker_ by S.T. Bende**

Kristia Tostenson just found out her new boyfriend is the Norse God of Winter—an immortal assassin destined to die at Ragnarok. Her orderly life just got very messy.

**_Blood Debt_ by Nancy Straight**

A mythological romance: Camille is denied her father's identity until her mother's death. She discovers a family she never dreamed of and a world that should not exist.

Urban Mythic

Copyright © 2016

These novels are works of fiction. Names, characters, and locations are either a product of the authors' imaginations or used in a fictitious setting. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or people, living or dead, is strictly coincidental. No part from this book may be used or reproduced without written consent from the authors.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book with another person, please have them download their FREE copy. If you are reading this book and did not download it from a digital retailer, or it was not downloaded for your use only, please return to an online book retailer and download your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

# SOUL MARKED

### A Standalone Novel in the I Bring the Fire Universe

**Magic is real, but Tara's life isn't a fairy tale.**

From humble beginnings, Tara's managed to work her way into a great job researching Dark Energy, aka "magic," in Chicago. She has a beautiful house she renovated with her own hands, and a loving extended family, but she hasn't found her soulmate... Not that she believes in soulmates.

Lionel is a Light Elf. Despite being of dubious heritage and being born a peasant, he's risen in the ranks to serve the Elf Queen. Like all true elves, Lionel has a soulmark to identify his soulmate... He just hasn't found her yet.

When Lionel's and Tara's lives collide and Dark Elves strike, they're forced to work together or perish. Friendship and more grows between them, but dangers loom... Tara is more important than she knows, and Lionel is more important than he wants to admit. Both of them have choices to make.

Will Lionel choose a "perfect" love over Tara? How much is Tara willing to give up for a happily ever after?

**They might find that in an uncertain world, the love you struggle for is the only certain thing.**

# Foreword

**_Soul Marked_ is a standalone novel. **It is based in my I Bring the Fire universe, but you need absolutely no knowledge of that universe to enjoy it.

For those of you who are familiar with I Bring the Fire, the events in this story happen between _Fates_ and _Warriors_.

For those of you finding this book after reading _Magic After Midnight_ , the story takes place before the demise of Odin.

**To all readers, new and old, thank you for following me on this journey. Enjoy!**

## 1

# Invisible

Wincing in the dark and dust, crushed in the small space, Tara stretches her arm. She finds the socket, inserts the plug, and hears a beep above her. Stifling a sneeze, Tara says, "I think I fixed your printer, Dr. Eisenberg."

From across the lab comes a distracted, "Mmmm..."

She didn't expect more. Scooting out from under the desk, she sees the doctor, back to her, sitting in front of a computer. Not turning, he says, "I love this interface for the dark energy detector you built me, Tara. I told you that you could do it!"

Tara smiles. "Thank you." She hadn't been so sure, but he'd convinced her to try, and she is pretty proud of the results. It's not as special as he makes it out to be; she'd just combined low-frequency mining communication technology with dark energy detection tech. Still, putting that thing together, and designing the computer interface had been one of the more interesting things she's gotten to do for her job. When she applied for the job for "network support specialist," she hadn't realized how many plugs she'd be inserting into electrical outlets.

Dr. Eisenberg's voice rings with delight. "I can't wait to see my first magical creature!"

It's her turn to be noncommittal. "Mmm..." Dr. Eisenberg is new to Chicago. She's lived here her whole life. She was here the day the world learned that humans aren't alone in the universe. There are other realms, and some of humanity's mythical gods and magical creatures—more scientifically known as "dark energy utilizing lifeforms"—are real. She watched the dust rise from downtown as Loki, the so-called Norse God of Mischief and Chaos, and a handful of AK-47 toting Dark Elves, turned half of Chicago's financial district to dust. Loki vanished, the Dark Elves retreated to Eastern Europe, but visits by trolls, wyrms, and other nasties are fairly regular. Granted, the unicorns are pretty, Thor seems nice, and Odin's people rounding up the Dark Elves and their collaborators around Chernobyl seem to be taking care of the radiation situation there, but her feelings on magical creatures are decidedly mixed.

Peering over his shoulder to check the readouts, her heart falls. Swallowing, she bites her lip, takes a deep breath, and fesses up. "Dr. Eisenberg, I don't think you should thank me."

Spinning in his chair, he looks up at her through his bifocals, a frown on his lips and brows furrowing. "What do you mean?" he huffs.

The small man goes from warm to ice cold in seconds. He's more than a little plump, and right now his cheeks are trembling with what she knows is barely suppressed rage. He can be a difficult guy to work with, but Tara hates to let him down. He gave her, a Liberal Arts major without a computer science or engineering degree, the chance to work on this project, and she's messed up.

Swallowing, she points at the readout. "Well, this is saying that there is a very large sustained energy disruption."

"Yes," Dr. Eisenberg says, eyes narrowing. "What are you getting at?"

Tara gulps. "The only thing that would cause this sort of readout would have to be a wyrm, or an invading army."

Dr. Eisenberg's pale skin goes chalky white.

Holding up a hand, she points to the office at the end of the lab where he's been keeping Tara's device. It's designed to transmit through rock and concrete, and he's been waiting for the guys from building maintenance to install it in the basement so they can test it. "If it was working, we'd have been eaten by now."

Dr. Eisenberg licks his lips nervously. "It's not in my office... or in the basement," he whispers, and then spins in his chair. "Oh my god, oh my god."

Tara's heart skips a beat. She puts her hand on his shoulder. "We have to be calm. Where did you—?"

A deep voice booms, "Be calm about what?"

Tara turns to find Dean Kowalski at the door.

Spinning back around in his chair, Dr. Eisenberg cries, "I put Tara's dark energy detector device in the abandoned Washington-State L station and it's detected a wyrm... or an army."

Tara blinks. Well that tells her the _where_.

"Why is your device somewhere other than this campus?" Kowalski demands.

Dr. Eisenberg pushes his glasses up his nose. "It's Tara's detector, George. You never give her credit."

Tara's eyebrows hike. _Not the time to point_ that _out, Dr. Eisenberg._

Kowalski roars, "Eisenberg, if you were in the abandoned L stop, you were trespassing!"

"You didn't get me authorization to put it in the basement. Now we have to warn the FBI and call 911!" Dr. Eisenberg cries, raising his arms.

"Do you realize the laws you're breaking by putting an unsanctioned surveillance device on public property? And how much money we get from city tax dollars?"

"There isn't any law against that!" Dr. Eisenberg snaps.

Tara looks at the computer screen and the steady yellow dark energy indicator... if it's real, it's a wyrm... not an army.

"Of course there is, and if there isn't, there should be—"

Taking advantage of her invisibility, Tara slips out the door, whips out her phone, and types out a quick warning on her social media channels.

_Thought I saw a wyrm at Washington/State L._

She tags @ChicagoDE—the FBI's handle for their Dark Energy Branch in town. Tara's message is not technically a lie, even if she "saw it" on a readout on a computer. Brow furrowing, she also tags @godofradioshack and @godofsmallengines. They tweet a lot about magic detection devices—she's almost sure they're government techs.

She gets a reply from @godofradioshack almost immediately.

_Thanks @ChiQueen. We're on it._

They trust her. She smiles grimly. This isn't the first time she's let information like this out into the wild when Kowalski had a meltdown about procedures, or proprietary technology, or just "you didn't get my permission for that!"

Moments later, @ChicagoFBI posts a yellow alert for the L line, and Tara nods in satisfaction. Yellow alert is perfect. Red alert would have people trampling each other to get to the exit. Yellow will have them griping about a possible false alarm—which it might be—but heading for the exit anyway. Wyrms are giant, gray, venomous snake things. After you've seen one wyrm, you don't want to see another.

Kowalski storms through the door, not even glancing at her as she slips her phone away. Crossing her arms, she rolls her eyes at his back. His deliberate ignorance of her existence is probably not because she's black, or female, or doesn't have even a Master's degree. It's probably all three. She sighs. She didn't take this job because she wanted to be famous, she took this job because she likes it. The hours aren't stressful—well, they weren't before she started working with Dr. Eisenberg—the health insurance is great, and it seemed like the perfect job to have if you wanted to start a family. She frowns. Not that she has a family, or even a significant other.

Shaking her head, she pats her phone in her pocket. She may be invisible, but she's an invisible person saving the world, and she's ready for any crisis Kowalski, or magic, sends her way.

Lionel stands in the lone Light Elf outpost in the Delta of Sorrows and wishes he could make himself invisible. The night wind is gusty, and branches of the skeletal black swamp trees clack against the outpost's wooden walls. He hears the sounds of beasts and insects in the swamp. Soldiers pass by him, scrutinizing his steward's attire with hard eyes. Around him, he hears whispers. "A steward should not be able to open a World Gate," someone says. Someone else replies, "The peasant who approached us on the Golden Road was his mother... Peasants shouldn't rise to the level of steward to Her Majesty, either."

Lionel feels his ears flush. It is unusual that a peasant as young as Lionel is magical enough to rise to the level of steward. He hates attention being brought to that... it brings up too many awkward questions. _Who is your mother?_ And worse. _Who is your father?_ He shifts on his feet and tries to ignore the gossip.

It's harder to ignore the way his skin crawls to the points of his ears. The Delta of Sorrow's waters twist magic inside out and backward. Even though he'd ridden in on a horse, and had been a good pace above the effluent, the whole trip he'd felt like his hair had been brushed the wrong way. Now he feels like the black trees, angry beasts, and dark waters around the outpost are ready to swallow the tiny piece of dry land whole. He doesn't know how the Dark Elves can live here.

He turns at the sound of footsteps. Finding himself facing Lady Light Leaf, a member of the armed escort that brought him to the desolate place, Lionel bows.

"Steward, come with me," she says.

Lionel falls into step as she strides toward a bare patch of land atop the tiny hillock within the compound. He can feel the flush of magic on his skin as they draw closer to it. Lady Light Leaf says, "You've never been to Midgard or encountered wild humans before?"

Lionel keeps his eyes focused on the muck. He has been to Midgard and met wild humans, but it's a subject as difficult as his unconventional rise in ranks.

Taking his silence for an affirmative, Light Leaf continues, "Wild humans are not like Odin's recruits, the Einherjar who visit the Queen's Palace. The Einherjar don't just get immortality when they eat Idunn's apples, they become magical, and magic bestows nobility... before that, they're savages."

Lionel's ears twitch. His experience is very limited, but that is not how he remembers all the wild humans he's met.

"If you get caught, they're liable to take you for a leprechaun and torture you until you lead them to your pot of gold," she finishes.

Lionel presses his lips into a thin line. The ancient peasants in his village who'd lived in Midgard have a take on humans that is very different. "There are bad humans," he was always told, "but they're so small and stunted, you can't help but want to help them! And anyway, unless you do something stupid, like become indebted to them, your elven charm makes them next to helpless."

His brow furrows. That helplessness was before the humans started using gunpowder to make weapons.

To Lady Light Leaf, he says, "Of course."

The whisper of arrows makes Lionel look up. Elves on the northwest turret are releasing a steady volley. Beside him, Lady Light Leaf commands, "Stay down," and jogs off.

As a peasant who spent his youth at the border of the Dark Lands, he is proficient at a bow, and a fair hand at a blade. He could help them if he was armed, but no warrior would dream of offering a weapon to a steward. His fingers reach the magical key that hangs at his wrist. Marker of his station, it can open any of the doors in the palace. But more than that, it acts as a magical reservoir, and he can use its power for feats of magic he wouldn't be able to accomplish on his own. It is his only weapon.

There is a sound like fireworks outside the gate. Shouts ring around him and warriors rush by.

Lionel swallows, remembering his mother's words. "Why does the queen care about Dark Elves trading for weapons with the humans? It's Odin the All Father's job to round up magical creatures who break the law by going to the human realm."

"Odin's forces are thin, Mother," he'd replied. "If we don't act, the Dark Elves will wage war against the queen before Odin intercedes."

"But you're no warrior! Why should she put your life in danger?" she'd pressed.

Lionel didn't dare tell her that the queen's orders had put him in danger before, danger greater than collecting Dark Elves trading for weapons with humans in Midgard. And he hadn't tried to explain that he relishes the hard and dangerous tasks the queen gives him. No one had expected him, a peasant, to succeed as a steward. It was a matter of personal honor that he more than succeed, he had to _excel_. He wasn't about to fail now.

Instead of saying all that, he assured her, "They just need me to open the gate, Mother. I won't be in the fighting."

The sound of fireworks brings him back to the present. He swallows his fear, realizing it's "gunfire," and far too close.

"Got him!" someone says.

"Retrieval party!" someone shouts. "At the gate now!" Lionel watches in fascination as four warriors climb down from turrets and jog to the gates.

Lady Light Leaf's voice at his shoulder makes him start. "Be glad it's not you, Steward."

Lionel nods politely. There is no disagreeing with royalty.

She beckons, and he follows her to the open space at the center of the fortress, the feel of magic intensifying with each step. Twelve warriors wait there. All are taller than him—as befits their station—and all wear the queen's livery of ivory and pale blue. Their hair is held back by clasps of gold, revealing the points of their ears. Lionel feels their eyes on him. Someone clears his throat. None of them expect someone peasant-born who is only a few centuries old to be able to open a World Gate. All elves can sense World Gates, but not all can walk through them, much less hold them ajar for others.

Lionel takes a half step forward and feels a fissure in the air. Lifting his arms, he drags his hands through the air, and feels the fragility of space and time beneath his fingers.

"I'm ready," he says.

Lady Light Leaf's eyes go toward the gate of the compound and narrow. "We go now."

Lionel nods. Closing his eyes, he reaches up and grasps "the Veil" of space time and folds it back. He opens his eyes. Nothing appears to have changed, but he lets out a breath. "It's done."

Light Leaf nods to the warriors, and they step through in barely perceptible shifts of light. From the compound comes whispers of disbelief. "Stewards shouldn't be able to do that."

"It must be a special talent," someone else says.

"Lady," Lionel says, inclining his head to the gate. Opening World Gates is a special talent of his, but the effort of holding the Veil back is tiring.

"I never doubted you'd be able to do it, Steward," she says. "The queen doesn't make mistakes."

Lionel can only nod in response. She has to know the strain of keeping the gate open is costing him.

"But riding here, I was surprised that you could ride a horse so well."

The Veil slips through Lionel's fingers, and the gate closes with a fizz of magical energy.

Bowing his head, he looks up at her through his eyelashes. There is a smirk on her face. Lionel's skin heats, prepared for her to berate him for letting the Veil close.

Instead she takes a step closer to him, head cocked. "Well? Aren't you going to tell me how you got such a good seat?"

Lionel feels the heat of magical compulsion in the air, tightens his grip on his key, and lets its magical energy fuel his resistance. It's not the first time he's been propositioned by someone above his station, though she is the first warrior to do so. His eyes fall to where her sleeve is rolled up, revealing her soulmark: two arrows aimed at the sun. He'd seen the same mark on one of the warriors who'd just stepped through. Elves aren't monogamous before marriage, nor even supposed to be jealous, but a dalliance with someone below her station might cause trouble for Lionel.

"Well?" Light Leaf smirks.

She is as tall as him, her skin bronzed, her eyes the color and shape of almonds, and the magic she radiates feels just slightly older than his. He might have been interested just minutes before, but she's playing games while warriors are stranded on the other side of the World Gate on a strange world with guns. They may not be his caste, but he still finds the heat of anger rising in his chest on their behalf. At the same time, he finds a misconception crumbling. He'd thought that a warrior, accustomed to death, might hold onto life and their paramours with more emotional energy. Lionel's too often been called overly emotional. He doesn't like to share; he would like someone more... invested. But Light Leaf doesn't hold even to her soulmate with any urgency, apparently.

"I was born a peasant," he replies. "I can ride horses, hadrosaurs, hippalektryons... all sorts of beasts."

She huffs. He isn't sure if he's insulted her or titillated her, but he's parried her advance well and has plausible deniability. "Shall I open the Veil again?" he asks.

"Yes," she replies, her eyes narrow and gleaming.

He rips it back with perhaps too much force, and she steps through and winks out of sight. Following her a moment later, he finds himself in a strange misty purple-orange twilight, blinking at Light Leaf's soulmate. He's smirking openly at Lionel. "Couldn't hold the World Gate open, Steward? I'd hoped for more stamina from you."

The hairs on the back of Lionel's neck rise. The lord knew of his lady's advance, and by the look on his face, approved of it. They are in a foreign world, facing possible death, and the nobility still play games. The memory of an ex-lover's voice fills his mind. _"We're elves, the only true immortals. We have to play games or we'd die of boredom."_

Turning away from the lord and the memory, Lionel looks down the narrow street and feels magic on his face. "Someone magical approaches," he says, grateful he has an excuse not to answer the lord's question.

"Strange," says Lady Light Leaf, walking in the direction of his gaze. "I don't feel—" She halts in her tracks and her eyes go wide. She lifts her hand, bows rise, and a few swords come out. Lionel's hand goes to his key.

The sound of birds fills the narrow roadway, and Lady Light Leaf signals the archers to put down their bows. Out of the mist a group of Light Elves emerge. They are led by a tall elf with dark brown skin, nearly black eyes, and long dark braids held back with bands of gold. Lionel bows, recognizing Lord Beddel of the Sun Kingdom of Alfheim's Middle Continent.

"You've brought a mage to man the gate?" Beddel asks with a frown.

Lady Light Leaf gestures to Lionel. "By the queen's command, I have brought her steward."

Lord Beddel narrows his eyes at Lionel. "Are we stretched so thin?" he murmurs. "Steward, listen to me. As soon as we apprehend the Dark Elves, we'll bring them here. I will be busy constraining them. Your task will be to open the gate. Understood?"

Lionel bows again. "Of course, I will wait."

Beddel stalks closer. "The humans' magical chariots pass through this way. We have some intelligence they may be self-aware. They can crush you on a whim. Don't get hit."

Taking a step back, Lionel says, "Yes, sir, of course not." Due to one of the queen's whims he hasn't told his mother about, Lionel had seen one such chariot, and thought much the same. Confirmation of his suspicion doesn't make him feel better.

Beddel waves a hand at the others. Where there had been elves, round-eared humans appear, wearing strange blue uniforms, their bows invisible. Lionel notices Beddel doesn't use a magical object like his key to power the illusion. Lionel's magical skills are strong for a peasant, but nowhere near the other man's.

Beddel waves his hand again, and the warriors depart.

Lionel waits for them to be out of sight. He promised his mother he'd come back to her, and the night feels cold and dangerous. He decides to use a skill he isn't supposed to have. Grasping the key tightly, he lets its magic rush into him, and uses it to compel the photons to pass through him as though he doesn't exist. Even with the key to power the invisibility, it is draining. Leaning against the wall for support, he waits, ready for any human or magic chariot that might set upon him.

## 2

# Sweet Home Chicago

Tara steps out of the university into a chilly Chicago night. The air is wet and misty, and she has a hood pulled tight over her hair and an umbrella for good measure. She crosses through the small courtyard garden to the archway that leads to the street, and almost plows into a man in a druid costume. She sighs. It's one of the City of Gods tour guides. She sees his converted school bus idling on the street. The archway was the scene of a troll "visit" and it's been an "attraction" ever since.

"If Odin is so just and wise," a tourist says, "why did he let Loki come to Earth? Why doesn't he stop the trolls?"

"Why did he blame us when his eight-legged horse ran off with a bunch of unicorns," someone else mutters.

Someone murmurs, "There were innocent people caught in some of the crossfire in Eastern Europe... They attacked embassies."

Another person dressed in druid-like clothes says, "Thousands of completely innocent people died here because those countries gave them aid! Odin went after the leaders, not the common people."

The druid raises his arms and his voice rings with conviction. "People prayed in fear when Loki and Dark Elves nearly destroyed the city. Odin sent his son Thor to defend us, and he rounded up the Dark Elves and their collaborators in Eastern Europe. You want a personal god? You can't get more personal than Odin."

Tara huffs. Hunching her shoulders, she walks quickly past him. She's probably as invisible to him as she is to Dean Kowalski.

Twenty minutes later, Tara is wondering if maybe Odin does see her, has a nasty sense of humor, and might be trying to punish her.

Dr. Eisenberg's voice is filling her car, just barely audible over the sound of her windshield wipers. "I got your email just after I opened the gif, Tara."

Tara winces. Another victim of the computer virus going around the department. After saving the world—or at least the L line—she's done nothing but clean up viruses. As brainy as the researchers in the University of Illinois's new Department of Dark Energy are, they have an amazing susceptibility to opening viral attachments, and to cats. Not surprisingly, a viral attachment called, "Cute-Cats.gif" is spreading like an evil enchantment on the department hard drives.

Keeping her eyes focused on the road, Tara says, "You know, Christine is there, right?" She's certain that the hopefulness in her voice comes through loud and clear.

There's a moment of silence, and then, "Can't you come back?"

Tara glances at the clock in her dash: seven o'clock. Also, she's hungry. "I would, Dr. Eisenberg, but you know by the time I get back to the university and into the lab, it will be past seven thirty."

"I can wait for you."

Trying to keep her voice cheerful, Tara says jokingly, "But you know how the gremlins come out after seven thirty."

Another moment of silence, and then, "Really? That happens sometimes?"

Tara's lips purse. She supposes it's not crazy that he believes her. Dr. Eisenberg is new to the city. He doesn't know gremlins aren't among the usual visitors. Does she take the high road and tell him that? Turning down the street onto her block, she sighs. "Not really, but I'm almost—" Tara hits the brakes, and the tires skid on the wet pavement. Ahead there's people running across the street—they're long-haired white kids and young adults—dozens of them being chased by cops. Somewhere far off she hears gunfire.

"Tara, what's wrong?" Dr. Eisenberg squeaks. "Gremlins?"

Something is very wrong. The neighborhood is dangerous, but her little block is an oasis. Also, there just aren't that many white people in her neighborhood to chase. She finds her heart beating too fast. "I don't—" Tara's breath catches as a cop's club comes down on a little boy, his hair that had been strawberry-blonde going dark.

Before Tara knows what she is doing, she's jumped out of the car. "Stop!" The scream rips out of her and she finds herself running toward the boy, now sprawled out on the wet pavement, dark ooze pooling around his head. Someone grabs her from behind and she expects the club to come down on her too, but there is something about seeing a child, limp as a rag doll, being dragged away that makes her lose all sense of fear. "Stop!" she screams again, pulling at the arms that are holding her.

"Madam, calm down," says whoever has her arms pinned. "They're only Dark Elves."

And it's that moment that she sees the pointed ears, but she still struggles, like she's possessed. "He's a little boy! He's a little boy!" she shouts as other cops drag him away.

A female cop runs in front of her and says, "Madam, madam, be calm!"

Tara jumps and tries to peek around her but there are other cops in the way. "Madam, I must insist," says the man behind her.

Madam? Insist? Tara feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Breaking free, she manages to barge past the woman... and the road is empty.

The little boy, the "teenagers" who might all have been elves, are gone. All that is left is a single police officer standing in the middle of the road and echoes of a struggle she can't see... or did she imagine it? Tara pulls her coat tighter, distractedly noticing the rain is falling harder and that her hood has fallen back. Her teeth chatter. Just a bit colder and the rain would be snow.

"Madam," says the woman again. For the first time, Tara looks at her. The woman's got the sort of lithe musculature Tara associates with dancers. Her skin is a lovely bronze shade, her eyes are wide, worried, and concerned. Tara's eyes slide to the man who held her. He's Caucasian, with eyes that might be green, and his frame is slight. Tara's five foot ten and change in socks, and nearly six foot two in the stacked heeled boots she's wearing; she's used to being tall, but these two cops are _short_. Tara feels a shiver run down her spine. They're not as broad in the shoulder as the cops she knows, either.

"What's your name, madam?" the man asks. His voice musical, his words compelling... Tara shivers again, and it isn't just the cold. She keeps her lips sealed.

"You must not worry about this," says the woman, waving a hand. "Missus—? Why don't you tell me your name? Your _full_ name."

Over the woman's shoulder, Tara sees the taller police officer, the one she'd seen standing in the middle of the street, and she feels like her whole body has turned to ice. She suddenly has to get away.

"You're right, I don't need to worry about this. I'll just go now." Spinning on her heals, she runs and slides into her car. She looks back and sees the last officer is walking toward her. If she had to paint a picture of African perfection, she would paint his face. His eyes are nearly black and wide, but have a delicate angle to them, his nose is flat but not too broad. His skin is dark and smooth over striking cheekbones, and his lips are generous. He also has long, black, beautiful braids, which she'd wouldn't expect on a police officer and that would humanize him, but his expression is flat, and his eyes are hard.

Slamming the door, she smiles nervously through the window. His lips part as though he is about to speak, and she's terrified of what he will say. Her hands tremble as she pulls on her seat belt, which makes her knock the steering wheel with her elbow, which sets off the horn. The man's eyes widen comically at the sound, his mouth snaps shut, and he jumps back. Feeling like she's just dodged a bullet, and not waiting for the order she's sure he'll issue, Tara guns the engine and the tires squeal. A few heartbeats later, she looks in the mirror. They're not following.

Dr. Eisenberg's voice cracks over her phone, and she jumps in her seat, surprised that he didn't hang up.

"Tara, are you all right?"

"I..." She swallows.

"Tara?"

"I... never thought..." she whispers. She knows police officers, good guys she and Chris flirt with over gyros in Greek Town. But she's in Chicago and she knows the other kind exists—the city owes several hundred million dollars to victims of Chicago police officers' "overzealousness." She's never seen that "overzealousness" up close, but it is a nagging fear that is always there. And now she's seen it... and this time, the victim had been white... and an elf? She squeezes the steering wheel. The victim had been a child. She feels a lump in her throat and her vision starts to go blurry.

"Did you see gremlins?" Dr. Eisenberg asks. "A troll?" He sounds way too excited.

"I..." She remembers the faces of the police officers—they'd looked too perfect, and they'd called her "madam." FBI? Someone else... something else? "Maybe."

"You sound shaken up," says Dr. Eisenberg.

"I saw..." Tara has seen a lot of things. She's seen a man get shot in front of her. She's had guys expose themselves to her. She's seen fights, and blood spilled on the pavement afterward. But she is shaken.

It was a little boy...

"You're shaken. Listen, go home... and don't come in tomorrow."

Tara blinks. "What?"

"I'll tell everyone that you're working on a special project for me."

Tara's brow furrows. Actually, that would probably work. Dr. Eisenberg is a grant machine and the highest paid researcher in the department. His whim is practically law. Also, he often goes off-site with lots of electronic equipment and Tara to patch it up when he drops it, or find it when he loses it, but why would he—?

"I'm going to bring my gear over and we'll check and see if what you saw left a Dark Energy signature," he finishes.

And that's the flighty, self-interested, mad genius she knows. "I might have imagined it," she says. And now she's beginning to wonder if she did.

"Too good to miss if it was real!" Dr. Eisenberg says, sounding absolutely gleeful. "Now I'm going to pack up, just in case those gremlins come." The phone line goes dead.

She glances in the rearview mirror and sees only a lone pair of headlights, no cops. She suddenly feels very alone.

Alone in the cold, misty dark, Lionel jumps at the sound of fireworks a few hundred paces away. He cranes his neck, but doesn't see any bright bursts of flame. Was it the sound of human weapons?

He lets out a breath, and sucks in another fast as the wall behind him starts to groan. Spinning, Lionel finds it rising, beams of light bursting from beneath. Backing up, he blinks into the blinding bright eyes of one of the possibly sentient human chariots. He's invisible, but he can still be flattened. Lionel darts to the left, out of its line of vision, but the thing turns in his direction with a honk. It either has sensitive hearing, or smell, or both. Spinning again, Lionel runs. Looking back, he sees the thing speeding up. He sprints through a narrow open gate and slams it behind him. The chariot honks again, but passes by, and Lionel sighs in relief.

He looks around and finds himself in a small yard with a hulking brick building at the far end. From the door of the building comes a bark and a scratching noise. An instant later, the door opens, and a dog erupts from inside, growling and lunging directly at him. Lionel scampers over the gate, just in time for the dog's body to impact against it. Someone shouts in the native tongue. With magic, Lionel _feels_ the meaning of the words. "Buster! What are you doing? Chasing ghosts, you crazy dog?"

Humans can't see Lionel, but dogs can smell him. A rat across the alley pauses, stands up on its haunches, twitches its whiskers, and then goes about its business. Rats can also smell him; they just apparently don't care.

The gate behind Lionel thumps again, and he hears the human shout, "Get out of the rain, dog!"

Lionel feels a flare of magic on the side of his face, in the direction of the World Gate. There are shouts in Elvish and Lionel peers down the narrow roadway and his eyes go wide. The elves arriving aren't wearing the livery of the queen. Their garments are mismatched and dark. He can tell even at this distance that some have scared faces and the silvery hair of mortal beings. He swallows. Dark Elves... but if they came through the gate, it must mean that the Light Elves at the other side were overwhelmed. Lionel counts four, five, six pairs emerging through the Veil... and more keep coming.

"Buster" goes ballistic. Other dogs begin to howl on either side of the roadway. Doors open; somewhere a siren wails. The Dark Elves start down the alleyway at a jog in Lionel's direction.

Checking to see he's still invisible, Lionel breaks into a run, not bothering to hide the sound of his footsteps, just trying to not slip on the rain-slicked cobbles. At the end of the roadway, a man and woman in blue appear. Feeling the warmth of magic on his face, Lionel gasps... they are his companions! Behind him, he hears shouts in Elvish and the crack of fireworks. He feels a sharp pain in the back of his leg, and goes sprawling. He rolls out of the way just in time to miss being trampled by a seeming army of Dark Elves sprinting past. Warm wetness soaks his trousers and his invisibility slips away in a frisson of electricity along his skin. Grasping the key tight, he uses its magic to reach inside himself. He is able to close a nick to his femoral artery just in time.

Somewhere far away he hears, "Damn gangs... can't even take out your garbage without their nonsense."

Something slick, bulky, lumpy, and odorous crashes on top of him and everything goes black.

Tara's still shaking when she pulls into the alley that cuts between the Greystones on either side of her block. From a few houses away, she sees that the auto-timer has turned on the lights of her duplex down. By their lights, she sees that the just-out-of-law-school couple who bought the place upstairs is already home.

All her cousins, aunts, and uncles have moved off with their degrees to Oak Park and Evanston—they're always trying to convince her to move. "It's still diverse but safer, Tara, and you have more than enough money!" they say. But her Greystone is such a welcome sight. The last building her father and she had remodeled before his death, it glitters in the rainy night, and looks as beautiful and stately as anything on the Gold Coast.

She releases a long breath, willing her madly beating heart to be still, and notices her next-door neighbor has thrown his garbage bags over the fence again. Somehow it always winds up in front of her garage. It's still raining, and her hair will be ruined. She shivers and realizes for the first time she's already drenched, and her hair is hanging in long damp clumps, soaking her shoulders. Her hood had fallen back when she'd seen... well, whatever it was she really saw.

Shaking her head, Tara gets out of the car and lifts the first enormous bag. She carries it over to the bin, turns around, and screams. There's a skinny white guy lying on the ground where the garbage bag had been. His eyes are closed, and he has long, nearly white-blonde hair.

She takes a deep breath. Probably a junkie passed out or something. She gulps, remembering the probably-maybe-elves being chased and bludgeoned by the maybe-probably-FBI-or-possibly-cops. She approaches the man slowly, and finds herself whispering, "Please be a junkie, please be a junkie."

Leaning over him, she gulps. The guy is dressed in dark, Renaissance faire clothing. A black tunic goes all the way to his thighs. It's belted at the waist with a black cord. He's wearing pants that match the shirt and black boots. Over his shoulders, he's wearing a short black shruggy thing. He's clutching a yellow silk rope with a key ring and a single key in a death grip. His ears are pointed.

Rain drops slide down her neck. Tara pushes her hair, now a sodden mess, over one shoulder. She should call the police... the FBI... She bites her lip. Dark Elves were supposedly behind Chicago's recent destruction, but the elves she'd seen running across the street hadn't looked like warriors, they looked like kids. She thinks of the little boy and the blood pooling on the pavement and feels like she will be sick. This guy doesn't have any weapons... Does he deserve that same treatment?

A few minutes later, Tara's dragging Elf Guy by the arms through her garage. It's the shortest path to her back door. "This looks easier in the movies," she mutters, dropping him with a huff. He's heavy, and she's never getting him up the back stoop, not without causing him even more injury. She sighs. "You're going to have to sleep here."

There isn't a response.

Now that she's inside and has better lighting, she can see there is a wound on his thigh, but not a lot of blood. The femoral artery is in that region, but if it had hit that, he'd be dead. Still, maybe she should take him to a hospital? She exhales, thinking of the experiments they might do to him, and the rumors of Dark Elves being taken to Guantanamo Bay. She tilts her head. For a Dark Elf, he's very white. He looks like... she doesn't know, young Eminem with long hair, maybe? Except his features are smoother, more finely chiseled, and then there are the ears. She reaches out and touches the point of one, hoping they're fake, then she'd be able to call 911. But the tip is warm, the skin is delicate and soft, and for a moment, she is mesmerized. Snapping from her fascination, she pulls her hand away and weighs her options. Is he more likely to live if she turns him in?

The garage fills with the sound of her mother's ring tone. Tara scrambles to pick it up. "Mom!" she cries, desperately wanting to confess, _I found an Elf Guy, and Mom, I don't know what to do!_ Up until she had an unconscious man in her garage she thought she was an adult, but now she's not so sure.

"Tara, Steve Rogers is on the television! Oh, he is so handsome. You know he's single, right?"

Tara has a moment of disconnect. This is a frequent conversation between her mother and her. Director Steve Rogers of the FBI is the Savior of Chicago. He stood up to bureaucrats and to Loki, the Norse God, when he nearly blew the whole place down. Everyone says he's going to be mayor, even though he's black and Chicago, well, Chicago hasn't had a lot of black mayors. Her mother thinks Tara should marry him because she needs a "smart man."

Normally, Tara's response is "Mom, he's almost ten years older than me and divorced!" Also, there's rumors that he's a Republican. To which her mother usually tells her she is too picky, and how can she ever find her soulmate if she isn't going to just put herself out there?

The banality of the familiar script catches Tara off guard. There is an elf in her garage, possibly dying, but they're talking about her love life, or lack thereof. She really needs her mom's advice, or at least to tell someone. But then she thinks of how her mom, a legal first-generation Mexican American, didn't tell her that her grandparents were illegal because, "The less you know, the safer it is for everyone."

Her eyes slip to the elf. Maybe she shouldn't drag her mother into this. "Um, yeah, Mom, he is a handsome man."

"I met his mother today! She came into Costco when I was..."

From behind Tara comes a soft, "Lllew wellan leee..."

Tara looks down and finds light blue eyes meeting her own. The tips of his ears are trembling.

"Hello?" he says in a lovely voice that is deeper than she would have suspected for a man so slight.

Her mother's voice is loud in her ear. "Is that a man? Where are you? Are you still at work?"

"No, Mom, I'm home," Tara whispers. She's only seen elves from afar. Even as drawn as his face is, and after lying on the ground under garbage bags in her alley, he's luminous. She notices a bit of dirt on his cheek and has the urge to wipe it away.

"You have a man over, and you're commenting on Steve Rogers? Tara!" There is an exasperated sigh, and then her mother says, "Try to be nice," and hangs up.

And then it's just Tara and the elf staring at each other in silence.

## 3

# Away in a Manger

Lionel's mouth is dry as bone and his vision is dark around the edges, but he's able to see that it is a human woman hovering over him. She has golden brown skin and black hair, but her features are indistinct and blurry. He knows he should be afraid, but when he tightens his fingers on his key, he doesn't feel danger... only hope. But did she understand him? Magic wants them to understand each other, he reminds himself.

Key tight in his fist, he lets magic guide his words. "I won't hurt you."

He has the impression of her lips pursing. "Yeah, I know that. But I might be hurting you..." Her words are soft, slow, measured, and that reassures him. She is not afraid. Something he learned as a farm boy on the edge of the Golden Road, wild creatures that are fearful are as dangerous as ones that are hungry.

She continues, "I think you may need to go to a hospital. You've been shot, and it's bad."

"Hospital?" he whispers. Magic can only translate words between languages when there is a corresponding word between them. This is apparently a thing that elves don't have.

"A place with lots of doctors," she whispers.

His heart seizes at that, remembering stories from Einherjar recruits who talked about human "healers" sawing off injured limbs. He grabs her arm. "No, please. I... magic... there will be no infection, not even... lockjaw."

He blinks. Surprised they have a name for the disease that is the bane of elves cut by iron implements. If they also suffer from the disease, why use iron?

His vision clears enough to see her bite her lip. "Do you need anything?"

"Water," he croaks, feeling a wave of dizziness. Grasping the magic key in his hand, he closes his eyes and retreats into himself to survey his injuries. The muscle and fascia in his leg is torn, and he's had to shut down the nerves around the wound, but he's sealed up the vessels, and entry and exit points on his leg have scabbed over. There's no sign of the deadly bacterium that causes lockjaw.

"Here," she whispers.

He opens his eyes, unsure if she was only gone for a short while, or if he'd lost consciousness. She offers him a strange sort of clear canteen. He lifts his head. She puts a hand behind his back and presses it to his lips.

The water is cool, and although it has a strange aftertaste, it is very palatable. He feels his lucidity returning with every gulp. When he finishes the canteen, he lays back down. The abode's light is dim, but enough to reveal his benefactor's appearance. Not all humans are beautiful. Their environment and lack of magic means they often suffer from malnutrition and infection, but the old elves say that beautiful humans are more beautiful than elves can ever be. Their features are not as regular, their forms more varied even in health. Lionel has met five wild humans in his lifetime. The first three, Hannah, Abraham, and their newborn, Benjamin had been malnourished, frightened, and in pain when they'd met. The other two had been companions of Loki. The elder had been charming for her gnome-like appearance. The younger woman had unremarkable facial features and odd proportions.

This human is healthy and her features are striking. She has an aquiline nose that he's seen in Odin's Einherjar from Midgard's Western Central continent, her eyes have a slight tilt to them, her lips are full. Black hair, the texture he's seen most commonly on Einherjar from the African continent frames her face and sparkles... he blinks. The sparkles come from water droplets. For the first time, he notices the sound of raindrops on the roof. She dragged him out of the rain, and is now soaked through... just like him. He shivers, looks past her, and his eyes widen. Behind her is one of their metal chariot beasts. He scoots backward and pain lances from his wound and seemingly everywhere else.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

He hisses angrily at himself for being an idiot—obviously she and the machine have some sort of understanding—but also, "They make you sleep with the machine-animals?" Last time he was in the human realm it was before this region's civil war. He's heard since then that the institution of slavery has ended, but an Einherjar of African and American heritage recruited during the second world war had told him, "There is no more slavery in the United States in this day and age, but we're still segregated and unequal." It's exactly like that Einherjar had said.

Her lips purse, perhaps never having considered the inequity before. "Machine-animal?"

His eyes go to the chariot.

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Yeah, um... do you think you can walk if I help you? I can take you inside. It's going to get cold tonight and I don't like putting a space heater out here."

The words seem mostly gibberish, as they are already inside, but he needs to be accommodating. He nods.

"Okay," she says. Putting his arm over her shoulder, she helps him to his feet. Upon standing, he's hit with a wave of pain and again, it's everywhere. It makes his vision foggy and dark, but he's dimly aware that she's taller than him, and her shoulders are broad enough to be a recruit for the Valkyries. They reach a door at the corner of the room, and she says, "Oops! I forgot." She reaches backward with her spare arm in a strange sort of wave, and says, "Good night."

The machine-beast gives a cheery beep and flashes its lantern-eyes.

Summoning all his persuasive magic, Lionel reassures it, "I mean your mistress no harm."

The woman gives him a funny look, and the chariot doesn't give _him_ a cheery beep.

They hobble out into the night, through a tiny garden, and up a few cement steps. She does some odd things with her free hand to the "security system," and opens a door. He is bathed in warm yellow light and hit by a gust of comfortably warm air. She guides him down the hallway to a room painted with a scene of cheerful animals on a savanna. The short journey has left him exhausted, and he practically dives out of her arms into the bed. It is more comfortable than he would have thought. He thought humans slept on straw.

"Do you need to get undressed?" she asks.

The world is getting dark, and Lionel shakes his head. The chamber is warm, even though he is in in damp clothes. A moment later, a large blanket encompasses him and he's warmer still.

The woman steps away, and he is struck by her silhouette—she has been as gentle as one of the queen's healing maidens—but with her grace, strength, and wild beauty, she could be a Valkyrie. But a Valkyrie would never be as kind to a "short, scrawny elf." He tightens his fingers on the keychain, and as magic races through him, he feels the same sensation of hope he had before. "Thank you..." he hears someone whisper. "... for saving my life." She flicks a finger and the lights go out. The open doorway behind her glows even brighter in the gloom. The magic of the silken cord that marks his office thrums through him. He goes to sleep, the memory of hope warring with something else deep within his consciousness.

Tara stares at herself in the bathroom mirror. The memory of the elf passed out among her younger cousin's stuffed animals in the spare room is in stark contrast to her own reflection. He'd looked ethereal and young even in obvious pain. Magical. She is a mess. Her makeup is smudged, her mascara is running down her face, and after looking at the elf's skin, she feels like her pores are as large as the craters of the moon. She looks old. Also, some girls can really rock the natural fro, but Tara isn't one of them. Her hair type is what they call 4B: dense, tight curls that when not wet defy gravity, and never manage to look smooth and polished. Once a high school teacher had said her natural hair looked like a Brillo pad. Now it is a soggy, poofy mess. Sighing, she picks up a towel and begins drying it out. Tomorrow she'll be wearing braids or a headscarf.

Tomorrow...

There is an elf in her spare bedroom being chased by people who are dangerous and violent. What is she going to do with him tomorrow?

## 4

# Dark Matter

A car going by honks loudly, and Tara jumps back onto the sidewalk.

"Dr. Eisenberg, I don't think you should—"

Tara's interrupted by another honk. Dr. Eisenberg is off in what her work mate Chris calls his "mind palace." He's crisscrossing the street with a Geiger counter-like instrument in his hand, mumbling to himself. Despite the cold, he's wearing a blue, short-sleeved dress shirt. On his bottom half, he's wearing dress slacks, and as a fashion statement—or comfort statement—bright red sneakers.

Another car honks, and Tara winces. He's going to get himself killed. Does letting a genius wander into traffic and get hit by a car count as manslaughter? It's not like she could stop him.

Speaking of not being able to stop someone...

She looks down the street toward her Greystone. Everything looks normal. Elf Guy was sound asleep when she left. If he leaves, and her neighbors report him, she's decided she'll claim she knew nothing. She bites her lip. But then they might investigate her home, find a white-blonde hair, analyze the DNA, and discover he'd been in her guest room. Maybe she should come up with a better alibi? "He was a one-night stand, Mr. FBI Agent! I never noticed he was an elf, just that he was a little short!"

How does one go about getting a one-night stand? She's actually never done it... in theory, it's supposed to be easy for a girl. But it involves going into a bar and being friendly with strangers, and if they cross-examined any of her friends or family, they'd learn that around strangers Tara tends to turn into a clam. Also, she is a lightweight and doesn't drink.

She huffs and adjusts the readout on the digital tablet she's holding. Stupid elf should have picked the house of a more exciting person to get shot behind. "I should have tied him to the bed to make sure he stays there," Tara mutters to herself, and then scowls. That would be the most exciting thing she's done with a man and a bed in a long time.

"What?" yells Dr. Eisenberg.

And how is he hearing that, and not all her pleas to get out of the damn road?

"Nothing!" she calls. "Just talking to myself."

He gives her a merry smile as a car zips by him with a honk. "I do that all the time," he calls back.

Tara nods. Yes, he does.

Across the street she sees her neighbor Betsy glaring out the door at Dr. Eisenberg. Tara waves and smiles, trying to convey, "The crazy white man isn't going to cause any harm." Another car slows down, honks, and goes around him. Betsy's eyes narrow at her, and Tara touches her throat. He might actually cause a traffic accident.

"Dr. Eisenberg," she calls, holding up the tablet. "When I analyze your readouts on the app, I'm not seeing any magical activity. Maybe we should call it a day?"

"Dark Energy signatures, not magic!" he corrects her. "I think the rain must have washed them off."

"Dr. Eisenberg," Tara says, striding out onto the street. "You're going to get hit by a car."

"They're not going fast and I have lots of padding," he says, not looking up from his little gadget.

"Dr. Eisenberg—" Tara begins, but she's interrupted by the blip of a police siren.

She looks up just in time to see a squad car pull to a halt to her left. Dr. Eisenberg doesn't seem to notice.

"What's going on here?" an officer says, stepping out of the car.

Pushing his glasses up his nose, Dr. Eisenberg says excitedly, "This young lady saw some of your men in an altercation with elves here last night and I am looking for a dark energy signature."

"What?" says another officer, coming around.

"Magic," Tara clarifies. "He's looking for magic."

"None of our officers had any altercations with any elves last night," says the first officer. He's a burly man, taller than Tara, with short, light brown hair. His sunburned face is wide and he has a broken nose. He's wearing a bulletproof vest. Chewing gum, hands on hips, a scowl etched between his brows, he looks so... human.

Tara's jaw drops. "Maybe not," she says, thinking about how the officers she saw last night looked dainty, and had no lines etched between their brows. They had all looked so... perfect.

"And she saw them beat a little elf boy," Dr. Eisenberg adds distractedly.

"That did not happen!" the burly officer retorts.

"Heard some reports of gang activity here last night," the second officer says. "But by the time we got here, they were all gone. When asked, all the neighbors said they didn't know who it was."

"Like always," drawls the first and Tara hears the unspoken accusation. _You people never cooperate._ Her neighbors would say the cops don't really care, and if you call them for help, you're just as likely to wind up in trouble yourself.

"Are you trying to start something?" the first officer demands, his eyes on Tara.

"No," says Tara, shocked.

Dr. Eisenberg finally looks up from his gadget. "Officers, there's no reason to be rude to her!"

The officers blink, as though seeing him for the first time. First Cop chews his gum louder.

"This is a matter of scientific inquiry," Dr. Eisenberg insists. "And the Dark Energy signatures only last for a limited amount of time."

First Cop turns back to Tara. "You just said you saw a cop beating a civilian."

"I didn't say that!" says Tara.

The cop continues, the volume of his voice rising with every word, "And you say maybe you didn't see anything... Are you trying to get attention?"

Tara can feel her back get prickly with sweat underneath her winter coat, and her heart is racing. Is she going to be arrested for _not_ making a false alarm? "I didn't call you!" Tara finds herself shouting back.

"We have real problems!" bellows the officer.

Waving at Dr. Eisenberg, Tara says, "I told my boss, and he's investigating, and we're not doing anything illegal!"

"You're blocking the road!" he shouts.

"You move him!" Tara retorts.

"Is there a problem, officers?" Dr. Eisenberg asks, looking up from his gadget.

In the squad car, the radio starts to crackle, and the second officer says to the first, "Why don't you get that, Frank?"

Chewing his gum loudly, Frank storms away.

The second officer is also a white guy. He's got hazel eyes and sandy blonde hair. His nose is not broken and his cheeks aren't sunburned. He looks younger, and not as on edge. He eyes Dr. Eisenberg, gives Tara a sort of sympathetic smile, and in a respectful voice calls to the doctor, "Sir, you'll have to move. You're obstructing traffic."

"But..." Dr. Eisenberg protests. Striding over, the officer takes his arm and guides him to the sidewalk. Eisenberg stops short and his eyes get wide. "Ooh..." Head bowed over his tablet, he begins to pace down the walk.

The second officer says to Tara, "Frank had a rough day yesterday, ma'am."

It occurs to Tara that if what she saw was real, that might lead the police to her house, and that would lead them to Elf Guy. "I'm sure it was just me being too tired, and it was late, and raining, and—"

"I used to work in the Financial District, ma'am," he says.

Tara gulps. He's calling her ma'am... not madam, and the other guy had barked at her just now, not "insisted" that she get off the road. She'd never thought she'd find hostile cops vaguely reassuring.

"They can make you see anything they want you to see," the second officer continues.

Tara thinks of the little boy bleeding on the pavement. They wanted her to see that? She swallows. After the invasion, there was a revival of interest in legends of elves, sidhe, fae, the fair folk, Seelie Summer, and Unseelie Winter courts. There did seem to be a common thread of trickery in all the legends...

"If you see anything around here that looks odd, you tell us right away," says the second officer. "We've got special cells downtown and special airplanes to take them straight to Gitmo where they won't hurt anyone."

Tara blinks. They're not sending the man in her guest room to Gitmo; he's hurt. She bites her lip. Of course, Ted Bundy pretended to be hurt, too. Then she thinks of him falling into bed, unable to lift his head for a drink. The elf-as-a-serial-killer idea goes poof.

From a few blocks over comes the sound of gunfire. In the car, Police Officer Frank shouts, "Jim, we gotta get a move on."

Jim gives her a nod, jogs to the squad car, and seconds later, they're taking off, siren blaring.

Dr. Eisenberg walks back over to her, head bent over his tablet. "You didn't imagine anything," he says, and goes off into a little monologue about fluctuations too regular to be explained by random occurring distortions. Tara's not really paying attention because she has an elf in her guest bedroom and knows she wasn't hallucinating. She just isn't sure _who_ exactly she saw.

"If you see anything else, call me first," says Dr. Eisenberg, jolting her from her musings.

"What?" says Tara, not sure if she's heard right.

Dr. Eisenberg adjusts his glasses. "Don't call the cops."

"The elves are our enemies... we probably have to call the cops, or we're committing a crime like treason... aren't we?" Tara asks carefully.

"Um..." he says. "I hadn't considered that." He stares at her another beat longer, searching her eyes as though looking for something, and then says, "I have to go now. Why don't you take the day off?" With that, he spins on his heel and trots to his car.

Tara watches him go, wondering what that was all about, and then she shakes her head. Her generous, demanding, genius-crazy-boss is a lot of trouble.

She starts walking home, and begins thinking of all the trouble a technology-ignorant elf could get into with a toaster, an oven, a fuse box, or just a piece of wire and an electrical outlet. She breaks into a run.

Lionel is in trouble. Fear haunts his dreams, and when he wakes up with a gasp in an unfamiliar room, it all comes back to him. He told a human she'd saved his life and indebted himself to her. He did the one thing elves are warned never to do. Now she'll demand a "favor" of him, a pot of gold or a monkey's paw or some nonsense. He'll have to find a way to give it to her...

Unless he can figure out her full name. The Einherjar he's met at the palace don't understand the power of names for elves; it isn't a power that other magical races have. With her full name, he will be able to compel her to release him from her debt. His eyes dart back and forth. The room is spacious, the bed opulent and comfortable. She is not of the lowest class despite her skin tone. She probably has papers about, bills of sale maybe... some identification he could use. Not as good as a name given freely, but still, something.

... And anything's better than a hunt for a monkey's paw.

He pulls himself up and the effort makes him hiss in pain. He hurts everywhere, not just where he was struck by the bullet. Gritting his teeth, Lionel grasps his key and orders the offending nerves to stop firing. As soon as the edge is off the pain, he makes his way to the door and out into the area beyond. It's a hallway. It's not so wide as in a palace, nor as narrow as a peasant's home. The walls are a shade of off white, and lined with what might be paintings... but they are impossibly detailed and realistic. He would guess they are of family. A bright orange and red carpet covers glossy wooden floors. The home smells like alien flora and lemon.

It's not what he expected at all. Einherjar from the last great wars had told him that only some humans had running water and privies that whisked waste away. He doesn't know why, but in the back of his mind he'd presumed that most human domiciles wouldn't have such amenities and would reek with the smell of bodily fluids. Is his host very rich?

He hears a door open and shut, and footsteps. Lionel steps away from the pictures on the wall and tries to take a step in the direction of the sound—better to make a strong entrance he thinks—and promptly trips and goes sprawling onto the floor. He lands with a jaw-rattling thud.

The footsteps speed up, and he rolls over onto his back just in time to see the woman's face appear above him. Today she is wearing her hair pulled up in a blue and orange scarf. "You're awake," she says. He hears her swallow. "Do you need help?"

"No," Lionel says, trying to stand, and only managing to sit up. He hurts everywhere. He closes his eyes and magically soothes the nerves that are going off like fireworks until the only pain he's left with is his pride. He's indebted to a human, and just fell over his own feet. Elves grow extremely slowly, and they don't trip after toddlerhood... falling over is not like an elf. His fingers clench on his shins and he frowns. _It's only the injury,_ he tells himself. That's all it can be.

The woman shifts on her feet. Looking up, he sees her gazing at him in concern. He hears her swallow. "I'm not sure where you were going, but I don't think you should go outside," she says.

Is she trying to entrap him? Does it matter? Lionel thinks of the Dark Elves who'd swarmed through the World Gate the night before. They _must_ have taken control of the fort on the other side of the gate. He can't go back that way. "No, I cannot," he agrees. He looks at his legs. "I can't go anywhere."

Her shoulders relax a fraction. "There are police and FBI people looking for you."

"FBI?" he inquires.

"Federal Bureau of Investigations," she says. The first word is unintelligible to Lionel, but the other two he understands. They must be a group like the Queen's Inquisitors. He draws his legs in closer to his body. Dark Elves might not be all that he has to worry about.

"If they find you, we're both in trouble," she murmurs.

If they are anything like the Queen's Inquisitors, she has put herself in a great deal of danger. He scowls. He should not feel guilt for someone who has put him in her debt. As innocuously as possible, he asks, "I'm afraid I don't know your name. Miss..."

Her eyes meet his. "Oh, I'm sorry... it's Tara. Tara Gibson."

His brow furrows in consternation. She knows nothing about the ways of the elves, giving her name so freely. What was she thinking bringing him in?

"And you are?" she asks.

Snapping from his thoughts, Lionel says, "I am called 'Lionel of the Southern Vale.'"

"Nice to meet you," she replies. Light shines from behind her and his vision gets blurry.

Lionel takes a breath, preparing to stand, but the effort of talking has left him drained and in pain again. Every single fiber of muscle, skin, and bone is begging for his attention. Gripping his key, feeling the magic, he tries to push his pain aside. He hears himself huffing. "It's hardly nice to meet me. It seems I've caused you a great deal of trouble and put you in danger."

It's so close to declaring his debt... He wonders why his subconscious is sabotaging him.

Tara slides down the wall across from him until she's sitting on the floor. Pulling her knees up to her chin, she wraps her arms around her legs. "I haven't saved your life yet. You're going to have to get out of here without anyone seeing you."

She's not even taking credit for what she's done.

Why did she save him? No elf at the palace would save an elf without expecting something in return, and certainly would not save a human. He blinks, realizing how cynical two hundred years at the palace has made him. Elvish peasants often saved humans before Odin passed his law barring them from coming to Midgard. There are rumors that some peasants still cross over. As a little boy, Lionel had asked an ancient elf why she did it. "They were so pathetic and miserable, I couldn't help myself," she'd replied.

He frowns, studying his knees. Miss Tara Gibson, human—least of the races—found him wounded and pathetic in the alley and had taken him in out of pity. It makes him burn with humiliation.

"I saw them crack a little elf boy's head open."

Lionel attention snaps to her. She is covering her mouth with her hands.

"Them?" he whispers, sucking on his lips to suppress a wince. "The Fed..." He can't quite form his lips around the word. "Bureau of Inquisitors?"

"I don't know... they were so polite, not like the police normally are." She blinks at him. "They weren't like you. Their ears were round and they were dressed in uniforms, but you know..." Her head cocks. "Their intonation was the same."

"I'm sure it was your Inquisitors," Lionel says too quickly. The warriors of the queen wouldn't beat a child, and there aren't Dark Elf children here. There are only rebels buying guns, like the ones who shot him. She must be mistaken.

"I guess," she says. "I mean, I've heard the feds are more professional. But why were they dressed like police?"

Lionel goes very still. He has a sudden sinking sensation, and a feeling that he might know what "police" uniforms look like. He tells himself he's being fanciful and paranoid.

The question must have been rhetorical because she says, "Do you want anything to eat?" Her eyes go to his leg. "I can get you some clothes, too."

He looks down and he notices how bloody his trousers are. It's probably on the sheets of her bed. He has the odd desire to confess another debt to her for ruining her bedding. That would mean he'd have to replace it, which would mean venturing to the palace and back with proper linens.

His head is starting to swim with pain again. "I don't think I can eat. I... hurt," he stammers.

She says something, but the words are a jumble.

"Pardon?" he manages, and, biting his lip, he focuses on his rebellious nerve endings.

"Can you take human medicines?"

"They wouldn't help me," he mutters. "Too weak."

She says something he doesn't quite catch. His head sags and somewhere someone groans.

"But would it hurt you?" she asks.

"No..." he says. It comes out a moan. He feels the prickle of sweat on his brow. He can't focus on the particular nerves that are misfiring because they all seem to be misfiring, and his world is narrowing to just the pain. He's vaguely aware of her rushing away, but he doesn't look up. He reaches for his magic, loses the thread of it, and the pain makes his head fall to the floor.

A few minutes, or maybe hours later, Tara's talking to him urgently, but Lionel doesn't know what she's saying. She thrusts a hand in front of him with three little white objects, but it's obvious... He's going to die.

## 5

# Unexpected Visitors

"Open your mouth," Tara commands.

Lionel does, and she shoves the Tylenol and Advil in, and then considers maybe he'd opened his mouth to tell her to shove off.

With a wince, he swallows, and Tara leans back against the wall, questioning her life choices. _Please don't die. Jesus—Odin—anyone, please don't let Lionel die._ She'd wanted to save him by dragging him into her home, not kill him.

On the floor, Lionel stops groaning. She holds her breath. He inhales deeply, releases it, doesn't puke, and she relaxes.

Her phone rings with her mother's tone and she ignores it until it stops. It rings again, and then the texts start coming. Giving the elf another look, Tara picks up her phone and reads: _Where r u? Been calling ur office all morning._

_Home,_ she types. _Did some xtra stuff for E and got the rest of day off._

_Lucky!_ Her mom types.

Tara's lips purse. Eisenberg can be generous in many ways... but days off aren't one of them. He gets cranky when any of his staff are away, and never thinks twice about calling people in on weekends. That he offered the day off is... kind of weird. Had she misunderstood him? She replays their conversation in her mind. _If you see anything else, call me first, don't call the cops._

Was he trying to bribe her with a day off to do something that is probably a felony and maybe treason so he can get more data for another paper in the _Journal of Dark Energy_? Her eyes narrow. That would be so like him.

On the floor, Lionel lifts his head, his hair hanging like a golden curtain behind him. "I think I could put on those spare clothes now," he says.

Tara sighs. She's committing a felony and possibly treason, and she won't even be getting a journal entry out of it. "Hang on," she says.

"Hang on to what?" the elf asks, and she barely contains a snort. Delightful cultural misunderstandings are what she's going to get out of it, apparently. Standing up, she heads to her room. "It's an expression. It means just a minute." When she comes back, he's standing up. He's a little taller than she expects, and a little broader in the shoulder and squarer in the jaw.

He smiles, revealing a dimple in his left cheek. "That human medicine is amazing! Instead of turning off the nerves that are transmitting the pain to my brain, it is turning off the nerves in my brain that are feeling it."

Tara actually knew that... she's a little confused as to how he knows it, and also, how long did it usually take for acetaminophen and ibuprofen to kick in? Twenty minutes maybe? She doesn't remember feeling this chipper after dosing up before her root canal. "Mmm... hmmm..." she says, handing him some clothes she thinks will fit him.

Dropping them on the floor, Lionel peels off his shirt, exposing a toned stomach and chest. Tara feels herself get warm. Then his hands drop to the waistband of his pants. Tara looks away. "You... ah... might want to change in there." She points to the bathroom because it's closest.

Ducking past him, she heads down the hall, trying to be discreet... but her eyes have minds of their own and she peers back. Lionel has a nice back and nice arms. He has that vein that guys have on the back of their forearms when they're really toned ...

With a groan she looks away and enters the living room. Sinking with a sigh onto her comfy couch and scooping up Inky, her octopus-pillow friend to be her armrest, she takes her recent issue of WIRED off her laptop, plops the device on her lap, opens it, and focuses very purposefully on the screen... Her eyes go to the empty hallway. Lionel had been nice to look at. A little short, but he's not scrawny, or too bulky... just... perfect. She shakes her head. And he's not afraid to show it. Taking a deep breath, she checks her work email.

From the bathroom, she hears the toilet flush, the faucet turn on, and then the shower. Tara lifts her head. The toilet flushes again. The shower goes off. The faucet goes on. And off. And on again. She blinks. Hears the shower, and then the toilet. She rolls her eyes. After babysitting, she knows the sound of someone playing with the water when she hears it. Shaking her head, she goes back to her email.

After finishing catching up on work stuff, she goes to social media and shares news of a troll under the Green Line (it had been confirmed by researchers in the Dark Energy Department, so she knows the reports are legit). And then she does what she used to do before Chicago was invaded by a crazy Norse God, and maybe not-so-crazy elves: she checks various music sites for new releases by some of her favorites in the hometown music scene. She's filling her home speakers with some electronica that is beautiful, bluesy and soulful and posting about it when Lionel pads out. He's wearing her purple University of Illinois sweatshirt and gray matching sweat pants. The purple makes his face look sickly pale. It's also obvious that the set has been worn by a girl; the chest and hips are stretched, and the ensemble hangs on him like potato sacks. She hits the pause button and bites her lip to keep from laughing.

Lionel picks at the pants. "These are... comfortable."

"They don't suit you," Tara admits, barely containing a snort at his obvious distaste.

"I wasn't going to say it," he replies, and Tara does laugh.

Lifting his eyes to hers, Lionel gives her a cautious smile and she stops laughing. From the neck up... he looks... striking? Gorgeous? She swears his hair glows and is impossibly smooth, like girls in magazines who have the benefit of Photoshop.

He inclines his head to the laptop. "The music that instrument plays is... interesting."

"I like it," she says, a touch defensively.

Approaching the couch, he says, "I didn't say I didn't. But I didn't hear enough to judge." He inclines his head. Is he asking her to play more? His ear points are poking through his hair, and she finds herself flushing, remembering how warm they were, and the softness of his skin.

"Hang on," Tara says, bending over her keyboard, forcing herself to look away from his ears.

"I'll do my best not to let go," he promises.

She blinks up.

Spreading his hands, Lionel raises an eyebrow. "I was trying to make a joke... it's one of the hardest things between languages and cultures."

Her lips purse.

"Not funny?" he suggests.

Shaking her head, she smiles. "It was kind of a dad joke... and I gotta say, you look a little young for those."

"I'm a few centuries in age, so even though I'm not a father, I suppose I do have an excuse," he replies, and this time there is something a little sly to his smile.

Tara's smile drops, and then his does, too.

"Right," she says, not knowing why that makes her uneasy. Hurriedly pressing a few keys, she reroutes the sound to the speakers and presses play.

Lionel sits down on the edge of the couch. He looks around the room, speaker to speaker, and then cocks his head. The song is about a love affair ending, the singer's voice is soft, and her mic, maybe intentionally, has a bit of static in it. It makes her words seem more distant, and the static adds a beautiful texture to the keyboards.

"Oh," he says when it's over. "That was... interesting. The instruments were completely unfamiliar to me." His eyes meet hers, and then scan her face, making Tara feel very uncomfortable, imagining how someone so pretty must see all her flaws. His lips part, he meets her gaze again, and it's as if his focus has physical weight. Warmth spreads through her, making her feel heavy. She finds herself holding her breath and her pulse quickening, but then his attention shifts to her laptop, its screen a fence between them. She thinks she's glad for that fence. For a just a heartbeat, she thought she there was attraction between them, and she is obviously imagining things. It's good to have fences; they help keep your mind in the right place.

He tips his head toward the laptop. "That is not an instrument, is it?"

Shaking her head, she says, "No, I just use it to play recordings of instruments' music."

"Recordings?" he asks. "I don't understand."

"The sounds of instruments... it's like a..." She brightens. "A captured memory!"

His eyes go wide. "Do most people have access to these recordings... and does it play any instrument?"

"Yes, to the first," Tara says. "As to the second, it doesn't just play instruments." She strikes a few keys. "It can play vocals, too." She fills her living room with the sounds of the Mzansi Youth Choir.

Lionel lifts his head and gazes from one speaker to the other, his lips parted in a look of wonder. When the song ends, he says, "It sounds as though we are in the midst of a great..." He lifts his arms. "Interior space."

Tara nods, more pleased with the fact that he likes it than she ought to be. He's an elf, and a fugitive, and he's got to go home. She can't help smiling, though. "It was recorded in a church."

Lionel stares at her a moment, and then he says, "Ah, Jesus Christ." He nods earnestly. "I've read about him, but we've never met. He's not an elf and has never been to Alfheim that I know."

Tara blinks, not sure what to make of that. But then he leans toward the computer, and in a conspiratorial whisper asks, "Do you have a recording of... a waltz?"

He says it like a waltz is something deviant. Actually, if Tara remembers her history correctly, it was considered deviant on Earth at one time.

"We learned the dance from the Einherjar, but the nobility does not like us to play non-Elvish music." He looks sideways. "We do, but only in secret, and we have to improvise as we don't have the same instruments. I would like very much to hear what a waltz sounds like by the people who invented it."

Tara has no idea who the Einherjar are, but her mind seizes on "the nobility." Whatever social group he's part of isn't even allowed to listen to the music they like. She's heard how her slave ancestors resorted to stamping their feet and using their voices as instruments because African instruments were forbidden. She immediately feels sympathy.

"I can find something," she says, googling, "Best Waltz" and selecting _Blue Danube_ when that seems to be the consensus. When it starts, his mouth opens in an expression of pure wonder. When the prelude ends, and the music begins in earnest, he starts tapping out the rhythm on his uninjured thigh. Bouncing in his seat, he looks like he's all of five and not a few hundred something. Tara bites her cheeks to keep from laughing.

When it's done, he looks at her with both eyebrows up. "That was lovely, but too short." He's obviously fishing for more... and Tara almost gives it to him. But then her lips purse. "I wonder if you'd like the music of my people."

"Isn't everything we've been listening to by humans?" he asks, canting his head and spilling his long white-gold hair over his shoulder.

Tara chuckles. "Well, yes, but I wonder how you'd like..." She bites her lip, considering. She should probably start him off gently. "I wonder how you'd like jazz." She clicks a few keys and fills her room with the sound of Miles Davis' _Kind of Blue_.

Lionel's smile melts away, his eyes go wide, and he sits in almost preternatural stillness.

Tara stops the playback. "You don't like it."

"I've just never heard anything like it," he whispers, glancing at the speakers almost apprehensively.

Tara doesn't hit the play button, wondering if that is just a polite "no."

Leaning toward her, Lionel says, "We've known that you have advanced weaponry, and chariots that are possibly self-aware—"

Tara's mind sputters at that last bit.

Lionel continues. "I had not considered that you'd have advancements in medicine and music." His gaze meets hers. "Please... if you don't mind, play more."

Tapping a button, Tara fills the room with music again. Lionel cocks his head and listens. He doesn't hop in his seat this time, but he cants his head to the musical phrasing. She has a sudden sensation, like she's stepped into a painting, or a television show. She is sitting with a handsome magical elf in her living room listening to Miles Davis. She has been dealing with troll and wyrm alerts since Loki arrived in her city, and she feels like for the first time, she might be seeing the beautiful side of the chaos that Loki the deranged maybe-god left behind. The moment feels surreal, and fragile, like it could be shattered by the smallest thing.

"Tara?"

Her mother's voice from the foyer makes Tara's finger snap down on the pause button. She spins in her seat. Her mom is standing by the door, bags of food from Bombon Cafe in hand, gaping at Lionel.

Setting down her laptop, Tara stands with a start. "Um, hi Mom, this is Lionel. He's..." How is she going to explain the ears? Worse, how is she going to explain why he's wearing her clothes?

She looks frantically at the elf and instead of her baggy sweats, he's wearing a shirt with blue checks that zips down the front and falls past his waist. A white t-shirt peeks out at the collar. The gray sweatpants have been replaced by tan khaki trousers that are a little baggier than is fashionable and cuffed. On his feet are argyle socks. Her eyes slide to his ears. They're round where they peek through his still-long hair. For a moment she's relieved, and then she shivers as she remembers the cop's words. _They can make you see what they want you to see._

For an instant, Lionel hesitates casting an illusion of Earth-like clothing, even though he's guessing Tara's culture is modest by the way she'd run from the hallway, and some Einherjar have told him relations between men and women are more restrained in their cultures. But then he remembers Tara will never realize it's magic he's not supposed to know how to do. Squeezing the key, he uses its power to disguise himself as best he can and stands up.

He nods at her mother and looks at Tara expectantly.

"This... is my mother... Lionel," she stammers, not meeting his eyes.

Searching his memory for what he's learned of human manners while talking with Einherjar in the palace, he says, "Nice to meet you, Missus Gibson."

"Call me Rosa," her mother says, and looks at Tara with one eyebrow cocked.

Lionel finds himself smiling at their utter lack of guile. They are so ignorant of the games he could play with the name, Rosa Gibson. Although he won't... Tara hasn't demanded payment of his debt, and he's her guest, not the other way around. It would be rude. And... his eyes trail down Tara's striking profile. He'd really like to know her better.

"He's a friend, Mom... from college," Tara says, wringing her hands. "Lionel is originally from... ah..."

He blinks and realizes that both of the Gibsons are looking at his clothing. It's possible he didn't get it quite right.

"... New York," Tara finishes.

The words twist in Lionel's brain. "New Amsterdam?" he blurts. It's a city on the eastern coast of the continent he's read about in a book he isn't supposed to look at.

"And he's apparently a fan of _They Might Be Giants_ ," Tara says, her voice dry.

The words are gibberish and Lionel repeats them to himself. "They might be giants?" On repeat, he suddenly knows the meaning, and his eyes go wide. "Giants?" he whispers worriedly.

Tara narrows her eyes at him, and he doesn't say another word on the subject. He finds his eyes darting nervously to the windows, though.

Rosa says, "Wasn't that the band...?" She stops in what was obviously the midst of a question.

"Yes, Mom, the one I heard way too much of in AV Club," Tara finishes.

Lionel tries to look like what she just said didn't sound like complete nonsense.

Rosa smiles nervously at Lionel, and then says to Tara, "I brought you lunch, but you didn't tell me you had company." There is no missing the accusation in her tone. She walks past them both without further invite. The food does smell... interesting, and now that he isn't hurting, he feels hungry. Actually, he's _very_ hungry, famished from all the magic he's been working... without the key, he'd probably have passed out from hunger and exhaustion by now.

"So, what are you doing in Chicago, Lionel?" Rosa asks.

"He's here for work, Mom. He just rang me up and showed up out of the blue," Tara responds, sounding slightly vexed.

The lie makes Lionel pause. It's what, the sixth she's said in the span of a few minutes? He's been enchanted by the novelty of this world—the home that is neither opulent, nor peasant humble, the recorded music that can make a small room sound like a church, the clear canteens that aren't glass... and frankly, by Tara's beauty. It's not Elvish beauty. Tara's taller. Her shoulders are wider and so are her breasts and hips, like an Aesir, Vanir, or Jotunn Frost Giantess, and her face is symmetrical, but her features are so strikingly different. Despite himself, he'd been delighted when he'd made her generous lips smile, and seen the way her tongue flicked against her teeth when she'd been trying to stifle a laugh.

With all that, he'd forgotten that even the least of creatures have means of self-defense. The ease with which Tara has disambiguated is astounding. Some elves can lie, but it is hard if not impossible for most. For Lionel, it's like pushing against the natural flow of magic.

Setting down some strange white containers, Rosa says, "Lionel, why don't you tell me all about yourself." She smiles sunnily at him.

Tara shifts nervously on her feet. Grasping his key tightly, Lionel glances at her... and his mouth falls open in shock. Between him and Tara is an open doorway. Behind her are open skies, not the muted colors of her abode...

"Don't be shy," Rosa says.

Tara tilts her head. The door slams shut and vanishes. It's just Tara, in her comfortable home, and the feeling of magic buzzing in his fingers.

"Well?" says Rosa.

Lionel has the right to use his race's natural defenses, too. Letting all of his Elvish charm flow through him, he says, "I'd much rather hear your story." For good measure, he adds extra compulsion. "... Missus Rosa Gibson."

She blinks. "Well, I was born in Chicago, at St. Mary's. I was only five pounds and three ounces..."

He might have overdone his magic a bit.

Tara sits back in her chair, long done eating. Her mother has been acting weird throughout the whole lunch. She's always a chatterbox, but today she's talked a lot, even for her.

Lionel is just smiling, nodding, and eating everything they put in front of him, as though he's got a built in Hoover.

"Now I work in the barbershop across from Tara's office," her mother says, and stops. She looks at Lionel's plate, and then at Tara.

Looking down, Tara's eyebrows hike. "You're only supposed to eat the inside of the tamale, Lionel."

"Ah," he says, delicately removing a bit of corn husk from his mouth.

Tara doesn't know whether to laugh or wince. With a straight face, she says to her mother, "He's from New York."

Her mom blinks and then says, "Anyway, I was the one who told Tara about the job at the University of Illinois with Dr. Eisenberg."

Reaching for another tamale, Lionel turns to Tara. "You work at a university?"

Tara waves her fork. "I'm just a techie."

"Techie... a magician?" Lionel exclaims.

"Oh, yes, she is!" Tara's mom says. "Tara is brilliant with computers and machines—just like her father. They did the electricity for this whole building. Did she tell you? Tara designed websites when she was still in high school, set up a shopping cart for her cousin's business and everything, and if you get a computer virus, you call her, she'll fix your machine!"

"Mom." Tara flushes and looks down at what's left of her salad. She did get all that from her dad, and a love of comic books, fantasy, and sci-fi, too.

"How about you, Lionel?" Tara's mom asks. "What about your family?"

A brief frown flits across Lionel's face.

Tara stiffens. The frown she just saw... She just has a feeling that's a bad topic. Before she can think of a lie, Lionel says carefully, "My mother... has a farm..." His shoulders are tight and he radiates tension.

He didn't mention his dad, Tara notices.

"Like an organic farm?" says her mom, excitedly. "I'm always telling Tara, if the city life gets too rough, we can always move out to the countryside and make organic cheese, and sell it to the hopsters for sixteen dollars a pound."

Tara chokes on a laugh. "It's hipsters, Mom." But she's so grateful her mom didn't ask about Lionel's dad.

"Hopsters, hipsters..." Her mom waves a hand. She looks at the clock and her mouth falls open. "So much time has passed... I had no idea." For a moment, a glazed sort of look crosses her face, but then she says, "I have to get to the shop."

Standing, she points at Tara. "Tara Lupita Gibson, you got your hair wet."

"Lupita is your middle name?" Lionel asks before she can answer, a curious note of mirth in his voice.

"Yes, Lupita was my great-grandmother's name," she says unaccountably defensively.

Tara's mother bites her lip. "I can't stay today, but I'll come over tomorrow at the usual time. It will have to last you until I get back from Guadalajara with Alma."

It's the first time her mom has gone on vacation since Tara's dad died. Tara had wanted to go too, but hadn't been able to get time off work. Eisenberg has a big conference coming up and needed her to help him prepare. "You'll have fun with Aunt Alma, Mom," Tara says.

Her mom sighs. "I know, but I'll miss you." Switching to Spanish, she says, "But maybe some time alone with Lionel will be good for you, Tara. You can get to know him again without your mother in the way."

Lionel stops chewing.

Tara's face heats, and she answers in English, "Pretty sure he speaks Spanish, Mom." Or understands it, magically.

"You speak Spanish?" her mother asks in that language.

"Si," says Lionel.

"Even better!" Tara's mom exclaims. She has no shame.

Craning her neck to look at the clock on the stove, Tara says, "Wow, Mom, it's getting late."

"You're right," says her mom. "You can finish the rest of the food." She points at Tara's scarf. "I'll be back tomorrow."

Tara hops from her seat. "Great, I'll show you out."

A few minutes later, Tara's outside, wrapping her arms around herself, hopping up and down in the brisk air.

Standing in the street, her mother says, "He's nice, Tara. Nice looking... a little shorter than you, but so is most everyone." She opens her car door but doesn't get in. She just looks expectantly at Tara.

Tara doesn't mind short guys, but they're only interested in tall girls if they're willowy. She is healthy and works out, but is definitely not a willow. Instead of pointing that out, Tara replies, "He's not from around here, Mom, and he's going home soon." The idea is starting to make her a little sad. It is nice seeing the nice side of magic.

Her mother waves her keys. "It could work out. Chicago is much better than New York. He'd move for you, and if he doesn't, he's an idiot."

"Thank you for the confidence booster, Mom, but he's really just a friend."

That earns Tara a "Pfft," and then her mother sighs. "I know your last date with someone outside the community was disappointing—"

"Outside the community" means not black. Tara might be Mexican African-American, but with her dense hair and dark skin, she looks more African, and that's the bucket society tosses her into.

"—but this guy, I don't think he's like that."

Tara sighs. Her last date had been with an anesthesiologist from "outside the community" who said he liked "dating black girls because it makes my parents so angry!" They hadn't had a second date, though not from lack of trying on his part.

"Really, Tara, don't be afraid to expand your horizons," her mother advises, and Tara has to bite her lip to keep from saying, "His horizon is on another planet!"

Her mother continues, "If I hadn't, I wouldn't have married your father." Her mother's voice trembles at the last word, and Tara feels a lump in her throat.

"I have to get going," her mom says, slipping into the car, just before Tara says, "I miss him, too." Weekends, and holidays, every time a new Star Wars, Star Trek, or Marvel movie comes out, and whenever a new sci-fi series takes off... most every day, actually. Tara loves her mom, but her mom just doesn't get those sorts of things.

She watches her mom drive off, and then turns around and squints as two large black birds soar overhead. They're the biggest crows Tara has ever seen.

When she goes back inside, she finds Lionel at the table, still eating. He glances at her and the weird clothes he's wearing disappear to reveal the sweatshirt and pants he borrowed. The points of his ears reappear between his long bangs.

She finds herself tensing up. "Sorry about my mom," she says instead of probing into why she feels uneasy. "She's always trying to find my soulmate."

He gives a sort of snort. "There is no such thing as soulmates—"

Smiling, Tara says, "I know that," and sits down on a chair.

"—for humans," Lionel finishes. "You're the most primitive of all the lesser races."

The bubble of nice magic pops. "Pardon?" says Tara, sitting straighter.

Lionel blinks at her. "Did that come out wrong?"

"I don't know," Tara says, the tension returning to her muscles. "Did it?"

"I don't mean to offend," says Lionel.

Tara tilts her head, and her jaw gets hard.

"But surely it is obvious," he says, waving a fork. "You're not magical."

Tara narrows her eyes. "You called me a magician earlier."

"Well, a primitive magician, you have no concept for such things as..." His head jerks. "You have a word for dark matter!"

"Yes," says Tara carefully. "And dark energy. I work in the Dark Energy Department." Which lots of people call the "Magic Department."

Lionel's eyes get wide. He leans toward her and whispers, "Hadrosaur... do you know what that is?"

"A type of dinosaur," Tara guesses.

Lionel sits back in his seat fast. "English did not have words for dark energy, or dark matter, or hadrosaurs when I was here last!"

Tara gives him the side eye, wondering what he's getting at.

He waves his hand. "I don't actually know those words... magic knows them... so I can say them, but I can't say or understand a word that has no analog between our respective languages."

She should still be mad, but Tara finds herself fascinated. "Airplane," she blurts out.

"I have no idea what that means."

She tilts her head. "But that is a compound word made of two simple words. 'Air' like the air you breathe, and 'plane' like a flat surface. You can't put it together and come up with a guess?"

Leaning forward, Lionel says, "When you take them apart like that, I understand the words separately, but when you put them together..." Straightening, he looks up at the ceiling. "How can air be a plane unless this is a theoretical construct—perhaps a plane that exists mathematically but has no physical embodiment?"

"That's a good guess," Tara replies.

Lionel smiles and winks. "Higher race."

Crossing her arms over her chest, Tara glares at him. "But wrong."

He raises his hands. "I'm joking." Wincing, he adds, "I'm thinking the concept of 'higher race' doesn't quite translate, and I've offended you."

"But you said if the analog doesn't exist, it wouldn't translate, so in that case, I should be offended," Tara counters.

Lionel's ears twitch. "Humans can't use magic—or dark energy, as you call it—so you can't be a..."

"Higher race?" Tara finishes for him.

His lips purse, and he looks to the side.

Unfortunately, he's _partly_ right. Humans know about the existence of dark energy, but they can't make it do anything. "So, you look down on us because of it?" Tara guesses.

Lionel wavers in his seat. "You look down on us because you're taller?" A beam of sunlight streams through the window and lights his features, making him look like a damn angel. Emphasis on the _damn_. Tara glares at him. "You're evading."

Lionel sighs. "I really don't mean to be abrasive. You have been most hospitable..." He looks around. "... and though your home is very alien, I have found it much more comfortable and aesthetically pleasing than I would have expected." He looks at her with great earnestness. "You have running water."

Tara gives him a tight smile.

"As for your mother, I found her quite charming, and if her objective was to match us together as romantic partners, I would be honored."

Tara feels herself go cold. "But a lesser race isn't going to be your soulmate." And it's so close to her last date that she finds herself containing the urge to throw something across the room... or at him.

His brow furrows. "You make it out as though I think you are some sort of animal. That's not true. But humans are... young. The youngest race of all the bipedal species. Elves are the oldest race, older even than dwarves, and we are the only ones with soulmates." He rolls up a sleeve. "You see," he says, showing her a green tattoo she hadn't noticed before on the front of his forearm: two trees entwined to make a sort of trellis with their branches above and roots below.

"It's lovely," Tara says. "But what does it prove?"

"My soulmate has one exactly like it. It is not a crude human 'tattoo.' It appeared spontaneously by magic. That is how we know we are soulmates. Do you have such a mark?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Just because we don't have a mark, doesn't mean we don't have soulmates—if we're different species, we might have a whole different marker... it could be in our DNA for instance. That's—"

"I know what deoxyribonucleic acid is." His brows furrow. "Though I'm surprised that you do."

"We're different species, so our soulmates could be delineated by something else completely," Tara says, lifting her chin.

He raises an eyebrow. "And you believe that?"

She could be game, and argue, but she suddenly feels tired. "No, I don't believe soulmates are real. I mean... I think there's someone for everyone. Actually, I'm sure there is more than one person for everyone." Not that she's found herself someone. For a moment the two floors of her duplex feel too large and empty. "Even if you could only fall in love with a one-in-a-million type of guy, there are over seven billion people on Earth, so that means there's what, seven thousand divided by two... there are three thousand five hundred or so guys out there who are perfect for me." And somehow, she hasn't met a single one of them.

"Seven billion?" Lionel says, his jaw dropping.

"Actually, I think it's crossed seven and a half billion." Tara says, tapping a finger and looking at the ceiling.

"How do you feed that many people?" Lionel asks.

Tara gives him a tight smile. "Not everyone eats well." Or at all. Her eyebrows rise. "I think it's not a matter of production, but rather distribution. I read once that there's never been a famine in places with paved roads, but there are a lot of places that don't—"

"Seven and a half billion," Lionel repeats again.

Tara blinks at him.

"Elves don't lie." His eyes narrow. "But humans can... Are you lying to me?"

She shakes her head. "Nope."

Rolling down his sleeve, he says, "Maybe it's a good thing you don't have soulmates. You'd never find them among so many people. When the time is right, we will find each other..." His expression darkens.

"You don't know who she is?" Tara asks.

Frowning, he shrugs. "No."

"But you know she's out there," says Tara. "And when you meet, it will be perfect... why not meet now?"

His eyebrows shoot up.

She waves a hand. "I mean, not right now, but as soon as you get home? Why wait?"

"I'm too young," he says, and that darkness she'd seen returns again. "Too young for an elf to be interested in such things."

Tara's lips part. If she didn't know better, she'd think he was bitter about that. But what does she know about soulmates? Apparently, she doesn't get to have one as a lesser human.

She feels a lump forming in her throat. To know that there was someone out there for you... if Dwayne, her once fiancé, had known she was his soulmate, that she really wanted to be with him, and loved him, could he have waited just a little longer? She lets out a breath. He's moved on, and that's water under the bridge now.

Shaking his head, Lionel eyes the leftovers. "Thank you for the food. I see you are done, and I'm not hungry anymore. Shall I help you clean up?"

"You don't have to," Tara says automatically. He is a guest, after all, and even if he is kind of arrogant, her parents raised her right.

He makes a dismissive sound. "I'm not a noble elf. I can help clean up."

Tara catches the dismissiveness in how he says "noble." She's struck with the idea that although the elves may consider themselves a "higher race," there doesn't seem to be a lot of love lost between the classes. It makes Tara unaccountably sad.

"Sure, thanks." Tara picks up some leftover tamales. "This way." Lionel follows her to the kitchen, and Tara feels the hairs rising on the back of her neck. He was shot, he's walking, and he created Earth-like clothes when her mother arrived...

Putting the food on the counter, Tara probes... gently. "Those clothes you were wearing earlier—"

"They were an illusion," Lionel says. "Thor, son of Odin, the King of the Realms, passed through Alfheim, my home, on his way back from Earth between your last great wars. There was a young man with him from your world."

Tara freezes. "Kidnapped?"

"Oh, no, recruited!" Lionel says, putting a bag of chips down and holding up his hands. "Odin doesn't allow the kidnapping of humans. That's not one of his vices." He frowns and his jaw gets hard. "Odin and his servants travel all over your world to find the bravest, most honorable warriors at the time of their last breaths. If they join him, they are offered the Apples of Idunn and become magical... like the Vanir, Asgardians, Frost Giants, or..."

"Elves?" Tara supplies.

Lionel gives her a sly grin that brings out his dimple. "Well, no, alas our ears aren't as easy to bestow as magic and immortality."

Despite herself, Tara feels her lips turning up at his cheekiness. She also finds her eyes sliding to the tips of his ears pointing out from beneath his long, smooth bangs. Catching herself, she retrieves some Tupperware.

"The illusion I wore for your mother was recreated from his attire," Lionel says, "I wasn't sure if your mother saw me wearing your clothing—"

"Thank you for that." Tara huffs, imagining it. She starts sorting through the leftovers. "What else can you do?"

He grins. "Like all elves, I'm charming."

She barely contains a snort.

He winks and says, "I can't do telekinesis... amazing you have a word for that! I can't shapeshift, and I don't know of anyone who can, or would want to. It would seem by definition to be horribly painful. You have a word for telepathy, too!"

Tara freezes and feels her cheeks heat, but then Lionel says, "I can't do telepathy. If you secretly find the points of my ears hideous, I wouldn't know." She hears the smile in his voice and wonders if he caught her peeking.

"I can start fires, but I have more of an affinity for ice. Making things cold is really just about slowing the excitation of molecules—I'm good at holding things together, in place. It perhaps makes me a better steward. I can mend wounds, obviously, or that nick to my femoral artery would have been the end of me."

Tara's eyes snap to him. "It hit your femoral artery?"

"I didn't mention that?" Lionel says, busy putting some chips into a container. "Yes. What else... I can World Walk... too easily, that's my special talent. Most of us have individual talents that don't take a particularly large amount of energy or concentration... I can make myself invisible, which is how I wasn't found when I got shot. I managed to stay hidden until my attackers passed me."

Tara gets that prickly feeling in the back of her neck. "Did you see your attackers?"

Lionel tilts his head. "Who exactly shot me? No."

Had the figures in blue had guns? Tara thinks she saw holsters on their hips.

"Are all those magical powers unusual for elves?" Tara asks, something nagging at her.

Frowning, Lionel turns a Tupperware lid around in his hands. "It's... common for some."

_But it's uncommon for you and that's been hard, hasn't it?_ The insight comes in a flash, but Tara doesn't seek clarification, or offer any empathy. It's best to keep distance between yourself and people who think you're lesser by virtue of things outside your control.

Lionel leans against the counter, and his brows become drawn. Clutching his shoulders, he grimaces. Even though he's a little bit of a jerk, she has the urge to reach out and touch him out of sympathy.

She's lonely, obviously.

She should get a cat.

"Do you want more medicine?" she asks, carefully keeping her hands on the Tupperware.

He whispers, "My bones shouldn't hurt... it's my leg that was hit." He shakes his head. "I have to go home."

She couldn't agree more. "We'll find you a World Gate," she says.

"You know about those?" he says.

"Since Loki showed up, everyone knows," she replies.

He shivers. "The Destroyer."

She raises an eyebrow. Hadn't the Dark Elves and Loki been in league with one another? She decides she shouldn't ask. She should get him to a World Gate that takes him home.

She grabs the garbage bag from beneath the sink. And then, unable to resist, she says, "Airplanes are machines that fly through the air and carry up to hundreds of people."

He looks up and narrows his eyes at her. "You're lying."

"Nope," she says, lifting her chin.

"Hippalectryon," he shoots back.

"What's that?" she asks, envisioning an electric hippopotamus.

Massaging one of his shoulders, he winks. "That is a word that is the same in your language and Elvish, I feel it. You just don't know what a hippalectryon is."

"Surge protector," she says.

His face gets hard. "Velociraptor," he hisses, and then his eyes go wide in a horrified expression... probably mirroring Tara's perfectly.

In unison, they demand of each other, "You have those?!"

Tara's lips part. She says weakly, "We only know about them from their bones."

At the same time, Lionel says, "Occasionally there's a bad egg."

Her eyes go wide. She did not want to hear that. "I'm going to take out the garbage." Tying up the bag, she says, "Be right back."

Leaving him perusing some photos on her refrigerator, she goes down the hall. Her phone rings with her mom's tone and she answers just before she reaches the door. She gets a torrent of "Tara, Alma just called me, the plane flight is tonight! I have to take off of work and go! Can you believe she got the date wrong?"

"Yes," Tara says, not able to remember a birthday card that wasn't late or terribly early from Aunt Alma.

"Don't be mean, she loves you," says her mom.

"I know, Mom," Tara says.

"I won't be able to do your hair tomorrow," her mom says.

Tara tries to pretend that it doesn't hurt. Her mom has always done her hair since she was a little girl. "It's okay, Mom. I'll survive."

"I miss you already," her mom says.

"I miss you, too," says Tara.

"Oh, I've got a client, I have to go!"

"Love you, Mom," Tara says.

"I love you too, Sweetheart." The line goes dead. Tara puts her phone on the little shelf by the door to get a better grip on the garbage bag, and then huffs. She left her cruddy-cheap slip-on shoes by the front door when she walked to her mom's car, only her boots are here... her Italian leather, stacked heel, Jimmy Choo ankle boots that she picked up at a yard sale for twenty-five dollars. Up until she found an elf in her alley, that was about the most magical thing that has ever happened to her. They are not boots to take out the garbage in. She sniffs, nearly gags on the reek of the bag, and slips them on. Before she goes out, she peeks out the window for signs of trolls, wyrms, men in blue, and velociraptors. No one is in her yard, or the alley that she can see. She steps out the door, and is just down the stoop when she is attacked, not from the alley or the yard but from above.

## 6

# Carried Away

Lionel is looking at a very interesting painting of amazing detail that features Tara and some humans of a complexion more like his own. Oddly, the beautiful piece of art is hanging haphazardly from a magnet attached to a metal box that might be one of the "ice boxes" he'd heard of.

He reaches up to touch the edge, and the sleeve of Tara's lumpy spare garment falls back, revealing the edge of his soulmark. Is it his imagination, or has it gotten a little faded around the edges? He exhales and closes his eyes. He hadn't told her that he has looked for his soulmate, sending out missives with every delegation that passed through the Queen's Palace... even to the Night Elves. He has never heard back. He knows he is too young to get married, but the games of the palace weary him. They feel hollow, meaningless. He'd hoped that with his soulmate he'd have something different. Even if it was just friendship for a few centuries or so. He pulls his forearm to his stomach. Friendship... what if she told him of all her paramours and set off his jealous streak? What if she was like Light Leaf? He shakes his head at his own foolishness. That was the thing about soulmates though; they were supposed to be of accord with you, by definition.

From outside comes a shout from Tara. "Get away! Get away!"

Before he's even thought about it, Lionel finds himself racing down the hall, grimacing in pain... the World Gate controlled by the Dark Elves is just a few hundred paces down the narrow roadway behind her home. Would they hurt a human to get to him?

Clasping his key tight, he reaches the back door. Through a tiny window he sees Tara in the yard holding her hands above her head being dive-bombed by a familiar bird.

Lionel bursts outside and the cold air hits him like a blow, the near-freezing pavement beneath his almost bare feet makes his soles feel like they're burning.

The dive-bombing raven is screaming, "Where is he? Where is the elf? We heard you, woman!"

Another bird is ripping at the garbage bag rawking, "Tamales!"

"You're screaming in Elvish, Muninn!" Lionel shouts at Odin's winged messenger. "She's human."

Flapping to sit atop a fence, Muninn rawks, "Oops."

Picking up the headscarf that was torn from her head, Tara gapes at the bird. Lionel puts a hand to his face, mortified at how they've treated her and deeply disturbed by their presence. He's used to seeing them in his official capacity. He's only seen them once in an unofficial capacity when he'd accidentally world walked to Midgard as a child... he doesn't want to think about what their presence might mean.

Muninn ruffles his feathers, and in English says, "Don't look at me like that, I'm not the thinking part of this team."

On the bag, the other raven, Huginn—whose name means "thought"—hops and clacks its beak. "Tamales! Corn, corn, corn, corn, masa!"

Lionel's skin heats. "Apologize." The word comes out almost a shout, and he finds himself taking a step toward the raven.

The bird hops back on the fence. "Aw, come on, Lionel—"

The air between him and the bird shimmers.

"Sheesh! All right, don't turn me into a birdcicle," Muninn rawks.

Lionel puts his hand down. He doesn't remember raising it. Had he tried to freeze the bird?

Muninn cleans his wings, defecates, and then mutters in Tara's direction, "Sorry, whoever you are, but you did call us."

"I didn't call you," Tara protests.

Muninn walks toward her on the fence. "Sure you did, Sweetheart," and in a facsimile of Tara's voice says, "Jesus, Odin don't let Lionel die!" He ruffles his feathers. "Or some such. You prayed, I heard."

"You prayed for me?" Lionel asks in wonder. Sometimes magical beings hear prayers, but only when it relates to their higher purpose. If Huginn and Muninn were ordered to find Lionel, they might consider it their purpose.

"I—" Tara stammers, in the process of wrapping the scarf around her hair. Pausing, she points at the bird. "Not to him."

Grasping the key, Lionel takes a step toward her. The day is dreary but he sees Tara silhouetted by a doorway and backlit by sunlight again. He has the sensation that he's flying, or has broken free. He wants to thank her for saving his life again, and it occurs to him that maybe it's just his subconscious wanting to bind himself to her because he wants to keep this feeling.

"Right," says Muninn. "Well, you can't go back through the World Gate down the street because it's been taken over by Dark Elves."

"I thought you were a Dark Elf," Tara says, and the vision evaporates.

"Ruh-roh, Scooby," says Muninn.

"Tamales!" rawks Huginn.

"You have to go to Mary Bartelme Park," says Muninn. "There's a gate there. The big guy would come for you himself but he's looking for—"

"Shut up, Muninn!" rawks Huginn, something green and mushy dropping from its beak.

Lionel swallows. The "big guy" would come for him himself? He takes a deep breath. No, no, no... perhaps the queen is worried he could give sensitive information to their enemies, and requested the assistance of Odin's messengers. Yes, that is all. She's called in a favor.

"Give me some of that, Huginn!" squawks Muninn.

"Ew," says Tara, her nose wrinkling. "That was mixed in with six-week-old sour cream and a bad avocado."

Flapping down to the bag, Muninn shrugs his wings and rawks. "We're scavengers!"

"We should go inside," Lionel says, feeling suddenly tired and wary. There may not be velociraptors on earth, but they are perhaps only five hundred paces from the gate. They might be overheard.

"No way is it pooping in my house," Tara exclaims, tying her scarf.

Grasping the key, he sends invisible projections along the block, but he doesn't sense any magical beings.

He's distantly aware of Tara muttering, "I pray and get heard by a dirty bird."

And one of the birds saying, "You should be honored."

Pulling the projections back to himself, he lets one of them slip through the outbuilding where the chariot sleeps. The apparition winks out near the door that opens from that building to Tara's little yard.

That was odd. He takes a step toward the door. His other apparitions sense nothing magical in that corner. In fact, they sense an odd absence of all ambient magic around a brown, coppery bag.

Lionel shivers. He's not sure what it is, but he's sure it's wrong. "We have to get inside," Lionel says, stepping toward Tara and putting a hand on her arm.

"What?" says Tara, her eyes going to his hands.

Has he done something taboo? He can't bring himself to let her go, but takes a step back, hand still on her. He has to keep her from the wrongness. Trying to explain, he says, "Something is obstructing my magic and—"

The door from Tara's outbuilding bangs open and a mesh of coppery brown goes flying through the air. It lands on Lionel and he notes that it's wire-like and sharp. In the periphery of his vision he sees the ravens take off in a flurry of feathers and hears their angry cries. He calls out to Tara, "Run, Tara, run," and gasps as the words come out in Elvish, not her Midgardian tongue.

Somewhere Tara yells. He hears a thud, a yelp, and in Elvish tinged with the accent of the Dark Elves, "Tie up the Valkyrie, too!"

He pulls the silk cord of his key into his palm and squeezes so tight it hurts, but he feels no magic. The mesh around him is getting tighter, pain explodes in all his limbs, and Lionel can't think at all.

"Put me down!" Tara cries, trying to wiggle out of the sack she's in. It's wire and cutting her face and hands. The sack is being held at her feet and head by figures she can't make out—other than to realize they're not wearing cop-like uniforms. They're not speaking English either, and she has no idea if she's being understood. They're moving fast down her alley and she's rocking, bouncing, and occasionally scraping against the cobblestones.

Behind her, she hears Lionel moan and angry words from her captors in another language.

Lights go off behind her eyes in every color of the rainbow and for an instant, Tara thinks that she must have hit her head. The air suddenly gets ten degrees warmer and she smells decay. She smells fetid water, and her nose wrinkles in disgust. "Lionel," she calls. "Lionel, where are we?"

Lionel says something, but it's not in English. Someone kicks her halfheartedly in the hip. She hears a louder thud behind her, and hears Lionel sputter and gag. Tara gulps. Rainbow light—a World Gate. She thinks she read something that @godsofradioshack posted about rainbow light between the worlds. She's in another world.

She looks around, and from her awkward angle makes out a sort of fort that looks like something from an Old West movie—logs with sharpened tops. Instead of cowboys, there are Indians along the wall, bows in hand. The Indians are of every shade with pointed ears, wearing clothing that looks medieval rather than Native American.

Two elves are arguing near her. She's dropped unceremoniously on the ground, and struggles to free herself, but is abruptly hauled up again. A few minutes later, she's passing through a gate made of logs. All around her are dark alien trees and swamp. She hears Lionel give a low moan, and is ridiculously grateful he's coming with her.

Their captors take off at a lope. Sharp grasses poke at her, and she sees strange black shadows swoop above. Tara picks at the net that's carrying her, but the wire is too strong to break with her fingers. She tries with her keys and gets them ripped away. She squints at the wire... it's in a weird shape... octagonal. She's heard Eisenberg speak about "Promethean Wire," a sort of "cage that inhibits dark energy within it." She bites her lip. Could that be why Lionel seems to be so helpless?

The bag bounces, and she feels the netting biting into her skin and warm sticky wetness on her cheeks. She tastes blood, but the cries from Lionel make her realize that he's got it much worse. She's not sure how far they've gone when she hears voices, and sees figures with pointy ears in rag-like clothing around her. They have what look like machine guns strapped to their backs... AK-47s like Loki's minions the Dark Elves?

She remembers Lionel apparently isn't a Dark Elf. Why didn't he tell her? And whose side is he on?

They go up a gentle rise, and the ground goes from being stinking mud and water to dry packed earth. She thinks she sees a few squat buildings, and then is carried into a dark interior that smells like mildew. She hears footsteps and what sounds like curses. Before she knows it, she's unrolled from her bag onto a floor covered with sharp, dry grasses. As she struggles to get up, two more elf men throw Lionel next to her, and he lets out a horrible cry of pain. Unsteadily rising to her feet, Tara lunges over him, trying to block the exit before they close it, but their captors slam a barred door lined with the same octagonal mesh in her face.

Tara stares through the bars, sees a rough stone wall and a tiny window through which dim light penetrates the gloom. "Why are you doing this?" she shouts. She shakes the bars, but the lock doesn't give, and the mesh cuts her fingers. Pain makes her take a step back. She feels wetness on her face that isn't blood. Taking a deep breath, she remembers the words her father used to tell her when they were wiring houses. "Whenever you get frustrated, slow down and think. Less haste is more speed, Tara."

Taking a deep breath, that is half a sob, she focuses on how her cage was made. Through eyes blurred by tears, she notices that the mesh is soldered to the bars with thick alloy bands. Tugging at a joint, she only manages to hurt herself and backs up with an angry cry. The contortion of her cheeks makes her cuts burn. Reaching up, she finds welts. She jerks her hand away, and sees blood on her fingers.

Forcing herself not to touch and infect the wound, she pats down her pockets and groans. She left her phone at home. She could have used the light.

On the floor, Lionel moans again and Tara goes over to him. "What did they do to you?" she whispers.

His face and hands are scratched and bleeding like Tara's. But he also has a sheen of sweat upon his brow, and he's doubled over on the floor, clutching his shins, rocking slightly, the silken cord and key still around his wrist. The key is the old-fashioned kind. Either their captors didn't notice it or figured rightly that it would be useless to cut through the mesh.

Lionel moans again and Tara doesn't know what to do, other than push his sweat-slicked bangs away from his face and pull his head into her lap. He looks like he is in agony.

"Lionel," she says. "Lionel, do you understand me?"

Lionel's eyes flutter open, and he shakes his head. "Llee wanlewee, nil." He hisses and closes his eyes.

He doesn't understand her. He's not touching the bullet wound, although she can see the wound is starting to weep again. He's rubbing his shins...

He said earlier that something was obstructing his magic in English. But then they'd been trussed up and he'd called out in what she thinks was Elvish. The wire has to be the magic-stopping Promethean stuff she'd heard about... Tara begins digging through the straw and the damp ground beneath it. About half an inch beneath the dirt, her fingers scrape across more wire. She tries prying at it with her finger, but it doesn't budge. Her eyes dart around in the darkness. It must have an edge that might be a weak point. She looks at the doors of the cell where the mesh had been so carefully soldered... or maybe it wasn't.

She takes a deep breath. She's got to check.

Creating a pillow of straw, she shifts Lionel's head to it and begins crawling across the cell floor on her hands and knees. Her heart falls when she finds the first soldered edge between the floor and the wall—the adhesion is robust and she knows she won't be able to tear it apart. She feels up the wall, and finds that the mesh is fixed to it with metal staples she can't for the life of her get her nails under. She almost gives up, but then, more to keep moving, she begins feeling along the corner of the wall and floor where two pieces of the mesh are joined together. She bites her lip. The two pieces are soldered together every six inches... she rounds one corner on her knees, and then another... and comes to a gap where the person—or elf—doing the soldering got sloppy. With a gasp, she feels for the next junction, and finds another sloppy gob of solder. The next is the same. Feeling her eyes get hot with hope, she pulls back the wire. It bites into her fingers, making her grimace in pain, but it gives, creating a hole just wide enough to slip a hand through. Hearing footsteps outside the cell, she throws straw over her handiwork and moves away from the spot fast.

An elf with a scar down his cheek thrusts a bottle through the bars. He looks at Lionel and snorts. Looking at Tara, he narrows his eyes. "Mizulle," he says, and walks away. Tara looks at the bottle. Made of a brown glass, it has a stopper on a metal hinge. She waits until she hears a door slam, and goes back to her task. She has no idea how long she works, Lionel's pained pants egging her on, but she manages to pull a small section of the wiring away from the floor, bloodying her fingers in the process. The cell has become completely dark. It's night, she supposes. She works by feel until her mouth is so dry it's painful to swallow and her stomach is clenching, but she's only pulled away a few inches of wire.

She catches sight of an orange glow and throws down some straw again, just before she hears footsteps outside the door. A man bearing a torch points at Lionel and growls in another language.

Tara growls back, "I have no idea what you're saying."

"Valkyrie," he hisses, the only word she thinks she might understand before he releases a string of incomprehensible syllables.

Lionel's eyes flutter open. "Valkyrie nil. Midgardelle."

"Midgardelle nil!" roars the elf. He vanishes for a second, but comes back with a chair, and sits staring into the cell. Unable to return to her task, Tara edges closer to Lionel. He's breathing heavily, his hair is drenched with sweat, and he's curled in a ball. She glances down his body and notices his abs and belly button peeking from beneath her sweatshirt. And then her mouth falls open—the sweatshirt has become tight on him. Lionel stretches out with a moan, and his ankles and the bottom of his calves peek out from the cuffs of the pants he borrowed. Wincing, Lionel grabs his shins and curls into a ball again.

She remembers the police officer saying, "They can make you see what they want you to see." Why would he want to appear shorter before, though? And then she swallows, remembering Lionel saying shapeshifting would be terribly painful. He doesn't look like he's turning into an animal but...

"Lionel," Tara whispers. "Are you growing?"

He doesn't understand, of course. He murmurs again, "Llee wanlewee, nil."

Tara's tall, and she had growing pains as a girl. Her pediatrician aunt had told her it wasn't uncommon for children to grow as much as a quarter inch a night... Lionel's growing much faster. Remembering her own pain, Tara moves down to his legs and begins massaging his shins like her mom had done. Lionel uncoils at her touch. For a moment, his eyes meet hers. Wincing, he begins rubbing his arms and looks away. Tara's brow furrows... His face looks like his proportions are changing. His jaw bones are becoming more prominent, and it might be an illusion of the light, but she swears she sees the shadow of a beard under his chin. He hadn't seemed to need to shave while he stayed with her. He looks... more human, she decides, but the points of his ears are still peeking out from his hair, now dark with sweat and mud, and his features are still too finely chiseled.

She knows she can't look much better. Her face is a mess of bloody cuts, and her scarf is gone—she's probably got straw in her hair.

Outside the cell, the man with the torch says something in a sneering voice. Tara doesn't even bother to look. She's not sure how long she cradles and rubs Lionel's legs... but she's sure it's hours, and also that Lionel's bones are getting longer beneath her fingers. By the spasming of his toes, she's pretty sure the growth is everywhere. She doesn't stop until he falls asleep. It might be unconsciousness because the guard starts screaming something outside the cell and it doesn't wake him up.

Lionel being asleep makes her feel alone, and the guard being there makes her more afraid. Trying to tear back the wire from the floor had at least kept her busy. Without something to do, her mind starts to wander. Tara's never really thought of herself as being a particularly imaginative person—but she starts conceiving of every way she can possibly die, not least of which is simply being stuck in the smelly, damp cell forever. The elves outside had looked kind of medieval, and not in the charming Renaissance Faire way that Lionel had. She remembers an absolutely horrific snippet of a Discovery Channel episode about the history of torture devices, and the torture devices of the European Dark Ages in particular.

She looks over her shoulder. Angry elf is still sitting on his chair, sulking. At her glance, he yells at her again.

"I can't understand you!" Tara snaps.

He snaps back.

On the floor, Lionel whispers, "Mizulle."

Tara blinks at him.

"Mizulle," he says again, and Tara remembers, that's what the man had said when he dropped the bottle in the cell. Scrambling on hands and knees, she retrieves the brown glass vessel, and quickly figures out the metal "hinge." The stopper comes off with a pop. She smells the contents—it smells like nothing—or water.

"Mizulle," Lionel whispers again. She hands the bottle to him. Half sitting, resting on an elbow, he stares at it a moment, and then offers it to her. "Tara." He licks his lips. "Mizulle."

She's tired, hungry, parched... and it might be because she's terrified, but she lifts an eyebrow and snickers when she takes the bottle. "Trying to make me your poison tester?"

Lionel shakes his head sadly. "Llee wanlewee, nil."

"You don't understand me and can't appreciate my sense of humor," she says. She looks down at the bottle in her hand. Better to die by poison than a lot of the other things she can think of. She tips back the bottle. Expecting something barely palatable, she's surprised by how fresh and clean the water tastes. She takes another sip, and hands it to Lionel. "It's safe, you can drink now."

He opens his mouth as though he's about to respond, and she waves a hand. "Yeah, yeah, llee wanlewee, nil."

In the dim light, Tara sees Lionel give her a weak smile. "Tara wanlewee." He tips back the bottle and drinks two sips himself.

"Midgard elle, nil!" roars the guard, approaching the cell door.

Lionel looks up and the light of the torch illuminates his face. She's struck by the deep hollows under his eyes. Lionel says a few curt words to the guard, which makes the guard curse back. Tara's eyes are riveted on Lionel. She'd swear that his face has become broader, and his features more pronounced.

The guard sits back on his chair with a few angry words, and Lionel's eyes return to Tara's. With a hesitant hand, he reaches up and cups her cheek. He says some words that Tara can't understand, but she thinks the tone sounds an awful lot like, _I'm sorry._

She lets out a breath. Maybe she should be angry at him—she gets the feeling he knew more about the danger he was in than he'd told her. What had he said to the birds? _The Dark Elves are at the gate._ But she's too scared and too tired to be mad. He presses the water to her, and she takes a few more grateful sips. "Thank you," she says, passing it back. He just shakes his head before taking a few more sips of his own.

In the chair outside the door, the guard laughs.

Tara's skin heats, and something in her boils over. Twisting to look at him, Tara hisses, "Fuck you!" It's a stupid thing to say. She never swears. It had been drilled into her that that is not how a lady talks, and it's not like he even understands... but just as she thinks that, the man's eyes get wide. Rocking back in his seat, he stares at her a moment, and then he gets up and scurries out of view. Tara hears a door slam, and muffled shouts.

Climbing to her feet, she beckons with her hand for Lionel to follow her to the corner of the cell.

His brows rise, but he stands, takes a step, and nearly falls over. He straightens, and Tara's breath catches. He's taller than her—even in her boots. Lionel looks down at her, and then lifts his hands and gazes at them with an expression of pure terror. His hands fly to his ears. He touches the points and closes his eyes. Tara can read the relief in his face. And then his hands go to his jaw and the look of terror returns. They don't have time for this. She takes his hand and squeezes it. "You're still hot, Lionel," she says. And he is. He'll be even better looking when he puts on a few more pounds.

He stares at her, rubbing his jaw. He needs to snap out of it.

"Lionel, you're okay," she whispers. When his eyes show no comprehension, she lifts herself to her tiptoes and kisses his cheek. Stubble bites her lips. He's surprisingly warm and she hopes he doesn't have a fever, and then she wonders if the warmth is just her own flush.

Taking his hand, she pulls him over to the corner. Sitting on her heels, she lets go of him, then gestures for him to help her, and begins pulling at the wire.

Lionel doesn't bend down to help. Reaching up frantically, she grabs his hand and pulls him down. He shakes his head and murmurs something.

Tara lets out a huff of frustration. She doesn't know anything about magic, but maybe they can pull back enough wire to crawl out the old-fashioned way? And digging like a mole in a dark corner is infinitely better than doing nothing. She jerks his hand over to the edge of the wire. "Help me with this!"

Scowling, he runs his hands over the edges.

Tara pulls back a few inches more, and his eyes widen. He slips his hand into the gap in the wire, looks back at Tara with wide eyes, and begins pulling furiously at the wire with her. In a moment, they have a section of bare dirt exposed, about as long as Tara's arm, but not quite wide enough to fit a head through.

Lionel lays flat on his stomach with his face above the dirt. Beckoning with his hand, he says "Tara," followed by a string of Elvish. His brow creases. He gives another yank and the mesh parts a little more. "Here, Tara," he says, patting the dirt beside him. "Lie down."

Her heart leaps in comprehension, the hole in the mesh barrier is wide enough they can communicate again. Lying down beside him, Tara whispers, "If we pull it back further, we may slip through. It could take some time though and—"

Lionel puts his fingers to his lips and Tara falls silent. Reaching forward, he ever so gently touches her face. She feels heat race from his fingertips to every part of her, and she scrunches her eyes shut, embarrassed.

"There, no hurt," Lionel whispers, dropping his hand.

The warmth in her face remains... but the stinging of her cuts has vanished. She touches her face and finds only smooth skin where once there had been welts. Her eyes go to his leg. She can see the dark brown stain of blood through the pants. She swallows. He's on her side, Dark Elf, Light Elf, Sidhe, Unseelie... whatever. "Lionel, we have to get you fixed before me," she says, and starts to tug at the wire.

"Telekinesis not work on door," he says. "Wire is there." He sounds defeated, even though they've achieved so much already.

"I'm not giving up," she says, but then she hears footsteps outside the cell. Throwing grasses against the exposed section of the ground, she quickly spins, grabs the water bottle, and leans back against the wall, trying to look casual. Scrambling up, Lionel settles next to her. The warmth of his body radiates up her side, and she almost cries again—in relief. They're in this together, she's not alone.

Two elves appear at the door, and Tara hears others behind them. One is the angry guard guy, though he doesn't look as angry now. The other is someone new. He looks a lot like Lionel had before, slight, pale, blonde, beautiful. The only way she would have been able to tell them apart before is that this elf's eyes are brown. Clearing his throat, he says, "Do you speak English?"

Tara's mouth drops open.

The one beside him mutters, "Midgardian elle, nil."

"I speak English," Tara replies.

The man who had spoken rolls back on his feet and says something in Elvish—if that's what the language is. Lionel puts his hand on Tara's leg, just above her knee and replies in their language. The second elf dips his chin and responds... again in Elvish.

"You know it's not polite to talk in front of someone who can't understand?" Tara says.

The elf who had spoken English looks back to her. "I'm Naleigh, once of the Queen's Kitchens." His eyes fall on Lionel and his lips turn up in a snarl. "But I'm Naleigh of the Dark Elves now, and I am free."

Lionel doesn't respond. Naleigh turns back to Tara. "There has been a mistake. You were not our target, only him. We will return you home." Issuing some orders in Elvish, he pulls some archaic looking keys from his pocket and opens the cell. Before Tara can blink, five other elves stream in. They're all bearing crossbows except one with a wicked long gun... Tara's heart skips a beat.

... And then she realizes all of them are aimed at Lionel.

## 7

# Owning It

Tara doesn't move, afraid that if she breathes, they'll turn Lionel into a pincushion.

"You can get up," says Naleigh, scowling down at her.

Tara still doesn't budge. Her heart is beating so fast, she can feel it against her ribs. "What about him?" she asks, inclining her head toward Lionel. That makes all the people with weapons jumpy. The one with what she thinks might be an AK-47 aims at her. Tara stares at the gaping maw of the gun, and then her eyes meet the eyes of the elf holding the weapon. They're so grey they're almost white. His hair is white and silvery and his skin is startlingly pale. She thinks she sees delicate crow's feet around his eyes. For a heartbeat, he doesn't move, but then he aims the weapon in Lionel's direction again. It doesn't really make her feel better.

Naleigh's scowl intensifies, and Tara gets that magic in here is probably limited, but she'd swear he's shooting daggers with his eyes.

"This is not your concern," says Naleigh. "You must come with us."

Her stomach falls. Tara doesn't budge, and it's not just from fear of being shot. Leaving the only person she knows in what she's guessing is Alfheim, land of the elves in Norse mythology, doesn't strike her as a particularly smart thing to do. She glares back at Naleigh.

Lionel whispers into her ear, "Go, Tara Lupita Gibson."

She stands, as though lifted by invisible strings, the half-empty bottle of water still in hand, and goes meekly to the door without looking back. Beside her, Naleigh says, "I'm sorry you were apprehended, and that it wasn't realized sooner. Most of us don't speak English... it was only that peculiar curse word you used that Diwilli recognized. You know how soldiers are, always learning the curse words of the countries they visit, not the language." He locks the door behind them with keys from his belt, and leads Tara to the entrance of the building.

Tara follows in a sort of daze. She wonders if she is in shock. She's just stepping out of the building, breathing in too-cool night air, when she snaps out of her fear, or... whatever.

"What's going to happen to Lionel?" she asks as the guards who'd accompanied them melt off in different directions.

"He'll receive appropriate punishment," Naleigh says. He spits at the ground. "My preference is execution, but perhaps the council will come up with something more creative." He smiles cruelly.

"Appropriate punishment for what?" Tara says, her heart rate quickening. "What has he done?"

Drawing to a halt, Naleigh says, "For being in league with the queen, and by extension, Odin. They are your enemies, human."

"I don't know the queen or Odin!" Tara retorts, meeting Naleigh's eyes. "Lionel is my friend... and it was Dark Elves who invaded Chicago and let loose all the trolls and wyrms and... and... things!"

Naleigh's jaw gets hard. "Mistakes were made. We are trying to make amends..."

Tara snorts. "Thousands died!"

"That was Loki, not us!" the elf declares. "And believe me, Lionel is not your friend."

She touches her healed face. "Is so."

The elf scoffs. "Tell me, Tara, did he extract your full name from you?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" Tara cries.

The elf's voice becomes venomous. "He was not so much a friend as to tell you what danger he posed to you."

Tara shakes her head. "What are you getting at?"

The elf's voice gets louder. "He's been using you."

"Yeah, he's been staying at my house." Tara tries to cross her arms over her chest, and realizes that she's still holding the water bottle in her hand, and drops her arms to her sides. "You haven't explained to me what he's done to deserve execution."

"A quick death is more than the queen gives our people!" the elf declares so loudly it is almost a shout.

Tara almost shouts back, and then she has a sudden rush of déjà vu, of being back on the street with the definitely human police officer with Dr. Eisenberg. The police officer and Tara had been shouting past one another... and she feels like that's what's happening between her and Naleigh now. She gulps, and her eyes slide around her. She's in a swamp, surrounded by tiny stone houses with thatch roofs. The sod underneath her feet is damp, she smells stagnant water, and the night is filled with the sounds of strange insects and a strange cooing noise coming from the thatched building directly across from the jail. The only thing that sets this apart from a medieval village is a lamp post near the prison. Instead of a torch, or an electric light, it has a globe at the top with several bugs crawling within, casting an eerie green glow from their bellies. The light shifts and wavers as they move.

"Not much to look at, is it?" says the elf. "It is the queen's doing."

It is drab and terrible, but... "Why is Lionel so important?" Tara demands. She remembers all the magic he has. "Is he some sort of powerful sorcerer?"

Naleigh snorts. "Hardly. Except for his talent for opening World Gates, he's got only enough magic to be a servant."

Tara touches her face again, and remembers the illusion of clothes Lionel had made.

Naleigh goes on. "But why would he understand more than that? He was born a peasant. I've no idea why he was made steward."

Tara blinks. He sounds jealous. Also... "Steward? Is that like a butler?"

Naleigh scowls. "Yes, it's like a butler," he says.

"So, he's nobody?" Tara says, hope rising in her chest. "Surely there are rules for prisoners of war and—"

"Any servant of the queen is an enemy, and will be punished accordingly," the man declares.

Tara takes a step back.

He sighs. "But you are not. You have been enchanted, and he's probably taken more from you than you realize. I am going to help you get home. We don't want war with humans."

"I don't want Lionel to die or be tortured," Tara says, her eyes flickering around. They're alone in what she guesses passes for the town square.

The elf says, "He'd not care so much for you."

Tara remembers Lionel giving her water to drink first and is acutely aware of the lack of pain in her face. Naleigh's words solidify something in Tara. She knows she's over her head here. She can't tell the difference between the Dark Elves and the Light Elves—they all look like Legolas to her—but she knows she can't leave Lionel behind because Naleigh is wrong. Lionel didn't enchant her to get her aide. Maybe Lionel is wrong too in some ways if this queen is so evil, but they're _all_ wrong.

Instead of saying that, she just ducks her chin. "I guess I really don't have any choice, do I?" She tries to sound scared. Fortunately, she is terrified, and it's not really a stretch.

"You really don't," Naleigh says. "Humans are weak, and the Delta of Sorrows would eat you alive."

Which is why there's no one else guarding her, Tara suspects. Tara looks at him from beneath her lashes. She's got a few inches of height on him. "I'll follow; you lead," she says meekly.

Naleigh gives what to Tara appears to be a very arrogant nod. Turning his back, he begins walking toward the village edge, the keys to the cell jingling on his belt.

Tara grips the water bottle more tightly. She follows him quietly until they are just two steps into the trees, and then, gritting her teeth, she brings the bottle down hard on the back of his head.

Like hauling an elf through your garage, hitting someone over the head is another one of those things that looks easier in the movies. The impact from the swing runs all the way up her arm, right to her teeth, and the damn bottle doesn't even break. Tara's mouth drops open in dismay. She's afraid she's just given herself away for nothing. But then Naleigh wavers, and goes to his knees. Putting his hands over his head, he cries, "What are you—?"

"Sorry," she cuts him off with a whisper, "but you can't kill him." Kneeling down, she rips the keys from his belt.

Naleigh tries to stand, but tips over and begins vomiting.

"Sorry, sorry!" Tara whispers again, dashing away. The village is empty and she is completely unopposed as she runs into the little jail. There's only one cell, and even in the dark, with just the dim light of the bug lamp filtering in through the door, she finds it. She peeks in the bars. She can't be certain in the gloom, but it looks like Lionel is sitting with his head in his hands by the wall. "Lionel, get up!" Tara hisses, fumbling to get a key into the lock—there are a couple and she's going to have to try them all.

Lionel lifts his head, his face pale as the moon. "Tara?" he whispers.

The first key clicks, and Tara smiles, swinging the door open.

"Let's go!" she says.

Lionel stumbles to his feet, and she throws his arm over her shoulder like she had that first night. He's taller, but not really heavier. She thinks she can see the outline of his hip bones through her sweats. Outside, she hears Naleigh shout something in Elvish. Or Dark Elvish. Or whatever they speak.

Stumbling beside her, Lionel whispers, "Tara, you can't make it with me. My leg—"

"You're making it," Tara says, tears prickling at her eyes. "I just beaned a man for you."

Lionel mutters, "Gibberish," but he doesn't stop moving.

They step outside, into the full glow of the bug light. Tara blinks and finds herself staring down the shaft of a crossbow bolt. She gulps. Lionel goes still. She hears the strange cooing noise, and what sounds like a deep clucking. From the forest, she hears shouts and fast footsteps. Tara feels her legs go weak. She has really, really blown it.

From the crossbow comes a snap. Tara gasps and waits for pain.

Pain doesn't come. The man with the crossbow stares down at the bolt. It's broken in half. Behind her, Tara feels heat, and in front of her there is orange light and a crackling noise. The loud clucking turns into rooster-like screams. Lionel drags her sideways, and the guy with the crossbow looks up from his weapon to the spot Tara and Lionel had been.

He shouts something in Elvish, spins in place, and looks right through them. Tara looks down, wondering for a moment if she's ceased to exist... and can't see herself. She looks in Lionel's direction and he's gone too, but she can feel the weight of his hand on her shoulder, and the brush of his side against hers. It's the weight of him that keeps her from screaming and bolting. She takes a deep breath and reminds herself that Lionel told her he can make himself invisible... why not her, too?

Lionel pushes her past the guard, his steps becoming rapidly surer. From the forest, more elves with crossbows emerge, they shout, and Tara sees one loading his weapon, his gaze directly on her. She bends down, and Lionel copies her motion. She hears a whiz overhead, and a thunk as the bolt strikes another house. The man curses, and Lionel pushes her forward. The light that had been in front of them leaps... it's flames in the thatch of the roof across from the jail, and they're walking straight for it. Behind her there's a crash, and sparks fly. She hears a loud thumping in front of them and the wooden door of that building explodes outward. A giant chicken nearly two feet taller than her rushes directly at Tara. Lionel yanks her to the left, and she just misses being trampled. More chicken-horses stream from the building, squawking in terror. As they lurch past, she realizes that they have bodies of horses attached to their chicken necks, chicken feet, chicken wings, and chicken-feathered tails that fill the air with feathers... She smells something like burning hair times eleven, hears shouting, and she's paralyzed in place as the chicken-horses mill about her, flapping their apparently mostly useless chicken wings and screeching. Over their backs she sees frustrated elves. Suddenly, Lionel's weight is gone and she's standing alone in a rain of sparks. Her heart falls, and then she hears Lionel. "On two!" She feels hands beneath her arms, but can't see anything except the side of a huge chicken-horse right in front of her. One behind her bumps her forward, the hands under her arms pull, and she hears Lionel cry, "Two!" even though she never heard the "One", and she's awkwardly draped over a chicken-horse's back.

It jerks forward and up, wings flapping madly. They're not as useless as Tara had thought, and she finds herself staring down at an elf village that seems to be made of fire. Every hut is alight, and elves are running everywhere. The chicken lands a little beyond the jail with breath-stealing impact. Tara feels something hot on her neck, and hears Lionel curse, and the smell of burning hair is way too close. The chicken-horse leaps again, flapping its feathers, and the heat turns to a burn so painful that Tara cries out. The chicken lands just beyond the village, and the cry turns to a huff of impact. The chicken-horse runs to the trees. She feels Lionel's hand on the back of her neck, and hears him murmur softly in Elvish.

She still can't see him, but she feels his knees in her side, and one of his hands slides over her butt—which is probably the only thing keeping her aboard the horse-chicken, but still makes her feel like an idiot. In the movies, the cowboy always pulls the girl up sidesaddle style, or at least lets her get a leg over the beast. But she guesses Lionel isn't really a cowboy, and a giant chicken isn't really a horse. The trees are a blur beside them, and Tara struggles to sit. "Can we please stop so I can at least...?" _Get my butt out of the air._ She can't quite say the last for embarrassment, and she isn't sure she's heard over the chicken-horse's squawking, but it slows to nearly a stop, and Lionel's leg appears by her nose. Or rather, a shadow appears by her nose, where before she'd seen slight starlight and trees through his body.

"Tara, llee wanlewee, nil," he says.

He can't understand her. But perhaps he senses her discomfort, because he shifts his hands to her stomach, and helps her reorient herself. He keeps one arm around her waist, even when she's astride. His thighs brace her on either side, and her back is against his chest. The night is chilly, and she's glad she's wearing her winter coat... Lionel must be cold. He's only wearing socks and her sweats, and those aren't fitting him well anymore. She glances down, and can see her hands, dark shadows against the chicken-horse's head plumage.

"Hippalectryon," Lionel says, patting its neck.

The beast coos slightly.

It takes a moment for their former conversation to come back to her. "Chicken-horse," Tara mutters. "Where are we going?" She asks before she remembers he can't understand her... Why can't he understand her? They're no longer inside the Promethean Wire cell.

His hand tightens around her stomach, and he gives the chicken-horse a light kick on the flanks. They whiz through the trees again, water splashing all around them. Tara's not sure how long they travel, but her legs are getting tired, and the adrenaline must be wearing off, because she feels the burn of exhaustion behind her eyes when they reach a hillock with only a single enormous tree at the top. The chicken-horse heads straight up it. Tara's just thinking that they're awfully exposed, and she doesn't know how to convey that, when Lionel surprises her by saying, "The water distorts my magic. But it's dry here and I can understand you."

They're underneath the tree's low boughs, and he slips from the chicken-horse, offering her a hand that she can just make out by the starlight. "Do you want to rest for a moment?" he asks. Chicken-horse shifts beneath her and Tara looks around. "Aren't you worried about us being seen?"

"Yes," he says, which makes Tara's stomach clench.

"But we're lost and I need to climb the tree to see where we are."

"Oh." It comes out of her like a tiny hiccup. Chicken-horse shifts again, and Tara has to grab onto its neck to not fall off. It occurs to Tara that without Lionel, she's going to be kissing the dirt. She slides off, spins around, finds Lionel much closer than she expected, and her eyes level with his chin.

She gulps and looks up. She can just make out his light eyes in the darkness.

"I think I know a way to understand you in the swamp," he whispers, not backing up.

"That would be good," Tara murmurs. She feels the lack of space between them acutely. She wants to back up, and at the same time she wants to step forward and wrap her arms around him. The events of the evening are catching up with her, and despite her terror, she is so glad he isn't dead. He has a soulmate... but a hug... that would be just friendly, right?

She doesn't move.

Lionel does move. The inches between them vanish and he puts his hands on either side of her face. Her gaze falls to his lips, and the urge to kiss them is so strong that she scrunches her eyes shut. She is not that type of woman... he'll soon be back with his soulmate... and...

His lips press against her forehead, and heat and electricity spreads from the spot to her toes. His body loosens, and he sighs into her hair. His fingers flutter on her cheeks, leaving an echo of warmth with their brush. Tara's fingers drift to his chest, to push him away, but then she doesn't. She lets her hands rest there, curling them into the now-tight sweatshirt. She savors the energy running through her—maybe it's magic.

At last Lionel pulls back, but his hands stay on her cheeks. "Did that hurt?"

He's still too close. Tara bows her head, to keep from thinking about kissing him. She's suddenly very aware of how much she smells like burnt hair. "Nope."

"Did it work?" he whispers.

Stepping back and out of his reach, Tara finally dares to look at him. "Did what work?" There's a good foot between them now. She shivers. It seems too far.

His face splits in a wide smile. "It did work."

One of her eyebrows rise and she waves a hand in the dark. "So now you're speaking gibberish, trying to confuse me... because that's fun, in the middle of a swamp, while we're running for our lives."

"Actually, I'm speaking Elvish, not gibberish," he says, cocking an eyebrow.

"No, you're not, you're..." Tara throws a hand to her mouth. The long string of syllables that just came from it weren't English, Spanish, or anything she learned in the four years of French she took in high school.

"And you are speaking Elvish, too," he says. The smile is gone. "I've never done that before, but I've read about it." He lets out a long breath. "The language is imprinted in your mind now. You should be able to understand Elvish without magic, in the dark waters, and in a room without magic."

Tara touches her forehead. "You couldn't just perform the same trick on yourself and speak English?"

He shakes his head. "I wish I could. I can only imprint languages I truly _know_ —Elvish, Asgardian, Vanir, and Muspelheim... and I suppose I could give you what I know of Jotunn."

Now would be a great time to say something funny about how she'd had to learn French the hard way or... or... something, but all she can say is, "Oh," and then, "I guess you should climb that tree." She puts a finger to her lips, surprised at the lyrical syllables that just poured from them.

Lionel smiles one more time, takes a few steps back, trips, almost lands on his butt, and scowls as he catches himself.

"Are you all right?" Tara asks.

"Fine," he mutters, and it's dark, but she swears his ears press against his head. Without another word, he goes to the tree trunk, leaps, catches a branch, and pulls himself up.

Tara wants to call up to him, ask him what he's looking for, but she stays quiet, surveying the land around them, and hugging herself in the chill. There isn't much to see. All the tree trunks look alike to her, their branches like jagged black claws in the bright starlight and glow of an oddly shaped moon.

Her eyes widen at the sky... there is no Big Dipper, or North Star. She almost laughs, feeling like she's tumbled into a Star Trek episode. The night hums around her, with what she thinks are insects, although nothing has bitten her. Chicken-horse coos and tucks its head back into a wing. Somewhere she hears a plop in the water, and then another. Tara backs against the tree trunk. It's wet, slimy, and cold.

She hears another plop, and what sounds like a bird call.

Chicken-horse lifts its head, gives a squawk, and bolts in a circle around the tree. With a shriek and the flap of wings, it takes off into the air, leaving Tara coughing in a cloud of feathers. Swatting them away, Tara finds herself staring down the barrel of a gun. In English, the white-haired elf from the cell hisses from the other end, "Tara Lupita Gibson, don't say a word."

Tara opens her mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.

The hippalectryon takes to the air, and Lionel's concentration is broken. His heart falls. The animal's instincts had kept them safe in the dark swamp. Without it, they'll need any information he can gain from his perch. He's heard of "safe houses" close to the Golden Road that divides the Delta of Sorrows from the queen's lands. Travelers can hole up within, safe from the swamp's monsters. But from the tree he can't see any sign of the Golden Road.

He swallows, and feels an echo in his bones of the pain of only hours earlier. He's afraid to know what he looks like now. Tara's kiss had reassured him that he doesn't look monstrous. But that doesn't mean he isn't an abomination. He thinks about the question he cannot answer when people learn of his rise in social station. _Who is your father?_ He'd always reply, _my mother's soulmate was Sol._ When he tried to ask his mother, all she said was, _don't ask silly questions._

All his life, he has _looked_ like the son of Sol. Why change _now?_

His stomach clenches and he shakes his head. He cannot think about that now. He needs to focus on how they got here. His memories from their time in transit are disjointed, but he thinks he remembers Dark Elves in the fortress around the World Gate discussing moving him and Tara to the "interior." They had expected the outpost to be overrun by Light Elves.

Closing his eyes, he sends apparitions as far as they will go, but the swamp distorts their view, and their eyes deliver only misty blurs.

He huffs in frustration, and then reminds himself to count his blessings. His magic has worked upon this dry hillock. He'd healed his leg, and, more surprisingly, he'd been able to transfer Elvish to Tara... although he had hallucinated during the transfer. This time of an open window. He's never had the gift of sight, but it isn't that uncommon. It isn't the ability to see the future—not even the Norns see that—it is just the gift of seeing possibilities. Was the vision in her little yard a premonition of her coming back for him during his imprisonment? But this recent vision... an afterimage maybe?

His stomach clenches, and he realizes she's being very quiet.

"Tara," Lionel says. There is a whisper, a soft breeze, and a thunk. His eyes go to a spot not a half hand's-breadth from his right ear. A wicked-looking crossbow bolt has embedded itself in the tree trunk.

"Contain your magic, Lionel of the Queen's Palace, and climb down from the tree," says a voice below. "If you don't behave, we won't kill you, but we'll make you hurt."

Peering down, Lionel thinks he makes out Tara below, hands above her head, and at least ten elves around the tree. Some hold crossbows; others hold "guns." Lionel grits his teeth, guessing the bolt's position wasn't a miss. "I'm coming down," he says.

Descending carefully, he hears the coos of hippalectryons beyond the small hillock. Tara looks up at him, opens her mouth, snaps it shut, and shakes her head again. In front of her stands an elf with long white hair, a human weapon in his hands. He'd seen human "guns" on his first trip to Midgard. This one's shorter and slimmer than the weapon he remembers. For some reason, he doesn't find that comforting.

"What have you done to her?" Lionel demands, letting himself drop the last few body lengths.

Naleigh steps out of the shadows. "What have _you_ done to her? We heard you use her name in the cell—did you compel her to act against us?"

"I did not compel her to come back," Lionel says hotly.

Naleigh roars. "You made her attack us!"

"I did not—"

Naleigh gestures with his hand.

The Dark Elf with white hair whispers, "Tara Lupita Gibson, you may speak."

The white-haired elf had compelled her to silence with her name! Had the other elf overheard in the cell? Given freely, a name was more potent, but this elf was obviously strong enough that even stolen—

Dropping her hands, Tara snaps in Elvish, "He did not compel me to do anything! I saved his life on my world, risking my life and my freedom. You came onto my property, abducted him and me, dragged us both through this stinking swamp, and are threatening to kill him!" She throws up her arms. "Well, no way am I going to let you do that! His white-elf butt is mine and you can't take it!"

Lionel's mouth drops open and so does the jaw of every elf in attendance. Had he thought her naive? It is obvious that he misjudged her. He feels his heart speed up. She's within her rights to claim him, so why does he feel so betrayed?

Taking a step back, Tara puts her hands on her hips, nods, and then he hears her gulp.

There are whispers among the Dark Elves. "Did she trick him?" and "How does she speak our language?" Also, he hears, "What an idiot... enslaved to a human!"

The white-haired Dark Elf looks at Lionel. "Is this true? Does she own your life?"

He swears he feels every elf's eye on him, and probably the eyes of their hippalectryon mounts and every swamp creature in the vicinity. His skin heats and his lips twist. He wants to rebel... he wants to lie. He opens his mouth, and he thinks that maybe he can lie. At his side, his hands form fists. Elves aren't like the other races; they may obfuscate, dodge and evade, conceal, twist, baffle and bewilder, but they don't lie, and he is an elf.

He grinds his teeth. "Yes."

"You admitted you owe her your life?" One of them, a woman with a scar down her cheek, asks.

Lionel inhales sharply. If he'd only not admitted it, there would have been no bond of word.

"Aww..." another woman says. "I think he just thinks she's pretty and wants to be her slave."

"Do you think he became an abomination to please his mistress?" another elf whispers.

Someone says, "The clothes are revealing... maybe so."

"Even his jaw got bigger. He looks like a brute," hisses another. "Half-breed."

Lionel feels bile rise in his mouth at the word.

Striding between Lionel and the women, Tara snaps, "I didn't say anything about him being a slave!"

"But you said you _own_ him." Naleigh smirks. "If you want to hand him over, we'll happily kill him."

Throwing up her hands, Tara cries, "No!" and Lionel isn't sure if he's grateful or bitter at her defense.

Naleigh laughs. "An elf... or whatever... enslaved by a human! I think this is better than any sort of punishment we could concoct."

Rolling back on her feet, Tara's wide-eyed gaze seeks Lionel's. He looks away. He'd felt guilty about her abduction; now he feels like a fool.

All the elves but the one with white hair laugh. Stepping toward Tara, the white-haired one says, "We have no quarrel with humans, and will give you aid, but not him. Choose Lionel's life and we won't help you return to your world." He tips his chin. "Think carefully, Tara Lupita Gibson. This swamp has been poisoned by his people, and there are many dangers."

Magic twists through the air, and Lionel feels the compulsion behind the man's words. Something shrieks in the night and Lionel shivers.

Tara lifts her chin. "I won't let you take him. He's my friend."

Lionel glares at her. She's just publicly humiliated him and admitted she owns him. They _cannot_ be friends... He swallows. But she'd declared her friendship under compulsion. The contradiction makes him feel sick to his stomach.

The white-haired man nods. "Very well." Lowering his weapon, he turns to the others. "Her death is no longer on us, and his death is all but assured." With a flick of his hand, the others back away, melting into the shadows.

A minute later, Lionel is standing on the hillock with the woman who owns him. In the night, some monster of the Dark Lands screams.

## 8

# Crossing the Sorrows

Tara watches the elves disappear. Her fingernails bite her palms. Inside she is in turmoil, a swirling mess of conflicting feelings. She feels like Jesus on the mountain. She wasn't offered riches, but she was offered freedom, and she said no, because to abandon Lionel would be wrong. On the other hand, she has never been more afraid. The expression "paralyzed by fear" doesn't feel like a metaphor but a literal truth.

Swallowing her fear, and the urge to cry, she whispers, "What do we do now, Lionel?"

"You own me, remember? Perhaps you should figure it out yourself."

At first Tara thinks the words are in jest. She huffs, almost laughs, and then her eyes dart to his face. His expression is stony. Feeling nauseous, she says, "You don't believe that, that's not possible..."

His lip curls. "You just saved me based on your ownership. How could I not believe?" He raises an arm toward the darkness. " _They_ believed."

Tara's heart drops. She has to take deep breaths to keep from throwing up. "No... I just... I didn't mean it... I wasn't speaking ..." She can't quite find the word for "literally" in Elvish, and stutters. "It was a metaphor."

Lionel tilts his head. She notices that his hair is no longer a solid gold curtain. His bangs on either side are singed and black. "It was the truth," he sneers.

"But no..." Tara protests. "It's not, it can't be..."

Lionel's pale face is as hard as stone.

Tara blinks. It doesn't matter what she meant. The elves believe she owns Lionel. She puts a hand over her mouth. She knows her history; how sometimes free blacks went on to buy their own slaves. She's accidentally stumbled into the same condition.

She just manages to turn before she begins to dry heave.

Lionel doesn't even ask her if she is all right.

Panting, bent over, hands on her knees, she thinks back to how this happened. It had something to do with Lionel having confessed his indebtedness to her saving his life. She bites her lip. "How do we undo this?"

In the silence that follows, she hears a fish jump in the water. Her heart beat quickens. She hopes it is a fish.

At last Lionel says, "I save your life, and then we are even."

Tara breaths out in relief. "Well, there, you're done!" Smiling, she spins toward him. "You saved me from the village."

He glares at her, and her smile melts.

"Are you trying to doubly indebt me?" he hisses.

"What?" Tara protests, throwing up her hands.

He dips his chin, and one of his nostrils, still delicate—though perhaps not so delicate as it was before—flares.

She licks her lips. "What am I not understanding?" she says.

His eyes narrow.

"I really don't get it!" she says, flummoxed.

He huffs.

She stamps her foot.

He crosses his arms.

Throwing her hands in the air, she exclaims, "Can you explain it to me in some way that you don't wind up doubly indebted?"

She hears another plop in the water.

He sighs. "Were you really in danger in the village?"

"Well, after I went back and rescued you—" She closes her eyes. "Oh." She'd saved him not once, but twice.

Tara's thoughts are spinning in a vortex. She takes a stab in the dark. "It isn't the deed... it is the acknowledgement of the deed that creates debt?"

"Of course," says Lionel, but he sounds a little less certain. "Isn't that true on Earth as well?"

"No," she says. She huffs and rolls her eyes. "Well, some people might say it does, but they're wrong. You should save your fellow humans—"

She waves at Lionel, and his eyebrow arches.

"—or fellow sentient beings, because it is the right thing to do."

"The right thing?" Lionel asks, his voice laced with incredulity. "And how is that determined?"

"What causes the least pain and suffering to all involved," Tara says, but her voice falters. She's pretty sure that not reporting Lionel would have put her in the crosshairs of her fellow countrymen. Closing her eyes and rubbing her temple, she says, "Look, I just want to undo this without you feeling you're indebted to me. You're free. You owe me nothing."

Lionel snorts. "As you've pointed out, humans can lie. How can I believe that you aren't lying, and won't call up the debt when it suits your fancy?"

Stamping her foot, Tara mutters, "Oh, for..." Stifling a curse, she stares at him a moment. Lionel glares back at her. Something shrieks much too close, and she thinks she sees him shiver. This is important to him, even if she thinks it is ridiculous. "Look," she says. "I'm going to make a special promise, a promise that by long and time-honored tradition I am honor bound to keep. It's called a pinky promise."

Lionel rolls back on his feet. "A pinky—"

The critter in the swamp shrieks, a little closer this time.

They don't have time for this. "Copy me," Tara says, hand up, pinky outstretched. Lionel does, and Tara takes it with her own tiny finger. "Lionel of the Queen's Palace, or South Vale, or wherever, I, Tara Lupita Gibson, do solemnly absolve you of your debt to me. Pinky promise."

Lionel pulls away and looks down at his hand. "You shouldn't have done that. You should have compelled me to save you from the creatures rapidly approaching from the swamp. I can leave you now."

Tara hadn't been aware how cold the night had begun, but it suddenly hits her like a blow. "You'll leave?"

Lionel tilts his head and smiles cruelly.

Tara shivers. "Well, that is your right. I thought maybe we'd have a better chance getting out of this together."

The shrieking creature lets loose a scream that is so close that Tara swears she can feel it on the back of her neck. She looks up at the tree branches, and hopes it can't climb.

"You really meant it," Lionel murmurs so quietly Tara almost doesn't hear. Tara's eyes snap to him. The cruel smile is gone. In the night, the creature shrieks. Lionel backs away from her, looks to the shriek... and vanishes.

Tara stares at the place where he stood. "Lionel?" she calls out. She hears footsteps retreating down the hill and then nothing but the sounds of the night. She feels like she might be sick again, but instead, she jumps up, catches the first cold-slick branch, and pulls herself up.

It's hard to climb in the dark and cold, but Tara manages to get a good twenty feet above the ground. Settling into the crook of the tree, wrapping her arms around herself, she sits there, shivers, and almost cries. She is the epitome of sticking your nose somewhere it doesn't belong and living to regret it... but she's not going to live to laugh about it, and hell, she won't make a Darwin award either because no one is going to know where she is.

"Come down!" the whisper in Elvish startles her so much, she almost slips off her branch.

She peers through the shadows to the ground, and barely makes out silver-white hair and light eyes.

"Lionel?" she whispers, her heart leaping, and then settling in her chest at a place that isn't quite right. It wasn't very mature of him to leave her like that.

"Come down," he whispers in a rush. "It's dangerous. We have to go quickly."

She can't lecture Lionel right now. She has to be grateful he had a change of heart. "Okay, I'm coming," Tara replies, half-climbing, half-slipping down the tree. Hanging from the final branch, face to the trunk, she can't quite keep it inside. "You shouldn't have left me like that," she says, dropping to the ground. They have to stick together. They can't have petty fights in the swamp.

"I won't leave you now..." he whispers, his voice almost a hiss.

Tara turns around and takes a step back. Lionel's features are shimmering, as are the clothes he is wearing. Everything about him is blurry and indistinct. "In fact, you'll never escape me," he says.

He smiles, revealing gleaming white pointed teeth.

Lionel drags a foot along the ground, cutting a narrow channel in the soft earth. Maintaining his invisibility, he recites an ancient poem about death, danger, and despair. The poem focuses his mind on the task at hand—creating a "fairy blind" around the little hillock where he and Tara will have to spend the night. He can't leave her... he would be within his rights of course, but she is so... hapless? Genuinely naive? She had him in her power and let him go with a pinky promise. No elf he knew would have done so, even a peasant. They might not hold him to the debt, but they'd lord it over him for centuries.

Shaking his head, he continues his task, making sure the circle he is carving is unbroken. Any creature that approaches the demarcation will be filled with fear and foreboding, and feel the need to turn aside and go elsewhere.

Reaching the end of the poem, he straightens. The circle isn't quite complete, but he's hungry and exhausted. He tightens his hand on the silken cord of his keychain, pulls the magic to him, and feels his senses sharpen. In the water, the creature that had been issuing the hideous screams veers away.

In the tree, he hears Tara say, inexplicably, "I'm coming." Before he can think about it, the ripples of the creature in the water's wake reach the end of the blind, and it swings back toward the hillock. Lionel begins his recitation again, hopping and dragging his foot parallel to the creature's new path with renewed vigor. The monster swims off, and Lionel falters, half in relief and half just because his body feels foreign to him. Even with his leg wound completely healed, it's an effort to keep from stumbling. He starts again, and stops abruptly when his toe encounters strange footprints in the mud. Lionel pauses, and feels the heat of magic against his neck in the direction of the hillock's apex and Tara.

Tightening his grip on his key, he spins and races toward her. He sees a hominid shape with white hair, and feels the heat of illusion on his face. Out of view, Tara screams and he thinks he sees her strike out with a fist. The creature bats her hand away with a laugh. With a snarl, Lionel lurches up behind the beast on unsteady legs and wraps a forearm around its neck.

There is a split second when Lionel's brain screams, "What are you doing?" The creature's neck is thicker than the illusion, cold, and wet. Hair like wire bites into Lionel's face.

The creature tries to throw him forward, but Lionel wraps one of his newly long legs around it, and refuses to let go. Key clasped in his hands, he wills all the cells of his muscles and sinews not to relent. The creature reaches back and sharp nails dig into Lionel's flesh. The beast rears back, and then forward, trying to throw Lionel... but Lionel's leg holds fast, and the momentum from the creature's attempt pulls its own legs out from underneath it. Lionel growls as his forearm and leg are pinned underneath its mass. Pain makes Lionel angrier, and he wills his muscles and sinews to contract, squeezing the creature's windpipe tighter. It flops beneath him, rolls them over, and they tumble down the hillock together until the monster is on top of him. Lionel hears an uneven roaring in his ears. He doesn't feel pain or fear anymore, just fury. He flips the creature over and uses his torso to grind its face into the mud. It occurs to him that the roar he is hearing is his own heart. His newly long limbs are shaking, and he's flooded with heat.

"Lionel, are you all right?"

Tara's voice above him makes Lionel realize that the creature hasn't so much as quivered in minutes. He doesn't let go, but slides a finger up to where its pulse should be and finds... nothing. He spreads his consciousness, searching for life. There is none.

He killed it. The realization makes him hastily scramble to his feet. For the first time, he sees the beast. It has a vaguely equine-like head with long, sharp teeth protruding from its mouth. Sharp, slender fins, as long as his hand, run from its head to its shoulder blades, looking a bit like a mane. Its torso is human, but it has a sharp, finned "tail" and its legs are like a frog's with finned feet that have sharp claws on the toes.

"An each-uisge," Lionel says, recognizing the creature from the queen's books. He can't believe it's dead, or that he killed it. He's gotten the impression that warriors feel very proud at times like this. Instead, he's filled with terror. He wants the thing away, and fast.

"Help me drag it," he says, grabbing a finned hand.

Nodding, Tara grabs the other arm. Together they drag the thing down the slope.

"I thought you left," Tara gasps.

"I never left," Lionel pants. They cross through the unfinished boundary of the circle, and Lionel adds, "I thought it was best to take care of the circle of the fairy blind invisibly... the grindylow might have eaten me before I'd finished."

"Grindylow?" Tara squeaks. "Like Harry Potter?"

A scream erupts in the night. Lionel's eyes get wide. "Run back!"

They drop the each-uisge and dash back up the hill. Halfway up, Lionel realizes that the circle still isn't closed, and cries, "Don't talk to anyone who doesn't know your name!" Making himself invisible, he dashes back to the incomplete circle and begins his incantation again. The water just past the body of the each-uisge swells in a wave. Lionel focuses on his foot, and the poem, and stumbles anyway. His key ring slips from his wrist, and he falls, the circle still unfinished. He looks up, and then he's sad he did.

Tara can't see Lionel, but she sees his key go flying through the air. And then what she guesses is a grindylow emerges from the water. Its face is reminiscent of a frog's, slimy and gray in the darkness, but as wide as her arm span, and filled with finger-long teeth. With webbed fingers tipped with enormous talons, it reaches toward a spot or empty air—is Lionel there but invisible? Charging forward, Tara tries to give a blood-curdling yell. It isn't very blood curdling, more of an "Urp." But the creature pauses. Afraid of going any farther—Lionel had said something about a circle, and Tara's read enough fantasy to know better than to step out of a magic circle—she bends down and grabs the first solid thing she can find in the grass, which turns out to be a soft clod of dirt. She throws it with a shout... and hits the creature smack in the eye.

The grindylow's huge mouth makes an 'O' of surprise. Its remaining eye goes to the clod, and then back to Tara. The single eye narrows. The grindylow steps over the each-uisge, growling and hissing, focused on her.

Gulping, Tara backs up, her eyes riveted on the monster... and then Lionel is suddenly in the way. Spreading his arms, he chants long syllables in what sounds like Elvish... but not quite right. The creature hisses, and pauses as Lionel's chant gets louder. He drops his arms, and a blue flame jumps between him and the grindylow. It fans out around the hillock, but then disappears as fast as it had appeared. The grindylow hisses and charges on frog-like limbs. Blue flame rises again and it screams in pain. With a howl, it retreats into the water, dragging the each-uisge with it.

Something groans in the distance. Tara shivers, and Lionel turns toward her. "I invoked the Destroyer," he whispers. "I can't believe I did that."

"The Destroyer?" Tara asks.

Lionel shakes his head. "I never thought I'd stoop so low... but I was so afraid." He puts his hand to his face. "And I'm not that strong... it shouldn't have worked." He looks at his wrist. "I didn't have my key." He darts down and retrieves it from the ground.

"This Destroyer, he's not like..." Tara switches from Elvish to English. "... the Devil?" Apparently, Elvish doesn't have a word for that. She tucks it away for future reference, and then realizes Lionel might not understand. She is about to explain when he says, "I am familiar enough with the Abrahamic religions to catch the reference." He looks away. "I don't know the answer."

"Invoking him isn't like calling him, is it?" Tara asks nervously.

"There is debate over that," Lionel replies.

"Should we maybe leave?" Tara asks, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering.

On cue, something screams in the swamp.

Lionel looks toward the sound. "I think that if the Destroyer wants to find us, he will." He nods. "Better to stay in the circle tonight." He shivers from his head to his toes. Somehow in the scuffling he's lost his socks.

"What do we do now?" Tara asks.

Covering a yawn, Lionel says, "Try to sleep."

Tara looks dubiously at the former circle of flame, not sure how much she trusts it.

From her right is a squeal of terror. She spins to see a burst of blue flame. There is a sizzle and then she nearly gags on the smell of burnt fur. A giant-rat-thing, as big as a Rottweiler, goes skittering back into the swamp, screeching the whole way.

"That rat was of unusual size," says Lionel.

"You said it, Dread Pirate Roberts," murmurs Tara.

"That's not my..." Lionel covers his face with his forearm and yawns again. She swears he's swaying on his feet.

"Let's try to get some sleep," Tara says.

They go back to the top of the hillock, and settle backs against the tree. By light of the moon and stars, Tara sees a far off look in Lionel's eyes. His arms are wrapped around himself, and she notices he's shivering. He's also not sleeping, though he'd seemed about to fall over a few minutes ago.

Tara bites her lip and makes a decision. Taking off her coat, she scoots closer and covers the garment over them like a blanket. "Here," she says. "We can share."

Lionel looks down at her—and it's odd, because before she'd looked down at him. "It's a good idea," he says, "but this way, we are both only half warm."

"Yeah, it's a little small—" She stops abruptly as Lionel's arm slinks around her back.

"If you don't mind," he mumbles, not quite looking at her, in a way that is either exhaustion or shyness. "I have an idea that will keep us both warmer."

"Um... okay," says Tara. He looks too far gone for her to suspect anything untoward, and she's grateful for that. Really.

His opposite hand goes to the other side of her waist, and before Tara knows what is happening, he's picked her up and settled her between his thighs, her back to his chest. His arms wrap around her stomach beneath the coat, and he pulls her close.

"There," he murmurs into her hair. "Much more comfortable. Too tired... to use magic."

He's not just taller, he's broader than the slender elf she'd found in her alley—in a good way... and he's filled out since they got out of the cell. She's not sure how that worked out. By the conservation of matter, he should be a tall, thin beanpole, but she's pretty sure magic breaks all the known laws of physics. She feels herself melting into him, her back fitting his embrace perfectly, and she is warm between him and the coat-blanket, in more ways than one. She doubts very much that she'll be able to sleep feeling like this.

"There is the door again," Lionel whispers enigmatically, laying his chin on top of her head. "Maybe this time I should step through."

"Huh?" says Tara.

His whole body shudders, and he leans more heavily against her. It takes her a moment, but then she realizes that Lionel isn't having trouble going to sleep. "Always the teddy bear, never the bride," Tara murmurs. This is not the first time she's had a gorgeous male friend.

Something in the swamp makes the circle briefly flame blue, and Tara decides that maybe it's just as well she stay awake. Someone should keep an eye out. She looks up at the stars, yawns, and closes her eyes just for a moment.

## 9

# Late Cretaceous Park

Lionel wakes up with his back to a tree trunk that's so chill it feels damp. He's sitting on knobby roots, and his feet are bare. He's surprisingly comfortable despite that. Tara is still sitting between his legs. She's using his left shoulder as a pillow and breathing gently. Beneath her coat, and her body, he's so warm that the chill on the rest of him is a pleasant counterbalance. And the feel of her against him is exquisite. She has the physique of a Valkyrie, but she has curves that are soft and feminine. He longs to explore them.

Somewhere, something screams in the swamp. Tara stirs beneath him, her body shifting against him in a perfect way, sending heat racing through him.

"Good morning," he murmurs in her language, and finds himself pulling the phrase apart and dissecting it. The Elves' salutation for the morning translates to English directly as, "another bright day in infinity." "Good morning" is so much more immediate, so much more in the present. So much more urgent.

His arms tighten around Tara, remembering the kiss she'd pressed against his cheek the night before. She doesn't find him disgusting, and he wants so much for her to reassure him again that he isn't hideous... whatever he is. They need to get away from here, but unable to resist the urge, he drops his lips to her crown and presses a kiss there.

He hears Tara gulp. When she speaks, her voice is breathy. "So, I hope your soulmate isn't upset about this."

Her hands are smooth against his forearms, leaving trails of heat in their wake, and he sucks in breath. It takes his lust-filled brain a few beats to comprehend her words.

"She doesn't even know me," he huffs. "And even if she did, elves aren't jealous," he murmurs. Not that that distinction applies to him.

"Oh, right... Still, I feel weird about it," she says, and she pulls out of his arms. It stings as she scoots away, not meeting his eyes. But Lionel remembers his manners. The only thing worse than being rebuffed is doing the rebuffing, and the fear of reprisals. To assuage her worries, he does the polite thing—tries to cover up that a proposition was offered by acting as normal as possible, and covering the silence with words. "Of course," he says gently, "even if she were the jealous type, I'm sure she would prefer I did not die of cold. We needed each other's warmth, Tara, and that was what this was."

Not all it was, but it isn't a lie. She has no need to feel worried that he'll be a bore.

She blinks at him. Sleepily or confused, he's not sure, but it's enchanting. "Well, we better get moving, right? I mean, it's dangerous here..."

There is a howl and blue flames rise to the height of the tree just a few paces to Lionel's left. Tara gasps. A thing that looks like it can't be more than gray-green skin stretched over bones retreats into the muck.

"We should leave," he says. "The circle won't work forever. It would just take a decent rain to wash it away."

They look at one another for a moment, and then, as one, look at the sky. The clouds are gray and oppressive.

"So, how far do we have to go to get to your people?" Tara asks, standing and brushing herself off. "I'm guessing that's the plan."

Lionel can't quite contain a wince. "That is the plan."

"What's wrong?" Tara asks.

Climbing to his feet, he swears the creatures beyond the circle buzz louder and he feels like the swamp is closing in on them. "I'm not sure exactly how far away that is, and we have to cross through the swamp without magic, and there are animals... monsters."

"Could we light torches or something?" Tara asks.

"Light torches?" Lionel says, gazing at her in incomprehension.

"Isn't fire supposed to scare away animals?" Tara says, sounding as uncertain as Lionel feels. "I mean, it isn't magic—but I think it works for bears and stuff, so..."

"You might be right," Lionel says, actually impressed. "I guess since you are—" He catches himself before he says "a lesser race." It's not that he thinks she has a right to be offended, but he also doesn't need to be hostile.

Tara lifts an eyebrow.

"—not magical, you'll have welcome input as to how to survive in this environment," he finishes smoothly, unable to stop the smirk stretching across his face.

Her eyes narrow.

Brushing himself off, he says, "The trouble is, I still don't know which way we should go. When I sent out my avatars, the black waters around us disintegrated them."

"You can't climb up the tree and just look?" Tara asks.

Lionel blinks.

She crosses her arms over her chest. "I'd do it myself, but I don't know what I'm looking for." She adds dryly, "And if you're up in the tree, you'll actually get to be the higher race."

She had divined what he'd been thinking earlier. Lionel finds himself laughing despite himself. "You're able to keep your sense of humor even when we are facing the possibility of death."

"Get up the tree, Lionel."

Something in the swamp screams, and another thing wails in pain.

"Right," he says.

A few minutes later, he is at the top of the tree. His heart falls when he gazes east, but then he gazes southeast and he nearly bounces on the branch. "I see the Golden Road—and the boundaries of my village—my former village," he cries down to Tara. "It's two thousand paces... a little more. But it could be much worse."

"We're looking for a yellow brick road?" Tara asks.

"Yes, I guess it fits the description," Lionel replies, climbing down.

"I shouldn't be surprised by that," Tara murmurs to herself.

Lionel drops down from the last branch, and she thrusts two branches toward him. "Think you can turn these into torches?"

Lionel tilts his head. "I think that torches usually have cloth soaked in oil at the tops."

Tara's shoulders fall.

"But I should be able to make them smoke a lot," Lionel supplies.

She frowns. "I think it's the smoke they're afraid of... I'm sure it will work." She doesn't sound sure.

Rolling up his sleeves, Lionel focuses on the branches, and envisions the molecules at the end of them jumping and frenzied. Faster than he anticipated, they light, and they both have a smoldering branch in hand.

Taking a deep breath, Tara says, "Lead the way."

"Right," says Lionel, rolling down his sleeves. Catching sight of his forearm, he pauses. His soulmark has stretched in either direction and faded. A chill runs through him.

"Are you all right?" Tara asks.

He wipes his hand over his chin and feels the unfamiliar bite of stubble and bile rises in his throat. Elves don't have stubble... He is an elf. He will be an elf. He'll change back, no matter the agony.

He pulls his sweatshirt down and says, "I'll be fine."

In the swamp, something screams.

Steeling himself, Lionel says, "Let's go."

Tara freezes as Lionel draws to a stop in front of her.

"What's wrong?" she whispers.

They're twisting their way through a corridor of grasses that rise above her head. Her feet are ankle deep in muck. Just a few feet to her left and right are open pools of smooth, black water.

"I thought I heard voices," he says.

"Your magic is working?" she asks, hope rising in her chest.

Turning to her, Lionel touches an ear. "They're still pointed." His voice is defensive. He's changed... she doesn't understand why, and she thinks maybe he doesn't, either. He's scared. He hasn't seen himself since the transformation—and it has been dramatic. In the daylight, she's been able to see just how much his features and physique have changed. His cheekbones are wider, his nose is a little stronger, and his jaw is a bit more pronounced. He has a day's worth of stubble a shade darker than his white blonde hair. He looks older—more Tara's age, less like he's barely legal. He might not know that he still looks good. More than good, even though his hair is ragged and burnt at the ends. "You are gorgeous... just different... you don't have to worry, Lionel."

He stands too still and she can't read his eyes. She drops her gaze. Behind them, she hears what sounds like the rush of wind in the grasses, and hears voices far above.

She looks up and sees two black shadows.

"Huginn and Muninn!" Lionel says.

Tara beams. "Your friends!" And then she notices that Lionel isn't smiling. Before she can ask, she hears a sound like a dove cooing behind them.

The shadows swoop lower. "Hey kid!" One of the birds rawks. "We found him, Muninn!"

"He's grown!" squawks the other. "Master was right!"

Tara squints. She seems to remember a pair of ravens in Norse mythology. Who did they belong to? Thor maybe? Hadn't they said something about "the Big Guy?"

Muninn whistles. "Look out behind you!"

Tara hears the sound of wings near the ground and spins, swinging the smoky branch. Not three feet away from her, a face that could belong to an iguana crossed with a turkey protrudes from between the tall grass stalks. The thing is about as tall as her chest. It opens its mouth and... gives a coo. If it weren't for its rows of teeth, Tara might be charmed. She pokes the smoldering top of her stick at it, and it draws back with a hiss.

"Velociraptors," squawks one of the ravens.

"Plural velociraptors?" Lionel says.

"Oh, Helheim," squawks the other raven. "There's a whole flock, Muninn! Hang on kids, we'll get help!" Tara's dimly aware of them flying away.

Another head pokes through the grass. Lionel swings his branch at it while Tara keeps hers aimed at the first one. "I thought they were smaller," Tara says, remembering some chart she'd seen with a Jurassic Park velociraptor compared to a real velociraptor of the Late Cretaceous.

Swinging his branch at another deadly cretaceous turkey, Lionel says, "Up ahead is a spot of dry land. If we get there, I can use magic."

A third head peers out of the vegetation. Somewhere beyond it, Tara hears another coo. Hissing and spitting, one of the raptors tries to flank them. Tara jabs it with her stick and the smell of burning feathers makes her grimace. The creature backs up, and one of its legs plunges into the black water. With a terrified-sounding shriek, it leaps back into the foliage just as another lunges. Swinging at it, Lionel cries, "It's working!"

He sounds way too optimistic, and Tara cries, "Don't jinx it!"

At her words, a raptor goes flying over their heads, flapping its rudimentary wings and shedding feathers. She hears a thud, and whispers, "What happened?"

"I jinxed it," says Lionel. "Fascinating that both our languages have the concept of 'jinx.'"

"Lionel, focus!" Tara shouts, sidestepping a lunge at her calf.

Lionel replies, "Just a few dozen more paces!"

"Dozens?" Tara squeaks. The raptors have edged them closer to the water. It gives them only three sides to cover instead of four, but the raptors are afraid of the water, and Tara's pretty sure she should be too.

"It could be worse," he mutters.

"Don't say that!" Tara protests. That is exactly the moment a raindrop lands on her nose. "You so jinxed it," she grinds out.

"What?" Lionel pants.

Thunder rumbles. More drops thwack against the grasses, and Tara's smoldering branch steams and hisses.

"I jinxed it," Lionel admits.

Tara looks at the black surface of the water, riddled with raindrops. "Can you swim?" she asks.

"Yes."

She eyes a mound of earth a few yards across the black expanse of water. It's high ground. He should be able to use his magic there. "We've got to swim."

"Whatever is keeping them out of the water is going to eat us!" Lionel says.

"The raptors are going to eat us!" Tara retorts. She never thought she'd ever give up her Jimmy Choo boots, but she kicks them off in a flash and takes off her coat. "And I don't think they can swim." They're just overgrown turkeys, or nasty ostriches... neither of those can swim, right?

A raptor shrieks, far too close, and there is a thud and a crack. "We'll swim," Lionel mutters. "A lady in the lake or selkies can be bargained with. On two," says Lionel.

"One," says Lionel.

A raptor opens its mouth and makes a shrill scream. "Now!" shouts Tara. She shoves the dead end of the torch into a raptor's maw, throws her coat on another, and dives. She hears Lionel splash beside her.

The water is cold, and she still has too many clothes on, but Tara's a good swimmer.

"They aren't following!" she hears Lionel say, a few feet behind.

"Don't... Look... Back!" Tara cries between strokes.

She hears a splash.

"I jinxed us again," Lionel gasps. In the corner of her eye, she sees him catch up to her with a decent freestyle. She doesn't look back to see what he means, but all of a sudden, she feels something snake around her waist. She tries to swim faster, but the snake-thing tightens. Tara gasps for breath and struggles against it. Looking down, she screams. "Is this a tongue?"

"Maybe a tentacle," Lionel says, struggling beside her.

Tara tries to kick at the tentacle-tongue, and gets dragged beneath the water. In the blackness, she thinks she makes out a set of glowing blue-green eyes, each as large as her head. Beside her, she sees bubbles, and realizes Lionel is being dragged down, too. She struggles against the creature, but feels herself weakening. Her lungs feel like they will explode. Her muscles start to go slack... and suddenly she is above the water, gasping for breath, Lionel beside her. Before she can thank her luck, she catches sight of four velociraptors swimming directly toward them.

"Damn," she mutters, and wonders if death by bog monster would be quicker.

One of the first velociraptors goes underwater, and then the next.

"What?" says Lionel.

"Is it diving?" Tara says, searching the water for sight of the creature.

"I don't know," says Lionel.

The third and fourth velociraptors disappear. Tara holds her breath, waiting for the bite of teeth underwater. They don't come.

The velociraptors on the shore squawk and shriek at them. Before Tara knows what is happening, she and Lionel are lifted by the tongue-tentacles into the air and thrust toward the shore. The tentacles do not release, and the force of reaching the end of the thrust rattles Tara's teeth. The raptors leap toward them, and before she can blink, she's yanked backward with more jaw-rattling force. The velociraptors splash into the water and then disappear into the depths.

"Is it fishing with us?" Tara cries.

She sees a few more velociraptors peek from the grasses. Before she can count how many, she and Lionel are thrust forward and back again. One more beast jumps, and it disappears into the black water. The others vanish into the grass.

The tentacles pull Tara and Lionel back to the center of the water where they'd first been caught, but don't let them go.

Catching her breath, Tara says, "Thank you for not eating us, mister..." She almost says "monster" but decides that might be rude. "Amazing water creature who must be like an octopus of my home world. They're very smart and also cute."

The tentacles slide away, leaving Tara and Lionel sputtering and treading water.

"And thank you for that," Tara says.

"Tara!" says Lionel. "Don't talk to it, swim!" And then his eyes get very wide and he looks at a point beyond Tara's shoulder.

Instead of swimming, she looks.

Two enormous blue-green eyes with the depth and luminosity of opals are staring at her. Between them stretches a skin that's mostly black but swirls with blues and purples. Tara is dumbfounded. It's possible that she is maybe about to die, but why would it let her go if it was going to eat her? She can't out swim it; its tentacles are everywhere.

"Hi," Tara whispers. "You have beautiful eyes." And wonders if she is about to become a candidate for a Darwin award again.

She hears splashing behind her and before she knows it, Lionel has wrapped an arm around her waist and is pulling her toward the shore. The eyes rise out of the water on a head that looks very octopus-like, but it opens a mouth that has as many teeth as a shark.

Lionel curses. The head expands with a whooshing noise. And then the head lowers, and bubbles course toward them, pushing them to the shore.

Tara laughs, and Lionel says, "You're lucky we don't taste good."

"It's a real alien!" Tara cries. She is living in Star Trek!

Her feet hit the bottom of the pool, and Lionel lets her waist go, but grabs her arm and drags her onto dry land. The wind must have picked up because she hears branches clacking together. He's walking so fast. It may be the narrow escape from death, but she finds herself babbling. "It understood me, I know it did. Inky, I'll be your bait for velociraptors anytime!"

A jet-black tentacle pops above the water and sways. "Inky is waving at us!" Tara exclaims. Lionel doesn't even pause to look back.

"What's the rush?" Tara asks. "I'm tired and hungry. We can rest here. If any more meanies show up, Inky will eat them." And maybe they could snuggle again. Tara feels warmer just remembering her night in Lionel's arms.

Lionel finally stops. The rain has stopped as suddenly as it began, but his hair is still plastered to his head, and his ears are pointing between the strands. "Tara, you can't play bait for the kraken. Much longer in the water and we'd catch hypothermia."

"No, I'm not cold—" At that moment, she realizes that what she took to be tree branches snapping in the wind is her teeth chattering. "Oh."

"Come on," Lionel says. "We have to get moving. We're on a ridge. I should be able to use magic as long as we walk along it."

Tara follows him along the "ridge." Instead of grasses, it's got trees, and the ground beneath their feet is more solid, but she's only wearing socks, and she keeps stepping on things that poke and prickle. Lionel's feet have been bare since they left the circle, and he hasn't complained. She finds herself wishing he'd complain so she could complain, too.

Lionel turns to her. "I can't believe you named a kraken Inky."

Tara scowls. "You're the one who was doing a cross-cultural linguistic study in the middle of a fight with velociraptors."

He stops in his tracks. "And so I did." Meeting her gaze, a smile spreads across his face. It's kind of cheeky, definitely unashamed, and it takes her breath away. As much as his face has changed, he still has that dimple. Her heart stops, and her lips part.

From the air, she hears rawking. "Over here! Over here!"

Lionel looks to the sound. "Huginn and Muninn!"

The two birds swoop overhead. "Follow, quick! Quick!"

From behind them comes a familiar cooing, and then a shriek.

Tara clutches his arm. "Velociraptors!"

"It's better to face them than to run," Lionel says, putting himself between her and the raptor cries. "And I have my magic."

Peering around him, Tara sees the shapes of the raptors emerging from the trees. Lionel raises a hand toward them, and then looks down at it. "I don't have my magic," he whispers. "It's the water from the lagoon... it's in my hair and my clothes."

The velociraptors charge from behind the trees, leaping into air above their heads, and a strange whistling fills the air. The last thing Tara sees are talons as Lionel spins and tackles her to the ground.

## 10

# Stranger in a Strange Land

Lionel has tackled Tara to the ground before he's even really thought to himself what he's doing. There's the scream from a raptor above them, and he feels the beat of wings. The beast lands just beyond them. Flapping, claws scraping in the sod, it turns around, and then its shadow is above them. It lurches, and then its weight is crushing down on Lionel and Tara below him. Hot liquid spills over Lionel's neck and back. It takes a moment to realize that it's not his blood. Pushing the beast off, he sees arrows protruding from its body and the bodies of other members of its flock.

Tara sits up, her eyes are only on him. "Thanks for saving me."

He finds himself flushing in irritation. "Don't say 'thank you' to an elf. You'll put yourself in my debt."

She looks at him with doe-like innocent eyes. "Can't we just stop keeping score?"

He sighs. He hears footsteps in the distance, but he's not sure if they are friend or foe. "No, we're about to be surrounded by elves, and you _must_ keep score." Not quite believing what he is about to do, he inclines his head and says, "Thank you for coming back to rescue me in prison."

She blinks. "Oh, so we're even?"

"Yes," says Lionel.

Rolling her eyes, she shakes her head. He puts his hand on her shoulder, and her eyes go to his fingers. It is as though her gaze has physical weight. He finds himself licking his lips, but recovers his wits. "Listen, Tara, you must not give your full name to whoever is approaching."

"Why?" she asks, meeting his gaze, and again her eyes are so wide and innocent.

"Because it gives us power to know your name. We can use it for compulsion," he says, and the thought of anyone else using it on her makes him burn.

"You know my full name," she exclaims. Her voice gets accusatory. "And you used it on me in the cell."

"So you'd go home!" Lionel protests. "And be safe."

Narrowing her eyes, she says, "Don't worry, I won't thank you for that."

"Good," he says, flustered more than he should be. He'd protected her, or tried to. She has no sense whatsoever, probably because she's human and a baby by elf standards. She probably isn't even fifty years old... he catches himself, remembering how little sense he'd had when it came to climbing the tree and using his eyes to scan for the Golden Road, or how he hadn't thought of using fire to frighten away predators.

She huffs.

He looks into the surrounding trees and directly into the eyes of an elf he recognizes. The elf has an arrow leveled at his head.

"Rolleim," Lionel whispers. "It's me, Lionel."

"Stand slowly," Rolleim says, not lowering his bow. "And raise your hands."

Lionel rises and his heart falls, seeing no glimmer of recognition in his once friend's eyes. Rolleim follows Lionel's movement, raising the bow to keep it aimed at Lionel's heart. About two decades older than Lionel, Rolleim had always been the taller one. Now Lionel is taller by a full two hands. He's dimly aware of Tara rising beside him. He hears familiar whispers in the trees. "A human... but the other one..."

His mother's voice rises from the forest. "Lionel!"

Before he knows it, his mother has rushed past Rolleim directly into what would be the path of his arrow, her arms outstretched. Catching her, Lionel enfolds her in his arms and pulls her tight, feeling a rush of gratitude and relief so great he thinks his legs might give out from under him. She feels so tiny in his arms. His mother had been smaller than him before, but now she seems impossibly so.

Someone coughs. He hears the sound of shifting feet, and the patter of rain on leaves above them. He lets his mother go at last, but she keeps an arm around his waist. When he looks down at her, he sees she is crying.

"You made it back," she sniffs. She's wearing farmer's attire: a pale cream-colored tunic with a high collar and long sleeves beneath a dress of wool in goldenrod yellow with no unnecessary embellishments. The dress is tied up to her knees, revealing worn leather boots. A rust colored cape hangs from her shoulders, and also a leather knapsack. Her hair is in a braid that isn't as severe as the palace norm. He smiles, holding back tears. It's good to be home.

Lionel looks up and finds that nearly twelve members of his village seem to have come out for this adventure. He glances up and sees the ravens. Did Huginn and Muninn summon them? How would they have gotten here so fast?

Looking past Lionel, his mother says, "You have a human companion?"

"Oh, yes," Lionel says, turning to find Tara has backed away a few steps. She is as wet as he is—but it looks better on her, he suspects. The shirt she wears clings to her, sharply demarcating her strong shoulders and dramatic curves. There seems to be some sort of undergarment that is beneath the shirt, either for decoration or support, that sadly hides her breasts. He notices the other men, and some of the women, eyeing her with more than curious interest and finds his jaw getting hard and his cheeks heating at embarrassment of his own jealousy for a woman he isn't even romantically engaged with.

Forcing his features to neutral, he says, "Mother, this is Tara of Chicago. She was abducted from her home by the Dark Elves along with me."

At the word "mother," Lionel notices Tara relaxing slightly.

"How do you do, ma'am?" Tara says in Lionel's tongue.

Jaben, one of the men from his village, a farmer even older than his mother, says, "She speaks Elvish!"

"It is good to meet you, Tara of Chicago," his mother says, smiling ear to ear, her eyes sparkling with tears.

Tara looks between them, raises a finger to her cheek, and smiles at Lionel and his mother both. "I see the resemblance!"

There are some harsh whispers from the elves around them, and a huff that sounds like a bitter laugh. Lionel feels his shoulders fall. He doesn't look like his mother... not anymore.

Smile fading, Tara's gaze goes to the crowd.

"You must be frozen through!" says his mother, looking between the two of them, beginning to take off her knapsack.

"Don't cover them up, Tavende," Jaben says to her. "They'll need to let the Dark Waters wash off of them." As he speaks, Lionel hears the rain beating on the leaves above them increase, and feels droplets on his head and shoulders.

"Come on," says Jaben, with a wave of his hand. "We shouldn't be tarrying here much longer. There are worse things than velociraptors." His eyes go to Huginn and Muninn in the treetops. The two birds rawk and bob.

Rolleim takes up the lead, bow upraised. Lionel looks back, and sees Kalee, Jaben's wife, sidling up to Tara.

Lionel hesitates, but Jaben says, "Come on, get a move on. Kalee won't bite her." Jaben sounds gruffer than Lionel has ever heard him, and he's not meeting Lionel's eyes. None of the elves are meeting his eyes.

"How did you find me?" he asks, falling into step with his mother.

"We were out hunting mushrooms when we heard Huginn and Muninn's cries," his mother says with a sunny smile.

The rain begins to fall more heavily. His mother doesn't go to look for mushrooms in the Delta of Sorrows, although he's heard of Jaben and Kalee doing so occasionally. He's also heard other rumors about the couple; dangerous rumors that he's never tried to substantiate because if he knew the truth, he might be forced to report them.

The rain increases in intensity, running down Lionel's face, forcing him to wipe it from his eyes. High above them, the ravens rawk and take off, circling into the mists and out of view. Lionel's eyes shift back to earth and catch on Lorelei, a woman not much older than he. She quickly looks away, and Lionel feels his heart beating too fast in his chest. He remembers a line from the book he'd drawn the Invocation of the Destroyer from. _To summon the Destroyer is to end your life. Only use as a last resort._ He'd thought that made no sense... now he's beginning to realize that his old life may be gone.

Tara hears one of the elves say to Lionel, "We shouldn't be tarrying here much longer. There are worse things than velociraptors."

Wrapping her arms around herself, Tara prepares to follow the line of elves. She would really like some Gore-Tex hiking gear right now. She's cold and wet, but she gets that there is something in the black water they'd taken a dip in that they want washed off by the rain.

Shaking her head, Tara steps behind a pair of elves who've moved between her and Lionel and his mother. Lionel's mother _does_ look like him. Lionel's mom has the same white-blonde hair, their eyes have the same shape, she has a narrow chin that Lionel has kept though the frame of his face has broadened, and they have the same dimple in their left cheeks. Tara hadn't liked the laugh that she'd heard when she'd mentioned it.

Shivering, she tries to push back a long, wet tangle of hair and a bit breaks off in her hand. She has a moment of panic as it drops into the mud—a disease from the water? And then she remembers it catching on fire the night before and the blackened ends of Lionel's bangs, too. "Just fire damage," Tara says in English and winces. She'd never thought she'd use that expression to describe her hair.

"You speak English?" The whispered words in her own language make Tara draw to a stop. A foot away from her stands a tiny Elvish woman. She's gorgeous, with almond-shaped green eyes. They're intensified by being red-rimmed, as though she'd been crying. Honey-colored hair peeks out from beneath a sage-green hood.

"Yes," says Tara. She looks down at the shallow water she's walking in. Did she misunderstand its effect on Lionel's magic or does it not inhibit everyone's magic?

"The waters of the delta twist my magic," says the woman in an accent that Tara would peg as maybe Scottish. "But after knowing your kind for over a thousand years, I don't need magic anymore."

It's pouring rain, and cold. "Oh," says Tara.

The woman swings a knapsack around and takes out a cloak. "You're no longer contaminated. Wear this." She holds it out in Tara's direction. It's woolen, and will be soaked in minutes, but when Tara puts it on, she is warmer. She decides to savor the warmth for however long it lasts.

The woman says, "My husband and I, we kept the plague away, you know."

"The plague?" says Tara.

"From our MacGregor clan," says the woman, "in Scotland."

Tara imagines there are probably a lot of MacGregors in Scotland, but she nods as though she knows what the woman is talking about.

The woman's voice cracks. "The gate we use was flooded by the Dark Waters. We'll never be able to go back. Fiona is going to have a baby; I was going to be the godmother." Tears spill from her eyes. "I'm not allowed to have a baby. I have no one to pay the child price. The MacGregors have been my children for over a thousand years and now I can't see them!"

Tara stammers, "I'm... I'm... sorry."

The elf woman sniffs. "Of course you are. You are human." She tilts her head and wipes her face with her sleeve. "From Chicago... I hear the Dark Elves are emigrating there." She takes a step closer. "Taking their families, escaping this swamp and the queen."

New goosebumps rise on Tara's skin. She remembers the child who'd been beaten. "Emigrating?"

The woman nods.

She hears splashing behind her and turns. The other elves are far ahead of them, except for a single man running toward them through the rain and muck. "Kalee, don't talk to her. She'll tell Lionel, and he'll tell the queen!"

"Let him tell the queen!" the woman who must be Kalee responds. "We'll be long gone! The queen can't control us anymore."

The man stops beside his wife. "Chicago is far away from Scotland."

"Fiona told us about the aeroplanes." Kalee protests. "We'll use human magic to go back to Scotland and rejoin the MacGregors."

The man looks at Tara. He shuffles a bit. "Are there such things as aeroplanes, truly?"

Tara nods.

He licks his lips. "And they can take us from Chicago to Scotland."

"Yes," says Tara.

"We used to live in Scotland," he says. "Before Odin made all of us leave Midgard."

Kalee makes a derisive sound. "And the queen agreed, probably so she could have her talons in us all."

Tara's shoulders hunch under the onslaught of the rain. She isn't sure where this is all going, but she has a feeling she might not like Lionel's employer. "Odin..." she murmurs. Her eyes go to the path the ravens had flown in. Were they his birds?

"Why don't you ask Lionel about him," says Kalee, her chin dipping. "I suspect he knows rather a lot about Odin."

At that moment, she hears Lionel's voice. "Tara!" She turns to find him stepping out of the rain. He has a dark blue cloak on that's too small. His mother is beside him, jogging to keep up. A moment later, he's beside her, glaring down at Kalee and the man. "They didn't try to entrap you, did they?" he says, his voice nearly a hiss.

"What? No!" says Tara. "We were just talking." Lionel's head whips toward her. She remembers the man's fear that Lionel would report them. "About Earth." She gives him a tight smile. "They've never been."

She sees the man and woman relax. Lionel raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. His mother is looking wildly between the elf couple, Tara, and her son.

The couple nod at Lionel, split apart, and run around him, heads bowed as though they are afraid to look at him.

He frowns as they dart past.

"They don't know how to treat you, Lionel," his mother says. "They don't know who you are."

"And who am I?" he asks.

His mother bows her head.

"Forgive me, Mother, I shouldn't have asked," he whispers.

Tara swallows. She thinks of Emmett Till getting brutally murdered for not knowing the unspoken rules of the Deep South.

She's stumbled into the politics of a world she barely understands. She has a feeling she'd better figure it out quick.... her life might depend on it.

Lionel is cold and wet. The knowledge that he'd invoked the Destroyer gnaws at him, his body is alien to him, and his neighbors' glances are hostile. He's heard whispers of "half-breed," "abomination," and "now we know who his father is."

Despite all that, Lionel's heart lifts when he sees the trees of the delta clearing and the Golden Road. Beyond the road, he can imagine the rolling fields of green interspersed with well-tended forests and tidy villages. The clouds end at the road, and he can see the white-blue glow of Alfheim's sun. He puts his hand on Tara's lower back to urge her on... and because his hand wants to be there.

"What exactly is the child price?" Tara asks.

His hand drops. She'd evidently spoken about more than Midgard with Kalee and Jaben.

Lionel's mother draws to a halt and he can feel her unspoken, _Should I tell her?_

Stepping onto the road, Lionel pauses. The child price is something all the other magical races find abhorrent. He doubts that a human, with her seven and a half billion kindred, will think better of it, but he shrugs as if to say, _Why not?_ Better she learns from his mother than some other elf.

Walking next to Tara, his mother says, "For a baby to be born, someone must die, or there would be too many to feed."

Lionel frowns. Though there are less than a billion Light Elves on Alfheim, and the land mass is comparable to Earth's—surely they could sustain a few more?

His mother continues. "Elves are immortal."

The words make his chest constrict. Is he immortal? He'd always assumed so, but now...

"That's... interesting," says Tara. "Exactly how is the person who is going to die chosen?"

There is fear in her voice. Lionel says quickly, "It's not some sort of blood sacrifice like your Aztecs. Someone volunteers, and then they will themselves to die."

"Oh," says Tara, carefully looking at the ground. "What if no one volunteers?"

His mother answers. "If the mother decides to see her pregnancy through, the baby may stay, but the couple has broken the queen's law. They will be tried, may be found guilty, and if so, will be sent to the Dark Lands."

Had his mother been tried? Had her soulmate's accidental death not twenty months before Lionel was born—just a few weeks longer than normal elf gestation—been considered payment of the price? Or had someone interceded? The same someone who interceded to see he was allowed to study magic after his accidental trip to Midgard as a child?

As they make their way to the gathered villagers, the enchantment woven into his cloak activates. All the water slides from the fibers and they warm to the perfect degree.

"Oh," says Tara. "My cloak..."

"Is magical," says Rolleim, coming forward with a smile. He stops not a pace away from Tara, reaches out, and drags a hand down the garment's front, as though testing the fabric, fingertips grazing her breasts. "It's warm now that you're out of the Delta of Sorrows, isn't it?"

Tara's lips form a small 'o' of shock.

Technically, Rolleim has done nothing outside of normal Elven etiquette, but Lionel's jaw tightens, and a charge of magic rushes to his fingertips.

Rolleim's eyes go to Lionel's hands. Everyone else takes a step back. Lionel catches a whispered, "half-breed" and "savage." A muscle in his jaw jumps, but he doesn't look at the whisperer, afraid he might turn them to ice with the sudden jolt of power.

He glances at Tara, and sees her eyes have settled upon the speakers and narrowed. A heartbeat later, she's schooled her features to neutral. Her fingers flutter on the top of his hand. They're cool and it is the most innocuous of brushes, but his anger and magic turn to something else completely different.

His neighbors press closer to Tara, carefully avoiding Lionel. Martier, one of the oldest matriarchs of the village, says, "Our village hasn't seen a human in over two thousand years."

Jaylee says, "You must stay for the night!"

The village's only two children say, "Will there be a feast and a dance?"

"Yes, yes!" says someone else. "The queen will fetch her tomorrow to return her to Midgard... we must celebrate tonight!"

Tara's eyebrows hike. Seeing an unasked question, Lionel bends near, and she whispers in Elvish, "Does time work like normal—I mean, like Earth—here? If I stay for the night, am I going to wake up fifty years older and half my life gone?"

Kalee bristles. "That happened one time, and it wasn't even in our village. Still, it's all anyone talks about!"

Tara's eyes go wide.

Lionel gives her hand a gentle squeeze, and then doesn't let go. "Time is the same," he assures her. "But that particular mortal wished to stay."

"The queen, in all her great wisdom, made those villagers send him back," says Martier grumpily.

"Ah," says Tara.

"I will make sure you get home," Lionel's mother says. "You brought my son back to me. I am in your debt."

A hush goes through the gathering at the statement, and Lionel feels the breath rush from his lungs. Around him, jaws fall open.

In his hand, Tara's fingers go slack. "Oh, no, you can't say that. You can't be—"

"But I am," says Lionel's mother. "And it is settled."

In the village a hadrosaur lows.

Martier nervously clears her throat. "I'm sure that Tara and..." She ducks her head.

"You may call my son Lionel," his mother says.

"Come this way," Martier says. "You must be hungry." Lionel can't help but notice that she hasn't used his name.

## 11

# Unbinding

Tara licks a bit of lingering honey from her lips, and feels her eyes droop. For breakfast, elves eat pancakes with honey and butter, lingonberry jam, and a soft sort of cheese like Brie on the side.

"Are you sure you can't eat more?" says a blonde, blue-eyed elf child, poking his head between Tara and Martier, the two-thousand-something-year-old woman who looks all of twenty-one. The little boy looks to be about five. She imagines he is what Lionel looked like once.

"I'm sure," she says. She feels stuffed to the gills. She's also warm in borrowed clothes—they even gave her a scarf to cover and tie back her still-wet hair so it isn't dripping down her neck. The food and the comfort have left her sleepy despite all the excitement.

She glances down the table in Martier's cozy kitchen. Lionel is at the other end. His mother has disappeared. She wishes he weren't so far away. There is so much going on that she doesn't understand. Like how she thinks they've put them both at positions of honor at the table ends, men and women serving them both like they're royalty, but the elves won't look at Lionel, and they called him "half-breed." Is the reason for his change that he isn't full-elf? Why the deference on one hand, and what almost seems like disgust on the other?

"You're so much bigger than us!" says another child, poking his head around her other side. He has hair with curls that are just slightly looser than her own, and his skin is almost as dark.

Leaning toward his friend, the first boy says, "I hear humans age very fast, and you might be older than us!"

That makes Tara wince, but then the second says, "Do you like to play children's games? We would like another playmate."

They're adorably irrepressible, and Tara finds herself grinning and winking at them despite her fatigue. "Sometimes I play children's games." And then she's simultaneously hit with the worry that she's broken some taboo and a longing to see her little cousins. To her relief, she hears the adults around her laugh good-naturedly.

"Casir, I'm sure she's tired," says a man Tara might have mistaken for African, if it weren't for his Elvish frame and pointed ears. Tara fights back a yawn at his words and nods sleepily.

"Isn't that right, Missus...?"

The man inclines his head.

She feels a prickle on her spine. He's fishing for her full name. Waking up quickly, she says, "You can call me Miss Tara... from Chicago."

The elves laugh again. They don't sound cruel, yet she shivers. She looks down the table. Lionel is shooting daggers at the man with his eyes.

"You know our ways!" the man says with a grin.

"And your teeth are so white and straight!" says Martier.

"I bet you're as strong as a Valkyrie!" says the little boy who must be Casir.

Someone else says, "And no smallpox scars either!"

There are murmurs all around. Tara begins to feel like a bug under a microscope.

"Let's guess her name!" someone cries.

Someone begins to chant, "Tara McClellan, Tara O'Carey, Tara Johnson..."

"Stop!" Lionel says.

All the laughter stops, and for a moment, everyone freezes. Tara's eyelids suddenly feel especially heavy, and yet they won't fall. And then she blinks, and it's like a spell has broken, and time has resumed. People are shifting in their seats. Martier glares accusingly at Lionel.

His eyes are wide and shocked. "She needs sleep," he murmurs, and it sounds almost like an apology. Tara wonders what just happened.

"Of course," says Martier tightly. Snapping her fingers, she starts giving directions and the elves jump from their seats. Men and women both put the dishes away and clean up after the meal.

"Follow me," says Martier, gesturing to Tara.

Standing fast, Lionel comes to her side. Putting his hand on her back, he whispers, "It will be all right." Muscles she hadn't known were tense relax.

They follow the tiny woman outside, across a square of smooth stones, to a thatched cottage that is larger than the others. "This is our village's guest cottage," says Martier as she opens the door. Lionel's mother Tavende is inside, a broom in hand, as well as half a dozen other elves, all cleaning. Tavende smiles at Tara.

"All honored guests sleep here," Martier continues. "Humans, the queen's couriers... once we even had a king and his retinue stay in this cottage." The last she says meaningfully... but Tara's brain is fuzzy and getting fuzzier. She hides a yawn behind her hand.

"This way," says Martier, leading her through a tidy but snug living space into a bedroom. There is a fireplace to one side, and a large bed on the other. The bed looks very "country," with a quilt and heavy wood headboard. Elves bustle everywhere. Dumping some firewood into a metal box, one of the elves she'd seen in the Dark Lands says, "I never got your full name, missus..." He smiles, and Tara thinks he glows. She feels the oddest urge to tell him even though she knows it's wrong...

"Stop," Lionel growls.

The man goes very still. Everyone goes still. Tara feels like her heart forgets to beat.

"Get out," Lionel says, this time sounding tired.

Bowing to Tara, casting worried glances at Lionel, the elves leave the room. Tara swallows. "Are they going to keep trying to find out my name?"

"Probably," says Lionel.

Tara shivers.

"They don't mean any harm by it," Lionel says. "They're not strong enough to make you do anything drastic... but they'd probably play pranks."

"Pranks?" Tara asks, walking toward the bed as though it's pulling her by a string.

"Making you cluck like a chicken or walk like a duck," Lionel replies.

"Not a very nice way to treat a guest," Tara says.

"No," Lionel agrees.

"I wish they'd stop," Tara hears herself murmur as she flops down on the bed, not even bothering to crawl under the covers. She looks up at Lionel standing above the bed and thinks, _I wish you'd stay. They scare me. Their pranks aren't fair._

She closes her eyes and immediately finds herself in a tangled dream that is obviously her brain trying to tie her crazy day with something familiar and comforting, because Lionel leans over her bed and whispers, "As you wish."

"As you wish."

Tara's eyes are closed, and if she heard him, she gives no sign. He hopes it means that his presence has given her some subconscious release from her fears.

Sitting down on top of the covers next to Tara, he wipes his face with his hands and feels the unfamiliar bite of stubble.

He wishes he was less afraid.

Something is wrong with him, something more than his growth or fading soulmark, and something more than his _heritage_. He shouldn't have invoked the Destroyer last night in the swamp, but even worse, it shouldn't have worked. The jolt of power on the Golden Road... and when he'd gotten angry and told his former neighbors to stop, _they had_ , as though by compulsion. That such a thing would work on a human like Tara is possible, but on elves? Not from someone like Lionel. He's talented, but he's not that strong. He looks down at the braided keychain around his wrist. He hadn't even used it. The power had just been in him, waiting to be used.

It shouldn't be happening. He leans back against the headboard. But he shouldn't have the ability to World Walk either, should not have acquired the talent so young, and when he had walked that first terrible time, he should have been exiled to the Dark Lands, not sent to magic school in the palace. He should never have been made steward, either, and the ravens have no business helping him.

Lionel's eyes slide around the room. Martier had so pointedly mentioned, "A king had slept here." He knows the town lore... He picks at the golden cord holding the magic key and tries not to think about it.

What's more important is; can he fix it?

Tara shivers on the bed, curls her legs almost to her chin, and wraps her arms around herself. Her golden-brown fingers, clasped tight on her shoulders, are long, delicate, and slender. Lionel reaches out and almost puts his hand over hers, but then he sees his own hand. His nails grew as well as his bones, and his hand looks mitt-like and monstrous. He pulls back, and his jaw tightens. She's cold. He'd chased the others away before they lit the hearth. He drapes the wool throw from the base of the bed over her shoulders. She shivers again and he throws out an arm. The fireplace leaps with flame.

Tara opens her eyes and finds herself blinking at Lionel. He is sitting with his back against the headboard and his legs are outstretched in front of him. His eyes are on the fireplace across the room. She can feel its heat on her feet.

"You stayed," she says.

He looks down at her, his expression flat and unreadable, the fireplace giving his skin an orange glow. "You asked me to."

She'd said that aloud? It doesn't matter. Seeing him, she thinks she would have been fine with him reading her mind. "Thank you," she says.

He blinks at her. He has long lashes. They're just very fair, and she'd missed them before. "It was my pleasure," he says, his voice low and rolling.

Tara hopes her face is expressionless. The way he says it, she hears heat beneath the words... but maybe she just wants to hear that? He has a soulmate, she reminds herself. Averting her eyes, she tells herself that she and Lionel are just friends and can only be friends. This morning when she woke up—well, elves and human males obviously have some physiological similarities when they wake up in the morning.

... And being friends isn't bad. Lord knows, she's been the BFF of gorgeous guys before. She always likes nice guys; they always like girls who are petite, extroverted, and more feminine.

Her brow furrows. Hadn't Lionel said that elves weren't monogamous before marriage? Her body suddenly feels like it's sinking into the mattress, as though gravity on this world is greater. Maybe she hadn't imagined any heat? Does she like that?

Outside she hears happy and excited shouts.

"They're preparing a feast and a dance for you," says Lionel.

She focuses on the quilt. "Oh." She swallows. Shouldn't they be celebrating his return, too?

Lionel says, "We both need to bathe..."

Tara freezes.

"And they will want to dress you up," he finishes.

Tara can feel Lionel looking down on her. She doesn't look up.

"I think that perhaps your culture is more modest than mine..." She thinks she hears him nervously lick his lips. "Would you feel comfortable with my mother aiding you?" Very hastily, he adds, "She will not try to extract your name, and can help you with the bath and other things. We have running water, but it doesn't work the same."

He sounds so concerned. She does look up, and finds his eyes on her.

"I would like that," she says.

Lionel smiles and his dimple appears.

She can't help smiling back.

His smile drops, his blue eyes flick to her lips, and back to her eyes. His pupils are very dark.

Tara looks away in confusion, torn between elation and... disappointment? What is she to him? Just available? She thinks she'd rather be just friends. Her eyes fall on his hands balled loosely in his lap.

"I will go get her," he says. The bed creaks as he stands. Tara mumbles a "thanks" as he leaves and closes the door behind him.

Sitting up, she wraps the blanket draped over her around her shoulders. When had she draped it around herself? Tara looks around the room. There's a window hidden behind a curtain that she doesn't want to look through, lest someone look back and try to extract her name. There is a wardrobe that is enormous, carved with an elaborate scene of a unicorn battling a dragon. She can't help smiling, thinking that it might be magical. Maybe an elf child would wind up in Times Square or at Chicago's Bean if they walked through on a rainy day? There's a fireplace made of stones, not brick, filled with a roaring blaze, and a copper metal bin, green with age, filled with wood.

It's very rustic. Tara wonders what sort of king had slept in this guest house, how he'd come to be waylaid in a tiny village, and what he'd done while he was here. There are no books or even a writing desk.

There's a second doorway and Tara pads through it to find a room tiled with smooth-ish stones. There's a raised portion. She peeks in and discovers a shallow basin. She presumes it is a bath, but it is empty, and there are no spigots. There is a mirror, but her reflection is distorted and unrecognizable. The glass is so ancient it's "melted" like the windows of old houses she's repaired with her dad. There is a tiny little stool in front of the mirror, and dark globes of glass line the corners between the walls and ceiling.

The room is surprisingly warm. She turns around and notices that the heat seems to be emanating from some stones suspended in a copper mesh bag hanging above the probably-tub. She reaches out to feel their heat.

"Oh, don't touch them!" Lionel's mother's voice makes Tara jump.

Spinning, Tara finds Tavende carrying a stack of towels, what is maybe a robe, and a pair of shears.

The elf woman puts them down, and then moves a stone that makes water gurgle into the tub, and touches a few globes, which makes them flick on. Putting her hands on her hips, she eyes Tara's headscarf. "We need to trim the burnt ends of your hair, and a dry cut will work better with your hair texture."

Stomach sinking, Tara bows her head and unbinds the scarf. "It probably looks terrible," she murmurs embarrassedly.

"It does look terrible," Lionel's mother says.

Tara feels her heart sinking and casts a furtive glance at the tiny woman. The expression on the little elf woman's face catches Tara off guard. She expected judgment, smug disdain perhaps, but Lionel's mom looks... confused. Tavende cocks her head. "Does anyone look good with burnt hair?"

Tara remembers the ragged ends of Lionel's hair... he'd still looked good to her.

Picking the shears, Lionel's mother waves them and says, "Don't worry! Hairdressing isn't my magical talent, but I am very good at it."

Tara reaches back, touches another lock of hair at the back of her neck, and it disintegrates in her hand. There is no way around this, unless she wants to keep shedding clumps of hair like her childhood pet Collie in spring, it's got to be cut. She eyes the shears in the hands of the tiny elf... the tiny white elf, with straight blonde hair that hangs loose in a gorgeous cascade halfway down her back. Tara opens her mouth to ask for someone else, but then remembers the elves' attempts to get her name.

Lionel's mom points at the stool. "Have a seat."

Obeying, Tara reminds herself that it has to be done.

Tavende sighs. "Such a shame, such a shame, I cannot grow it back, I can only even it out," and then there is a furious flurry of snips. Tara looks down in horror as inches of her hair fall to the floor, and she feels the cool brush of the scissors near her nape. She can't imagine how this could get worse.

The snips stop and Tavende runs her fingers over Tara's scalp. "I think the waters from the delta have damaged your hair... your hair type is so delicate and prone to dryness." She tsks. "My talent isn't cutting hair, but it is restoring pluffomage to optimal health."

Pluffomage? Tara blinks at the word that apparently has no translation in English.

"You should see Henrietta's feathers!" Tavende says happily.

Tara's eyes go wide. This could get worse.

Lionel needs to bathe and get a haircut, but his mission can't wait. As he walks through the village, the only two children scatter before him like leaves. He can't imagine feeling worse. And then he knocks on Kalee and Jaben's door and they don't answer.

He puts his ear to the wood and hears them within. His lip curls, and a charge of magic jumps beneath his fingers. Even without the magic of his key, he could rip the door from its hinges if he wanted.

Remembering the whispers of "savage" earlier, he runs his hands through his hair and resists the urge. He will not live down to their expectations.

He knocks again and gets no answer. _I know you were doing more than hunting mushrooms in the delta,_ he almost says, and catches himself. There is more than his heritage they have to be afraid of. Lionel walks over to one of the tiny windows. The curtains are drawn but the window is cracked a bit.

"I won't ask about your mushroom-gathering trip," Lionel whispers into the gap.

There is no answer.

"Please, Kalee and Jaben, I need to talk to you. You're the most powerful magic users in the village." Maybe not as powerful as Lord Beddel, or his teachers at the palace, but they're able to open World Gates, if the rumors are true. And they are very old, far older than his mother. They lived on Midgard before it was closed to the elves. "I need your help."

Somewhere in the village, a dog barks. Lionel takes a step back, about to turn away, when he hears a creak. He sees Kalee peeking through the door, her eyes narrowed. "I don't know if our home is splendid enough for an Asgardian who may be _His_ son."

"I'm not—" Lionel catches himself before he says _Asgardian_. "I don't know who my father is," Lionel protests instead, his gut wrenching.

She sniffs. "You can probably lie."

Feeling like he's been punched in the gut, Lionel rocks back on his feet. The thing is, he might be able to lie. He feels it in him.

"Oh, let him in!" whispers Jaben. "Like you said, it doesn't matter anymore."

"Harrumph!" says Kalee, but she opens the door and ushers him in.

Ducking to keep from banging his head on the doorframe, Lionel enters, and finds the main room—a combination living room, kitchen, and dining room—stripped bare. Kalee and Jaben may be only peasants, but they're very old, and had managed to acquire things over the centuries: heavy chairs stuffed with goose down, a dragon skin, copper cooking implements that they'd kept polished and hung near the stove with pride, magical canning jars that had always been filled with bright vegetables, a few books and coins from every realm—even Midgardian coins minted before the Law. Lionel had been told the Midgardian coins had never been worth much—even on Midgard—but they'd been kept in a glass case of honor with the rest just the same. Now all that is left are two wooden chairs and two traveling trunks.

The scene reminds him of his mother's cottage just before he left for the palace. He gulps, fearing for the couple. The only reason elves move house is by invitation of the queen, or to be with a soulmate, like Amir, the elf in their village from the Middle Lands. Where can they possibly go?

He meets Kalee's eyes and she glares at him. He decides he will not ask why they've packed. He hopes, for their sake, that it isn't related to "mushroom hunting."

"Have a seat," says Jaben, gesturing to a chair.

Lionel sits down, and finds the stool shorter than the last time he visited. Jaben and Kalee sit down across from him. "What is it that you wanted to ask us?" Jaben says. "Spit it out."

"Have you known others like me?" Lionel asks.

"Half-breeds?" asks Kalee.

Recoiling at the word, Lionel tips back the stool, almost losing his balance.

"Sure, we have," says Jaben.

Gesturing to his now-looming frame, Lionel asks, "Can this be undone?"

Kalee snorts.

Lionel explains desperately, "The queen must have known about my possible heritage, but she'll never accept me if I don't _look_ like an elf." The realization had just come to him as he was walking here. He rubs his hands together in the cottage's chill; his limbs feel like lead. Remembering how his former neighbors had looked at him, he adds, "I doubt the village will accept me, either."

Jaben sighs. "Probably not. Those who don't like mixing of the classes won't want you here."

"And those who think that is foolishness won't want the ravens coming back," Kalee says sharply.

The ravens... Lionel remembers them visiting the village as a child, and thinking they were spying on him. The question is, on whose behalf had they spied? Was it a favor to someone that He sent them... or...? He shakes his head. It is too much to think about.

No matter who they spied for, the ravens would report to Odin if they'd seen anything suspicious, like Kalee and Jaben's "mushroom-collecting expeditions." It is a euphemism for visiting a hidden World Gate, probably to Midgard, somewhere in the delta. He rubs his temple. Kalee and Jaben are so old, the gate might have been located outside the delta in their youth, before the Law. But the Dark Land's magic has been growing and spreading.

He drops his hand. "Having Huginn and Muninn around must have been difficult for you," Lionel says. "But you never treated me like a half-breed."

"We weren't sure of your heritage. We doubt your own mother knew for sure," Jaben murmurs.

Lionel studies the stone tiles on the floor. He doesn't think his own mother was sure, either.

"You came so soon after her Sol's death," Kalee adds, referring to his mother's soulmate, her tone accusatory.

Lionel's jaw gets hard. He will not judge his mother for what she did in grief. "I don't want to be... look like a... half-breed. Can my growth be undone... and if so, who is strong enough?"

"How did it come about, exactly?" Jaben asks.

Lionel tells the tale, and when he is done, Jaben chuckles.

"It isn't irreversible?" Lionel asks in dismay.

"If you really want to look like an elf, it can be done," says Kalee.

"By who?" Lionel asks.

The two stare at him a long moment.

"Lionel," sighs Kalee. "You wanted to be an elf so badly, your magic bound you up and made you look like us. It was only when your magic was taken away that your true form was revealed."

Jaben shakes his head. "The only one strong enough and capable of binding you back up..."

Kalee finishes. "Would be you."

Jaben leans back in his chair.

"Think hard on if you'd want that."

"I do want it!" says Lionel.

Jaben scratches his neck. "Sounds painful."

Lionel inhales sharply, feeling an echo of the agony of the night before shoot to his bones.

"You'll never work again for the queen, either way," Kalee observes.

Jaben snorts. "Even if you bind yourself back up, she won't want you back."

"She'll know it's there," says Kalee.

Lionel's shoulders hunch. "My height, my—"

"Your aura!" says Jaben.

"Now that you aren't using it to tie yourself up in the shape of one of us, your aura's glowing more than a tree on fire," says Kalee. "Straight through the roof."

Lionel sits up straighter. All magical creatures have auras. Learning to see them was part of his magical training. Trying to do so used to make his forehead break out in a sweat, even with his keychain for power, but at her words, his vision shimmers. He sees the auras of Kalee and Jaben, both bright orange and licking the ceiling.

Kalee narrows her eyes. "Well, not a tree on fire..."

Her husband adds, "Yours is a steady _not_ light, more like a deep blue shadow, like snow on the far side of a mountain. A shadow so strong it feels like a glow."

Kalee nods.

Lionel looks down at his too-large hands.

Jaben clears his throat. "You can't see your own aura."

Blushing, Lionel remembers that from his lessons, too. It hadn't sunk in before because he never could see anyone else's auras before either—at least not without pain and suffering.

"Bind yourself up and it might bind your magic for a while," says Jaben.

"But she'll know," says Kalee. "She may have taken you in on His behest."

"But you're a threat to her power now. You're too strong," says Jaben.

"I'm not stronger than the queen," Lionel protests. He's seen her magic up close.

"Not now, but in a few centuries..." Kalee nods as though she's confirmed something to herself. "It'll come out, bound up in a less barbaric Elven body or not."

Lionel swallows. He feels a chill settle on him. They're right, he knows it. He thinks of his invocation of the Destroyer. The philosophers said it brought about the end of a life, and now his old life is over. He draws a hand through his hair, feeling the straw-like burnt ends. But his invocation had come _after_ the unbinding.

"What should I do?" he murmurs.

"Go to the dance," says Jaben.

Lionel lifts his head.

Kalee shrugs. "Nothing you can do now. Might as well enjoy yourself. Focus on the moment you have. You never know when the blight will come again."

It is a common refrain among the very old elves, a memory from a time when the Elven Seelie and Unseelie Courts had been at war, and the conflict had bled out into the other realms. Focus on now... it was a mental trick designed to shield immortal beings from contemplating an eternity of torment, one that every elf learned. Could it protect a half-blood from endless contemplation of possible death and banishment?

Jaben sniffs. "Well, you could get a bath, shave, and a haircut first."

Dipping his chin, Lionel avoids their eyes. "Of course." Rising to his feet, he hastily makes his goodbyes, and half stumbles through the too-small cottage onto the street, now aglow. His neighbors are busily preparing for Tara's welcome party, stringing ropes of glow globes and early spring flowers between the houses. The globes aren't lit yet, but his neighbors' auras fill Lionel's eyes, and he realizes with a start that he never learned how to turn his aura vision off because he'd never needed to. It makes the scene blurry, and gives him an odd double vision. None of his neighbors have auras as bright as Jaben and Kalee. Magical power is partly a manifestation of age, he recalls.

He sees his mother opening the door to the guest cottage, ushering in a few other women. Her aura is just a slight glow, a pleasant shade of pink. Over his mother's shoulders, he sees Tara wrapped in an enormous towel, hair full, loose, and very black. She's inspecting something in her hand and doesn't see him. Tara has no aura, and her features are crystal clear even at a distance. It's a relief to see a familiar face. He smiles and waves to get her attention, but she doesn't lift her eyes.

His mother waves, or maybe her aura waves, he's not quite sure. He smiles at her and rushes to her cottage, desperate to get out of the way of his neighbors and their shimmering auras following him like ghosts of a former life.

## 12

# A Faery Dance

"There," says Tavende. "You look beautiful."

Tara smiles, but is pretty sure it looks as insincere as it feels. What else is the person who sheared off all your hair and styled the remnants going to say? _I made a horrible mistake. Please forgive me?_

She touches the back of her neck. It feels cold. Lionel's mom really had to cut it close there. Tara knows why, but it's still a shock, and she's terrified of what it looks like.

Tavende touches her dress. "And Maliniea did a lovely job on this, too... It's so lucky she often sells to Valkyries, or we'd never have something to fit someone as statuesque as you."

Tara thinks that statuesque might mean "fat," but she can't help loving the dress. It's a very simple cut, three-quarter sleeves, a scooped neckline that's flattering but not too low, and a hemline that goes nearly to her ankles. And the fabric is magical. It has the feel of heavy knit silk, and flows over her body without feeling constricting, too hot, or too cold. Its color seems to flow, too. When she touches it, the surface ripples between a cream and a warm pink. The same Maliniea had also gifted her a pair of shoes. Not to be disloyal to her Jimmy Choos—may they rest in peace—but the shoes are beautiful. Granted, they're antique looking with their barely two-inch tall spool heels, and delicate laces that start just above the rounded tip and go to where they open just above her toes. The curve of the opening makes her legs look long and lean. The tan leather is incredibly soft, just a shade paler than her own skin. The stitching is a work of art that makes her mouth water a little. They're also comfortable, which Tara thinks might be magic in shoes this pretty.

"You need a mirror," Tavende says. "Wait here, I'll go get a newer one!"

She dashes out the door before Tara can say a word. The woman is so tiny, slender, and painfully pretty. Tara sighs and rubs her forehead. Tavende seems genuine, terribly sweet, too, and she pledged to see Tara home, putting herself into Tara's debt. Tara winces. At the debt, and at the immediate problem of the mirror. If Tara doesn't like what she sees, she'll have to fake it. For Lionel's mother's sake, she actually wants to lie and say she loves it, but Tara's a terrible actress.

There is a soft knock at the door. Tara freezes, not ready to fend off any more attempts to learn her name, but then Lionel's muffled voice comes through the entrance. "May I come in?"

Feeling herself go light with relief, Tara cries, "Yes!"

Lionel opens the door, takes a step in, and then his lips part.

Tara's chest tightens, and she suddenly feels like she has to defend Lionel's mom's efforts. "Your mother did her best with what was left." She does her best to smile.

Lionel at least looks great. He's shaven, and someone has cut his hair. He's tied it back in a pretty sexy man bun. That definitely works for him. A few bangs have slipped forward and brush his chin. His clothes fit him now, too: a long tunic that accentuates his shoulders, and simple brown trousers tucked into boots the same color.

"You look beautiful." Lionel breathes the words so smoothly; Tara's first thought is that it must be a practiced lie.

She tilts her head, smiles, and holds up her hand to say, _It's okay, you don't have to fib,_ and then remembers that elves don't lie and blinks.

Lionel takes a step forward. "Well, I've always thought you were beautiful, even that first night when your hair was wet and in disarray—the droplets glittered so bright—but this looks a lot less cold." He's so close that Tara would barely have to lift a finger to touch him. Flushing, Tara has to look away.

"It's as though..." Lionel holds a hand up as though he will touch the side of her head, but doesn't. "You wear a nebula for a crown."

The spell snaps like a spring. That was a bit too far; he's teasing her. Obviously. She'll tease him right back. Cocking an eyebrow, Tara says, "Are you saying my hair looks like a cloud of gas?"

For a moment, she doesn't think Lionel even breathes. He just stares at her. But then he bursts out laughing. "You're so smart and funny. It's one of the things I like about you." He leans forward and presses his lips to her brow. They're dry and soft, and heat spreads from them like an electrical charge to every part of her body. Tara's eyes slip closed, and her tongue darts across her lips. She almost reaches out and touches him. He stands too close for too long for a simple kiss on the brow, but she's not complaining. The light behind her eyelids changes, and that's how Tara knows he's stepped away. She wants to protest, but then she hears soft familiar footsteps... at this particular moment, they sound like thunder. Opening her eyes just in time, she sees Tavende burst into the cottage, clutching a mirror the size of a large serving platter. "I found one!"

"Oh," says Tara. Before she can react, or prepare herself, the tiny woman lifts it up in front of her so Tara can't help but see her reflection. Her mouth falls open, and she can't bring herself to smile.

Her hair is much shorter and it's reverted to its natural texture. Tavende has pushed it back from her face with a black stretchy hairband that disappears into Tara's curls. Her remaining hair forms a bun, into which Tavende put tiny shiny flowers, each tinier than the tip of Tara's pinky. It's simple, elegant, and Tara's hair—

"It looks like the night sky, filled with stars, yes?" says Tavende.

The night sky... it's not how Tara has ever thought of her natural hair. She throws her hands to her mouth. "I love it." It comes out a whisper. She feels her eyes start to prickle in the corners.

Beaming, Tavende angles the mirror. "Look at the dress."

"The dress is lovely, too," Tara says, her eyes too blurry to look, but she'd known that from the start.

"I have to go get ready," Tavende says, placing the mirror against a wall. "Lionel, it's almost time. Watch out for her!"

A frown flickers across Lionel's face. "I will," he says, and his fingers brush the top of Tara's hand—like she'd done for him when she'd heard the villagers call him half-breed and hadn't known how to comfort him. That he's returning the favor now means that he noticed, he cared, and he wants to reciprocate. Her heart feels filled to bursting.

Tavende exits, leaving the door wide open. Tara's gaze slides to Lionel, standing close at her side.

"What now?" she murmurs, to herself, to him, and the universe. He has a soulmate and a soulmark to prove it. Her eyes slide up his profile to the points of his mesmerizing ears. She feels the heat from his touch on her hand, even now. She can't be his soulmate... can she? And if she isn't?

His hand slides into hers, and it is amazing what he can do to her body with something so innocent. More than that, the way he looks at her, eyes dark, eyelids heavy... the chemistry isn't one way.

In the doorway, the little blonde-haired boy from breakfast shouts, "Tara from Chicago, it's time to begin!"

Lionel squeezes her hand and shrugs. His lips turns up in a wry smile. "Now we go to the party."

As he leads her out into the glittering twilight, Tara thinks, _That wasn't the question I was asking._

At the table Lionel watches as Tara samples the ice wine. Her lashes are long and dark against her skin as she sips the light blue liquid.

She looks up, licks her lips in a way that almost makes him lick his own, and says, "I like it... it's very light, a little sweet..."

"Hence, it is for dessert." He gives her a smirk. Her nose wrinkles, and he knows she's fighting a smile.

Tara's presence has made being in the moment easier. Watching her react to his home world has been like seeing it for the first time.

The faintest of scowls slips over her brow. "It seems a bit strong, though." Leaning so her arm just brushes his, she whispers earnestly, "Lionel, I'm a horrible..." She switches from Elvish to English. "Lightweight." Wincing, she adds, "It's an expression. It means I can't hold my liquor, so I usually don't drink at all."

The night is cool, but with her body just barely grazing his, Lionel has felt warm all evening. It's been a long time since a potential new lover has made him feel this awake. Maybe it is the storm clouds brewing in his future, giving their interactions extra weight? Trying to keep the moment light, Lionel cocks an eyebrow and looks pointedly at the tankards of various ales that have accumulated near her seat at the table. Tara had politely taken a tiny sip of each one... and not a drop more. "I'd noticed that," he says.

"I don't want to offend anyone!" she says, putting a hand over her mouth and glancing around the table in obvious distress.

He wouldn't care if she offended the entire lot. They were playing a "guess Tara's name game" all through dinner. Thankfully, in his village, most interactions between humans occurred with humans from Scotland. Lupita, he takes it, is a name of Spanish origins.

Around them, people start to get up and take away the dishes. Rolleim, plates in hand, pauses by Tara and grins. "Drunk enough to tell me your name yet?"

Giving a tight smile, Tara puts the wine down and scoots the glass away with a finger. "Nope."

The noise that comes out of Lionel's mouth is a low hiss.

Rolleim sneers. "Come off it, Lionel. She's obviously not drunk, and I was obviously teasing."

Lionel's eyes narrow. It's obvious by his flushed face that Rolleim has been drinking. The fact he's talking to Lionel is also a clue. Before the meal, he hadn't even looked in Lionel's direction.

His once friend cocks his head. "Oh... maybe it's because you're a half-breed. You're jealous, aren't you?"

Lionel feels his cheeks heat. Jealousy for a soulmate is barely acceptable after marriage; jealousy for someone else is deviancy, savagery, and a hallmark of the lesser races.

Kalee calls Rolleim's name. Giving Lionel a smug smile, Rolleim slips off.

"You were being protective, not jealous," Tara murmurs, shaking her head.

Lionel feels a weight lift from his chest at her words. She touches his arm, and he can't help catching her fingers with his own. It's automatic, like when he's played games of romance and seduction at court, but he doesn't feel like he's playing.

"What are they doing over there?" Tara asks, craning her neck.

Peering in the direction she indicates, he smiles. "Oh, they're getting out their instruments. As soon as the table is cleared, they'll rearrange the square for dancing." Turning to her, he pats her hand. "I'm sure there will be a waltz."

He expects a smile. Instead Tara's eyes are wide, and her lips are parted in a look of mild horror.

"What?" says Lionel.

"Will they expect me to waltz?" Tara asks.

"Well, yes, don't you like to?" Lionel asks, feeling a frisson of tension along the back of his neck. He'd thought a waltz would make her pleased. It shows the goodwill of his people—how they respect her culture and don't mean to be cruel by stealing her name.

"It's not a matter of like," says Tara. "It's that I can't. I never learned how. That dance is over a hundred years old and I'm"—she raises her hands—"... not."

Lionel draws back. Tara has handled being kidnapped, dragged to another world, imprisoned, and trekking through a dangerous swamp with remarkable grace. She released him from a life debt with a pinky promise, and offered sympathy when his own people... or those he thought were his own... had not. He had put it out of his mind that she is younger. Curious, he leans forward. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-nine?"

The way she whispers it, it sounds like a question. He draws back. Lionel thinks it is a testament of his refinement, of his non-savagery, that he doesn't let his shock show. His eyes slide to the two children of his village, playing a game in the dirt with rounded stones. They're slightly older than she is. His fingers, still covering hers, slide away. All evening he's been picturing them eventually falling together in the guest cottage... His attraction to her isn't like the lechers among the nobility that violate children... Still.

_Twenty-nine._

He hears Tara gulp.

Recovering his manners, he turns back to her. "The basic steps aren't hard. Come on, I'll show you." Taking her hand, he gives a smile that he hopes is more friendly than seductive, and leads her from the long benches by the table. He sees the light on in his mother's kitchen; she's probably helping with the cleanup. There will be light there, and his mother won't laugh at Tara's first steps—at least not unkindly. His mother will also keep him from being a... it's not right to think of himself as a predator, he reminds himself. She is an adult among her kind.

Still... _twenty-nine._

He leads her into his mother's home. Like Kalee's and Jaben's, there is a large room that serves as kitchen, dining room, and sitting area. It isn't as large as he remembers. As he suspected, his mother is doing dishes from the feast. Dropping Tara's hand, he quickly rolls up the rug in the sitting area, exposing the stone floor beneath, worn smooth with the centuries.

"What are you doing, Lionel?" his mother exclaims.

"Teaching Tara to waltz," Lionel says.

"But it's a human dance!" his mother protests.

By the door, Tara wrings her hands. "I'm so sorry for the trouble, ma'am."

Hoping to ease her discomfort, Lionel explains it the quickest way possible. "Mother, Tara is only twenty-nine years old."

Certainly, he hadn't known the waltz at that age.

His mother's eyes go wide. Tara... well, a look he can't decipher flits across her face, but then she just smiles sadly and nods. "Yes, only twenty-nine."

"Oh," says Lionel's mother.

Lionel takes Tara's hand and pulls her to the open space on the floor. He lifts his hands, and she steps into his arms and puts her hands in the correct location. "I know this much," she says. His eyes fall on her lips.

"Twenty-nine," whispers his mother in a voice of disbelief.

"Right," says Lionel. He looks away and quickly leads her through the steps. Tara picks them up quickly, but even more than that, she doesn't fight his lead, and her body moves easily with his.

"You know how to follow," Lionel says.

"Stepping, merengue, and salsa," she says. "I do know those."

Lionel shakes his head, remembering his meal on her world. "The first are gibberish... the third, I have no idea what that particular condiment has to do with the waltz."

Outside, someone tunes a lute.

Tara's lips purse.

"I think we're ready for the rhythm," say his mother, and she begins clapping her hands. Remembering the waltz Tara played for him in Chicago, Lionel begins to whistle. He's only a few bars in when she fumbles over his feet. Recovering, she looks up at him with wide eyes. "That's the waltz I played for you in Chicago."

"Yes," he says.

"You're whistling it perfectly!" she gasps.

"Music is something all my people are good at," he says without thinking, and then feels the air rush out of his lungs and his limbs go cold. Elves love music... he's not sure about Asgardians.

"Both sets of my people claim to be naturally musical," she huffs. "And both sides claim to be the best at it; it was a running argument in our house. But I don't think I could whistle something I've heard once so perfectly."

Lionel blinks. She's not a half-breed; she's completely human. He's about to say something to that effect when he remembers Hannah, Abraham, and their little boy—the three humans he met as a child on Midgard, and how they were treated by their fellow humans. Einherjar staying at the palace had explained to him the concept of "racism." Even if every other species sees humans as one race, they see themselves as separate races. Tara's mother obviously has ancestors who hail from the center of Earth's western continent. Her father, if it had been her father in the pictures he'd seen, had ancestors from Africa.

Lionel momentarily loses the beat, remembering her hand touching his when his neighbors had called him "half-breed." It hadn't been some brilliant strike of inspiration; her empathy had been hard won.

"Am I doing something wrong?" Tara asks.

Giving a little shake, Lionel says, "No. Let's work on a turn." He catches the rhythm again and spins her out.

She turns gracefully back into his arms as though she's been waltzing for much longer than five minutes.

Only twenty-nine, and already she's lived so much.

The notes of a waltz swirl around Tara. The music is played on a sort of harp, a lute, a flute, and a hand drum. She wonders if they might be magical because they have much better acoustics than she would have imagined. A firm hand rests on her back, and another grips her hand. The handsome elf in front of her, Jaben, smiles as he leads her through the steps.

She tells herself that she's glad he isn't Lionel. She'd sensed how quickly Lionel's ardor cooled when he discovered her age, and that's obviously not going anywhere. Luckily, every elf in the village, and a few from neighboring villages, has wanted to dance with her, making her feel like a princess—or, as one of the little boys said, "A Valkyrie princess!" Before every dance, Lionel had insisted she extract a promise from each partner not to try to get her real name, and it's worked.

The music rises in volume, and Jaben, just a few inches shorter than her, with dark hair and sparkling blue eyes, leans toward her ear. "How long does it take to fly by aeroplane to Scotland from Chicago? A week? A few days?"

Tara nearly loses her balance, remembering Jaben's wife's comments on the MacGregors. But leaning in, she whispers back, "I think it is about six hours, but you may have to stop in London... maybe eight?"

"Hours..." whispers Jaben.

Tara feels a little dizzy. He's planning on going to Earth. "Are you planning on leaving soon? Could you get me to the Chicago World Gate?"

Jaben leans in and whispers so close his breath tickles her ear. "The queen's forces and the Dark Elves are still fighting for the World Gate. Her Majesty's forces are currently laying siege. No one can get in or out. Kalee and I are going to join the fight on the side of the Dark Elves."

Tara swallows.

"Don't worry, girl!" Jaben says, squeezing her hand. "The queen will see you home. If not through that gate, then another. She knows of many and won't need to send you through a war zone."

Tara shivers. She doesn't feel very reassured. She bites her lip. And why is she asking? After the stunt she pulled with Lionel, the Dark Elves aren't going to let her go through their gate.

The music slows and comes to a stop. Releasing her, Jaben bows. Before he's even stepped away, Tara feels Lionel at her shoulder. He may not be romantically interested in her, but he's kept his promise to look out for her.

Jaben eyes Lionel, smirks, and says to Tara, "Thank you for dancing with me." With that, he scampers off. The musicians start putting away their instruments. Elves come up to her and wish her good night, to thank her for dancing with them, and to tell her how well she did at the Elvish reel—it hasn't all been waltzing, but it has been really fun. One little Elven woman cries, "I never thought I'd live to see a real human!" Which makes Tara grin ear to ear. She can see why a fellow might stay here for fifty years... but she has to get home to her mother.

Besides the constant pesky attempts to get her name, the only thing that is uncomfortable is the way they treat Lionel. It had taken large quantities of alcohol for them to even look at him.

"It's late," he says as the crowd disperses. "Shall I show you to the guest cottage?"

The guest house is within sight, but Tara sees Rolleim in that general direction. She hadn't gotten an oath of no-name-extracting from him. "I'd like that," she says.

Lionel leads her toward the little cottage. In the fading glow of the bug lights, Tara sees Rolleim examine Lionel through narrowed eyes. Apparently deciding he doesn't like what he sees, he vanishes into the shadows.

They pass a little house with the window open and a man says, "It's cold, let's close the shutters." Which makes Tara look, and then her eyes cross as a naked woman reaches out to close a shutter. Behind her is a man also without clothes, and he is obviously rarin' to go. They both wave cheerfully at her. "Good night, Tara of Chicago," they exclaim before the shutters shut.

"Elves aren't modest," Lionel whispers. "But they mean no harm."

"Oh, I know they didn't mean anything by it," she whispers. "I was just surprised." She almost says, "When in Alfheim, do as elves do," but she doesn't think she's ready to do as they just did. "And not offended," she says instead.

Lionel smiles at her. They reach the cottage and he says, "Would you like me to help you start the fireplace?"

The night is chilly, but instead of saying yes, she says, "If I'm going to sleep, won't that just be wasted effort? I mean... the sparks..." She's stalling. She'd like to see more of him, even it is just to talk, and since he found out her age, that seems all it will be. Only talking will be... nice, she tells herself.

"They're magic. The sparks won't jump out and catch the house on fire," he says. "And it's no effort."

Tara melts. "Yes, please then."

They go into the little cottage and Lionel raises his hand and the fire in the hearth of the common area lights up. A few quick steps, and he vanishes into the bedroom. Tara doesn't follow. She hears a whoosh and sees the glow of flames.

Lionel emerges from the room and asks, "Are you tired?"

"Not really," she admits. Although she wonders if it is just him being here that's giving her a charge.

"I'll make tea," he says, and goes over to the fireplace and swings a kettle on a lever into the flame. For the first time, Tara notices a little tray with teacups nearby. Kings need tea, apparently, even if they don't need a kitchen. She sits a little uncomfortably on one edge of an overstuffed sofa.

Lionel comes over to the sitting area. He skips the sofa, and looks at the heavy chair that is directly to Tara's right that looks almost like a throne. Lionel frowns at it, as though some unpleasant memory still sits there, and sits down on the ottoman in front of Tara instead.

"I wish I had a little gray box that could play all sorts of music for you," he says.

Tara smiles at his joke. "A computer," she says in English.

He smiles back. "Gibberish."

Flames in the fireplace crackle, and the silence between them feels uncomfortable. She wonders what he's doing here, but doesn't want to ask, because maybe then he'd go and she doesn't want that. He's funny and kind, and has looked out for her here, just as she did for him on Earth, she supposes. After tomorrow they'll never see each other again, and that thought hurts.

Lionel's so close she'd only have to lean a little bit forward to kiss him. But he's looking at the chair again, glaring at it as though admonishing it for spying on them. Who knows, it could be a magical chair, and it could be spying on him.

But the silence feels more oppressive than just a nosy magical chair. She almost asks him if something is wrong... and then realizes that he's come home to be called "half-breed" and something in their journey made him grow and changed him painfully. Of course something is wrong.

"What will you do?" Tara blurts out instead.

Lionel's gaze meets hers.

Tara waves a hand at him. "I mean, you've changed... and I don't really understand why... but I know that it hurt." Physically and emotionally.

Lionel rubs his jaw. "I will have some trouble." He takes a deep breath, pulls the key chain around his wrist out from under his shirt, and clasps it tightly in his hand. "I'll never be the steward to the queen again."

"Because you're... not full elf?"

Lionel shrugs. "It's more complicated than that." He sighs. "I realize that as a magician, even a minor one as you say you are, that you might not think that being a steward is a great vocation, but I liked it. Yes, there were a lot of tedious chores, but working for the queen, I met people from every realm." He picks at the keychain. "My placement was interesting, if not particularly grand."

Tara swallows. She actually understands him perfectly. "My placement... as a minor magician..." She smiles at the job title he's given her. "Is interesting... if not particularly grand." Lionel's eyes come back to her and she looks down at her hands.

"I never could decide on what to be," Tara admits. "As a minor magician, well... I get to be a little bit of everything. Cleaning viruses off of people's computers can be tedious, especially when it's the same virus over and over and it is the same cat GIF."

Lionel blinks at that, and he mouths the word gibberish.

Smiling bashfully, Tara soldiers on. "But I also create devices to help detect dark energy, and I knew what that magic-blocking wire was based on conversations I've overheard from Dr. Eisenberg." Leaning forward, she whispers. "I don't think I was actually supposed to overhear, but I did."

Lionel grins. "Some of my magical abilities, like becoming invisible and creating illusions, I'm not supposed to know, but do because I overhear things." He winks. "Those are skills that lords and ladies don't like their servants knowing."

Tara snickers. She can imagine servants are supposed to be figuratively invisible, not _literally._

"I have access to the queen's library, too, so I know many other things I'm not supposed to know. It's how I know things about Abrahamic religions." Shrugging, he adds, "I like learning about everything."

"That's why I'm only a minor magician!" Tara says. "There are so many things I could have been—"

"You were allowed to choose?" Lionel asks, sounding startled.

Nodding, Tara says, "But I like everything too much to focus on one thing. My job is so varied. I fix things, I build things, sometimes I even write press releases for Dr. Eisenberg when he wants something in 'plain English.' I may only be a minor magician, but I have more than I need, and I like it." She just doesn't have everything she _wants_ —like someone to share her life with.

The teapot whistles and Lionel gets up and returns minutes later with cups of something steaming and fragrant. Tara holds hers in both hands, letting the warmth spread to her fingers. "What will you do?" she asks.

Sitting back down, Lionel says, "I... there will be options." He swallows. "If not here, then maybe among my father's people." Tilting his head, he appraises her. "You have choices," Lionel says. "Perhaps that explains it..."

Tara sits up expectantly, waiting for him to finish the thought.

"... You seem a lot more mature than a twenty-nine-year-old elf."

By saying it, she feels Lionel has decreased the tension in the room by half. She can't help laughing a little. "I kinda noticed that surprised you."

He gives her a crooked smile, revealing the dimple in his left cheek. "It did catch me off guard, but I'm over it."

The fire crackles. Tara finds herself nervously lifting her tea cup to her lips, and then jerking the cup away when she finds it too hot.

"May I?" says Lionel, setting his own tea down and reaching toward hers.

Tara nods, not sure what he has in mind.

Instead of taking the cup from her, he wraps his hands around hers and blows onto the liquid. Snowflakes form in the steam. Smiling with delight, Tara catches one on her finger and watches as the delicate lace-like pattern melts into her skin. Then she looks down at the cup. The liquid within has a crust of ice on top.

"Oops," says Tara, gazing down at it. "I think you overdid that a little."

"Tara," Lionel whispers.

Tara lifts her gaze and finds he's still leaning close. His pupils are wide and dark. His hand hasn't left hers, and next to the now-cold cup seems fever hot. She glances at his lips, just inches from her own. She looks back up and nods, _Yes_ , though he's asked no question. He holds her gaze with his own. Time seems to have physical weight, and it feels like it is crushing her.

And then he leans forward, and his lips are _finally_ on hers, warm, soft but firm and insistent. Tara's eyes slide closed, her heart pounding, her fingers itching to touch him, and a perverse desire to laugh rising in her chest because it is a _perfect_ kiss. She's breathless when Lionel pulls back. His free hand goes to her ear. Tracing the top with his thumb, his eyes search hers. "After tomorrow, I won't see you again," he murmurs.

Tara's chest constricts. "I know." And she hates it. She likes him more after just sitting and talking to him.

"I want," he whispers, "to give you a long goodbye."

"Long goodbye?" Tara tilts her head.

Lionel smiles. "I seem to have given you all the words of my language, but not all the phrases."

"What does it mean?" Tara whispers.

Hand ghosting down from her ear, to her face, and then her arm to her hand, he takes her fingers and says, "I'll show you."

Standing, he guides her to her feet, and then draws her across the room. She follows as though floating on a string. She feels like their bodies are magnets, longing to come together, and if they just get a little bit closer, they'll snap into place. She can feel her pulse racing; her fingers hold the partially-frozen cup tight. Lionel's almost in the bedroom when her steps falter.

Lionel turns around, reels her in, and their bodies come together with all the rightness she'd imagined. Lionel strokes her face, her ears, brushes back a loose tendril of hair, and then he kisses her again. It's more urgent, and she's getting lightheaded. She's not sure who spins them, or when she starts backing up, but suddenly her back is against the wall, Lionel's lips are making their way down her neck, she has her free hand on his ear and she's rolling her thumb over the point and gasping for breath. His hands are slipping to her hips and she feels him inching the dress up. Her eyes slide to the side. In the bedroom, she sees golden firelight. The bed looks warm and welcoming... not that she needs to be warmer. She feels like she is on fire... but... but... but...

He lifts his head from her neck, kisses her lightly, and then his eyes go to the doorway and come back to her. One of his eyebrows lifts. His hands keep pulling up her dress, inch by agonizing inch, his body is flush with hers, his knee is pressed between her legs, and the friction of that against her is glorious.

She strokes the point of his ear. She loves how soft it feels and how warm. In her other hand, the teacup is still cold. Magically cold... She takes a sharp breath. She has no idea what she's doing here, what the sexual mores of this world are, she could get pregnant if they're not careful. These thoughts fill her mind, but as Lionel leans in to kiss her again, it is her heart that speaks. "What about your soulmate?"

He pulls back. He's so beautiful in the firelight, his face bathed in its orange glow. "I haven't met her yet."

He's beautiful and she wants him, and maybe she should do this so that when she's old and grey and is surrounded by cats she can look back and think about Lionel.

But then Lionel leans in, and Tara ducks her head, so his forehead rests against hers. She can feel heat radiating from it. Her eyes slipped closed. There are a lot of things that they could do that wouldn't risk pregnancy and thinking about them makes heat pool inside her... but would he push too hard for more? That's what her head says, but her heart speaks again. "You could meet her at any time."

"Tomorrow?" He says it lightly, chidingly, but there is a tightness in his jaw... that finely chiseled jaw that she wants to explore with her fingers and her lips. She can still feel the bite of his stubble like an echo on her skin.

She'd wanted him to declare her his soulmate. Her words were her heart's gambit to draw it out. She gulps. Crazy heart. There are no such things as soulmates. Not for humans, at least.

She thinks of the doctor who only dates black girls to upset his parents and feels herself going cold. She can't be an experiment, a rebellion, or a practice run. Swallowing down her hurt, she whispers, "Maybe you're too young to find your soulmate, but I'm too old not to be looking for mine." Not that she believes humans have soulmates, either. Not the way elves have them. If she does this, she's going to pine for Lionel for a long, long time, and she can't do that.

"Humans don't have soulmates," he says.

The words cut through the air, and maybe her heart.

"But we do have souls," she says, and it comes out a shout. Her soul needs someone who sees her more than a one-night stand. Her lip trembles and her free hand balls into a fist.

Lionel frowns. "Tara Lupita Gibson..." His voice sounds exasperated and far away. Tara's hand unknots and her lips part. Lionel backs up and Tara hears a crack. She and Lionel both jump as the teacup she'd managed to not spill because of the ice crust falls to the floor.

"It slipped," Tara says, dropping to sit on her heels, more because she is afraid of what she will do if she has to look at Lionel.

"No," he says, dropping beside her. "I'll pick it up."

It's then that she notices she's still holding the handle of the cup. Among the fragments on the floor is a solid chunk of frozen tea. Tara's eyes widen, and the last fragment slips from her hand.

Head bowed, not looking at her, Lionel says, "You're right, Tara, you do have a soul."

Tara doesn't move, a lump forming in her throat.

Lionel's voice trembles. "Please go."

It's the tremble that makes her pause.

"Go!" Lionel shouts.

Tara springs to her feet and edges past the glass into the bedroom. As soon as she enters the other room, the door slams shut, without her or Lionel lifting a finger.

## 13

# Soulmates

Tara wakes with her face pressed against a pillow. She remembers banging her head against it the night before. It's not that she regrets the decision she made; it would have been too risky... or so says her brain. Her body is frustrated. She'd been so entranced in kissing Lionel that she hadn't been aware of spinning through the room, and her fingers are still warm, remembering how the point of his ear felt between them.

She groans, hears a knock at the door, and bolts up with a start. She's still wearing the dress from the night before. She hears another knock, and her heart jumps. Lionel?

Tavende's voice, muffled by the door, says, "Tara, you must wake up. The queen has sent an escort."

Tara's heart settles into a more normal place. "I'm coming," she calls.

She hears a man's muffled shout in Elvish. "Where is she?" Someone else says, "Where is the steward? The queen is demanding his presence as well!"

Tara opens the door, briefly sees two elf men in full-on medieval-esque armor, but Tavende scoots quickly in and shuts the door behind her before Tara can get a better look.

The little elf woman blinks. "Lionel isn't here?"

"Um..." says Tara.

"I haven't seen him since last night," says Tavende, not looking angry, just worried.

Tara shrugs helplessly.

Tavende puts her hand over her mouth. "They're demanding you leave at once." She whispers earnestly, "But don't worry, Tara, I won't let you go alone."

"The queen will help me get home," Tara whispers. "Won't she?"

Tavende tilts her head. "I would expect her to."

Somehow, that isn't precisely reassuring. Tara counts down the hours in her head. Friday night in the cell and then the swamp, Saturday night here... it's Sunday. She probably hasn't even been missed yet. Well, not much. Her mom has probably texted, but she's in Mexico, and will be distracted.

"Lean down," says Tavende, and Tara does without a thought. The little elf woman begins adjusting Tara's hair. It's so much like her own mother's attentions that it makes Tara's heart hurt.

Finishing up, Tavende grabs her hand and leads her out to the main room. The elves bow to Tara. Straightening, one of them says, "Do you really speak Elvish?"

Tara nods.

"How can that be?" he asks.

"Enchantment," says Tavende, squeezing Tara's hand. "She passed through the Delta of Sorrows."

Tara can't help noticing that she doesn't say that it was Lionel's doing. Does she know?

The elf doesn't ask. Instead he bows again and says, "Be not afraid, human. We are under orders to deliver you to our queen."

They don't say that they'll take her home, Tara notices. She also notices that they have bows, arrows, swords, and knives.

There are more shouts from outside the house. Tara hears someone say, "Where is the steward?"

The man who spoke indicates the door with a nod. Tavende and Tara walk out into the warm glow of late morning. The village square is filled with horses and men in cream, blue, and gold livery. A man holding the reins of a Palomino bows to Tara. "Madam, this is your mount."

Tara stares at the horse in dismay. Turning its head, it opens its mouth and plays with its bit, obviously laughing at her. There are some women at the university with horses. One broke her back when the creature "spooked." Tara's only ridden a horse at carnivals and she's never desired more, especially after hearing how easy it is to break one's back on one. She stares at the saddle. It looks different than the ones she's used. It's high in the wrong places. She gulps. "Is that a sidesaddle? Because I don't ride sidesaddle... or... um... at all."

There are some chuckles from the men. "The lady doesn't ride horses!"

Someone else says, "So much for being a Valkyrie."

Lionel's voice cuts through the crowded square. "She is the beloved and respected master of a horseless chariot capable of crushing you beneath its wheels at her whim."

Tavende and Tara both jump. Lionel strides into the square from between two thatched cottages. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he could use a shave. He's glaring at the men who were teasing Tara. Tara's eyes flit to the gathered throng. They're looking at her with wide eyes. The man holding the golden horse shuffles back a step, and even the horse is turning away, as though intimidated.

Her stomach—or maybe her heart—roils. Lionel defended her.

The courtyard erupts in whispers, and someone says, "There are rumors the beasts are self-aware."

"She must be a magician..."

"Humans can't be magicians."

"But their fire sticks..."

"Humans have their own magic."

A man, wearing garments similar to the ones Lionel had worn when Tara had first met him, squeaks, "Lionel?"

Lionel glares up at the elf. "It's me."

A guy in armor, who may be the leader by the amount of gold on him, says, "You are hereby ordered to report to Her Majesty."

Rubbing his jaw, Lionel says, "I will come with you, but I would like to get Tara a more comfortable saddle."

The knight with the bling straightens. His mouth opens, but before he speaks, Lionel cuts in. "Think of how upset Her Majesty will be if her human guest falls from the horse and breaks her neck."

"You may get a different saddle," says the knight, his horse shifting beneath him.

"Mother, get Tara some breeches and meet us in the barn." As Tavende darts off, Lionel says, "Tara, please come with me." Tara eyes the knights and the one retainer, and Lionel giving them all the evil eye. She edges closer to Lionel. He turns on his heel without a backward glance at her and she follows. He looks all kinds of tense. Because of her and last night? The silence as they walk is physically painful. Trying to recapture whatever they had before, Tara chides, "You know, my car—horseless chariot—doesn't really love and respect me."

In a dismissive tone she normally associates with Dean Kowalski, Lionel snaps, "Yes, it does. I heard it in its bleep."

The tone hurts, and the words make her eyebrows jump. Tara sighs and gives up trying to make conversation.

Minutes later, they're in a barn. Bits of hay catch on rays of sunlight filtering through open windows and sparkle like flecks of gold. There's a short, plump white horse that snuffles in their direction. In another stall, there's a giant bird thing with a sort of beak-like face, shiny, iridescent, bright green plumage, and arms instead of wings. The thing leans over the door of its stall and coos in a way eerily reminiscent of the velociraptors. Tara jumps back as a huge pink tongue slips out of its mouth, revealing flattish teeth.

"That's Henrietta. She's friendly," Lionel says by way of explanation.

That's the Henrietta Tavende talked about last night before cutting her hair. Her feathers are beautiful but... Tara's eyes go to the earthen floor, not wanting to lose another beautiful pair of footwear in a Henrietta sized mess. Lionel leads her past the animals to a stall filled with bales of hay, tools, lots of leather bits and pieces, and three saddles, one enormous. Tara blinks. It's for Henrietta. She glances back at the creature blinking lazily in her direction. The feathers threw her, but... Her lips purse...Is that a duck-billed dinosaur? Weren't they members of the hadrosaur family? She almost asks, but Lionel looks so angry at the knights, her, the world, or the universe that she decides against it.

He may have defended her honor, or whatever, but he hasn't looked at her once this morning. He's putting space between them that's more than physical, and it twists in her gut and makes her want to scream. She's stuck in this mess too, and last night... well, it was a mistake, obviously, but he's over two hundred and he could be grown up about it.

Lionel grabs one of the normal-sized saddles, the muscles in his back bunching beneath his shirt. Instead of lifting, he bows his head. He takes an audible breath. "Tara, last night, when I used your full name... I wasn't... I was just going to... I wanted you to calm down, but I would have asked for nothing more. It was wrong. Please forgive me."

Tara feels understanding dawning, and muscles she hadn't known were tense unwind. Oh. He's mad at himself. "Thank you for not making me cluck like a chicken," Tara says, and she means for it to be a joke, but her words sound harsh.

Lionel looks over his shoulder at her. He looks pained, and she has a feeling that she's missing something. Tavende bursts into the barn, bearing a pile of clothes. "Tara, take the ones on top. Lionel, saddle up Graissor."

"What?" Lionel says.

"I'm coming with you, of course," says Tavende. "We can't let Tara out of our sight among the nobles, not even for a minute."

Taking a tunic and pair of pants, Tara's brow furrows at the excessive protectiveness. "I won't give any of them my full name. Don't worry."

Tavende and Lionel make eye contact with one another.

Clutching the clothes to her chest, Tara says, "What am I not getting?"

Rubbing his jaw again, movements jerky, Lionel looks away. Tavende says, "The nobles are stronger than peasants... for the most part." Her eyes flick to Lionel and back so quickly Tara almost misses it. Focus back on her, Tavende says, "They wouldn't need your name for their glamour and compulsion to work on a non-magical being."

Tara feels her skin heat and her jaw go hard. "So they'll play pranks on the helpless human."

Looking at the floor, Tavende says, "I wouldn't worry about the pranks. They can do much worse." Her expression becomes shuttered. Lionel's head jerks in his mother's direction.

Tara's studies him. The dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced in the shadows of the barn, and she wonders if he slept. He's still studiously avoiding looking at her. Tavende's words swim around in her brain. For the most part, nobles are stronger than peasants. Nobility can do worse than pranks. Lionel's words jump into the swirling internal stew. _I wasn't... I just was going to... I would have asked for nothing more._

Tara swallows. He wasn't going to take advantage of her... but... her eyes slide to Tavende, scooting a bit of hay with her toe, eyes downcast. He could have done anything he wanted.

He didn't.

It doesn't make Tara feel less afraid.

Sitting astride one of the queen's chargers, Lionel looks over his shoulder. He sees Tara on the Palomino gelding provided by the queen. His mother rides Graissor, her own fat pony.

He scans the riders about him—three in front, one on either side, and three behind. One catches Lionel's glance and narrows his eyes. Lionel looks ahead, resisting the urge to scratch his jaw. The escort wouldn't let him ride with his mother and Tara. He's grateful for his mother trying to look out for Tara, but it's cold comfort. Neither of them should be in the palace. His mother isn't so much more magical than Tara. Even before his transformation, Lionel had more defense in both innate magic and also from his key to the castle.

The queen gave all of her servants who interacted with the nobility something with a magical charge: an apron, boots, a broom—just something to fend off the nobility's strength of compulsion—so that their whims didn't interrupt the smooth running of her household. He curses inwardly. He should have given the key to his mother. What was he thinking?

His horse snorts, and Lionel frowns. He was thinking that he couldn't look Tara in the eye. He used her name to silence her emotions, her spirit, her soul... and thereby proved her in the right, and him not much better than the nobles who toyed with servants like him. The realization kept him up all night, wandering through the fields, leaving plants frost burnt with just his mood. He is a dangerous, twisted thing, not elf, not _other_ , not a peasant, not royalty, and it so disturbs the queen that he is being escorted to the palace by armed guards.

The horses clatter over the bridge of the river that carries the Light Elves' misspent magics to the Delta of Sorrows. The palace looms ahead upon the top of a low mountain rising above the rolling hills. He blinks. Flags bearing the crest of visiting nobles fly upon the turrets. He sees the house of Lady Benedal, the sister of Lord Beddel and Count Darerick of the Night Elves. Both visits were planned months ago, but he sees the crest of the Light Woods, too. That's odd. He hasn't seen the Light Wood nobles since he accidentally slipped through the World Gate to Earth as a child with one of the Light Wood children. He'd told himself at the time he'd been forgiven for breaking the Law because the little girl from the Light Wood noble line had slipped through the gate with him.

What had her name been? He blinks, feeling exhaustion behind his eyes. The adrenaline that has been keeping him awake is fading.

The entourage enters the gates of the main marketplace that encircles the palace at the base of the mountain. Elves dart away from the Queen's Guard, but he does hear cries of "Another human!" and "Three in as many years... is Ragnarok upon us?" before they charge up the twisting roads that lead up to the palace proper. It's only minutes, but it seems like hours when they pass through the inner gates of the palace and into the garden reception area. The House of the Light Wood must have just arrived, because the courtyard is still filled with their mounts, groomsmen, and he even sees the lords and ladies of that house milling among the steeds. One of their attendants begins talking hastily with the leader of Lionel's guard, and the other guards go to cluster around their leader. Taking advantage of the confusion, Lionel dismounts and heads toward Tara and his mother. They're easy to find. Tara towers over most of the elves. She wears the casual attire of an Einherjar that had stayed at their village not too long ago. A too-large, cream-colored shirt that makes her hair look especially black, and her skin gold, spills open on her shoulders revealing the long, graceful neck he'd caressed with his lips the night before. Remembering makes his blood heat. The shirt's tucked into a pair of high-waisted brown riding trousers that in turn are tucked into knee-high riding boots. A leather satchel is thrown over her shoulder. She looks athletic, yet feminine. He half expects her to whip out a sword, and finds himself almost smiling at the thought. Tara sees him among the milling horses and waves. She doesn't look angry, and as he strides toward her, Lionel feels his exhaustion lifting.

He's only five paces away when a woman, somewhere in the crowd, shouts, "Lionel!"

Lionel wavers on his feet. The afternoon sun, the garden, the noise all disappear and he finds himself standing in a white room with an open door in front of him, blue skies outside. He doesn't panic; he's hallucinating again, obviously. He hears Tara's voice. "Lionel?" And his mother. "Lionel?"

And then he hears the other woman's voice again. "Lionel!"

He spins. The door slams. Turning back to it, he takes a step forward, blinks, and he's in the garden again. Tara and his mother are close enough that he can touch them.

From behind him, he hears the other woman say, "Lionel, I've found you! I've found you!"

His mother's eyes slide to the side, go wide, and she curtsies low. Expecting a lord or lady, Lionel turns to bow as well. There is a lady of the Light Wood, but before he can bow, she puts out a hand. "No, wait! It is me, Lionel."

Lionel stares, uncomprehending, at the woman before him. She is over a head shorter than him, with blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair, and the lithe delicate frame of his mother's race. Her riding cloak of gossamer gold is thrown back to reveal a dress of heavy rose silk, with embroidery enchanted to depict a swirling scene of birds and animals. All of her garments hum with magic. He notices the crest of the Light Woods on a ring on her right hand. "I believe you have mistaken me, madam," he says, preparing once again to bow.

Hand outstretched, she steps close to him and lets her fingertips brush his chest. He stares down at her pale fingers in shock, paralyzed, not sure what he should do. He glances nervously around the garden. Attendants of the palace and knights of the guard are staring with their mouths agape. Ladies don't touch attendants—not in public anyway. They certainly don't touch obvious half-breeds.

"It's me, Lionel... Leenine..." she says again. Pulling back her robe and the sleeve of her dress, she reveals her soulmark. It's distorted around the edges like his, but clearly depicts two trees that form a natural trellis, their roots connected below and their branches above, just like his. Loud enough for the whole garden to hear, she declares, "You're my soulmate."

## 14

# Betrayal

All the elves in the courtyard gasp at the elf woman's proclamation. Tara feels like the woman has ripped her heart out and is gleefully holding it up for all to see. Tara knows that is ridiculous, that this has absolutely nothing to do with her. Still, she feels her eyes stinging and a lump in her throat.

The woman is beautiful. A dainty nose, sparkling blue eyes, and pillowy lips fill out a delicate, heart-shaped face with clear, milky white skin. Her doll-like features are framed by glossy, smooth red hair. All of that and her petite frame make her look all of twenty-one. She seems to glow from within. If she were on Earth, she'd be a movie star, and her face would grace all the magazines in the checkout lane. She is everything Tara isn't.

_Deep breath,_ Tara tells herself. _Aren't you glad you didn't sleep with him? That would make this ten times more uncomfortable._ She glances at Lionel. His back is to her as he faces the beautiful little heart ripper.

"Lionel," Tavende whispers, "You know this lady?"

"She is Leenine, a lady of the Light Woods," he replies. "She was with me on my first World Walk."

Tavende whispers, "When you met—"

"Yes," says Lionel.

Tavende's still clutching Tara's hand. At that simple exchange, Tavende's whole body goes rigid and Tavende's pale face goes paler still.

Leenine says brightly, "The All Father and his ravens rescued us."

Tavende's nails bite into Tara's palm, and Tara shivers.

"Excuse me," Tavende whispers, her fingers relaxing. She tries to draw her hand away, but Tara won't let her. There is a horrible feeling of wrongness about the whole situation, and she feels protective of the tiny woman. After a second, Tavende squeezes Tara's hand again, this time without the nails.

Leenine turns her elegant head in Tavende's direction. The tiniest of creases forms on her brow. "Lionel, who is this?" she whispers.

Lionel's frame stiffens, and then he turns to Tara and his mother. "Leenine, this is my mother, and Tara of Chicago."

Leenine's eyes pass quickly over Tavende, which annoys Tara. The new elf woman gives Tara a much longer look, appraising her from head to toe. "You've rescued another human, Lionel?" Leenine asks.

"Another?" say Tavende and Tara in unison.

"I didn't rescue Abraham, Hannah, or Benjamin," Lionel protests.

"Rescue who?" says Tara.

"Three runaway slaves," says Leenine. She tilts her head. "Did he find you in such a circumstance?"

"Tara found me unconscious behind her house," Lionel says. "I managed to get her kidnapped by Dark Elves."

Leenine puts a delicate hand on Lionel's upper arm. "But then you brought her here, delivering her from their clutches." She smiles sunnily at Tara. "It's so nice to meet you, Tara of Chicago."

Lionel scowls. "Actually, it didn't quite go like—"

From across the courtyard comes a shout. "Steward, members of the House of the Light Wood, and Tara of Chicago, you will report to Her Majesty's Audience Chamber immediately."

The silence of the crowd is shattered as everyone starts moving again. Leenine pulls Lionel forward, and Tavende pulls Tara forward, but an elf in garb as elegant as Leenine's slips between them and the couple and says, "Wait."

It's the oddest thing, but Tara suddenly feels very heavy. She and Tavende both halt, and then Tara blinks. Dozens of elves are between them and Lionel, all wearing shimmering garments that she swears must have hypnotized her. Tavende yanks at her hand. "Come on."

Tara stumbles toward a palace as white as ivory. She and Tavende climb some stairs, pass through great double doors, and suddenly Lionel is nowhere in sight. There are elves everywhere, all going in different directions. They peek at Tara, but hurry along.

"Tara of Chicago?" Tara turns and finds herself facing an elf dressed all in black. He looks more like Lionel looks now—tall with broader shoulders. He has a slightly olive cast to his skin, brown eyes, and brown hair. Only the tell-tale ears give him away, and his seemingly supernatural good looks.

She nods at him.

"It's so unusual for humans to come to Alfheim," the man says, eyes intent on her.

"I'm trying to get home," Tara says.

"I'd be happy to assist you," he says. "I know of a gate to—"

Tavende interjects, "We were summoned by the queen. We must enter her audience chamber."

The man bows to Tara. "If she should not grant your request, you must seek me out."

"You are?" Tara asks.

"Count Darerick... but you can call me Dare," he says. Stepping forward, he reaches for her hand, but Tavende pulls her away fast.

"What's wrong?" Tara whispers as they slip back into the crowd.

"He's a Night Elf," says Tavende through gritted teeth.

"Like a Dark Elf?" Tara asks. Is he on a diplomatic mission?

Tavende shakes her head and yanks her into another hallway. "No... the Night Elves are allies of the queen." She squeezes Tara's hand. "Don't worry, I won't let anything happen to you."

Tara blinks and looks over her shoulder. The Night Elf is standing motionless in a moving sea of courtiers, his eyes still on her. Discomfited by the intensity, she looks quickly away. "He looked... more human."

Walking briskly, Tavende nods quickly. "Lionel thinks it's adaptive. It makes it easier for them to—" Her voice cuts off abruptly, and she looks upward and gasps. So does Tara. They are in a great hall, with glittering walls and a ceiling that soars above their heads. It is packed to the brim with elves, both on the floor, and above on balconies. Tara searches, but she can't see Lionel. At the far end of the room, on an enormous throne, sits a woman in robes of pale yellow and white. She has pale skin, jet-black hair, and blue eyes that appear Asian. On either side of her stand elves that resemble every human race. Without exception, they are pointed-eared, petite, slender, and perfect. They wear gowns of silk with embroidered scenes that move like films.

The queen's eyes shoot to Tara and seem to look through her. Tara touches her throat. Surely, she's imagining that; there is no way the queen glimpses her in the throng.

Inclining her chin, the queen says, "Tara of Chicago, please step forward. We wish to speak to you."

The crowd around Tara and Tavende parts like the Red Sea. Tavende whispers, "Go forward."

Tara steps toward the throne. Glancing behind, she sees Tavende following. The little elf woman is looking about fearfully. If the natives are afraid... Lifting her head, Tara walks as confidently as she can, stops a few feet before the queen, and gives her best curtsy.

"We wish to hear all about how you came to our land," says the queen. "And how you came to be before us."

Composing herself, Tara says, "I think it really began when I was driving home and I saw an elf child being beaten by—"

Murmurs rise in the hall. "There are no elf children in Midgard," someone protests. The queen waves a hand. "Start with when you found my steward."

Tara blinks, and her brow furrows. Why would the queen not want mention of that? But she curtsies again and does as bidden. When the queen asks exactly how Lionel killed the each-uisge, Tara explains that he did it with his bare hands. That causes more murmurs to rise, and they don't sound precisely complimentary. Tara hastily tells how he warded away the other monsters during the night with a circle. That seems to make them less riled up. She doesn't mention the fire, or summoning the Destroyer... she can't precisely say why.

When she gets to the part where the villagers saved them, the queen asks, "Did they ever say what they were doing in the Delta of Sorrows?"

Tara's brow furrows. She doesn't want to lie to the queen. Hadn't there been something about elf queens in Tolkien being able to see into hearts? Biting her lip, she tells _a_ truth. "They told Lionel they were out collecting mushrooms."

"How odd," says a lady standing next to the queen. Her complexion and hair look very much like Tara's own.

Tara looks at the floor and tries to distract them with a little humor. "I'll say. I don't think there is any fungus that could make me brave a velociraptor."

The hall erupts in laughter, and Tara's shoulders relax.

When it is finally quiet again, the queen commands, "Lionel of the South Vale, step forward."

Tara hears the shuffle of feet. Turning, she sees the crowd part for Lionel. He's somehow managed to get a shave. His clothing has changed, too. He's wearing a golden robe with a pattern of leaves that swirl as though they're caught in a breeze. He looks like a prince from a fairy tale. No wonder she hadn't spied him when she'd first came in. He'd apparently taken a detour.

On his arm is Leenine. Tara drops her eyes.

"Has the human spoken the truth of your adventures?"

"Yes," says Lionel, coming to a stop just a few feet away.

There is more chatter. The dark-skinned woman next to the throne leans close to the queen's ear. Tara blinks. The woman looks vaguely familiar.

The queen raises a hand and silence fills the hall. "Tara of Chicago, the World Gate to Chicago is once again under Dark Elf control."

Tara gulps.

"It may not be back in our power for some time, and to send you to it would be to risk your death..."

Murmurs drown out Tara's sharp intake of breath. Raising her hand for silence, the queen intones, "However, there are other gates. Lady Benedal is returning to the Middle Lands on the morrow. On the route, just a few hours from here, is a World Gate that opens to the region known as San Francisco in the province of California... Would that be close enough to Chicago to suffice?"

Tara's brow furrows as she imagines all the logistics of it. Popping into San Francisco without money, an ID, or even a phone will be rough; but... she counts down on her fingers. Tomorrow is Monday, or Mondayish, if she's got her dates right. She'll be late for work, yes, but she can tell Dr. Eisenberg the whole story and maybe he'll believe her... or maybe she should just say she came down with a case of Clostridium difficile. It's always running around the university hospital. She bites her lip.

The queen inclines her head.

Tara glances to her side. She doesn't expect Lionel to be looking at her, but he is. Up close, she can see he still has dark circles under his eyes, no matter how otherwise polished he looks. His lips part, as though he's about to say something, but no words come.

Tara swallows and clasps her hands behind her back. Tavende scoots closer to her and Tara remembers how Tavende's attentions had reminded her of her own mother. Her mother who will be worried to death if she doesn't get home to at least text very soon. There is nothing for her here. She'll handle popping into San Francisco without money, ID, or phone somehow. "Yes," she says. "That will work."

The dark-skinned Elven woman smiles at Tara, her eyes sparkling. Why does she look so familiar?

There are a few murmurs and the queen waves a hand at Tara and Tavende. "You may step back. We wish to address my steward and the Lady Leenine of the Light Wood."

Tara curtsies. She and Tavende step back into the crowd.

The queen eyes Lionel and Leenine. "It has come to our attention that a soul match between a servant and a Lady of a Great House has occurred."

Murmurs rise in the crowd, and someone near Tara whispers, "And that he is a half-breed."

"What was his mother thinking carrying to term?" says another, and someone else answers. "Who would have paid the child price?"

Tara glances at Tavende. The tiny woman is trembling. Tara wraps her arm around her. She's afraid Tavende may fall over without support, and also, if she doesn't do something with her right arm, she may do something regrettable... like slap someone.

The queen lifts a finger and the crowd goes silent. "Some amongst us say that such a union is unheard of, especially with Lionel of South Vale's unique heritage." Some of the elves standing beside the throne scowl at those words. "But," says the queen. "We will see the marks."

Tara feels hope rising in her chest at the thought that the matching soulmarks could be a mix-up, and then feels like she might vomit out of sheer disgust with herself. She and Lionel can't be together; she has to go home.

Leenine and Lionel roll up their sleeves. The queen glances briefly and then intones solemnly, "Their marks are of the same design. They are soulmates. We approve. Lionel of South Vale, you belong to the House of the Light Wood now."

There are roars in the crowd. Lords and ladies from the far side of the room throng around Lionel and Leenine. Tara pulls Tavende forward. She should see her son, and Tara wants to see him, too. A chance to say goodbye. That's not too much to ask, is it?

She presses past a few elves, keeping her eyes on Lionel, towering above the crowd. For a brief moment, they make eye contact. He says something she can't hear above the din, but then someone next to him must speak because he leans down, a look of consternation on his face.

"Tara of Chicago?" The voice to her and Tavende's left makes Tara turn. She finds herself eye to eye with Lady Benedal, the one who promised to take her back to the World Gate to San Francisco. The lady smiles. "You must come with me. We need to prepare."

Tara gapes. Lady Benedal is beyond beautiful... she is ethereal.

"I am coming with her," says Tavende, still huddled beneath Tara's arm.

Lady Benedal's lips purse and her eyes narrow at the woman. "You may go now."

Tavende wavers as though buffeted by a strong breeze.

"She'll be safe, better than safe. You may go now."

Slipping from Tara's arm, Tavende leaves. Tara watches in shock.

"Oh, don't worry about her," says Lady Benedal, eyes returning to Tara. "I'm sure she has a farm to attend to. Mustn't keep her from her dinosaur dung, Norns know."

Tara's brow furrows. It's so noisy in the hall, it's hard to think. That sounded nasty, but Lady Benedal can't be nasty. Her voice is like water over rocks in a stream.

"Come with me." The lady spins on her heel and exits the hall.

Tara follows obediently, but when they enter a stairwell, she blurts out, "I have to see Lionel again." Inwardly, she cringes at how frightened and desperate she sounds.

... But she desperately hopes Tavende finds Lionel before she leaves.

Why does she hope that so much?

Lady Benedal turns on the stairwell. Two women move to flank her on either side. They wear dresses the same color of midnight blue, but without the flickering pattern of stars. Servants maybe?

"Of course, dear child, you will see him again," says Lady Benedal, her smooth brow pinching the tiniest bit, her sympathy swelling in every syllable. Tara is ashamed that she'd blurted out her desire so frantically. "At dinner, but first we must prepare you. You need a bath, and new clothes... you can't wear those horrid peasant trappings."

Tara's brow furrows, and she smooths the satchel hanging at her side. Inside are her dress from the night before, and her shoes, also... "I like the boots the farmers gave me," she whispers. It feels important to say so. She wants to say, _and the dress and the shoes,_ but it's hard to speak.

"You will _not_ dress like a farmer," Benedal says.

"Oh," says Tara. "Of course."

Lady Benedal's eyebrows lift expectantly.

"Thank you," says Tara, and she is rewarded with a beautiful smile.

"It is my pleasure." She reaches out with fingers tipped with nails like diamonds, as though she's going to stroke Tara's chin. "Now come along." Spinning again, she leads Tara up the stairs.

They haven't gone more than three steps when Tavende's voice rises from behind. "Lady Benedal, Lady Benedal, I must go with Tara. I'm in her debt."

Whirling around, Lady Benedal smiles. "Peasant, you will stop right there. Tara is safe with me, safer than she would ever be with you."

"Yes, ma'am," says Tavende.

Tara feels her heart falling for the tiny woman. She wants to speak, but her brain and her mouth feel disconnected.

"Now, how did you get to the palace?" Lady Benedal asks.

"I rode a pony," Tavende says, her voice very soft.

"Go get your pony, and ride home," Lady Benedal commands.

"I will get my pony and ride home," says Tavende, her tiny body wavering just three steps below Tara, confusion writ large upon her face. Curtsying, she turns and goes. Tara wants to go with her, but can't, for the life of her, think of why.

One of the maids murmurs, "What a horrible peasant. We must refer this incident to the queen."

Sighing, Lady Benedal says to Tara, "Right this way, my dear."

A few minutes later, they step onto a landing and pass through double doors inlaid with gold. Tara thinks they may have designs carved into them, but her vision is oddly fuzzy around the edges. Inside the double doors, she gets the impression of fine fabrics and gold everywhere, but can't really focus on anything.

"Lady Benedal," a masculine voice cuts through the haze. "Is that a human you have there?"

"Yes, and she's so much more striking than Loki's low-class little human strumpet." She sighs. "That one never has any class." She gestures to her chest in a bawdy way, which Tara associates with men laughing about big boobs. It makes her skin heat. She wants to frown, but can't, which makes her want to ball her hands into fists but only manages to tuck up a single finger.

"Girl, look at me!" says the man. Tara turns, feeling like the mechanical ballerina she had in a music box as a child. An elf man with long black hair, ivory skin, and crystalline blue eyes is just a few feet away. He wears an ornate robe that is open at the front and nothing underneath. Tara quickly averts her gaze.

The man laughs. "Oh, is she from one of those modest cultures?" Approaching Tara, he puts his hand under her chin. Stumbling, she pulls from his grasp.

"How charming," he says. And then in a lower voice, says, "Don't move, girl."

Tara swallows and can't move.

Benedal snaps, "You will not be charming her before dinner, Rogier. She needs to get changed. She's covered in road filth and those clothes are atrocious."

"But for all that, she's beautiful!" the man who must be Rogier declares.

"Oh, I agree," says Lady Benedal, stepping in front of Tara. She smiles up at Tara, and Tara can't help but smile back. "She is a lovely creature. I promised the queen I'd return her to her people." She tilts her head. "But I don't really think it's best. She's from that horrid United States, one of those so-called democracies. They have..." She switches to English. "Racism."

Rogier tsks.

"There is no Elvish word for that," Tara says in amazement. Her words sound like they come from someone else. They're too slow and too soft.

Lady Benedal laughs. It sounds like bells. "Of course not, elves are not so silly." She takes Tara's chin. "I will return you, as I promised I would, but there is nothing that says I must return you tomorrow." The lady tilts her head. "If I were a human, I'd look exactly like you, I think..."

Rogier snorts, but Benedal continues, "Wouldn't you rather stay with me for a while?"

"My mother..." Tara whispers.

Lady Benedal makes a tiny moue. "Would always want what is best for you. Wouldn't she?"

Tara nods.

"And if you stay here with me, you'll wear beautiful gowns and jewels, and travel as my attendant. Wouldn't you like that?"

Tara opens her mouth, ready to say "no."

"Say, 'I'd love that,' Tara of Chicago," Lady Benedal whispers. She smiles and her eyelashes flutter delicately.

"I'd love that," Tara says, the words sounding like they're spoken by someone else.

Stroking Tara's cheek, Lady Benedal coos, "It will be so."

At that moment, Tara realizes why Lady Benedal looks familiar. She looks like a painting of perfection, like the dark-skinned police officer who'd overseen the beating of the little elf boy in Chicago.

Lionel lets an insubstantial avatar materialize outside the doors of Lady Benedal's suite. In the real world, his hands ball into fists. Lady Benedal's magic is strong, but he has to try again. He grits his teeth and tries to push his avatar through the door. It scatters into useless photons.

Lionel snaps back into his body, a headache splitting his skull. A servant of the House of the Light Wood is arranging his bangs into braids. Another man is flitting about him, pinning his opulent but hastily assembled garments to fit him better. Lionel shifts uneasily on his feet, and not just because he is unused to the attention. His eyes go to the door, and he touches his wrist that no longer has his magic key on it. He gave it to Alemie, the maid in charge of cleaning Lady Benedal's suite, hopeful that if his avatars couldn't penetrate it, she would be able to deliver it to his mother.

"Lionel?" Leenine's question draws him back into the moment.

"I'm... very tired... please go on," Lionel says. Leenine has been trying to catch him up on the past few centuries since their last acquaintance. He has been doing his best to pay attention, despite his fatigue, shock, and his headache. He tells himself Alemie has probably delivered the key already. His mother and Tara are safe. He is overreacting.

"When you sent out missives with the delegates of the court, my parents were scandalized to find out that you weren't nobility." Leenine says, continuing her story. _Their_ story, he reminds himself. If he feels... disconnected from her... it is normal. He's been told it's often this way with soulmates. As time goes by, as they get to know each other, they'll learn just how much they complement each other and enjoy each other's company. His stomach twists. For now, though, Tara feels more connected to him than Leenine.

She continues with a frown. "I wanted to respond, but they wouldn't let me."

Lionel swallows. She hadn't rejected him; her family had. It doesn't give him as much peace as it should.

Leenine sighs. "I thought I'd wait them out. It would be horrid to estrange us from my extended kin if we are to have a future."

If they are to have children is what she means. Someone must pay the price, and without her family, the only one would be his mother. His fingers curl up to clutch the key no longer on his wrist.

Leenine continues. "I hoped they would come around with gentle insistence. It happened faster than I expected." Her eyebrows rise. "When news of your transformation spread... well, they changed their minds."

He feels a weight like cold lead in his chest. They can't think that his being a half-breed is of political advantage; they think that _who_ his father _might be_ is of political advantage.

Head bowed, Leenine continues, "I think that they think that... well, the ravens have come for you twice now. I think they think your father—"

"I do not know the identity of my father," Lionel says. It's the truth, more or less. It hasn't been confirmed. But the ravens have come for him three times, not two. Would they really be sent just for the son of a retainer? His eyes go to the servants. They'd paused their activities at Leenine's mention of his father. At his glare, they resume.

"I don't care either way," Leenine says. Her expression grows cloudy for an instant. "I worried when my soulmark became blurry that something dreadful had happened. But everyone says you grew so fast—perhaps it was just adjusting to your stature? Anyway, I'm so glad I found you. I knew you were extraordinary when you opened the gate to Midgard when we were children." Lifting her eyes to him, she smiles. "It was a grand adventure. I wonder how Hannah and Abraham are doing now, and their adorable little baby."

"Abraham has been to the Palace a few times on errands for the All Father," Lionel says. "They are well. Benjamin has joined the Einherjar, and Hannah and Abraham have many more children now."

Leenine laughs with delight. "The little baby I held is a mighty warrior? How I'd like to see him someday."

Lionel can't help but smile at the memory. Not every noble girl would have been so forgiving of a peasant who dragged her through a World Gate, or would have jumped so readily to help a human woman in distress. And she's beautiful, with her fiery hair, sparkling eyes, and magic that is a soft purple color that nearly fills the room. He tilts his head. Although, he understands why his people say that wild humans can be more beautiful than elves. He thinks of Tara's extraordinary features that are just... more... expressive, different, unforgettable. He feels a lump in his throat. Of course, those features will fade quickly. Leenine will remain just as she is forever.

_Will you, Lionel?_ a tiny dark voice whispers, and he feels himself go cold.

_Focus on the moment,_ Lionel tells himself. _You've found your soulmate, and although she is a lady, she is kind and wise._ That Leenine thought to slowly change her family's mind isn't a mark against her—it means that she didn't presume that his lower family would pay the child price.

And yet... and yet...

His hand goes to his wrist, and his missing key. He hears footsteps to the right near the door, and raises his head. But it's only Leenine's mother. His stomach clenches. Where is Alemie?

"It is time for the Light Wood Elves to make our appearance at Her Majesty's table." The Lady of the Light Wood frowns at Lionel. "Your manners will have to do for tonight." She looks at Leenine and speaks as if Lionel isn't in the room. "You'll have to teach him how to set aside his lesser ways."

Lionel finds his teeth grinding, though he shouldn't be upset. He's heard much worse from nobles about the manners of servants, peasants, merchants, and basically anyone not themselves. But it is different when it's coming from someone supposedly your family. He thinks of Tara's irritation at him for calling her a lesser race, and flushes at the memory.

To Leenine's mother he says, "I'll do my best not to embarrass you, Lady." He's too tired to hide the sharpness in his tone, and Leenine's mother's eyebrow hikes.

"I will see you both in the hall," she replies haughtily. With that, she turns on her heel and leaves the room.

To the servants, Lionel says, "You've done fine jobs."

"Yes, you have," Leenine says. "You are dismissed."

As soon as they are gone, Leenine smiles a tad mischievously. "You've upset Mother... but she's wrong." Stepping close, so she is just a hand's breadth away, she cranes her neck to look up at him and whispers, "We Light Elves must change if we wish to survive. Now that the Dark Elves are emigrating from the Delta of Sorrows to Midgard, the queen can't enforce her laws. Concessions must be made."

"Emigrating?" says Lionel.

"We're not supposed to talk about it," Leenine says, voice hushed. "Especially around servants." Her eyes flit from side to side. "It will give them ideas."

Lionel's shoulders fall with the implications. The Delta of Sorrows is the prison for all Light Elves that break the queen's laws. Its dark waters pervert magic and destroy elves' natural immortality. When Odin had bothered to enforce the law that kept magical creatures out of Midgard, it had worked well... His lips form a grim line. He hadn't realized the Dark Elves were emigrating; the queen had hidden it from him. She hadn't even concealed her visit with Loki as well as she'd hidden this.

He touches his brow. This isn't just a threat to the queen's rule, it is a danger to humans. Not every Light Elf banished to the Dark Lands is a comparatively innocent violator of the child price. Thieves, murderers, and rogue sorcerers are sent there.

"The queen must relax her laws. The child price is too strict," Leenine murmurs. "And there is magical talent among the peasants and servants that isn't acknowledged."

Lionel exhales. The only reason he'd been able to rise from peasant to steward was because of Odin's influence... because Lionel was the son of a retainer... or because... He swallows.

"We must bend, for the sake of Alfheim," Leenine says.

She's right. He shouldn't have needed Odin's influence to exonerate him from the crime of being a magically-bright peasant child and accidentally tripping through a World Gate.

She's so close. He's exhausted, and tells himself that is why he doesn't feel any desire. Managing to kiss her forehead, he murmurs, "You are wise."

"Thank you," she replies pertly with a smile. "Come, let's go to dinner." She threads her fingers through his and pulls him toward the door. "I wonder if Lord Beddel will be at dinner," she whispers. "He was one of those charged with rounding up the emigres from Chicago. He could tell you more."

Lionel stops mid-stride, remembering meeting Lord Beddel at the World Gate in Chicago. "I thought he was rounding up rebels," Lionel whispers.

"Most consider them the same," Leenine replies.

Lionel remembers Tara's talk of an elf child being beaten—he'd ascribed that to her people. Lionel closes his eyes, feeling dizzy, sick, and weary to his bones.

"Lionel?" Leenine says.

Opening his eyes physically hurts. He takes her arm, more so he can lean on it than feelings of camaraderie, or anything else.

Long minutes later, they enter the dining hall. The queen has not yet arrived and the din of conversation fills the cavernous space. He sees Tara at the far end of the great table. On her left is Lady Benedal. Tara doesn't seem to notice him; her eyes are focused on her plate. He'd thought that she'd forgiven him, but maybe she hasn't. He swallows. Maybe she shouldn't.

Ashamed, he looks away. "Where is my mother?" Lionel asks, searching the crowd.

"Surely she'll be joining them in a few moments? The chair next to your human friend is empty," suggests Leenine.

Lionel rubs his forehead. His thoughts feel like they're as thick and dull as day-old porridge. Humans are visitors and exist outside Elvish hierarchy. He's not surprised Benedal would have Tara next to her, but he can't believe she'd let a peasant sit at the great table. Could she be making an exception? Maybe he just can't see his mother in the crowd of servants beyond the table?

Beside him, Leenine says, "Oh, Prince Rogier is here."

Lionel's jaw gets hard. He hadn't seen Rogier's crest on the palace wall, but it isn't unlike the prince to surprise Her Majesty.

"He's very entertaining," Leenine adds.

That isn't how Lionel would describe Rogier, but then again, he's a servant, and had seen a very different side of the man.

Craning his neck to look past the diners, Lionel continues to search for his mother.

"He's sitting next to your friend," whispers Leenine. "How lovely for her."

Lionel's eyes snap back to Tara. Sure enough, Rogier is seated next to her. His fingers flex beneath the table and magic dances beneath his skin. Will Rogier treat Tara as a de facto lady, being that she is a guest to their realm? He glares at the prince.

Behind him, he hears a scurry of footsteps and a child's whisper. "I must speak to Lionel."

"He's not the steward anymore, and this is not your place, girl," someone else says, his voice barely audible above the din.

"No," says Lionel, swiveling in his seat, knocking into the person sitting next to him. He sees Alemie. Alemie is still a child, but she is still completely trustworthy. She is also tiny, even for an elf, and usually invisible to royalty. Now she is cowering behind two servers in the shadows. "Let her in." The servers—Blix and Dritely—look at each other in confusion, and Alemie skips through in their moment of inattention.

"Lionel?" says Leenine. "What's wrong?"

"Did you give it to her?" Lionel asks Alemie.

Alemie holds out her hand, his key in it, and gives it back to him. "No, I couldn't find her anywhere. I'm sorry, Steward, I mean..." Her brow furrows.

"I know you did your best, Alemie," Lionel says. To Leenine, he says, "I have to find her."

"Hush!" says Lionel's mother-in-law to be. "Here comes the queen."

Alemie scampers away, quick as a shadow. Quiet descends upon the room as the queen enters followed by the Queen's Guard, their spears upraised. Lionel falls silent with the rest of the crowd. His eyes go to Tara. If she is aware of him, she makes no sign.

Tara is going to be attendant to Lady Benedal. She loves that idea. Really. She stares at the plate in front of her, wondering, when food materialized on it.

"Raise your glass, Tara of Chicago," Lady Benedal says.

Tara does. The queen speaks, her words strangely muted. The room seems blurry. Tara puts her glass down and feels Rogier's hand on her thigh under the table. It is the only thing clear in her mental fog, and she rips his hand away.

"Tara of Chicago, you must stop fidgeting," Lady Benedal says.

Rogier laughs. "I rather like her feisty, though." He leans toward Tara's ear and she jerks her head away.

Chuckling, he whispers, "Stay sharp, Tara of Chicago."

Stay sharp...

Tara sits up straight... she has to stay sharp, but she can't for some reason. It's the conversation in the room, or all the candles on the table making it too warm, or the smell of wax, maybe. She has to get away from the table, to think, but she doesn't want to offend Lady Benedal. That would be wrong. The lady only wants to help her, to keep her safe. Her brow furrows. She has to clear her head...

To Lady Benedal, she whispers, "I need to use the facilities." That was politely phrased, wasn't it?

The lady sighs. Sounding put out, she says, "Go. You know where it is."

Tara's heart soars, feeling as though a window has been opened and she's flown free.

"But come right back," the lady says, and Tara feels as though the window is shuttered again. Still, she rises quickly from the table and exits the dining hall, taking a corridor she remembers from earlier. It's cooler in the hallway, and she feels a little better. Her feet head in the direction of the bathroom, even though she doesn't really need to go, but she can't stop them. She enters and finds herself alone. Besides stalls of commodes and washbasins, there are mirrors and gilt edges everywhere, and a towel holder shaped like a tree she swears is made of solid gold. Turning to a mirror, she catches her reflection. She is wearing a beautiful ballroom dress of cobalt blue edged with silver, and a silver net woven with tiny crystals holds her hair back from her eyes. Both catch the light and brighten her face, but the expression she wears is horrifying. Her mouth is hanging open, her eyes are dull, and she looks drugged.

She gasps. She has to get out of here. She has to get away from Lady Benedal. She's taken over her mind somehow. As soon as she thinks that, she remembers that she has to go back to the woman. Her feet move to the door, and she finds herself walking down the corridor to the dining hall. Lionel and Tavende had warned her that the nobility could do this... she remembers how Tavende had wavered like she'd been caught in a gale at Lady Benedal's words. Tavende wasn't even strong enough to resist. Her only hope is Lionel, but Tara hadn't seen Lionel in the dining hall; he's probably off in soulmate-induced bliss. She's all alone and has to figure this out herself. She wills herself to stop moving, but her feet keep shuffling. The door to the dining hall is just about fifty feet away when Rogier slides into the corridor in front of her.

Smirking, he saunters toward her. "Hello, Tara of Chicago. Stop right there."

Tara feels like her brain has been disconnected from her feet. She stops moving.

Rogier smiles, showing all his teeth.

Damn.

As conversation resumes in the hall, Lionel's eyes slide toward the queen. Her Majesty's focus is on the lady at her right, but as though feeling his gaze, her eyes meet his. He has worked for her for over a century, and he doesn't remember that ever happening before. Her eyes are a sharp, crystalline blue and for a moment, he is mesmerized, like the prey of a basilisk. And then a flurry of movement catches his eye. He sees Tara, dressed in an elegant blue and silver gown, leave the table.

He turns to Leenine. "I have to find her."

"It can wait until after dinner," says Leenine. "Do you really expect your mother to be in any danger?"

Lionel's brows draw together. It would be very unlike Lady Benedal to commit any act of physical violence in or around an event like this. He could imagine her finding a way to poison his mother's tea in her cottage, or to have a wyrm slither out of the Dark Lands and attack Tavende while she works her fields, but Lady Benedal wouldn't dare attempt something near the queen.

"No," he says.

Leenine drops her hand on his thigh. "We'll find her," she promises in a whisper. "But for now, let's not provoke a scene. It would displease Her Majesty, and we need her good favor."

Lionel's eyes go to Tara's empty chair. He swallows. Leenine is right, and Lady Benedal promised to take Tara to a World Gate to Midgard. Considering the only World Gate Lionel could take her to is in the heart of the Delta of Sorrows, and how treacherous a journey that would be, he shouldn't interfere. Something about Lady Benedal's promise niggles at him, though...

He takes a few bites of food. He's so tired that he finds it hard to push his fork around the plate. He remembers how exhausted he'd felt after invoking the Destroyer, and then of falling asleep against the tree in the swamp, his arms wrapped around Tara, her body warm enough to offset the delta's chill.

"Lionel, are you falling asleep?"

Leenine's whisper makes him bolt upright. His eyes fall on Prince Rogier's empty chair... and Tara's. "I'm awake," he says. "I have to go."

He pushes back from the table and heads to the exit directly behind him. As soon as he steps out of the dining hall, Alemie rushes toward him. "I was so worried... I went to the stables. The little pony of your mother's is gone. I'm so sorry, Steward." She looks down. "I mean..."

"It isn't your fault." She's so tiny, young, and distraught. Lionel has always thought of her as a little sister, and now touches her shoulder to comfort her, as he has done many times before. She looks at his hand, eyes wide and alarmed, and he pulls away as though he's been burned. He's not steward anymore. She is not his staff or adopted sister, and he's frightened her. "Go back to Lady Benedal's suite," he advises, trying to hide how her fear hurts. "Even your magic apron won't protect you if her rooms aren't spotless by the time she's done with dinner."

Curtsying deeply, Alemie backs away, turns, and takes off in a sprint.

"Lionel."

He spins to see Leenine stepping from the dining hall. "What are you doing?" she asks him.

He's too tired to be evasive. "I'm going to try to save Tara from the attentions of Prince Rogier."

"She has the attentions of the prince?" Leenine says, her brow furrowing in bewilderment. "Surely they aren't unwanted if that is so." She gives him a confused smile.

"No one wants the attention of Prince Rogier," Lionel says, running a hand through his hair, thinking of many a servant in tears he's had to deal with over the years. He looks one way and then the other. Tara left by the door behind her, on the opposite of the room, which would put her in the Northwest hallway, parallel to where he is now. Turning, Lionel strides to the next east-west passageway.

Leenine catches his arm. "You're being ridiculous—"

"No, you're being a lady, and you don't know how he treats us," Lionel says, not breaking his stride.

"You're not a servant anymore," Leenine protests. "And Tara is a guest. I'm sure he'll—"

Lionel rounds on her. "I'm not sure!"

Eyes wide, Leenine says, "You're wrong, and in charging after him, you risk the ire of the prince and Her Majesty. You're being foolhardy and..." Her words trail off.

"Savage?" Lionel supplies. _Possibly jealous,_ a little voice in him whispers. He feels like he might vomit, and then remembers Tara's saying, _you were just being protective,_ and feels himself lighten.

Leenine backs away. "What do you think you'll do? You'd dare take on a prince?"

He remembers Tara, cradling his feet in her lap when he'd been in agony and the minutes had stretched into years. And he remembers the light that had gone out of her eyes when he'd used her name. "Yes," Lionel says.

Leenine draws back, eyes wide in shock.

Lionel should have done something when Tara had failed to acknowledge him at the table. "Goodbye, Leenine," he whispers. Before she can protest, he wills himself to become invisible—he doesn't even need the key anymore—and then he takes off in search of Tara and his mother, spreading his avatars out past the palace gates.

"You don't really want to go back there, Tara of Chicago," Rogier says. His voice is so oily that it makes the hairs rise on the back of her neck stand up, but her feet stop. He's broken Lady Benedal's spell—for purposes she knows are less than good.

He tilts his head. "But you don't really want to be with me, either."

Tara's spine straightens. No, she doesn't.

"Oh, Tara of Chicago, you can tell me the truth," Rogier says, movements so smooth he seems to ooze toward her. "You don't like me, do you?"

Her mind feels sharper and more alert than it has in hours, and she knows he wants her to be disgusted by him, to not like him. It turns him on. Keeping her face neutral, she backs away and tries to formulate a plan.

Rogier smiles. "Oh, you're going to try to run away? What fun."

Tara decides the oily prince is going to wear the bathroom's golden towel holder over his head. She glances to the side, sees the door, and is almost there when he says, "Oh, no, not in there, Tara. My sister gets so upset when I get into trouble in the facilities. Inconveniences her guests and all that."

Tara's hands ball into fists at her side. Unable to enter the bathroom, her feet keep retreating.

He holds up a hand. "In fact, stop right there."

She stops, cursing inwardly. Stepping into her personal space, he sighs into her ear. "I'd love to chase you through all these halls, but I'm afraid that will put my sister out. We'd best go to Lady Benedal's suite. It's far too small, but will have to do... less room for you to flee, but I know you'll fight me." His hand comes up as though to caress her face, but Tara catches it and digs her nails into his wrist with all her might.

Cursing, Rogier twists his hand away. "For now, you will keep your hands down!" he sneers. "Don't kick me, either."

Tara's muscles go slack.

"Much better." Rogier smirks, and then his eyes go wild, shooting from side to side as though there's an invisible mosquito. "I sense you," he roars into the air. Raising a finger to Tara, he hisses, "Stay here!"

Spinning around, Rogier says, "Someone thinks he's a mighty sorcerer."

Tara sees no one, but Rogier mutters something and raises his hands. The air before them shimmers, and a wall of flame emerges in front of him; its heat buffets Tara's face. With a huff, Rogier pushes the air, and the wall of flame rolls down the hall, leaving smoke and blackened fixtures in its wake. Twenty feet away, it splits in two. In a spot of air that had been empty stands Lionel, body turned, hands upraised as though warding a blow.

"Lionel," Tara whispers.

For just a moment their eyes meet. She can see the sheen of sweat on his brow. Tara's eyes go to Rogier's neck. She wants to strangle him, kick him; hell, she's ready to bite him. But she can't lift a finger or get a foot completely off the ground.

Rogier hisses, "That was just a taste, boy." Stepping back, his right side almost bumps into Tara, he raises his hands, and the air shimmers again.

Down the hall, Lionel raises his own hands. Rogier chuckles. Tara can see sweat rolling down Lionel's face.

She has to do something... She remembers a prank she and her volleyball teammates would play on each other. Raising her leg as much as she can with a toe still on the ground, she ever so gently nudges Rogier right behind his knee.

Just as it had worked as a kid, he loses his balance and his body sags. Lionel pushes the air, and Tara is hit by a wave of cold—all emanating from Rogier. He falls to the floor, eyes and mouth wide open and covered with frost. Lionel is at her side a moment later. "Tara Lupita Gibson, you're free."

"Is he frozen through?" Tara gasps.

At her words, Rogier moans.

Lionel bends over, hands on his thighs as though he's just finished a race. "No, I'm not that strong, but he's very cold. Tara, I've just assaulted a prince. You must get away from me. Beg forgiveness from the queen. She won't blame you."

No way is she abandoning him. "Not on your life," Tara mutters. She decides to be mad at him later for even suggesting it. Looking toward the dining hall, she sees several elves with mouths agape, staring at the fallen prince.

"We should run, then," says Lionel, not moving. He looks like he's about to fall over.

Tara grabs Lionel's arm and pulls him down the hall. "Which way?"

"They've locked the gates for the night," says Lionel. His eyes become vacant and he stumbles. "My mother's just outside. Mother, go, go to the Dark Lands. Find a safe house. I've got Tara. I'll meet you there somehow..."

His eyes come back into focus and he regains his footing. "She came back to the palace just as soon as Benedal's compulsion wore off. She'd never have left you on purpose."

Tara's gut constricts. "I know." They reach an intersection, and Tara picks a direction at random. Ahead, servers are streaming back and forth, laden with dishes; they're passing through double doors on either side of the hallway. From one pair of doors, Tara hears conversation and bubbling laughter, from the other, she hears pots and pans. Beyond that is another hallway.

"Lionel, isn't there a secret passage out of this place?" Tara asks, guiding him forward for lack of better ideas. Don't all palaces have hidden escape routes?

"Yes..." Lionel says, and her heart leaps. Hooray for The History Channel! Eyes going vacant, he whispers, "Checking."

Tara stops in her tracks just before the kitchen. Thirty feet past the servers going to and fro is a line of elves in armor. Hearing footsteps behind, she looks back and sees more armor-clad guards. The kitchen staff is nervously glancing side to side, but doesn't stop their tasks.

"Blasted basilisks, she's blocked that one too," Lionel whispers.

From down the hallway, one of the guards bellows, "Lionel of South Vale and Tara of Chicago, you will—"

Before he can finish and possibly put her under a spell, Tara drags Lionel into what she hopes is the kitchen. A cloud of steam hits her face. Someone screams. Someone else shouts, "Lord and Lady, you've made a wrong turn!"

Next to her Lionel shouts, "This way!"

Before Tara knows what's happening, he's darted down an aisle. Tara hears boot thumps behind her and dashes after Lionel, past elves protectively huddling over fancy dishes. "Sorry! Sorry!" she murmurs as she and Lionel bump past them.

"To the wine cellar!" Lionel shouts, darting right.

Catching up to him, Tara says, "Um... should you be telling them where we're going to be hiding?"

"Not hiding!" Lionel declares, grabbing her hand and dragging her past elves manning giant stoves and ovens. She hears the door boom open and whispers, "Duck!"

Lionel does, and leads her at a crouch toward a dark doorway in the far corner. A man dressed in grey, carrying two bottles of wine, is standing there scowling down at them.

"Where are they?" bellows the guard again.

Lionel whispers to the man in grey guarding the door, "I attacked Rogier."

Elf in the doorway's eyebrow hikes. Neatly stepping past Tara and Lionel, he says, "Where is who?"

Lionel yanks her into the darkness beyond the door, thrusts something into her hand, and says, "Lock it."

She hears him run off.

In the kitchen, she hears a guard respond with a roar. "The lord and the human who just came in here."

"Oh, them," says guy dressed in grey. His hands are behind his back, and he's gesturing frantically toward Tara in what must be a universal sign for "haul butt."

"Yes, them, you simpering sommelier—"

Tara shuts the door as gently as she can, and doesn't hear the rest. It's dim in the wine cellar, but not pitch black. Fumbling with the thing Lionel thrust at her, she discovers it's his key. Hoping it's a master key, she inserts it into the lock. Thankfully, it catches, and a moment later, she hears the bolt click.

She breathes out a sigh of relief, and then hears a loud thump on the door, and then another.

Spinning, she runs down the stairs. The wine cellar is larger than her house. There is a wide central corridor bisected by aisle upon aisle of wines in bottles and barrels from floor to ceiling.

"Over here!" Lionel shouts.

Following the sound of his voice, she finds him in one of the smaller aisles.

"Not here, not here!" he mutters.

"What are you looking for?" Tara asks. "A secret exit?"

"No, none here..."

"Back door?" Tara asks.

"No, no, the door we came through is the only one," Lionel says, running a hand through his hair, looking like a madman. "Loki, Loki, Loki..."

"What?" says Tara. "Are you trying to summon him?" She winces. _Please don't be like saying Beetlejuice's name three times._

"He said there was a gate here... somewhere."

Lionel charges past her to another aisle, and Tara charges after him.

"The queen would never let me down here... she knew I'd find it. Norns bless Chignon for stepping out of the way," Lionel murmurs. He turns to Tara. "I don't really believe the Norns can bless anyone. I wish someone did. Chignon is... was... a friend. He deserves to be blessed."

"Lionel?" Tara whispers. Is he having a nervous breakdown?

"I haven't slept in over forty-eight hours," he says, blinking at her. "Maybe more."

From the top of the stairs comes the sound of splintering wood. Lionel turns and dashes down another aisle. Tara follows. He turns, goes down the next, and the next. Tara hears footsteps on the stairs, and, "Lionel of the South Vale and Tara of Chicago, we know you're here."

Skidding to a halt, Lionel whispers, "Here!"

He holds up his hands midair and says, "Yes." Turning, he clutches Tara roughly by the upper arms and kisses her forehead. He nods once. "I hope that works."

From the stairs comes Lady Benedal's voice. "Let me through!" and then, "Tara of Chicago, you will—"

Lionel shoves Tara's head down and pushes her forward. Instead of a wine cellar, Tara finds her chin inches above a stone floor, head at eye level with silvery shoes... or boots. On either side seems to be wooden fence posts. She feels her feet lift, and she cries out in surprise as she's launched forward. The boots jump away and someone curses. Tara goes head first between the posts, and then hears Lionel say, "Tara! Help."

Turning, she sees his hands and head reaching toward her, and then he slips backward, his head vanishing, and it's just his arms dangling in midair. Tara grabs on and pulls. Someone shouts, "Help her." There are more shouts, and the thump of boots, and someone grabs Lionel's right arm and another pair of hands grab his left, and a man's voice commands, "Pull!"

Tara pulls with all her might, and then she hears her helpers grunt. Lionel comes lunging through what she guesses is a World Gate. Crashing into her, his weight knocks her over, and they both roll backward down a set of stairs, arms and legs akimbo. Tara's sure she'll be knocked unconscious, but a moment later, she is on her side, blinking at Lionel. Across his body she sees a rather nice floor with an intricate mosaic on it. Sunlight is streaming from above. In the direction they came from is a short stairway, and atop that, a throne. The "fence posts" were its legs.

Someone says, "Intruders!" And she hears boots striding purposely in their direction. Pushing herself up onto her elbows, she sees guys in armor, guys much bigger than elves. They've all got spears out and they are aimed right at Lionel and her.

A shadow blocks out the sun, and she blinks up and finds herself staring at a man with a white beard and long white hair. One of his eyes is covered with a gold eye patch; the other is a familiar bright blue. His face is not exactly like the picture painted on the side of the "City of Gods" tour bus, but it's close enough. "Odin," she whispers.

He raises an eyebrow, lifts his head, and in a voice like thunder rumbles, "Guards."

At the single word from Odin, Tara instinctively curls into a defensive posture next to Lionel. She waits for the hands to come drag her away, or the spear points to pierce her side.

"You're no longer needed," Odin says, and Tara blinks. He isn't speaking English, Spanish, French, or Elvish. She remembers Lionel kissing her forehead in the wine cellar, like he had on the bluff in the Delta of Sorrows.

Behind her, she hears orderly boot steps, and then a door shut. Lionel is rubbing his eyes, like he has a headache.

She nudges his arm. "Um... Lionel," she says and glances worriedly at Odin.

He's holding out a hand... to her. Tara gapes.

"Miss Tara Lupita Gibson," says Odin, or the man she's ninety-nine percent sure is Odin.

Tara's too shocked to take the proffered hand. Odin knows who she is?

Glaring at Odin, Lionel scrambles up and helps Tara to her feet.

Eyeing Lionel, Odin rumbles, "Relax, Lionel, I am not an elf, and I'm not so charming as you. I cannot deprive her of her free will by speaking her name."

Tara blinks. That is just an elf thing. Good to know... Especially since everyone present knows her name now.

Lionel is still glowering, but Odin only looks bemused. Turning to Tara, Odin extends his hand, this time as though he's offering a handshake. Tara tentatively takes it. His hand is huge, and warm but dry, and she can feel calluses on his fingers and palm. His handshake is firm, but careful. He smiles, and his eye twinkles. "You are welcome here, Miss Gibson, and by my oath are in no danger now."

Tara is too shocked to do anything but stare dumbly at him. Why does his twinkling blue eye look familiar?

Letting go of her hand, Odin turns to Lionel. "I had long hoped you'd join me in this chamber, but never envisioned anything like this." He shakes his head and then he throws it back and laughs. The men in the chamber join him. Tara notices that except for Odin and one other man, they're all wearing black robes. She blinks at the one man. He is wearing armor, and is incredibly tall, maybe six foot eight or even more. Standing atop the short flight of stairs where the throne sits surrounded by a few less impressive seats, the man's holding a hammer in his hand, and his hair is long and red. Her eyes go wide. It's Thor. She recognizes him from the news and countless viral amateur videos. He's not laughing like the rest, but he's smiling at Lionel in a way that seems bittersweet. Catching Tara's gaze, he touches his brow.

Wiping his single eye, Odin recovers, but he still has a huge grin on his face. Turning to the room at large, Odin says, "Gentlemen, this is the lad I was telling you about. The one who escaped the clutches of the Dark Elves in the Delta of Sorrows, who slayed an each-uisge with his bare hands, and took on velociraptors with only his wits and a few sticks. This is Lionel... my son."

## 15

# Return of the Prodigal Son

"My son." Odin's words ring in Tara's head.

Thor steps from where he stands by the throne, and the men in black edge forward.

She suddenly realizes why Odin's blue eye looked familiar—it's almost the same shade as Lionel's.

How had Lionel neglected to share this tiny little detail of his heritage? Might this have saved them both from a run-in with Rogier? Eyes narrowing, she turns to Odin's _son_. He's staring at a spot on the floor. Tara shivers, though the room is not cold.

Patting Lionel on the shoulder, Odin says, "Thank you for helping me become aware of that gate under my throne."

Thor rumbles something that sounds like agreement.

A thank you doesn't seem to put you in someone's debt here, Tara notes.

Lionel bows his head. "I'm afraid I may have embroiled you in a diplomatic incident, Your Majesty."

"How so?" says Odin, eye narrowing.

"I assaulted Prince Rogier," says Lionel, his voice flat, his expression blank.

"If you killed him, we should present you with a bounty," says one of the men in black. "He's an incompetent ass." There are several murmurs of agreement.

Lionel's jaw gets tight. "I wish I had. But, I merely gave him a very bad case of frostbite." His words are inflectionless. Tara shivers.

There are a few whispers around the room. Odin says quickly, "Lionel is a mage, but he'll be a warrior, too."

The elves had reacted with derision when they'd heard of the each-uisge; the Asgardians sound suspicious of his magic. Tara finds her hand drifting to his arm, as though she could protect him from their censure.

"I had Tara's help," says Lionel.

"Thank you again for revealing the gate," the king says, not acknowledging Lionel's proclamation. Tara shifts on her feet uneasily.

Odin turns to Thor. "I wonder how long Her Majesty has known about it."

Shrugging, Thor says, "I pumped it full of lightning before it closed. The queen will know better than to use it anytime soon."

Nodding, Odin says, "Good." He inclines his head to Lionel. "Thor, greet your younger brother properly."

Face breaking into a grin, Thor strides over, takes Lionel's hand, and pumps vigorously. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

Tara tilts her head, trying to see the resemblance between the brothers. There might be... a little. Thor's facial features look like Lionel's but... wider. Other than that, she wouldn't have guessed it.

Blinking, Thor stops shaking Lionel's hand and scowls down at it. "Impressive little brother," he whispers. Lifting his head, he smiles wickedly, gives Tara a covert wink, and to the room at large declares, "His magic is far closer to Father's than mine... he has the magic of holding things together. Put him as first in line to the throne!"

The men in black all laugh. Lionel's eyes go wide. Tara swallows. A crown prince is probably even more out of reach than a peasant elf with a soulmate. Bowing her head, she smooths her skirts with jerking movements. Why is she still thinking about the possibility of Lionel and her?

Odin snorts. "Thor! You'll frighten the lad!" Appraising Lionel from head to toe through his single narrowed eye, Odin asks in a booming voice, "Boy, how long has it been since you slept?"

Lionel starts counting down on his fingers. "I thought it was forty-eight hours..." He wavers on his feet. "... but now I think it may have been more. No wait, I had two hours of sleep in the delta."

Odin laughs, and the advisors echo it. The king claps, and a completely unremarkable panel in the walls opens and two men emerge. They also wear black, but instead of robes, they wear fitted pants and shirts. Their boots are almost noiseless. Tara blinks. They appear to be no older than maybe twenty-five or twenty-six. She studies the men around her. Except for Odin and herself, no one looks older than that.

"Take my son Lionel to the Eastern suite, and take Miss Gibson to the rooms adjacent. Make sure they're comfortable." To Lionel, he says, "I've been in your boots, boy. You'll most likely sleep like the dead for at least twelve hours. That will mean you'll miss breakfast." Odin frowns. "Probably for the better. Frigga is going to need a talking to." He huffs. "I'll see you both at an hour past breakfast tomorrow."

Tara steps forward, about to say, _no, that's too late. I have to go home_. But Odin turns toward her, and something in the glint of his bright single eye stops her in her tracks. "What do you want, girl?" he asks brusquely. She looks to Lionel for any sign of support, but he is staring at the floor.

Dropping to a low curtsy, Tara stifles what she wants to say. Instead, she tells a different truth. "I thought for sure when I realized we were in a throne room that Lionel and I would be cellmates again." Cellmates, like soulmates... but more awful. Stifling that epiphany, she continues nervously, "Thank you, sir, err... Your Majesty, sir." She hopes she sounds sufficiently respectful and awed and at the same time is a little disgusted with herself for being afraid to speak her mind.

"Rise, girl, rise!" Odin says. Tara lifts her eyes to find him smiling genially, which actually makes her more fearful, and she can't quite say why. "You're welcome here." He inclines his head to the servants. "They'll take you to your rooms, see you have proper maids, and everything you need. Go."

Tara murmurs her thanks again, playing nice for the scary man, and she and Lionel are led out of the throne room into a wide hallway with high ceilings and windows that open to immense gardens. Glowing butterflies flitter about, lighting any potential dark corners.

As they go, she hears whispers of "Except for his ears, he is the spitting image of his brother... " It makes her brow furrow; Lionel doesn't look that much like Thor. She glances at Lionel and catches his gaze on her. He looks away quickly. Tara eyes the castle, fortress, palace, whatever with increasing unease.

A few minutes later, Lionel's ushered through a doorway without her. Tara feels her heart sink as the door between them closes. He's been not much more than a ghost for company since the throne room, but he was the only familiar face.

About twenty steps down the hall, she's guided through an enormous door into a room bigger than both levels of her house put together. Her male guide leaves her with a woman in a simple black dress. Nearly as tall as Tara, the woman has golden skin only a shade lighter than Tara's own, but her hair is blonde and straight, and her eyes are blue. She curtsies to Tara, introduces herself as "Ahnohr," and proceeds to give Tara a tour. There's a bathroom, toilet separate from the bath, a sitting area with a fireplace next to a bed on an elevated platform. Everywhere there are high arched ceilings, heavy wooden furniture with plump padded seats and backs, and lots of gold... it looks a little East Indian, Tara thinks. There's fruit, cheese, crackers, water, and wine already laid out in the sitting area, and a bell. Ahnohr assures Tara that if she rings it, she'll be heard any time of day or night, because it's "magical... I know it must sound strange because you don't have anything like it, of course."

Tara tries to look impressed. She doesn't mention cell phones and that on Earth she can ring anyone she damn well pleases.

"Is there anything I can get you?" Ahnohr asks after showing her through a closet filled with gowns.

_Lionel,_ Tara thinks, but says, "No, I'll be fine. I already bathed and ate in Alfheim. Think I'll just..." She looks around, sees no books, or television, or anything, so she says, "... meditate."

"Very good!" says Ahnohr with a smile, finally leaving. As she exits, more of the glowing butterflies flutter in, brightening the dimming room. Tara looks out the window. The sun is much lower in the sky. It had been even later in Alfheim, and Tara is tired. She goes to the closet and picks out a "sleeping gown."

She's just put it on when she hears a scurrying noise in the wall at the back of the closet. Tara gulps and wonders if Asgard—she's guessing that's where she has to be—has magic rats. Giant magic rats.

She backs out of the closet, and then hears a thump, and then another. Definitely a giant rat... or something. She slams the door shut and braces her back against it. In the closet, she hears a creak and then footsteps, and isn't sure if she's glad they sound human rather than rodent. Her heart is beating so hard and fast she can feel it pulsing against her ribs. She looks at the closet's doorknob... there is no lock. The bell is across the room on the little table in the sitting area. How long will it take someone to arrive if she rings it?

There is thump from the door at the level of her ear. She bites her lip, closes her eyes, and then hears a whispered, "Tara?"

Her eyes go wide. All the fear in her rapidly morphs into anger in less than one of her frantic heart beats. Spinning around, she opens the closet, points at the main door, and hisses, "You could have used that one!"

Lionel pokes his head out. He looks rather sheepish, but a dam has burst within Tara. "And what are we doing here?" Her voice rises and so does the heat beneath her skin. "Why didn't we come here first? You're a prince here. You could have saved me from Lady Benedal and Rogier! When can I go home?"

She doesn't say she's afraid. More afraid than when she'd been facing velociraptors and in the cell they'd shared. There the threats had been so obvious... here, she feels like the danger is just bubbling under the surface.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she waits for Lionel to snap back at her, to tell her she's being irrational, to tell her he's a prince and he'll take care of it.

He rubs his forehead. "Tara, I'm so sorry. I don't know when you can go home, or I can go home... I didn't know... and I'm afraid."

Her arms drop. "You didn't know? But you brought us here... you dropped us off in the throne room! I'm not even from a country with royalty but I do know that was an off-with-their-heads move."

Eyes closed, leaning against the door frame, he says, "Every other exit was under guard." His feet sort of slip out from under him, and he slides down. Before thinking about it, Tara's helping him up.

"Too much magic in too short amount of time," he says, wiping his face with his hands. His hair is rumpled around the points of his ears. His eyes are bloodshot, and the contrast between the red and the bright blue of his irises is startling and disturbing.

"Can you explain to me what's going on? If you didn't know that Odin is..." She waves a hand.

"My father?" Lionel finishes, meeting her gaze. The bitterness in his voice is palpable, the set of his jaw painfully tight.

Tara glares at him... and then sighs. He should have gone to sleep, but he'd come first to her.

"Come in and sit down," Tara says, feeling her stomach roil with too many emotions to name.

Rubbing his eyes, Lionel nods. Walking past her, he goes to the other side of the room and sort of sits-falls onto the couch. Tara sits on the chair beside him.

He takes an audible breath. "I didn't know... but I suspected." He steeples his fingers together, and as he does, the robe-like garment he's wearing slides down to reveal his forearm. Tara blinks. There is no soulmark.

She looks up quickly, feeling like she's just spied something intensely personal. He gives her a twisted smile. "It disappeared sometime between when I attacked Rogier and we arrived here."

"I'm... I'm..." Tara stammers. "Sorry."

Her eyes go to the carpet. For a brief moment in the Elven chamber she'd wished the soulmark was a mistake... but... the end of something you think is real and true, something you could rely on—she knows how that feels. She remembers the day Dwayne called it off... She feels for Lionel, more than she should, maybe.

"I'm not sorry," says Lionel. "I only wish I'd gotten to you sooner. Rogier shouldn't have..."

She looks up, but he's not meeting her gaze. He'd given up his surety for her because she'd been in danger. She doesn't think Lionel's in love with her. Attracted to her, yes, but in love? No. He's already said as much. He just came to her aid because he is a good person. The realization does weird things to her heart.

Lionel clears his throat. "To answer your other questions... I didn't use the main door because the guide who showed it to me suggested I might protect your virtue by using the secret passage."

Tara's eyebrows hike. "I'm not feeling like my virtue is particularly well protected by a secret door into my closet."

Huffing softly, Lionel scratches behind his ear and says, "It's all about the appearance of virtue here. Asgardians are strange about these things, not like elves."

Tara's lips purse, remembering Lionel almost stripping down to his birthday suit in front of her, and the elves in the window in his village. "Right," she says.

"As for my heritage... I first suspected it centuries ago."

Tara leans in, curious.

Rubbing his eyes, he says, "I was a child, wandering the palace gardens while my mother was at the town market. Leenine was there, playing hide and seek. She perhaps didn't realize I was a peasant at first, because she pulled me into her game. I knew it was wrong to play with a daughter of a high house, but I was lonely. When the other noble children almost found her, I dragged her through a World Gate to help her win." He stares at his feet. "I didn't know what I was doing. It was purely instinctual." He smiles wryly. "Trolls instinctually travel through World Gates, too, and they're dumb as rocks."

Tara winces at the comparison.

Lionel continues, "We wound up in Midgard, in South Carolina during the hunt for a family of runaway slaves. Odin sent his ravens to help us, and then he came himself..." He lets out a long breath. "Sometimes Odin intervenes on children's behalf. He isn't cruel to children, not at all. I told myself that was why he aided us. It was what I wanted to believe at the time..." He smiles sadly. "Abraham, the father in the family of slaves we ran into... he was running away because they were going to sell Hannah, his wife, and their child, Benjamin. He said they'd all live together or die together." A thin smile twists his lips. He stares at the butterflies lighting the room. "Odin... has watched out for me... but that was the first and last time I've spoken to him. Until today."

Tara swallows. She's grown up around children whose parents had left them for one reason or another. She's heard the sadness, the bitterness, and the confusion before.

Lionel sighs. "Later, when I was allowed to go to magic school instead of being exiled to the Dark Lands for practicing magic above my station, I told myself he interfered out of fairness, justice..." He stared out into space for a moment. "He knew your full name." His eyes briefly meet hers. "Do you think he knows everyone's full names?"

Tara shakes her head, confused, not sure of what he's asking.

"I'd tell you my name," he whispers, and then laughs mirthlessly. "But now I don't know what it is."

He closes his eyes and lays his head back.

Tara reaches out to him, and then pulls her hand away.

Lionel's head lolls to the side, and she's not particularly surprised when he goes to sleep. She wants to pull the blankets off the bed and snuggle up next to him. Instead, she goes to the closet, retrieves a spare blanket there, and drapes it over his body.

Tara retreats to her own bed, and the butterflies discreetly flutter out the window. She still doesn't sleep. Her eyes keep roving around her opulent rooms. She has a feeling she and Lionel are cellmates again.

Lionel wakes with his head at an awkward angle, sunlight in his eyes, and his stomach clawing at itself in hunger. He blinks, shifts, and realizes he's on a sofa, not in his bed in the queen's palace, his mother's cottage, or in Tara's guest room. The events of the day before come back to him, and he groans.

He hears soft footfalls and manages to pull himself up. He wipes his eyes and finds Tara just a few paces in front of him. She's wearing a nightgown of the palest gold several shades lighter than her skin. It seems to have been poured onto her, the way it catches her curves. Her hair is a midnight halo around her head. A few inky black coils have fallen over her forehead.

She pushes them back and leans down. Pressing her lips together, her brow furrows, and then she whispers, "Hi."

He wants to pull her into his lap and enfold her in his arms, and beg forgiveness. She rescued him in an alley, and he's torn her from her home, marched her through a swamp, subjected her to the attentions of Rogier, and pulled her into a mess that spans the realms. He scowls, angry at himself and his entire race. His mouth forms a bitter line. What is his race?

Tara bites her lip and sits down on a chair beside him. "I was once engaged."

The trajectory of her words makes him sit up with a start. He looks over at her.

Studying her hands, Tara says, "I know you don't think it's the same... and maybe it isn't. But when he broke up with me, it turned my world upside down. And now you've purposely upended your life for me."

Lionel's skin heats. "Don't you dare say thank you," he snaps.

Her shocked expression catches him off guard, and then he realizes that she doesn't understand the danger. "You'll put yourself in my debt again." He sighs. She practically has already. "Then I'd have to thank you for not leaving me behind after I froze Rogier, or making me duck in the kitchens." That could have ended in an arrow to the head.

Her lips quirk. "That's two to my one. If you said that, I'd have to say thank you for pushing me through the World Gate in the wine cellar first so Benedal didn't have time to charm me."

Lionel grins. "I thought you said we should stop keeping score?"

Sitting up straighter, she lifts her chin, and her full lips part into a wide, genuine smile. "I did say that." She is radiant. Leenine—and maybe all elves—are beautiful like still ponds. Tara is beautiful like a wild river with unexpected turns, bends, and currents. But she's more than beautiful. She is clever. Not being magical has forced her to learn about magic in a roundabout, cumbersome way with human devices. The patience, persistence, and curiosity that must have motivated that has to be immense. She's funny; even now, she's making him laugh. And she hadn't abandoned him, not in the alley, not in the Dark Elves' prison, not after Rogier. She did not give up, not even in the Dark Elves' cell, like he had.

Lionel's own smile fades. "The man who let you go is an idiot." The words are out before he's thought of them.

For the second time in the morning, Tara looks taken aback. Her eyes fall and she smiles ruefully. "You're right." She lets out a long breath and her shoulders fall. "And wrong." She meets his gaze. "He doubted me... but not without reason."

Lionel tilts his head.

Shrugging, Tara says, "He'd moved out to Denver after Loki blew up the financial district and trolls, wyrms, and other things started showing up. I was going to join him. I had a job lined up and everything, but then—" She looks down again. "My father died unexpectedly. My mother was wrecked."

Tara continues, and he can hear the unshed tears in her voice. "Dad left behind a lot of properties that he owned and managed. My mother couldn't handle them all herself, and even though they are good, solid rental properties, their value had crashed after Loki and..." She takes a deep breath. "I had to stay and help my mother. My job in Denver went to someone else. I couldn't afford to be traveling back and forth from Denver to Chicago without the job, and I couldn't tell him how long it would take to straighten it all out." Shrugging again, she nods to herself. "So, after a year and six months, he broke it off."

Lionel's brow furrows, his mind working out the math from what he knows from books of Midgard's time scales. "That was only five hundred forty-seven days... it's not long. He was an idiot." If one's species didn't grant a soulmate, you couldn't do better than Tara. He thinks of Leenine trying to convince him not to rescue her. Perhaps you could do no better even if you did have a soulmate.

Her dark eyes meet his. "For someone who lives centuries, probably not. But it was nearly a quarter of his adult life at that point." She huffs. "Our lives go much faster, Lionel."

Lionel goes very still.

"Anyway, I know it must be... disorientating, to lose that security," she says. "Of knowing that you had someone. And... I can't say thank you ..." She looks up at him from beneath long lashes, and nods.

An unspoken thanks... an unspoken bond, too?

He does feel disorientated, confused, and uncertain, even if he has no regrets. That she can empathize as one so young... The real gulf between them is time—the ruthless, magic-less abbreviated lives of humans.

He wants to gather her in his arms and savor what time they might have. Yes, he is upended by the severing of his soulbond, but Tara's impending death doesn't give him time to mourn the loss of his soulmate or life as an elf. His chest tightens. But he doesn't know what he can give her. Odin seems intent on keeping him here. Lionel is not sure what concessions to his freedoms that will entail. He can't believe she'd accept to be shuffled to the side, allowed only the status of mistress... if that. He can't imagine any children they might have, living with second class status, relegated to shadowy visits from their father. His lips twist. He'd not even gotten that.

His jaw gets hard. He promised his mother he'd return Tara to her home world. He'll do that, no matter the cost.

There is a knock at the door. Lionel thinks Asgardian mores are silly, but for Tara's sake, he stands and says, "I'll exit through the closet."

Before she can answer, he leaves.

## 16

# How to Be a Goddess

Tara is sitting in her room, wrapped in a luxurious robe, warm from a bath. There are six maids in front of her, including Ahnohr, from yesterday. Some are clutching neat stacks of silks; a few are holding sparkling shoes. One carries a bouquet of brilliant flowers in a vase. Some of the maids are paler than Lionel with hair textured like Tara's, and some of them are even darker than her, with straight blonde hair.

"This," says Ahnohr, holding up a sheer piece of silvery fabric, "is the dress of a Vanir princess. We're in the midst of a Vanir revival, and it's all the rage."

Tara's lips purse. She might have described it as a "fancy mosquito netting." There are little gem circles at about chest level, and a gem triangle on a belt. Swirling a finger in the direction of what Ahnohr calls a "dress," Tara asks, "What do you wear under it?"

"Your body!" says Ahnohr with a wink.

"No," says Tara.

"But you've got the perfect form for it!" Ahnohr declares. "Not too slender, not too fat, perfect. Almost Valkyrian. Show it off..." Lowering her voice, she whispers, "You have the eye of the newly found son. He may be a bastard, and he does have those _pointy_ ears, but he is the heir apparent." There are murmurs of agreement from the other maids.

She says "pointy" like Tara would say "milk that was left out" and Tara's skin heats. How dare they think Lionel's ears hideous.

Crossing her arms, she eyes the dress. What does having the eye of an heir to a throne mean if you're a lesser unmagical human, anyway? Mistress? She's not going that route. "No," she says again.

A maid behind Ahnohr, who looks tiny compared to the others, though she is probably at least five foot seven, whispers, "Ahnohr, remember the other human woman who was here? Their culture is more modest... the dress, it upset her so."

"Other human woman?" Tara asks in shock.

"She was quite rude," says Ahnohr with a sniff. "Not polite like you. She was too outspoken. The foolish thing went back to Earth, and she had the All Father's eye."

Tara blinks. Definitely not wearing the mosquito net. She almost asks to hear more about this "human woman," but then the little maid unfurls a red bundle of fabric. "How about this?"

Tara gapes. It is an almost off-the-shoulder, ankle length gown. The shimmering fabric has folds that come together in a V at the chest that will give her a little more curve there, but it smooths out at the waist and stays smooth to just a little below the hip. There it flares into an A-line skirt. The satiny silk continues below a flowing sheer gold gossamer with vibrant red embroidery. The sleeves are also made of the same gossamer fabric, with cuffs embroidered with red.

"That is only a sorceress's gown," sniffs Ahnohr.

"I love it," says Tara. She may never let them take it off her. She can tell in an instant that it will make the most of her skin tone and her athletic frame.

The tiny maid smiles. Behind her, other maids jostle to bring forward shoes, start discussing the makeup she should wear, and the nail polish.

An hour later, Tara is standing before a full-length mirror. Her makeup is perfect: lipstick a slightly darker shade of red than the dress, nails the same, and pale gold eyeshadow. They've accessorized the dress with a drop necklace of gold and rubies. For shoes, they've given her sparkly red and gold flats. Normally, Tara would decry flats as blasphemy of all that is good and fashionable—the dress deserves, _no begs_ , for a sexy pair of heels. Although—the cute little "peasant" Light Elf shoes would have also worked—sadly, they're in Benedal's rooms back in Alfheim. All that said, recent events make her grateful for the ability to run. The only thing left... Tara picks at her hair, freshly washed, magically dried and standing up at attention in every direction, except for the few curls that seem determined to dangle over her forehead. "I look like a black dandelion gone to seed," she mutters.

Nodding beside her, Ahnohr smiles. "I'm sure that is a lovely flower. But this needs something, you're about to have an audience with the prince..."

There are titters all around, and "he looks so much like his brother except for those unfortunate ears!" and "Lionel's hair isn't curly." Which makes Tara very confused. Thor's hair isn't curly, either.

"... and the king," Ahnohr says. The tittering stops and there is earnest conversation about hair accessories. One of the maids breaks the bloom off a flower and presents it to Ahnohr. It is a red and yellow blossom that sparkles with golden pollen, not quite the breadth of Tara's palm. "What about this?"

Ahnohr's eyes widen. "Oh, yes, magic it so it will not wilt!"

The other maid blows upon it, and then Ahnohr pins it behind Tara's ear. She turns Tara back to the mirror. "That is perfect," she says.

All the other maids nod. Tara's not so sure—yes, Tavende's magic had made her natural hair glossy and healthy, but it is _so_ short and puffy.

Ahnohr declares, "Look at the time. You'll be late for your audience with the king," and Tara decides she's just going to have to go with it.

She's led through the halls again, this time by Ahnohr. For some reason, the hallways have more people than the day before. Tara tries not to stare... but can't quite help herself. Asgardians appear to come in every shade and are taller than the elves. They nod and smile at her in passing, whether they are dressed in servants' garb, or more formal attire. She notices that, like the elves, social class and skin coloring do not seem to be at all related. She mentally searches the Asgardian language for "racism" and doesn't find the word.

They pass a group of women in armor, wearing vests with wings attached, and swords in their belts. One of them calls to her in a cheerful voice, "Will you be joining the ranks of Freyja's Valkyries, Sister?"

Tara shrugs and shakes her head, as Ahnohr leads her past them.

"We'll be here for you if you need us!" One calls back in a very loud, boisterous, and camaraderie voice.

"You could, you know," Ahnohr whispers. "Personally, for me, I'm too timid. Their training..." She shivers. "I don't like being poked with spears or having my bones broken for practice."

Tara's eyes widen. "Pardon?"

"Well, generally they're weaker than the male warriors," Ahnohr explains. "So, they make it up with fierceness, indifference to pain, and the ability to heal wounds and bones faster. They practice those things... a lot."

Tara's knees go weak. Ahnohr stops at two double doors that are ajar. "I'll leave you here, Milady." She gives a wide grin and bounces on her feet. "I think the All Father has great plans for you, yes I do."

"Great plans?" whispers Tara.

"Oh, yes," says Ahnohr. "He put your room right next to Lionel's." She gives a knowing nod. "Play your cards right, ignore those ears, and you'll do well."

Tara's brow furrows. A mental search does turn up a word for "class." She's pretty sure, as an unmagical human, she is among the least class, despite the hospitality. All she says, though, is, "Thank you, Ahnohr."

The maid curtsies and smiles.

From the open door, Odin's voice rumbles, "Tara Gibson, you've arrived."

Tara turns. Within the double doors is a great room that appears to be a sort of foyer. There is a gold and red silk carpet, an enormous chandelier, and another set of double doors at the far side guarded by two men in gleaming armor. The doors are thrown wide open, and standing just inside is Lionel silhouetted by a beam of sunlight. He wears a sort of armored vest that appears to be made of white gold. Her breath catches. His eyes meet hers and he takes a step forward.

"Well, come in, Tara!" Odin says with a chuckle. Which is when Tara first notices the king, a little to Lionel's left, behind a great wooden desk. Two ravens are hopping up and down on the back of an enormous chair behind him.

Lifting her chin, Tara enters the first great room and passes into the second. The doors slam behind her.

As Tara enters Odin's study, Lionel feels breathless. Clad in the gown of a Vanir sorceress, she seems to float above the floor. Everything about Asgard is bigger than on Alfheim, even the inhabitants. They're taller, stronger, broader in the shoulder. Tara looks like she belongs here. Her hair halos her face, and the red and gold of the sorceress's gown and flower suit her perfectly.

The doors shuts, and Tara curtsies. "Your Majesty."

"You look beautiful!" Odin rumbles with a smile, and Lionel internally berates himself for not having said it first. Recovering, he inclines his head, eyes on her midnight tresses, and says, "A halo suits you."

It must have been the wrong thing to say because her lips purse and she looks confused. He turns quickly back to the All Father.

"Now, I need you two to tell me exactly what happened," Odin says. "So I can resolve the fury among the elf High Houses."

The ravens whistle. Tara gives Lionel a worried glance. He gives her a nod that he hopes is reassuring, and she begins her tale. When Tara tells of Rogier's first advance upon her in Benedal's chambers, Lionel thinks he almost turns the room to ice. Odin holds up a finger, eyes intent on Tara, and Lionel's magic never leaves his fingertips. Lionel blinks, and sees the All Father's magic wrapping around him. It is as dark and strong as a cloudy night.

When Lionel tells his version of events, he chokes up, relating how he told his mother to go to the edge of the Dark Lands. The Dark Elves are enemies of Odin and the Elf Queen. Has he turned his mother into one of Odin's enemies? "I am sorry, sir, but I wasn't thinking and—"

Odin cuts him off with a wave. "For Light Elves who irritate the High Houses, it is the only escape. Lady Benedal is vengeful and petty."

"Tavende is too small to be in the Dark Lands alone," Tara bursts out.

Lionel swallows and meets her wide-eyed gaze. She's right. Even if his mother finds a safe house on the border, she'll be in danger of starvation.

"Agreed," Odin rumbles. "Your mother is much too gentle for that dark place. We will find her, son. Once we do, we'll send out a party and bring her here where she will have amnesty."

"Oh," says Tara. "Yes."

All Lionel can do is nod.

"Frigga will be... intolerable..." Odin mutters, referring to his wife. "But she'll get over it." Meeting Lionel's gaze, he says, "Your mother can't stay in the palace. However, there is a lovely cottage that has recently come back into my possession in the gardens. Tavende will love it."

Lionel bows again. "Yes, sir, thank you, sir."

The king whistles, and one of the ravens rawks, "Yes, Master?"

"Find Tavende," Odin instructs. "Tell her what I just told Lionel. If she has found a bolt hole, tell her to stay safe. If she hasn't, help her find one or get to the Golden Road. I'll deal with the Elf Queen and the High Houses."

Lionel swallows. He supposes he shouldn't be shocked that Odin knows that there are safe houses, "bolt holes" as he calls them, at the edge of the Dark Lands.

The raven bobs its head. "Yes, master." Lifting its wings, it flies out the window. The other follows. Odin's single eye bores into Lionel, as if guessing his thoughts. "Once we know her location, we can send a team."

Lionel's hands clench behind his back. There are hundreds of thousands of paces of border between the Dark Lands and the realm of the Light Elves. Intellectually, Lionel understands that sending the ravens is the fastest way to find and help his mother. Emotionally, he wants to leave now.

He bows low but can't quite manage a thank you.

Odin comes around the side of the desk. "And now... onto the matter of Ms. Gibson."

Lionel straightens, feeling like his body is a wire pulled too tight. To his surprise, he finds Odin smiling genially, half sitting on his desk.

"You are as lovely on the outside as you are on the inside, Ms. Gibson." Odin turns his single piercing eye to Lionel. "Did you know she has prevented the death of hundreds of her city's citizens?"

Lionel's jaw falls open and he looks at Tara. Her eyes are wide.

A smile tugs at Lionel's lips. "I did not, but I am not surprised."

Putting a hand to her mouth, Tara says, "I am."

Chuckling, Odin says, "Your timely warnings to the populace through your"—he grimaces—"magical tele-phones and com-pu-ters has saved many an innocent."

"Oh," says Tara.

"You went around your superiors to do so." His single eye narrows, and Lionel straightens. Odin doesn't like anyone subverting _him_.

Tara lifts her chin. "They were too busy with interdepartmental politics to think of the people who might be hurt."

Lionel slides infinitesimally closer to Tara. He isn't sure where Odin is going with this.

Odin nods. "Agreed, and I can't abide that sort of inefficiency and pettiness." He waves a hand. "And for a woman to go around her superiors out of mercy—" He tilts his head. "It is not such a bad thing."

Tara looks at the floor. Her eyes are wild and confused. Lionel is confused, too.

"Would you like to help more people, Ms. Gibson?" Odin asks.

Tara lifts her head. "Pardon, Your Majesty?"

Odin sighs. "I've been failing your world, Ms. Gibson."

Tara glances at Lionel, and he can see the silent plea for help, but he doesn't know what to say. He shrugs and shakes his head. Looking back at the All Father, Tara says softly, "I'm sure that is not true."

Raising an eyebrow, Odin says, "The trolls, wyrms, Dark Elves, and other monsters coming to your world, they are my responsibility to keep out, and I have been failing." He releases a long breath. "Before, Loki would close the World Gates that open from time to time in your realm."

Lionel's brow furrows. He'd heard that only Loki and Odin were capable of that. For Loki it was, according to his former mistress, "a natural extension of his destructive tendencies, but it weakens Odin terribly."

Lionel holds this thought as the All Father continues, "But as you so tragically saw in your city, Loki became... deranged. I no longer have him to help me close gates. I'm overstretched trying to put down a violent uprising among the dwarves. The Frost Giants and Fire Giants are always on the brink of war with themselves, and it is a constant challenge to keep the violence from spilling over into the other realms." He raises an eyebrow imperiously at Tara. "Including yours."

Lionel hears Tara gulp and shifts on his feet. He's heard that Odin deliberately destabilizes the Frost and Fire Giants to keep them from becoming too powerful. He's not sure if that is a horrible thing; the giants are brutal and savage creatures. His jaw shifts... of course, he's heard that of humans, too.

"I'm not sure how I could be of service," Tara says.

Odin beams at her. "Why, by doing what you've been doing. Keeping the people of Earth informed of new World Gates through your com-pu-ters and technology." He waves a hand. "But on a much larger scale. It's not just Chicago that suffers. There was, ah, an event... that ruptured time and space. World Gates will continue to open up at an unprecedented rate for the next few centuries. If you had access to, say, a magic device designed to detect new gates, you could carry on as you've been doing. But you'd be helping many more people, and openly, with impunity."

Tara takes a step forward, and Lionel could see the excitement in her eyes. "I would love that..." Her lips purse, and her eyes drop to the floor. "Although, I think if I had a magical device on Earth, it would most likely be confiscated from me, Sir."

"Which is why you'd be stationed here," says Odin.

"My mother—"

"Needs to know where you are," Odin responds. "Of course, you'd be allowed to visit... regularly... but I'd need you here."

Lionel's heart beats faster, with hope too fragile to voice. Odin doesn't keep _mortals_ in Asgard.

Tara's lips part as though she is about to speak.

The All Father says, "I need to get a com-pu-ter, have my office wi-red and learn to use the internets... I'm sure you'd be just the sort to teach me."

Tara clasps her hands in front of her and rocks on her feet. "Sir, I do want to help you, but I don't know if a Wi-Fi signal would carry through a World Gate, if sir, it's access to Earth's internet that you want."

Lionel blinks at the "gibberish" but Odin nods. "It is. We'd need to establish a permanently open World Gate, a tricky thing. How big do you think it would have to be?"

Lionel sees Tara bouncing a little on her feet, her eyes shining. "I don't know, sir, but I'd love to find out! We'd need a hot spot on Earth somewhere—"

Waving a hand, Odin says, "I've been meaning to establish some embassies at various Earth capitals."

"Oh! Oh!" Tara actually hops, and Lionel has to stifle a laugh at her pure joy. "That would work on the Earth end. I have no idea about the rest, sir, but... I'm sure there must be a way. We'd need electricity here."

"A magical object could be devised to generate electricity," Lionel interjects.

Tara smiles at him. "I've got a lot of experience wiring buildings and dealing with generators. It might take a little time, but I'm sure I could put something together."

Lionel smiles back. "And I'm very good at opening up World Gates. I could help you—"

"No," Odin cuts him off.

Lionel looks at the All Father. Odin is frowning at him. "This is women's magic, Lionel. To be a prince in this realm, you need to become better acquainted with swords."

Lionel's mouth suddenly feels very dry. Asgardians are dismissive of men who practice magic—although their king is more powerful than even Alfheim's Queen. Lionel's former mistress had said Odin kept the general populace magically ignorant to cement his power. He fights the frown tugging at his lips. Odin will be learning Midgard's magics if Tara installs their com-pu-ters in his office. He'll be even more powerful...

"I'm very good with a bow and a knife," he manages to say. All farmer Light Elves near the border have to be, but Odin doesn't appear to have heard. Turning back to Tara, the All Father says, "You'd take the oath of service to be entitled to the Apples of Idunn."

Lionel's reservations about the All Father's consolidation of power evaporate in an instant. He looks to Tara. Her lips are parted, and there is a crease in between her brows.

"You'd live forever," Lionel explains in a whisper. "You'll never grow old."

"You'll be a goddess," Odin adds, the side of his mouth curling in a smile. "The Goddess of Internets and Forewarning, perhaps."

Tara's mouth drops. "Oh," she whispers. She takes a step back. "Oh."

She curtsies deeply, and Odin chuckles. Rising, she says, "Your Majesty, Sire, this is a lot to take in."

"Well, you may think about it until this evening." He smiles kindly. "I will be leaving for Muspelheim on the morrow, so I'll need your answer then."

Tara's brows rise.

"Land of the Fire Giants," Lionel whispers, wondering what business Odin has there that he'd have to see to it personally.

"You'll save thousands, Ms. Gibson," Odin says. "Forewarned is forearmed, and your people are resourceful enough to manage once they have warning."

Tara rises from her curtsy and there are stars in her eyes. There may be some in Lionel's, too.

"Now, Ms. Gibson," Odin says. "I wonder if you might give me a little time with my son."

"Oh, yes, of course, Your Majesty." The doors open behind her, and with another curtsy, she leaves the room. Lionel follows her with his eyes.

As the doors close, Odin says, "She'd make a fine princess."

Lionel turns to Odin and the doors shut with a thump and a click. His mind tumbles over the word, "princess." The only way that would happen would be if she were to marry a prince.

Looking like he wants to spit something foul from his mouth, Odin says, "We had a couple of other human visitors. They were very rude. But that one..." His eye narrows. "She'd be a deft hand at court politics in less than a decade."

Lionel stares speechless. Lionel hasn't been officially declared a prince yet. If he means Tara and Thor. Magic so cold that it feels like heat jumps at his fingertips.

"Well?" says Odin, single icy blue eye focused on Lionel. "You risked your neck to keep Rogier from fucking her—"

Lionel rocks back on his feet, the crude language catching him off guard.

"—you'd be able to tolerate her as your wife, wouldn't you?" Odin rumbles.

"The lady is more than tolerable," Lionel says.

With a soft huff, Odin looks heavenward. "Oh, they all are to start." Canting his head, he meets Lionel's gaze. "But I'm glad you're amenable. Good. We need to build up our presence on Earth. They've got weapons that could turn Asgard and Alfheim to plains of glass."

Lionel swallows. He had heard of the human's foray into "nuclear weapons," but Tara was so kind and civilized. He hadn't thought of it once in her company.

"A diplomatic front is what we need," Odin says. "While we work on our defenses... and our offenses." His eye goes to the door as though looking through it. "The business in Eastern Europe has put some of their governments on edge..."

Lionel blinks. He thinks he'd heard something about Odin sending Freyr and a contingent of Valkyries and Einherjar to Midgard's Eastern Europe. Was that why they were too busy to handle the Dark Elves crossing over to Chicago?

Odin continues. "A marriage between an Asgardian prince and a human would go far as a distraction among the common folk, and make them less amenable to hostilities between our races." The All Father snorts derisively. "They may be 'democracies,' but they love royal romance."

Hands clasped behind his back, Lionel bows his head, mind spinning and his heart beating fast. He knew that Asgardian marriage alliances were political; he hadn't considered he'd be thrust into the game so quickly. Tara, his mother, and he are obviously pawns on Odin's chessboard... Does he care? In Asgard, Tara can live forever, his mother can be safe, and Tara and he might be married, which makes him equally terrified and elated. There is, of course, a potential snag in the plan. "The lady might not be agreeable to the union." He'd made a horrible bungle of his first advances.

Odin snorts. "I'll declare you a prince lad, officially, and she'll be agreeable. Every woman wants a prince... or rather, to be a princess."

Lionel's clasped hands squeeze so tight he thinks he might shatter bone. Did Odin miss the part of Tara helping Lionel defeat a prince whose attention she'd attracted? Tara isn't like that. Does the All Father imagine all women's minds are formed in a single mold?

"Woo her... charm her," Odin says. Unrolling a parchment, he adds distractedly, "That is my first order to you as my subject. You can take her to the gardens. I hear they're lovely this time of year. Follow the Lake Trail. It will take you to your mother's cottage." The All Father looks up from the document, a slow smile spreading across his face. He licks his lips. "You know your mother best... see if there can be anything done to it that will make her more comfortable."

Lionel bows. "Of course."

Scanning the parchment again, Odin says, "You're dismissed."

Lionel turns and the doors open by an unseen hand. Tara is in the foyer beyond.

He walks toward her, his steps tentative, half expecting and hoping for another hallucination... surely, his visions have been premonitions of them being together?

The vision doesn't come.

His lips form a hard line. Well... even if they won't be together, she will at least be immortal. She won't have to die. His steps become surer.

Tara meets his gaze. She gives him an odd sort of timid smile.

After Odin's offer, does this place still scare her?

Lionel draws to a halt, remembering Odin's slow smile talking about his mother, and his tongue flicking across his lips.

Maybe this place should scare them both.

## 17

# Traitors and Spies

"She'd make a fine princess." Tara hears Odin's words just before the door closes behind her. She draws to a halt and looks around the foyer. None of the guards move and there is no one to greet her, so she thinks she is just supposed to wait. Clasping her hands, she tries to admire the decor. But she can't.

Princess.

Did she really hear that? If you're not born a princess, isn't the only way to become one to marry a prince? Was it a joke? Or a suggestion? Her heart flutters. She doesn't think she's ready to marry Lionel at this very moment, and she doubts he's ready to marry her... but even to be considered. Butterflies flutter within her. She bites back a smile, and then from the hallway she hears footsteps and the echo of voices. "The humans must be brought to heel," followed by, "Some of them are studying magic... they should be dealt with first. I know the All Father has a plan. I just wish I knew what it was."

Tara's eyes go wide, and she looks toward the door. For the first time, one of the guards locks eyes with her. Tara hadn't thought their eyeballs could even move, and she stands frozen in place, as though hypnotized by a snake.

A third voice says, "But he lost the other two..." and then the voices fade to barely audible whispers. Tara really wants to slide over to the door and take a peek, but she doesn't move. That could be just idle grumbling. She is pretty sure there are grumblings about the Kremlin in the White House all the time, and vice versa. Maybe that isn't the best example. Russia isn't really a friend, but Odin wouldn't try to _hire_ an enemy... Would he? There is a creak, and Tara jumps. The door from Odin's office opens and Lionel steps out. He takes a step forward and then pauses. A frown is on his face.

She gives him a timid smile, and his expression softens... but then his eyes dart around the foyer. A few of his bangs fall in front of his eyes, and he pushes them back, his eyes on the guards. "My father suggests I might go see the house he intends for my mother. Would you like to come?" He adds hastily, "He says the gardens are lovely."

She'd go with him even if they were going to walk through Hell. "Of course, I would. We're in this together," she says, and the conviction in her voice surprises her.

His lips turn up a little, but Tara can't tell if his smile is happy or sad. "I suppose we are."

The guards have all gone stone-faced again, and there is still no guide.

"Where is this garden?" Tara asks in a slightly too-loud voice, hoping someone takes the hint and offers directions. None of the guards so much as blink at her words.

Lionel huffs, and Tara looks up to see him smiling genuinely. "Finding it is not a problem." He holds out his arm. Tara takes it and her heart races to be close to him again, to feel the camaraderie she'd felt in his village... and more... Together they step out of the foyer. In the hallway beyond, just to their right, are a small throng of people in brightly colored clothes. Tara surreptitiously studies them, wondering if they were the source of the voices she heard earlier. Some of the men are wearing swords, the hilts gleaming with jewels. If Tara's fantasy reading has taught her anything, it's that weapons with lots of bling are either magical, ceremonial, or just plain vanity. Are these Asgard's idle rich? Does such a thing exist on Asgard?

Lionel leans toward her, and she feels his breath against her ear. Her skin heats deliciously. "Don't let me bump into a wall when I work my magic," he whispers, giving her arm a squeeze.

Before she can say a word, Lionel's body becomes heavier, and she glances up to see his pupils dilated.

One male member of the maybe nobility comes forward. "Lord Odinson," he says and Lionel's arm goes rigid in Tara's. She looks up. His gaze is clear again, his focus on the speaker.

The man bows. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Cyo Tiewson, grandson of Tyr. Pardon the eavesdropping, but my companions and I couldn't help but hear the lady say you're looking for the gardens."

He bows once more to Tara, but not as deeply.

"Thank you for your generous offer," Lionel says, bowing, a little less deeply than Cyo had bowed to Tara. "But Lady Tara and I have some family business to attend to. I fear it would be most tiresome."

That was a particularly delicate, long-winded "no thank you." Is that how things work here? Playing along, Tara gives a slight curtsy to Cyo.

"We would not find it tiresome at all!" declares Cyo with a smile that shows all of his teeth. "Let us be your friends here, Lord!" His companions step forward, and Cyo casually drops his hand upon his sword's pommel. One by one, his friends echo his move. "There are dangers in the gardens and Asgard for which friends would be useful. Unicorns, the site of Hoenir's hut and all his abominations—spidermice, winged snakes, the occasional stray basilisk..." He rubs the pommel of his sword.

Tara's eyes narrow. Cyo and his friends are too close... their smiles too predatory. It's obviously a threat half-disguised as friendship.

"We'll be fine," Lionel says. At his words, Tara feels the tiniest frisson of electricity.

"Really," says Cyo, stepping into their space. "We mean only—" Cyo yelps and removes his hand from his sword. His friends do likewise. "It's so cold it burns!" says one.

"Thank you so much for your courtesy," Lionel says. "But your concern is wholly unnecessary, as touching as it is. I'll remember it."

Cyo scowls, but steps back. Frowning, he says to his companions, "Come on," and his friends follow him away. Lionel and Tara stand motionless as the group passes. From their departing backs Tara hears, "An elf bastard with airs," and more confusingly, a word her ears hear as "argr," but her mind wants to connect with "faggot." It's a word she'd never use in her life, and it leaves a bad taste in her mouth.

"That last word," Lionel says. "I didn't understand it. Did you catch it?"

Tara blinks, and tries to think of the word in Elvish, and can't find it. That derogatory slur for homosexuality doesn't translate to Lionel's mother tongue. There is a term for homosexual, however. When she says it, Lionel snorts. "Of course. They believe that magic is only for women and men who prefer other men." He tilts his head. "I don't understand Asgardians."

Down the hall, one of the women in the party looks over her shoulder, and then says in a stage whisper, "Those ears are hideous."

Lionel smiles ruefully, and Tara's heart sinks. He doesn't fit here, but he has to stay because he helped her.

"I like your ears," she whispers.

Lionel's eyes narrow, and for an instant Tara sees suspicion there. But then he laughs, turns to her, and touches an ear tip. "Yes, I think I remember that."

Tara's face heats, remembering those points between her fingers. They're almost as close now as they had been then...

Lionel's smile evaporates. He leans toward her. Tara's breath catches, but then he lifts his chin and looks away. His eyes dart about nervously. "I should see the home Odin intends for my mother."

At his words, Tara has a sickening sensation in her stomach thinking of Tavende in the Dark Lands. She squeezes his arm and whispers, "I'm sure those ravens will find her soon—probably by evening."

Lionel's focus comes back to her. His eyes hold hers for too long, and Tara sees such warmth there. It feels like a kiss, like potential. She swallows... if they just get through this time, they have all the time in the world to find where that potential might lead.

"I don't know if you're lying," he says, squeezing her arm. "But thank you."

She nods, and his eyes get unfocused. She steadies him as he wavers on his feet. "I know the way," he whispers. Lifting his head, he puts his free hand on top of hers. Butterflies soar in her stomach.

They stride past guards, through a pair of enormous double doors, and emerge in brilliant sunshine at the top of a set of wide steps overlooking a garden. For the first half mile or so, it looks like Tara expects of Versailles: flowers, hedges, trees, fountains, and green spaces all in orderly formations. But beyond that, she sees a wilder forest that stretches to distant purple mountains. Lionel leads her down the steps in that direction.

Stepping onto a gravel path, he asks, "How is it that Asgardians, who have plenty exposure to elves, find pointed ears hideous, but a human does not?"

Tara looks at the distant mountains, enjoying the breeze she imagines is rolling off their peaks. She smiles. "Let me tell you about Mr. Spock."

Inwardly, she thinks, _and let me tell you about Spock and Uhura ..._

The gravel of the Lake Trail crunches beneath Lionel's feet. They leave the manicured area of the garden and enter the wilder, forested sections on the gardens. Tara's slender arm is still in his. She hadn't pulled away after he finished his astral projection, or when he put his hand on hers. She's forgiven him for the night he stole the light from her eyes and her free will in one horrible moment. He's not sure he deserves even this courtly gesture.

Instead he tries his best to wrap his head around human star treks. It has helped keep his worry for his mother at bay, and him distracted from Tara's nearness. A little bit.

"I don't think elves are logical like Vulcans," Lionel teases. "But they are nearly perfect."

"Mm... hmm..." Tara murmurs, an edge in her tone like steam escaping from a kettle left too long on the boil. He smirks at her disapproval.

Rolling her eyes, she says, "You're teasing me."

"Yes," he admits, his mood turning, remembering the events of the past day—Rogier, Benedal, his people's reaction to his heritage—it feels like the joke is on him. He stares into the distance without seeing. "Everything I thought I knew..." He can't finish the sentence.

Beside him, Tara stops short, drawing him to a halt with her. "Lionel," she whispers. "There's a statue of you!"

He follows her gaze and sees a gilded statue of a man with curly hair and features nearly as symmetrical as an elf's, but slightly broader. In some places, the gold is wearing away, revealing gray stone.

Slipping from his arm, Tara steps off the trail and walks around the statue, head tilted in obvious fascination. "The curly hair is wrong, and the ears, but..." She looks from the statue to him, and back. "He could be your brother."

"And so, he was," booms a voice through the trees. Tara and Lionel both spin.

Thor emerges from the underbrush. His hammer is at his hip; in his hands he has a bow and arrow. For someone so enormous, he moves with surprising grace and stealth.

"That is a statue of our departed brother Baldur," Thor rumbles, inclining his head to the statue. "The bright, beautiful, brave, and wise crown prince." Smiling sharply, Thor levels his thunder cloud blue eyes on Lionel. Lionel doesn't fidget, but cold sparks at his fingertips, unbidden.

"What did Baldur do?" Tara asks, her voice all innocence.

"That is the big question," Lionel answers, eyes still on Thor. There are many first-hand accounts of Baldur's beauty, and many accounts extolling him for being brave and wise, but there aren't examples of those qualities.

Thor's expression softens. "Indeed." But then his eyes narrow. "Think you could make a better king than Baldur would have?"

Lionel's aware of Tara sliding protectively closer to him, but keeps his eyes on Thor.

"No one but Odin will ever be king," Lionel responds. "He'll never relinquish the throne." Lionel lets out a breath. "Not that I'd want it. I've served Her Majesty long enough to see what rulership entails. It is a lot of tedious work for rewards I don't want." Tara looks at him, eyes wide and questioning.

Lionel shrugs. It's not something he even wants to lie about. "I like a comfortable home, nice food, a soft bed, but I don't want a palace, the most extravagant feasts, or... well, I do want a soft bed. The night in the cell and then with my back against the tree, present company excepted, were less than ideal."

Tara smiles. "I'm woefully unambitious in my relatives' opinions."

Lionel imagines Odin will have similar opinions about him... but if he were ambitious, he'd probably be dead by now, like Baldur. Asgardians blame Loki, but the Elf Queen has other ideas.

Thor laughs, but not cruelly. "I believe you speak the truth." The huge man's arms sag at his sides. "It would be nice to have gotten a chance to get to know you, brother." He sketches a shallow bow to Tara. "And you, Ms. Tara Gibson."

Tara tilts her head. "Are you going somewhere?"

"To Jotunheim..." He lifts his eyes to the trees. "I thought it might be nice to have a tromp around the gardens one last time. They're not the same though now, though. Not since..." His voice trails off.

Birds call in the distance, and the silence stretches too long.

"Jotunheim?" Lionel asks, trying to fill the void. "Why there?"

Thor frowns. "For Ragnarok, brother."

Lionel swallows. After the battle in Chicago, the queen had said, "When Loki's power grows, Ragnarok is on the horizon..."

Tara whispers, "That's the end of the world, isn't it?"

Thor raises an eyebrow. "Or the beginning. It depends on your perspective, I suppose." He smiles wistfully. "My lover, Jarnsaxa, is in Jotunheim, and so are my sons Magnus and Modi. In truth, there is no place I'd rather be for Ragnarok, and no one I'd rather be with..." He lets out a breath. "Although, it would be better if Loki were there."

Tara puts a hand to her mouth.

Lionel gulps, but remembers something about Loki and Thor being friends, and enemies, and friends again. It seems to have been a cycle for much longer than Lionel has been alive.

Thor appraises them. "I hear Father invited you both to stay."

Lionel smiles tightly. "I don't have a choice."

"There's always a choice," says Thor. His eyes go to Tara. "And you, Ms. Gibson?"

Tara takes a step forward. "It seems like... I might help keep a lot of people safe if I stay here?" The uncertainty in her voice catches Lionel off guard.

"Aye," Thor responds, sounding weary. "Joining Father would be best if it's safety that you want most for the human race."

A bird trills overhead. The moment feels tense, and Lionel can suddenly feel his heart beating in his chest. "Odin has promised Tara the Apples of Idunn. She'll be magical, like us. She'll live." This is the only place for Tara's safety. How could she choose any other option?

There is a crack overhead, and a twig falls upon Tara's shoulder. Clutching the spot, she hops forward.

Lionel looks up, sees a squirrel, and feels a flush of magic on his face.

"Ratatoskr," hisses Thor.

"Fuckity-nuts and basilisk balls," chirps the squirrel.

Lionel's eyes go wide. Ratatoskr, servant of the Norns, is the biggest gossip in the Nine Realms.

"What are you doing here?" Thor rumbles, putting away his bow.

"Observing a heartfelt family drama between the bastard princes of the most powerful asshole in the Nine Realms," squeaks the rodent. It puts a paw to its chest and sniffs. "It's been fucking touching."

Lionel's legs feel weak. He has seen Ratatoskr about the queen's palace occasionally. The squirrel had never paid attention to him before, but now that he is officially a son of Odin, he's apparently of interest to Ratatoskr's mistresses, the All Seeing, very powerful, and deadly Norns.

Ratatoskr winks at Tara. "Of course, I wanted to meet the Nine Realms' next goddess, too. Hubba, hubba, sweet thang. You know, I know some ladies who like webs—"

Reaching for his hammer, Thor says, "Liar! You're here to steal apples, aren't you?"

Swishing his tail, Ratatoskr chitters, "Dragon's dung, it isn't even the chitting-chat season!"

Before Lionel can blink, Thor's hammer goes whipping through the air. Bits of tree branch and sparks of lightning spray around them, and the smell of burning fur fills the air.

"How about I tell Odin how successful your trip to Jotunheim to find Loki will be?" shrieks Ratatoskr.

Catching his hammer, Thor roars.

"Don't—" Lionel calls. But his half-brother doesn't seem to hear. The hammer goes ripping through the trees. Ratatoskr leaps. Sparks and branches fly and a limb as large as a man lands right beside Lionel with a ground-shaking thump.

"Run!" shouts Tara.

"Right," says Lionel.

Heads bowed, they dash toward the trail. Panting, Lionel looks back. Thor has vanished into the trees, but Lionel hears him shouting, "You little rat, come back here and fight like a man!" Ratatoskr's responses are harder to make out, but Lionel catches expletives in half a dozen languages and "Where the fuck is Loki, Thor?" followed by maniacal laughter.

"That... was weird," Tara says. Her nose wrinkles in a way that makes Lionel want to kiss it. "And what a foul mouth."

Lionel shakes his head. "To be fair, the squirrel language is almost entirely swears, and ours are rather tame in comparison." He frowns. "If he's here, it means the Norns are watching closely. The queen always said that if Ratatoskr was about, some pivotal event in the Nine Realms was about to unfold."

"A new prince?" Tara ventures.

"Or a new goddess," Lionel replies, his lips tugging up in a smile.

They begin to walk again, and the gravel on the trail crunches beneath their feet. "What he said... about Ragnarok, could it be true?" she whispers.

His smile melts, and he cannot answer.

Tara draws to a halt. "That's a yes, isn't it?" The gold of her gossamer over-skirt lifts in the breeze. The only thing wrong with this moment is the distance between them. He wants to stay in this moment, safe, forever with her. Safety isn't guaranteed here, even without Ragnarok, if Cyo is any indication. Still... they might live here for centuries. His mother, too. Lionel can't be in Alfheim for Ragnarok, and so he can't be where he wants to be, but he could be with who he wants to be with.

"The queen always says Ragnarok could come at any time," Lionel says. She'd said much more than that, about how its coming was presaged by Loki's rise in power. "She always says to live today as best as we possibly can." He holds out his arm.

Stepping closer to him, Tara takes it.

His natural affinity might be toward ice, but her touch makes his heart pound and his body heat. She has forgiven him... In Alfheim, she'd rejected him because she'd wanted something permanent. Would she believe him if he tells her his goals have changed? He puts a hand on top of hers, and his heart lifts. In Asgard, she'll be immortal, and he'll have all the time in the world to convince her.

She looks down the trail. "We need to see that house."

They do, and thinking about his mother's situation makes Lionel feel as though the sun has dimmed. His hand on hers tightens. She entwines their fingers and Lionel feels the burden of worry lighten.

They round a bend in the trail, and the lake starts to become visible through the trees. He catches sight of slate blue water and a field.

"The house is a bit remote, isn't it?" Tara asks.

Lionel sucks in a breath. "The better to be safe from the queen."

As they walk, a pavilion of white and blue silks, probably for a picnic, comes into view. Beneath it are many ladies and servants. A feminine voice rises from the direction of the pavilion. "Lionel!"

Squinting, Lionel sees a woman waving at him near the pavilion. She has dark skin and nearly black hair wound up in braids that are arranged like a crown. She wears a yellow silk dress appropriate for upper class wives of warriors. At her feet runs a little girl with a slightly darker skin tone, and hair pulled back into puffs tied up with colorful ribbons.

"Lionel!" says the woman again, coming closer. "Ah... you don't recognize me."

Lionel blinks and then smiles, recognizing the human woman. "Hannah! You look so young!" She looks like a human of... well... perhaps slightly younger than Tara's age, but for the past few hundred years she's had the luxury of Idunn's apples. Besides bestowing immortality, they have also made her magical. Lionel can feel it licking against his skin. He blinks and sees the color of her magic is a dark green. Blinking again, he manages to bring his vision back to normal.

"That's because when you first met me, you were still a child," she says.

Lionel feels his face flush. "That's probably true." At the time he'd seen her, she'd seemed impossibly old. Although, it might have been weariness and fear that had made Hannah seem so.

"You barely came to my waist. You've grown so much!" Hannah exclaims, still smiling and holding up her arms for an embrace. Lionel leans in and returns the gesture.

Hannah's dark eyes slide to Tara. "So, this must be the young woman from Earth."

"Hannah, this is Tara," Lionel says, and then gives them a quick introduction.

Hannah says, "I hear you're from the Indiana Territory."

Tara's eyes are wide and surprised. "Yes... I'm from Illinois, but it hasn't been the Indiana territory since..." Her eyes search the clouds, and then she looks down in amazement. "... 1818."

"I so want to talk to you," Hannah whispers. "I hear you are the equivalent of a minor magician."

"And I would like to talk to you, ma'am," says Tara, leaning forward and nodding.

Hannah takes her hand. "I think we will have the chance." Biting her lip, Hannah looks up at Lionel. "But I'm afraid it is not just luck that brings me here. I received an invitation I could not refuse."

"Pardon?" says Lionel.

Motion in the pavilion catches his eye. A great lady is coming forward. Her hair is light brown, her skin slightly darker than his own, and her eyes are blue. She wears white and sky blue, and he feels her magic even from this distance. On either side of her are female attendants in gowns nearly as rich as her own.

"Lionel and Tara," the woman says imperiously. "We would be so pleased if you would join us for lunch."

Clearing her throat, Hannah says, "Tara and Lionel, may I introduce you to Her Majesty, Queen Frigga, wife of Odin, Leader of the Nine Realms."

## 18

# Lunch with the Queen

"So how are you enjoying your stay in Asgard thus far, Lionel?" Queen Frigga asks from her seat at the head of the table. The hairs on the back of Tara's neck rise. The woman says it like she might say, "I would like to stab you in the eye with this butter knife."

At her right side, Hannah goes very still.

Tara's eyes slide to Lionel, seated at her left, food virtually untouched. "It has been most agreeable, Your Majesty," Lionel says, his voice much more deferential than Tara thinks she could manage.

Tara hadn't wanted to think of tiny, sweet Tavende as Odin's piece on the side, but according to the myths, Odin and Frigga have been together since the Vikings sailed. Lionel is only a few hundred years old... Frigga has every right to be angry. Her fingers tighten on her fork. Still, it isn't Lionel's fault.

"Hmmm..." says the queen. "Might I ask where you are headed?"

Lionel bows his head over his gilded plate. "His Highness suggested that we investigate a house that has recently come into his possession. It is off the Lake Trail."

"Ah..." says the queen. "Angrboða's Hall... Loki's house."

Lionel's head snaps up. Tara's eyes go wide.

"Pardon?" says Lionel, and Tara's amazed that his voice still sounds normal. She's pretty sure she'd squeak.

The queen smiles thinly. "It is Loki's house. Odin didn't tell you?"

Her ladies-in-waiting erupt into whispers.

"Such a dreadful place."

"Odin gave him that hall to keep him and his mischief away from the palace."

"Thank the Norns we're rid of him and his children."

Queen Frigga's voice rises above the din. "Angrboða's Hall—oh, really, it is a cottage. I don't know why Loki insisted on putting on airs—has an interesting history. Technically, it belonged to his wife, Angrboða. That... woman. Loki won the house in a bet, but then he lost it in a card game... or was it dice, or maybe chess? No matter. Loki won it back and then sold the cottage to his wife for a song so that he could never legally gamble it away again. The owner, previous to Loki, was the All Father himself. He kept it for... special guests... usually from Midgard."

One of the ladies drops her fork. The ting sounds as loud as a thunderclap. Lionel's lip curls, and Tara feels a wave of cold emanating from him. She's not sure what she's missed in Frigga's comment, but Lionel's glass is frosting over. Afraid he'll freeze it solid, she lightly brushes his arm. Lionel jerks at her touch, but the wave of frost abates. The ladies start eating again. Tara's arms remain locked at her side. The queen must notice because she says, "Oh, do not be distressed, Tara Gibson. My husband does not prefer strong women."

Tara's still unpacking that comment when soft crackles rise all along the table.

The ladies gasp. Tara glances at her glass. It's frosted over, and her water has partially frozen. The other guests' glasses are the same.

Across the table from her, Eir puts her fingers on her glass, and the ice melts away. All the other ladies except Hannah do likewise and smile wickedly at Lionel.

From her position at the end of the table, Frigga says, "Thank you, my drink was a little warm."

Tara feels heat rising in her chest. This whole lunch is just a game to toy with Lionel.

Her finger taps rapidly on her lap, remembering the tiny elf woman swaying in Benedal's thrall. Maybe Tavende is weak magically, but so is Tara. Straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, Tara says, "Tavende stood up to Lady Benedal of the Light Elves when she tried to enslave me."

One of Frigga's ladies puts down her glass. In a tittering voice, she says, "I'm sure 'enslave' is too strong a word."

Tara smiles tightly. "Benedal didn't call it that, but that was what it was. She used magic to control me, to try to make me her attendant out of some sort of weird..." Tara remembers Benedal saying she would look like Tara if she was human. "... vanity. If you have no choice, you are a slave."

"That is so," says Hannah, and some of the ladies at the table look to her almost fearfully.

Keeping her chin high, Tara looks to the head of the table, expecting to find fury in the queen's eyes. Instead, Queen Frigga's eyes are downcast. She looks almost ashamed, but then the queen's back stiffens and she looks at Lionel rather than Tara. In a cold voice, she says, "Your mother is a silly elf who was careless with her name."

Lionel's nostrils flare, and there is the slight sheen of sweat on his skin. She sees his Adam's Apple bob.

Tara remembers him wondering aloud if Odin knew everyone's names. The elves have power of compulsion over anyone whose full name they know. Would other magical creatures have such power over an elf? And is the queen implying that Odin would use that power against Tavende? Or had he already? Tara's heart beats fast. With her left hand, she searches for Lionel's hand under the table. She finds it and squeezes, but he doesn't respond.

In English, Hannah mutters, "That is enough." Her accent sounds a bit like Tara's friends from Ghana. In Asgardian she says, "So, Tara is a minor magician at a university on Midgard's northwestern continent." She turns to Tara. "I'd so love to hear about your education."

"I wouldn't know where to start," Tara says through gritted teeth, not wanting to talk at all.

"At the beginning," Hannah replies, tone becoming sharp. "How old were you when you first went to school?"

Tara almost doesn't answer, but then Hannah elbows her sharply.

"I was four when I began preschool," Tara replies.

There are exclamations from around the table, and Hannah begins peppering her with extremely detailed questions. Soon, Tara is so bored with herself, she thinks she might cry. But Frigga doesn't interrupt, so Tara supposes it's for a good cause.

This could be her life—magic, viciousness, and tedium. She supposes Dean Kowalski's last faculty party wasn't that much different.

Tara breathes out a sigh of relief when dessert is over, but then the queen says, "Lionel, you will attend me now," and her relief pops like a soap bubble.

Lionel rises and so do the queen's ladies. Tara almost does, too, but Hannah puts a hand on her arm and holds her back with surprising strength. "He'll be all right," Hannah whispers as Lionel, the queen, and her ladies leave the table. "The queen does not like the taint of murder in her court."

Tara blinks. "That isn't precisely reassuring." Maybe court politics are a little bit more vicious than faculty turf wars? She follows Lionel with her eyes. He and the queen are disappearing into the fog that has mysteriously rolled off the lake. The ladies follow at a discreet distance.

Hannah says, "Nor would she do such a thing around Asgard's youngest child, and only infant."

"Only infant?" Tara asks. As if on cue, she hears a baby cry, and a maid out on the grass with Hannah's little girl brings a tiny bundle to the table.

"Ah," says Hannah. "He's hungry."

As the maid draws closer, Tara sees the tiny smushed nose, wrinkled skin, and overall wizened appearance of the child. "He's a newborn!" she exclaims. She wouldn't think him more than a day or two old.

Hannah shakes her head. "He's two years old."

At Tara's look of surprise, Hannah holds up a hand. "But don't worry, he's not ill. It's just that things here..." The other woman frowns. "Things here aren't changing, and our children aren't growing at a normal rate." Her eyes slide to Tara. "Some of the ladies think my magical talent is fertility because I'm the only woman to have borne a child in..." She looks to the side. "Oh... fifty years."

Tara's jaw drops.

Hannah gives her a tight smile. "But I think it is that I am human. Oh, so are some of the Valkyries, but they're too busy to give birth during the first decades of training, and there hasn't been one recruited since the last World War." She shakes her head. The maid hands her the tiny infant. Rocking him gently, Hannah continues, "Asgard, I think, needs humans. We are the youngest of the races, we are change, and Asgard needs change... I'm so glad that you'll be taking the loyalty oath and joining us."

Tara squeaks, "Loyalty oath?"

"Do you think you can take my son Baldur's place? That you can so easily become the next Golden Prince?" Queen Frigga hisses, staring out at the lake. Her magic whips around her, creating the fog.

"It is not my desire to take the place of Prince Baldur," Lionel says, his fists clenching at his side. "But for Tara's sake, I must stay." If he doesn't make this work out, she will die. He knows the implications of Odin having "mortal guests" at Angrboða's Hall—he kept his mortal mistresses there. Odin is famous for being the ancestor of the royal families of Midgard's Northern Europe. Is that Odin's intention for his mother? Lionel doesn't think she'd be receptive to it... she has never spoken of Odin.

He feels like he is being cleaved in two by a very tiny sharp blade and stretched in very different directions. He doesn't believe his mother will want to be here... but he doesn't believe she'd want him to endanger Tara's chance at immortality, either. For Tara, anywhere but Asgard is death.

The queen turns to him, and for a moment, he thinks he sees pity, or... something, but then her eyes become unfocused. "You are a liar, and a poor one. You came here to steal my Golden Son's legacy. I will fight you every step of the way, and your whore mother."

Lionel feels himself vibrate with rage. Is that why she taunted him with the implication that she knows his mother's real name? The fog around them turns to flakes of ice.

Frigga rolls her eyes, and he feels her magic hum around them. The ice turns to mist again. The queen smiles sharply. "I know all your tricks, Lionel Whatever Your Name Is."

The words sting with their truth. He doesn't know his name anymore. Is it the one his mother gave him? Or is he, as Cyo suggested, Odinson? If Cyo had spoken his full name, would Lionel have bent to his whim? Odinson is Thor's surname, and he is a bastard. Lionel's stomach curls. Releasing a breath, he tries to reason with Frigga. "I want Tara to have a chance to live, that is all. My mother entrusted me with her welfare, and I must see it through. I'm sure I'll never replace Baldur in the hearts of the people or your husband's."

He hears her swallow. "Of course you won't. No one could."

Lionel bows. "As you say." He is so tired, weary down to his bones. Not just of her, but royalty in general.

The queen spins on her heel and walks back through the mist. Lionel remains. Frigga's accusation that his mother had been careless with her name is ringing in his mind. Had Odin known it when he'd visited Alfheim... Lionel feels like his body has morphed into lead. Odin couldn't have known it. If the All Father had compelled his mother, she never would have had Lionel... but perhaps she thought he was the son of Sol? He swallows, remembering emerging from the Dark Lands and his mother throwing herself into his arms as all of his neighbors had hung back. He closes his eyes. There couldn't have been any compulsion in his conception. There couldn't have been.

He blinks at the lake, slate gray and still. Could his mother brush off a king who knew her name? Could she brush off one that didn't?

But what option is there for Tara if they don't stay here? Or even for his mother? The Dark Lands, or death in the land of the Light Elves. He is stronger now... he might be able to hire himself out to King Sutr of the Fire Giants, or King Utgard of the Frost Giants, but a life in a realm of Fire or Ice would be even less safe than here.

The fog begins to dissipate, but its chill seems to have sunk deep into his chest. He feels like he can't breathe.

Lionel isn't sure how long he stands staring at the motionless waters, but he doesn't turn around until he hears the rattle of the pavilion being dismantled. The fog has completely lifted, and he sees some servants wrestling with the silks and others wrapping up the food.

Tara is standing next to Hannah. Lionel hears Hannah say, "Are you sure you won't return with us to the palace?"

"Yes," says Tara. "We need to see Loki's house."

Hannah leans toward her. "I'm sure Lionel can use his influence to get his mother better accommodations."

Lionel stands a little straighter. Hannah is right. He is Odin's son. Surely, if he presses Odin, he could get someplace more appropriate. He lets out a breath. He is so unused to being in a position of power among royalty. He can make this work, for Tara, his mother, and himself.

"We still have to see it," Tara says. "I wish... I wish I could have spoken to you longer."

"We'll have all the time in the world to talk," Hannah replies with a smile.

Lionel has begun moving unconsciously toward them, and now he's close enough to see Tara's brows gathering together, and the downturn of her mouth.

"We don't have to go there, Tara," Lionel interjects.

Spinning toward him, but not meeting his eyes, Tara exclaims, "Yes, yes, we do."

"You should take a picnic basket," Hannah says. "Lionel must be hungry." She gestures to a servant, who comes forward with a basket.

The servant bows. "I'll accompany you, sir."

"We'd rather be alone," Tara says too quickly.

To be alone with Tara for a few hours before facing the king... Lionel reaches for the basket. "I'll take it," he says, not caring if it is right or proper by the standards of Asgardian or Alfheim royalty.

Turning back to Hannah, Tara says, "I wish you all the best."

Hannah smiles brightly. "I have all the best."

Tara nods and smiles.

Lionel holds up his arm and she takes it. They don't speak until they round a bend, and are out of sight of the last of the luncheon party.

Tara draws to a halt and drops his arm.

Turning to her, he finds her looking up at him with wide, distressed eyes. He hears the buzz of insects, the flap of wings, and the beat of his own heart. "What is it?" he whispers. "You can tell me. We are in this together."

She looks down at the ground and closes her eyes. Stepping closer, he kisses her brow. It's a chaste kiss. But he swears he can feel the warmth of her, even through the armor he wears, and he can't step away. His free hand goes to the back of her head, and threads with the hair at the nape of her neck. He's just being comforting. When he bends lower, it's only to reassure her and whisper, "You can tell me, Tara," against her lips. But then their lips are so close... he feels like he's being dragged by a pull more ancient than either of their races. His lips meet hers, and she doesn't pull away. She steps forward, and it feels like she is stepping into him. The basket slides from his arm, and lands with the sound of breaking porcelain. But Lionel's hands, arms, and heart is full of Tara. His body is ready to be full with her, too.

Her nails trail down his neck, and his hand slides down her back, trying to get her closer. Their lips crush together and come apart again and again, until they're both breathless and panting. She tastes like... salt.

He pulls back, and her cheeks are shining with tears.

He cups her cheek. She doesn't pull away from him, but her eyes are downcast.

He inclines his head in question.

Looking up at him with warm brown eyes glossy with tears, she whispers, "Lionel, you have to take me home."

Lionel pulls back as though Tara has struck him. "What?"

The distance between them makes her ache. Squeezing her eyes shut tight, afraid if she opens them, she'll lose her nerve, Tara says, "I have to go home."

"No, Tara," he whispers, his hands coming to her shoulders. "I know this place is strange, and the politics..." He sucks in a breath. "But Tara, we can manage. You're sensitive and smart, you'll pick up their games fast and play better than any of them."

Tara sniffs, lifts her head, but can't look him in the eye.

"I know I haven't been very princely. I was raised a peasant, but I learned to be a steward—I became very good at managing royalty and their whims—I can be a good prince." His voice drops to a whisper. "Your prince."

Those words catch her heart. "Your prince." She thinks of him fighting Rogier and the each-uisge. More tears fall from her eyes. "You've already been very princely."

His fingers ghost beneath her chin and he wipes a few of her tears away. She opens her eyes. His expression is still uncomprehending.

The afternoon sun is dazzling. The forest is vibrant and alive. The woods are magical... and so is he and what she feels, but... "The loyalty oath, Lionel. I can't take it." Odin had mentioned it, almost as an afterthought, he hadn't explained it to her. Hannah had. "I'd have to pledge my obedience to Odin, and I can't do that."

Hannah had been untroubled by the idea. "Pledging obedience to a king is like pledging obedience to your husband," the other woman had said with a shrug. "It is part of the natural order."

"Doesn't every subject owe allegiance to a monarch?" Lionel asks, rocking back on his heels.

And Tara is briefly shocked, just as she had been with Hannah. They're both from very different cultures. Recovering, Tara says, "Allegiance is not obedience."

Lionel's mouth gets very tight. He looks away. "Is the distinction so important?"

"Of course it's important!" Tara retorts. "Allegiance leaves you with free will and judgment. Allegiance is open to interpretation. Obedience to a man is slavery!" She doesn't mean to shout, but she does.

Beginning to pace, Lionel says, "With royalty, you have to be clever and indirect, but you can still get your way." He meets her gaze. "You're subtle, Tara. You will be fine."

Tara shakes her head. "No, I won't. Lionel, none of Odin's Einherjar disobey him. None." Hannah had said it was because Odin is just and good. Her husband had risen from an illiterate foot soldier to an officer. Hannah had been so delighted that not just Abraham, but she had been given an education, and so had all her children. They all ate the Apples of Idunn, and had all the rights of citizens of Asgard. Tara sees why she would be loyal for that. This place is wonderful compared to anything Hannah knew in the Carolinas in the 1800s.

However...

"There is always some idiot who defies even the best orders eventually," Tara says. "But Hannah said none of Odin's Einherjar ever do. Can you tell me your father doesn't use compulsion in some way? That magic isn't part of the oath?"

Lionel takes a step back.

Tara's shoulders fall. "You can't, can you?"

Lionel's lips part, but he says nothing.

"There's more," Tara says, dropping her eyes. "I think that Odin may be considering war against my world."

"Not war," says Lionel. "Influence."

She looks up at him, shocked that he would say it so easily.

"The All Father's rule is one of influence," Lionel says. "Alfheim, Vanaheim, and Asgard, where his rule is most accepted, are the most peaceful places in the Nine Realms. Certainly, more peaceful than Midgard! I've heard of your great wars and the weapons your kind created."

Tara's jaw falls. Thor had said something about joining Odin being the best thing if it was peace she wanted for the human race. Was peace what she wanted? She thinks of the stifling social order of Alfheim. Asgard's system seems slightly more meritocratic, but only if you want to be a warrior. That in itself is stifling.

Her lips pinch. Is stifling the populace the way peace has to be maintained?

She narrows her eyes. "Mighty coincidental that the regions that are less enthusiastic are more violent," she murmurs.

Lionel stiffens, and she can tell she hit a nerve.

"He keeps them destabilized, doesn't he?" she whispers.

Insects hum. There is a rustling in the undergrowth. She hears the flutter of wings in the trees.

"I want to go home," she says.

Lionel's voice rises in a shout. "You'll die!"

Before she can say a word, he spins and storms down the trail.

Lionel's gone nearly twenty paces when he realizes that Tara isn't following him.

He turns around and sees that she's picked up the basket he dropped. She hasn't moved otherwise, and is looking at him uncertainly. _We're in this together._ The words he'd said earlier churn in his gut.

Why can't she see this is the only way?

Even from this distance, he can see the flower in her hair is still as fresh as it was hours earlier. Magic, no doubt.

That is the reason for her fear. This world is strange to him, but it's stranger to her. She is afraid, and she just needs time to find her footing. The oath is unpalatable to her, but he is the prince, he does have leverage, he can convince Odin to change it... with time, and he can change her mind, too... with time.

He needs to stall, and dealing with unreasonable royalty has given him a few centuries of experience. Elves can't lie, but he can tell a truth. "I need to think of what I will say to my father," he says.

Tara takes a few steps forward, chin lifted, expression imploring. She's carrying the basket awkwardly before her with both arms.

"You'll help me?" she whispers.

"Always." Without thinking on it, Lionel falls into a bow—just as he would when faced with a member of royalty he'd have to sway with subtlety and tact.

She comes closer, her walk toddling, hampered by the basket. He hadn't really thought of the weight of it; even with the armor he wears on his chest, his new body's size and strength made it unremarkable.

Biting her lip, she asks, "When you said I'd die... you didn't mean right away, did you?" She scans the forest on either side, and adds more softly, "Odin doesn't seem like the kind of guy you say no to."

Lionel draws back, remembering his first meeting with Hannah, Abraham, and their son Benjamin, then a newborn. Odin had arrived just as a slave hunter had fired his weapon at Abraham. Odin had stopped the deadly projectile, suspending it in midair and time. He'd immobilized the slave hunters similarly, leaving them angry statues, and then he'd offered Abraham a chance to join his Einherjar. Abraham had said he'd die with his family or live with them. Lionel doesn't remember any families of Einherjar being allowed to come with their husbands. Odin had glanced at Leenine and Lionel, and then said Abraham's family would be welcome to come, too. If Leenine and Lionel hadn't been there, would Odin still have offered to take the whole family? Lionel does know that if Abraham had refused they all would have been left to die.

"Lionel?"

Tara's voice brings him back to the present. He inclines his head. "This is a special case."

"What does that mean?" There is a hard edge in her voice.

His shoulders fall. "Sometimes when a mortal has wound up mixed up in the affairs of Light Elves, or other magical creatures, they've had their memories of the events removed."

The hard edge in her expression melts. "I don't want to forget you."

He feels as though gravity has lifted. "I don't want that, either."

A bird calls in the trees.

"So where are we going?" she asks.

Where are they going? He looks down the trail. The best way to give Odin and Tara time is not to be available this evening before Odin leaves for Muspelheim. The best way to do that is to accidentally leave this world, and have an "innocent" diversion in Vanaheim or perhaps even in the regions of Svartalfheim loyal to the All Father.

But using the main World Gates is out of the question. They'll be guarded by mages and Einherjar.

His eyes narrow, remembering the Asgardian lore he's picked up from Her Majesty. Somewhere in this realm there is a house with doors to all the worlds, larger on the inside than it is on the outside. "A chaos creation," Her Majesty had called it.

Scooping the basket from her hands, he says, "I know where we'll go."

## 19

# The House of Chaos

Tara stares at the cottage. The slate roof is in good repair, and ivy is crawling up the sides. The yard is a mess of wildflowers, nearly hip high. There is a path of slate tiles on the ground just barely visible in the encroaching vegetation.

"Is this... Loki's house?" she asks, remembering their original destination.

"Yes," says Lionel, standing beside her.

"It's not what I expected," she says. "I expected it to be more..." She finds herself switching to English. "... supervillainy."

He doesn't call it gibberish. Ever since she told him her plans to leave, he's seemed on edge. He isn't meeting her gaze, and his motions have been sharp and abrupt.

It's because of her. _You'll die,_ were his first words, not, _you're crazy_ or _you're an idiot_. She feels crazy, like an idiot, and sick to her stomach as well—at the thought of leaving him, but also at the thought of staying. Odin's oath, and the threat to Earth... both of those are too much to ignore.

"This isn't what I expected, either," Lionel says, staring down the overgrown path. "But there have to be World Gates here."

Tara gulps. "Will helping me get you in trouble? I could take the basket and you know... disappear into the forest with it. Cyo said there are unicorns around. Maybe I could convince one to take me home?" She's heard that virgin thing is a myth.

Lionel turns to her, nostrils flared slightly. "They'd gore you to death."

Or maybe it isn't.

Setting down the basket with a clink of porcelain, he pulls out a sort of pastry. It's shaped like a cheap pie you get in rest stops, but from disappointing experience, Tara knows is filled with meat and vegetables. Taking a bite, he surveys the house, cottage, whatever, and says, "I expected it to be more... magical."

Tara starts down the path, but Lionel says, "Wait! There could be traps."

Tara waits. He finishes the pie, and then picks up another one. At her curious glance, he says, "Magic takes energy, and I have to be prepared."

He eats another two with hardly a word. The silent minutes seem to emphasize the distance between them. Tara wants to say something that will make it better... but it's impossible. She's leaving, forever. That is the end of their story. Ever after, just not happily. Finally, Lionel heads toward the cottage and tests the doorknob. "It's not magicked... or locked."

"Nobody steals from a supervillain," Tara muses. He doesn't ask what she means, and her heart feels heavy.

They both step into a foyer. Directly ahead is a hallway that leads to what looks like an old-fashioned kitchen, complete with a wood burning stove. There is also a staircase going to the floor above. To the right is what is probably a living room, and to the left is probably a dining room, judging by the shapes of the sheets covering furniture to both sides.

"I feel..." Lionel heads into the living room. A moment later he starts snapping off the armor on his torso. He sets it carefully upon a maybe-coffee table, and lies down on the floor in front of what looks like a chair. He rolls onto his back and ghosts his fingers along the bottom, eyes closed.

He looked good in the armor, but the shirt-tunic thing he wears falls over his body in a way that she can almost taste the muscles of his arms and shoulders just by looking. He's not bulky, just long and lean in the best possible way.

Lionel casually draws one leg up so it's bent at the knee, and Tara's eyes roam down the front seam of the tunic, over the flat planes of his stomach to—

She spins around. Would she really sell her soul for a good body and a handsome face? She swallows the lump in her throat. That's not all Lionel is, though. He's smart, funny, and curious when he's not being angry and aloof. The sparks between them, they're more than for his body _now_... she'd been attracted to him before, when he'd been shorter than her, and she's pretty sure he'd been attracted to her, too.

Closing her eyes, Tara takes a deep breath. She feels like she's being tempted by the devil. Spying through one eye, she surveys Loki's foyer. She's probably in the devil's house. It's homier than she would have thought.

From the living room comes the rip of cloth, and Tara's tongue darts across her lips. _Please let that be his shirt_... She stamps her foot, irritated with herself.

"It's not a gate," Lionel says.

Turning back to him, she finds him holding two sheathed knives in his hands. The sheaths are attached to slender black straps. Sitting up, he examines them. "I recognize the spell on these. They'll explode on impact if you want them to."

Slipping one out of its sheath, he turns it around in his hand. "Dwarven made, perfectly balanced."

Forcing herself to look at the blade and not Lionel, Tara notices it is perfectly symmetrical, and she'd guess that it's steel, small, and to her eyes, very sharp.

Lionel tosses it in the air, and Tara gasps in horror as his hand whips out. Lionel catches it by the handle and looks at her with wide eyes, like she's just caught him taking the last cookie out of the jar. His cheeks flush. "Peasant elves aren't allowed swords or spears... only bows and knives. Sometimes on the border, things would come out of the Dark Lands. So, I am... ah..."

Remembering how the elves had seemed to feel disdain for his physical prowess, Tara says, "I was surprised... not disgusted."

Lionel's shoulders relax. "No proper steward would know how to do that, I suppose." Dropping his voice to a whisper, he adds, "Or know how to enchant a knife to be explosive."

Sliding the blade into its sheath, he rolls up his sleeve and fastens the straps to his arm. "You never know where you'll emerge from a World Gate."

He hands her the other sheathed blade. "Here, for you."

Tara tilts her head. She takes the knife, but the straps on the clasp are like nothing she's seen before, and she fumbles trying to put it on.

"May I?" Lionel asks.

Tara nods and holds out her arm. Lionel's fingers trail over her skin, tighten the straps, and then he doesn't pull away.

"Tara." He exhales, and she can feel his breath on her forehead.

Tara keeps her eyes downcast, knowing that if she looks up, she'll kiss him again... and more. Summoning all her willpower, she pulls her wrist to her stomach. "Thank you," she whispers. Her eyes prickle with tears that don't fall.

Lionel stands and leaves the room, floorboards creaking under too-heavy footfalls. She closes her eyes, relieved and heartbroken.

Climbing to her feet, she follows him into the kitchen. There are pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, and some cooking knives in a wooden block. Lionel opens a drawer and pulls out another knife. It has a sheath, but no harness. He attaches it to the harness on his forearm without looking at her. "Don't touch the small frying pan," he says, "or the small paring knife. Both will explode at your touch." With that, he leaves the room without a backward glance. Tara is left feeling adrift and cut off.

_This is what you wanted,_ she tells herself.

But that's not exactly true. She hears Lionel thumping around upstairs, and then he comes back down again, muttering, "No gates. I thought his home would be filled with them." A few minutes later, she hears him in the dining room. "The magic in here feels... different... and strong. This could be it."

Tara leaves the kitchen and finds him moments later in the second room off the foyer. He's pulled sheets off the walls, revealing built-in bookshelves that stretch floor to ceiling. At the back of the room is a pair of double doors. Lionel is holding his hands in front of the doorway. "Nothing dangerous..." he murmurs. He puts his hands on the doorknobs, rattling the doors in the frame, but it they don't budge. "Locked."

Tara studies the doorframe and feels her stomach sink. She doesn't really want this to be the way home. Nodding to herself, biting her lip, she reminds herself of the stakes and admits softly, "I know how to open it."

Frowning, Lionel takes a step back and inclines his head to the door.

Tara grabs the knobs and slides the doors to either side. "It's a pocket door," she says. "I used to fix houses with my dad so..."

Lionel's already plunging ahead into the room. "It's not Loki's magic in here... it's..." He looks up at the ceiling and coughs, making dust swirl in the air.

"The room must have been closed up longer," Tara says, fanning her face. There's a chandelier made of whimsical crystal butterflies, and as Tara enters, they begin to glow. She surveys the room. It's different from the rest of the house. It's dustier, and the furniture isn't covered. In one corner, there is a wicker wheelchair. There's also a bed, a bookshelf that only goes to her hip—perfect for someone who is in a wheelchair—and hanging on the wall above it are painted pictures, each about the size of a small notebook. The subjects move in the frames—they're very Harry Potteresque. A few are of flowers—or trees—blowing in the breeze. There's one of a unicorn inquisitively poking its nose forward as though to nuzzle the painter. A few others are portraits, lovingly done. There is one of a woman with impossibly pale skin, blue eyes, and long black hair. Her beauty is not like an elf; her features are more... pronounced, human... but so perfect. As Tara approaches, the portrait woman's eyes slide to the picture beside her. It is of a man with strawberry blonde hair and pale skin, and blue-grey eyes. He's laughing, and in his arms is a little girl who looks to be about seven in human years. One side of her body is thin and pale with a light blue eye and light hair. The arm and leg on that side are twisted at awkward angles. The other side of her is glowing robin's egg blue. Her hair and eye on that side are midnight black. She's smiling in the picture. The portrait man holding her in his arms blows a raspberry and they both look to the picture farthest to the right. In that picture, the half-blue girl is sitting in the wheelchair. A giant wolf with adoring eyes has its head in her lap. Beside her, holding her blue hand is a woman with blonde hair, brilliant dark blue eyes that are nearly violet, and skin that is just a few shades lighter than Tara's. Around them, two little blonde-headed boys are running, chased by the red-headed man.

"It's her magic," Lionel says. "The little girl's. My queen—the Light Elf Queen—said Loki's daughter was too strong."

Tara's eyes look to the center picture. The red-headed man is tenderly kissing the tiny little girl's head now. "That isn't Loki," Tara says. "It can't be." The little girl isn't strong, she's fragile, and the man is too kind to be the being who brought skyscrapers to the ground on a whim.

"It is," says Lionel. "That is Helen. Humans know her as Hel. Her magic—"

Tara has to turn away. She finds herself only inches from Lionel. Her eyes lift to his face. It hurts to look at him, to know she'll have to leave him, but she can't look away. She has to drink him up with her eyes, because she may never get another sip.

His gaze searches hers just as desperately. He loves her. Tara knows it with all certainty, with every fiber of her being... and also that he doesn't want her to leave and he's hiding something. But that makes no sense. "You could charm me into staying," she whispers, the words out of her mouth before she's thought of them.

"No." Lionel huffs the word in a growl. Tara swears she can feel anger rolling off him. "I never want to see the light of you leave your eyes again."

And she knows it's true, all the way down to her bones.

Lionel's eyes dart side to side. "Her magic is still here... we need to leave this room."

Putting a hand through his hair, he goes out to the dining room.

Tara's fingers curl into her skirts. He is hiding something.

Peering out the window in the other room, he says, "It's mid-afternoon. We have to find a World Gate soon..." Surveying the bookshelves, he says, "Loki knew of all sorts of World Gates. He would know of any hidden ones from Asgard to Alfheim, Svartalfheim, Vanaheim, Jotunheim, and Muspelheim. One of these books must have a map."

Her skin prickles. "... and Earth?"

Lionel looks back to her. "Of course. Come," he says, beckoning with a hand. "Help me look."

Tara leaves the room. As soon as she steps out, Lionel strides over and slams the doors closed.

She shivers again, although the room is warm.

Lionel almost drops the book as he pulls it from the shelf. Tara had almost seen through his plan to stall. Opening the book, Lionel can't help glancing at the closed doors to Hel's room with foreboding. The room's magic had been dangerous. It had been truth.

For a moment, he'd seen Tara's heart, and was certain that she loved him as much as even a soulmate could... although he'd been taught that was impossible for humans. It makes her desire to leave so much more frustrating—how do you throw away that sort of feeling on a technicality? He just needs to give her time to see she is being ridiculous. She can be free here.

He turns his attention back to the book, barely suppressing a grunt of irritation, and then his eyes are caught by the inside cover. It's stamped with the seal of the All Father, and beneath his seal are a few ancient symbols stating that it is under no circumstances to leave Odin's personal library. Lionel almost snorts. Loki was a well-known book thief. Rifling through the pages, his eyes are caught by the words, _Oaths of the Einherjar have changed over time,_ and can't help skimming the text.

"This book has a map!" Tara cries, startling him from his reading. They'd divided up the library, hunting for a map of Asgard's hidden World Gates. Tara is seated on the floor, a stack of books beside her, one clutched in her lap.

Lucky book.

Tara flips to the front cover. "What is this book? The map looks oddly familiar."

Putting his own book back on the shelf, Lionel strides over and sits on his heels behind her. Her shorter hair shows off the length of her neck. It's an effort not to trace it with a finger, or his lips.

"I can't read the title—it looks vaguely Elvish," she murmurs.

Focusing on the text, Lionel says, "It's Old Elvish."

Eyes wide and enthralled, she whispers, "... oh, there's an inscription in Asgardian." She reads aloud. "Anganboða, I happened to stumble across _The Book of Three_ in my journeys. You mentioned wanting to read it for yourself. Yours ever, Loki."

Tara lifts her head and turns to Lionel. "Anganboða... that translates to Joy Bringer... but the queen called her Angrboða... Sorrow Bringer."

Lionel leans toward her and he hears her swallow. Turning away, she flips through the pages. "Here is the map," she says in a breathy voice.

Lionel studies it. "That map is not of Asgard. It won't show us World Gates to get you out of here."

He doesn't know if he's sorry it doesn't show a route to Vanaheim, Svartálfaheim, or Jotunheim, or if he is relieved it doesn't show an easy route to Earth. His eyes slip along her profile. If he sits here much longer, he'll kiss her. Standing quickly, he goes to the bookcase, pulls out a book, opens it without paying attention, and instantly regrets it.

Sparkling dust explodes from the book and Lionel begins sneezing.

"What's wrong?" Tara cries.

Sleeve covering his face, he gasps out between sneezes, "Spell... in... book." He can't get the tickle out of his nose, or even stand up straight. Tears fall from his eyes. It's all very unelvish.

He's struck by a gust of cool air. Lionel sniffs, straightens, and sees that Tara has opened the window. The sparkling dust is streaming from the room.

"Why put sneezes in a book?" Tara murmurs, and then laughs. "What am I asking? Loki is the God of Mischief. Are you all right?"

Lionel can't answer. He'll sneeze again. Instead, he walks over to the window and takes a few deep, careful breaths, his cheeks hot with embarrassment.

Tara leans on the windowsill beside him. He can feel the press of her skirts, even if his vision is still blurry. "It's pretty," Tara says.

Wiping his eyes, he sees a meadow filled with wildflowers. The forest is encroaching on three sides, but it is held at bay by a crumbling stone wall. From between the wall's stones, small flowers spring. At the far end, there is a rickety wooden gate.

"It is picturesque," he says. He almost turns away, but then hears Thor roar, "I'll get you yet, you rat!" followed by a shriek of squirrellish laughter. The grass and wildflowers move as though a very small creature is running through them. Storm clouds form above.

At the furthest end of the meadow, a small squirrel jumps atop the wall, just beside the gate. "Kiss my tail, God of Blunder!" shrieks Ratatoskr. He rears on his hind legs and begins shaking his hindquarters in Tara's and Lionel's direction.

"I did not know squirrels could twerk," Tara says with a giggle.

"Gibber—" Lionel's comment is interrupted by a roar so deep and fierce that the window panes rattle. Thor comes charging out of the forest waving his hammer, his back to Lionel and Tara. He throws the weapon. Sparks fly. Cackling, Ratatoskr leaps from the wall to the top of the ancient wooden gate. Lionel feels the heat of magic on his face, the surge that can only be from a World Gate opening, and then Ratatoskr vanishes. Thor's hammer loops from the top of the wall and back to Thor, smashing the ancient _physical_ gate as it does. Roaring in anger, hammer back in his hands, Thor runs over to the remains of the wooden gate and begins pounding it into splinters.

Tara draws back. "Lionel, there was a gate there, wasn't there? I mean, a World Gate. Is he destroying it?"

"Yes, there is a World Gate there," Lionel says. "But Thor cannot destroy it. Only Loki—and maybe Odin—can do that." He shuts the window, not wanting to hear any more of Thor's grunting and cursing.

He turns around, and finds Tara meeting his gaze. Very softly, she says, "Then maybe you can take me through it? Even if it is not home..."

Lionel swallows. "Ratatoskr is a servant of the Norns. That gate must go to Nornheim."

Tara lifts her chin. "It's getting late, Lionel."

Lionel's eyes slide to the window. She is right.

"I'd rather go to Nornheim than take the oath," Tara declares, and Lionel wonders if it is human to make brave, yet hasty decisions, on the spur of the moment without knowing the full consequences.

"No, Tara," Lionel says, holding up his hands. "Any other realm, but in Nornheim, there are spiders and adze—"

"Adze?" says Tara.

Lionel tries to find an equivalent. "Zombies..."

Her mouth falls open.

"... with wings," he finishes.

Her face crumples and her nails bite into her palms. "That's my choice? Slavery or becoming a zombie?" Her lips curl. "I'll take zombies then. At least I could fight!"

"We still have time, Tara," Lionel says. "We just have to keep looking." He turns to the side, but she puts her hand on his arm. His eyes slide from her fingers, to her hand, and up her arm. He finds her eyes on his.

"Promise me, you'll send me to Nornheim, if it comes to that." Her eyes are wide, imploring. "Just push me through," she says, and this time her chin trembles.

Tired of resisting, he steps forward and cups her face in his hand. "Never," he whispers. "If you go, I will go, Tara."

She blinks, and her eyes sparkle. "Cellmates to the end," she whispers so softly that he thinks he might have missed the words if his ears weren't pointed.

Lionel tilts his head.

Clutching his hand, she looks down and stammers, "It's a play on 'soulmates'... I... just..."

"I like it," he says, stroking the other side of her face. She catches his hand, and he kisses her. Her lips answer, and for a moment he is spinning. Without the armor he can feel the press of her soft curves against him. It hurts to pull away, but the pounding of Thor's hammer keeps him from forgetting himself.

Pulling away, he says, "We have to keep looking for a map."

She nods, backs away, and then says, "Did Loki have a sword?"

"Yes, but I didn't see—" Lionel starts to say.

Heading toward the foyer, Tara interrupts him. "I want a sword if I'm fighting zombies."

"We'll find another way!" Lionel protests.

But she only mutters some gibberish about "Michonne" under her breath.

"Tara!" Lionel says. "There could be—"

She stops abruptly in the foyer and looks up, her face bathed in an eerie red light.

"—other traps," Lionel says.

He hastens to her and finds the magic light globe at the entrance flashing red. "Why is it doing that?" Tara asks.

"I don't know," Lionel responds.

"Could it be some sort of alarm system?" Tara suggests.

Lionel's heart falls. "Knowing how many enemies Loki had... that would be very likely." He puts his hands on her shoulders. "Don't let me fall over."

She clasps his fingers and nods. For an instant, Lionel marvels. She doesn't protest that he is about to use magic like an Asgardian, or that he might be attempting magic above his station as an elf might. Tucking the observation away, he closes his eyes and lets apparitions fly. He sees a blur upon the Lake Trail and feels familiar magic. A moment later, the blur solidifies just outside. It is who he expects, but he is oddly not riding Sleipnir, his preferred eight-legged steed. Lionel does recognize the four-legged horse though—it belongs to Gna, one of Frigga's handmaidens, and is capable of running over water, just like Sleipnir, but not quite as fast.

Lionel opens his eyes. Outside the cottage, he hears the man say, "Whoa, Hófvarpnir."

Tara gasps. "Is that—?"

Lionel gulps. The door bangs open, and they both jump at the man standing just outside.

"Odin," Tara says.

The All Father tips his head to Tara. "Yes, Ms. Gibson. I've come to take your oath."

## 20

# The House of Odinson

Because Tara doesn't know what to say, she curtsies. Bowing her head, hiding her eyes, she tries to think of the perfect apology, the delicate way to say, "Yeah, no, I'm not gonna be your house-goddess." There has to be some way to say that politely without losing her head—in a frightening, very literal sense of that expression.

"Your Majesty, we did not expect you so soon," Lionel says, buying her time.

Odin steps into the house, his voice low and rumbling. "I've got to leave for Muspelheim earlier than expected, but I had to see you settled. Just so you know, the queen of Alfheim has cleared you of all wrong doing. You are still a Light Elf, and welcome in her realm."

Tara's eyebrows rise. She doesn't know how court games work, but she's pretty sure that's a big deal, and Odin had to pull some serious strings to get Lionel off the hook.

"You honor me," Lionel says, ducking his head.

"Honor you? You're my son!" His voice turns wistful, and his eyes get distant. "My last, my youngest, boy."

Tara's eyes dart to Lionel. His jaw is hard. His hands are clasped behind his back. He doesn't look honored or wistful. His face is blank. Tara's seen the look before on Kayla, one of her girlfriends. Kayla's mother left when she was young; she'd been raised by her dad. Kayla's mother had shown up at their high school graduation and Kayla had been polite, but later she'd seethed, "Why is she here? She hasn't done anything for me in all these years, and now it's like she wants credit!"

Her stomach ties up in knots. Odin, All Father... terrible father to Lionel.

"Muspelheim," says Lionel, voice neutral. "Why there?"

"To find Loki," Odin responds, sounding weary. "He must be found if we are to avoid Ragnarok. We heard he was bound for Hel, and arrived to find the Fire Giants there already. Some say he's joined the House of Sutr, and has retreated to his kingdom. If pointless death and destruction is to be avoided, he must be brought home."

Odin sighs. "But enough of that. I came here for happier things. I have Einherjar and members of the Diar following me on mundane steeds." His single blue eye settles on Tara. "They'll be witness to your oath, Tara... and I have a magically preserved Apple of Idunn for you to eat."

From a satchel at his side, he pulls out an apple. Its fragrance immediately fills the room. Its red and gold flesh sparkles in the dimming foyer, and just looking at it, Tara knows it will taste more like _apple_ than any fruit she's ever eaten. Her mouth waters, she licks her lips, and all clever words fail her. "I'm so sorry..." she says, unable to tear her eyes from the fruit. "I can't accept your offer."

"What?" says Odin.

"I can't—"

Odin waves his hand and Tara can no longer speak. She feels like her blood has slowed, and as though each heartbeat and breath is a monumental effort. She can't move her arms or her legs, or even her pinky finger. Odin turns to Lionel and her eyes remain fixed on the place the apple had been. It's only her mind that is free to burn... this is so much like Rogier.

"You were supposed to woo and charm her," Odin says. "What happened?"

"She needs more time to consider your offer," Lionel protests.

Tara wants to shout. No, she doesn't need _more time._

Lionel continues, "Magic is new to her. This is all very disorientating."

"She must take the oath!" Odin says. "That is required of any human allowed to stay in Asgard."

_Then let me go home!_ Tara wants to say.

"Does it have to be the modern version of the oath?" Lionel asks. "When your reign started, Einherjar took the same oath as a prince. They pledged allegiance to the realm, not obedience. Give Tara the chance to take that oath, and I'm sure she'd take it."

At first Tara is furious at his words, and then she realizes that she was the one who suggested the distinction. But she can never pledge allegiance to a realm whose leader literally _immobilizes_ his subjects.

"That was a different time," Odin says, sounding tired. "When the realm was young and growing, I needed ideas. But we've hit an impasse, and are at war. The dwarves' ongoing rebellion and now the Fire Giants."

Floorboards creak as the king paces. "I am a general, Lionel, as well as king. A general needs obedience, not soldiers who question his every decision. Until the war is won, I cannot revive the old oath." Odin's voice reminds her of the rattle of the L train wheels: powerful, lonely, and worn.

Outside, there are heavy footsteps by the door. Her heart would seize up, if it could. Inside, it is silent.

"Then... let her go home," Lionel whispers, his voice catching. She hears so much pain in his whisper. _I'll miss you, too_ , she wants to say. _Forever._

Odin paces again. "She can't go home. Not only would it be unprecedented, she's heard too much."

"Heard too much?" says Lionel, and Tara internally echoes his surprise.

Odin's voice reverberates through the small foyer. "She overheard one of my council members discussing the Earth problem."

Tara's fingers itch to fidget. So that wasn't hyperbole.

Odin continues, "Even if she hadn't, she knows too many of our limitations. There have been too many... setbacks... with humans lately."

Tara's eyes want to blink. Does he mean the two other humans that had been here recently? If they left—or escaped—that must have been an embarrassment.

Odin's voice becomes lower. "And then there is all the mischief that physicist Eisenberg and she are up to... She must stay."

Odin is worried about the work that Tara is doing with Eisenberg? She feels... flattered and terrified.

"She'll never take the oath," says Lionel.

"She must take the oath," Odin rumbles, and she can hear the curl of his lip. Tara can't help noticing there is no "or else."

Tara hears the heavy footfalls just outside retreating, and rapidly approaching hoofbeats.

Odin says, "Boy, what is wrong with you? You know her full name, and you have Elvish charm! Charm her!"

Tara's throat constricts.

"Charm her?" whispers Lionel, and Tara swears she feels the air go cold.

"Yes, save the woman you love with it," Odin says, sounding exasperated.

The hoofbeats halt close by, and men's voices and the whinny of horses rise.

Lionel's tone becomes servile. "If that is what I must do, All Father."

"Yes, you must," Odin says, and in the periphery of her vision she sees his hand wave. Her heart is beating again, fast and loud. She feels the rush of blood in her veins. She gasps for air and blinks, eyes tearing with dust.

"Lionel," she whispers. She can't see his features through her tears. He's just a shadow before the door. "Don't—"

He takes a step closer. Her vision clears and she's gazing directly into his pale blue eyes. The same color as Odin's. "No, Lionel, don't," she says, backing away.

"There is no other way, Tara," he says, his jaw ticking.

Shaking her head, she says, "There is always another—"

"Tara Lupita Gibson!" His voice rises to almost a shout. She feels tendrils of cold seeping through the fabric of her dress, rising goosebumps everywhere. She gasps, preparing to be stripped of her will.

"Do you trust me?" Lionel asks, stepping far too close.

It takes her a moment to realize she can answer _No._ The realization makes her heart skip a beat. She still belongs to herself. She almost laughs with relief, but then her eyes go wide... why is she still herself? And then she remembers his words. "I never want to see the light of you leave your eyes again." She gulps, understanding. Lionel is tricking Odin, or at least trying to. She feels the cold of Lionel's magic all around her—he's angry, she realizes, and probably terrified, too. Fighting to keep from shivering, she murmurs, "Yes." She tries to clear her mind, and lets her gaze go to a point on his chin, purposely letting her vision become unfocused. "Yes, I trust you," she says, in as monotone a voice as she can muster.

Lionel holds up his arm. "Take my arm, my lady."

"Of course, my lord," Tara responds, putting her arm into his and staring at a random point on the wall, hoping she looks convincingly vacant. Her fingers want to twitch, her nose suddenly decides it needs to be scratched, and she wants to glance back at the All Father.

"I wish I could do that to Frigga," Odin grumbles.

Leading her to the door, Lionel pauses and says, "The men are waiting outside. I presume that is where the oath will take place?"

Odin, a few steps behind them, waves a hand for them to keep going. "They don't like coming in here."

Lionel takes another step, and Odin does, too. Lionel stops, turns, and says, "Father... there is a book in the dining room that Loki stole from your private library. _Laws of Asgard from Antiquity to the Birth of Baldar._ I believe you may want to collect it."

Tara can't help glancing up at the All Father. His single eye is wide. "You're right." He smiles. "My son."

Turning on his heel, he mutters, "Typical, God of Book Thieves."

Lionel leads her out the door, closing it behind them. Tara contains a gasp. On the Lake Trail stands a line of Einherjar. She'd guess at least fifty stand in the rapidly dimming light of late afternoon.

Lionel begins murmuring at a rapid-fire pace. "I'm sorry you thought I was going to charm you. I couldn't think of any—"

"But you didn't, and I'm fine. How do we get out of this?" Tara asks.

"I'm ready to go to Nornheim now," Lionel says, his voice surer. "Do you still—?"

"Yes," Tara says.

"Keep me from falling," Lionel whispers, raising his chin and facing the soldiers.

"Always," Tara replies, squeezing his arm.

The soldiers begin clapping. She feels Lionel's weight press upon her arm, and before her eyes, perfect replicas of her and Lionel walk toward the trail.

"Now," says Lionel. "Before Odin comes out."

She feels him stumbling toward the side of the house, pulling her with him, but looks in his direction and sees nothing. She looks down at herself and sees the ground. They're invisible, and all eyes are on the illusions he's created. Helping him keep his balance, she guides him around the corner. She glances back to see their doppelgängers waving to the soldiers, just before the road. The men are cheering. Beside her, Lionel gasps, "I wish you'd found a sword."

"It will be fine," Tara insists, leading him to the meadow. It has to be fine; they've come so far.

"I can't tell if you're lying or just naturally unrealistically optimistic. Maybe it's just that your species is so young—" His invisible self must trip on something, because he almost face plants in the grass, and Tara almost goes with him.

Trying to steady him even though she can't see him, her voice gets frantic. "Let's discuss the influence of xenobiology on culture later, Lionel."

"Right," he mutters.

He feels less wobbly and she quickens their pace. They tramp into the meadow, and the grass flattens beneath them. "Someone might see that," she murmurs under her breath. Glancing up, she sees the gap in the wall where the World Gate is. Tugging harder at Lionel's arm, she tries to urge him into a jog, but he stumbles and she slows.

"I'm still trying to maintain the illusion in front," Lionel responds, his voice sounding like he's gritting his teeth. "As long as Odin doesn't look out the—"

From behind them comes the shattering of glass. Odin's voice booms behind them. "What are you doing?"

"—window," Lionel finishes. "Get your knife out."

He makes them visible, whips a knife from his wrists, hands it to her, and says, "Wait for my signal, and then throw it at the ground."

From behind them come a cacophony of footsteps. They turn to see Einherjar pouring around the sides of the house. Odin has leapt through the window, and the soldiers line up on either side of him, a glittering line of armor and weapons. Tara's heart races. "Well, dying here might be better than being a zombie," she whispers.

"I prefer your naive-human optimism."

"I was being optimistic," she whispers.

Keeping his eyes on Odin, he backs toward the gate, and Tara does the same.

The Einherjar raise their spears, and Tara's legs go weak. Then their spears start glowing, and she almost falls over in sheer terror.

Odin holds up an arm—Tara braces for the agony of becoming a red-hot pincushion—but the Einherjar put their spears away. She almost breathes a sigh of relief and then sees them taking out swords instead—they don't intend to kill them, they intend capture. Death _was_ an optimistic prediction; she'd tease Lionel about that, if she wasn't scared speechless. Stepping forward, Odin says, "Lionel—" What follows is a string of words... or maybe names... in Elvish, too long for Tara to follow.

Lionel freezes.

Odin finishes, "—Odinson, halt right there."

Lionel's head bows, and his eyes are wild. Tara wants to grab his arm and pull him away from whatever spell Odin has cast, but she's got knives in both hands. "Lionel," she whispers. "Lionel."

He doesn't acknowledge her. He just begins muttering words under his breath. Words that sound vaguely familiar.

Odin sighs. "If you're so weak you can't resist the invocation of your name—"

Lionel's voice becomes louder and he lifts his hands. It's the same words he used in the swamp. He's summoning the Destroyer... again.

"No," Odin roars. "Sto—"

His voice is drowned out in the thunder of the Einherjar charge. Chant rising in a crescendo, Lionel throws the blades at the ground before them. There is a spark, a shimmer, but for what feels like an eternity, yet is probably less than a second, Tara thinks nothing is happening.

And then there is flame. It's not like in the flash of fire in the swamp; it is a wall that reaches the treetops, and its heat is like opening an oven on full broil. For a moment, Tara is stunned. Tilting her head back, she gapes. She can hear the sound of shouting from the other side and pounding footsteps... going where? She knows in an instant, and throws one of her knives to the grass on the left and the other to the right, willing them to catch. They explode with almost as much fury as Lionel's had, and she sees men draw back behind the fires. Her eyes widen as the four blades' inferno join together in a solid "u" of orange heat. Tara looks at Lionel, and sees him gaping at the flames.

"Lionel, what now?"

He snaps from his awe. "Run!"

They grab hands, and they tear through the wildflowers, now bathed in the glow of fire and the shadow of smoke.

Lionel begins to laugh. "I am Odin's son but I am not an Odinson! He tried to compel me, and it almost worked... but my last name is not his!"

Tara cannot speak, and it's not just from the smoke. Between the gap in the ancient stone wall where the World Gate resides stands a looming shadow.

She and Lionel draw to a halt before the huge figure of Thor. "No one can lie to Odin," Thor rumbles. He tilts his head. "It would take magic from you, brother, to compel me to stall them."

Lionel draws back. "Thor..." he begins. The big man nods and rolls his hand as though to say, more, more, more. Tara sees shapes running behind the stone wall. Lionel adds hastily, "Ásabragr?" Thor nods again, and keeps doing the hand motion. Lionel spouts, "Ása-Þórr, Atli, Biorn, Einridi, Ennilang, Hardhugadr, Hardveur, Hioridi, Rym, Sonnung, Vethorm, Veod, Veur, Vingthor Odinson, I command you to hold the gate?"

A man shouts.

Thor shrugs. "Close enough. I am compelled."

A spear slices through the air, and Thor holds up his hammer. Lightning pierces the smoky shadows, catching the spear and shattering it. Lionel pulls her forward. Everywhere is rainbow light. Tara braces for zombieland.

Bending over, Lionel gasps for breath as the heat of flame is replaced by cool, crisp air, and the smell of mud replaces the acrid stench of smoke. "It would have been nice to get to know you, brother," he murmurs. Odin's addition of "Odinson" to his name had shattered the compulsion he'd almost set upon Lionel. Lionel may be Odin's son by blood, but he is not his son in spirit.

"Thor let us go, didn't he?" Tara whispers.

Lionel can only nod. Lionel is proud to be his mother's son. Being Thor's half-brother might not be so bad, either. He feels Tara's hand on his back, and he remembers that they aren't out of the woods yet. Straightening, he sees that they aren't actually in "woods" of any kind. They are in a rolling plain with very regular furrows that look a lot like—

"Looks like downstate Illinois, or maybe Iowa..." Tara whispers.

"Iowa?" He turns to her and she is framed by blue skies, as she often has been in his hallucinations of her, but this blue sky is real and brilliant. He drops his eyes to the ground. The furrows are definitely the sort you'd expect from agriculture. The soil is dark and rich. Do the giant spiders farm? Do the zombies, or the Norns?

A chittering comes from their feet, making them both look. There is a rectangular cage of copper-like wire that's not quite knee high. It seems to be made of the same sort of material as the metallic net they'd first been captured with. Inside is a squirrel with tufted ears, chittering madly in Squirrel, racing in circles around what looks like an ear of some sort of seed husk. The chittering is rather repetitive; it's just "shit, shit, shit, shit..." over and over again.

"Ratatoskr?" says Tara.

The creature stops, blinks at her, and says, "Fuck you!" Thankfully, Lionel hasn't given Tara the ability to understand Squirrel.

"Is the wire keeping him from speaking?" Tara asks.

Stepping toward it, Lionel tries to extend his magical senses into the cage... but can't. "It could be."

Tara lifts the cage and touches a finger toward Ratatoskr's nose. "He's kinda cute when he's not swearing."

"Nutt mites!" Ratatoskr shrieks in Squirrel, shaking the wire with tiny paws.

"Um..." says Lionel.

From behind them comes a low growl. They both turn to see a metal beast approaching them. It is reminiscent of the vehicle bonded to Tara. On the back is a raised pennant of the United States of America.

"We're home," Tara whispers, putting down the cage and walking toward it, waving both arms. Within moments, the four-wheeled chariot beast skids to a halt not ten paces from them. Lionel quickly illusions his ears to look rounded.

Three men, one old, two young, all of complexion similar to Lionel's, get out with firearms raised. "Halt right there, Asgardians!"

"We're not Asgardians! We escaped!" Tara cries, hopping up and down in happiness that hurts Lionel's heart. He has a horrible moment when he hopes they don't believe her. He forces himself to relax, to dissipate the magic threatening to course through his fingers, and releases a breath. This is better than Nornheim... so much better than that. He is closer to Chicago... and closer to the gate that will take him to his mother. He swallows. The Dark Elves are going to think of him as a Light Elf, since Odin so helpfully got his status reinstated.

The old human puts down his weapon. "Like the girl and the colored boy that came through on the eight-legged magical horse a few weeks back?"

Tara's arms drop, and her mouth forms a small "o." Lionel rolls back on his feet, remembering Odin riding Gna's steed. Had two humans _stolen_ Sleipnir?

"Dad, I don't think they like to be called colored anymore," says one of the young men, lowering his own weapon. "And I'm pretty sure he was Hindu."

The second young man says, "Hey, Director Rogers was right! The squirrel trap he gave us worked. Foul-mouthed critter won't be in Mom's bird feeders anymore."

"How do we know for sure you're not a Valkyrie?" asks the old man, spitting in the dirt. "Ya got a driver's license?"

Tara shakes her head. "No, I was abducted, and I didn't have my wallet—"

"What's your name?" asks one of the young men, holding up a rectangular device.

"My name is—"

Lionel feels the flush of magic on the back of his neck. "The gate is opening!" he says.

The firearms go up again—thankfully at a space behind their heads. Ducking, Tara darts toward the chariot, and just before he follows, Lionel picks up Ratatoskr's cage. The stalwart farmers don't blink. Lionel hears one of them grumble, "Thor's not eating another one of my goats."

By the chariot, Tara turns and looks back. "They can't hold the Einherjar back," she says. Turning to look at the men, she gulps. "They'll be slaughtered."

She's right. "Go tell them not to defend us," he says. "Odin won't harm them if they're truthful and say we were here."

"Were here?" says Tara.

"I have a plan," Lionel says. She meets his eyes, nods, and darts off toward the men.

He can't believe what he is about to do, but he doesn't belong in the House of Odinson... Tara was right. She can't stay in Asgard and be free; neither can his mother, neither can Lionel. Facing down zombies is better.

He kneels down beside the cage.

"I'll fuck you up!" hisses the squirrel he really hopes is Ratatoskr.

"I know you'll try," Lionel replies. He flips the cage's latch.

Tara darts up to the oldest of the farmers. "Sir," she says to the man. "You can't fight Odin for us."

He doesn't put down his rifle, but his eye darts from the sight to her. "You don't understand, girl—"

She bristles at the word "girl," but then he continues. "—Odin, he'll make you a slave. We been hearing things, and not just from Rogers. Some people round here, they don't have their heads on straight. That apple thing, it's a trap."

"I know—but..." She puts her hands on her hips. "You don't even know if I'm not a Valkyrie!"

"If he's hunting you, you're one of ours," he says, narrowing the eye in the sights.

That is frustratingly noble. Tara tries again. "We're going to run—"

"If we can't stand up to them, what hope have you got running?" His eyes get wide, and he looks around. "Where'd she go?" he calls to his sons.

"I dunno."

"Me, either."

Tara looks down at her hands and sees they're gone. "I'm invisible... and running. Thank you, sir."

She feels a hand in hers, and hears a shrill squeak. "Don't strangle me, you shit!"

"Is that squirrel loose again?" says one of the men she thinks are the old guy's sons.

"This way," says Lionel, and she can feel his breath in her ear. He pulls on her hand, and together, they run and stumble toward a strand of trees at the bottom of the incline.

Behind her, she hears the stamp of many feet, and hears a shout in Asgardian of, "Team report!"

"Not the tree on the right, you two-legged morons!" chitters the tiny voice. "The one on the left! And hurry. I can't keep you nucking futts invisible forever."

Ratatoskr is making them invisible? That would explain why Lionel is running and not falling over. She hears someone behind them say in English, "You will put down your weapons for the All Father!" but doesn't look back.

They pass from the brightness of the sun to the semi-shade of an oak tree that's just starting to put forth spring foliage. "Stop!" shrieks Ratatoskr.

Tara skids to a halt and feels Lionel do the same a heartbeat later.

"Hold onto your flippin' tits, I need a second to open the World Gate," grumbles Ratatoskr.

"I'm going to hold your tail instead," says Lionel. "And you'll be a popsicle if you break your oath."

"Some assholes got no fucking trust," mutters Ratatoskr.

Tara looks back. Odin is standing just beyond the three farmers. She holds her breath... and exhales when the farmers lower their shotguns. She can't hear what they are saying but she sees the old man shrug. His sons spit and then copy the motion. Tara smiles, but her smile drops when Odin strides past the farmers and points down the hill toward the trees Lionel, Tara, and Ratatoskr hide in.

"Hurry, Ratatoskr," Lionel hisses.

"Ouch! Stop squeezin'—it's hard to open this gate and keep you invisible."

Einherjar warriors race down the rise.

"Make us visible," shouts Tara. "Just get us out of here!"

She knows the exact moment she's visible. The Einherjars' eyes light up and their pace increases. She looks over at Lionel. His arm is outstretched, but disappears at the elbow. "Seemed best to let him open the gate and go first," he says.

"Go first where?" Tara asks. But Lionel is gone, except for his hand still in her own. His wrist disappears in a shimmering spot of light.

"Halt!" shouts an Einherjar, raising a spear, but she's being yanked forward, her eyes are filled with every color of the rainbow, and she almost falls over.

"Tara?" says Lionel.

"I'm okay," she says, regaining her feet and looking around. They're in a sort of hallway, on the far side of which is a silvery curtain. The walls are a milky white and shimmering. Ratatoskr is nowhere to be seen, and Lionel's hand is bleeding. She looks back the way they came. There is a solid wall, but in its surface, she sees Odin striding toward them, the farmland of Illinois or Iowa in the background. He halts just before their noses. Tara and Lionel draw back. Tara's breath catches. She swears her heartbeat is so loud it must be audible even to Odin on Earth. Lionel's hand tightens.

But then Odin's flickering image draws back, too.

"Where are we?" she asks as the All Father backs away.

"Shh..." Lionel whispers. "I don't mean to alarm you, but I think we might be in the nest of some of Nornheim's giant spiders." He touches the wall. "And I can't open the gate... it's gone."

"Giant spiders," says Tara, noticing for the first time that the hallway they are in is about eight feet high.

"I consider myself more average-sized," says a feminine voice.

"Norns," whispers Lionel, like you might say a curse.

They both turn. Coming through the silver curtain is a woman dressed in silver silk. It's wrapped about her like Grecian robes. She is terribly thin, her skin so pale it has a blue cast to it, liked skim milk. Her hair is so blonde it is white. She smiles, revealing two glittering fangs.

## 21

# Cruel Twists of the Fates

"Ah... I'm sure you aren't a spider at all, ma'am," Tara stammers. Politeness has worked so far on this trip.

The woman puts the finger of one hand on her lips, and her other hand on her throat. Another pair of hands clasp in front of her stomach, and two more hands go to her hips. "You're sweet." She licks her lips.

Putting a hand on her shoulder, Lionel whispers in her ear, "Remember, the Norns don't write our fates, they only watch them. Not all is lost."

"They?" whispers Tara, instinctively stepping closer to him.

"My sisters and I," says the woman, sauntering toward them. From behind the curtain, two other women emerge. One of them looks Asian Indian, and is as round and as plump as the first is thin. She has wide brown eyes, full lips, and a delicate little nose. She's kind of adorable and looks terribly friendly until she looks at Tara, smacks her lips, and her eyes start to glow. The second sister is tall and athletic. She is as dark as Tara's father had been, has long, blood-red braids, and looks vaguely African. On her shoulder perches Ratatoskr... currently twerking. "Suck it mofos!" he chitters.

"You're right, Lionel, son of Odin and Tavende," says the tall, dark woman. "We don't control your fates." She narrows her eyes.

The pale woman smiles. "But we do place bets on them. And you two dears have helped me win."

Frowning, the tall woman sighs and rolls her eyes at her sister. "Stop gloating." She looks back at Tara and Lionel. "And you brought Ratatoskr back to us."

Ratatoskr stops his twerk. "What! I would have gotten out of that cage by myself!" He starts chittering up a storm that doesn't stop until the woman pinches his little snout with her long, elegant fingers.

"Also," says the plump one, bouncing on her heels. "Your story has been romantic and exciting." Tilting her head, she taps her chin while clapping her middle pair of hands, and holding her third pair behind her back. "As delicious as you look, I can't help wanting to know what you'll do next!"

"Mm..." say the other two women, nodding their heads.

The tall woman's fingers slip and Ratatoskr chirps, "I'm freaking exciting! Didn't you see me dodge Thor's hammer?"

The tall woman pinches his snout again. "And then you followed it up by getting caught in old farmer MacDonald's trap," she hisses.

Tara's lips purse. The farmer of the very not PC language who'd nonetheless been determined to stand up to Odin for her was _the_ Old MacDonald? She doesn't know why that surprises her after finding an elf in her alley, meeting a kraken, following a yellow brick road, and becoming an almost-goddess.

"I can't wait to see what you get up to during Ragnarok," says the bouncy woman.

Tara feels Lionel stiffen beside her. "There is no certainty that Ragnarok is near," Lionel says. "There is no fate. You said so yourselves."

Tara shoots him a worried look. She wants to say, "Don't antagonize the spider ladies," but bites her lip instead.

The emaciated one sighs. "Oh, Lionel, it could stop, that is true..."

The tall woman shakes her long braids. "But at this point the momentum..."

"Makes it virtually impossible!" says Bouncy Norn, clapping her hands even faster. Her body stills and the disconcerting light returns to her eyes. Tara shivers and leans against Lionel.

Bouncy Norn whispers, "Think hard about where you want to be for Ragnarok, my sweets, and who you want to be with."

Looking over Tara and Lionel's shoulders, the tall Norn says, "Oh look, Odin has left Old MacDonald's farm."

Narrowing her eyes, Bouncy says, "He could create a new gate and come through after you, but the only one he'd ever do that for is Loki."

The pale, emaciated Norn cackles. "You're so lucky Loki is more important than you, Lionel, Son of Tavende. Odin just can't win without Loki—he may even leave you alone."

"Will you let us go back?" asks Lionel. His voice is even, but Tara feels him tremble.

The Norns tilt their heads.

Tara swallows and pats his hand. Cellmates to the end... there is a comfort in that... even if she has a horrible feeling their last cell might be an oven.

"Let's send them directly back to Chicago," says the thin one.

"Oh, yes! A bus ride would be so boring," says Bouncy.

"I like that plan," says the tall one, smiling widely, her nose wrinkling in a way that would be charming if not for the teeth. "Straight into the _drama_."

Tara's jaw gapes. She almost thanks them, but then isn't sure if that would indebt her like it would with an elf.

"What is the cost?" Lionel asks, his voice almost a hiss.

The three women laugh. "Oh, it's not a favor," says the tall one. "We don't do favors."

The other two shake their heads.

The tall woman dips her chin, making her red braids fall before her eyes. "But we occasionally do things for our own amusement." She smiles wide again, and her teeth gleam.

"Turn around," they command, smiling wickedly.

Lionel and Tara both stand stock still.

The thin one rolls her eyes. "Oh, don't be afraid. If we wanted you dead..."

"We'd be feasting on your bodies right now!" says Bouncy, her eyes wide, her smile cheery.

Gripping the hand Lionel's laid upon her shoulder, Tara pulls him round... and sees her living room shimmering in the wall. Lionel gasps and holds up a hand. "There is a new gate here." His eyes slide to the three women, his expression horrified.

"I'd advise you to step through," says the tall one, advancing toward them. "We haven't had lunch."

Tara steps toward her home, pulling Lionel with her, and an instant later, they're in her living room. It smells like lemon-scented wood polish. Inky, her octopus, is right where she left him on the couch. Her laptop is on the coffee table.

Lionel turns around. "The gate is closed again," he says.

"But they're still watching," Tara murmurs, her vision getting blurry. Her heartbeat quickens, imagining the fanged women. "Can they come through and abduct us?"

Lionel shakes his head and scowls in the direction they just came. "No, their power is limited to Nornheim. I've never heard of them even so much as slipping a finger into another realm." He says it defiantly, and Tara holds her breath, half expecting the air to shimmer and one of the women to come raging through... but nothing happens.

"They could have sent us anywhere in the Nine Realms," Lionel murmurs. "Why did they drop us off exactly here?"

The Norn's words, "We occasionally do things for our own amusement," echo in Tara's mind. She closes her eyes. She thinks of what she overheard in Asgard about "the human problem." She thinks about farmer MacDonald ready to stand up to Odin and the Einherjar. She thinks of Dr. Eisenberg studying magic and their work together that upsets the All Father... Dr. Eisenberg's in danger, because their work is worth doing.

She thinks about where she wants to be for the end of the world... she wants to be with Lionel. She also knows where she _has_ to be and why the Norns sent them here. Her eyes get hot.

"They brought us here so they can watch," she whispers. They'd put them right back into the drama. During a bus ride, she would have had a chance to say goodbye.

"I have to stay," she says, bowing her head. "Lionel, I love you... but I have to stay for my mother..." and Dr. Eisenberg, crazy Old MacDonald, and people like him who won't take the apples and will stand up to Odin. Her body shudders, and tears pool in her eyes.

Lionel's arms are around her a moment later, his hands smoothing her back. "Shh... Tara... Of course you must stay."

"But I should come with you!" Tara cries, tears spilling over. "I could help you!" Or she could die, without a chance to warn Eisenberg, without a chance to help protect Earth, without anyone to take care of her mother... No matter what she wants, she has to stay here.

"My mother would never forgive me if I managed to get you home and then dragged you back into the swamp," Lionel says. He pulls her tighter. "Tara, I'm afraid of what Odin might have planned for your people..."

"I know," Tara whispers. She closes her eyes and lets herself melt into his arms. She can feel his breath on her forehead, and hears his heartbeat. She finds herself bitterly resenting every minute the Norns stole from them by sending them directly here. She would have held Lionel's hand on that bus, probably cried the whole way, and treasured every second of it.

She thinks of Tavende alone in the Dark Lands. "You've got to go," Tara murmurs, her voice thick with tears.

"I know." His voice is thick. Squeezing her tight, he lifts her from the ground, and whispers into her hair, "Tara, I don't really understand how love works among non-elves... maybe on Earth you can't have soulmates because everything is changing so fast people can't stay the same." He pulls back, and his eyes are red rimmed. "But I can't imagine feeling any more for anyone."

She nods. "I feel the same."

Lionel kisses her. Softly, and then frantically, until they pull apart gasping, her lips burning from stubble, and her body feeling like every neuron is alight. Tara runs her fingers over the points of his ears; his eyes slip closed and his hands loosely clasp her wrists.

She can't believe she's letting him get away... no, she can believe it. If he doesn't leave, he'll resent her for keeping him, and she could never respect him if he let his mother stay in that terrible place, where even his magic doesn't work.

Her jaw drops. "Lionel," she whispers. "I can't go with you, but I _can_ help you!"

Lionel sits at Tara's kitchen table. She runs into the room and opens a drawer. Without looking at him, she mumbles, "Not in here. Ugh!" She's exchanged her sorceress gear for a white shirt with short sleeves that exposes long swathes of her dark brown skin and the smoothness of her arms. Below she wears blue trousers, like the farmers had worn but more fitted, and cleaner.

Lionel starts to get up. Spinning to him, she points a finger and says, "Sit! You said magic makes you hungry. Eat!"

He pauses, and she dashes from the room before he can respond.

He is hungry, but he'd still rather catch her in an embrace. Slumping back into his seat, he returns to his meal, a "sandwich." He thinks under ordinary circumstances it might be delicious. He wants to stay, and he needs to leave. He almost wished she hadn't understood so well; it would have been easier if she'd been unreasonable.

He forces down the last bite, polishing it off with "orange juice," when Tara returns to the room, a knapsack of unique fabric and construction on one arm, and a garment of olive green on the other. Somewhat inexplicably, she also has a purple toy kraken.

Dumping the contents of the bag on the table, not meeting his eyes, she says, "Okay, I've got signal flares, a lighter, batteries, a flashlight, water bottles, protein bars, antibiotic ointment, antiseptic wipes, pepper spray, and a spare jacket—"

"Mostly gibberish," Lionel says, trying to sound cheerful and instead sounding morose.

"—and I'm going to show you how to use them as quickly as I can," Tara finishes, still not meeting his gaze.

When she's done with all but the jacket, Lionel's heart feels like it has turned to lead and is slowly crushing his other organs. "These are wondrous things, Tara," he murmurs, standing beside her, practicing sealing the "Ziploc" bag that protects the lighter and batteries. "I'm not sure I can accept them."

"You will accept them or... or..." She bites her lip.

He wants to touch her. He lifts his hand and drops it, afraid that if he touches her, he won't be able to stop.

Taking a deep breath, she picks up the garment. "Turn around. I'm going to see if it fits." He does as she says and she helps him slide it onto him. He catches her arms from behind, pulling her chest to his back. For a moment that he knows he'll hold in his heart forever, she presses her cheek against his shoulder blade.

And then she pulls away. "Okay, let me show you how to work the zippers."

Eyes downcast, she shows him how to operate the alien fastening devices, and murmurs, "This coat was my father's. He left it here, right before... and I couldn't give it..." She swallows.

Running his hand along the strange fabric, he whispers, "I'm honored."

Jaw tight, eyes too bright, she continues, "It's GORE-TEX, waterproof and windproof... without magic."

"With human magic," he says.

She wipes her face. "I put one of my coats in the middle pocket in the backpack for your mother. It's too big, and bright pink, so not so good in a swamp for camouflage, but I guess you could put mud on it."

She picks up the last item on the table. "What you're supposed to do with this is probably self-evident."

Lionel eyes the toy kraken dubiously. "Actually, it's the most mysterious."

She finally meets his eyes, and glares. "It's for Inky! He saved us from the velociraptors. You have to say thank you... you might need his help again!"

Lionel's eyebrow lifts. "You and I remember our encounter with... Inky... very differently."

"Just give it to him!" Tara says, her nostrils flaring a bit. "It might save your life."

It strikes Lionel that she's not sure if it will work, but she's just grasping at anything she thinks might keep him alive. "I will treasure it."

"No," says Tara, holding the toy in one hand, gesturing to it with the other. "You're not supposed to treasure it! Give. It. To. The. Kraken!"

Lionel gives in and folds her into his arms. They stand in her kitchen for too short and too long. The elves have a euphemism called "a long goodbye," which is what he'd meant to share with Tara that one night in his village, but now the idea seems hollow. Ridiculous. "One night would never be enough."

## 22

# A New Life

Arms wrapped around herself, Lionel's key gripped in one hand, Tara gazes down the alley in the direction of the World Gate. Two of her neighbors who are painting their fence smile and wave at her. After a moment, she waves back, but isn't able to force a smile.

She'd pestered Lionel to let her cross over the World Gate. She'd wanted to testify to the Dark Elves that he didn't work for the queen or for Odin. He'd assured her that he'd be fine, and he'd needed to conserve his magic.

She isn't sure if Lionel has gone through the World Gate. There has been no flash of light, no last wave. With her neighbors out, there couldn't be.

She bites her lip, remembering his words, "One night would never be enough."

Her neighbors go inside. It's nearly dark when she does, too.

Slumping onto her couch, she picks up her phone. She'd already sent a quick text to her mom. Now she listens to her messages. The first is from Dr. Eisenberg. "Tara, where are you? Are you sick?"

The second is also from Dr. Eisenberg. "Tara? Why haven't you called! This is two days in a row. This is unacceptable!"

The third is from her mom.

The fourth is from Eisenberg and nearly cracks her eardrum. "Do you realize what the university policy is on unexplained absences, Tara? How could you do this to me right before my meeting?"

She scowls at her phone. She came back for this? It's only because she's trembling with rage that she doesn't hang up, afraid she'll throw her phone across the room. The next message is Eisenberg, again, but it's very different from the last. "Tara..." There is an audible gulp. "I hope you... ah... get this... ah... don't worry about your absences... I uh... well... just call me... please. Oh, I hope that you're okay."

She glares at the phone a moment. Sighing, she reminds herself she has to be allies with the man since Odin wants them both. She calls his number.

"Tara, is that you?" Eisenberg asks. "Really you?"

"Yes," she says.

"You're at home?"

"Yes," she says, steeling herself for a lecture.

"Thank God. I'll be right over." The line disconnects.

Tara listens to the dial tone. She should call him back and tell him no way. She should check her email. She should call her mother.

Instead she curls into a ball at the corner of the couch, Lionel's key in a death grip, and cries. She'd been an idiot. Odin may think she's dangerous, but no one else thinks she's important. She can't make a difference here. And maybe her trip to other realms will get her locked up in Gitmo for... for... well, she doesn't know. She wishes she knew what happened to those two humans who escaped Asgard. Her brow furrows. Thor had allegedly taken some humans for a joy ride a while ago, and although they'd come back, she has no idea if they're still walking around free.

Maybe she should just run off to join the elves. Maybe if she goes to where she thinks the World Gate is and screams, they'll let her cross?

Her doorbell rings, making her start.

It rings again, but she doesn't move. And then her phone rings, and then beeps with a text. She glances down at it. It's Dr. Eisenberg saying, _Tara, it's me! It will be all right._

She swallows. If she is staying, she needs her job. Getting up, she goes to the entrance, checks the keyhole, sees Eisenberg, and opens the door.

Eisenberg is not alone. Standing at the bottom of the stoop is Naleigh, the elf that had wanted Lionel executed in the Dark Lands.

Tara's skin heats. She almost charges down the steps at him in what may be a bout of misplaced rage, but Eisenberg puts his considerable girth between him and her. "Tara, I can explain! He's a friend."

Tara almost unleashes the misplaced rage on Eisenberg.

Holding up his hands, he says, "May we come in, Tara? Please? I need to know exactly what happened."

"And that's what happened," Tara says, sitting in her kitchen, eyes on Naleigh.

"Is it true that Lionel is the son of... Him?" Naleigh asks.

Tara narrows her eyes at him. "I don't know who you're talking about." She didn't tell the _whole_ story. No way would she divulge Lionel's father's name to just any human or elf.

"But you need to get—" she bites back "your ass" and manages to say, "—back to the Dark Lands and let the Dark Elves know that Lionel is on your side!"

"Yes, in due time, but Dr. Eisenberg and I have some things to discuss with you—" Naleigh says.

"I can tell her myself!" Dr. Eisenberg exclaims, hopping in his chair. "You heard what she said. Lionel saved her! If you want my help, you will get to the Dark Lands right now and make sure Lionel isn't hurt!"

Tara blinks. Naleigh blinks, too.

"Of course, Doctor," Naleigh says, standing quickly. He bows to Tara. "I'm sorry about our misunderstanding in Alfheim. Obviously, Lionel will be a great asset to the Dark Elves in both realms." Bowing to Eisenberg, he says, "I'll just show myself out, and immediately go to the gate."

Tara is so surprised by how easy that was, she doesn't get up until he's at the door. "I'm sorry about your head!" she says. Naleigh just waves and shuts the door.

Sitting back down at the table, Tara's eyes go to Dr. Eisenberg. He's wiping his glasses with a cloth. For a pretty nervous guy, he took the whole "Odin has you on a naughty list" thing really well. "Dark Elves in both realms?" she asks.

Clearing his throat, he says, "First off, I want you to know that it isn't technically treason I am involved in."

Tara's eyebrows jump, and she remembers her last conversation.

He puts his glasses back on. "There are just some factions in the government that approve... and some that don't."

Tara's lips purse. "Talk to me."

Eisenberg sighs. "Tara, if I don't tell you, you can transfer to another department, put this all behind you, and those members of government who don't approve of it will be none the wiser. We may both already have Odin interested in us, but you'll be safe from our government."

Tara tilts her head. "Will what you're involved in protect humans from Odin?"

Eisenberg sighs. "We hope so."

She only stayed for her mom and the foolish idea that she might be able to help humans.

This is what she gave up the love of her life for. She swallows and bites her lip. "I'm in."

## 23

# Where Will You Be for Ragnarok?

Tara sits at a desk in her office, head bent over an Elvish scroll.

There's a knock at the door, even though it is open. Looking up, she sees Dr. Eisenberg just outside. Beckoning him in, she gets up and closes the door fast. The room is shielded with the magic-blocking Promethean Wire stuff, making it impossible to magically spy and see what they're talking about.

In a rushed voice, she says, "I think this scroll is talking about radiation, Dr. Eisenberg. To magical creatures, radiation is just another sort of energy. They can use magic to turn radiation into other sorts of energy. I don't understand the physics of it, but I think maybe you will. If we could turn radiation into light, or heat, or electricity..." They could rid the world of dangerous radiation. Lionel's gift of languages keeps on giving.

She glances at him. His eyes are downcast.

"I know it's not what the Pentagon guys want but..." she says.

His shoulders sag.

"What is it?" she whispers.

"Another group of refugees are joining the lab this afternoon," he says, referring to the Dark Elves of the new Dark Elf Underground Railroad. It had just been forming before Tara was abducted. That was the source of Eisenberg's cryptic, "If you see something, call me ..." statement.

In exchange for Elvish aid with magic, some unnamed VIPs in the federal and local governments have seen to it that Dark Elves have fake IDs. Eisenberg, Tara, and others see that they get schooling, housing, and paid positions in Chicago's research institutions.

Tara's stomach feels like lead, and then he says what she already knows. "By the descriptions I heard, there was no sign of Lionel."

Tara bows her head and looks at the scroll, the Elvish script running together in a blur. "He'll be safer in the Dark Lands," she says.

"So would you," says Eisenberg.

"I wouldn't do anyone any good there," Tara mutters.

"Hmmm..." He pushes his glasses up his nose. "I think he'll come back. Nothing stops—"

"Don't you dare say true love," says Tara.

"I was going to say nothing stops a man who's made up his mind," says Dr. Eisenberg. "And it sounds like he has."

He's going to launch into his "across-the-world trek to woo his beloved Irma." It's a sweet story, but Tara's not sure it applies to her and Lionel. There are so many obstacles between Lionel and her—besides Odin, prejudiced elves, and velociraptors, their cultures are very different. She comes from a mixed-culture household. She's seen how well it can work out, but her parents were very clear on the challenges as well. Her mother always said they'd vowed early on that they'd make their own culture and to grow together as they grew old. Lionel and Tara had made no such promise.

"I'm so sorry, Tara," says Eisenberg, instead of telling his and Irma's story again.

She nods.

"For you and the lab!" he exclaims. "All the most talented elves are going to the University of Chicago." He scowls. Just the name of the elite, private university tends to make him do that. "One of our new hires has minor training... but that's nothing like how you described Lionel's abilities."

Tara rubs her eyes. Of course he would be thinking of the lab... She reminds herself that the translations she's worked on this morning may save millions of people... maybe not from Odin, but from humanity's own foibles.

Taking a deep breath, Tara asks, "No word from Naleigh, either?"

Eisenberg shakes his head.

Tara nods. They'd only heard from him once since she'd returned. Lionel had been imprisoned when he'd returned, but then the Light Elves tried to overtake the fortress. In the confusion of the battle, Lionel had disappeared. Naleigh believes Lionel slipped out of the fortress and across enemy lines.

"I really am sorry, Tara," says Eisenberg. "For you... even more than the lab."

She melts a little. "I know." Eisenberg isn't completely self-absorbed. The doctor just doesn't have a filter on what he's feeling. On the one hand, sometimes it feels insensitive; on the other hand, he keeps singing her praises to Dean Kowalski even though they fall on deaf ears. And he helps the Dark Elves because he sees it akin to helping Jewish refugees before WWII.

Holding out a hand, he says, "Let me see what you've translated so far."

She hands him her notes. Pushing up his glasses, he sits on her desk.

Her phone chimes and she says, "I'm meeting my mother for lunch."

Peering over his bifocals, he says, "Do you have your magic detector?"

Nodding, Tara pats her purse. Afraid that Odin might try to snatch her away, Eisenberg insists she take one everywhere. Tara's pretty sure from what Thor, Odin himself, and the Norns had said about the "hunt for Loki" that Odin has bigger fish to fry... for now.

Eisenberg holds up a finger. "If you start getting a beep—"

"I'll hit your number on speed dial and haul back here," Tara assures him, gesturing to the magic-blocking Promethean Wire.

He nods, and turns his attention back to her notes. Tara can see he's already in his "mind palace."

Exiting her office and then the lab, she steps into the hallway and hears her mother's voice in the receptionist's office. "Yes, Tara got herself a date with a surgeon from Rush."

Tara sighs. Her mother doesn't know anything about her trip to Alfheim or Asgard. When Tara had joined the Underground Railroad, she'd been warned, "If you want your family to stay safe, you won't let them know." Last weekend, her mother had arranged for Tara to meet said surgeon at a block party. "Helping" Tara is the only way Tara's mother knows how to show love.

She swallows. Her mother had wanted to straighten Tara's hair as soon as she'd gotten back from vacation. But Lionel had loved Tara's natural hair, and his unclouded vision of it had let Tara see it with fresh eyes. Tara had given up so much for her mother, her country, and her world... her hair she decided to keep. When she'd told her mother she didn't want it straightened, her mother had burst into tears. "But Tara, if I don't do your hair, what do we have?"

And the thing is, besides kinship and time, her mother and Tara don't share very much. It's not the same as not loving one another; they're just very different.

With a sigh, she heads into the office. Her mother is leaning over the front desk, saying, "He's so tall and handsome, he's from Englewood, and he got scholarships to med school—"

"Hi, Mom," Tara says. "Ready for lunch?"

Penny and Jayla, the secretaries, both smile at her in a way that says, "You've been holding out on us, woman." Tara smiles back tightly.

Tara's mom turns and winks at her. "I just know you'll find your soulmate soon!"

Tara sighs. "I'd settle for my cellmate."

Everyone laughs. Tara doesn't cry, which she figures is pretty strong of her. She'd set her cellmate free, and he'd never said he was coming back. She is still a prisoner of her feelings for Lionel... how long is she going to wait before she sets herself free?

"Max Lund?" the woman behind the counter says, studying Lionel's identification. She is surrounded by glowing boxes. A strange sort of glass and metal tablet on the counter is beeping faintly. The woman's eyes fall on it.

"That is what I am called." Lionel says, careful not to lie. He thinks he can, but he is proud of his Elvish heritage.

Narrowing her eyes at the tablet, she says, "You're one of those Norwegian researchers, aren't you?"

That is the nation Lionel and his fellow elves have supposedly emigrated from.

"You're early," she says before he can answer, sparing him from having to say something long winded like, _that is what my immigration paperwork says,_ which would skirt the truth of the matter.

"Everyone else is having their English evaluated," he explains. Or their ability to magically translate English. "My language ability is nearly perfect and the evaluator let me out early." Nothing could have kept him in that room with Tara so close.

"Uh-huh," says the woman.

"I'm looking for Tara Gibson," he says quickly. "I heard she belongs to this lab."

She blinks at a spot on his chin where his eyes appear to be to her—he's illusioned himself to look more Elvishly short. He'd had to. Due to Odin's well-meaning negotiations, he is still officially "a Light Elf." Even after Naleigh's testimony, many of the Dark Elves are suspicious of him. A disguise is necessary.

The woman points to his right. "Her office is right over there, but she just left for lunch."

"I'll wait for her," Lionel says, already heading in that direction. He reaches the door that has a placard with her name on it. It is slightly ajar, and he hears the rustle of paper inside. Heart beating fast—maybe the woman was wrong—he pushes the door open and steps in. Instead of Tara, there is a plump little man sitting on Tara's desk, a notebook in his hand. He looks up at Lionel and says something that is completely gibberish.

Lionel tilts his head and says, "Pardon?" and realizes the word came out in Elvish, not English. "Excuse me," he says, and again, it is Elvish. Also, the man is looking him directly in the eyes. Lionel scans the room and sees the same curious wire on the walls that had blocked his magic in the Dark Lands. He backs quickly out the door, and the man's eyes fall back to his chin as his illusion comes back to him. The little man blinks.

Lionel decides right then that if he is staying on Earth, the first thing he is going to do is take those ESL courses and learn the language— _really_ learn the language.

Behind him, he hears one of the women at the desk with the glowing boxes say cheerfully, "So, Tara has a date with a surgeon from Rush, now."

Lionel's eyes go wide, and he rushes back to the desk, even as the little man cries out, "Wait!"

Lionel pretends not to hear. Reaching the woman, he demands, "Tara is going to have surgery? Where is she? Is she at a..." Heart clenching in his chest, he struggles for the English word. "Hospital?"

The women stare at him, and the only sound is the beeping of the little glass and metal tablet. And then they both laugh. "You are from Norway!" says one.

"Date... as in courting!" says the other woman. "Though the way her mother is talking, you'd think the marriage date is already set."

"Mm ... hmmm... she says they got along well."

The other woman laughs. Lionel takes a step back, stunned. He thought... it's only been a few months. His breath comes fast and ragged. A few months... was it years to someone who hadn't lived to thirty?

"Sir!" cries the little man. "Wait!"

But Lionel is already in the hallway. He immediately makes himself invisible. Leaning against the wall for support, he shambles to the nearest exit. The little man, waving a blinking tablet, cries, "Come back!"

Lionel flings himself through the heavy exit doors, his mind filled with only one thought... he has to get away.

"Your hair looks so pretty like that," Tara's mom says.

"I like it a lot, Mom," Tara replies, touching the braid her mother had done for her. It crosses her crown, keeping those few loose coils determined to flop in front of her face out of her eyes. The rest is loose. The strands would stretch nearly six inches if she straightened them, but not straightened, they appear only about two inches long. Thick and dense, they frame her face.

"I think we should dye the ends blonde," her mother says, gesturing with her hands. "It will make it look like a real halo. If you don't like it, or just get bored, we could cut off the tips."

Ordinarily, Tara might think that sounded fun, but she remembers Lionel saying of her natural hair color, _A halo suits you._ All she can manage is a shrug.

Her mother frowns and taps her spoon on the table. The silence stretches uncomfortably between them. Tara is about to ask if her mother has had any interesting customers today when her mother blurts out, "When are you going to tell me about what happened between you and Lionel?"

Tara blinks, and her mother says, "You've been so odd since he was over."

"Nothing happened," Tara says automatically, and her heart turns to lead. There'd been no time for anything to happen. Not for the first time, she finds herself daydreaming about having had to take a long bus ride from Iowa—or wherever in farm country they'd popped through the World Gate. She bites the inside of her lip, eyes heating, fingers curling at the thought of the Norns stealing those hours.

Her mother's eyes narrow. "Hmpf. You know, if he broke your heart, the best thing to do is get out there. Start dating again. You hold onto these things too long."

"Mom ..." Tara starts to say, and then her phone rings. She waits it out, trying to formulate what to tell her mother, and it buzzes with a text. And then it buzzes with another. And another. Her mother frowns, and Tara apologizes, "I'll turn it off."

Slipping it from her purse, she glances down and notices a text from Eisenberg, right above the text from John, the surgeon her mom's trying so hard to set her up with. She's been ignoring John's text. She almost ignores Eisenberg's text, too—the little snippet she can see doesn't have their code for Asgardian invasion—and she doesn't want to encourage him texting her during lunch hour, but she can't help reading.

_It was him!_

Across the table, her mother says, "Tara?"

She blinks. Swipes, and instead of going to her settings, begins reading Eisenberg's rapid-fire thread.

_He was here._

_He was tall! But ears!_

_HE RAN AWAY!_

_Think he is on Polk. Can't see him. Invisible?_

_It was him._

Tara's breath catches.

A final text comes.

_I don't know how I scared him! Please don't let him go to U of C!_

"If you answer those texts you'll only encourage your boss to text you nights and weekends," her mother says.

Tara looks up at her. "Mom, I love you, but I've got to go."

"What's going on?" her mother asks.

"My cellmate has come!" Tara says, throwing some money on the table and grabbing her purse.

She strides from the restaurant, and then it occurs to her that if Lionel made himself invisible, something terrible must be happening. She breaks into a run, darting through the traffic on Taylor Street, cutting across Ashland Avenue at a diagonal, heading northwest. She dashes west as soon as she reaches Polk, races under the Polk Street L station, and across Hermitage, her heart beating in her ears. At the intersection at Wood Street, she catches her breath. Looking south, she sees only students. Looking west, she sees Dr. Eisenberg, his head bent over a magic detector. Tara breaks into a jog. She's just passing the entrance to the courtyard where a troll once emerged when her magic detector starts to beep in her purse.

She stops, and looks into the courtyard. A troll? Or Lionel? Or Lionel and a troll... she sprints into the courtyard and the magic detector's beeping becomes louder. Taking the device out of her purse, Tara spins, trying to locate the source of magic. There are no trolls, no students, no faculty, and no Lionel... just the ancient gothic architecture of the University of Illinois at Chicago Medical School, and a slightly unkempt garden. A few birds trill and her magic detector beeps, but the sounds of busy Ashland Avenue, cars, and Polk Street are blocked by the ancient building.

Tara's hands clutch the magic detector so hard her fingers hurt. She is afraid to use Lionel's name—she doesn't know how many spies Odin has, or where they all are. Instead she says, "I know you're here! Show yourself!"

Her magic detector beeps... and she holds her breath.

Lionel almost drops his spell as Tara dashes into the unkempt courtyard. She spins around, her beautiful face pained. Her magical talismans—or un-magical talismans—had saved him and his mother in the Dark Lands... and now he's causing her pain. "I know you're here!" she cries.

He follows her eyes as she scans the courtyard, her face frantic. The great schools of sorcery in Alfheim have gardens that are immaculately manicured to the last blade of grass. Is Midgard like Asgard? Does it not value its magic masters? He doesn't know, and that makes his heart sink. He'd thought the greatest obstacle between Tara and himself was time, but maybe it's the differences in their cultures. He'd come back to her, naively thinking that she'd wait for him. He remembers the women's words in the "lab." Tara's mother has plans for her wedding. Is it possible she couldn't wait for him? Was her marriage arranged?

"Show yourself!" Tara cries, clutching a strange beeping device in her hand, and Lionel rolls back on his feet. How does she know he's here?

She spins again, and Lionel blinks because she's surrounded by blue skies. He's hallucinating again, or seeing visions... His invisibility slips away without his volition.

Tara's jaw drops, and she takes a step back. "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else..." Her voice drifts off.

Lionel blinks, and realizes he's kept his illusioned disguise—she sees a shorter, smooth-faced man with brown hair pulled back to hide his ears.

He lets out a breath. Should he speak? Would she recognize his voice?

Her eyes narrow at his chin and then go wide. She takes a step forward, eyes still unnervingly too low. "Did you find her? Your mother?"

She recognizes him, and he doesn't want to hide anymore. "Yes," he whispers.

Tara comes forward, arms outstretched, and her hands connect with his chest instead of wrapping around him, because of the illusion he wears. She's so close, and he can't care about her upcoming marriage, or the eyes of any of the Midgardian sorcerers who'd given him an ID, thinking he is a Dark Elf. He lets his illusion melt away, and pulls her into his arms.

Tara holds Lionel's hand as she drags him into the lab... he'd pulled her into his arms so easily, had rested his chin on her hair, but now his steps are slow and heavy. She is afraid to let him go. If she lets him go, she'll wake up and this will have been a dream. It already feels too dreamlike. He's too quiet; he must be in trouble.

Dr. Eisenberg is already back in the lab when they enter. "You found him," he says.

Tara looks back. Lionel is back to being short and Elvish again. His hair is dark blonde, his face is clean-shaven and pixie-like, but his eyes are the same icy blue as ever. She'd recognize them anywhere.

"Yes, Dr. Eisenberg," Tara says.

Lionel whispers, "So this is the dangerous Doctor Eisenberg?"

It's the longest sentence he's said.

Dr. Eisenberg peers at him from over his glasses. "Me? No, I'm not dangerous at all." He looks at Tara like he's just swallowed a frog. "I'll go now... Tara, take the day off if you need to convince your friend to stay." With that, he leaves... fast. A tiny part of Tara registers him leaving, but mostly she's just worried about Lionel. Something is wrong; she can feel it.

Pulling him into her office, she shuts the door with his hand still in hers, and turns to look at him. The Promethean Wire is blocking his illusion. He's tall again, and his ears are pointed, but he has a neat beard—something she never saw on any elf. His hair and beard are the same brown as the illusion's... even his eyebrows are darker, but his lashes are still light. Dyed, she realizes. The jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers he'd been wearing have become the sort of rough trousers and tunics she'd seen in the Dark Lands.

Perhaps seeing the direction of her gaze, he touches his hair. "Illusion is less taxing if it is based on reality." His eyes drop. He looks at their hands.

"You're in trouble," Tara says, clutching his hand to her stomach. "Aren't you? Odin is coming for you... you have to go back to the Dark Lands. You can't stay."

"Can you stay?" he asks, tilting his head, eyes hard. "You and Dr. Eisenberg are in as much danger as I am," Lionel says, stepping closer. She feels his breath on her forehead, and shivers when he whispers, "When Odin finds Loki... he'll come for you and him as well as me."

Tara gulps. She lets out a breath, and tries to imagine her and Eisenberg continuing their research in the Dark Lands. Would they be able to set up a lab in that fortress she'd seen when they'd first gone through? The one that is constantly under siege? Could the squabbling branches of her government put aside their differences and approve funding for such a project... She scrunches her eyes shut. It would never happen.

"My work... my life is here," Tara says.

Lionel pulls away, his fingers slip from hers, and she finds herself grasping at empty air. Walking over to her bookshelf and studying the titles, he says, "I suppose your life is here."

The distance between them makes her ache. "... and you must live it."

Tara shakes her head, and has a sensation like she's falling. She's going to lose a second man due to her overdeveloped sense of duty and obligation. Her nails bite her palms. The thing is... she can't change direction... too much is on the line.

Lionel bows his head. "I should congratulate you, of course."

"Congratulate me?" Tara whispers.

He looks over his shoulder at her. "On your marriage." The words are as flat as any he's delivered to Odin, and the tone makes the words a jumble she can't discern. What happened to the closeness between them?

... And then the words do sink in. "Marriage?"

His brows draw together, his lips turn down, and Tara actually feels her heart lift to see some emotion from him, even if it's anger. "Your assistants already informed me of it," he says, his voice bitter.

Tara's hand goes to her mouth, and she feels torn between laughing and crying. "I'm not getting married, Lionel!"

Turning to her, he shakes his head and locks his hands behind his back. "They said that your mother has set the date."

Tara nods. "I'm sure that she has. But _I_ haven't."

"You're courting...?" He takes a step closer to her.

Tara shakes her head. "No, no, I'm not." She starts to laugh at the same time a tear slips down her cheek. She's not courting, though not for John's lack of trying. If she'd met him before Lionel, she'd be head over heels... John is a good man; handsome, considerate, interested in something permanent. He also thinks that the World Gates should all be closed—as though they could be. Before Lionel, Alfheim, and Asgard, she would have agreed with him. Now she knows humanity can't hide and they must adapt.

And also...

"Do you think I could get over you so quickly?" she whispers.

Lionel takes a step toward her. "I don't know... I don't know your culture, and we didn't make promises. You would be within your rights to..."

There's only a step between them, and Tara closes it. "I couldn't let you go that easily. I'm not made like that."

Lionel reaches for her, releases a breath, and lets his hands slide down her side to her hips. Heat trails in their wake. It radiates from his fingers straight to her core. Her lips buzz with the kiss she wants so very much.

Lionel bows his head. "May I court you, Tara?"

"Yes," she whispers. _Oh, yes, yes, yes, now kiss me._

He huffs softly, and presses his forehead against hers. "I don't even know what human courtship entails."

Her left hand winds around his neck; her right caresses the point of one of his perfect ears. "We go on dates ..." she says, her voice breathy. His body is tight against hers, and she can feel he wants her as much as she wants him.

"Dates?" he asks, and she realizes her brain had said that final word in English.

"To... the theater," she supplies. "To meals, on long walks together."

"I don't want to wait... let's begin this courtship now. We can... go to a meal. The person on the orientation said there are places to get food around here, and gave me currency." Lionel straightens, starting to pull away. Tara holds him fast.

"Lionel," she says. "I can't go on a date with you right now!"

He meets her eyes. Tilts his head. "Why not?" he asks, voice strained.

Eyes locked on his, both hands caressing his ears, she says, "You've been away so long. I can't sit across the table from you. You'd be too far away... Maybe we could just go back to my home?"

His head drops forward, but then she leans back. Eyes wide, she says, "Unless that is too forward in your culture. It's not something I would normally do—but it's you... and I ..."

Lionel's eyes slip closed. He chuckles. "No, it's not too forward at all." He pulls their bodies flush again, sending shivers of warmth through her. He drops his forehead to hers, and she softly caresses his ear again. Frustratingly, he does not kiss her. In a soft voice, he murmurs, "I should tell you, you're right, protein bars are foul... but velociraptors really do not like pepper spray, antibiotics are wonderful, and also I think you might have misrepresented your rank here, because your talisman worked... I have never known of any sorceress who could create a talisman that could charm a kraken. Inky helped my mother and I escape a troop of Light Elves."

Tara's fingers pause and her eyebrows lift, wondering where this is going.

"I must thank you, for all of that," he says in a hushed whisper. "You saved my life and my mother's. I am debt bound now to protect your life—from Odin, and from Dark Elves that may have less than noble intentions here."

"You can't indebt yourself to me!" Tara protests.

His hands still. "Yes, I can, and bind myself to you in doing so." His icy blue eyes meet hers. "I am realizing, just now, how much we don't know about each other and our cultures... I need to be bound to you."

Tara gulps, and her eyes get blurry and hot, understanding what he's saying. _We're going to have some misunderstandings, but I want to be yours._

Tara smiles up at him, her body still buzzing, another fat tear rolling down her cheek, and a smile on her face all at the same time. "I want to be cellmates forever with you, Lionel."

He leans in. She can hear the smile in his voice when he whispers, "You won't be able to get rid of me," against her lips.

... And then he finally kisses her.

# Epilogue

"Daddddd! Are you going to come up and watch the launch?" Sol's shout echoes from the stairway to the roof all the way into the kitchen, two stories down. How many times has Lionel told him not to raise his voice in the house? If he responds, he'll have to shout back, and, in Earth "psych lingo," he'll wind up modeling the very behavior he wants Sol to stop.

Frowning, Lionel steps into the kitchen... and hears a crunch beneath his feet. He takes another step, and hears another. Lifting his foot, squinting in the low light of late evening, he sees the remains of crushed Cheerios on his sock. He lifts the other and sees the same.

From the breakfast nook, he hears a clink and then munching. Lionel follows the sound, each of his steps punctuated by a crunch. Rounding the corner, ears flattening against his head, he finds his daughter Zari, eating a bowl of Cheerios. Cereal and milk are puddled around her on the table, but Zari seems not to have noticed.

Tara has a theory that baby mammals are cute so their parents don't eat them. Lionel sighs and leans against the wall of the nook. He's in one of those moments when he really feels the meaning of those words. Lionel's and Tara's children are growing faster than elves but slower than humans, and Zari looks like a three-year-old human even though she is six. At the moment, her chubby toddler-like cheeks jiggle with each spoonful. Thankfully, her brown curls are pulled away from the mess in a charming poof at the back of her head. Her tiny, delicate pointed ears are perked slightly forward, and her large hazel eyes are focused on the back of the cereal box. Whatever she is reading obviously has her enraptured.

Crossing his arms, Lionel clears his throat. Zari starts and spills the contents of her spoon on the table.

"Daddy!" she says with a wide grin. She drops the spoon into the bowl, and more milk splashes onto the table. Lifting up the cereal box, she swings it in a wide arc toward him and Cheerios go spilling out the bottom everywhere.

Apparently not noticing, she says proudly, "I was hungry but I made my own snack!"

Lionel rubs his temple. "There's a hole in the bottom of the box."

"What?" says Zari, inexplicably, shaking the box and spilling even more cereal.

Lionel holds up his hands. "Just. Put. The. Box. Down."

Zari's face crumples. "I made my own snack." Her lower lip starts to tremble.

She's going to cry. Lionel drops down into a crouch. "And I am so, so proud of you."

She beams.

From the stairwell, Sol shouts, "Are you coming or not? They're gonna launch any minute now!"

Zari looks in the direction of her brother's voice, her eyes getting wider.

"Do you want to see the launch?" Lionel says.

Zari nods.

Lionel takes the box from her hands. "Just this once, I'll pick up for you."

Hopping from the seat, she runs toward the stairs, feet crunching the whole way.

Lionel quickly puts the box on the table, takes a step to the light switch, hears the crunch of cereal beneath his feet, gives in, focuses, and creates a pea-sized sphere of ball lightning. It's enough to illuminate the whole kitchen and the nook, and to see that Cheerios are everywhere. If Chicago was still under the gremlin infestation they had a few decades back, Lionel would suspect their involvement.

"Dad!" shrieks Sol.

Giving in, Lionel shouts back, "I'll be there in a minute!"

He and Tara have guests on the roof. He can't leave the cereal on the floor. Their guests will crush the little Os and deposit the crumbs in every cranny in the house.

He hears Tara's voice from the stairwell. "What happened?"

Using his feet to sweep a path through the Cheerios, Lionel makes his way to the broom closet. "Zari made a snack."

"But they're everywhere..." Tara gasps.

Lionel reaches the broom closet, and Tara says, "The vacuum is broken..."

Lionel nods. "I'm going to use the broom."

"Throw me the Dustbuster!" Tara says.

Lionel tosses it to her, and she catches it midair. She's wearing a pretty white party dress.

"Are you sure you want to—?" Lionel starts to ask.

"Yes," she says, grabbing the pleated skirt and bending over to "dustbust" the kitchen. "It might attract gremlins."

Lionel grabs a broom, puts the dustpan under one arm, and begins frantically sweeping.

"Dadddddd! Mommmmmm!" shouts Sol.

"We're coming!" shout Tara and Lionel over the sound of the Dustbuster.

Lionel pauses his sweeping to grab a dishtowel to mop up some milk, wincing at the dirt that he sops up with it. "There's more over there," says Tara.

Flinging another dishtowel on the other puddle, Lionel goes back to frantically sweeping.

"The joys of parenthood," Tara mutters.

Lionel only manages a "Mmmf." A long time ago, he thought that the reason the name Odinson didn't work on him was because he rejected Odin's ways. Now he thinks that the reason it didn't work was because for all practical purposes, Odin really wasn't his parent. Parenthood is sometimes swooping in to make a heroic save, but mostly it's boring, mundane things like cleaning up milk and cereal, and keeping your temper when your child is only trying to be helpful.

He sweeps all of his herded Cheerios into the dustpan and dumps the mess down the garbage disposal. Tara grabs the milk-soaked towels and races past in a blur of white fabric. "I'm throwing them in the washing machine. We'll have to do a load tonight or they'll stink!" she calls. Lionel's too busy capturing renegade Os to reply.

A few moments later, they're both standing, slightly breathless at the stairs.

"Ready?" she asks, smiling up at him.

It's been decades since they met, but Tara's hair is still full and black, and her dark skin is still smooth. Tara isn't magical, although there are treatments humans have concocted to make themselves so. The treatments sometimes have adverse reactions on developing fetuses, and Lionel and Tara have a crazy idea that they might have another child someday. Still, in the past few decades, Tara hasn't aged any more than Lionel. Lionel's magic is in stasis, in holding things together. The energy he once poured into making himself small, he pours into her telomeres, holding them together, letting them age together. Their relationship hasn't always been easy. Their children have made it harder in many ways, but also bound them together in ways he couldn't have imagined when they met. Tara may not be his soulmate in the Elvish sense of the word, but she has left an indelible mark upon his soul. He can't imagine facing his own old age without her.

"Ready," he says. He motions for her to go up the stairs in front of him. Snapping his fingers, he winks out the ball lightning and follows her up.

When they reach the top, the sun has already set. Dr. Eisenberg—Gil—and his wife, Irma, are relaxing on lawn chairs, fruity drinks in hand. Rosa's new husband John, and Tavende's husband Eric are sitting near them. Lionel's mother and Rosa are hovering just behind Sol and Zari.

To the east of the house, a beam of blue light shoots up into the sky.

Bouncing, Sol shouts, "It's starting!"

The adults all ooh and ah.

"What's happening?" Zari says.

Sol stops bouncing and says in a serious, scholarly tone, "It's a magical space elevator. It counteracts gravity, much like a flying carpet. It allows space ships to take off."

Wrapping his arm around Tara, Lionel finds himself chuckling at Sol's very grown-up reply.

"Maybe I can get him to lecture for me!" Gil says.

"Is the spaceship magic?" Zari asks.

"No, dummy, it's engineering," Sol replies.

"Which is pretty magical," says Irma as Tavende whispers something sharp in Sol's ear.

The number ten flashes in the sky, and then a nine. Throughout the neighborhood, voices rise from the roofs in a countdown. Everyone on Tara and Lionel's roof joins in.

And then the space ship, a sleek disk, leaps up into the magical space elevator in a streak of silver. People clap and cheer.

"Technology and magic together," whispers Tara, the blue light of the space elevator reflecting in her eyes.

"As it always should be," Lionel says.

Tara smiles up at him. He kisses her, and the magic between them still works.

* * *

~FIN~

Thank you for reading _Soul Marked_ to the very end!

Want more? If this is your first visit to this universe, you can start at the beginning of the saga with _Wolves._

Or if you want to see more of the world Tara and Lionel live in at the end of _Soul Marked_ , pick up _Magic After Midnight_.

# Also by C. Gockel

### I Bring the Fire

Sometimes the hero is the wrong guy at the right time. Sometimes the hero is drunk. An urban fantasy featuring Loki, Norse God of Mischief and Chaos

Suggested reading order:

_Wolves_

_Monsters_

_Chaos_

_In the Balance_

_Fates_

_The Slip: A Short Story (mostly) from Sleipnir's Point of Smell_

_Warriors_

_Ragnarok_

_The Fire Bringers_

_Soul Marked_

_Magic After Midnight_

_Someday My Count Will Come_

_Magic After Midnight: the Original Short Story_

_Atomic: a Short Story from Sigyn's Point of View_

_Rush: A Short Story starring everyone's favorite SEAL_

_Take My Monsters: A Short Story and Norse inspired retelling the Ballad of Tam Lin_

### The Archangel Project

Commander Noa Sato doesn't believe in aliens. She's wrong. A sci-fi series.

_Archangel Down (free ebook)_

_Noa's Ark_

_Heretic_

_Carl Sagan's Hunt for Intelligent Life in the Universe: A Short Story (free ebook)_

_Starship Waking_

### Other Works

_Murphy's Star: a Sci-fi Short Story_

_Friendly Fire: a Sci-fi Short Story_

_Let There Be Light: a Sci-fi Short Story_

### Want to know about upcoming releases & get sneak peeks and exclusive content?

Sign up for my newsletter

Visit my website: www.cgockelwrites.com

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Or email me: cgockel.publishing@gmail.com

# Contact Information

Thank you for reading! Because I self-publish, I depend on my readers to help me get the word out. If you enjoyed this story, please let people know in reviews, on Facebook, Twitter, in your blogs, and when you talk books with your friends and family.

Want to know about upcoming releases and get sneak peeks and exclusive content?

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Visit my website: www.cgockelwrites.com

Follow me on Facebook: www.facebook.com/CGockelWrites

Or email me: cgockel.publishing@gmail.com

# CHOSEN

### Book 1 of the Djinn Wars Series

**Christine Pope**

When a fatal fever nearly wipes out the entire world's population, the survivors of what became known as "the Dying" believe the worst is in the past. Little do they know...

In the aftermath of the Dying, survivor Jessica Monroe searches for sanctuary in a world unlike any she's ever known before. As fear and isolation envelop her, Jessica encounters the sensitive and helpful Jace, who she believes is another survivor. But Jace has a past and secrets of his own that's he not ready to disclose. Soon she realizes that the destruction of humanity might actually be the first step in a larger, more complicated plan — a plan that may very well involve her. Struggling to discover her role in a terrifying new world where everything has changed, Jessica must decide who she can trust. But is the price for that trust just too high? _(Book 1 of the Djinn Wars)_

# Chapter 1

The Dying began on my twenty-fourth birthday. Even now I truly believe that was nothing more than a sad coincidence, but if nothing else, the synchronicity helps me to remember when the end began. September twenty-sixth. There was a certain crispness in the air, a bite after the sun went down that told me fall was on the way, and winter soon to follow. We didn't get as cold in Albuquerque as they did in Santa Fe, but we could feel the shift in the seasons even so.

I was out with friends doing tequila shots at Zacatecas when the first reports about a strange illness in New York showed up on the evening news. Maybe I caught a glimpse on the TV in the bar, but I don't think so. To be blunt, I was pretty wasted. Getting plowed like that wasn't in my usual repertoire, but my friend Tori kept ordering round after round, and since I wasn't driving, I didn't try too hard to stop her. Maybe in the back of my mind I was thinking that this year I was twenty-four, and twenty-five would come sliding along soon enough, and I might as well party with abandon while I still could. Sooner or later I'd have to be a good, responsible adult, but not on my birthday.

The next day was a Saturday. No school or work for me; I was getting my master's in English, mostly because I couldn't really figure out what else to do with myself, and staying in college for as long as possible seemed pretty attractive compared to what awaited me in the real world. Since I'd been lucky enough to snag a T.A. position teaching lower-division English classes, I didn't have to worry about dragging my sorry hung-over ass into work, either. I had until Monday to recover.

Around noon I finally wandered into the kitchen, after taking a shower so long the hot water began to run out. Good thing we had a separate water heater for the little apartment over the garage where I lived, or I probably would have heard about it from my mother. All right, so I was still living at home, but the apartment gave me at least the illusion of independence, if not the real thing. It also allowed me to pay much lower rent than I would have otherwise. My parents didn't want to charge me anything — well, not my mother, anyway — but I'd insisted. It was a pittance, but it did cover the utilities and helped give them some extra wiggle room.

My mother had the little white TV on the kitchen counter turned on and was frowning as she watched some cable news talking head go on about a new illness that had begun appearing in New York and Los Angeles the day before. Reports were also coming in from up and down both coasts about this unnamed disease, which left its victims hospitalized with extremely high fevers.

"More Ebola?" I asked, blinking against the too-bright light in the kitchen and making a beeline for the fridge, where my mother always kept a pitcher of iced tea, even in the dead of winter.

"No, Jessica," she said, that little pucker of worry still showing between her brows. "Something else. They don't know what it is."

"Mmm." In that moment, I was far more concerned with getting some caffeine into my bloodstream ASAP than worrying about the disease _du jour_. Those sorts of things never seemed to affect us here in Albuquerque. I wouldn't say we were exactly the city that America forgot, but if it weren't for _Breaking Bad,_ I doubted most people would have spared my hometown a second thought.

From the side-eye my mother was giving me as I downed the iced tea, I guessed that the makeup I'd carefully applied earlier wasn't doing much to hide the evidence that I'd had, as they say, a gaudy night. But because I hadn't been driving and was more or less ambulatory this morning, she seemed to be giving me a pass.

"Dad have a shift today?" I inquired, after refilling my glass of iced tea and taking a few more gulps. Since I felt fortified enough to eat at that point, I popped the pitcher of tea back into the fridge and got a package of English muffins out of the breadbox.

"Yes." She didn't exactly sigh, but I could tell she wasn't thrilled, either.

My father was an officer with the Albuquerque police department. Still a beat cop after twenty-five years, too. He never had any interest in riding a desk, liked to be out on the streets. How my mother lived with it, day after day, I didn't know. My brother and I generally took our father's occupation in stride, since it had always been a part of our lives. But I knew my father had gone through the academy after he and my mother got married, and so it hadn't been an irretrievable fact of life when they were starting out as a couple. I know she wished he was more interested in becoming a detective so he wouldn't be so much in harm's way every day. That wasn't my father, though — even at fifty-two, he was lean and fit, and could probably put guys half his age through a wall if necessary.

At the time, the department was chronically short-handed, so my father picked up a lot of extra shifts. My mother never protested, since she knew he was doing it for us, putting more money in the bank, but she couldn't help worrying. Sometimes I wondered if my father knew exactly how stressed she was every time he left for work. I didn't think that would've stopped him, though, because as much as he loved her, he also loved his job and thought he was doing some genuine good.

"Well, at least it's a daytime shift," I told her, then put the two halves of the English muffin I'd just broken apart into the toaster oven.

"I know." The worry line was still there, and it seemed to deepen as she returned her attention to the TV. The talking heads had been replaced by a doctor, a woman in her late forties who probably would have been pretty if she hadn't look so tired.

"The illness manifests as a very high fever, spiking as high as 106 degrees. We're having difficulty controlling the fever, even with analgesics and ice packs." She paused, pushing a strand of dishwater-blonde hair back behind her ear. Obviously, she hadn't bothered to primp before going to make her statement in front of the cameras. "No other symptoms have been observed at this point. If you or someone in your family comes down with a fever above 103, please call your doctor or go to the local emergency room."

The camera cut to the reporter interviewing the doctor. "Dr. Leviton, any word on where this illness has come from? Is it connected to the doctors returning from West Africa?"

"No," Dr. Leviton replied at once, looking almost annoyed. "None of the victims brought in to Mount Sinai or any of the other hospitals in the city appear to have any connection. Most of them haven't even left New York during the past few months. Of those who have traveled, they've returned home from destinations as diverse as Tahiti, Paris, and Australia. Again, there doesn't seem to be any connection."

At that moment, a nurse came up and whispered in the doctor's ear. Her expression shifted from annoyance to outright worry before she said quickly, "I'm sorry — a patient needs me. That's all I can tell you right now." And she turned away from the cameras and began hurrying down the hallway almost at a run, the nurse right behind her.

The camera panned back to the reporter, who was wearing what he probably thought was a look of measured concern...but to me, he just looked scared. I wonder what the nurse had said to the doctor.

Whatever it had been, the reporter didn't mention it. He only said, "That's the latest from Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City. Again, as Dr. Leviton stated, seek medical assistance immediately if you have a fever in excess of — "

My mother turned off the TV. I arched an eyebrow at her, and she shook her head. "It's always something," she said. "I shouldn't even have turned it on, I suppose, but I was hoping to catch some weather."

"You're not worried?"

"No." She had her own glass of iced tea sitting on the counter, and she sipped from it as she watched me take the English muffin from the toaster oven and start spreading some butter on it. "Cable news always needs something to feed the monster. And unexplained diseases are a great way to keep people watching for updates."

That was something I loved about my mother — she wasn't afraid to call a spade a spade. Critical thinking was very important to her, which made sense, since she taught advanced composition and AP English at the same high school I'd attended. She made my father look like a starry-eyed dreamer.

"True," I said, munching away at my English muffin. My abused stomach was all too glad of the carbs, which should help to soak up the remnants of the tequila I'd downed the night before. Good thing I only indulged like that every once in a great while. Most of the time I was more a mixed-drink kind of girl.

"They'll play it up, and then it'll quietly disappear, just like everything else they try to make a big deal of." My mother finished the last of her tea and set the glass down on the counter. "Anyway, I'm about to go to the store. Anything you need?"

Mouth full of English muffin, I shook my head.

"Make sure you wipe down the counter when you're done," she admonished me, then picked up her purse and went out, apparently not concerned at all by what we'd just watched.

If only she'd been right. But it turned out that the worry of the doctor — and the scared-looking reporter — was not misplaced.

The next morning, the news was full of reports of people getting sick up and down both coasts, and cases had been reported in the Midwest as well...Chicago...Detroit...St. Louis. And the disease, whatever it was, hadn't confined itself to the borders of the U.S. People were sick in London and Munich and Moscow and Singapore. Hospitals were filling up.

My father sat in his wing chair in the family room and watched the news with narrowed eyes. My mother seemed to be doing her best to ignore the television, and was instead trying to worm the latest details about his football practice schedule out of my brother Devin, who was far more interested in texting with his girlfriend than watching TV or explaining why he would have practice four days this week but five the next. A senior in high school, he was hoping his record as running back for the school's team might help him to eke out a scholarship or two when he went to college next year. We were doing okay, but college was expensive — as I knew only too well, with loans piling up every semester, loans I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to pay back. Supposedly having a master's would put me on a higher rung of the salary ladder when I did have to go out into the real world, but jobs were scarcer than the college counselors wanted us poor schmucks stuck in loan limbo to believe.

"Have you seen any sick people yet?" I asked my father. I was sitting at the game table in the corner of the family room, attempting to give my paper on gender representation in gothic novels a final read-through in hard copy to catch any typos. Unfortunately, my brain was jittering this way and that, worried about the reports on the news, praying they were exaggerating and fearing they were not. I couldn't even say why I was so worried, since most of the time I ignored these sorts of reports, knowing the diseases they discussed rarely touched us here in our little corner of the Southwest. Something about the speed with which this one had spread bothered me, though. It bothered me a lot.

My father pointed the remote at the TV and turned down the volume, then shook his head. "Not with this thing. I've seen meth heads puking in back alleys and heroin addicts with the shakes because they couldn't get a fix, but this one? I don't think it's here."

The word "yet" hung in the air, unspoken, but no less ominous for that. More and more people were getting sick, and the first deaths had been reported on the East Coast. Not a lot, not yet, but although the news was trying to sugarcoat things, rumors had already begun to swirl across the Internet that no one who contracted this new disease survived. Which was crazy. Even Ebola — hell, even pneumonic plague, which had an insane mortality rate when not treated — wasn't one-hundred-percent fatal. That just wasn't possible.

"Maybe it won't," I said, although I knew even as I said them that the words were mere wishful thinking. "Maybe it'll just...blow around us, or burn out before it gets here."

"Maybe," he agreed. His eyes wouldn't meet mine, though, and I knew what he must be thinking.

I knew, because it was the same thing I was thinking. This wasn't a matter of if, but rather when.

On Monday when I arrived at school, I noticed the parking lot was noticeably less full than a university lot had any right to be this close to the beginning of the semester. And as I got out of my car and locked it, I saw that at least half the students walking around on campus wore surgical masks, the white disposable kind the news reports showed people in China wearing on days when the smog was particularly bad.

Apparently, I hadn't gotten the memo. Nothing I could do about it now...except hope that a lot of the students in the Writing 1A class I was teaching that semester had decided to bail completely.

Most of them had, except for a couple of the over-achievers. Well, at least the kind of over-achievers I'd get in a Writing 1A class, which wasn't exactly packed full with people who'd gotten 5s on their AP English exams.

I scanned the empty seats and tried not to frown, reminding myself that I'd get my T.A. stipend no matter how many butts were in those chairs on a particular day. "Okay," I said, surprised at the slight tremor in my voice, "on Friday we were just starting to get into the difference between a topic sentence and a thesis statement...."

Taylor Ortiz, who was sitting in the front row, blinked at me in apparent incomprehension. For the first time, I noticed the beads of sweat standing out on her forehead, the way she seemed to be swaying in her seat. Beneath her warm-toned skin, she looked dead pale.

"Taylor, are you all right?" I asked.

She blinked again. "Um...."

Next to her, Troy Lenz lurched to his feet. "Holy shit! She's got it!"

"Troy— " I began, maybe meaning to reprimand him for swearing in class, possibly intending to tell him to sit down, but I was fairly certain neither of those admonishments would have had any effect. All around the class, those few students who'd been brave enough to show up shot straight out of their seats, looking at Taylor as if she'd just started vomiting pea soup or something. Never mind that vomiting was not one of the symptoms of "the Heat" — the street nickname given to the disease because of the extreme fevers it caused.

"Oh, God, get away from her," a girl in the back of the class said, and before I could even open my mouth to speak again, they were all bolting for the door, a couple of them even overturning their desks in their haste.

A few seconds later, I was alone in the classroom with Taylor, who continued to look around blankly, seeming unaware that she'd managed to clear the space in about five seconds flat.

A cowardly part of me wanted to take off as well, but I told myself I couldn't do that — I was the teacher (okay, the T.A.), and I had some sort of responsibility to make sure she was all right. Besides, if she really did have the Heat, then I'd already been exposed, and there wasn't anything I could do about it now.

I approached her and put a hand on her forehead. Jesus Christ. She felt as if she was on fire from within. No wonder she was having a hard time focusing on anything. She was so hot that her brain must be cooking right inside her skull.

The university hospital was all the way across campus. I was stronger than I looked, thanks to a childhood spent hiking and walking and going to the shooting range with my father, but I knew there was no way I could get Taylor all that distance by myself.

Shaking, I went to my desk and pulled my purse out of the drawer where I always stowed it. My fingers trembled as well while I got out my phone. Thank God it wasn't too much work to dial 911.

It rang...and rang...and rang. Panic started to set in. I could feel my heart beginning to pound and my own nervous sweats starting, although I didn't think I was running a fever. Not yet, anyway.

Then, at last: "Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?"

I cleared my throat. "Hi, my name is Jessica Monroe, and I'm in Building 81 on the UNM campus. One of my students is very sick and unable to walk. I'm pretty sure she needs to go to the hospital."

"Symptoms?"

"A very high fever."

I could have sworn I heard a muttered "shit" at the other end of the line, followed by a long pause. "Ms. Monroe, we are experiencing longer-than-normal response times for ambulances due to heavy volume. We will get someone out to you, but it may be a while."

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what that meant. Maybe it was lagging behind, but the Heat had finally come to Albuquerque.

I sat with Taylor, since I didn't know what else to do. She held on to the edge of her desk as if it was the only thing keeping her anchored to reality, her head first lolling this way and then that, her glassy dark eyes staring off into the distance, as if fixed on some object only she could see. It was frightening enough just being close to someone who was that sick, but even more frightening was how detached from reality she seemed to be. We Monroes were a healthy lot, and so I didn't have a lot of experience being around sick people. Devin got a horrible stomach flu one year, and we had colds and coughs from time to time, but nothing like this.

Sweat was dripping down Taylor's forehead and staining the tight T-shirt she wore. More rivulets of perspiration ran down into her cleavage, but I doubted anyone would have found the sight particularly sexy. For myself, I could only think of the millions of microbes she must be spreading in every direction each time she shifted in her seat. One time she shook like a dog, and little droplets of sweat sprayed everywhere, a few hitting me right in the face.

It took every ounce of willpower I had not to swear out loud. Belatedly, I realized that I had a partially drunk bottle of water in my purse. I doubted that would do much to help her, but at least it was something. And I had a feeling she was far past worrying about any germs I might have left behind on the bottle.

"Taylor?" I asked. No recognition in those strained dark eyes, which were still staring out at something only visible to her. "How about some water?"

She blinked. Maybe it was the only way she could answer, or maybe it was simply an involuntary reflex. Either way, it gave me an excuse to get up from the desk next to hers, to go to my purse and fetch the bottle of water. As I approached her, I could almost feel the heat emanating from her, impossibly, inhumanly warm.

What must her temperature be? I had no way of knowing, but I wondered how anyone could stay alive and conscious — even the fragile consciousness she was clinging to right now — while suffering such a high fever.

"Taylor, here's the water." She didn't seem capable of taking the bottle herself, so I held it to her lips. For a second she didn't move, only let the opening rest against her mouth, and then some lizard-brain function must have kicked in, because she latched onto it and drank greedily while I tilted the rest of the bottle's contents into her mouth. Within a few seconds, all the water was gone.

"That's all," I told her, but she didn't seem to understand, even lifting one hand to grab at the bottle when I began to pull it away. "Just rest, Taylor. Please. The ambulance will be here soon."

That, of course, was a lie. I had no idea what "longer-than-normal response times" might mean, since I'd never called an ambulance for anyone in my life. My father might know, but even if I could get a hold of him, which I doubted, he'd probably read me the riot act for not getting out of there the second Taylor started to display symptoms. Or maybe not. He was pretty big on the whole "serve and protect" mentality.

Right now, though, I had a feeling I was on my own.

I pulled my cell phone out of my jeans pocket where I'd stowed it and looked at the time. Fifteen minutes since I'd called 911. It felt roughly ten times that. A quarter-hour response time wasn't great, but it also didn't feel too outside what might be considered normal. I might be waiting much, much longer than this. Biting my lip, I went to my contacts list and pushed the button for campus security, since I figured they might be faster than the paramedics, but the line was busy. I ended the call and tried again. Still nothing. Damn it.

As if finally registering that there was no more water, Taylor slumped back in her seat, head tilting to one side. Her body was twitching feebly. Some kind of convulsion? Again, my lack of experience with any kind of serious illness stymied me. Maybe it would be better for her to lie down, but the linoleum floor had to be far less comfortable than the chair. Since it had been a warm day, nearly eighty degrees, she didn't have a sweater or jacket that I could lay her on, and I hadn't brought one with me, either.

Never before in my life had I felt so useless, standing there and watching as the sweat rolled off her and she continued to jerk helplessly, like her body was being controlled by some unseen puppeteer. I went to the browser on my phone, thinking that maybe I could click over to WebMD or something and see if there was anything else I could do to help her, but no matter how many times I backed out of the browser app and tried to refresh it, I couldn't get the damn thing to connect. It wasn't the first time my phone had acted up like this, but in general I had good connectivity here at school. I had a feeling the phone wasn't the real problem.

But no, I didn't want to think about that. I didn't want to think about what might be going on outside the door to my classroom, what might be happening to my parents or my brother.

No, I thought fiercely. They're fine. They have to be.

Just when I was about to give up and dial 911 again, the door burst inward, and two men carrying a stretcher entered the classroom. Thank God you're here died on my lips, because they weren't wearing the usual dark jackets and pants of EMTs, but full head-to-toe yellow biohazard suits, the kind of gear I'd seen on TV on doctors and nurses treating people with Ebola.

They went straight to Taylor, extricated her from her desk, and laid her down on the stretcher. Once they were done with that and she was strapped in, one of them turned toward me.

"Name?"

I guessed they were asking about Taylor, not me. "Taylor Ortiz," I told him. "That's her purse right there on the floor. It should have her I.D. in it."

The EMT grabbed her purse by the strap and lifted it from the floor, then extracted her wallet from within. He opened it, glanced at her driver's license, and then nodded and dropped the wallet back in her purse. "You?"

"Me?" I blinked at him, then responded, "Jessica Monroe. I'm the T.A."

"How are you feeling?"

_Scared_. "Fine. That is, I don't feel like I'm running a fever or anything." Did that even matter? I hadn't heard what the incubation period was for the Heat, but I assumed it didn't have instantaneous onset. No disease did...or did it?

"Go straight home," the EMT said. "No contact with anyone else. If you start to exhibit symptoms, don't call your doctor. Go straight to the hospital."

"But...." The word trailed off as I attempted to gather my thoughts. Something about this didn't feel right. No, wait, scratch that — _nothing_ about it felt right. I'd been exposed to someone who obviously had the Heat. Shouldn't they be quarantining me or something?

The EMT's hooded head tilted to one side as he waited for me to spit it out.

I said, "If she's sick, haven't I been infected, too? Don't I, I don't know, have to be isolated or something?"

"We don't have the facilities for that. Best thing to do is go home and stay away from other people. If you do get sick, get to the hospital. That's all I can tell you."

Then he nodded at his compatriot, and they both crouched down and lifted the stretcher, hauling Taylor out of the room. It was only after the door had shut behind them that I realized they'd left her purse behind, as if who she was didn't matter.

My phone went off then, and I looked down at the text that had just appeared on my home screen. _Due to health emergency, all classes are suspended indefinitely. We ask that all students go to their residences immediately and remain there until further notice._

So the university's student alert system had finally kicked in.

Too bad that it was already too late.

# Chapter 2

The campus was mostly deserted when I emerged from the classroom at a little before noon and locked the door behind me. In a way that was good, as at least I didn't have to play dodge 'em with anyone who looked infected. But there was still a long line of cars waiting to get out of the parking lot, and I sat there, worry mounting as the minutes ticked past.

What did it feel like when the Heat came over you? A sudden spike in temperature? Or was it a slow, gradual burn, until you, like a lobster in a pot, ended up boiling in your own juices?

I didn't know. And all this had happened so quickly that there hadn't been much detail on the news, either. Or maybe they'd repressed what they did know, lest they throw everyone into a panic.

At last I was able to pull out on Central, then headed west. Did I dare take the freeway to get home? All around me, the streets were choked, full of people obviously trying to get to their own homes, so I had a feeling the freeway was a very bad idea. Instead, I ended up zigzagging my way out of the downtown area, finally making it over to 12th so I could head north. A few more zigzags, and then I was back in a residential section, although still a few miles from home. There was less traffic here, although I noticed more cars on the streets than there normally would have been in the middle of the day when everyone should have been at work.

A sigh of relief escaped my lips as I pulled up in front of the house and I saw my mother's Escape parked in the driveway. No sign of Dad's Grand Cherokee, or the police cruiser he sometimes brought home. But at least my mother was here.

I scrambled out of the car, then hurried down the driveway to let myself in the back door. We almost never came and went through the front, mostly because my mother was unnecessarily fussy about the Berber carpet in the living room. Better to track dirt through the kitchen, which had abused linoleum she'd been wanting to get rid of for years.

"Mom?" I called out as I came in through the service porch, then on into the kitchen.

"Jess?" she called back. I heard feet approaching from the hallway that ran down the middle of the house. When she came around the corner, I saw that her face was dead white. She let out a little choked sob when she saw me. "Oh, thank God."

At any other time her reaction might have startled me, but not now. Not after what had just happened to Taylor Ortiz. "I'm fine," I said. "Only — "

Her brows drew together. "Only?"

"A girl in my class — she had it. The EMTs came and got her, but they sent me home. It's probably better if you don't come too close."

"Oh, God," she said, this time invoking the name in horror rather than in relief. She appeared to gather herself, voice strained as she went on, "How do you feel?"

I paused to take stock. "Okay, actually," I told her. It was true, too. Yes, I was a little shaken after being that close to someone that sick, and then having to fight my way home through hordes of panicky motorists, but otherwise, I felt fine. No fever. No chills. No sweats.

Despite what I'd just told her about staying away, she took a step closer. Motherly instinct, I supposed. She had to reassure herself that I was all right and not merely take my word for it. But because she was a smart woman, she only came close enough to see for herself that I wasn't flushed or feverish or sweaty.

After a long pause, she nodded. "I keep flipping through the stations, trying to see if someone is giving out any concrete information. What the incubation period is. How infectious the disease is. The — the mortality rate." She pulled in a breath. "And there's nothing, except that the situation is being handled and that people should stay home whenever possible. What kind of a policy is that?"

I didn't know. I would have assumed that in most cases of infection, the CDC would have send out teams to quarantine people and triage those affected, would do everything possible to keep the disease from spreading any further. Or at least, that was what I'd observed on TV when the news covered outbreaks of bird flu or whatever. But I'd seen no real government presence on my way home today, no squads of experts in biohazard gear, no blacked-out SUVs speeding down the street, no...nothing. It was as if this thing was spreading so quickly the government couldn't begin to contain it.

That thought was too frightening, though, and I quickly pushed it away. Instead, I asked, "Dad? Devin?"

She glanced away from me, her mouth tight. "I can't reach your father. I sent a text to Devin, telling him to come home, but he hasn't answered me. I called the school and got a recording that classes had been canceled and everyone sent home. So my best guess is he's taking the opportunity to have a little unsupervised time with Lori."

Lori was his girlfriend. The two had been joined at the hip since spring break last year, and I had a feeling my mother's guess was all too correct. "Did you try calling her house?"

"Of course I did. No answer. And I don't have her cell number — Devin would never give it to me. At the time, I didn't think it was worth nagging him about it. Now...."

"I'm sure it's fine," I said quickly. No point in having my mother worry any more than absolutely necessary. "If they're at Lori's house, then at least they're inside and away from other people."

"True, but...."

I knew she would fret about this until Devin appeared, whenever that was. In that moment, fury flashed through me, that he would be so selfish as to go off and bang his girlfriend or whatever while the rest of us were worried sick about him. Uttering such a thing out loud would just set my mother off that much more, though, so I only said, "Why don't you have some tea while you're waiting? I need to go up to my apartment and wash my hands and get straightened up, but I'll be right back down."

Her eyes were far away, but she nodded. "That sounds like a good idea."

I sent her what I hoped was an encouraging smile, then went out the back door and down the driveway to the detached garage. The apartment built over it was small, just a little over four hundred square feet, so there was a tiny living room, a spot under one window for a table and two chairs, a kitchenette, and then the bedroom and bath, which was so small I could reach out from the shower stall and open the door if I had to. But at least it was mine, and it felt good to escape there, to hurry up the stairs and run to the bathroom so I could turn on the water as hot as I could stand it, then let it run over my hands as I scrubbed them again and again with antibacterial soap.

As if that would make a difference. It was better than nothing, though, and I couldn't think of what else to do. My eyes stared back at me from within the mirror, wide and dark, shadowed with worry. I was pale, but I didn't look sick.

After blotting my hands on a towel, I reached up and felt my forehead. It didn't seem overly warm, but I'd always heard you couldn't really detect your own temperature by doing that. So I opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out the digital thermometer I kept there. After cleaning it off with some rubbing alcohol, I popped it in my mouth and waited.

The seconds went by with agonizing slowness. I wandered out to the living room and sat down on the futon, wondering whether I should turn on my TV, see if I could find anything worth watching. But then, if my mother had been unable to, what made me think I would have any better luck?

Instead, I stared out the window at the tree outside, a honey locust, its leaves just beginning to turn yellow. It was warm during the day, but the nights were already cold. The tree knew its time was coming.

Did I?

The thermometer beeped, indicating it was done measuring my temperature, and I pulled it out of my mouth. For the longest moment, I only held it, scared to look at what the readout might say. Finally, I forced myself to glance down.

_97.6._

My breath whooshed out of me, and I dropped the thermometer on top of the coffee table. No temperature at all. On the low side, actually.

But what did that mean? Once you were infected, how long did it take for your fever to start building?

I didn't know. All I did know was that I wasn't sick. Not yet, anyway. And I'd left my mother alone long enough. Even if I couldn't sit next to her, I would be close enough so we could talk, and that would help to keep her from worrying until Devin came home. Which he would, eventually, after he'd gotten his rocks off. I loved my little brother, but sometimes he wasn't the most considerate of other people's feelings. Well, other people who weren't his girlfriend, that is.

After closing the door to my apartment but not locking it, I went back into the main house, past the washer and dryer and the overflow pantry where my mother put all the big containers of items from Costco, the sort of stuff that was "such a good deal she couldn't pass it up." What in the world we were going to do with that much tomato sauce or rolled oats, I had no idea.

She must have turned the television on, because I could hear it blathering away as I approached. "...everyone is encouraged to stay inside and away from people with obvious signs of infection. If a fever presents, take analgesics such as aspirin or ibuprofen. Ice packs are also effective. If the fever rises to above 103 degrees Fahrenheit, go to your nearest emergency room...."

I stopped dead at the entrance to the kitchen. Not because I didn't want to get any closer to my mother, but because I knew it really didn't matter whether I was infected or not.

Her body was sprawled on the kitchen floor, limp, one of her low-heeled pumps hanging half off her foot. Panic flashed through me, so quick and sudden that I could actually feel my knees beginning to buckle. I grabbed on to the doorframe for support, telling myself I didn't have time to lose it right now. After swallowing a huge gulp of air, I said, "Mom?"

No reply, but then I heard her breathing, rapid and shallow, like our old dog Sadie after a particularly strenuous walk. We'd lost Sadie last winter.

Stupid of me to be thinking of that now.

I went into the kitchen and knelt down next to my mother, reaching out to touch her shoulder. The skin under the silk blouse she'd worn to work was almost scorching, or at least it felt that way to my shaky fingers. "Mom?"

The faintest of groans. It wasn't much, but it was a sign that she could still hear me, hadn't yet retreated so far that she couldn't even react to outside stimuli.

Obviously, I couldn't leave her here. My parents' bedroom was upstairs, and I quailed at the thought of trying to move her all the way up the flight of stairs that led to the second story. Maybe I could just lay her down on the couch in the family room? At least until my father got home, and then the two of us could get her properly in bed. Even then I knew calling an ambulance was pointless. I couldn't count on anyone to come, so I figured the best thing to do was to get her as comfortable as possible.

I took her by the shoulders, and, as gently as I could, rolled her over so she was facing upward. She whimpered during this procedure, sounding so unlike herself that I felt a frightened little sob escape my throat. Luckily, she was far enough gone that she couldn't really hear me.

Telling myself that this was the best thing to do, that I couldn't leave her on the floor, I half-carried, half-dragged her into the family room and then somehow manhandled her up onto the couch. The scary thing was that she didn't even protest, didn't try to push back against me or do anything, really. It was like moving a rag doll around — a 130-pound rag doll, anyway.

But at last she was safely on the couch. I took the throw that always lay folded over one arm and spread it out across her. Another one of those little whimpers, as if she thought that would make her too hot, but knew she had to have some sort of covering. Then she subsided, eyes shut tight, chest rising and falling far too rapidly.

All of the first aid supplies were in the medicine cabinet in the upstairs bathroom, the one Devin and I used to share before I moved into the apartment over the garage. After taking another look at my mother and deciding she should be okay for a minute or so, I hurried up the stairs, moving as quickly as I could without actually running. When I got to the bathroom, I opened the cabinet, took out the jumbo container of Kirkland ibuprofen, and shook a couple into my hand. I also took out the thermometer. Yes, it was obvious my mother had a high fever...but how high? Past the magic number of 103?

I had to hope not.

I dashed back down the stairs. She hadn't moved, although I noticed she'd pushed the throw off her chest, down to her waist. Her blouse and skirt were getting wrinkled, but I couldn't do much about that. Another thing my father would have to help me with when he got home.

If he got home.

_Don't go there,_ I told myself. _He'll be here. He will._

I just didn't know what he'd find when he eventually did make it home.

The pills were cool in my palm. I realized then that I'd forgotten to get any water for my mother to take them with, so I went into the kitchen, filled a glass halfway, and went back out to the family room. She hadn't moved, was lying there twitching and shaking the way Taylor Ortiz had.

"Mom," I said softly. She didn't seem to acknowledge me, so I didn't know if she'd really heard me or not. Maybe my saying her name was to reassure myself as much as it was to let her know I was there. "Here's some water, and some pills for your fever."

I slipped my arm under her shoulders and lifted her a few inches, just enough so I could bring the water to her lips. Like Taylor, she drank greedily, gulping so much that I had to pull the glass away so there would be enough left for her to take the pills.

"Okay, first one," I told her, slipping one of the ibuprofen capsules between her lips. It just sort of sat there on her tongue, so I poured more water into her mouth. Her swallow reflex cut in, and she downed the pill without too much trouble. The second one was a little more difficult, but she did finally take it.

After that procedure, I realized I should've taken her temperature first, that the water might make the reading inaccurate. Since there wasn't anything I could do about it at the moment, I sat down in one of the armchairs, figuring if I waited a few minutes, it would probably be safe to try the thermometer.

Waiting was bad, though. If all I was doing was sitting there and watching my mother shake and shiver on the couch, then I had plenty of time to think...and thinking was the last thing I wanted to do. My thoughts chased one another around and around, worrying at each other, fretting, biting. What if my father never came home? What if Devin had fallen sick at Lori's? What if they were _both_ sick?

And above all, _Why isn't anyone helping us?_

I could feel myself starting to shake, but I didn't think it was from a fever. No, I guessed it was just good old-fashioned fear with an extra helping of uncertainty. Clenching my hands together, I willed them to stop trembling. My mother was probably too out of it to really notice, but I didn't want my fingers shaking when I finally did take her temperature.

Since I couldn't think of anything else to do, I picked up the remote for the TV and switched it on, quickly lowering the volume so it wouldn't disturb my mother. As I flipped from channel to channel, I didn't see anything that was remotely reassuring. More talking heads, discussing self-quarantine procedures and dispensing advice how you shouldn't go out or come into contact with anyone if you had any symptoms, and if you did come down with a fever, to make sure you wore a mask or tied some kind of barrier over your nose and mouth when it came time to go to the emergency room. And all of them looked pale and strained, and were giving the side-eye to one another when they thought the others weren't looking, as if trying to detect signs that one of their fellow newscasters might be starting to show symptoms. On one channel, I caught a pretty young woman who didn't look much older than I sending furtive glances somewhere off-camera, as if at someone who was standing by and monitoring what they were all saying. That couldn't be good.

With all the people being sent to emergency rooms, hospitals had to be overwhelmed. I wondered how many people were sick, and how many were like me, exposed but still asymptomatic. Maybe fifty-fifty? I couldn't even begin to guess. All I did know was that I didn't see how hospitals could even begin to keep up.

Annoyed that all the stations were repeating the same useless information, I turned off the television and picked up the thermometer. My mother really didn't want to take it, but after a bit of wrestling, I got it shoved between her lips and more or less under her tongue. Her skin felt clammy and hot at the same time, which I doubted was a good sign. Maybe two ibuprofen weren't enough. Maybe I should have given her three, or even four.

Or maybe I could have poured the whole damn bottle down her throat, and it still wouldn't have done a bit of good.

Clenching my jaw, I sat and looked out the window at the trees moving in the gentle September breeze, at the sparrow who landed on one branch and cocked his head in my direction, almost as if he could see me sitting inside, watching him. The window in the family room faced out onto the side yard and the fence that separated us from the Montoyas next door. I didn't see any movement over there, which most days wouldn't have been that unusual. It was the middle of the day; both the Montoyas worked full-time, and their kids were in grade school. But the schools were closed, and it seemed as if most places of business were shutting up and sending their employees home as well.

Were they home, but ill? Or well enough, but hiding, not wanting to take the risk of being exposed? I didn't know, and I had my hands full here. If my father came home, I'd probably go over and check on them, but until then....

The thermometer beeped at me, and I gently drew it from my mother's mouth and looked at the readout. Then I squeezed my eyes shut, certain they had to be reading it wrong, that they were tricking me in some way.

I opened them again.

_106.8._

Was that possible?

I supposed it had to be, since that was what the thermometer was saying. I also had a feeling that two ibuprofen might not be cutting it here. Okay, on the news they were saying to apply cool cloths, so that seemed to be the next step. Well, right after I called 911. Maybe that wouldn't do any good, but right then I was so scared by my mother's temperature that I had to at least try to get help.

After I set the thermometer back down on the coffee table, I got up and went to the kitchen, where my parents still had an old-fashioned corded phone mounted on the wall. Devin and I had both laughed at it, but my father had given us the evil eye and said that land lines were way more reliable than cell phones, and that one day we might be very glad of that old push-button phone.

I lifted the receiver from its cradle, but when I put it to my ear, all I heard was a fast busy signal, the kind you get when the phone service is out. Scowling, I jiggled the hook, then listened again. Still nothing. So much for good old-fashioned technology.

My cell phone was upstairs in my apartment, still in my purse where I'd dropped it on the floor by the door. I really didn't want to leave my mother alone, but I needed to see if the cell network was functioning any better than the land one.

After peeking into the family room and reassuring myself that she was resting as well as she could be, all things considered, I let myself out and climbed the steps to my apartment two at a time. Since I hadn't locked the door, it only took a few seconds for me to get in, pull the phone out of my purse, and dial 911.

"We're sorry — all circuits are currently busy. Please try again later."

The computer-generated voice sounded positively snotty. Somehow I resisted the urge to fling my cell phone against the wall, since I knew that wouldn't do any good. Instead, I stuffed it into the pocket of my jeans and hurried back to the house. I sure would try again later, but in the meantime, I had to do what I could to take care of my mother.

Her condition didn't seem to have worsened during the couple of minutes I was gone. That was something. I got a few dish towels out of the drawer and dampened them with cold water, then went into the family room and laid them across her forehead. Some of the moisture dripped on her gray silk blouse, leaving damp blotches. I hoped they wouldn't leave stains.

_Seriously, you're worrying about a couple of stains at a time like this?_

I supposed I was fixating on that, just because it was easier to worry about something like ruining my mother's clothes rather than the big-picture stuff, like how none of the phones were working. Yes, I'd heard how that could happen after some kind of disaster, but Albuquerque wasn't really prone to disasters, whether natural or man-made.

The back door slammed, and my mother started, then began twitching and shaking again. Damn. And I'd just gotten her to a place where she seemed to be more or less resting comfortably. But maybe that slamming door meant my father had come home.

I readjusted the damp towel on my mother's forehead, then got up and went into the kitchen. Devin was getting a glass out of the cupboard as I entered. He looked fine — no flushed cheeks, no sheen of sweat — and in that moment I wasn't sure whether I wanted to hug him in relief or punch him in the arm for making us worry like that about him.

"Where the hell have you been?" I demanded.

"Lori's," he replied, going to the refrigerator and getting some ice and water out of the door.

"Well, you scared the crap out of Mom. She couldn't get a hold of you — "

He shrugged. "I sent a text. Maybe it didn't go through. Anyway, they sent us home, and Lori couldn't get in touch with either of her parents, so she was freaking out. So I stayed with her."

"Oh," I said, feeling some of my righteous indignation begin to seep away. Lori was an only child, and a little coddled, so I could see why she'd be more than ordinarily upset at not being able to contact her parents. "Is she okay?"

"Yeah, her mom finally got a text through and said she was on her way home, so I thought I'd better get over here." His gaze sharpened on me, and I wondered what he saw. Lord knows, I was starting to feel kind of overloaded. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, but Mom isn't," I replied bluntly. Maybe too bluntly, because he almost dropped the glass he was holding.

"She's — she's not sick, is she?"

"Yes. She just got the fever about a half hour ago."

Beneath his end-of-summer tan, my brother's face drained of all color. "She can't be sick!"

Right then he didn't look like the big, broad-shouldered running back, but a scared kid. I wanted to go hug him, but lately he'd been scorning such sisterly displays of emotion, so I wasn't sure how he would react. Instead, I kept my voice calm as I told him, "She had a high fever, but I got her to take some ibuprofen, and she's resting now with some cold cloths on her head. So far, so good."

That sounded very reasonable, very steady. Never mind that I didn't really believe it. If this disease really was at all survivable, that information would've been all over the news by now. The complete radio silence on the actual facts of the disease told me that it was beyond dire...it was catastrophic.

My words didn't seem to reassure Devin. He gave me a stricken look and then went into the family room, where he stopped a few feet away from the couch and stared down at our mother. She seemed to be sleeping, but something seemed off about her face, as if her cheeks and eye sockets had begun to look sunken, far too shadowed.

No, that couldn't be right. It had to be a trick of the lighting in the room; I'd pulled the drapes almost closed so the afternoon light that was beginning to slant into the space wouldn't disturb her. Just some sort of strange optical illusion.

Only I feared that wasn't it at all.

Devin appeared to be of the same mind. He stood there, hands hanging helplessly at his sides, as he stared down at her. Finally, he whispered, "She's going to die, isn't she?"

In that moment, I was furious with him for giving voice to that thought, as if by saying it out loud he could somehow cause it to happen. "No, she's not," I shot back, my voice shaking.

"She is," he insisted, and right then I was glad that she was more or less comatose. At least that way she couldn't possibly hear what we were saying. "When I was over at Lori's house, we were on the computer, trying to get more information. A lot of the sites we went to were down, but we found one with this guy on video saying that everyone who catches it dies, and that the government is shutting down anyone who tries to spread the truth."

I recalled that one blonde newscaster, and the way her gaze kept flickering nervously to something — or someone — off-screen. FBI...or CIA...or NSA...agents, standing there and watching to make sure the reporters all said the same thing?

At any other time, that would have felt like rank paranoia. Now, though....

"That's crazy," I said, although I didn't sound all that convinced, even to myself. "No disease is one hundred percent fatal."

"That we know of," Devin shot back. Then his face twisted as he looked back down at our mother, at her strangely waxy and sunken features. "Is there anything else we can do? Like, I don't know, ice packs or something?"

"Maybe," I said. It was worth a try. Covering her in ice packs would complete the ruin of her outfit, but I doubted that mattered much at the moment.

Glad to have something to do, Devin and I went to the kitchen and got out some big gallon-sized plastic storage bags and started filling them with ice. That seriously depleted our current ice supply, but I knew the ice-maker would start chugging away in an attempt to make up the deficit.

"How are you feeling?" I asked as we zipped up the last bag.

"Fine," he said. "I mean, I feel...weird...but I don't feel sick."

That about sized it up. Weird, but not sick. The world was tilting beneath us, but neither of us knew what to do about it.

I set the bags I carried down on the coffee table, not worried about whether the cold and the moisture would mar the wooden surface. Such concerns seemed miles away from where we were right now. "I want to check her temperature again first," I told Devin, picking up the thermometer and slipping it into our mother's mouth. She squirmed a bit, but I held firm, and she subsided. We waited as the seconds went by, and when the thermometer beeped, I was pulling it out before it was even done.

When I looked at the readout, I couldn't believe what it said.

"One hundred and seven point two," I read as my stomach began to knot. So much for the ibuprofen and the cold towels.

Devin's dark eyes were practically round, they widened so much. "That's not possible...is it?"

"Well, it's possible to have a fever that high," I replied, then stopped there. It wouldn't do much good to point out that such an unnaturally high fever could result in brain and organ damage...and that there wasn't a damn thing we could do to stop it, apparently. I drew in a breath and added, "Let's get the ice on her. Obviously, the cold compresses weren't enough."

He nodded, and I picked up the bags full of ice I'd placed on the coffee table. I wasn't even sure of the best positioning of the ice packs, but I figured she'd need one on her head, and some up against her sides, maybe on her chest....

The bag in my left hand went on her forehead, and the one in my right down on her chest. She winced, although her eyes didn't open. The bag I'd put on her chest shifted slightly, and I repositioned it. "Give me yours," I told Devin, guessing that he wouldn't feel very comfortable about setting bags full of ice on his mother's body. From the alacrity with which he handed them off, I had a feeling my guess was correct. I placed those two on either side of her waist, trying to position them in such a way that they'd get maximum contact with her torso. It was the core that needed to get cooled down. Or at least, I thought that was how it worked.

She didn't like it, I could tell — she kept shifting slightly, trying to get away from the cold, but she was so weak that her movements were ineffectual. Still, if she moved around much more than that, I'd have to find some way to secure the ice packs in place. There had to be some rope or twine or something like that in the garage.

I wondered if I should send Devin out to fetch it. He was staring down at our mother, glassy-eyed, as if not quite able to take in what was happening to her.

Then I saw the way he swayed on his feet, and a wave of cold that had nothing to do with the ice packs I'd just handled washed over me.

"Devin?" I asked, and it seemed it took him far longer than it should for him to glance over at me.

His pupils appeared to have dilated until they were so large that the black almost swallowed up the warm brown of his irises. "Huh?"

"How do you feel?" I enunciated the words carefully so there would be no chance for him to misunderstand.

"Um...weird."

I went to him and put my hand on his forehead. He didn't flinch away, which told me something was very wrong. Actually, the clammy heat against my palm told me everything I needed to know.

When I spoke, the words sounded as if they were coming from very far away, as if someone other than myself was saying them. "Devin, why don't you go upstairs and get into bed? I'll bet you're tired."

"Yeah, I am kind of tired," he mumbled, then turned with excruciating slowness and began moving toward the hallway and the staircase that led to the second floor. I prayed he'd be able to get there under his own power. My mother had been difficult enough to move. I knew there was no way I'd be able to haul 170 pounds of running back up those stairs.

But somehow he did it, putting one foot hesitatingly after the other, until at last he reached the upstairs hall and stumbled into his room. I followed, giving him his space, and when he collapsed onto his bed, legs hanging off the side, I wanted to let out a sigh of relief...but I didn't.

How could I, when I knew my brother had just been handed a death sentence?

# Chapter 3

I did go in, and untie his shoes and pull them off. Then I waited as he wriggled under the covers.

"Get some rest, Devin," I told him, and he gave me a bleary nod.

"'Kay."

Maybe he slept after that, or just plain passed out. Part of me was thinking I should go downstairs and fetch the big bottle of ibuprofen, but what was the point? I'd given some to my mother, and it hadn't made a whit of a difference. In fact, she'd only gotten worse.

I couldn't linger here, anyway — I had to go check on her. Devin seemed more or less quiescent for the moment, so it seemed safe to go back downstairs.

She hadn't moved much. The ice packs were more or less in place, except for the one on her forehead, which had slid to one side. I put it back in the proper position, feeling as I did so how quickly the ice had melted, how half the bag was now just cold water. Was that even possible?

Then again, I didn't have much experience with how quickly a 107-degree fever could melt ice. If her temperature was even still 107. It might have gone up again.

Toward the front of the house, the door slammed, and I jumped. Then joy rushed through me as I realized who it must be. Thank God.

I ran out of the family room and into the hallway, saw my father coming toward me. The relief that spread over his face as he caught sight of me standing there, apparently safe and well, made me feel all warm and happy inside...for about a second. Then I thought of my mother, lying on the couch, silk shirt stained beyond recognition, eyes seeming to sink deeper and deeper into her head with every passing minute, of Devin passed out upstairs, the fever beginning to consume him as well, and not a damn thing I could do about it.

Something in my expression must have changed, because my father stopped dead and asked, "Your mother?"

"She's in the family room. She — " And that's all I got out, because out of nowhere I began to sob noisily, the preternatural calm I'd been able to maintain all day deserting me now that my father was here and I didn't have to be the strong one anymore.

He came to me and held me for a moment, letting me cry. No words of reassurance, though; I had a feeling he'd seen enough today to know there was nothing remotely reassuring about our situation. Then he said, "I need to see her," and let go of me.

I didn't protest. I was his daughter, but she was his wife.

When I paused in the doorway to the family room, I could see my father standing a few feet away from the couch, his head bowed. His hands hung at his sides, clenched into fists.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I gave her some ibuprofen, but that didn't seem to work. Then I thought maybe the ice — " I let the words break off there. Nothing was working, and now Devin was sick, too, and right then I didn't have the ability to pile more bad news on my father. Not with that non-expression on his face, the one I'd seen a few times when he was desperately attempting to keep the world from knowing how badly he really was hurting.

He didn't move. At first I wasn't sure he was going to answer me, but then he said, "It'll slow it down, but it won't stop it."

His tone was so final that I couldn't help asking, "How do you know?"

Another one of those short, painful silences. "Because I've been out in it all day. Seeing people collapse in the street. Taking others to the hospital in my cruiser because the ambulances were either busy or already out of commission, their drivers just as incapacitated as everyone else. Even Josh — " His voice didn't exactly break, but from the way he stopped himself, I got the impression it was about to.

Josh was my father's partner. They'd been partners since, well, ever since I could remember. For my father to have seen the man he regarded as a brother come down with this terrible thing.... "I'm sorry, Dad," I said, although I knew the words were completely inadequate.

"I tried to take him to the hospital. He wouldn't go. Said he was going to die with dignity in his own house." Again I heard the faintest waver at the edges of my father's voice before he got control of himself again. "I had to carry him inside. He was already burning up. And after that, I couldn't — I didn't see the point in staying on assignment any longer. Half the force was already sick with this thing and the rest about to come down with it. I knew I had to come home. Home," he repeated, staring down at my mother's limp form.

"I'm sorry," I said again. Just words, but they did something to fill up the silence. "She seemed okay when I got here. But then...." I bit my lip, knowing I had to tell him about Devin. God, I didn't want to, though.

"Then?" he echoed.

"She collapsed. I brought her in here because I couldn't get her upstairs. And Devin...."

"He's sick, too." It wasn't a question.

"Yes. But he's up in his room. He's sleeping."

"Then he's lucky."

I wasn't sure I wanted to know what that meant. "So...what do we do now?"

"I'll take your mother up to our bed." For the first time, he shifted so he could look back at me. "How do you feel, Jess?"

"Fine," I said, the automatic response. Then I shook my head, because I knew that was a lie, and I didn't want to lie to my father. "No, I _feel_ terrible. But I'm not sick."

"I understand. I feel the same way." He turned toward my mother again, gently lifted the ice packs — which were now mostly water — from her, then slid his arms under her so he could pick her up. Her arms and legs dangled, as limp as if they'd become somehow boneless, but she didn't move, didn't even make a whimper of protest. Was that a good sign, or a sign that she was slipping farther and farther away from us?

I crossed my arms and tried to suppress the shiver that went through me. From my father's expression, I could tell he wanted to be alone to lay her down in the bed they shared, to be with her now even though it was probably too late. I understood that, and yet I still wanted to run up the stairs and be with him, to not feel so alone.

As I stood there, letting my father trudge up the stairs and forcing myself to stay where I was, to give him his privacy, I heard something. The word was only a whisper at the edges of my mind, and yet it seemed to resonate along every nerve ending.

_Beloved...._

Going rigid, I held myself stock still, wondering where on earth that had come from. At first I thought it might have been my father, speaking to my mother, but I'd never heard him call her "beloved." "Sweetheart," yes, and "darling" — but never "baby," since she always said using that epithet only infantilized women. Such a firebrand, my mother.

Although maybe that was the wrong word to be using right now.

Anyway, their bedroom was at the end of the upstairs hall, too far away for me to have heard him unless he'd all but shouted the word. At any rate, it hadn't sounded like my father's voice. It was somewhat deep like his, but more rounded around the edges, with the faintest hint of an accent I couldn't even begin to identify.

"Who's there?" I whispered, feeling like an idiot even as the words left my lips.

No reply, of course. I was only imagining things. No one had ever called me "beloved." Hell, only one person had ever even told me he loved me. Colin, the boyfriend of my junior and senior years of college. It had taken me a while to realize his "love" wasn't the kind I wanted — he said those things to keep me placated, to keep me from noticing that he was banging at least two other girls on the side.

I'd gone to the clinic right after I dumped him and had myself tested for every disease it was possible to be tested for, and I was fine, but that experience had scarred me. I hadn't gotten past a second date ever since. Third dates were when things could start to get serious, when you might end up in the sack together. So I always made sure to end relationships before they got to that stage. No opportunities for anyone to be calling me "beloved," that was for sure.

And then I decided that the stress of the day had gotten to me, and I was hearing things. Or were auditory hallucinations another byproduct of a high fever? I didn't know for sure; apparently, I hadn't spent enough time hanging out on WebMD.

Even though I knew it wouldn't tell me anything concrete, I couldn't help putting my hand up to my forehead. No discernible change in temperature that I could tell, which meant I wasn't running a fever. No tingles or chills or any of the other telltales of my internal temperature being anything other than what it should be.

I decided that standing there and trying to determine whether I was sick or crazy wasn't helping anyone, so I went upstairs to check on Devin. The door to my parents' room was closed, and I knew better than to knock. My father would come out when he was ready. I couldn't begin to imagine what he'd seen today, and I knew he needed this time alone with his wife. It wasn't a question of if, but when; the human body just couldn't survive at temperatures like that. She should be in a hospital getting IV drips and ice baths and Lord knows what else. An economy-sized bottle of ibuprofen and some half-assed bags of ice from the freezer weren't going to cut it.

Tears began to prick at my eyes, and I blinked them away. I'd already cried once today, and I knew I'd probably have plenty more reasons to weep by the time this was all over. Or maybe by then I'd be sick, too, and I wouldn't know what was happening to me. That was one blessed thing about this entire nightmare — once people got hit by that fever, it scrambled their brains so much they didn't seem to be aware of what was happening to them. Thank God for small mercies.

I opened Devin's door a crack and saw that he had fallen into the fitful phase of the disease — twitching and jerking, his forehead sheened with sweat. Even though I knew it probably wouldn't do any good, I went to the upstairs bathroom and shook three capsules of ibuprofen out of the big bottle in the cabinet there, then pulled a little paper cup from the dispenser and filled it with water.

Just as I was approaching his bed, Devin's leg jerked out and hit my arm, causing the water to splash all down my front, soaking the knit top I wore. I muttered a curse, but he didn't even seem to realize what he'd done, and that was how I knew he must be completely out of it. At any other time, he would've burst out laughing at managing to kick water all over me.

Pulling in a breath, I did an about-face and went back to the bathroom, plucked a towel off the rack, and did the best I could to blot the worst of the moisture from my shirt. Then I refilled the paper cup and went back to my brother's bedroom, approaching with care from the side so he wouldn't catch me unawares again.

That kick seemed to have consumed the last of his strength, because he was lying on his back, one arm flopped over the side of the bed. I went to him and murmured, "Here's some medicine for you, Dev."

The water first, since that had worked well with both Taylor and my mother. He drank, and didn't protest when I dropped a pill on his tongue and made him swallow, then gave him some more water. I repeated the process two more times, giving him one last sip to empty the cup, my arm under his head to steady him. He did drink, then collapsed against the pillow when he was done.

Was any of that going to do him any good? Or was I just doing something...anything...to make myself feel less helpless?

Probably the latter, although I wasn't quite ready to admit it to myself.

Since Devin seemed to be sleeping again, I decided I could leave him for a bit. Pulling out the chair and sitting next to him felt a little too much like keeping watch over someone's deathbed, and I wasn't ready to do that yet. Also, I'd just realized I was thirsty, too — I hadn't had anything to drink since I'd come home several hours earlier.

So I slipped out of my brother's room and went back down the stairs. The door to my parents' room was still shut, and I felt a completely unworthy stab of irritation. Yes, it must be terrible for my father, but I doubted my mother even knew he was there, whereas I needed him, needed someone to talk to. But I knew I would never disturb him, so I kept going to the kitchen. Once there, I pulled a glass from the cupboard and held it up to the ice dispenser. A few cubes half-heartedly spilled out, and I guessed it was working overtime to replenish what I'd already used in my futile attempt to reduce my mother's fever.

I sat down on one of the stools at the breakfast bar and stared out the window, not really focusing on anything. Since our house was on a corner, the view included the low juniper hedges planted against the fence, and a fairly unobstructed glimpse of the street beyond. As I watched, a silver car wove its way down the street, listlessly drifting from one side of the narrow residential lane to the other, actually hitting one curb before correcting and moving toward the one opposite, like the world's biggest and slowest pinball. It finally came to rest halfway up on the sidewalk on the corner across from our property, almost touching the smooth green lawn Mr. D'Ambrosio took such pride in, when most everyone else in the neighborhood had long since given up on grass and had switched over to cactus- and evergreen-studded drought-tolerant landscaping.

No one came out of the D'Ambrosio house to check on the driver, which told me Mr. and Mrs. D'Ambrosio must be as incapacitated as whoever had been driving that Camry. In that moment, I was just glad the driver had only been going twenty miles an hour at the most. Anything else, and they could have caused a lot more damage.

Footsteps coming down the hall made me turn, and I saw my father approaching. His eyes looked red, but otherwise his face was still and calm, as if he'd made his peace with whatever was happening to my mother, to Devin...to the world.

The words made their way to my lips before I even realized I was saying them. "Is she...?"

"No." His gaze shifted to the glass of water sitting on the counter in front of me, and he gave a faint nod. He went and got his own glass from the cupboard, and got some water as well, although I noticed he didn't bother with the ice. Afterward, he sat down next to me on one of the barstools and added, "Not yet, anyway."

"How...how long?"

"I don't know." He drank some water, and I decided I should as well, although it seemed to get jammed halfway down my throat, lodging there as if it was a solid object instead of liquid. "It...varies, from what I've seen and heard."

I didn't know why, but for some reason that bothered me almost as much as anything else that had happened so far. If a disease was going to be this evil, it should at least be predictable.

The question had been torturing me all afternoon, and now I finally had someone I could ask it of. "Dad...why isn't anyone helping? Why are we being left to deal with this alone?"

A long pause, during which he stared down at his glass of water without meeting my eyes. When he did look up, I almost wished I hadn't been watching him, waiting for his response. Never in my life had I seen such an expression of despair on my father's face. Despair...and fury.

"Because there's no one _to_ help, Jess. What's happening here in Albuquerque — it's happening everywhere. New York. Los Angeles. Washington, D.C. and London and Moscow and — everywhere." His hands, his big, strong, capable hands, now somehow looked limp and broken as they rested on the counter. "There's no answer at the CDC. Tried calling in the National Guard for help, and nothing. The only good thing about the whole situation is that people are getting sick so quickly, they don't have time to get into trouble. The fever makes them incapable of violence, of looting. Most collapse where they stand. That's why I said that Devin was lucky — you got him into bed, and he's sleeping. The fever doesn't have him hallucinating and having convulsions or seizures, like I saw happen with some people today."

"So...that's it?" I whispered. "We all just sit back and wait to die?"

He scrubbed his hand over his face and glanced away from me. "I don't know. There's no way to treat this thing. Either you get it, or you don't. Or rather, I have yet to see anyone who hasn't caught it, but...you're not sick."

"Yet," I said flatly, then drank some water.

"Usually, you'd be sick by now, since you've been around infected people."

"You're not sick, either," I pointed out, and he gave a grim nod.

"I keep expecting to be, but...." Deliberately, he picked up his glass and drained the water. "I don't know. It's possible we could have a hereditary immunity. I just don't know." His fingers tightened on the glass, and for a second I thought he was going to pick it up and hurl it at the wall, do something to express the frustrated anger I saw in his eyes. Instead, he let go of it and pushed it away. "The problem is, I don't know anything."

Neither did I, except that I didn't feel sick, and my father didn't appear to have any symptoms, either. Maybe there really was something to that notion of hereditary immunity. In looks and build, I favored my mother, with my almost-black hair and dark eyes, traits she claimed came from a great-great-grandmother who was full-blood Ute, while Devin and my father were more alike, hair still dark but not as inky as mine, their eyes a lighter, warmer brown. So why my father and I were the ones with no symptoms, I couldn't begin to guess. Obviously, appearance didn't have much to do with this particular quirk of heredity.

"I don't know anything, either," I said. "But I guess I'll start with checking on Devin."

"And I'll look in on your mother." My father got up from his stool, and I followed suit.

Once I was upstairs, I could tell there hadn't been any real change with my brother. He didn't even seem to have moved, but still lay there with one arm flopped over the side of his bed, eyes tightly shut. In fact, he was so still that I went over and laid two fingers against his throat, worried that I wouldn't feel a pulse. It was there, but thready and fast, which couldn't be a good sign. His hair, cropped short for football season, was damp with sweat.

Something about that thought, the realization that he should be off at football practice right now instead of lying here, fighting a disease so mysterious and strange that it didn't even have a formal name, made the anger rise up in me again. This shouldn't be happening. He should be with his teammates, getting sweaty because his coach had made him do a hundred push-ups for being a smart-ass yet again. And an hour from now, we should all be sitting down at the dinner table together, something families hardly ever did anymore, but which my mother insisted on. I'd been skipping those meals on Tuesdays and Thursdays, since I had to teach a six o'clock class, but I tried to make it when I could.

None of that was happening, though. And it wasn't happening for Devin's girlfriend Lori, or my own friends Elena and Tori and Brittany, or — or _anyone_. All across the city...the country...the world...people were suffering and dying, and no one could stop it.

That realization made the enormity of the whole situation come crashing down on me. I let out a choked little sob and fled my brother's room, running down the stairs to the family room so I could turn on the TV, could reassure myself with the sound of someone else's voice, even if the newscasters were following the commands of people who might already be dead. I had to know a world still existed out there beyond my house, even if it was a world swiftly falling apart.

But when I picked up the remote and turned on the television, nothing came on to reassure me. Some stations blank, others showing a "please stand by" message, others with a test pattern of colored bars. My heart rate sped up as I moved from channel to channel, thinking that there had to be at least one still broadcasting, one that hadn't been abandoned.

AMC seemed to be showing a rerun of _The Walking Dead_ , which had to be someone's idea of a sick joke, as I didn't think that show ever ran before nine o'clock at night due to its content. And that wasn't even the worst. Farther up the band, on a channel I didn't recognize, the screen was black, with words in stark white emblazoned across it:

_And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, and, lo, there was a great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood...._

I wasn't much of a Bible reader, but even I recognized the quote from Revelations.

Making a disgusted sound, I clicked off the TV, then turned when I heard my father come to the door and lean against the frame, his shoulders slumped.

"It is the end of the world," he said softly.

That couldn't be my father — my hard-nosed, practical father, the one who made sure I knew how to shoot, how to catch a fish and clean it, how to change the oil in my car and swap out a flat tire. Nothing ever fazed him. But now some underlying steel seemed to have given way, his firm jaw somehow loose, his eyes blurred with sorrow.

"Dad?" I said uncertainly.

"She's gone," he told me, voice flat. "While we were down in the kitchen."

The words didn't seem to make any sense. Or rather, my mind refused to make sense of them, because if I understood those words, I'd know in that moment my mother was dead, and I just couldn't face that. Not yet.

For the longest moment, I didn't say anything, only stared up at him as I turned the remote I held over and over in my hand, its familiar rectangular shape suddenly alien, cold and hard. Not wanting to hold it any longer, I set it down on the coffee table.

"No," I said at last.

"Yes," he said softly. "It doesn't look like she suffered. At least, not like some that I've seen. You'd almost think she was asleep."

"Maybe she is asleep," I protested. "Maybe you just thought — just thought she was — " I couldn't say the word. Not in connection with my mother. If I said it, then it would be true, and I couldn't bear that.

He didn't bother to contradict me, only watched me. Something of the no-nonsense father I was used to was clear in those eyes. They said, _I don't want to believe it, either. But that doesn't make it less true._

That hard knot was back in my throat. My eyes burned. For some reason, though, the tears wouldn't fall. They just remained where they were, burning like acid.

Finally, I asked, "What should we do? Should we — " I couldn't even finish the question. This would have been bad enough under normal circumstances, but at least then there was a routine to follow. You called the doctor. The doctor called the ambulance, and then eventually someone got in touch with the funeral home. That was how it worked when Grandmother Ivy — my mom's mother — had passed.

Now, though...now you couldn't even get a call through. And if by some miracle you did, it wouldn't matter, because there wouldn't be anyone on the other end to answer it.

My father wouldn't meet my eyes. "We don't need to do anything," he said, that scary monotone back in his voice. "It'll take care of itself."

And something in the way he said those words made me too frightened to ask what in the world he meant.

# Chapter 4

He went into the kitchen after that. I didn't follow, but instead just stood there in the family room, my entire body feeling as if it had been encased in ice. One thought kept hammering away in my head, over and over again.

_She's dead. She's dead. Your mother is dead._

I wished I could cry.

From the kitchen, I heard the clunk of ice dropping from the dispenser, the sound of liquid pouring, although not from the refrigerator door. I had a sinking feeling I knew exactly what it was.

My father was not, unlike a lot of cops, a heavy drinker. He and my mother would have a glass of wine with dinner sometimes, and I'd seen him drink champagne at weddings and have a beer after a morning of washing both his and Mom's cars, but that was about it. But there was a bottle of Scotch he kept high up on a shelf, a bottle that rarely made an appearance. One time when his partner Josh was shot in the leg while breaking up a domestic dispute. Or the time my mother found a lump in her breast and had to go in for a biopsy. It turned out to be nothing, a benign cyst, but we'd all been fearing the worst.

And now the worst had happened, although in a manner none of us could have imagined, and he was sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, drinking Scotch on the rocks.

And I was too scared and shocked to even give him shit about it. If he wanted to seek comfort in a glass of Scotch rather than in me, there wasn't anything I could do about it.

Still with that horrible lump lodged firmly in my throat, I went back to the staircase and slowly went up it, each step more and more difficult, as if I were in some horrible alternate dimension that kept strengthening the gravity pulling at me with every movement. Finally, though, I made it up to the landing, then went to Devin's room.

He had shifted and was now lying on his side, half his covers thrown off. They'd probably felt far too hot, but I knew he had to stay warm. I crossed the room and grasped the sheet and blanket, hesitating as my hand paused on the comforter. Maybe that really was a bit too much, since it had been a mild, warm day, and his room wasn't anywhere close to cold yet. I could always put the comforter over him later.

As I began to settle the sheet over his shoulders, though, something felt wrong. At first I couldn't quite figure it out, and then, even as I realized what the problem was, my mind didn't want to acknowledge it. Not this. Not so soon after — well, after.

The last time I'd been this close to him, heat had fairly radiated from his flesh. Now, though, he felt cool, and when I reached down to touch his hand, his fingers were like ice, and somehow already stiff, although logically I knew it was far too early for rigor mortis to have set in.

Then again, what was logical about any of this?

I recoiled, letting go of my dead brother's hand, and backed away from the bed. As my father had told me about my mother's passing, Devin didn't look dead, just asleep. For whatever reason, his face didn't have that sunken look about it that my mother had worn. Maybe his fever hadn't burned as hot?

Not that it mattered, because he was gone, too.

A frightened little sob tore its way out of my throat, and I continued to back away, creeping out into the hallway and shutting the door behind me. I knew I should go downstairs and tell my father what had happened, but for some reason my feet took me in the opposite direction, toward my parents' bedroom. Before I even knew what I was doing, my hand seemed to have reached out of its own accord and was turning the knob. I'd just seen death. I needed to see my mother's, too, so it would be just as real. Maybe then my brain would be shocked out of its current numb state.

The sun was beginning to set, but my parents' bedroom had a window in the western wall, so a warm, mellow light was flooding the space. It was certainly bright enough for me to see where my mother's body should be lying, propped up against the pillows on her side of the bed.

Only...she wasn't there.

My first thought was that my father must have moved her, but why in the world would he have done that? Besides, there wasn't anyplace he really could have moved her, not unless he put her in the bathtub for some reason.

On second thought, that notion wasn't so strange. He could've put her in an ice-cold bath in an attempt to bring her temperature down.

I rushed into the _en suite_ bathroom, but the tub was empty. As I stared down at it, I realized that was a ridiculous notion. Even if my father had put her in the bath, I would have heard the water running, and I'd heard no such thing.

Thoughts racing, first rejecting one idea, and then another, I returned to the bedroom. From this angle, I could now see a pile of fine gray dust marring the surface of the blue and tan striped comforter, the one my father had permitted in the room only because "it wasn't too girly."

Dust? My mother would never allow dust to collect on the furniture, let alone a pile like that right on the bed.

Cold coiled in the pit of my stomach as I stared down at the strange little pile. On a dare from Devin, I'd once peeked inside the urn containing my grandmother's ashes...and they had been almost the exact color and consistency as the ashes now sitting on my parents' bed.

No, that was impossible.

Then my father's words came back to me: _It'll take care of itself._

Was this what he'd meant? That somehow after she passed, my mother would simply crumble into a pile of dust?

No, I refused to believe that. There had to be an explanation. Otherwise....

Otherwise, this whole situation had moved from the unexplainable and tragic to the positively Biblical. Whoever heard of bodies turning themselves to ash, unless it was by some strange otherworldly force?

"You see," my father said. He must have come upstairs while I was standing there, staring down at my mother in shock. His speech sounded a little slurred, but at least he hadn't brought the glass of Scotch up with him.

"What — what happened?"

"It's what happens to all of them," he replied. "Usually within an hour of death." Rubbing at his brow, he added, "Very clean, when you think about it. Much better than having all those bodies lying around, don't you think?"

I stared at him in horror. "That's Mom lying there!"

"No," he corrected me. "That's what used to be your mother. The part of her that was really _her_ — that's gone. To a better place, I have to hope, but after everything I've seen today, I'm beginning to have my doubts."

His voice was sad, but resigned. And as I looked at him, I noticed the way he wasn't completely steady on his feet, the glisten of sweat on his forehead from the last rays of sun coming in through the window. Maybe my mind had registered them earlier, but had dismissed them as effects of the alcohol. Now, though....

_No._ Even as my mind recoiled from the thought, I found myself asking, "Dad, are you sick?"

He gave me a sad smile. "I think I am. Finally caught up with me, I suppose." His gaze moved to the bed. "I should probably lie down, but...."

"Go to the guest room," I said. It used to be my room, but my parents had refitted it as a spare bedroom just the past year.

"I don't think so," he replied. "I want to die in here, next to where she slept."

"But — " I didn't have the strength to mention the ashes, all that remained of my mother, but from the way my father was staring at them, he knew all too well what I was thinking.

"Get her vase," he told me. "The Waterford one I bought her for her fiftieth birthday. She'd like that, I think." He reached out and grasped the doorframe, as if that was the only thing holding him up right then.

I wanted to protest, but I knew that wouldn't do any good. Besides, I didn't know how much time I had until he fell over right there in the doorway. My mother's collapse had been sudden and shocking, and Devin's not much better. So I nodded and pushed past him to run down the stairs and go into the living room, where the vase in question stood on one of the end tables.

After grabbing it, I hurried back up to my parents' bedroom, where my father — through sheer force of will, probably — was still hanging on to the doorframe. I showed him the vase but didn't stop, instead going to the bed and grasping the comforter, then tilting it so the gray dust would tip into the crystal container. During this operation, I didn't dare breathe, but the dust was surprisingly heavy and didn't puff up into the air the way I feared it might. Instead, it slipped down into the vase, filling it approximately halfway. Not letting myself think about what it held, I took it over to the dresser and set it down.

Since there was no way I would put that comforter back where it had come from, I folded it in on itself to trap any remaining dust, and set it on the floor at the foot of the bed. "Okay," I said, my voice shaking.

My father didn't seem to notice the tremor in that one little word, but only pushed himself off from the doorframe and then staggered over to the bed. After pausing to kick off his shoes and remove his belt, complete with holsters and badge, he fell down onto the mattress. That seemed to have taken the last of his strength, because his head fell back against the pillow at once, and his eyes shut. Incongruously, I noted how heavy and thick his lashes were, lying against his flushed cheeks.

"Dad?"

He lifted one hand. "Just tired. I took some ibuprofen on the way up. Not going to do any good, but I didn't want you to have to get it for me."

My heart was breaking. I could feel it...literally feel it. One piece torn away for my mother, the next for Devin. And when my father went, did that mean my heart would finally shatter once and for all, gone to dust like everyone else in the world?

Cramming my fist into my mouth to push back another one of those ragged sobs, I went out to the hallway and staggered over to the carved wooden balustrade on the landing. I wrapped my fingers around the rail and hung on as if for my life. No fever scorched its way through me, but I felt as weak as though my temperature was 110 degrees.

_Beloved, it will all be over soon._

That voice again. It had to be a hallucination, some strange coping mechanism my brain had cooked up, but still I found myself replying out loud.

"Does that mean I'm sick and will soon be dead along with everyone else?"

_No. That is not your fate._

"What is my fate?"

Silence. Apparently my subconscious or whatever it was that had created the soft, reassuring baritone didn't quite have the balls to tell me what my future held. Not that you needed to be a fortune-teller for that. Raging fever, and a pile of dust somewhere. Should I go out on the family room couch, or hike my way back up to my apartment when the time came? That seemed like a lot of unnecessary effort. After all, no one was using the spare bedroom.

I went into the bathroom to get a drink of water and saw the big bottle of ibuprofen sitting on the counter, the cap still off, as if my father hadn't possessed the strength or will to put it back on again. Fingers shaking, I picked it up and twisted it onto the bottle, then put the ibuprofen back in the medicine cabinet. I didn't want to leave a messy house behind.

Messy for whom, I didn't know. From what my father had said, it didn't sound as if anyone was getting out of this alive.

The thermometer was lying on the top rack in the medicine cabinet. I already knew I wasn't sick, but I needed the external reminder. I took it out, opened the bottle of rubbing alcohol, and wiped down one end of the thermometer. Then I stuck it in my mouth and waited.

_98.1._ Up a little from the last time, but still below normal.

I rinsed it off and put it away. Then, moving so slowly I felt as if I were dragging my feet through mud, I went back to my parents' bedroom, half expecting to see a pile of dust there. To my surprise, my father's eyes opened when I came into the room. They were bright with fever and had those telltale dark circles beneath them, but they seemed lucid enough. Maybe he wasn't as far gone as he had thought.

"Dad, I could try some ice — "

A very small shake of his head. "No. Once you have it, you're done." His eyes shut, and I could see how his big frame was wracked with shivers, even though he'd pulled the blanket up to his chin. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" I repeated, wondering what he had to be sorry for. "None of this is your fault."

"No — not that." He shifted under the covers, then opened his eyes again. "Sorry that we'll all be gone, and you'll still be here."

Something in his words chilled me. In that moment, I could see how dying along with everyone else might be preferable to being left in a world with no one to talk to, no one to even know I'd somehow managed to survive. Voice brittle, I replied, "Oh, I'm sure I'm not long for this world, either."

"Fever?"

"No."

He closed his eyes. It seemed as if he didn't have the strength to keep them open and focused on me for more than a few seconds at a time. "You're immune, Jess. Don't know how...or why...."

_That is not your fate._ Despite the stuffiness of the room, I shivered as I thought of those words, spoken gently by someone who wasn't there.

"Write down what's happened. Maybe...there'll be someone left to tell."

I nodded, then realized he couldn't see me. "I will."

"Might as well put that English degree to some use."

_Oh, Dad._ Even at the end, he had to make a joke. "All the commas will be in the right place. I promise."

No reply. He could have simply fallen asleep, but I didn't think so. Unlike my mother and Devin, he'd pushed all the way to the end, burned the candle until no more wick was left.

Somehow I put one foot in front of the other, walking slowly until I reached his side of the bed. A finger against his throat, telling me that he had gone, had left this world and was with Mom and Devin. I had to believe that. I'd break apart otherwise.

Since his eyes were closed, I didn't bother to pull the sheet up over his face. Soon it wouldn't matter anyway. He'd be a pile of dust, as no doubt my brother was by now as well.

I didn't recall going downstairs, but the next thing I did remember, I was standing in the kitchen, staring down at my father's half-drunk glass of Scotch. The ice had mostly melted, shifting the color to a pale gold. Without thinking, I lifted the glass and brought it to my lips, poured the liquid within down my throat. It burned, but not as much as I had thought it would.

What did it matter that my father had drunk from that same glass? According to him, I was immune. The thing that had killed him couldn't touch me.

At last I could feel tears pricking at my eyes, stinging like acid, but I knew I couldn't let them fall. If I did, I knew they would never stop. What was that old song, about some girl's tears drowning the world? That would be me, if I wept now. Then again, maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing. Maybe a river, an ocean of tears, would wash away all this death, all the dust of people's lives left behind.

Maybe. In the meantime, I had something I needed to do.

My parents had always loved the big oak tree in the backyard. In the summer, they hung a hammock there, and had a pair of Adirondack chairs they would drag out underneath it so they could sit in the shade and drink iced tea and plan the yearly family vacation, or maybe just a long weekend, so we could do something fun like go hiking up around Angel Fire or visit the museums in Santa Fe, or take the long trip down to Carlsbad Caverns.

All those things we'd done together as a family. Well, I'd make sure my family was together in the end, even if I couldn't be with them. It was the only way I could think of to say goodbye.

My father kept all the gardening tools in a shed next to the garage, since the garage itself was full of camping equipment and tools and the usual crap any family of four tends to accumulate over the years. I went to the shed and got out the shovel, then headed back to the oak tree, staking out the spot where those Adirondack chairs usually sat.

It wouldn't have to be a very deep hole. After all, I was only burying dust, not bodies. The ground was not as hard as I'd feared, mostly because my father had given the old oak one of its bimonthly soakings with the hose only this past weekend. I dug and dug, dirt flying out around me, only stopping when it looked like I was about to hit a big tree root. The hole was far larger than it needed to be, but better that than the opposite.

I leaned the shovel against the shed, then went into the kitchen to wash my hands. After that, I got a clean glass from the cupboard and filled it with water, then drank slowly, deliberately. I knew what was waiting for me upstairs.

There was enough room left in my mother's Waterford vase for the dust my father left behind, so I poured it in on top of my mother's remains. Going back to Devin's room seemed far more difficult, for some reason; maybe it was that I hadn't really been able to say goodbye to him. At least my father and I had shared those last few words.

The sight of the dust didn't shock me anymore, but it was still awful enough to know that my brother had been lying in the same spot only an hour earlier. His MVP trophy from the previous football season seemed about the right size, so I did the same thing I had with my parents' remains, using the bedclothes as a funnel to pour the dust into the receptacle I'd selected. That dust was a dark, cloudy gray, fine as silt, and seemed oddly liquid as I tipped it into the trophy.

I took Devin downstairs first, carefully setting the trophy down on the breakfast bar before returning to the second story to retrieve the Waterford vase. They went into the ground in reverse order, my parents' dust poured into the hole first, followed by Devin's. Grimly, I retrieved the shovel and began piling the dirt back on top of the dust, holding my breath in case any should plume up during the process. At last, though, the hole was more or less filled. I dragged the shovel back and forth, smoothing the surface, attempting to make it as level as possible.

Now was the time to say a few words, but nothing seemed to come to mind. I couldn't even remember the Lord's Prayer, or more than the first few words of the Twenty-third Psalm.

_"The Lord is my shepherd,"_ I began, then shook my head. What came next? The lines were all jumbled together in my head, nonsense syllables that sounded like something straight out of "Jabberwocky." And what did it matter, anyway? We weren't a religious family; we went to Christmas Eve services some years and some years not, maybe Easter. I'd gone to Sunday school when I was really little, but my parents hadn't even bothered with that when Devin came along.

For the longest time I stood there under the oak, the sun disappearing altogether, deep dusk falling upon the yard. Then I moved, and the motion-sensor light mounted to the side of the garage flashed on.

"I love you all," I said finally, then set the Waterford vase and the football trophy on top of their grave.

After that, I went back inside and shut the door behind me. It seemed to echo in the unnatural stillness of the house, and I realized it was hardly ever this quiet — someone always had the TV on in the background, or there was music playing, or somebody talking on the phone. Now the quiet pounded against my eardrums, and I realized how big a three-bedroom, two-thousand-square-foot house could feel when you were the only one in it.

_The only one in the world...._

The thought whispered through my mind, and I did my best to ignore it. Surely if I were immune, and not just having extremely delayed-onset symptoms for some reason, that meant other people had to be immune, too. How many? I couldn't begin to guess. I didn't know the mortality rate of the disease. Even if 99.9% of the population was dead, that would leave around a thousand people still alive in the greater Albuquerque area, if I was doing my mental math correctly.

I turned on the overhead lights in the kitchen, then went through the house, turning on all the lamps. Maybe that wasn't the smartest thing to do — maybe advertising my presence would do more harm than good. But I couldn't sit there in the dark, not after everything I'd been through that day. Besides, when I peeked out through the curtains, I saw mine wasn't the only house on the street that was all lit up. Most likely the others just had their lights on because no one was around to turn them off, but it did make mine seem less conspicuous.

"Are you there?" I asked of the darkness. Even a voice that was only a product of my imagination was better than this deep, deep silence, the kind of quiet you should never hear if you lived in a big city.

No reply, of course. My gaze shifted to the remote control, still lying where I'd last dropped it on the coffee table. I didn't want to turn on the television, not after what I'd seen the last time around. Would it all be static by now, or would that one station still be showing blaring red text with more quotes from Revelations?

I was too much of a coward to pick up the remote and find out.

But there was still the stereo, and all the CDs my parents wouldn't get rid of, despite Devin and me telling them all that plastic just took up space and that they should just rip all their music off those CDs and then play it through Apple TV or something. And now I had to be grateful for their stubbornness, because that meant I could get up and choose something to blot out the silence. My father liked country, but old country, like Hank Williams and Willie Nelson and Patsy Cline, and my mother preferred classical. That sounded better to me right then, so I found her favorite, Rachmaninoff's Second Piano Concerto, and put that on.

It actually was better, with the sound of an orchestra and Vladimir Ashkenazy on the piano drowning out that awful stillness. Or at least it was better until I realized that no one would ever play that piece live again, that there would be no more symphony orchestras or Arcade Fire concerts or anything, ever again.

"Oh, God," I gasped, pushing myself up from the couch and running into the kitchen, where I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water in my face. As if that could begin to help. It was all too big to comprehend, so awful and enormous that I could literally feel the horror of it beginning to sink in, like some noxious chemical seeping into my skin.

And then it was as though strong, invisible arms wrapped around me, bringing with them a soothing warmth. Unseen lips brushed against my hair, and I heard the voice again.

_Be strong, my love. Be strong for just a while longer._

Just as suddenly, the presence was gone. I held on to the tile of the kitchen counter, feeling the cool surface beneath my fingertips. In that moment, I truly wondered if I'd lost my mind.

What other explanation could there be?

# Chapter 5

More because I knew I should eat something than because I had any appetite at all, I gathered myself enough to put a few slices of wheat bread in the toaster. Once they were done, I buttered them and set them on a plate, then headed back out to the living room, where Rachmaninoff still played to the empty space. Just as I was setting my plate down on the coffee table, the lights flickered and went out, and the CD slurred to a halt. Silence reigned once more.

Heart slamming painfully in my chest, I waited a second, then another. Surely this had to be just a glitch. In a second or two, the power would come back on.

But it didn't. How could the power plants run, with no one left to manage them?

The blackness was absolute. From my camping days, I knew how dark, how _very_ dark, our desert skies could be. This seemed worse, though, because this wasn't the expected dark of a night out under the stars. I was in the heart of Albuquerque, New Mexico. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Luckily, my mother loved candles, and so there were already a pair of pillars in wrought-iron sconces on the mantel, and another pillar candle sitting on a metal leaf-shaped dish on an end table. She kept a long-handled lighter in one of the coffee table's drawers, so I reached in and fumbled around for a few seconds before locating it. As soon as I pulled it out of the drawer, I pressed the button to activate the flame. That pushed back on the darkness a little, and it got that much better when I lit the candle on the table next to me. Then I had enough illumination that I could get up and light the candles on the mantel.

From there I went into the kitchen and found the sugar cookie–scented jar candle sitting on the breakfast bar, and lit that as well. Upstairs — well, I'd worry about that later. At least now I wasn't blundering around in total darkness...and the candle flames weren't bright enough that they would be seen through the drapes and blinds, all of which I quickly closed.

All the same, I knew there was one thing I really needed to do.

On the ground floor was a study that my parents shared, although in reality it was mostly my mother's space, housing her desk and computer and several shelves full of books. On the opposite wall, though, was my father's gun safe.

I knew the combination. He'd trusted me with that, just as he trusted me to be responsible when we went shooting and to clean the guns I used and follow all the safety rules he'd taught me. I wasn't sure if Devin had known the combination, although I somehow doubted it; my father hadn't given me that information until I turned twenty-one. And even though I might be the only person left alive in Albuquerque, no way was I sitting alone in this house without some means to protect myself.

The lock turned easily, of course. My father took as good care of the safe as he did the guns inside. There were a lot, too — in addition to his service Glock, he owned an AR-15 rifle, two shotguns, a small .22-caliber hunting rifle, a Ruger, a Beretta, and my favorite, the Smith & Wesson .357. Sort of an old-fashioned gun, but my accuracy had always been good with it. Besides, with a revolver, you didn't have to worry about the gun jamming.

I set the candle I'd brought with me down on my mother's desk, then opened the safe. Hanging from one of the sleeves on the door was the .357, and on the shelf directly opposite the gun, boxes of spare ammo. My father wasn't exactly what you'd call a survivalist type, but he did believe in maintaining his supplies. If necessary, I could waste a lot of bad guys before I ran out. Not that there were probably any bad guys left. This was more for my own peace of mind than anything else.

After lifting the S&W from where it rested, I pushed the latch forward to release the barrel, then moved the latch outward. As I'd suspected, the chambers were empty — my father didn't believe in leaving loaded handguns lying around, even in the safe. One by one, I dropped the bullets into the chambers, then closed the gun back up.

Habit made me shut the door to the gun safe as well, and make sure the lock was fully engaged. Maybe I was the only person left alive in Albuquerque...and maybe not. No matter what the reality of the situation might turn out to be, I didn't think it was a very good idea to leave a fully stocked gun safe accessible to just anyone.

Picking up the candle with my free hand, I went back out to the living room. My toast was stone cold by then, but I made myself eat it, and then drank some more water. I set the gun down on the coffee table, within easy reach should I need it.

And then I leaned against the back of the couch and shut my eyes, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do next. My entire family was gone — I had two grandparents still living, but I had no reason to believe they hadn't suffered the same fate as my parents and brother. Three cousins and an aunt and uncle, all on my mother's side; my father was an only child. Could this strange immunity that seemed to be protecting me have somehow sheltered any of them? Uncle Jeremy and Aunt Susan also lived here in Albuquerque, so it wouldn't be that hard to try checking on them tomorrow, after the sun came up. No way was I venturing outside in the dark.

Maybe it wasn't the best idea — a fool's errand, as my father might have said. But it was the only thing I could think of to try. There were my friends, too...Tori and Brittany and Elena. I had no reason to believe they hadn't suffered the same fate as everyone else, but again, I would never forgive myself if I didn't try to find out what had happened to them.

_There is no point. They're all gone._

"Oh, really?" I snapped into the candlelit darkness. "How are you so sure of that?"

_Because they weren't immune._

"But I am."

_Yes_.

"Why?"

No answer — not that I'd really expected one. It seemed as soon as I asked the hard questions, the voice quickly decamped. Only my subconscious, trying to convince me not to put myself in harm's way? I wouldn't be surprised. Nevertheless, I knew what I had to do the next day.

The next day, a bright sun rose on an empty world. I couldn't bring myself to sleep upstairs, not even in the untouched guest bedroom. Too much death up there, too many reminders of everything I'd lost. Instead, I'd fetched some spare blankets from the linen closet and spread them over me so I could sleep on the living room couch. That, more than anything else, was a sure sign of the apocalypse, since my mother would never have allowed her new sofa to be sullied by someone sleeping on it when she was alive. But the living room faced out on the street, and I reasoned I'd better be able to listen for any signs of life or activity on the road by sleeping there, rather than back in the family room, which was toward the rear of the house.

I got up off the couch, rubbed the kink in my neck, then cautiously pushed the curtains aside so I could get a glimpse of what was going on in the neighborhood. Not much; the sprinklers were on at the D'Ambrosios' house on the corner opposite ours, but I knew that didn't mean anything, since they were on an automatic timer. As I watched, they seemed to shut themselves off, the bright green grass of the yard glinting in the morning sun. Otherwise, everything was completely still.

No, scratch that — I saw the Munozes' shepherd mix nosing around in the grass in front of their house across the street. She was a wily critter and got out at least once a week, but now I guessed it was because she was hungry. Luckily, she was a sweet dog and knew me. The power was out, and we had some leftovers in the fridge that might as well get eaten before they spoiled.

I let the curtain drop and went to open the front door. The morning air was cool, but carried with it the smell of smoke. Something in the city was burning. Here, though, we seemed to be safe enough, at least for the moment. I'd worry about the fire later.

Crouching down slightly, I called out, "Dutchie! Dutchie!" Hector Munoz had been a professor of Spanish literature at UNM, and I think Dutchie's original name had been Dulcinea. The Munozes' little girl, Jaclyn, couldn't pronounce the name, though, and so Dulcinea had sort of degenerated into "Dutchie." A sharp, knifing pain went through me, though, as I thought of little Jaclyn and her big brown eyes and her endlessly asking "Why?"

I had a feeling she wouldn't be asking any more questions.

The dog lifted her head and looked over at me, one ear cocked slightly. No one was completely sure of Dutchie's heritage. Best guess was part German shepherd, part border collie, and part Lord knows what, but she was a beautiful dog, with a silky black and tan coat, and one blue eye and one brown eye. The blue eye seemed to focus on me particularly.

She gave a little shake and then trotted obediently over to me, pushing her head against my knee and giving the faintest of whines. Poor thing had to be hungry.

"You want some breakfast?" I asked her, and both her ears went up. Just like our old dog Sadie, who'd passed last winter. Debates had still been raging at my house as to when would be a good time to get another dog...not that it mattered now.

But Sadie had had an extensive vocabulary when it came to anything food-related, and it seemed as if Dutchie was the same way. She padded after me as I tucked the revolver into my waistband, then went into the kitchen, got a bowl from one of the cupboards, and poured her some water.

At least, that was what I intended to do. When I turned the tap, however, nothing happened. A few drops sputtered from the faucet, but that was it. So the water was gone, too.

That fluttery feeling of panic returned, and I forced it down. When we were at home, we got our water from the dispenser in the refrigerator door, but we always kept a couple pallets of bottled water in the pantry for road trips or even just running around town. I wasn't going to die of thirst anytime soon.

I fetched one of the water bottles and poured its contents into the bowl. Dutchie began slurping it up greedily, so while she was occupied, I got out a plate and then retrieved one of the covered storage bowls in the fridge, the one with the leftover roasted chicken from the weekend. Taking out one of the chicken legs and shredding it onto the plate relaxed me a little, made me focus on something other than the dry tap. If I attempted to turn on one of the burners on the stove, would it light? Or was the gas out, too?

Most likely. Which meant there would be no heat. Yesterday had been warmer than normal, but I'd heard that temperatures were supposed to start dipping toward the end of the week. Conditions might become downright uncomfortable.

_Oh, like they're so wonderful right now,_ my brain mocked me as I bent down to give Dutchie the plate of chicken. She immediately abandoned the water and wolfed down the bits of chicken leg, then looked up at me with pleading eyes when she was done.

"There's no more, you little pig," I said with some affection, reaching to scratch her behind the ears. Her fur was soft and silky, and infinitely reassuring. Somehow everything didn't seem quite so bad if I could have Dutchie with me.

She whined, and I remembered we still had some dog treats up on the highest shelf in the pantry, left over after Sadie died. I got out the step stool, then climbed up and retrieved them. Dutchie watched the entire procedure, tail wagging, and I gave her one of the biscuits.

"Better?" I asked.

No reply, of course, but I figured the way she was hunkered down on the kitchen rug, munching on the biscuit, tail wagging, told me everything I needed to know.

All right. So I had some companionship. Now I had to take care of myself. My appetite was still nowhere in evidence, but I helped myself to some of the leftover chicken as well, then had a piece of bread and butter, washed down with water from another bottle I took from the pallet. Obviously, a shower was out of the question, but I took some of the water and splashed it on my face. It helped a little.

Carrying the half-full bottle of water, I went out the back door, Dutchie following me, and headed up to my apartment. Everything looked so normal there, so unchanged, and I realized I hadn't been there since my parents — since Devin — well, _since_. It was no sanctuary, though, no place where I could hide from what had happened.

That wasn't my reason for being here, though. I set the gun down on the coffee table, got out of my clothes from the day before and stuffed them into the hamper, and then pulled on fresh jeans and socks, and a waffle-weave henley shirt I wore sometimes when I went hiking. My hiking boots were tucked into the far corner of the closet, and I got them out as well and laced them on. I had no idea what I might encounter today, so it seemed smart to be wearing comfortable, serviceable clothes, the kinds of things that wouldn't get in my way.

Speaking of which —

I headed into the bathroom, brushed my hair, and pulled it back with an elastic band. Afterward, I brushed my teeth, being as sparing with the bottled water as I could. No point in wearing any makeup, but I put on some colored lip balm because the weather was dry, and they felt parched.

During all this, Dutchie sat in the middle of my tiny living room and watched me. After I had extracted my wallet from my purse and slipped it into my pocket, then tucked the S&W back into my waistband, I paused and asked her, "Am I crazy for doing this?"

She cocked her head to one side, mismatched eyes shining. Apparently, she didn't have an opinion on my preparations, but was probably hoping for another dog biscuit when we got back to the kitchen.

"Okay," I told her. "I'll see what I can do."

Tail wagging, she ran out the door as soon as I opened it, then practically galloped down the stairs. From what I could tell, she wasn't exactly pining for her former masters. Or maybe she was just so happy to see someone — anyone — that she was willing to be their new best friend, no matter what.

Once we were back in the kitchen, I gave her another dog biscuit, then hesitated at the key rack by the back door. If I was really going to venture out into deserted Albuquerque, I didn't think my little Honda was the best choice in vehicles. My mother's Escape had all-wheel drive, but I knew my father's Grand Cherokee was the sturdiest car we owned.

My hand shook as I took the key with its leather fob from the rack. My father loved that SUV — washed it every week, changed the oil regularly, conditioned the leather seats, the whole thing. He'd never let me or Devin drive it, and even my mother was only allowed behind the wheel if her own car was in the shop for something. But my father was far past caring about the Cherokee, and I knew it was my best bet for getting where I needed to go.

_There is no point,_ the voice in my head said sadly.

"There is a point," I retorted. "I need to know if they're alive or dead."

_You already know the answer to that._

"No, I don't. Not for sure."

_Your heart does._

I didn't want to believe him. In fact, I refused to believe him. Voice tight, I asked, "All right — where do you think I should go?"

The answer was immediate. _North_.

"North?" I repeated in some incredulity. "You do know that winter is coming, right? If I have to get out of Albuquerque, it would make a lot more sense to go south, to Alamogordo or Las Cruces." _Or Roswell,_ I added mentally. _Maybe I can go there and stick my thumb out, see if the aliens might give me a ride right out of here._

_North_. The voice sounded implacable.

"Well, I'll take that under advisement," I said lightly. "For now, though, I have some friends and family to check on."

_It is a mistake._

"Then it'll be _my_ mistake. Come on, Dutchie."

Had I already descended to arguing with the voices in my head? It sure looked that way.

The dog trotted after me as I went out the back door and over to the driveway. Good thing I'd decided on the Cherokee, as it was blocking my mother's car anyway. I went around to the passenger side and opened the door. Dutchie didn't even need an invitation — she jumped right inside, eyes shining, ears up. Her claws slipped a little on the leather seat, and I winced. I had to hope that my father really had gone on to a better place, one where he couldn't see his prized SUV getting scratches on the seats and, no doubt, dog hair everywhere.

I walked slowly around the back of the vehicle, watching, listening. Since the D'Ambrosios' sprinklers had shut off — or, more likely, run out of water — besides the cawing of a few crows as they circled overhead, the neighborhood was completely still. Again, that silence made the skin on the back of my neck prickle, and I hastened to the driver-side door, then got in.

The sound of the engine turning over seemed ear-piercingly loud after all that quiet. At the same time, the radio turned on in a burst of static, and I quickly shut it off, knowing that there wouldn't be anything useful on the radio, any more than there had been on the television. My father had probably been scanning the bands as he came home, looking for a report that would tell him what was going on. Something. Anything.

I paused to slide the gun out of my waistband and into the glove compartment before backing the Cherokee out into the street. On the seat beside me, Dutchie had her head up and was sniffing the air, even though the windows were all the way up. I rolled down the one next to her so she could stick her nose out, then slowed before we'd gone even halfway down the block. I knew what I would find, but I had to check.

The front door to the Munozes' house was locked, but when I went around back, I discovered that the side door which led to their service porch was halfway open. The reason why presented itself soon enough — there was a pile of gray dust just inside, right in front of the dryer. I had a feeling, though, that whoever had gone out there had been looking for more ice, as the Munozes had an upright freezer tucked into one corner, away from the other appliances.

Grimacing, I stepped over the little pile of dust, glad that I'd left Dutchie inside the car. "Professor Munoz?" I called out. "Jaclyn? Maria?"

No answer, of course. In the living room, I saw the reason why — a pile of dust on the sofa, a smaller one next to it. I couldn't know for sure whether it was Maria Munoz or her husband who had expired in the laundry room, or who had been sitting on the couch next to their daughter. I supposed it really didn't matter. They were gone. No wonder Dutchie had started wandering the neighborhood, looking for someone to take care of her.

When I got back inside the Cherokee, I leaned over and gave the dog a fierce hug. "I'm here, Dutchie," I said. "I won't let anything happen to you."

She licked my cheek and let out a whine, but a questioning one, as if asking whether I was okay.

No, I really was not okay, but I couldn't let myself start to lose it now. I straightened, gave her ears a quick scratch, and then started up the SUV, moving down the street so I could get out onto Rio Grand Boulevard and head over to my friend Elena's house, as she was the one who lived closest to me. After that it would be Tori's, and then my Aunt Susan and Uncle Jeremy's house. And after that....

Well, I'd see how much more I could take after that.

It was slower going than I'd expected, mainly because a lot more abandoned cars choked the streets than I'd thought there would be. In my mind, I'd imagined more people would have made it home before they expired, but that didn't seem to be the case. I had to weave in and out of the stopped vehicles, several times being forced up on the curb to make my way around the blockage. And everything so silent, so still, save for the ceaseless cawing of crows overhead.

_No carrion for you to eat, you bastards,_ I thought as I eased the Cherokee off yet another curb.

And in a way, I had to be thankful for that. The Heat might not have killed me to start, but if there had been millions of corpses left behind once the disease had done its work, typhoid fever or cholera surely would have finished the job.

I turned into the residential section where Elena lived, glad to see there were fewer vehicles blocking the streets here. But still I saw no sign of life anywhere, not one person stepping out of a house to flag me down, to let me know at least one other soul had survived the plague that had swept over the world.

Unlike my house, which always had a full driveway and my car parked at the curb, Elena's looked pristine. Then again, her family had more money — her father was a lawyer — and their house had a three-car garage. It wasn't unusual to see no real evidence of anyone being home.

I stopped the Cherokee, then reached into the glove compartment and retrieved the revolver. Dutchie looked at me, wide-eyed, as if wondering what in the world I needed with a gun.

"Good question, Dutchie," I said, but I tucked it into my jeans anyway. "You stay here."

She wagged her tail and didn't try to get out of the car as I exited the vehicle. That was one damn good dog.

After looking around quickly and not seeing anyone, I went up to the front door of Elena's house. Ringing the doorbell was no use, since the power was out all over town. Instead, I knocked, then waited.

No answer, but I hadn't really been expecting one. I put my hand on the latch, and, to my surprise, the door swung inward. It seemed logical enough that the last person to come home had been so ill they hadn't bothered to lock the door behind them, but it unnerved me nonetheless. Swallowing hard, I made myself enter the house.

It was a big Santa Fe–style faux adobe, with tile floors and wood-beamed ceilings. My footsteps echoed through the two-story foyer as I moved toward the center of the building. Something sweet and smoky tickled at my nose. Incense. Elena's mother was a devout Catholic. Maybe she'd burned the incense as she prayed to God to save her, save her family.

Unfortunately, God didn't seem to be listening lately.

The house had built-in art niches, one of which held a shrine to the Madonna. I saw a pile of gray dust immediately in front of it and knew it must be Gabriella Cruz. Limbs trembling, I made myself walk past it, go through the rest of the ground floor: the great room with the kitchen and family room combined, the formal dining room, the living room. No sign of Elena or her father. Which didn't mean all that much. There was still the upstairs.

Pulse pounding painfully in my throat, I mounted the steps. The house had four bedrooms, one of which was an office. In there I found another pile of gray dust, which I guessed must be Eduardo Cruz, Elena's father.

Her bedroom was on the opposite side of the upstairs hallway, two doors down. Truth be told, I'd always envied her that room, with its own bathroom and the little sitting area off the balcony. It felt like a room for a princess, compared to the boxy twelve-by-twelve space that had been mine all through childhood and high school. No wonder Elena had never been too worried about moving out. "I'll go from here to my husband's house," she used to say with a laugh, and the rest of us had pretty much believed her. No one could really imagine Elena trying to scrape by in a tiny one-bedroom apartment, just for a spurious sense of independence.

And it was on the wrought-iron bed, with its filmy topping of mosquito net and matching white embroidered comforter, that I found the third pile of gray dust. For the longest moment, I just stood there, staring down at it, remembering my friend's quick, flashing smile, the annoying way she absolutely could not get through a movie without offering her own running commentary on it. How she'd quietly slipped a wad of money into my hand one day during our senior year so I could get the prom dress I really wanted and not the bargain gown my mother was pushing me into, because "in five years you're just not going to care what you wore."

But I still did care...although mainly because of what Elena had done to help me out, and not the dress itself.

_You see?_ the voice said, its tone quiet and sad. _There's no point in you doing this. You can't save them. They're already gone. Mourn them if you must, but your path lies northward._

I wished then that the voice were real, that it was attached to a real body, so I could grab it by the shoulders and shake it for being so thoughtless. "That's not the point," I said, my own voice trembling. "I need to know...and I need to say goodbye."

It remained silent then...wisely so. I reached out and touched the twisted wrought iron of one of the bedposts, and whispered, "Sleep well." Then I turned away and walked down the hall, descended the steps, and went out the front door, shutting it quietly behind me.

Dutchie's tail thumped happily as I got back in the Cherokee, but I didn't say anything, only reached out to pet her, to feel her silky fur beneath my cold, cold fingers. For a long moment, I just sat there, the key still in my hand, the gun digging uncomfortably into my waistband. Finally, I reached back and pulled it out, returning it to the glove compartment.

Uncle Jeremy and Aunt Susan next. Could I do it? Could I go to the house where I'd spent Thanksgiving and Christmas — Susan was my mother's sister, and they traded holidays so no one family would have to do all the work — and walk in to see my uncle and aunt reduced to dust, and my cousins as well? Well, two of them, anyway. My cousin Shane was in college in California, at Stanford, to be exact, and so he wouldn't be around. He would have died far away from his family.

If _he died,_ I reminded myself fiercely. _He could be immune, too. You don't know._

No, I didn't know. I just wasn't sure how I would ever find out.

Even so, I put the key in the ignition, then turned it, pointing the vehicle north and east, toward Sandia Heights. It was a longer jog than the one from my house to Elena's, but up here the streets didn't feel quite as crammed with abandoned vehicles. There was plenty of evidence of unexpected death — cars crashed into walls, into trees, into one another. And as I gained some height, I could now see that the smoke I had smelled earlier seemed to be coming from the city center. Downtown itself, maybe, or the university. I couldn't tell for sure from this distance, and it didn't really matter. That was miles from where I was now, miles from my house. It might spread that far, but I had a feeling I'd be long gone by then.

As I drove along Academy Road, I passed a PetSmart and saw the strangest sight. All kinds of dogs were converging on the store, and right out in front I saw several of them tearing into big bags of dog food, then beginning to feast. More dogs came to join them, but there was no fighting over the food. In fact, I even saw a big pit bull mix move to one side to let a fluffy little dog — a Maltese, I guessed — come in next to him and start eating.

"What the — " I said aloud, and Dutchie swiveled her head in my direction.

_The animals will be taken care of,_ the voice told me.

I'd been so caught up in my own losses, and so relieved to have Dutchie by my side, that I hadn't even stopped to think what would happen to all those thousands of ownerless pets left with no resources, no one to watch over them.

"They'll be taken care of?" I demanded. "By whom?"

_They will not suffer. They are innocents._

This whole situation was getting stranger by the minute. The way all the bodies of the dead had dissolved into dust seemed to tell me something greater than a single rampaging strain of microbe was at work here, and now, seeing the way the animals were all cooperating, hearing the voice reassure me they would be fine — well, I didn't know what to think.

"Is this a judgment?" I asked. "Some sort of punishment?"

Silence.

"Who's doing the punishing?" I demanded, voice shaking. "And why wasn't I punished along with everyone else?"

Again no answer.

I drove on, knowing I would receive no reply to my questions.

# Chapter 6

My aunt and uncle's house looked intact, Uncle Jeremy's Beemer in the driveway, a little garden flag with an autumn leaf design flapping in the breeze as I got out of the Cherokee. The rest of the neighborhood looked similarly peaceful, but I knew better than to trust that outward appearance of tranquility. I knew what it hid.

Unlike Elena's house, the front door here was locked. I wished I could take that as a sign to turn around and go, but that would be the cowardly way out. Instead, I headed toward the back, to the entrance that opened on the patio. Their backyard wasn't landscaped with grass and trees like ours, but was completely paved over except for some plantings along the edges, with a pergola to protect the area to one side where they had the patio furniture and the barbecue. My hiking boots seemed overly loud as I walked across the flagstones and tested the back door.

Locked. I knocked, then waited. Nothing.

I knocked again, calling out, half in a whisper, "Uncle Jeremy? Aunt Susan?"

No reply, but, to be fair, I wasn't sure if I'd been loud enough for anyone to really hear me inside. Maybe I'd kept my voice down because I wanted an excuse not to know.

I tried peeking inside, but the blinds were closed almost all the way, and so I couldn't really see anything. The planter next to me was bordered with large rocks; I wondered if I should pick one up and smash a window in. Even if by some miracle someone was alive inside, I didn't think they'd get too angry about me breaking a window to check on them. At least, I hoped they wouldn't.

Bending down, I wrapped my fingers around one of the rocks. At the same time, the voice thundered in my head, _Behind you!_

I whirled, rock still in one hand. Standing a few paces away was probably the last person I'd expected to see — Chris Bowman, who lived next door to my aunt and uncle, and who I had always found extremely creepy. He was a few years older than I but still lived at home, and more than once I'd heard my aunt say "what a shame" it was that his parents had to deal with him, but I never was able to find out exactly what she meant by that. I'd always assumed Chris maybe had a substance abuse problem, or possibly mental health issues. Frankly, I didn't want to get close enough to him to find out, as it seemed that every time my family came to visit, he'd have some excuse to be outside, watering the flower border or getting the mail — anything so he could stand there and watch me with his pale eyes until I disappeared inside my aunt and uncle's house.

Back then, his behavior hadn't worried me too much, because I knew if he actually tried anything, my father would have made sure it never happened again. But now, with the whole world dead except for me and Albuquerque's biggest creep?

My fingers tightened around the rock I held, but I kept it behind me and hoped he hadn't noticed as I picked it up. Hard to say, because I hadn't even heard him approach. He was wearing his typical costume of baggy jeans and an oversized T-shirt — this one emblazoned with a Captain America shield — and his high-topped Converse apparently hadn't made any sound as he crossed the flagstones of the patio.

"Chris?" I finally managed, because one of us had to say something, and it seemed he was content to just stand there and stare at me with those weird pale blue eyes of his.

Finally, his mouth curved in a smile. His teeth were slightly yellowish, as was his skin and hair. Everything about him seemed vaguely yellow, except his eyes. "You're immune," he said, and made the oddest sound, like a choked little giggle.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. "Maybe," I replied. "Or maybe I just haven't gotten sick yet."

"No, you're immune." His pale gaze raked me up and down, and I tensed. The clothes I wore were anything but revealing, and yet the way he was looking at me made me feel as if I wasn't wearing anything at all...that he'd spent way too much time imagining what I looked like naked. "Just like me."

I wanted to retort, _I am nothing like you,_ but something held me back. Yes, I had that rock in my hand. Belatedly, I realized that was all I had, since in my haste to get out of the car and up to my aunt and uncle's front door, I'd left the gun in the glove compartment of the Cherokee. Shit.

"This is perfect," he went on, his tone almost dreamy. "Everyone gone except you and me. Just the way I always wanted it."

Jesus Christ. I could feel the sharp edges of the rock biting into my fingers and palm. If I threw it, would it be enough to knock him out, or at least put him off balance enough for me to bolt to the car? I had no idea. Normally, I'd say I was pretty strong...but was I strong enough?

"Um, Chris," I said, figuring that ignoring his comment seemed safest in that moment, "what about your parents? Your neighbors on the other side?"

An expression of annoyance crossed his lumpy features. "I _told_ you. They're all gone. Everyone on the whole street. I checked." A pause, and then he added, "Your aunt and uncle, too, and your cousins. I went in and looked, then locked the door when I came back out. I figured no one else would be going in there." The annoyed look morphed into one of sly knowing. "So you won't need that rock to break in. Why don't you give it to me?"

I didn't reply. He frowned, taking a step toward me, eyes fixed on my face, greedy, hungry. A pale pink tongue darted out to moisten his lips, and I felt my stomach heave.

_Now, Jessica!_

Without stopping to think, I whipped my arm around and hurled the rock at Chris's head with all the strength I possessed. It hit him square in the temple, and he let out a shocked cry, eyes wide and disbelieving, then backed away from me as blood began to pour through the fingers he put up against the wound.

That was the only opening I would get, I knew. I tore out of there, bolting as if someone had just shot off a starter pistol at a track meet. Behind me, I could hear Chris cursing, calling me a bitch and worse — but he was also coming after me. And though he was soft-looking and most likely out of shape, he was also almost a foot taller than I, which meant his legs could cover the ground a lot more quickly.

If I looked back, I'd be lost. I could only continue to pound my way toward the Cherokee, one hand scrabbling in my pants pocket for the key as I ran. My fingers closed around the fob, and I hit the "unlock" button while I was still a good twenty feet away. The lights flashed, and from the passenger seat I could hear Dutchie bark — not a friendly bark of greeting, but a sharp, strained one, as if warning me.

A cold, clammy hand caught hold of my bicep and spun me around. Chris's washed-out blue eyes, even more blindingly pale now that they were circled by bright red blood flowing down from the gash in his head, bored into me.

"You're going to regret that."

"Chris, please — " I thought I'd been scared before, watching my family die, wondering when the fever would rise up to consume me as well, but that was an entirely different species of fear from what I was experiencing now. This was far more personal, in a way, because I knew all too well what Chris Bowman wanted from me.

"Shut up." His fingers tightened on my arm, and he began to pull me toward him. Overcome by panic, I struggled against him, tasting the sourness of bile in my mouth, knowing if he touched me in a way that was any more intimate than this, I would be sick. I drove my knee upward the way my father had taught me, and I hoped I could catch Chris in the groin, but he seemed to guess what I had planned and kicked out at me, catching me in the shin and sending me flying to the ground, where I hit the sidewalk with a jolt, pain lancing up through my wrists as I jammed down into them with almost all my weight.

Tears of pain and fury leaped to my eyes, but I couldn't lose it now. I started to crawl toward the SUV, only to feel Chris's hands on me again, this time around my waist. I kicked back at him, but he let go of me with one hand so he could catch my ankle and flip me over.

Then he was looming over me, his horrific bloodstained face getting closer and closer. I knew what he was going to do, and I knew I wouldn't be able to stop him — he was bigger and stronger, and just plain crazy, and I now had at least one, if not two, sprained wrists.

And then...then it was as if a pair of invisible hands caught hold of him, pulling him away from me, flinging him backward as if he weighed nothing, was only a child's toy someone had left out on the lawn. He hit the trunk of the palm tree in my aunt and uncle's yard with a sickening crunch, then slid down, his head hanging at a strange angle. Was his neck broken? No way was I going to get close enough to find out.

I didn't even realize I was saying the words out loud until I heard them coming from my mouth. "What the — "

The voice sounded stern and sad. _Do you see now why I did not want you to come here?_

"Point taken," I panted, and got shakily to my feet. Both my wrists were aching, and I hoped I'd be able to get the Cherokee home. Not that I had much choice. It was the only safe haven I knew.

Wincing, I dug the key out of my pocket and climbed into the SUV, trying to maneuver with my elbows so I wouldn't have to bend my wrists any more than was strictly necessary. Dutchie whined and tried to lick my face.

"I'm okay, sweetie," I told her, more for her sake than because I really believed what I was saying.

Trying to put on the seatbelt would have been excruciating. Besides, with all the wrecks littering the roads, I wouldn't be driving much above twenty-five miles an hour anyway. Somehow I managed to get the car started, then bit my lip in pain as I put the Cherokee in gear. At least I'd been parked at the curb and not in the driveway, so I didn't have to worry about backing out or anything.

The throbbing ache in my wrists prevented me from thinking about anything except getting back to the house. I drove slowly, grinding my teeth whenever I had to maneuver around abandoned cars by going up on the curb. Every jolt and jounce felt magnified a hundredfold.

Finally, though, I made it back to my street and eased the car into the driveway, then turned off the engine. I knew there was no way I could reach across and open the passenger door from the inside, so I slid out and went around the front of the SUV. Dutchie bounded out the second she was free to do so, and I retrieved the gun from the glove compartment before shutting the door behind her and clicking the lock button on the remote.

Limping, since I'd realized in that moment just how much my right knee hurt as well, I went in through the back door and locked it behind me. Then I headed to the front of the house to test the lock there as well. All was as it should be, but I couldn't stop shaking.

Dutchie sat in the living room and watched as I secured the house. Then she tilted her head toward the clock over the fireplace, as if to say, _It's lunchtime, you know._

Despite everything, I couldn't help giving a rusty chuckle. "Soon, Dutchie. I need to take care of me first."

We had a very well-stocked first aid kit in one of the cupboards in the service porch. It hurt just to reach up and get it down, but I made myself do it. First I attended to the superficial scratches on the palms of my hands, gritting my teeth as I swabbed them with alcohol pads, and then I wrapped both wrists with Ace bandages. They still ached, but not as badly. My knee was banged up, but I hadn't torn my jeans, so I figured any bruises I'd gotten would heal on their own.

Afterward, I limped into the kitchen and got Dutchie some more chicken. Besides the leftover dog biscuits, there was also a partial bag of dry dog food in the pantry that I could feed her, but I figured I might as well get rid of the perishable stuff first.

Then it was some water for me, and a makeshift sandwich of wheat bread and butter and the last of the strawberry jelly. My hand shook as I lifted the sandwich to my mouth, but I made myself eat anyway. That burst of panic, of terror, had used up a lot of my reserves.

The silence in the house seemed to press on my ears. I noticed the voice had been suspiciously quiet since I'd returned.

Finally, I set down my water bottle and snapped, "All right, you want to tell me what the hell _that_ was all about? How can a pasty creep like Chris Bowman be immune when everyone else is dead?"

No reply at first. Then it was as if someone sighed quietly, far back in my mind. _We cannot control who is immune, only what happens to them after they have survived._

"'We'?" I demanded, figuring I'd ask the most pressing question first. "Who is 'we'?"

The resulting silence was so drawn out that I was fairly certain I wouldn't get a reply, that I'd asked exactly the wrong question. Finally, the voice said, _That is not important._

"It's important to me." I hurt all over, and I was tired of the sense I'd begun to have that something huge was behind all this, something I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to understand. "Who are you?"

This time the answer came back almost at once. _I am not at liberty to say._

That answer only made the impotent rage within me burn all the hotter. This last evasion was about all I could take at the moment. "What the hell is this — a White House press conference?"

_You are upset. This is understandable. But tell me — have I not done whatever I could to protect you?_

I recalled how Chris Bowman had been torn away from me by invisible hands, thrown up against that palm tree as if he weighed nothing, even though he was six feet, two inches of solid pudge. "Was that you?"

_My only wish is for your safety. That is why you need to leave this place and go north._

So we were back to that again. I had to admit, after this morning's events, I was a little more open to the idea of getting the hell out of Albuquerque and not looking back. Part of me — the stubborn part — still wanted to go to Tori's house, to see for myself what had happened to her and her family. But I also knew I was putting myself at risk every time I set foot out the door. A great deal of the population had vanished during the previous three days, but not all of it...and it was those remnants I had to worry about.

"All right," I said wearily. "I'll think about it."

Maybe I was only talking to myself. Right then, I didn't want to think too hard about the whole insane situation.

That afternoon I dozed a little, and when I woke up, I actually felt better. My wrists didn't ache as much, and the abrasions on my hands already looked completely scabbed over. What the hell? Was this part of the "voice" — I didn't know how else to think of him, or it — watching over me? Did he have some way of making me heal far faster than I normally would?

At any other time, I would have dismissed the notion as crazy, but so many insane things had happened since Monday that I couldn't reject any of them outright. Maybe my particular immunity brought with it certain other benefits, although I couldn't begin to think how that worked. I'd always been a healthy person, so I bounced back from bumps and bruises and sprains fairly quickly — but not this quickly.

Putting that conundrum aside to ponder at a later date, I decided to take stock of what I had in the house, and what else I would need in the way of supplies. We had a good deal of camping gear, so I was set when it came to sleeping bags and Coleman lanterns and all that sort of stuff. The first aid kit was stocked well enough for ordinary scrapes and bruises and strains, but I wondered if I should hit up a few of the local pharmacies and get myself antibiotics, some kind of painkillers, cough and cold medicine...a decent supply of my birth control pills. Not that I was expecting to get laid anytime soon — Chris Bowman's bloodied face flashed into my mind, and I shuddered — but the pills did help to keep my periods manageable. And that was another thing. I'd need sanitary supplies, enough to last me for a while. Making do with rags the way they did in the bad old days was not something I wanted to face quite yet.

Night began to fall again, and I moved around the ground floor, lighting candles. I still didn't want to go upstairs, for some reason felt safer here on the couch. I fed Dutchie the last of the chicken, and snacked on a couple of granola bars, trying to ignore how much my body ached for something more substantial. I wasn't quite at the point of being willing to kill for a cheeseburger, but I could see myself heading down that road in a couple of days.

I spoke into the stillness of the house. "So if I'm supposed to head north, where exactly am I going? Santa Fe? Taos? Colorado?"

_Go north, and I will guide you where you need to go._

"That's not an answer."

_It's all the answer you require._

"You're a real pain in the ass, you know that?"

Something that might have been a chuckle. _I have been told that on occasion, if not in those precise words._

"But you're still not going to tell me where I'm going."

_No_.

Well, at least he was being honest. I'd begun thinking of the voice as "him," although it still could have been merely a product of my fevered imagination, of a mind that couldn't handle all the death and destruction around it, and so had slipped into a nice, cozy form of psychosis.

Maybe so, but that didn't explain the way Chris Bowman had been torn away from me, as if some invisible giant had grabbed him and thrown him across the yard.

Telekinesis? Some kind of delayed-onset _X-Men_ action?

Okay, now I was beginning to sound ridiculous even to myself.

"All right," I said. "I'm convinced. Mostly because I'm not sure that creeper doesn't know where I live...if he's still alive." A pause then, while I waited for the voice to break in and tell me that oh, yes, Chris Bowman was dead, and I needn't worry about him any longer.

But I heard no such thing, just a silence that began to echo in my ears. Great. So apparently Mr. Bowman wasn't exactly down for the count.

I took in a breath and plunged ahead. "And anyway, staying here is starting to sound less and less attractive. I'll head out in the morning after I get some more supplies."

_You won't need them._

This was said flatly, as if he didn't expect me to contradict him. "Well, sorry, but since you won't tell me where I'm going or how long the journey is going to take, I need to be prepared. And that means getting a few things. I'll be careful."

_The way you were careful at your aunt and uncle's house?_

Bristling, I replied, "Okay, I was caught off guard. That's not going to happen again."

No reply. I wasn't sure whether that meant the voice had run out of arguments to give me, or whether it was simply tired of me throwing up roadblocks. I decided to take its silence as tacit agreement with my plan. And really, it shouldn't be that big a deal. The Walgreens I frequented was less than a mile from my house. I'd pack everything else I needed in advance, then go there on my way out of town. Surely the voice couldn't have any real problem with that?

It probably could, but unless it woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me everything I was doing wrong, I was going with it.

Falling asleep that night was difficult. The silence rattled me; every creak and sigh of the house contracting as the night air grew colder made me startle, thinking Chris the Creeper had returned to finish what he'd started outside my aunt and uncle's house. Well, the joke would be on him — I had the revolver right next to me on the coffee table, and had gotten the shotgun from the gun safe and was lying with it propped up against the arm of the sofa near my head. He'd be a red smear on the wall before he had time to blink.

But the guns didn't reassure me as much as I'd thought they would. Maybe it was more that I'd begun to pick at what the voice had said to me, how he'd said that "we" — meaning him and others like him, I supposed, whatever or whoever they were — hadn't controlled who lived and who died of the Heat, but that they did have some say in what happened to the survivors. That was a frightening thought. True, everything he'd done so far seemed to have been for my benefit...but why?

I realized he hadn't called me "beloved" for a while. Was that an oversight, or had all my questions and my ignoring of his advice annoyed him enough that I wasn't quite so beloved anymore? The thought bothered me a little...but not as much as contemplating what it might mean to be the beloved of some incorporeal being who spoke to me only in my thoughts.

If he was even real. I really could just be imagining the whole thing. After all, there were accounts of mothers going ballistic and lifting trucks off their toddlers or whatever. Wasn't it possible that I'd been the one to fling Chris Bowman away from me, and my mind had just embellished the event so it seemed as if some kind of supernatural force was involved?

I didn't know. And the worst part was, I had no one to talk to about my situation, except a disembodied voice that might or might not be merely a figment of my imagination. For most of the day, I'd managed to push to one side the pain of losing my family, my friends, but now as I sat there in the dark, one candle flickering on the coffee table, it all seemed to come back in a rush, like a great, gaping wound in my middle where my heart had been torn out. I was twenty-four years old, but right then all I wanted was my mother. I wanted her to hug me and tell me it was all going to be okay.

And then I felt him there, as I had earlier, like a wash of warmth moving over me, strong arms around me, the touch of an unseen mouth against my tumbled hair _. Ah, beloved, you do not believe me now, but it will get better. Sleep now, and leave the pain for another day._

I opened my mouth to speak, but I found I didn't have the strength to form any words. Instead, darkness washed over me, taking me along with it. In that moment, I knew I lacked the strength to fight the inevitable.

# Chapter 7

Dutchie's growling woke me. I startled awake, sitting bolt upright and blinking against the darkness. Only it wasn't completely dark, as the pillar candle still burned bravely in its dish on the coffee table. Thank God for that, because the dog was sitting in front of the door, teeth bared in a snarl, a deep, bone-rattling growl rumbling within her throat.

Without thinking, I pushed back the blankets that covered me and grabbed the shotgun. Yes, the .357 had great stopping power, but I knew anything I hit with that shotgun would go down and stay down. Well, except for the parts that got splattered on any nearby walls. And if I did somehow manage to miss, that Remington would make a pretty decent club.

My heart was hammering away in my chest, but I made myself go to the peephole in the front door and attempt to peer out. Fat lot of good that did — the night outside was pitch black, with not a hint of a moon. I couldn't even see the rose of Sharon bushes on either side of the doorway.

But the whole time Dutchie didn't stop growling, although as I backed away from the door, shotgun still clenched in my right hand, she moved as well, padding toward the back of the house.

Great. The front door was much bigger and heavier than the back door. Anyone sufficiently motivated could kick in the door off the service porch.

I had a feeling that if he was still ambulatory, Chris Bowman would be feeling really motivated right around now. Maybe I was just being paranoid, since I had no idea how he could have even found me. We weren't exactly what you could call listed in the phone book; cops tended to be circumspect about that sort of thing. Then again, Chris seemed like the type who might have mastered the finer points of hacking into secure databases, and considering his apparent obsession with me....

Shit.

Dutchie trotted ahead of me. Her ears were up, nose pointed directly toward the service porch at the rear of the kitchen. And that was when I heard it, too — a faint scratching noise coming from the back door. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought it was one of the other neighborhood dogs trying to get in. But after seeing that whole "peaceable kingdom" bit at the PetSmart up in Sandia Heights, I knew Dutchie wouldn't be growling like that if it was simply another dog on the other side of that door.

I'd already loaded the shotgun before I lay down to sleep, so all I had to do was pump it to bring a shell into the chamber. Even though I could feel my heart still wailing away in my chest, I managed to call out in what sounded like a reasonably steady voice, "Whoever that is, back away. I'm armed, and I will not hesitate to shoot."

There. My father would've been proud, if he'd been around to hear that.

No reply, of course. Dutchie sat down on her haunches, then looked up at me and gave a questioning whine. It seemed obvious she thought she'd done her job in warning me that something was out there, and now it was my turn to do something about it.

Not unreasonable of her, but no way was I going to reach out and open that door. If I had to stay here all night with the shotgun pointed at the back entrance to the house, I would.

That odd scratching noise started up again. I gritted my teeth, wondering if I should send off a warning shot. But all that would do was mess up the back door, and what if that scratching noise was coming from an ambitious rat or something? I'd look like an idiot, and worse, I would've completely compromised my home's security.

I dragged out the step stool and sat down on it, shotgun still pointed toward the back door. Dutchie stayed where she was, although she did send me an inquiring look over one shoulder. I shook my head at her, and she settled down in a sphinx-like position, still at attention, snout in a direct line with the doorknob. In that moment, I wondered whether I should even be trusting Dutchie's instincts. Obviously, she was a very good dog, but she wasn't _my_ dog. I didn't know if she was a great watch dog or the type to go off half-cocked at every random sound. Yes, there was something outside, but it didn't necessarily have to be anything threatening. For all I knew, it could have been a branch from the willow bush just outside the back stoop scratching on the doorframe or something.

But then the door creaked open, and my breath caught in my throat. Standing there was Chris Bowman, face puffed and bruised, pale eyes glaring at me. Something glinted in one hand, reflecting the faint light from the jar candle I'd left lit in the kitchen.

Lock picks. Son of a bitch. Trust a maladjusted bastard like Chris the Creep to know how to pick locks.

Slowly, I got to my feet, the gun still trained on him. "Get out, Chris."

His eyes were still fixed on my face, as if he hadn't even registered the Remington pump-action shotgun in my hands. "No. We're the only survivors. We're meant to be together."

My finger was resting on the trigger. Just the slightest squeeze, and he'd be splatter on the doorframe. Could I kill someone, though, just like that? Before, when I'd thrown the rock at his head, I'd only meant to slow him down, to give myself enough time to get safely away. The shotgun was an entirely different story.

"I don't want to hurt you, Chris," I said, forcing my voice to remain steady, just as I willed my hands not to shake as I gripped the shotgun. "The two of us being immune? It's just an accident of biology. It doesn't mean anything. So please, go back home."

For the first time, he glanced away from my eyes, down at the gun I held. A look of almost comical confusion passed over his puffy features. "But I _want_ you."

My stomach twisted, and right then I was glad I hadn't eaten anything more than that bread and jelly sandwich a few hours earlier...or whenever it had been. I wasn't wearing a watch, and of course the digital clocks on the appliances in the kitchen had died along with everything else when the power went out.

"But I don't want you, Chris," I said, and right then my voice did contain a betraying tremor that I hated, although I couldn't do anything about it. "I told you, I don't want to hurt you. But I will. My dad was a cop, and he taught me how to use this. And I will."

During this little speech, Chris's eyes grew narrower and narrower, as if he was finally processing my rejection of him. His lip curled, and he said, "You don't have the guts," right before he lunged at me.

Without thinking, I let my finger jerk on the trigger. At the same time, it was as if a powerful hand had grasped the barrel, pointing it away from Chris so all I did was blow a hole in the ceiling, destroying the combination light/fan fixture there and raining drywall everywhere. I blinked, sure the creep was going to come after me, now that I'd missed so heinously, but instead something seemed to grab him by the neck, squeezing so his eyes began to bulge and his feet scrabbled helplessly against the linoleum of the laundry room floor.

A few gurgling moans came from his throat, and then once again he was flung away from me, this time with so much force that he flew across the backyard, hitting the corner of the garage before tumbling in a heap into the irises that still half-heartedly grew there. Shaking, I tightened my hold on the shotgun and started down the back steps toward him, only to hear the voice say,

_Stop, Jessica. There is no need._

I paused on the bottom stair. "That — that was you?"

_Yes_.

"And he's — "

_Yes. I did what I should have done back at your aunt and uncle's house._

My breath seemed to go out of me in a _whoosh,_ and I found myself sitting down hard on the step, the concrete cold even through my jeans. Thank God at least I'd gone to bed fully dressed, except for my hiking boots. I looked over at the gun I still held.

"I wouldn't have missed, would I?"

_No. You would have killed him, had I not pushed the gun away. I did not want that on your conscience._

So...a being who would go out of his way to protect me, but didn't think twice about killing someone else. Not that Chris Bowman was exactly a wonderful specimen of humanity, one worth saving.

"Are you an angel?" I asked abruptly.

Another of those low chuckles. _Hardly. But you are safe now, so you should go back inside and try to sleep._

"You seriously expect me to sleep after that?"

_Yes. You are safe now. No one else knows of your presence in this house. You can sleep here, and then leave tomorrow morning._

I knew I'd exhausted all my arguments. After pushing myself to my feet, I glanced over toward where Chris Bowman's body lay, twisted and limp in the ruin of what was once my mother's prized bed of irises.

_I will take care of that. Go to sleep, Jessica._

Bowing my head, I nodded, then went back inside and locked the door. Even though the voice had told me I was safe, I still took the step stool and wedged it up under the knob of the back door. Maybe it was a foolish gesture, but it made me feel a little bit better.

Dutchie looked up at me and wagged her tail, teeth showing in a doggy smile. "Okay," I said. "You get a treat for the warning." I got out a dog biscuit and gave it to her before heading back to my makeshift bed on the living room couch, where I leaned the shotgun up against the sofa's arm once more. Maybe I wouldn't need it, but I knew I'd sleep better if it was there.

Assuming I slept at all, of course.

I did, finally, and awoke to bright sunshine peeking around the edges of the living room curtains. The clock above the fireplace was battery-operated, and so had no problem telling me that the time was ten minutes until eight.

When I'd laid my head down on the sofa pillow the night before, I had no idea I'd sleep in that much. The confrontation with Chris Bowman must have taken more out of me than I thought. Speaking of which....

After pushing the blankets covering me off to one side, I rose and padded in sock feet to the back door. The step stool was still there, shoved up under the doorknob. I removed it and set it to lean against the wall, then opened the door and looked outside, toward the garage. The bright morning sunlight clearly revealed the clump of smashed iris plants where Chris Bowman had landed the night before, but his body was gone. No blood, no nothing.

If I looked more closely, would there be a pile of ashes half hidden among the blade-like iris leaves? But no, he'd died from severe head trauma, not the Heat. The body had been simply...taken away.

Deciding it was best not to contemplate exactly how that had happened...or what had been done with him...I went back inside and poured Dutchie some fresh water from one of the bottles in the pantry, and gave her a good helping of dry dog food. She wolfed it down, tail wagging the whole time, so obviously she hadn't been irrevocably scarred by the events of the night before.

I wasn't sure I could say the same for myself, but I had other things I needed to focus on. The day before, I'd told the voice I would pack up and leave this morning, so that's what I needed to do — assess what I would take with me, based on how much I could fit into the Cherokee. With the back seats folded down, I really could haul a good deal of gear, so I didn't think space would be too much of a problem.

More bread and butter for breakfast, supplemented with some dried apricots I found smashed into one corner of the pantry. My mother had been a very organized woman, but Devin was a source of chaos that could defeat even the most orderly person. I started stacking what was salvageable on the breakfast bar: the rest of that bag of apricots, a pile of granola bars, an unopened bag of blue corn chips, the remnants of the dry food and the dog biscuits for Dutchie. That would get us started, and I figured I could always stock up on a few more things in the food section of the Walgreens.

_Truly, you do not need that much._ The voice sounded almost amused this time.

"Well, until you're telling me how far I'm driving, I'm going to over-pack," I said, setting the half-used flat of bottled water next to the dog food.

_Jessica, do you not like surprises?_

"Not particularly, no." I surveyed the meager pile and thought I really wasn't overdoing it by anyone's standards. True, I could start piling up the economy-sized cans of tomato sauce and beans my mother had bought at Costco, but I could get that stuff anywhere if necessary. It wasn't as if there was going to be a lot of competition for the enormous stockpiles of canned food left behind by the mostly deceased people of New Mexico.

_Well, I think you will like this surprise._

Since that reply just annoyed me — what was I, five? — I made a noncommittal sound in my throat and headed out the back door, up to my apartment. This time, Dutchie didn't seem too inclined to follow me. I guessed the reason why when I saw her nose around the backyard, then squat to pee. The second movement, so to speak, would probably follow shortly, but I didn't see any need to hang around for that.

Like an idiot, I'd left the door to my apartment unlocked, but, as far as I could tell, Chris hadn't made it up here. It was possible that he'd detected the faint glow of the candles from inside the main house and realized that was where I'd bunked down. Just as well, because I didn't know if I could have brought any of my belongings with me if I'd known he'd pawed through them.

In my closet I had one of those airline-regulation hard-sided suitcases, the kind with wheels, as well as two largish duffle bags. I filled one of the duffle bags with underwear and bras and socks, along with a couple of sleep shirts. The other duffle bag got shoe-carrying duty — which turned out not to be much, since I only packed my trail shoes, a pair of knee-high boots with rubber soles, and one pair of flip-flops. And...well, I didn't see where I would ever wear them again, but I didn't want to leave behind my pretty black flats with the scallop detail, or the high-heeled sandals with the jeweled embellishment. Maybe I could just take them out from time to time and fondle them. I loved those sandals.

I filled up the remainder of the duffle bag with my toiletries, although I left behind all the hair-prep tools. What was the point, when there was no more electricity? Maybe if I got really bored I'd invent a solar-powered blow dryer, but in the meantime, that was a whole lot of stuff I didn't need to drag along.

I took the same no-nonsense approach with my clothes: jeans and T-shirts in both short- and long-sleeved varieties, a flannel shirt I'd inherited from my ex-boyfriend (he was an ass, but that shirt was soooo soft), the all-weather anorak I used when going on hikes. If I really was going north, I'd need some protection, so I added my dark green plaid cashmere scarf and lined leather gloves to the pile, along with the black knitted cap that Elena had once complained made me look like I was about to hold up a liquor store.

Getting it all to fit was a challenge, although leaving out the anorak helped. I could always lay it down in the back of the SUV. When my gaze traveled back to the closet, where all my "fun" clothes still hung, looking a bit forlorn and abandoned, it lingered on the black dress I'd worn out for drinks on my birthday. All right, I knew there was no reason I'd ever need to wear that dress again, but I loved the way it fit, the way it seemed to follow all the curves of my body without clinging too much. But it was made of knit fabric and wouldn't take up that much room.

Off the hanger, it did roll up into a surprisingly small ball. I tucked the dress into a corner of the suitcase and then zipped the thing closed. A sound outside on the landing made me start, but it was only Dutchie, coming up to investigate what I was doing.

"Just about done," I told her, lugging the suitcase off the bed and picking up the lighter of the two duffle bags, the one with my underthings in it. I'd come back for the other duffle bag and my coat.

The dog ran ahead of me down the stairs, tail wagging. It seemed she knew what these preparations meant — that I'd be going in the Cherokee soon, and that meant she'd be going along as well.

I set the luggage down by the breakfast bar, then returned to my apartment and gathered up the rest of my things. Sitting on the small side table next to the couch was a wedding photo of my parents, my mother with impossible big '80s hair but looking beautiful even so, and next to it a snapshot taken last year of the whole family at a football game, Devin wearing his shoulder pads, sweaty and grinning proudly. My heart clenched when I looked at their faces, and yet I knew I couldn't leave them behind. What if I began to forget what they looked like?

Fighting back tears, I shoved the pictures, frames and all, into my oversized purple purse; I wasn't sure why I was bringing it, since the backpack I was taking with the rest of the camping equipment was a lot more practical. But that purse seemed to be the last reminder of the "old" me I had — the cell phone, useless now, although a few days earlier I would have said I couldn't have lasted more than a few hours without it; the tube of lip gloss; my wallet; stubs from movies I'd seen over the last few months; a pen and some tissue, because my mother told me I should always carry a pen and Kleenex.

And my keys. I went out onto the landing, closed the door behind me, and then locked it. I couldn't really say why, as I doubted any survivors — if there were more besides me and the late Chris Bowman — would bother coming all the way back here to loot the apartment. Our house was one of the more modest ones on the street; there were plenty of better pickings elsewhere.

But that thought only served to depress me, as if the things my parents had worked so hard for had turned out to be worth very little in the end. The first stinging pinpricks of tears told me I'd better abandon that line of thought, as I still had a lot to do.

And maybe, just maybe, I'd feel better once I was gone and away from the place that now only served to remind me of everything I'd lost.

In the end, the Cherokee was full but not filled. I put two bottles of water in the cup holders, patted the passenger seat so Dutchie would know it was time to get in, and shut the door behind her. After that, I climbed in behind the wheel and closed my own door.

All the exertion had made my wrists start to ache again, but only slightly, which just proved some sort of supernatural healing must be going on. Not that I was going to argue. Heading out into the world while even partly incapacitated wasn't a very good idea.

So...had my unseen guardian speeded up my healing process so my injuries wouldn't slow down my departure?

I didn't know how I should feel about that.

No point in brooding over it now, though. I was just glad that I was able to back out of the driveway without my wrists or hands hurting too much. Today, although the sky was mainly blue, I could see clouds beginning to drift in from the northeast. I hoped they didn't indicate some kind of weather was on the way; bad enough that the voice expected me to head out of town in a direction of his choosing without having to handle driving in heavy rain as well.

He — or it — had been conspicuously silent so far this morning. It could simply be that he had no reason to intervene while I was packing, since I was already doing his bidding by prepping to get out of Albuquerque.

The local Walgreens was around a half mile from my house. Its parking lot backed up to a middle school, and it felt stranger than strange to get out of the SUV and not see a bunch of kids running around on the soccer field and the track. At least it was far enough away that I couldn't tell if those fields had little piles of gray dust scattered around on them. No, I realized they probably wouldn't, as the schools had been closed down fairly quickly...not that it had made much of a difference in the end.

As I approached the drugstore, I saw that the front doors had been smashed in. Glass was strewn everywhere. My hackles went up, and I almost reached back and pulled out the Glock, which I'd tucked into my waistband. The whole incident with Chris Bowman had put me more than a little on edge, and I'd decided to drive with the gun on me. The S&W was way too big for that, though, so I'd gone with the Glock. It would still flatten someone, especially if I hit them with multiple rounds.

But as I entered the store, glass crunching under my hiking boots, it seemed the place was deserted enough. Dark, too — I supposed I should have been expecting that, but in my mind's eye the Walgreens was always brightly lit, blazing with fluorescent illumination. I paused by the checkout counter, which was close enough to the door that I could see what I was doing, and plucked one of the keychain flashlights off the display there. Not as good as my father's Maglite, which was buried deep in the cargo area of the car, but it would do.

I turned on the flashlight, grabbed a cart, and made my way to the back of the store where the pharmacy was located. All around me, I could see evidence of looting — empty shelves, racks overturned, aisles filled with discarded bags of Doritos, rolls of toilet paper, kids' toys. My heart sank. If so much had been taken, what would be left for me to collect?

As it turned out, not a heck of a lot.

There were still some generic medications left in the first aid aisle — ibuprofen, allergy remedies, sore throat lozenges. I grabbed boxes haphazardly and threw them into the cart I'd picked up at the front of the store, figuring something was better than nothing. All was chaos behind the pharmacy counter. I didn't know if all those items had been taken by people who were sick and trying desperately to alleviate their symptoms, or whether any survivors had realized there was a lot of heavy-duty stuff here just ripe for the picking.

Pretty much anything with an opiate in it was gone, I realized as I ran the flashlight's beam over the shelves. I could forget about easing the pain of armageddon with a little Oxycontin. All of the high-powered stuff was gone, except for one bottle of codeine-laced cough syrup high on a shelf. I took that, figuring it might come in handy.

The antibiotics were also ransacked, although I found a couple of bottles of tetracycline. Old school, but it would still work just fine for an infected wound or a bout of bronchitis. They got added to the growing pile in the cart.

A lot of the medications had names I didn't even recognize, so I passed all those by. What I really wanted was the birth control pills, and I found those when I went around a corner, on a set of shelves that were a little disorganized but mainly intact. It made sense; most people probably weren't thinking of family planning when they were being beaten down by the modern-day equivalent of a Biblical plague.

A small sigh of relief escaped my lips when I found the Ortho-Novum, and I gathered up every little packet they had. Enough to last me for a year, from the looks of it. After that, well...I'd worry about that then.

_Like you're really going to be alive a year from now._

I pushed that thought out of my head. Two days ago, I was sure I'd be dead along with everyone else, and yet here I still was. Never say die.

That had been a favorite phrase of my mother's. How woefully inappropriate.

Mouth tightening, I moved the flashlight I carried over the shelves once more to make sure I wasn't missing anything. The problem was, I didn't get sick all that often, and even when I did, regular over-the-counter stuff worked just fine for me. I could be leaving something valuable behind here and wouldn't even know it.

_You can't take everything,_ I told myself. Anyway, it was creepy in here, blundering around in the dark with only a single small flashlight to relieve the gloom. Better for me to just cut my losses and get out. It wasn't as if there wouldn't be more drugstores between here and...wherever I was going.

That thought reassured me somewhat, so I stepped out from behind the counter and made my way two aisles over, where the feminine products were located. I didn't pay attention to brand or type, but just tossed boxes of tampons and packages of maxi pads into the cart until I was almost out of room. That should do me for a while, and I still needed to see if anything edible had been left behind.

I began walking toward the far left of the store, where I knew the food was located. Anything in the refrigerated case would be spoiled — and I was glad the doors were all shut, as otherwise the smell probably would have been nasty as hell — but there could still be chips and crackers and cookies, probably some beef jerky and other things of that ilk as well.

Not the healthiest of diets, but sometimes you had to take what you could get.

Figuring I should try to pick up some food for Dutchie as well, I stopped at the aisle where the drugstore usually stocked dog treats and a few brands of dry and canned food — not the stuff I would have chosen to feed her under ideal circumstances, but it would have been better than nothing. However, for some strange reason, those shelves were completely picked over. I even skidded on some scattered pellets of dry food before I regained my balance and glanced down to see that a big bag of Purina had been torn open, its contents scattered across the floor.

Muttering a curse, I left that aisle and went to the snack food section, which was in slightly better shape, and started gathering up what I could. By the time I'd dropped a couple of packets of beef jerky and a box of Ritz crackers on top of the pile in my basket, it was full, and I figured I needed to get going. It was almost noon, according to the watch I'd fished out of my nightstand and strapped on my wrist. A while back I'd almost stopped wearing watches, since I could just look at my phone, but now the watch was the only thing telling me what time it actually was. Yes, I had the clock in the Cherokee, but that only helped when I was driving.

I'd just passed the checkout counter — trying to quash my very real sensation of guilt over walking out with a bunch of stuff I hadn't paid for — when a shadow filled the doorway. Almost without thinking, I reached back for the Glock tucked into my waistband. Yes, Chris Bowman was still dead and gone, but all sorts of predators could still be out there. Or at least as many as the Heat had allowed to survive.

Then my eyes adjusted, and I saw the shadow was that of a man, probably in his late forties, smiling at me nervously.

"I'm sorry I startled you," he said, seeming to take note of how I remained rooted in the spot where I'd stopped by the checkout. "It's just — I haven't seen anyone else alive for two days. I thought I was the only one."

"There are a couple of us, I think," I responded. He looked pretty harmless, with his thinning dark hair and worried eyes, but I was still wary. "I never heard anything about the mortality rate. Everything went so...fast."

He nodded, his gaze traveling to the cart in front of me and then back up to my face. I stiffened, worried I'd see the same sort of predatory stare that Chris Bowman had given me, but this stranger only seemed relieved that he wasn't the only living person left in Albuquerque. "It was 99.8 percent. Or at least that was what the reports said."

"Reports?" I asked. "What reports?"

"Not on the news," he said. "I worked in the emergency-management bureau downtown. Those were the latest figures we got before everything just...stopped. By then there were only two of us left out of a team of twenty-seven, and Lydia died soon afterward. There was no way to let anyone know...not that there was anyone left to know, I suppose."

"There were a few of us." I had to stop then, the enormity of it threatening to overwhelm me. With a mortality rate like that, it meant there were maybe two thousand people left in Albuquerque. That sounded like a lot, until you realized there used to be almost a million people living in and around the city center. "But you're right — I suppose it wouldn't have made much of a difference. It's not as if we could have stopped it."

"No," he agreed, his features drooping even more.

"So...." I went on, not sure where I was supposed to go from here. It was pretty clear that the voice meant for me to leave Albuquerque alone, but now that I'd met a survivor, could I simply leave him behind? He appeared to be harmless. "Do you live around here?"

The man gave a vague gesture over his shoulder, toward the west. "Off Chavez Road."

That wasn't too far from where we stood. No wonder he'd come foraging over here. "Your first time out and around...after?"

A nod. "I didn't know if it would be safe, but I started to run out of things, and this was the closest store...."

"There's plenty left," I assured him. "The looters kind of tore the place up, but they didn't steal all the Doritos. I'd probably go to a grocery store if you really want something decent to eat, though."

"That was my plan after this, but I could walk here, so I figured I'd come here first." For the first time his eyes took on a certain glint, one I wasn't sure I liked. "That your Cherokee out there?"

There wasn't any point in denying it. For all I knew, he'd seen me pull up and get out of the SUV. "Yes."

"Leaving town?"

A flicker of unease went over me. "I was thinking about it," I hedged.

To my surprise, he didn't seem that put off by my reply. "That might be a good idea. It might be safer where there aren't as many survivors. People are going to get desperate."

_They already have,_ I thought, recalling the way Chris Bowman had broken into my house. Then again, that was a special case of one highly obsessed nut job. The survivors in Albuquerque would probably be a lot more interested in getting supplies than getting into my pants.

"So what are you going to do?" I asked, trying to shift the conversation away from me and my plans.

"I'm not sure. I figured food was the first step. After that?" He shrugged, then offered me a faint smile. "Right now, it's just kind of good to hear another voice."

I almost agreed with him, except I had been hearing a man's voice in my head for the past few days. So what if the jury was still out as to whether that voice was real or not?

"Well, I don't want to leave my dog sitting in the car too long," I said, since it seemed to me that the man wouldn't mind standing here and chatting all day, if it meant he didn't have to be by himself.

He looked startled by the _non sequitur,_ but then nodded. "Oh, of course. It is starting to warm up. You have a good day." The way he said it made it sound as if he wasn't sure such a thing was possible anymore.

Since there wasn't much else I could do, I smiled slightly, then moved toward the exit. For a second or two, I was worried he might put out an arm to stop me, but he only stepped out of the way and headed into the store.

I allowed myself a small sigh of relief before going to the Cherokee and unlocking it, then quickly unloading the loot from my cart into the rear cargo area. From the front seat, Dutchie whined, but I wasn't sure why. It was a little warm in the car, but nothing too bad — I'd made sure to crack the windows before I locked up the vehicle.

When I turned around, though, I almost dropped the car key. The stranger was standing there, holding a pistol pointed straight at me. His expression was no longer mild, but greedy. Not the kind of greed I'd seen in Chris Bowman, though. This man's gaze wasn't fixed on me, but the SUV I'd just closed up.

Without blinking, he said, "Give me the key. Now."

# Chapter 8

At first I could only stand there, gaping at him. From the way he held the gun, a small .22, I could tell he didn't have much experience. One part of my mind began to coolly calculate whether I was fast enough to get that Glock out of my waistband before he fired on me. My father had taken me to the indoor range many times, and shooting up in the hills around town even more, and he'd made me practice pulling the gun from a holster as well as the waistband of my pants. I knew I had far more experience than the man who faced me. But...was it enough?

Stalling for time, I stammered, "W-what?"

"You heard me." He waved the pistol in what he probably thought was a threatening manner. "I don't want to hurt you. I just want the car."

"But — " I kept my hands out where he could see them, knowing that he was probably nervous enough just handling the gun that he might do something really stupid if I made any sudden movements. "There are plenty of abandoned vehicles all over the city. You don't need mine."

"Yes, I do." His gaze shifted from the rear door of the Cherokee to my face, and I could see the desperation in his watery brown eyes. "I don't have to hunt for the key, and it's a four-wheel drive loaded with supplies. I doubt I'm going to find anything better."

Well, when he put it that way.... "It needs gas, though. Do you know how to siphon gas?"

His bemused expression told me he didn't.

"Look," I went on, knowing there was no way in hell I was going to let him have my dad's SUV, "it's been a horrible week. I get that you feel desperate. But you don't need to do this. There are plenty of alterna — "

_BLAM!_ The pistol went off — not pointed at me, thank God, but somewhere over my shoulder and just above the roof line of the Cherokee. Even so, I jumped enough that I could feel the backs of my thighs hit the SUV's rear bumper.

"I'm not negotiating," he said. The look on his face shifted from confused to crafty. "But maybe you could come along. You say you know how to siphon gas?"

I actually hadn't said that I did, but the truth was, my father had showed me and Devin once, when Devin ran out of gas while driving Mom's Escape. It wasn't that difficult, really, as long as you selected a vehicle without a locking gas cap. In the back of the Cherokee, along with the rest of my supplies, was a long rubber tube I'd brought along for that very purpose. With the power out, it would simply be easier to siphon gas from abandoned vehicles rather than attempt to switch the pumps at a gas station over to manual.

"Maybe I do," I hedged, my pulse beginning to escalate.

"You seem like you might be...useful," the man said, and this time his watery gaze remained fixed on my face. It was clear his thoughts were beginning to run in other directions than merely stealing my car.

_Dude, I could put you through a wall,_ I thought, but that inner remark was more bravado than anything else. Yes, he looked like the quintessential wimpy office worker. On the other hand, he'd still managed to sneak up on me, so I wasn't about to underestimate him.

Since I couldn't trust myself to speak without giving myself away, I only shrugged. At the same time, I let my hands drop to my sides, my right hand beginning to move slowly backward, toward the reassuring weight of the Glock in my waistband. Thank God the shirt I was wearing hung loosely enough that the man didn't seem to have noticed he wasn't the only armed person in this little convo.

He stepped closer. Now I could smell the stink of perspiration and fear on him. Maybe I hadn't had a decent shower since before the Heat began, either, but at least I'd tried to wash up as best I could, and made sure to put on deodorant before I got dressed each morning. I couldn't say the same for this useless specimen of humanity.

Were only the weak, the crazy, or the unscrupulous left? And if that was the case, what the hell did that say about me?

I decided I'd think about that later. In the meantime, I had bigger things to worry about. I needed to get away from this guy. Shooting him was not a particularly appealing prospect, but I would if I had to.

No wonder the voice had been urging me to get out of Albuquerque. I wished I hadn't dragged my feet quite so much about that. If I'd left straight away, as he'd told me to do, I would never have run into Chris Bowman...wouldn't be standing here now, with this milquetoast former bureaucrat holding his puny .22 on me and thinking he was Dirty Harry.

And where the hell was the voice? He had saved me from Chris the Creep twice, but was conspicuously absent at the moment. Did he think I could handle this guy on my own?

Time to find out, I supposed.

"Oh, I'm very useful," I snapped, reaching the rest of the way so I could pull the Glock out of the waistband of my Levi's and point it straight at the stranger's face.

He blinked and took a step backward. The gun wavered in his hands, and then he tightened his grip. "You didn't need to do that."

"Well, I kind of did, since you were holding a gun on me." Unlike him, I didn't move, didn't blink. "By the way, my father was a police officer. He made sure I knew how to shoot this thing. So don't think for a second that I'm holding this gun up for show, because I'm not. I know what I'm doing. The best thing you can do is back off and go find a car someplace else. There are thousands in the city up for grabs right now."

No response at first. His mouth opened and closed once, making him look like a fish on a hook. I got the distinct impression he didn't know what he should do — shoot, or turn tail and flee. That made him all the more dangerous, in my eyes, because I really didn't know how he was going to react. I doubted he was someone who'd been inclined toward criminal acts in his past life. But he'd been pushed to the limit by all the death he'd seen, and that made him volatile. Unpredictable.

"Please," I said softly. "Just go."

The gun shook in his hands. I remained motionless, the Glock still pointed directly at his face, my stance square and solid, just the way my father had taught me. Then I saw him twitch, and thought,

_Oh, shit._

A bang, louder than I'd anticipated. Smoke puffed out from the chamber of the .22, and I knew the bullet was going to hit me. How could he miss at such close range?

Time slowed down, or possibly my thought processes sped up. I wasn't quite sure, but it was almost as if I could see the silvery-gray shape of the bullet speeding toward me. My entire body clenched, waiting for the shock of impact. At the same time, my finger clenched on the trigger of the Glock, and it went off with a much more impressive _bang_ than the one that had issued from the .22. My ears began to ring. That was the first time I'd ever shot a gun without wearing earplugs, and damn, it was louder than I'd expected.

Two things happened then — first, it seemed as if the air in front of me shimmered, and the bullet the stranger had fired at me bounced away as if it had hit a pane of bulletproof glass. He had no such protection, however, and the shot I'd fired hit him in the chest, sending him flying backward, blood beginning to run down the front of the sweat-stained dress shirt he wore.

His head hit the pavement with a sharp _crack,_ and I winced. But even as I did so, I realized I was all right. It should have been me lying there on the ground with dark blood trickling from my chest, but it wasn't.

_Are you ready to leave now?_ the voice asked. For some reason, he sounded tired. Well, that made two of us.

I finally lowered the gun. "That was you?"

_I told you I would protect you._

"Couldn't you have stopped him before he fired at me?" It seemed the voice was falling down a bit in the omnipotence department.

_I cannot see everything. Your fear called me to you, just as it called to me last night when that creature broke into your house. When I saw what was happening, I put up the barrier to keep the bullet from touching you._

Just like that. What kind of powers did the voice control, to be able to construct an invisible shield that would deflect a bullet?

Obviously something far, far beyond anything I'd ever heard of.

But then, I'd already sort of gathered that.

Pulling in a breath, I flipped the Glock's safety back on, then stuck the gun into my waistband once again. After that, I looked over to where the stranger lay groaning on the asphalt. From the amount of blood that had pooled beneath him, I guessed he didn't have much longer to live. Should I be feeling guilty for that? I didn't know. At the moment, all I felt was a sort of bone-deep weariness...and the day wasn't even half over yet.

I approached him, then crouched down near his head. His eyes flickered open and fixed on me, pleading and scared. "I didn't want to do that," I said quietly. "You should have just left me alone. There's plenty in this city for everyone."

A strangled sound came from his throat, possibly one of protest. I couldn't tell for sure, since he was obviously beyond forming actual words.

Although I knew I'd acted in self-defense, hadn't even squeezed the trigger until he'd shot at me, it was still hard to see him like this, knowing I couldn't do anything for his pain. "I'm sorry," I said at last, then straightened up and headed back to the Cherokee. The best thing I could do now was get the hell out of here.

I got in the car, shut the door, and pulled out of the parking space. As I drove away, I didn't look back.

_Head north,_ the voice said once I was a few blocks from the Walgreens. _Get on the freeway._

"Are you kidding?" I asked, hands tight on the steering wheel. Right then, I wasn't sure whether I had a death grip on the thing because of all the vehicles choking the roads, or because I was still shaking from that confrontation back in the parking lot. Maybe a little bit of both. "The freeway is going to be worse than the surface streets."

_No, it isn't. Trust me._

Considering he'd just saved me from a speeding bullet, I decided to trust him.

The closest on-ramp was at Paseo del Norte, so I headed in that direction, keeping my speed below twenty-five miles an hour, and sometimes even slower than that, depending on how congested the street around me was. When I got to the on-ramp, I actually had to drive onto the shoulder to get around two vehicles that seemed to have crashed head-on into one another. Now it was impossible to tell whether they'd both been trying to get on the freeway at the same time, or whether the drivers had been so ill that they'd basically plowed into each other at the worst possible spot.

After that, though, the connector was clear enough, and I eased up onto I-25, keeping my speed down. The voice had been right, though — yes, there were still abandoned vehicles here, but they tended to have either crashed into the center divider or drifted over to the shoulder. The middle two lanes were fairly clear, although I still had to slow down from time to time to get around a car or truck that had stopped in the center of the highway.

In fact, the going was easy enough that I thought it safe to risk opening one of the water bottles so I could get a drink. My throat was parched, and I drank half the contents of the bottle without even stopping. In the passenger seat, Dutchie cocked her head and looked at me.

"I'll take care of you when we stop, girl," I told her. Along with the camping gear, I'd stowed a set of collapsible dog dishes in the back of the Cherokee, relics of the times when we used to take Sadie on day trips with us. My father never got rid of anything — which was why none of our cars ever actually lived in the garage — and I'd found the dishes when I was scrounging some of the other stuff.

Dutchie wagged her tail, then sort of collapsed onto the seat, curling up in a smaller ball than I would have thought possible. Up until then, she'd been sitting up and looking out the window, but, truth be told, once you were on the freeway, the sights and smells really weren't that interesting.

"So where are we going?" I asked of the general air around me. Judging by his delayed reaction to the man who'd assaulted me back at Walgreens, the voice wasn't necessarily around at all times. In this case, since I was asking a direct question, I had to hope he was close enough that he would hear me and respond.

_North._

"Besides that," I snapped, irritated now. I'd done what he asked — Albuquerque was dropping farther and farther behind me, since I'd started out from the more northern end of the city sprawl anyway. At this point, I really couldn't see the reason behind the continuing games of evasion. "It's a little early for ski season."

_That is all you need to know for now. I will tell you when it is time to get off the freeway._

I might have growled. But since I knew there was no point in pressing the issue, I took another swig of water and kept my gaze focused on the road. I actually hadn't been about to run out of gas; the tank was nearly full. I'd just hoped that lying about the gas situation would convince the stranger at Walgreens to choose some other prey. So much for that brilliant idea.

At any rate, I knew I wouldn't have to stop for gas for some time. Maybe not at all, depending on how far I was going. What I had in the Cherokee right now was probably enough to get me to the Colorado border, although I sincerely hoped I wasn't going quite that far.

So I continued to drive north on the freeway, pushing my speed closer to forty miles an hour as I left Albuquerque behind, and the vehicles littering the road gradually grew fewer and farther between. Not to say that the highway was completely empty, but it was open enough that I felt safe going a little faster. Wherever I was headed, I wanted to get there as quickly, albeit as safely, as I could.

An hour passed. Dutchie slept in the passenger seat, and I could feel my stomach begin to growl. If I'd been thinking clearly, I would've gotten some of the food out of the back and brought it up here with me, but shooting someone at point-blank range does tend to rattle your logic centers a bit. Ever since I'd left Albuquerque, I'd been telling myself that there was nothing else I could have done, that he'd shot at me first...but those kinds of reassurances only go so far when you're trying to wrestle with the realization that you'd killed someone earlier that day.

_It was not your fault._ The voice was soothing, its earlier weariness apparently gone. I must have been really broadcasting my angst, because in general, the voice only answered direct questions and didn't respond to my inner thoughts. _He forced the issue. You should not blame yourself._

I knew that intellectually. But I also knew that killing, even in self-defense, carried its own weight of emotional consequences. When I was in high school, my father had shot someone while on duty — a drug dealer who'd drawn a .38 Special when he was pulled over for running a red light. My father didn't have much choice but to shoot. Even so, he was in counseling for months after that, coming to terms with what he'd done. Taking a human life was not something to be dismissed lightly. And how much heavier was the burden of doing something like that when so few people were even left alive?

I wasn't sure, but at the moment it felt pretty damn heavy.

_The world has changed,_ the voice told me. _So you must change with it._

"So I'm supposed to not care?" That didn't sound right at all. What was the point of surviving all this, if the only way to do it was to become a person I didn't like very much?

_I did not say that. But there are certain realities you must face. There is nothing wrong with killing, if that is the only way for you to stay alive._

In other words, I shouldn't feel bad about acting in self-defense. Maybe someday I'd get to that point, but at the moment I'd had too many shocks in too short a period of time. I really just wanted to curl up in a ball somewhere and pretend the world didn't exist for a while.

_Here,_ the voice told me. _Take the turnoff for 84 north._

"Santa Fe?" I asked in some surprise. For some reason, I'd thought I'd be going much farther than that.

_Yes, Santa Fe._

Well, thank God for small favors. I did as instructed and pulled onto the highway, which was more that in name than anything else, since in reality it was just a four-lane road cutting through town, with shops and schools on either side. Here I had to slow down again, as there was a good deal of stalled traffic once more. Not enough that I couldn't get around it when necessary, even if I had to pull up onto the island at the center of the street, but it was still nerve-wracking.

_Then turn here, on Cerrillo._

So we were heading into the heart of the town? I knew Santa Fe, although not intimately; my family had come here from time to time, mainly when my mother was tired of camping and hiking, and wanted us to get some culture. And I'd visited the town with Elena and Tori a couple of times, generally when Elena borrowed her parents' timeshare so we could get out of Albuquerque and let our hair down for a few days. Even then, though, I hadn't been the one driving. We always took Elena's car, because she had a Porsche Cayenne, which was a lot more impressive than my eight-year-old Honda or Tori's Ford pickup.

But I did know enough to realize if I stayed on my current route, I'd be heading toward the old town square and the touristy areas around it. Sort of a strange choice, if the voice was really that intent on keeping me out of population centers.

I slowed even more, as the road was getting narrower, and I knew I was about to enter the maze of one-way streets that twisted around Santa Fe's central square. Oddly, there weren't as many abandoned vehicles here. But this was a touristy area — maybe everyone had bugged out for home as soon as the infection began to spread.

_And now down Alameda._

"So I'm not going to the center of town?"

_No._

"Is it far?"

_Not that far._

Good, because I knew I was going to need a bathroom fairly soon. I just had to hope that my destination included those sorts of civilized comforts, even if I wouldn't be able to flush after the first time.

I angled the Cherokee down Alameda, stopping every so often to go up on the curb to avoid yet another abandoned car. Luckily, the south side of the road ran along an open greenbelt, so there were no businesses located there, which meant no parked cars, either. To either side, the trees were brave with fluttering leaves of yellow and orange, but no one was around to admire their autumn finery, and I was too focused on my route to give them more than a passing glance.

The street continued in this way for some time, until I was out of the downtown area and in a more residential district, still heading steadily eastward. Since the voice had given me no further commands, I kept going.

_And right here,_ it said, just when I thought I was going to be on Alameda forever.

I turned as instructed, moving onto Canyon Road. As I did so, I couldn't help wondering just where the heck I was going. This was still a residential area, but with the houses spaced farther apart. The upside was that I didn't have nearly as many stray cars to maneuver around.

_Follow the curve,_ the voice said then.

Veering off to the left, I found myself now on Upper Canyon Road. It narrowed further, but even in my current focused state, I couldn't help being impressed by some of the compounds I passed. They had high adobe walls that seemed to stretch on for a full block. Just the kind of thing for people with fat wallets and a serious need for privacy.

The road wound on and on, steadily rising. It became more rutted, littered with gravel. I slowed down, although I didn't think it was quite time to engage the four-wheel drive. There was still pavement under my tires, albeit pavement that hadn't been very well maintained.

Eventually, though, even that rutted and gravelly pavement disappeared, and the road turned to dirt. I brought the Cherokee to a crawl, put it in neutral, and then engaged the four-wheel drive. After I felt it catch, I sped up again, but cautiously, knowing I should keep it around twenty-five for safety's sake.

Even up here there were scattered home sites, and I wondered if I would be told to turn off at one of them. But then the voice said, _This road,_ indicating a dirt track that branched off from Upper Canyon, heading even farther into the hills.

I slowed down a little bit more, jolting and bouncing along the unpaved surface, which now was only wide enough to allow a single car through. Good thing I probably didn't have to worry about someone coming this way from the other direction.

Dutchie, who'd been dozing for the past hour or more, blinked and got to her feet, pressing her nose to the window. She left quite a smudge, and I winced. Even though I knew my father was far past caring about what happened to the Cherokee, I still couldn't help experiencing some discomfort at knowing the SUV wouldn't exactly be in showroom condition by the time I got to my destination...whatever the hell that might be, out here in the middle of nowhere.

The track kept snaking farther and farther back into the hills. At least I'd had some experience driving off-road, so the rocky, rutted surface beneath the car didn't bother me too much. What did bother me was how far away from civilization this place must be. Had the voice lured me out here to....

_To what?_ I asked myself with some scorn. _If he wanted to kill you or do anything else, he could have done it already. What would be the point in sending you out to the back of beyond like this?_

No point at all that I could tell.

Which didn't mean much.

At least the voice couldn't seem to hear my interior monologue. A minute or so later, it said, _Here_.

Another dirt track, even narrower than this one. It split off from the main road — if you could call it that — and wound up the side of a hill. Around the crest of that hill, I thought I spied a flash of shimmering gold leaves. Aspen trees?

I turned where the voice had directed, crawling along. Nothing about this hill seemed all that different from all the others I had passed. It was studded with juniper trees and yucca, with dry yellow grass in between. Yes, there was something of a road, but leading to what?

A few minutes later, I had my answer. Almost hidden until you came upon it, a compound of some sort was built just below the top of the hill. From what I could see, there was a main building and several smaller structures clumped around it. A high adobe wall appeared to circle the entire property. There was a metal gate with, of all things, the same Zia sun symbols as seen on the New Mexico flag adorning its four quadrants. At the moment, that gate stood wide open.

I brought the Cherokee to a stop. The voice said, _It is all right. There is no one here._

"Why is the gate open?"

_I opened it for you._

Not sure what I should do about that particular statement, I swallowed, then nudged the gas. The SUV moved forward slowly, and in a few more seconds, I was inside the compound. Almost as soon as the rear bumper had cleared the gate, it closed behind me.

"You again?" I asked, hoping I'd kept most of the worry out of my voice.

_Yes_.

Since there was nothing else to do, I took a quick survey of my surroundings. There seemed to be a large house, built in the typical Santa Fe style with sheer walls of thick adobe and a flat roof. Aspen trees surrounded it, their golden leaves fluttering in the afternoon breeze. Just past the house was an outbuilding that appeared to be a large garage with four bays, and beyond that something that looked like an extensive greenhouse.

Everything was very tidy, very neat, except for some fallen aspen leaves on the ground. Here, the driveway was crushed gravel, which crunched under the wheels of the Cherokee as I slowly inched it toward the garage. When I approached, the door to the bay farthest on the left rolled up and out of the way.

This time it wasn't entirely unexpected, but I still felt the skin along the back of my neck prickle as I pulled into the garage. The bay was quite wide, almost big enough for two cars, so I had plenty of room to park and then climb out. It was scrupulously clean, the walls finished. Overhead, a light bulb glowed.

I blinked at it, wondering if I was imagining things. Or maybe that was just more of the voice flexing its power. "Is that you?" I asked.

_No. Look out, past the house._

I did as instructed, ignoring Dutchie's whines to be let out. She could hang on a minute longer. As I paused at the entrance to the garage, I saw that the property was very large, probably at least four or five acres, all enclosed within that high adobe wall. The other structure I'd glimpsed was in fact a greenhouse, but beyond that was a small solar farm, and beyond that still I spied a windmill whirling away.

"There's power here?" I had to fight the words past the lump in my throat; crazy how the mere thought of having electricity could get me so worked up.

_That, and so much more. Come — let me show you._

I nodded, but then hurried over to open the passenger door. Dutchie sprang out, tail wagging, and promptly christened the place by squatting down on a patch of grass next to the garage. Despite everything, I couldn't help grinning and shaking my head.

But then I turned away from her so I could follow the flagstone path that led from the garage to the front door of the house. It was painted blue, and shaded by a long colonnaded façade, with heavy wood beams supporting the roof. Again, typical New Mexico architecture, but it looked heavy and solid. Safe.

I put my hand on the latch. The door was unlocked, and swung inward.

It was all I could do not to let out a gasp. The house was, as Elena might have put it, amazeballs.

Red tiled floors. Wooden viga ceilings overhead. A kiva fireplace in one corner. Big, heavy ranch-style furniture. Navajo rugs.

I stepped inside, Dutchie on my heels, then carefully closed the door behind me. My footsteps echoed off the shining floor as I moved farther into the house. It was the sort of place I might have seen in a magazine, with doorways of sculpted adobe, Mexican star lights made of pierced tin hanging in the entry, every piece seemingly selected for one particular spot and that spot only, unique and beautiful.

"What is this place?" I breathed, after I'd recovered myself enough to move from the living room into the dining room, which was dominated by a copper-topped table big enough for twelve and sturdy chairs of dark wood with leather seats and nail-head accents. Landscapes of the area around Santa Fe hung on the walls.

_It was built by a real estate developer from Phoenix who wanted to make sure he would survive the end of the world in comfort. Unfortunately, his plans did not take disease into account, only war and civil unrest._

What was I supposed to say to that?

Shaking my head, I went into the kitchen, which was roughly twice the size of my little over-the-garage apartment. I heard a faint humming noise and wondered what it might be, then realized it was the refrigerator. Strange how only a few days without those sorts of background noises could render them unfamiliar, alien.

I had to know. I walked over to the refrigerator and opened the door. Inside, it was stocked with items that wouldn't spoil easily — cheese, sausage, lunch meats. A six-pack of Kilt Lifter ale sat on the bottom shelf. When I peeked inside the freezer section, it seemed as if it was full of other similar "guy food" sorts of items: frozen pizza, tamales, taquitos. A box of Hot Pockets. A couple of bags of frozen chicken breasts from Trader Joe's.

Dutchie cocked her head, tongue lolling out. I wondered if she'd gotten a whiff of the cheese or sausages in the deli section of the fridge.

"It looks like the owner just stepped out," I said, my tone only partly accusing. "Are you sure no one's been here?"

_Quite sure. The developer died two days ago, and the man he hired to watch over this place passed away yesterday, only three days after the last time he checked in here. You'll find more food in the pantry, and a storeroom in the basement with canned goods, flour, sugar...that sort of thing. The greenhouse has tomatoes, lettuce, carrots, strawberries, and more._

Basically, pretty much anything I would need to keep on living for a good deal longer. And while doing it basically in the lap of luxury.

"How did you find this place?" I asked. I sort of doubted it was the kind of property that popped up on Trulia.

_I knew you would need a sanctuary. So I...looked around._

A sanctuary. Yes, that was what this place felt like. More questions bubbled to my mind, but I wasn't sure the voice would answer any of them.

And in the end, what did it matter? I was here, and I was safe. No one left alive even knew this place existed, and I could hide here for...months. Years, probably. Never mind that I didn't really want to contemplate what it would be like to be out here for years and years with only a disembodied voice and a dog for company.

Well, I didn't have to think about that now. I had other things to do.

"Come on, Dutchie," I said. "Time to unpack the car.

"We're home."

# Chapter 9

In the kitchen cupboards, I found brightly colored Fiesta ware, and heavy blown-glass tumblers and goblets that I thought must have come from Mexico. I poured water — yes, the taps worked, thanks to a well out back that was powered by the windmill — into a bowl for Dutchie, and then tipped some of the Blue Buffalo dry food I'd brought from home into another bowl. She set to, lapping at the water greedily, crunching away at the dog food. I could tell she thought she was home, too. At some point I'd have to see about replenishing her food supply, but that could wait a while. Based on the amount of kibble left in the bag, she'd need some more in about a week. In a pinch, I could defrost some of those frozen chicken breasts and cook them up for her, but it would probably be smarter to head into Santa Fe and go foraging there for some real dog food.

For the moment, though, I was content to explore the rest of the house. It was very large, probably at least four thousand square feet, although I'd be the first to admit that I wasn't very good at judging those sorts of things. But there were three bedrooms, as well as an office, a sitting room, and a family room, in addition to the living room and kitchen. Off the back of the house was another covered patio, and surprisingly lush plantings of various native trees. In a secluded corner, a solar-powered fountain bubbled away. It felt tranquil, sheltered, so far removed from the horrors I'd seen in Albuquerque that I might as well have been on another planet.

Here, I thought I might be able to heal.

After I'd taken care of Dutchie and put all my things away, stowing the guns on a shelf in the master bedroom closet, I treated myself to a long, hot shower. And it was hot, thanks to the solar water heater. The storms I'd feared might be moving in had never materialized, and the day was sun and shadow, but with enough sunlight to keep everything in the house running. I soaked in that shower, letting the water run over me, allowing it to wash away the terror and fear and tragedy I'd left in a place I could no longer think of as home. I would never be able to forget any of it, but now, for the first time, I thought I might be able to focus on what lay ahead, instead of what was behind me.

The softest rugs in the world had been laid down over the tile in the bathroom, and I got out and dried myself off, using the equally soft towels hanging from the rack. If the owner of this place truly had been a real estate developer, it was obvious that he'd spared no expense in outfitting his survival getaway. I had to wonder if he'd actually ever been here, or merely hired people to build and decorate the place to his specifications. Something about it did feel...well, not exactly soulless, because it was too warm and inviting for that, but staged, maybe, as if an interior designer had done all the heavy lifting in making the decorating decisions. And had the developer intended to bring someone with him to share the world after the apocalypse, or had he planned to live in all this luxury alone?

Whatever the case, it was certainly far, far more than I ever could have expected might be awaiting me at the end of my journey. I blotted my hair, found a hair dryer in one of the drawers in the vanity area, and experienced the luxury of actually being able to blow-dry my hair, something I'd thought I'd never be able to do again. I put on clean clothes and my flats, since I wasn't planning to go hiking anytime soon. The next day, I'd roam around and explore the property thoroughly, but for now I was content to cocoon indoors.

When I emerged into the family room, the voice asked, _Are you feeling better now?_

"Much," I replied, although I couldn't help wondering how much it could see. Had it been spying on me in the shower?

No, that was ridiculous. And it had been polite enough to wait to address me until I was in one of the more public areas of the house.

"I'm going to make some dinner," I added. "You want anything?"

Another one of those sounds that might have been a chuckle. _No, thank you. But do enjoy exploring the kitchen._

In that moment, it seemed as if the voice had gone again...if it could ever be said to actually be _here_ in the corporeal sense of the word.

I went on into the kitchen, where Dutchie greeted me with a thumping tail. Had she been here the whole time, waiting to see if I would come back and make some people food?

Apparently so, because the second I opened one package of sausages, her tail began wagging even more fiercely.

"This is not for dogs," I told her in the severest tones I could muster, but she only smiled up at me and cocked her head. Well, that had never worked on my old dog Sadie, either.

I could have nuked the sausages, but for some reason it felt better to rustle out a skillet and cook them the old-fashioned way. The savory smell filled the kitchen, and my stomach rumbled. After digging around in the freezer, I located some frozen home-style potatoes and added them to the mix. Yes, I really needed some fresh fruit or vegetables, but right then I was suddenly too tired to bother with going out to the greenhouse. It could wait another day.

What I did find, tucked under one of the counters, was a wine refrigerator. "Thank you, Mr. Real Estate Developer," I breathed, looking at the gleaming bottles, all chilled to a perfect fifty-four degrees. Not that I knew the first thing about wine, but I did know about needing a drink, and boy, did I need one.

I selected a Black Mesa Montepulciano. I had no idea what a Montepulciano even was, but it sounded exotic. Probably far too exotic for my prosy meal of sausages and potatoes, which were still happily sizzling away on the stove top, but I doubted anyone from _Wine Spectator_ magazine was going to drop in and grade me on my wine pairings.

There was a drawer seemingly dedicated only to wine openers and related gadgets — stoppers, little metal collars with padding inside to keep wine from dripping down the side of a bottle after it had been opened. I'd never been able to manage a waiter-style corkscrew, but there was also one of those "jumping jack"–style openers, and I selected that and went to work on the wine bottle, keeping an eye on the potatoes and sausages the whole time.

The sound of a cork coming out a wine bottle has to be one of the happiest sounds in the world, and I thought I could use a little happiness right then. I pulled one of the heavy blown-glass goblets out of the cupboard and filled it approximately halfway. Everything I'd read and heard said you were supposed to let wine breathe, but I wasn't going to bother with that. I took a sip and closed my eyes. No, I hadn't been much of a wine drinker, had always ordered mixed drinks or tequila shots when I was out with my friends. Now, though, I started to understand the appeal of wine, the smooth darkness of it on my lips, the gentle warmth it seemed to spread through my limbs.

I allowed myself another sip, then went back to the stove so I could turn over the sausages and stir the potatoes around a little. They were basically done, so I scrounged in the cupboard for a plate and dumped everything onto it. Dutchie's tail began to wag frantically, and I couldn't help smiling.

"Okay, we'll see if there's anything left over," I told her, then got out a knife and fork, picked up my goblet of wine, and went into the family room. No way was I going to be the only person sitting down at that massive copper dining room table.

But the family room was a much cozier space, and I settled myself on the couch and placed the plate of food and my wine glass on the coffee table. A flat-screen TV hung on one wall, although it wasn't going to do me much good unless the real estate developer had a stash of DVDs hidden somewhere. He probably did, but in that moment I was too hungry to worry about it. As with so many other things, I'd go exploring later.

There was also a kiva-style fireplace in one corner, with a nice stack of wood in a basket next to it. After I was done eating, I thought I might light a fire and allow myself to simply sit here for a while, quiet, letting my food digest. Hell, maybe I'd even drink that whole bottle of wine. After everything I'd been through, getting drunk sounded like it might not be a half-bad idea.

But no...I knew I wouldn't do that. Just the glass, and maybe half of one afterward. The voice had reassured me I was safe here, and had closed the gate to the compound behind me, but until I'd slept a few nights unmolested, I wasn't about to let my guard down like that. Dutchie had proven to be a good watchdog, and I had a feeling a place like this had some decent built-in security, but even so, being careless seemed like a good way to get myself killed.

Instead, I drank the wine slowly, taking small sips in between bites of my food, until my glass was empty and my plate almost so. There were a few potatoes and the end of one sausage left, and I put the plate down on the floor so Dutchie could have the rest of it. Who cared if that wasn't the most hygienic thing in the world to do? She was deliriously happy about getting some table scraps, and as far as I was concerned, she'd earned them.

Once she'd polished the plate clean, I picked it up, as well as my wine glass, and went back to the kitchen. The plate went in the dishwasher, and I poured enough wine into my goblet to get it to a little below the halfway mark. In the drawer with all the other wine accoutrements, I found a stopper, so I jammed that into the open bottle, figuring I'd finish it off the next day.

And although I was bone-tired, sitting in front of the fire didn't seem so appealing after all. I might as well get more of a handle on this place that was now supposed to be my home. Going back to the family room, I discovered that the large carved cabinet placed up against one wall did in fact hold the real estate developer's Blu-Ray collection. Most of it was fairly typical new-release stuff, with some action classics thrown in. There was also an entire shelf of porn, and I just had to laugh when I looked at it. It was pretty obvious what he'd intended to do with at least some of his time after surviving the zombie apocalypse, or whatever.

I closed the cabinet with one hand, lifted the wine goblet with the other so I could take a drink, and wandered off down the hallway that led to the bedrooms and the office. That was the space which really interested me the most. After flicking on the light — and marveling at how easy that was — I went into the room and took a quick survey. Again, the furniture here was dark distressed oak, a perfect match to the hacienda-style feel of the rest of the house. One wall was mainly window, covered in wooden shutters. Against another wall was a large desk with what looked like a brand-new iMac sitting on it.

There was also a gun safe. I set down my wine glass on the desk, then went over to the safe and tested the lock. I suppose it was silly to think that the thing would have been open, but I couldn't help experiencing a stab of disappointment when the doors wouldn't budge. My father had trained me not to leave guns lying around, and although I was sure they would be fine where I'd put them on the shelf in the closet, I'd feel even better if I could lock them up.

Sitting next to the desk was a file cabinet, and I opened that, quickly rifling through its contents. This was a trove — I found manuals for the computer, the drip setup in the greenhouse, all the appliances, the security system. That seemed to feed into the iMac, so I touched the space bar on the keyboard, waking it up from its sleep. Thank God it didn't seem to be password protected; I was able to find the security program easily enough, which brought up a feed from a number of cameras. At the moment it was showing a grid of all nine of them, although it appeared that I could also expand one image and then rotate through them if I preferred.

Not that it mattered one way or another, as far as I could tell. By then it was completely dark, and the cameras didn't show much of anything. I supposed it made sense not to have security lights blaring around the exterior of the house and the perimeter of the property; that would only serve as a beacon to show that someone was living out here. And actually, after I toggled around a bit, I realized that no lights were needed, as the cameras switched into infrared mode in the dark. Pretty high-tech.

How much had the developer spent building this place? I couldn't begin to guess, but it had to be at least a million dollars. And all for nothing...well, at least where he was concerned. I was more than grateful that the house existed, and that the voice had found it for me, but it still seemed somewhat ironic that so much money had been spent to defend against something which ended up having no defense.

That thought sobered me, and I picked up my goblet and took a large swallow of wine. Dutchie had followed me in here, settling down on the floor in a little ball. There was something almost resigned about her posture, as if she knew that once a human being started mucking around on a computer, they were going to be useless for a good number of hours.

But that wasn't why I'd come in here. I only wanted to know what the room held, and now that I'd seen the kind of security that was protecting this place, I felt a good deal better. Had the system been on when I got here, and the voice had simply disengaged it to allow me to enter, or had he switched it on once I was safely inside the compound? He'd clearly intended for me to come here all along, so I had a feeling it was probably the former. There hadn't been much chance of someone accidentally stumbling across this place, but even so, better safe than otherwise.

Among the manuals was the guide that had come with the gun safe. I flipped through it with one hand, sipping from my wine glass at the same time. When I got to the last page, I saw that some numbers had been written down along the edge of that leaf. The combination?

Only one way to find out.

I put down the wine glass and went over to the safe, then slowly spun the dial around to match the sequence of numbers I'd found inside the manual. There was a soft click, and the door opened outward.

Even though I'd grown up around my father's arsenal, I couldn't help letting out a gasp at what I found. There was — well, an arsenal worthy of holding off an entire horde of zombies. Shotguns and rifles and a parade of handguns, along with box after box of ammo. The problem wouldn't be defending this place if necessary, but deciding which gun to use to do it.

Well, that and trying to squeeze my own meager collection in here.

I closed the safe, reclaimed my wine glass, and finished the rest of it with one swallow. After that, I took the empty glass with me and performed a quick inspection of the other rooms. Nothing out of the ordinary, just bedrooms decorated with the same taste and flair as the rest of the house. Another bathroom, not quite as luxurious as the one in the master suite, but still large enough that two people could comfortably brush their teeth in there or perform other bathroom prep as necessary. It seemed sort of a shame to waste all this space on me, but truthfully, so far I hadn't come across any survivors I'd be willing to share this house with. Yes, there had to be some good people who'd made it through the Heat unscathed. I sure hadn't seen them yet, though.

Suddenly feeling even more tired, I headed back to the kitchen so I could rinse out my wine glass and set it on the counter. For the first time, I noticed a door off to one side; I opened it and saw it concealed the laundry room, which was large and well laid out as well, with a state-of-the-art washer and dryer combo, as well as plenty of storage and a separate wash tub for scrubbing out stubborn stains, or whatever. Inside the cupboards I found what looked like a lifetime supply of detergent, along with all the spare towels and sheets for the various bathrooms and bedrooms. It seemed clear that the developer hadn't been worried about the appliances using up too much of the power the solar farm produced.

Well, if he hadn't worried about it, then I wouldn't worry, either, when the time came. Right now I had enough clothes to last me another week, so laundry wasn't exactly a concern.

The master bedroom had its own kiva fireplace, and I decided it would be better to have a fire there. Having a fireplace in my own bedroom felt deliciously decadent, and the thought of having the flames there to warm me through the night seemed extra appealing.

So I brushed my teeth but didn't worry about my face, since I'd taken a shower only a few hours earlier, and then got some logs from the basket on the floor near the hearth and made a stack the way my father had shown me. There was a lighter on a shelf nearby, so I used that to get things going. Dutchie watched all this with some bemusement, but once the fire got crackling away and began to spread its heat through the room, she let out a contented little sigh and curled up on the rug, her eyes closing almost immediately.

_I know how you feel, Dutchie,_ I thought. Even so, something in me was reluctant to turn off the bedside lamp, as if, once I had done so, I'd never be able to get the light back. Silly, I knew. It wouldn't even be fully dark with the lamp shut off, as the fire was certainly adequate to illuminate the room.

Still, I sat there on the bed for a long time, looking at the glow of the lamp on the bedroom's warm terra-cotta-painted walls, at the gold leaf detailing on the wall where the door was located. Everything felt cozy and quiet and safe, and yet for some reason I couldn't bring myself to reach over to the lamp and turn the knob. Finally, I got up off the bed, went to the closet, and retrieved the Smith and Wesson revolver from the shelf. I laid it on the table next to the bed, then took a deep breath and shut off the lamp.

It wasn't dark. The room danced with firelight, and wasn't even completely silent, between the crackling of the logs and Dutchie's soft snores. I settled my head against the pillow, breathing in the indefinable scent of clean linens. Had the caretaker put fresh sheets on the bed when he'd come by a few days earlier? It certainly seemed that way.

But I didn't want to think about that, because then I'd think about how he was dead, and the man who'd built this house, and Elena and Tori and my aunt and uncle...my mother and father. Devin. Even as I tried to push those thoughts away, I could feel the telltale lump in my throat that meant I was dangerously close to bursting into sobs.

_Don't cry,_ I told myself. _Don't. It won't bring them back. All you can do is keep living, so there'll still be someone around to remember them._

At first glance, that notion might not have seemed very reassuring. Somehow, though, it did calm me, and I found myself falling asleep, succumbing at last to the weariness of the day and the softness of the bed in which I lay. The last thing I heard was a soft _pop_ from the hearth as a log split and settled down on top of the others.

I'd never been much for dreaming. That is, I knew I must dream, because everyone did, but I hardly ever remembered any of those dreams. I was never the one recounting in excruciating detail my crazy dreams about flying or driving my car up the side of a building, or whatever. And I certainly never had _those_ kinds of dreams, the kind you awake from all hot and bothered.

But I did that night.

I dreamed I lay in that bed, with the warm glow of the fire flickering against the walls and the comforting scent of wood smoke in the air. The strange thing was, I dreamed that I slept, and that I awoke to strong arms around me, holding me close, and someone kissing me. In my dream, I didn't think that was strange at all. I opened my mouth to this dream man, tasted the sweetness of his lips, felt him release me from the embrace so he could caress my body, even as I reached over to touch him, to feel his arousal.

And it seemed so natural for him to press me down into the bed, to push himself into me so that we were moving together, my legs wrapped around him, driving him farther into me. This was all done in complete silence; only when the orgasm hit did I finally cry out, but softly. And he said nothing at all, although I could feel the climax shudder through him as well. We stilled, lying in bed, our breaths filling the silence. Then his lips brushed against my cheek, and I heard him whisper, _Beloved_.

I sat up in bed then, heart racing, and pressed my palms flat against the mattress. Shaking, I put one hand to my chest. Unlike in the dream, I was still dressed, wearing the sleep shirt I'd put on before I went in to brush my teeth. My mouth tasted of mint, not...him. And I could tell that no one had touched me. Things didn't...feel...any different.

Just a dream. A horribly vivid dream. In a way, I could even understand it. I was feeling alone, and the voice had been my only real companion for the past few days. All right, I had Dutchie, but that wasn't exactly the same thing. Was it so strange for my subconscious mind to turn that disembodied voice into a sort of dream lover, someone to make me feel as if I weren't the only person left alive on the planet?

Maybe not, but I still felt shaken to my core. I pushed back the sheets and blankets and duvet, then crawled out of bed and went to the bathroom. There, I splashed water on my face, trying to calm myself, and telling myself I should be glad that I was someplace where I had the luxury of running water.

That no-nonsense thought did help me to regain my composure somewhat, and I headed into the bedroom after that, pausing to put another couple of logs on the fire and stir it up a bit with the poker before finally returning to bed. Through all of this, Dutchie had slept peacefully, apparently not discommoded at all by my wandering around.

I got back in bed, then pulled in a deep breath, and another. After everything I'd been through, was I really going to let a dream rattle me? I told myself that I needed to let it go, that everything would be fine.

I just wasn't sure whether I believed those reassurances or not.

# Chapter 10

I spent the next few days really getting myself accustomed to the property and everything on it — the greenhouse, the solar farm, even the garage, which was hiding a Polaris ATV in the farthest bay. When I found that, it somehow made me miss my father even more. He'd always wanted one, but a vehicle intended solely for off-roading was a luxury that just hadn't been in the family budget.

As the voice had told me, there was a good deal of food stored in the basement. Scratch that; there was enough food down there to satisfy the most rabid prepper, shelf after shelf of canned goods and staples such as flour and sugar and cooking oil, and enough spices that I could probably bake something different every day for the next year and still not use everything up. In fact, the basement was so extensive that I got the impression it was actually bigger than the house itself, spreading beyond the walls of the structure directly above it.

The greenhouse was set up on a drip system, one supplied by the same well that gave the house its water. I found a good deal of produce that was at its peak or even just past it, so I harvested that as best I could, eating what needed to be consumed right away and putting the rest in the refrigerator. On the bookshelves in the office, there were a number of reference books on all sorts of topics of interest to the homesteader or survivalist — home canning, sewing, weaving, butchering...even how to make your own bullets. In fact, I found the molds for that very activity down in the basement, along with a quantity of black powder and other supplies. I had to hope none of it would explode and send Dutchie and me sky-high one day.

Although having every conceivable supply on hand should have made me feel better, in truth it only depressed me. I thought of being here so long that I would have to start canning food or sewing my own clothes, of having to go out in the ATV to hunt deer or elk. Even though my father had taken me hunting a few times, I'd never had the heart to pull the trigger. Maybe if I were starving I'd feel differently about the whole thing, but until then I couldn't conceive of killing something so beautiful.

The one thing the compound didn't have was dog food. I wasn't sure what to make of that; maybe Mr. Real Estate Developer wasn't a dog person, although you'd think he would've factored dogs into his survival plan, just because they were good to have around in case things got dicey. Whatever the reason, I was down to about a day's worth of dry food left for Dutchie, which meant I needed to go foraging.

For some reason, the voice had been fairly scarce the past couple of days. I wondered at its absence, thinking that maybe it believed its work was done, since it had gotten me here safely. All the same, I thought I'd better telegraph my plans, let it know I was leaving the compound for a few hours.

"Dutchie's almost out of food," I said as I got the shotgun out of the gun safe. I already wore a gleaming Ruger in a holster on my hip, said armament courtesy of the trove I'd found within that safe. Possibly it would have made better sense to take along a gun I was more familiar with, but I couldn't resist the chrome-plated allure of that Ruger. My father would have known how much it cost, but I didn't have a clue. A lot, that's for sure.

Silence met my announcement, so I went on, "I'm going down into Santa Fe for a few hours. Can I assume the coast is clear?"

Nothing again, and I frowned. But since I'd seen more clouds massing up to the northeast, I didn't want to dilly-dally. Maybe twenty minutes in and twenty minutes out; I'd actually seen a PetSmart down a side street as I was making my way along Cerrillo Road when I came into town, so at least I wouldn't have to waste a lot of time looking for a pet store. Having no cell service and no way to look anything up on the Internet definitely made what should have been easy tasks a lot more difficult.

With a shrug, I closed the safe and locked it, then headed out to the kitchen. I really didn't need anything else in the way of supplies, although the chilliness of the nights even now, in early October, told me that the cold-weather gear I'd brought along might not be sufficient for a full-blown Santa Fe winter. Well, if I had time to poke around, I'd see if I could find something.

As I was getting ready, I debated whether to bring Dutchie along, and then decided against it. She was safe here, and I knew I'd move faster if I didn't have her along. Besides, I needed someplace to stow the shotgun. I wasn't sure if she'd take kindly to being relegated to the back seat so the shotgun could...ride shotgun.

I patted her head, got her some fresh water, and then told her I'd be going out but would be back soon. Since she'd gotten used to me coming and going between the house and the garage or the kitchen and the greenhouse, she took this announcement in stride, lapping up some of the water I'd just poured before she settled down on the rug in front of the oven. That was one of her new favorite spots, which made things sort of difficult when I was trying to cook.

Smiling, I went out the back door and made my way along the flagstone walk to the garage. In my explorations, I'd found the remotes for the garage and the front gate, so technically I didn't need the voice to let me in and out. Still, I couldn't help wondering where he'd gotten to.

With a shrug, I opened the garage door, then climbed into the Cherokee. I leaned the shotgun against the passenger seat, checked the fuel gauge, and backed out, glad that I wouldn't have to worry about getting more gas anytime soon. This place felt like it was out in the middle of nowhere — and it was — but I doubted it was more than five miles one way from here to the city center. I could go back and forth at least twenty more times before I had to bother with fueling up.

The dirt track hadn't improved any since the last time I'd driven over it, and I gritted my teeth as I bounced and jounced along at a steady twenty miles an hour. It was a relief to hit the actual road, even though it wasn't in the greatest shape, either. But at least here I could increase my speed to thirty, slowing occasionally to go around an abandoned truck or car.

Nothing had changed. I wasn't sure why I'd expected it to, except I supposed that was a normal, human thing to think — the world around us had never been static, people and cars coming and going, shifting their positions. Here, though, there were no more people left to change anything. Or rather, so few of them probably remained that it would take some doing to run into any of them. I was a little hazy on the population of Santa Fe before the Heat laid everything waste, but I had a feeling there couldn't be more than a hundred or so people left in the general area, if even that much.

Eventually, I backtracked my way to Cerrillo, then drove some distance down the street before I spotted the PetSmart off to my left. I turned — going wide to avoid a Ford Explorer sitting right in the middle of the intersection — and pulled into the store parking lot. There weren't that many vehicles here, most likely because people had been thinking about other things than feeding their pets when the doomsday disease swept through town.

When I went inside, my father's heavy police-issue flashlight in one hand, I was relieved to see that all the live small animals — the rats and mice and gerbils, the birds and lizards and snakes — had apparently flown the coop. How they'd gotten out, I had no idea, unless this was another example of "being taken care of," as the voice had assured me back in Albuquerque. There was evidence of the food being tampered with, but although anything within reach of a large dog's muzzle seemed to be either gone or half-eaten, there were still bags and bags on the upper shelves. I got a shopping cart and loaded it up, took it to the Cherokee, and dumped the bags there, then repeated the process until my arms ached and I wouldn't be able to see out the back window if I kept it up any longer. That would be enough to see Dutchie through the winter, and after that — well, I'd just come foraging again.

I also grabbed a miscellany of dog treats and dog toys from the displays at the front of the store, and wedged those in and around the big twenty-pound bags of dog food. Dutchie was definitely going to be one spoiled doggie, but I thought she deserved it.

During this whole process, which I estimated took me about twenty minutes or so, I didn't see any evidence of anyone else being around. True, a pet store probably wasn't the sort of place where survivors hung out, but I felt myself relax a little. Maybe this was why the voice had let me alone — it had known I had nothing to fear on this particular trip.

Humming to myself, I got back in the SUV and pointed it northward, back along the way I'd come. When I got to the intersection where I should have turned on Alameda to head back up into the hills, though, I found myself slowing down, and then cutting left so I could drive up Don Gaspar.

Almost at once, I heard the voice in my head. _Jessica, what are you doing?_

Relief flooded through me. So I hadn't been completely abandoned. "I want to see."

_See what?_

"The center of town. I want to see if it's all right."

_Why should that matter?_

"Because it matters," I said, an edge of irritation in my voice. "It was a cultural center. Lots of museums, historical sites. What can it hurt to look?"

Silence for a few seconds. _You may not like what you see._

Ice etched its way down my spine, but I attempted to ignore it, instead asking, "So where the hell have you been, anyway? The Bahamas?"

He didn't answer directly, but said, _You missed me?_

Did I want to admit that I had? Probably not. Hedging, I replied, "Well, I love Dutchie, but she's not the world's greatest conversationalist."

I heard one of those low chuckles. _You may be right in that._

Despite what he'd just said about my not liking what I would see, I couldn't help smiling. That smile faded abruptly, though, as I came around the corner to Santa Fe's famous plaza. In good weather — and even not-so-good weather — the plaza was usually full of people, whether tourists, musicians, vendors, or locals out to get some air. I'd expected it to be empty. What I hadn't expected to see were the obvious signs of looting, of storefronts smashed in, merchandise scattered across the sidewalk.

Mouth grim, I parked the Cherokee in a place that would have been heinously illegal a few days earlier, straddling the curb at the intersection of Palace Avenue and San Francisco Street. There really wasn't anyplace else, as cars still lined the streets, their meters run out long ago. I didn't bother to look and see if there were piles of gray dust inside those cars. If their owners had died outside, the wind would've blown their remains away days earlier.

"I don't understand," I said. "Why would people loot here? Food or medical supplies I can understand, but expensive jewelry and art?"

_I don't know for certain. Perhaps they were attempting to assert some control over their environment as everything was falling apart._

That was one way of looking at it. My hiking boot hit something that clinked against the sidewalk, and I looked down to see that it was a heavy gold cuff bracelet studded with sapphires and diamonds. I thought I even knew which store it had come from, because it was a place where Elena and Tori and I had pressed our noses to the window and gawked at the wares inside, trying to figure out how anyone would pay almost fifty grand for a pair of earrings, even if said earrings were huge drops of tanzanite and diamond that looked as if they should be at the Academy Awards, not a shop window in Santa Fe.

Without thinking, I bent down and picked up the bracelet, then slid it onto my wrist. It was cold against my skin; the day had turned cloudy and dark, the temperature dropping with it. I even thought I felt the first spatter of a raindrop or two against my face.

Or maybe those were tears.

I saw other items scattered around — a lone earring, a trinket box of carved stone. For some reason, I began to pick them up, gathering everything I could find and then taking it into the nearest store, a shop that seemed to have specialized in high-end western gear. It had been hit, too, but not as badly as the jewelry stores.

Again the voice asked, _Jessica, what are you doing?_

"What does it look like I'm doing?" I asked angrily. "I'm cleaning this up."

A long pause. _Why?_

"Because — because someone loved these things once. Someone made them, and someone chose them to sell in their store, and I don't want them lying all over the place like garbage. They deserve better than that." As I spoke, I realized that tears were running down my cheeks, dripping bitter salt into my mouth.

When it spoke again, the voice was very gentle. _My dear, they are just things._

"I know that!" I raged. "But I also know they're the only things _left!_ So I'm not going to leave them here!"

Silence again. Then, _Jessica, do not distress yourself so. I will take care of it._

I don't even know how to describe what happened next. A wind came swirling out of nowhere, seeming to come in and pick up all the detritus in the square — baskets and rugs and loose bits of jewelry and hats and paintings and pots, everything that had been scattered on the ground during the looting. It coalesced into a cloud of debris, snaking through the air and rushing into the open door of a shop, then slamming it shut.

Blinking, I stared at the streets around me, saw how they were clear of everything except a few scattered leaves, all evidence of chaos gone as if it had never existed. Somehow, I managed to find my voice. "That — that was you?"

_Yes._

"But...why?"

_I do not like seeing you in distress._

What could I possibly say to that? I swallowed, my throat dry. The air around me was still once more, heavy and cold. Again I felt the stinging touch of rain sharp against my face.

"Thank you," I managed at last.

_Go home, beloved._

I nodded, then made myself turn around and go back to the Cherokee, to climb behind the wheel and turn the key in the ignition. Perhaps there was more damage beyond the plaza, but I didn't want to look. I'd seen enough for one day.

The trip home was uneventful, though, and in a way it felt good to busy myself with hauling all those bags of dog food out of the back of the SUV and storing them in the basement, save for one that I shoved into a corner of the pantry. I also got out a chewy treat and gave it to Dutchie, who wagged her tail ecstatically and settled down on her rug to start masticating.

It wasn't until later, when I'd put away the Ruger I hadn't needed and similarly stowed the shotgun, then sat down to catch my breath, that I stared down at the heavy gold bracelet on my wrist. How much was it worth?

Wrong question, in this time when a pound of beef was probably worth a lot more than a pound of gold. The more accurate question to ask would be, _What did this cost?_

I didn't know. I'd had a small collection of costume jewelry and a few pieces of Native American work, mostly turquoise. When I packed my belongings and left Albuquerque, I hadn't brought any of it along, save the small silver hoops I was already wearing. Just hadn't seen the point.

But this thing, which should have been adorning the wrist of some movie star on the red carpet? Who knows. Probably as much as the Grand Cherokee had cost my father when he bought it brand new.

I twisted the bracelet around and around, and then became aware of something sharp sticking into my left hip bone. Puzzled, I reached into the pocket of my jeans, thinking that maybe I'd stuck something in there earlier and forgotten about it.

My fingers closed around two cool, heavy objects. I drew them out, then opened my hand to see what the hell they were.

For a second or two, I just stared down at them. Then, because I couldn't think of what else to do, I began to laugh.

In my hand were the tanzanite and diamond earrings Elena and Tori and I had admired on our last trip to Santa Fe.

I didn't bring up the subject of the earrings. How could I? That would mean I'd have to ask how the voice knew I'd seen those earrings and fallen partly in love with them, even though I'd known I would never in a million years be able to afford something like that.

No, I'd stowed them in the drawer of my nightstand and tried to put the incident out of my mind. And since in the days that followed, I didn't need to leave the compound, I didn't hear from the voice much. If I was trying to find a certain item, like a screwdriver, I'd ask where it might be located, and the voice would always answer. Otherwise, though, it seemed to be leaving me alone again, allowing me to find some equilibrium in my new life here.

There was, surprisingly, enough to keep me busy. As I'd promised my father, I wrote down as much as I could about the way the Heat had come to Albuquerque, and what the city had looked like when I left. That was a spare and painful narrative, though, and so I also wrote down random memories, just so I wouldn't forget them — the surprise party my father had thrown my mother for her fiftieth birthday. Devin's touchdown at the homecoming game last year. The crazy artist who'd approached me on one of our girls' Santa Fe trips and told me I had an amazing face and that he wanted to paint me. Things like that...bright pieces of a world now gone forever.

In addition to all that, I tended the plants in the greenhouse and puttered around the house and took Dutchie for long walks, which also helped me inspect the perimeter of the property. The wall was in perfect condition, as far as I could tell, and a good barrier against wild animals, of which there were plenty in the area. I could hear the coyotes calling at night sometimes, and one time the snarl of a cougar or bobcat. Needless to say, I hadn't ventured out to investigate, although Dutchie had gone nuts, growling and barking as she moved from window to window, presumably following along as the wild cat moved along the wall that bordered the property.

But none of those animals had gotten close enough to trigger the security system, which was why I almost had a heart attack one afternoon, about ten days after I'd come to Santa Fe, when all of a sudden the house was filled with a shrill alarm. I'd been sitting in the breakfast nook in the kitchen, keeping one eye on the book I was reading and another on the loaf of bread I had in the oven. Bread-making was a new venture for me, but really, what else did I have to do with my time?

I shot a quick glance at the timer and saw the loaf still had around a half hour to go, then bolted from the kitchen so I could bring up the security feed on the computer in the office. After I jiggled the mouse to wake up the iMac, I saw the grid with its images from all nine security cameras, including the one at the front gate.

Someone was standing there, staring up at the house. From the way his mouth was moving, it sounded as if he was calling out, but the security system didn't have audio, only video. And because it was a chilly day, threatening rain just like the time I'd had my meltdown in the plaza, all the windows were shut.

Should I ignore him? Wait it out and hope he would go away? If he'd meant to sneak in and wreak havoc, he probably wouldn't have been shouting for attention at the front gate. Still....

This was the first living soul I'd seen in two weeks. The camera didn't show a huge amount of detail, because the sun was at his back and all I could see was his silhouette, but I hadn't seen any evidence of a gun or any other weapon. Not that that meant much.

Deciding to compromise, I got the shotgun out of the gun safe and then headed out the front door, Dutchie tagging along at my heels. She hadn't barked yet, but maybe that was only because she hadn't yet caught a whiff of the stranger.

I walked down the driveway and paused about six feet from the gate. Because the drive sloped up the hill toward the house and the garage, I had something of a vantage point, could see that this unwelcome visitor was a young man probably around my age or maybe a few years older. Black hair pulled back into a ponytail, warm brown skin, black almond-shaped eyes. Definitely Native American.

And...gorgeous. Like, the kind of gorgeous I would've had a hard time not staring at if I'd been in a club or out with my friends at a restaurant or the movies or the mall. Having someone who looked like that turn up on my doorstep, when I hadn't seen anyone since the man I'd shot outside Walgreens?

Well, let's just say it was a little overwhelming.

But not so much I forgot that I was here alone, sitting on top of a stockpile of supplies that were a damn good incentive for murder, as far as I was concerned. I hefted the shotgun so he could see it, but didn't bring it up to eye level.

"Who are you?" I demanded, while Dutchie sat beside me, wagging her tail. So much for looking intimidating.

"Jason Little River," he said, eyeing the shotgun but clearly attempting to keep a pleasant expression on his face. "My friends call me Jace."

"So, Jason," I said, emphasizing his full name, "how did you find this place?"

He paused, clearly a little disconcerted by the hostility in my tone. "The tire tracks," he replied, pointing at the rutted road that led to the compound. Since it had started raining on the way back from my last trip into town, the tracks I'd left were fairly defined. Damn. I hadn't even thought of that.

But those obvious tire tracks didn't explain everything. "You still had to get a good way out of town to even see where this road started."

"True. I had a friend who lived on Upper Canyon. I came here to Santa Fe — well, I came here hoping he might still be okay. Stupid, I know." Jason paused, gaze lingering on the shotgun before returning to my face. "And when I went to his house...." Under the heavy backpack he wore, the kind of metal-framed thing serious hikers used, his shoulders lifted. "No one there, of course. I was sort of walking around, trying to figure out what to do next, and I saw the tracks on the road going up the hill past his property. I figured I might as well check it out. The tracks seemed too fresh to have been made before...well, before."

I didn't bother to ask him what he meant by "before." For all of us survivors, our lives would forever be divided between "before" and "after." "You say you came here to Santa Fe. Where from?"

"Taos. I lived on the pueblo there." A disarming grin, one that under different circumstances might have made my knees melt. "Well, part-time. I also had an apartment in town. You?"

It was on my lips to say I was the one asking the questions here, but that sounded awfully rude, even under the current circumstances. "Albuquerque."

His eyebrows went up. "How'd you manage to get here, of all places?"

I hefted the shotgun. "I don't think that matters. I'm here now."

He didn't miss the way I'd shifted the gun, just enough to show I wasn't thrilled by his questions. "Hey, it's okay. It's just — I haven't seen anyone for almost two weeks. I'm probably a little off."

_You and me both, honey._ Relenting a little, I asked, "So no one was left in Taos?"

A shadow seemed to pass over his face, but his voice was level as he replied, "No one in the pueblo. When I went into town, I didn't see anyone, except one woman lurking around one of the hotels. She took one look at me and ran off screaming." He shrugged. "Since I could tell she wasn't open to conversation, I didn't bother to go after her. She could have been armed."

"And you weren't?"

Again I saw his eyes flicker toward the gun I held. "No. Well, not besides this." His hand went to his hip, where I could see he wore some kind of leather scabbard, about the size to conceal a hunting knife.

"Let me see it."

From this distance, I couldn't really hear him sigh, but I could tell his patience was starting to run thin. Holding my gaze, he undid the snap that kept the knife in place, then pulled it out of its sheath. As I'd thought, it was a big piece clearly designed for hunting, with a serrated edge. My father had owned one not unlike it.

"And that's all?" I asked.

He nodded, then went on, "Hey, I have a peace offering."

"What?" Saying my tone was guarded would have been an understatement.

"I'm going to get something out of my backpack," he said, laying the knife down in the dirt in front of him. "Okay?"

"Depends what it is," I told him.

A grin, one that showed off a dazzling set of white teeth. I had a feeling he'd used that smile to good effect a number of times in the past, but I had to make it seem as if it wasn't affecting me, even though I could feel a not-unpleasant shiver go through me at the way the smile lit up his dark eyes.

"I think you'll like this."

He unslung the backpack, setting it on the ground before unzipping it and spending a few seconds going through its contents. His back was to me, so I couldn't see exactly what he was doing. Almost at once, though, he turned around. In each hand he held a wine bottle.

"Very nice, but I've got a pretty stocked cellar up there," I said, jerking my chin back toward the house.

"Ah, but this is La Chiripada cabernet sauvignon. New Mexico wine. You have any of that?"

I really didn't have any idea. Besides the wine refrigerator in the kitchen, I'd discovered another trove in the basement, cases and cases of wine, most of it from California and France, from what I could tell, and some odd bits from South America and Arizona. I hadn't noticed anything from New Mexico, but then again, I hadn't exactly been looking for it, either.

As I hesitated, not sure how to respond, I heard the voice in my head.

_He is safe._

"What?" I murmured under my breath, hoping the stranger wouldn't notice me muttering to myself.

_He is safe. There is no reason to keep him out._

"Wait...you actually want me to let him in?"

_Yes_.

To say I was flummoxed would be an understatement. Here it seemed the voice had done everything to keep me safe, to have me avoid other survivors because of the dangers involved, and now he wanted me to allow a strange man to simply walk into my sanctuary here?

"What happens if he _isn't_ safe?"

_He is safe. I promise you._

Even with the voice stating his opinion so flatly, I couldn't help hesitating. True, he had always protected me, argued with me when I wanted to do things he found too dangerous. So I supposed I should be trusting his judgment here.

I sent a sidelong glance in the stranger's direction. He was still standing there, a bottle in each hand, a half hopeful, half anxious expression on his face. There was something so goofy about the combination, so oddly adorable, that I found myself relenting.

"All right," I muttered to the voice. "You'd just better not be playing supernatural matchmaker here or something, or we'll be discussing this further."

No answer to that. I hadn't really expected one.

Not quite allowing myself to sigh, I transferred the shotgun to my left hand and began walking to the gate. There was a manual release there, since obviously I hadn't brought the remote with me.

"Okay," I told Jason. "I've never had La Chiripada."

The look of relief that passed over his face was also adorable, and erased some of the strain I'd seen in his features. "Great. Thanks. I appreciate this. Really." He began stuffing the wine bottles into his backpack, then hefted it onto his shoulders. After that, he shot me a questioning look. "And your name is?"

"Jessica," I told him as I pushed the button to open the gate. "Jessica Monroe."

Another one of those blazing smiles, "Well, Jessica, I am _very_ pleased to make your acquaintance."

# Chapter 11

We headed up to the house after that, Dutchie dancing around Jason, tail wagging and tongue lolling as if her long-lost best friend had just come home.

"I hope you're a dog person," I told him as we went in the front door.

"I am, actually. There were always a lot of dogs on the pueblo. I didn't have one of my own, since I was living in an apartment about half the time, but — " He broke off, pausing a few paces inside the entryway. His expression was so awestruck that at first I thought he was impressed by the house, which didn't surprise me too much. It was pretty impressive. But then he said, "Is that _bread?_ "

"It is," I said, adding, "and I hope I haven't just burned it."

I jogged into the kitchen, Dutchie tagging along at my heels, since of course the kitchen was her favorite room in the house. Jason followed at a more sedate pace, probably because of the backpack he carried.

But when I peered into the oven, the bread looked perfect, golden brown and with just the right amount of loft. The timer said I had exactly thirty seconds to go. So I grabbed some potholders and pulled out the pan, setting it on the stove top to cool.

By then Jason had shrugged off his backpack and leaned it up against one of the cupboards. "That's amazing."

"What is?" I asked, turning to face him.

"The bread. This." He waved a hand, as if indicating the kitchen and the house beyond. "It's like — it's like it never happened."

Again, I didn't have to ask what he meant by "it." "Someone definitely put a lot of work into this house. I was lucky to find it."

A pause, during which I wondered if he was going to ask again how I had found it...and what the hell I should say in response to such a question. Instead, though, he inquired, "Your family didn't build it?"

"Oh, no. We could never have afforded something like this."

My reply appeared to make him relax slightly. Maybe he'd been thinking I was some rich girl from the city or something. There was a joke. But I could see how that might have made things even more awkward between us; I knew most of my state's Native American residents weren't exactly rolling in cash.

Well, neither was my family, so I added, "I found some paperwork when I was going through the house. The guy who built it was a real estate developer from Phoenix. I doubt he's going to be showing up any time soon."

A nod, although I could see the way Jason was surveying the kitchen, from the gleaming stainless-steel appliances to the custom cupboards and granite countertops. I had no idea what he might be thinking. In that moment, I was only strangely glad that I'd been so careful about keeping the place clean. In the past, I hadn't been what you might call the world's greatest housekeeper, but now I found cleaning the house helped to distract me, and used up some of the empty hours.

His next question surprised me. "You came from Albuquerque. We were pretty cut off in Taos. Did you ever hear anything more about the disease...where it started, mortality rates, anything like that?"

That was the last thing I wanted to talk about, but Jace clearly wanted more information than he'd gotten back home. Not that I had a lot to give him. Even so, I thought it best to stall a little while I figured out how much I should say.

"Water?" I asked, and he blinked, clearly startled by the non sequitur, then replied,

"Yes, thanks."

So I got a glass from the cupboard and filled it up with water from the refrigerator door. When I went to hand it to him, I realized how tall he was, how there were definitely some impressive muscles under the loose-fitting flannel shirt he wore. And even though he had to have been living rough for the past few weeks, I could tell he was clean. In fact, I caught the faintest scent of wood smoke coming from his clothes, and something about the aroma made a little thrill go through me.

I definitely needed to get it together.

Stepping away from him, pretending that I needed to go check on the bread, I said, "Things fell apart pretty quickly in Albuquerque, too. We never got a straight story about where it started or anything like that. Afterward...." I let the words trail off as I flashed back to that dark Walgreens, and the man I had confronted there. "I did meet someone who said he'd worked for emergency management downtown. He said the mortality rate was 99.8 percent."

"Shit." With his brown skin, Jace couldn't exactly go pale, but I still saw the blood appear to drain from his face. Then his dark eyes seemed to go sharp as he focused on what I'd just said. "Wait — you _met_ another survivor? Where is he?"

_Shit_ was right. I'd just met Jace. Was I supposed to tell him that I'd murdered a man?

I didn't see much of a way around it. If we were really going to be sharing this house, I wasn't sure I wanted to keep that big a secret from him. He needed to know, so he could decide if it was worth the risk to stay.

"He's dead," I said, my voice flat, harsh. "He tried to take my vehicle away from me, all the supplies I'd put together. He pulled a gun on me. So I shot him."

Silence. Jace stared at me, obviously trying to process what I'd just said. When he spoke, his tone was a lot gentler than I'd expected. "Because he was trying to steal from you, and you would've been dead without that vehicle and those supplies."

The question was, _would_ I have been? I could have gone foraging all over again if necessary, could've found one of the abandoned vehicles and hot-wired it, another skill my father had taught me. I wasn't sure what happened to car keys if they were actually on a victim of the Heat, in a pocket or something, when they went to dust. All their clothes and jewelry seemed to disappear, so obviously the heat in their bodies was so extreme that it could destroy everything around them. Or was the explanation that simple? I hadn't actually stopped to puzzle it out, mostly because I knew in the end it didn't really matter. Those people were gone, and so were the belongings they had on them.

"I thought so at the time," I said slowly. As Jason kept looking at me with that concerned expression on his face, I felt something give way inside, the words flowing out, even though I hadn't meant to mention anything else of what had happened. "And he had this _look_ on his face, and the night before that, crazy Chris Bowman had broken into my house and _attacked_ me, and — "

I couldn't go on, because out of nowhere tears were streaming down my face, and, to my dismay, I'd begun to sob, the horror of it all coming back to me, something dark and terrible that had only been lurking in the murky sediment at the bottom of my mind, just waiting to return and overwhelm me.

Jason crossed the kitchen and pulled me against him, his hand smoothing my hair, his warm voice murmuring my name as I wept into his shirt, the flannel soft against my cheek. He smelled of wood smoke and pine needles, and underneath that, clean male sweat, and I breathed him in, reassured beyond measure at the feel of someone so solid, so real.

And then I realized what I was doing, that I was sobbing in the arms of a man I had just met, and I pushed myself away, shaking my head. "I — I'm sorry," I gasped. "That was just — that came out of nowhere. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he said. His dark eyes seemed alight with compassion, with understanding. "I can't imagine how rough this must have been for you. And I'm sorry that you...did what you had to do. But I don't think you can blame yourself for that."

I went to the paper towel dispenser and tore off a partial sheet, then blotted my eyes. Good thing I hadn't bothered with makeup since I'd gotten here, except for some gloss to keep my lips from cracking in the dry, cold weather. "Thank you," I said simply. "But I do blame myself. There had to be something else I could have done — "

"I don't know about that," he said. "Sounds like you were kind of up against a wall." Again I was struck by the warmth in his expression...but it wasn't _that_ kind of warmth, more that he was sorry I'd had to go through anything so terrible. "But I'm glad you told me the truth."

So was I, oddly enough. I'd just told him the worst thing about me, and he hadn't even blinked. That had to be a good sign.

"I'm glad, too," I told him, wanting to put the whole thing behind me. Somehow I knew Jace wouldn't press the issue any further. "Now, how about some of this bread?"

And like that, Jason Little River came to live at the compound. He took over the larger of the secondary bedrooms, putting his meager belongings in the closet there. I noticed that he hadn't brought any personal items with him, no photographs of family or anything like that, unlike the wedding photo of my parents that now lived on the mantel in the living room, or the shot of all of us at one of Devin's football games, which was now sitting on the dresser in the master bedroom.

When I asked him about his family, his expression grew shuttered. "All gone now," he said, and didn't seem to want to talk about it anymore. Since I understood all too well what it felt like to lose everyone around you, I didn't press the issue. Although I didn't know a whole lot about life on the pueblo, I knew it had to be a fairly close-knit community, a sort of huge extended family very unlike what I'd grown up with. His loss was probably even more painful than mine. If he wanted to open up about it later, after he'd had time to work through it in his own way, then I would be there to listen to him.

He was impressed by the compound, by all the lengths its builder had gone to so it would be self-sustaining. Even so, after one morning of walking around and inspecting everything, just a day or two after he moved in, he told me, "We should really be thinking about getting some livestock. This place isn't big enough for cattle, but maybe some goats?"

"Goats?" I repeated, not bothering to keep the skepticism out of my voice. "You're not suggesting we _eat_ a goat, are you?"

His teeth flashed in the morning sun as he grinned at me. It was a bright, brisk day, the sky dappled with clouds, but the sunlight still fiercely bright. Despite the glaring sun, I could feel the bite in the wind, the unmistakable signs that winter was coming...and that it was going to be a lot colder than anything I'd experienced down in Albuquerque.

"The original _barbacoa_ was made with goat," he pointed out. I only raised an eyebrow, and he laughed and went on, "I was thinking more in terms of milk and cheese. The cheese you have now isn't going to last forever."

Well, that was true. We had plenty of other staples, but some of the perishables like the cheese and the butter were about on their last legs. "Do you know how to milk a goat?" I asked.

"No, but I've milked cows. The technique can't be all that different."

The way he said it, halfway arch, halfway teasing, just made me shake my head. "Okay, I'll let you do it. Assuming we can even find any goats. They weren't exactly thick on the ground, the last time I checked."

"Maybe not, but there were probably people on the outskirts of town who kept livestock, and I know I saw animal pens up in Nambe as I came down into town."

"Oh?" I asked. It was the first time he'd made any mention of his journey here. I hadn't pressed, because I knew better than anyone else that there were some things people just didn't want to talk about. Even so, I'd wondered about the long walk from Taos, and what he'd encountered on it.

"Yeah." He wasn't looking at me, was instead staring to the north and east, presumably in the direction from which he'd come. "Part of the reason it took me so long to get here was that I took the High Road down from Taos. I figured it might be safer to stay off the main roads."

"And you walked that whole way?" I asked, staring at him with some incredulity. I'd heard of the High Road, but I'd never been on it. The scenic side trip was one that my family had discussed taking a few times, but those plans had never materialized. My father had always been a Point A to Point B kind of guy and was more intent on the destination than on the road that led to it.

Jace gave me a rueful smile. "Not at first. I had a motorcycle, and I'd ridden it before with my backpack, although I know that's not really recommended. But I thought I could do it if I kept my speed down. Besides, a motorcycle is a lot easier to maneuver around abandoned vehicles."

I couldn't argue with that. But a motorcycle wouldn't have worked for me. I had too much stuff to bring, and besides, there was Dutchie. Well, maybe a sidecar....

Turning away from me, Jason surveyed the horizon again. The wind picked up, pulling strands of heavy dark hair out of the piece of thin leather he had wrapped around his ponytail. His hair hung a few inches below his shoulders, and so far I hadn't seen it in anything but that heavy tail down his back. That hadn't stopped me from wondering what it would look like, sleek and loose over those broad shoulders.

Which was exactly the wrong thing to be thinking. After I'd lost it the day we'd met, and he'd held me and comforted me, we'd maintained a careful distance between us. I hadn't noted even a flicker of interest from him. Maybe I wasn't his type, or maybe it was the far more stark fact that he'd lost not just his family, but his people, his entire way of life. He seemed to be bouncing back fairly well, but it was probably a little self-absorbed of me to think he'd be interested in any sort of romantic entanglements so soon after suffering that kind of shock.

Besides, I wasn't even sure whether _I_ was interested in anything like that. Yes, Jace was extremely good-looking, and he had an easygoing way about him that I appreciated, after some of the high-strung guys I'd dated in the past, but our focus should be on survival first and foremost. Those other sorts of complications were pretty far down my list of priorities.

And anyway, break-ups were bad enough when you had a decent chance of never seeing the other person again. I didn't exactly have that luxury at the moment.

Jace didn't seem to have noticed my preoccupation, since he appeared to be absorbed in studying the far-off outlines of the Jemez mountain range. I noticed that he held something in his hand, a leather thong knotted through a hole in a smooth-polished black stone. His thumb moved over it, the motion reminding me of the worry beads sometimes used by Greek men.

Then he said, "But I picked up something in my tire in Placita. I had a patch kit in my backpack, but it wasn't just a nail that had blown the tire, but a sharp rock. I lost two nights there, trying to fix it, scavenging around to see if I could find anything to replace it with, but that was a no-go."

"No one there, either?" I asked, although I already knew what the answer would be.

"No. Not a soul. I did some foraging to replenish my supplies, which was what delayed me even more. Or maybe I just wasn't looking forward to that long, long walk."

It would have been that. Even with the part of the trip he'd shaved off by riding his motorcycle, he still had to have walked a good forty miles or so. Farther, actually, because it was still about fifteen miles from Nambe to the heart of Santa Fe, and then another five miles to this hidden fold of the hills where the compound was located.

"But you did it anyway."

He nodded, then shoved the polished stone he'd been holding back into his pocket. "There was nothing left in Taos. I wandered there for about a day and a half — I was at the pueblo when the illness hit, and our healers couldn't do anything to combat it. No one could. People were being told to stay at home, that the local medical center didn't have the resources to treat that many victims at once. So...I stayed there and watched everyone die around me."

"And waited to find out when it would be your turn," I said quietly.

Finally, he shifted so his gaze fell upon me, rather than that far-off, jagged horizon. Those jet-black eyes, in their fringe of equally black lashes, were startled, but then he nodded in understanding. "Yes. That's exactly what I did. But then after another day passed, and everyone was gone, leaving behind only dust, I realized I wouldn't be lucky enough to join all my people in the afterlife. I was doomed to drift here, in a world I hadn't chosen."

I probably wouldn't have phrased it that way, but he was right — that's exactly what it felt like. Being cast adrift on dark waters, paddling desperately, although you had no idea why you'd been pushed out onto that black ocean in the first place. "So you left then?"

He nodded, and once again his attention moved back to the horizon, to the mountains that blocked his view of the place he had once called home. "Well, I went from the pueblo to my apartment. At least I'd had the motorcycle with me at the pueblo, so the trip didn't take long. The whole way I didn't see anyone, just cars left along the side of the road. Same thing at my apartment — it was a small building, only four units, but all the hotels were equally deserted."

His shoulders lifted under the leather jacket he wore, although I wasn't quite sure of the reason for the shrug. Dismissing his futile attempts to find any survivors? I didn't know him well enough to guess.

"Anyway," he continued. "I could tell that staying in Taos probably wasn't a good idea. It's a small town...was, I mean...and the chances of finding anyone who'd lived through the Heat were pretty low. I packed what I could and left. I did see that one woman as I was heading out of town, but, as I said, she took off the second she saw me. Maybe she thought I was a ghost." He did smile then, but grimly, just the slightest lift at the corners of his mouth.

_Or a rapist,_ I thought, recalling my own experiences. I didn't say anything aloud, though. Whatever he might be, Jason Little River was clearly _not_ a rapist. "And the wine?" I asked.

"The La Chiripada tasting room was just down the street from where I lived. Since no one was around, I figured it wouldn't matter if I liberated a couple of bottles. I had a feeling I might need a drink in the near future. Or," he added, with a real smile this time, his expression warming as he looked over at me, "a peace offering."

I tried not to blush, but I wasn't sure how successful I was at it. With any luck, he'd think the flush in my cheeks had come from the brisk wind blowing down from the north, and not the way he'd just looked at me. "Speaking of the wine," I said, my tone probably too casual, "we should have something special to drink it with. Frozen tamales probably aren't festive enough."

"You like rabbit?" Jace asked, a gleam in those black eyes.

"I don't know," I replied uncertainly. I had a feeling I knew what he was going to suggest. "I've never had it."

"Well, time to change that." He glanced over at the house, then back at me. "That is, assuming you have a .22 in that gun safe of yours."

At least he didn't ask me to go with him. In the back of my mind, I'd understood that at some point I'd have to start eating game meats, but I wasn't sure I could handle watching Jace shoot a fluffy little bunny and then expect to roast it or whatever a few hours later.

He did take Dutchie along, saying she might as well start to learn what it meant to be an outdoor dog. I knew he was right; her days as a pampered suburban pooch were long over. Anyway, she was more than happy to go along on the hunting expedition, trotting off at Jace's side without even a backward glance toward the house. I only hoped she wouldn't scare off every rabbit in a five-mile radius.

In the meantime, I had to scour the cookbooks that sat on the shelf mounted to the kitchen wall to see if I could find anything about cooking rabbit. Actually, that didn't take me much time at all, because in addition to the standard _Joy of Cooking_ and _Better Homes and Gardens_ cookbooks, I found several specialty ones, including a title dedicated to cooking all sorts of game meats, starting with rabbit and quail and moving up from there.

After that, it was a matter of poring over the recipes and deciding which sounded best — and one for which I had actually had all the ingredients on hand. I decided that the rabbit with mustard sauce variation sounded good. Since I'd already harvested some onions and garlic from the greenhouse a few days earlier, all I had to do was rescue the onion from the fridge and the garlic from the little terra-cotta keeper that sat on the counter.

While I did that, I couldn't help worrying that Jace would come back with a couple of rabbit carcasses and expect me to skin and dress them, his work as the he-man hunter done. I didn't know the first thing about doing any of that. Hell, I could barely cut up a whole chicken properly. My mother showed me how to do it once, but I'd protested the whole time that you could buy already cut-up chicken, so what was the point? Wasting a half hour on that sort of exercise just to save a dollar or so on the price of the meat had hardly seemed worth it to me.

That had annoyed her, I could tell; she was probably flashing back to when she and my father first got married, when she was substitute teaching while trying to get a full-time position, and he was still a rookie right out of the Academy. Money had been tight. I understood that intellectually, but twenty-five years later, it seemed a little extreme to be worrying about a few cents a pound for chicken.

But at least she had taught me to cook — not Cordon Bleu or anything, but how to make a roast and how to prepare a variety of potato dishes and lots of veggies, sauces, that sort of thing. I knew I wouldn't have to worry about poisoning Jace if he did somehow manage to bring back a rabbit, even with Dutchie's help.

Until they did return, I wasn't about to get anything started. I assembled the ingredients on the kitchen counter, went down to the cellar to get some potatoes, and then found a tablecloth and some matching napkins on one of the shelves in the laundry room. This would be the first time we'd sat down at the dining room table, as his first few nights here, Jace had eaten with me at the little breakfast set in the kitchen nook. For some reason, that had felt safer to me. There was a certain ritual associated with sitting down to a real meal at a dining room table.

Maybe I was making too much out of his going rabbit-hunting. It wasn't as if we wouldn't be eating a lot of that sort of thing in the future, if it turned out he really was handy with that .22. Then again, making an occasion out of it might make us both feel a little better about our current situation.

That thought seemed to reassure me, so I went ahead and finished setting the table, completing the setup with the long wrought-iron candleholder that had been sitting on the sideboard. It held five pillar candles, and would provide plenty of light.

_Candlelit dinners?_ I asked myself. _Boy, you really are asking for trouble._

I decided if Jace asked, I'd say it was a good way to save energy.

He returned an hour or so later, Dutchie bounding along beside him, and a very messy bundle of rabbit dangling from a bag in one hand. So he had done the butchering for me, probably guessing that asking me to handle that particular duty would have damaged my delicate sensibilities.

"Thanks," I said, taking the bundle from him. "I found a recipe with mustard sauce. Does that sound okay to you?"

"Sounds great," he replied. He was windblown, but looked far more relaxed and happy than he had when he was telling me about how he had left Taos. Getting out in the fresh air and away from the house seemed to have done him a world of good. "I need to get cleaned up. Can you manage things from here?"

In another world, I might have complained about having to do the typical female thing of cooking, now that he'd bagged his bunnies. Actually, though, I was just grateful that he even had the ability to go out and get us food. He knew how to hunt; I knew how to cook. It seemed a pretty fair division of labor from where I stood.

The bundle of rabbit parts was a little bloodier than something I would have gotten from the supermarket, but I wasn't so squeamish that I couldn't handle it. I rinsed everything off and patted it dry, then sprinkled the pieces with salt and pepper while warming up some olive oil in a pan. As the rabbit was browning, Jace returned to the kitchen, face and hands looking freshly scrubbed, and asked if I needed help peeling the potatoes.

Okay, so much for my worry about thinking he was going to sit on his ass and watch a DVD of Die Hard or something while I labored away in the kitchen.

"Yes," I said. "Thanks."

He went to work, being sparing with the water, for which I was grateful. So far it seemed as if the well could manage just about anything we threw at it, including daily showers for the two of us, but it never hurt to be careful. I used to take long, hot showers, the kind that would basically kill all the hot water in the place by the time I was done, but once I got here, I retrained myself so the whole procedure only took five minutes. Not the easiest of tasks at first, but things did get sped up when you didn't have to worry about shaving your legs.

I risked a glance at Jace, thinking I wouldn't mind having to go back to the whole leg-shaving thing if the situation warranted it. But that day seemed far off — if it ever came at all — so in the meantime, I was pretty sure my five-minute showers were safe.

Neither of us spoke, but it was a companionable sort of silence, him peeling the potatoes, me working away at the sauté pan, following the steps of the recipe. He did stop to ask whether I wanted the potatoes sliced or cut up or whatever, but since I was planning on mashing them, he didn't have to do much besides quarter them and put them in a pot of cold water.

"Don't you need milk for mashed potatoes?" he asked.

"There's evaporated milk in the pantry. It won't be quite the same, but I think it'll be okay."

I could tell by the way his brows drew together that he wasn't exactly thrilled by the idea of evaporated milk, but he didn't say anything, only went over to fetch the box and then mix up a batch for me. Well, if it was that big a problem, the next day I'd send him off in search of any stray goats that might be wandering the area, looking for a home. Dutchie would probably be ecstatic at the prospect of that sort of expedition.

The dog had definitely latched on to Jace. Maybe she'd been more bonded with Mr. Munoz, back in Albuquerque. Or maybe Jace was one of those people whom dogs tended to love. I didn't know, and in the end, it didn't matter. Jace was Dutchie's new best friend. It didn't bother me as much as I thought it might have, simply because Dutchie had proved herself to be a decent judge of character. If she liked Jace, it must mean he was okay.

It was dark by the time dinner was ready. Jace and I carried the various platters and bowls to the dining room table, and I brought out some matches I'd found in the kitchen so I could light the pillars in their wrought-iron holder. Without my asking, Jace turned off the overhead fixture, so all we had was the candlelight. It danced off the heavy glass goblets, the dark bottle of cabernet that sat waiting to be drunk. The walls in this room were a warm parchment yellow, and seemed to reflect the glow of the candles and multiply it.

"Wow," Jace murmured. "I hadn't expected to see anything like this ever again." Then he shook his head. "Wait — I don't think I'd ever seen anything like this _before,_ either. It looks beautiful, Jessica."

"Thanks," I said, my tone almost shy. Now that I was with him in this intimate space, would he take all this for more than I had intended, as some sort of seduction or something?

Well, there wasn't anything I could do about it now. I pulled out my chair — obscurely glad that he hadn't offered to do it for me — and sat down. A second later, he followed suit, lifting the cloth napkin I'd set out and placing it in his lap. Then he raised the bottle of wine, which he'd already opened back in the kitchen, and poured some of the cabernet into my glass first, and then his.

"I think we should have a toast," he said.

"What should we toast to?" Not being dead seemed the obvious choice, but it seemed crass to voice the thought aloud.

He seemed to think about it for a moment, his glass a few inches off the tabletop. The candlelight gleamed against his raven-dark hair, and again I wondered what it would feel like to run my fingers through it.

"To sanctuary," he said at last.

I was definitely on board with that. Even if nothing ever happened between Jace and me, we had found a quiet haven here, a place to shelter from whatever might be going on outside in the world. "To sanctuary," I echoed, raising my glass as well and clinking it against his.

A brief silence fell as we both swallowed some of the wine. It wasn't as heavy as the Montepulciano I'd drunk a few days earlier. I could taste the fruit in it, and thought it was probably a good choice to go along with the sharpness of the mustard sauce I'd made for the rabbit.

Then we both dug into the main dish, which turned out to be excellent. I wasn't sure why I'd avoided rabbit before this, because I found myself liking the taste.

_Good thing, too,_ I thought, _because you're probably going to be eating a lot of it in the future._

And the mashed potatoes actually were fine, even with the evaporated milk, and there was fresh bread and butter and roasted carrots. It really was quite the feast, especially considering I'd had to work with what was available in the cellar and the greenhouse. No more popping down to the grocery store to get that one special ingredient.

"This is...amazing," Jace finally said, after making some serious inroads into the food on his plate. "Were you a chef or something?"

"Hardly." I took a sip of wine to cover my embarrassment, cheeks flaming. I really needed to get this blushing thing under control one way or another. "My mother taught me how to cook. That is, she pointed out that it was mostly following directions, at least for the basic stuff. So...that's what I did tonight. Followed directions."

"It's still pretty incredible." Expression thoughtful, he drank some of his own wine. "So what did you do? Before, I mean."

"I was getting my master's at UNM, so I T.A.'d a couple of courses. English — a lot of paper grading, mostly." I broke off a piece of bread but didn't eat it, just sort of rolled it between my finger and thumb. "What about you?"

"I graduated from UNM four years ago, then came back to Taos." He looked at me directly then, as if studying my features, and it was difficult to remain as I was, to not glance away. "We must have been there at the same time, but I guess there wouldn't have been much overlap. You'd have been a freshman when I was a senior."

I could have sworn his expression was somewhat regretful, but I didn't want to read too much into it. That way only lay disappointment.

"Anyway," he went on, "after that I went back to Taos. I conducted tours at the pueblo part of the time, and the rest of the time I worked on getting my business going."

"What kind of business?" I asked, after finally remembering to eat the piece of bread I was holding.

"Website and graphic design. I did some work for the local businesses. Mostly advertising stuff. The tours paid a lot better."

That revelation surprised me. "They did?"

"Oh, yeah." He got himself a piece of bread, then buttered it. When he went on, he wore a rather sardonic smile. "You'd be amazed how much the tourists were willing to part with. On a good day, I could make around three hundred bucks. White guilt is expensive, I guess."

I just stared at him, and he hurried to say,

"No offense. But I think that's part of why they're willing to hand over a twenty — or more — for a half-hour tour of the pueblo." His gaze sharpened on me, and again I had to force myself to look back at him directly. "Anyway, I'd say to look at you, you must have some First Nations blood back in the woodpile yourself. Or am I overreaching?"

So that was it — he was just inspecting my appearance in an attempt to determine my own origins. Fair enough. Would he feel better, knowing I had a Native American heritage of my own? "No, you're not overreaching," I replied, glad I sounded calm and unruffled. "Family legend has it that my great-great-great-grandmother was full-blood Ute."

"Even better," Jace said, a certain warmth in his eyes doing unexpected things to my midsection. "The Ute and the Pueblo were on very good terms back in the day."

What in the world was I supposed to say to that? Was Jace hoping that he and I would be, as he put it, "on very good terms"? Not that I thought I would be opposed to such a shift in our relationship, but we'd only known each other for a couple of days. I certainly didn't intend to rush into anything.

"Well, that's good to know," I remarked. "At least I won't have to worry about tribal warfare breaking out in the laundry room or something."

For a second or two, he didn't reply, only stared at me, and I hoped I hadn't offended him. But then he chuckled, reached for the wine bottle, and poured some more into my glass. Still smiling, he said, "No, I don't think we have to worry about any conflict here."

It was all I could do not to shiver. No matter what he said, though, I wouldn't take for granted this current harmony and goodwill lasting indefinitely.

How could it, when we were such strangers to one another?

# Chapter 12

But somehow, strangely, that cooperation did continue. We fell into a sort of pattern after a few days — rising early, eating breakfast, which was toast or oatmeal most of the time, taking turns with our showers, getting dressed, then doing whatever needed to be done around the place. Jace was full of plans, abetted by some of the books and manuals he found in the office.

"We really should build a henhouse," he said one morning, about a week after he showed up. "I know people in the area had to have kept chickens. Eggs are a good, steady source of protein."

"So are rabbits," I replied, not bothering to point out that we'd been eating rabbit at least every other day. Wile E. Coyote would have been jealous.

"Now they are," he said. "In the dead of winter, it might be more difficult. But those plans I found for a henhouse look dead easy. We just need to get some supplies."

"What, you're a carpenter and a web designer?" I asked, teasing. Sort of. What I knew about building henhouses was roughly the same as what I knew about brain surgery — that is, nothing. I didn't think I was going to be much help.

He shrugged. "I picked up a few things here and there. It'll be fine."

And so, later that morning, we headed down into Santa Fe in search of a Home Depot, which wasn't as easy as it might seem, considering we couldn't exactly Google its location. But we found a yellow pages inside an abandoned dentist's office, and tracked down the store from there. It was a good ways outside the city center, so I was doubly glad that we'd looked it up instead of driving aimlessly all over the place.

Jace had a list of everything he needed, and we "liberated" one of the trailers you used to be able to rent to haul your building supplies home. Thank God my father had invested in a tow package for the Cherokee, even though we'd never actually had any reason to use it. There just never seemed to be quite enough in the family budget to buy a trailer or an ATV.

It took a while to locate and then load all the necessary supplies — partly because we both kept finding things we thought would be useful and figured we might as well add them to the haul. But after the back of the SUV was packed to the rafters, and the trailer similarly loaded down, we drove off, moving slowly through the streets, since I had to keep zigging and zagging to avoid abandoned cars and trucks. We'd left Dutchie at home, much to her dismay, since we'd known we would need all the available cargo space in the Cherokee.

"It's kind of strange, don't you think?" I asked Jace after we'd cut back up on Cerrillo and were heading to Alameda.

"What's strange?" he replied, his attention still on the list he held. Maybe he was worried that we'd forgotten something.

"That we haven't seen _anybody_. I mean, even with a 99.8% mortality rate, there should still be a couple hundred people wandering around Santa Fe, right? Where are they?"

He did look up at that question, his gaze drifting to the empty sidewalks and dark windows of the businesses on either side of the street. "Lying low?"

"Maybe," I said, but I wasn't sure I believed it. By that point, it had been almost a month since the Heat first began to spread across the country. Anyone who was going to die was long dead. You'd think the survivors would be out foraging in earnest, getting ready for winter. "It's just weird that we haven't seen a single person."

"Do you want to find more people?" His tone was almost sharp as he asked that question, as if he thought I wasn't satisfied with his company, that I needed something more.

"I don't know," I replied. It was only the truth. Part of me wanted to know what had happened to everyone, but after my experiences in Albuquerque, I wasn't sure being around other people was such a good thing. Yes, Jace had turned out to be all right — more than all right, really — but could I count on being that lucky a second time?

"They could be hiding," he said, his tone thoughtful. "Or gone to Albuquerque, thinking that maybe if any center of government still existed, it would be there, in a place where there would be more survivors. There are probably a lot of reasons why we're not seeing anybody."

That explanation sounded logical enough. If it hadn't been for the voice urging me to get out, would I have left my hometown, or would I have stayed there in the hope that people might gather in what had been the state's most populous area?

I wouldn't second-guess myself, not now. I really didn't know. Then again, my run-ins with Chris Bowman and the man outside Walgreens might have been enough to convince me that it was time to get out of Dodge.

"You're right, of course," I said, and he smiled.

"It's okay, Jess. _We're_ okay. That's all we have to worry about right now."

Oh, how I wanted to believe him. I just wasn't sure if I did.

The henhouse did go together with surprising speed, and within three days' time, we had a full-on chicken coop with space for six hens to nest, a perch that Jace built from a closet rod, and an enclosed run. He also hung a light overhead so the hens would be encouraged to lay even on gray winter days. It was all perfect, except...no chickens.

So we got in the Cherokee again, this time taking Dutchie with us, and started scouring the rural and semi-rural areas outside Santa Fe for any rogue chickens who needed a home. It actually didn't take as long as I'd thought; about an hour into our search, we found a house with a flock of chickens scratching away happily in the backyard, apparently unaware that the apocalypse had happened and they'd been left on their own. We gathered up six hens and the rooster, who was less than pleased at being plucked out of his yard and put in the back of an SUV. Jace was a little scratched up by the time the procedure was over, but in the end we had everything we needed. All I could say was that I was very glad I'd had the forethought to lay down some plastic trash bags in the bed of the SUV before dumping the chickens back there. If he'd had a proper grave, my father would have been rolling over in it.

It took a few days for the chickens to settle down and start laying, but after that we were able to have eggs pretty much every morning.

"Next, the goats," Jace said at dinner not too long after that.

"Are you still on that kick?" I asked. All right, I had to say that the whole chicken thing was working out pretty well. But the thought of having goats roaming around the property intimidated me more than I wanted to admit. When I was a little kid, maybe five or six, my parents had taken me to a petting zoo. All had gone well until one of the goats decided to eat part of my sweater. I'd screamed bloody murder, and my father had grimly lifted me out of the pen and carried me away. Needless to say, goats weren't exactly my favorite animals.

"Yes, I'm still on that kick. We ate the last of the cheese two days ago." His dark eyes caught mine, and he grinned at me, a wicked grin I'd come to know over the past few weeks...and one that invariably made my knees go a little wobbly. So far I didn't think Jace had noticed what kind of an effect it had on me, but still, I couldn't help getting annoyed with myself for not having better self-control. He clasped his hands together and said in mock-earnest tones, "Jessica, do you want to consign me to a cheese-less future?"

"Oh, for God's sake...." I couldn't help smiling back at him, though, and I spread my hands in a gesture of surrender. "Okay, I give up. So, say we find some goats. How do you plan on getting them back here?"

"Easy," he replied. His grin now had an element of triumph in it. "We'll just find a horse trailer and put them in there."

Easy. Right.

As with the henhouse supplies, we went foraging for the trailer first. There were a number of horse properties in the area, so that wasn't too difficult. The odd thing was, just as I hadn't seen any people on any of our expeditions, so, too, were there no horses in evidence anywhere. They could have bolted, kicked down the fences and gates when it became clear no one was coming to feed them or give them fresh water.

I didn't see any signs of that, though, and the voice's words came back to me: The animals will be taken care of. So apparently I didn't need to worry about the horses. I couldn't help wondering, though.

Just as I couldn't help wondering what had happened to the voice. By that point, I hadn't heard him for more than a week. Now that it seemed I was truly settled with Jace, maybe the voice had moved on, deeming me no longer in need of any assistance.

I wasn't sure why, but that thought saddened me a little. I hardly wanted to admit it even to myself, but I missed the voice. If nothing else, he would have given me someone else to talk to...if he'd stuck around. A few times when Jace was out of the house and occupied with some task or another, I'd tried calling out to the voice. It never replied, though, and at last I'd given up, telling myself that if the voice didn't need me, well, I didn't need it, either. Intellectually, I knew I should let it go. But its absence bothered and worried me, despite my best attempts to think about other matters.

Jace and I hit the goat jackpot on our second stop. Not only did we find a nice, largish horse trailer, but the property actually had goats roaming around, keeping the lawn cropped, doing their usual job of eating anything that wasn't nailed down.

So we hooked up the trailer to the Cherokee, then had a little convo in which we decided having four goats to start should work — three does and a buck. If it turned out the does didn't produce enough milk or whatever, we could always come back and collect more of the herd. There seemed to be fifteen or so of them, although it was hard to get an exact count, what with the way they kept milling around.

Choosing was difficult, because I had no idea what to look for in a goat. Thank God Jace wasn't quite as clueless, and he managed to get two of the does with the most developed milk bags up into the trailer without too much trouble. All right, that looked easy enough, so I started to do my best to urge another doe, a pretty animal with a sleek black coat and fawn-colored tipping, in the general direction of the trailer. She just bleated at me and trotted off, so I followed her grimly, wishing Jace would stop messing around with the two he'd already gotten in the trailer so he could help me.

Then, out of nowhere — wham! Something hard hit me square in the butt, and I went flying onto the ground. I blinked, wondering what the hell had happened, and then realized it was the buck, who was standing a few paces away and glaring at me out if his dark amber eyes. It seemed he'd taken exception to my maneuvering that one doe, and had butted me right in the ass.

From the trailer, I heard laughter, and I scowled. Jace came out, grinning at me where I sat on the ground in a pile of dirt and dead weeds.

"Very funny," I snapped. "You come over here and deal with this bastard."

"Sorry, but the way he got you right in the — "

"Point taken." I began to push myself to my feet, only to be stared down by a very angry-looking buck. Fine. I'd wait here until Jace took care of him.

Which he did, somehow managing to circle the beast and then urge him up the ramp into the trailer. How, I wasn't quite sure. Hypnotism? Some magical Native American goat-charming trick?

Whatever it was, it worked. The buck headed right into the trailer as if it were full of a harem of does in heat, and the last doe, the one I'd been trying to manhandle, trotted after him, tail swishing.

Frigging goats.

Jace came over to me and extended a hand. "Need help?"

I scowled at him but took his hand anyway, letting him pull me to my feet. In fact, he yanked me up with such vigor that I lost my balance and pitched right into him, colliding chest to chest. He took me by the arms and steadied me, holding me for a second or two longer than he really needed to.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Uh — " Was I all right? My rear end ached, and I knew my jeans were covered in dirt, but in that moment all I was really conscious of were his hands on my arms, the strength of the fingers wrapped around my biceps. Our faces were only inches apart. Blood tingled all through me, and I knew all I had to do was go up on my toes, bring my mouth to his....

No, that was insane. This was the first time he'd even touched me since he held me when I wept, on the day he had first come to the compound. Other than a few sideways looks and glances I'd probably misinterpreted, he had done absolutely nothing to show he had any interest in me other than as a companion and friend.

Somehow I gathered myself, saying, "I'm fine," and then gently pulled my arms from his grasp. He didn't try to stop me, didn't tighten his grip or attempt to bring me closer.

Well, there was my answer.

I dug the car key out of my pocket and headed to the driver-side door of the Cherokee, while Jace went around the other side. So far I hadn't let him drive the SUV, and he hadn't pushed the matter, somehow sensing that having control over the vehicle was important to me. Besides, he'd taken to driving the Polaris all over the area around the compound, had used it to bring back a buck he'd shot one Saturday afternoon. The freezers were full of venison. Yes, Jace was very handy to have around.

Even so, I didn't say anything to him on the trip back home.

The awkwardness eased itself soon enough, as it had to. We were so busy with getting the goats set up and then foraging for feed, reading up on their care and what we needed to do to ensure the does were properly producing milk, that the moment we shared back in their corral was soon pushed aside, if not forgotten.

Of course, the awkward part was realizing that we needed to breed the goats now so they would have babies in the spring, and therefore more milk. Oh, yeah, discussing breeding options for farm animals with a guy you have a serious amount of unresolved sexual tension with is a whole new species of fun.

To be fair, Jace was very mellow about the whole thing, and didn't make any rude jokes or indulge in any cringe-worthy innuendo. He spelled out the whole thing logically and factually, and then let the goats do the rest. It really wasn't that difficult; a buck is going to do what a buck is going to do, after all. I was just glad that I managed to avoid seeing them actually do the deed.

One thing we didn't have to worry about was the goats escaping the compound. They might come through and eat the ornamental plants in the garden area directly off the back of the house, but there was no way even the most ambitious goat could jump a seven-foot-high solid adobe wall.

Jace did have to teach me to milk the damn things, which at first scared me to no end, since I was sure I was going to end up with a hoof in my face the second I put one of my unpracticed hands on the animal's teat.

"You can just do it, you know," I told him, hovering nervously in the background as he sat down to give me a demonstration.

"Oh, no," he replied. "Equal division of labor on this farm."

I made a face but didn't argue. It was true; I might have done most of the cooking, but he did the hunting, and even cleaned out the chicken coop when my one foray into doing so proved I didn't have the world's strongest stomach. In return, I happily did his laundry. At least that way I was able to learn that he favored dark-toned boxer-briefs over tighty-whiteys.

"It's not that hard," he went on, his voice almost too coaxing. "Just watch."

He placed his thumb and forefinger near the top of the doe's teat, squeezing it, and then exerted pressure with his remaining fingers on the lower part of the teat. A thin stream of white liquid emerged and went into the glass jar he'd set beneath it. "See?"

"Oh, yeah. Easy peasy."

"Actually, it isn't. You have to exert a good deal of force. But that's okay. She wants to be milked." He did it again, and I watched his long fingers squeezing against her flesh. For a second, I had a brief flash of those fingers cupping my breast, squeezing, and I had to force the thought out of my mind. No way was I going to let myself get turned on by watching Jace milk a goat. He glanced up at me. "You want to give it a try?"

I really didn't. To stall for time, I responded with a question of my own. "Is there anything you can't do?"

He appeared to consider, then said, "I don't know how to play the violin. Now come over here and start learning how to milk this goat."

Heaving a sigh didn't really seem appropriate, given the situation, so I waited while he got out of the way and then sat down on the old packing crate we were using as a milking stool. I did take a breath, though, before placing my fingers more or less in the same position Jace had put his.

"Good," he said, watching my hands, not my face. "Now squeeze with those two fingers while using the rest to push the milk out of the teat."

Oh, boy. I squeezed, tentatively at first, and the goat, who we'd named Aster because of the little star-shaped mark on her haunch, shot me a look of pure irritation over her shoulder. But at least she hadn't kicked me.

"Harder than that," Jace instructed me, but his voice sounded more coaxing than annoyed.

I definitely didn't want him annoyed with me. This time I squeezed harder, exerting so much pressure that I was certain Aster was going to step on my foot in protest. Instead, milk squirted into the bottle, and she seemed to relax slightly, letting me do what I needed to do.

After letting out a little exhalation of relief, I went back to milking her. More and more milk kept squirting out, but within five minutes, the fingers of my right hand were aching like you wouldn't believe. I tried switching to the other hand, but couldn't get the angle right. After another minute, I sat back, shaking my head. "I can't do any more."

"It's okay," Jace said. His hand dropped to my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "It's going to take some time to develop those muscles. I can finish up."

That was probably my signal to relinquish the packing crate to him so he could sit down, but I found I didn't want to move. Not with his warm hand on my shoulder, the pressure of it somehow delicious, even through the flannel shirt and heavy canvas anorak I wore.

He seemed to realize that as well, because he moved his arm, breaking the contact. At the same time, attempting to cover up the awkwardness of the moment, I got to my feet.

"Thanks, Jace. I'll just get back to the house, then."

Grinning, he asked, "How's the butter project coming?"

"Good. I'm just about to break out the mixer and have at it."

Making butter had turned out to be a bigger task than I'd expected, but after some trial and error, I'd gotten enough buttermilk ready to go so I could move on to the next step. At least we had power in the house, and the kitchen had come equipped with a fancy stand mixer. Much better than having to stand around with a butter churn the way they did it in the bad old days.

We'd made the decision to use a good deal of the milk for making butter and cheese, since neither Jace nor I was what you would call a big milk drinker. Both of those projects weren't exactly what you'd call user-friendly, but it was sort of amazing how much extra time you had on your hands when you weren't spending half the day chatting with your friends on Facebook or whatever.

I still hadn't decided whether that was a good thing or not.

A week after that, I stood at the window in the living room, looking out over the drive, past the wall to the landscape beyond. Heavy clouds blocked the sky, and I wondered how much we would get out of the solar panels today. We had a backup generator, but we hadn't needed it yet. I was glad of that — the procedure to switch over from the solar collector to the electric generator didn't sound all that simple. But the oven ran on propane, so I'd still be able to use that, even if we decided to dial back on our power consumption for the day. All the heat came from the various fireplaces and the wood-fired stove in the sitting room, so the interior temperature of the house wouldn't be affected, one way or another.

Anyway, it wasn't the possible loss of power that had me staring out at the brooding vista. What with one thing or another, I hadn't been paying that much attention to what day it was, although I'd dutifully marked off each one on the calendar in the office, just so I wouldn't completely lose track of time. But today, when I'd picked up the Sharpie to draw that thick black line, I'd paused and frowned at the date I was crossing out.

October 31st.

"Something wrong?" Jace asked, coming into the living room. He looked a bit surprised, and I supposed I couldn't blame him. We didn't spend much time in there, beautiful as the room was. Usually we were either in the kitchen or the family room, or, more rarely, the office.

"No," I said, then paused. "It's Halloween."

"And?" His expression told me he wasn't particularly impressed by that piece of information. "Did you want to go trick-or-treating or something?"

"Ha," I replied. My trick-or-treating days were long behind me, although Elena and Tori and I had still gone out on Halloween, mostly as an excuse to get dressed up and go to bars. I'm not going to lie — the year before, we all did variations on the "sexy" something, me as a witch, since it suited my long near-black hair, Tori as an angel, and Elena...well, I still wasn't entirely clear what her costume was supposed to be, except that it was black and red and sparkly, and showed way more leg than I would ever have dared. Needless to say, we didn't have to buy any of our own drinks that night.

"It's not the trick-or-treating," I said slowly. "It's more...I don't know. Like the date is telling me it's been more than a month since...well, since."

The light of humor in his dark eyes abruptly disappeared. "You're right. I guess I hadn't really thought about it, what with everything we've been doing." He closed the distance between us, coming to stand next to me in front of the window. So close, and yet...and yet, he might have been a million miles away. I knew I didn't have the courage to reach out and take his hand in mine, to feel the reassurance of his touch. Then he shifted so he was halfway facing toward me, his gaze fixed on my profile. "I have an idea."

"You do?" I didn't dare move, didn't want him to see any of the yearning currently pulsing within me. I wished it could be different, but I just wasn't brave enough.

"Tomorrow's the Day of the Dead. Dios de los Muertos."

"And?"

He smiled, but it was a grave, quiet smile. "I think there are a lot of dead who need to be honored."

# Chapter 13

We'd been meaning to go back into town anyway, but had been putting it off for one reason or another. Well, today we had a mission.

I drove, of course, since I still felt hinky about letting Jace get behind the wheel of my father's Cherokee. This time we went to a place we'd avoided, the Albertson's grocery store near the center of town. So far, we'd either had everything we needed on hand, or we hunted or foraged for it. Although there were items we could have used from the store, neither of us thought it a very good idea to go in there, not with all that food spoiling inside.

Neither did we know for sure what it would be like now, after having the power cut off for more than a month, but it was the best place we could think of to get some of those saints' candles for our Day of the Dead observance. Maybe Santa Fe had a Hispanic grocery store somewhere, but I remembered the Albertson's because that's where the girls and I stocked up on booze when we came to stay at Elena's parents' timeshare.

I pulled into the parking lot of the Albertson's, then reached down and pulled the bandanna I had wrapped around my neck up and over my mouth. Jace did the same. We looked like we were there to hold up the place, but it seemed the best solution, since we didn't have access to any surgical masks.

"Ready?" he asked.

Probably not, but it was too late to back out now. Besides the candles, there were a number of nonperishable goods we wanted to grab — paper towels, toilet paper, rice, flour, sugar, spices. Of course Jace didn't know the store at all, but I had a hazy idea of where some things were located, based on my previous visits here. I'd just have to hope it would be enough to get us in and out as quickly as possible.

"Ready," I said, my voice muffled by the bandanna tied over my mouth.

We got out of the Cherokee and headed toward the entrance to the store. Shopping carts had been abandoned in haphazard order in front of the building, and we each grabbed one. We also both held big crank-operated flashlights, part of the emergency supplies at the compound, since my experience inside the Walgreens in Albuquerque had taught me that those little pen-sized ones really didn't cut it when you were trying to carry out a salvage operation.

The glass in the door had been broken out and lay scattered all over the place, so it was a good thing that Jace and I both wore heavy hiking boots. Shards of glass crunched underfoot as we pushed our way inside, flashlights bobbing this way and that.

It was fairly cold that day; the outside temperature reading in the Cherokee had put it at around forty-six degrees. Maybe that was a good thing, as it kept the smell from being too overwhelming, even with my nose covered. Oh, it was definitely there, something sickly sweet and yet acrid at the same time, but not so overpowering that I couldn't ignore the odor. It did seem to catch at the back of my throat, and I found myself breathing shallowly, pushing the cart grimly ahead while Jace cut off to the right to canvass that side of the store.

Some people might have said that was foolish, to separate like that, but since neither of us had seen another living soul in weeks, we decided it was a risk we were willing to take. This way we could be in and out more quickly.

As I moved along, panning my flashlight over the shelves, I could again see evidence of looting, of items that had been taken. Breakfast cereals seemed to be popular, for some reason. The vitamin aisle had also been almost cleaned out, although I found some bottles of multis that had been left behind. The same with the paper goods — a lot had been taken, but not all. I grabbed what I could, stacking big packages of toilet paper and paper towels in my shopping cart.

Then I came around the corner and found the real reason why we'd come there: the Hispanic food section. I was sort of surprised to see that all the saint candles seemed undisturbed. Maybe people had been more interested in seeing to their physical needs than their spiritual ones, or possibly it was just that they hadn't thought to use the candles for lighting after the power failed. Whatever. It didn't matter now. What mattered was that I was able to scoop up a dozen of the things, packing them in and around the toilet paper and the boxes of Kleenex and all the other items I'd picked up.

"Got 'em!" I called out.

Jace's voice came back to me from the other side of the store. "Great! Go on out to the Jeep — I'm almost done."

I wasn't sad to hear that at all. This grocery store wasn't quite as creepy as the Walgreens had been, since the flashlight I held was far more effective than the one I'd had then. Besides, I knew Jace would come running the second I gave the alarm, should anything strange happen. All the same, I was glad to get out of there, out of the lingering stench and the mournful realization that nobody would be coming by to restock those shelves or pick up the items that had been knocked to the floor.

As I was beginning to load my haul into the cargo area of the Cherokee, Jace came out as well, his cart full to the brim with those big economy-size bags of rice, boxes of salt, pepper grinders, container after container of spices — you name it, he seemed to have nabbed it from the bakery aisle, including some much-needed tins of olive oil. We had some, but not nearly enough. This would definitely help to extend our supplies for a good many more months.

"Looks like you plan to keep me chained to the stove for a good while longer," I joked.

He slanted me one of those dark-lashed looks I loved so much. "Oh, I might give you time off for good behavior."

"That a fact?"

"Absolutely."

A hint of a smile had been playing around the corners of his mouth, but as I watched, it faded. When I followed his gaze, I thought I understood why. I'd excavated my cart to the point where all that was left were the saints candles. He reached in and picked one up, turning it over in his hands. From her blue robe, I guessed the saint depicted on it was the Virgin Mary, but I didn't know for sure. My family wasn't Catholic.

Elena would have known, but she was long gone.

"I suppose we're done here," Jace said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," I told him. "Let's go."

Although we hadn't discussed our plan in any detail, somehow we were both drawn to the monument at the center of the plaza. It seemed that here, in the heart of the city, was the best place to pay our respects.

Dead leaves had scattered over the walkways, but otherwise the place looked as if it hadn't been touched since the last time I was here, when the voice had summoned the wind to sweep up the mess the looters had left behind. True, many of the stores had their windows broken in, but unlike at the Albertson's, there was no glass scattered on the ground.

I had to wonder how much of that detail Jace took in as we walked from the Jeep to the center of the plaza. Some, it seemed, if the tight lines of his mouth and the puzzled furrow in his brow were any indication. But he didn't ask any questions, only continued to the monument and the low wall that surrounded it.

The day had remained dark, the clouds threatening, although it hadn't rained. It smelled like it might, though, heavy and damp. If it did, then these candles wouldn't last very long. But at least we would have made the effort.

Still not speaking, we each took our burden of candles and placed them at regular intervals along the low wall surrounding the monument. Jace produced a box of strike-anywhere matches from the inner pocket of his jacket, then took one out and used the rough concrete of the wall to get it started. It flared up, and he cupped it in his hand, moving from candle to candle and lighting them one by one. They flickered in the chilly wind but didn't go out.

We'd waited to go out on this expedition until late afternoon, and now it was almost dusk. It was the first time I'd ventured out into the city at anywhere close to dark, and I realized how very black it would soon become, especially with the cloud cover blocking out any possible moonlight or starlight. But we had our flashlights, and, for the moment at least, the candles themselves were giving off far more illumination than I had expected they would.

Jace glanced over at me, and I nodded. This had been his idea, after all, and so I thought he should be the one to make the speeches.

For a long moment, he didn't speak, but only stood there in front of the candle with the Virgin Mary on it, the blue of her robe seeming to glow from within. Then he said, "We honor all those who walk in the paths of their ancestors. Those of us who are left here behind have so many questions, questions we know will never be answered. But our thoughts are with you, and we hope you have all found peace in the next world."

The next words he uttered, I couldn't understand, and I realized he must be speaking the language of the Pueblo. The sound of it was slow and sad, but strong and rich as well, and I found something inside me unclenching for the first time since I'd left Albuquerque. True, I had written something of the time before, in the little sketches I'd jotted down during my first days at the compound. After that, though, I had walled away my grief, thinking that the only way to survive and go on was not to think of everyone who was gone, of everyone I had lost. Now, hearing Jace speak, I knew that had been the wrong approach. I needed to celebrate who they were and what they had done, not pretend they had never existed. That was doing them no service, giving them no honor.

Jace fell silent, and I could see the way he looked over at me, clearly expecting me to say something. How I was supposed to follow that, I had no idea. But no, that was foolish. This wasn't a competition.

"I miss you all," I said simply, then turned and began to walk away from the monument. I didn't bother to turn on my flashlight, even though the sun had gone down by then. The illumination from the candles was enough to light my path.

From behind me, I heard the sound of Jace's footsteps, hurrying a little so he could catch up with me. And then I felt his hand slip into mine, his fingers warm and strong, even though it was cold enough that we really should have been wearing gloves. My own fingers felt as if they'd been dipped in ice water.

Neither of us said anything. It was enough then to walk hand in hand back to the Jeep, to take comfort in the feel of human flesh pressed against mine, reassuring in the dark and the cold. When it was time to pull the car key out of my pocket, I hesitated for a fraction of a second. I didn't want to let go of him, to relinquish my grip on his fingers.

He seemed to detect my reluctance, because he stood there next to me for a moment, his grip tensing. But then he let go and said, "Let's get home."

I couldn't argue with that. The night wind was drilling through the anorak I wore as if it were made of gauze rather than sturdy canvas, and right then the thought of being surrounded in the warmth of our house seemed even more attractive than usual.

So I nodded and unlocked the Cherokee, and we both climbed in. After I'd pulled away from where we were parked and was negotiating the narrow, car-choked streets — a task far more difficult after dark than it was during the day — I felt Jace's hand cover mine where it rested on the gearshift.

"You okay?" he asked.

I couldn't take my eyes off the road, but I nodded. "I think so. That was — " The exact word seemed to elude me. Moving? Sad? Satisfying? All those, and more. "It helped," I finally said, hoping he would understand what I meant.

It appeared he did, because his fingers tightened around mine. All he said, though, was, "Good." And then he let go, seeming to realize that I needed to focus on driving. Although I'd gone back and forth along this route several times, it had always been during the day, and of course there were no streetlights to guide me along my way.

I flicked on the high-beams and slowed down. Good thing, too, because when I finally got to it, I almost missed the turn-off to Upper Canyon Road. Muttering a curse, I angled the Cherokee onto the street at almost the last minute. In the passenger seat, Jace shifted, but he remained silent, as if he knew any comments on my driving were the last thing I needed right then.

We bumped along, and then there was gravel under our wheels as we left the paved road and began to head up the winding dirt track that led to the compound. I slowed so I could shift into four-wheel drive, and when I looked up, I let out a little screech. Three pairs of eyes seemed to glow red as they stared straight into the Jeep's headlights.

"Coyotes," Jace murmured. "It's okay — just drive forward slowly. They'll get out of the way."

Which they did, as I began to inch toward them. Somehow, though, their movements seemed almost leisurely, as if they weren't too worried about me running them over. Almost at the last minute they got out of the way, but they only moved to the side of the road, where they stood and stared as we passed them by.

Something about their posture, about the way they were watching the Jeep, made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. It wasn't the cold; I'd turned on the heater as soon as we got inside the SUV. No, their unblinking surveillance just felt...wrong. Unnatural. I'll admit I wasn't the world's foremost authority on coyotes, but in general, wild animals tended to scatter when confronted by something as large and intimidating as a Jeep Grand Cherokee.

I shot a sideways glance at Jace. He wasn't looking at me, though, and instead was staring out the passenger window. I didn't know how much he could even see, since the high-beams were illuminating the road ahead of us, not either side.

"That was weird," I said, once we were past the coyotes and they'd melted away into the darkness.

"A little," he agreed. Then I saw his shoulders lift. "Maybe they're getting bold now that they don't have to worry about getting run over every time they come out of hiding."

That sounded plausible. But still a note of wrongness seemed to echo inside me, and I couldn't help thinking there had to be more to it than that. Then again, the world had ended in a way no one could have ever predicted. Things had been wrong for weeks now.

Well, mainly. I risked a sideways glance at Jace and saw that he was looking out the window again, his fine profile faintly illuminated by the glow from the dashboard lights.

Looking at him, I knew there was one thing right in my life.

Although I cast worried glances from side to side as we approached the compound and I pushed the remote to open the gate, I saw nothing in the darkness, no gleaming red or yellow eyes of various wildlife just waiting to pounce. We came onto the property without incident, although I activated the controls for the gate as soon as our rear bumper had cleared it. The motion-activated lights above the garage door turned on as we approached.

Off in the distance, I did see a shimmer of eyes glowing in the darkness, and I jumped.

"It's okay," Jace said softly. "It's just the goats."

I didn't quite relax, but I did let out my breath. "Oh, right."

Was that a chuckle? When I glanced over at him, his expression was sober enough, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Fine, if he wanted to laugh at me for jumping at shadows — or glowing eyeballs, in this case — I'd let him. I didn't see anything wrong with staying on my guard.

But the unpacking of the Cherokee passed without incident, although it took longer than I'd expected to unload all that stuff and get it safely stowed. Dutchie kept wandering between us, trying to track all the new and interesting smells we were bringing in the house, until at last I bribed her with a chewy treat so she'd get out from underfoot.

By then it was moving on toward seven o'clock, and far past time for dinner. When I had all afternoon to figure out what to make and plenty of time to prepare it, I really didn't mind cooking. Right now, though, I thought I might have sold my soul for pizza delivery. Or Chinese takeout.

Jace must have noticed my lack of enthusiasm for the task at hand, because he said, "It's not that bad. Look what I brought back." And I saw that he held a package of fettuccini in one hand and a jar of vodka cream sauce in the other. "Add some of that rabbit sausage you made a few days ago, and we're set."

I could have kissed him. Actually, I realized I would have loved to have an excuse to go over and kiss him, but I wasn't sure dry pasta and pre-made sauce were a good enough reason. I had to settle for smiling and saying, "That sounds perfect. Can you feed Dutchie while I get this going?"

He nodded, setting the pasta and the jar of sauce down on the countertop. The dog, seeing that he was heading toward the pantry, got up from her rug and went bounding over to him, tail wagging wildly. At least she wasn't the type to turn up her nose at kibble. She still got as excited about it as though we were feeding her T-bone steak or something.

While they were occupied, I filled a big stock pot with water and set it on the stove, then found a smaller pan and dumped the sauce into it, setting it on low heat on the back burner. The sausages were being stored in an airtight container in the fridge, so I got them out and started them cooking, too. Actually, I was sort of surprised that they'd turned out as well as they had. Let's just say that making sausages hadn't exactly been in my cooking repertoire before this, but they really weren't that difficult, once you figured out how it all worked.

They were just starting to sizzle away when Jace came over to the stove and paused to sniff the air. "Those smell good."

"You said the same thing two days ago when we had them for the first time."

One eyebrow went up. "So? Two days shouldn't make them taste any less good."

Maybe not. I wasn't going to argue the point, especially with him standing that close to me, barely a foot away. He'd taken off his jacket, and I could see the way the knit henley shirt he wore molded to the muscles in his arms and chest, the smooth golden-brown skin where he'd left one button undone.

Shit. I shouldn't be staring. Was I staring?

I had a feeling I was staring.

Blood rose to my cheeks, and I turned back to the skillet, making something of a show of turning the sausages over. I also took a pot holder and lifted the lid on the pot of pasta water to check on it, but it wasn't boiling yet.

As I was setting the pot holder down on the counter, I felt a hand settle on my waist, turn me around. Jace was even closer now, dark eyes fixed on my face. The touch of his fingers through the long-sleeved T-shirt I wore seemed to burn like fire.

I swallowed, thinking I needed to say something. But words had fled, leaving me alone with him, with the need I now saw in those dark eyes. I recognized it at once, because I'd felt the same thing myself.

And then...oh, God...he was bending toward me, his mouth suddenly on mine, his lips strong, urgent. I tasted him, felt him taste me, and then I was pressed against him, feeling the shocking solidity of his body, the power of the muscles in the arms that were now going around me, bringing me even closer, as if he needed every inch of me to be touching every inch of him.

_Why now?_ some part of me asked, but the rest of my mind and body and soul, all those parts that had been aching for him for days...for weeks...they didn't care so much. It was enough that here, in this moment, Jace was kissing me, and I was kissing him back, letting him know I'd wanted this, too, more than he could ever know. Every nerve and cell in my body seemed to be responding, pulsing with heat. Had it ever felt like this before? I didn't know, because Jace kissing me seemed to have wiped away my memories of every other kiss I'd ever experienced.

A hissing sound interrupted us, though, and Jace let go of me abruptly. "The water's boiling," he said.

_That's not the only thing boiling,_ I thought, but I didn't answer, only lunged for the pot holder so I could lift the lid on the stock pot and then turn down the heat to a more reasonable level. Those mundane tasks helped me gather myself a bit, although I could still feel the blood thrumming and throbbing in my veins. That wasn't the only thing throbbing, either. I wouldn't say I was the kind of person who got turned on easily — as my asshole ex-boyfriend had complained on more than one occasion — but right then I was so aroused that Jace probably could have laid me out flat on the kitchen counter and taken me there with absolutely no complaints.

He'd backed away slightly, though, seemed content to watch as I dumped some fettuccini into the boiling water and then turned the sausages over once again. It was only after I gave the vodka sauce a quick stir that he said, "You didn't...mind that, did you?"

"Mind it?" I asked. We now stood facing one another, my back to the stove. He looked calm enough, but I thought I could detect a certain hard, bright glint in his eyes that I'd never seen before. Arousal? I couldn't tell.

I realized I didn't know him well enough to guess. Yes, we'd been living under the same roof for almost three weeks now, but we'd always been careful around one another, making sure we didn't cross any lines, didn't blunder through any barriers.

Well, those barriers were pretty well knocked down now.

"I didn't — I didn't want you to think I was forcing you or anything."

Now he appeared almost worried, the gleam gone from his eyes, leaving them sober and dark, so dark I couldn't really tell where the pupils ended and the irises began.

Forcing me? That was a joke. I'd wanted that kiss, but had worried that my growing feelings for him weren't reciprocated.

"I mean, after what happened to you in Albuquerque — "

Time to disabuse him of that notion. I set the spoon down on the little stone rest we used to keep our cooking utensils off the counter, then went over and took his hands in mine, right before I went on my tiptoes and kissed him on the lips. A fast kiss, not like the breath-stealing, knee-knocking one we'd shared a few moments earlier, but still enough that he should understand that I liked kissing him very much indeed.

"This isn't Albuquerque," I told him. "And you're nothing like...either of them." To be fair, I didn't even know for sure that the man who'd wanted to steal the Cherokee had the same designs on me that Chris Bowman did, but I'd gotten the impression his intentions weren't exactly benign. "And I've wanted...this...for a long time. I just wasn't sure it was what _you_ wanted."

The tense set of his shoulders seemed to relax slightly, and he even grinned. "Oh, I wanted it, too. But I didn't want to push you. I could tell you'd been through a lot."

"We both have," I said simply. No need to go into it any more than that. He'd lost everything, and I'd lost everything. Through some miracle, though, we'd both come to this place, come to the one spot in the world where we'd be safe to grow into knowing one another, caring for one another.

And again I couldn't help wondering if this was somehow the doing of my guardian angel, the voice. Had he given Jace the same prompting he'd given me?

Eyes flickering as he seemed to study my face, Jace asked, "What is it?"

Did I dare mention the voice? We'd just opened up so much to each other; the last thing I wanted was for him to think I was crazy, or at least slightly unbalanced by everything I'd experienced since the Heat stole everything I loved. But I didn't want to keep it a secret from him, either.

"Did you...." I began, then stopped. He was still holding my hands, fingers strong and somehow comforting. I never wanted him to let go, although I knew he'd have to at some point, just to let me get back to making dinner. But that could wait another minute or two. His gaze was still resting on my face, expectant, wondering what I was trying to ask. And there was simply no good way to ask.

"Did you ever hear anything?" I blurted. "Afterward, I mean. Like a voice guiding you, telling you where you should go. Telling you should come here."

A long, long pause. At least he hadn't let go of my hands, but I could see him weighing the question in his mind, trying to see if I was serious. "No, nothing like that," he said at last. "Like I said, I came to Santa Fe because no one seemed to be left in Taos, and I had a friend here. The world's longest shot, I know." He hesitated, then asked, his tone soft, "Did you hear something like that?"

I wanted to deny it. But that would also seem like a denial of all the assistance the voice...guardian angel...whatever...had given me. "Yes," I said. "It's how I found this house. I would never have gotten out of Albuquerque alive if not for the voice."

"'The voice,'" he repeated. Nothing in the calm, even set of his features told me what he was thinking, and so I could only stand there in agony, wondering when he was going to let go and back away from me. Away from the crazy woman.

Somehow I managed to stand there, waiting.

"You've been blessed, I think," Jace said at last. "Some guiding spirit looked down on you and knew you were worthy, that you needed to survive."

Relief washed over me. So he didn't think I was crazy. Then again, although I'd never much believed in such things, I guessed that his people thought differently. The dividing line between our world and the world of the spirits was definitely thinner for them.

"You really think that?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Up until that moment, I hadn't realized how important it was that he believed me.

"Oh, yes," he replied, pulling me closer to him, his lips finding mine. "So let's make sure our survival matters."

# Chapter 14

Dinner was...well, dinner was wonderful. It might have only been left-over sausage and sauce out of a jar, leavened a little by some zucchini from the greenhouse that I steamed to go along with the pasta, but I might as well have been eating at a five-star restaurant for as exhilarated as I felt. Jace had kissed me. Jace wanted me, had only been holding back because he didn't want to pressure me or frighten me off.

Some people might have said it was inevitable, that if you put two healthy, attractive people of the same sexual orientation in the same place, sharing the same home, eventually they'd end up together. Propinquity, or whatever they called it.

I didn't believe that for a second, though. There were plenty of guys I'd known over the years who, if they'd shown up on my doorstep the way Jace had, I could've lived in platonic harmony with and never had the slightest inclination for anything more than a quick hug on a birthday or something.

Jace, on the other hand...well, I'd been thinking how hot he was from the first moment I laid eyes on him, even as I was confronting him at the gate to the compound, shotgun in hand. That sudden, unexpected flare of admiration had shifted into attraction as the days had gone on, and now was...what?

Far more than simple attraction, even if I was too scared to put a label on it right then.

He'd opened a bottle of wine, some more of the Black Mesa Montepulciano, which, as it turned out, was also a New Mexico wine. I'd been so rattled when I arrived at the compound that I hadn't even read the label that closely. It did go well with the simple meal I'd prepared. More than that, it gave the evening a sense of celebration, that this was just the beginning of something far more.

Was I ready for that? Yes, I'd been dutifully taking my pill every night, knew I'd be protected in that way, if nothing else. Maybe I should've been worrying whether Jace had packed some condoms as part of his "surviving the apocalypse" kit, but for some reason, I didn't think that was necessary. He certainly didn't give off the man-whore vibe. It should be fine.

"Dollar for your thoughts," Jace said, and I startled, knowing I could never tell him I'd been pondering contraceptive options. By then we were winding down, only a few bites left on our plates.

"A whole dollar?" I teased, glad that we were eating by candlelight. With any luck, he wouldn't have noticed the way the hot blood rose to my cheeks.

"Well, a penny's probably worth more than a dollar now, since at least you could melt a penny down and get the copper out of it." He set down his fork and leaned forward slightly, a smile touching those full lips, the ones that had felt so delicious when pressed against mine. "But your choice."

"I — I wasn't thinking about anything in particular," I said.

An eyebrow went up.

"Seriously." I lifted my glass of wine and took a quick swallow.

The other eyebrow went up.

Oh, boy. I could stall and I could hedge, but it was pretty obvious that Jace would see through any of those machinations. "Okay, fine," I told him, setting my wine glass back down and taking a breath. "If you have to know, I was thinking about whether you'd packed any condoms when you bailed out of Taos."

He let out a breath, both eyebrows still raised. "You don't beat around the bush, do you?"

"Well, you _asked_."

For a second or two, he didn't say anything, only looked at me. I tried not to blink or glance away, but damn, that was hard. My cheeks felt like they were on fire.

At last he said, "No, I didn't. Sorry...I guess I was thinking more about the world ending or something than whether I was going to get laid in the near future."

I winced, and he shook his head as if exasperated with himself.

"Jessica, I'm sorry. That's not what I meant." His hands flattened on the tabletop, as if by exerting pressure against the cool copper surface, he could take back what he'd just said. "That is, if we — if we were together, I think you know it would be a lot more than just getting laid."

My heart seemed to start beating again. "It would?"

"You know it would," he said, his tone quiet, but no less intense for all that.

I smiled at him. "It's fine. I'm on the pill."

After that...well, I'm still not sure who moved first, but almost in a single motion, we were on our feet, pushing our chairs away from the table, Jace reaching out to take me by the hand. He pulled me into him, kissing me, his mouth sweet with wine. I felt as if I could never get enough of tasting him.

But he broke the kiss after a few seconds, leading me down the hallway to my bedroom. He'd never been in here before, of course, although I left it unlocked most of the time, except for the occasions when I was getting dressed. Since Dutchie liked to wander between our rooms at night, I didn't have the heart to shut the door. Because of that, though, I always kept it tidy. I knew I didn't have to worry about Jace tripping over a discarded bra or something when we entered.

It was cold, though, away from the fireplace in the family room, which did a pretty good job of heating the dining room as well, since they were right next to each other. Jace let go of my hand — with some reluctance, it seemed — and asked, "Okay if I get a fire going?"

"You already have," I said, smiling, but I nodded. "We could use one. It's probably going to get below freezing tonight."

He went to the fireplace and began expertly stacking some logs within it. We were burning a lot already, but I wasn't too worried. The house had an enormous log room built on the north side, with wood stacked almost to the rafters on every wall. Jace had taken one look at the stockpile and said we could have fires in every room through July if necessary.

So I allowed myself to enjoy the warmth that began to spread through the room after he got the fire going, and not fret over whether we were going to run out of wood halfway through the winter. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't also enjoy watching the way Jace's jeans hugged his backside as he bent over, coaxing the fire to life.

Afterward, he turned around, then came over to me where I sat on the foot of the bed. "Better?"

"Yes," I replied. "Although it'll probably still be smart to get under those covers quickly."

"I can help with that." His fingers tugged my shirt loose from the waistband of my jeans, then undid my belt buckle. At the same time, I was working at his belt as well before undoing the buttons on his faded Levi's. I hooked my thumbs through the belt loops of his pants, easing them down. I could tell he was already aroused, the bulge in the dark gray boxer-briefs he wore evidence that stopping to get the fire going hadn't put him too much off his stride, so to speak.

He stepped out of the jeans but didn't let that distract him from pulling my T-shirt up and over my head. After dropping it on top of his jeans, he reached down and undid the front clasp of my bra, releasing a long, drawn-out breath as his hands closed over my bare breasts.

I gasped, closing my eyes as he caressed me, fingers sliding over my skin. Then he was tugging at my jeans, getting them out of the way, and I stepped out of them, letting him lead me over to the bed. With one hand, he yanked back the covers, and I collapsed onto the mattress, bringing him with me, bare skin to bare skin, our mouths finding one another in the fire-lit darkness. The sheets were icy cold, but I hardly noticed.

Because oh, God, he was reaching between my legs, stroking me as his mouth closed on my nipple. My heart was pounding, my breath coming in great, heaving gasps. I had done all these things before, but never with Jace. And it had never felt like this with anyone else.

My own hand moved lower, touching him, wrapping around him, feeling the heat and the strength of his arousal. He moaned as I touched him, the sound seeming to reverberate through every inch of my body. Or maybe it was just the approaching wave of the orgasm that I could feel bearing down on me, building up until I couldn't do anything except allow Jace to touch me, to flick his tongue against the bud of my breast, and then it tore through me like a swollen river breaking down a dam, my voice calling his name, my body heaving against his.

Yes, it had been a while, but it was more than that. It was Jace, all of it — the way he'd made me come, the way I felt as if I had been some strange half-alive being before this, hiding in the darkness until he brought me into the light.

Then he was shifting, moving, and I could feel him pushing against me, against my entrance. I'd never wanted anything more than I wanted him inside me, filling me. "Please, Jace," I breathed.

That was all he needed. In that instant, he was there, in me, moving deeper and deeper as I rocked my hips against his, drawing him into me, our bodies locked together, finding the rhythm, the perfect push and pull of man and woman, Jace and me. I clung to him, one hand moving up to clutch his neck, feeling the leather cord that held his hair back. One tug, and it was loose, his raven hair spilling over his shoulders, brushing against my cheek, and that was it, the last push I needed. Crying out, calling his name, gasping, my body convulsing against his, and then I could feel him let loose, heard him groan, his hips driving him into me, my legs wrapped around him, until finally he stilled, went quiet, his mouth by my ear, my name a soft breath in the silent room.

"Jessica...."

We lay there for uncounted moments, flesh to flesh, drinking in each other's warmth. Finally, he shifted, pulling away from me, but only so he could lie on his side, his chest touching my arm, as if he didn't want any real distance to come between us. I understood the feeling all too well. In a moment, I'd have to force myself out of bed and go to the bathroom, get myself cleaned up, but right then I only wanted to be next to him, to breathe him in, to reassure myself that he truly was real, that this actually had happened.

He reached out and pushed a strand of hair away from my face. Such a tender gesture, so different from the wild abandon of a few minutes earlier. Because the room was so dimly lit, I couldn't precisely decipher his expression. But I definitely wasn't expecting what came next.

"I love you, Jessica."

Out of nowhere. Or not nowhere, not really. I could have seen those words in the way he looked at me when he thought I wouldn't notice, in how careful he was to listen to my suggestions...in the very reticence that had kept him from making a move until he was certain it wouldn't be rebuffed.

And because he'd been brave enough to say it first, I didn't hesitate. Not now. I'd been denying this to myself, coming up with reasons why it couldn't be true, but there was no point in denying it any longer.

"I love you, Jace." It was true. I knew it, accepted it, let my heart and mind and soul become open to the idea. I loved Jason Little River. The sound of his voice. The crinkle at the corner of his eyes when he laughed. The long, strong fingers of his hands. The way he asked for my opinion on things and never made me feel foolish for not knowing as much as he did about raising animals or gardening or...well, most things. I'd led a sheltered life, while I got the impression he hadn't. His hands were beautiful, but they had the calluses and scars of someone who hadn't spent his entire life behind a desk. I supposed that was from the time he spent at the pueblo, even though his own start-up business had involved computers.

All these details and contradictions, all the elements that made Jace uniquely Jace...they were what made me realize I loved him. And, by some miracle, he loved me in return.

He pulled me against him, and I burrowed my face into his chest, breathing in the warm, delicious scent of his skin, hearing his heart beat, strong and sure. I couldn't remember a time when I'd been this happy.

Happy. Was I allowed to be happy, when most of the world was gone?

I didn't know. I tried to tell myself that my parents would have wanted me to be happy, that they wouldn't have wanted me to wallow in sorrow for the rest of my days, just because they were gone. But even in the warm afterglow of our lovemaking, of hearing Jace say that he loved me, I couldn't help feeling a twinge of guilt.

He pushed a lock of hair away from my face, trailed his fingers across my cheek and down to my mouth. I pressed my lips very softly against his forefinger, and he smiled. But then his expression sobered, and he gave me a very direct look.

"Don't do this to yourself," he said.

"Do what?" But I was pretty sure what he meant.

"You can't beat yourself up just because you've found some happiness in your life. The Dying wasn't your fault. All you can do is live your life to the best of your ability, make your survival mean something."

_The Dying._ It was the first time I'd heard him use that phrase, but it was apt enough. Because that was what had irrevocably changed the world... all that death.

"I know," I whispered. "It's just sometimes...it comes rushing over me like a wave, you know? I put it aside, and I'm fine, because I'm here with you, and I know we're safe, but...."

His arms went around me, keeping me close to him, close to the security of that strongly beating heart and the soothing warmth of his flesh. "I know." The words came in a murmur, gentle. "You're stronger than you know, Jessica. It's human to feel doubt and worry. But...don't let it get between us. Please?"

There was a note of concern in his voice that I hadn't heard before, and I shifted so I could look up into his eyes. "Oh, no," I told him then. "I'll never let anything come between us."

We slept in each other's arms that night, and awoke to a chilly morning where the roof of the garage was white with frost. The fire had guttered down to coals, and Jace wrapped one of the blankets around himself as he got up to set new logs in the hearth and get a fresh blaze going. Dutchie watched all this with approval; it looked as if she hadn't moved since she curled up in front of the fireplace the night before. I got the distinct impression that she was happy with our new sleeping arrangements, since it meant she wouldn't have to split her time between Jace's and my room anymore.

Even with the fire going, I was loath to get out of bed. But I wasn't a city girl any longer; I needed to get moving, shower, check on the goats, start breakfast. All these things were speeded up by Jace and me sharing the shower in the master bath, which was roomy enough that we fit quite nicely. Okay, we didn't save quite as much time as I'd thought, because we got lost in lathering up each other's bodies, running soapy hands over bare skin, until I was pressed up against the wall and he was inside me again, one of my legs wrapped around him, holding him in place while he thrust into me. We had to clean up all over again afterward, but it was worth it.

At last, though, we got out of the shower — mostly because the hot water heater began to run out of steam — and got dressed, then dried our hair. A pang went through me as he fished another one of those leather cords out of his pocket and began winding it around his hair.

"Don't," I said, and he turned toward me with a quizzical look.

"Don't what?"

"Don't tie it up. I like it down."

A slow smile spread over his lips then, and he shrugged and shoved the cord back into the pocket of his jeans. "Okay. But if it starts getting in my face when I'm out in the wind — "

"Then okay, you can tie it back again." I went to him and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'm not totally unreasonable, you know."

"Oh, I know." He gave my own ponytail the side-eye, and I couldn't help laughing.

"Yeah, do as I say and all that."

We went out to check on the goats before breakfast, our breath puffing up into the icy air. They seemed all right, but Jace looked at the frost on the ground and shook his head.

"We need to get them some kind of protection from the cold. It's only going to get worse after this, and when we have our first snowfall...." He didn't bother to finish the sentence, but I knew what he meant. Our little herd needed someplace to go.

"So what are you thinking?" I asked, looking around the walled-in landscape. From within the chicken coop, I could hear the hens clucking away happily. It was obvious they hadn't suffered too much from the cold.

"It doesn't need to be fancy, but some kind of shed, someplace where they can go inside if they need to. The henhouse went together pretty quickly, so I'm sure I can do something like that for the goats, too."

I saw another foray to Home Depot in our near future. We'd stocked up on food just the day before, but if we were going to Santa Fe anyway, I was going to put in a request to raid an outdoor gear store or something similar. My outerwear definitely wasn't up to snuff, and I had a feeling that adding some thermal underwear to my repertoire wouldn't be a bad idea, either.

So I asked about that, and Jace nodded. "I could use a few things, too. So we'll do that first, and then we'll go the hardware store. I need to check the library here, though — I'm pretty sure I saw a book with plans for different kinds of outbuildings, and that'll help me figure out how much to bring back."

With that settled, he headed back into the house to start making notes, and I popped into the henhouse to scoop up some fresh eggs for breakfast, then hurried to the kitchen. At least in there it was relatively warm and cheery. My fingers gradually thawed out as I made scrambled eggs and toast, and a pot of fresh coffee. I reflected then that Jace was right — I couldn't let survivor's guilt get in the way of enjoying the life I had now. I had him, and we had this beautiful place to live, with plenty of food and no one bothering us. In this post-Dying world, that was about as close to heaven as I would probably get.

After breakfast, we patted Dutchie and went out to the garage. I'd been thinking this over while Jace took care of this dishes, and I realized it was time for me to show how much I really did trust him.

"Wait," I said as he began to head to the passenger side of the Jeep. He glanced back toward me, and I opened my hand to reveal the key fob lying on my palm. "You want to drive?"

His dark eyes lit up, but he didn't move. "Are you sure?"

I nodded, and he came back to me, taking the key from my hand as he leaned down to kiss me. Mmm, coffee and the faintest trace of butter, rich and friendly, welcoming, just like the man who was kissing me.

"Thank you," he said, then went to climb in the driver-side door.

It felt strange to go around to the passenger side, to get in and then watch Jace back the Cherokee out of the garage and maneuver it down the steeply sloping drive to the gate. I had a new perspective on things this way, could concentrate on my surroundings rather than merely on the road.

Not that there was a lot to look at up here. The junipers didn't change much with the seasons, and the grass had already been sere and yellow even before the frost hit. But the sky was a deep, deep blue, overlaid with faint traceries of high clouds, and in the Sangre de Cristo mountains above town, I could see the patches of bright yellow aspens now looking faded as they lost more and more of their leaves, settling in for winter.

We came down onto Upper Canyon road and wended our way into town. "Any ideas on outdoor supply places?" Jace asked.

"Not really," I admitted. "When I came here with my friends, we were more interested in partying than hiking. And of course you can't Yelp something after the apocalypse."

His mouth seemed to twitch, but when he turned slightly to look at me, his expression was grim enough. "Is that what you think this is? The apocalypse?"

"Well, close enough as makes no difference." We'd slowed to maybe twenty miles an hour at the most, partly because Jace was weaving in and out of the abandoned cars on the streets, but also because I had a feeling he didn't have any idea where he was supposed to go. "I mean, most of the world is dead, and the life we had back then is gone. No, I suppose there weren't any four horsemen and blood-red moons and flaming swords and all that, but...."

He didn't reply, but I could almost feel him turning over the idea in his head. My knowledge of Native American mythology was scanty at best, and so I didn't know if his people had their own vision of the end of the world. The terminology I'd used was purely Revelations sort of stuff, but that was my only frame of reference. At least, those were the kinds of things you'd always hear quoted in movies dealing with the end times.

"I have an idea," he said, in a very different tone. "Let's stop and go into that hotel. They had to have phone books and local directories at the concierge desk, right?"

He had a point. I couldn't remember the last time I'd used a phone book, since I either used Yelp or Google Maps to find things with my cell phone, but maybe not everyone was as firmly rooted in the digital age as I had been before the world collapsed. Checking at the hotel sounded like a good idea.

So he pulled up onto the sidewalk in front of the La Fonda Hotel, in a spot where once bellhops had probably assisted people with their luggage but was now free of cars. And actually, as I got out of the Jeep and looked around quickly, it somehow seemed as if the street wasn't quite as choked with vehicles as I remembered it.

"What's the matter?" Jace asked, seeming to notice the way I was scanning the street. "Do you see something?" His hand went to his belt, and for the first time I realized he was wearing his long knife in its sheath. I hadn't even thought to bring one of the guns with me. Maybe Jace made me feel a little _too_ safe. I was getting sloppy.

"No," I replied, quickly so he wouldn't get too nervous. "That is...I could have sworn there were more cars here the last time I drove through. It's as if some of them are just...gone."

His eyebrows went up, and I could see him look past me to the street the hotel faced. What good that would do, I wasn't sure, because I didn't think he'd even come this way when he passed through town. There were obvious gaps in the lines of cars parked at the sidewalk, but that didn't have to mean anything, except that no one had been parked there in the first place.

"You're sure?" he asked, and now I thought I detected a note of patience in his voice, as if he was trying to humor me.

"No, I'm not sure, because I wasn't memorizing everything I saw when I drove through here. It just feels...off."

"Well, all the more reason for us to see if we can find a phone book and a map, and then get out of here."

I decided I couldn't argue with that logic, and followed him into the lobby of the hotel.

* * *

Luckily for us, the concierge's desk did have an area phone book, as well as a detailed map of downtown and a larger one for the greater Santa Fe area. I took a quick glance around, remembering how Tori and Elena and I had gone up to the rooftop bar for drinks. Back then the place had been packed. Now the tiled floors echoed under our footsteps, and I had to work hard not to look at the flurries of gray ash that stray drafts must have blown against the floorboards and into the corners.

It felt good to be out in the sun again, despite the brisk wind, although we got into the Jeep quickly enough. I paged through the phone book and discovered that there was an REI probably less than five minutes from our current location. Jace seemed cheered by that, and we headed there in silence, although I kept looking at the streets as they passed by, trying to determine if they felt less impacted by abandoned vehicles than I'd previously thought. It was hard to say for sure, as I'd never gone down this particular road. It did seem less crowded than it should be, although I was basing that observation on pure gut feeling and not much more.

The store was located almost on the railroad tracks, just off Market Street. While there were a few vehicles parked nearby, the place still felt far more deserted than some of the other shops I'd visited. Again, people probably weren't thinking of outdoor supplies as they were succumbing one by one to the Heat.

Jace and I got out of the Jeep and headed to the store entrance. The glass wasn't smashed, but the doors seemed to have gotten stuck halfway open. Convenient, since we wouldn't have to worry about breaking in.

When we entered the store, though, I still got the feeling that it had been carefully ransacked, although it wasn't a mess. No, it was more that the stock seemed far leaner than it should have been. The glass case with the GPS devices had been emptied of its contents, and it looked as if a bunch of the mountain bikes were gone, too.

But at least the low-dollar stuff like the thermal underwear and the gloves hadn't been totally depleted. I got a shopping cart and started adding anything in my size, while Jace went to the men's section and basically did the same thing. He dumped in all his items, then went back for a thigh-length down-filled jacket. Before he put it in the cart, he looked at the price tag and shook his head.

"What?" I asked.

"That coat cost more than I paid for my motorcycle."

Ouch. Well, retail prices were definitely a thing of the past, so it wasn't as if we had to worry about whether we could afford any of this stuff. "Yes," I said, "but a motorcycle won't keep you warm at night."

A corner of his mouth quirked, even as a warm gleam came and went in his eyes. "Oh, I've got something way better than a jacket for keeping me warm at night."

I could feel heat as well, running through my core, but I knew we needed to stay focused on the task at hand. "Anything else?"

"That about does it for me. I like my boots, so I'm not going to bother replacing them. You?"

"Same." Maybe there were some fancy outdoor shoes that would have suited me better, but my hiking boots were sturdy and comfortable. They'd cost me a good chunk back in the day as well, come to think of it. Money well spent, as far as I was concerned, considering everything they'd gotten me through during the past few weeks.

So we pushed our haul out to the Cherokee and stowed everything in the back. "Who do you think took that other stuff?" I asked Jace, just as he was closing the hatch to the cargo area.

He shrugged. "Other survivors, I suppose."

"Don't you think it's weird that we still haven't seen anyone?" Something felt strange. I couldn't put my finger on it, since I really didn't have any frame of reference for what things were supposed to feel like after the apocalypse. Still, you'd think that any survivors in Santa Fe would have seen Jace and me coming and going, would have realized we didn't pose any kind of threat. At least, I didn't think we looked terribly intimidating.

"I don't know. Maybe." He turned the key over in his hand, fiddling with it. "I'll bet if you crunched the numbers, you'd realize the odds of us running across any of the few hundred survivors in the area on any given day really aren't that great. We'd have to keep coming down here day after day, looking for them. Are you ready to do that?"

Part of me was. Oh, I didn't really need anyone other than Jace, and we'd done just fine — more than fine — on our own, but still....

I wanted to know.

However, I could tell from the expression Jace currently wore that he didn't share this particular thirst for knowledge, and I decided I'd better not push it. After all, before I'd met him, my run-ins with survivors of the Dying hadn't exactly been all that pleasant.

"No," I said, and gave him what I hoped was a convincing smile. "I've got better things to do with my time."

# Chapter 15

Strangely, although at first glance the Home Depot looked exactly the same as the last time we'd left it after we'd gotten the supplies for the chicken coop, when we went to fetch a trailer to haul the lumber home, only one was still sitting there. The other three were gone.

That did take Jace aback; he stood there for a moment, hand on his chin, staring at the spaces where the trailers had been parked. Finally he said, "What the hell?"

"So you'll admit they're gone."

"Of course they're gone. It's kind of obvious, don't you think?" Then he shook his head. "Sorry, Jess. Didn't mean to snap at you. But this is just weird."

That was a good word for it. I could see survivors making off with GPS devices and hiking boots and multi-packs of toilet paper. But equipment trailers?

"Well, at least they left us one," I offered.

That didn't seem to mollify him much. He stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, clearly discomfited by this evidence that there were survivors, and that they seemed to be organized enough to make off with most of the store's trailers. I saw the troubled glance he sent toward the entrance at the lumberyard end of the building, and guessed he was worried that the stock inside would be similarly picked over.

We were here now, though, so we might as well go in and see what we could find, once we had the trailer hooked up to the Cherokee. That didn't take long, though, and afterward we headed toward the building, both of us grimly silent.

Several big orange flatbed carts sat near the entrance, so Jace took one and wheeled it in, glass crunching underfoot as he did so. It seemed clear enough, even from a quick glance around, that someone had been in here since our last visit. The battery displays were almost all emptied out, and a lot of tools seemed to be missing, too. But at least the lumberyard didn't look as if it had been raided, so Jace was able to get the supplies he needed. Tools we already had back at the compound, up to and including a belt sander and a jigsaw, so the looters were welcome to take anything that still remained here.

"I wonder what they're doing with all of it," I ventured as he began shifting the lumber from the cart and into the trailer.

"Who knows?" he replied. "They're probably people like us — you know, with a place where they're holed up and safe but still need assorted odds and ends. Actually, I have a feeling they would need more, since our compound was so well stocked when you found it. And you're probably used to seeing stores getting restocked on a regular basis. Things can start to look pretty picked over when no one's coming in with new products all the time."

Well, that made sense. It was true that I didn't have much experience yet of a world where stores weren't magically restocked when supplies ran low. Even so, something didn't feel right to me. Batteries and hammers I could understand. But the trailers? I supposed if they had enough stuff to haul away, it made some sense. But that would have to be a _lot_ of stuff.

Jace finished tying down the lumber, then threw the nails and fasteners and other small items he'd collected into the cargo area of the Jeep. From the way the corners of his mouth were turned down, I could tell he wasn't thrilled at the prospect of having to compete with other survivors for supplies we might need to get through the winter.

But no, that wouldn't happen. We were stocked on food, and now we had milk and eggs and cheese and butter, so really, once we got the goats sheltered, we wouldn't have much need to come back down to Santa Fe proper unless we were just dying to. And I didn't see that happening anytime soon.

Thinking about our goats made me recall the herd we'd taken them from. They were just as much out in the cold, although I thought I remembered seeing a few ramshackle outbuildings on the property where they were grazing. Still, it couldn't hurt to check on them. It wasn't that out of our way.

When I mentioned my concerns to Jace, he nodded. "That's probably a good idea. They would have more shelter there than our own goats, but we might as well look. If they're in trouble, we can unload this stuff, get the horse trailer, and then bring them back to the compound. It might take a couple of trips, though."

I said I wouldn't mind that at all, so we got into the Cherokee and drove off, angling away from our normal route so we could get to the edge of town and the small ranch where we'd first found the goats. But when we got there, the animals were all gone. I would have said they'd wandered off on their own, but I could see tire tracks in the dirt, tracks that were fatter and wider than those of my Jeep. Some big off-road truck, if I had to guess.

Jace seemed to be of the same opinion, because he squatted down to take a closer look, one finger digging into the rutted earth. "Probably a half-ton pickup, judging by the tread and how deep it is." He stood, following the tracks along the narrow dirt road that led to the pasture gate. We'd come in that same way, but it looked like the truck had turned and headed west afterward, rather than to the east, the direction of town and our own hidden compound.

"Where do you think they were going?" I asked.

"I have no idea. I don't think there's much out that way, unless they were headed to the highway. And if that's the case, their home base could be anywhere."

"So you don't think they're local?"

For a second or two, Jace didn't answer me. He just stood there, gazing off to the west, straight brows pulled together in a frown. The wind blew his loose hair, turning it into a shining raven cloud around his head, but for some reason, I didn't find myself quite as lost in admiration as I might otherwise have been. Instead, a shiver of apprehension went down my spine. Whatever thoughts might be occupying his mind, they didn't look as if they were pleasant ones.

"I don't know if they're from around here," he said at last. "Maybe, maybe not. Maybe one of the survivors knew this ranch existed, then noticed some of the goats were missing and came back to get the rest before they disappeared, too. And maybe they're holed up someplace remote, just like we are." He turned and began heading back to the Jeep, walking quickly. I practically had to jog to keep up with him.

I almost asked what the rush was, but he seemed to know what I was thinking. Jaw tense, he told me,

"I think it's better that we get back. We've been gone long enough."

Nothing else, but the implication was enough to make me hurry into the passenger seat, to hold on as he drove faster than he really should have on the way home, the trailer rattling and bumping behind us. It was a beautiful, brisk fall day, but I couldn't enjoy the scenery. I just wanted to get home and make sure everything was all right.

If anything had happened to Dutchie....

But when we pulled up and opened the gate, everything looked fine. The goats were still wandering around, eating dried grass, and I could hear the hens clucking away in the chicken coop. Jace maneuvered the Jeep around so he could back the trailer up to the edge of the yard. That way, he wouldn't have to carry the lumber as far. He left it, though, to come with me to the house.

"Let me go in first," he said, and I did as he asked, allowing him to walk in front of me.

All that did was subject him to the first of Dutchie's onslaught. She came bounding up to us, panting, tail wagging, nose busily sniffing the bags we carried. Since all they held was the clothing we'd pilfered from REI, she lost interest soon enough, instead hanging out by the pantry, clearly angling for a chewy treat.

"I think it's safe," I told Jace, going to get the dog her treat. Maybe she hadn't exactly earned it, but I was so happy to see her and the rest of the property safe that I didn't much care.

"Probably. I'll go drop this stuff in the bedroom, though. That way I can check the rest of the house."

I didn't bother to stop him. If it made him feel better, he was welcome to search every inch of the property.

After I gave Dutchie her treat, I paused and surveyed the kitchen. Nothing appeared out of place, unless you wanted to count some water slopped on the floor around the dog's bowl. The world's neatest drinker she was not. Otherwise, though, it was tidy enough, the dishes stacked in the wooden drainer on the counter, everything I'd used to make breakfast either put back in the refrigerator or the pantry.

Jace entered the kitchen then, relief plain on his face. "Everything looks fine."

"Were you really worried it wouldn't?"

"I don't know. I suppose — " He stopped there, clearly trying to decide what he really wanted to say. "I suppose seeing all that stuff taken rattled me. I'm not sure why. Maybe because the last time we were in town, I didn't see any evidence of other survivors. Now, though...." His shoulders lifted; I noticed that he'd taken off the leather jacket he'd worn on our expedition. "I know it's stupid. They have just as much right to help themselves to supplies as we do. But the way they came in and took all the rest of the goats? It feels...greedy, I guess. We only took what we needed."

I could see what he was thinking, but at the same time, I wasn't sure I wanted to ascribe any negative intentions to the people who'd collected the rest of the herd. "Maybe...or maybe they saw them and were worried about them, the same way we were, and took them all because they had more room for them. There could be all sorts of reasons."

"You're probably right." The square set of his shoulders seemed to relax a little, and he came over to me and took me in his arms, holding me tightly against him. Something of the cool juniper-scented wind outdoors seemed to have clung to his hair, and I breathed it in, marveling at how the feel of him could drive all worries right out of my head. Whoever had absconded with the goats, it really didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. We had enough to keep our own little homestead going, and would have more goats in the spring, once the does gave birth. Really, in a couple of seasons we'd be swimming in animals and wondering what the heck we were supposed to do with all of them.

"I'll make some sandwiches," I offered, after I glanced at the clock and realized it was nearly one-thirty, past the time when we'd usually eat lunch.

Jace nodded, but I could tell from the way his mouth was set that he was still turning the problem over in his head. Well, if he wanted to brood over it, I couldn't stop him.

I just knew it would be fine. It had to be.

The days seemed to blur after that, running together until I realized that we were less than a week away from Thanksgiving. Jace had spent long hours building the shed for the goats, doing his best to make sure they didn't have to be exposed to the elements any longer than absolutely necessary. And they did seem grateful for the shelter we provided, going in there without any urging from us.

As a child, I'd read all those "Little House" books about Laura Ingalls Wilder and her family moving from place to place, homesteading, farming, and although I thought I'd absorbed most of the details, it wasn't until I was doing roughly the same thing myself that I understood how time-consuming having to do everything yourself actually was. And yes, I realized that Jace and I were living in a modern, up-to-date house with a lot of conveniences that Ms. Wilder could never have conceived of. Even so, there was still housework and laundry and cooking and so much more, like making cheese and sausage and butter, collecting eggs, making sure the goats had fresh water and were milked twice a day, tending the plants in the greenhouse and determining what was ready to be eaten and what still needed a few days. By the time we were done with dinner and the clean-up afterward, Jace and I were practically asleep on our feet. Every once in a great while, we'd sit down and watch a movie from the collection in the family room, but that happened maybe every ten days or so, if that. And no, we never watched any of the real estate developer's porn. Jace had looked at the row of Blue-Rays and chuckled, shooting me an inquiring look.

"No way in hell," I'd told him, and he'd let it go. I wasn't about to confess that I actually had tried to watch one of them in the first week I'd been here, lonely and scared and thinking maybe giving myself an orgasm would help to relax me. But about five minutes of looking at the actors with their unnaturally waxed bodies and the women with their fake breasts and equally fake moans made me less inclined toward sex than I'd ever been in my life, and I took the disc out of the player and put it away, knowing I could never watch one of those movies again.

And now, I had no need to.

By some unspoken agreement, Jace and I had begun making love in the morning, while the world was still dark and the day hadn't wrung every last drop of energy from us. Sometimes one of us would wake up in the middle of the night and reach out for the other, and we'd cling together in a sort of frenzy before passing out again, but it wasn't a common occurrence.

Even so, it was a good life. The weariness I felt every day when I lay down to sleep...it was a good kind of tired, the kind you got when you'd spent your day doing something that felt useful, worthwhile. I could tell that Jace viewed our existence the same way, that he didn't have any regrets about the life we were living. In a post-industrial world, this seemed to be the new normal.

Behind all that, though, I still had this nagging sensation at the back of my mind, as if I was missing something vitally important, that if I could only put the pieces together in the right order, I'd figure out what had been bothering me all this time. It was sort of like looking at one of those "magic eye" pictures and attempting to puzzle out what exactly the hidden image was. I was never very good at that, either. No matter how hard I tried, I could only see a blur of color that didn't mean anything.

In the meantime, Thanksgiving came, and we feasted on pheasant, which I found I enjoyed far more than turkey. Maybe that was simply because, although my mother knew her way around a turkey, my Aunt Susan really didn't, and so on alternating Thanksgivings I'd had to eat dried-out bird smothered in cranberry sauce to give it a decent flavor.

No such worries with the pheasant Jace brought home, which was moist and delicious, especially paired with a sauce I made from currants he'd found during one of his hunting expeditions. And combined with wild rice and sautéed green beans from the greenhouse — well, it was probably the best Thanksgiving meal I'd ever consumed, even if I couldn't help looking at all the empty seats around that huge dining room table and thinking it would have been wonderful to have friends and family there to share the meal with us.

But that world was long gone, and if I were destined to spend the rest of my life around only one person, I couldn't think of anyone better than Jace to share it with. During that meal, he'd gone quiet a time or two, and I had a feeling he was thinking the same thing, that Thanksgiving was supposed to be about sharing, about being with loved ones, and now ours were all gone.

Those somber moments were fleeting, though, and I could tell he wasn't about to let the memories of what once was ruin what we had now. He joked about Dutchie wanting to eat that pheasant whole before it even hit the back of the ATV, and praised my cooking, raising a glass to honor my efforts. It did feel good. Before all this, I would never have said I was particularly domestic, but I'd risen to the occasion with more success than I could have imagined.

Also, I'd surprised him by putting on the black dress I'd brought from Albuquerque, and my jeweled sandals, and those amazing tanzanite earrings that had so mysteriously shown up in my pocket after my first visit to the plaza in Santa Fe. Actual makeup, my hair styled as best I could, since I hadn't brought any curling irons or hot rollers with me, thinking I'd never need them again. Jace had taken one look at me and asked, "You expect me to be patient all through dinner with you looking like that?"

I'd given him a sphinx-like smile and continued teetering my way back and forth from the kitchen, bringing food to the table. Funny how just a month or so in hiking boots had apparently killed all my ability to walk in heels.

And after dinner, Jace surprised me by taking me in his arms, actually lifting me away from the dining room table and carrying me to the bedroom, where he proceeded to show me exactly how much he appreciated me, mouth moving with teasing slowness across my skin, his fingers stroking me, finding exactly the right spot to wring moans of ecstasy from a place so deep that before I'd been with him, I hadn't even known it existed. Then we were together once more, bodies locked, moving in a rhythm that had become second nature to us by now.

That was really how it felt...natural, as if my body had been made to fit with his, and the reason it had never worked with anyone else was simply that they hadn't been the _one_. We fell asleep in one another's arms, a perfect end to a perfect day.

A week after that, we had our first snowfall. At first, I didn't even know what was happening, only caught an odd flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye while I was clearing up the breakfast dishes. The skies had been heavy and gray when we woke up that morning, and Jace said it smelled like snow. I'd laughed at him over that remark, although really, he would know more about it than I would, since he'd grown up in Taos. When I was in high school, Albuquerque had been hit by a freak snowstorm that basically shut the city down, but that was my only real experience with snow, save for a light flurry here and there that didn't stick around long enough to cause any trouble.

This, though — it drifted downward, light and delicate, the flakes settling on the goats' shed and the chicken coop and the evergreens in the backyard, giving everything a soft sugar frosting. I stood at the window, a dish still in my hands, and stared at the miracle of it, how beautiful it was.

I was so transfixed that I didn't even realize Jace had come up behind me, not until his arms wrapped around my waist and his breath came warm against my neck as he said, "Looks like winter is really here now."

"And we're all safe and snug inside," I responded, setting the dish in the drain before I could drop it. The sensation of having him there, pressed up against me, was enough to send all sorts of tingles up and down my spine.

"That we are. I'll go out and check on the goats in a bit, just to make sure there aren't any leaks in the shed or anything, but I think we'll ride this out just fine." He shifted, as if glancing up at the ceiling, then added, "But we may not have lights for much longer. With cloud cover this thick, the solar's not going to do us much good."

"Then we'll spend our day by candlelight," I replied. "I'll turn off anything extraneous — maybe that way, there'll be enough of a trickle to keep the refrigerator going."

"Not a bad plan. You may want to go scrounge some extra candles from the basement."

"I'll do that as soon as I'm finished with these dishes."

His lips brushed against my cheek as he gave me a soft kiss, an acknowledgment of my words. Then he let go of me, heading toward the laundry room and the mudroom beyond that, where he could get into his jacket and gloves and brave the snow to check on the livestock.

There really weren't that many dishes to do, so I was done in the next few minutes. After that, I went from room to room, making sure we hadn't left any lights on. In general, we were pretty careful about that sort of thing, but I did realize that I needed to put the computer in sleep mode so it wouldn't draw any more power than was strictly necessary. If something happened to set off one of the periphery alarms, it would turn back on right away, but in the meantime it could hibernate.

After that I got a flashlight from the drawer in the kitchen where we kept them, and headed down into the basement. It had its own lights, of course, but if we really were in for a snowy day, I didn't want to turn them on and waste more power. The flashlight would do well enough, even if it was a little creepy to be wandering around down there with only a narrow beam to show me what I was doing.

I'd come down here once before to fetch the candles, but that had been weeks ago, before Jace had even shown up at the compound. The basement actually was very organized, with rows of metal shelving and the items on them arranged according to use. Even so, I couldn't exactly recall where I'd found the candles that last time. On the left, about five rows down?

Figuring it was worth a try, I shone the flashlight's beam in that general direction, but saw only bins of what looked like bundles of wire and cable, possibly intended for repairs to the home's electrical system, should the occasion warrant. Undeterred, I moved to the next row, only to have my foot bump into a cardboard box sitting on the ground next to one of the shelving units rather than placed directly on it. That was strange, simply because everything else I'd encountered in the basement so far had shown an almost fanatical adherence to order on the part of the person who had put it there.

I frowned and moved the flashlight's beam over the box. It had clearly come from some kind of a manufacturer; there was even a shipping label still affixed to it. Crouching down, I read the name and address.

_Cory Berman_

_28-A Skyline Trail_

_Santa Fe, NM 87501_

Cory Berman. So was that the name of the developer from Phoenix who'd built the property, or the caretaker who'd kept watch over it? Maybe it didn't really matter. They were both gone, after all.

What did matter, as I read the lettering stamped on the box itself, was what had been sent to him.

_Yaesu FT-857D Amateur Radio Transceiver_

Holy crap.

A ham radio?

A way to make contact with other survivors.

Heart pounding, I shone the flashlight around and saw another package, a much longer one, that seemed to contain the antenna to go with the radio. Damn.

I didn't know the first thing about setting up a ham radio, or its antenna, but maybe Jace would. Or at least could puzzle out the instructions. We'd have to wait for the snowstorm to blow over before we could go up on the roof to mount the antenna, but in the meantime we could read up on how to use the radio itself.

This could change everything.

I was halfway to the cellar stairs before I remembered I'd come down here in the first place to pick up some spare candles. After going up and down a few more rows of shelving, I found them — pack after pack of shrink-wrapped pillars and votives and tapers, the sort of thing you'd buy in bulk for a wedding or some other large event. I grabbed a flat of pillar candles and headed back to the stairway, then hurried up to the main level of the house.

Jace was nowhere in evidence as I set the package of candles down on the breakfast table in the nook. When I peered out the window, though, I could see him hauling something from the garage to the shed. A sack of the pellets we used to supplement the goats' diet, it looked like. That made sense — they probably weren't going to head out to forage until the snow stopped.

About ten minutes later, I heard him come in, then waited as he stopped in the mudroom to get rid of his coat and scrape the snow from his boots. In the meantime, I'd gone around the house and lit a number of candles, as it was clear from the lowering skies outside that we probably wouldn't see any sun today. Actually, it was so dark that it almost felt as if dusk was coming early, which of course was ridiculous. At this time of year, the days were short, but they weren't _that_ short.

"What's up?" he asked, almost as soon as he entered the kitchen. I supposed he could tell I was fairly dancing with impatience.

"Guess what I found in the basement?"

One brow lifted slightly. "You know, that question generally doesn't have a good answer."

"I'm serious."

"So am I." But I could tell by the twitch at the corner of his full lips that he wasn't...not really.

"A ham radio," I announced. Jace appeared nonplussed by that revelation, so I went on, "It's still in its original packing...I think it was delivered here but never used. And there's an antenna, too."

"And?" he asked.

I felt a stir of impatience. "What do you mean, 'and'? With that radio, we can try to reach out to any other survivors, find out where they are, how they're doing."

"Maybe they don't want to be found. It seems as if they've done a pretty good job of hiding so far."

"So have we," I pointed out. "But it doesn't mean we don't want people to find us. Or...do we?"

Without replying, he went to one of the cupboards and got out a glass, then filled it with water. He drank some, his gaze not fixed on me, but on the increasingly snowy landscape outside the window. "I don't know," he said at last. "You wouldn't think there'd be much of a struggle for resources, not with so few of us left, but after hearing what happened to you in Albuquerque, I'm not sure I'm willing to trust anyone right now. What if there's a bigger, more organized group out there, one that decides what we have here is better than where they're living? We have weapons, but there are only two of us. Would you be willing to risk that?"

When he put it that way.... Involuntarily, my mind flashed back to the man in the Walgreens, to the greed in his watery brown eyes, and I shivered.

"No," I admitted, hoping Jace hadn't noticed my shudder. "Of course I don't want to do anything that would put us in harm's way. But maybe if we set it up and just listened, didn't transmit?" That seemed like a good compromise to me, but Jace's grim expression didn't change. After a perceptible pause, he said,

"Maybe. But we'll have to wait for better weather. No way am I climbing up on the roof in a snowstorm, just so I can install an antenna."

"Of course not."

"And it may need hardware we don't have, so then we'd have to go back into town."

A prospect I didn't particularly relish, and it seemed clear enough to me that Jace wasn't looking forward to it, either.

"Well, we can figure out the logistics later," I said. "It's nothing that has to happen right now."

He nodded, and I let the matter go, instead went on to ask him what sounded good for dinner that night. Something in the tense set of his shoulders appeared to relax. It didn't take a genius to figure out he was glad that I didn't intend to press him on the issue.

Exactly why, I didn't know. Was he really that worried about the consequences of contacting other survivors?

Or did he have some other reason why he wanted us to stay isolated here?

# Chapter 16

Actually, despite his obvious reluctance to do so, Jace did get to work on the antenna situation a few days later, after the weather had cleared. We bumped along the icy, muddy roads to go back to the hardware store, since, as he'd guessed, we didn't have all the little bits and pieces necessary for the installation.

Although a good deal of the snow had melted by then, there was still enough of it around to make driving treacherous, and I was more than happy to have Jace behind the wheel. He had experience driving in snow and ice, and I sure didn't. And as I stared out at the streets while we drove along, it suddenly hit me, the thing that had been niggling at the back of my mind for so long.

"None of the cars are missing," I said, and Jace took his eyes off the road for just long enough to shoot me a quizzical glance before returning his attention to the icy pavement.

"What?"

I glanced back out the window, wanting to confirm the notion that had finally taken coherent shape in my brain. "You know how I said that it seemed like there weren't as many vehicles around as I remembered, that some seemed to have gone missing, but I couldn't quite figure it out?"

A nod.

"Well, the _cars_ are all here. And sure, there are still SUVs and trucks all over the place. But...." I let the words trail off as I focused on the patterns I now saw on the streets around us.

"But what?"

"I bet if we stopped and made a survey, we'd see that the SUVs and trucks left behind are the ones without much utility. Two-wheel drive, small engines...you know, passenger cars with SUV bodies. The ones that can pull their own weight, like this Jeep — I have a feeling we won't find as many of those around."

By then we were almost at the Home Depot, so Jace didn't say anything until after he'd pulled into the parking lot and stopped. "You mean someone's been coming here and systematically taking the trucks and the four-wheel-drive SUVs?"

"Well, I doubt I could prove it, but...yeah, something like that."

He shook his head and pulled the key from the ignition, then slipped it into his pocket. "In a way it makes sense, I suppose. Whoever and wherever the other survivors are, they're going to have to do a lot more for themselves. So having vehicles that can tow things and haul things and get around on unplowed roads would be vital." His brows had been pulled together as he pondered the conundrum, but then he seemed to relax, and although the air was sharp and cold, a flicker of warmth went through me as he gave me an admiring glance. "That was some pretty good detective work, Jess. I don't think I would have even noticed."

"Well, it's just a theory," I said deprecatingly, trying to convince myself as much as him.

"Better than anything I could come up with." Then he hesitated, looking past me down the street that fronted the store. Of course it was completely deserted, but I could tell he was worried. "Maybe you should stay here. You know — keep an eye on the car."

I really didn't want to do that, but if it turned out I was right about the way the abandoned vehicles were being cherry-picked, then it made sense for me to stand watch. At least this time I'd remembered to bring a sidearm. It was hanging in a holster against my hip, a reminder that we could never relax all the way when we came into town. Jace had one as well, the big S&W, which was better suited to his height anyway.

"No problem," I said. All right, so I didn't sound terribly enthusiastic, but neither had I argued with him.

He leaned down and kissed me on the cheek, his lips warm against my wind-chilled skin. "I'll be less than five minutes. I just need some brackets and wire. It'll be fast."

I nodded, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out the car key.

"Just in case."

_In case of what?_ I wanted to ask. I didn't, though, only took the key from him and slid it into my coat pocket.

After that, he turned away from me and headed into the store, walking quickly despite the patches of ice that lingered on the asphalt. I supposed I could have gotten back inside the Cherokee where it would be warmer, but I didn't. Instead, I leaned against the driver-side door, my eyes scanning in all directions for...what? A batch of marauders out of a Mad Max movie, bearing down on me, intent on stealing my SUV?

No sign of anything like that — no movement at all, except a crow that came flapping down the street and then perched on one of the tall lights in the parking lot. It shook out its wings and settled down, fixing me with a baleful yellow gaze.

_Crap on my car, and I'll use you for target practice,_ I thought, but the bird didn't move, only sat on the lamppost, surveying the parking lot. In happier days, it might have had some pickings there — the uneaten fries from some kid's Happy Meal, a spilled Coke. Now, however, the lot was bare of anything except the abandoned vehicles that still remained there, waiting for owners who would never return, and some patches of unmelted snow.

But even though I didn't see anyone else, and I knew I was perfectly safe, I couldn't help the wave of relief that washed over me when I saw Jace coming back out of the store, carrying several bags' worth of supplies.

"It looks like they — whoever they are — came back. More stuff is gone." Jace handed me the bags, and I got the car key out of my pocket and gave it to him.

"Stuff you needed?" I asked anxiously.

"No, everything we came here to get is pretty esoteric. But now the batteries are totally cleared out, and the solar garden lights, and — well, just a lot of different things."

The batteries would have worried me, except that we had flats of the things back in our basement, both regular and rechargeable. And solar garden lights? Our property was outfitted with those, too. It seemed whoever was looting the Home Depot, they were coming from a place of a lot more need than either Jace or I.

But we'd have to figure that out later. Or never. The weather seemed to be holding, and I had to hope it would stay that way for a few days, long enough so Jace could get the antenna installed. Maybe after that we could start to get some answers.

Right then, though, it was a lot more important that we get home. We had no evidence to show that anyone knew of our hideaway, but leaving it unattended always made me feel nervous. Dutchie would bark up a storm, but I doubted her doing so would be enough to scare off anyone who was determined to break in and take what they could.

Either no one had yet discovered the compound, or any survivors in the area had decided it was easier pickings in town, because once again we returned to find everything as we had left it. We gave Dutchie her usual greeting of some scratching behind the ears and a treat, and then Jace went to survey the area outside the office.

"We're in luck," he said, after prodding at the mud and driving a piece of rebar down into the ground. "It's not frozen."

"And that's relevant because...?" I was standing a few feet from him, close enough to see what he was doing but not so close that I would be in the way.

"Because I have to install a ground rod in addition to running co-ax from the antenna to the unit in the office." At my blank look, he sort of grinned and shook his head. "It's a little more complicated than sticking a TV aerial on your roof."

"Can you do it?" As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized that I probably should have asked that question before we went to all the trouble of getting supplies.

"I think so. I've read over the instructions a few times. Good thing I learned to solder in my shop class in high school."

And here I'd thought all we'd have to do was install the antenna on the roof, run some wire, and voilà, we'd be chatting it up with survivors around the globe. I should have known nothing would be that easy.

But he got to it in earnest after that, producing a ladder from the garage and climbing up to the roof, then letting me hand the antenna up to him from a point midway on the same ladder. I had to loiter there for some time, waiting so I could catch the bundle of coaxial cable as he tossed it to me once one end had been attached to the antenna. After he was done on the roof, Jace came down and fastened the wire to the exterior wall of the house with a series of brackets.

"I can handle it from here," he told me. "You'd better go inside — your lips are starting to turn blue."

"They are not," I protested, although truthfully, it was fairly cold outside, probably only a few degrees above freezing.

"I can see them. You can't." He grinned at me. "Really, I've got this. Isn't it around time for you to be starting dinner anyway?"

"Chained to the stove, just like I thought," I remarked, but I leavened the tartness of my words by giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Don't stay out so long that _your_ lips start to turn blue."

"I won't."

I had to be satisfied with that, so I went in the house and started rummaging around in the kitchen. Outside, the daylight slanted its way toward dusk, and before it got full dark, I heard Jace come inside, although he seemed to go straight to the office rather than stopping in the kitchen to check on the ETA for dinner. Since I was making quickie rabbit stew that didn't really need babysitting, as it was now in the "let it sit in the pot until you're ready to eat it" stage, I headed back to the office, where I found Jace under the table we'd designated as the ham radio workstation.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

"Yeah," came his voice, somewhat muffled, since he was facing the wall. "Just need to make this last connection."

Since I really didn't have anything better to do, I leaned against the doorframe and waited as he wrenched on something. A few minutes and a couple of muffled curses later, he was pushing himself out from beneath the table and getting to his feet.

"I think that should be it."

"So let's fire it up and see if we can find anything."

He set down the screwdriver he was holding and crossed his arms. "We don't have to rush into this, you know."

"After you just spent all afternoon working on it?" I said, both perplexed and irritated by his reluctance to use the radio. "If you didn't think it was a good idea, then why waste so much time and effort on it?"

"I'm not saying that," he replied, digging in his pocket for another of those interminable leather cords so he could pull his hair out of his face. I wondered why he hadn't done that earlier, but maybe having his hair down on his neck had helped to keep him warm while he was up working on the roof.

"Then what are you saying?" I crossed my arms and tried hard not to scowl. "I guess I just can't figure out why you're so reluctant to even _attempt_ to find other survivors, especially since we wouldn't be talking to them, just scanning to see if there is even anyone else out there."

A long pause. I could tell from the way his mouth tightened and he didn't quite look at me that he wasn't particularly eager to explain himself. Maybe not, but I wasn't about to let this go.

Finally, he jammed his hands into his jeans pockets and said, "All right, what if we listen in and find some survivors, then decide they sound all right and that we should reach out to them? What if they turn out to not be all right?"

"'Not all right' as in...what?" I asked, wondering what he was driving at. I tried to think of the worst-case scenario and added, "Like, cannibals or something?"

A grim smile touched his lips. "No, I don't think cannibalism is going to be an issue, not with all the wild game to be had around here. More like...." The words died away, and he hesitated again. "More like, what if they turn out to be a bunch of good old boys who aren't exactly thrilled to find an Indian shacked up with a white girl?"

I stared at him. "That's...." I'd been about to say, _That's ridiculous,_ but then I realized maybe it wasn't. It should have been, but...I'd seen enough ugly incidents involving my friend Elena to know prejudice wasn't exactly a thing of the past, even for someone who was beautiful and talented and came from a family with money. The worst incident had been at a frat party in college, when some drunk asshole told her, "Hey, _chiquita,_ you're pretty hot. Why don't you come over here and suck my _chalupa?_ " Luckily, Tori was standing right there and responded by dumping her cup of cheap keg beer over the guy's head, but I'd never forgotten that scene. I knew Elena hadn't, either, even though she'd blown it off at the time, telling us the guy was too wasted to know what he was saying. That wasn't true, though...he'd known _exactly_ what he was saying. And so had she, despite trying to act as if it was no big deal.

So as much as I wanted to brush off Jace's concerns as being completely unfounded, I knew they weren't. Just because the calendar said it was the twenty-first century, it didn't mean that everyone had gotten the memo.

And while intellectually I could understand where he was coming from, I knew I'd never be able to feel that doubt, those misgivings, the way he did, because I'd come from a completely different world. I was a white girl. Sure, I had a Ute great-great-grandmother — if the family legend was even true — but that didn't mean I could relate to his experiences as someone who'd grown up on the pueblo, who'd come at life in twenty-first-century America from a completely different angle than I had.

"So you see what I mean," he said quietly.

"Yes." His expression brightened a little at that, and I went on, "But...can't we just try it to see if it works? No one will know we're doing that if we don't transmit anything, right?"

At least he didn't try to equivocate. "No, no one will know that we're listening in. If there's even anything to listen to. But we'll give it a shot."

Jace went to the ham radio receiver and switched it on. When he'd set it up, he'd told me that it was designed to be portable, that if we could locate a different antenna setup, we could even take it along with us in the Jeep if we wanted. Why we'd want to do that, I didn't particularly know, but it could possibly come in handy one day.

"Well, here goes," he said, pressing the power button.

A soft hiss began to emerge from the small speakers set up to either side of the receiver. Jace began scanning along the bands, going slowly enough that he could stop if he came across something interesting. All I heard was that hiss, sometimes louder, sometimes softer, but even I knew it was all merely dead air.

And then...what sounded like a faint, tinny voice, a single syllable. "Lo — "

It cut off with a screech and was replaced by more static. "Damn it," Jace said, scanning back to the band where the sound had come from. But there was no voice this time, only an angry, crackling hiss.

"What happened to it?" I asked, coming closer, as if somehow I thought my presence would help the tuner lock back on to the signal.

"I don't know." He sounded irritated, and I didn't blame him. All that work, for something that might or might not have been an actual person?

"Keep scanning," I suggested, and he expelled a breath and continued his slow sweep across the bands. Just more hissing, more static.

My stomach clenched, and I told myself to calm down. Just because we weren't picking up anything now didn't mean there was no one out there. The other survivors might not have the skill to operate ham radio equipment, or hadn't managed to set theirs up yet. It wasn't as if Jace and I were alone on the planet — the missing supplies and those mysteriously vanished trucks and SUVs told me other people were out there somewhere, and, from the look of it, they seemed to be fairly well-organized. Sooner or later, we'd have to cross paths. Although now, after what Jace had confided in me about his misgivings on that score, I wasn't sure meeting up with other people would be as beneficial as I'd previously hoped.

"I'm not getting anything," Jace said at last, then shut off the receiver before turning back toward me. "Maybe I screwed up something in the installation, but it's dark out now, so I won't be able to check until tomorrow morning."

"It's fine," I told him, even though I didn't know if it really was. "I think you did have it working. I just think...no one's transmitting."

"Still, I'll investigate more tomorrow." He glanced away from me, sniffed the air. "Smells like dinner's ready."

"Almost," I said, knowing that he'd changed the topic on purpose. Still, what did it matter? We weren't getting anything out of that ham radio tonight.

So we went to the kitchen, which was warm and smelled of good and savory things — proven by Dutchie, who was loitering much closer to the stove than she should be. I shooed her away, and then dished up our food while Jace got her some kibble. Just another normal night...or as normal as things could ever be now.

That syllable was still rattling around in my head, though. _Lo...._ "Lo" what? The transmission had cut off so quickly that I didn't even know whether it truly had been part of an actual broadcast of some sort, or merely a weird distortion that sounded like part of a word but was in fact only a nonsense note generated by a rogue sound wave or something.

I didn't speak of my concerns to Jace, though. The subject of the ham radio was a sore one already, and he _had_ tried. I'd let it go for now, and maybe someday I'd learn if there truly had been someone broadcasting out there...or whether I was only imagining things.

We checked the radio every day after that, but got nothing but static and hiss. It was frustrating — for me, anyway — but as there didn't seem to be much we could do about the communications blackout, we put it aside so we could focus on more important things, like surviving the winter.

Well, it wasn't that bad, but I still could tell I hadn't become acclimated to the cold. Santa Fe probably averaged around ten to fifteen degrees colder than Albuquerque most of the time, but when that difference is between fifty-five degrees and forty, believe me, you can _feel_ it. We had the wood stove in the sitting room going all the time, and the fireplaces in the living room and family room as well, but you could still sense the drop in temperature when you went out of the range of any of them. Jace got in the habit of going to our bedroom immediately after dinner and starting a fire so it would be comfortable enough to get undressed by the time we went in there.

Of course it could have been much worse, and the conditions were certainly endurable, but all the same, I found myself missing the central forced heat at my parents' house or even the wall unit in my studio apartment over the garage. That thing had heated up fast.

But those appliances were long gone, along with a million other comforts and conveniences I hadn't even appreciated until I didn't have them anymore, and so I told myself not to worry about them, that I was damn lucky to be where I was now.

Especially since I could be here with Jace.

We talked about the coming spring, about what we might be able to plant outside the greenhouse to supplement the crops we grew there. Because of the goats, we'd have to build a separate enclosure for another garden, since otherwise it would get eaten before we had a chance to harvest anything, but Jace thought he could manage it, especially if the stores of lumber down at the Home Depot didn't get pilfered by whatever survivors were still lurking around the area.

And occasionally, after I was done hurriedly washing my face and brushing my teeth, because the heat from the fireplace in the main part of the bedroom didn't quite reach into the bathroom, I'd pull out my packet of pills and hesitate before taking one. We hadn't discussed that kind of future, but it seemed clear to me that Jace didn't intend to go anywhere, that he was planning on a future with me in it. Was it crazy to consider starting a family? After all, someone needed to begin repopulating the earth.

But after that wild moment of hesitation, I always popped the pill in my mouth and swallowed it resolutely. Having a baby was a crazy idea. With no doctors, no medical facilities...no epidurals?

No, thanks.

The funny thing was, I'd never been all that invested in the idea of having a family. Elena was the one who wanted to get married and have lots of kids (and a nanny, of course) and do all that domestic stuff, and Tori wanted to be a social worker and focus on other people's kids, not her own. As for me, well, most of the time my main concern had been finding someone to have a few dates with and then break up with before things got serious. I'd tried serious once, and all that had gotten me was taking multiple exams for a bewildering variety of social diseases, thanks to my cheating ex.

With Jace, though...it was different. So different that some days I could barely wrap my head around it. I thought it would probably be wonderful to have a child with him, because I had a feeling he'd be a great father. He certainly possessed the patience and the quiet good humor. I knew I could count on him to be steady under pressure...a lot steadier than I, when you got right down to it.

Also, he was so gorgeous that it seemed a real shame to let all that amazing DNA go to waste.

More important than all that, however, was that I loved him. I wanted to bring something into the world that came from our shared love, that showed our commitment to one another.

I knew better than to bring up the subject, though. One day, the time would be right to discuss a future beyond the next planting season, but I didn't think we were there. Not quite yet, anyway.

The cold days slid past. It snowed here and there, but never enough to completely bury us, just enough to make the world pretty to look at and a pain to get around in. Christmas would be here in less than a week, and I had no idea what to do about that. I wanted to give Jace something, but I couldn't exactly nip out to the mall and buy him a sweater. Yes, we could go into town together and split up while we picked out presents for one another, but that didn't sound very safe.

When I mentioned Christmas to him, that I wished I could get him something, he'd pulled me against him and given me a strong, lingering kiss, the kind that made me want to drag him back to the bedroom and tear all his clothes off, although we'd have to pause long enough to get a fire started before I could safely do that. And he'd said,

"You're the only present I need."

How was I supposed to respond to that statement? By kissing him back, of course, and telling myself that presents didn't matter, that being here together was what mattered.

The next day he went out with the ATV, saying he was going hunting, and since he went on these expeditions a few times a week, I didn't think all that much of it.

But then he returned carrying a beautiful pine tree, a little bit taller than he was, and I realized he had given me my present, the one thing I'd really wanted all along.

"How did you know I wanted a Christmas tree?" I asked, watching as he settled it in a corner of the living room. It had a stand made of two pieces of wood attached to the bottom of the trunk, so he must have stopped at the garage first to hammer those on before coming to the house.

"I guessed. I saw the look in your eyes when you were talking about Christmas, and...." His shoulders lifted, and he reached out to make a minute adjustment so the tree sat more squarely in the corner. "I thought you should have some sort of holiday, even if it can't be like what you were used to."

"It's perfect," I said sincerely. And it was, especially because I knew Jace wasn't Christian, and might not have even had a tree while he was growing up. But he'd still realized how important following these traditions was to me.

"Glad you like it." He stepped back a few feet from the tree, looking at it with narrowed eyes, as if making sure it stood as straight as it possibly could. "I didn't have anything to use as a bowl, so I'm not sure how we'll keep it fresh."

"I'll get some paper towels and dampen them, then wrap them around the bottom of the trunk. It should work okay." I gazed at the tree, wondering what to do to decorate it. Go to town and raid the nearest Michael's? No, that wouldn't work, even if I could convince Jace to take me on such a frivolous expedition. The Heat had struck in late September, and even a store as gung-ho for Christmas as Michael's wouldn't have had any decorations out then. Should we raid random houses along Upper Canyon Road and see if they had any boxes of Christmas decorations hidden in their garages?

That sounded even worse.

Then I remembered the jars of popping corn in the pantry. Perfect. Old-fashioned, but it suited the way we were living now. "We can make popcorn strings, and I'll use one of the spare Mexican blankets in the linen closet to wrap around the base. It'll look great."

Jace nodded. "Sounds good. I'll try not to eat all the popcorn before you get it on the string."

"Better not," I warned him, and went to kiss him on the cheek before heading off to the kitchen. I had no idea how much popcorn to make to cover a seven-foot tree, but I got the feeling I was about to find out.

A good deal, as it turned out, and although Jace didn't eat all of it, or even anything close, I did catch him popping quite a few kernels into his mouth as he worked at making his own strings to decorate the tree. It was so lovely being there with him in the living room, a fire blazing away in the hearth, candles burning on the tables and on the mantelpiece of twisted juniper, that I couldn't even get angry about the way a good portion of the popcorn in his bowl was going into his mouth rather than onto the thread he held. Then again, maybe that had something to do with the half bottle of wine we'd brought out here with us after we were done eating dinner.

Either way, I was feeling more than a little mellow as we hung the popcorn strings on the tree, then topped it with a five-pointed star that Jace had fashioned out of aluminum foil and tied on with some extra thread.

"I want to make a wish," I said.

"Is that a tradition?" he asked. "To make a wish when you put the star on the tree?"

"I don't know if it was for everyone. But we always did it in my family." A flicker of sadness went over me then as I thought of all those family Christmases when I was younger, the wrapping paper strewn everywhere, hot cocoa for Devin and me and coffee for my parents. Regret, too, that they'd never get to meet Jace. I had a feeling they would have liked him.

"All right," he said. "What's your wish?"

So many I could have made — that the world would somehow heal itself, that the Dying had never happened. Those things were out of my hands, though, so I wished for the one thing I truly wanted that was reasonable. "I wish that it will always be like this — the two of us here, together."

A glow touched his dark eyes, a glow that had nothing to do with the flicker of the fireplace or the gleam of the candles all around us. "I think I can make that wish come true."

He moved close, pulling me into his arms, and then he was kissing me, mouth warm, lips insistent against mine. Just like the first time we'd kissed, I could taste the wine on his tongue, and heat flamed through me, awakening a deep throbbing in my core. I knew this was one night when we wouldn't fall asleep exhausted without touching one another.

No, we were hurrying down the hallway to the bedroom, laughing at the chilly air, Jace fumbling with the logs so he could get the fire going.

"You should have come in here right after dinner like you were supposed to," I teased him.

"I would have, except someone insisted I come with her to make popcorn strings."

"Oh, right. Well, I hope that won't take you _too_ long." I pulled the sweater I wore over my head, followed by the long-sleeved T-shirt I had on underneath. It was cold enough that I broke out in goose bumps, but I wouldn't let that stop me. While Jace was busy with the lighter, his back to me, I took off my boots, then stepped out of my jeans. All that remained were my socks and my bra and panties, and I made short work of those.

When he turned around, his mouth dropped slightly. "Damn, Jessica." He took in a breath, then added, his voice husky, "You are so beautiful."

Heat went over me, despite how cold it was in the room. "Th-thanks," I said, my teeth chattering slightly. "Now come over here so I can tell you the same thing."

He was across the room in a flash, my fingers working the buttons of his flannel shirt while he undid his belt buckle and then the buttons of his Levi's. Oh, how I loved the smooth, heavy muscles of his chest, his flat stomach. If anything, he'd gotten bigger and harder during his months here, probably from all the manual labor.

Speaking of bigger and harder....

I sank to my knees, stroking him, and then brought him into my mouth, tasting salt and a faint, faint musk. He moaned and tipped his head back, his fingers tightening on my shoulders. "Man, Jessica," he breathed. "I'll have to remember to bring you Christmas trees more often."

Chuckling, I continued to move my hand up and down his shaft, my tongue swiping over him. After that, he didn't seem capable of speech, only continued to hold on to me, until he pulled himself from my mouth and raised me to my feet, then pushed me down on the bed, his hands warm on my ass.

We didn't have sex in this position very often, but I loved it when we did. He pushed into me, hands shifting slightly so they were wrapped around my hips as he rocked against me, in me, and I gasped, my own palms flat on the bed as I took him in, took all of him, pushing deeper, stronger, until I felt the throbbing warmth growing within me and knew I was close...so close.

As was Jace, because I felt him clench, then cry out, and as he released, I did so as well, my body clamping down on him, pulsing, squeezing. I gasped. "Oh, God, Jace...."

That was about all I could manage before I collapsed on the bed. He slid down next to me, his chest heaving, and then pulled me against him. How perfect the warmth of his skin, the way our bodies fit together. We held each other in silence like that for a few moments, and then he said,

"Happy?"

I didn't even have to stop to think. "I've never been this happy."

He kissed me then, not fiercely as he had before, but with a touch of his lips to my skin as soft as a snowflake settling there. "That's all I've ever wanted. To make you happy."

Because I could already feel myself slipping into sleep, I didn't really stop to puzzle that out, how he could've always wanted such a thing when we'd only known each other for less than two months. Instead, I cradled my head against his chest, and let myself drift into darkness.

# Chapter 17

Voices in the darkness woke me. I blinked and sat up, holding myself still for a second or two, since the room wanted to spin around me. For some reason, I felt positively thick-headed, like the one time in college I'd tried an over-the-counter sleep aid because I was stressed from exams and the breakup with Colin, and I was having a hard time falling asleep. That didn't make sense, though, since I hadn't had anything more than a glass of wine with dinner, and another one while we were in the living room, making popcorn strings.

Instinctively, I reached to my right, where Jace should have been sleeping. But the bed was empty, although I knew we couldn't have been asleep for too long, as the fire was still burning brightly. Dutchie was passed out in front of it, nose and tail almost touching, her heavy breaths not quite a snore.

Once again I heard that strange murmur, and I sat very still, ears straining to make out individual words. But the voices were far enough off that I couldn't catch anything, although one of them sounded like it could be Jace. Had he gotten up and tested the radio, and this time actually made contact with someone? I would have thought he'd come and wake me up for something that momentous, but maybe he'd thought it best to let me sleep.

I blinked, fighting off the last of that strange drowsiness, pushed back the covers, retrieved my panties from where they were lying on the floor, and then went to the closet to get my flannel sleep shirt and thick robe. Yes, lying naked next to each other was very romantic, but by the time 4 a.m. rolled around, it was also damn cold. Luckily, Jace didn't seem to mind the sleep shirt, which was covered in penguins. One time he even told me he thought it was cute. He could have been lying, but I think it was more that he wanted me to know he thought I was sexy no matter what I might be wearing to bed.

As I tied the robe around me, I went to the doorway, then paused. The voices should have been coming from my right, down the hall in the direction of the office. But they weren't — instead, they seemed to originate in the living room.

That didn't make any sense. Even if the unthinkable had happened and another survivor had shown up on our doorstep, I should have heard something, no matter how deeply asleep I was. If nothing else, Dutchie would have barked her head off. But she was passed out on the floor of the bedroom, so conked she looked like someone had drugged her.

Frowning, I slipped out into the corridor, the tile floor icy against my bare feet. It wasn't quite pitch dark, since, in our rush to get to the bedroom, Jace and I had left the pillar candles burning on the coffee table and on the mantel. Because of that, as I approached I could make out clearly enough who was in the living room.

Only...my brain couldn't quite grasp what it was seeing. Two men. At least, they looked like men, but...they couldn't be. Not hovering in midair, approximately a foot and a half above the floor, as if they had no need of solid ground.

One of them was Jace. Or rather, he resembled Jace, except somehow older and harder, his jaw and eyes stern. His hair seemed longer than its current inch or so below shoulder length, almost as long as mine, and floated around him, appearing to wave in an unseen wind, a wind that stirred the branches of the Christmas tree and made all the flames in the pillar candles on the mantel and coffee table dance and sway. Just as when he'd fallen asleep, his chest and arms were bare, but now thick cuffs of silvery-blue metal surrounded his wrists, and he wore full-legged pants made of a shimmering dark blue fabric, possibly silk.

The other man...or whatever he was...stood in profile to me, so I couldn't get all that good a look at him. And actually, I wasn't sure I wanted to. There was something cruel in his hawkish profile, in the set of his jaw and mouth. His hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail and banded with reddish metal — copper, maybe, or even rose gold. More reddish metal gleamed at his wrists, and his pants, similar in construction to the ones Jace wore, were a dark burnt-umber sort of shade.

Stranger than his presence, and even stranger than the way he floated above the floor, however, was the way odd little flames seemed to dance around his feet and swirl in the air directly above his head, as if he were somehow made of fire, and had only taken on physical form so he could have this conversation.

I flattened myself against the wall, glad of my bare feet, which had made no sound as I approached, and the relative darkness of the hallway where I hid. Jace...that oddly altered Jace...and the stranger would have had to look directly at me to see me at all, and it seemed clear enough that they were occupied with one another, not sparing a glance for the supposedly sleeping house around them.

"...wasted enough time here already," the stranger was saying. His voice was deeper than Jace's, harsh, and something about it made chills go up and down my spine. "It is time to come join the rest of us."

"Surely a few days more won't matter," Jace replied. "After Christmas has passed — "

The stranger made a sound of disgust. "Christmas? What foolishness is this? That day means nothing to us, and you have coddled the woman long enough. Tell her the truth, or as much of it as you deem necessary, but we will not wait much longer."

"What is the rush?" Jace crossed his arms and stared directly into the other man's eyes, something I didn't think I'd have had the courage to do. "What does it matter if we wait out the winter here, and then come to you in the spring?"

For the briefest second, the stranger hesitated, his hands tightening into fists at his sides, even as the flames dancing around his feet and above his head flared brighter, shifting from warm orange to an acid yellow. From annoyance...or something else? "Because it may not be safe to do so. We are disturbed by some of the developments among the Immune. They've gathered in a place not far from here, and although we do not know how they are managing it, they are blocking us from scrying them, or indeed from coming within miles of their compound so we might finish them off."

_"The Immune"?_ I thought. _Other survivors? And what the hell does he mean by "finish them off"?_

"That is troubling," Jace said, and it seemed the unseen wind that swirled around him gained in force, wildly blowing at his hair and causing the flames of several of the candles to almost snuff themselves. "No one has been able to get close?"

"No. There is one road in and one road out, both heavily guarded. Several of the Chosen volunteered to investigate, since they would be able to get far closer to the Immune than we would, but we have had no contact with any of them since, and it is feared they have been lost."

It was hard for me to tell for certain, but it almost seemed as if Jace winced when he received that particular piece of information, as if it was more painful to him than the rest of what he had just heard. "That is a grievous loss."

The stranger shrugged. Clearly, he was not overly concerned about the loss of these "Chosen," whoever they might be. "They volunteered for the mission. Their partners will find replacements, if they wish."

From the set of his shoulders, it appeared that Jace wasn't quite so blithe about the fate of the Chosen who had disappeared. "How long has it been? Perhaps you are not giving them enough time."

"Two weeks, as such things are counted here. Time enough." The stranger straightened, his eyes on a level with Jace's. "I am telling you this because your safety here is not guaranteed. Better for you to be with the rest of us." Then he paused, and my heart seemed to stop in my chest as he glanced over in my direction. "Your paramour is awake. It seems she was not quite as deeply asleep as you thought. You will have some explaining to do, I think."

That appeared to be his parting shot, because after he made that remark, the flames which had been licking at his feet seemed to grow and swell, rising until they engulfed him. Then they went out, and Jace was alone in the living room.

His eyes met mine, and I saw him draw in a breath, then lower himself to the floor. As he did so, his appearance shifted back to the Jace I knew...or thought I knew. At the same time, the lamp in the corner of the room flared to life, although neither of us had touched a light switch.

"Jessica," he said, his arms reaching out to me as he began to move in my direction.

"Don't," I retorted, still hugging the wall. "Stay back."

He stopped at once, but I could see the pleading in his dark eyes. "Jessica, I can explain — "

"Oh, you'd better explain." The cool plaster of the wall against my back gave me a little courage. At least this way, he'd have to face me, couldn't sneak up on me from behind. "Who — what are you?"

His shoulders seemed to droop then. He looked so pitiful that, under normal circumstances, I would have gone to him at once and put my arms around him, attempted to comfort him. But there would be no comfort here. Not after what I had just seen.

"Please, come and sit down," he said. "We must have this conversation, but we don't need to have it like this."

I shook my head. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Jessica." This time he sounded different, his voice deeper, the way it had been when he was speaking with that — whoever he was. At the same time, he backed off, going to sit down on the couch. "Look. Here I am. You can sit in that chair. I promise I won't move unless you say it's all right."

For a second or two, I didn't do anything, only watched him through narrowed eyes. He was sitting there quietly, his hands planted on his knees. He certainly didn't look as if he intended to launch at me, but how could I trust him when it was clear he was definitely not who he had pretended to be?

Then again, I did want answers, and if he might be more inclined to give them if I sat down as he'd asked, then that seemed to be what I should do. Not taking my eyes off him, I crossed over to the chair and sank into it. Actually, that did feel a bit better, although the spurious sensation of relief could have had something to do with the rug under my bare, icy feet and the warmth of the fire as it reached out to heat the room.

I pulled in a breath. "So...this you I'm looking at right now. Is it the real you, or the other one?"

In answer, his features seemed to shift and harden, becoming those of the man I'd seen floating above the floor a few minutes earlier. Still handsome...in a way, more handsome, because those features had somehow become more chiseled, more refined, even though he was recognizable as the Jace I'd thought I had known. "This is my true aspect," he said.

Right then, I wasn't sure which was upsetting me more — knowing that Jace wasn't real, was some sort of disguise worn by this...being — or the casual way he flipped from one appearance to the other. I tightened my fingers on my knees, feeling the soft nap of the robe I wore and realizing that now it was giving me absolutely no comfort. "And your true name?"

"Jasreel."

So he was still Jace, in a way...although I doubted I'd ever feel comfortable enough to call him that again. The thought made incongruous tears sting my eyes, and I swallowed. Could I mourn the loss of something I'd never truly had?

Maybe, at some point. Right then, I had to man up and get some answers.

"So what are you?" I asked, my voice deliberately hard. "Some kind of demon...angel...what?"

"Neither." He reached up to touch the smooth stone he wore around his neck, and I wondered then if it was some sort of talisman, rather than the simple souvenir I'd thought it must be. "I am a djinn."

I blinked at him. "What, you mean like _I Dream of Jeannie,_ and the big blue guy in the lamp from _Aladdin?_ "

His mouth tightened. "Not like that at all, even though your people have simplified the idea of the djinn to something as foolish as a being who can grant wishes."

"So you don't grant wishes?"

"When called by a powerful enough magician, perhaps. But we do not enjoy the process and will do whatever we can do free ourselves from such bonds."

Okay. First djinn...and now magicians? My head was spinning. "All right, so you're a djinn. I can't really deny that, not when I saw you floating two feet above the floor and watched your friend vanish in a puff of smoke."

Jace's... _Jasreel's_...brows drew together. "He is not my friend, not in any way you would understand."

I decided to let it go for now. That other djinn had seemed like a nasty customer anyway. There was a far more important question I wanted to ask. "All right, then... _why?_ "

A long, long silence. He stared at me, dark eyes sorrowful. "You should know... _beloved._ "

Every single vein in my body seemed to be filled with ice. I tried to draw in a breath, but it got caught somewhere in my throat, choking me. I stared at him, then finally forced the words out. "That was you? The voice was _you?_ "

"Yes," he said simply. "I had chosen you, and so I would do whatever was necessary to keep you safe."

In my mind's eye, I saw Chris Bowman's limp body being thrown across the yard as if it had been made of rags, saw a bullet stop an inch away from my face, then bounce harmlessly off some invisible shield. Yes, this Jasreel had been there all along, watching over me, then leading me here. But for what purpose? I found it hard to believe that some sort of supernatural, supremely powerful being would go to all that trouble just for a little booty.

"That word," I said. " _Chosen_. I heard your visitor mention it, too. What does it mean, really?"

Jasreel stared at me with those sad, sad eyes. How could I be terrified of him, and angry with him...and yet still want to reach out to comfort him? No, that was crazy. Bad enough that only a few hours earlier we'd —

My brain shut down that line of thought with an almost audible _click_. I could not let myself think about that, or I really would go mad.

"It will be difficult to hear," he said quietly.

"And it'll be even more difficult for me not to know the truth," I replied. "So tell me."

His fingers clenched on his knees. For the first time, I noticed that although his face and body had shifted to those of what he called his true self, he wasn't wearing those silk pantaloon things, but a pair of flannel pajama bottoms he routinely wore to bed when he was pretending to be "Jace." The contrast was jarring.

Then he said, "This world was ours once, uncounted ages ago. When God made man, He — "

"Wait, what?" I broke in. "God? Like, _the_ God?"

"Yes, _the_ God." This was accompanied by a flicker of a smile, but Jasreel's expression sobered quickly enough afterward. "When God made man, the djinn were cast out, and this world given over to mankind. We are not flesh precisely as you understand it, although we can make ourselves corporeal as it suits us. We spent long ages in exile, only coming to this world when summoned, or during brief stolen moments. During that time, the world changed a good deal, and mankind along with it. We watched from our exile, saw how you were destroying this gift you were given. And so, among certain quarters, the decision was made to take back that which had been stolen from us."

That did not sound good at all. I pulled my robe more tightly around me, although I didn't think that was going to do much to combat the chill which seemed to be creeping through every limb.

"Many years were given over to the task, but at last the means of mankind's destruction was perfected — an illness so grave that it would take almost the entire population of the earth with it."

"You — _you_ did that?" I demanded, sour bile churning in my stomach at the thought that this — _thing_ — had been behind the death and destruction of everyone and everything I had cared about. I got to my feet, not even thinking, just knowing I had to get away from him, had to run —

But he'd risen as well, his hand clamping on my arm like iron, preventing me from fleeing. "No, _I_ did not do that. There were those of us who protested, who said we could not support such a vile act. We were outnumbered, though, overruled."

His fingers felt as if they were burning into my flesh. "Let go of me," I gritted from between clenched teeth.

To my surprise, he did release me, raising his hands as if in surrender. "Jessica, I am sorry. The only compromise we were allowed was that those of us who did not support such extreme measures would be able to choose from among the Immune, to find someone who would be under our protection, who would not be subject to the final purge."

"'Final purge'?" I echoed, my stomach clenching once again. Just when I'd thought it couldn't get any worse. "What are you talking about?"

He pulled in a breath, although I noticed he kept his gaze fixed on my face and didn't try to look away. "Those who created the virus knew that no illness would have a perfect mortality rate. There are now perhaps two million people left alive, scattered across the face of the planet. And so the next task is to eradicate the Immune, leaving behind only the Chosen."

It was so awful that I truly couldn't begin to comprehend the scope of what he was telling me. Two million out of seven billion seemed like a paltry number, but obviously the djinn in charge wouldn't be satisfied with even that many human beings left alive.

My legs gave way, and I slumped back down into my chair. "How many?" I asked. "How many Chosen?"

"A thousand."

One thousand people, out of two million. All those who'd thought they had survived the worst, who even now were struggling to pick up the pieces of a world that had utterly fallen apart...they would have all that stolen from them.

"What will happen to the Immune?" I asked. I wasn't sure where those words had come from. It wasn't as if I'd consciously decided to ask that question.

Jasreel sat down as well, expression troubled. In a way, I was surprised I could read his face so easily, since he wasn't even human. But he looked human enough at the moment, and he'd certainly done a good job of fooling me these past few months.

"They will be hunted down," he said at last. "As one of the dissenters, I am not privy to exactly how and why, and truly, I don't wish to know. I cannot stop it."

"You're really that powerless? How many dissenters are there?"

"As many as there are Chosen. One thousand. The djinn do not number anywhere near what mankind once did, but there are still some twenty thousand of my people, far too many for any of us dissenters to even contemplate confronting them." He sent me an imploring look then, as if pleading for me to understand. "Jessica, we did everything we could to stop this thing from happening. It was beyond our power. All we could do was save that chosen one thousand of you."

My protests died on my lips then. Yes, he had lied about who and what he was, but this Jasreel had been by my side for the better part of two months now, and I saw nothing in his face in that moment but regret and sorrow. Whatever horrors his people had perpetrated, he'd wanted nothing to do with them.

Which left only one question. "Then...why me? Why did you choose me? I'm no one."

He was off the couch and on his knees in one fluid movement. So close, and yet I noticed he didn't try to reach out and touch me. He wouldn't, I realized then, unless I told him it was all right.

Whether or not that would happen...even I didn't know for sure.

His voice was pitched low, but no less intense for all that. "Beloved, you are not _no one_. I recognized your beauty and your strength, and I knew you were the choice of my heart, even out of several million survivors."

What was I supposed to say in response to such a declaration? I stared at him, at a face that was like Jace's, but wasn't, at the broad shoulders, the arms thick with muscle. He looked human, and yet I knew he was anything but a mortal man.

"Please," I whispered. "Please don't call me that. I don't — I don't know what to think."

A stillness settled on his features in that moment, as if he'd finally realized that I wasn't simply going to say, _Oh, it's all right, I still love you, too, all is forgiven._ He glanced away from me, over at the fire, and then back. "I realize this is all difficult for you."

"'Difficult'?" I repeated. "I think we passed difficult about ten minutes ago." I pulled in a breath, then pushed the chair back so I could stand up without bumping into him. "I just — I need some time to process this, okay?"

He didn't get up, but remained there on his knees, still staring up at me with that blank expression on his face. A muscle twitched in his cheek as he said, "You can have as much time as you need."

"Good." I sidled away from the chair, moving toward the hallway. "And — don't come to the bedroom. Go back to your old room. That is, if djinn even need to sleep."

With that parting shot, I made my escape, all but running to get away from him. Even so, I couldn't help taking a quick backward glance as I left the living room. He was still kneeling on the floor, but now his head was bowed, his elbows on the coffee table, as if he needed that support to keep himself from collapsing completely.

At that sight, my throat tightened, and the hallway around me blurred, tears welling to my eyes and spilling down my cheeks. I stumbled into the master suite and then fell on the bed — the bed where Jace had made love to me so many times — sobs tearing themselves out of my chest. I didn't even know exactly what I was crying about. The loss of what I thought I'd had with Jace? The realization that the Dying had come about not because of some horrible accident of nature, but from directed, malevolent intention? Or knowing that the Dying wasn't even over, and that the survivors, the Immune, would soon be attacked by the djinn, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it?

All of those, and so much more.

Dutchie jumped up on the bed and licked my face, and I gave a strangled laugh, then pulled her close, burying my face in her soft fur. No, ordinarily she wasn't allowed on the bed, but in that moment, she knew I needed her.

I clung to her the way a shipwreck survivor might cling to a life preserver, and finally let sleep take me to a place where I could try to forget all the horrors I had just been told.

# Chapter 18

I stalled as long as I could. I took a shower, dried my hair, even put on some lip gloss and mascara, things I hadn't bothered with lately, not after I'd swiped some heavy-duty lip balm from REI on our one foraging run there. But all the preparation in the world could only take so much time, and eventually I had to emerge from the master suite, although I noticed that Dutchie had nudged the door open earlier and slipped away.

Or maybe Jasreel had let her out.

Despite my delaying tactics, I knew I wasn't ready to face him. A cowardly part of me was praying that he'd packed up and left, had gone to "join the others," as the strange, cruel-looking djinn had told him to do. Where that supernatural meet-up was supposed to take place, I didn't know. I didn't want to know.

The smell of coffee told me Jasreel was still here, though. I stopped at the entrance to the kitchen and saw him standing at the counter, staring out at the bleak landscape beyond the false lushness of the garden. The goats were already grazing, which meant he must have gone and milked them, taken care of their water, then let them out. Since the snow from the last storm had all melted by then, save for a few drifts directly under the eaves of the house, nothing was stopping them from cropping at the short, yellowed grass.

"You made coffee," I said, my tone flat.

"I thought you could use some."

I noticed he was wearing Jace's clothes — flannel shirt, faded Levi's, worn boots — and yet they couldn't really be Jace's clothes. This Jasreel was just enough bigger, more muscled, that dressing him would require a whole new wardrobe. No, these had to be counterfeits, copies, garments designed to look like what I was used to seeing him wear and therefore intended to put me at ease, when in fact they were doing the exact opposite. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and although his expression was serene enough this morning, his eyes looked shadowed. So could djinn suffer from sleepless nights, or was this his attempt at evoking some kind of pity in me?

Normally, I would have said thank you. This morning, though, I went to the cupboard in silence, got out a mug, and poured myself a cup. Getting some goat's milk and a smidgen of sugar to leaven it used up some more time, a few minutes where I didn't have to say anything. I could feel Jasreel's eyes on me, watching every movement I made, and I didn't like it at all.

At last I turned around and made myself face him, although it was one of the harder things I'd done. Now, in the morning light, I could see more of those differences, see how his brows were just slightly more arched, his jaw just a little more square. There were faint laugh lines around the dark, dark eyes, although they were the same, nearly black, and still circled by the kind of lashes most women would kill for.

"Why are you still here?" I asked abruptly, my fingers circled around the coffee mug I held, desperately trying to claim some of its warmth. My hands felt as icy as the world outside the kitchen.

The question seemed to surprise him. His eyebrows lifted, and he said, "You didn't tell me to leave."

All right, I hadn't, in so many words. I'd said he could go back to his old bedroom, which in his mind seemed to have been an open-ended invitation to stay. Last night, I hadn't exactly been thinking all that clearly.

His voice lowered. "Do you want me to leave?"

Did I? Rationally, I knew I should have ordered him out of the house the night before, but in that moment, all I'd been able to think about was him not following me to the bedroom.

"I — I don't know," I said at last, then added, as I saw hope flare in his eyes, "that is, I still have some questions I want to ask."

Mouth thinning to a compressed line, he nodded. "You can ask me anything."

_Maybe,_ I thought, _but that doesn't mean I'm going to get an answer I like._ I sipped some coffee, letting the heat of it course down my throat and begin to thaw that lump of ice at my core. Who knew I could feel so cold, when before Jace had made me so warm?

"Jason Little River," I said, bringing up something I'd been pondering while in the shower. "Is he just someone you made up, or is he a real person?"

"He was a real person," Jasreel said. From the use of "was" and the way Jasreel's mouth tightened as he said it, I had to assume that the Mr. Little River was no longer with us. "Everything I told you about me was true...about him, that is. He grew up in Taos, went to the university in Albuquerque, split his time between the pueblo and building his own business in town. He was also physically similar to me, and that made it much easier to hold the illusion of his appearance for extended periods." A pause while Jasreel drank some of his own coffee, which I noticed was pure black. "Jace" had always taken milk, like me. "Jason Little River died two days after the Heat came to Taos. After he was gone, I took his appearance, and his motorcycle, and began the journey here to Santa Fe."

That part didn't make any sense. I decided for sanity's sake that I'd leave aside the part where Jasreel clearly knew where and when the real Jason was going to die. "His motorcycle? What the hell for? Couldn't you have just...I don't know...materialized on my doorstep?"

Jasreel didn't smile. Still in that same quiet, intense voice, he said, "I could have, but that journey was important for me as well. I needed some time to become Jason, to grow accustomed to being him. Showing up weary and footsore here made me more...believable."

Something about that comment just made me angry, like he'd known I would fall for his act but decided to hedge his bets, just in case. "All right, you suckered me. So why lie in the first place? Why not tell me the truth?"

He set down his mug. I could see the anguish in his eyes, but all he did was ask quietly, "And would you have believed me? If I had to come to you as myself, told you that my race had destroyed mankind but also that you would live because I wished it, what would you have done?"

What _would_ I have done? In that moment, I honestly couldn't say for certain. When I'd found this place, guided here by the voice, I was thinking more or less five minutes ahead, only wanting to survive another night. I was tired, heartsore, drained. Could I have found it within myself to believe what he told me? Maybe, if he'd given me a little demonstration of that "floating above the ground" trick.

Whether I would have allowed him into my heart and my bed was an entirely different matter.

"I don't know!" I flung at him. "All I do know is that you came here, and you _lied_ to me, made me think you were someone else...made me _love_ you...and now I have to reconcile that with the truth, with the way you used me — "

Horrible, choking sobs rose in my throat after that, and I had to stop, to drop my mug on the counter and turn away from him so I wouldn't have to look into that face, the face that used to be Jace's and wasn't anymore, tears rising up to blind me all over again. A mercy, because then I couldn't see him clearly.

But I could feel him, warm fingers lacing through mine and pulling me against him, his voice rough with sorrow as he said, "Beloved, it was never my intention to hurt you. I thought perhaps it might be easier — "

"Don't call me that!" I gasped, pushing at him, trying to free myself. He resisted for a scant second, and then released me, backing away and holding up his hands as if to show he had no intention of attempting to touch me again. Angrily, I wiped at my tears with the back of one hand.

"Very well...Jessica." He pulled in a breath, and I noticed how his chest rose and fell, as if he were struggling to gain control of himself. Could djinn experience an accelerated heartbeat, or difficulty breathing? One wouldn't think so, if they truly weren't completely tied to this plane of existence, or a physical body. But Jasreel was giving a good enough imitation of it now. Then again, he'd already proved that he was pretty good at pretending he was something he was not.

Looking a little less wild-eyed, he went on, "Jessica, I came to you as Jason Little River because I thought it would be easier for you. I thought we could grow to be comfortable with one another first, and then, when the time was right, I would tell you who I was really was, the truth behind the Dying. It was never my intention to hurt you. How could it be, when I swore an oath as I chose you that your life would be more precious than all the riches in the world to me?"

He took a step in my direction, and I retreated several feet toward the kitchen entrance. That stopped him, and he raised his hands again, almost as if he were as much telling himself to halt as he was showing that he didn't intend to pursue me or reach out for me. As I stood there, halfway toward the dining room, I realized that poor Dutchie, like most dogs who hate hearing their people fight, had retreated under the little round table in the nook and was staring at us with worried mismatched eyes.

For some reason, seeing her reaction to our quarrel made me calm down a bit. Dutchie loved me, but I remembered that she loved Jace — Jasreel — too. And if she loved Jasreel, surely that meant he couldn't be evil, or anything close to it. I'd seen the way she'd reacted to Chris Bowman, so I knew she wasn't one of those dogs who indiscriminately liked everyone. Whatever lies Jasreel might have told me in order to ease his way into my life, I knew then that he'd told them out of a misguided attempt to protect me, to avoid frightening me.

I was angry with him, and I was scared, almost as scared as the night my father died, but in that moment, I knew I didn't hate him. Some part of my soul wouldn't allow me to hate him.

He'd brought me a Christmas tree. That could have been another manipulation, but I didn't think so. He'd done that because he knew I wanted it, wanted some part of my life to feel normal, even when hardly anything in it was normal anymore.

Maybe something in my expression shifted. I couldn't say for sure, but it must have been enough to give Jasreel some hope, because he said, "Do you still wish for me to go?"

I didn't...but I also didn't know how I could begin to process all this with him around all the time. "I don't know," I replied. "A minute ago, I would have said yes. But — "

"But?"

It was time to take a deep breath of my own. "I suppose I want some more answers. What was that — the other djinn saying about the Immune?"

If he was disconcerted by my change of subject, Jasreel didn't show it. He could have simply been relieved that I was willing to go on talking, even if the topic of conversation had moved away from the two of us and where our relationship currently stood, and on to something more neutral.

"His name is Zahrias. He is the leader of our group in this — sector, I suppose, is the best word for it. The region is not quite analogous to your state of New Mexico, but close enough."

"So this Zahrias came here to, what, warn you?"

"More or less." Jasreel shifted, and I could tell he'd been about to step closer to me, but had pulled back at the last second. "In general, we djinn are able to look in on human affairs with very little interference. If we suddenly can't do so with the group at Los Alamos — "

"Lo," I said, and he stopped and shot me an inquiring look.

"What?"

"That was the transmission, wasn't it?" Another spark that could be fanned to anger. Now I thought I understood what I'd heard so briefly on the ham radio. Voice tight, I said, "The people — the Immune — were transmitting from Los Alamos. And you...cut it off."

"Yes," Jasreel replied, sounding resigned. "And yes, I disrupted the signal. Only because I wanted more time alone with you. Until Zahrias came to see me, I didn't know the group there was any kind of a threat. I only knew they must be Immune, and so their time on this earth was limited."

I decided to put that anger aside to be dealt with later. "So they're a threat just because you can't spy on them?"

"It's more than that, Jessica. The Immune simply should not have the capability to keep us from looking in on their doings. And now that some of the Chosen have disappeared, the ones who volunteered to go where we could not — well, you can see how that would be very troubling."

From his perspective, I supposed it was. For myself, I was more intrigued than anything else. What were they doing at Los Alamos that would allow them to evade djinn surveillance? I didn't know much about the town, except that it was still a place for research and had quite a few government contractor–type businesses. We drove up there once when I was in high school, more to go someplace off the beaten path than for any other reason, and it really did feel like I'd just walked onto the set of that TV show _Eureka,_ the one about a town populated by mad scientists.

But I figured the probability of discovering the truth about what the Immune in Los Alamos were doing was roughly the same as waking up to discover this had all been a terrible dream, so I moved on to my next question. "And the djinn? The ones from this sector, I mean. Zahrias made it sound as if they were all holed up somewhere."

Jasreel gave me an incongruous grin, as if that mental image amused him. "Djinn do not precisely 'hole up,' but they are using Taos as their base of operations."

"Really?" I asked, surprised. A touristy little town didn't seem like quite the right spot for a bunch of supernatural villains to be hanging out. "Why Taos?"

"Since its population was small to begin with, it did not have many survivors, and the one or two who were left were...." He let the sentence trail off, but I got the gist.

"Disposed of?" I volunteered.

A grim nod. "Yes. Also, because it was a travel destination, it has accommodations for a number of people, restaurants with good stores of food, and so on."

"They have power in Taos?"

"In a manner of speaking."

I wondered exactly what he meant by that, but I decided the day-to-day logistics of keeping Taos going under djinn occupation weren't my top concern at the moment. "And because the Immune in Los Alamos are up to something you can't figure out, Zahrias wanted you to leave here and go to Taos."

"Exactly. You and I have been safe on this property, hidden from the world. It's exactly why I chose this place as our sanctuary, our haven. But if what Zahrias says is true, then it might be best if we left and took refuge with the other djinn and the Chosen in Taos."

Crossing my arms, I said, "That's assuming I would go with you."

Now the expression he wore was one of resignation. "I will not force you. I can say that it would be safer. But that is your decision to make."

_Oh, thanks for putting it back on me,_ I thought. But hauling me off to Taos without so much as a by-your-leave would have made me far, far angrier. Jasreel was treating me as a peer now, giving me equal say in what we should do next. I could tell that Zahrias' news about the Immune in Los Alamos had Jasreel worried. For myself, I didn't think I had that much to worry about. After all, they were human beings. I was one of them.

Or...was I? Maybe they would look on me as some kind of co-conspirator, a betrayer of my kind. Of course, I hadn't known Jasreel was djinn, but I had no idea whether that kind of excuse would wash with them or not.

"Let me think about it," I said. "I have to go gather the eggs." That had always been my chore, just as watering the goats and lugging their pellets from the garage to the feeding trough he'd built next to their lean-to was Jace's — Jasreel's — job.

He seemed to recognize that I needed some time alone, because he didn't protest, only said, "Of course," and went to get his neglected cup of coffee. I realized then that I'd only had a few sips out of mine. Oh, well. I didn't want to have to go past him to retrieve my mug, so I wrote it off as a loss and went to put on my coat and gloves.

The djinn didn't try to follow me.

The cold air was bracing, but it didn't do a lot to clear my mind or settle the thoughts that kept racing through it. I gathered eggs mechanically, placing them in the basket with practiced care, the familiar stink of the henhouse around me. Glancing down, I realized it would need to be shoveled again soon. If I asked Jasreel to do it, would he? He'd handled the distasteful chore ever since my one disastrous attempt to handle it, but that was back when he was still trying to convince me he wasn't anyone except a guy from the pueblo, someone who was used to taking on a good deal of manual labor.

_Maybe he can just wave his hands and have all this bird poop and dirty straw magically disappear,_ I thought. _That would be convenient._

Problem was, I didn't know if his powers — whatever they were, exactly — worked that way.

But even as I pondered such trivialities, my thoughts kept dancing around the real question, the one I didn't know if I could ever answer.

_Can I forgive him?_

Because it wouldn't be simply forgiving the lies he'd told me. To a certain extent, I could understand why he'd done that. If he'd been watching me for some time, studying me before he made me his Chosen, then he would have known I wasn't the type of person who watched the skies for UFOs or believed in ghosts or any of that other "woo-woo stuff," as my friend Tori used to put it. A djinn? I probably would have burst out laughing — if I hadn't unloaded my shotgun into him first, just to be safe. True, if I'd done that and he'd survived unscathed, then maybe I would have started to believe in his supernatural origins.

No, forgiveness would have to go far, far beyond that. He'd protested that he couldn't stop the Dying, couldn't have kept his people from unleashing their terrible virus on the world. Maybe not; I'd seen this Zahrias, the de facto leader of my little part of the world, and if he was any indicator of the type of people the djinn had running things, then I could understand how pleas for mercy would have fallen on extremely deaf ears. Even so, many would say Jasreel still was guilty by association. It was the djinn who had done this terrible thing, and he was a djinn.

All right, most people would probably think that way. But I wasn't a lot of people. I was me. I had to make this decision for myself, based on what my heart and my gut and my mind told me.

And what they were telling me was that Jasreel loved me. He couldn't save everyone, but he could save me. And he had. He'd saved me, and he'd shown, day in and day out, that he cared for me. In little things, like always making sure he helped clear the table, even though the dishes were my bailiwick, and properly sorting his dirty clothes into the correct bins in the laundry room so I wouldn't have to do it. Bigger things, like that Christmas tree and the aforementioned mucking-out of the henhouse.

The biggest of all...watching over me, keeping me safe, all along knowing that we weren't precisely equals, that he was a being of vastly more power and experience. And yet he had never talked down to me, never discounted my suggestions, always took me seriously. If that wasn't love and respect, what was?

Well, it sounded as if I'd answered my own question.

Feeling lighter by roughly a hundred pounds, I headed back to the house and let myself in the back door, through the mudroom. I scraped off my boots, set down the basket of eggs before I took off my jacket, and then went into the kitchen. Jasreel wasn't there, but I noticed that he'd cleaned out his coffee mug and put it on the dish drain. That wasn't just sucking up, either; he always cleaned up after himself.

"Jasreel?" I called out, the syllables of his proper name feeling strange on my tongue.

"In the living room," he replied.

I wondered what he was doing there. Figuring I'd find out soon enough, I headed in that direction. He was standing in front of the fireplace, which we had going pretty much twenty-four/seven these days. In his right hand he held a log, so it appeared he'd gone in to stoke up the blaze. Dutchie was lying next to him, patting at his leg with one paw. Obviously, someone thought it was time for a belly rub.

Smothering a smile, I said, "So...."

"So?" He set the log on the fire and turned toward me, disrupting the dog's pant-pawing. She gave me a disgusted look and rolled away from Jasreel, toward the hearth.

"So...I'll go to Taos with you. If you think it's for the best."

An expression of such joy spread over his face that, for an instant, all my doubts and worries deserted me. Surely no one who could look like that would ever mean me any kind of harm. He came to me and cupped my cheeks in his hands, turning my face up toward him.

"You're sure?"

Was I? His fingers were warm on my face, reassuring, strong but gentle. No one had ever touched me like that. No one except Jace...Jasreel.

I nodded.

He bent and kissed me then, and it was the first time I had kissed this version of him, the first time I had felt the contours of this particular mouth, the taste of this tongue. Not so very different from "Jace," but different enough that I had to remind myself that it was still him, still the man who had kissed me before, who had made love to me on those cold winter mornings and stood laughing in a field after a billy goat knocked me on my rear end.

But then I felt his body go rigid, and he took a step away from me, one hand going to his throat.

"What is it?" I asked, reaching out to hold on to his fingers. They felt like ice.

His hands had always been warm. Always, no matter how cold it might be outside, as if the weather didn't affect him the same way it affected me.

"Can't...breathe...."

I put my hand on his chest, felt his heart beating wildly within, felt him laboring to pull in a breath. Which he did, a short, shallow gasp. Better than nothing, but it didn't explain what was happening to him.

Dutchie got to her feet, nose pointed toward the doorway. A low, penetrating growl emerged from her throat, and her ears flattened against her head.

_What the —_

I didn't have time to complete the thought, because in the next second, the front door was flung open, and a group of seven men wearing parkas and heavy boots burst into the living room. Six of them carried guns, and the seventh some sort of strange device, no more than a little black box, really, with lights that seemed to flicker deep within it, as if buried under a layer of dark translucent plastic.

The scream that had been building in my throat died when one of the men with the guns stepped forward and said, "It's all right, Ms. Monroe. We're only here for him." He pointed at Jasreel, who had taken a step backward, toward the hearth. Sweat was beginning to drip down his temples.

"Who — what — " I swallowed, knowing I had to keep it together, at least until I found out what the hell was going on. I began again. "Who are you, and what do you want?"

He nodded at the men who flanked him, most of whom were large, burly types, the kind of guys who once upon a time probably could have been found drinking beer at some back-road dive bar. They went to Jasreel and surrounded him, then began dragging him back toward the man in charge and the other one, the one holding that strange box. He, unlike his compatriots, was slender, of average height, and wore wire-rimmed glasses. Despite the commotion around him, he didn't look up from the box he held, kept his fingertips moving over the surface, as if controlling it via touchpad.

The leader, who held himself like a military man and had the short-cropped hair to match, said, "Ms. Monroe, we're survivors from Los Alamos. We're collecting as many of these scum as we can" — a jerk of his chin in Jasreel's direction— "and are putting them on trial for crimes against humanity. Seems the least we can do, in the name of those who are no longer around to seek justice."

My mouth was so dry it physically hurt to swallow. But somehow I forced myself to do just that, even as I sent an agonized glance toward Jasreel. He had gone pale under his olive-toned skin, his breath coming in short, labored pants. What the hell were they doing to him?

"He's not guilty," I managed to get out. "He hasn't done anything wrong."

"Beg to differ, miss." The leader of the Los Alamos gang gave a faint nod, and the four men holding him began to drag Jasreel out the front door.

"No!" I began to move after them, but another of the group, one of the two men flanking the guy with the black box, took me by the arm.

"I wouldn't," he said in a murmur. "Right now you have the benefit of the doubt, but...." He let the words die away, but I got his meaning. It was Jasreel these men were after, not me. The last thing I should be doing was provoking them.

I gave the fair-haired man, who seemed to be about my age or a little more, the faintest of nods, then held my position, just a few feet away from the guy in charge. "What proof do you have that he's guilty of anything?"

"His nature is proof enough." He gave another of those chin-jerks at the man with the black box and the two men with him. For the first time, the one wearing glasses looked up from his device, whatever it was, then gave a faint nod, right before they went out the front door. The blond one gave me a warning glance before he turned and took up the rear, as if to tell me that I needed to stay put and keep my mouth shut.

Fat chance of that. Instead, I followed them. As soon as I was outside, the chilly air seemed to bite at me, piercing the thermal shirt I wore, but I ignored the momentary discomfort. Parked a little ways down the drive were two Hummers, one bright yellow, the other red. Clearly, these were some of the vehicles "liberated" from Santa Fe and the surrounding area.

I could see Jasreel being bundled into the yellow Hummer and cursed mentally. What was I supposed to do? There were seven of them — all right, the guy with the box seemed peculiarly uninterested in his surroundings and kept fiddling with the device, whatever it was, so maybe he wasn't much of a threat — but the rest of them were all big enough to take me individually, let alone as a group. And all my weapons were currently locked up in the gun safe.

The leader of the group paused and glanced down at me, seeming to really assess my appearance for the first time. He didn't leer, but I could see the look in his eyes take on a certain glint. "You should come with us," he said casually. "We're trying to in-gather as many of the Immune as we can. You'd be safe with us in Los Alamos. We can protect you."

For a second, I actually considered it. Not because I wanted to go with this bastard and his crew, but because that way I'd be closer to Jasreel. I'd still have to figure out some way to free him, but I thought attempting a rescue would be a lot easier if I were nearby.

_No, beloved._

The words were barely more than a gasp in my mind. I couldn't speak aloud, not with the leader of the band of thugs standing close by, so in desperation I tried to respond the same way. Amazingly, it seemed to work.

_But I want to stay with you!_

_You will be...better able to help me if you stay away from them, and free._

_How?_

_You will need assistance...and you will not be able to get it if you come with me to Los Alamos now. I do not think they intend to kill me right away._

_And that's supposed to be reassuring?_

_Yes, beloved._

I had to ask. _How are we doing this?_

_The bond between us. They have trapped me here on this plane, cut off my powers, but I can still speak to you thus. At least —_

But then the thought-speech abruptly broke off, and I realized it must have been because they'd finally hauled Jasreel into the Hummer and shut the door behind him. So our mental connection was limited — by space, and by physical barriers.

Luckily, the entire exchange had taken place in less time than the blink of an eye.

"Thanks for the offer," I told the leader, my tone as casual as I could make it, as if I hadn't just held a desperate mental dialogue with their captive. "But I've got goats and chickens to tend. I think I'll stay right here."

His eyes narrowed. "You sure? It's not safe for a woman alone."

_And I'd be so much safer in Los Alamos. Right._ Evenly, I replied, "I'll take my chances."

A long hesitation, and I worried that he might try to force me into the other Hummer. But then he shrugged and said, "Door's always open. Come find us there when you're ready."

I nodded, and he seemed to take that as the conclusion of our conversation, because he signaled the three men still waiting outside to get in the red Hummer. Immediately afterward, he crossed to the vehicle and climbed in the passenger seat. A slap on the door, and both vehicles moved off, heading down the drive and out through the gate, which I noticed was standing wide open. They must have shorted out the mechanism or something, although that should have triggered the alarm system. Then again, I didn't know what the black box the weedy-looking man had been holding could do. Maybe it could simultaneously short out the alarm and somehow trap Jasreel here in this world, with no hope of escape. Or maybe one of the men in the Hummers had just stepped out and clipped a couple of wires.

In a minute or two, I'd have to go inspect the gate and see if what they'd done was anything I could fix. In a minute or two, I'd have to take Dutchie back into the house and lock up, and pray that no unfriendly eyes had seen me in my current vulnerable state.

Right then, though, I could only stand there in the driveway and feel the icy tears roll down my cheeks, stinging in the bitter wind that was blowing down from the north. Jasreel was gone.

I turned so I faced west, in the direction the vehicles had disappeared. And although I knew he couldn't hear me, I still sent the words out to him, letting them ride on the wind.

_I will find you...beloved._

~FIN~

TAKEN, Book Two in the Djinn Wars series, is available at your favorite retailer.

* * *

Learn more on the author's website, or go here to sign up for her mailing list.

# THE HUNTED ONE

### End of Days Series Book One

**Meg Collett**

The fallen have trespassed into Heaven for the first time in eternity. Prepared for battle, Michaela and her Archangels open Heaven's gates to confront the fallen. Only, Michaela's Archangels—her brothers and sisters in Heaven—betray her. And when the fallen attack the sanctuary in the skies through the gates Michaela inadvertently left open, the holy angels accuse Michaela of planning the invasion.

One simple mistake with a thousand consequences.

Dragged to Earth by an Archangel turned fallen, Michaela will do anything to return to Heaven and save it. In her fervor, she kills the Archangel—something no angel has ever done before. Wingless, without any hope, Michaela welcomes death when an unlikely human ally, Clark, finds her. With the help of Clark and Gabriel, an innocent Archangel whose friendship deepens into something far more torrid and unexpected on Earth, Michaela must prove the holy angels have their own plan for Heaven, and it is one that may prove to be the End of the Days.

It may be too late to save herself, but Michaela is the only one who knows the truth about the holy angels. If she fails, she may never be able to return to Heaven. But even that may be a hopeless dream.
To my grandmothers – Margaret and Reva.

You both were in my heart as I wrote this novel.

&

And to Mom and Dad.

You taught me to always dream big.

This book is my big dream.

# Chapter One

Heaven was a grave, and Michaela knew it was meant for her.

The Archangel didn't deny it was a beautiful grave. The hallowed city sat, tucked away, in a fold of the universe, far, far above Earth and space. Set against a sky cast in the undulating colors of a perpetual twilight, glass-like towers jutted from a thick bank of blush-colored clouds. Graceful spires reflected beams of bright light back into the illuminated sky.

Michaela stepped through the crystal wall of the highest spire, her vaporous body easily passing through the thick pseudo-barrier to the outside air where she hovered. The wind twisted around the sharp edges of the structures and blew straight through her with an unsettling, tickling sensation. This high up in the crystal city, Michaela's body was boundless. The molecules of herself were tethered together only by the whispering intent of her soul. If she were to fly beyond the reach of the spires into the highest part of Heaven, she would be nothing but a speck of light.

But she couldn't afford to disappear right now. Times were uneasy. The choirs of angels were looking to Heaven's General, Michaela, to lead them.

The legion of holy angels consisted of nine choirs. Michaela and her fellow Archangels were the highest ranking choir as the governors of Heaven, which meant they had the most power and authority. But every angel served a purpose and was assigned special duties. The responsibilities were tiring sometimes. Many angels wavered, and more than a few fell.

But all the angels, no matter their choir, looked to Michaela for leadership as the General. She was the one who saw them through the hardest battles, the toughest decisions. She bore the weight of Heaven on her back and never faltered beneath the load.

She may never have faltered, but she did worry at times. Now was one of those times, and no matter how much she reassured the holy angels, they knew something was wrong.

Michaela angled downward, ready to move before the anxiety took hold. As she did, she caught a glimpse of her reflection. She wasn't much more than a blur with dark hair and searing blue eyes, giving her the impression of a ghost or an illusion. With a single beat of her invisible wings, she shot through the air, streaking down the side of the spire, reducing her reflection to a smudged blur.

Michaela wanted to enjoy the speed and the thrill, but as she flew into the metropolis of the city, where hordes of angels wove through and around the towers, she sensed the tension. The unease seeping from the other angels created an unnatural amount of dew in the air. The moisture leaked into her mouth like salty tears as she cut through the mist, weaving through the narrow openings between the towers. Angels parted for her with brief smiles and a nod, but no one looked her directly in the eyes. Their fear smelled of ash settling like soot in the back of her throat.

Without pause, Michaela swept through the puffy clouds surrounding the base of the city. As she entered the lowest part of Heaven, she slowed drastically; her body was already changing from her angel form to her more human-like one. Over time, Michaela had learned the transitioning was easier if she relaxed and took her time, allowing her body to morph one part at a time.

A tingling started in her toes and spanned to the tips of her hair before turning into a maddening itch as her skin thickened. Remembering to breathe, she drew in some air and forced it down the tightening confines in her throat. But even deep breathing didn't help the building ache in her back where her wings grew heavy and entirely visible. She stretched them out, catching the air just right to prepare for landing.

When she touched down on the slightly dusty opal tiled floor, she settled heavily, adjusting to her new weight. Around her, hundreds of huge marble columns reached into the clouds, supporting the crystal city. A sickeningly sweet perfume permeated the air from the endless blood-red petals that poured from the Tree of Knowledge in the center of the courtyard. The petals never grew dirty from the dust storms of Purgatory as they detached from their stems and floated, drifting in the air before settling on the grimy tile and disappearing. Michaela cringed away as one petal almost touched her arm. She had always been wary of their dripping, brutal color.

Michaela walked farther away, threading through the large columns. She probed her skin, unsure of being encased in a true form. If she stayed on the first level much longer she would grow a heart to pump gold blood through new veins.

Just then, the breeze shifted, bringing with it the musty smell of Purgatory and something else Michaela couldn't identify. Frowning, she stopped walking and looked around, letting her sensitive sense of smell test the air. She remained still for a long moment until her feathers ruffled in the breeze, sending a shiver down her spine and goose bumps across her fresh skin.

"Hello?" Her voice echoed across the empty level, bouncing between the columns. No one answered.

Heaven's courtyard stretched empty and quiet around her. She tried to reason away the chill that grew along the edges of her wings, but the sensation lingered. The sky darkened, and the juncture of her wings tightened.

"Michaela!" She jerked at the shout. Asmodeus, another Archangel, jogged up to her. "What are you doing down here?"

"I came to welcome Gabriel and the others back," Michaela said. She found it impossible to remain in the spires when she knew he was coming home. She needed to see him, and she couldn't focus until she did.

"Are you okay?" His eyes were on her hand. She was gripping the jeweled hilt of the sword at her hip without realizing she'd reached for it.

"I sense something, Asz..."

"I know. Let me show you." Asz motioned her to follow as he lifted into the air with hurried beats of his wings. The bright light radiating from his feathers made Michaela's changing eyes water, forcing her to look away.

"Where is Cassie?" Michaela asked. She darted around a column, careful her wings didn't bang into the marble, and caught back up to Asz.

"She's at the gates with Molloch and the twins."

Asz flew so fast, tucking his wings and diving around the columns, Michaela didn't have a chance to ask him why the other Archangels were at the gates or why he sounded so nervous. But lately all the angels, including Michaela, had been on edge, so she focused on matching his frantic pace and kept her mouth shut.

They reached the gates quickly. Michaela landed and skidded to a stop to keep from crashing into the expanse of metal. When she had transitioned into her more human body, a sheer material had formed over her skin like a loose gown, which she straightened as her eyes traveling up the towering entry.

Unlike their pearly reputation, Heaven's doorway was not beautiful; it was menacing and slightly dusty from Purgatory's desert that stretched beyond. The titanium poles twisted intricately, forming designs that ended in slashes and spikes. In addition to its fortitude, Michaela, as the General and the one responsible for Heaven's safety, was one of the few angels who could open the massive structure. But from Michaela's quick examination, the gates weren't the cause for everyone's concern.

Michaela looked back at the others. Asz was right, half the choir of Archangels was gathered at the gates. Cassie, Molloch, Emim, and Irin all stared expectantly at her, but no one spoke. "What's wrong?"

"Look," Asz said. He pointed toward Purgatory. Michaela looked along the empty stretch of desert that stirred beneath the ever-present wind. The smell from earlier was stronger here, and it burned the inside of her nose. Finally, Michaela saw the source of their attention. Her mouth went dry as she stared.

" _Fallen_ ," one of the Archangels behind her whispered.

A group of a dozen fallen angels stood shoulder to shoulder in the hazy glow of Purgatory. They were positioned at the farthest point from the gates, forcing Michaela to squint just to make out their cloaked forms. The edge's wall, where the end of Purgatory met the upper limit of space, cast a long shadow across their backs.

"What are they doing here?" Michaela never looked away from the fallen. She drew her sword just to be ready.

"We don't know," Asz answered. "I've never seen a fallen angel come this close to Heaven before."

"Because they're not supposed to be here," Michaela said. Over the course of eternity, the fallen had never come into Heaven's territory, because Michaela had forbidden it. In exchange, the holy angels never trespassed into Hell.

"You don't think they are planning an attack, right?" Cassie murmured, her eyes huge in her pale, small face. She was tiny with frail, birdlike bones and delicate features.

"I'm sure it's nothing to be worried about," Asz said.

Michaela wasn't so sure. A very long time ago, she had been Lucifer's best friend, his ally. She knew every corner of his soul, even where the evil had taken root and stole him away. Lucifer wouldn't send fallen angels to Heaven's doorstep if he didn't mean something by it.

"Have they done anything?" Michaela asked.

"Not yet," Molloch said. He had the face of a stocky bulldog and the attitude to match. The Archangel had caused more than his share of fights with the fallen, and he looked to be itching for another one.

"How long have they been out there?"

"Not long." Asz shifted uncomfortably. "I came for you immediately."

Michaela's brow furrowed. Finally she looked away from the fallen and glanced at the others. They all looked fully human, more human than Michaela. She listened carefully until she heard the beat of their hearts, watched the rise and fall of their chests, tracked the flush of their skin. Their changes were much further along than hers, which meant they had been in the lower parts of Heaven for days. Their increasingly human bodies were limiting their telepathic abilities, which explained why they hadn't alerted her the easy way.

Their corporeal changes bothered Michaela. As the governing choir, the Archangels were meant to stay in the upper spires and oversee Heaven's operations. Michaela was annoyed even though days were like minutes to angels. She told herself to forget it and focus on the issue at hand. "Do you think _they_ have something to do with the disappearances?" She nodded toward the fallen.

For a while now, the other holy angels had reported the diminishing ranks of Lucifer's fallen on Earth, speculating the angels were relocating back to Hell even though most fallen angels, like Lucifer, chose to live amongst humans. Then rumors that Lucifer was planning an attack circulated, and the disappearance of his army started to feel more like preparations. The holy angels grew too scared to even journey to Earth for fear of assault. The terror spread until it was out of hand, and Michaela sent Gabriel with the other half of the Archangels to Earth in search of answers to the disappearances.

"What is everyone saying about the disappearances now?" Michaela asked Asz. He was the sort of angel others shared their secrets with.

"The choirs heard we sent Gabriel and the others to Earth for answers. If Gabriel doesn't return soon, and if we can't calm everyone down, I worry the holy angels will panic and start clamoring to attack Hell before Lucifer and his fallen can attack us. They would never go against you, but their fear is growing with each day Gabriel is gone."

"But what if the fallen have decided to attack while Gabriel and half our choir is gone?" Cassie wrapped her thin arms around her body.

"Good." Molloch leaned toward the gate, the muscles in his legs twitching.

"I hope the fallen have better judgment than attacking Heaven with an army of twelve soldiers," Michaela said. Confused, she watched Molloch for a moment, sensing his growing animosity. "No matter their reason for coming, we can handle it." She looked back out to Purgatory, a chill rippling down her spine.

"There're only twelve," Molloch said. "We can run them off easily."

All six of the Archangels, Michaela included, turned to him in surprise.

Cassie's eye widened even more. "We can't fight them without the others," she whispered, her voice wavering.

"Cassie's right. We've never fought without all the Archangels," Michaela said.

"Why not? We can take them." Molloch's eyes held a hint of green in their wide orbs of light, and they glinted dangerously.

"The others returning from Earth will have to pass through Purgatory to get back. What if those fallen try something?" Asz's eyes flickered to Cassie.

"Isn't that the problem?" Molloch leveled his gaze on Michaela. "Gabriel is coming back soon with the others, and they won't be expecting fallen to be so close, and our telepathic link with them is too weak to warn them." Molloch's eyes narrowed. "And Gabriel is still healing from his last fight with a fallen."

At the mention of Gabriel's injury, Michaela's hands shook; the tip of her sword rattled against the tiles. Weeks ago, after a skirmish with a few fallen, Gabriel's injury had been so bad they had to stay on Earth several days, waiting for him to heal enough to fly home. Seeing Gabriel hurt and too weak to even move had been Michaela's personal Hell. She would do anything to keep that from happening again, but Gabriel wouldn't want her to fight without all twelve of the Archangels.

"What are we waiting for?" Molloch growled. He practically foamed at the mouth. His hand wrapped around the bars of the gate, illuminating the metal beneath the fire of his touch.

Likewise, the fallen angels reacted to Molloch's touch of the gate and took a collective, threatening step forward. Michaela jerked, not in fear but with a burgeoning rage.

Michaela bared her teeth—these fallen did not belong in Heaven, and their presence was a threat, an insult. Even though she shouldn't fight without all the Archangels present, Michaela couldn't allow fallen to stand between Gabriel and home. Her hand tightened over the hilt of her sword. Her duty was to protect Heaven no matter the cost; it was a desire that had her unconsciously moving toward the gate.

The Archangels sensed her agreement and shifted behind her.

Molloch lips curved into a slow, cocky smirk.

"Let's do it," she said.

# Chapter Two

Michaela didn't wait until the gates were completely open before she stepped through and sprang effortlessly into the air. The others followed with a single, synchronized beat of their massive, unfurled wings. They surged through the opening, their strength barely contained.

As they flew, Purgatory stretched below them, benign and forgettable. It was a miserable place, a sharp contrast to Heaven. The small, gray moon cast an eerie, forgotten light across the desert. Their wings rustled the dirt beneath them.

"What is that smell?" Molloch asked.

"Sulfur," Asz said quietly.

The smell wafted from the fallen angels, contaminating the air. Even the herd of souls who typically milled around Purgatory was gone, hiding in the farthest corners from the fallen. The anomaly distracted Michaela, scattered her thoughts as the sulfur stung her eyes. She shook her head to clear her mind, and when she did, something horrible occurred to her.

The gates.

She had left them open.

Panicking, her wings stuttered midair; she dipped and nearly crashed to the ground. Her breath came in hiccups and hitches as she turned around and faced the gates, which were so small, so far away. She focused on the intricate structure and pictured the gates closing.

Her body shook from the effort, her eyes bulging, but she had gone too far. From this distance the gates refused to close with her thoughts alone. She needed to fly back.

"It's okay." Asz's hand settled on her shoulder, his quiet assurance settling her nerves.

"I don't know..."

"We have a bigger issue, Michaela."

Asz's eyes were calm and reassuring, but Michaela was still worried. "Okay," she said, her mind still begging the gates to close. Asz pulled her forward, and together they flew back to the other Archangels, who waited almost halfway across Purgatory.

_Make this quick. Get back to the gates as soon as possible_ , Michaela told herself. The words did nothing to appease the alarms blaring in her mind.

Michaela flew even faster, her massive wings pumping in the air. She closed the distance to the fallen quickly. They didn't move as she approached or even lift their heads. Michaela landed within a few paces of the group. The ground shook, and a fan of dust settled thick in her throat. Her newly formed shinbones quaked as the Archangels landed behind her.

"Leave. Now." Michaela swung her sword in a clean arc, slicing the putrid air.

Instead of answering, a fallen angel, standing slightly in front of the others, lifted his head. The cloak fell back, revealing the fallen's face. "Hello, Michaela. It's good to be home," Lucifer said in a voice like warm honey.

Michaela almost stumbled backward, before she recovered from the shock. She wished her heart would stop racing, because she was certain Lucifer could hear it. She gripped her sword tighter to keep it from shaking.

"How...?" All she wanted was to fly as fast as she could back to the gates and slam them shut in Lucifer's face, but she forced her muscles to remain still. If Lucifer realized she was afraid, he would use it against her. "How did you get here?"

Lucifer smiled like he sensed her fear. His eyes were bright and black as he looked to the open gates in the distance. His face was delicate, fine-boned, and beautiful even with the sinister twist of his lips. He was tall and slim, his body foreign without the shadows of wings at his back.

Michaela stepped in front of Lucifer, blocking his view of the open gates. She had never been scared of Lucifer before, but she was terrified standing between him and the open gates. She prayed her voice sounded strong when she said, "How dare you defy an order from the General and return to this place?"

"I've never cared much for your orders, Michaela," Lucifer said. "Because one day, this all will be mine." His eyes swept along the tall wall that separated Heaven from Purgatory.

_Cassie, go close the gates_ , Michaela said through her thoughts. Cassie didn't move, and Michaela began to panic. "You have one last chance to leave, Lucifer, before I cut you down."

Lucifer laughed. "Always so proud, Michaela. Always so certain. You need to watch your back better." His eyes flickered over her shoulder.

Silence.

Comprehension engulfed her like a panic attack—she recognized the quiet moment before betrayal strikes. Her Archangels hadn't pulled their swords from their sheaths when they had landed, and now they stood quiet and unmoving at her back.

In her stunned grief, she paused. Her mistake was a purely human reaction. An angel never paused. An angel turned and fought with no hesitation. Instead, Michaela couldn't find the strength to pull her sword on her brothers and sisters. The realization of her weakness was almost more shocking than her very best friends turning against her. She was the General first and a warrior second, leaving no room to be emotional. Yet she was. Her heart formed just in time to break.

" _No_ ," Michaela said, her voice cracking. She looked at Lucifer. "Please don't do this to me."

He stepped forward, leaving the wall of fallen. He took her face in his hands, his lips inches from hers. "Michaela, my sweet Michaela, you deserve it." He nodded to the Archangels behind her. "Take her down."

"I would say I'm sorry, but that would be a lie," Molloch said, his words hot against the back of her neck. A knife pierced the juncture of her wings—the only vulnerable place on a heavenly angel's body. Her legs gave way, and she sagged in instant paralysis. An arm, like a band of steel around her chest, caught her before she hit the dirt. The knife stayed perfectly steady in her back. Molloch yanked her hair so she was forced to see what she already guessed was coming.

Purgatory was quiet for only a moment. She didn't hear the fallen angels' approach, but suddenly all she saw was a wall of black eyes and glinting, raven wings flying straight at her. The fallen spilled forth from the darkness of space where they had hidden. Their numbers were far beyond counting as they hit the ground, brewing a dust storm that stifled the silent cries in her throat. Some flew, some ran, but all surged past—headed straight for the gates of Heaven.

The gates she had carelessly left open.

The holy angels inside Heaven's walls would have no protectors, no warning. She had left them defenseless. There would be no forgiveness for this. Tears welled in Michaela's unblinking eyes, spilling down her cheeks.

From inside the gates, all was silent at first. Michaela imagined the holy angels' initial confusion...almost heard their uncertain breaths. Then the first screams reached her. The sounds of the fight became loud and clashing. The once-pink sky above Heaven turned a horrible blood red of churning clouds and flashing scarlet light, and sounds of slashing metal cut the air as angels collided sword to sword. The sounds of the screams would haunt her the rest of her days. She had failed as Heaven's protector. It was a failure worth death if only angels could die.

"Say goodbye, Michaela," Molloch whispered against her ear. He dragged her closer to the edge's wall. Frigid air rushed across her back as Molloch lifted her onto the low marble barrier. Pulling her tight against him, he nuzzled his face to hers. She wanted to cringe away; instead, she only stared across the lonely stretch of desert to the gates standing open so far away.

He stepped back from the edge's wall and pulled her with him. Michaela's final view of Heaven was limited due to the tall, massive walls that separated Heaven from Purgatory. The scene was almost too still for all the noises of war and her fellow angels' terror spilling through the open gates. The hollow, horrifying scene was one burned into the deepest corners of her mind, never to be forgotten.

And then they were falling.

Locked in Molloch's arms, Michaela understood disgrace for the first time in her existence as she watched the last tinges of Heaven's burning red sky disappear. Her disgrace hung like a weight around her neck, pulling them down faster through the air.

As they dropped farther from Heaven, Michaela saw the development of space, and the raging storms in vicious colors raced past. Frozen drops of water stung her skin and stuck to the strands of her hair. The air rushing past her ears was deafening, pressing against her eardrums with a pressure that threatened to pop them. They were going too fast. Her body was changing too quickly for her to adjust. Michaela's lack of control was a sickening, dropping feeling in her freshly formed stomach.

Molloch spun them in a dizzying, spiraling nosedive as they streaked through space. His cruel laughter bubbled hot into her ear. He twisted the slender golden dagger spitefully in the tender juncture of her massive, paralyzed wings. The knife hit freshly created bone. The pain—another sign of her body becoming more human as the distance flew past her—lashed like a hot flash of white in the developing cosmos that raced by.

"What will everyone think?" She barely heard him above the whipping wind that cut through her as they fell. But his smile spread across his features like a disease. Manic excitement filled his black eyes as he watched the grief form on her face when she realized everyone would assume _she_ had let the fallen in through the gates _she_ opened.

The clouds parted, and the earth, draped in a blanket of darkness, came into view. Molloch's laugh carried easily through the warm atmosphere.

They were a comet streaking through the night sky, crashing straight to the ground that formed solid beneath them.

They had arrived.

# Chapter Three

Michaela woke to dread washing over her, pressing in and clenching her throat. What had happened back in Heaven couldn't be undone.

She groaned in pain and regret. She opened her eyes too soon; the world slanted, and her vision erupted with a dizzying fireworks display of flashing red and white lights from deep within her skull. Hot, burning saliva pooled in her mouth before her chest convulsed, and in a human and ungraceful manner, she vomited.

When the heaving stopped, Michaela weakly dragged herself to a clean spot of cold, rocky ground to rest her head. She dully registered the sound of water rushing in the distance above the consuming, bone-deep pain in her back where Molloch had stabbed her. The air's dampness congested in her nose, mixed with the smell of wet earth. Her ribs ached, and bile ran down the side of her cheek.

She pushed her fingers through her sticky, clumped hair until she found the sore spot. A thick gold metallic liquid covered her hand. She was in human form, but her blood was still angel's blood, which meant she had an angel's strength and healing abilities. She also still had some of her telepathic abilities, but after the transition and Molloch's wild ride to Earth, she was too weak to reach Gabriel.

Tentatively, she looked around; she was in a massive underground cave. All around her, huge rocks stretched high into the farthest, darkest depths of the ceiling, where thousands of clear, slender straws suspended in clusters, forming dangerous ice chandeliers. Finger-like stalagmites reached from the ground. Somewhere far above, a massive waterfall plummeted to a small pool and fed into a narrow, inky stream running the length of the floor, past Michaela, and into the shadows.

Flickering lights from old lanterns illuminated the cave, with a group of lights specifically shining against the wall behind the waterfall. Her eyes settled on an odd pattern of letters carved into the rock. Thousands of letters looped around and over each other, covering the entire wall.

She slowly got up. Her legs were watery and weak, and the cut in her back bit painfully down to her spine. The wound burned like a brand had been pressed against her skin, which meant Molloch had probably used a golden dagger, gold weakened angels—especially Archangels. Michaela shivered as blood trickled from the hole down her back.

Ignoring the pain, Michaela walked closer to the wall, gritting her teeth and using the rocks for support. As she drew nearer, the hairs on her arms stood on end; her body flushed hot then cold, but she never looked away from the letters. She pressed on, teeth clattering, forcing her feet forward, even though something was very wrong.

When Michaela was close enough to make out some of the ancient words, she only read a few before jerking away. The gist of the message and what it meant turned her spine to ice. For the first time, she realized where she stood. She had been here thousands of years before, and it was a place she hoped never to return.

"The princess finally decided to wake up. I didn't even get to the kissing-you-awake part."

Michaela's surprised flinch sent waves of fire shooting down her back. Refusing to let her pain show, she turned to face Molloch. But Molloch wasn't alone. Cassie, Asz, and the twins stood behind him. Asz tucked Cassie under his arm, but his face was tortured when he looked at Michaela.

Molloch stepped in front of Michaela. He wore jeans, but his chest was bare. His wings were molting, his white feathers shedding off as new, black feathers grew in to take their place. Soon his wings would be solid black, the trademark of the fallen.

Michaela looked around him. The others' wings had tints of black, some more than others. She sagged against the rock, her body suddenly too heavy to hold up. She rubbed the skin above her heart again, certain the organ was broken. "Why did you bring me here?" she whispered.

Molloch grinned, his voice mischievous. "Seriously, Michaela, you didn't think I brought you to just any old cave, did you?" He had to speak loudly over the noise of the falling water.

"I asked you why!"

Cassie shoved out from under Asz's arm. "You don't get to talk to us like that anymore!" she yelled. Asz reached for her hand, pulling her back to him. Cassie trembled with anger, her eyes scorching Michaela's skin with obvious hatred.

Molloch went on like no one had interrupted him. "I've always secretly wanted to come here, you know...I wanted to see where you buried the almighty Watchers alive." He grinned wickedly. "We are standing above them right now," he whispered dramatically, eyes wide.

_The Watchers._ The words alone sent nausea bubbling in Michaela's stomach. Once upon a time, the Watchers were angels of a high choir, powerful with their magic and secrets. They were responsible for helping the humans, to watch over them and the progress they made. But they watched forbidden things too, for too long, and the watching aroused them and failed to satisfy them.

The human women made the angels lustful. In time, the Watchers came to Earth with twisted intentions. They lay with the women, taught humans their magic, and even showed them how to make gleaming weapons. Worst of all, the women bore the children of the Watchers. The babies emerged, slimy and twisting, with red blood smeared across their angry, pink skin. They were called the Nephilim—half human, half angel. They were abominations.

"The Watchers lost their chance for forgiveness the moment they chose a different path than what was planned for them," Michaela finally answered, her voice devoid of an ounce of sympathy.

"That's a little harsh, Michaela, even for you. I mean, it's just lust! Who could begrudge us a little desire in our miserable lives? So what if Watchers slept with some humans?"

"We are holy angels!" Michaela paused, understanding her mistake. Molloch smirked at her, but Asz looked sick, refusing to meet her eyes. "We were held to a higher standard. We were meant to be more, to help the humans, to give them more than this earth can. We were not meant to interfere."

Molloch laughed, his eyes dancing as they roamed over her body. For the first time, Michaela realized she was naked. Beneath the leer of Molloch's slinky black eyes, she swept her waist-length hair to fall across her shoulders and cover her exposed body.

"Ah, don't be shy. That's the best part about having you around down here even if you are so damn self-righteous," Molloch taunted with a burgeoning evil that came all too easily for him. Seeing the darkness seep into his eyes, clouding over the bright light that once filled them, broke Michaela's heart.

"What have you done, Molloch?" she asked shakily.

A sharp sting spread fire across the side of her face. Her knees buckled, and she hit the ground, tasting blood and seeing stars. Her eyes narrowed at Molloch, who already paced away from her, rubbing the palm of his hand.

Molloch whirled back around, and she covered her cheek protectively.

"Don't hurt her!" Asz's loud voice echoed in the cave.

"Hit her again!" Cassie's shrill voice screeched across the rock walls.

"What have _I_ done?" Molloch shouted. A wild fever coursed through him. For an angel coming to Earth, the change from celestial to corporeal was a hard, unstable transition to endure, especially when it was taken too fast. Dizzy and weak, Michaela's breathing chugged shallowly at the top of her throat. Yet she was used to the change, and her body would quickly recover. Molloch was more heavily affected than she was, and in these moments, he was incapable of controlling himself.

" _What have I done?_ " he yelled even louder, the words hurting Michaela's ears.

More rocks, larger ones, fell around them. Molloch stalked toward her, his finger raised and shaking at her like she was an errant child. "You literally open the front door for us and then you ask me what _I_ did? You have got to be kidding me." He shoved his hands in his hair and yanked, letting out a long scream of frustration that died down to hysterical, bubbling laughter.

"Molloch! Calm down," Asz said. Michaela looked at Asz. He shook his head at her, and she saw the apology in his eyes before he pressed them shut, bowing his forehead down to touch Cassie's. The twins, Irin and Emim, stood behind Asz, watching Michaela with entertained grins, like she was an ant beneath their magnifying glass.

"Then why?" Michaela asked, getting back up so she looked Molloch in the eye again.

"Where do I even start?" Molloch paced in front of her. "Everyone has someone but me! You and Gabe. Zarachiel and Uriel. Cassie and Asz. Emim and Irin. Why can't I have someone?"

"Raphael, Simiel, and Ophaniel don't have—"

"Exactly! Why the hell not? It's not fair!"

"Gabriel and I were created together. We share a special bond, like Uriel and Zarachiel, Cassie and Asz, and the twins. You and the others were created alone. It's not about 'having' anyone, Molloch. That is not a part of our purpose."

Molloch stopped, sneering at her with dark eyes pinned to her body. "You mean to tell me you and Gabriel haven't had some fun? You two are so obvious. We all see how you look at each other. You tell me that's not lust? So why can't we get any, huh?" He kicked a rock, sending it catapulting to the other side of the cavern where Michaela heard it smash. "You keep us so pent up all the time, telling us how good we have it.

" _Sex?_ No! We can't even look or touch lest we end up like the Watchers. A day off? Forget about it! The freedom to walk around on Earth? That's only for the humans! If we did that we are no better than the fallen angels and of course we don't want to be fallen! Who would want to be free, to have sex, to do as they pleased without being judged all the damn time?"

"That's not—"

"And why did I never get to come here? You sent everyone else but me! Why couldn't I come here before?"

"Some angels can't handle the transitioning, Molloch. It's not that easy—"

"I'm strong enough! What's wrong with me? Look, I did it! I could have handled it. You were always excluding me...on purpose!"

"Look at you. The change has already made you—" She caught his hand cleanly in the air an inch away from her cheek. In the semi-darkness, Michaela's strength was returning from her transition. Her vision cleared. The dizziness lifted. An angry wrinkle formed on Molloch's forehead when he realized it too. "—Insane," she finished.

She released his hand. He took a deep and shaky, uneven breath and shook his head. This time his laugh sounded normal.

"I guess you are right. I do feel a little crazy." His eyes cut back to her, like he was going to tell her a secret. "I snuck down here a couple of times. Did you know that? When Asz told me how good it could be, how different things could be for us, I had to see for myself."

"You did this?" Asz shifted nervously at Michaela's shocked tone. His hand clenched Cassie's arm, but she shook it off.

"No. I did." Cassie lifted her chin, her two-tone eyes sparking with anger. "The souls weren't safe anymore. I had to protect them from you."

"What are you talking about? I would never threaten the souls. Cassie, you know that."

"Liar!" Cassie screamed. Her little voice barely echoed. Asz shushed her, tried to calm her.

"Michaela, please. We're so sorry," Asz said so quietly Michaela barely heard him over the noise of the waterfall. At his words, Cassie thrashed against him, but Asz held her tightly. Her frustrated screams were muffled against his chest. Michaela realized then it was Cassie who had decided to leave Heaven. Asz only fell because he would never part with Cassie.

"We plotted behind your back, and you had no clue. No clue! We had to stay down in the lowest parts of Heaven and even fly close to Earth a few times so our bodies stayed more human. You never sensed our intentions. We tricked you! The great Michaela was made a fool," Molloch said.

Michaela shook her head. Even Lucifer's betrayal had not stung as much as the Archangels'. She couldn't listen anymore. She needed to get back. There was still time to fix this.

"Let me pass, Molloch, and I won't hurt you."

Molloch rolled his eyes. "I can't believe we bought your crap for so long. I wish we'd done this sooner. I feel so free!" Molloch sprang into the air. He landed within a foot of her.

If his intention was to scare her, it didn't work.

He smirked. This anger and evil had to have been growing inside him for a long time—long before he had made the decision to forsake his creation—and she hadn't noticed the difference. After she had lost Lucifer to the very same disease, Michaela promised herself she would never let another angel lose himself to the battle for his soul. She had failed again.

Molloch must have read her thoughts, because he said, "You got so caught up in everything else that you didn't even see your Archangels slipping from your grip. It's kind of funny actually. You try so hard to be perfect, and you're not even close."

Her eyes danced to the water cascading down the far wall. She shook her head. In a way, Molloch was right. Nothing tilted or swayed beneath her except her faith in herself. "But why? Why did you choose Lucifer over me?" Michaela asked.

"Come on, Molloch. We need to leave before he gets here," Asz said, but Molloch ignored him.

"We plotted against you. You're so good at running a tight ship back upstairs, but you trusted us too much and took our loyalty for granted. Lucifer had been waiting for an opportunity a long time. With us on his side, he had one."

Her anger rose from a place buried deep inside; it was an old anger, cold and bone-deep. Chill bumps spread down her arms. She regretted what had happened with Lucifer, but she still hated him for the sin and pain he'd brought upon them all.

"Molloch, stop." Asz's words were a hiss. He stepped forward like he wanted to intervene, but once again Molloch ignored him.

"We set the whole thing up. A mass fall of angels, including Heaven's very own Michaela The Great. It's fantastic really. Everyone thinks you're fallen. All the Archangels are implicated, even if they didn't fall. They will all be hunted like the dogs they are by your precious fellow holy angels wanting justice, and Heaven will be left in chaos."

"No one will believe that. You have no idea what you have done."

"We need to go," Asz said, trying again. "He will be here soon."

"Shut up!" Molloch shouted at Asz. He looked back at Michaela. "I know exactly what I've done." His eyes grew angry again as he rode a new emotional wave.

"You will never win," Michaela said calmly. The words were a balm on Michaela's hurt heart. She was right. Honor and duty always won in the battle of Heaven and Hell.

More strength came with her resolve even though a part of her brain whispered Asz's words over and over in her ear. He _is coming._ He _is coming._

"You're delusional!" The words snarled over Molloch's twisted anger. "Even with five of the strongest Archangels on our side? How many more angels of other choirs will come to us once they hear Heaven is in free fall with no more Archangels left to run the place? No one can hide from this."

"It will take a lot more than five fallen Archangels to take Heaven. Heaven will hold until I get back."

Molloch threw back his head and laughed. Michaela stayed quiet and still.

"Who is left?" She forced her voice to sound level, but in her renewed strength she found a single fault line. If he told her Gabriel had fallen, she might crack.

"They don't matter." Relief shuddered through Michaela. Gabriel and the others hadn't fallen. Everything wasn't lost. "Like I said, they are all dead. But you don't have to be one of them, Michaela. Lucifer wants you. I can't understand why, but he does. I mean, yes, this female human form is quite...enticing. You look good, baby. You would be quite handy for other things, rather than bossing us around. So what do you say? Join us?"

Molloch arched his eyebrow. He smiled with an evil tilt to his lips. His eyes roamed over her exposed body, making her skin crawl. Her strength was back, and the ground at her feet grew hot, glowing ever so slightly. Her feathers hummed against her back. The air eddied around her, making her messy hair drift about her face. Michaela smiled back, because her human body was finally angel strong.

"I'm shocked you even have to ask."

# Chapter Four

A lewd smile played at the corners of Molloch's lips, and all Michaela could think was that he looked like a caricature of his former self, an animal stuffed long after its vitality was gone. "I hope you're this easy with other aspects." He stared at her body, and from the gleam in his eye he wasn't talking about allegiances.

"Molloch! Leave her alone!" Asz snapped.

Michaela stretched her wings out fully behind her. Her hands curled into tight fists; her knuckles popped with tension. She spoke low and deliberately. "Of course not, Molloch. I'll never consider joining the fallen. I was created Michaela, Heaven's General, and I'll fight to the very end as such."

Molloch's smile dropped. "Fine. Frankly, I was sick of you anyway. Kind of a shame though."

"You're still adjusting to the transition into your human form. You can't win against me, Molloch. Just let me pass, and you won't get hurt."

"Michaela, you don't have to fight!" Asz acted like he wanted to separate Michaela and Molloch, but Cassie's slight weight was his anchor. Her hand in his grounded him.

"Yes. She will," Molloch said.

_Gabriel_ , Michaela thought. She sent his name out like a beacon even though their mental connection was still weak. Michaela didn't know if she had reached him or if she could, but she tried again. _Gabriel something bad has happened. Something is wrong._

"Are you talking to him?" Molloch shouted. "I see it in your eyes that you're talking to him!"

Michaela flinched, but her voice was steady. She looked at everyone when she spoke. "It's time for me to go and fix this horrible thing you have done."

"I hope you told him goodbye." Molloch's words were a growl, and he looked at her like he wanted to hurt her.

"Stop!" Asz screamed. "Don't fight!"

Molloch's wings snapped behind him. He gathered his legs in a crouch and sprang from the earth, soaring into the air with a menacing glower of hatred.

Reacting only a breath after him, Michaela pushed off the ground, channeling all her strength into her injured back. The ground buckled beneath the force of her propulsion and caved downwards into a rush of crumbling, sliding rock. With a loud crack, she collided with him midair.

They pounded into one another's flesh, landing kicks and punches that only accelerated them toward the wall of the cave. Michaela twisted her legs around his waist, pinning his wings to his back. She fit in one harder jab to his face with her elbow before their bodies slammed into the other wall. His ribs popped beneath her legs.

Michaela's hold jarred loose on impact, giving Molloch the opportunity to slam his fist into her face. The first punch shattered her nose, the second cracked a cheekbone, and the third broke her jaw. Shards of teeth scrapped down her throat when she gasped for air.

She fell a few feet, stunned, locked in Molloch's combative embrace. The moisture from the waterfall weighed heavily on her wings and slicked across their skin. Blood poured from her face. Desperation flooded her body, coursing through her veins in a race against the adrenaline.

Before she caught her breath, his powerful hands wrapped tight and hard around her neck. She panicked. Brilliant spots of light lit her vision. Her windpipe contracted, crushed beneath his grip. Her eyes slid back and met his.

Michaela didn't have to see the hate there, he expressed it clearly enough with his hands. She tried to break his grip, but he was locked on tight. His brow wrinkled in concentration, and his tongue traced the line of his upper lip

"Don't hurt her, Molloch!" Someone screamed from far below. Michaela barely registered their words. "He wanted her awake!"

They fell ten or fifteen more feet in free fall. Molloch focused only on strangling her and didn't bother keeping them aloft. With her last ounce of strength, Michaela flung her wings out as far as they reached and wrapped them around Molloch's body.

Before they hit the ground, blood spurted from Michaela's mouth onto Molloch's face. The brilliant gold looked like paint against his pale, determined expression. He looked wild, crazed, and Michaela felt the first lick of fear, because, for once, she didn't know what to expect of her enemy.

Their weight and momentum met the cavern's floor with a deafening boom. Only her back broke their fall. The junction where her wings spanned out was crushed. A horrible, wrong numbness spread through her wings that were still tightly, but uselessly, wrapped around Molloch. She meant to scream in pain, but the sound came out a gurgle in her destroyed throat.

Molloch's hands fell away from her neck. The weight of his body settled heavy and solid on top of her. She looked into his eyes, waiting for his next attack, knowing she was defenseless without the use of her wings.

No attack came. His eyes were wide and unstaring as she searched for any sign of life. She pushed Molloch off, and as his body rolled to the side, she heard a sucking, pulling sound when her wingtip slid free from his back.

"What...what happened?" Michaela rose to her feet and looked down at Molloch. Her throat opened, allowing her to draw in small breaths.

"What did you do?" Cassie's screams were wild, manic in the small space. "You killed him!"

"No! He's okay. He's going to be okay." Michaela willed Molloch to move.

The other Archangels came closer. Cassie sobbed into Asz's chest as he held her close. His eyes were wide and disbelieving when he looked away from Molloch's body to Michaela. "But we can't die," he said.

"He's not dead!" The trembling started in Michaela's fingers and spread until her whole body quaked.

One of the twins knelt beside Molloch's body, probing a finger along the unmoving angel's neck. The motion stilled. He couldn't find a pulse. "Yes. He is." Without looking at Michaela, the twins, heads bowed together, left the cave without a backwards glance.

_You killed him. You killed him. You killed him._

"No!" Michaela screamed, sinking to the ground beside Molloch's body. "No! No! No, no, no. Please, don't be dead."

"Michaela," Asz said, struggling with the words. His arms clung to Cassie's shaking body. Her cries filled the cavern. "Michaela, I have to get her out of here."

Michaela looked up at Asz. "You can't leave me here with him!" Her voice was high-pitched, foreign. Her teeth clattered.

"Michaela, I'm so sorry. But I have to leave now."

"Why? Who's coming?" Michaela asked, but Asz was already gone.

Michaela sat there, staring at Molloch, her body numb, her tears silent. The power that once filled Molloch only made him broken and hollow now. The dark color of his eyes slowly seeped away until nothing was left but clear, uncolored, empty orbs. His skin faded from pale to opaque.

And then she looked straight through him. She saw the empty air inside him and then the ground below him. The feathers of his wings slowly released from their bindings, floating in the air. Their blackened hue leaked to a ghostly white.

She reached out to touch one, but it slipped straight through, undisturbed on its journey upwards. More and more released until all she saw were feathers rising.

The blinding, bright remnants of Molloch's once great wings clouded the air above with their ethereal luminance. Kneeling so close, her eyes stung, watering from their brilliance. Blindly, her hands scraped across the rough rock ground as she searched for Molloch's body.

A sob caught in her throat, loud and choking. Her vision slowly cleared as the brightness dulled. Blinking rapidly, her eyes caught a shiny, black object on the cave's floor. Her hand wrapped around something like a cold cylinder that writhed within her grip.

Michaela furrowed her brow as she groped along the object. Then, the feathers evaporated, revealing what was in her hand.

There was nothing to do. The gleaming, black cobra reared back, fangs flashing, and dove straight for the crook of her arm. Michaela screamed, falling backwards.

She yanked at the snake, but its fangs only sank deeper, slicing through her skin and latching on. The venom emptied into her bloodstream, scalding its way up her arm, leaving a path of numb, blackened blood vessels from the middle of her bicep down to the arch of her forearm.

Michaela heard Molloch's laughter in the back of her mind as the snake faded. Its slithering presence grew inside her as if she had drank water too quickly, swelling and straining her belly. The snake completely disappeared, and she held nothing but air in her hand. A thick spider web of dark lines curled out from two huge black bite marks.

Tears rolled down her face. She rocked back and forth, cradling her arm and chewing on the saltiness of her lip. This wasn't supposed to happen. She had only wanted to leave, so she might try to restore order back in Heaven. She hadn't meant to kill Molloch.

No matter what, angels were not killers. It went against the terms of their creation. Her eyes skittered to where Molloch had fallen. Her whimpering filled the cavern.

She was the first to take a life.

Her arm pulsed. It drew her attention in the same way someone tapping her on the shoulder might. Deep within, she saw a dark stain on her soul. That mark, borne of a single second, an unconscious decision, an accident, rid her of her purity. Her actions were solely self defense, and she had never meant to kill Molloch. But no matter her intentions or the amount of guilt she felt, Molloch was still dead. The snake seemed to have found a new resting place inside her. It nestled around her spine and slithered its tail against her gut.

Another sob broke loose. She didn't know who she cried for: Molloch or herself. She looked up at the cave's dark ceiling and tried to imagine Heaven beyond the cavern—but she couldn't. Now, more than ever, she needed to remember she was the Archangel Michaela, General of Heaven, and she knew how to fix this.

But she didn't feel like herself anymore. She opened her mouth to pray for forgiveness, but the words never came.

# Chapter Five

"Oh, how the mighty fall. But I have to say, it was interesting to watch."

Michaela whirled around, springing to her feet with barely a hint of pain from her injuries, which were already healing. Her first thought was to hide Molloch's body—until she remembered it was impossible to hide what had already disappeared. Her shoulders slumped, her overtired body sagging back to the floor.

Lucifer stepped out from the shadows of the cave. Michaela wasn't surprised to see him. One of his fallen, one of her Archangels, had just died. She stared at him, feeling as empty and hollow as Molloch had looked lying on the ground. Lucifer's black eyes gleamed at her.

"What was that?" Michaela asked. She trembled. Her eyes settled on her arm that still throbbed painfully despite the healing in other parts of her body.

"I honestly don't know. I've never seen that before." Lucifer drummed his fingers on his square chin. "The snake must have been the darkness of Molloch's soul. He may have died, but his soul lives on inside you, unfortunately. Everything has to go somewhere, right? Nothing can ever really disappear. Of course, this is all wild speculation, because an angel has never died before."

The snake slithered inside her, flicking its tongue at the base of her spine. Michaela cringed.

"Nothing to say? I understand." Lucifer clucked his tongue in false sympathy. "Your first murder can be straining."

"It wasn't murder!" She surprised herself. The words came before she stopped them. The tears continued to fall. She had no right to justify her actions, but the words spilled out anyway. "It was an accident."

"There, there, Michaela. Everything will be okay. You just saved me some trouble down the road."

She blinked at him, spilling more tears down her pale cheeks. "How can you say that?"

"Please. It's me, Lucifer. Of course I can say that. It's who I am, who I was created to be. I was made to bring evil into this world. Save your breath."

Michaela opened her mouth, but instead of words coming out, tears dripped in. Lucifer sighed heavily and ran his hand lightly over his perfectly styled, dark hair, smoothing imaginary strays back into place. A few gray hairs were sprinkled above his ears.

"That's what I thought. How can you go home after all you've done? Do you really think they will allow you to come back as a murderer? The one you killed was an Archangel, Michaela. Granted, not a very good one, but still, you killed your own. Think of the darkness that stains your soul."

Michaela wrapped her scrapped arms around her shaking body. She thought nothing of forgiveness or Heaven, only of her soul. Lucifer was right. She had fallen into darkness, far from grace.

Oh, Gabe, she thought. _Gabe, I'm so sorry. I've failed you._

Lucifer walked up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. Before, his very presence had sickened her, yet now she didn't even shy away from his touch. His hands massaged her aching shoulders. She closed her eyes and let the tears fall freely.

"Do you know who will win this silly war between your holy angels and my fallen? I didn't know either. Until now. I will. Do you want to know who is going to win this for me, Michaela? Not you. Not your fallen archangels. Not all the fallen angels in the world. None of you. The humans will win this war. They will be my army. I will take your Earth and your Heaven from you. Everything will finally be mine..." His voice trailed off wistfully.

Brushing her hair away from the mangle of her healing wings, Lucifer ran his hand down the center of her back to the broken junction of her wings. One wing sat limp and useless at her side, the other tucked awkwardly beneath her feet. The pain hummed in her bones, building and building.

"Do you remember the day you cast me out of Heaven? I do. I'll never forget. It's not the fall to earth that haunts my dreams. No, it's the moment you held me over the edge of Heaven. Do you remember? You had my wings in both hands like this." Lucifer picked up her wings, one in each hand. She cried out. The bones of her wings went deep into her back, grinding and scraping together as Lucifer adjusted his grip.

"I dangled over the edge, half in Heaven, half in space. You stood above me, like this." He eased her forward until all she saw was her reflection in the stream.

There was a stranger staring back, blinking dull eyes at her.

"And then you placed your foot in the center of my back." He pulled her wings tight as he put his booted foot on the most broken part of her. Her body bowed, and her head lolled back to once again stare at the missing sky. The pain exploded in her bones, searing her insides raw until she was freezing cold. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and bit her lip to keep the screams inside. She couldn't stop the tears that leaked through or stop her mind from begging for Gabriel. In the most painful moment of her life, all she wanted was him, and it made the pain even harder to endure.

"You whispered something to me. Do you remember what you said, Michaela?" He leaned so her ear grazed his mouth. "You said, 'you will never belong.' And then my body split in half as you tore my wings from my back. Half of me went over the edge of Heaven, and my better half, my wings, stayed in your hands. I didn't understand what you meant at first. Then I realized. Our wings are our only connection to our fellow angels, to Heaven. Without them, I couldn't sense anyone. It was a permanent telepathic block. I was completely alone, which I guess I'd asked for when I decided to leave Heaven forever. But you know the worst part—the part that will be torture for you? Everything you were will be gone. Who are you without your Archangels? Without your role as General? Without your precious Gabriel? They're all _gone_."

He licked her ear, his breath heavy on her face. She closed her eyes and waited. "Gabe," she whispered, but Lucifer didn't hear. Inside her, Gabriel's awareness flashed like a strobe light. He was coming, but it would be too late.

"I can't tell you how much pleasure it gives me to bring you down to my level. We'll have matching scars. You will forever be broken—just like me. Forever cast out. Never able to return home. That will haunt you, eat at you."

His grip tightened around her wings as he repositioned his leg against her back. Her eyes reared open. The scream, a gasping sob of a sound, finally escaped her mouth. Michaela wished she could take her punishment in wretched silence, endure it, suffer through it, but she couldn't. Her hands flailed in front of her, clawing the air. Her struggling only wrenched her wings in Lucifer's grip more.

"Please!" she screamed, begging. "Don't do this. Please..." Her voice broke, her throat sticking around the mucus of her tears. She closed her eyes. "Oh, God. Please don't do this."

"Everything you once were is no more. Everything you can be isn't much. Michaela, you will never," he bent one final time and whispered in her ear, "ever belong."

She didn't feel anything when his swift kick tore her wings from deep within her back, splitting apart newly solidified muscle and bone, tearing her in two different directions. Her vision went white, a light like the wings of a thousand holy angels shining behind her eyelids, and the pain ended. It was the sweetest relief as her broken body fell into the stream with a thick splash.

_Please let this be the end_ , Michaela thought. _Let it be over. Let me die as Molloch has died. For all Earth's beauty and Heaven's light, I won't miss them. The lies, betrayal, and pain will finally be over if this is the end. Let this be the end..._

Her last thought was she missed Gabriel most of all. She imagined his arms wrapping around her. _Gabe_... She smiled into the water lapping at her lips.

And then everything went black for good.

_Gabriel, something is wrong._

Fueled by those words and the fear in Michaela's thoughts, Gabriel ran blindly through unknown woods with the smell of pine burning his sensitive nose and twigs snapping beneath his feet. The pull of Michaela's soul guided him through the darkness. There was nothing else but the night and the blur of trees between them. The other Archangels struggled to keep up.

As Gabriel drew closer, her feelings flared inside him; her agony was as his own. His name was in her thoughts like a desperate plea. Someone was hurting her, and a bitter acid filled his mouth, turned his vision gray. She was out there—hurt and afraid.

A violent growl ripped from his lips. He sprung from the edge of a bluff, leaping into the sky. His wings hammered at the air with long, crushing flaps. The gorge was far below him, the trees small, the lake a shining nickel in the moonlight. Gabriel flew up and over the tree line on the other ridge before crashing through the branches and sprinting away.

It was slower, but he had to run. If he flew too much, the power of his wings would drown out his connection to Michaela. And their link was already too weak, limited by their human bodies. He pushed his legs faster.

He ran for what could have been hours, but it was likely only minutes. Sweat poured down his naked chest. His bare feet were sliced from rocks and roots, but he paid little attention to the pain in his fervor to reach Michaela.

She was so close he almost heard the beat of her human heart, yet he slowed. His steps faltered. The other Archangels pulled up behind him, circling out, watching him, waiting.

Her pain hit him fully then. He heard her screams, and his mind shattered. He crumpled over, stumbling, and falling to the ground. The Archangels surged forward, arms out, reaching for him. Clawing at the soft earth, he tried to drag his body forward. The creatures of the woods fell silent. The other Archangels shrank back, unsure as to what was happening.

Gabriel realized it was he who screamed. Michaela's presence had disappeared inside him.

She was gone.

# Chapter Six

In those same woods, Clark St. James needed directions. Since early that morning, he'd wandered through Kentucky's Mammoth National Park until he'd wandered himself lost. But he had a bottle of Jack Daniels, and that made being turned around in the dark almost an adventure.

His pink hair tickled his face in the night's stiff breeze. The wind caused the branches of the pine trees to tilt below the gleam of the moon, dancing the shadows across the path. The sight, or maybe the whiskey, made him dizzy and slightly nauseous. Twigs broke beneath the feet of Kentucky's nocturnal animals. Clark took another shot of Jack for luck against hungry bears.

Clark didn't hike much. Actually, he hated nature. He wouldn't be out there, surrounded by trees and bugs, if he didn't have a good reason—and he did. For over a year now, Clark had dreamed the same nightmare over and over. He woke countless nights with his chest heaving, vomit thick in his throat, and a scream on the tip of his tongue. Every night he dreamed of his mother, which wouldn't be so bad if she hadn't died twelve years ago. More than anything, he needed the dreams of his dead mother to stop.

"They better," he warned the woods, his words slurring slightly.

They might, Clark hoped, if he proved to himself that Michaela's body wasn't in a cave deep under Kentucky bluegrass. He knew all about Michaela and the angels, because he wasn't a typical human. He was a Descendant of Enoch.

The Descendants of Enoch were like the mythical tiny mice that cared for lions. Since the beginning of man, they'd been the angels' Earthly caretakers. Long ago, Enoch had written the story of the Watchers in the Book of Enoch. He had been the first man to witness the angels, the first to be confided in, and the first to be trusted. His sons and daughters had carried on the tradition ever since.

Clark spit on the ground and took another shot. He didn't give two shits about Enoch.

Thinking about the angels and Michaela reminded Clark of the dream. Visions sprang uninvited into his mind before he could burn them away with another gulp. He shivered and stumbled on a root; but when he looked down, there was no root. His mother's body lie face down in a stream.

Her pale skin shone, giving off its own sort of moonlight in the dark space around her. He heard water crashing in the distance and the soft trickle of the stream next to him. He stood close enough to see that every strand of her flaxen blond hair was wet and plastered to the side of her face. Though her eyes were closed, a soft smile set the curve of her delicate lips. She wasn't breathing.

Blood ran heavy and thick across her bare back from unseen wounds. The blood mesmerized Clark, because it wasn't red; it was gold, a bright, brutal richness. He knew what angels' blood looked like, and his mother was not an angel.

The scene stuttered, flickered like an old, grainy film. When Clark focused again, Iris St. James' sweet blond curls were replaced by a wild, wind tangled black mane, and Clark saw the body of an angel with her back shredded to bits. But it wasn't just any angel, it was Michaela—he knew this with dreamlike certainty. He watched as she took a tiny, shuddering breath.

This was the part where a scream would build in his throat, and Clark would wake up.

No matter how hard Clark fought sleep, fought his father, fought to the bottom of a bottle, he couldn't keep the images of his mother's dead body away. It was the reason he had come to the park, to convince himself nothing extraordinary was out there.

Not Michaela. And not his mother's dead body.

He took more than a couple shots, and when he pulled the bottle from his lips, he gasped, and whiskey dribbled down his chin.

Clark refused to think of anything but the sweet tingling of whiskey in his blood and the belly-warming swirling in his mind. No more Mom. No more dream. He started humming the theme from _Mission Impossible_.

"Oh man, I'm drunk." Clark drew the words like that was a great revelation.

Suddenly, a scream ripped through the woods like a freight train, and it wasn't his. It was too loud to be a wolf—the agony in the sound was too human to be a bear. With the scream, the woods grew deadly still, silent as a grave.

Even the breeze stopped. Goosebumps prickled Clark's skin. His ears rang, and a soft clicking started from the back of his head.

The clicking grew to a steady hum. Clark turned in a circle, looking for the source when the scream pierced the forest again. Clark's whiskey-tinted vision saw the shifting, boiling shadows grow fangs as the loud humming vibrated the earth beneath his feet. The leaves rustled in the trees without the aid of wind.

Clark gulped. He stood frozen, clenching the neck of the empty whiskey bottle, unable to decide if he should run or hide. It didn't help that the ground tilted from too many shots of Jack. He was trying to decide when a few bars of "Welcome to the Jungle" erupted from his jacket pocket. His satellite phone's ringtone was deafening in the dark woods.

The humming turned into screeches as thousands of little animals surged into the sky. Too large for bats, the birds' furious flapping pummeled Clark with gusts of wind. He covered his ears and clenched his eyes.

Finally, the birds flew far enough into the sky that the distant humming calmed again. The earth stilled except for Clark's shaking legs. His phone beeped to signal he had a missed call. He opened his eyes and looked around.

"Holy shit. Did anyone else see th—?" Clark started.

With a soft, sucking crumble, the ground beneath his scuffed boots let go.

At first, Clark thought he was fainting, but he never lost consciousness, only the solid feel of the forest floor.

His stomach ripped upwards and threatened to empty its contents as he flailed in the open void. It seemed as if Hell itself had gobbled him up. The cold moisture of the air whipped by him. Somehow, with his bad luck, Clark had fallen through the roof of a massive cave.

Clark was crashing toward a rock floor, falling to his death, and all he could think about was that he had dropped his whiskey.

# Chapter Seven

Clark was petrified of dying, which was ironic given his birthright to fight in a war of angels. He always drove the speed limit, overdosed on vitamins, and never ran with scissors. But no matter his precautions, he was going to die.

It was also inescapable, especially if one's body was plummeting straight toward a face-to-face meeting with it. But Clark didn't want to die.

His body hit a wall, but it wasn't the wall he expected. The air seemed to gel around him, slowing his trajectory until he completely stopped and hovered above the rock floor of the cave. He looked down in confusion. He reached out a hand and brushed the rough stone two feet away. His hand resisted, like he was moving through water.

"What the hell?"

His voice broke the spell, and he was released. The rock smashed into him from its short distance away. It hurt like hell, and Clark bit his tongue...but he wasn't dead.

Slowly, he pushed up from the floor.

His legs wobbled, but he managed to stay standing. He glanced around, confused. Then he looked up. It was a long fall from the hole above him; he barely managed to see it. Next, he studied the exact spot where he should be splattered.

How drunk was he?

He inspected himself, probing for bleeding of any kind. Dirt streaked his ancient Harley Davidson shirt, which he brushed at absently. After inspecting his jeans, he noted no new rips, which was another surprise. He hadn't even broken his phone. His tongue seemed to be the only injury, and it smarted like a redheaded bitch.

"I need to cut back on the Jack," Clark said shakily when he realized he made the nearly one hundred-foot fall from the cave's roof completely unscathed. His insides turned mushy, and a cold, shivering chill overcame him.

And then he puked violently.

When he was done, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Tears brimmed along his eyes and actually threatened to shed. Clark swiped them away, feeling immediately embarrassed. He imagined his father's expression if he saw Clark crying.

"I almost freaking died. I can cry if I want to!" he told himself in his own defense.

His voice echoed, and Clark realized he stood in a cavern. He meant to figure out the real-life explanation for what had stopped his fall, but the sound of a waterfall brought him back to every night he'd woken drenched in sweat from the dream. The cold air condensed against his clammy skin—as it did in the dream. The pressure made his ears pop—as it did in the dream. He got a really bad feeling—as he did in the dream.

He was _here_.

"You've got to be kidding me." Clark swore.

He didn't want to step forward, but he was pulled. There was a shadow in the darkness that could have been anything; it didn't have to be the body of an angel. His eyes roamed the space again until he was certain it was the cave from his dream.

He was.

Clark paused for only a second, because he knew what he would find. Then he took off, skidding across the slippery rocks and crashing into the small stream. When he reached Michaela, he crouched beside her, hesitating before touching her.

Her face was half submerged in the water. Long, pale arms splayed outwards at her sides. Blood no longer poured from her like it had, and he was thankful for that mercy; blood made him sick and weak in the knees. Instead, it was dried across her back, the ground, everywhere except in the stream that ran clear and pure beneath her. She was half drowned and half torn apart, yet she still lived. He knew that before he saw the water bubble by her lips.

And she was naked. He hadn't remembered that part.

Clark yanked off his jacket. The whiskey didn't lend his actions much care, but he drew her from the water and awkwardly tucked the jacket around her shriveled form. He avoided looking at her back, which had poured forth not only blood, but muscle and bone.

Michaela groaned in his arms. Her head lolled back, and fresh, gold blood trickled from between her cracked lips. Cuts covered her battered face, and bruises, shaped like fingers, stained the pale skin of her throat. Her arm flopped over, exposing the horrible black marks underneath her skin that stank of infection.

Clark wrapped his arms around her, avoiding the gaping hole in the middle of her back. He shifted his numb feet. Times like this made him wish he'd spent more time in the gym. He gritted his teeth and prepared to lift her from the water.

For the second time that night, "Welcome to the Jungle" blared into the cavern, echoing back and forth across the rocks. Clark jerked in surprise and nearly dropped Michaela back into the stream. She gurgled in pain. Propping Michaela against his shoulder, Clark ripped at the back pocket of his jeans to get his cell phone out.

"Hello?" he croaked.

He prayed he didn't sound drunk. He focused hard on how he remembered himself talking when he was sober.

"Where the hell are you? Why did you answer your satellite phone instead of your cell phone?"

"Dad, I—" Clark began. He couldn't help it, a surge of excitement went through him as he imagined what his father would say when Clark told him he had found the Archangel Michaela. Clark would be a hero for rescuing her.

"Come back now. A meeting has been called."

"Okay, but I—" Clark started again.

"Now, Clark. Michaela betrayed Heaven," his father snapped.

Clark paused, stunned. That wasn't what he expected. He must have heard his father wrong. Michaela would never betray Heaven, and, at the moment, she looked like someone had betrayed her. His brain played catch up through the fog of Jack, near-death experiences, and near dead angels.

"What?" was all he managed, which was definitely not up to sober Clark's standards.

His father sighed forcibly into the phone. Clark pictured him sitting in his ridiculously uncomfortable chair behind his much-too-large desk covered with way too much paperwork while he silently cursed his failure of a son.

"Michaela has been marked as a traitor. The holy angels consider her an active threat, so get your ass back here so you can be briefed."

"No, dad—" Clark started to argue.

"Damnit, listen to me!"

"But, dad," Clark continued like his father hadn't spoken. "Michaela wouldn't do that." His heart clanged. "She wouldn't. You always said she was the best of all the angels. She couldn't fall. She wouldn't. She—"

"Shut up, Clark!" Clark swore the phone vibrated from the sheer force of his father's angst. "She organized an invasion of Heaven. She and the Archangels have fallen. Now stop asking questions and get back here." His father paused, like he sniffed Clark's breath over the phone. "Are you drunk?"

"No! No way," Clark answered too quickly.

His father was silent for a long moment. Clark kept his mouth shut like he'd been told.

"Your mother would be so disappointed in you if she could see you now."

His father's words cut Clark only slightly. They weren't anything he hadn't heard a million times before, but this time they were literally heavy in his arms. He looked down at Michaela and knew, in that moment, that contrary to what his father claimed, his mother would be proud. In some way, Clark was sent here to find Michaela. And he had. For the first time in his life, Clark had done something right.

"What about you, Dad?"

Clark sensed his father's anger through the phone like the lash of a whip. He had gone too far. His father drew in a deep breath, readying to launch into an epic ass chewing when Michaela groaned.

"What was that?" his father snapped into the heated silence.

"Nothing."

Clark hung up. He looked down at Michaela. If things were different, he would report her to his father, who would report her to the holy angels to be dealt with. Being a Descendant of Enoch, the blood in Clark's veins had sworn an oath that dictated Clark would obey the orders of the angels and, by extension, the Descendant's leaders. He should turn her in, but he wasn't going to. It wasn't even a conscious decision. He would do anything in his power to help Michaela.

His mother had led him to this cave so he could save Michaela, and he wasn't going to give up on either of them now.

With a grunt, he lifted Michaela. She stirred. Her eyes blinked open momentarily to reveal a shocking cobalt blue so rich she had to be from Heaven. He sighed knowingly. He'd always been a sucker for blue eyes.

"We are totally screwed, Michaela. Now, where the hell is the exit?"

# Chapter Eight

Gabriel was losing it, and what little sanity he had left was going fast. When he'd lost Michaela's connection, he had also lost her location. Gabriel knew the general area, but he and the Archangels were struggling to find her exact position. By the progress of the moon, midnight had come and gone, which meant Michaela had been missing for most of the night, and the longer it took to find her, the tighter Gabriel's skin became.

Gabriel's head snapped up at the sound of a twig breaking underfoot. "Anything?" he asked, forcing his voice to be even and quiet.

Raphael, an Archangel with arm muscles the size of cannons, shook his head. "Nothing." His dark skin gleamed in the moonlight as he waited with Gabriel.

Gabriel raked his hands over his face, grabbing the back of his head. The skin under his eye twitched. The area was too big with too many caves, and Michaela was just one lost angel who could be hurt...or worse. Gabriel had never felt so hopeless.

Ophaniel, Simiel, Uriel, and Zarachiel approached, joining Raphael and Gabriel in a small clearing beside a Mammoth Park sign. They spoke quietly to each other, but Gabriel didn't bother to listen. For the countless time, he searched every corner of his being, looking for her presence. He only heard the echo of his heartbeat.

"Gabriel?" He looked up. The Archangels stared at him. He arched an eyebrow, not speaking, because he didn't trust himself at the moment.

"We have a summons to return to Heaven. Everyone feels it," Raphael said. Gabriel nodded, because the pull was in him too. "We need to go back."

"I can't leave without her," Gabriel said around the tightness in his voice. He paced away. There was an animal in him trying to claw and shred its way out if he didn't get to her soon.

"Have you thought—"

"Raphael, don't." Gabriel looked back when Zarachiel warned Raphael. "Don't say it."

"What shouldn't he say?" Gabriel's eyes narrowed on the two angels.

Zarachiel put his hand on Raphael's arm, which Raphael shook off when he spoke to Gabriel. "Have you thought there is a reason we might not be able to feel her anymore?"

"What reason is that, brother?" Gabriel stalked to within inches of Raphael's nose.

"She's a fallen."

"Don't you dare—"

"Do you guys smell that?"

Gabriel and the others looked at Ophaniel. Her long, wispy blond hair blew in the breeze as she took a deep breath. Everyone paused, sniffing the wind. After a second, Gabriel spun around, as did the other Archangels, their noses pointed east. Without looking at each other, without a word, they eased toward the smell—their movements, lithe and silent.

Down a small ridge, Gabriel and the other Archangels found a newly dug entrance into a cave. Gabriel smelled the freshness of torn dirt. The Archangels circled around the hole and waited.

It wasn't long until the other group of angels Ophaniel had smelled climbed out. Gabriel expected to meet fallen, but holy angels stepped out instead.

Immediately, Gabriel recognized them as Seraphim by their red tipped white wings and silver eyes. The Seraphim were a choir of holy angels—like the Archangels. But unlike the Archangels' high standing in the order of angels, the Seraphim were relegated to a much lower, servant choir whose duty was to serve the higher choirs. They didn't question or doubt or wonder. They did as they were told.

The Seraphim climbed out, their eyes oddly cautious when they took in the Archangels around them. Gabriel signaled for the Archangels to step back and give their fellow holy angels room.

The Seraphim gathered above ground, wary and watchful. Gabriel's eyes drifted to the cave the Seraphim had just left. Michaela's scent blossomed out behind them.

"Gabriel," a seraph acknowledged.

"Jehoel." Gabriel greeted the seraph, recalling his name easily. Jehoel looked surprised for a moment before an unfamiliar hard mask slid back onto his face. "Is Michaela with you? Was she in there?"

Jehoel tensed. The group of Seraphim stared back at the Archangels with narrowed, almost angry eyes that cut through the darkness. A stifling tension hung thick in the air that Gabriel hadn't expected. It made everyone uneasy.

"No. Is she with you?" The suspicion was evident in the Jehoel's voice. Gabriel's hackles rose. He motioned to Zarachiel, a tall, handsome angel with short, cropped dark hair and tanned skin, who immediately stepped forward, his eyes trained on the Seraphim. Uriel mimicked Zarachiel's movement. Her short black hair was slicked back, unmoving in the night breeze.

"Search the cave," Gabriel told them.

"No." Jehoel stepped forward, blocking the two Archangels' path. The Seraphim tightened behind Jehoel.

"Why not?" Gabriel asked.

Raising his eyebrows, Jehoel said, "So you don't know then?"

"Look, seraph, you'd better tell us what is going on now. We've been on Earth a while, and we are ready to leave," Raphael said, stepping forward until the Seraphim where almost backing into the cave again.

"Heaven was invaded," Jehoel answered, glaring at Raphael. "Michaela left the gates open. Thankfully, we fought the fallen back."

The other Archangels were stunned, but Gabriel paid little attention to their anxiety filling his head. Since they had been on Earth together for the same amount of time, their telepathic link was still functional. "Michaela would never leave the gates open. Why did she go outside Heaven's walls?"

"Presumably to let the fallen in."

"What are you saying about her?" Gabriel asked quietly. The Seraphim must have seen something in his eyes, because they all stepped back, hissing beneath their breath.

"Let's all calm down and quit acting like a bunch of humans," Simiel said with an easy smile on his pale, freckled face. He patted Gabriel on the shoulder and stepped forward, blocking Gabriel's view of the Seraphim so all Gabriel saw was the red shock of Simiel's hair. "Is Heaven okay?"

Jehoel nodded tightly. "Yes."

"Okay. So why can't we look for Michaela?"

"We already searched the cave. She isn't there anymore," Jehoel said.

"Well then, I think it's only fair that we get to look too, right?" Simiel motioned for Zarachiel and Uriel to go into the cave. The Seraphim didn't want to part, but the Archangels shouldered them out of the way and disappeared underground.

"Is this where you sensed her?" Jehoel asked, looking at Gabriel. "You followed your connection to her here?"

Gabriel nodded. Ophaniel shifted behind him, snapping a twig in the process. It was the only sound in the woods.

"Do you feel her now?" Jehoel asked, pressing the point.

"If I did, do you think I would be standing here talking to you?" Gabriel said pointedly. He stepped around Simiel, his patience a thin wire. Just then, Zarachiel and Uriel emerged from the cave. They shook their head at Gabriel as they returned to their spots behind him.

Zarachiel spoke to Gabriel's thoughts. _She was down there not long ago like the Seraphim say. We probably only missed her by a few minutes._

_How did we miss her?_ She had been so close...

_It looks like she went out through an underground exit that put them on the other side of the park. We couldn't have smelled her. There was something else we found in the cave..._

Zarachiel paused as if he didn't want to mention the next detail, but Uriel charged ahead indelicately. _There was a lot of her blood. We smelled it everywhere. She was likely too weak to reach us telepathically._

Gabriel didn't react to the brutally delivered news. Zarachiel went on much more delicately after shooting Uriel a frustrated glance. _We smelled a human too. We think he must have come through the ceiling of the cave. It was at least a hundred foot fall._

_His body?_ Gabriel questioned, assuming the human to be dead after such a long drop.

_There was nothing. Not even a drop of human blood. He left with her_ , Zarachiel answered before Uriel.

Gabriel took a deep breath. He was starting to get a bad feeling, because something was bothering him. "We need to search this area thoroughly."

Jehoel narrowed his eyes. "No. We have our orders."

Gabriel's brows rose. "Last time I checked, we are your commanding choir, and you are not to speak to us with such disrespect."

The seraph behind Jehoel sneered. "Then clearly you haven't checked recently. A new choir leads Heaven now—the Aethere. They took control of Heaven after the fallen attacked."

Gabriel knew about the Aethere. They fell right below the Archangels in the power ranking of choirs with the duty of judging souls. They sat in chairs for never ending days, hardly speaking except to issue judgments and rarely went outside their tower. In truth, the other angels avoided them, because the Aethere were a breed of angel far outside the normal.

The Archangels stirred at the seraph's words, drowning his thoughts. His brain swelled, pressing against his forehead and making the vein pulse faster. But Gabriel didn't react. He had always resented the fickleness of feelings, which is why he often chose not to express them.

"And why did they do that?" Gabriel asked.

"Doubt has been cast on your allegiance, because half your choir fell from grace." Jehoel squared his shoulders and lifted his chin.

Everyone grew silent as the news sank in. The Archangels didn't even speak to one another through their thoughts. They had been on Earth for weeks, drowning out their telepathic link to the others in Heaven so that they hadn't even realized the moment they lost touch with their fallen brothers and sister. Small tinges of denial and blooming sadness welled up from the others in Gabriel's mind, but he couldn't let himself dwell on those who had fallen. His one and only concern was Michaela.

"You are to come with us. The Aethere have summoned the remaining Archangels to Heaven," Jehoel said.

"Well as you can see," Gabriel said, "we did not fall. So why are we being questioned?"

Jehoel frowned at Gabriel's resistance. "My orders were to bring you back to Heaven once we found Michaela."

"And yet you haven't found her. Which makes me wonder...how did the Aethere know where Michaela fell if they were busy saving Heaven from the fallen's attack? I doubt they watched where she crashed. So how did they know?" Gabriel delivered the words quietly, evenly, in the manner of someone who didn't take the time so speak out loud much.

The Seraphim stirred. Wrinkles formed in Jehoel's sharp, angular face, like he was thinking too hard. Gabriel knew from looking at their reactions that none of the Seraphim had thought to ask before they'd come to hunt Michaela.

Jehoel faltered for only a second before he said, "It is not our place to question the Aethere's information." His wings tightened, and he pulled two rounded knives from his belt that hung low on his hips. "But the summons have been issued. You _will_ come with us."

"No," Gabriel said. The air shifted as he lost the pretense of civility. The tension slashed a thick line between the angels, drawing sides and marking enemies.

Jehoel took a threatening step forward, like he was ready to fight. But Gabriel only shook his head and said, "I wouldn't do that." His pointed words stopped Jehoel.

"The Aethere," Jehoel snarled through clenched teeth, "demand your presence."

"I will go with you. But the rest of the Archangels will stay on Earth for now," Gabriel said.

_What?_ The voices of the Archangels around him were in his head all at once, loud and clashing.

"Everyone is supposed to come with us. That's what the Aethere want. They sent us to bring every one of you back," Jehoel responded sharply.

"I will go alone, or you get none of us," Gabriel said, his words a promised threat. The air around him sparked. The Seraphim shrank away from it.

_You all will stay on Earth. Wait for me. Hide._ Gabriel's words brought immediate silence.

_Why?_ They asked as one, confused and unsure.

_Because something bad has happened_ , he answered them, echoing Michaela's words.

"Ready?" Gabriel asked the Seraphim.

"I will go too." Zarachiel stepped forward from behind Gabriel. Uriel's hand twitched, like she wanted to grab Zarachiel and pull him back. Her face was grim, but she didn't speak.

_You might need help_. Zarachiel was the one who spoke the words to Gabriel, but the other Archangels agreed. Gabriel nodded slightly, and Zarachiel quietly stood beside him and regarded the Seraphim.

Jehoel glared, knowing he had lost. His wings stretched out and slapped the air, lifting him ten feet above the ground. The other Seraphim followed. They hovered, waiting for Gabriel.

_Hide_. Gabriel said one last time.

He crouched deeply and surged into the air with such force he left an almighty crumbling hole in the ground. Zarachiel followed in Gabriel's wake. Their speed took them far beyond the Seraphim, who struggled to catch up. The Archangels who remained on Earth shifted away from the growing hole in the ground and melted back into the shadows of the woods.

# Chapter Nine

As Gabriel and Zarachiel flew toward Heaven with the Seraphim behind them, Gabriel couldn't help but feel like a calf led to slaughter. He had no reason to suspect the holy angels just because they knew of Michaela's location, but he couldn't deny his gut reaction.

Gabriel flew faster and faster through the pitch black sky to push the thoughts from his mind. He gave little heed for the other angels' transitions or the sickness his speed would cause. He only sought release from the fear and anger boiling beneath his normal, calm exterior. Any moment, Gabriel thought he might snap.

When Gabriel reached the edge's wall, landed on top of it and stepped into Purgatory's dust, he almost did.

Heaven was gray, the welcoming colors drained away. The clouds churned thick in the sky, blocking any view of the city. Gabriel braced against Purgatory's icy winds as he staggered toward the gates.

When they reached the entrance, the arms swung outward, shuddering in the wind. The Aethere were the only angels left in Heaven who could open the gates, and the thought of them watching the returning angels' progress made Gabriel even angrier. He had committed no crime, and the Aethere did not deserve to label Michaela and the Archangels traitors. The wind died down when he stalked into the first level of Heaven and looked around.

The level was hard to make out underneath the unusual bank of mist. The petals weren't falling from the Tree of Knowledge. Instead, the air smelled like the early moments before a storm, slightly metallic and unsettled. A shiver started at the base of his neck from the cold breeze. There was no noise, not even from the city above them. In all his time, even in the hardest moments during the war with the fallen, Gabriel had never seen Heaven react like this.

He was about to take to the air when Jehoel said, "No. We are going downstairs."

"Downstairs?" Zarachiel asked. "There's nothing down there but the antechamber."

"We know."

Jehoel and the other Seraphim led the way toward the Tree of Knowledge, where a set of spiraling stairs wound into the absolute lowest point in Heaven. The stairs were narrow and steep, twisting tightly downward. The angels had to walk carefully, single-file down them until they finally reached the bottom.

Gabriel was the last to step into the long, white hallway. The walls seemed to emit a nearly blinding light. The flooring was a startling white marble slab, which could make an angel dizzy if stared at too long. Gabriel saw no doors.

"Where are we going? There's nothing down here," Zarachiel said. His eyes were downturned, watering from the walls' light.

"The Aethere moved their judgment chambers here." Jehoel's words were short and welcomed no more questions. Zarachiel looked over his shoulder at Gabriel.

_Why are we going to the judgment chamber?_

Instead of answering him in his head, Gabriel gave a slight shake of his head. He didn't want to let Zarachiel in, because he didn't want to share the creeping worry settling in his gut.

A seamless white door at the end of the hallway slowly opened, revealing more blinding white. The Seraphim stepped into the room and disappeared. Zarachiel hesitated on the threshold before stepping through. Gabriel followed with a glance over his shoulder. He longed to run back down the empty hallway. He could make it to the wall and dive over, streaking back to Earth. Zarachiel stepped down into the room and away from Gabriel. Gabriel couldn't leave him.

The chamber was a circular room of more white, shifting marble, the rock glowing as though lit from within. The Seraphim lined the walls of the sunken pit, shoulder to shoulder, to stand guard over Gabriel and Zarachiel. A bright light like a sun burned down to the center of the room right where Gabriel and Zarachiel were positioned. Above the Seraphim, sitting on a ledge with white granite seats, were twelve figures in black cloaks.

The Aethere.

Being the choir responsible for judgments was not easy. Carrier angels delivered the souls to Purgatory, where they waited while the Aethere judged each and every one individually, opening Heaven's gates for those deemed worthy. It was a never-ending job. The Aethere sat through case after case, debating the merit of each soul, writing each name down in their great book alongside the name's fate— _Heaven_ or _Hell_.

"Good evening," one of the Aethere said from underneath the hood of his cloak, which he drew back to expose his bald head and purple eyes. Gabriel recognized him as the Aethere's leader—Abel. Gabriel nodded.

"Please don't feel threatened by coming here. Heaven is a bit chaotic as you can understand, and this was the safest place," Abel said, smiling, his hands gesturing.

"Why is it chaotic? I thought you had it all under control?" Gabriel asked, but the words were a mistake, because Abel's smile fell.

"This place, our home, has been violated beyond measure. The holy angels are scared," Abel said, his eyes never leaving Gabriel's face. He gestured to the other Aethere. "We will do everything in our power to find who is responsible and bring them to justice."

"Bringing the fallen to justice is a waste of time. Help me find Michaela, and the remaining Archangels will get everything back under control," Gabriel said.

"We do not think the fallen were solely responsible."

"I see," Gabriel said. "Well, we didn't come here to be judged or questioned. I came to get backup. I need help searching for Michaela."

"We know exactly what happened to your dear Michaela," Abel said, his voice a slow, taunting drawl.

"You don't know anything about her." Gabriel's control was slipping. He couldn't keep his words in check, and the anger seeped into them. It had been a mistake to come here. Gabriel should have stayed on Earth and ignored the summons.

"Jehoel, can the Archangel Gabriel feel Michaela anymore?" Abel asked.

"No, sir."

Gabriel thought Abel was fighting a grin that pulled at the corners of his mouth. "There is only one explanation."

"Don't say it," Gabriel warned. The Seraphim tensed, preparing for Gabriel to lash out.

"If you think there is another explanation, please share it with us." Abel spread his arms wide, his round face innocent except for the excitement Gabriel saw briefly in his eyes. "Do you know where she is?" When Gabriel didn't answer aside from glaring, Abel continued. "You see how it is an easy conclusion for us to make, given your uncooperative behavior, that you do indeed know where she is and you are hiding her."

"Of course not," Zarachiel said, speaking for the first time. He put a soothing hand on Gabriel's tensed arm where the muscles stood out like steel cables. "She has nothing to hide from. We should be looking for her; she must be in trouble."

Abel leaned forward in his seat. "Your devotion is misplaced, Archangel. Tell me now and lets avoid further unpleasantness: did she plan the attack on Heaven? Did you help her?"

" _No_." Gabriel rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the fire burning in his muscles. The nails of his fingers broke the skin of his palm as he clenched his fists.

"Did you know she was working with Lucifer?"

"Who brought Lucifer into Heaven?"

"Were you involved in the planning?"

"Isn't it true Gabriel knew Michaela was planning an attack?"

"How long has she conspired with Lucifer and the fallen?"

"What else do the Archangels have planned?"

The questions were relentless. Gabriel didn't bother to answer. Zarachiel stammered in reply, stunned at the overwhelming suspicion thrown at the Archangels. Finally the questions stopped or at least paused long enough for Gabriel to gather his breath. His words were deadly quiet.

"We have served since creation as your leaders. You loved us, believed in us, respected us. But more importantly, you loved Michaela." Gabriel addressed every angel in the room, staring down each one until they averted their eyes. "You've followed us every day since the birth of this war. Now, one bad thing, one slight mistake, happens and you turn your back. You blame the only person who has saved you from the fallen countless times. You will throw us to the wolves because...because it looks bad?"

It was the most many of the angels had ever heard Gabriel speak. They stared at him, some ashamed, some staring at the floor. For a second, Gabriel thought his words might have worked.

But just then the door the judgment chamber flung open, and a horde of Cherubim entered. The Cherubim, like the Seraphim, were a low choir meant to serve. They were shorter, thicker angels with long downy hair and sharp wings. When they came into the chamber, all the angels sensed they were terrified.

"Sir," one cherub stammered. "Sir, something awful has happened."

Abel was angry the Cherubim had entered the chamber. His fists were clenching and unclenching beneath the sleeves of his robe. "What happened?" one of the other Aethere asked. Red splotches formed on Abel's neck.

"We heard a rumor circulating amongst the fallen that...that..." The cherub broke down and started sobbing into her little hands. Another one stepped forward. "We heard that Michaela killed Molloch."

"Excuse me? She killed him?" Abel asked, eyebrows raised. All the angels except the Cherubim were quiet and calm at hearing the news, because it certainly wasn't true. Zarachiel glanced at Gabriel out of the corner of his eye. Gabriel gave a slight shake of his head. If Michaela had killed Molloch earlier tonight, Gabriel didn't know of it.

"Yes, sir." The cherub took a deep breath as if he was preparing to shock them all. His small round eyes cut to Gabriel before he focused solely on Abel. "The fallen Archangels were in the cave when it happened. They said his body dissolved into feathers. Lucifer saw Michaela afterward and she admitted it."

All eyes in the chamber fell on the cherub speaking. Gabriel frowned.

"She was with Lucifer?" Abel asked. "Lucifer himself has validated this...this rumor?"

"That's what we heard, sir." Everyone was quiet, but the quiet wasn't calm this time. The pressure in the room was building, ready to spill over the edges. Abel was the only one who spoke to the Cherubim.

"How did she do it?"

"No one is sure, but it was reported her wing stabbed him."

"She killed him...She knows how to kill." Abel's speculating words sparked the panic in the room. The sound in the room grew into a dull roar. The Seraphim converged amongst the Cherubim, asking more questions with terrified eyes. The Aethere whispered urgently with one another, their eyes cutting to Gabriel. Abel was the only one quiet, collected, and he watched Gabriel carefully. Gabriel saw the bright shine in the angel's eyes, and his dislike of the Aethere solidified.

"Silence! Silence!" Abel's high-pitched voice screeched over the ruckus. "We need proof." Abel interjected the chaos. "Take the other Archangel into another room down the hall. I want them questioned separately. Leave Gabriel here."

"No. We are leaving. Right now." Gabriel grabbed Zarachiel's arm, but the Seraphim descended on him like a swarm of flies. They wrapped gold chains around his arms and legs as he struggled. He landed a few solid blows, sending angels staggering into the walls, before they pinned him to the floor. Jehoel clamped a gold cuff on Gabriel's wrist.

"Jehoel," Abel called. "Go with the other Archangel. Question him some more, please."

"Yes, sir." Jehoel nodded, his eyes on Gabriel.

"Don't hurt him," Gabriel said quietly to Jehoel. The seraph hesitated, his hand hovering on the cuff.

"I don't follow your orders anymore." Jehoel turned and left without meeting Gabriel's eyes again.

Gabriel craned his head to see the doorway. Jehoel and a few Cherubim led Zarachiel away. Zarachiel looked over his shoulder to where Gabriel was pinned to the floor.

_I'll be okay, Gabriel. Just find Michaela. Fix this._

Gabriel let out almighty roar as the door closed behind Zarachiel and the holy angels.

# Chapter Ten

"The Archangel Gabriel to be presented for the court of judgment," a seraph said with a sweeping bow in the Aethere's direction once everyone had regrouped and settled down, but the assumed calm was just a pretense. Everyone was terrified, and Gabriel had no doubt the rumor was spreading through Heaven, ensuring the animosity toward Michaela.

The remaining Seraphim gripped the gold chains that encircled Gabriel's hands, feet, and neck as he stood. They were braced as if they expected Gabriel to attack any moment. Instead, he stood still. The only thing that moved was the vein in his forehead.

He refused to think about Michaela killing Molloch. He didn't care if it was true or not. If it was, she had good reason to kill him, Gabriel was certain. And if Molloch had tried to hurt her, Gabriel would kill him again if it were possible. The only feeling Gabriel experienced at the news of Molloch's death was that he needed to find Michaela as soon as possible. To do that, Gabriel had to keep his anger under control so he could leave this room, find Zarachiel, and get back to Earth.

"And, Gabriel, to what do you confess from your existence?" Abel asked, like he relished the words.

Raising his head, Gabriel's stare landed, searing and unflinching, on Abel, and the angel's slight smile disappeared. "I confess to an existence of duty and honor, serving Heaven as messenger and warrior."

"So you speak not to the attempted invasion of Heaven?" Abel asked.

Gabriel didn't bother to respond.

"Nor do you speak to the fall of the other angels in your choir?"

Gabriel bit the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling. The pain cleared his thoughts, but blood, warm and metallic, flooded his mouth. "Ophaniel, Zarachiel, Uriel, Simiel, Raphael, and I did not fall," Gabriel said, but Abel went on as if he hadn't spoken.

"Nor the plot to take Heaven for yourselves? Or to the fall of your own General?" Abel paused.

"She did _not_ fall." Gabriel's voice carried up to the heights of the chamber even though he hadn't spoken any louder than a fierce whisper. Abel's eyes narrowed.

"But how can you know if you don't feel her?" an Aethere across from Abel asked, which made Abel scowl.

Gabriel took deep, steadying breaths. The endlessly white room seemed to spin as if the Aethere rode a merry-go-round, their black cloaks blurring as they sped around. The sensation made him nauseous. It was the transition making him sick and shaky, but he still resented the weakness.

"Of course you can't, which only means one thing—she has fallen. She denounced her creation the moment she went over the edge's wall in Molloch's arms, and will receive her punishment in an eternity of fire and suffering upon the End of Days," Abel said.

"He must have taken her," Gabriel said. The muscles beneath his sweating, tanned skin bulged and twitched against his restraints. The Seraphim shifted nervously.

"It was relayed that she willingly went over that wall with Molloch, who has also been condemned as fallen and possibly killed by the very angel he protected, but I'll play along. Maybe she was pulled over the wall forcibly. Then where is she?" Abel gestured theatrically. "No one can find her, or at least so it appears. So what has become of Michaela?" His voice lowered. "I think you and your Archangels are hiding a fugitive. I think you know exactly where she is."

Gabriel held back the angry yell that seared him from the inside. More than anything he wished he knew where she was. The need to find Michaela was like cinderblocks tied to his ankles dragging him down to Earth. He heard her scream, over and over in his mind. By sheer will, he kept his knees from buckling.

"And if Michaela killed Molloch, well, we find ourselves in an even worse situation. Who is to say she won't come for us next?" Abel's words were met with gasps of fear from the Aethere around him like they hadn't thought of that already. Electricity sparked about the air near every angel's wings.

"You don't know what happened," Gabriel said. His throat was so thick, his chest so tight, he barely managed to get the words out. He couldn't tell if it was the anger or the sickness almost making him pass out.

"Does it matter? An angel might be dead. How can any of us be certain she didn't kill him in cold blood?"

"She wouldn't do that," Gabriel said.

"It's your word against a slew of misdeeds, leaving us to only judge the evidence. During her reign, Michaela doled out severe punishments. But she was the General, and her rule was absolute. Yet, she has committed an act of treason far beyond any precedent. Because of such, we find ourselves struggling to respond with equally dire punishments. Is this what you believe, my brothers?"

Abel looked at the other Aethere seated around them. Everyone nodded with a conviction borne of fear and a lack of backbone Gabriel recognized in all of them. Abel sighed heavily when he looked back at Gabriel.

"At this time, any angel of association to Michaela will receive a maximum punishment to match their maximum sins. As leader of the Aethere and Heaven, I have the power to send souls to either Heaven or Hell according to my judgment. I am prepared to do whatever it takes to save Heaven."

"You can't punish me. I have done nothing wrong!"

"We can," Abel looked to the other Aethere like he needed their assent, but Abel was the one who ran the show now. "And we will."

Gabriel shouted in frustration and hauled at the golden chains, his desperation giving him strength through the sickness. The other Aethere shrunk in their seats, terrified, watching as the Seraphim worked to contain him.

A panic built in Gabriel's bones as he struggled against the Seraphim. Abel remained silent, his head bowed, as he considered a judgment. Gabriel could not afford a punishment with Michaela missing.

"Gabriel, your judgment has been received." The Aethere sat back on the benches with relief, but only Gabriel heard the hint of joy in Abel's words. Abel let out a mighty sigh as if the burden of delivering Gabriel's judgment weighed heavily on his soul. "For the sin of sedition and allegiance to the fallen legion, you are to be banished from Heaven," Abel began. The Aethere murmured in agreement. The Seraphim didn't bother to hide their fear as Gabriel tensed, the air around his tightly tucked wings snapping.

"For the sin of cavorting to commandeer Heaven and for hiding the known whereabouts of the traitor responsible for such a heinous and ridiculous plan, you have received the punishment of..." Abel paused, his eyes flaring neon. Gabriel caught the slightest scent of sulfur in the air. "Eternity in Hell."

"You can't do that!" Gabriel yelled. The Seraphim surged forward like they had a prayer of holding him. He slung them off like ragdolls. More poured in through the door from the hall outside. "You can't just send me to Hell!"

"Brothers, do you not agree this is the safest solution for now?" Abel asked, his brow creased in worry he didn't feel. The other Aethere nodded, never looking at Gabriel, who spat on the ground at their feet.

"Lucifer will not allow this!"

"I believe Lucifer will love to have an Archangel to play with in Hell. Take him away now." Abel motioned to the Seraphim, who gathered up their chains, confident with double their numbers. Gabriel was hauled toward the door. It took all of his remaining strength to pull the Seraphim up so he could speak to Abel one last time.

"You better pray Molloch isn't dead. You better hope that angels can't die." His words were a snarl. His eyes burned like lava inside his skull as he stared down Abel. "Because if there's a way or even the slightest chance, I'm coming for you." As they yanked him away, Gabriel had the satisfaction of seeing true fear on Abel's face.

# Chapter Eleven

Reminding himself of a sinner late for church, Clark slunk in through the back of the meeting hall in the Descendants' Châteauesque-styled compound. The hall even looked like a sanctuary with a high, buttressed ceiling and lofts full of worn, wooden pews where an overflow of Descendants sat since the meetings were always standing room only. Clark eased along the dewy stone wall toward a group of young Descendants. As the grand space opened up before him and the sound of arguing voices grew louder, Clark paused long enough to take in the twelve floor-to-ceiling slender stained glass windows depicting the twelve Archangels.

Clark supposed those would have to be replaced now.

He slipped in next to the young men and women, who took in his baggy shirt and torn jeans only to shoot him nasty glares. They scowled at his muddy motorcycle boots and pink hair. Clark returned their looks with a cool, crooked grin before focusing on the meeting's arguments.

"Can the Aethere just take control of Heaven like that?" Standing on his toes to see over peoples' heads, Clark recognized the speaker as a newly seated Descendant named Liam, who was called to sit at the grand table and thus able to speak during meetings.

The grand table was a long wooden table stretching the length of the hall beside the Archangels' windows. Candles dripped wax onto the splintery surface as the Descendants bickered. A group of fifteen promising young men and women around Clark's age were "called" to sit at the table.

"Of course they can. Someone has to run Heaven. All the Archangels are gone. The Aethere had to step in," answered Dylan, a brawny Descendant with a deep voice.

"That guy is such a dick, right?" Clark whispered to the skinny redhead teenager next to him. The boy wrinkled his nose and shifted away.

"The Archangels aren't all gone, though," Liam responded.

"Michaela has fallen." Dylan spoke like he was talking to a child. "It's obvious the others have too. The Aethere did what they had to do."

"But we don't know for certain she and the Archangels fell!" Another Descendant at the table chimed in.

"Then where are they?"

"If they were innocent, they would come forward and help the Aethere."

From his position in the back, Clark had to strain to see the head of the grand table where the Keeper of the Descendants sat. The Keeper was the man who made the decisions, communicated with the angels, and kept the Descendants from dying in an angel's war. The Keeper was also his father, Isaac St. James. When Clark saw his father, the older man was staring straight back at him with narrowed, disapproving eyes.

"Yikes. He looks pissed," Clark said. He looked around, but no one stood near him anymore.

"None of this would have happened if it wasn't for Michaela betraying everyone," Dylan said, his words sneers.

"But we don't know that," Liam said with a heavy sigh.

"Because no one is telling us anything!"

"We don't _need_ to know everything!" Dylan yelled above the others' voices.

"Why can't we at least help look for her? Something might have happened to her."

The arguments went on and on, round and round. Clark's palms sweated with all the talk about Michaela. His foot danced on the grimy stone floor. Feeling too conspicuous, he pushed his sunglasses farther up his nose and slouched back into the shadows.

"We do what the Aethere tell us, because we have obeyed the orders of angels since the time of Enoch. When the Aethere tell us they will handle the search for Michaela, we let them handle it. Of course, if you want to do things your way, then maybe you could start your own rebellion against us. You could join Michaela," Dylan said.

"That's not what I'm saying," Liam said with a frustrated sigh. "It just feels like the Aethere are telling us to shut up and not ask questions."

"We shouldn't question. If that is what the Aethere want us to do, then we do it!" Dylan said, slapping the table.

"But we have followed Michaela since the time of Enoch. We have trusted her with our lives, and she has kept us safe in very dangerous times. I don't think we should just blindly follow the Aethere when they say she's a traitor. Why can't they tell us more if this is what they want us to fight for now? That's what Michaela would have done." Liam's words made everyone at the table fall quiet. The Descendants in the lofts and standing along the walls held their breath. Clark chewed on a fingernail.

"That's enough," Isaac said into the stunned silence. Clark flinched automatically at the authoritative tone in his father's voice. "The Aethere have spoken. We have our orders for now. They are like they always have been even during Michaela's reign. Watch the fallen, clean up their messes, and try not to let the rest of the humans find out. We leave this Michaela situation _alone_."

With that the meeting was over, and Clark didn't stick around to watch the old, bent priest make his closing prayers. Instead, he faded into the back archway, exiting the way he had come. He had a few more things to gather before he could leave, and he couldn't leave soon enough.

Clark had always hated the main hallway outside the meeting room. Its wooden paneled walls were lined with eerie, almost terrible portraits of all the Keepers. The paintings went all the way back to Enoch.

"Dude's got an ugly mug."

Clark passed through the hall and down the back staircase. It took him a while to make it to the east wing. The compound was huge, consisting of twists and turns that had been added on over the many years since the estate was built.

The little town had been built around the compound hundreds of years ago. Clark, like most of the Descendants, had lived his whole life here amongst the ancient Descendant families and the few normal humans who called the town home. He had gone to school here, trained here, and would have worked like an average human with some normal job to help run the town.

It would have been awful.

Finally, the wood floors changed to the ancient stone of the hallways that led through the backmost part of the estate, toward the hospital and gun ranges. Clark made a series of turns, following the path in his head. As much as he hated being a part of the Descendants, this place was his home, and he knew every inch of it.

One more corner and Clark came upon the forgotten medical closet that had been his refuge from his father when Clark was younger. Now, he hoped the antibiotics weren't out of date, and he could find something that might help Michaela.

"Glad you could make it."

Clark spun around at the sound of his father's voice. Isaac propped against the doorframe in a manner that would have looked causal if anyone else had done it. Instead, Clark only thought his exit was efficiently sealed.

"Oh sweet heavens, me too. You know I'm a sucker for those riveting meetings," Clark said. He palmed a bottle of antibiotics.

"I know you were late, Clark," Isaac said.

"So sue me."

"Where were you?"

"Doing my civic duty, of course," Clark said, snapping off a salute. He was ready to get out of there, out of the compound, and back to his car. Now that he thought about it, locking Michaela in the trunk wasn't his greatest plan. He hadn't known what else to do with her before he drove into the compound, and it seemed like the safest place at the time. Of course, he had been pretty drunk then.

"You're drunk," Isaac said. Clark's eyes snapped back to his father, and he wondered for the millionth time over the course of his twenty-four years if the man could read minds. "I can smell it from here."

"I was out with some friends."

Clark jerked the stuffed duffel bag off the ground. Before he went to the meeting, he had packed some clothes, some cash, and his knives from his room. That all laid beneath the horde of pills, gauze, stitching kits, syringes, and anything else he could remember from the odd assortment of first aid classes he hadn't skipped.

"Did someone cut their hand on a liquor bottle somewhere?" Isaac motioned to the medical supplies in Clark's bag with a slight smile. In another lifetime, they might have gotten along. But Clark was too much like his father, and they were meant to collide, to chip away at each other until nothing was left between them.

"No. I'm going away for a few days."

Clark started toward the door. His glare almost faltered when he saw the sadness in his father's gray eyes. Wrinkles wove their way across his tan, leathery skin. His once rich brown hair grew mostly gray now. It surprised Clark, who always pictured his father as the intimidating, tree of a man who smoked cigars like a chimney and drank scotch without making a face.

"Clark, the meeting wasn't just called about Molloch's murder."

"Technically, we don't know she killed him," Clark said under his breath. He took another step closer to the door.

"Molloch? Of course we do. The Aethere sent a cherub messenger down here who told us everything," Isaac responded.

"Well, who told the Aethere? They weren't there. Do we just believe everything they say?"

"We're supposed to. The Aethere are ready for a witch-hunt. It won't be long before the remaining Archangels are found and brought before their judgment like Gabriel," Isaac said.

"What did they do to Gabriel?" Clark asked. Apparently this was the one meeting he shouldn't have been late to. Isaac sighed heavily.

"Sentenced to Hell for treason."

Clark's eyebrows rose. If the Aethere had gone that far with Gabriel, he couldn't imagine what they would do to Michaela.

"That doesn't sound right. How can they send an angel who hasn't fallen to Hell?"

"Maybe he did fall." Isaac shrugged as if to say he wasn't the one who decided right and wrong.

"I don't think you really mean that," Clark said.

Father and son's eyes met through the morning shadows of the small room. Clark opened his mouth to tell Isaac about finding Michaela in the cave without her wings, but he decided against it. This was a struggle Clark would have to face on his own. No matter what, his father was Keeper, and he had obligations. Clark had hoped to keep Michaela close and in the protection of the Descendants. But it seemed everyone had chosen sides. Clark had to choose his.

Isaac stepped aside. Clark breezed past without a word to where he was headed. Clark was almost to the end of the hall when Isaac called out, "Clark."

Isaac's voice rang down the hall like church bells. Clark paused before turning around. "What?"

"We both know where this is going," Isaac said, not looking at Clark.

"Where what is going?" Clark asked warily. For a moment, Clark thought Isaac meant Michaela.

"Your place here, as a Descendant," Isaac answered.

The sun was rising. The beginning rays brightened the dirty old windows, seeping pink light across the floor. Clark watched the light inch closer to the toe of his boot.

"Oh," Clark said, unnerved. It had never come to this before.

"If you leave..." Isaac began.

"Don't come back? Sounds good, Pops. Thanks for letting me out alive. Too bad you didn't do the same for Mom." Clark's voice was ice. He turned and walked out.

Isaac closed his eyes, leaning against the doorframe for support this time and not for show. _Iris_. His heart ached almost as bad as it had during his second heart attack, which Clark knew nothing about. No one did, except for the doctor. The Keeper was a burden Isaac would never wish on Clark. The weight of Earth and Heaven was a heavy load for just a man.

Isaac pulled out his cell phone. He punched in the number he had memorized many years ago. He never called it as it was meant for only one purpose. He pushed send.

Isaac steeled himself when they answered. He spoke before the other person could.

"It's Clark. He found Michaela."

Isaac listened to the murmurs on the other end.

"Just take care of him," he said coldly.

Isaac disconnected the call. From the window, he watched Clark's favorite black Chevelle speed down the main drive toward the front gates. If he believed in prayers anymore, now would be the time.

# Chapter Twelve

Gold chains, stained dark and gritty from use, wrapped around Gabriel's body. The sharp edges bit into the sensitive flesh of his ankles, wrists, and neck. Thinner chains were banded across his chest—not to confine him, but to weaken him. They worked.

Gabriel kneeled on the slopping floors of his dark cell. No matter how many times he thought of Abel's punishment, he still didn't believe he was in Hell. Just thinking about the angel turned Gabriel's vision red. Abel was the reason he wasn't on Earth looking for Michaela. He might have even found her by now if not for this outrageous punishment.

His anger gave him a renewed strength to reach up and tug on the chains at his chest. But he wasn't strong enough. He dropped his arms back to his sides. He wanted to yell in frustration, but he didn't even have the energy for that.

"Well, I'll be damned. It is true."

Gabriel looked up. He might have dozed off for a moment, because now Lucifer and Beliar stood on the other side of his cell's rusting, crooked bars. A bare light bulb dangling in the prison's hall was the only light shining on them

"I told you." Beliar was Lucifer's second in command. Everyone called Lucifer the devil, but it wasn't true. Beliar was the true devil, and anyone who knew the demon didn't make the mistake twice. The actions that gave Lucifer the misnomer were actually the deeds of Beliar. He did Hell's dirty work, and he enjoyed it. Rumor was that he enjoyed it too much.

"The audacity of those holy angels." Lucifer tsked, shaking his head. He smoothed a hand over his white collared shirt. "I'm sure you will make the best of this, Beliar."

Beliar's eyes were not black, but an unnatural neon green. He didn't have the normal attributes of a fallen angel, because he wasn't one. He was Hell's own creation. Some said when Michaela had created Hell by driving Lucifer so hard into the ground a demon had formed from the dust, molten, and Lucifer's spit.

"I will." Beliar didn't smile or leer. His words weren't even very excited. It was the emptiness Gabriel sensed in the demon that worried him. His skin crawled as Beliar regarded him without an ounce of emotion on his face.

"So, Gabriel, how do you like your new home?" Lucifer asked. He peered around Gabriel into the small cell not tall enough for an angel to stand straight in and wrinkled his nose. "Do you need a cot? Or an air freshener perhaps?"

Gabriel didn't respond. He barely had the energy to hold his head up. Lucifer noticed. He motioned to a fallen. Immediately, the angel stepped forward, making sure to give Beliar a wide berth. The demon propped against the cell next to Gabriel's, sending the inhabitant cowering in the far corner.

"Yes, sir?" the fallen asked.

"Take off his chest chains."

The fallen nodded and drew out a ring of keys. Eventually he found the right one, and with shaking hands, opened Gabriel's cage with a loud _screech_. The fallen unwound the chains carefully. The links left behind sore, red burns on Gabriel's skin. When they lifted, his chest loosened and he breathed deeply.

The fallen was about to exit when Lucifer held up his hand. Beliar straightened off the cell, his interest caught once again. "See, Gabriel, I have a little theory about Molloch's death." Gabriel stiffened at the words. "It was Michaela's wing that pierced him and killed him, according to the reports of the fallen Archangels. But I know angels have stabbed others many times with their wings. Yet no one has died. Do you see where I'm going with this?"

Gabriel didn't answer, but it seemed Lucifer hadn't expected him to. Lucifer nodded to Beliar, who entered the cell with Gabriel and the terrified fallen. Beliar picked up Gabriel's limp wing. He was too weak to fight back.

"Kneel." Lucifer commanded the fallen, motioning to the spot in front of Gabriel. "With your back to him."

"Don't do this," Gabriel said as his awareness dawned.

"I have to know these things, Gabriel." Lucifer smiled at him as the fallen got into position.

Sweat rolled between Gabriel's shoulder blades. Gabriel was thinking about the bead of sweat when, without a signal from Lucifer, Beliar jerked Gabriel's wing forward, over the top of his arm, and into the back of the fallen.

"No!" Gabriel yelled.

He watched the fallen sag forward. Beliar pulled Gabriel's wing out, leaving behind a hole that oozed black blood in the fallen's back. Lucifer crouched outside the cell and inspected the fallen.

For a horrible, sickening moment, Gabriel thought he had actually killed an angel. But the fallen moved on the stone floor and groaned. "Try again," Lucifer said to Beliar.

The demon stabbed Gabriel's wing countless times into the fallen. Gabriel did everything in his power to resist, but his efforts did little against Beliar's strength. By the end, the fallen angel had countless stab wounds in his chest, stomach, and back. Gabriel had long since grown quiet and withdrawn.

"Interesting," Lucifer said. Beliar drug the fallen out the cell and dumped him in the hall to heal. The demon wiped his bloody hands on his leather pants.

"You're sick," Gabriel said with his teeth clenched.

"Sticks and stones. But what I was saying was that this was interesting because I didn't really believe any angel's wings could kill another. I just had to make sure." Beliar stepped away, and when he came back he carried two huge, bloody wings. Gabriel stared, noting the delicate swirl of the feather's plume. He knew that swirl.

"I think it's the bones in Michaela's wings that can kill an angel. Perhaps because she was the first angel created. I had hoped since you were the created after her your wings would prove useful too." Lucifer sighed. "Oh well. Beliar is going to sit here and fashion up some knives from your pretty little Michaela's wings. Hope you don't mind." Lucifer beamed down at Gabriel, but he didn't notice. His eyes were fixed on the ruin of Michaela's wings.

Something snapped inside of him. He lost it. It wasn't the control over his raging anger he lost. It was his good nature, his quiet, calm manner. He lost the angel he had been the moment Beliar stripped off Michaela's precious feathers. In its place formed a solid ball of hate and rage, laying in wait with a cool, calculating calm.

# Chapter Thirteen

Michaela wished she were dead, because for the second time, she fell through the air with Molloch's hands tight around her throat. Her eyes bulged, and her body convulsed from lack of oxygen. She couldn't see Molloch through the hair over her face, but she recognized the way he tried to kill her.

They would hit the ground just like they had the first time. Michaela waited for the impact, waited for the air to rush back into her lungs. When it did, it was instant relief. Her hair fell away from her eyes, and she saw.

It wasn't Molloch who stared back at her with empty, dead eyes. It was Gabriel. He fell off her with the sound of her wing pulling out of his back. She had killed him.

Her screams filled the cavern as his feathers floated away.

"Michaela, wake up!"

Hands shook her body, radiating a warm, sticky pain through her back. It pulled her further out of the dream, and she looked up into a wild mixture of blue and pink. Michaela blinked until her vision cleared. The person shaking her was a human with blue eyes and bright, fluorescent pink hair.

"Oh, thank God, you're awake. I thought you were dead until you started screaming, which was freaking me out, by the way. I'm Clark. Clark St. James, Descendant of Enoch, knight in shining..."

Clark's mouth moved, but she was watching the air around him with a dream-like focus. It moved in shining, swirling motions.

"What are you?" Michaela asked before her vision grew blurry and reduced everything to blues, pinks, and flashing lights.

"Oh man, you have brain damage. I'm Clark. C. L. A..." she heard the human say before the blurriness gave way to a shuddering blackness.

Then she was lost in the darkness once again.

Michaela groaned.

Clark slept propped against the far wall, but his eyes flashed open, red and puffy, at the noise. Slowly, he stood, watching as Michaela stirred. Her body was buried beneath layers of mildewed blankets, her back wrapped with tight bandages. Her eyes were heavy lidded and full of pain.

"Who are you?" The words came out achingly slow and quiet.

"Clark St. James," he said. Michaela licked her lips. "Do you want some water?" Clark asked.

Michaela nodded. Her eyes fluttered closed as if she couldn't hold them open any longer. Clark crossed the room to his pack and pulled out a canteen. He was surprised to find his hands shook slightly as he worked to unscrew the lid. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, he walked back to Michaela. He told himself it was perfectly normal to be intimidated by the first fully conscious, talking angel he'd met.

"Here."

Clark kneeled, easing a hand behind Michaela's head to lift her up. Her skin gave off a chill that worried him. He brought the canteen to her lips, and she took a long drink, letting the water spill from her shaking lips. The canteen was empty when she finished.

"Thank you."

"Yeah. Are you hungry?" he asked, walking back to his pack.

Michaela shook her head, wincing.

"I'm starving," Clark mumbled, rummaging through candy bar wrappers and potato chip bags. He came up empty.

"You found me in the cave, right? You're a Descendant."

Clark made a noncommittal noise as Michaela weakly looked around the room.

"Where are we? How long have I been down here?" Michaela asked. Her voice was still raspy even after all the water she had drank.

Clark hesitated. "A Descendant safe house a little east of Lexington," he said. It wasn't a complete lie. It wasn't the exact truth either. "You've been sleeping for a couple days."

"A couple days? That's too long. Is Gabe here? I need to see him." She stared at him expectantly, making Clark uncomfortable. He hadn't thought about this part. His mouth opened and closed a few times as if he actually had any idea what to say.

"What about the others? Are they here too?" Michaela pressed.

Clark stayed quiet. He shifted under her unwavering attention. His eyes slipped away to the one window in the room. He cleared his throat.

"Where is everyone? Why are we alone?" she asked. Her voice grew smaller and weaker until she whispered, "What's going on?"

"A lot has happened, Michaela," Clark answered tentatively. He pulled the one rickety wooden chair a few feet from the cot and sat, straddling the back of the chair.

She closed her eyes, but not before he saw the tears pooling. She turned her head away and murmured, "Where is Gabriel?"

She looked too broken to be an angel. Beneath the layers of blankets and her dirty hair, she seemed frail and failing. Her skin was so pale that Clark detected a glint of gold underneath. It probably looked magnificent in the sunlight but just made her appear even sicker than she was in the dim light of the cabin.

"I don't know," he started, unsure if she was strong enough yet to hear the truth.

"Please."

Clark jerked up from the chair and paced away. He was completely outside his element. He would have killed for a drink. His mouth was like cotton, his tongue a lead weight in his mouth.

_Don't say anything_ , he told himself. If he opened his mouth, he might say something stupid and mess everything up. He turned back around. Her eyes were the palest of blues behind the sheen of tears.

"They say you planned the rebellion. That you knew what was, like, happening or something. Now, don't look at me like that, okay? I'm just the messenger. My dad, the Keeper, told me all of this. Anyway, the Aethere took control of Heaven. They told the Descendants that you and the other Archangels had fallen," he blurted. He couldn't make himself shut up. His words ran together. "But the other Archangels are missing, so no one knows who is actually fallen." Clark sucked in a deep breath. "The Aethere say the Archangels helped you plan the rebellion. There was talk that they knew where you were hiding. Gabriel was brought before the Aethere." He ran out of steam. "They sent him to Hell."

Clark watched Michaela warily. Every emotion had slipped from her face, leaving nothing behind but a blank mask. Clark wondered if she had heard anything he said. He waved his hand in front of her face.

She unfroze. Her gasp was like a dam breaking, like she had forgotten to breathe. Her fists clutched the edges of the cot. "So he's not here?"

"No," Clark said slowly. "He's in Hell."

"He's not coming?" Her eyes begged him, like Clark could produce Gabriel out of thin air. It broke his heart.

"No one is coming, Michaela."

The tears finally came and were immediately uncontrollable. Her body convulsed with sobs muffled behind her hand. The cot rattled as she folded in around herself.

Clark reached out a hand, letting it hover in the air, unsure. "Michaela?"

He stood, letting his hand fall when her sobs grew into tortured, muffled shrieks. He drew back, retreating through the door and out the cabin. He sat on the steps and stared at the stars while he listened to her wrenching cries.

# Chapter Fourteen

Michaela struggled to open her eyes, which were swollen and raw from crying. She was too exhausted to pull herself up even a fraction. She looked for Clark, ready to ask for more water.

He stood unmoving at the window with hands clenching the sill, his eyes unblinking into the night. Michaela didn't see him breathe. The edges of his profile blurred slightly, like she was looking through rounded glass. But it wasn't just his face—the entire room was hazy behind the density of the unmoving air.

"Clark?" she asked. He didn't move. His mouth hung slightly open, caught in between breaths.

The doorknob turned, splintering the quiet. Michaela froze, unable to look away as the old door swung open on stuttering hinges until it banged against the wall.

The space of the doorway was illuminated where it should have been dark. She expected the inky depth of a fallen's glare. The black glint of dagger-like feathers should have cast gleaming shadows across the cabin's floor.

Instead, the white luminescent feathers of a holy angel brightened the stilted particles of air in the room. His gold eyes seemed to break apart into tiny shards of golden dust as he took in her dirty, bloodied form on the sagging cot.

Michaela's heart raced to catch up from where it had left off. Her fear dropped away, and a huge smile broke out across her face.

"You found me." Her voice cracked, breaking across the thickness filling her throat.

Gabriel slipped into the room, crossing to her with barely a whisper of sound. He crouched beside her and lifted his hand to her face. His fingers were cool as they trailed across her cheek, stilling at the bruise he found there. His eyes settled on the others that formed an angry circle around her neck. Slowly, he shook his head. The sadness had not left his eyes, even though Michaela's heart thrilled in her battered body.

Gabriel looked to Clark across the room. Michaela saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes. If anyone would know a Descendant, it would be a messenger angel like Gabriel.

"No, Michaela. I haven't found you." His voice was heavy.

She struggled to understand. Her mind told her that Clark still hadn't moved, nor had the air, but she refused to listen.

"But you're here. You're here with me. Gabe, I feel your touch," she said. Her hands clutched at the cot.

"I'm channeling you. I came through your dream while you were still sleeping. I had to know where you are. I needed to know you were safe." His grip on her chin tightened when she tried to shake her head again.

"No, Gabe. Look, we are in a safe house. I don't know exactly where it's at, but we are close to Lexington, I think. Clark brought me here. He is the Keeper's son. This cabin..." Her words ran together as her panic reached high tide. Gabriel waited until she lost herself completely and quieted.

"I can't get to you," Gabriel said with slow, hushed words.

"But you're here. We can go home. I know I messed up." Her voice broke over the words as she cried. " _Please_ ," she begged. "I want to go home."

"Michaela, I'm sorry." Gabriel's jaw flexed like he wanted to say more.

Michaela barely saw him behind the sheet of tears. Hiccups bubbled from her clenched mouth. Reality shattered her delusion. If she were to wake up, Gabriel would be gone. All angels had the ability to draw themselves into another's dream, but because Gabriel was a messenger angel, he was especially good at it. He was so good it didn't feel like a dream. It felt like he was here, and if he was here then they could figure this out and go home.

But he only channeled her from Hell.

She fully realized then what Gabriel's sentence meant. She was alone, and for the first time in eternity, they were separated. Her tears turned to gasping, silent weeping. If Gabriel was in Hell for something he hadn't even done, she wanted to fall asleep and never wake up again, because she doubted the purpose of a life without him.

Gabriel reached for her and pulled her against his chest that felt so solid against her tear-slicked face. She wrapped her arms around him fiercely, holding him as tight as she could. The motion should have doubled her over with pain, but it seemed as if even the hurt stopped with the time. Gabriel caught her, tucking her into him like a fold of fabric.

His hands paused against her back. She held her breath. Instead of her wings, he found the thickness of bandages beneath Clark's loose shirt she wore. He leaned back, his gaze sending prickles of heat dancing down her neck.

"Who did this to you?"

"Lucifer."

Gabriel growled. The noise was like a whip, snapping through the air. A shudder slid down her spine.

"I deserved it, Gabe. I killed...I killed Molloch." The words fell out. She didn't know how she said them aloud when she could barely say them inside her own head.

His hands tightened around her arms. The muscles of his body flexed rigidly beneath her hands. In the dim light of the cabin, his eyes deepened to dark amber. The muscle along his jaw convulsed wildly. If the air had not been burdened with time, it would have been afire with his fury.

"You didn't deserve to have this done to you, Michaela. Do you hear me?" He waited, eyes burning into hers, until she nodded mutely. "And I will make them pay for what they did to you. Do you understand?" She nodded again. "Now tell me what happened."

"He took me to the Watchers' cave and wouldn't let me leave. We fought. I don't know what happened. He was there one minute, choking me with this bottomless hate in his eyes, and the next he was dead. Gone. My wing tip had stabbed him, and I didn't even know."

"It was an accident, Michaela. You couldn't have known the bones in your wings could kill an angel."

"What?" Michaela thought she must have cotton stuffed in her ears, because Gabriel's words barely reached her. She couldn't arrange them in a way to make sense, but Gabriel didn't stop to explain.

"That's why I can't feel you, because your wings are gone..." He stayed silent for a few moments. Finally he said, "This is better actually. The Aethere won't be able to find you and neither will the fallen. Do you hear me, Michaela? Don't trust the Aethere," he said, looking back into her eyes.

But the pain in her back started like a hollow, echoing beat of her heart, distracting her. The snake she had inherited from Molloch's darkness slipped around her spine, slithering upwards. Gabriel seemed to be shouting at her, but she didn't hear the words. He shook her again, rattling the pain loose inside her body as time started passing again.

"Michaela, stay with me."

"It hurts," she moaned.

Michaela began to slip away. Gabriel was losing hold on her dream, and a bottomless, dreamless unconsciousness was tugging at her ankles, pulling her back under its still waters. The air shifted around Gabriel's face, which was fierce and determined.

"I know, but you need to hide, okay? The Aethere are hunting you, and they won't stop," he said. He jerked his head in Clark's direction. "Let the Descendant protect you."

"Why are we hiding?" she whispered. "Why is this happening? I don't understand," she whimpered.

"Michaela, you have to listen to me. Stay in hiding. Don't talk to anyone. No matter what you hear, stay away from the angels," he said. His grip was tight on her arms, tight enough to leave new bruises. "Especially the holy angels."

"Take me with you," she pleaded.

"I can't, baby," Gabriel said, his voice tight.

"I'm so sorry," Michaela sobbed. Her mouth was thick with mucus and tears that clogged her throat. "I should have waited. I should have never opened those gates." Her voice broke. She clutched at Gabriel's simple linen shirt soaked from her tears.

"Stop it," he said firmly. He rocked her against him, holding her a moment longer. "Promise me you won't let them find you. _Promise_ that you won't try to fix anything." He waited until she nodded against his chest.

Gabriel lifted her face to his. She didn't understand until his lips touched hers. It was a simple goodbye even though she held his mouth to hers for a moment longer. She didn't open her eyes when he pulled away. His sigh was a cool breeze against her face. Then he left, and the dream was broken.

# Chapter Fifteen

Clark sat with his back pressed against the opposite wall and watched Michaela sleep. At least he hoped she slept this time. When she wasn't thrashing around and shouting, she laid still as death, barely moving enough to breathe. It had been nearly a day since he had left her crying on the cot. When he had returned, she was unconscious once again.

Angels who came to Earth were still powerful, supernatural creatures only encased in a human body, but her recovery was eerie to witness. He had changed the bandages on her back a couple times before he realized his effort was worthless. The muscles pulled back across the bones, the blood vessels fused back together, the skin stretching back across the holes her wings had left. She seemed nearly healed now.

Clark must have fallen asleep again, because when he opened his eyes, Michaela was not on the cot. He jerked, thinking he'd lost her, but she was by the old, rusty mirror that hung alone on the empty wall of the cabin.

Clark was used to seeing her sleeping on the cot, weak and healing, so now, seeing her as a strong, able angel, terrified him. Her face was a dark cloud. In her murky reflection he saw her pupils were dilated, leaving only a slim midnight blue ring around them. He was frozen, staring at her like she might sprout a new pair of wings any moment. But that was impossible.

She slowly turned to see her back in the mirror. Clark wanted to tell her to stop, but it was too late. He didn't see her reaction as she stared at the place where her wings should have been. It took a long moment, but when she looked away, her eyes landed right on him.

"Why are the Aethere blaming me? Why is no one telling the truth?" she demanded.

Clark gulped. Even the air seemed to cringe away from her. He tried to tell himself it was stupid to be afraid of her, but it didn't help.

"Molloch's death scared everyone. Like really bad," Clark answered.

He watched her carefully, so he saw when her eyes landed on the thin, dark marks that weaved their way across her bicep and forearm. To Clark, the scars looked more like black ink had been dumped in her veins. Pausing, she ran a fingertip over the two deep holes in the crook of her elbow. She winced.

"I did kill Molloch. He died at my hand, and I will answer for that. I never should have gone outside the gates, but it all happened so fast. That was my whole world ripping apart too, not just the Aethere's. I could never have planned an attack on Heaven. To betray Heaven would have been like ripping my own wings from my back. I never would have done that. I didn't do that," she whispered, eyes still on her arm.

They were both silent. Stiffly, Michaela paced across the tiny room. "I'm hiding because I'm being accused of something I didn't do. The other Archangels are hiding because of what happened to Gabriel and Zarachiel," Michaela paused. She leveled her gaze on Clark. "But why are you hiding?"

"I'm not technically hiding," Clark evaded. His voice squeaked like a twelve-year-old boy going through puberty.

"But the Aethere have called me a traitor, which means the Descendants think the same. Yet you helped me instead of turning me in even though you're the Keeper's son. Clearly we are hiding."

Clark shrugged.

"Why are you here?" Michaela pressed, impatient.

"I left, okay?" Clark snapped. He raked a hand through his hair and took a steadying breath. His voice returned to its normal bemused tone when he said, "It just wasn't my thing."

Clark ignored her doubtful expression. Turning, he dug around in his bag. When he had gone back to the compound, he grabbed clothes for both him and Michaela. It was a rare moment of insight and one he was proud of since she had been pacing around in a low slung, bug-chewed nightshirt. He hoped she didn't mind skinny jeans.

"I brought some clothes for you," he said, revealing a Def Leppard shirt with grease stains on it. Michaela looked at him then at the shirt.

"Thank you," she said, but her voice lacked gratitude.

Clark handed over the shirt, a pair of jeans with minimal tearing, mismatched socks, and an old pair of hiking boots before turning around so she could change. He heard her drop the dirty, bloody shirt she wore onto the floor. It was impossible not to imagine her naked, and he coughed to rid the tickle in his throat.

"So what are we going to do?" When Michaela didn't respond, Clark answered himself. "Well, we could go and talk to my father about this or something."

"They won't listen to us. Gold chains will be wrapped around me faster than you can blink. I'll be gone, and you'll be thrown in jail for deserting," Michaela said as she got dressed.

"My dad wouldn't do that."

"You're sure? I'm not."

Clark thought about that for a moment. She was right, technically. As the Keeper, his father was responsible for the angels on Earth. If the Aethere told him the Archangels were fugitives, he would have to report it if he knew where one was. His father had always put the Descendants before family. It was the reason Clark hated him.

"I don't know if there is anything we can do." Michaela barely whispered the words, but Clark heard. His head snapped around. She looked at him, but seemed to stare straight through him. His eyes narrowed.

"I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"I don't think there is anything we can do."

"Are you serious?" Clark shouted, forgetting about not pissing her off. "You've got to be kidding. What? You're just going to let this one go? Let it slide this time? 'Oh no biggie, Mr. Aethere. Sure take my spot in Heaven. Screw all the other angels. I'm just going to chill down here on Earth and play human. Have fun—'"

"I need to be alone," Michaela said.

Before Clark processed her words, she rose and crossed the room in a single stride. He watched her leave through the front door with his mouth open. Then she was gone, and he stood in the cabin alone.

"You've got to be kidding me," he said. He jogged across the room and out the door just in time to see Michaela sprinting headlong into the thick woods surrounding the little cabin. He should just let her go. Who would be looking for her way out here?

Of course, he had found her drunk and wandering through the woods, guided only by his insomniac crazed dreams.

"Well, shit." He started toward the woods slowly brightening with a new day and wondered how he would convince an angel to save herself.

# Chapter Sixteen

Michaela sprinted through the trees until the earth ran out beneath her, and her toes were on the edge of a rocky overhang, teetering for a moment before she remembered she couldn't fly. Forcing herself to step back, she stood on the jagged cliff with the edge of the woods at her back, watching the sun bruise its hostile path out of the folds of the horizon. The colors that filled the early morning sky reminded her of a bloody gash—pinks of exposed tissue, reds of spilt blood, purples of deep bruises, flesh beige of torn skin. The intensity of the sunrise sucked the colors from everything else, leaving nothing but specter paleness behind. The sun appeared hidden behind a veil of mourning.

She closed her eyes and turned her face upwards. She searched deep within, looking for the presence of the other Archangels. She found nothing but an empty, hollow ache along the sides of her spine where her wings should be attached. Without her wings, she was all alone in her head for the first time since creation—just like Lucifer said.

She felt like a ghost, like any moment she could dissipate into the air, becoming just another particle amongst trillions. But just then, Clark crashed up behind her, ruining the moment and her loneliness. He bent over, hands on knees, and drew long, gasping breaths. He was almost comforting if not a little annoying. Finally, he stood back up in time to see the end of the sunrise.

"Look, Michaela. I have to know. What really went on up there?"

Michaela didn't speak for a long time. Clark waited almost patiently except for the persistent tap of his boot.

"They were just standing out there—this line of fallen angels. It was infuriating. It's like they can take whatever they want, do whatever they please. They shouldn't have been there. I thought it would be easy to step outside for a moment to run them off. By the time I realized I had left the gates open, I was too far away to close them. I didn't go back like I should have. I hoped it would be okay. But it wasn't. He was there. When he drew back his hood, and I saw his face, I knew then. Why else would Lucifer be in Heaven? And then Molloch's knife was in my back, and a mass of fallen angels attacked Heaven. My own Archangels betrayed me." Michaela's voice broke. The pain was stifling, but she bottled it up and shoved it into the darkest corner of her heart. "I woke up in the Watchers' cave with Molloch. We fought. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to choke the life out of me. So much hate...then he fell on my wingtip. And just like that—he was gone. He just...disappeared."

Clark seemed to think about that for a while as Michaela composed herself in the quiet. "I believe you," he said.

Michaela looked at him and truly saw him for the first time since she woke up. He was too young and too brash and too _pink_ , but he believed her; she heard the truth in his voice. Finally, someone was on her side. For the first time, she felt the tiny pull of a smile on her lips, and she felt like the old Michaela, the one who would never back down. Both the smile and the feeling were gone quickly, but Clark saw her smile.

"So I thought angels were immortal," Clark said.

"We're supposed to be."

"What do you think happened? Can wings kill angels since Molloch died after you stabbed him with yours?"

Michaela concentrated far into the distance. She hadn't understood Gabriel when he had told her about Lucifer's theory, but she did now. "No. I think only the bones in my wings can kill an angel. I've never stabbed another angel using my wings before so it's hard to say..."

"That makes sense I guess." Clark ran his hand over his face with a sigh. "So what happened to your wings?"

Michaela looked away as her scars tingled. "Lucifer took them. Gabriel said it's why the others can't find me. No one can find me. Where are we?"

"Kentucky. But why would Lucifer take your wings?"

"It was his revenge for when I took his. He couldn't have gotten to Heaven without wings unless other angels held him as they flew," Michaela paused. "I can't get back either..."

Clark jerked like he had stuck his finger in an outlet. "Wait a second. When the hell did you talk to Gabriel? I watched you every minute! I wasn't even drinking!"

"He channeled me through my dreams."

"Oh." Clark struggled as if he was deciding if he should still be upset. "Well, okay. You can do that?"

"Yes. It's an ability we have. Gabriel is better at it because he is a messenger angel, but all the angels can do it." She paused. "How did you find me when all the angels couldn't?"

Clark crossed his arms over his chest. "Don't even think about calling me crazy, but I dreamt it, okay? I know it sounds weird, but I just knew. I'm not some freaky physic person. Trust me, I prefer sleep. But my mom used to take me to this park all the time, and I recognized the types of caves. When I got here, it felt like I was pulled forward, like you drew me to you. Look, I can't explain it, so don't ask me to."

"I believe you," she said quietly.

"I don't care what you—" Clark stopped. "Wait. Really?"

"You believe me. I believe you. Stranger things have happened," she said with a simple shrug.

Clark rolled his eyes. After a minute, he sighed. "Can those angels, the..."

"The Aethere. They are a choir of angels just like the Archangels only they judge the souls. What kind of Descendant are you?"

Clark skimmed over her question and asked, "But can they just take over like that? I mean, the Archangels are like supposed to run Heaven."

"This hasn't exactly happened before," Michaela responded quietly. In all honesty, she didn't know if the Aethere could take Heaven from the Archangels, but they had. And she was thankful they had saved Heaven when she wasn't able to.

"Look, I think we should think about going back to the Descendants' compound. I can call my dad—"

She looked back up to the sky and said, "I'm not going to the compound, and you are not calling your father. The Aethere have misunderstood. Everything will be cleared up with time. It is not my fight anymore."

Gabriel made her promise not to get involved. For once, she should listen. Every one of her instincts said to fix this and fight back, but she didn't trust those instincts anymore.

"Seriously? Oh, come on!" Clark yelled. He looked like he wanted to shake her.

"I'm not the General anymore. The Aethere are the commanding choir. No matter what they say about me, I am not a part of them anymore." Michaela pointed to the dark scars on her arms where the snake's venom has left inky paths under her skin. "There's this darkness in me. I can't just fix this—"

"What about the rest of the Archangels, Michaela? Do you care that they are being hunted down for something they didn't do? Gabriel is in Hell! That _can't_ be fun. Of course this is your fight! You're the only one left to fight it!"

She whirled around to face Clark. "Look at me! I have no wings. I killed an angel. I'm practically two breaths away from being a fallen. I can never return to Heaven!"

Saying the words out loud had a bad affect on Michaela. The dark corner where her pain was bottled up bulged for a second, threatening to spill its toxic contents into her heart. Her breath shuddered. It was a moment before she spoke again. "It will work out. Everyone is just panicking right now."

Clark yelled for a while. Michaela stared over the cliff, ignoring him as he flapped his arms in wild motions. He paced for a couple more minutes then seemed to wear himself out. Or maybe she was the one wearing him out.

"I need a drink."Clark sat with his legs hanging over the edge of the cliff. He took a shaky breath. "Okay, look. You don't want to go back to Heaven—"

"Of course I want to go back. I just _can't_."

Clark waved his hand at her like what she said was irrelevant to his point. "Whatever. But don't you think you should at least try to prove your innocence for the sake of your Archangels? For Gabriel? They deserve to go home."

Clark didn't know it, but with two words, every wall in Michaela fell apart.

_Gabriel. Home._

The words soared through her, ripping at her insides, yanking at her breaking heart, hammering against her battered back. More than anything, she wanted to step from the ledge, hover, then sail into the air. Up, up, up. She wanted to see the gold in Gabriel's eyes, to see the air rush through his feathers as they flew. More than anything, she wanted to feel complete again, to not feel alone.

Michaela didn't think long. She made up her mind easily; her heart was never set on bowing out of the fight. Gabriel would be mad, because she broke their promise. But if she cleared the Archangels' names, it would be worth it, especially if it meant Gabriel went home. She would turn herself in and take whatever punishment the Aethere gave her.

Clark didn't even need to hear her agree before he said, "All right. Now that's settled, what do we do first?" His smile was crooked and cocky.

"Oh no. There is no 'we,'" Michaela said.

"Yes, there is."

"No."

"Yes."

"Look, you're just a kid. You're not going with me."

"Yeah, I am," Clark said with a cocky grin.

"No. I'm serious."

"Me too, dude."

"I said no! And don't call me that."

Clark leaned back on his hands. Michaela towered over him. She knew the glare on her face. It had caused seas of angels to quake before her, but Clark just kept smiling a ridiculously obnoxious grin.

"I can do this all day," he said.

Michaela's eyes were angry slits. She'd never met a human so irritating. "I'm going back to the Descendants to turn myself in. Hopefully I can convince the Aethere that the other Archangels had nothing to do with it."

"That was my plan from the beginning!" Clark sprang to his feet, indignation hot in his voice. He paused and cocked his head. "Sort of. Wait, you're going to turn yourself in?"

"I'm going to explain to the Descendants what really happened. After all these centuries of serving as Heaven's General, maybe they will listen to me and help me convince the Aethere that the remaining Archangels did nothing wrong."

"But what about you?"

"I'll accept my punishment," Michaela answered. Her words felt right. This was the way things needed to be.

"Nope." Clark shook his head like he had the final say. "I don't like it. We can explain together." Michaela looked ready to argue some more until Clark asked, "How are you going to get there?"

Michaela glared at him for a moment. With a huff, she turned and started walking back through the woods. "Maybe they will be so distracted killing you that I will have enough time to explain what really happened," she muttered.

Clark drew up beside her, a fresh spring to his step, and laughed. "I'm too handsome to die."

# Chapter Seventeen

Michaela watched Clark pack up their few belongings in the cabin and wondered, for the millionth time, if she should just steal his car and leave him behind. But the truth was, she kind of liked his company. He was certainly interesting enough.

Clark's jeans were the skinny, skin-tight version that looked as though they were more than a few years old and not once washed. He wore heavy worn motorcycle boots with the laces untied and duct tape holding the soles together. Dirt and grease covered his white shirt, and his pink Mohawk flopped into his eyes, but Michaela thought she liked him well enough to maybe even consider him a friend.

"Let's hurry. I'm starved," Clark said as he tossed their few bags into the car. Michaela stood with her arms crossed as she waited. She noticed Clark kept the whiskey tucked in the crook of his arm while he heaved the last bag in the car.

"What happened with the Descendants?"Michaela asked.

Clark's body radiated energy; he barely stood still. She didn't know if he was excited to start their little adventure, or if he was excited to leave one behind.

"With what?" Clark asked. Michaela never responded. He looked over his shoulder. "What?"

"Stop avoiding my question by asking another question. It's annoying."

Clark leaned against the car. "My father kicked me out."

"Why?"

"Why do you need to know so badly?" Clark smirked. He raised the bottle to his lips for another shot. Instead of going down his throat, it went across his face as Michaela yanked the bottle from his grasp. He opened his mouth to protest.

"I think you've had enough. You are a fugitive, and the Descendants are probably hunting you down as we speak. So yeah, I need to know why your father kicked you out."

"Oh, that's ripe coming from the actual fugitive who killed an angel," Clark shot back.

Michaela's face went blank. Behind her flat, empty eyes staring off toward the woods, she only saw Molloch's face. Her insides clenched violently. For a moment, she'd forgotten she had killed someone.

"Come on, let's go," Clark said, looking at the ground.

Michaela took a long drink from the bottle as Clark walked to the car. He pretended not to notice. A moment later, she settled quietly into the seat next to him as he eased the engine over.

"So what ab—" Clark cut off abruptly when Michaela reached toward his stereo dials.

His hand jerked out and clasped hers. The hairs on his arm stood on end before he quickly released her. She stared at him, eyebrow cocked.

"Okay, we need to go over the rules. First rule: never touch a man's radio. That's a 322 watt, thirteen speaker surround sound with a twelve inch subwoofer in the trunk. Second rule: there's no— _hey_!"

Michaela hit the power then started twisting different knobs, looking for the radio tuner. There were too many buttons to know what to do with. "Calm down. How do I change the station?" she asked.

Michaela met his glare. Their stare down lasted until the car wrenched into a pothole. Clark cursed and straightened the wheel.

"Use this knob. Just don't touch any of the settings, okay?"

Clark navigated the twisting service road while Michaela floated from station to station until she finally settled on a local classic rock channel. After twisting the volume down, she settled back into her seat. He reached over and turned it back up.

"I don't like silence," he said at her questioning glance.

"Fine. Where are we?"

Michaela rolled down her window so the warm breeze cooled her face as they drove. If she looked close enough, she caught glimpses of a stream through the dense trees. The air smelled clean and fresh beneath the warm summer sun.

"Near Olympia State Forest in Kentucky. It's close to Lexington. And it's way outside your fall radius."

Michaela refused to think about her fall even as the fresh wounds on her back tingled at the memory. She tilted her head back to watch the patches of sky flash through the treetops. A few minutes passed until she realized she daydreamed of flying. With a jerk, she sat upright.

"So what's your problem with the Descendants?" she asked quickly.

"What makes you think I have a problem with them?"

"Your eyes get hard when you talk about them even though you try to cover it up with a misplaced bad boy attitude."

"Misplaced? What?" Michaela raised her eyebrows at him, clearly indicating he had not convinced her. Clark stammered on. "Well, uh, I guess it's just not for me."

"What is the motto? Duty, honor, and...?"

"Blood. Duty, honor, and blood." Clark coughed and shifted in his seat.

"It doesn't sound that bad," Michaela said.

"You know, it's not easy being a human in an angel's war. We try to fly below the fallen's radar. We don't interfere or engage them. We just clean up the messes. But it's still a war. People die. My mom died in a car accident. She was driving my dad's car when a fallen mistook her for him and ran her off a bridge. The car burned to just a smudge of metal. They didn't have enough left of her to identify. They had to use her teeth."

Michaela studied him. She hadn't expected that. Before, she thought of him as a spoiled Keeper's kid, trying to prove a point. Clearly she was way off base. She warmed to him some more.

"It sounds like you should hate the fallen, not the Descendants," she said.

Clark snorted. "I don't care about the Descendants. I hate my father. He wasn't even fazed when she died. I was twelve when I lost her, and he told me that many people had lost their lives for this cause. The asshole said it was an honorable way to die."

"There is no such thing as an honorable death to a twelve-year-old kid."

"Well, if my father thought it was such a good way to die then he should have been in that car," Clark said.

"You don't mean that."

"Trust me. I do." Clark took a deep breath.

"It doesn't seem fair," Michaela said. She caught Clark's confused glance, so she continued. "It doesn't seem fair that you were forced to keep fighting for a cause you had lost faith in just because you were born into it." She paused then said, "Even the angels get a choice."

"Hand me the bottle?" He gestured toward the whiskey at Michaela's feet.

"No, you don't need it. Is she why you drink so much? I can always smell it in your blood. It never leaves."

"Some things never do," Clark answered. "What did you mean when you said there was a darkness in you now?" Clark turned his attention back to the road as he merged onto the highway. "It's okay if you don't want to talk about it."

Michaela stared at her hands for a long moment before she spoke. "I see Molloch's face every time I close my eyes. It's like he's always sitting right next to me. I can hear his voice in our conversations. His laughter rings in my ear. I can feel his breath on my skin. He's a part of me now. A darkness settled in my soul the moment I killed him. I felt it..." Once again Michaela looked back out the window. Her mind was on the snake inside her, and it answered with a rattle of its tail. She shivered.

"Do you think his spirit is like 'with' you now?" Clark took a hand off of the wheel to make air quotes.

"Something from him settled in me. But it wasn't his spirit. He's gone."

"To die and haunt the living seems like just another impossible burden," Clark said mostly to himself.

They drove in silence for a long time. Clark pulled off only once to get food. Hours could have passed, but they didn't pay attention to the time. The afternoon sun was hot and high in the sky when Clark hit traffic. The cars around him slowed, stop and go, for a few miles and then completely came to an idling halt.

"Wow, this sucks," Clark said.

"What?" Michaela looked over at Clark.

"Car accident, maybe?" Clark rolled down his window and shouted at the next car over, "Hey, dude. What's going on?"

A man with a handlebar mustache and a sasquatch hunter hat looked over at Clark. "Greyhound bus turned over. It's pretty bad. Could be here a while."

"Thanks, man." Clark waved. "Gotta love southern hospitality," he said to Michaela.

"Did he say a bus had overturned?" she asked, perking up. She stuck her head out the air and sniffed. Immediately, she recoiled.

"What did you smell?"

"Death."

"Ugh," Clark said, shifting away from his open window.

From what Michaela had smelled out the window, the accident was horrible. She imagined the number of souls that would be carried to their judgment.

"Well, doesn't look like we're going anywhere anytime soon." Michaela ignored him. Her mind settled on one thought alone.

_Souls._

A piece of the puzzle settled into place.

_The humans will win this war. They will be my army._

Lucifer said it even though it was a preposterous thing to say. The war would be won as wars are won: with blood, apathy, bitter victories, brutal losses, and now—death. Clark was right, there was no place for humans among the angels' war.

Yet Lucifer wouldn't have spoken the words if they hadn't meant something to him. His words had sat in Michaela's mind, waiting for her to truly hear them. Finally, she did. Realizing Lucifer might be using the holy angel's unrest to take advantage of the souls made Michaela instantly sick. He had said he would take Earth and Heaven from her. He was planning something. She struggled to breathe.

Lucifer had been baiting her. He knew if the fallen had involved the souls in one of their plans then she would have to do something. He was probably enjoying a good laugh thinking about her running around on holy angel errands when she clearly wasn't holy anymore.

"How far away is it?" Michaela glanced at Clark, chewing her lip.

"The accident?" Michaela nodded. "It's hard to say. Maybe a couple miles?"

"We need to go there."

"Why?" Clark asked.

"To see Loki," Michaela answered quietly.

Deciding to turn herself in hadn't felt like betraying her promise to Gabe, but this did. He wouldn't want her even going and talking to Loki. But Loki was the only angel who would know if Lucifer was taking advantage of the souls.

"So why are we going to see the Angel of Death?"

# Chapter Eighteen

Twenty-seven minutes later, Clark and Michaela were still stuck in traffic and no closer to the accident. Michaela was growing impatient, but traffic was stopped on either side of the interstate as far as Clark could see. From the looks of the people reclined in their seats with their cars turned off, no one was going anywhere anytime soon. Clark turned off the Chevelle.

"So tell me again why you think Lucifer is taking souls or whatever."

"He said something to me in the cave. It's just a hunch, but I need to check it out before we go to the Descendants," Michaela said.

"Well, we can probably hoof it from here."

Michaela grabbed a UK baseball cap out of his backseat. She pulled it low on her head and put on his extra pair of sunglasses.

"Very stealthy. Uh, what are you doing?"

Michaela had upturned the bottle of whiskey, letting the amber liquid pool in her hand. She dabbed it around her throat and on the backs of her wrists. Then she ran her fingers through her hair.

"There might be a lot of angels around, and I don't want anyone to smell me," she answered as she got out of the car.

"Oh, they're gonna smell you all right," Clark said, putting on a hat too just in case. He caught up to her, and they joined the trickling stream of rubberneckers walking farther up the road to get a better view of the carnage.

"Why a car accident?" Clark asked.

"Anything where a large amount of people are injured or dying," Michaela answered.

Clark cringed. "That's kind of twisted."

"Wherever there are souls, Loki will be there."

"Do you not like him?"

"How did you know?" Michaela glanced at Clark.

"Your eyes get hard when you talk about him." Michaela's eyes were hidden behind her sunglasses, but Clark could still tell she narrowed them at him. He smirked.

"He just worries me. As the Angel of Death, he's neither a holy nor fallen angel, because he takes all the souls. He has no allegiance, and that seems dangerous to me. He's just stuck in the middle," Michaela said.

"Sounds normal to me." At Michaela's bewildered expression, he continued. "Think about it. You're kind of stuck in the middle right now too. I'm in between for sure. We might get along better with him than you think."

Michaela frowned, and Clark thought she didn't want to consider getting along with the Angel of Death.

A mile and a half later, Clark was deeply resenting the Kentucky heat when he caught sight of the flashing lights. Cops barricaded the road against the people and reporters who craned their necks in an attempt to see blood and crumpled metal. Ambulances and fire trucks lined the median and shoulder. The smell of spilled fuel and fire burned Clark's nose. An uneasy quiver upset his stomach at being so close to death.

Michaela didn't notice the chaos beyond the barricades as she scanned the crowds for Loki. Clark joined in on the search just for something to do other than think about why none of the ambulances were racing off toward a hospital. He had no idea what Loki looked like, so it surprised him when he caught sight of a very out-of-place angel wandering through the edges of destruction around the wreck.

He nudged Michaela. "Is that him?"

Clark nodded toward the tall, disconcertingly skinny angel amongst the police and firemen. Michaela followed his gaze and looked surprised when she recognized the angel too.

"How can you see him?" she asked, failing to hide her shock, which Clark took slight offense to.

"With my eyes."

She stared at him a moment longer, searching his face. "Humans aren't supposed to see the Angel of Death," she said before she leaned in and sniffed him.

He recoiled, but she had already walked off toward the edge of the crowd. He lifted an arm and smelled his armpit before following her, feeling assured he didn't smell _that_ bad.

Clark reached Michaela right as she whistled so loud his eardrum popped. The people closest to them cringed and shot Michaela nasty glares. Clark massaged his ear and swore.

Loki turned at the sound, staring straight at Michaela, who lifted her chin in a slight greeting. Clark squinted at the Angel of Death, preparing a joke about how nerdy he looked, when Loki disappeared. Clark blinked, and Loki reappeared right in front of them with a cool smile and a glinting smirk in his green eyes.

Clark jerked in surprise, which caused the angel to acknowledge him.

"Loki, this is—"

Loki reached up, placing his hands on their shoulders, and suddenly they were in the woods. Clark could just make out the scene on the road, where he had just been standing through the thinner branches of the woods where they were now. His breakfast bubbled in his stomach, making him burp a little, but that was it, considering he'd just teleported.

"Well, Michaela, I can honestly say that I am pleasantly surprised to see you," Loki said in a voice that perfectly suited his overall sketchiness in Clark's opinion. Loki looked at Michaela like he felt something more than surprise at seeing her. Clark instantly didn't like the angel.

"No one's buying that Loki. As I was saying before, this is Clark. He recognized you," Michaela said.

Clark didn't know what the big deal was, but Loki looked at him quizzically, his mouth still twisting into a slightly naughtier version of a normal smile. "He saw me before I appeared in front of you?"

"Clear as day," Clark said.

"Let me do the talking," Michaela said to Clark before she added, "He's a human."

"Really? I thought he was a fairy with that hair." Loki leaned over and sniffed Clark. "Are you the one who smells so bad? I detect whiskey. Jack Daniels, perhaps?"

Clark opened his mouth, but Michaela cut him off. "Loki, I need to ask you a question, and I need you to be straight with me."

"Of course. Whatever you need. But first, I have to ask, how are you doing?"

Clark didn't hear concern in Loki's voice. The angel's eyes drifted over Michaela's shoulders where her wings should have been. He shook his head. The expression on his face was sad, but his eyes still gleamed with mischief.

"I'm fine," Michaela said shortly. "What would you say if I said it will be the humans who will win this war for the fallen?"

"I would say that someone is definitely thinking outside the box. And if I had to guess, I would say that someone is our dear friend, Lucifer."

Michaela leaned forward. "What is he up to?"

"So you figured out you were set up then?" Loki asked with a wide grin.

"How would you know that?" Michaela asked, taken aback.

"It's hard to get a lot by the Angel of Death." Loki grinned, revealing sharp, blindingly white teeth. "Especially when it involves the souls. Things would go awry quickly if both the holy and fallen angels didn't include me in their little plots."

Michaela gritted her teeth. "I know Lucifer is up to something with the souls. I don't know why he set me up." She took a deep breath. "Please, just tell me. Why is Lucifer doing this?"

The grin slowly slipped from Loki's face. Everything slid away until his features were nothing but a blank canvas. Suddenly, he burst out with a bark of laughter, making both Michaela and Clark jump. His grin was back, but this time it looked slightly wild. His eyes danced wolfishly.

"Oh, so you don't know." Loki shook his head at Michaela. "You still think it was the fallen who set you up."

"What are you talking about, Loki?" Michaela's words were careful, deliberately even.

"It wasn't the fallen who framed you for the invasion of Heaven." His smile stretched from ear to ear as he spoke, like he savored every word.

"Don't play games with me." Michaela's words were hisses. "If it wasn't the fallen who set me up then who did?"

Her question was too much for Loki. Clark watched, shocked, as the angel doubled over and his shoulders shook, his body vibrated. The angel threw back his head and howled with laughter.

"Don't laugh at me."

Loki was still laughing as he managed to speak. "Oh, Michaela. You're a real peach, you know that?"

"What are you saying?" Michaela asked. Clark would have put his hand on her arm to reassure her if he didn't think she would rip it off.

"What do you think I'm saying?" Loki asked when he finally leveled his gaze on her.

"Loki, you owe me," Michaela said quietly. Clark heard the threat in the words. Nervously, he glanced back to Loki, who still looked to be in good humor.

"Sweet Michaela, I don't think you are in the position to be making demands of me anymore. Actually, if I were to think about it long enough, I believe it would be my duty to escort you to Heaven. You are a fugitive after all, fallen or not..." he trailed off suggestively.

Michaela stepped forward. The air between their three bodies thickened. Clark thought Michaela might punch Loki. Instead, her voice was calm, almost reassuring, when she spoke.

"Loki, you wouldn't have told me this much if you were going to turn me in to the Aethere. I know you care about the souls no matter what you or the other angels say to the contrary. I would hope that whatever Lucifer is doing, you wouldn't want it to continue. So tell me what you meant before I get really pissed off."

A flicker of emotion passed over Loki's face, so quickly Clark couldn't place it, before Loki's mocking grin settled back into place. His laugh twinkled like a breeze through wind chimes as he raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Easy, Michaela. Don't get too sentimental on me," Loki said with a wink. "But I simply don't understand why you're bothering with this when you obviously have much graver concerns on your hands?" His eyes settled briefly on the blackness on Michaela's arm.

"I just need to know what Lucifer is going to do with the souls."

Loki settled back against a tree and said, "I can't speak for any angel's intentions—fallen or otherwise. I can only say what I've heard."

"And what have you heard?" Michaela prodded.

"The Aethere are cleaning house. It's the Purification, they say."

Clark heard the capital letter in his sentence. "The Purification?" he asked.

Loki rolled his eyes at Clark. "These holy angels have a word for everything. It's ridiculous and impossible to keep up with to say the least."

"What do you mean cleaning house?" she asked quietly.

"Only the best souls make the team. Everyone else gets the boot," Loki said.

"They can't do that. They can't _purify Heaven_."

Loki shrugged. "I don't make the rules. You do," Loki paused. The glint returned to his eyes, darkening them to the color of steel. "Well, at least you used to."

Clark narrowed his eyes at the mocking angel's intentional mistake. Michaela went very still next to Clark. He hadn't known her long, and he would never assume to know the character of an angel, but he felt her struggle, like she wanted nothing more than to race skyward and burst into Heaven, demanding resolution. Unfairly judged souls went against her very creation.

"Stop playing games, Loki. Why are the Aethere doing this?"

Loki sighed dramatically. "They say you ran Heaven into the ground. Too many unworthy souls were forgiven. They want to return it to its former glory, to Eden. It's the beginning of a new era, and the Purification is the Aethere's first reform. And Hell can have all the impure souls it wants."

Michaela's eyes snapped. "What does Lucifer have to do with the Purification?"

"Ah, the heart of the matter." Loki leaned forward, like it was a secret. "Tell me, Michaela, are you fighting to clear your name? Is that why you ask these questions?"

"I just want information," Michaela responded quietly. She closed her eyes. "I want to know what is happening. Lucifer cannot get away with this."

"That's all?" Loki rubbed his pointed chin with long, pale fingers. "You don't want to rescue everyone? Return Heaven to its rightful guardians?"

Michaela looked away, pausing for a long moment. "Loki, you've received countless souls passing from their bodies. You have felt their worth. What would you say of my soul? How would you guess me to be judged if I were a dead human?"

The two angels and one human regarded each other silently. Finally, when Clark couldn't bare it any longer, Loki spoke. "You are asking the wrong questions. You should be asking yourself if you believe in coincidence."

Loki's smile was rueful; the gleam in his eye turned spiteful. Clark could answer that question—no angel of any kind believed in coincidence.

"This," Michaela said, pointing to the darkness on her arm to signal not only her fall, but Heaven's, "has to do with the Aethere's Purification?"

Clark glanced at her. She had shifted, changed. Her body was still, the air around her cold. Her voice was hard. Somehow Clark felt they had treaded upon a batch of thin ice.

"Oh, the Aethere have everything to do with it, sweet girl."

Clark scowled at him.

"Go on," Michaela said quietly, fiercely.

"The Aethere say they started this grand Purification to cleanse Heaven by disallowing impure souls from entering. By raising the bar in judgment, guess what happens?"

"Lucifer gets more souls for himself," Clark answered.

"Exactly. Heaven only knows—well I guess it really doesn't—what Lucifer is going to do with those souls. But I doubt the Aethere care too much about that," Loki said, looking at Clark with a wicked gleam, shining bright off his pale face. He turned to Michaela. "They got what they wanted," he added.

"What did they want?"

"Who do you think the Aethere hate more than Lucifer?" Loki asked.

"I don't know..." Michaela began to frown, lines forming between her brows.

"Who, in their eyes, ruined Heaven? Who puts more emphasis on the souls than the angels? Who, in their minds, got what she deserved?"

Michaela looked away, her mouth pressed tightly closed. Her eyes searched the trees like she might find answers written in the bark. She began to shake her head, covering her mouth with a trembling hand.

"Exactly. They wanted you and your Archangels out of the way. They needed a path to power cleared, and what better way than turning everyone against you? The other angelic choirs had to support the Aethere. They knew they couldn't just call a witch-hunt for no reason. What do you think gave them that reason?"

Michaela trembled beside Clark. Her emotions sparked like a live wire along her skin, causing static electricity. Loki saw Michaela wasn't able to speak, so he went on.

"What would discredit a choir more than losing half their ranks to the fallen? Not to mention a General who let the enemy in the front doors. And a murderer on top of all that? It's a perfectly acceptable reason for the Aethere to step up and save Heaven and Earth from chaos. Think about it. They are doing us all a favor by rounding up you Archangel hooligans. But of course, that isn't the point we are getting at is it?"

"Then what is the damn point?" Clark asked, glaring at the angel.

Loki leered at Clark with that mischievous gaze of his. "So you're really not a fairy then? Okay, don't get so riled up. The point is, the Aethere couldn't have asked for a better excuse to take control. It was almost too perfect, wasn't it? _Like maybe it had been a set up from the very beginning_." Loki emphasized every word in his last sentence.

"No," Michaela whispered.

"What are you saying?" Clark asked, his head moving from angel to angel, trying to understand.

"I'm saying it was the Aethere from the very start. In exchange for the rights to a few extra leagues of souls, Lucifer invaded Heaven and framed the Archangels, so the Aethere could sweep in like the saviors of Heaven," Loki answered, gesturing with his arms like he had just revealed a bright, shining treasure. "Of course the only problem is they didn't stipulate how Lucifer could use the souls or his new shiny, fallen Archangels. So, I guess the joke is technically on the Aethere...and you of course."

"How is he using them?" Clark asked, frowning. Michaela looked unable to speak.

"Not in conventional ways, let's say that."

"But if the Aethere want to purify Heaven, why are they working with Lucifer?" The sound of crunching metal came from the road, diverting Clark's attention. When he looked back, Loki was watching him closely with a sweet smile.

"The Aethere hate the souls." Clark felt Michaela's body sag next to his at Loki's words. Her eyes were on the ground. "They've been sick of judging worthless souls for a long time. They want Heaven for the angels, not the humans. So they don't care who they have to work with to accomplish their goals. To them, Lucifer can have Hell and Earth if he wants it. As long as they get Heaven."

"But will Lucifer be happy with just Hell and Earth?" Clark asked, winning him a beaming smile from Loki.

"That's the million dollar question."

"I don't believe it." Michaela finally spoke. "I can't believe our own angels would do something like that against us."

Her words were not intended to draw a line between the holy angels and Loki, but they did. Clark saw the flash of anger cross Loki's face.

"Suit yourself. Now, if you don't mind," Loki said, touching his finger to the brim of a hat he wasn't wearing.

To Clark, they had stepped in one big steaming pile of it, and now Loki wanted to blow them off. Michaela didn't respond to the Angel of Death when he started to leave.

"I have a question for you," he asked Loki, who paused and looked back at them. Michaela stirred at his side. Clark felt her eyes on him.

"Clark." Her voice was low and full of caution.

"Shoot," Loki said over her, his cunning grin in place beneath his eyes that shimmered with renewed interest.

"You take all the souls to judgment? Every one?"

"Technically, I retrieve the souls from the bodies. The carrier angels take them to judgment," Loki amended.

"So you take every soul from every person who dies?"

"Yes," Loki answered, warming to the game.

"How? I mean, how can you get to every one?"

"Time doesn't exist for me. This conversation, however long we have spent here in the woods, means nothing to me. I can get everywhere I need to be, because there is no place I can't be."

That definitely made Clark's head hurt, so he moved on. "Do you remember every soul?"

Loki paused, like he understood where Clark was going. He leaned closer, making Clark want to inch backwards. He held his ground.

"Who are you asking about, boy?"

Clark sucked in a breath. He heard Michaela start to say something, but he ignored her. "Iris St. James."

Time for Clark seemed to stand still too. Loki cocked his head as if he recognized Clark, but then he shrugged. "I can't remember every one."

Clark nodded, his eyes shifting to the grass and roots at his feet.

"If you don't believe me," Loki said to Michaela, "then you should see the answers for yourself. Go to Devilish Desires in Charleston. But really, is it so hard to believe?"

Loki began walking back to the road. He called over his shoulder, "Just be careful what you listen to though." He winked and disappeared.

When Clark and Michaela finally reached the Chevelle, traffic still hadn't moved. Clark climbed into the driver's seat. Michaela didn't comment as he took a huge swig from the whiskey bottle. He kept a tight grip on its neck as they maneuvered around the cars, hopped the grassy median, and wove down the shoulder of the opposite side of the interstate until they were free enough to hit eighty miles an hour.

"What do you think Lucifer is doing with those extra souls?" Clark asked.

"Nothing good." Michaela spoke with her face turned toward the window.

"I thought you didn't believe Loki about the deal?"

"It feels unimaginable. What kind of angel would frame their General for an invasion? Heaven is not about power, it's about servitude and honor. If Loki is telling the truth then I will not turn myself in to the angels who actually betrayed Heaven and framed me for it," Michaela said.

"So how do you know who is telling the truth?"

"We go to Charleston."

"All right! That's my girl!" Clark lifted his hand for a high-five, but Michaela only gave him an empty stare before she looked away. Michaela was quiet as they drove. Her forehead rested on the glass, eyes fluttering open and closed as she drifted to sleep.

# Chapter Nineteen

Michaela opened her eyes and instantly knew she had succeeded in channeling Gabriel, because she was in a cage. Sitting up, teeth chattering, she looked through bars and saw more cages hanging from a large dome made of rusty scaffolding. She swayed beneath huge fluorescent lights that flickered and clicked high above her.

She looked down nearly two hundred feet to a large, circular arena where a crowd jeered and heckled. A noise like a keening, high-pitched scream pierced Michaela's ears, causing her to cringe away from the bars. The sound wasn't human. A large cheer went up, sending a chill down her neck.

She was in Hell.

"Michaela?"

Gabriel sat in the back corner of the cage, wearing only a thin leather cloth around his hips. His wings, dirty and stained, were wrapped around him for warmth. Blood, both old and new, spread across his torn and battered body. His lip was deeply cut, and a large bruise blossomed across his cheekbone. The ethereal, light golden color of his eyes had faded to a dingy yellow that seemed hidden behind a shadow.

"Is that really you?" Gabriel asked.

He tried to stand, but the cage rocked violently, and they both clutched the bars for balance. He sat back down, slumping like he was too weak to hold himself up. Even his voice sounded dirty.

"What have they done to you?" Michaela crouched in front of him, clasping his face in her hands. Her thumbs brushed across the bruise on his cheek.

"Why are you here? If this is another trick, I'm not buying it." His eyes were hateful as he watched Michaela, scrutinizing her face. He had never looked at her that way before.

"Gabe, it's me. I channeled you," Michaela said quickly. Gabriel didn't move, and his eyes never left her face. It was a long moment, but he finally smiled weakly, and a surge of relief flooded through her. His eyes lost some of their hard edge, and she saw a spark of their golden fire beneath the exhaustion and pain.

"Demons come to me a lot, looking for laughs. They always make themselves look like you."

Although he shrugged dismissively, she heard the torment in his voice. Being in Hell wasn't all physical torture, although he had fresh claw marks across his chest. The place changed an angel, influenced them. She couldn't fathom what Gabriel must be going through. As if on cue, another loud cheer erupted from the crowd below.

"Lucifer's form of entertainment," Gabriel offered. "Beliar creates demons for misbehaving fallen to fight as punishment. I'm the grand finale. I take on all the survivors. At once."

Michaela took in his bruises and wounds with a newfound horror. He was in one piece—barely. Guilt and shame consumed her. He was there because of her.

"No wonder Lucifer didn't object when Abel sent you here," she said. She watched his eyes. Gabriel made no comment as he stared down into the crowds of the arena. "Gabe, I'm so sorry." Michaela's voice was thick with tears.

Gabriel opened his wings and pulled her against his bare chest, rocking the cage more. His feathers brushed softly against her back; their warmth soothed her tattered skin and reminded her of home.

"Don't say that." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head as he stroked her hair. They were silent for a long moment before Michaela spoke.

"Why does this channeling feel so different than last time?" she asked, her voice muffled against his chest.

Michaela hadn't channeled much in her existence, but she knew enough to recognize this time was different. Nothing was hazy as it was before in the shack with Clark frozen in time. Here, everything seemed to move forward as normal.

"Time doesn't matter down here. Everything moves on, even dreams. Plus, I wasn't completely asleep. Sleeping is normally a bad idea down here."

There it was again—the overwhelming guilt of what she had done. Michaela pulled away slightly so they were eye to eye. "Gabe, I...I've missed you."

He picked up her hand, his fingertip tracing the lines in her palm. "You know I've had to stop myself from channeling you," he said without looking up.

"Why?" Michaela asked, shocked. "I want you to!"

"Michaela, Hell makes me...different." Gabriel shook his head. "I want you."

"Want me? You have me."

"No." Gabriel let go of her hands. "I mean I want you...and your body."

Open-mouthed, Michaela stared at Gabriel until she realized she was gaping. Their relationship had always been platonic. It was a passionate relationship, but not in a physical sense. Michaela loved Gabriel with every fiber of her body, because her body was made to love him. She had never considered actually making love with him.

"Is it wrong for us to..."

"I don't know." Gabriel shrugged. The movement was casual, but Michaela sensed his unease.

"I don't want to tarnish your soul," Michaela said, making Gabriel's eyes cut to hers.

"Does it matter anymore?" he asked, his words bitter.

Michaela thought for a moment before she said, "Okay."

"Okay, what?" Gabriel watched her closely now, lines forming between his eyes.

"I think I want you too." Michaela held up her other hand to show Gabriel how it shook. "See? And I'm all tingly—"

Gabriel's eyes flared a molten gold, and he yanked her into his body. His mouth landed hard over hers as Michaela sucked in a surprised breath. Their kiss was hot and wild and nothing like it had been the first time Gabriel channeled her. Michaela's eyes were wide open, staring at him as he kissed her. A heavy fist clenched around her gut, and she felt lost.

Her eyes closed, and then she was in his lap. The leather cloth around his hips bunched underneath her as she straddled him. Her thoughts were on the leather and what a thin barrier it was between their bodies when his arms banded around her, pulling her tighter against him until she felt the thump of his heart beating against her chest.

She began to participate in the kiss, following Gabriel's lead, when a horrible scream—a scream of something dying—high-pitched and keening, echoed from the arena below. It was sharp and violent in Michaela's ears, and she had to pull away from Gabriel. He closed his eyes as if in pain and slid her off his lap.

The scream cut off abruptly, and wild cheer erupted from the crowd.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Um," Michaela stammered, confused and completely rattled. Gabriel opened his eyes and watched her. Her lips were swollen; her body pulsed. She raked a shaking hand through her tangled hair. "Um."

Gabriel took her hand in his, rubbing the pad of his thumb across the tops of her fingers. "Why did you come here, Michaela?" he asked softly.

She crashed from whatever high she had been on. Did he not want her here? She bit the inside of her cheek.

_That's stupid_ , she told herself. Of course he didn't want her here. He lived in a rusted cage, hanging in air stinking of sulfur and fear. Beasts tore him apart every night for fun. Why would he want her to see that? Especially since she was the reason he was here. She realized Gabriel stared at her, waiting for her to speak.

"Did you know about the Purification?" Her brain was addled. She wasn't thinking clearly, which is why she blurted out the question.

Gabriel was silent. Within a breath, the golden hue of his eyes turned to a thick, viscous caramel. Michaela held back a grimace as the static in the air from his anger sent shocks rippling along her skin.

"I heard about a car accident on the radio, and I remembered something Lucifer told me that night in the cave." Michaela talked too fast as she tried to explain. "I found Loki. He told me about the Aethere trading souls for favors from Lucifer. He thinks Lucifer is doing something bad with the souls, something that the Aethere don't know about. Did you know about this? Did the Aethere really set us up?"

Lightning erupted across the sky. A tendril hit the scaffolding and sent sparks flying into the dome like fireworks. Even still, a snowstorm brewed, and huge snowflakes landed in Michaela's hair. The crowd went wild. From far below, a beast bellowed in agony.

"Gabe, talk to me."

It was a long, barbed silence before he finally spoke. " _You promised_."

"I know. And I am really sorry. But I couldn't let it go. So tell me, did the Aethere betray us?" she asked softly.

"Yes."

Michaela's tears were immediate and pushed against the edges of her eyes. She fought to hold them back. "When did you know?" Gabriel didn't answer or look at her. "Talk to me!"

"I knew something was going on when I went back to Heaven with Zarachiel. Then they sent me here, and I heard rumors about the deal," Gabriel said finally.

"So you knew that first night you channeled me, and you didn't say anything!"

"Michaela!" Her name on his lips was a groan of frustration. "You were badly hurt. Those angels set you up, gave you over to Lucifer, and he _ripped your wings out_. Of course I didn't want you running after them. You should have stayed out of it."

"But the souls are being unfairly judged. We have no clue where the other holy Archangels are. And you're in Hell! We can't stay out of this!" Michaela didn't want to fight. She tried so hard to keep the anger from her voice, but she was failing.

Gabriel shook his head, but didn't respond.

"Loki told me about a club run by the fallen in Charleston. From the way he spoke, I think it might have something to do with the souls Loki won in the deal."

Gabriel's face went blank, and he looked through the bars over his shoulder. He stared down into the arena, studying the bloody entertainment. "I guess that's where you're going next."

"Actually, I am." She jerked upright, using the bars to pull herself up. Her head brushed the top of the cage. Gabriel rose behind her, making the cage lurch beneath their feet. She clenched the bars in her hands to keep from falling as she turned to face him.

"Don't be stupid, Michaela." The artificial light twisted his face, casting shadows in his eyes like he was a fallen. He stood solid in the rocking cage, towering over her. Michaela scowled, striding forward, and stabbed her finger at his chest.

"I'm not being stupid! Do you have any idea what this feels like? Everyone thinks I'm a traitor! And you wanted me to do nothing about it!"

"Clearly, you listen so well." Lightning struck the cage, causing the metal to glow with heat. Neither angels felt as their feet burned. Gabriel slapped her hand away from his chest.

"I don't understand. I thought you of all people would have wanted me to fight back. Any other time, you would have been by my side."

"I can't be with you! I can't protect you! Because I'm in here."

She heard the accusation in his voice even though he tried to hide it. She stared at him, shocked and hurt. He saw her expression and backed her into the bars, pinning her against them. "This is beyond us, Michaela." His voice was a growl in her ear. "Something big is going on. You need to stay away from Charleston."

"That's exactly the reason I'm going," she said, defiant. In response, Gabriel hit the bar next to her head. The metal screeched and bent beneath his force; the cage jerked as if he had set it in motion.

They looked around, forgetting about their argument for a moment. The air began to warm, and the noises grew louder as the cage lowered toward the red dirt arena.

Gabriel grabbed her again and spun her around so she looked out onto the arena through the bars. He was pressed tight against her back. Her thoughts drifted to the leather at his hips briefly before she bit her lip and forced herself to focus.

"Look down there. What do you see?"

The stands were packed with souls going crazy for the carnage in front of them as more unlucky fallen souls fought all sorts of Hell's beasts. The souls were in their human forms, but their cheering was anything but human. As they drew closer, Michaela saw their hollow eyes.

"That's a lot of souls. Too many, but do you see any angels?"

Michaela kept to her sullen silence. She knew Hell would be full. That was exactly the problem. The Purification had messed up the balance. There were a lot of souls, but she didn't spot one fallen.

"Before the attack on Heaven, you sent me down here to find answers to the fallen's disappearances, but there weren't any answers to find. That's because the fallen are scared. Whatever Lucifer is doing with those extra souls has made a lot of his angels run and hide. Leave it alone, Michaela. This is way bigger than our problems."

The cage settled heavily on the ground. Dust and blood mingled in the arena. Huge beasts thrashed and roared, straining against the chains buried in the ground. They snapped huge maws, revealing hunks of skin and muscle caught between their fangs.

"I can't, Gabe," she said quietly.

"Ga-br-iel! Ga-br-iel! Ga-br-iel!" The crowd's chanting began as a large soul dressed in steel armor walked toward the cage carrying keys. In the stands millions of souls stamped their feet, drowning out their voices. Michaela shivered at their blood lust.

He stepped away from her, and she turned around. Hell had changed Gabriel. Doubt was heavy in his eyes, and it was an expression she had never seen on his face before. The thought that he might not believe in her splintered her insides, lodging deep within the softest parts of her. Doubt was a powerful thing, especially in angels. It led to ruin.

"I don't think you should come down here anymore," he said, turning away from her to wait by the door.

Michaela bit her lip. The arena looked much bigger from the ground. Lightning forked across the red sky. The massive beasts snapped in the cage's direction. They looked like oversized dogs; their eyes settled right on her.

"I'm sorry, Gabe," she whispered.

The key turned in the cage's lock. A deafening boom from thousands of voices in the stands sounded as one. He ducked out of the cage and stepped into the searing lights—never looking back.

Michaela woke to Clark's nudging. Her eyes were blurry, and all she saw was Clark's face going in and out of focus in front of a flickering neon sign. She wiped at a loose tear.

"I couldn't make it any farther," Clark said just as blearily. "I kept drifting off, so I got us a room in the back." He wagged a room key in her face. "We're about an hour and a half from Charleston."

Michaela sat up. She raked her hand through her hair, snagging it in the tangles as she scanned the parking lot. It was a cheap place called the Tropical Breeze. Two semi-trucks and an old beat up truck were the only other cars. She wrinkled her nose. "It'll do."

Together, they gathered what little Clark had packed from the car before heading to the room. He rammed the door with his shoulder while wiggling the key in the lock until they got in. Michaela flipped on the light, which took a moment to truly come on. Clark plopped down on the other bed and kicked the _wheezing_ air conditioner that only cycled warm, musty air.

"You can shower first," he said, trying to turn on the TV.

On her way to the bathroom, Michaela grabbed the duffel bag full of clothes. When she stepped into the shower, the water was ice on her skin, but the numbness was worth it. She dumped the contents of the motel's shampoo and conditioner in her hair, and mindlessly worked it into lather.

She forced her mind blank. When the water had turned her skin to wrinkles, she wrapped a towel around herself and stepped out. With Clark's toothbrush, she scrubbed her teeth until they bled.

No matter how much she tried not to think about it, she still felt Gabriel's hands on her, his mouth on hers. She heard him say he wanted her. Their kiss had been completely different than the kiss he had given her back when she was recovering in the small Descendant safe house. That kiss had been friendly, like nothing had changed in their relationship. Something had now; Michaela knew it.

But Gabriel had also never been as angry with her as he was tonight. They had fought, but never like this. Never before had he looked at her with disappointment. She couldn't handle seeing it on his face again, knowing she had let him down.

Gabriel was right about not coming to see him anymore. He didn't understand what she had to do. And she didn't understand her feelings for him. They were the perfect reasons to stay away.

She looked in the dingy mirror and fortified herself. It took a few minutes to convince her reflection that she was right, but she did it. When she walked out of the bathroom, her mouth was set in a grim line. She would not be channeling Gabriel again.

Clark looked asleep with the remote in his hand. Stripping the bed of its comforter and pillows, she settled beneath the sheet in a baggy Led Zeppelin t-shirt and boxers. She left the lights and TV on. Her eyes had just settled closed when Clark spoke.

"What do you think Loki meant?" he whispered, like he was unsure of his question.

Michaela opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. She wondered if anyone ever truly knew what Loki meant. "About what?"

"He said he didn't remember every soul he carried." Clark's voice wavered. "But he would, right?"

Michaela sighed. "One thing you need to know about Loki is that he will say or do just about anything if he thinks he can cause some trouble."

Knowing Loki, he only taunted Clark to get a reaction. He loved nothing more than to toy with emotions, to see them actually experienced by someone. Michaela had known the angel a long time, and she had yet to see anything genuine cross his unnatural features.

"He looked like he might say something else though. Like maybe—"

"Don't get caught up with things Loki says. He is a different sort of angel. All he wants is trouble."

Clark was silent for so long Michaela thought he fell asleep. She had just turned over and closed her eyes again when he said, "I didn't even know her."

Michaela strained to hear his quiet voice. She didn't know if he talked to her or if the thought was too powerful to stay quiet in his head. Either way, she heard it—the youthful naiveté, like he was a young boy again praying for his mother to come home.

"Don't let it bother you," she said. She wished she could take her own advice and not let Gabriel's disappointment bother her so much.

"I don't know what I know anymore," Clark answered after a moment of silence.

Michaela heard him turn over in bed, rolling to face the opposite wall away from her. She sighed at the tug in her heart. Her next words surprised her.

"You _know_ your mother loved you. You _know_ you loved her. You _know_ she sent you those dreams and that you are doing what she wanted. That's all you need to know." Michaela paused. She didn't want to say more, but the words came anyway. "We won't let her down. Now, let's get some sleep."

Michaela thought Clark had fallen asleep when he said, "Thank you."

She clenched her eyes shut. That was not what she expected. The snake coiled tight around her spine. Its rattler sounded in her head, reminding her not to get too close. She thought of Gabriel. Friendships were pain on Earth. But was Gabe really just a friend? The thought taunted her until she drifted into a restless form of sleep.

# Chapter Twenty

On Charleston's King Street, Devilish Desires stood like a neon homing beacon calling all souls for a good time. Clark limped through the water-filled potholes of the parking lot, thinking Michaela's promise of a stakeout had sounded so beguiling in the beginning. It was—for the first thirty minutes. Now, Clark's leg was numb from pinky toe to ass cheek, and he smelled of car air freshener and boredom. He planned to get a drink first thing, and he didn't care what Michaela said about it.

He made it in to the strip club and continued down a long corridor where thick, red velvet curtains ran along the walls and spilled onto the floor in heaps. Through an archway was the main room of the club lit only by dripping black candles and low hanging chandeliers. Musk, heavy and nearly choking, permeated the air and made Clark's eyes water. A deep, thrumming beat vibrated from the hidden subwoofers, forcing Clark's heart along to its tantalizing rhythm.

Clark ordered a double whiskey at the bar. He threw back the shot; it instantly cleared his head as the amber liquid seared his insides. Above the bar and throughout the club hung the heads of zebras, lions, deer, alligators, and even one elephant stared back at Clark.

"Kind of morbid don't you think?" Clark asked the busty bartender, pointing at the taxidermy collection. She only scowled at him in response.

Surveying the club from his position at the bar, Clark settled on a section of wall behind one of the larger stages. A thin veil of dusty, black lace hung over another smaller archway leading to the back of the club. As Clark watched, two patrons slipped through the thin curtain and disappeared around the corner.

He had another drink before heading toward the curtain. The dark wood floors were slick beneath the soles of his boots except where old rugs laid in front of the Victorian-styled couches facing the stages where the strippers worked their slow, twisting magic.

The lace door parted easily around him, brushing over him like hands skimming across his skin. Beyond the material was a narrow hall of red paneled walls with doors numbered one to ten. His eyes narrowed at the only unmarked door at the end of the hall.

Clark walked slowly to let his eyes and ears adjust. As he reached for the knob of the unmarked door, he paused and looked back down the hall.

Voices approached and the curtain parted. If fallen angels came into the hall, Clark was caught and as good as dead. His knees barely had time to quake when the unmarked door in front of him opened. Someone's hands reached from the dark room and wrapped around his upper arm. By the time he yelped, he was in the room, sprawled on the floor. The door quietly closed behind him.

Michaela stood over him, her face hidden by the shadows of the room. She reached out to pull him to his feet.

"Clearly you couldn't just wait in the car." Clark hiked up his pants.

Michaela flipped the lock on the door before she stepped around him and deeper into the room. In truth, she tried waiting in the car, but she quickly learned it would be impossible. Her foot had jigged incessantly, annoying even her. Her eyes darted at any movement, and she'd chewed her lip until there was a sore spot. Five minutes after Clark had left the car, she sneaked up to the back of the building, pushed an air conditioning unit out of a window, and slipped through.

"Is that whiskey I smell?" Michaela asked, looking back at Clark.

"What the hell kind of strip club is this? I'm pretty sure those numbered rooms ain't holding law-abiding activities," he said instead of answering her question.

"Don't talk too much. I don't want anyone to hear us." Her voice was lower than a whisper. She sniffed the air.

"What are you smelling?" Clark asked in a stage whisper as he glanced around.

Michaela didn't answer. She continued snooping around the office. There was a heavy metal desk topped with heaps of paper and empty liquor bottles. The back wall was a solid bookshelf filled to the brim. A large exotic skin from an animal Michaela didn't recognize stretched the span of the room. Sets of short filing cabinets in matching metal were lined beneath a dark glass mirror, which Clark walked over to.

"Whoa, this is a two-way mirror. What do you think is on the other side?"

"Get over here and help me with this." Michaela shuffled through the papers on the desk, touching and smelling everything.

"Aren't you worried about leaving your scent behind?" Clark took position on the other side of the desk and reached for a stack of bills Michaela hadn't looked over yet.

"No."

A door slammed outside, making Clark jump. Michaela's eyes darted to the light beneath the office door to watch for approaching shadows. "Keep looking here," she said quietly when no one came in.

There was nothing meaningful on the desk. She turned toward the bookshelf behind her, walking her fingers along the rows of mismatched, haphazardly shelved books, binders, and odd trinkets. After a minute, she wheeled away, frustrated. Not knowing what to look for made it hard to find.

"What is your problem?" Clark asked finally. Michaela had paced the room twice now, leaving destruction in her wake.

Michaela looked up, glowering. "Excuse me?"

"You're taking out way too much aggression on that chair." Clark pointed to the leather wingback that Michaela currently shredded open with a letter opener. She held the object like a dagger, poised over her victim. "It doesn't deserve that. Who would take the time to sew something into a seat anyway?"

"We have to figure out what Lucifer is doing here." She stabbed the letter opener in Clark's direction.

"Well, chill out, pop a pill, and go through those filing cabinets."

She shot Clark a dirty glare. Apparently unscathed, he turned back to searching the desk with a steady assurance that suggested this was not his first prowling escapade. Michaela stalked past him toward the filing cabinets. She nearly knocked over a cold, half empty cup of old coffee sitting on the edge of the desk. Clark caught the cup, but the papers beneath fell to the floor. A small, worn book that had been lying beneath the pile caught his eye.

As Michaela watched, Clark set the cup aside and picked up the book. His fingers skimmed across the soft, thin leather. Deep lines formed between his brows as he traced the swirling, engraved lines on the cover. He even lifted it to his nose for a sniff.

"What is that?" she asked, interested. She hoped they had finally found something. She came to his side and reached for the book, but Clark couldn't let it go.

"I don't know." His voice was low and reverential, all the usual swagger and sarcasm lost. Michaela looked from the book to Clark, watching his expression of bewilderment and wonder.

From where she stood, with her shoulder almost touching Clark's, she saw the book was ancient, but she smelled something strange and dangerous coming from its pages. The air around them tightened, pressing in warningly. She opened her mouth to tell him to stop, to drop the book, but before she could, Clark was creaking open the binding. The book unfolded in his vulnerable, human hands.

The moment it was opened, it reacted. Clark gasped. Michaela watched with wide eyes as a warm glow washed over the opening page, revealing words that appeared then disappeared. Clark nearly dropped the book as the pages started to turn like a stiff wind was blowing across them. Michaela couldn't keep up as the words raced across the flipping pages before disappearing.

But they weren't disappearing. Clark and Michaela both realized what happened at the same moment. Clark dropped the book with a curse.

Michaela didn't catch the book, or even watch it fall. Instead, her eyes stayed transfixed on Clark's skin. The words had raced from the book's pages, to Clark's hands, up his fingers, and into the skin of his forearms. The ancient language, one Michaela immediately recognized once it was still, inked in tight, intricate twists and hieroglyphics up to his biceps, leaving behind scorched skin and drops of blood.

"Oh shit." Michaela heard herself say, but she didn't recognize her voice.

Clark whimpered, clearly in pain. The tips of his fingers trembled as he held his arms out, inspecting them with wide, unblinking eyes. Clark weaved, looking like he might faint.

"Oh shit," Clark echoed when he could speak.

Michaela touched the twisting red dragon that wove around his wrist and onto the top of his left hand. Smoke from its silent screeching mouth wove over and under his fingers. Clark shivered. When she looked up, their eyes met.

"Do you know what this is?"Michaela asked in awe. Clark shook his head, swallowing loudly.

"This is the insignia of the Watchers." Her finger traced farther up his arm. "Do you know what language this is?" Clark stared at her and not the red words on his arms. She continued, "It's their language."

"Can you read it?" Clark croaked.

"No. It was the Watchers' secret language. We thought the book had been lost. There was no known record of it..." Her eyes skittered to where the book laid.

"What is it?" Clark asked.

Michaela bent to retrieve the empty hull. Nothing remained on its cover or pages, but Michaela wasn't looking for any identifying marks. She knew already.

"The Apocrypha."

Michaela had heard rumors of the Apocrypha, but no one believed the Watchers put their secrets—their very source of power—to paper. The Watchers were exalted angels, a choir unto themselves, who held incredible magic. But along with their disgrace, their magic had been lost. Many holy angels believed it was for the better. No one, even the angels, should hold the secrets to the universe. The myth that a book contained the lost answers was enough to make any holy angel more than uneasy.

Yet, Michaela held the very book in her hands. Like it had done to Clark moments before, the book seemed to send its own whispered breath up Michaela's arms that made her arm hairs stand on end.

_The humans will win the war. They will be my army._

"Is this bad?" Clark asked is a shaky, young voice.

"Don't let anyone see those marks under any circumstance. We have to go," Michaela said instead of answering.

The lights flipped on.

# Chapter Twenty-One

"What the fu—"

Michaela pressed her hand hard against Clark's mouth and yanked him to the floor behind the metal desk. His eyes were unashamedly wide with true fear, its smell filling her flaring nostrils.

When there was no immediate yelling or sharp objects flying through the air, Michaela realized the office door had never opened. It wasn't the office lights that had turned on. She looked at Clark, who shook his head to say he wasn't going to check it out. Michaela rolled her eyes before poking her head above the desk. The two-way mirror revealed it was the other room swathed in light.

Michaela stood, tugging Clark beside her. Together they watched as a man walked about the cramped viewing room next door before stopping in front of the window. He stared straight at them, but his face never changed. Clark waved slowly.

Without recognition, the middle-aged, pudgy man turned and walked toward the center of the room to sit on a wide, plush velvet chair so big his short legs didn't touch the ground. He picked up a small remote on the arm of the chair and pressed a button.

In front of them, a thick curtain slowly started to rise off the well-worn carpet. When the curtain was all the way up, it revealed a thick glass enclosure suited to hold a wild animal. The man struggled to straighten in his oversized chair.

A figure slowly materialized from the shadows of the glass enclosure. Clark's mouth opened with an audible pop. A flute began to play an old, sea swept song in the viewing room. They all waited in stunned silence.

The woman who stepped up to the glass had a full, curving, perfect figure. She drew her long, sinuous arms over her head, twisting and sliding them down each other. Her round hips swiveled and rocked to the song. Seaweed ran like vines up and between her legs, twisting around her hips as she danced. Huge green eyes were focused solely on the man sitting transfixed before her.

The woman's face was as lush as her body, framed by red wisps of hair that seemed to blow in a soft breeze. But Michaela focused on the woman's full, painted lips as they moved, forming the chords of an ancient song Michaela thought she would never hear again. For the briefest of a breath, Michaela saw a lightening-like slither of a serpent's tongue dart out of her wide mouth. Her long lashes brushed across her cheekbones as she closed her eyes, drawing her hands down the front of her body to cup her breasts.

"Oh, shit," Michaela whispered for the second time that night.

"Yeah, she's something isn't she?" Clark said dreamily as he watched the woman's writhing body press and slide against the glass. Keeping her eye on the creature, Michaela reached back and smacked Clark hard on the back of the head.

He jerked, ducking to avoid further blows. He turned to Michaela with a slightly peeved stare. "Jealously does not become you."

"She's a Siren, you idiot."

Cocking his head, he looked back at the creature that was now on her knees. His mouth formed a round 'o' and his eyes grew wide. "As in the irresistible-mythological-creatures-that-sang-from-the-cliffs-to-draw-Odysseus-and-his-men-to-their-deathskind of Sirens?"

Michaela shook her head. "How many classes did you skip during your Descendant training? Sirens were the human wives of the Watchers. After I buried the Watchers deep in the mountain for their transgressions against man, I punished the women with an immortal life full of unfulfilled desires. They would want what they could never have for the rest of eternity. They can lure men in with their voice, but they will never feel a man's touch again."

Clark shook his head, watching the Siren dance a moment longer. The man in the room leaned halfway out of his chair, drawing closer to the glass—an enraptured expression on his face. His lips moved in time with hers, begging and pleading for more.

"Remind me never to piss you off," Clark said under his breath.

"It was a punishment meant to remind them of their sins. I never thought Lucifer could use them like this."

"Can he?" Clark asked, his attention still on the Siren.

Frowning, Michaela said, "No...the Aethere had to pardon them from Hell. They judge the souls, but I typically handled the punishments within our ranks. The Aethere are the only other angels who could lift a punishment I had enacted."

"Right. But should we go?" Clark asked.

"No," Michaela said. "Not yet. I want to see what she will do to him."

Michaela's forehead creased as she considered the coincidence of finding the Apocrypha and a Siren in the same club. Lucifer was up to something, and it went far beyond just having dancing Sirens in a sleazy club for pleasure. For the first time, Michaela began to agree with Gabriel. This was much bigger than the Aethere simply framing her and the Archangels.

The man stumbled out of his chair and closer to the glass. The Siren slid up from the ground like a toxic vapor until she was eyelevel with him, coaxing and encouraging him. Like he could pull her out of the cage, his hands pressed so hard against the barrier, the flabby muscles in his arms quivered. He leaned in and pressed his lips against the glass. With a lewd smile, the Siren lowered her head and met his lips.

"This doesn't look good," Clark whispered.

The Siren's tongue flicked out, and the pane of glass folded into her mouth like moisture. Her hands reached up to grasp the man's face, holding him tight against her.

"Uh, what's she doing?"

Clark's voice was urgent. The man convulsed and fell limp in the Siren's grip, who continued to kiss him like she was trying to pull him inside her. Michaela squinted, staring intently at the Siren's mouth.

A tendril of light passed out of the man and between the creature's parting lips for a second before the light went back inside the man. Her tongue whipped out and flicked at the man's unmoving lips before she closed her mouth.

"She's tasted his soul...But didn't take it."

"Should we help him?" Clark quickly glanced at her before looking back to the scene.

"She didn't completely kill him."

The Siren closed her eyes, her features laid out in relaxed fulfillment like she had just eaten something delicious.

"What do you mean 'completely'?" Clark's voice squeaked.

The Siren bent over the human. It wasn't until Michaela saw the thick red liquid that she realized the Siren drew his blood. The creature took so many vials that Michaela figured if the man wasn't already dead he would be. When she finished, the Siren easily picked the man up and placed him back on the chair.

"He's just unconscious. We should go," Michaela said. Clark met her eyes and nodded. They both glanced back at the Siren at the same time.

She stared right at them—the two-way mirror was gone. Nothing separated Michaela and Clark from the deadly Siren. Her lips began to move again.

The sound hit Michaela like a punch in the gut. It ripped through her head, forcing away any thoughts, leaving only a horrible, tearing pain. Michaela doubled over, her body clenched against the shrieking in her mind. Her eyes watered, and hot vomit rose up her throat.

Pressing against the desk she looked up, eyes bulging. The Siren floated into the office, leaving a trail of seaweed behind her. The smell of the ocean filled the room, the wet brine suffocating and thick. The Siren was heading straight for Clark.

Clark was oblivious to the danger. His face was the same as the patron's moments ago. He was enraptured, begging for more. He took a step forward as the Siren beckoned him with her sweet singing. His eyes glazed over, mouth agape. Michaela grabbed for him, but he stepped out of her reach.

With a tremendous heave, Michaela shoved herself into Clark, knocking both of them to the ground. Pressing her hands against his ears to block out the sound, the haze over his eyes cleared, and he finally looked scared as the Siren, breathing her rotten fish breath, hovered above them. The Siren turned to Michaela, glaring and vengeful.

The Siren recognized her then. With a flick of her tongue, the Siren grabbed Michaela, wrenching her to her feet. The wet seaweed snaked around Michaela's legs, securing her to the Siren. The sound of waves slapping onto sand filled Michaela's ears. The sea's brine seeped through the Siren's skin onto Michaela.

Michaela's eyes settled on the soft skin along the Siren's neck. The creature wrapped Michaela in a tight embrace that looked almost intimate—except the Siren sank her fangs deep into the meat of Michaela's shoulder. Her claws dug into the muscles along Michaela's spine, pulling and tugging for purchase on bone.

With a grunt, Michaela's hand slipped along reptilian skin. She ran her fingers down the outline of the creature's throat, and there she dug her hand in, her nails piercing the soft, decaying flesh. The Siren opened her mouth to scream, but before she could, Michaela propelled her hand deeper into the creature's cold, gutted throat, crushing her windpipe with a swift clench of her fist.

The Siren fell dead at Michaela's feet. Her hand dripped with thick, black mucus instead of blood. Shards of the creature's throat dangled from her fingers. She turned toward Clark, who was on his feet. He looked away from the gore, his face drawn.

"Let's go," she said.

"Don't have to ask me twice," Clark answered with his hand already on the door, yanking at the locked knob.

Michaela reached around him, covering the metal with mucus as she fumbled with the lock. Clark pushed against the door as if he could open it with sheer will alone. Finally the lock clicked over, and they both stumbled into the hallway in a tangle of limbs and Clark's curses.

Their breaths were heavy as they straightened off the floor. The mucus burned Michaela's hand, and her shoulder throbbed from the Siren's venom. She barely registered the pain, because adrenaline coursed through her veins, making her human body even more sensitive to her angelic blood.

Her arm was on Clark's, yanking him in the right direction, when she screeched to a stop. She smelled him before she even saw or heard him.

Asmodeus was blocking their path.

# Chapter Twenty-Two

Asz looked like hell in every way possible. His drooping, black wings made him a shadow, a spot of darkness easily overlooked. Dull, inky eyes stared down at Michaela, unblinking and uncomprehending. He reached to touch her face, but his hand paused, and a tremor ran down his body.

"Michaela. _Michaela_ ," he whispered. "I've been looking for you. I thought I wouldn't find you in time. But here you are. You found me." He swayed. Michaela resisted to the urge to steady him.

"Michaela?" Clark echoed. His body was wired tight beside Michaela, his eyes darting from the angels to the empty hallway.

Michaela's slick, sticky hand still grasped Clark's arm. Her shirt, soaked with her blood, stuck to her shoulder where the poison burned deeper into her muscles. Her vision was blurring, but even if she could have seen clearly, she wouldn't have recognized Asz.

The angel in front of her was lifeless and certainly posed no physical threat. Even his feathers had no gleam, as if he might disperse into a legion of floating feathers any moment. He looked like a dead man walking.

"It's fine, Clark. This is Asz," she said.

"I know who he is," Clark said.

"Let's talk in the office." Michaela motioned to the door from which she and Clark had just catapulted. She steered Asz into the room, and Clark softly shut the door behind them, sliding the lock into place. Asz saw the slain Siren and cringed away.

"A Siren tried to suck out Clark's soul, which I thought was interesting considering they were forever damned to eternity in Hell."

"They were freed." Asz's lips barely formed the words.

"Asz, what happened?" Michaela couldn't help her anger. Asz had been the only angel in the cave the night Molloch attacked her, who might have helped her. Instead, he had left her with Molloch's body, knowing Lucifer was coming to take her wings. "Asz!"

Michaela was shaking Asz before she realized what she was doing. Her shoulder protested, the torn skin pulling and oozing blood and mucus.

"Michaela," Clark said. He pulled her away from Asz. "Give him a minute."

Asz shrank away, chewing on his fingernail and bobbing his head. His shrunken form folded in on itself. "I'm so sorry. I'm so...so...confused. I don't understand anything anymore."

Michaela sighed and Clark let her go. She had expected the fallen Archangels to be happy and thriving under Lucifer's thumb. She had prepared to hate them for it. But she couldn't hate Asz like this, so broken and hollow.

"It's okay. I'm sorry too." Michaela touched Asz's arm. His eyes were hopeful when they met hers.

"That's why I needed to find you. I want your forgiveness, Michaela. I need it. I know I don't deserve it, but..." Fighting tears, Asz searched the room.

Michaela took his hand and squeezed it. "It's okay, Asz. This whole thing was out of your control. I don't blame you for what happened in the cave." The words were hard to say, and the angry, bitter part of Michaela resisted speaking them. But forgiving Asz was the right thing to do. He didn't deserve her anger.

"Really?"

"I mean it, okay? But I need your help with one thing. I need you to tell me what happened with Cassie. Why did she fall? What happened?"

Asz didn't speak for a long moment as he gathered his thoughts. When he finally spoke, he sounded almost like his normal self. "I didn't notice anything at first. Cassie was always different, always so fragile—so human. How could I have noticed? A seed of doubt is a small thing. Small enough that I wonder if she even noticed until it was a living, breathing monster inside her. By then, when I understood that something was truly wrong, it was too late."

"I understand," Michaela said, but Asz shook his head.

"I can't...I'm not saying this right. Let me show you?" Asz pleaded. She realized what he intended. She nodded, still holding his hand. With her other, she took Clark's.

* * *

_I wait for Cassie at the edge's wall like I always do when she is returning from a trip to Earth for souls. The worry is a pain in my chest, a stiffness in my neck. My thoughts are consumed by the bad things that can happen to her on Earth. She is so small for a carrier angel, I think._

_But Cassie sneaks up on me. I feel the slight touch of her small hand on my shoulder before I can even sense her. I spin around, grabbing her cold body into my arms and stirring up dust that coats us both. I'm laughing, not because I think it's funny, but because I'm overcome with relief._

_But she doesn't laugh with me. I lean back and see her eyes are too wide, unblinking, one green and one gray. I search her body for a wound. All I see are the goose bumps on her dissolving flesh._

_"What's wrong?" I ask immediately, thinking all my worst nightmares are coming true. Her smile is more of a flicker, a spasm. She brushes her loose blond hair out of her face in a jerky, too quick motion. She scratches at her arm. Another half smile._

_"Cassie. What's wrong?" I beg. Her nervous twitches are so pronounced; something has happened._

_"Asz, we need to talk," she whispers, leaning in until her mouth is close to my ear. Her eyes dart like someone can hear us._

_There's no one around._

* * *

"That was the moment it started," Asz said.

Michaela struggled to hear him as she pulled herself from the memory. Clark steadied himself against the desk, his hand against his stomach. He looked at her in shock, and Michaela realized she should've told him what was about to happen.

Michaela understood the unsettling feeling. She smelled Cassie—the scent of lingering earth still clung to the wisps of her hair. A clammy sweat chilled Michaela's skin.

"What was wrong? What had happened?" Michaela said, but Asz was far away, remembering. She strained to pull herself back into his memories, focusing on his eyes and trying to see behind them into his thoughts.

"She was talking crazy. It started as little words that I never quite caught. Then it turned into yelling, clutching, crying. She begged me to listen, to see reason. She scared me talking like that."

"What was she saying?" Michaela asked. She didn't understand how Cassie was the cause for the Archangels' falls. In the cave, Cassie spoke of souls and how Michaela was hurting them. But Michaela rarely dealt with the souls directly.

"She said something was wrong with the souls. She was worried about them, trying to convince me something bad was going to happen to them. She spoke of a Purification."

Michaela went deadly still. She dropped Asz's hand. _Don't get mad_ , she told herself. It didn't work. "She was working with the Aethere? After all she did for the souls, how could she want the Purification?"

Asz truly looked at Michaela for the first time. "No," he said, shocked. It was the most emotion Michaela had seen from him so far. "Of course not. She hated the Aethere. She hated you even more. She said you and the Aethere were planning a Heaven without souls."

"No! I never wanted that!" Michaela wanted to scream. "Who told her those lies?"

"Lucifer." Asz's shoulders slumped as if he had just admitted defeat. His black eyes were a lonely, sad ocean.

"I assumed," Michaela said. "If he was working with the Aethere and knew about the Purification, he would have the perfect ammunition against me. And using the Aethere's Purification was the easiest way to get to Cassie."

"Why did Lucifer go to Cassie though?" Clark asked. His voice was shaky, but he stood strong beside Michaela.

"She was the weakest. And if she fell, she would take Asz with her. After that, the unrest would have spread amongst the other Archangels, but the chance of me noticing during the anxiety from the fallen angels' disappearances was low. Lucifer could pick and choose the Archangels who were the weakest."

"It's not your fault," Clark said. Michaela didn't respond. Another memory formed in Asz's mind so she took his hand.

* * *

_"Cassie, please tell me what's wrong," I beg again for the countless time. We'd been performing this same dance for a while, and it is slowly picking up tempo. I don't know how much longer we can stand it._

_She is a crumpled doll in my arms. The crying lasts for ages. Her sobs rip my heart apart. She is still so human. I feel every withered inch of her. She is disappearing right in front of me._

_I'm a desperate angel, because I'm losing her. I'll do anything to save her._

_Finally, she looks up at me. Her different colored eyes are the most extreme I've seen. "We need to go, Asz."_

_I'm so confused. She shifts in my arms and cups my face in her tiny, cold hands. I feel like a giant around her. My size always makes me feel so powerful, like I can protect her. I've never felt so powerless, so small than I do right now in this moment._

_"Go where?" I ask._

_She stops crying. For the first time in a long while, she looks like the old Cassie—the one I love. She waits, staring at me with those startling eyes._

_Finally, I understand what she has been trying to tell me all along._

* * *

"The threat of the Purification was too much. She fell apart in my hands. It happened so fast after that, I had no time to decide what I should do." Asz paused. He raked his hands over his face. "That's a lie. I knew exactly what I would do. I would do anything to make her better. If she wanted to leave, we were leaving. I'm sorry, and I know it was wrong. But I couldn't stay in the place that was tearing her apart. And I couldn't let her leave without me."

Asz was far away. His memory of leaving Heaven was excruciatingly painful. It blinked through their minds like a scratched record; it was powerful, but Asz passed over it. "But it didn't work. I thought if she stopped transitioning and stayed in one place for a bit with me, she would settle down. But she was just as bad on Earth as a fallen as she was in Heaven. No, it was worse. Lucifer had her convinced she needed to save the souls."

Michaela leaned forward. "Was Lucifer using the extra souls he got from the Purification for something? What did he need Cassie for?" But Asz wasn't listening.

"They were all she talked about. How she was saving them, giving them a new purpose. She was saving everyone, she said. She had it so twisted. He had her so twisted. Like a little toy car, he wound her up and steered her in the exact direction he wanted her to go. I watched it happen. I tried to...I tried...I don't even know what I was trying to do anymore. Whatever it was, it didn't work."

"Asz, why? What happened?" Michaela pressed. She gripped Asz's hand until he winced.

"Michaela," Clark said like a warning. His eyes were trained on Asz.

"A few days ago..." Asz took a shuddering breath. Michaela saw a bottle of wine and old musty apartment, but Asz passed over the memory. "I had to go out. I needed air. When I came back, she was reading it. I smelled it instantly. She looked up at me, her eyes were crazed. She was reading the Apocrypha."

Michaela saw the bottle of wine crash to the floor, pouring red across the floors like blood seeping through pages. She jerked out of the flash of a memory when Clark gasped. He yanked his hand out of hers and spun around. He rubbed his arms as if the marks burned, his breathing short and quick.

Michaela smelled his fear, but she ignored it. She grabbed his arm, pulling him around to face Asz. "He touched the Apocrypha and that happened. What does it mean?" Michaela said, demanding.

"Michaela!" Clark tried to pull away.

"It's fine."

"Lucifer has been trying to decipher that book for decades. It was only because of Cassie that they got even close. If the human can read it—"

"I can't," Clark quickly interrupted.

"You haven't tried," Michaela countered.

Clark glared at her. "Maybe it will wash off."

"It's still dangerous. The Watchers' language went to the grave with them. We all assume only the Nephilim can read it."

"The Apocrypha is on you." Asz's quiet voice jarred Michaela and Clark out of their argument. "Lucifer won't care if you can't read it. He won't tolerate losing the information."

"What's in it?" Clark asked.

"It is the secrets of the Watchers. The ones they taught the Nephilim. There are rumors the Watchers knew a way to kill an angel long before...long before," Asz's eyes drifted over to Michaela, "before Michaela found another way."

"We thought we had expunged the secrets along with the Nephilim during the flood. We didn't get them all. Every now and then we hear of a Nephil. We track them down and kill them." Michaela's words brought a wave of unexpected guilt. She had never regretted killing the Nephilim before. She pushed away the thought. "But why was Cassie reading that book? What did it have to do with the souls?"

Asz shook his head sadly. "I just wanted to help her. I thought if I gave her some space, she could clear her head. But when Lucifer gave her that book, she lost herself. But I was lost too. I hated myself for leaving Heaven and for leaving you in that cave, Michaela. I could barely stand it. I was fallen in the only way that mattered—who owned me. But I couldn't give up on her. I needed to keep her sane, and maybe I could show her a way out of this mess she had made." Asz paused.

Another memory stirred, ready to pull them in. Michaela's vision was just blacking out, opening to his memory when he said, "I couldn't."

# Chapter Twenty-Three

_After my reaction, she leaves. She hates me, I know, but I think I hate her too. I hate our bond that didn't give me the freedom to decide between holy and fallen. I hate that all she talks about is the thing driving her mad. Unimaginably, I still love her. But my love is more like a weight between us. It's driving us even further apart because we can't be free of each other._

_I'm thinking all this as I follow her. I need to know what this thing is that's so important to her. As I track her farther downtown, I decide no matter what, she and I are leaving tonight. No more Apocrypha. No more souls. It'll be just the two of us from now on._

_She goes to a huge building next to the gleaming Ashley River. I stand outside for awhile to gather my courage._

_I need it as I walk in the front and ask for her. A fallen works the reception desk and recognizes me as an Archangel, a traitor. My fallen status is automatic admission into Lucifer's building. Smiling sweetly, too sweetly, she takes me straight back to Cassie's lab. We make so many turns past other labs that I'm completely lost. Cassie's lab is down in the basement, far from the others. The fallen doesn't speak to me once, though she swings her hips suggestively in front of me as we walk._

_I hesitate outside the door waiting until the fallen leaves. I allow myself one deep breath to settle my nerves._

_Why am I nervous? I wonder. Stop. Focus. I swing the door open, stepping through like Don Quixote saving the princess._

_It's dark, and I'm not expecting that after all the bright, fluorescent lights in the halls. For a moment, I'm blind. The only light from the room comes from Cassie's wings. It's dim, fluttering, fading. It takes a moment for that to register._

_Then it does, and I realize how stupid I am, how naïve. Something had taken a hold of her, and I didn't matter anymore._

_She sits on the ground, hunched over, bleeding, and murmuring. Her face is tight in concentration and pain. I see the fresh glint of blood, smell it like a fire in the air. She trembles as she defiles herself._

_Her right wing hangs limp at her back, bent and warped—the source of the flickering light. Her left wing is pulled around to her front, held tight in her tiny hands. She doesn't look up when I barge in._

_She pulls out her feathers. They are strewn around her like melting snowflakes. She plucks her left wing practically bare. I instantly recognize the language of her murmurings. It's the Watchers'._

_She still doesn't look at me even after I fall to my knees, sobbing. I don't know how long I kneel in the door or how long I cry._

_Finally she looks at me, her eyes wide and black. Her smile quivers when she holds out her hand, beckoning me to her. "Come," she says. "Give yourself away." Then she laughs. It's a bubbling noise that almost sounds like choking._

_I smell it. Human blood. I watch as she raises the near empty vial to her lips, letting the drops fall to her tongue. I want to pray for her forgiveness, but that isn't an option for us anymore._

_"Why, Cassie?"_

_I can't move. I can barely look at her. She drops the vial, her fingers clumsy and drunk. She starts pulling at her feathers again, her attention already turned away from me._

_"We have to save the souls. They need a safe place. It's the only way."_

_"Cassie, that's not your decision. You took them to be judged. That was the safe place."_

_That got her attention, and her focus is terrifying. I think she might launch herself at me. Her eyes are wild. Her fists form a claw that she scrapes down her legs, leaving bloody cuts. The face I spent eternity loving contorts in a vision of rage and hatred directed completely at me. I'm scared of her—my little bird._

_"That is not a safe place!" she spits. "We must give them a new place." Like a curtain closing, her rage slides away, replaced by the empty expression and hollow plucking. "We must hide them inside us."_

_She passes out at some point after that. I lose track of how long I've been there. Her body lies in the middle of her own destruction. I get up and leave. An eternity together, and all I can do is leave her._

* * *

The memory ended. Michaela blinked. A hollow chill crept through her. Even the snake was still.

"I wanted so badly to fix her, to bring her back, but I think I made things worse. I scared her more. She felt so alone all the time, like no one but Lucifer understood what she was saying."

"When did this happen?" Michaela asked quietly. Her heart sank. Cassie and Asz had been on Earth together less than a week, and Cassie was already completely lost.

"Last night. I had to leave her. I couldn't stand to see her body knowing she wasn't in there anymore. She was stolen from me and lost to the world. I couldn't stand to be around what she had become."

"What did she mean about putting the souls inside her?"

Asz looked at her like she hadn't heard anything he'd said. "She is making monsters of us all. Why do you think all the fallen are running scared and hiding in places far away from Charleston? That damned book cursed us all. I came here to destroy it."

Asz settled his gaze on Clark's arms. Michaela stepped closer to Clark. Her voice was low, a warning, when she said, "Asz."

But he didn't hear her. "I can't fix it now. Just be careful, human. Those are dangerous words on your arms." He paused. His gaze settled fully on Michaela, coherency clearing the murkiness of his eyes. His voice was strong when he said, "I want to die remembering her as she was. I can't lose myself too. I'm the only one left of the two of us who remembers how things were supposed to be. I can't be in this world another day knowing what she has become."

"What are you saying?" Michaela's voice turned sharp.

"Please understand, Michaela," Asz pleaded. "I didn't want this. If not for her, I would never have chosen this for myself."

She tasted a bitter metallic stench. Asz started backing away toward the door. Slowly, the pieces formed a picture in her mind.

"Asz, you don't have to do this," she said. She held her hand out like she wanted to pull him back.

In his hand, Asz held a long, arching knife. The handle was crudely shaped, formed in a hurry. The blade was not a blade at all, but a white, shining bone sharpened to pierce through any barrier. Michaela grimaced, feeling sick.

"This was made from your bones," Asz said, holding the knife up to inspect it. "Lucifer made many from your wings. I'm sure you guessed by now that only your bones can kill an angel. Lucifer says it is because you were the first angel ever made, the purest. He's tested the theory a few times on some fallen. It works, and now everyone knows about it. He gave this one to Cassie, but I took it from her."

"Michaela, we have to leave. Now," Clark said, sounding terrified.

"Asz, please," Michaela begged. She took a step forward and would have walked all the way to Asz if Clark hadn't stopped her. Asz smiled at Clark.

"That second bookshelf is a door. It will take you into the back parking lot. You should go," Asz said. He nodded at Clark. "Good luck."

"No. I won't leave. No one has to die." Michaela stood resolutely in the middle of the office. Clark heaved on the end of her arm.

"There's nothing left in here," Asz said, pointing at himself. "I needed your forgiveness, Michaela. It was the only way I could allow myself peace. Will you still grant me this?"

In the beginning, when she had set out with Clark, she assumed there would be a clear line drawn in the sand. But staring at Asz now, witnessing his agony, knowing it was in part her fault, sent a harsh wind scattering across that shifting line. What had been right before didn't feel so right now. The refusal that slipped up the back of her throat seemed cowardly as she looked into his eyes.

She nodded.

Asz closed the distance between them and grasped Michaela's other hand. "Thank you." Michaela squeezed his back. She wished she could tell him all the words she needed to say. Instead, her throat swelled shut.

"Michaela, I have to ask one last thing of you. It's a lot to ask, but you're the only one I trust to do the right thing. You are the best of us all." His voice broke. He swallowed, gathering himself. "You must kill Cassie."

Michaela closed her eyes. Asz squeezed her hand, begging. He meant to convey to her his thoughts, his feelings, but nothing got past the barrier of their division. She nodded again.

Asz kissed her cheek. Clark pulled her arm again, and Michaela allowed him to tow her toward the bookcase. In one hand Asz held a dagger. In the other was a thin cell phone. As she watched, Asz slipped the bone dagger into the space between his ribs.

Michaela let out a small sound of agony and collapsed against Clark as he opened the door. She caught one last glance into the room.

Hundreds of white feathers floated up through the air and dissolved against the ceiling. Then the door swung shut, and she remembered the device Asz had held in his other hand.

"I think he..." Clark began but never got to finish.

Michaela was around him, and they sailed though the air as a series of explosions blasted away at the front of the club.

# Chapter Twenty-Four

Clark was having a bad night. Actually, he'd never had a worse night. He panicked when he heard the sirens approaching the burning club, because the Descendants and likely the fallen wouldn't be far behind.

No one in the swarming, screaming horde outside the inferno questioned why he stuffed an injured woman into his car, which proved to be a Herculean effort. Michaela was all wire and steel, her body rigid with pain. His fingers stuck to the burnt places of her skin. Grossed out, he yanked his hand away, which only ripped her skin more.

Scrubbing his hands on his jeans, he hurried around the car and jumped in. He revved the car to life and sped out of the parking lot. His foot jerked against the gas pedal; his hands were clumsy with the wheel.

He wove in and out of the traffic on King Street. Every few seconds his eyes darted over to Michaela. The smell of her burnt skin tickled the back of his throat until he thought he would puke. As they moved out from under the shadow of buildings, the moon shone through the windshield, and he saw the piercing sheen of her golden blood on his passenger seat.

The bumps along the road jostled Michaela's head against the cool dampness of the window. Her eyelids fluttered, and a groan escaped her lips. Sweat slicked across her face even though she shivered. Clark didn't know if it was the burns or the Siren's poison making her sick, but he turned up the heat in the car.

"Gabe," she moaned.

Clark's gut went cold. He strung together a loop of curse words, repeating them over and over with increasing vehemence. He turned the radio off and drove in silence; he couldn't stand one more sound in his aching ears.

The streetlights cast light into the car as he drove, illuminating the outlines of the language adorning his arms. It scrolled, looping and curving, dark and sinister across the paleness of his arms. Panic tightened his chest and turned his breathing into shallow panting.

He wove through the still dark streets with no purpose in mind but to make the burning, bright glow of the club diminish in his rearview mirror. He went east, then north, then doubled back, driving in circles. He swerved around a motorcycle and forced burning bodies from his thoughts.

He checked his rearview mirror again. A car caught his attention. It stood out, because he recognized its discreet style. Clark's hands slipped on the wheel soaked in his own sweat. He eased the car a little faster, weaving through traffic. A light turned red, and Clark made a last minute turn onto a new street.

Clark's eyes went to the mirror again to be certain the car was still behind him. He poked Michaela's arm until she stirred; his eyes flickered from her, to the road, to behind them.

"I think someone is following us," he whispered like they could hear him. She didn't respond.

He knew they would come. The Descendants were an order of blood not oath. You were born into it; death brought the only vacation time allowed. The process left little for the imagination. Clark just hadn't expected them to come for him now.

_What luck._

Clark eased the Chevelle onto the interstate's ramp while he watched the sedan glide into place behind him. The road spread open before him, and the urge to floor it, to flee, stifled him. The cars around him parted to let him merge. The sedan slipped back a few spots as Clark shifted over to the fast lane. With a deep breath, he floored it.

The surge of the car brought immediate relief, and Clark was able to think clearly. The sedan followed him easily, but the other cars bunched around them. The blur of the night sky and the city lights around his was tantalizing, but Clark wouldn't escape on the interstate even if his car was faster. If he could time it right though, he might shake them.

Clark yanked the wheel, veering into an impossible space between a semi-truck and a minivan. For a moment, all Clark saw was headlights. The car bounced and fishtailed beneath Clark's hands as he cranked the wheel back toward the exit ramp at the last moment. Michaela's head cracked against the window, waking her once again.

Clark made it; he whooped and Michaela grimaced. Horns blared behind him. The speedometer hit ninety miles per hour up the ramp, and Clark grinned like a fool.

He looked behind them. "Suck on that mother—" But the Descendant made it too. Clark's heart sank. He looked at Michaela, whose eyes settled closed once again.

"Oh shit. Oh shit. Ohshitohshitohshitohshit."

Clark rocketed up the exit ramp and skidded back onto King Street. He hopped a curb and sent the car rocking beneath them as he cut down a smaller street.

Clark was desperate. The yellow light of a large intersection turned red. He made it across to a violent harmony of skidding tires and twisting metal. The car bounced over a sidewalk and narrowly missed the sign for a cemetery. He'd lost a side mirror in the process, but the Descendants' car was still back there, unflinching and unyielding.

"Michaela, wake up!"

Michaela opened her eyes and expected to see Clark. Instead she saw Gabriel hunkered deep into the filthy corner of a small holding cell. The ceiling was low enough that an angel would be forced to constantly bend. It was no wider than the width of wings. The floor was grimy and cold; the air was damp and wet. Michaela wrinkled her nose at the smell.

His eyes stayed closed, his brow furrowed. Welts zigzagged across his shoulders. An assortment of gashes, bruises, and dried blood the color of copper collided in a ghastly mess across his chest. His fist clenched the hilt of a heavy sword like he expected to use it. Gabriel seemed to focus so hard on channeling her that he didn't even notice when he succeeded.

"Gabe?"

Gabriel's eyes flew open. He rushed across the cell to where Michaela slumped against the bars."Michaela! I heard. Are you okay?"

"I'm tired."

But she began to wake up, and her awareness grew as she transitioned into Gabriel's dream. She expected pain, but none came. Gabriel had channeled her again, but through his own dream. It was an ability—to completely control another's sleeping subconscious—that took incredible skill.

Michaela's voice rasped. A faint hint of smoke lingered in her nose. She sat up a little straighter. Gabriel crouched beside her; his eyes scanned her body.

"How bad are you hurt?"

"How did you know?" Their words jumbled together. Michaela blinked in confusion. Slowly, the moments right before the explosion came back to her.

"Answer me," Gabriel commanded.

"Not bad." She shifted against the bars. Her back felt fine. "The explosion was close. I'm already healing."

With a sigh, Gabriel pulled her closer and tucked her under his chin. "The guards heard. They said you were inside."

"We were. Asz was there too. He killed himself and blew the place up with a timed bomb. It was Clark who realized Asz was going to blow the place with all those poor people inside. For a second, I thought I could just grab Clark and fly up into the sky," Michaela said into his chest. "Then I remembered...I hesitated. That's why I'm hurt. I could have gotten us out of the way if I hadn't paused."

"What did you see?" Gabriel asked.

"A Siren nearly kissed the soul completely out of a man, and then it took his blood when he was unconscious." Her voice wavered.

Gabriel rubbed small circles on her back while he waited for her to get it all out. His hand crossed the ridges of her scars through the thin fabric of her shirt. She would have more after tonight.

"The blood is important, but I can't figure out why. The Sirens didn't take the souls."

"Michaela." He shook her gently until she looked at him. His gold eyes were warm and patient just like the old Gabriel. "Why was Asz there?"

"To destroy the Apocrypha." Her breaths came in hitches.

Gabriel's eyes weren't disappointed or upset with her. So she went on. She spoke of blood and souls. She told him about Cassie and Lucifer and the Apocrypha. She demonstrated how the book came alive and poured from the old pages onto Clark's skin. Asmodeus' last few days with Cassie were laid out between the two angels and filled the air between them with a sinking sadness. Gabriel listened quietly as Michaela struggled through the part where Asz found Cassie drinking human blood and pulling out her feathers.

"What was she doing?" Gabriel asked, pulling Michaela closer to him.

"Asz said she was making monsters of the fallen. But I didn't get a chance to ask him what he meant." Michaela shook her head. She would never tell Gabriel how badly Asz's memories of Cassie scared her. Instead, she only said, "I'm worried."

"Michaela..." Gabriel pressed his face into her hair.

"As soon as I get better, I am going to find the place Cassie was doing her work," Michaela said with resolve.

"I don't think you should."

Michaela looked up at him, frowning. "If I don't, who will?"

"At least wait a day or so," Gabriel said. "I'm serious, Michaela." He took her face in his hands and turned her face to his when she didn't answer. "You need to lay low for a bit."

"I'll be careful."

"I mean for the sake of the Descendant with you. With those words on him now, the fallen _and_ the Aethere will have another reason to find you both. You need to keep him out of sight."

"Asz had a few details in his memories that I can try to track down," Michaela said. "He said when he followed Cassie that she went downtown to a large building with an angel on the sign. It can't be that hard to find. I'll be careful, but I can't stop now."

Gabriel pressed his lips into her hair. She turned to wrap her arms around his chest. His blood smeared across her shirt and along her arms. The air shifted in the cell. The tension poured from Gabriel's body.

She raised her head. His eyes were closed, clenched against the changing feelings she felt in his arms. Michaela understood. Everything was different now. Whether it was being human, or Gabriel influenced by Hell, the air between them grew thick with desire.

Michaela felt the power of Gabriel's need through the pressure inside her head, the almighty flip of her belly. When he opened his molten eyes, he'd given up resisting. His mouth pressed against hers, and she dug her fingers into the muscles of his back.

Gabriel's arms banded around her waist and leaned her back against the floor, supporting her weight in his arms until her back was on the cell's floor. They should stop. Michaela wished they could. Then she opened her mouth to him and all thought of stopping was lost.

Gabriel's hands raced across Michaela's bare skin beneath her t-shirt, leaving fire in their wake and making her belly quiver. She moaned into his mouth at the sensation she hadn't known existed. She felt his touch a million times over. He pulled her shirt off and then it was just her skin against his.

Gabriel rocked his hips against her as his tongue worked around her mouth, sucking and biting on her bottom lip. Bright lights exploded behind her eyelids when Gabriel undid her jeans. Her head fell back, and she moaned, waiting. His breath was hot against her neck as he trailed scorching kisses down her throat and across her collarbones.

Michaela knew what they were about to do. The realization made her dizzy with a wild mixture of emotions: longing, confusion, guilt.

His hand slipped into her jeans.

Through her smoke tinged nose, Michaela caught the scent of something that set off alarms in her head. She sat up, pushing Gabriel to the side. "Do you smell that?" she asked.

"What?" Gabriel asked. His chest was heaving, and his dilated pupils made his eyes black, which unsettled Michaela even more.

She stood up, head bowed against the ceiling. She closed her eyes and started trying to wake up.

"What?" he asked again.

"Angels. I smell angels."

Clark emerged onto a deserted and dark road running along a cemetery. Slowly the shapes of hundreds of graves came into focus from the shadows. The lights and sounds of the city had died away, and nothing moved but the trees as he raced by.

Michaela said, "They're here."

Seven angels from a choir Clark had never seen before were lined across the road less than a hundred feet ahead. Pure instincts had him hitting his brakes, but he wasn't quick enough. The car skidded then struggled for traction in the melting asphalt beneath the tires. The brakes locked up, and the wheel twisted in Clark's hands.

His head hit the steering wheel and cracked open before bouncing off the window. Michaela was slung halfway into his lap, straining against the burning, clenching of her seatbelt that yanked her brutally back. They spun in tight, spiraling circles that rocked his vision between the Descendants behind them—and the angels with bright, blood red wings in front of him.

# Chapter Twenty-Five

A trickling trail of blood slowly made its way down Clark's forehead. Michaela had one hand braced on the dash with her gaze narrowed on the angels in front of them. The car stopped spinning. Burnt rubber singed Clark's nose as he listened to the car _click_ and _wheeze_.

The angels' narrow wings tipped in red stretched out to a span of nearly ten feet. Their faces were a harsh kind of beautiful with long chins and pointed noses. They glared at Michaela and Clark with light gray eyes. The angels walked toward the car, their shadows passing over the gravestones standing sentinel in the cemetery on both sides of the road. With a shaking hand, Clark locked the doors.

"Who is that?" he asked in a crackling whisper.

"Seraphim," Michaela answered. Clark glanced over his shoulder as the Descendants got out of their car. They were trapped. Unless they wanted to run through a cemetery, which Clark did not.

"The good kind?" Clark asked. He wiped the blood dripping into his eye.

"Help me out," she said. Confused, Clark watched as she undid her seatbelt, moving slowly and wincing in pain.

"Out? As in out _there_? You were unconscious like two seconds ago," Clark said. "Let me talk to them."

Michaela shook her head, breathing heavy from the exertion.

"Those are Descendants back there—"

"I know," Michaela snapped.

"Well, they are probably going to take me back for deserting, so you need to stay in the car and leave as soon as I distract everyone."

Michaela's hand clutched the door handle. She looked back at Clark with an eyebrow cocked and an are-you-so-stupid expression, which Clark noted she had learned from him. "That's your big plan? Distract the Seraphim before you turn yourself over to the Descendants while I make a getaway?"

"Your plan it is," he said under his breath as Michaela weakly opened her door.

The Seraphim and the Descendants drew within twenty feet of the car. He limped around to Michaela's side and helped ease her out, his arm wrapped low on her hips to support her weight. The moon lit a path on the potholed pavement in front of Clark.

A seraph stepped forward, distinguishing him as their leader. He wore no shirt, only filmy black pants that floated around his ankles. He was slender, but every muscle on his body stood out. His hair was stiff and unnatural, slicked back from the wind. He pointed a long finger at Clark and Michaela.

"You both will be coming with us," he commanded. The angel's voice sounded too alien to come from the shape of a human mouth. The pauses between its words were clipped and awkward.

"Where are we going?" Clark whispered to Michaela.

"Heaven, he thinks," she answered. Her eyes locked on the Seraphim, who clearly heard her because they returned her gaze with hated glares.

"How would they take me to Heaven?" Clark asked. His eyes shifted from Michaela to the Seraphim. His sweaty palms were leaving wet spots on Michaela's shirt.

"Your soul," Michaela answered.

"You are not needed. Leave now," the seraph said to the Descendants. Clark looked over his shoulder. The Descendants looked more nervous than he felt, which made him feel slightly better.

"Sir, the human is a deserter. Our orders are to bring him back for trial," one managed to say. Clark flipped him off.

"No. You aren't." The seraph's words were final.

"Yes, sir," the Descendants said, speaking over each other. They nodded briskly and retreated to their cars. Clark looked back at the angels as the Descendants drove away. The night breeze flopped a lock of hair into his eyes.

"You have been summoned," the leader spoke to Michaela. She snorted.

"Oh sure, I bet that will be a fair judgment, just like Gabriel's." Her hand clenched Clark's arm weakly.

"The Aethere have sent us to bring you back."

"I won't go back as a traitor," Michaela said.

The Seraphim saw Michaela's injury, and Clark knew they calculated the fight would be easy, almost laughable. But Michaela leaned forward as if she was ready to spring into action. Clark's grip on her tightened, worried she would actually try it.

"You have no shame? Betraying Heaven, and you stand here proud? You have no honor."

"And what do you have, seraph? You fight for a leader who bargains human souls with the devil." She spat the words out.

A seraph to the left looked toward their leader with confusion written on his face. "Jehoel? What does she say?"

Jehoel shook his head violently with his fists clenched tight against his sides. "Don't listen to the lies of a fallen."

"Call me what you will, Jehoel," Michaela began. "But think about how your precious Aethere weaseled their way into the Archangels' position."

"From the serpent's tongue!" another seraph exclaimed.

When Michaela made no move other than a defiant shrug of her shoulders, Jehoel signaled the other Seraphim to circle around them. They closed in, and Clark held Michaela tighter mainly for his own comfort.

"You will see me for what I am," Michaela said before the angels came any closer. She stepped away from him and tugged at the frayed hem until inches of her flat, white stomach was exposed. "Help me with my shirt," she said when Clark didn't move.

"Excuse me?" Clark asked, watching as Michaela struggled.

"Lift my shirt," Michaela said through gritted teeth. Clark understood, and together they pulled the thin fabric up enough to expose her back, which Michaela turned toward Jehoel.

"Have you seen a fallen angel with scars like these before, Jehoel?" she asked.

The angry burns from the explosion oozed across her back and arms. They were red and bloody, but healing. Such simple wounds—enough to kill a human—were easy to tell apart from the other, more powerful sort.

Two long lines jagged down the middle of her back from beneath her shoulder blades to above the top of her jeans. The scars were raised and looked like a flaming whip had been thrashed across her skin. They were an unnatural black color. Dark bruises spanned across her shoulders where the wings had been yanked from a source deep within Michaela. Even her back looked slightly twisted as if Lucifer altered the alignment of her bones when he tore off her wings.

She let her shirt fall back down and she turned back around. "My wings were taken from me. If I were a fallen, do you really believe I would be treated with such disrespect?" Michaela was exhausted. She leaned heavily against Clark.

The Seraphim stood quietly for a long time as if Michaela had proved her point. For a moment, Clark thought they had convinced them. Finally, the Seraphim blinked awake from their trance and slowly winded back to life like an old toy.

Jehoel's eyes settled on Michaela's arm. He traced the dark scars that wove around her arm and spiraled toward the crook of her elbow. Clark watched the seraph closely, and he knew immediately when the angel decided not to listen to Michaela. The angel's eerie eyes flicked to the other Seraphim.

They converged like a flock of vultures. The Seraphim yanked Michaela from Clark's arms before he could even blink. Michaela struggled against Jehoel and three other angels. Fresh blood spread across the back of her shirt as her injuries ripped anew. "Listen to me!" Michaela screamed. "Just listen!"

"Let her go!" Clark shouted.

He cussed and spewed into the quiet night air outside the metal fence of the cemetery. A seraph kicked him hard in the chest. Michaela disappeared from his vision as Clark flew backwards. His back slammed into the concrete.

The air in his lungs jarred out, and his vision slanted drunkenly for a moment. Two Seraphim walked over to him. One held a long dagger with edges framed in gold. Clark's eyes grew wide, and he kicked and punched at anything within reach.

The red words on his skin were alive as he flailed his arms through the air. One of the Seraphim clamped down on his forearm hard enough that Clark felt his bones bend. He didn't register the pain or notice the second seraph holding the dagger crouch beside his throat. Instead, his eyes focused on the foreign, secret language inked onto his arms.

His eyes swept across the letters as they formed words, which he heard spoken aloud in his mind. He felt their power, their capabilities. They consumed him with their sheer beauty.

The dagger settled against his throat. In the next millisecond, the seraph would apply the faintest pressure and end his life—dashing it out with a thin, red line. It was almost that millisecond later when Clark spoke two words that stood out from the others on his arms.

The words weren't English or human. They were the magic of the Watchers. For the tiniest of breaths, nothing happened except time seemed to pause, allowing the two Seraphim to recognize the distinct sound of a language the angels thought was long lost.

Time whirred back into motion, and everything was real again. The two Seraphim's eyes ignited. They jerked back, dropping Clark and the dagger to the road. They opened their mouths and screamed.

The sound was a whistle, and it was complete torture. Clark forgot what he had just done. His body writhed against the pain of the sound. He clasped his hands over his ears and clenched his eyes shut. Horrified, the other Seraphim and Michaela stopped to look at the angels stumbling away from Clark.

The Seraphim didn't stop shrieking as they looked at their outstretched hands. They were burnt, but not like Michaela's back. The skin on their hands was black, charred. From the tips of their fingers, smoke rose into the air, stinking and putrid, and not like any burnt smell Clark had experienced before. A breeze started and blew against them all. The two Seraphim's skin crumbled and joined the wind.

The seraph who restrained Clark was burnt the most. He had no skin covering his bones up to his biceps. Even his muscles and tendons and inner parts of his arm were singed and melted into dripping ooze. The seraph holding the dagger was burnt on his right hand. The tips of his fingers were bone poking through the tattered edges of peeling skin.

The injured Seraphim turned and ran from Clark without a backwards glance. They took to the air with frantic beats of their shivering wings. The other Seraphim stepped away from Michaela and retreated.

The only seraph remaining was their leader, Jehoel. He stared at Clark. If he had believed Michaela before, his eyes now said he assumed the worst of her. He finally looked at her before he stepped into the air and flew away, taking with him any hope of concealing Clark's markings from the holy angels.

Clark propped up on his elbows with a shocked, slightly terrified expression. He watched the sky where the Seraphim disappeared. When he looked at Michaela, they both shifted their gaze to the marks on his arms.

For once, Clark couldn't find an appropriate curse word.

# Chapter Twenty-Six

"Welcome to the Jungle" permeated the depths of Clark's dream. Groggily, he tried to understand the sound. His eyes drooped heavily from a fitful sleep full of nightmares about Seraphim. Only when the phone vibrated off the bedside table and crashed to the floor did Clark understand the meaning of the ruckus. In a tangle of sheets and pillows, Clark stumbled from the bed, and scooped the phone up.

He glanced at Michaela, watching to make sure she didn't wake as he rounded the edge of her bed. She was stretched out, laying face down on the bed with a single, thin sheet bunched at her hips. Her back was bare, exposed to allow the bubbling burns to heal beneath the cool air of the wobbling ceiling fan. Her arms were splayed out at her side. She didn't wake. She hadn't moved for hours.

Clark tip toed the rest of the way out of their new motel room and closed the door quietly behind him. Only then did he look at his phone's screen. He froze. It was his father.

If he waited any longer the call would go to voicemail. His finger swiped across the screen before he stopped himself. "Hello?"

"Clark." Isaac exhaled in a huff, like he was surprised Clark answered.

"What do you want?" Clark asked, not unkindly, but he was definitely suspicious. He waited, drumming fingers across his ribs. His foot danced against the stained, cracked concrete. From the interstate, a semi-truck's horn blared. The smog settled at the back of his throat, tickling like a cough.

Isaac cleared his throat. "I need to talk to Michaela."

Clark needed a moment for his father's words to sink in. Isaac knew he was with Michaela, but somehow, Clark wasn't surprised. He rolled his eyes to the motel's overhang as he grappled for a response. His father waited patiently for the first time in years. Clark looked back to the motel door and then back to his phone, wondering if he was still dreaming.

In the end, he only managed a stunned, "What?"

"I know you're with Michaela," his father said evenly, calmly. His tone only confused Clark more. "I know you found her in the cave that night. It's okay, Clark."

"Um, okay?" Clark said, unsure what to think. It was early in the morning, but the parking lot started to stir. Truckers and late night workers pulled in to the Waffle House across the road. Clark heard voices in the neighboring rooms.

"I'm not mad," Isaac said, like he thought Clark might be worried about that. "But I need you to let me talk to Michaela."

"You can't," Clark said, still bewildered.

"Why?" Isaac asked sharply. "She's still with you, right?"

"Yeah. But she's in bed, healing. There was an explosion..." Clark pictured his father tapping an expensive ink pen into the thick cherry wood of his desk. A tumbler of scotch was probably condensing from the ice and the warm Kentucky air coming through the open window behind his father's desk. A half-smoked cigar likely burned in an ashtray.

"Is she okay? How badly was she injured?" Isaac pressed.

"I guess the burns were pretty bad—"

"You guess?"

Clark narrowed his eyes, preparing for a fight. His hackles rose instinctively. "I'm not a doctor, but I would say for an angel, a few third degree burns aren't a big deal. She's sleeping now. Her back is almost healed already."

Isaac breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Don't repeat me. You know how that pisses me off. I need you to bring her here," Isaac said.

Clark frowned. "Here?"

"Damn it, Clark, what did I just say?" Clark heard Isaac pause to fortify his patience before he went on. "Bring Michaela back to the compound."

"The comp—" Clark stopped himself. "I don't know if it's a good idea to bring her there. Everyone is hunting her. _You_ are hunting her."

"I know. But there is something she needs to see. You and I will keep her safe, Clark. I will make sure she is protected." Isaac reassured him.

"How can I believe you? How do I know you won't turn her as soon as we pull in?"

"Clark, on your mother's grave, I swear I won't do anything to hurt you two."

At that, Clark was silent a long moment. He battled with wanting to believe his father and a strong disbelief that Isaac would ever go against the Descendants. But Isaac never mentioned Iris, and he certainly wouldn't swear on her grave if he didn't mean it. Clark could at least figure out what had happened and let Michaela decide.

"What's wrong?" Clark asked. He stepped forward and wrapped his hand around the rusty bar of the second floor's railing.

Isaac didn't answer for a moment, like he debated telling Clark. Finally, he said, "It's Zarachiel. He was cast out of Heaven...They took his wings."

"Did he fall too?" Clark asked, wondering why this was such a big deal.

"No." Isaac's voice was very careful, controlled. "He didn't fall."

"But he was still holy! How can they cast out a holy angel? And take his wings?"

"We are dealing with a very different type of holy angel, Clark. The Aethere want to make a point. They are so fervent for this Purification, they don't care who is hurt along the way," Isaac said.

Clark's gut clenched. His grip on the rail tightened until the flakes of rust painfully scraped his palm. He released the bar and looked at his hand. Angry red lines slashed across his skin. "Is he alive?" Clark asked quietly.

"Yes."

Clark heard the hesitation in Isaac's response. "Okay," Clark said.

Isaac released a heavy breath. "Good. Meet me in the cherry orchard." Clark was about to hang up when Isaac added, "Clark, there is something else."

A moment later, Clark went back into the hotel room with a sinking heart and a churning nausea in his stomach. He quietly closed the door behind him. Michaela hadn't moved. He sat his phone beside the television and wondered what he was going to do. Restlessly, he raked his hand through his scraggly hair. Soft fuzz grew on the sides of his head, framing the shaggier part of his fading pink Mohawk.

He crossed to Michaela's bed and crouched beside her. Her eyelids twitched. The breaths from her parted lips were cool and even against his face.

"Michaela, wake up." Clark reached over and poked her arm. He kept poking until she stirred.

She blinked slowly. The corners of her eyes were crusty, her eyelashes clumped together. A dirty lock of hair fell into her eye. She groaned.

"It's Zarachiel. Something's happened."

She moved her arm to brush the hair out of her face. Clark rocked back on his heels and silently regarded her. When Michaela lifted her face off the bed, impressions of the sheet lined her cheek. "What?" she croaked.

"Abel threw him out of Heaven."

Michaela rose onto her elbows, grimacing. "How do you know?'

"My dad called," Clark answered simply. "He wants you to go to the Descendants' compound."

Blearily, Michaela shook her head. "I need to stay here. We have to figure out what Cassie is doing."

Clark had known Michaela would say that. He had agreed to his father's request only because he knew Michaela would refuse to leave Charleston. Then Isaac had told him about Abel's message. Now, he wasn't so sure what Michaela might decide.

"Abel left you a message." Clark looked down to the faded, dishwater gray carpet. "He wrote it on Zarachiel."

Michaela remained quiet for a long moment. She turned, facing the opposite wall, and pulled a shirt over her head. It stuck to places on her back, but she yanked it over them. The pain must have been severe, because she took a moment to steady her breath.

"What did it say?" she asked finally. Clark looked up and met her eyes. "What did it say?" she demanded.

"It said, 'Are you proud?'"

Clark watched Michaela, but he already knew how she would react. Her eyes darkened to the familiar shade of navy blue, and her face paled with fury. The shadows stirred at her feet, bunching and gathering, twining over her bare feet. They rose up her legs, their darkness a shuddering contrast to her pale skin.

"What does he mean?" Clark asked quietly, looking away from the darkness. He knew angels could conjure both light and darkness, but Clark didn't think Michaela knew she was doing it.

"He thinks this war is a game. Win or lose. He thinks I punished angels to prove points. He thinks my reign was about fear and blood and ripping apart angels. He's referencing when I took Lucifer's wings. He wants to know if I approve of the job he did. He's an idiot." Michaela turned away and picked up their duffel of meager supplies and clothes that they kept packed and ready by the door. The shadows fell from her legs and lay normal on the ground once again.

"What was your reign about?"

Michaela looked back at Clark, who rose from the floor. Her hand was on the doorknob. "It was about keeping my head above the water. There was nothing 'pure' about it." Michaela opened the door. "Let's go."

# Chapter Twenty-Seven

They rode in silence for most of the way. Clark, working his way from Charleston to Kentucky, drove at a moderate pace, which was precisely five miles over the speed limit. Michaela didn't mind the slow speed for once. As Clark adjusted the radio dials, jumping from station to station, she slumped in the passenger seat, numbly watching the world outside the car slip past.

"How's your back?" Clark asked.

Michaela didn't turn away from the window. "It's fine, I guess."

She didn't elaborate. Over the next hour, Clark pulled through a drive-thru, ordering two meal combos for himself and a chocolate milkshake for Michaela. The bags were long since empty and smelling up the car when Clark spoke again.

"Is it Asmodeus?" Clark trained his eyes on the interstate.

Michaela shifted, glancing at Clark for the first time throughout the drive. "What about him?" Her voice was guarded.

"Is he the reason you're sad?"

Frowning, Michaela answered, "I'm not sad." Clark narrowed his eyes at her like he didn't buy it. "I'm not. It was his decision—leaving Heaven, staying with Cassie, ending his..." She cleared her throat, shifting her gaze back to the window. "He was a fallen."

Clark sighed in exasperation, which made Michaela cut her eyes back to him. "Really? Who cares?"

"What?" Michaela asked, surprised.

"Who gives a shit if he is a fallen? He was still one of your closest friends."

Michaela sank lower in the seat. The scent of the ash from the club was still in the back of her nose; she tasted its grit on the underside of her tongue. It wasn't so long ago that she was in Heaven surrounded by the Archangels, and everything was normal. Now...now she didn't even want to think about it.

"Come on, Michaela. Talk to me," Clark coaxed. He turned the radio down to a soft hum. The vibration of the car's massive engine was a distant, familiar background noise. "It's what friends do."

"So we're friends now?" Michaela arched her eyebrow, but she felt the flicker of a smile at her lips.

"Are you kidding? I'm the best friend you're ever going to have, and you better believe it too."

Michaela shook her head, a real smile on her face now. But it drained away fast. "I miss Asz, and that makes me sad. But I understand his decisions. If it had been Gabriel, I would have done the same thing Asz did for Cassie. It's just...we are all torn apart, dying and broken down, because of me. And now Zarachiel...it's too much."

"It's not your fault," Clark said.

Michaela twisted her hair around her hand and pulled it over her shoulder. "Yes, it is."

"But it was a mistake," Clark persisted.

"It was," Michaela agreed. "But just because it was a mistake doesn't mean it wasn't my fault."

They rode in silence for a while. Michaela wondered if she had made Clark uncomfortable. After a few more miles, Clark picked an exit and pulled off the interstate. He pulled into a rest stop's parking spot and turned off the car.

"What are we—" Michaela started.

"Tell me something about Heaven."

"What?" Michaela asked, shocked.

Clark unbuckled his seatbelt and turned in the seat to fully regard Michaela. His expression was patient and stubborn, a combination that made Michaela wary.

"I want you to share a memory with me like Asz did back at the club with us. I want to see what all the fuss is about with Heaven," Clark said.

Michaela stared at him blankly for a moment. He didn't explain further. So she asked, "Why?"

Clark shrugged. "I'm tired. I need a rest before we go on, so...why not?"

Michaela hesitated. She didn't know if she wanted to talk about Heaven right now. She chewed her lip. Finally, she said, "What do you want to hear?"

Clark's triumphant grin shone brightly through the interior of the car. The midday heat was intolerable, so he rolled down his window and reclined his seat. Settling in, he closed his eyes, holding out his hand for Michaela to take. "Whatever you want to talk about," he told her.

Michaela watched him a moment before she too rolled down her window and sank into the seat. The breeze felt nice on her face, and she relaxed. She pulled the one memory that was always in the back of her mind to the surface. Its fingers reached out and brushed across her skin. It was like a warm embrace. Clark stiffened as he felt it too.

"I'll try..." she said and took his hand, diving into the depths of the memory.

* * *

_It's a blinding whiteness, a searing lightness. It shoots straight to my core, ballooning out, filling every available inch inside me. The feeling cascades to the tips of my toes and floods out the ends of my fingers. It flows from my hair, making every silken strand float and billow about my face. My eyes blaze with the brilliance of it. Even my cheeks flush with the warmth of it. It's a feeling of pureness, wholeness, and completeness._

_It is Heaven. And it radiates from within me. I only know this feeling, because I have never been without it. I have never known anything but it. It has been with me from the first moment of consciousness._

_I'm lying in a large, open field in one of the uppermost parts of Heaven. Watching the air sparkle and shimmer above me like a million rainbows, I'm at peace. Feeling the soft grass blow in the wind, tickling my skin, bending and hugging around my body, I'm at home._

_I open my eyes. The light illuminates the air into infinite little sparkling crystals. It's like being on the inside of a diamond, seeing everything refracted through a shield of crystal. Waving my hand through the air, the tiny crystals flutter away, untouchable. They dance and twist around me, filling one space and then flickering to another._

_As I watch, the crystals shudder to a stop at full attention. A millisecond passes, and then they spring to life again, vibrating and humming at twice the speed. The facets reflect a million times more. The shimmering intensifies and almost blinds me with its unbearable brilliance._

_My body responds to the change. Or has the air responded to a subconscious change in my body? Either way, my skin tingles and my muscles tighten. My heart flutters._

_He's coming._

_In a glance, my form shifts and springs from the soft grass, which itself seemed to shift and disappear at my feet. I squint into the distance, straining to see his form._

_The tree line hovers and blurs. As soon as he crosses the final barrier of pines, they too disappear. But, to me, his form never shifts or stirs. He is the only solid thing I see. Empty, gleaming air spins in his wake._

_My soul wakes at the presence of his. If I focus enough, I can feel his soul wind to life inside him in response to my own._

_I force myself to wait. The distance between us seems like miles. His shape jerks out of view. Abruptly, he's right in front of me. A breath away._

_His hand lifts to my face, brushing his fingers along my chin, cupping it. I watch as a small smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. His thumb traces along my jaw. I smell his saccharine scent as he leans in closer still. When his forehead touches mine, both our muscles relax._

_Gabe, I breathe._

_Michaela, he answers._

_Gabriel pulls back, smiling a true smile now. In that smile, I'm home._

* * *

Michaela was still for a long moment as the memory receded from both their minds. She watched through the open window as children played and parents walked dogs. The sounds of the interstate buzzed in her ears, numbing her with its consistency. Her back was clammy, making her burns itch and pull uncomfortably against the seat.

Clark coughed uncomfortably. "Wow," he managed. "When was that?"

Michaela didn't answer for a long time, because she was trying not to cry. She shouldn't have shared that memory. She shouldn't have even thought about it. Now her entire body longed for Gabriel, longed for home. Her voice was thick when she spoke. "It was the first time I ever saw Gabriel."

"You knew his name without him telling you?" Clark asked.

Michaela was very still, her eyes searching far beyond the reach of the parking lot. "I knew everything about him the moment I was created."

She sensed Clark watching her closely before he straightened in his seat and buckled up. "Are you ready to go?" Clark asked. "It's too hot to sit here any longer."

"Do you feel rested enough? I could drive some," Michaela offered. Clark cringed. His grip on the wheel tightened like she might reach over and take it from him.

"Uh, that's okay. I'm fine," he lied. His voice grew serious. "Are you sure you want to go see Zarachiel? Do you want to go back and figure out what Cassie was doing with the blood?"

"No, I need to see him. I need to make sure he is okay," Michaela answered quietly.

Clark pulled onto the interstate heading toward Kentucky. "Try to get some rest," he said. "We'll be there soon."

# Chapter Twenty-Eight

The peach orchards of the small Kentucky town stretched acre upon acre. Clark drove the narrow, dirt farm roads with care, but Michaela still bounced in the seat as they went over ruts. It took them nearly thirty minutes to reach the spot where they were meeting Isaac.

Clark slowed the car. The trees ended in neat rows. A whitewashed toolshed stood along a back fence line. An old blue Ford was parked in the clearing. Michaela glanced at Isaac briefly. But her focus settled solely on the toolshed.

Before Clark completely stopped, she was out of the car. Her long strides carried her quickly across the patchwork grass and irrigation pipes as Clark closed his car door. Isaac's eyes were wide and worried; he opened his mouth like he might tell her to stop, but Clark shook his head.

They both walked to the toolshed. Michaela was already there with the door open and light spilling into the dimly lit, dusty room. Clark heard the strangled sound she made, and his steps slowed. Father and son drew together a few paces away from the open door.

Isaac settled a heavy, weathered hand on Clark's shoulder. Surprised, Clark glanced at his father. Isaac's eyes were dark and shadowed in the evening sun. His lips were pressed into a tight line although he offered Clark the slightest of smiles. His father had grown unbearably, shockingly old.

"Is he still alive?" Clark asked, watching Zarachiel's motionless body.

"Depends on what you call alive," Isaac said low enough so Michaela wouldn't hear.

Unconsciously, Clark stepped forward, drawing himself closer to the shed door and the figures inside. Isaac went with him. They stood so close their shoulders brushed. Finally, Clark was within a foot of the door. His eyes adjusted and he saw inside.

A sheet of plastic had been laid over the dirt floor to keep Zarachiel's wounds clean. He was stretched out, face down on a bed of sleeping bags. Over his back was a layer of bandages. Michaela reached for their edges.

Clark went to step forward, to go into the shed and be with her, but Isaac held him back. It was too late anyway. Michaela had already lifted the gauze and seen underneath.

The gauze dropped back into place after a second, long enough for Michaela to see.

Something in Michaela dropped too. She sank to the ground, her hands covering her face. For a moment, she simply sat there, holding herself, pulling it together. She didn't cry or yell in front of Zarachiel, though Clark sensed the emotions dwelling under the surface.

Michaela shifted, dropping her hands. She sat beside Zarachiel and pulled him in her lap. He nearly covered her, but by sheer strength alone, Michaela supported his weight so his back was open and untouched by her body and cradled him against her chest.

Clark still thought Zarachiel could be dead until he saw the angel's lips moving, forming jumbled words no one understood. Michaela stroked his dirty hair, murmuring answers to his trembling questions. She didn't know what Zarachiel said, but she comforted him the best she could. Looking at them inside the shed, Clark found it hard to image them as warrior Archangels. Now they were stripped down like humans, beaten up and worn down.

Clark clenched his fists when he saw the sheen of tears finally pool in Michaela's eyes. The Aethere deserved whatever revenge Michaela was going to give them for doing this to Zarachiel. Clark didn't care if they were technically holy angels or not. No innocent angel deserved this treatment. He pictured Michaela, torn as Zarachiel was, lying alone in the cave's stream when he had found her. His throat closed with anger, and he struggled to breathe.

Clark turned and stalked away. His father was right behind him when Clark wheeled around, his finger pointing. "Why did you want her to come down here? Why did she have to see _that_?"

"Michaela needed to know what Abel did," Isaac answered simply. "She needs to understand what she's fighting for."

"She knows exactly what she's fighting for! She doesn't need to be reminded about what happened to her."

"It'll make her stronger. She's the only one who can stop Abel, and she needs to be prepared when she does," Isaac said. He sat the on the tailgate of the truck; the frame squeaked beneath his weight.

"How do you know that? And how did you know I was with her?" Clark asked. He planted his feet in front of his father with his arms crossed over his chest.

Isaac sighed heavily. He squinted against the late afternoon sun. "It's my job as Keeper to know these things."

"But you couldn't have known I found her. Even the angels didn't know."

"And it's going to stay that way," Isaac said seriously. "But Clark, it was always your destiny to find her. You still believe in destiny, right?"

Throughout Clark's life, Isaac had spent a lot of time talking about fate and destiny. Like he did when he was thirteen, Clark narrowed his eyes at his father. "No, I don't. I fell into that cave..." Clark paused, remembering every detail about his fall. The more he thought about being saved from hitting the ground, the more he thought about destiny and fate. He swallowed the rest of his argument and sat down beside his father.

"How did you find him?" Clark asked after a moment. The shadows were lengthening as the sun darkened behind evening skies. Clark was tired after driving for hours, his body almost too heavy to support.

"I was looking out my window when I saw him fall out of the sky early this morning. I asked Liam to help me find him."

"The Seraphim saw us together. They probably told the Aethere," Clark said, his voice soft.

Isaac nodded. "The Aethere wouldn't like a Descendant helping her even if you aren't a part of us anymore." Clark clenched his jaw at his father's words and told himself he didn't care. "Dropping Zarachiel on the compound was a warning most likely."

"But the other Descendants support the Aethere. Is it safe to keep him so close to the compound?" Clark picked at the rust flakes on the truck, pulling at them like dead skin.

"Out here it should be. The orchards were harvested last month. He can't stay here for long though," Isaac said.

"So what does this mean? Are you done with the Descendants?" Clark asked. He watched his father carefully. Isaac couldn't go against the wishes of the angels and still remain Keeper. Clearly, the Descendants were not a part of his plan to help Zarachiel.

"No. I am and will be the Keeper until I die. Right now, I am doing what the Descendants were created to do: protecting the angels on Earth. I won't ask the others to go against the Aethere, but I will do what is right."

Neither of the men said anything for a moment. Isaac watched the toolshed carefully while Clark stared anywhere else. "She didn't want to come until I told her about the message."

Isaac nodded. "It's good that you brought her." He watched Clark carefully. His eyes veiled beneath wrinkles. "Now tell me why you have the Watchers' language on your arms."

Clark jumped. Somehow he had forgotten about the words. "Oh," he stammered. For the first time in years, Isaac watched him with understanding in his eyes. It was a sight that tore down Clark's defenses, and he launched into the story from the very beginning when he fell through the cave and found Michaela.

When he finished, Isaac asked, "You fell into that cave from the roof? And you weren't hurt?"

Clark chewed his lip. He hadn't let himself think about that moment since it happened. He didn't want to examine it too closely. "I was pretty drunk," he said sheepishly. "So the roof might have been closer to the floor than I thought. Or maybe I just blacked out and walked in there." It was a lie. His father knew it too.

"And you're sure the Siren was taking human blood?"

Clark shrugged. "That's what we saw. And then it nearly killed me. I fought it off though."

Isaac ignored Clark's comment. "And Asz saw Cassie drinking blood...Was it human blood?"

"Yeah," Clark said. Isaac rose from the tailgate and paced away from the truck, lost in thought. "Michaela was more interested in the work Cassie was doing with the souls."

Isaac shook his head, his back to Clark. He said something like, "No, the blood is the problem." But Clark wasn't sure he heard correctly.

"What?"

"Do you remember who the ruined fallen are?"

Clark frowned. His focus shifted solely on his father. "Of course. We learned about them in school. They are kept in the Descendants' prison on the compound."

Isaac made a face. "Don't act like you never snuck in and saw them. I know how young Descendants act."

"Um," Clark said, shifting on the tailgate. "Well..."

"Do you remember what happened to them?" Isaac asked.

"Yeah. They were rogue fallen angels who drank human blood and went, like, totally crazy."

"Human blood is addictive," Isaac said. "And the ruined fallen angels drank too much, and they became diseased. Their wings fell out. They couldn't even move. Now we keep them in the prison without binds, because they've never woken from their coma. The very essence that made them angels disappeared, leaving only their shell behind."

Clark had indeed snuck into the prison to see the ruined fallen. He remembered the angels' limp bodies stretched across the cold metal gurneys. They were listless, dead in every way but the one that mattered. They still breathed; their hearts beat. But their bodies were shrunken, nearly skeletons. Their eyes had long since decayed, and their eyelids drooped uselessly into the sunken pits. Where their wings had once been, their backs were twisted and vile, like the bones grew back in the wrong positions.

The young boys with Clark had acted tough while they were there, but every one of them had nightmares for weeks afterwards. The angels were disgusting, and Clark hadn't let himself think of them again. Until now.

"What about them?" Clark asked.

Isaac sighed. He shrugged and turned away. "Just what popped into my head when you said Cassie was drinking blood."

"Oh..." Clark shifted uncomfortably on the tailgate. "Michaela will probably want to leave soon. We had a solid lead on finding where Cassie works," Clark said.

"Are you sure?" Isaac asked, his focus returning to the toolshed where Michaela still hadn't emerged.

"About what?" Clark asked.

His pile of rust flakes crumbled with the breeze and blew to the ground, scattering into the orchard. He used to play out here with his mom. Before, when they were a happy family, Isaac would drive them out here for a picnic. And Clark would sit on the tailgate just as he was now, playing with his toy trucks, while his parents ate and talked until late in the afternoon.

"If she will want to go back to Charleston," Isaac clarified.

"Of course she will. We are close to figuring out what Lucifer and Cassie are doing. The souls are the whole reason Lucifer agreed to the deal with the Aethere. If Michaela can figure out Lucifer's real plan with the souls, then she might be able to prove the Archangels' innocence."

Isaac walked back to the truck and sat on the tailgate with Clark. "She's been fighting a long time, Clark—a lot longer than we can even imagine. She's tired. All of her closest friends and family have been hurt by this war. She can only take so much, and I'm worried that this," Isaac nodded to the toolshed, "might be the last straw."

"But you said earlier it would make her stronger," Clark said.

"I hope it does. I really do. I think she can find the courage to continue, because I believe in her."

Clark frowned. "But she wouldn't give up. We are so close to fixing everything."

"Are you sure finding out about the souls will fix anything? Or will it just be the start of a new battle?" Isaac settled his arm around Clark's shoulders and squeezed. The gesture moistened Clark's eyes, and he had to fight to keep the tears in. "But maybe you're right. She might want to leave early in the morning, so you should get some rest. I can sneak you into the compound."

"No." Clark shook his head. "I'm staying out here with her."

Isaac's smile was small as he regarded his son. He squeezed Clark's shoulders one last time and rose, bones creaking, from the tailgate. "Okay. I brought some food and water." He pulled a rucksack from inside the truck. "There are some blankets in here too. Don't turn on any lights. Try to stay quiet. The night guard won't see you out here."

Stepping away from the truck, Clark took the bag and settled it onto his shoulder. "Thanks, Dad."

Isaac reached out his hand. It took a moment for Clark to recognize his intentions. He bit down hard on his tongue and shook his father's hand.

"See you in the morning."

Clark watched as the truck fired to life. He heard the strains of Johnny Cash as the truck bounced onto the farm road until it disappeared deep into the orchard's trees. The sun had set when he walked back to the toolshed.

Michaela was asleep on the sleeping bags with Zarachiel wrapped tight in her arms. Clark didn't risk laying a blanket over her for fear of waking them both. Instead he walked back to his car and settled in for the night. He kept the door open so he could hear Michaela if she woke.

# Chapter Twenty-Nine

Michaela stood outside the toolshed. The hint of a breeze pressed against her cheek but did not blow. The trees' small budding leaves leaned against their slender stems, caught in between movements. The air was quiet, still. Clark lay in the car, feet propped on the dashboard, drool suspended from his bottom lip. Time paused, and she managed to channel Gabriel.

Michaela heard a sharp intake of breath behind her. She pivoted, slicing through the thick air. Gabriel, blinking in surprise, reclined against the shed wall. She smiled. Immediately the tension in her shoulders eased. She walked to him and sank to the ground.

"You're getting better at channeling," Gabriel commented. He took her hand in his. Michaela noted the new claw marks.

"It took me a while to get you here," she said. She rocked her head back against the wall so she saw into his eyes, which she was glad to see were once again their normal warm gold. After their last encounter, she didn't know what to expect. Understanding, he squeezed her hand.

"I'm glad you did," he said, and Michaela knew he meant it. She breathed a sigh of relief.

He leaned over. Her eyes fluttered closed, and her lips parted, freeing a shaky breath. His lips met hers softly for the briefest of kisses, but it was enough to send her stomach clenching in spasms. She smiled at him again when he drew back. The warmth from his hand seeped into hers.

"Where are we?" Gabriel asked, glancing around.

The moment had passed too quickly, taking Michaela's brief happiness with it. "Zarachiel is in there. It's bad, Gabe." She watched Gabriel's face carefully. His lips twitched, and his eyes hardened slightly.

"What happened?"

Michaela glanced down. She fought to keep the racking guilt she felt from her voice. "Abel took his wings and threw him to Earth. Luckily, Isaac found him before anyone else."

"How is he?" Gabriel's voice was as tight as his tense body.

"Not good," Michaela said, staring at the ground. "He is conscious enough to speak, but I can't understand him. Sometimes his body jerks, like he is flinching away from something. They burnt all his feathers off...I think he is too weak to even heal himself."

Gabriel stayed quiet when Michaela finished. Their shoulders were pressed together. His grip on her hand was tight.

"Abel left me a message in Zarachiel's skin," Michaela said. She leaned her head against Gabriel's bare shoulder, seeking comfort. "He asked if I was proud. I always regretted taking Lucifer's wings. Abel knew how it tortured me. I even went to him for advice, asking if he thought the punishment fit, because he was the leader of the Aethere. He was the only angel who would know if I acted incorrectly. He _knew_ I hated myself for what I did to Lucifer. He's using it against me, to punish me."

They were silent a long time. The sky was a dark orange above the treetops, stuck between twilight and night. It was beautiful, Michaela noted, but she didn't appreciate it. She grew tired of channeling Gabriel and never really seeing him. His dream self was not enough to sustain her.

"I don't know what to do," she breathed.

"I've told you how I feel about this," Gabriel said. Michaela heard his anger.

"I know."

"This never should have happened," Gabriel said quietly, angrily. He ground his teeth together.

Michaela jerked like he had slapped her. She reeled back, staring at him with shocked eyes. "Gabe, I know. But I can't keep Abel from hurting angels."

With a growl, Gabriel shoved to his feet. Michaela deserved his anger. It _was_ her fault Zarachiel was hurt. She knew it, but to hear the words, to see them even in his eyes, would crush her. Michaela stood behind him, trembling not with anger but in fear of what he would say. He was careful, though. Nothing crossed his face except for scorching anger.

"Damn it," Gabriel snarled. He surged toward her. "I don't want to talk about this now."

He pulled her against him before she even registered his motions. His hand raked through her hair, clenching it in his fist at the base of her skull. His other hand gripped her hip, pressing her into him. With a tug that bordered on painful, he pulled her hair so that she stared, wide eyed and mouth agape, at his face.

It was a storm—a hot, out-of-nowhere storm—that fried lands and flooded rivers. He was a tornado sucking her into him. His golden eyes sparked as he stared at her, making her insides quiver and melt. Her arms shook, her knees knocked when his jaw clenched, forming rivets up the side of his tanned face. Even her teeth threatened to chatter from desire. He snarled, diving toward her face like he might consume her whole. She gasped, but he covered the sound with his mouth.

He was relentless. He poured himself into her, and Michaela only held on. Her lips swelled beneath his onslaught. When his tongue stroked hers, she moaned at the wild, uncontrolled taste of him that she had never had before, not like this. His breaths were shaking gulps in her mouth.

He worked his hand underneath the hem of her thin t-shirt, scrapping his fingers up her ribcage. She shook uncontrollably when the roughness of his hand found her sensitive nipple. He squeezed, making her gasp again.

It took Michaela a moment to notice he had pulled away. She opened her eyes and felt a clench deep inside when she saw the expression on his face. "All I want is you," he said the words like a deep throated growl.

He pulled her hair again, bending her neck even farther so her body bowed into his. His hardness pressed against her belly. His lips were on her neck, sending shivers down her spine, and her fingers were numb from digging into his back. She whimpered.

The sound undid him. He let her hair go. His other hand lifted from her back. Surprised, Michaela opened her eyes once again. He had his fingers on the band of her jeans, waiting. He was finally asking for permission.

She nodded. Or at least she thought she did.

He yanked. The material of Clark's worn out jeans ripped violently, shredding into a million pieces. The zipper screeched with a metallic resistance. What was left of her pants fell to her calves in tattered pieces.

"You're not wearing underwear." Gabriel's voice was husky and deep.

Blushing, Michaela said, "I don't have any."

Gabriel groaned and sank his lips onto hers again. His fingers found the spot between her legs. His explorations made Michaela's body convulse. She had never been touched like that before, and the sensations burned deep in her belly, searing her from the inside out. The noises he made her make were foreign to her ears. She sank into his hand, her knees giving way.

He caught her. Like she was a feather drifting in front of him, he lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his hips. His eyes were searing flames, like she stared straight into the center of fire without blinking.

"Keep your eyes open the whole time," he commanded. His voice was hot an inch from her mouth.

A while later they lay on the ground. Michaela was draped over him, naked and still breathing heavily. His arm was wrapped lazily around her. "Are you okay?" Gabriel asked. He spoke into her hair, tickling strands across her ear.

"Yeah," she said with a rasp in her voice. She lifted her head and smiled at him.

"I'm sorry it was a little...rough," Gabriel said sheepishly. His smile was tentative and slightly crooked, but extremely pleased. "I probably should have slowed down for our first time."

Michaela blushed, ducking her head down onto his chest. Gabriel traced his finger along the scars on her back. Goose bumps prickled along her arms.

"When I wake up," Michaela said, her eyelids drifting closed, "will my jeans be shredded?"

She felt his laughter beneath her chest. It was nice, to find the laughter in something. It almost made her forget that in reality, she was holding Zarachiel and not Gabriel.

"They will be fine," he answered, smiling.

They laid there, tangled together, for a while longer. Michaela found she couldn't stop smiling. Gabriel had been her best friend since her creation, but she had never felt as close to him as she did right then. The guilt she felt earlier receded, because, surely, this was not a sin.

Gabriel's chest tightened beneath her. She heard his mouth open as though he meant to ask her something. Yet, he never did.

"What is it?" she asked finally.

Gabriel cleared his throat. Michaela realized he was uncomfortable. His hand stilled on her back. "Nothing is happening between you and the Descendant, right?" he asked.

"Clark?" Michaela laughed. Gabriel returned her gaze like he didn't think it was funny. His eyes were simmering with worry and possibly jealousy. "No, he is just a friend—a really good friend, actually."

"Good. I'm glad," Gabriel said. He relaxed beneath her, lowering his head. He let out a breath.

"You're glad about what? Nothing happening, or that he is my friend?"

"Both." Gabriel grinned.

They stayed like that for a while, holding each other and making the other smile. Even Gabriel's finger on her ruined back didn't make her anxious. They talked as though they hadn't in a while. No one grew angry; no one made accusations. They were like they always had been. But it wasn't true. They had changed their relationship irrevocably.

Michaela finally lifted her head. The pull of consciousness hummed in the back of her skull. She thought she heard something like a shout from the distance. If she looked close enough, she almost saw the edges of the orchard folding into itself as the dream withered away. Gabriel noticed it too. He sat up, brushing Michaela's hair from her eyes.

She couldn't help but smile. It was easy with Gabriel. Words bubbled up, forming a sentence deep within her throat. Her heart clenched with nerves.

"Gabe, I lov—"

But she never got to finish.

# Chapter Thirty

"You, bitch!"

The steel-toed, thick-soled boot smashed into the side of Michaela's face. Her nose flattened with a sickening, wet crunch. Blood, warm and bitter, poured into her open, gasping mouth. She rolled, dodging another blow to her face, causing it to land solidly against her ribs.

Michaela struggled to shift away from Zarachiel as the hits kept coming. The plastic on the floor twisted around her legs, making her stumble and slide. She fielded them until she saw who attacked her.

The angel backlit by the morning sun wasn't familiar. The shoulders were narrow; collarbones pointed like sharp razors into the sky. Michaela saw the short, black hair cut into a symmetrical, no nonsense bob. When she saw the hollowed cheeks, the slashing cheekbones, and almond shaped eyes, she finally knew.

"Uriel," Michaela gasped. " _Stop_."

Uriel reached down, grabbing Michaela by the shirt and hair. "You're not the boss of me anymore," Uriel whispered. With a mighty heave, Uriel flung Michaela into the wall with such force, her body crashed through the wooden slats. She slammed into the ground on the outside of the shed, her body jarring like tumbling bricks.

Michaela struggled to her knees when Uriel came at her again. The punches and kicks rained down, but Michaela did not fight back. Guarding her head, wrapping her arm around her ribs, she waited for Uriel to stop.

Clark shouted in the distance. "Michaela!"

A car door slammed, but that was it. From there on, Michaela only saw the slashing, raging anger on Uriel's face. Michaela found it surprisingly easy to sit there, taking the hits one after the other. She welcomed them, to an extent even enjoyed them, because ultimately she deserved them.

"Uriel, you're on Descendant property, and I have to ask you to refrain from royally beating the hell out of your General."

"She isn't my General anymore," Uriel spat, but she quit hitting Michaela.

Michaela cracked open an eyelid. Uriel towered over her with bloody fists clenched at her sides. Isaac was the one who had spoken. Clark must have called him when he saw Uriel, which made Michaela wonder how long Uriel had been beating her. She sat up, wincing at the pain.

"That's an interesting point," Isaac responded like he was discussing the next election. "And I guess that technically you are right, Uriel."

Clark crouched beside her. "Are you okay?" Concern etched wrinkles onto his young face, his blue eyes worried. He rubbed his hand across her back, supporting her as she got her legs underneath her. Michaela turned and spat the blood from her mouth when she stood.

"Why are you here?" Michaela asked Uriel.

Uriel spun to face Michaela. Her eyes were cutting. " _Why_?" Her words were a guttural sound behind her snarling lips. "Why do you think I'm here, Michaela?"

"No," Michaela cleared her throat. She still tasted blood, but thankfully the only thing broken was her nose. "I meant how you found out about Zarachiel."

Uriel narrowed her brown eyes until they were nearly reptilian. "An angel falling through the sky is hard to miss, and gossip spreads fast."

"You're more than welcome to go see him," Isaac said, gesturing to the toolshed.

Uriel turned her gaze of hatred on him. "Don't tell me what I can and can't do, Keeper. He is mine, and I will do as I please."

Isaac put his hands up in surrender. "We assume he was dropped on the compound on purpose; his fall was too direct. He is hurt pretty badly. We could only do so much to help him," Isaac said, but Uriel ignored him.

"How does it feel?" Uriel asked, directing her words to Michaela. Uriel's eyes were hateful and sinister. The morning sun was bright, illuminating Uriel's wings and vengeful eyes.

"What do you mean?" Michaela asked carefully.

Uriel laughed. The sound was sharp and rang hollow in the dewy air. "I mean, how does it feel to know you are responsible for hurting everyone you once loved?"

"Hey, now," Clark defended.

"Was this part of your plan all along?" Uriel asked.

"Of course not, Uriel," Michaela said shakily.

"Then what was it?" Uriel sneered. She pointed to the toolshed. "Because if this wasn't your plan then maybe it should be, because you're doing a much better job of killing us off than you are of saving anyone."

"Uriel," Isaac said cautiously.

"How does Gabriel feel being stuck in Hell?"

An overwhelming wave of guilt washed over Michaela. She knew exactly how he felt, and neither of them had paused long enough to mourn Zarachiel's fate.

"What about the rest of us forsaken from our homes? What about Molloch?"

"He was a fallen," Michaela said, her voice quiet.

"So he deserved to die?" Uriel shouted.

"Of course not," Michaela said, but Uriel didn't listen.

"You are pathetic. I don't know what you were trying to do, but you only made things worse. I honestly have no clue why you are bothering with this ridiculous façade. They call you a traitor, a murderer, but aren't you exactly those things? Didn't you do exactly what they say you did? You may not have invited the fallen, but ultimately you still betrayed us."

"I'm doing this to help you. To prove your innocence so that you and the others can return home," Michaela's voice was unsteady, and she detected its underlying tremor.

"Thanks, Michaela. You have helped us _so_ much."

Michaela shrank away. She wished she could fold into herself and disappear. Uriel was right. Michaela had only hurt the ones she wanted to help.

"That's enough," Clark said sharply. Finally, the Archangel Uriel acknowledged the human Descendant. "I said, that's enough, and I mean it." Michaela had never heard such authority in his voice before.

With one last glare at Michaela, Uriel turned and stalked into the darkness of the toolshed without a backwards glance. The door _creaked_ shut behind her.

"Well, isn't she just a beaming ray of sunshine?" Clark said. "Are you okay?"

Michaela spat more blood. She felt like a drain had opened inside her, and she was dirty water swirling around it, sinking and spinning until she was lost to its depths. Michaela understood why Uriel was angry and spiteful. She was right—it was all her fault.

"I think it would be best if you both stayed here a few nights until Uriel leaves," Isaac said. "I can get you both into the compound. You will be safe in there."

"The tunnels?" Clark asked. He turned to Michaela. "There's miles and miles of empty, deserted tunnels that run beneath the town. They go all over the place and always end in the compound."

"Yes. We will use the tunnels to get you inside," Isaac called over his shoulder.

Clark shifted Michaela's arm onto his shoulders to help her walk. "I've got it," she said, moving away from him.

"Quit bitching, and let me help you." Clark's grip tightened as they walked toward Isaac's truck. Michaela gave in and leaned heavily against his side.

"There. Isn't that better?" He opened the passenger door and helped Michaela ease inside. He got in next to her, handing her a handkerchief from the dashboard of the truck to wipe the blood from her face.

"Ready?" Isaac asked. He turned the engine over, and Johnny Cash crooned about prison blues over the old 8-track player.

The truck bounced along the farm roads, jostling Michaela's injuries and putting her in a foul mood. Nearly a half hour later, Isaac pulled over on the side of a gravel road that ran parallel to the compound. The peach orchard was behind them, and the small town center was less than two miles ahead.

Isaac got out of the truck and walked over to an abandoned fruit stand on the side of the road. He waited until Clark helped Michaela out of the car and joined him next to the sagging building made of plywood with crudely drawn fruit shapes adorning the sides.

Isaac ducked inside, avoiding the cobwebs that swung above his head in the morning wind. The sun was already in the sky, and Michaela saw people milling about the town. No one paid any attention to the blue Ford parked on the side of the road as Clark and Michaela followed Isaac inside.

Isaac, flashlight in hand, waited by a set of stairs leading below ground. Michaela didn't bother to ask questions. She followed them quietly down the steps into the tunnel smelling of wet earth. Clark glanced quickly at her a few times, likely worried about her fear of being underground after being in the cave. But Michaela wasn't afraid. She was just broken.

She wished they wouldn't, but Uriel's words kept replaying in her mind. Uriel was right; Zarachiel's injuries were her fault. Just like Gabriel being Hell was her fault. If she thought hard enough about it, everything was her fault. Just like Uriel had said. Even the pain of her healed broken nose popping into place didn't shake the trance she was falling into. She was lulled by the words that kept repeating in her head.

_Your fault. Your fault. Your fault._

It took them a while to navigate the oftentimes rocky, sometimes muddy, terrain of the tunnel. Michaela manage to limp on her own most of the way, only taking Clark's hand when she slipped. Her mind created a numbing fog that settled like a thick cocoon around her, trapping in her depression and guilt.

Nearly an hour later, they reached a heavy wood door. Isaac pushed the door until it _screeched_ open on its rusty hinges. Dust shifted in the air as they walked into the narrow hall of the compound. The stone walls were moldy and dank. Clark coughed, batting his hand at a spider web.

"No one comes down here?" Clark asked.

"No, you will be safe," Isaac said. He pointed toward the first room along the hall. "Here you go."

The room had two cots, blankets, two changes of clothes, and some food. A single lantern cast a warm, dim glow over the room. A rat scuffled along the back wall.

"I got it ready last night. I figured you wouldn't be leaving as soon as you thought." Isaac watched Michaela like he expected her to say something, but she didn't register his words.

She drifted into the room like a hobbling ghost. Bypassing the food and cot, she settled against the far, dark corner's wall. The stone was ice cold against her damaged back. She drew her legs beneath her shin and stared vacantly at the stone floor.

She remained there, in that exact position, without eating or drinking or sleeping for an entire week.

# Chapter Thirty-One

Clark sat cross-legged on the floor in front of Michaela. The skin below his eyes was gray and sagging; it highlighted the bloodshot red that filled the whites of his eyes. He squeezed her limp hand in his. She stared right at him, eyes open, barely blinking, but just like she had all week, she didn't move.

"Michaela, you need to eat."

The first couple of days, Clark had given her space, letting her deal with whatever feelings she needed to deal with. By the third night, Clark tried to coax her into eating. He cajoled her to move, to at least lie down on the cot. Clark didn't know how long angels could survive without food or water, but by the fifth day, he was concerned. He crouched in front of her vacant eyes and begged her to eat. He pressed water against her lips until it ran down her chin, soaking her shirt.

They had to leave soon. Isaac couldn't keep them hidden forever. Eventually a group of kids exploring this empty part of the compound would find them. So now, on the seventh day, Clark was going to make something happen.

He snapped his fingers in her face, which was pale and ashen, but she didn't respond. Her body had withered; her skin was dusty. Black tendrils of hair hung dirty and listless across her shoulders. Clark pressed his ear to her heart; it was still beating. With a sigh of frustration, he sat back on his heels.

"Why can't you just drink away your problems like a normal person?" Clark demanded.

There was a knock on the door. Clark's heart stuttered, but it was Isaac who walked in with a bag of food. Clark stood and nodded.

"Is she talking?" Isaac asked, eyeing Michaela.

"No." Clark pulled out an apple and bit into it. "I can't get her to move." A piece of apple flew from his mouth. Isaac scowled at him.

"She needs to wake up," Isaac said. He walked over and stared down at Michaela.

"No shit."

"What all have you tried?" Isaac nudged the toe of his boot against Michaela's leg.

"I've talked to her, poured water in her mouth, stripped down naked and did a rain dance. Nothing works. She doesn't care."

Isaac pulled out a slim carving knife from his belt. Clark recognized it immediately as the one he used to play with when he was younger until he had nearly cut his finger off. Iris had been furious. It was the first time he had seen his mother angry. Clark turned away, trying not to think of his mom.

A gasp of pain made him spin back around. Isaac had buried the knife hilt deep into the fleshy part of Michaela's thigh. Her eyes were wide, flashing black with anger. Her lips snarled. With a twist of her hand, she yanked the knife from her leg and surged upward, ready to attack Isaac.

But she stumbled and slumped back to the ground. Her leg gushed a little torrent of blood. She pressed her dirty hand over it and groaned.

"What the hell, dad!" Clark sputtered the words when he finally managed to talk. His heart raced as his gaze shifted from Michaela's leg to his father to her leg again.

"She needed to wake up. I woke her up." Isaac shrugged. He wiped the knife on his jeans and put it back in the sheath.

"Well, next time warn a dude before you go around stabbing people." Clark hurried over to Michaela and helped her sit up.

She opened her mouth, trying to speak. Instead, she coughed and motioned to Clark, beckoning for water. Isaac handed him a water bottle, which he took with a glare, and held it to Michaela's lips. She gulped it down.

Clark got the bag of food and set out the items. He opened containers of fruit and steak. He watched until she picked at the food, eating small bits at a time. He groped around the bottom of the bag, feeling a paper wrapped object. When he pulled out a fast food hamburger, his eyes actually watered.

"Okay, you're forgiven for stabbing my friend." Salivating, he sank his teeth into the thick, greasy burger. The cheese oozed from the sides of his mouth, and ketchup dripped onto his jeans.

Michaela was still eating when Clark finished his hamburger. He got up and walked over to his father, who stared at him appraisingly. "Thanks again," Clark said, his eyes on the ground. For some reason, Clark was awkward and uncomfortable around his father now.

"Clark..." Isaac began. "You've been here a week."

"Does someone know we're here?" Clark asked quickly.

"Not yet," Isaac answered. "But I can't hide you forever."

"I know." Clark leaned against the wall, propping his boot onto the rough stone. They both watched Michaela.

"What are you going to do?"

"We have to get back to Charleston. She needs to stop the Aethere before this gets out of hand," Clark said, trying to whisper so Michaela wouldn't hear.

"I think it's already out of hand. The Aethere stopped judgments on souls."

Clark looked at his father sharply. "What does that mean?"

"It means all the souls go to Heaven to wait, but none get judged. If they really made a deal with Lucifer like you said, then they are punishing him for not holding up his end. If all the dead go up and none come down to Hell or go into Heaven, there is going to be a big mess real fast."

"Crap." Clark raked his hand through his hair. "When did that happen?"

"After the incident at the club."

"We should've left days ago." Clark rubbed his tired eyes. "How are the other holy angels allowing Abel to rule like this? Why hasn't someone stopped the Aethere?" Clark asked. His voice rose too high, and Michaela glanced up from her food.

"The other angels are scared. The Descendants only heard about the souls because Uriel told us when she left," Isaac said.

"Did she take Zarachiel?" Michaela asked. Her voice was hoarse.

"Yes. She left yesterday with him. His injuries were marginally better." Isaac stepped back, closer to the door. To Clark he said, "I'll let you two talk." He left the room as quietly as he'd entered.

Clark crossed the room and sat in front of Michaela, who returned his gaze with empty eyes. He handed her another water bottle. "You can't do that anymore," he said quietly. He reached over, slipping a piece of lank hair behind her ear. The side of her face was deathly cold.

"What?" Michaela asked. She gulped down the water until it spilled from the corners of her mouth and dripped to the floor.

"Easy. You'll get sick." Clark took the bottle from her hands. "I meant you can't just sit here, freaking out and not talk to me."

Michaela looked at him strangely. He handed the bottle back to her. "You're right. I'm sorry," she said. Clark's shoulders relaxed as he watched Michaela for a moment before speaking again.

"Uriel's a bitch. I'm not a fan."

Michaela smiled, like she understood. "She's hard to get to know."

"That's fine with me, because I have no desire to know her. She's crazy," Clark said, pulling at his frayed jeans.

"She was just mad. She deserved to be."

"Let's agree to disagree," Clark said.

They sat quietly for a while. Michaela sipped on another bottle of water. Clark resigned himself to picking at the grime beneath his fingers. Finally, he couldn't take the silence.

"We can't stay here anymore," he said.

She focused on twisting the cap back on the bottle. "I heard."

"Well, what are we going to do?" Clark persisted.

"I don't know..."

"Are we going back to Charleston?"

"Clark, I don't know." Michaela sounded exasperated, but Clark wasn't going to let her off the hook.

"Shouldn't we go figure out what Cassie is doing with the souls?"

After a long pause, Michaela said, "I don't think I should..."

"Why not?" Michaela scowled at his endless questions, but Clark wasn't offended. He raised his eyebrows, impatiently waiting for an answer.

"Uriel was right." Michaela sighed. "I've hurt everyone trying to figure out what is going on. I should just leave well enough alone. The Aethere...well, clearly they just have something against me. If I just go away," Michaela swallowed roughly around the words, "maybe it will smooth over, and they will free Gabriel, and the others can go back."

Clark threw his hands in the air. His boots scraped across the rock floor as he stood. "I'm _not_ having this argument again. It was annoying the first time. We both know you decided you couldn't walk away from this."

Michaela averted her eyes, her shoulders slumping. "Okay," she said.

"Don't say it like that. You know I'm with you no matter what you decide to do. But I can't let you just sit here anymore."

The strange expression from before returned to Michaela's face, and Clark wondered if she'd ever really had a true friend. Not like Gabriel or the other Archangels who followed her lead because it was their duty, but someone like Clark who got mad at her and questioned her but still stood by her side. Clark didn't think so.

"What will happen if I go back?" Michaela asked. She stared at Clark with wide, unsure eyes. She was worried about who else would get hurt.

"What will happen if you don't?"

After Clark told her the Aethere were withholding judgments, Michaela wanted to leave right away. She yelled at Clark, saying he should have stabbed her sooner. Clark liked to see her fired up and ready to take on the Aethere, but he and Isaac convinced her to wait until nightfall to leave.

Now, Clark snored in the cot next to Michaela's. She was exhausted. Sleep pulled heavy against her eyelids. More than anything she wanted to close them and sink into the welcoming darkness, but she was scared Gabriel might channel her.

She had felt him throughout the week, searching for her at the limits of her consciousness. He tried to pull her to him through his dreams, but she resisted. She had hurt him, because by the end of the week he'd stopped trying so often. More than she wanted sleep, Michaela wanted to go to him, to feel his arms around her once again. She needed reassurance, for someone to tell her she was on the right path, that it wasn't her fault. But that wasn't Gabriel, and she couldn't handle his disapproval right now.

Before she knew it, she was asleep, lulled by the trance of dreams. As she fell into their grasp, she hoped it was just a dream.

It was.

Michaela opened her eyes and wished she'd never closed them.

She stood in Purgatory next to the edge's wall. She slowly turned, feeling Heaven's warm glow on her skin. The hairs on her arm stood as she swept her gaze over Purgatory toward Heaven's gates, which stood open, beckoning to her. Even from her distance, she caught the sweet scent of flower blossoms. Looking up, she saw glimpses of the crystal city through the pink clouds above the gates.

Even though she tried telling herself this wasn't real, her stomach flipped with such excitement it hurt. It didn't work. She was home. Her throat swelled, and it took a moment before she realized she was crying tears of relief. A tiny smile she couldn't hold back anymore crept across her face. She closed her eyes, raising her arms outward, and basked in the warmth for a long moment.

She opened her eyes, but as she went to step forward, she heard a scream.

Instantly, the gates slammed shut, and the clouds above Heaven shriveled up and turned black. Michaela jerked back, stumbling against the wall. The warm glow sank to a bitter, chilling blast of air. Wrapping her arms around her body for warmth, she looked around Purgatory. The shadows were longer, darker, but she saw no one.

"Hello?" she called. The gesture was so reminiscent that Michaela immediately clapped her mouth shut, like the word itself was a bad omen.

When the scream came again, Michaela realized it was coming not from Heaven but Earth.

Cautiously, she peered over the wall and down into space. Even from the heights of Purgatory, she saw the massive fires grow on Earth. They were huge pits of flames, spreading across entire countries and stretching high into the atmosphere. The popping, lashing fires caused massive, nuclear explosions that leaked toxic fumes into the air and singed the earth gray. The heat licked upwards, burning Michaela's face. The destruction was so immense, so apocalyptic, that Michaela could only stare in shocked silence.

A crack drew Michaela's attention. Abel appeared beside her, holding a broken seal in his hand. Six more lay at his feet, but Michaela didn't need to see the others to recognize them. Her eyes flashed back to Abel's face, which held an enraptured expression, his eyes gleeful as he took in the burning world.

"Abel!" Michaela shouted over the wind, clutching at the sleeves of his robe. He ignored her. "What are you doing with the Seven Seals?" She shook his arm, but Abel didn't respond or even act like he heard her. She dropped her hand. He couldn't hear or see her, because this wasn't just a dream. This was a vision of what was to come if she didn't stop Abel.

Her heart stopped beating as if fear itself had reached inside and clenched its fist around her life's source. Her blood was ice in her veins, frosty with horror.

By breaking the first seal, Abel had started the End of Days. Each one broken after the first brought a new horror upon Earth, and the seventh seal ended it all. Any moment now...

Hooves galloped across Purgatory, growing louder as they grew closer. The sound broke Michaela's reverie, and she twisted around, guessing the source. A gorgeous white horse dripping in bright, red blood with a rider holding a bow raced across the dust toward her. As it drew closer, its rider, a handsome human with coins over his eyes, raised a bow, leveling an arrow straight at Michaela. It released with a pop and cut through the air straight toward her heart.

She dived away from the whizzing arrow, but it grazed her arm. The pain was fleeting and quickly forgotten. Stunned, she watched the horse jump over the wall and dive down toward Earth. A small drop of blood fell from the wound.

Abel cracked another seal.

A great wind stirred across Purgatory, buffeting into Michaela. Tiny bits of sand and dirt stung her eyes. From its depth came a red horse with fire in its wild eyes and a skeletal rider hunched on its back. The horse threw its head and screamed. The horrible sound twisted into Michaela's ears, piercing and painful. Abel bent to pick up another seal as the red horse leaped over Michaela's crouched form and into space.

"No, Abel! Stop!" But he cracked another. "You're crazy!" Michaela screeched, her voice breaking. Her words were the truth. Abel's eyes were dilated as if destruction were his drug of choice. "This is insane!"

From beneath Michaela, came a great rumble. She scrambled backward away from the wall as the ground rose, and a black horse pawed its way free. The horse slung its mane and pranced as its rider shook dirt from its armor. With a great kick, the rider sent the horse over the wall.

The sound of Abel cracking the fourth scroll was overpowered by the screams of billions of souls on Earth. On hands and knees, Michaela squinted through the dust. Heaven's gates opened, and through them came the last and final horseman riding the pale horse. The scent of decay suffocated her as the horseman and horse walked closer, taking their time.

Death hurried for no one.

Death pulled his horse up next to Michaela and stared down at her. There was nothing but dark shadows inside the rider's hood. Its voice was an echo across Purgatory.

"Do you see me now, Michaela? I am always watching you, waiting for you. Soon, I will come for you."

A shuddering began deep within Michaela. It wracked her bones until they ached, spanning into the reach of her fingertips. Her entire body convulsed, causing her teeth to snap together before she clenched her jaw tightly shut. Tears left raw streaks through the dust on her face. She whimpered, the sound weak and desperate.

The pale horse stepped onto the wall, and like a bird, sailed into the air.

She should take the seals from Abel. She should fight. She should do _something_.

But she could do nothing.

Abel cracked two more seals in quick succession like he was eager to get on with the show. But the End of Days was not meant to be a show. It was meant to be a time of mourning and great sadness. The end of the greatest creation, greater than Michaela and all the angels, was a death like none other. As General, Michaela had dreaded the moment she would be required to break the seals, but Abel handled the task with relish.

Sniffling, Michaela looked down to Earth. The ground trembled. Huge plates of land rocked and heaved against each other, like waves on dry land. The massive sinkholes ate buildings, mountains, entire cities. Hundreds of people scrambled and slid, cascading into the gaping holes. Waves the size of skyscrapers built across the seas and slammed into shores, sending rushing water across whole continents.

Abel cracked the sixth seal and Michaela flinched. The sun turned black. The moon turned red. The air shuddered below Michaela as stars fell. They rocketed into Earth as huge balls of fire, creating great holes in the ground that sucked everything into their dark depths to the sound of rushing, crumbling rock.

And from the great pits came masses of demons like a black fog swept up from the holes. Their eyes were blazing red, and their mouths stretched open, revealing a black void darker than the pits of Hell. They crawled on all fours, creeping across the ground, killing and eating the few humans who'd survived. They howled like dogs and screamed like women. The sound curdled Michaela's blood and drenched her in sweat. These were demons she had never seen before. When they raised their distorted heads to Heaven, Michaela jerked away from the wall.

_Crack_.

Abel dropped the seventh seal to the ground. It rolled toward where Michaela crouched beside the wall, stopping at the toe of her boot, twisted and ruined. She couldn't force her eyes to look away. That was it. That was the end lying beside her boot. Abel laughed a keening, insane laugh that doubled him over until he clutched the wall for support. Michaela turned away from him and buried her head in her hands, choking on the sobs tearing from her throat.

She sat there for a while before updrafts of cool air came from below Purgatory, stirring across her hair; the softer strands tickled over the sensitive skin on her neck. Michaela immediately recognized the _whooshing_ wind, although she didn't lift her head. She squeezed her eyes shut and begged to wake up.

Then she smelled the sulfur.

Thousands of wings filled the space above Michaela's shivering body. Even with her eyes closed, they cast a great shadow. The sound of their flapping was deafening, like a great train roaring above her head. A creeping, chilling thought came to Michaela. Her eyes reared open. The fallen came for the Great War in Heaven.

The angels continued to fly over Michaela, giving her a horrible sense of déjà vu as they surged toward Heaven's wall. She stood up next to Abel, who had lines forming deep in the skin between his brows. He did not understand what it meant to serve as Heaven's General. He had no clue what the final war in Heaven would entail. He was a naïve, power-hungry angel who had sat on benches and judged souls until he thought himself worthy to judge all. Michaela hated him, and if she could, she would have killed him right then.

Heaven's gates opened, and holy angels poured out in their best battle armor with swords raised high. She wanted to warn them, but it was too late. It was always too late. The angels crashed together with a deafening clash of metal.

No more tears came. She was empty, wrung dry, and used up.

But then the ground beneath her feet rolled. Startled, she reached for a handhold. With another glance over the wall, she confirmed her fears. Earth was crumbling. It was like a ball slowly deflating far below her. A huge chunk chipped away and floated into the atmosphere, revealing the fiery molten pits of the Earth's core.

With a low, resounding groan, Purgatory's floor slanted dangerously. Michaela clutched the wall for support. Her nails clawed at the marble until they bent backward and broke. Her heart raced; her breathing came in pants. She heard a horrible sucking noise from the middle of Purgatory.

Dirt was racing across the ground, flowing toward a widening pit in Purgatory's floor. Michaela screamed as Heaven's gates folded and collapsed, the metal twisting and screaming in protest. The holy and fallen angels fought unaware of the destruction around them. It was the end of the world, but it was taking Heaven and Hell with it.

This wasn't just the end of the world. This was the end of everything.

_The end. The end. The end._

"Stop!" Michaela screamed, her voice merely a weak rasp. "Stop! Look!"

No one listened. On Earth, there wasn't much left to look at. It gave one last shudder and imploded. Michaela watched, mouth gaping, as the once glorious planet turned into an inferno.

The ground gave way in a rush. She clung to pieces of the wall as she tipped into the empty space below. Alongside her, Abel screamed and cried for forgiveness as the angels he had damned and the Heaven he had ruined crashed down around them. They fell through the toxic sky toward a fire that already blistered Michaela's face.

# Chapter Thirty-Two

Michaela woke screaming. Clark hunched beside her, pressing his hand to her mouth. She fought for a second before she recognized the pink hair and fierce blue eyes above her. She stilled. Sweat ran down her face, soaking her shirt and the cot. Clark released his grip on her face.

"Are you crazy?" he sputtered. "You could wake the dead screaming like that!"

Michaela sat up shakily. "Sorry." Her eyes settled on her arm, where a shallow gash stretched across her bicep. The blood was dried, but the wound was recent.

"What happened there?" Clark asked, worried.

"I had a vision."

"A vision gave you a cut? What was it about?" Clark took her arm and inspected her cut. When he looked at her again, his aqua eyes were wide, his long lashes matted from sleep. He set his jaw in a way that reminded her of Gabriel. He would die too if her dream became reality. Everyone would.

"The end of the world," Michaela answered. She drew in a deep breath, covering the cut with her other hand. Clark sank onto the cot with her and pulled her into his side. Michaela relaxed against him.

"Fantastic. That's awesome really. I've always wondered what that would be like."

"Clark," Michaela said. "I'm serious."

Clark sighed. "I know." He wrapped his arm farther around her body. "Maybe it was just a bad dream. A dream that cuts you..."

"It wasn't just Earth that collapsed, but Heaven and Hell too. It was like they were all tied together, when one went so did the others. Everyone would die," she whispered.

"Is that normal?" Clark asked, confused. "I thought during the apocalypse, only the world ended, but Heaven and Hell would be fine, right?"

"Not the way I saw it in my dream," Michaela answered.

"This wasn't, like, _tomorrow_ or anything, right?"

Michaela shook her head, and Clark exhaled in relief. "Abel had the Seven Seals, which will take him a while to acquire. Those scrolls are the only way to end the world. You have to break them apart individually and in a certain order. Only..."

"What?" Clark asked.

"Only I don't think Abel understands that by destroying Earth, he will destroy Heaven too—and himself," Michaela answered.

"Are you certain he doesn't know about the seals' power?"

Michaela shook her head. "I'm sure, because I didn't know. We all thought the seals would end Earth and the humans' time on it. No one could know breaking the seals would end Heaven and Hell too."

"Why would he even want to end the world? Does he hate the humans that much?"

"I think he does," Michaela said. "He wants purity. Perfection. By ending Earth, he cleanses Heaven. There won't be any more impure souls to judge."

"But there won't be anyone." Clark shuddered. "There's still a chance it wasn't real."

"It was real." Michaela shuddered, and Clark held her tighter. "It's going to happen."

"Okay," Clark said. He tried to sound strong. "Is there anything we can do?"

With a deep breath, Michaela stood from the cot and faced Clark, who looked at her expectantly. She had a plan.

"We have to end Abel's reign. We have to show everyone who he really is before it's too late. If we can prove what he has done, the holy angels will cast him out."

"Then he can't end of the world if he isn't General," Clark added.

"Exactly."

Clark's father met them at the tunnel's exit a few hours after the sun had set. Clark and Michaela climbed through the fruit stand and into the cab of the truck. The ride back to the toolshed was long and bouncy, but Michaela felt better with each mile they put between them and the compound. Her dream had lifted the fog in her head, and for the first time she could see clearly.

A week had been too long. Michaela should have left the moment she saw Zarachiel and knew what Abel was capable of. A true holy angel would never desecrate an innocent angel's body like Abel had done to Zarachiel, which meant Abel would stop at nothing to achieve his Purification. She recalled the manic excitement and joy she had seen on his face as he watched Earth burn. His fever for a pure Heaven was growing, building, and consuming him. If he wanted to break the Seven Seals, he had to have gone mad.

"Here we are," Isaac said a while later. He stopped the truck beside Clark's Chevelle.

They made quick work of unloading the gear. Isaac gave them more food and water. And a large bag of weapons that made Michaela's eyes gleam. Isaac handed Clark a wad of money too.

When the car was loaded, Michaela shook Isaac's hand. "Thank you, Isaac. I appreciate your help." She smiled at Clark's father, who seemed to melt a little. His hard, leathered face softened.

"Of course, Michaela. I always believed in you." He squeezed her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing the soft skin. "I just couldn't put the Descendants in jeopardy by sending them to help you after you fell."

"I understand, Isaac," Michaela said. She hugged him, which surprised them both.

Blushing, Isaac cleared his throat. "Well, anyway, you're in good hands." Michaela nodded and slid into the passenger seat, her eyes drifting to the side mirror.

Instead of saying anything, Isaac pulled Clark into a tight hug. Clark wrapped his arms around his father and hugged the man back. The sight made Michaela smile.

When Isaac drew back, Clark's eyes watered slightly, and he quickly turned away. His throat was tight, but he managed, "Thank you, Dad."

"I love you, Clark."

Clark only nodded and walked to the car like he didn't trust himself to respond. Before he opened the door, Isaac said, "Your mother would be proud."

Clark's head jerked up. Isaac was smiling. "I know," Clark said.

Clark settled into the car. With a deep breath, he turned the engine over. He took one last look in the rearview mirror where his father stood watching before he pulled away.

They bumped along the farm road for a bit before he turned onto the small two-lane road, heading away from the Descendants' compound.

"That was touching," Michaela said.

Clark grunted. He fiddled with the radio dials.

"Are you okay to drive? Do you want me to?" Michaela asked. She was already smiling, because she knew the answer.

"Hell no."

The shower's water slowly turned to ice as Michaela stood beneath its stream. The shampoo and soap long since washed away. When she got in thirty minutes ago, the water had been scorching and her thoughts had been on Gabriel. It was ice now, and she didn't feel anything, standing naked and shivering as she watched the water swirl down the mildewed drain. She was still thinking about Gabriel.

Michaela got out of the shower and wrapped a towel tightly around her until she felt warm enough to dress. She pulled on a different pair of ragged jeans. Her foot went through a hole in the knee, causing it to rip even farther. She cuffed the sleeves of a worn Jimi Hendrix shirt and shoved them up past her elbows.

Clark sat up in bed when Michaela came out of the bathroom. A slight shadow of a beard sprouted on his youthful face. His eyes were bloodshot; the skin underneath was swollen and dark. He had driven straight from Kentucky to Charleston. When they had finally picked a motel next to the Ashley River early this morning, he had fallen into bed, exhausted. He hadn't even snored.

"You look awful," Michaela commented.

Clark raked his hands across his face. Michaela toweled her hair dry then pulled on her boots. She tucked her hair through the back of a ball cap. Clark regarded her with squinted eyes.

"It's too early for stealth mode," he said, grumbling.

"It's the opposite of early." Michaela turned on the lights. "You've been sleeping all day."

"Ouch." Clark shielded his eyes. "Are you feeling okay? How's your arm?"

She shrugged. "Fine." Michaela sat on the edge of the dresser and chewed on her fingernails. Her feet jigged frantically.

"Super duper." Clark groaned into his hands.

"Did you not sleep that well?" Michaela asked.

Clark yawned; his jaw popped with the effort. "Like a baby," he said. "I just need about twenty more hours, and I should start to feel normal."

"I offered to drive some."

"I was fine."

"Oh, well in that case, get up." Michaela slapped his leg eagerly. "Get ready and let's go."

Clark collapsed back onto the bed. "Go where?"

Confused, Michaela said, "To find the place Cassie is working?"

"No."

"No?"

Clark sighed heavily. He sat back up on the bed and grabbed his phone off the bedside table. "This isn't the 90's. You should go find coffee, and I'll Google research facilities and hospitals around here with an angel in their logo." He burrowed farther down in bed to emphasize his point. His phone's screen lit his face blue in the dim lighting.

"Google?" Michaela asked.

"It's a human thing." Clark's voice sounded muffled. "But seriously, _coffee_."

When Michaela returned with a large thermos of coffee from the lobby, Clark was still in bed. She opened her mouth to yell when he waved the phone at her. She didn't see the screen, but Clark had a cocky smirk on his face, which told her all she needed to know.

"Sometimes I'm so good I impress myself. Did you bring sugar?"

# Chapter Thirty-Three

"Wow," Clark said in awe. "It's bigger in person."

They stood across the street gawking at the mammoth building. With all the glass and complicated angles set against the night sky, the effect was similar to a modern castle. According to Clark's Google research, it was a multi-billion dollar medical research facility that was in the news almost weekly.

"Did you check the address?" Michaela asked. She had never seen the fallen work out of a place so public. Something like dread curled in her stomach. Clark only nodded as he was still too busy gawking.

"Any great ideas?" Clark asked after another few minutes of silence.

Michaela turned back at the building, ignoring Clark. She counted ten stories, all of which were hidden behind tinted glass. Whatever the fallen did here, they had access to some of the top scientists, research data, and equipment. The more Michaela thought about it, the more she figured Lucifer was probably the one who owned the company, which meant getting in wasn't going to be their biggest problem.

She scanned the building, the lawn, the side streets. Her eyes slid past the street they were on and back again. A manhole cover was situated directly in front of them on the street. Inspiration struck. She glanced both directions.

"Clark, you're not going to like this," she said. She pulled her cap down lower on her head.

"What?" He watched her wearily. Michaela eyed the manhole in front of them. Clark groaned. "Dude, I like these boots."

Five minutes later they were down the ladder and plopped into some very suspicious smelling water. Clark's silence was loaded with accusations. It wasn't her best plan, but it was all Michaela had.

Michaela heard Clark shifting behind her, trying to find a cleaner path. The air was surprisingly hot and sticky; it thickened in Michaela's nose causing a dull ache in the back of her head. The shadows masked the scurrying rodents, whose red eyes glinted in the semi-darkness.

"You didn't have to come if you didn't want to."

"Oh, you tell me that now." Something scuttled by, and Clark jumped, splashing himself with the murky water. He swore some more. Michaela rolled her eyes in the darkness.

Michaela paused, her nose turned up. Clark bumped into her. The only sound was the constant plopping of water. "What do you smell?" he asked.

"Angel blood," she said finally.

Clark didn't speak again until Michaela navigated them to a dead end. On the wall was a large oval grate held on by thick, rusted bolts. Through the grate, they could see a narrow, upward sloping drain. From the expression on Michaela's face, Clark knew the drain would lead into the basement.

"How are we going to...?" Clark stopped when Michaela positioned herself in front of the grate. He shined the light from his cell phone over the rusted bolts.

The rust from the bars crumbled under her fingers as she laced her hands around them. When she had a good grip, she drew in a breath and braced her body. She pulled with every ounce of strength she had.

Nothing happened at first. Then her body started to tremble; a long, bulging vein throbbed along her forearm. Finally, with a screech of metal, the bolts sprung free. Clark jumped out of the way as Michaela heaved the bent grate to the side.

Sweat gleamed on her face, which was ashen in the scant light. Broken blood vessels traced eerie gold lines across her blue eyes. More blood dripped from her cut hands.

"Ready?" she asked.

Her eyes started to heal; her vision cleared. Clark stared at her hands as the cuts slowly fused together. She wiped the excess blood off on her jeans.

"Sure."

Michaela climbed up the drain, bent over at the waist. She pressed her hands against either wall as a guide through the darkness. Her feet fought for traction on the slickened concrete. Algae grew along the walls and bottom, making her slip backwards. Clark shined the light behind her, pulling himself into the circular drain.

At the end of the drain was another grate. Michaela wove her fingers through the metal and pushed until one side of the grate sprang free from the wall and bent open. She climbed through the narrow opening, avoiding the broken, sharp metal points. Clark swore and grunted his way through behind Michaela.

Before them was a narrow aisle in the basement of the building. On each side were rows of barbaric, ancient cells. The bars were corroded and bent. Dirt covered every surface. Inside the cells, chains were suspended from the low ceiling. Dark stains covered the entire surface of the floor. Clark's phone cast long shadows into the empty cells. The air smelled dank and wet, the blood from the cells filling Michaela's nose with its metallic tang.

"What do you think this place is?" Clark asked.

"Come on."

Michaela walked down the narrow hallway, refusing to look into the cold and empty cells. The chains and bloodstains caused her heart to race. She felt light headed and sick. At the end of the aisle, with Clark close at her heels, she trotted up stone stairs toward a thick metal door.

When Clark saw the door had a keypad, he groaned. With a frustrated grunt, he gave the door a hard push. Surprising him, it swung open easily.

"It was unlocked," Michaela said when he grew too pleased with himself. "I doubt this door locks from this side. Besides, if I'm right, they have better security than keypads and cameras."

Michaela stepped through the door into the darkness. The air smelled like cold medicine so strongly Michaela almost preferred the scents in the drain. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. The door thudded shut behind them.

"What kind of better security?" he asked with a slight waver in his voice.

Michaela watched and waited. The motion sensor lights flipped on, illuminating a stark and overly simple hallway with only one door—the door at their backs. Michaela assumed it had locked behind them.

They were trapped, which wouldn't be such a big problem if they could get through the hallway in front of them.

Except they couldn't.

To answer Clark's earlier question, Michaela said, "Familiars."

Five large Rottweilers slid around the corner, crashing into each other, and flinging huge droplets of drool onto the walls. Their growls echoed in the hallway. Their hungry, scarlet eyes settled on Michaela and Clark as they slowed, crouching like they were stalking a sixteen-ounce bloody steak. Huge muscles twitched and convulsed along the dogs' bodies as they snapped their massive jaws at the air. Drool splattered red across the pristine floors.

# Chapter Thirty-Four

Clark backed away, hands outstretched. Michaela snatched his arm before he turned and ran. The pain of her nails breaking through his skin had Clark's eyes darting to hers.

"They are only familiars. They feed off your fear. Don't look them in the eyes. Don't even think about them. And definitely don't be afraid."

"Are you freaking kidding me?" Clark nearly shouted, eyes jumping from Michaela's face to the dogs.

The familiars were within ten feet. Cold sweat spread across Clark's forehead. His grip on her hand was painful. Michaela felt the spike in his pulse. He was terrified.

She yanked his arm, making Clark stumble closer to her. "Look at me!" Michaela hissed. "They are just in your mind," she continued as the dogs snapped their massive teeth like they disagreed. "It's just a trick," she said calmly, almost bored.

Five feet away, the giant dogs stopped stalking and bounded from the slick, waxed floor. Clark squeezed his eyes shut, chanting, "It's not real. It's not real. It's not—shit!"

One dog hurtled into him like a semi-truck. Clark's feet lost contact with the ground as he flew backwards. His hand wrenched from Michaela's.

Clark hit the floor hard with the weight of the dog pressing into his chest. Clark strained to keep the familiar's snapping jaws from making contact with his flesh. Its fierce, ripping snarls filled the still air of the hall.

"Clark," Michaela said. She crossed her arms. "You're okay."

Clark's grip slipped. The familiar's slimy teeth sank into Clark's neck, pillaging for his jugular. He screamed with his eyes clenched close. Michaela heard a crunch.

Michaela stood over Clark as he kicked and struggled on the floor. His eyes were desperate and begging her to help him. She leaned over, her eyes soft and reassuring, and slapped him across the face.

"Ow!" Clark glared at her, his hand on his face. A second later he realized the dog was gone.

Michaela stretched out her hand. She pulled him to his feet, steadying him for a moment. Clark took a shaky breath.

"Just a trick, huh?" Clark said shakily, but he managed a slight, trembling chuckle. His hands went to his neck, feeling for the bite mark.

"There's nothing there but red marks," Michaela answered for him.

"Could they have killed me?"

"Yes." Michaela shrugged. "It's how the fallen influence the human's behavior."

"I certainly feel influenced." Clark took a shaky breath. He studied Michaela. "Are you okay?"

Michaela stared at him blankly until Clark rolled his eyes. She said, "Come on, let's keep going. We don't have long before more familiars come back."

They already saw one jail here, but as soon as they rounded the corner, they found another. Instead of bars and chains, this jail consisted of white walls and padded cells. Simple numbered doors with no handle and only a small square viewing window indicated the cell's position. From where Michaela stood, she guessed there was close to a hundred doors spanning the length of the hall. The lights hummed quietly above their heads, but otherwise there was no sound.

Clark walked to the nearest door. Standing on his toes, he pressed his nose to the thick glass, straining to see inside. Michaela assumed they would find something different in this jail, and, confirming her suspicions, a pale, skinny hand slapped the glass inches from Clark's face.

He leapt backwards. "Did you see that?" he sputtered, looking at Michaela with wide eyes.

Michaela approached the window slowly. She stood only as close as she needed to see into the room. Positioned in the middle, standing with its arms limp and hanging, was a creature. It returned Michaela's stare with hollow eyes. It had no pupils, only dull colorless orbs. Its skin was nearly translucent although Michaela detected a subtle shimmer radiating from its body. Its head was pointed and bald; its face was sharp angles and hollow lines. A white gown hung loosely from its skinny frame.

The creature turned and shuffled away. On its back, in a cutout space in the nightgown, knobby, boney wings protruded. The wings were featherless, merely hollow bones tucked against a skeletal back. They had grown so contorted Michaela wondered if they even worked.

She withdrew from the window, running a hand over her face in thought.

"Well?" Clark stared at her. His arms were crossed over his body like he warded off a chill. "That's no angel," he added.

"No," Michaela said quietly as she stared back toward the window, which remained empty. "It isn't an angel."

"So what was it?"

"I think it _used_ to be an angel..." She allowed her eyes to close for a moment. She needed to keep moving, but her body was a lead weight. Her heart broke for the creature inside the cell even if it was a fallen. Her mind went back to the word Asz had used to describe Cassie's work: _monsters_. She fought off a shudder and forced herself to move away from the door.

"That's messed up," Clark said behind her.

Michaela continued down the hall, checking each window as she went. In each cell was an angel like the one she had seen in the first cell. They all had varying degrees of decay. Some slumped on the floor, nothing but useless bones and flaky skin. Others surged against the door with a strength that strained the barrier.

Michaela turned, peering behind her for Clark. He leaned into one of the doors like he was trying to pour himself through the metal. His fingers pressed against the window's ledge, drawing him up so he could get a better view. Something akin to reverence clouded over his nearly neon blue eyes. The air warped around his body until Michaela blinked her eyes a few times.

"What is it?" she called to him.

"I don't know." He didn't avert his gaze when he answered her in a quiet, awed voice.

Michaela had to push him aside when she reached the door. She took in the creature's long, luminous strawberry blond hair. Beguiling eyes, a mixture between gray and green, stared back at Michaela. The skin along her body glowed under the intense lighting. And a simple smile graced the tiny bow of a mouth, like the creature recognized Michaela.

"What is she?" Clark asked feverishly. He pointed at the door. His eyes were impatient as always. " _What is she_?"

"She's a Nephilim."

Clark's mouth popped open to form a little 'o.' His eyes were wide and comprehending. Michaela was glad to see the reverenced haze gave way to a slight sheen of fear.

"They weren't all killed in the flood along with the Watchers?" he asked.

Nephilim were the Watchers' bastard children born of human women. They were an angel of sorts, without wings but still powerful beyond measure. They bore the powers of their fathers—sorcery. They also had the beauty and perfection of the angels, only their bodies were of the weak, human variety with red blood. The Archangels, with Michaela leading, had sought to kill off the Nephilim with one great flood.

"We missed a few," she answered. Every now and then she would hear rumors of one popping up. They were animals to be hunted, to be despised.

"But what is she doing here?"

"I'm wondering that too," Michaela said. Her gaze leveled on the red marks on Clark's arm. He saw the direction of her stare and hid his arms behind his back.

"Maybe it's just a coincidence?" he volunteered hopefully.

"I'm getting a bad feeling about this," she said softly.

"That's really reassuring."

"Come on," Michaela commanded.

They walked almost to the end of the hall. Michaela paused in front of a set of double doors. She saw bright laboratory lights shining inside a large room.

"What is it?" Clark asked, peering over her shoulder.

Michaela didn't answer. Instead, she pushed through the doors and into a long, expansive laboratory. Machines of all sorts _hummed_ and _whirred_ above the noise of the lights clicking above their heads. Cabinets, sleek and clean, lined the white walls above neat metal counters. The frigid air smelled like alcohol. Nearly twenty metal gurneys lined the length of the room.

But that wasn't what Michaela noticed first—it was what was _on_ the gurneys.

Strapped down to each gurney was a fallen angel. Large leather bands encircled their shoulders, hips, and ankles. Each angel's black powerful wings were tucked tightly against their back, flush with the table. The confinement had to be uncomfortable, yet none of the angels moved even as the double doors swung shut loudly behind Michaela and Clark.

Standing next to each angel was a pole containing a bag of red, thick liquid. It ran from the bag down a small tube and into the angels' arms through a needle. Michaela sniffed the air to confirm her fear. The IV was full of human blood, which explained why the angels weren't moving. Human blood was like a drug to angels. It was also toxic.

"This isn't good is it?" Clark asked. He sounded nervous.

Michaela stepped closer, drawing between two gurneys. Now she noticed the angels' jaws were pried open by a metal contraption wired around their heads. Above their mouths, like a little cloud, was a shifting, hazy bubble of air. It blurred the angels' faces beneath it, contracting and expanding to match the angels' breaths.

"What's that in their mouths?" Clark's voice was right over her shoulder. Michaela peered closer through the hazy air. Squinting, she managed to make out the blurry outline of a white, tiny object.

"Maybe we shouldn't..." Clark started.

But Michaela was already reaching inside the wide, dry mouth of the fallen next to her. As her hand passed through the cloud of air above the fallen's mouth, an electrical surge shocked her. She gritted her teeth and forced her hand to stay steady as the shock worked its way up her fingertips to her wrist and up into her forearm. Before the shock went any farther, she pinched the object off the angel's tongue and withdrew her hand.

Clark and Michaela both looked, open mouthed, at the object on her palm. It was a single, tiny feather. Michaela gasped. She cursed and twitched her hand, shaking the feather free until it fell to the floor. She rubbed her hand where the electrical current had zapped her.

"What was that?" Clark asked, breathless.

She backed away, pulling Clark with her until they were pressed against the double doors leading out of the lab. "It was a soul."

"A soul of what?" Clark sounded skeptical. "The angel's soul?"

"No," Michaela answered. "It was a human soul."

Without the feather in its mouth, the hazy air above the angel's mouth was gone, like a bubble burst. From where she stood, she could see the tiny, exposed form of the soul on the floor. She shivered.

"No way. Human souls are feathers?" Clark watched her like she had gone crazy, but Michaela didn't pay attention. Instead she thought about Cassie injecting herself with human blood and her wild talk of protecting souls by giving them a new, better place to hide. Michaela's eyes flickered back to the IV's positioned by each gurney.

"They are. When Loki takes the soul from the humans, he gives them to the carrier angels like Cassie. She puts the feather into her wings. It's how she carries thousands of them back to Purgatory," Michaela said. She couldn't help but picture Molloch's death and how his body had disintegrated into feathers.

"Okay," Clark drew out the word like he still didn't understand. "So why are these souls down here in angel's mouths?"

Michaela turned to Clark. Her eyes were wide with the fear coursing through her body. "I think Gabriel was right," she whispered. "It was never about the Archangels and Heaven or even me. I think Lucifer only cared about the souls from the beginning."

"How do you know for sure?" Clark asked. His eyebrows rose as he regarded her.

"If it was really about disgracing me and ruining the Archangels, why hasn't he come after us? He easily could have killed you a million times." Clark snorted at her words, rolling his eyes. "And he hasn't tried to invade Heaven again. His first try was half-hearted at best...This wasn't about Heaven. It was always the souls."

"Are these," Clark pointed to the feather that still lay on the floor where Michaela had dropped it, "all the extra souls he got from the Purification?"

"I guess so," Michaela answered quietly. She rubbed her arms for warmth. The air in the lab was cold, but a chill permeated her insides. It burgeoned out from the ball of fear lodged in her gut.

"Okay...we know whatever Asz saw Cassie doing has something to do with the souls, because she said she was trying to..."

"...keep the souls safe," Michaela finished, losing herself in thought.

"By putting souls in the mouths of angels? That seems a little ridiculous," Clark said.

"No, it's much more than that," Michaela said. She couldn't turn away from the IV's full of human blood. "I think Cassie discovered a secret about human souls and angels and blood."

"In the Apocrypha?" Clark wondered. She caught him staring at his arms.

Michaela nodded, deep in thought. "Right. So Cassie found a secret in the Apocrypha and it involved souls, which Lucifer had plenty after the Purification."Michaela frowned. "But the blood..."

"My dad told me something interesting about angels drinking blood. We have these angels in the detention center at the compound called the ruined fallen. They became addicted to human blood, and like, went crazy. A bunch of Descendants had to go after them. Their hunger for blood made them rabid. The scientists at the compound kept giving them more blood, because it was the only thing that calmed them down. But eventually, they were comatose. Like their bodies were just a live shell, but the angel inside had died.

"Dude, what?" he asked irritably when Michaela only stared at him blankly. But Michaela didn't respond. Her eyes were wide, her mind faraway.

"Lucifer convinced Cassie that Heaven wasn't safe for the souls anymore, which is why she fell. She was looking for a place to hide them. I think she found one." Michaela stared at the angels laying listless on the cold metal gurneys. Never before would she have called fallen helpless, but she pitied these angels. "I think Cassie found a way to put the souls of dead humans in the bodies of live angels."

"But how did she do that? You can't just put someone's soul inside another living body," Clark argued.

"Blood," Michaela answered. She pointed to the IV's dripping a steady flow of human blood into the prone bodies of the angels. "The fallen angels are given human blood. That's why the Siren needed so much of it back at the club. It's the only way Cassie could have done it." She spoke quietly, like she was worried someone would hear.

Clark opened his mouth to question, but Michaela went on.

"Those ruined fallen you talked about, they had died...sort of. Blood is toxic to angels and highly addictive. It would have killed their souls but not their bodies, since only bones from my wings can kill angels..." Michaela paused for a moment, frowning. Clark didn't speak for once. "I think Cassie was using human blood to suspend an angel's soul, to lower their ability to fight against the human soul when she put it inside them. These angels are still in the process of accepting the human soul," she murmured. She glanced over her shoulder through the double doors and to the cells outside. "Those angels are the finished product. That's why they are so different and aggressive, because they have souls inside them, and they crave human blood from their exposure to it. Cassie wasn't protecting the human souls from anything. She didn't know it, but she was building something for Lucifer." Michaela breathed heavy with realization.

"What is she trying to make?"

Michaela didn't hear. All she could think was that Lucifer was right about humans winning the war for him, especially when he built an entire army full of their souls. He could slaughter the whole legion of holy angels. And take Heaven and Earth for himself just like he wanted.

# Chapter Thirty-Five

"She was making Nephilim," Michaela said finally.

"Uh, come again?"

"They have the real Nephil here as a prototype."

"But she is nothing like them," Clark said, frowning.

"Exactly. Lucifer is trying to manufacture something that can't just be created. Nephilim are powerful creatures. They combine the best of angels and humans. It was a natural process between an angel and a human woman. That essence can't just be grown in some fancy lab."

"So why try?"

"Because the Apocrypha showed Cassie how to make an angel truly immortal—"

"Lucifer would want immortal angels for his army since you had just figured out how an angel could die with your bones," Clark said, tugging his fingers through his disarrayed pink hair.

"Exactly. If you think about it, a human's soul is truly immortal—it lives forever in Heaven or Hell. Not even the angels or the Nephilim have that power. I believe Lucifer found by putting a human soul into an angel, he could create an immortal hybrid, creating the best kind of Nephilim—one that wasn't killed by bone or affected by water."

"Why water?" Clark asked. "I don't remember any of this from my classes."

"Water weakens both a Nephil and a Watcher, because they share the same genetics. When I put the Watchers in the ground, I chained them in a river so that they couldn't conduct their magic. But bone would have to kill a Watcher. Whereas, Nephilim aren't affected as strongly by water, and angel bones wouldn't be their weakness, because they are essentially human and would die of old age or an illness."

Michaela leaned back against the wall, her head in her hands. Lucifer had to try something drastic at some point. Since she had watched him fall from Heaven, she knew he would do anything in his power to take Heaven back for himself. At this point, she almost couldn't blame him. She would do anything to return home also. But she couldn't let him get away with hurting the souls.

"I still don't get it. How do you know Lucifer found this out from the Apocrypha?"

"I think Cassie was the only one who could read it for him, and I think she could only interpret the parts about souls. Since the time the Watchers were cast out, angels have said the Watchers had the secrets for both immortality and death for an angel," Michaela answered, but her voice wavered.

"So, let me get this straight. You think Abel is after the Seven Seals so he can bring about the end of the world?" Clark asked.

"Yes. If my dream was a vision and not just a nightmare."

"Okay. And Lucifer is building an immortal army to fight during the End of the Days because he wants to win control of Earth and Heaven?"

Michaela nodded silently.

"Basically, we are in the middle of a war to stop the end of the world," Clark concluded.

"It kind of looks that way doesn't it?"

Clark heaved a sigh. "What are we going to do?"

Michaela pushed through the double doors and stepped back into the still vacant hallway. She scanned the long row of doors. "I need to figure out what to do with these things."

Clark's head jerked back to the Nephil's door. "What are you going to do to her? You won't kill her will you?"

"I would have...before. I would have killed her without a second thought. They are abominations." Clark tensed. "But now, I don't understand why a creature should be killed just for existing."

"Well...okay then. Glad that's settled. What now?"

"I guess you'll want to get her out?" Michaela didn't wait for an answer. She turned away and walked farther down the hall.

Clark smirked at her back. "What kind of hero would I be if I didn't?"

Michaela rolled her eyes. She opened a few doors, reveling cleaning supplies and a tech closet. Finally, she found the control room. She put her hand on the handle, and slowly swung the door open, peering in to the small room.

A figure swiveled around in the chair and leveled a gun at her chest. Michaela stepped inside, blocking Clark's view of the familiar. It held a gun and was dressed in a white coat with credentials hanging off the pocket. Its eyes were dark beneath black, greasy hair. A blast of cold air washed over her, bringing the stench of sulfur. The familiar rose, releasing the safety.

Michaela was scared not of the familiar but of the creatures in the lab with souls hanging in their mouths. She was afraid of what Cassie was doing. She was afraid of the cut on her arm and Death saying he was coming for her. But her fear was conjuring more familiars, and she didn't have time for them right now. She took a deep breath and stepped around the man.

Clark stuck his head into the room. "Whoa. Dude."

Inside were at least fifty small monitors that showed live feeds rotating through each room. A switchboard of controls spread out before the chair.

Michaela turned to him. "Are you ready?" she asked.

Clark nodded.

"I need you to take care of the Nephil. I'm going to deal with the other ones."

Clark watched her carefully as she positioned herself in front of the monitors. "Are you sure you can handle all this?" he asked.

Her hand settled on the controls, and she scanned through each room. Her eyes never left the monitors. She ignored his question and said, "Look, we probably don't have much time. I doubt guards patrol down here with the familiars, but we need to be careful. As soon as I open a door, I'd be willing to bet someone upstairs will know."

"And they won't be happy," Clark added drily.

"As soon as I open her door, get her out as quickly as possible. You'll have to go up to get out. The guards will be coming down, so stay out of their way until they pass. I'll give them a distraction."

"What kind of distraction?" Clark grew serious. "How will you get out?"

"I have to find Cassie."

"What are you going to do?" he asked. He crossed his arms over his chest with the stubborn expression Michaela knew so well.

"Don't worry about that. Just get away from here. Let's meet up at the motel," Michaela said. She stood, backing him out of the room.

"I thought you said we should never return to the same motel?"

"I'm making an exception. Now, are you going to play hero or what?"

A lump formed in Michaela's throat, which surprised her. She hadn't expected to grow so attached to Clark, especially in her current situation. But she was, and she hated to see him go when it might be the last time she saw him. She forced herself to smile, her lips quivering in the corners of her mouth.

She made a mistake, because Clark instantly narrowed his eyes, skeptical of her smile. He hesitated. He wasn't going to leave. It made her feel better to know that, and it gave her the strength to do what she had to do alone. She leaned over and shoved him out of the room, slamming the door in his face with a click of the lock.

On a monitor, Michaela saw Clark hesitate outside the door. He lifted his fist as if to pound it on the door, but lowered it. He searched for a minute before he found the camera and flipped her off. Michaela smiled, genuinely this time.

Clark turned and ran down the hall, watching the numbers on the doors. Michaela followed his progress with the monitor showing the length of the hallway. He stopped in front of one of the doors, took a deep breath, and gave the thumbs up sign.

Michaela flipped the release beneath the monitor. No alarms rang, but the guards would come. She watched as Clark caught the Nephil in his arms, his eyes glazing over as he stared down at her.

"Quit ogling and get out of here..."

Finally, Clark started moving, cradling the small Nephil in his arms. When they were past the control room, Michaela turned back to the monitors. She would give them a minute, but only one. Her palms left damp streaks across the desk.

She looked down at the screens and thought about what she would do. The old Michaela would have killed every last one. It was the honorable thing. It's what Gabriel would have told her to do. Somewhere in those creatures were angels and souls, and they both deserved to be set free.

"But you're not here, Gabe," she said. The room answered with quietness.

But if she killed them, no one would know. Lucifer and his fallen would cover it up. They would recoup, try again later. Maybe it would be the same trick or maybe it would be something worse. But certainly their actions would never get traced back to the Aethere.

Michaela doubted the Aethere had any idea what Lucifer created here. The Aethere were delusional. They wanted a Heaven that was pure and perfect. They thought they understood the deal they had made with Lucifer, but they were naïve to presume Lucifer wouldn't manipulate them. Lucifer used what they had given him and twisted it into the one thing that would be the fall of Heaven.

If she killed the creatures now, it would just be her, doing the honorable thing once again. And she didn't feel honorable anymore. The snake within her writhed, spiraled up her spine, and coiled around the base of her neck. The minute had passed. Now was the time.

She didn't know she decided until she heard the soft release of many doors opening at once. Instantly she regretted it, but only because Gabriel would be disappointed in her again.

She crossed to the control room door's window and watched as the first few ambled past. Their eyes glowed a little brighter. Some even snapped their jaws at the fresh air. A few were slow and weak, fragile and failing. But many more were strong and surged forward. They appeared hungry and far more dangerous than Michaela had expected.

# Chapter Thirty-Six

After the creatures passed, Michaela left the control room. The air felt viscous and hot, pressing into her nose with a horrible, decaying stench. She nearly gagged as she continued on around the corner.

A few guards were there. Their bodies strewn across the hall; their blood smeared against the walls. One clutched his gun in his hand as bloody air bubbled out of his mouth. His eyes focused on her, pleading. He was probably only a rent-a-cop meant to patrol halls, watch the monitors, and never ever go downstairs. He had, and he'd died.

Because of her.

She picked her way through the guards until she stood above one who was still alive. He stared up at her, his eyes afraid. He was already dead; he just hadn't gotten there yet. There was nothing she could do, so she walked away. As she rounded the corner, she heard his final sigh.

Instead of following Clark's path up and out of the building, she went down the only other hallway on the same basement level. This hall was smaller, narrower. It was the older part of the building not made of glass but cinder blocks. She nearly reached the end when she saw a small alcove positioned off to the side.

The doors were heavy; the glass on the window was thicker, murkier. A control panel hung next to the door. It glowed a soft blue, lightly illuminating the small area. Michaela took a breath and stepped in.

She guessed what she would find. Michaela looked through the small window. She'd been right. The creature had once been Cassie, but it certainly wasn't anymore.

Cassie had gone too far, drank too much blood. Somewhere along the way, she tried to save one soul too many.

Her sweet face had hardened into an unnatural blend of angel and human. Her lackluster skin was hard as stone, unmoving and unyielding. Even her slight muscles seemed carved into her body. Like she sensed Michaela watching, Cassie's eyes peeled open, revealing their blood red color.

Cassie leapt forward and slammed herself into the door, snarling and spitting. Caught in her teeth were slivers of muscle and tendon. They were stained a dingy brown from blood, their razor points honed by the bones she likely gnawed on. Cassie kept lunging at Michaela, biting at the glass with a single-minded hunger.

Michaela didn't flinch or move. The creature Cassie had turned herself into did not scare her. Michaela had failed Cassie. She let Lucifer convince Cassie she needed to save the souls when he whispered to her rumors of Heaven's fall and a Purification enacted by overzealous, purist angels. Michaela wasn't there for her, and Cassie had done what she thought best, putting the souls in the safest place she knew—an angel's body.

"Cassie." Michaela pressed her hand to the glass; Cassie to beat against her door harder. Her stained teeth broke against the glass, leaving streaks of reddish-brown blood.

Michaela didn't understand how Cassie found the secret in the Watchers' magic. But somehow, buried in that book, Cassie learned that by weakening an angel's system with human blood, an angel could take on the soul of a human. Cassie cared for the safekeeping, but Lucifer only wanted the finished product.

He had created a hybrid—a super army that would be his answer in the final wars. He had an unlimited supply of blood and more souls every moment the Purification went on. No wonder the fallen angels were terrified. Lucifer wanted them to become monsters like Asz had said.

Michaela had promised she would kill Cassie, and she would.

Cassie stopped beating against the door. She stood, glaring and twitching at Michaela through the glass. It was time. No more waiting.

She pressed the release and Cassie surged out.

Cassie was on her instantly, her teeth closing in on Michaela's throat. Michaela grabbed Cassie's throat, not to restrain her but to pull her closer. If she were meant to die here, she wouldn't stop the creature that had once been her friend.

Michaela doubted neither angel bone nor water would stop Cassie. She was a new creation, a hybrid truly created with death in mind. Lucifer had created a soldier that was strong enough to withstand any weapon, natural or metal.

Michaela closed her eyes and spoke two words.

They fumbled coming out of her mouth. They weren't nearly as perfect as when Clark said them, but they worked. Michaela felt her hand grow hot. Her grip burned into Cassie's skin. Cassie flinched, but didn't slow.

Michaela said them again and again. Each time the words grew more fevered, more eloquent on her tongue. Cassie, her neck scorched, fell back but not out of Michaela's grip. The burn worked up her face, creeping like black roots. Cassie gasped, and black smoke wafted out.

Michaela didn't quit until Cassie fell to the ground and nothing remained of her but a scorched hull. Michaela let go, but the fire spread. She watched as Cassie's body grew black, crumbling into a charred ruin of bones and ash.

There were no feathers. Nothing but the smell of fire and death. Michaela thought she might cry, but the tears never came. She was growing harder, changing into a new creature, adapting to what was demanded of her. She was becoming a killer.

Michaela turned and ran.

When she reached the lobby, Michaela found glass scattered, broken and pointing to the sky. The alarms flashing were useless; no police would come here tonight with the hybrids Michaela had let loose on the streets. Large, shattered pots spilled soil and crushed flowers across the white floors. The pane of glass separating the lobby from the outside entry was shattered, leaving a huge gaping hole where the night's breeze came in and blew loose papers across the room.

Michaela stepped outside. A smeared bloody handprint slid down the outline of the angel on the sign. The body of a late-night jogger lay beside it, his stomach hollowed and empty. Michaela caught sight of Clark's car idling on the sidewalk. He waved frantically, eyes wide and scared. A loud crash came from inside the building. With barely a backwards glance, Michaela sprinted toward the car.

"What are you doing here?" she shouted as she threw herself in the car.

"What did you do? You let them go!" Clark shouted back just as loud. He pointed to a crack in the window. "They went all zombie apocalypse on my ass!"

"Their bodies are unbalanced. They crave blood, but it only makes them crazier when they get it."

"No shit!"

"Where's the Nephil?" Michaela asked, checking the backseat.

"She saw those creatures and ran off. She said something about warning someone."

"She'll be fine," Michaela said. She buckled her seatbelt.

Clark sniffed. "Frankly, I didn't appreciate her lack of admiration for my heroic efforts."

His words were punctuated by the sound of breaking glass. They both looked down the road. The sounds of screams filled the air. When Clark spoke again, the words were much quieter, almost reflective. "A lot of people are going to die tonight..."

Michaela had done what she thought was best. Humans would die. More angels would die. She pictured Cassie in her last moments. She saw Asz with the knife in his hand and peaceful expression on his face. She remembered Molloch on the floor of the cave.

There were many kinds of death in war.

To Clark, Michaela said quietly, "People will die, but the holy angels will come down and stop the hybrids. They will see what Lucifer has done with the souls the Aethere gave him. They will demand to know why the Aethere enacted the Purification if this was the result."

Clark looked at her, their eyes meeting in the darkness. "Are you sure?"

# Chapter Thirty-Seven

The water endlessly lapped against their forearms. They were cursed by its simple power. The chains restrained their hands and feet to the bottom of a subterranean river, making them weak and powerless. Thin golden necklaces were wrapped around their neck, up their chin, and over their tongues, to bind their silence.

For nearly an eternity the Watchers hunched in the water of the caves far below the surface of the earth, forever silent and forever damned. Some said their punishment went far beyond what their disgrace warranted. The Archangels—Michaela—proclaimed the punishment suitable for the angels responsible for the Nephilim long ago. For if an angel could find lust so easily in his heart then he would find himself comfortable with the weakness portrayed by a kneeling sinner.

And oh how the Watchers regretted admiring those women. How they wished they had just stayed in Heaven, satisfied with watching from afar. But endless time passed, and watching had led to wanting. The Nephilim were a result no one had seen coming, a surprise of the ultimate kind. The Watchers even regretted their children.

More than that, they regretted accepting their punishment with bowed heads and guilty hearts. They hated themselves for marching two hundred strong into the bowels of the earth like diseased outcasts. They told themselves they deserved it then. But that was long ago and they had reconsidered.

Their biggest regret of all was not killing Michaela when they had the chance.

Azazel assumed his retribution would come violently. He had led the Watchers down to Earth's women that fateful day. So it would be him who settled his hands around Michaela's soul. He hadn't heard about the fallibility of an angel's life, but he pictured Michaela's death countless times, countless ways.

Azazel had always imagined bursting forth from the soil, followed by his fellow damned. Instead, on the night of his freedom, the soil came to him with a soft sigh. It started as a trickle, a soft pattering of dirt they didn't recognize at first because they were so lost in their timeless, ceaseless stupor. But then the dirt became a hard rain, and they searched above them to see the night sky for the first time in a long, _long_ time.

The ground trembled. The water swirled, stirred to waves. Rocks fell into the river, and the underground waterfalls stopped their descent. Two hundred angels looked to one another with a quiet hopefulness they didn't dare speak aloud.

When the caves collapsed, it took the water from their chains. With it gone, they easily broke the metal and removed the gags. They rose slowly and stiffly. They waited because they expected to see avenging angels coming to announce the End of Days and the end of them.

No one came. They didn't see the seraph, Jehoel, take to the night sky, seeking only to get away as fast as he could. Azazel leaned back, cocking his head to take in the stars above him. With a mighty flutter, he stretched his decrepit wings out, reveling in their breadth. An excited tremble worked up his spine.

It was time.

# Chapter Thirty-Eight

An hour north of the city's peninsula, Clark sped down the empty highway as a quiet chatter from the radio buzzed in the background. The windows were down, and the night air blew through Michaela's hair. When he cranked up the volume, Michaela opened her eyes and frowned at him.

"...massive collapse in Mammoth State Park. Campers are being escorted out and asked to leave as it is not currently known where the cave-in originated and if the other caves are stable. Rangers are suggesting people cancel their plans if they planned a visit to the park, which hosts hundreds of miles of underground caves. No injuries have been reported at this time..."

"That's weird," Clark commented.

"What?" Michaela closed her eyes again with a heavy sigh.

She couldn't reach Gabriel, which frustrated her, but she probably deserved it after pushing him away all week. She wished Clark would turn the radio dribble down so she could concentrate. If she couldn't reach Gabriel then she needed to think, to prepare, for the Aethere's retaliation. By releasing those monsters Lucifer made, she had provoked the Aethere. What she didn't know was how the Aethere would react or if the other angels would start questioning how Lucifer made the creatures.

"That's where I found you." Clark's voice interrupted her thoughts.

"What?" She blinked at him and tried to remember what he had said.

Clark rolled his eyes to the ceiling of the car. "That's the park where I found you. There was a cave-in."

Clark turned up the radio so they could both listen to the DJ recap the same handful of details over and over, trying to fill time until the next music set. No one cared about a pile of dirt moving in backwater Kentucky.

But Michaela cared. She mentally transported herself back to the cave with Molloch and the other fallen Archangels. Like before, he talked to her, berated her. She recognized the waterfalls. She heard the river bubbling in the background. She saw the smirk on Molloch's face when she remembered where they were.

" _You didn't think I'd bring you to just any cave, did you?"_ His voice echoed in her head. Her thoughts raced away from that moment and landed her back in the car with Clark.

"No, no, no..."

She realized she spoke the words out loud when Clark jerked his head toward her."What is it?" Clark reached over and shook her. "What is it?" he practically shouted when she opened her mouth but no words came out.

"That cave..." she whispered.

Fallen angels and countless other creatures gathered beneath the arena in a hold that stank of sweat and piss. The night's fights were about to commence, and everyone was on edge, causing skirmishes to break out every few seconds. Already, blood coated the floor. Creatures slipped and fell in fear while the guards laughed at them.

Gabriel hunkered down in a corner to wait for the doors to open, his sword hanging loose but ready at his side. Most of the time his stare would keep aggressive fighters away, but sometimes he had to use his blade before the doors even opened.

He noticed some of the others whispered and glanced in his direction. He tried to ignore them. He was a novelty. An angel had never been punished to Hell before. He was not a fallen, not damned, yet there he sat.

The ever-present rage boiled within him at the thought. He forced his hand to lie still against the hilt of his sword, which threatened to slash up and across the nearest throat. The urge was just there on the pads of his fingers. It didn't help that he hadn't seen Michaela for days. He had no clue what had happened. She could be hurt, or the Aethere might have found her. Or she might just not want to see him after what had happened between them. The thought made him even angrier.

The crowd above them cheered as they watched the fights between Beliar's beasts. Their massive feet pounding on the roof of the hold sent dust and dirt filtering through the cracks. He wished the doors would open so he could get some fresh air. The feathers of his dirty wings brushed the rough wood of the wall behind him as he shifted his weight. A bead of sweat ran down the side of his face. His eyes narrowed on the group pressed against the opposite wall. They were still talking about him in whispers.

Gabriel watched their mouths closely, which is why he saw her name form on the fallen's lips. Gabriel rose and crossed the hold in one furious beat of his wings, grabbing the fallen by his throat. Gabriel pressed his sword into the angel's gut.

"What did you say?" Gabriel growled. The fallen sputtered, unable to speak against the pressure on his windpipe. Gabriel loosened his grip, but the edge of his sword drew blood that trickled down the fallen's hollow stomach.

An imp next to the fallen spoke. "We overheard the guards talking about her," it said. Its eyes were too large for his elfish face, glistening green with a secret. Gabriel hated imps.

Gabriel's jaw gnashed; a vein popped out in the middle of his forehead and throbbed to the beat of his rage. Gabriel spun. The sword made a sucking noise as Gabriel sank it deep within the imp's chest. Gabriel pivoted back around and grabbed the fallen before the angel had even flinched. Gabriel pressed his blade, dripping sludge, against the fallen's throat.

"Speak," he commanded.

"The-the-they said-they-said there was a de-de-death warrant issued on her. That the Aethere were finally sick of her-her-her shit. Please, please don't hurt me before the fight," the fallen stammered, holding his hands in the air. His eyes darted to the imp, who groaned and pressed a hand to its belly. The creature wouldn't die, but the wound definitely hurt. Traditionally, the guards killed weakest at the end of the fights for entertainment; it was never good to enter already bleeding.

"A death warrant?" Gabriel never heard of such. Briefly he wondered if the fallen was once again baiting him, but he saw the true fear in the fallen angel's eyes. The other prisoners took a few steps away from Gabriel.

The fallen nodded briskly as he eyed the blade still pressed to his throat. "They are going after her. _Please_ , not before the fight."

"Who are?" Gabriel hadn't felt this form of anger before. It wasn't hot or slicing like some of the rages he had experienced in the fights, but chilled and creeping. The new anger settled his resolve, slowed his blood, and cleared his thoughts.

"The Aethere released the Watchers on her," answered a voice hidden within the horde of bodies.

"Why?" Gabriel bellowed. For a moment, the cheering outside died down.

"We-we don't know. She did something bad. Made the Aethere look like-like-like idiots. She was trying to expose them. But she pissed 'em off."

Gabriel let the fallen go. The skinny angel fell to the floor, trembling and glaring at Gabriel. Gabriel stepped away and headed toward the door in the back. Numb fingers circled around the molding bars, which bent but didn't break beneath his strength.

"The Watchers can kill her for sure...They know the secret..."

"They wouldn't even need her bones..."

He tried to ignore the hushed whispers behind him. He didn't know what Michaela had done to provoke the Aethere to the extent they would send the Watchers after her, but he didn't care. The only thing he thought was that the Watchers were likely the only group of angels who could actually succeed in killing Michaela, because they might know the original secret to kill an angel. Gabriel knew how extensive and powerful their magic was, and he didn't want them to have the chance to use it on her. No matter what, Gabriel had to get to her first.

A guard took notice. He drew his own sword and walked toward Gabriel, whose eyes turned from golden to lava. The guard stopped a few steps short, wary and out of reach.

"I need to see Lucifer. _Now_."

# Chapter Thirty-Nine

"That cave...That's where the..." Michaela's tongue wouldn't work, couldn't process the thoughts racing through her head.

"I don't want to know," Clark said, clutching the steering wheel with a sweaty, white-knuckled grip.

"The Watchers..."

Clark groaned.

"That's where I put the Watchers," she finally managed.

"But maybe it's a different cave?"

"I doubt it." Michaela's skin prickled, chilled on the verge of shivering. She could accept that she was afraid. The Watchers were incredibly powerful, their magic nearly impossible to fight. Michaela had no doubt they wouldn't need the bones from her wings to kill her.

"Does, like, _everyone_ hate you or something?"

Michaela didn't hear him. She wondered what it would feel like as she dissolved into a wash of feathers. After an eternity, all her works—good and bad—would be reduced to feathers ghosting away. If she died tonight, Michaela could only hope that by showing the angels what Lucifer did, she had cast enough doubt on the Aethere for someone to pick up the fight where she left off.

_Gabriel_. She missed him violently now. More than anything, she wished she could have seen him one more time. She would lose too much if she died tonight. "Stop the car," she whispered.

Clark didn't hear her.

"Stop the car," Michaela said again.

"I think we should keep driving as far and as fast as possible," he said and pressed the gas even more.

"It won't matter."

"Even more reason to keep driving," he said, glancing at her quickly. "We can come up with a plan or something."

"Just stop the car."

"Michaela, I really—"

"Stop the damn car!" Her hands clenched into fists around the car seats. Clark cringed.

He obeyed and drew the car to a stop on the side of the vacant highway. Michaela opened the car door, smelling the trees that lined both side of the road. Their shadows reached across the road, dancing and swaying beneath Michaela's feet.

Clark stumbled onto the road and rushed to catch up. Michaela sighed heavily. He smacked into her when she whirled around.

"No. Stay in the car." Michaela shook her head, pointing back to the Chevelle. "You need to leave. Now. Drive as fast and far away as possible."

"Oh, no way. I'm staying here." Standing so close, Michaela could see every centimeter of fear in Clark's wide blue eyes. This was yet another time tonight he chose to stay with her when any sane human would have run.

"Leave. I'm serious, Clark," she said.

"I'm not leaving." Clark crossed his arms. "So you just need to get over that idea."

Michaela gritted her teeth. There wasn't much time. She needed to get a move on. "Leave."

"You need me."

Michaela laughed rudely and loudly. Clark glanced around and shushed her. "I haven't needed you once." She lied. He had saved her in many ways. "You've been more of a pain than help."

"Clearly lying is the one sin you _can't_ commit. That should make you feel better," he said. She crossed her arms to match his stance.

"Seriously, you're a fool boy with no real experience," she said with a sneer. "You're a waste of a Descendant. Your own father didn't even think you were good enough." The words should have felt awful in her mouth, but they came easy.

"That won't work either."

They stared each other down for a quick moment. Each one wanted to wait the other out to prove a point, but there was no time. The air didn't stir; the woods didn't speak. Something was coming. Michaela broke first.

"Please. Please, leave," she begged.

Clark reached out and took her hand. A jolt went from his palm to hers and straight to her heart. His eyes were clear denim blue when she met them. He rubbed his thumb across the bones of her wrist.

"So what's the plan?" Clark asked.

Michaela thought for a moment. She reviewed their supplies in the car. Letting go of Clark's hand, she walked back to the car and dug around in the weapon bag Isaac had given until she found a set of daggers. They were too pretty to be useful, but she still handed one to Clark and stuck the other in her boot.

When she closed the door, Clark asked, "Don't we need more weapons?"

"Weapons won't matter against the Watchers. Our only hope is to make it to water." She walked to the nearest side of the road and crouched on the dirt and pressed her palm to the ground. Michaela rose and repeated the process on the other side.

"This way," she said. She pointed into the woods ahead.

"Are you sure we should leave the car?" Clark's eyes darted from the car to the woods and back to Michaela. He was chewing on his fingernails again.

She held out her hand. "We have to run. They're close."

Together, they stepped from the road and into the woods, their footsteps cracking twigs like gunshots in the still night air. They ran swiftly through the trees, hand in hand, listening closely for the sound of wings.

# Chapter Forty

They didn't make it to the water.

Michaela pulled Clark to a stop in a clearing. He turned his face to the sky as he struggled to catch his breath. Michaela breathed deeply, not because she was winded, but to force her body to be still, to wait. She pulled the dagger from her boot, flexing her fingers around the small handle.

The trees stood tall and slender around them with the moon hanging directly overhead. Beneath their feet, the leaves crunched with every anxious shift, making the only sound in the woods. Nothing else talked or walked or rustled, and everyone and everything held its breath.

It felt like hours, but it was likely only seconds, before they arrived.

Michaela sensed them first. The air moved differently as it tickled past her skin, the cool updraft twisting her hair and sprouting chill bumps along her arms. She heard the strong, nearly silent wing beats above her head. The leaves rustled in a breeze that carried their scent of rot and decay. And anger.

The night was quiet enough that Michaela heard the whispers as the Watchers started spinning their magic. The words came from all directions, humming like a breeze, coming and going, undulating with the tone of the spell. Clark clutched Michaela's hand.

The air grew hot, hotter, unbearably hot. Michaela rotated her fist, adjusting her sweat slickened grip on the knife. The heat boiled the acid in her stomach up the back of her throat, twisting and cramping her gut.

With the heat came flashing bursts of lightning across the sky, a bright white against the black. The lightning burst like a strobe light.

Their words lifted. With their vigor came a groaning beneath Michaela's and Clark's feet. A growing vibration rose from deep in the earth. It reached the surface and shook the soil underfoot. Clark grabbed Michaela's arm as the ground broiled.

The time had come.

The trees danced in time to the ground. The limbs swayed, and the trunks bowed even though there was little wind. As Michaela watched, the trees' bark came to life, biting and snarling at them. Clark pressed against Michaela as the trees, straining against their roots, reached for them.

But there wasn't enough room in the little clearing, and there was nowhere to go. The limbs slashed through the air like knives, cutting Michaela's cheek and slicing Clark's palm. Their blood, rolling to the ground in small droplets, seemed to fuel the churning beneath their feet.

All around them, the leaves alighted with fire but never burned. They were blinding pinpricks of searing light, but they only made the night darker by ruining Michaela's night vision. She shielded her eyes with her dirty, bloody hands.

The whispering grew louder and louder.

Clark lurched forward as the ground reared. As he struggled to stand, a limb clasped his forearm and drug him deeper into the woods. Michaela leapt after him, grabbing his shirt with one hand and slamming her dagger into the limb with the other. The tree let out a horrible scream.

They managed to get away before the tree bent in half and slammed into the ground where they stood only a second before.

Blood ran down Clark's leg. A deep cut ran the length of his shin, revealing a glint of bone. As he watched the blood drip to the ground, his face became pale, drawn tight with fear. He stared at Michaela with wide eyes that made him look too young.

He turned and threw up.

Like hands of the dead reaching from their graves, the roots pried from the ground and twined toward their ankles. Michaela kicked at the roots and batted at the limbs that tried to wrap around Clark's neck.

They could not stand for being swatted down or ripped back. They were like marionettes, possessed dolls, dancing and twisting in the darkness.

Ominous clouds churned and swirled, covering the moon and promising ill will. The air began to spin into a vortex around them, twisting the trees in even crazier directions. The wind grew so forceful, Michaela reached for Clark and hung on as they sank to their knees.

Michaela tasted the electricity. She looked up. Lightning hit the ground in front of them. Behind them. Beside them. It hit the trees, sending bark flying and making the leaves fall like rain, burning their skin like brutal drops of acid.

The ground gave a mighty roar before splitting between Michaela and Clark. They jerked to their feet before they fell into the splitting void. Clark's eyes were glued to the ground, but Michaela watched the sky.

_Move!_ She yelled. But she made no noise.

She shoved Clark away and dove after him to avoid a bolt. It sizzled in her bones. The shock of it made her teeth hurt way back in her head, giving her a pulsing headache that blurred her vision.

_We have to go_ , she thought, rising from the ground. Just beyond their ring of hell was quiet and still, and if they could reach it, Michaela thought they might make it to water. This was only the beginning. The Watchers were just toying with their prey before they ate it.

They wouldn't last much longer.

_Go!_ She screamed, but she still couldn't make a sound.

She jumped across the widening gap, grabbing Clark by the shirt. He pivoted, expecting a Watcher. She grabbed Clark's hand before he fell into a nearby tree with its mouth open, ready to devour him.

Yanking him along, they ran, but they didn't make it far.

A Watcher fell from the sky before them.

The angel's skin was wrinkled, but his body was young. The wings at his back were thin, black webs. His eyes were empty, hollow sockets. He flashed his grimy, crumbling teeth.

Michaela started backing up, towing a frozen Clark with her. But the limbs arched above their heads and twined behind their backs, sealing them in. The Watcher stepped forward, making a cackling, rattling sound that might have been laughter.

The Watcher raised his sword in the air, its ancient metal glinting in the moonlight as it slashed toward her. Michaela braced for the bite of the blade when a force like a wrecking ball hit her from the side, knocking her to the ground.

Stunned, she felt her chest. The cut was merely a graze with only a small amount of blood. Clark had shoved her out of the way. She searched for him, straining to see through the smoke from the lightning.

The decrepit angel held Clark close, his horrible mouth twisted into a vulgar smile as he pulled his sword from Clark's belly. In a flash of lightning, Michaela watched her friend's body fall. His pink hair caught the light as his head banged limply into the ground. His electric blue eyes were closed, his mouth gaping open.

She screamed.

The almighty sound erupted from her mouth. It was a wild sound ripping from her lips, holding every ounce of pain and anger in its fibers. It echoed in the air, like a thousand Michaela's screaming back to her. It was the first sound she'd made, and it was deafening.

Michaela scrambled over to him. The roots twined around her ankles. Limbs brushed over her shoulders and into her hair as she bent over Clark. Her hands cradled his head, pulling his body into her lap. She brushed her fingers across his face, but they were shaking so bad she couldn't feel for a pulse.

"Clark!" Her voice cracked in the air scorched by the Watchers' magic.

He blinked at her. He was alive. But through his fingers, poured a rich, bright blood that ebbed and flowed with the beat of his heart. His lips trembled, and Michaela smelled death on his skin. He tried to smile at her, but it was the slightest, weakest version of his cocky smirk. And it never reached his eyes, which were wide, unblinking, and so very afraid. In that moment, Clark looked much too young.

Michaela realized she was crying. Of all the things she had been through, she didn't think she could survive Clark dying in her arms. Her best friend's death would crack her apart.

"Clark. Clark. Clark. Clark."

To Clark, the pain was just a surprise. The kind that made your heart stutter and clench for a beat then gasp a clutched release. Clark stared down at his chest and saw the gaping hole of red beneath his numb fingers. Now that it was finally time, he wondered why dying felt so easy.

Michaela yanked his hands away and pressed hers to the wound.

Clark must have blacked out because when he awoke, Michaela had transformed above him. For a second he forgot about dying as he marveled at her. Limbs twisted through her hair; roots wrapped farther up her legs. She swiped a hand across her paleface, smearing blood from cheek to cheek. With rabid eyes, she spat it from her mouth.

She hissed. Clark felt her press her body over his.

Someone was coming. Michaela snaked her head around. She looked like a wild thing grown straight from the ground.

Clark peered over her shoulder to see the Watcher who would kill them both.

But it wasn't a Watcher at all. He surprised both of them when he spoke.

"Mom?"

# Chapter Forty-One

Clark passed out.

Michaela's eyes locked on the Nephilim standing behind her, and she searched for a resemblance to Clark. She didn't need to search far. The fierce, vibrant blue was all Michaela needed to know that Clark was a half-breed. A half-breed of a half-breed.

Michaela rose. All the limbs retreated, and the trees stilled. The ground gave one last tremble before it eased at her feet.

"You're here to kill me too," Michaela stated. There could be no other. She could not imagine a situation where a Nephil would not want to seek their revenge on her for all she had done to kill them off.

Iris St. James, Clark's mother and Isaac's dead wife, smiled kindly at Michaela. Iris motioned for the handful of Nephilim standing close behind her to attend to her son. Michaela recognized the Nephil from Lucifer's building among the group. They swooped forth and gathered his limp limbs from Michaela's feet. Michaela numbly watched them disappear into the now quiet and still woods.

"Don't worry about him. When Isaac called to tell me Clark had found you, I was so happy. I've waited a long time for my son to come home," Iris said. She stepped closer. Michaela smelled lavender. "I've also waited a long time for you, Michaela."

"You've waited for me?" Michaela asked but spoke in the direction of the woods, waiting for another attack. But it seemed, for now, the presence of the Nephilim had quieted the Watchers.

"I have. I need you. We all do, so you won't be dying tonight." Iris reached across the tense space between them and pulled the dagger from Michaela's loose grip. Michaela didn't fight to keep it. She watched as Iris put the dagger into her thick, leather belt. "The Nephilim will take care of _them_."

"Why?" Michaela asked. The adrenaline that had coursed through her veins only minutes before, now slogged, thick and viscous, slowing her thoughts and exhausting her body until she was on the verge of tears. She couldn't take much more, and processing Iris' words was a feat beyond her current capabilities. She certainly didn't understand why a Nephil would need her, especially if it wasn't to put her bone through her heart.

Iris stared at Michaela for a long moment. All around them, Iris' Nephilim soldiers waged against the Watchers in a quiet battle of whispered words. They were children who fought their fathers, using the same magic of shadows and stars.

"Michaela, we want what you want." Iris smiled kindly. Her long skirt shifted slightly in the easy wind. "We just want to go home."

Michaela took a moment to consider the words. They should have sounded like madness, but instead they seemed almost reasonable. "I can't help you," she whispered.

"You can," Iris answered. Her blues eyes winked. Michaela recognized the white blond locks that were braided down her back. Clark had pink, and Iris had some gray, but it was the same hair.

"I don't think I can."

"Yet I already know you will."

Michaela had no doubt the woman could see the future. Iris had clearly passed the gift on to her son. But seeing Iris now made Michaela want to fall to her knees and beg the ground to swallow her whole. If there ever was an end to this battle Michaela fought, it wasn't tonight.

"I've had visions about tonight, Michaela. I know how this battle with the Watchers could end. You must kill Azazel or else you will die tonight." Iris nodded over Michaela's shoulder. "The water is just behind you, straight forward. You need to go now. Don't stop for anything. Never stop running."

The breeze brought a new chill that bit into Michaela's skin. The Watchers and the Nephilim closed back in around them. Their magic snapped in the air, causing Michaela's fingertips to twitch and a tremor to run through her heart. The trees and shadows had jagged edges that glinted in the night.

"Go," Iris said again. "Don't stop."

The ground shook and the trees moaned. Michaela glanced behind her.

_Run or die. Run or die. Run or die_ , they seemed to say.

"Go," Iris whispered. Michaela turned back, but Iris was gone.

Michaela turned the way Iris had indicated and ran as fast as she could.

After a minute, the burning leaves fell behind her, and the air started to cool as she ran beyond the magic. But she didn't run beyond the Watchers. Their footsteps echoed hers. She caught glimpses of their forms darting through the trees beside her. From within the depths of the shadows beside her came the sounds of breathing, hot and heavy. She wasn't escaping.

First, they came as whispers. Michaela thought it was the Watchers forming magic again. A beat later, Michaela recognized the voices.

Simiel. Raphael. Uriel. Ophaniel. She heard them all. They called her name over and over. Their voices grew louder.

They called to her from the edges of the woods just beyond the dark edge of the shadows. Trembling uncontrollably, she drew to a slow walk as she scanned the woods. Her chest heaved from the sprint, but she kept her breath quiet, listening.

"Michaela, come!"

"Please, Michaela."

"Come here. Help us, Michaela."

"Help me, please."

They repeated the words many times over, many different ways. The sound reverberated across the woods. Michaela turned in a circle, following the sounds that seemed to spiral toward her from every direction.

Her mouth opened, ready to call back on instinct. But she shook her head. It was only the magic. She remembered Iris's words, and she took off again in an unsteady jog. She ducked under limbs and stumbled across the uneven ground.

"Michaela, no!"

She froze. _No_.

"Don't let them do it! Please, Michaela! Save me!"

_Zarachiel_.

"Michaela, they are going to kill me!"

Violent shivers racked through her body, but she forced her quaking legs to move forward. Her Archangels followed her, dogged her every slow step. Their voices wove around and over each other's. It took all she had to not give over to their pleas.

She kept going because she smelled the water. She almost heard its soft babble. If she could make it there, the voices would stop. She slapped the palms of her hands over her ears and staggered through the woods, focusing on the water.

"Michaela!"

Her name was a scream, ear splitting and totally commanding. The ground and the woods shook. Her name alone, in his voice, screamed in that manner, was enough to make the world quake around her.

"Gabriel?" Her hands fell from her ears and she spun in circles, her eyes straining to see through the darkness. "Gabriel!"

From the woods, she saw the Watchers eyes glinting back at her. She clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from shouting his name again. Every cell in her body begged her to find him, but it was just the magic. He wasn't out there.

"Michaela! Don't let them hurt me!

The yell was even louder. She began to cry, the sobs confined behind her hand. Her heart demanded she run into the woods and search for him. Every bone in her body felt as though it broke, snapping in the direction of his voice, refusing to let her stand still. She fell to her knees and screamed in agony. She screamed long and loud, but his was infinitely more so.

"Michaela! Are you going to let them kill me?"

She bent over and wrapped her hands around an exposed root buried deep in the ground. Her body convulsed, but she held tight. "I can't Gabriel. You aren't real..."

"I'm real! Please believe me. Michaela, you're the only one who can save me!"

"I can't. I can't." She said the words over and over, but they didn't help. She leaned her forehead against the root. For the first time since her fall, she began to pray. She prayed for Gabriel's voice to stop.

"You owe me this. You are the reason I was in Hell! You didn't save me then, but, please, come save me now!"

"I'm sorry, Gabe," she said, her words still a prayer. "I'm so sorry. But I'm not coming for you." Tears and mucus ran into her mouth in salty waves. "I'm so sorry, but I can't help you."

"Michaela!"

Every ounce of pain in his body, every ounce she had likely caused was clear in her name. Gabriel's deep, rhythmic voice was reduced to near hysteria as he called for her again and again. She would have crawled to him if she had let go of the root. But she only shook her head and strengthened her hold. She closed her eyes and remembered the memory from Heaven she had told Clark about on their way to Kentucky. She thought of Gabriel's smile and how his golden eyes had shined in Heaven's air.

When it stopped, she was alone in the woods again, curled into a tight ball on the unmoving ground.

"It wasn't real," she told herself. "It wasn't real. He isn't out there. He's okay." Finally, she found the courage to lift her head. She sniffed and looked around to see that even the sky seemed less angry. Carefully rising to her feet, she steadied herself on a nearby slender trunk that thankfully didn't try to beat her.

The cool updraft of empty air flowed across her face. Her eyes adjusted to the new form of darkness before her, and she saw that her feet were inches from a tangle of roots that led over the lip of a steep, almost vertical ravine jutting down to a shallow creek a hundred or so feet below.

She had made it.

"Michaela, it's okay," Gabriel spoke softly from behind her.

She pictured his soft, golden twinkling eyes. She remembered how the hard line of his jaw moved when he said her name. His solemn expression always softened, and she could glimpse the inside of him.

She had fought so hard to resist him moments before that she was exhausted. Her heart was empty and shattered, refusing to forgive her body for not rushing into the woods after his voice.

To her very core, Michaela was tired. She was tired of this fight. This battle. This war. She was tired of existing in a place where Gabriel's voice could only be a lie, because he was cursed to Hell. To live another moment in a world she had likely destroyed was unbearable. She was the source of pain and hurt. Everyone she loved paid a high price.

Gabriel's voice was just a trick. She smelled the hot, decaying stench on her neck. But she began to turn around anyway.

Because she was done.

And she was ready.

_Azazel._

He stood a mere breath away, and he was horrible. Time in the water deep inside the earth had not been kind. The bones of his face pressed forth grotesquely. The sockets of his eyes sunk deep into his slightly sunken skull. His skin was gray and lifeless, like a stone monster high on an ancient cathedral.

His long arms wrapped around Michaela, hugging her close and pulling her from the edge so she had nowhere to go but into his arms. Pressing his shrunken lips against the side of her neck, he smelled the soft spot behind her ear; her stomach rolled in revulsion. Even as his hunger for her death poured from his fingertips, he ran his boney, wrinkled hands down her body, over her hips, and back up.

Michaela's eyes went wide. Azazel smiled when he caught wind of her fear.

Then, he shoved.

Michaela stumbled, off balance, and pitched backwards over the roots. She crashed down the ravine, careening head over heels. She bit her tongue and lips, pouring blood from her mouth and down her throat. She didn't have time to close her eyes.

Michaela dove feet first into the icy creek. Her body buckled unto itself in a horrible symphony of cracking bones. Her left knee shattered upon a razor sharp rock. Michaela tried to brace the remainder of the fall, but the impact broke both arms. The flash of pain was so strong Michaela's scream was one of silent, gaping, empty agony.

Fingers dislocated from their joints as her whole body crashed on top of them. Her forehead banged off another rock, slicing her face. Her lungs clenched from the impact and expelled all the air she tried to suck back in with huge, painful gasps.

Azazel stalked the bank of the shallow stream, prowling like a mountain cat waiting for its prey. He probably hadn't meant for her to fall directly into the stream, where he couldn't finish her off. Michaela's breathing turned into wet, slurping, shallow gasps. She closed her eyes and waited. He would eventually venture into the water and pull her out. She only hoped she was healed enough by then to fight him off before he whispered his killing magic into her ear.

Michaela opened her eyes to a commotion. Her head lolled to the side and she saw him.

_Gabriel_.

He landed right in front of Azazel, real and in the flesh, on the water's bank. It wasn't magic that conjured his voice, because he didn't speak. He stood, backlit from the moon, with his wings outstretched like shining, gleaming tools of death and his face lost to the shadows. In his hand was an ancient scythe. Even from her distance, she could see the metal was laced with angel bone—her bone.

Azazel flicked his filmy wings out and leaped into the air. But Gabriel was faster. He grabbed the Watcher's ankle, and yanked the angel back to the ground. Gabriel must have broken bones, because Azazel stumbled, nearly falling. He didn't try to escape again. Instead, he smiled.

"Why am I not surprised to see you here, dear Gabriel? Although, I'm surprised you would expend the effort on such a filthy soul as hers," Azazel said, his voice a scratchy hiss. He leaned closer, peering into Gabriel's face. Michaela didn't hear what the Watcher whispered to Gabriel, but the words made every muscle in Gabriel's body rigid. His square jaw clenched, outlining every bone in his face as if he were a marble statue.

Azazel drew back, his smile long gone, and began to whisper. Gabriel didn't pause. In a move so fast, so lethal, that Michaela barely saw, Gabriel swung the scythe up in an arc, plunging the point of the curving blade into the soft place underneath Azazel's chin and pinned his whispering tongue to the roof of his mouth.

Gabriel stepped back as Azazel clutched at his face, struggling to grip the hilt of the short-handled weapon. His diseased body jerked, his wings grappling for balance. With one fierce kick, Gabriel sent Azazel stumbling into the water with a loud, cracking splash.

Gabriel stepped into the creek to stand over the Watcher. Azazel put a hand in the air as if he was begging Gabriel to stop. Gabriel only slapped the bony hand out of the way as he reached down and wrapped his long fingers around Azazel's pale, skeletal neck. With his other hand, he grabbed the blade and yanked it free; the angel's jaw gaped open unnaturally wide and crooked.

Gabriel drew back, and Michaela tasted the heady bloodlust in the air. He turned, his face grim, and walked toward her without a backwards glance to Azazel, who faded into a cascade of feathers. Gabriel's weapon dripped blood as he walked, making soft splashes in the creek.

The last of Azazel's floating feathers cast a warm light over Gabriel's back. As he drew closer, the relief washed over her, and she eased back down into the creek, feeling the pull of unconsciousness. She smiled as he bent over her, covered in blood and rage. Her relief, her smile, slipped away. His eyes were furious and directed solely on her.

"What did you do?" he asked, his voice a raw crack in the quiet around them.

Michaela began to shiver in the icy stream. The pain from her healing bones, made her brain hazy, but she still recognized the hateful expression on Gabriel's face. With a great effort, she raised her lesser damaged arm from the stream and reached for him.

He straightened until he was out of her reach. His rejection sapped her energy, and her arm splashed back into the water. As he turned and walked away, Michaela could only think of one thing.

_His eyes were black_.

# Chapter Forty-Two

Gabriel disappeared after he killed Azazel. Iris's Nephilim found Michaela, broken and soaked, after they ran off the Watchers. When Michaela told them Gabriel had killed Azazel, they thought her concussion had made her delusional. They convinced her to come to a small Amish community in southern Pennsylvania only because Clark was going there to heal with his mother. It wasn't the Amish that surrounded her, but hundreds of Nephilim posing as Amish.

Three days had passed since Michaela had come to the farm. The afternoon was sunny and warm, and the Nephilim worked in the fields, cutting hay with horse and mule power. Michaela sat with Clark on the back porch. He healed quickly, but for right now, Michaela positioned his wheelchair in the shade. He sipped on iced tea, and Michaela leaned her head back on her rocking chair for a catnap.

Sometime later, Clark raised his head when Iris approached. Michaela cracked one eye open. Inexplicably, Iris still made Michaela uneasy even though the woman was actually quite likeable. She was kind and sweet. Her long blond hair always stayed in a neat braid down her back. She cooked and cleaned and rarely acted like the creature she was. But when Michaela looked into her summer sky eyes, Michaela knew Iris had many secrets—ones that involved her.

Iris settled her hand on Clark's shoulder, but she said to Michaela, "He's here." The words were delivered quietly, evenly.

But Michaela jumped to her feet, a motion that still hurt, but she ignored it. "Where?" she asked.

"The front field."

Iris settled down in Michaela's spot next to Clark. Mother and son exchanged a shared glance, but Michaela was long gone. She raced through the house and out the front door. She hit the ground running with long, limping strides. Her body strained beneath the effort; her injuries complaining against the brutal activity, but she pressed on.

Horses' ears pricked as she passed. Nephilim in the fields watched her fly by, hair billowing behind her. She only slowed when she met the edge of the front field.

Gabriel stood just at the wood's line with his back to the farm. The trees' shadows hid the sun from his form, making him look like he too had grown from the ground. He didn't move.

She walked out to him, the tall grass swishing at her ankles. Her stomach fluttered as she drew nearer, recalling Gabriel's angry, black eyes when he had stared down at her in the creek. She didn't know if it was her head injury or if Gabriel was really a fallen.

The fabric of his thin shirt was pulled tight, straining against the tense set of his shoulders. His wings were pressed against his body, protruding from crudely cut holes in his shirt. When she was within ten feet of him, it was as though she had stepped across a threshold. The air was dry and cold, sending shivers down her spine. The grass didn't blow, but stood quiet and unmoving within the walls he had created around himself.

Michaela stopped a few feet away, farther than she ever would have before. Her legs trembled slightly. Her smile was long gone. Replacing it was the unbearable urge to turn and run. She shook her head in denial as he turned to face her. One peek at his eyes, and she knew she hadn't been mistaken.

"Oh, Gabe. No." Michaela instinctively reached for him, her chest contracting with raw nerved grief. He jerked away, the blackness in his eyes flashing.

"I didn't come here for that," he growled. Michaela yanked her hand back like the air around him burned her skin. She wrapped her arms around her waist to ward off his chill.

"I don't understand." Her words stumbled, but he wasn't listening. "Why are you so angry?"

"Do you know what I did? I gave my soul to Lucifer, because the Watchers were coming for you. Only after I killed Azazel did Lucifer tell me the reason the Aethere wanted you dead. If I would have known you set those monsters free..." Gabriel clenched his jaw like he was struggling with the words. He glared at her, his eyes full of rage. "You shouldn't have done that, Michaela. You should have killed them all. I signed over my _soul_ for you."

"Gabe, I'm sorry. You shouldn't have done that."

"Azazel would have killed you! I did it to save you." He stepped closer. His face was a snarl. "And it was all for nothing. You brought the Aethere's death sentence on yourself." He spat the words like even saying them disgusted him—like _she_ disgusted him. Her stomach rolled, sending acid crawling up the back of her throat.

"Want to know something else?" Gabriel asked cruelly. "I would have been okay with being a fallen, for signing away my soul to save you. That's how much I loved you." Michaela had craved to hear those words, but Gabriel delivered them like a weapon. She gasped in pain, because clearly he didn't love her anymore. "But now I despise you. I am damned because of another one of your mistakes."

"Gabe, I'm so sorry. You know I would never have asked you to do it," she whispered. Her chest heaved like she was out of breath.

"Is that supposed to reassure me? Am I supposed to feel better now?" he shouted.

"I only did what I thought was best..."

"I guess you just assumed the rest of us would clean up your mess."

"Why are you saying this? What is wrong with you?" Michaela blinked, and a single tear rolled down her face.

He glared at her, his face an ugly mask of fury. "You have no idea, do you?" he asked. His fists clenched open and closed, open and closed. His knuckles were battered and bruised, like he had fought recently.

"What are you saying?"

"Those creatures you let go, those abominations, are killing hundreds of humans. The world around you is in chaos, yet here you are," Gabriel said sarcastically. He gestured grandly around him.

Michaela's brow furrowed. Dropping her arms to her sides, she shook her head in confusion. "No. No, the holy angels would have stopped them. They would have taken care of it. You're wrong."

"You really think Abel would give a shit about those things you just let loose?" Gabriel saw his answer in her eyes. "You have no idea what you have caused." He searched her face, his eyes burning her skin. "What's worse is that you don't even care."

Michaela gasped. Tears pricked the backs of her eyes. "No, Gabe. I didn't know. I thought I did what was best."

"Did you know that the Watchers were pardoned?" Gabriel asked. He registered Michaela's shock with a pitiless smirk. "They are the Aethere's henchmen now. Any angels who doubt Abel or question too loudly are thrown out of Heaven. Guess what the Watchers do to them?"

He lurched toward her and grabbed her by the arms, lifting her onto her toes. His grip was painful, bruising, and crushing. Looking into his eyes, she knew he didn't care if he hurt her. She clenched her teeth to keep from crying out.

"They rip their wings from their backs and let them fall to Earth, broken and exiled, just like Zarachiel. They are not fallen. No, they just simply understood your grand gesture and asked too many questions about Abel's Purification, so Abel rips their wings out in your honor."

"Let me go. Now, Gabriel," she said through gritted teeth. He dropped her and she stumbled. She rubbed her arms to ease the numbness. "You know I didn't think this would happen."

"I'm sure you didn't," Gabriel sneered.

"Why are you being like this?" Her words held a burgeoning anger coiling in her stomach, waking the snake inside her.

"Someone needs to tell you the truth."

"Stop it," Michaela said, her voice chillingly quiet. Her fists trembled.

"What? You can't stand to know you were finally wrong?"

"Gabriel," she growled.

"Come on, admit that you were wrong." Gabriel taunted her, bullied her.

"Just shut the hell up!" she shouted in his face.

The anger flared inside her like a cobra striking. She blinked, and Gabriel was sprawled on his backside, and the ground was scorched at her feet. Two handprints were singed through his shirt, revealing freshly burnt skin.

She swore viciously at him and shoved him back to the ground when he tried to struggle to his feet. His eyes dripped venom. The sun sunk behind the clouds. The air grew dense and humid, conjuring a storm from her raging anger—anger that barely concealed the slashing pain in her heart.

From across the field, Iris stepped out onto the porch. Other Nephilim around the farm stopped to see if they would need to intervene before Michaela unleashed a tornado.

"I did what I thought was best," her voice rasped with anger. "The Aethere don't have all the power anymore. I'm sorry they are hurting more angels, but I'm glad someone is finally questioning the Aethere."

Gabriel jumped to his feet. A raindrop fell on her cheek, sliding down and dripping from her jaw. He closed the distance between them in two long strides. Gabriel pointed a finger at her face. The air snapped around her, and she heard a clap of thunder.

"You should have fixed this quietly! Now it's the whole world's fight. People are dying. Angels are being desecrated. Too many people will pay a high price for this."

She slapped his finger away. "You mean you've paid too high a price. I didn't ask you for anything. It was your decision to sign over your soul."

Michaela was surprised her voice wasn't shaking, because her whole body trembled. The rain fell harder now. Her hair plastered to her head with tendrils wrapping around her face.

Gabriel stepped closer until they were practically nose-to-nose. The wind picked up. It sliced through her thin robe. "The Michaela I knew would have never unleashed those monsters into the world. Whatever is inside of you has made you as bad as Lucifer."

"How dare you?"

Something in Michaela's voice, maybe the toneless manner, silenced Gabriel. He had given up on her, but her eyes said she had given up on him too. The Nephilim drew close now, close enough to hear. The rain drove itself to the ground in slanting, drenching sheets.

Finally, Michaela turned away from his empty stare. He was an empty, burning hole. If she looked close enough, she felt, at that moment, she would see Hell itself inside him. She took a step away.

"You proved your point." Gabriel shook his head in disgust. "I hope it was worth it. I really do, Michaela, because you have started something that will be the end of everything. The Aethere are calling for the End of Days." He grabbed her chin ruthlessly, his grip like a vice. "The _End of Days_ , Michaela. You did this."

Michaela jerked her chin from his grip. She was quiet for a long moment, watching him. Gabriel smirked, satisfied he had hurt her enough.

She would never forgive herself, and she felt a deep, bottomless guilt for the humans who had died and the angels who were exiled. But she remembered her dream, the way the fires had smelled and the screams had sounded, and she recalled how everything had come to an end, even Heaven and Hell. If Abel got his hands on the Seven Seals, everyone would die. Before Abel could end the world, he needed to be stopped. She had to show the other holy angels who he really was. She hated what she had done at the research center, but not enough to regret her decision. Her face was hard.

"Maybe it's time for the end," she said.

Gabriel jerked. "What?"

Michaela glanced to the Nephilim standing around her. Far away, back on the front porch, Michaela saw Clark in his wheelchair watching her. She turned back to Gabriel.

"You don't mean that," Gabriel whispered, shocked. She felt the harsh, angry air around him shatter like a glass wall. He stepped toward her, his face scrubbed clean of the anger. He was almost normal aside from the black in his eyes.

"This could never have been fixed quietly. The Aethere saw to that. They thought," her eyes narrowed, and she pointed a finger at Gabriel, "and you thought, that I would just give up because I was too beat down and too broken to fight back. Do you think because of this," Michaela turned her finger to the dark scars on her arm, "that I wasn't worthy to fight for Heaven anymore?"

Gabriel's hand twitched like he wanted to reach for her, his expression stricken. He opened his mouth like he might beg her to take the words back. Michaela stepped away from him, shaking her head.

"I am. I am worthy. I was the only one to stand up for what was right. Just like every time before when I was the General, I made the hard decisions. I shielded everyone from the pain and took it on myself. And now I will be the one to save this world, and apparently I will do it alone. Do you want to know something else?" she asked, mocking him like he had mocked her. She turned so she could see everyone. "The Aethere accused me of organizing an attack on Heaven. They said I wanted to start a war. Well, you know what?"

Her glare leveled on Gabriel. In that moment, she hated him. She hated everyone. They had made her this way, and then they had the nerve to judge her for what she had become. It was time for a change.

_"I do."_

_~FIN~_

The next installment in the End of Days series is available at your favorite retailer now.

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# THINGS UNSEEN

### A Long-Forgotten Song Book 1

**C. J. Brightley**

History student Aria Forsyth's studies lead her to dangerous questions about the Empire's origins. A mysterious man named Owen, impervious to the winter cold, further unravels the safety of the world she thought she knew. At first, Aria believes Owen is human. He says he's not. What if they're both wrong?

A moment's compassion draws her into a conflict between human and inhuman, natural and supernatural, and she begins to discover the secrets of the Empire, the Fae, and what it means to be human.

# Acknowledgments

Thank you for being my hero, Stephen. I am immensely grateful to my parents for their encouragement and advice. I also owe a debt of gratitude to my wonderful beta readers Sarah, Megan, Laura, Pat, and Doug.

# Chapter One

_Researching this thesis is an exercise in dedication, frustration, making up stuff, pretending I know what I'm doing, and wondering why nothing adds up._ Aria swirled her coffee and stared at the blank page in her notebook.

_Why did I decide to study history?_ She flipped back to look at her notes and sighed. She couldn't find enough information to even form a coherent thesis. The records were either gone or had never existed in the first place. _Something_ had happened when the Revolution came to power, but she didn't know what, and she couldn't even pinpoint exactly when it had occurred.

The nebulous idea she'd had for her research seemed even more useless now. She'd been trying to find records of how things had changed since the Revolution, how the city had grown and developed. There were official statistics on the greater prosperity, the academic success of the city schools, and the vast reduction in crime. The statistics didn't mention the abandoned buildings, the missing persons, or any grumbling against the curfew. At least it was later now; for a year, curfew had been at dusk.

She glanced around the bookstore at the other patrons. A man wearing a business suit was browsing in the self-help section, probably trying to improve his public speaking. A girl, probably another student, judging by her worn jeans and backpack, was sitting on the floor in the literary fiction section, completely engrossed in a book.

Aria flipped to the front of the book again. It was a memoir of someone she'd never heard of. She'd picked it up almost at random, and flipped to the middle, hoping to find something more interesting than dead ends. The words told of a walk in the forest, and for a moment Aria was there, her nose filled with the scents of pine and loam, her eyes dazzled by the sunlight streaming through the leaves swaying above her. She blinked, and the words were there, but the feeling was gone. Rereading the passage, she couldn't figure out why she'd been caught up with such breathless realism.

It wasn't that the words were so profound; she was confident they were not. Something had caught her, though, and she closed her eyes to imagine the forest again as if it were a memory, distant, faded, perhaps not even her memory. A memory of something she'd seen in a movie, perhaps, or a memory of a dream she'd had as a child.

Something about it troubled her, and she meant to come back to it. Tonight, though, she had other homework, so she pushed the book aside.

Dandra's Books was an unassuming name for the best bookstore in all of the North Quadrant. Dandra was a petite, gray-haired lady with a warm smile. She also had the best map collection, everything from ancient history, both originals and reproductions, to modern maps of cities both near and far, topographical maps, water currents, and everything else. She carried the new releases and electronic holdings that were most in demand, but what made the store unique was the extensive and ever-changing selection of used and antique books. If it could be found, Dandra could find it. Aria suspected she maintained an unassuming storefront because she didn't want demand to increase; business was sufficient to pay the bills and she refused to hire help.

Dandra also made tolerable coffee, an important consideration for a graduate student. Aria had spent hours studying there as an undergraduate; it had the same air of productive intellectualism as the university library but without the distraction of other groups of students having more fun than she was. She'd found it on a long, meandering walk while avoiding some homework. Something about the place made concentrating easier.

Except when it came to her thesis. Aria told herself that she was investigating what resources were available before she narrowed her focus. But sometimes, when she stared at the blank pages, she almost admitted to herself the truth, that she was frustrated with her professors, her thesis, and the Empire itself. She didn't have a good explanation, and she hadn't told anyone.

Something about this image of the forest felt true in a way that nothing had felt for a very long time. It was evidence. Evidence of _what_ , she wasn't sure. But definitely evidence.

She finished her homework and packed her bag. She put a bookmark in the memoir and reshelved it, resolving that she would come back later and read it a bit more. It was already late, and she had an early class the next day.

After class, there were errands and homework, more class, and lunch with a boy who'd seemed almost likable until he talked too much about his dysfunctional family and his abiding love for his ex-girlfriend, who lived down the hall in his apartment building.

It was a week before she made it back to Dandra's.

The book was gone.

Dandra shook her head when Aria asked about it. "I don't know what book you mean. I've never had a book like that."

Aria stared at her in disbelief. "You saw me read it last week. It was called _Memories Kept_ or something like that. _Memory Keeper_ , maybe. Don't you remember? I was sitting there." She pointed.

Dandra gave her a sympathetic look. "You've been studying too much, Aria. I'm sorry. I don't have that book. I don't think I ever did."

Aria huffed in frustration and bought a cup of coffee. She put too much sugar and cream in it and sat by the window at the front. She stared at the people as they came in, wondering if her anger would burn a hole in the back of someone's coat. It didn't, but the mental picture amused her.

Not much else did. The thesis was going nowhere, and the only thing that kept her interest was a line of questions that had no answers and a book that didn't exist.

Was the degree worth anything anyway? She'd studied history because she enjoyed stories and wanted to learn about the past. But the classes had consisted almost entirely of monologs by the professors about the strength of the Empire and how much better things were now after the Revolution. Her papers had alternated between parroting the professors' words, and uneasy forays into the old times. The research was hard and getting harder.

The paper she'd written on the Revolution, on how John Sanderhill had united the bickering political factions, had earned an F. Dr. Corten had written, "Your implication that Sanderhill ordered the assassination of Gerard Neeson is patently false and betrays an utter lack of understanding of the morality of the Revolution. I am unable to grade this paper higher than an F in light of such suspect scholarship and patriotism." Yet Aria had cited her source clearly and had been careful not to take a side on the issue, choosing merely to note that it was one possible explanation for Neeson's disappearance at the height of the conflict. Not even the most likely.

For a history department, her professors were remarkably uninterested in exploring the past. She scowled at her coffee as it got colder. What was the point of history, if you couldn't learn from it? The people in history weren't perfect any more than people now were. But surely, as scholars, they should be able to admit that imperfect people and imperfect decisions could yield lessons and wisdom.

It wasn't as if it was ancient history either. The Revolution had begun less than fifteen years ago. One would think information would be available. Memories should be clear.

But they weren't.

The man entered Dandra's near dusk. He wore no jacket against the winter cold, only a threadbare short-sleeved black shirt. His trousers were dark and equally worn, the cuffs skimming bare ankles. His feet were bare too, and that caught her attention.

He spoke in a low voice, but she was curious, so she listened hard and heard most of what he said. "I need the maps, Dandra."

"You know I don't have those."

"I'll pay."

"I don't have them." Dandra took a step back as he leaned forward with his hands resting on the desk. "I told you before, I can't get them. I still can't."

"I was told you could, on good authority." His voice stayed very quiet, but even Aria could hear the cold anger. "Should I tell Petro he was wrong about you?"

"Are you threatening me?" Dandra's eyes widened, but Aria couldn't tell if it was in fear or in anger.

"I'm asking if Petro was wrong."

"Whatever you were promised was wrong. I couldn't get them." Dandra clasped her hands together and drew back, her shoulders against the wall, and Aria realized she was terrified. Of the man in the black shirt, or of Petro, or possibly both.

Aria glanced around as she rose and stepped to the counter. Everyone else seemed to be pretending that absolutely nothing was going on. It was up to her to help. "Excuse me? Can I help you find something?" She smiled brightly at him.

He glanced back and she had the momentary impression he was startled at the interruption. He stared at her for a split second with cold blue eyes, then looked back at Dandra. Without another word, he brushed past Aria and out the door and disappeared into the darkness.

Dandra looked at her with wide eyes. "That wasn't wise, but thank you."

"Who is he?"

Dandra shook her head. "Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to. Go home, child. It's late."

"Are you in trouble?"

Dandra shook her head wordlessly and glanced at a note she held crumpled in her hand. _Was she holding that earlier? I don't think so_. The contents seemed to disturb her even more and she announced in a slightly unsteady voice that the store would be closing early for the evening.

Aria pulled on her gloves and shoved her notebook back in her pack. Dandra shooed out the few remaining customers and locked the door with a sigh of relief.

Aria looked around, but the man in the black shirt was long gone.

"You want a ride home?" Dandra asked.

"No, thanks. I'll walk. It's not far." She hesitated. "Are you okay, Dandra?"

Dandra's smile and nod were so forced it was obvious even in the reflected lamplight. "Goodnight."

Aria wandered down the block and around the corner, holding her now-cold cup of coffee. If she went home, she'd have to work on her thesis. If she stayed out, she could tell herself she was planning. She followed the sidewalk and the lighted windows toward the river. She'd walk to the bridge and turn around; she couldn't justify more procrastination.

The cozy shops didn't hold her attention, though the light and bustle kept the walk from feeling too morose. She took a last swig of coffee and tossed the cup in a trashcan, then stuffed her hands in her pockets. The wind whipped around the corners of the concrete buildings, and she pulled her hat tighter over her brown curls. The lighted shops behind her, she headed into the edge of the shipping district. Her friend Amara would tell her to be more cautious, but Aria had never been afraid of lonely walks. _Just stay alert_ , she told herself.

One of the ubiquitous posters flapped in the wind, then detached from the light pole and fluttered down the street, finally stopping when it hit a puddle of icy water. She didn't need to read it to know what it said. _See it, say it! Report suspicious activity to the Imperial Police Force._ And underneath that admonition: _Enemies hide in plain sight._

She'd never seen any enemies of the state. The warnings were everywhere, but even the Revolution itself had been seamless, with barely a whimper of protest from the old government. Everyone knew things were better now.

She approached the bridge at an angle, almost ready to turn around. The water was a black void between the lights behind her and the distant streetlights of the bustling harbor on the other side. Now and again a faint reflection would wink at her, a bright spot in the sea of darkness.

A movement caught her eye.

Later, when she thought about it, she was surprised she'd seen him at all. He sat on one of the steel girders underneath the bridge, some forty feet above the water. He was doing something with his hands, perhaps writing, but she couldn't see clearly. One leg swung beneath him, relaxed. He was still in shirtsleeves and barefoot.

It was cold enough for snow, and she stared at him, wondering if he was crazy. Contemplating suicide? Trying to catch pneumonia? Even in her sweater with a thick coat over it, she shivered in the icy wind.

Perhaps he needed to see a mental therapist. As she finished the thought, he swung his leg back onto the girder. He rose with easy grace and ran along the slick metal to leap fifteen feet to the ground. He jogged up the slope toward her but turned while he was still some distance away, and jogged another two blocks before entering into a dark building, perhaps an abandoned apartment or condominium tower.

She slipped into the building a few moments after he did, her heart pounding. The doors were well oiled and silent. The hall seemed black as coal after the brightness of the streetlights outside, and she blinked, hoping her eyes would adjust. After a moment, she could make out the faint rectangles of light from windows in adjacent rooms, but the spaces between remained dark and empty. She crept another step forward, wondering where the man had gone. No light from a distant doorway hinted at a destination, and she hesitated again.

He twisted her arm up behind her back and clamped a hand over her mouth, so her shriek of fear and surprise was caught in her throat. "Why are you following me? _How_ are you following me?"

His face was close to hers, his breath nearly in her hair. He lifted his icy hand from her mouth just a little, so she managed to gasp, "I was just curious. No reason."

"You are not welcome here." He opened the door and shoved her outside into the cold.

And that was that.

Or it should have been, anyway. She was too curious for her own good, and she knew it.

Something about him drew her, though she could not say why. The next day, while eating lunch at the campus cafe with Amara, she almost mentioned him but stifled the impulse. He was a baffling secret, not meant to be discussed over toasted hummus sandwiches.

Aria went back to his apartment three days later, after she'd gathered up her courage again. She circled the building and found an outer door unlocked. Perhaps he never locked it. She closed her eyes for several minutes outside to let her eyes adjust to the darkness before she slipped inside. While she waited, she listened for him but heard only the traffic of electric cars on the road to her left, the whoosh of wind through the buildings, and the rustle of a bit of paper caught in the grating over a drain near her feet. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears.

The building felt deserted, long disused. _Why didn't I bring a flashlight?_ Faint streetlight made it through the windows of the rooms along one side to light the hallway. Long rectangles of light crossed the floor. A stairwell at the end made her pause again, and she crept downward, heart in her throat. The darkness grew deeper, and she remembered her phone. She pulled it out and let the screen shed pale light down the stairs. Another hallway, with a closed door a short distance ahead on her left.

She put her ear to the door and listened. Silence. She waited, her heart in her throat, for some sound that would tell her he was there. _Why am I doing this?_ Absolute silence, both in the room and in the hallway.

She glanced around and tried the door tentatively. If he was there, it was dangerous. Even if he wasn't, it was still dangerous.

There was no sound from inside, and she took a deep breath before pulling a plastic card from her pocket. The building was old, and the lock looked simple and loose. Perhaps this would work.

She needed both hands, so she put the phone back in her pocket, wishing she still had its faint light. It seemed to take too long. She held her breath while she jiggled the card, twisting and pushing and hoping.

There was a barely audible click, and she breathed a quick sigh of relief as she turned the doorknob.

Too soon.

He spun her about and slammed her against the wall, one hand on her throat and the other pulling the card from her hand.

"Why are you here?" His voice growled into her ear, cold breath brushing against her cheek.

She thrashed, trying to kick him, but he evaded her efforts easily, barely acknowledging her effort. He loosened his hand, just a bit, and she gasped before he tightened it again. Sparkles swam before her eyes, dazzling in the darkness of the hallway. This had been a very bad idea indeed. _How did he sneak up on me? I didn't hear him at all._

"Why are you here?" He repeated his question, and she shook her head obstinately. She wouldn't answer his question, not while he was choking her. She opened her mouth, trying to curse him, beg him, something, and no sound came out. The sparkles began to fade.

She could see nothing, but his breath moved gently against her face. He was staring at her as if the darkness meant nothing to him. _I'm going to die. He's going to kill me, and no one will even know._ Suddenly he let go and pushed past her through the open door.

She fell to one knee and rubbed her neck, blinking back angry tears at the pain. It was her own fault. His hand had been as cold and hard as steel, and her breath burned in her throat.

She pulled the phone from her pocket and pointed the light at him through the doorway.

She hadn't had a good look before, and even now, in her fear, the curiosity rose up. _It's going to get me killed someday._ He wore well-worn dark trousers and a threadbare short-sleeved black shirt, perhaps the same one, so thin his pale skin showed through across the shoulders. His hair was black, or close to it; she couldn't tell in the dim light. He moved with taut grace, an athlete or a soldier, perhaps. Of average height, with a slim, muscular build. Thirty? Perhaps younger? There was the slightest touch of gray in the hair near his temples, but his face was unlined. Sharp features, because he had no fat to soften them, but they were attractive, she had to admit that. An ancient oil lantern sat unlit on a wooden desk. He tossed a rucksack beside it and began packing with swift economy. Three more shirts. A pair of pants. She craned her neck to see more.

"Leave me alone," he said without looking up.

She hesitated. "I only meant to see if anyone lived here."

He grunted. It was an unfriendly sound. And why should he be friendly? She'd been trying to break into his apartment. But he could have killed her, and he didn't.

She pressed her luck. "Well, I thought you might need something. Since the power is off." She rubbed her throat again.

He didn't answer. He picked up all six books from the desk and stacked them in the rucksack, then jerked the worn blanket off the cot, folded it, and tucked it in on top. He turned away for a moment and buckled something around his waist, and she frowned.

"What are you doing?"

"Leaving." His voice was cold.

"Because of me?"

He grunted again. He turned back to the cot and threw the rucksack over his shoulder. Her eyes widened. He was wearing a sword, a long straight blade with a worn, leather-wrapped scabbard. Another, shorter sword hung from his right hip. _What kind of lunatic carries swords, as if we lived back in ye olden days? If he wanted to defend himself, a gun would be better, but if he wants to look intimidating, I guess this works._

He finally met her eyes, and she flinched at the icy blue stare. She took a step backward, and he walked past her into the hallway.

He dropped the key at her feet without looking back. "It's yours now."

Aria stared at his back. He disappeared at the end of the hallway, and she hesitated. She was almost crazy enough to go after him.

No, she would look in the room. She picked up the key and stepped inside his apartment.

He'd left the lamp, and she lit it with a match from the box sitting beside it. It was impossible to tell how long he'd been there. He'd packed little yet left nothing behind. The ancient wooden bureau was empty, the drawers loud as she tried them. There was a desk with a single drawer, also empty. Nothing in the trashcan. Nothing in the old wardrobe. There was a tiny refrigerator, but it was off. She opened the door, half-expecting some horrible rot to assault her nose, but there was nothing inside. It had been empty and cleaned before the power was turned off. He'd probably never used it then. She tried the light switch. Nothing. No hum of electric power or devices charging. It might have been a bank vault for how silent the room was.

She turned in a circle in the middle of the room. The cot was pushed against the wall, and she eyed it. A cheap camping cot, well-used, devoid of padding and comfort. _He didn't have a pillow. Odd._ The room was a concrete box with nothing to see and nothing to recommend it.

Aria took the lantern with her when she left. She walked slowly down the hallway, thinking so hard she forgot the pain in her throat as she climbed the stairs toward the exit. The adventure had yielded little, and she felt the whole thing had been foolish. _More than foolish. Idiotic. Some men would have done worse, you know. You're not exactly imposing, and he_ did _have reason to be angry with you. What did you expect?_

She sniffed. There was an odd smell, musky and rank, and she caught her breath suddenly. It smelled dangerous. _Big_ and dangerous. She pressed herself against the wall, her heart racing.

It was inside the building. She heard it, a rumbling growl, perhaps from the next hall. She swallowed hard. It was coming closer. Another growl, low and echoing in the concrete hallways.

_Why did I decide this was a good idea?_ Aria tried to figure out where the sound was coming from. Was it between her and the exterior door? Could she make it outside without being seen? What good would that do, if it caught her scent? She found an open doorway and slid inside the darkened room, trembling, her back pressed against the concrete block wall. She turned the lantern down as far as it would go without going out completely. She pushed the door closed, wincing at a soft squeak. She turned the doorknob, her fingers trembling, trying to get the latch to catch without another sound.

_Maybe it won't hear me._

_Maybe it can smell me. It sounds big enough to break down the door._

It growled again, closer. A roar brought her heart to her throat. Terrible sounds came from the hallway; an inhuman shriek, thumps, crashes, and a deafening snarling that could be heard over it all. She sank down against the wall and tried to breathe silently. _Be brave, Aria! Don't lose it, girl._

Sudden silence. She caught her breath. Was it coming closer? Had it killed someone? What _was_ it?

There was a faint thump, very different from the sounds before. Perhaps someone was alive and needed help. There were no cries of pain or shouts for help, but perhaps they couldn't cry out. She waited.

_Is it dead? Is it gone yet? What if someone needs help?_ She took a deep breath and rose from her hiding place. She unlatched the door and pulled it open to peek around the doorframe.

The flickering lamplight showed nothing, and she turned it up. She crept carefully down the hall, grateful for her soft, quiet shoes. The hall was short, and at the corner she gasped. The walls and floor were covered in blood, great streaks and smears of gore. There was no body. The blood led to the left, and she held her breath as she followed the trail.

The lamp flooded a room with yellow light and her mouth dropped open in horror. It might have been a classroom at some point; a blackboard was on one wall and a large desk stood to one side, though there were no small desks for children. A great hulk lay in the middle, the face turned away from her. Blood smeared the floor, the ceiling, and three of the four walls. Paw prints showed how the beast had fought, how it had leaped from the floor to a wall and back into the center of the room.

Her eyes rested on the creature, and she stayed well away from it, holding the lamp higher as she edged around to examine its head. A wolf of sorts, though not exactly. It was easily three hundred pounds, perhaps more, lean and muscular. Long-legged. Its muzzle was shorter than a wolf's should be, and the teeth were larger and more uneven. Its mouth gaped open, a slime of blood and saliva pooling beneath the tongue. _Is it dead? It's not moving._

"I told you to leave me alone." The growl came from the other side of the beast's body.

Aria started so badly she almost dropped the lamp.

"Are you hurt?" she managed. She could barely hear her voice over her own thudding heartbeat.

He must have been holding his breath, for he let it out in a rush. "It is none of your concern."

She stepped closer anyway, giving the creature a wide berth. Her eyes were transfixed on its face for another long moment. It looked _wrong_.

Then she looked at him.

He was on his knees, sitting on his heels, the longer sword on the floor in front of him in easy reach. The hilt and blade were smeared with blood, and so was his face. She brought the lamp closer. He sighed in weary frustration, turning his face away from the light.

"Let me help you."

He was covered in blood, the thin shirt sticking to him wetly. His shoulders dropped and he grunted again. "You should leave." It wasn't so unfriendly this time.

She didn't answer. She reached forward to push his hands away from the wound. One of the wounds.

It looked like the creature had tried to gut him; his stomach was ravaged. She brought the lamp closer to see the damage, but it was hard to make out in the flickering light. Everything was red blood, soaked dark into the ripped fabric. He'd been trying to tie his extra pair of pants about his waist, but the fabric was difficult to knot tightly. Especially since one of his hands was badly mangled; a broken bone glistened white against the red flesh and blood.

She tried not to look at it, feeling bile rise in her throat.

"What is that thing?" she asked. She had to keep him talking. He would go into shock and die.

"A _vertril_."

"Are there many of them in the city? I've never seen one before." She felt panicky at the thought. Blood smeared her hands, and she stared at them, appalled. _I have to stop the bleeding._

He snorted, and she looked up at his face. "You wouldn't have," he said.

"I'll take you to the hospital. You need better care than I can give. And you need it soon." _He shouldn't still be talking. He should be dead. How much of that blood on the floor is his?_ She pulled the knot tight, the fabric slick in her fingers.

"I'll be fine." He leaned forward and rested a moment on his right hand, holding his left close to his body, and then stood. He blinked, and swayed a moment, then focused on her. "You need to leave. It isn't safe here."

She reached out for his mangled left hand. "Let me bandage that."

He ignored her, knelt to pick up his sword, and wiped it on his trousers.

"I don't think that helped much," she ventured. "You're pretty gory."

He slanted a look at her sideways. His mouth twitched as if he was going to say something, but then he only frowned and said nothing.

"I need to take you to the hospital," she repeated. "If it doesn't hurt too much now, it's because you're in shock. You need medical attention."

He bent to pull his rucksack over one shoulder and straightened again, more steadily this time, and looked at her. "Thank you for your help. I hope I never see you again." One corner of his mouth twitched upward in a ghost of a smile, and he turned away.

She let him go.

She stayed on her knees, too queasy to rise just yet. She stared at the great beast in horrified fascination. It was covered in grey-brown fur, layered as if it were a cold-weather creature. The teeth were white and sharp, and she peered at them in the lamplight. The largest was nearly as long as her hand. Bloody smears across the floor highlighted long gouges in the linoleum. _Claw marks._

He should have been dead. It had bitten him, savaged him. The beast, too, should have been dead two or three times over. It was cut and stabbed in twelve or thirteen places. Two sword strokes went deep into its gut, but she guessed the throat wound had killed it.

She startled at the sounds in the hallway. The Imperial Police Force was here. The IPF was reassuringly competent, and they would handle this.

"What happened here, ma'am?" the corporal at the front asked. "Are you injured?"

"No." She gestured helplessly toward the beast.

"Yes, I see it. What do you know about it?" He didn't seem as surprised as she'd expected. _Has he seen one of these before?_

Aria licked her lips. "I think he said it was a 'vertril'? Is that a word?"

He looked at her sharply. "Who said that?"

"The man who killed it. You didn't think I did, did you?"

He blinked at her. "Wait a moment." He pulled an electronic tablet from his pocket and tapped the screen a few times. A light pulsed softly on the end pointed toward her. "Start at the beginning."

She hesitated. She wasn't supposed to be here. Not exactly. "I was here because, well, I heard a sound, and I thought it was suspicious. It wasn't loud. It might have been only a cat or something. But I was just trying to do my duty, and check to see if anything was wrong, so I came in. And I was walking through the hall there when I heard a growl."

The man stared at her. "Wait a moment." He tapped on the screen a few times, and then frowned. "Continue."

"Well, it sounded big. And I was frightened. So I waited in that room and when it sounded like everything was over, I came out to see if everything was okay. It sounded like it might have killed someone." She felt panic rising up again at the thought. The smell. The sound of the fight. What if it had found her first?

"Breathe, miss. Take a deep breath. Continue." The man was looking at her with a combination of compassion, disbelief, and suspicion.

"This man had killed it. With a sword." She heard her own choppy language and thought distantly, _I think I'm in shock._ "He was hurt, and I tried to take him to a hospital, but he refused. He left."

"Did you see where he went?" The man's eyes were sharp on her face.

"Down the hall." She waved vaguely.

He called out over his shoulder, eyes not leaving her face. "Teams one and two, ready for retrieval ops. Direction unknown. One target, armed and dangerous. Standby." Then, to Aria, "What did he look like?"

She blinked. "He's not a criminal. He killed it. That's a heroic thing, I'd think."

"What did he look like?" He barked the question at her.

"Medium height. Dark hair. Blue eyes." She felt obstinately unwilling to help them. What did they want with him anyway? He hadn't done anything wrong. If anything, they needed to find him to save his life. He'd be bleeding out now if she guessed right. Probably no more than a block away.

"Anything else? Distinguishing marks?"

"He's hurt." She stared at him sullenly, wishing she'd lied.

"Medium height, dark hair, blue eyes, wounded. Go!"

All but three of the IPF squad sprinted away.

"Is that all you know?"

"I... think so?"

He studied her for a moment and said carefully, "I'm not questioning your truthfulness, but in cases like this, there is often some... confusion... in the witnesses. I'm going to prompt you a little where things don't seem to make sense. Just tell me what you actually remember, not what you think I want to hear. If you can't remember, you can't remember. But don't be afraid to add things or change your story if you think of something you didn't say before. If you realize you were confused and said something that wasn't true, now is the time to tell me."

She licked her lips.

"So, you hadn't seen the man before? You just came in here because of a strange noise?"

Aria swallowed. It wasn't really believable, was it? If they thought she was lying, or even just not telling everything she knew, she could be arrested. Kicked out of school. Who knew what else?

"Um. Well, actually I saw the man earlier, in a bookstore. I thought he was... odd, somehow. He didn't do anything wrong. He just caught my interest, I guess. Maybe he reminded me of someone?"

The man's gaze sharpened at this.

"So I guess I followed him here without really thinking much about it. I was out walking, and this was as good a way as any. It's not that far out of my way. I didn't think much of it before..." she gestured at the vertril corpse on the floor.

"He reminded you of someone? Who?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe he didn't at all. Maybe it was something else about him. He just seemed a little strange somehow, and we're supposed to pay attention and report strange things, aren't we?"

He relaxed a little and glanced at the screen before him. "Where did you first see him? Did you speak with him?"

Oh. They thought she might be associated with him somehow. That was not good at all.

"No, not really. I saw him, just for a minute, in a bookstore where I do homework. It's called Dandra's. He was looking for something and I asked if I could help him, but he turned and left without answering me. I hadn't seen him before that. I left the store a few minutes later and happened to see him again on the street while I was walking around, and I guess I just followed him here without meaning to. Then I heard the noises." That was a better story. They could verify with Dandra that she'd been at the shop, and hadn't seemed to know the man. And she hadn't really said anything that would help them catch him.

"Is any of this blood his?"

She nodded uncertainly. "Take samples," he said over his shoulder to the other men. "Your name? Age? Address?"

"Aria Forsyth. Twenty-four. 19 McKenna Walk."

"That's North Quadrant. Why are you here?"

She blinked at him innocently. "What do you mean?"

"This is East Quadrant. Why are you here?"

"Like I said, I was just on a walk. This isn't where I'd normally go, but it's not any farther."

"Three miles from home." He frowned at her skeptically.

She blinked back at him innocently. "I'm a student. I walk everywhere."

"Hm." He noted something on the tablet. "We're done here. Gert, call cleanup." Then to Aria, "Go home. Have a good evening. I'd recommend staying in North Quadrant for your walks from now on." He smiled at her coolly and pointed her toward the door.

As she left, she heard another IPF officer say quietly, "It's number 235, sir."

She hurried down the hall, away from the blood streaks and terror. She'd gotten more than she bargained for. What had she expected if she broke into his apartment, anyway?

Any man would be annoyed, at best, at finding someone breaking and entering. Dandra was frightened, either of him or of those he worked with. _Worked with_ , as if she knew what his connection was with Petro. Or who Petro was. Not to mention the danger of other things. Some men couldn't be trusted alone with a girl at all. She'd thought she could take care of herself, but he'd taken her by surprise. Twice.

Now, in the aftermath of the... What would she call it? Her attempt at breaking into his apartment? The incident with the great wolf beast? The second time he could have killed her but didn't? In the aftermath, as she walked into the light winter sleet, she thought about him.

He meant to be frightening, but she wasn't frightened. Not of him, anyway. The thought of another vertril in the streets was enough to make her look over her shoulder and hurry a little faster. She was curious, still. Worried, too. Guilty.

_What if they caught him?_ The IPF hadn't seemed concerned about his wounds at all. She tried to put into words what she'd seen in the corporal's face. Bloodthirsty? It sounded harsh but terrifyingly accurate.

She heard IPF teams as she hurried through the darkness. They were quiet, but she was alone in the street and she could tell that many people moved through the darkness around her. Their boots squished softly on the damp asphalt.

"That way." She heard them running swiftly past her. She stopped, her heart in her throat, at the quick flash of a laser sight. It disappeared, and she heard them moving again. No shot sounded.

She stood frozen in the street. _They're trying to kill him!_

She tried to follow the sounds, but they were fast and she was already tired. She lost them some blocks away. Not that she had any idea what she would do if she caught up with them.

Maybe she was wrong.

Maybe they weren't going to kill him. But what were "retrieval ops" and why did they merit weapons with laser sights? The whole team had been armed, once she thought about it—heavily armed. Their guns had silencers. She'd assumed it was to deal with the vertril, but now she wasn't sure. How had they known to come in the first place? Number 235? What did that mean?

She walked home briskly, huddled in her coat. It was a long walk with the sleet picking up, and she wondered why she'd thought it was a good idea to walk in the first place. She stayed under the lights on the busier streets. Even at this hour, there were plenty of people out in the commercial district.

_How many of them know about the vertril?_ Would they hunt here, among the crowds? How had she lived in this city for twenty-four years and not known of such monsters? She slipped into her little apartment with a sigh of relief. She locked the door behind herself and pulled off her coat and sweater, her boots, and finally, her jeans. She ran her hands over her face and through her hair.

_A shower. I'll feel better after a shower._ She shivered.

As the hot water ran over her, she felt some of her tension and fear melt away. No vertril would get her here. But it didn't soothe her guilt. Somewhere, a man was dying, and she had barely tried to save him.

# Chapter Two

Aria spent the next day inside. She had plenty of books full of sticky notes and highlighting and she stared at her computer screen for hours.

But the words wouldn't come. She had ideas, but no thesis. No coherent story for her paper. She had no thread to pull that would unravel into a line of thought.

Except the uneasy suspicion that there were things the Empire didn't want her to know. But that was silly. Every government has secrets. It doesn't mean the government is immoral. No government can operate with complete transparency. She knew that. She wasn't so naive that she didn't understand the need for secrecy... sometimes.

But why had she heard nothing about forests in the last few years? Surely someone would have mentioned forests, or woods, or rivers, or something. Not busy waterways like the Anacostia and Potomac, but a real river, with fish and rocks and maybe even a waterfall. The images in her mind were hazy and dreamlike, but she knew they were real.

Where had the book gone? Why did Dandra deny it? Aria was sure Dandra knew which book she meant. But why would she lie about it?

_What if he'd died?_

He had died, of course. No one could live with those injuries. No one could evade the IPF, much less when injured so terribly. Maybe they'd found him and taken him to a hospital. _But that's not what they intended._

She bundled up against the cold and went out. A walk would clear her head. Or perhaps give it more to think about. More questions might lead to answers or connections between questions, which might be almost as good.

She considered turning toward Connecticut Avenue, where her friend Amara lived. But this was an alone kind of walk. An alone kind of mood.

Aria looked in the shop windows as she passed. The familiar upscale clothing boutiques and trendy bistros didn't interest her. Fashionable mannequins modeled outfits she couldn't afford on her graduate student stipend. Only the restaurants and coffee shops were open this late.

She considered a hot drink, perhaps tea to break with her coffee tradition, but decided against it. The shops looked small and cozy, but the bleak weather suited her mood better. She had warm boots and a hood against the coming snow. She pushed her gloved hands further into her pockets and continued on.

There were few others walking the streets; they all looked like they were headed somewhere in a hurry. _Maybe they're smarter than I am. It's miserable out here._ But there was traffic, the bluish headlights and red taillights of electric cars meandering through the commercial district. A door opened briefly as a man entered a little bistro, and she heard laughter from inside.

Without meaning to, she found herself near the river. The edges were just crusting with ice; it was barely below freezing. She turned southeast, with the river on her right, and followed it morosely.

Had she caused his death? Had the IPF caught him? Why had they hunted him anyway?

Was it her fault?

She wondered if Dandra's shop was open this late. Probably not. _Should I tell her what happened?_ Aria headed to the bookstore anyway, not looking up until she was nearly to the door. Then she stopped in surprise.

The lights inside were off, of course; that was as she'd expected. A handwritten note taped to the inside of the glass door said _Closed until further notice._ That was odd. She peered in, but the streetlights behind her barely illuminated the interior. Nothing looked unusual. The row of tiny tables near the coffee bar at the front was neat and clean; behind it, the aisles of books could barely be seen. Shadows cloaked the bookshelves and tables, but nothing looked out of place.

She ran her hand along the icy handle and finally turned away. Maybe Dandra was ill or something. At the bridge, she looked to her right across the undergirding. She almost walked past, then a barely perceptible movement caught her eye, and she froze.

There, forty feet above the water, was a dark form on the metal. Well out of the light, the dim shape was scarcely visible, but it was in the same place she'd seen him before.

It was impossible. He was dead. He had to be. Anyone would have died, wounded like that.

But she stared anyway, trying to make out the shape. Was it a person? A dead body? _His_ body? She glanced up and down the street and saw no one.

It took only a moment for her to decide. She slipped down the dark, wet slope toward the base of the bridge. The ladder rungs were high, and she had to jump to reach the bottom one. Her glove slipped and she nearly fell, but she caught it again and kicked hard against the metal piling until she could lunge upward for the next one. Finally, she got one foot up high enough to climb the ladder the normal way. She was breathing hard, and she stopped at the top to catch her breath and look across the girder. The supports were arched, making room for the ships that traversed up the Potomac River.

From this angle, it was clearly a man's form. He lay on his back with his feet toward her, one leg dangling off the edge toward the water. He was barefoot and completely motionless.

She edged toward him on hands and knees. The girder was wide, perhaps three feet, but the water was far below and very cold, and it made her nervous to be so high. She tried not to think about the height. Closer. _Breathe, Aria._ She focused on her hands as they moved, dark gloves against dark metal. At least, the girder was flat. Even without an angle to it, the metal was slippery in the damp.

When she glanced up again, he was sitting, leaning forward with one arm resting on his knee.

"Why are you following me?" His voice was soft. "I've done nothing to you."

"I wasn't following you. I was walking, and I saw a shape here. I wasn't sure it was you." She edged a little closer. "I was worried. You were hurt, and the IPF..." her voice trailed away. "I thought they meant to help you at first." She frowned.

He huffed softly, a short hard sound that might have been a laugh. "They never mean to help us."

Aria tried to see him in the darkness. His form was shadowy, and she could see only the pale, angular shape of his face, his arms, and his bare feet. Closer. "I wasn't looking for you, but you're hurt. It's freezing out here, and you don't have any shoes. Let me give you mine. I have more at home. They're boots, and they're too big for me anyway. They ought to fit."

She sat back and started to pull at her laces.

He reached forward and stopped her with one bare hand. "I'm fine." There was a hint of warmth in his voice now, and she met his eyes.

He swallowed and looked away first, glancing back toward the empty street beyond the steep bank. "Thank you for your concern. It is unusual."

She stared at him. "You must be freezing. You have no coat either?"

He looked back at her. "No." He rested his left hand against his stomach and shifted with a wince.

She stared at his hand. It was bandaged with what looked like torn strips of one of his dark shirts.

"Are you healing? Who are you? _What_ are you?"

He laughed softly. "Dandra told you not to ask questions you don't want to know the answer to."

She stared back at him. "How did you know that? You were gone."

"I hear many things." He smiled at her, teeth very white in the darkness.

"What maps did you want?"

He cocked his head to one side, staring at her with cold suspicion. "Who do you work for?"

"What?"

He lunged at her, caught her by the throat, and flipped her on her back. He knelt by her and whispered with icy menace, "You ask a lot of questions. Who do you work for?"

She shook her head, unable to speak against the pressure on her throat. Tears squeezed from her eyes against her will. "No one," she gasped. Mouthed. The words were inaudible, and she stared at him, willing him to believe her. Her heart thudded wildly.

He let her go and sat back. He was breathing as hard as she was, and he pressed his bandaged left hand against his stomach. He glanced past her toward the street again.

She wiped at her eyes. Her gloves were wet, and the chill stung her cheeks. "I was just trying to help you. Why do you keep assuming the worst? I don't even know what you mean." She wanted to go, but curiosity kept her. And compassion.

He leaned back against the vertical support, and this time, his pain was more obvious. He stared at her for a long moment, then looked back toward the street again. "You should go. If you're not one of them, you won't want to see what happens next."

"One of who?"

"Them." His eyes flicked toward her face again, and she blinked at their cold intensity. "Hunters."

"Hunting you?" She let her confusion be obvious. If she didn't know what he meant, perhaps he would trust her a little more. The wind gusted suddenly. It caught her hood and dragged it backward, and she tugged at it, shivering.

"They can track you, you know." His blue eyes watched her for a reaction. "You're leading them to me."

She frowned at him. Was he mad? "No. They can't. They wouldn't. _Why?_ "

"Trackers. They're in almost everyone. Except for my people." The cool blue gaze rested on her, gauging her reaction before moving back toward the street again.

She glanced back toward the street too. "Why? Where? _How_?" She shivered, and this time, it wasn't only because of the icy wind.

"I believe you. That means you have a choice." He pressed his bandaged left hand hard against his stomach and stood, with a soft huff of pain. He leaned back against the vertical support and looked at the opposite shore of the river for a long moment before looking back at her. "You can leave the tracker in and follow their rules. Go back to your life. It's the easiest way. Safest."

He glanced over his shoulder again thoughtfully. "Or you can let me remove it. There's no going back. You're out of everything. No job, no school, no electricity, no money. You're invisible. And hunted."

She swallowed. "What happened to Dandra?"

He watched her face. "What do you mean?"

"Her shop is closed until further notice. What happened to her? Did you tell Petro?"

"No." His voice was flat, as if he didn't really care whether she believed him.

"Why should I leave my life?" She wondered that she was even considering it. But then, it wasn't so great, was it? A school she didn't enjoy. A thesis that made her question everything she remembered. A boxy little apartment that she'd tried unsuccessfully to make cozy. A family that consisted of fragmented memories. A few school friends. No one close, not anymore.

"I didn't say you should." His voice was soft, and she glanced up at him. He was watching the street again, and she studied him for a moment in the dim light. Lean and hard. _Like a soldier_ , she thought again.

"What are you?" she asked again.

He glanced down, meeting her eyes. "There's not much time. Make your decision."

"Do it."

He knelt suddenly in front of her. "You're sure? There is no changing your mind, afterward."

She swallowed. "I'm not giving up much."

He studied her for another long moment, then nodded once. He pulled a shirt from his rucksack, nearly invisible in the darkness. "Cut a strip off this." He pulled a knife from his belt and held it toward her, hilt-first. She stared at it. Eight inches long, sharp on both edges and narrowing to a needle point.

"You're going to cut me." She pulled her gaze away from the blade to stare at him.

"Yes. You said you wanted it out."

"Will it hurt?" She felt her breath becoming short. The cold air burned her lungs, and she shivered again, pulling her coat closer around her chest. As if that would protect her, if he wanted to kill her now.

He snorted softly. "Yes."

She took a deep breath and felt her heart thudding. She forced herself to take the knife from him. The blade was razor sharp, but cutting the fabric into a usable shape was hard in the darkness. He reached out with his good hand to help her stretch the fabric taut. She tried not to think about what she was doing. It was crazy. _She_ was crazy.

"Take off your coat and pull up your sleeve. Right arm." He set the knife down beside his knee.

She pulled off the coat and put it behind her, shivering harder. It was getting foggy, and though the wind had lessened, the cold still cut through her thick sweater to her bare skin. She pushed her sleeve up just above her elbow.

"More. No, take it off completely." He glanced over his shoulder at the far shore, then back at the street nearest them.

"It's freezing," she whispered.

"I'll be fast." He was still searching the street, cold blue eyes flicking down the long stretch of road and resting for a long moment on something. She turned to look over her shoulder as she pulled her right arm out of the sweater sleeve, but didn't see anything. She pushed her arm down and out the bottom of the sweater, keeping the rest of it on. The thick knit bunched around her throat and she pulled at it, trying to keep as much covered as possible.

"Lay down on your coat. And get your phone out."

She lay back, shivering. _Aria, you've officially lost it. This is insane. You're on a bridge with a crazy man with a knife, and you're about to let him cut you. No, you_ asked _him to cut you. What is wrong with you?_

He moved forward, still kneeling, his bare left foot on the edge of the girder, his right knee beside her ribs. He bent to look at her arm, eyes intent. _What will it look like? I don't know why I believe him, but I do._

He reached out and ran his hand along her upper arm, fingers cold as the metal, and she gasped at the chill. He prodded at one spot, then brought his bandaged hand up to the place and held her arm down firmly. "Don't move."

The warning was unnecessary. The knife flickered in and out so fast she barely had time to gasp at the sudden pain. He pressed, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. Then it was done. He held a tiny metal object up for her to see.

"Hold it." He dropped it into her hand and wrapped the strips of cloth around her arm. She stared at the tiny metal capsule, the size and shape of a grain of rice. The wound burned, but not as much as she'd expected.

"What does it do?"

One-handed, he had a hard time tying the bandage, gripping one end in his teeth, and she helped with her left hand. He moved his right hand to cup icy fingers against the back of her neck, sliding up into her hair. She shuddered. He cocked his head, eyes half-closed as if he was concentrating. Then she blinked. A red light appeared on his shoulder, wavered a moment, and then shifted to his head.

"Move!" He jerked her upward and behind himself. "Around the upright, now."

A shot cracked, and he jolted into her. She slammed into the metal face first, stunned. He jerked her left arm, pushed her to the side, his body close to hers. "Around it. There's a step. Drop the tracker and your phone into the water." He sounded like he couldn't catch his breath.

_Around._ Panic rose in her throat and threatened to choke her. His bandaged hand on her shoulder steadied her as she put her booted feet on the ridge that circled the upright.

He followed her to the other side. He was breathing hard, unevenly.

"You're hit."

"Yes." He coughed, a short hard cough. He caught her arm again, kept her in the shadow of the upright. The laser caught the underside of the bridge and moved slowly away, then back toward them. Searching. Floodlights blazed in the darkness, flaring up at them and across the water. "You dropped the tracker? Phone? Good. Wait here for at least an hour. There's a coffee shop three blocks north of Dandra's." Another cough, nearly a groan. "Called Franco's Fuel. Go there. Stay in the shadows. I'll find you." A pause, then, "Don't go home."

Then he stood, visible, and took a few steps into the clear. He stood in the cold floodlight until the laser veered toward him, then stepped off the girder. A shot rang out, then more, following him down. He landed feet first with a barely audible splash. She heard boots running across the bridge to look for him. She huddled in the shadow of the wide metal girder.

More searchlights flooded across the underside of the bridge, and she shrank even further into the tiny shadow. She could hear them talking, though some of the words were indistinct.

"Which one is it?"

"Unknown. The human was Aria Marie Forsyth. Birthdate August 19, 2061. Age twenty-four. Address 19 McKenna Walk, North Quadrant. Lives alone. Currently enrolled in Historical Studies at City Central University. No family."

Aria had to bite back a cry. He was right; they were tracking her. But why? Hearing her life summarized like that, it seemed so small. So sad.

"Did it kill her?"

"Unknown. Probably. She dropped first. We didn't have the lights up yet."

"You didn't hit her, did you?"

"Unlikely. The reading was cold."

"Could have been her jacket, if it's thick. Insulation could mask the body temp."

"Could be. I think I got it, though."

"Search for her body too. Either way, she's dead."

"Unless... no. Never mind."

"You think it knows about that?"

"No."

They searched the shoreline. She shivered as she counted them, her teeth chattering in the cold. Nine spotlights downriver. Four upriver. They tilted up toward her again, moving slowly across the undergirding of the bridge, and she held her breath, her knees pulled in to her chest as she stayed out of the light. She tucked her hands inside her sleeves and hugged herself. Her arm hurt, a throbbing pain that burned against the cold, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. She felt the bandage gingerly with her left hand. He'd been inhumanly fast. _If I'm the human, what is he?_ And good with his knife. The cut wasn't as bad as she'd expected. He'd been efficient. She tried not to think about the shot that had slammed him into her. The sudden rush of air from his lungs at the impact.

He didn't deserve to die. He'd been hostile, yes, but could she blame him? As much as they wanted him dead, it was no wonder he was suspicious. _They called him an 'it.'_

The spotlights moved slowly down the river. She heard dogs barking, IPF dogs on leashes. Big ones, though not like the beast he'd killed. She closed her eyes, feeling suddenly exhausted. The cold of the metal stole through her clothes and took her strength. _No. If he's still alive, somehow, I need to meet him. How long has it been?_

She glanced cautiously around the upright. The searchlights were distant now, and as she watched they moved farther down the river. Searching. Would they come back? She waited a while longer to be sure but heard nothing aside from the hum of the city. A dog barking. The quiet lapping of the water beneath her.

She took a deep breath and pushed herself up to stand against the upright. She pressed her back to it and glanced at both shores. No one was there now. No one to see her.

Aria felt for the ridge with her foot, slid behind the upright, and eased onto the girder on the other side. She paused, half-expecting a searchlight to flare in her face. Nothing happened, and she crept forward, using the glint of the streetlights on the edge of the girder for a guide. She slid each foot forward carefully. They hadn't noticed his rucksack, which he'd left on the girder. She pushed it ahead of her, advancing on her knees now. She felt around the top of the girder, unable to see whether he'd left anything else. Nothing.

She found her coat. It was damp inside now with the misting rain, but she put it on anyway and then slipped the strap of the rucksack over her shoulder. She crawled to the end of the girder and felt for the ladder. It was darker here under the overhang, and her heart was in her throat as she swung her legs off the girder and felt for the ladder rungs. She climbed down as silently as she could, and swung from the bottom, trying to judge the distance before letting go.

She landed with a jolt, falling to one knee, then pushed herself to her feet and trudged up the muddy slope toward the street. It was still empty, and she wondered how late it was. She hadn't worn a watch.

Aria paused at the top, under a streetlight, then thought better of it and moved to a shadow. _Last chance. Last chance to stay out of it._ She took a deep breath and began walking.

Aria knew Franco's Fuel, but she didn't like it. Their coffee was always over-roasted and bitter. The storefront was distinctive, though, which made it a good place to meet. She took a circuitous route, uneasy now about being followed. _Which is stupid, because the tracker is gone and no one saw me. But it won't hurt to be careful._ She came to it from the north, slipping through the shadows. She stopped across the street and crouched in the shadow of a hedge.

She jerked in surprise when he put an icy hand over her mouth.

"Follow me." His voice was only a breath in her ear. "Be silent."

She nodded and he let go. She trailed him down an alley barely lit by the faint reflections of streetlights on windows along the main road. Then another turn into pitch-blackness. He took her hand in his, and she could feel the cold even through her gloves. Another turn, then the soft swish of a door opening.

"Steps down." His voice was barely audible. He closed the door behind her, and then took her hand again, guiding her down the stairs. Then, they moved through what seemed to be tunnels, the air cold and still. She could hear his breathing, a catch in each breath, though he made no other sound. She could hear her own, too, over the thud of her heartbeat and her quiet footsteps. He coughed, a short, hard sound. Another turn, and another. Then another door. He put his hand on her shoulder and guided her through, then stepped through himself and locked it. He moved away from her, and she waited. A light flared, and she blinked for a moment in the brightness.

They were in a small room, perhaps ten feet by twelve. There was a camping cot pushed against one wall. A lantern sat on a worn table, and the man stood just to the side and a little in front of it, nearly silhouetted. He studied her for several long seconds while she tried to see him against the light.

"Where are we?" she whispered.

"Under the East Quadrant." His voice was low, but he didn't whisper, and she took it as a sign that they were safe. He looked at her a moment longer, then stepped back from the light. "Sit." He nodded toward the chair.

He leaned against the table, half-sitting on the edge. He took a deep breath and coughed once, hard, and then again, leaning forward as it shook him.

"I'll ask a favor," he said hoarsely.

"Sit down. Or lay down." She reached forward to help him and he drew back, blue eyes on her face. "You're hurt. What do you need?" She glanced around the room. There was nothing here, nothing that could help him.

He studied her face one long moment, then drew the knife and held it toward her, hilt first. "The bullet is in my right lung. Dig it out. It's poison."

Her mouth dropped open. She backed away, shaking her head. "No. You'll die. You're dying now. I can't..." _I can't believe you're still standing._

He coughed again, doubled over with his right hand braced on his knee, still holding the knife, and his left held to his stomach. Harder and harder, he coughed and could not stop for a terribly long minute. He gasped and swallowed hard, took a deep breath, wiped the back of his mouth with his hand. It came away streaked with blood.

He stripped off his shirt with one quick motion and dropped it to the floor. Around his waist was the bandage made from his pants. He'd cut off the extra fabric and the knot was against his left side, the fabric pulled wide across his stomach, black and stiff with blood. The caked blood had softened in the river water and now leaked from the bandage, soaking his damp trousers. He picked up the lantern and put it on the floor, then knelt with his back to it.

"Find the bullet. It must come out." He held the knife toward her again. "There's not much time." He bent forward, coughing so hard he couldn't speak.

Aria pulled off her gloves. She took her coat off and tossed it on the chair.

She took the knife from his hand, which tightened convulsively as he coughed. She moved around behind him and covered her mouth, suddenly nauseated. The bullet had hit just below his right shoulder blade. Blood soaked his shirt and now pulsed out in a slow rhythm, streaking his pale wet skin. The hole was as large as her thumb. Scratches and bruises crossed his back, probably from the fight with the vertril, she imagined.

"Can you lie down?" Her voice was hoarse.

He almost fell forward, caught himself with his right hand, and lay on the cold stone floor, jerking as he tried to control the coughing.

"Do it. Don't be afraid." He coughed again. "Break a rib if you have to. Get it out. It must come out." Then he was racked with coughing, so hard his knees jerked beneath him and his face scraped against the floor.

She took a deep breath. _Do it. It's not going to get any easier._ She pressed her left hand hard against his back, the muscles alive beneath her fingers. She stabbed the knife in, trying to push the nausea away. He gasped beneath her and dug his fingers into the floor. She shifted the knife to her left hand and pushed two fingers inside. His flesh and blood were cool, though not as icy as his hands, and the sudden shock of that made her blink in surprise. He truly wasn't human, despite his looks. A human would be warm, hot, even. Didn't they say "hot blood" when they described a human bleeding? He was definitely cool.

Farther. She could feel nothing that might be a bullet. She felt the strong solidity of bone, the rib cage, and how the hole passed between two of the ribs into the lung. She pushed, and her fingers moved wetly through and wiggled in the emptiness inside. He jerked beneath her. She was light-headed and queasy at the thought of what she was doing, but she pushed the feeling away.

"I'm going to break it." Her voice felt like it came from someone else.

He nodded once.

She raised the knife and slammed the hilt downward. Not hard enough. Again with two hands, and there was a nauseating crack. He jerked, eyes shut. He spat blood onto the floor near her knee and coughed again. _Quickly now. He said there isn't much time._ She pushed her hand in, fingers reaching past the broken ends of bone. She closed her eyes. Looking at it only made her want to vomit, and she felt more confident as she operated by touch alone. She had a little more play now, and she felt around. She leaned onto her left hand as he twitched and jerked, coughing more weakly, choking on his own blood.

_There._ The bullet was large and had flattened a little as it hit the front ribs and lodged against the bone. She could feel the layers of tissue sliding against each other as she pushed. She could barely grasp it between her index finger and middle finger, at the very extent of her reach. She pushed a little farther, and he made a small, choked sound. There. She had it. She drew it out, paused to get a better grip on it, and then all the way.

She caught her breath, chest heaving like she'd been holding it for hours. "I got it. It's out." She put it in front of his face.

He was still. Eyes closed. She sat back and stared at him. _No. Not after that. You can't die now._

His back rose and fell, evidencing the slightest hint of life. Barely anything. She cast about for something to stop the bleeding and found only his shirt. It was soaked with blood and river water. Maybe he had another? She dug through the rucksack frantically. Six books. A blanket. A smooth, rectangular stone. Socks. One shirt. A pair of soft black shoes, which he was inexplicably not wearing in the frigid weather. She folded the socks and cut the shirt along one side, then knotted it around his chest so the socks made a thick pad over the wound. He didn't move.

She stepped back and stared at him. It wouldn't help the internal bleeding, which was doubtlessly worse than what she could see.

She'd wrestled with his limp body, and he hadn't twitched. He kept breathing, though, and that alone was enough to prove he wasn't human. His blood smeared her hands and arms. Spread onto the floor. She swallowed bile again. She wanted to throw up, but she wouldn't. No. Not now.

Should she put him on the cot? It had to be better than laying facedown on the stone floor. But moving him would be challenging at best, and would probably injure him more. She folded the remains of the shirt and slipped it under his face. His lips were open, and a slow trickle of blood dripped from his mouth. She wiped it away. She pulled the blanket from his rucksack and draped it over him.

That looked a little better. The blanket hid the worst of the bloodstains, all but the spot near his face.

Now, what? The room was nearly empty. She sat on the cot and stared around the room, then back at him. She wanted to rub her hands over her face but thought better of it when she looked at them. The blood dried slowly, darker in the corners of her nails and her cuticles.

_What have I done?_

# Chapter Three

His skin was as pale as marble in the dim lamplight. Her own skin was only a little darker. Her friend Amara had teased her, told her she ought to be in skin care commercials, but Aria knew she was being kind. Everyone had good features and bad. Her skin was beautiful, but she was too petite for the current style. Too angular. Her mouth was well-shaped but too wide. She didn't mind it when she looked in the mirror, but she wasn't the kind of beauty that advertisers or movie producers wanted.

He was. Or he would have been, had he been human.

She frowned. Hunted, he'd said. Hunted by the IPF, apparently. Were there other hunters, too? Why?

She rubbed her hands over her face. They were dry now, at least, and the blood had rubbed off with a little effort. What time was it? She'd been up for hours when she left her apartment, and it had been hours since then. It must be close to morning. Her eyes felt gritty. She sat in the chair. Her boots were wet, and she kicked them off, but her socks were still damp. She shivered and tucked her cold feet under herself in the hard wooden chair.

She leaned forward and put her head on her arms. Her eyes drifted closed.

Aria woke with a jerk.

His cool blue eyes were resting on her face. He hadn't moved; he still lay on his stomach on the floor.

"How do you feel?" She nearly whispered it, and the sound of her own voice nearly made her jump in the thick, cold silence.

"Alive." It was a croak, and he closed his eyes for a moment. Then he looked at her again with a faint smile. "Thank you."

Her stomach rumbled, and she smiled awkwardly. "Sorry."

One corner of his mouth quirked in amusement. With a deep breath, he pushed himself up to sit on his heels in one quick movement. In the deafening silence, his gasp of pain was terribly loud. He paused then, eyes closed, fist pressed to his mouth as he slowed his breathing, controlling the pain.

Then he looked at her again. "Where is it?" He was hoarse, and the whisper sounded painful to her ears.

She knelt and found the bullet on the floor. He looked at it in her hand but didn't touch it.

"They can't track that one." He had to stop to breathe.

"Why don't you lie on the cot? I'll help you." She knelt in front of him and offered her arm.

He hesitated, and then leaned on her for an instant as he stood. "You'll need food."

"I can get some later. What do you need?"

He was white as ice, and he shivered suddenly as he stood there. He ran his right hand over his face and through his hair. It stuck up afterward, and she thought suddenly that he looked both younger and more tired than before. "How long have we been here?"

"I'm not sure. It's probably morning."

"We should move."

"You're in no shape to go anywhere."

He swayed as he stood. "I think you're right." His voice was distant, and he blinked dazedly before taking an unsteady step toward the table. She half-caught him as he crumpled, let him down to kneel on the floor.

"You wait here. I'll go get food. What do you need?" She tried to make her voice certain, strong, competent.

He sagged against the leg of the table. "There's a butcher shop on Dumbarton Street." A deep breath. "It's not far from the ladder we came down. Called Bryson's. Tell him you're picking up Owen's order. Get what you need first, if you're short of money." Another deep, painful breath. He coughed once and wiped blood from his mouth. He looked at the smear across the back of his hand thoughtfully and licked his lips. "Take my knife. Don't show it unless you have to."

"I'll help you to the cot."

"I'll be fine. Don't take long. They'll be looking for you." He held her eyes a moment with his cool blue gaze. "Take the lamp for the tunnels. Go on, then."

She frowned but nodded. She slipped out, leaving him kneeling by the table in the dark.

The tunnels were more confusing than she'd realized. She paused at yet another corner and wondered whether she'd be able to find her way out at all. Finally, she found a ladder and crept up. It ended at a doorway, and she pushed it open a crack, peeked out, and then slipped through. She tested the latch and guessed it wouldn't lock behind her. She closed it, and then tried it. It opened again almost soundlessly. Good.

She wrapped her coat around herself against the chill. It was late morning, the sun bright overhead. She didn't know exactly where she was, but it felt familiar. She walked quickly, cautiously, trying to be aware of everything without looking like she was nervous. At the next corner, there were vendors gathered, mostly paper and cigarette carts. She recognized Olive Street, though it was not a section she frequented. She turned left, and in less than a block found a grocery store.

Bread. Cold meat. Cheese. A bag of apples. _What else?_ A pack of five black short-sleeved shirts. A large pack of matches. Some lantern oil. Two bottles of water. She went to the front to pay.

The man raised his eyebrows. "Men's shirts?"

She shrugged. "A friend asked me to pick them up."

"Hm." He gave her the change, and she felt his eyes on her as she left. She walked left out of the doorway, away from the direction she'd come.

She circled the block, trying to see if anyone was following her, and then started a larger circle, looking for the butcher shop. Finally, she saw the sign. It was small, the kind of ethnic shop favored by poor immigrants hungry for a taste of home. Not that there were many of those left these days. The man behind the counter eyed her suspiciously.

"I'd like to pick up Owen's order." She tried to sound confident.

"Owen?" His accent was strong, and he stared at her again, not moving. "You know him?"

"Yes." She bit her lip. "He asked me to pick it up for him," she added when he didn't move.

"Hm." He kept a suspicious eye on her as he finally moved toward the back. He opened a large refrigerator and pulled out a paper bag with a small white receipt stapled to the top.

"Four dollars."

Good. It wasn't too expensive. Still, if she couldn't go back to her apartment, she'd run out of cash soon. She handed the bills over and he pulled off the receipt before he slid the bag across the glass countertop. It was heavier than she'd expected.

She took an indirect route back toward the ladder.

Down. She'd blown out the lantern at the bottom, and she felt for it in the darkness, careful not to knock it over. She lit it and then went back through the tunnels, counting the turns. Finally, she found the door, proud of herself for not having gotten lost.

She turned the knob quietly and slipped inside. He lay where she'd left him kneeling, curled on his side, facing away from the door. She set the lantern down, almost silently, and watched him a moment. Soft, shallow breaths. He was shirtless still, even in the cold, and she could see the lines of his ribs, the hard muscles of his back disappearing under the makeshift bandages, the curve of his shoulder into his neck. If his hair had been longer, it might have formed ringlets, but it was cut short on his neck and just a little longer on top. The haircut was uneven as if he'd done it himself.

She stepped forward to put the bag on the table.

Swords in hand, he spun up into a crouch so fast she didn't even see him move. He stared at her a moment, then stood straighter, breathing heavily. He sheathed the swords. "Don't startle me."

She swallowed, her back pressed against the door. "I'm sorry."

He steadied himself against the table. "Did you have any trouble?" He coughed and closed his eyes, pressing his knuckles against his mouth.

"No. I brought your package." She set it on the table along with the other two bags, put his knife next to it, spread out the food, and looked at him. "Sit down."

He eyed the spread and then her. "You'll want to eat first."

"There's plenty for us both."

"I'm not eating that. Go ahead." He picked up his knife and moved away to sit on the edge of the cot. He inspected the knife blade carefully, turning it this way and that to catch the light. Satisfied, he slipped it into the sheath on his belt and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

He watched her as she ate. The bread was a little mashed, but she made a sandwich anyway. She turned the chair so she could look back at him.

"So your name is Owen," she said finally. "That's good to know. Seems like we should know each other's names by now." He stared at her wordlessly, and she ventured, "I'm Aria. Aria Forsyth. Do you have a last name?"

"Not in English."

She blinked. "If you're not human, what are you?"

He ran his right hand over his face again. "What do you think?"

She studied him, and he let her, watching her face as her eyes moved over him again. Lean, athletic. He looked human.

"How old are you?" she asked suddenly. It was so hard to tell. No lines at the corners of his eyes or beside his nose. Yet that light touch of gray just at his temples.

He smiled, just a faint, wry twitch of his lips. "Now that's cheating." She held his eyes, and he said, "Two hundred seventy-three."

She blinked. "That's impossible."

He only smiled. "Eat. Or if you're done, tell me. I'm hungry too."

She ate the last of her sandwich in three large bites and stood, still chewing. She opened her bottle of water belatedly and took it with her as she moved to the cot.

He stood at the table and opened the sack to pull out a large paper bundle. He unwrapped it with an unreadable glance at her, leaving the paper sticking up so she couldn't see what was inside. She heard the crinkle of the thin butcher shop plastic inside the paper. He drew his knife.

A few quick slices, and then he sat, half-turned so she couldn't see past his shoulder.

"Are you eating it raw?" Aria said in disgust.

A pause. "Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to."

She took a drink. "What is it?"

He swallowed. "Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to." Another bite. He licked his fingers.

She stood indecisively for a moment, and finally moved closer. He didn't move, though he shot a glance over his shoulder at her. Closer.

A bloody mass cut into cubes lay on the plastic from Bryson's butcher shop. His knife lay beside it, still red.

"By the emperor," she breathed. "What is that?"

He picked up two cubes and swallowed them, one after the other. "Pig's heart."

"That is revolting." She stared at him in horror and then back at the heart.

"Says the human." Another cube. "What do you think I am?"

She backed away to stand at the door. Her mind whirled. "I'd say you were a vampire, but that's absurd. They don't exist."

"I am not a vampire." He didn't look at her.

"But what else is cold to the touch? And eats blood?"

"I'm not eating blood. I'm eating a pig's heart." He enunciated clearly, then stopped to cough again.

"I don't know."

"Have you heard of elves? Fairies?"

"They're small. And they live in the forest or something. And they have wings."

He ate another bite. "Incorrect. You humans have long since forgotten the truth of the Fae. We are not miniature. We do not have wings. We do not fly. Vampires, elves, fairies... they're partial shadows of the old memories. We're both closer to human and more alien than you imagine."

She felt dizzy, watching him eat the bloody cubes. "Do you kill humans? Do you _eat_ humans?"

He choked, coughed, and steadied himself on the edge of the table. She waited, her hand on the doorknob. But no. He'd had plenty of opportunities to hurt her that he hadn't taken.

"No," he said finally. He gazed at her with weary amusement. She was starting to read his subtle expressions; they weren't obvious, but this one was as clear as any. "Like humans, we are capable of choosing cruelty. But we are not monsters."

He studied her. "If you're afraid, you can leave. But it's not safer out there." The amusement had faded, leaving only weariness in the set of his shoulders. He finished eating without looking at her. He folded the bloody plastic into the paper, then carefully folded the whole bag into a neat packet, which he slipped into his pocket. He leaned forward, still not looking at her, his head drooping. Then he straightened as if he'd remembered something. He opened the other water bottle and rinsed his right hand, the water falling to the floor. He shook the water off with a quick flick of the wrist and then drank deeply.

She watched him warily.

"How did you escape them last night? They searched the riverbank."

"I swam."

She frowned. That didn't really answer her question. "Upstream?"

He nodded once.

"I saw the lights upstream too."

He nodded again.

"What did you want the maps for? From Dandra?"

He reached over to the pack of shirts and held it up to her. "Thank you." A quick cut of the knife slit the plastic wrapper and he pulled one out and over his head. Then he stared at the table for a long moment before looking at her again. "We need to move. It isn't safe to stay in one place for so long."

"What did you want the maps for?"

He stood without answering. He tugged the shirt hem down farther; it had gotten caught on the knot of the bandage around his waist. He leaned his right hand on the table and stood still, resting. Then, slowly, one-handed, he packed everything into his battered rucksack.

"I'll carry it," Aria offered. She picked up the blanket from the floor and folded it, then put it on top and zipped the pack closed. She slung it over her shoulder. He didn't protest.

"Blow out the lantern." His voice was a little hoarse.

He led her through the door, his hand cold in hers. Silently they walked. She heard the faint brush of fabric on the left wall at long intervals and realized he was touching it with his bandaged hand. Right, left, down a long gentle slope, left again, and up some stairs and around a corner. More walking. Downward again. She was thoroughly lost. She couldn't even guess how far under the city they were. Twenty feet? A hundred feet? The tunnels were cool and dank, but not wet.

"Where are we going?" she ventured.

His _shhh_ was barely audible.

She followed him in silence for several more minutes. Down again.

"Where are we going?"

"Quiet."

"No. I want to know where we're going!" she jerked her hand away from his. "I've followed you without question and I'm done. I want to know where you're taking me." Her voice echoed.

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her along, nearly running now. "I'll tell you when we're out of the tunnels." His own voice was much quieter.

She yanked her wrist, but she couldn't escape his iron grasp. There was a sudden sound from behind her. Growling.

Owen jerked her forward and shoved her to the floor. Then it was upon them with a roar that filled the tunnel.

Aria covered her head, scrambling backwards. _I'm dead!_ It would kill them both. He was in no shape to fight and she had no weapons, not that she knew what to do with them if she'd had them anyway.

The battle was over in a moment, though. She heard him breathing heavily. A cough. The soft sound of his sword being sheathed. Then he grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. "When I tell you to be silent, it is not only for my own sake." Though the words were only a whisper, she could hear his anger, and she nodded. He pulled her along, jogging through the tunnels with barely a hesitation at each turn. Then up a very long flight of stairs. He had to stop and cough in the middle, doubled over and leaning against the wall. She helped him as he stumbled upward, still coughing, and then he steadied himself and pulled her on. Suddenly he stopped at a ladder on the side of the tunnel, which continued ahead of them.

"Here. Climb up first."

She obeyed, scrambling up the ladder quickly. At the top, the hatch was like a manhole cover, a round metal plate so heavy that she strained to open it. He climbed up farther, his body pressed against hers, to shove it away with his good hand. She clambered through, and he followed her. He pushed the cover back over the hole one-handed and remained kneeling, breathing heavily. In the dim light, she could see he was splattered with blood, a dark streak across one cheek and into his hair.

"Is that your blood?"

"No."

He coughed, bowed so his head nearly touched the ground, and wiped blood from his mouth again. He straightened painfully and wiped his bloody hand on his pants.

"It's not much farther," he said finally, when he caught his breath.

Her breath fogged in the cold; his did not. The concrete floor beneath her knees felt icy and unwelcoming. She looked around. They were in a vast, dimly lit room filled with boxes and machinery.

"What is this place?"

He didn't answer. He struggled to his feet, and she offered him a hand belatedly. He wound through the aisles and found a set of open metal stairs, which he followed upward to the next floor, high above the first. _Some sort of warehouse? But where is this?_ Then down a long hallway to a room at the end, with windows on two sides.

He closed the door and locked it, then went to the windows and looked out. "Here. We can rest here." He sank to the floor, sitting with his back against the wall, a little uneven so his right side didn't quite touch. He leaned his head back, eyes closed.

"Are you going to live? You shouldn't be alive at all." She came to sit by him.

He huffed softly, as if he wanted to laugh but didn't quite have the strength. "Oh yes. Always have so far."

The smooth skin of his neck moved as he spoke. "We're hard to kill, we Fae. They know how, though. Getlaril bullets. A few other ways. They're doing research. Testing." He opened his eyes to look sideways at her. "Test. Evaluate. Refine. Test again. They experiment." He coughed.

"That's what I want the maps for. Government maps. The secure facilities. They have test subjects." He grimaced when he said it, a twist of the lips. "Of course, they won't be noted on any map I could acquire, but with a power grid, I could figure it out. Or water lines. Or security checkpoints. A clue. I've been trying to make my own, but it's slow going." He coughed again, licked the blood off his lips without seeming to notice. "You'll be useful. They have sensors that sense Fae blood. They're expensive and hard to make, so they don't have many, but I've found a few. Found a few possible testing sites."

"You want to use me?" Aria felt her voice squeak with fear. Then outrage. "You want to use me to go where you can't? You'll get me killed! You wanted to use me all along!" She rose to her feet and stared down at him.

His voice was hard. "I told you to leave me alone. You didn't. So I gave you a choice. I did you no wrong." The effort was too much, and he was convulsed by coughing again. He struggled to his hands and knees and retched onto the floor, spitting bright red blood.

Unable to maintain her anger in the face of her guilt, she knelt beside him. "What do you need?"

"Time." He caught his breath and sat back on his heels. His chest heaved. If anything, he looked worse than before. He glanced out the window. "We're safe here for a while."

Aria stood and looked out the window as well. The view matched her mood. Overcast and chilly, with a hint of bitterness.

"What about the vertril?" she asked suddenly.

"What about them?"

"You said they can kill you. Humans, I guess. Can a vertril kill you?"

"No. A vertril will incapacitate a Fae, but not kill. I'd lay there until they came to fetch me for their experiments." He shifted to sit slumped back against the wall, one leg crooked up and the other stretched out.

She wanted to ask him more, but she hadn't realized how bad he looked in the darkness and dim lamplight. Now, the clear, cold light streaming in through the windows washed over him, and she bit her lip. White as marble, streaked with blood from head to toe, blood in the corners of his mouth, bandages soaked with it. A bruised knot stood out dark at the edge of his right eyebrow. "Should I leave you alone?"

He sighed. "Please."

She stood at the window, watching the city. It had a good view, such as it was. Near the river, with only shorter buildings between her and the shore, so she could see the wide expanse of cold gray water. The bridge was to the north, and she could see only the far end of it, blocked by the peeling metal window frame. Below, the streets were busy but not frantic, the efficient speed of the shipping district. There were few horns from the electric vehicles below, not too much noise actually. Not like the commercial district closer to her apartment, which hummed and clattered and honked and roared.

Probably, no one had even reported her missing yet. She didn't have class today. Amara might have called, but if she didn't, she wouldn't notice anything amiss until Aria didn't show up to class tomorrow. _You know, that's a sad commentary on my social life. Or my life in general. No one to notice that I've been missing for how long now?_

But the authorities knew already. They thought her dead. She wondered when Amara would find that out. Or her professors. Would Dr. Corten question it at all?

How would it be reported, anyway? Aria Forsyth, missing. Aria Forsyth, killed by a vagrant. Killed by a fairy? She glanced at him again. He didn't look like something the word _fairy_ might describe. Fairies were small, glowing sprites, with wings, who loved nature and water and such. _Fae_ sounded a little fiercer. That word suited him. She rummaged in her mind for the old stories. He'd mentioned fairies, vampires, and elves, as if the legends overlapped. She'd thought they were quite distinct.

He didn't drink blood, but he was definitely carnivorous. She applied the word carefully, trying not to think about the pig's heart. It was still bloody, and she suspected it had been delivered that way upon request. _A little extra blood, please. Like frosting on a donut._

Vampires. What did vampires fear? The cross. Garlic. A stake through the heart. Elves. She didn't know much about elves. Tolkien's elves were beautiful, cultured, and strong, but she wasn't sure that was the kind he meant. That concept was so recent, and the older lore tended more toward impish little devils, troublemakers, and pranksters. That didn't seem to fit him either. Fairies. She couldn't remember what they feared. Iron? She thought vaguely of the Seelie Court and Unseelie Court of the Fairies, but couldn't remember what they were. She did remember that fairies were said to be amoral, rather than immoral, outside the laws of human interaction. Wasn't there something about a blood tithe to the underworld? Not that she believed in the underworld. But she hadn't believed in fairies either.

She took off her still damp boots and socks and laid them to dry on the floor. Then her coat. She glanced at Owen. He hadn't moved, his eyes closed. He might have been dead but for the faint movement of his chest as he breathed. She turned away and pulled off her sweater. She tugged at the bandage around her arm and finally pulled it off with a preemptive wince. The wound was small and clean, a narrow slit scarcely the length of her thumbnail, and it had already started to heal. A thin film of skin showed dark red over the cut, with smudges of dried blood around it. She pulled her sweater back over her head, unfolded the bandage, and spread it out.

She wanted to be angry with him, but maintaining it was hard. He'd jerked her away from a bullet that would have killed her. Sure, it was meant for him, but he could have saved himself more easily if she wasn't there. He could have run across the bridge long before they'd arrived. He _could_ have used her as a shield if it came to that.

True, too, the fact that she'd been the one to bother him. The one to find his apartment and try to break in. Twice. The one to see him on the bridge and hold him with her questions, even as they tracked her to him. She hadn't known, but he had.

He had reason to be angry with her, not the other way around.

A slight sound caught her attention.

Eyes closed, he sang. Barely audible, under his breath, he sang. The tune rose and fell, wove into a tapestry, repeating itself in layers that seemed to stay in her mind after the sound had faded. The words weren't English. She wasn't sure all the words were composed of sound at all. But in her mind, she pictured a forest, a green and vibrant forest, filled with mist and the sound of things growing. A rushing stream with water cool and clean and fresh as morning. And Owen, stepping one bare foot into the stream, kneeling, not minding the water soaking the ragged hem of his pants, bending to drink from one hand, graceful as a deer.

She blinked and stared at him across the room.

Craggy mountains of stark stone rose behind hills so green they hurt her eyes. A forest, the trees old and vibrant with a past rich enough to merit their own history books. Textured bark and wood. Lichen, cool blue-green. Yellow-green moss cloaking rounded boulders. Water flowing over smooth pebbles. This time he stood, one hand resting on a tree trunk, head bowed slightly and eyes closed. He opened his eyes and looked straight at her. Blue eyes clear and cold as a winter sky.

She shook her head, blinked, and stared at him again. He lay as before, motionless but for the slight rise and fall of his chest.

Did his song give her the vision? She tried to tell herself that was impossible, but nothing in the past two days had been normal.

Aria spent hours staring out the window. Thinking. She ate another sandwich. She looked at Owen occasionally, but he never moved. It got dark, and she lay on the floor. It was cold and uncomfortable, but at some point, she fell asleep.

She blinked at the ceiling. It was light again, and by the angle of the cool shadows, the sun had been up for some time. She stretched and sat up, expecting to feel terribly sore, and was surprised to feel refreshed instead. She closed her eyes and stretched her shoulders again. _Best night's sleep I've had in a long time, actually. Strange._ She'd had odd dreams. She couldn't remember them clearly, only the impressions they'd left. Green forests. Running water. A feeling rather than a memory.

A movement caught her eye and she glanced over to see Owen shift. He rose without looking at her and stood at the window. His motion was stiff, painful, but he didn't cough. His bare feet made no sound on the thin industrial carpet as he moved to look out the other window.

"Good morning," she ventured.

"Hm." The answer was noncommittal.

She sat up and hugged her knees. "Do you know the test subjects?"

"Yes."

She swallowed. "What are they doing with them? I mean..." she wondered if there was a way to say it diplomatically. "What exactly are they trying to find out?"

There was a long pause, and he didn't look at her. "We don't know yet," he said finally.

This too, she had wondered about. "We? Are there many of you Fae?"

Now he looked at her over his shoulder, a long, thoughtful look. Finally, he said, "Not as many as there were."

She took a deep breath. "You sing beautifully."

She might not have noticed the smile if she hadn't been looking for it. A slight twitch of one corner of his mouth, as if he were amused rather than complimented.

"Do you need another pig's heart? Because I'm getting low on food and you didn't have dinner last night." She tried for a light tone and felt it fall flat between them.

"Not yet. Soon." He turned to look out the window again for a moment before unwrapping the bandage from his left hand. He flexed the fingers, made a fist and then spread the fingers wide with a wince. He cradled it in his other hand and sat on the floor, eyes closed.

And he sang. _Leaves rustling in a summer breeze, light streaming through like beams of gold._ She was lost in it.

She blinked and stared at him again. He looked down at his hand and flexed it again, turned it over and rubbed it fiercely with his right hand.

"May I see?"

He held up his hand toward her. It was whole, strong and pale and perfect as his other hand.

Aria knelt in front of him. "May I?" She nearly didn't wait for his nod before reaching out and holding his hand in both of hers. It was unscarred, the skin smooth and white over the fine strong bones. Cool to the touch. "Does it hurt?" she whispered.

"It's a little sore still. But it works."

"How did you...?" She didn't know what to call it. Heal? The word was too innocuous for what she'd seen. "The bone was broken, wasn't it?"

"Several were. The singing helps." He did not elaborate.

She suddenly realized she was still holding his hand, peering at it inches from her nose like he was a lover. Or a science experiment. She dropped it and scooted away from him on the floor. "I'm sorry." She frowned. "What about your other injuries? Can you heal them too?"

"Yes. But I'm tired. It takes effort. And time." He took a deep breath, and she realized he was fighting exhaustion already.

"Is there something I should do to help?"

He studied her face, cool blue eyes not giving her any hint of what he was thinking. Finally, he said, "Why were you at Dandra's?"

She blinked. "Researching. For my thesis. I'm studying history."

His eyes remained on her, evaluating. She shifted uncomfortably, and the silence drew out.

Finally, she asked tentatively, "Are you really that old?"

"Why would I lie about that?"

"You probably remember everything I'm trying to research then." She smiled.

He glanced away, and said softly, "I remember a lot of things."

Aria swallowed. "My thesis is on, well, it was going to be on how things have changed since the Revolution. I was trying to narrow down my topic, because it seems like so many things have changed. And I found this book, someone's memoir. No one important. He talked about the forest, and the wind in his hair when he rode his bicycle as a child. I remembered riding my bicycle down the sidewalk in the sun, and the trees." Her voice trailed away as she watched Owen for a moment. He was staring off into the distance somewhere past her shoulder. "Are you okay?"

He nodded.

She continued tentatively, "Well, I spent probably two hours reading that book at the back table, and I meant to go back to it. I went back the day I saw you asking about maps, and it wasn't there. I asked Dandra about it, and she said she didn't know what book I meant. But I know she did. It made me suspicious, I suppose. Like someone didn't want me to read about the past. But I'm a history student! That's what I'm _supposed_ to be studying. None of my professors even seem interested in history at all." The more she thought about their lectures, the more irritated she became.

"I wouldn't expect so." His eyes focused on her with sudden intensity. "It challenges them."

She licked her lips. "What do you mean?"

"They live in a world of propaganda. Easy untruths that hide the tragedy of what they have lost. Of what they have done. Of what they are even yet doing. No one wants to face their own sins." His voice didn't rise, but he leaned forward just a hair, and she caught her breath. "You are a threat if you wish to know the truth of history. It's one of many reasons they hate us. Because we remember."

He leaned back, and she took an unsteady breath. He could, indeed, be intimidating when he chose.

He rose to go look out the window again, flexing his left hand. "We're safe here until at least tonight."

Aria watched him for a long moment before eyeing the food thoughtfully. "Do you think this is still safe to eat? It hasn't been refrigerated, but it's pretty cold in here." She poked at the meat, and then finally made another sandwich. It wasn't appealing, but she ate it anyway.

He remained by the window, eyes on the gray scene that spread out before him.

"Why do you like the bridge?" she asked. "I can't remember much about fairies or elves or vampires. But I thought fairies were afraid of iron."

He turned his cool gaze on her. "It's old. Everything is new here. This city is made of plastic and concrete and steel, most manufactured in the last hundred years. It has no soul. The bridge looks new but the pilings and girders are original, from 1929. I'd prefer rocks and trees, but there aren't many of those around here."

"You can feel the age?"

He hesitated, as if searching for words. Finally, he said, "It's like plugging in your car, but not exactly. I don't run out of battery without it, but it gives me strength."

"Why didn't you sing and heal yourself earlier?" she frowned. "I mean, from what the vertril did, before they shot you? And why did you say I wouldn't have seen a vertril?"

He took a deep breath, already tired, and she regretted her words.

_No. If I'm stuck in this with him, I need to understand. I need to know what we're doing, and why. And what might kill me while I'm doing it._

"Vertril are drawn to Fae blood. They were engineered to hunt us, and they have no interest in humans. Most humans never know they exist. They're tracked too. If one is injured or killed, or even excited, the IPF won't be far behind. But in the tunnel, it could crush you without noticing as it leapt at me."

"Why didn't you sing?" She tried vainly to think of a word to describe it.

"They were close by. Sometimes when they're searching, they have sensors that can locate..." again he seemed to consider the words. "You'd call it magic, but the term isn't entirely accurate. Magic is something outside the laws of nature. The Fae word is _megdhonia_ , which translates to something like 'use of the in-between.' The in-between being," he stopped and closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths to steady himself. "The in-between being the spaces between this possibility and that possibility. The laws of nature permit many possible outcomes, of which one comes to pass." Another deep breath. "We can push our own energy into those spaces to direct the outcome."

She blinked. "Do you know the future, then?"

"No."

"How do you heal? What possibility is that? It seems impossible."

"Only when you look at the whole. Each small part is possible. That this bone will be strengthened and set back into place is one possibility among many." He stopped to catch his breath, and she waited.

"I'm sorry I ask so many questions. I just want to understand."

He slid down the wall to sit leaning against it again. He leaned his head back, eyes closed. "If I'm to ask you to help us, it's only fair that you know what we are. When I sing, it helps focus my energy into those spaces. And I ask for strength from El." His chest heaved like he'd been running.

"Are you never cold?"

He huffed softly. "Cold is nature. Nature is nothing to be afraid of and bundle up against. Not for us." Another pause, and he flexed his fingers again.

She stood and looked out the window as well. Today there were more boats on the river, a barge easing slowly beneath the bridge flanked by two tugboats, as well as smaller vessels speeding around them.

"Do you remember the beach? Do you remember forests? I didn't before, but now I think I went hiking once, with my father. I didn't remember until you sang, but now I'm sure I've been in a forest before."

"Yes."

His answer was so soft that she knelt beside him.

"You remember? What was it like? When was it?"

He held her eyes with his own, and, this time, she had no trouble reading the aching sorrow. "It was very beautiful. And it has been a long time."

"Is that why the book disappeared? It had dates. I don't remember, sometime in the early 2050s I think. Not long before I was born."

He sang, eyes on hers, voice as soft and clear as a summer breeze. The sound wrapped around her, layer upon layer, clean and thin and sweet as clover. It wove, up and over and underneath. _Running laughing through the warm, humid air, sunbeams breaking through the leaves. Flowers in his hair. Drinking from the stream, water cool and fresh, running between his fingers soft as silk._

"Yes. I remember."

They stayed all day. Aria wrinkled her nose at the meat and decided it was inedible, but she ate the last of the bread and apples and cheese for lunch. She found a restroom down the hall with working water faucets.

"What books do you have? If we're going to be here all day, I need something to occupy myself."

He nodded permission for her to look without rising.

She unzipped his bag and set them on the table, aware of his eyes on her. The first had been blank, now nearly filled with page after page of neat, small writing. She wanted to read it, but wasn't bold enough to flip through while he watched her so intently. She wasn't even sure it was all in English.

The next was older, the well-worn leather cover dry and crumbling slightly at the binding. The paper inside was nearly translucent, though stronger than it looked, and it had been carefully wrapped with a long strip of leather to keep it from coming open. She frowned at the cover. There was a symbol and a line of text in some language she couldn't read.

"What is this?"

"A Fae epic translated into Old Irish."

"Old Irish?" she frowned. "What is that?"

"I learned it when I was young, from my grandfather." He smiled slightly at her confused look. "He thought everyone should learn to speak the human languages. That was the one he thought most relevant at the time."

She set the book aside to look at later. She held two others up for him to identify.

"A book my grandfather wrote about his childhood. And a history book."

She glanced at him. "And these?"

"Histories."

_Histories of what?_ She studied the covers. Old, though not as old as the epic. The languages appeared to be different, though she couldn't read any of them. She didn't even recognize the alphabets. She took them to the window for better light. "What languages are these?"

"Fae dialects."

She glanced at him again. "Do you mind me looking at them?"

He sighed, his eyes closed again. "No."

She opened one book and paged through with careful fingers. The books were well cared for but obviously old and she bent closer. "Was this handwritten?"

"Yes."

The script shifted between writing so ornate it nearly formed pictures, characters and lines flowing like water through and around each other, and something slightly more akin to English cursive, though the letters were unfamiliar. One page caught her interest, and she followed the curves. "This is beautiful." Her voice was only a whisper. "I meant to find something to read, but this is art. Can you read this?"

"Yes." His voice was tired but tinged with amusement this time.

"How many languages do you speak, then?"

A pause. "Eleven? It depends on whether you count several of the dialects as separate languages or not." He shifted against the wall, eyes still closed.

Aria studied his face. The bruise near his eyebrow had faded slightly, though it was still visible. He'd washed the blood from his face and hands that morning and changed into a new, clean shirt. The pants he'd washed in the sink; he'd reappeared in the doorway after a trip to the restroom and dripped his way back to the spot beneath the window. Now they were damp, as was the carpet beneath him. If he'd been human, he'd have been shivering in the unheated warehouse; Aria was, despite her thick sweater and coat.

He sang again that afternoon.

The sound rose around her like saplings, green and fresh, shot through with golden sunlight. She saw him kneeling again in the stream, cupping the clear water to his face, running wet fingers through his curling black hair. He looked up at someone on the other side of the stream, though she couldn't see who, and smiled suddenly, a flash of white teeth and a bright, clear smile like that of a boy given an unexpected compliment.

She found herself staring out the window at the gray twilight, her forehead pressed to the glass. _And who wouldn't want that, instead of this? This city is all cold, unfriendly people in cold, unfriendly rain and dreariness. Even when it's not winter._

Owen rose and stood next to her for a moment. "We should go soon."

"Where? Do you have a plan?"

"There's a human population that will take you in. They have no trackers. It's a hard life, but they find the freedom worth it. I will take you there tonight. They have connections. They can get you outside the city if you wish."

"I thought you wanted to rescue the test subjects."

"I will. But I won't ask you to join me. It's dangerous, and it's not your fight. I was wrong to try to use you." He inclined his head slightly, and she suddenly realized it was a sort of bow.

"I have nowhere to go." She took a deep breath. "I have no family. I may as well help you."

She flinched at his sudden hard look.

"This is not a may-as-well. This is my family. This is my people. I may die trying, but it is worth it. If it's not worth death to you, I don't want you." His eyes blazed.

She swallowed hard. "I will help you."

They moved to another hiding place in the middle of the night. Owen, a little steadier on his feet, led her to a tiny brick building that echoed with the faint sound of traffic from the street. A drizzling rain began to fall just as they stepped inside.

"Where are we?"

"The Summerhouse. It's one of the oldest buildings left standing." Owen stopped to catch his breath, leaning against the icy brick for a moment. He led her to a fountain and bent to drink from it, cupping the water in one hand. Then he slid down to rest against one wall, legs bent before him.

"There's no roof." Aria stared at him. "It's raining. And freezing cold."

He blinked at her slowly. "Is that a problem?"

"For me it is." She shivered in her coat, wishing she'd thought to bring a change of clothes on this unplanned adventure. Every inch of her felt grimy.

He pushed himself to his feet and led her through a little archway into a tiny enclosed room. He pulled the blanket from his bag and handed it to her. "Use this."

Aria nodded uncertainly, and he sat down in the doorway, head leaned back against the brick. She finally curled up on the brick floor, wrapped tightly in the blanket. She slipped slowly into a comfortable doze, warmer than she'd expected to be.

Hours later, she drifted into wakefulness, surprised at how cozy she felt. Her arm, crunched beneath her on the hard floor, wasn't cramped or cold. She watched Owen through half-closed eyes for long minutes. He sat in exactly the same position, head dropped back against the brick, hands resting loosely in his lap. The late-morning sun barely broke through the misty haze to light the empty room behind him.

_Why do I trust him?_

The question flickered into her mind, and she couldn't answer it, but she knew she did.

They stayed in their new hiding place all day. Aria paced restlessly a few times, trying to keep warm. Owen went out once, leaving her to hide, and returned with a hot coffee, water, and a sandwich from a street vendor for her. He didn't eat himself, and spent the rest of the time resting, motionless against the brick.

"What are we waiting for?"

"Nightfall."

# Chapter Four

Aria crouched in the darkness beside Owen. "Now what?"

Owen's eyes flicked past the gate into the darkness beyond, and then back to the guardhouse. "Talk to the guard. Try to distract him for as long as you can."

Aria gaped. "What? I'm not good at that kind of thing! I'll be arrested!"

"Possibly. More likely they'll throw you out." His eyes flicked over the gate again.

"What about my tracker? Will they know it's gone?"

"Unlikely. Most of the guards don't know about them either, so the sensors aren't part of standard equipment."

"What are you going to do?"

"Best you not know, in case you're arrested." He turned to her, blue eyes oddly bright in the dim light. "Last chance to back out. I'll hold no grudge."

She took a deep breath. "It's wrong, what they're doing." She nodded firmly, as much to convince herself of her courage as to answer Owen. If he could do his part while still in pain, she could do this simple thing.

"Approach from the street there." He pointed off to the left. "I'll meet you at the coffee shop across from Bryson's afterward." He paused, then added, "It might be a while."

She nodded again, and they slipped back through the shadows. He left her at the edge of the road and disappeared into the darkness.

She took a deep breath. _What makes you think you can act, girl?_

Her shoes crunched on broken glass as she approached the guards. "Hello!" It wouldn't do to surprise them.

"Hold." One of the three guards held up a hand. "Identification, please."

"I don't have it. I'm sorry." She spread her hands regretfully. "Well, you see, I haven't been home all day, and I didn't plan on coming here. But I'm working on a project for school and hoped you could help me." She smiled up at the stern guard with her most innocent expression. She could do that one well; she'd practiced it on her teachers when she was younger.

"What do you want?" He was cautious, alert.

She hesitated and looked him over. His nameplate read Ballard, but she wasn't sure how to read the insignia on his uniform for a correct title. "I'm compiling information on the education and background of security and police forces. Do you have a moment? It won't take long."

Ballard frowned at her. "Government analysts are well aware of our background and credentials."

"Yes, sir, but this is for a school project." She smiled again, thankful for once that she looked younger than she was. "We're looking at commonalities in background in people who are motivated to serve in particularly patriotic ways. It's inspiring, really. It would be very helpful if I could hear your story and how you came to work here." Her heart was pounding, but she kept her voice light and cheerful.

"Hm." The guard stared at her for another long moment. "Come into the guardhouse."

The other two guards shifted position in front of the gate as she stepped into the tiny room. Ballard stepped behind a desk, eyes on her. "What's your name?"

"Aislin." The lie surprised her, as did the name itself. _Where did that come from?_

He frowned and studied her again. "What do you want to know?"

"Where did you go to school? What did you study?"

"You're not ready to take notes."

She blushed. "I have a very good memory."

"North Central Community College. Majored in legal studies and criminal justice."

She smiled. "A double major! That's a lot of work. Is this what you planned to do when you graduated?"

His eyes flicked over her shoulder to watch the other guards pace slowly outside. "Not exactly. I hoped to be at Quadrant Headquarters and eventually work up to the President's staff. But it's a good starting point." His voice had warmed a little in response to her friendliness.

_He's too terse. I need to get him talking._ Aria tried for a question that might have a longer answer. "Were there any specific experiences that inspired this career path?"

He hesitated and glanced out the window again. The other two guards appeared unconcerned, strolling around in the clear area in front of the guardhouse. "Not exactly. But my uncle—"

The phone rang and Aria jumped.

Ballard picked up the phone. "Front gate."

Silence. His eyes ran up and down her, cool and professional. She glanced at the walls of the guardhouse, trying to look unconcerned.

"Understood, sir." He hung up the phone. "Remove your coat and shoes and anything in your pockets. Step through this."

"Why?" She hung back.

"Colonel Grenidor wishes to speak with you." His expression was closed, not giving her any clues about what would happen next.

She frowned, trying to look innocently confused. "I don't need to bother a colonel. I'm interviewing security personnel, not military officers."

"It's not a request."

She hesitated, but finally took her coat off. Maybe it would buy Owen more time. Barefoot and coatless, she felt vulnerable. The contents of her pockets looked forlorn on the smooth desk surface. A gum wrapper. A key ring with three keys on it. A few slips of paper with notes to herself about groceries to buy and research she was no longer doing. She stepped through what she assumed was a metal detector. He frowned at a screen behind the desk.

"Remove your socks and belt."

She swallowed, trying not to look nervous, and stepped through again.

He frowned at her, but she thought hopefully that his expression looked more thoughtful than suspicious.

"Do you have a shirt on under your sweater? If so, remove your sweater."

"I don't."

"I'll have to frisk you."

"Okay."

He ran his hands along her body in quick pats, up and down both legs, inside and outside. She would have blushed, but it was over so quickly she didn't have time to be embarrassed. _Very professional_.

He nodded for her to walk through the screen again.

"Hm." He glanced at her again and she could almost see the mental shrug.

He made another call. "I need an escort at the front gate. Thanks."

Then, "Wear this at all times." He handed her a badge that she clipped to her jacket. She put her shoes back on, toes icy from the cold concrete floor.

They waited in silence. After several minutes, the rear door opened and a young officer near her own age met her. "Come with me." He didn't return her smile.

They crossed a large empty space paved in concrete, a line of spotlights against the high wall marching away to each side. Lights flooded the front and corners of the building, a massive six-story structure with a grand entrance. Her escort led her to a side door.

Bland white hallways led deeper into the building. Her escort paused several times to glance at the signs posted at each corner.

"This building is huge. Do you ever get lost?" Aria asked.

"Not anymore. The room notations are pretty logical for the most part. Floor, corridor, hallway, room number. Corridors are more or less north-south, hallways east-west. But there are a few outliers." He led her down a staircase. "Here."

The door was one of several in a row with ornate wooden frames and embossed nameplates. She knocked, her heart in her throat.

"Come in."

She turned the knob and entered. The escort waited for the colonel's nod before he took off down the hall.

Aria closed the door behind herself, buying time for another deep breath. Then she turned and smiled.

The man was middle-aged, with broad shoulders and the beginning of a potbelly just showing beneath his crisp uniform. He stood to greet her with a firm handshake and nodded to a chair. He glanced at a stack of folders and adjusted them slightly to align with the edge of the desk.

Aria sat, her knees together and her hands tucked between them. She forced herself to sit back and try to look relaxed.

He smiled at her coolly. "So. Aislin. An interesting name."

"Thank you, sir."

He continued looking at her, unhurried and thoughtful. "How did you come by it?" he said finally.

"My mother thought it was pretty." She smiled innocently.

"You were asking the guard questions. Why?"

"I'm doing research for my thesis."

"Your thesis?"

"Yes, sir. I'm doing research on the Revolution. What makes people want to serve in patriotic ways? I'm interviewing security personnel, but it would be very helpful if I could get your perspective too, sir."

His skepticism was clear, his dark eyes amused. "An interesting story. I'll humor you for now. Have you any particular questions?"

Aria was sure her panic showed on her face. She stammered, "Well, not exactly. I'm just beginning my research so I haven't gotten that far yet."

"Do you always interview people without pen and paper?"

"No, sir. I'm sorry I'm not more prepared, sir. I do have a good memory, though, and I'd be happy to show you the final draft to ensure I don't get any of the details wrong." She tried for a confident tone despite her nerves.

He licked his lips and gazed at her thoughtfully. "I graduated from the Army Academy in 2065 with degrees in biology and psychology. My first assignment was in the technical arm of the 91st. Subsequent assignments focused on research in nonstandard biology and alternate models of sentience." He watched her face as she frowned.

"Nonstandard biology?" Her confusion wasn't feigned. "Like mutations?"

"Something like that." Again, a neutral gaze on her face.

"And alternate models of sentience? What does that mean?" She tried to look innocently interested. "Robotics?"

He smiled slightly. "More like cultural studies with layers of psychological and sociological terminology on top."

"Hm." She frowned. He wasn't giving her much to work with. "What was your most interesting project?"

He glanced down at something in his lap, fiddled with it, and then looked up again with a slight, amused smile. "When I was at the 70th, we did a study on the Cherustin people in the Himalayas. They believe that the spirits of their ancestors can be heard in the wind. Not too surprising, I suppose, since the winds howl through the mountains there. The spirits are believed to be trapped in nets left out for the purpose and carried with them to each new campsite to be set free to guard the living. Interesting, but not entirely bizarre. What was more intriguing was how the ancestor spirits were enticed to provide their protection—"

The phone rang on his desk. He picked it up after one ring, his eyes remaining on her. "Yes?" His mouth tightened as he listened for a short moment. "Yes. Thank you." He set the phone down and smiled at her coolly for a long moment before continuing. "Oh yes. The ancestor spirits. Their cooperation was bought with a sacrifice of blood. A chicken, a goat, it didn't really matter, but they wanted fresh blood every night."

She nodded, her eyes wide. "Really?"

"At first, we dismissed it as superstition, but one clan, about twenty adults and some children, had grown tired of the cost. They asked us for our opinion. We encouraged them to refuse the tribute, in hopes that they would move toward modernity. The next morning, we found every member dead."

She swallowed. "How did they die?"

"Their throats were mangled, the bodies nearly drained of blood." He was watching her closely now. "Several had their hearts ripped out; they were missing. We presumed the hearts were eaten."

She swallowed hard again. "Did you find out who did it?"

His eyes rested on her face, dark eyes unreadable. "We had theories. No proof."

A knock sounded on the door and she jumped.

"Come in."

Four soldiers stood in the hallway, tall and imposing. "Sir."

He smiled at her across the desk, eyes cool and inscrutable. "Thank you for a most interesting diversion tonight, Aislin. These men will escort you to your cell. You are under arrest."

She shot to her feet. "For what crime? I've done nothing!"

"Attempted infiltration of a secure facility, and for aiding and abetting a criminal in the same."

One soldier jerked her arms behind her back and secured her wrists with plastic handcuffs. She felt herself breathing too quickly, on the verge of panic, and forced herself to slow down. _Think_.

"I don't understand! I don't know what you're talking about."

She tried to meet his eyes but the soldiers forced her into the hallway. The soldiers walked her down the long corridor and around a corner, down a long flight of stairs and through several more hallways before reaching a sturdy metal door. Inside was an empty room. They left her there and the door clanged shut behind them.

She stared about the room. The floor was hard linoleum tile laid over concrete. The walls were concrete, painted a grim industrial gray with a stripe of patriotic gold around the top. The ceiling was also concrete, twelve feet above her. A fluorescent light fixture flickered in the middle of the room, far out of reach, but otherwise, it was an empty box.

She turned in a circle, trying to push down the fear that made her breath come too fast. What were they going to do? How long would she be trapped there?

Through the door, she could hear the indistinct sounds of footsteps at long intervals. She kicked the door a few times, but nothing happened.

No one came to check on her, no one shouted through the door. Her shoulders burned and her hands cramped at being bound behind her for so long.

Aria eventually sat in a corner, her legs propped before her and her bound hands in the space behind her. She would have thought it impossible, but she dozed. Hours passed interminably, and the only way she could judge time was by how thirsty she was and how much her arms ached. They passed from ache to raging fiery pain, back to a dull ache, a worrying numbness, and returned to fiery pain that settled in as if for a long stay.

The door opened and her head jerked upward. Colonel Grenidor and four different soldiers stood in the hallway. Grenidor entered and waved the soldiers to stay in the hallway. He left the door open, as if he did not fear any escape attempt. Aria struggled to her feet, leaning against the wall for support. _Of course he doesn't fear an escape attempt. I can barely stand up._

He stepped closer and looked down at her from arm's length, studying her face. She tried to look up at him without looking afraid.

"Why would you help him?"

She blinked. "What?"

"Why?" He stepped away from her to pace thoughtfully. "If you know what he is, why would you help him? I assume you know. Perhaps that is an erroneous assumption." He glanced at her, as if giving her an opportunity to interject.

She remained silent, and he continued, "I speak of the intruder last night, of course. The one who used you as a distraction while he attempted to infiltrate the secure area. You know him. What is he to you?" His voice remained cool, curious.

She sighed. "I don't know what you mean."

He spun on his heel and stalked toward her, eyes hard on her face. "Do you not? I grow tired of your lies, Aislin, or whatever your name is. I have no interest in you. I am prepared to let you go without bringing charges against you. Except..." he let his voice soften as he walked away, then whirled back to bark, "Who is he?"

She swallowed and glanced around the room again. "I don't know." That was more or less true. He'd told her very little.

"But you know _what_ he is." His eyes remained on her face. "You know he isn't human."

She swallowed again. "Um."

His eyes bored into her and she looked down. "Yes, you do. You know at least some of what he is. Do you know how many people he's killed? Of course not. Foolish girl. You think because he has a pretty face he can be trusted. You think because he hasn't harmed you yet, that he won't." He stepped back to look her over, his eyes running down her body. "You won't be useful forever. Tell me his name. Tell me what he's trying to do. And I'll let you go."

She pulled herself up and shifted her shoulders, wincing at the pain that shot down her arms. She didn't have anything to say, but clenched her jaw and stared back at him. _Why am I being defiant? I don't owe Owen anything except perhaps pity._

He smiled at her, a small, sad smile. "Still loyal, aren't you? For no reason you can define. He's good at that, I hear. Inspiring loyalty." He turned on his heel and walked out, and the door closed behind him with a click.

The lights stayed on. The hours passed. Her shoulders burned. Her eyes felt gritty and she dozed again, slumped in the corner with her head resting against the cold concrete wall. Her tongue grew thick and swollen from thirst. She wanted to cry, but was stubbornly unwilling to let him find her with tears on her face.

The line of light under the doorway flicked out, though the lights in her room did not. _Night? Again?_ Later it came back.

The door opened at long last. Grenidor stood in the hallway flanked by soldiers. He entered and she pushed herself up, more weakly this time. The effort taxed her, and she leaned against the wall, trying to catch her breath and stifle the whimpers that rose unbidden at the pain in her shoulders. Grenidor stopped at arms length and raised his right hand toward her. He held some sort of device, and he glanced from its small screen to her and back to the screen.

"Interesting," he said at last.

"What?" It irritated her that her voice sounded so pathetic.

"How did you find it?" He pinned her with his eyes.

"Find what?"

He stalked closer, and she shrank back against the wall. "He told you, didn't he? He removed it. This is problematic. It means I can't release you, regardless of what you tell me." He sighed, as if it bothered him.

"Why not? What are you talking about?"

He stared at the screen for a long moment. "What is your name?"

"Aislin."

"Your real name." His eyes flicked to her face.

"Aislin."

He sighed, staring at her as if perplexed and saddened. "You'll need water soon. It's been almost two days. I hate to do it. You're human, and that makes things different. But I need to know who he is and who he's working with, and I can't let you go back to him." Then to the soldiers, "Transfer her to a solitary cell in Block 3. Give her no water until she tells me her name, his name, and those of any associates."

"Yes, sir."

The soldiers entered the room and pulled her forward. She stumbled along between them without resisting. _What harm would it do to tell him?_

The cell was much like the first room, the same color and shape, the same cold concrete. One of the soldiers stood in front of her for a long moment before they left. "Ma'am, are you ready to talk?" His voice was quiet and calm, devoid of feeling.

"No."

He nodded and stepped out into the hallway, closing the heavy metal door behind himself. This room had a single metal bench bolted to the floor. She sat on it, staring at the floor near her feet. _Truly, what harm would it do? I know so little, what harm can it do to tell him?_

But they didn't come back for hours. She slumped to one side on the bench and finally lay down, face pressed into the metal to take the pressure off her screaming shoulders. It didn't work, and the position grew more uncomfortable until she struggled up again and slid to the floor in the corner.

She woke to the door opening.

Grenidor stood there again. He looked more rumpled this time, the uniform slightly less crisp. He pulled her to her feet, hands on her upper arms. His grip wasn't cruel, but the touch woke her muscles to agony that brought tears to her eyes.

He stepped back. "Tell me. What's your name? What's his name? And who are you working with? I want names."

She sniffled. "I want water first. And my hands free."

Grenidor nodded to a soldier behind him. The soldier stepped forward and used wire cutters on the plastic handcuffs. The soldier looked at her for a long moment as she hunched forward, trying to hide the tears of pain. Everything in her arms burned as the blood flowed sluggishly through aching muscles and joints. She bent her elbows and hugged herself, wiped angrily at the tears that welled up.

"You're horrible." She finally looked up at Grenidor. "You're a horrible person."

The soldier handed her an open bottle of water, and she closed her eyes as she drank. The water tasted of plastic, but she didn't care as it slid down her dry throat. She drank and drank, opening her eyes to shoot a reproachful glare at Grenidor. She emptied the bottle, the water cool and heavy in her empty stomach. She felt suddenly dizzy and almost stumbled. The soldier caught her arm, and she pulled away with an angry jerk.

"Names. Now."

She sniffled again. "I'm Aria."

"Aria what?"

"Aria Forsyth," she muttered.

"And him?"

She swallowed. "Owen."

"Owen what?"

"I don't know."

He reached out to grasp her chin and pull her face up to stare into her eyes. "What is his name?" His voice was low and angry.

"I don't know!" She jerked away. "I don't. He never said."

"Who do you work with?"

"Nobody. We haven't seen anyone. He hasn't mentioned any names at all."

" _Where_ is he?"

"I don't know!"

He frowned at her, gauging her honesty. She stood warily, shoulder blades against the wall. She wrapped her arms around herself again, muscles screaming with pain. She flexed her fingers, wincing, and he scowled suddenly.

"You are useless," he muttered. He turned on his heel and ushered the soldiers out. One of them turned a quick, unreadable glance toward her before they closed the door and locked it again.

This time, she couldn't keep her composure. She pounded on the door and screamed.

Her screaming didn't last long, and she faded into sniffling sobs, slumped weakly against the metal door and finally to her knees on the cold floor. She bowed forward, resting her head on the floor. Her back and shoulders throbbed, she was still thirsty, and now her stomach felt both queasy with exhaustion and aching with hunger. She fell asleep curled on the floor near the door, arms around her head.

She woke with a start and scrambled back from the door. It clicked as it was unlocked and eased open, more slowly than before.

One soldier stood in the doorway. "Come with me."

She swallowed. "Now what?" She tried to keep her voice confident, but it cracked.

He glanced at her face with a faint frown. "Can you walk?" He held out one white-gloved hand for her.

She hesitated, but grasped it, and he pulled her to her feet and steadied her when she swayed.

"Come," he repeated. He kept one hand on her upper arm, firm but not harsh, and guided her out into the corridor, where he locked the door before leading her down the hall. He stopped at an intersection and looked around, then pushed her forward again.

"Where are we going?"

"Quiet."

Even that answer gave her hope. If he wanted to be quiet, perhaps he wasn't doing what he'd been instructed to do. She barely dared hope.

Down a stairway until they were perhaps one floor beneath ground level and through another long hall. Aria felt that the last week had been nothing but long concrete halls with metal doors. They walked to the end, then up another stairwell. This one went up five floors. She had to stop and catch her breath in the middle, dizzy with thirst and hunger, and the soldier waited with badly concealed impatience. At the top, she found herself facing another metal door.

The soldier opened it and guided her out. It was a clear twilight, the stars just beginning to show in the cold sky. Her coat had been left in Colonel Grenidor's office days before, and Aria shivered, the wind cutting through her sweater and stealing away her pathetic warmth.

They were on a concrete walkway on the fourth floor some eighty feet from the perimeter wall. The soldier gave no signal that Aria noticed, but a thin cable sailed over the railing near them and tightened with a jerk. The soldier clipped a harness around Aria and pulled her upwards as he clipped it onto the cable.

"Over now." He helped her climb over the railing, where she balanced on the edge precariously, gripping the cold metal railing with numb fingers.

She looked down into the indistinct blackness and her head whirled.

The soldier grasped her arms for a quick moment and put his face close, his cheek brushing against hers as he spoke into her ear. "Tell Owen my debt is paid." With one quick movement, he pulled her hands off the railing and pushed her away.

She bit back a frightened shriek as she sailed through the air.

Strong arms caught her just before she would have crashed into the top edge of the wall. Aria felt dizzy and sick with exhaustion, and she wasn't much help as Owen pulled her up and over the wall.

He breathed into her ear, "Put your foot here and hold on." He bent to slip a loop of rope under her foot, then straightened again, holding onto her until she got her arms around his neck and shifted toward his back. She tried not to choke him, feeling awkward with her face and arms pressed against the hard muscles of his shoulders. His skin was cold, and when he turned his head, she felt the soft brush of his hair against her face. He tugged on the cable twice, and it loosened. He pulled it quickly across the lawn and up the wall, then dropped it to the ground below.

Her heart lurched into her throat when he descended. He wasn't wearing a harness; he only held on with his bare feet and hands wrapped in the rope. He descended quickly, nearly a fall, but slowed at the bottom to let her land gently.

"Stand a moment." His voice was only a breath in her ear, and he climbed again. The rope fell down, and he jumped, landing in a crouch beside her. He coiled the cable and put it over his shoulder, then looped the rope over it.

"Can you walk?"

She nodded, and he took her hand and led her away, slipping silently away from the wall. But in less than a block, she stumbled, her head spinning. He caught her up with one arm behind her shoulders and the other behind her knees and quickened his steps to a soundless jog. Her head jostling against the cool hardness of his chest, she felt suddenly as if she must be dreaming. _It all feels so unreal. This must be a dream. Not exactly a nightmare, because if so, I should have woken sometime while I was still imprisoned. You wake up when you're terrified, right? I was terrified, and I should have woken up. But something unreal, certainly._

After some length of time she could not determine, he opened a door and went into a darkened building. Her eyes were closed, but she had the feeling of a small, closed space, and then another door into a slightly larger room.

He let her down gently onto a blanket folded on the floor to make a pallet, then knelt in front of her. He lit an oil lantern and she blinked. The space appeared to be a bookstore, with shelves lining the walls and forming aisles.

"What do you need?" His eyes met hers.

She swallowed, her tongue thick in her mouth. "Water." She hated that her voice sounded like a croak. But then she rearranged the thought and felt angry with him. "Did you know? Did you know what he'd do?" She tried to rise, and he caught her wrists with his cool, strong hands.

"Sit. I'll bring you water. Wait." He waited until she nodded before he stood, graceful as a cat.

In a moment, he reappeared with three bottles of water. He opened one of them for her, then he disappeared again, coming back into the tiny circle of light with a loaf of bread, a block of cheese, a pack of fresh raspberries, and a plastic box of fresh spinach. He knelt again and opened the spinach, berries, and bread, then began cutting the cheese into neat cubes with his knife.

Aria drank, too intent on the water to voice her anger. Or whatever she felt. Anger, curiosity, relief, fear, all mingled together into a hysterical jumble that finally overflowed into tears. She leaned forward and covered her face with her hands, shuddering. After a long moment, she felt one cool hand resting on her shoulder.

She raised her head to sniff and wipe at her eyes. "I'm sorry."

He arranged the cheese cubes in a line on the plastic top of the spinach container. "I owe you an apology. I did not expect they would arrest you."

"Why did they?"

"I believe either Colonel Grenidor or others noticed that you had no tracker. The guards at the gate did not have the sensors; it would have been someone at a higher security level inside the facility. It seems Colonel Grenidor has become more suspicious of late."

She hunched forward, holding the water bottle tightly in one hand while she reached for the cheese. "I think he hates you."

"I imagine so." Owen did not seem surprised, and she wondered at that. "I had some unexpected difficulties and was detected earlier than anticipated. I am sorry you suffered for it."

She sat up, catching his eye. "Are you? Can I believe you? He didn't say exactly. But he gave me this story about the ancestor spirits someplace that cut the hearts out of this tribe." She felt hysteria rising again and bit back a sob.

She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together. _Breathe, girl. Breathe. It's over, and you're safe. More or less. With a heart-eating inhuman thing that rescued you from a man who might be any Revolution hero. This is so confusing._

"He wanted to know your name," she continued. "And mine. And who you were working with." She watched his face.

"What did you say?" His face showed nothing, as neutral an expression as she'd ever seen.

"Nothing at first. After three days? I think it was three days of no water, I gave up. I said you were Owen, I was Aria Forsyth, and I didn't know any associates. Also, I didn't know where you were."

"'Tis little harm. They'll know your name and that you're not dead, and that you were helping me, but they would figure that out eventually anyway." He pushed the raspberries toward her. "Eat."

She stared at him. "So, was it worth it?"

"Eat."

"Did you find out anything useful? Because I hated it, but I'd hate it even more if it was pointless."

"Yes. I thank you." He rose and stepped back from the light. "Stay here and rest. I will return. There is a restroom through that door. Go nowhere else."

She wanted to scowl at him, but he was already gone.

She woke to his touch on her shoulder.

"Are you well?" He knelt beside her.

She sat up, rubbing crust from her eyes and nodding. She had no idea how long she'd been asleep.

"There is someone here you should meet." He looked up into the darkness beyond the lamplight and she followed his gaze.

A boy stepped closer to stand just inside the circle of light. He studied her with cautious eyes, lips pressed together. He glanced at Owen for a long moment, then back at her. He was barefoot, and his clothes were ragged. Deep blue bruises edged by green topped by angry red marks circled both wrists and ankles. Aria's wrists were irritated by the plastic handcuffs, but the slight chafing she'd suffered seemed trivial in comparison. He was painfully thin, with dark circles under his blue eyes. She swallowed. Who was this child? He appeared to be perhaps eight or ten, but if he was Fae, that guess meant little. His skin shone ghostly pale, and dark hair fell into his eyes.

He made a gesture with one hand and shook his head at Owen.

Owen said something, and she looked at him in surprise, her mouth dropping open. _That must be one of the Fae dialects._ The language reminded her of a mountain stream, flashing in the sunlight. It sounded old, somehow, but also as fresh as spring, unhindered by the passing of time.

The boy shook his head again, this time with a plea in his eyes and an unhappy set to his mouth. He looked from her to Owen and his shoulders dropped.

He stepped forward and knelt close in front of her, sad blue eyes on her face. Owen lifted the lantern so it lit the boy's features clearly.

"This is what they are doing to us. Among other things." He touched the boy's shoulder with a gentle hand, and the boy opened his mouth wide.

He had no tongue.

The bottom of his mouth was empty, except for a wide patch of pale scar tissue and a ragged pink nub. Aria stared, then closed her eyes and covered her face as the horror hit. A child! He was only a child.

The boy closed his mouth and turned away, hiding his face from the light. He made more signs to Owen, hunching his shoulders and rocking on his knees. Owen said something softly, and the boy bowed his head to the floor, hands stretched out toward Owen.

Aria watched, her eyes filled with tears. Owen placed his hands on the boy's head and leaned forward, singing quietly.

This time she saw the forest and the two in front of her at the same time, as if the two images were layered like the music. The sound wove around her, over and under and through her bones, green and gold and silver, clear as water. Layer upon layer, each note hanging in the air while the others rose.

It was hours before Owen's voice faded.

He was tired, his hands trembling as he stroked the boy's dark head. The child might have been asleep, kneeling with his face pressed to the ground for long moments in the silence. But then his shoulders jerked, and he let out a soft wordless cry, shuddering. Owen pulled him up and wrapped his arms around the boy's shoulders, pressed the boy's face into his shoulder. Owen's eyes, too, were closed, and in the lamplight, she saw tear streaks on his pale cheeks.

At last, he let the boy go. The child brushed at his cheeks and kept his face turned away from Aria. He slid back from the light and sat with his knees pulled up to his chest.

The silence drew out. Owen turned to her, unashamed or unaware of the tears on his face, and let his cool blue eyes rest on her for a long moment.

"It cannot be healed." He ran his hands over his face and through his hair. "It has been too long, the wound too severe." His hands were still shaking, and he clasped them behind his neck, stretching his shoulders with a wince. "This is what I did while you bought me time. Colonel Grenidor was distracted trying to figure out why you had no tracker. Despite his diversion of soldiers to that task, he had more sensors than I anticipated, and I was detected quickly. I could find only Niall before I had to flee." His eyes flicked to the boy as he said the name. The boy hesitated, then nodded once.

Owen straightened with a deep breath. "Niall was captive nearly two years. He's endured much. Since we are not human, the researchers think nothing of inflicting inhuman cruelties upon us. All in the name of scientific discovery, of course." His voice was low, but Aria flinched at the cold anger in his voice.

"His family is still captive, as are others. I thank you for your help. I owe you a blood debt." He turned his blue eyes on her.

She swallowed. She glanced across at the boy again, and her heart clenched at his pale, frightened beauty. "You owe me nothing. I had no idea we humans did things like that. Not today. I thought we were past such cruelties."

Owen snorted softly, then rose and stepped back from the light. She could tell he paced only by the faint movement of air behind her; he made no sound. At long last, he stopped and knelt beside her again, facing her squarely. He said softly, "A Fae blood debt is not a thing to be tossed away. I thank you for your generosity. It is unusual and much appreciated. Yet I count myself in your debt. Niall is my nephew, and my subject, and currently my heir. He is important, and I will sacrifice much to keep him safe."

"Your subject? Your heir?" She latched onto the words as if it would keep her from drowning in his eyes.

Niall twitched. He was looking at Owen as if surprised, and he shook his head when Owen glanced at him.

Was he afraid?

Owen spoke softly in Fae, and Niall bit his lip and stared at Aria for a long moment.

"It doesn't matter now. But it might someday. He's a child, and my kin, and I'll not have him harmed more."

He reached for his rucksack. "Rest. Niall has information that will take some time to piece together. Then we can talk."

She pulled her knees up to her chin and watched them. Owen pulled several blank notebooks and cheap pens from his rucksack, as well as the small notebook she'd seen before. He flipped it open to what appeared to be a list, though she realized now that the language wasn't English, and handed it to Niall.

The boy read through it with tight lips, then began at the top. He wrote something next to many of the names in a tiny, neat hand. From her vantage point, she couldn't see it, but assumed it must be in the same language. It took nearly ten minutes for him to finish, as he flipped deliberately through several pages, pausing to think occasionally before writing. Near the end he wrote for several minutes, adding something to the bottom of the list. Owen let him write without comment, glancing at the pages at long intervals. He wrote in one of the blank notebooks, and when Niall finished, he set it aside.

Owen took the notebook and sat close to the lamp, Niall standing over his shoulder. His eyes ran down the pages, and at the end, he let out a long breath. "This many?" He leaned forward and let his head drop into his hands.

Niall stared over Owen's shoulder at Aria with a distrustful look.

"What is it?" Aria asked finally.

"The names of those I knew were missing. He's noted those he saw, and when, and how badly they were harmed." For the first time, he seemed unsure, staring down at the notebook. He leaned forward to put his head in his hands again, and after a long moment, Aria slid closer. She reached out to touch his shoulder, and Niall struck her hand away angrily. He glared at her, putting himself between Owen and her.

"I'm sorry." Her voice was unsteady in the face of his blazing blue eyes. "I was just trying to be sympathetic."

He let out his breath in a low, wordless growl that seemed to fit his expression.

Owen caught his wrist and held it, speaking softly in Fae. After a long, trembling moment, Niall crumpled to the ground, kneeling in front of Owen and bowing his head. Owen sighed, stroked the back of his head with one hand, and spoke to Aria.

"Please forgive us. Niall is protective. There are so few of us left. That," he took a deep breath, "that is the problem. We are too few to attack by force, even if that was our goal. And I've never wished for war with humans. But I see no other option except extinction." He raised his eyebrows, still staring at the book. "Which, to be honest, is not very far off."

She knelt beside him. "Tell me. How bad is it? What can we do?"

"We? You're still with me in this, after what Grenidor did?" He glanced up at her.

"After what they did to him, how could I not be?" She gestured at Niall.

Owen ran his hands through his hair again. The lamplight caught his face for a moment as he closed his eyes, and she realized how beautiful he was. And how exhausted. His hands were still shaking as he rested his elbows on his knees.

"Were you hurt again? And had to heal yourself?"

He shrugged. "It's no matter." He shifted to face her, resting his hand on Niall's head for a moment. The boy curled into a ball on the floor and Owen smiled sadly. He lowered his voice. "We don't procreate the way humans do. The mechanics are the same, but a Fae child cannot be conceived by accident. There are songs that are required from the father and mother. Removing a Fae tongue makes the victim voiceless, yes, but for us, it is also castration. It is an unprecedented act of war."

Aria swallowed.

"Yet it is a war we cannot win, and one I have no desire to pursue. I do not hate humans, only the harm they do to us." He sighed. "And we are beset. I have perhaps," he glanced at the notebook again, "one hundred? At most? One hundred who are still free and could fight if need be. But they are scattered across the continent and have children to protect."

Niall shuddered, still curled on the floor, head covered by his arms. Owen leaned forward to look at his face and smiled sadly. "It's good he's asleep. He'll need to eat soon. As will I."

"What were you writing in the other notebook?"

"Questions for him. He's in no condition to answer them now, though."

Aria swallowed. "Since I'm in this, and I can't read your notes, will you tell me? And I need to know what Colonel Grenidor meant by that story about the ancestor spirits. I need to know everything."

Owen nodded, and she felt guilty all over again when he pushed his hands through his hair, which was already sticking up, then rubbed them hard over his face as if he were trying to stay awake. He pulled the notebook closer to him and nodded that she should sit next to him. The lamp lit the page with a flickering yellow glow. It didn't surprise her that his handwriting was neat and precise, each line perfectly level, though the letters were fluid.

"I won't go through all the names, because most will mean nothing to you. Niall added another thirteen names to those of which I was aware. This is his father. He was alive three months ago, but then they were separated for testing. His mother, my elder sister, was last seen six months ago when she was moved to another testing facility, possibly for," he hesitated, then said quietly, "reproduction experiments. Their younger son, Liam, was killed when they were captured." He stopped, and though his voice had not wavered, he bowed his head a moment and closed his eyes. Aria felt her own throat tighten with emotion, and she reached out a hand and laid it on his arm.

"This is my father's name. He was last seen alive two months ago but was transferred to a solitary confinement area. I can imagine why." At Aria's glance, he said softly, "My father is not the sort to let his people be abused without a fight. I'm sure he's caused all manner of problems for them. And paid for it, no doubt." He took a deep breath. "This is a childhood friend. She was moved to solitary confinement around the same time my father was. This is a friend, as well. He died as a result of an experiment on drug toxicity." He took another deep breath and let it out slowly, moving his finger to the middle of the next column of names. "This is my younger brother, Cillian. He was last seen alive nearly six months ago when he was moved to an enclosed compartment for testing infectious diseases."

Aria felt something break inside her, and she leaned forward to rest her forehead on his shoulder, one tentative hand on his back. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

There was a long silence, and finally, he said softly, "You had other questions, did you not?"

She pulled back so she could see his face, watching him in profile. "What did Grenidor mean by the ancestor spirits story? Was it a lie? Does it have anything to do with Fae?"

He waited so long to answer that she wondered whether he meant to at all. "I've heard a similar story before, but I don't know the Fae of that area. Fae have long preferred to remain unseen rather than walk among men. Some have good reasons, some less so. Some men are superstitious and invent malice and monsters where there are none. And some Fae enjoy the power to make men afraid. If I had to guess, I would imagine that there was one, perhaps two, turned Fae who thought it amusing to play with the tribe for a while and eventually grew tired of their game. But there are other things than Fae and men in the world, and I could be wrong."

She took a deep breath. "So a Fae could have done it." _It's not as though people don't do horrible things, too. You've already seen the evidence. We even do them to each other._

"It is possible."

"He also said," she hesitated, but pressed on, "he said I was stupid to be helping you. Naive. He asked if I knew how many you'd killed. And said that just because you hadn't hurt me yet didn't mean you wouldn't; it only meant I was useful for now." She swallowed, trying to read his expression.

"And you believe him?" He stared at the floor in front of his crossed ankles.

"I'm not sure. Should I?"

"What do you think?" Still he kept his eyes on the floor, and she wondered suddenly if it was out of consideration. Surely, by now, he'd realized that it was hard for her to think when his eyes were on hers.

"I believe you're helping your people. I know you could have hurt me and you didn't, and you rescued me from Grenidor. But how many people _have_ you killed? And why?"

"I do not dwell on the exact count." He spoke slowly and precisely. "I've been alive a long time, and most of that time has not been idyllic. All have been for reasonable cause. Most were trying to capture or kill me, or other Fae. One, I surprised in the middle of his attempt to murder another human. Grenidor sees us as dogs, and dogs who bite deserve to be put down, regardless of what the human does to the dog first. I believe we have a right to self-defense." He sighed, leaned forward to look at Niall's face for a moment before lying on his back with his hands clasped behind his head. "You are free to go if you wish."

"All of them were self-defense?"

"All were for reasonable cause." His eyes were closed now, and he turned his back to her, lying on his side with one arm curled under his head. "Believe what you like. I must sleep now."

She stared at his back. _Why did I even ask him? He's given me no reason to fear him, and Grenidor is a monster. I don't doubt there's more to know, but I owe him an apology. After he rests. After I rest._

She rubbed her eyes and wrapped herself up in the blanket on the floor, then reached out to turn down the lamp.

# Chapter Five

Aria woke to the feeling of being stared at. The lamp was turned up again, and she blinked for a moment before she realized that Niall was sitting on the other side of the circle of light, his blue eyes on her face.

"Hello," she said tentatively. "My name is Aria. I don't think I said it last night, if it _was_ night."

His eyes flicked away and then back to her before he nodded.

"You understand English, don't you?"

He nodded again. She sat up. He looked a little better after sleeping, the dark circles under his eyes fading. The red rings and underlying bruises around his wrists and ankles were much fainter, too. Owen's singing had helped, then, though it couldn't heal his tongue.

"Where is Owen?"

His mouth twitched, and then he picked up a notebook and pen and wrote. He turned it to show her. _You should refer to him as Lord Owen._

"Oh." She considered a moment. "I'm sorry. He didn't tell me." Those blue eyes on hers seemed a little softer. "I'm sorry about what they did." He stared at her, and she felt suddenly that she was being measured.

_He went to get food._

"Good. I'm hungry, and I bet you are, too." She smiled, trying to lighten the mood, but he merely stared at her. "When did you last eat? Well, how often do you normally eat? Owen, I mean Lord Owen, didn't seem to need to eat every day." The title felt awkward and strange in her mouth, but she thought she would oblige him until Owen came back and made his wishes known.

_Normally we eat every three or four days. They fed me once a month._ After considering her face a moment, he added, _Grenidor lies._

"Did you hear us last night?"

_Only the part where you accused Lord Owen of being a murderer._ He wrote the words with irritated force, then glanced up at her again.

"That's not what I meant! I just wanted to hear the truth." She was going to keep justifying herself, as thin as the words sounded, but he started writing again.

_Grenidor is one of the directors of the experiment program. He devises the tortures that are inflicted on our people._ He turned the paper around so she could see it with an angry flourish, then stopped to add, _If you cannot believe Lord Owen's word over Grenidor's, you are the stupidest human I have ever met._

She winced. "You're right. It was stupid. I'm sorry, and I owe him an apology."

He scowled at her, only slightly mollified.

"How old are you?"

# Chapter Six

She blinked. Yes, that would be right. If Owen looked about thirty, but was 273, this child looked something close to a third of that, eight or ten. She shook her head at the strangeness of it. "Where were you born? Do you remember before the Revolution?"

It was his turn to stare at her oddly before answering. _Nearby, outside the city. I remember. Not as much as Lord Owen, because I was young and my parents sheltered me from the worst of it._

"From the worst of it? The worst of what?"

Another strange look. _The violence._

"What violence? _"_

He cocked his head to the side and stared at her for a long moment. He tapped the pen under the word violence, watching her face.

"What violence? There wasn't any violence. It was a bloodless revolution, just a political change. The only fighting was against the Outlanders in the West and South Quadrants, and even that only lasted a few weeks. There was some unrest, competing propaganda for a while, but then it faded as everyone realized how much better things were." She stopped, blinking. The words came from her lips, but they sounded wrong, somehow. False.

She shook her head, feeling as if she stood on the edge of a precipice. "It was bloodless, wasn't it?"

His lips opened as if he wanted to speak, but then he clamped them shut. He wrote furiously, and she read over his shoulder. _No. There was much bloodshed. Do you not remember? Fighting in the streets for years. Many people killed. Some Fae also. Laser guns. Death squads. Getlaril bullets and vertril invented. Trackers. Propaganda war ended with assassinations of journalists._

"No. No. That's not what I remember." But images flashed in her head. Blood splatters on the asphalt. Rockets. She pressed her hands over her eyes and shuddered. Shivering in the bathtub, hoping it would stop the bullets.

She rocked, knees pulled up to her chest, as memories flooded her, a movie played too fast in her mind, the images running over each other and sounds filling her ears. Running from a fire consuming a building. Her home? A boy clutching her hand. Her brother? Maybe six years old? What was his name? Johann Sebastian. Her mother's attempt at culture, though the family had no claim to musical talent or distinguished ancestors. Her mother's face, beaten and bruised, abruptly yanked away. Her younger self screaming endlessly, throat raw.

She didn't know how long it had been when Owen pressed his hands on each side of her head and sang. The beauty of his song lay over the wounds of memory like gauze, a thin reminder that she was still alive, and that she would recover.

The song slipped through her, quiet but insistent, slowing her racing heartbeat, calming the blood in her veins. It wrapped around her shoulders like a warm blanket.

She blinked, and shuddered, shook her head as if coming up for breath. Owen let her go and sat back, eyes on her face. He and Niall were both staring at her.

Finally, Owen said quietly, "That was unexpected. What happened?"

Niall showed him his half of the conversation written in the notebook, and Owen glanced at her again. "You don't remember?"

"I remember some of it now. It's all disjointed, but I remember." _Blood in the streets, yes, tanks. Soldiers running everywhere. Hiding under my bed. Yanked out by one arm, held up while..._ "It's the trackers!" She caught her breath again at the memory. _They put it in then. I was maybe 15? Terrified as a child in a nightmare. It hurt. A lot. But it faded, and then so did everything else._

"What?" Owen and Niall were watching her with identical expressions of wary curiosity. "What about the trackers?"

She trembled as the memories kept falling into place, one little piece here, a jagged edge there that lined up with another one. She forced herself to answer, "The tracker. I think it made me forget. It was all foggy. Everything was different. But now I remember."

"Remember _what_ , exactly?" Owen asked.

The memories jostled with each other for space in her mind, recent and distant connected with each other by threads of thought or a feeling. _Desolation. When my house was burned, desolation, and when Mom died, too. Johann. Is he alive? No. Yes. Maybe? I can't remember. I think he's gone. And Dad died. I remember that. On the carpet in the living room. One of the soldiers shot him, when they came to put in our trackers because he fought so hard, punched a soldier in the face._

"Everything. It's so jumbled. But I remember now." She blinked at them. "They put in the trackers and then everything faded. I forgot all the fighting. I forgot everything. I didn't even remember—" a sob rose up in her throat. "I didn't even remember I had a brother! His name was Johann." She leaned forward to bury her face in her knees and felt Owen's cool, gentle hand rest on her shoulder for a moment. She couldn't face him, not now, not with everything so fresh again in her mind. She couldn't face anything.

But while one part of her mind listened to Owen and Niall, another part parsed through memories, placing them in a logical order, as though leafing through a photo album.

_Johann was younger there, so that one must be earlier. Mom has less gray in this one. That was when I was studying for the spelling bee, which was in sixth grade. This was when we went camping by the river. Johann fell in, because he was being a little scamp and running across the fallen tree. Mom warned him so many times! This was when I was studying for the college entrance exams. Dad was dead by then. Mom was dead. Johann dead? Or gone?_

Owen spoke first in Fae, but shifted to English, and she imagined that he did it on purpose, knowing she might be listening. "Here." The crinkle of paper and plastic told her he had been to the butcher shop. Somehow the thought of the pig's heart did not horrify her the way it had before. _Strange what you can get used to_. They knelt beside the lantern, a cardboard box acting as a makeshift table.

Silence but for the almost inaudible sound of thin wet plastic, and then Owen spoke as if he were answering a question. "I have heard nothing about it from the other humans. But we keep our distance. I have not spoken to Gabriel in nearly three years."

Another pause.

"No. We have both been occupied with our own pursuits, that is all. I don't believe he blames me. He shouldn't."

A long silence, and she looked up to see Owen shaking his head. He sighed heavily and stared at the bloody plastic before him. He said something in Fae, and Niall shot to his feet.

The boy stood trembling in the lamplight, paced away and back, away again, then threw himself onto his knees before Owen with a wordless cry. He was shaking his head, tears running down his face.

Owen put his hands on Niall's shoulders and spoke softly, urgently, but the boy struck his hands away and shook his head, his eyes never leaving Owen's. The tears glistened on his cheeks.

_Arguing. Niall refuses to accept something Owen said._

Owen's voice softened still further, and he seemed to be pleading. His straight, strong shoulders slumped a little, and he closed his eyes against Niall's wordless plea. Finally, Owen nodded once. Niall caught one of Owen's hands in his own two smaller ones and pressed it to his cheek, kissed the back of Owen's hand and then pressed it to his forehead.

The silence drew out, and Owen finally rose, tousled Niall's hair once, and stepped back to disappear into the shadows.

Niall remained on his knees, his blue eyes rimmed with red. He glanced into the darkness and then stared at the floor.

"What just happened?" Aria finally whispered to him.

He looked up at her as if he'd just realized she was there. After a long moment, he picked up a notebook and slid toward her. He wrote slowly as she read over his shoulder.

_Lord Owen wanted to take me to the Old Country. He says it is safe there, and I can find refuge with some distant relatives of my mother. He would return to pursue the fight alone. I begged him to let me stay with him._

He hesitated, then continued. _I am afraid for him. He has been alone too long in the concrete and steel, and he has lost hope. If Gabriel still hates him, I see no hope for us. Lord Owen has no one to sing for him, as he sang for me, and no one to heal the wounds he has suffered._

She swallowed. Niall looked up at her, his eyes brimming with tears.

"What can I do?" she murmured.

He studied her for a long moment. _Do you know Gabriel?_

"No."

He sighed.

"What about the trackers? If I didn't remember, perhaps no one does. Would it matter if more people remembered? Do the others who removed them remember?"

He blinked at her, then shrugged. _Gabriel is the leader of the human resistance. He should know._ Another pause, then, _He is dangerous._

Wonderful. She hesitated, then shrugged herself. "Everything is dangerous, though, isn't it?"

He glanced at her again, and a slight, sad smile quirked his lips.

"You look like him, you know. Like Lord Owen."

His eyes widened and then he smiled. _Thank you. I would be proud if I were like him someday._

"Will you take me to see Gabriel?"

His mouth twitched, and he hesitated. _I cannot leave Lord Owen without letting him know. It would be cruel at this time. I doubt he will let us go without his protection._

Another hesitation, then, _He needs to rest first. He gave all his strength to me and needs a few hours._

Niall left the notebook in front of her and rose to slip into the darkness.

Owen packed his rucksack and wordlessly led them up through a trapdoor in the ceiling, through several connected attic crawl spaces, down another trapdoor, and into the back of a small clothing shop. Three horizontal metal bars lined one wall, the third only a few inches below the ceiling, all filled with hanging clothes.

"Wait here."

He slipped through a door and reappeared in a few moments with a middle-aged woman close behind him. She flipped on the lights and stared at Aria thoughtfully, as if she already knew what was going on.

Owen frowned again. "It's a lot to ask, Margot. I'm sorry."

She shook her head with a quick wave of her hand. "You know it's nothing. I owe you, Owen." She patted his arm with quick affection, then walked around Aria thoughtfully. "Take off your clothes."

"What?" Aria blinked at her.

"You look like a fugitive. Streaked with blood and dirt and smelling like a sewer. You can't be seen like that."

Aria glanced at Owen and Niall, and Owen nodded for the boy to follow him as he moved to the front of the shop.

Margot gave her an odd look. "Don't want him to watch?"

Aria shrugged. "It's just awkward."

Margot chuckled. "You're so young. I'd give my right arm for him to peek at me."

Aria blushed. It wasn't that he wasn't attractive. It was just _awkward_. Besides, he ate bloody pigs' hearts. She covered her embarrassment by asking, "Why do you owe him?"

"I found myself in the wrong place once. It would have gone badly, but he escorted me home." Her odd tone made it clear there was more to the story, but she didn't want to tell it. She gazed at Aria a moment longer, then turned to peruse the racks of clothes. She pulled out a few pairs of jeans, a couple pairs of boots, and three shirts.

"Try these."

The first pair of jeans fit so well Aria blinked in surprise. Slim fitting and fashionable, they somehow made her feel more confident when she looked down at herself.

"And now the boots." Margot watched her as she slipped her feet into the soft, flat boots, the jeans tucked inside. "Yes, those will work."

Aria caught sight of herself in a mirror propped in a corner. "I look good."

The surprise in her voice made Margot smile.

"You need to blend in, stylish but not eye-catching. Practical clothes, because heaven only knows what you'll be doing. Try this shirt."

It was a form-fitting turtleneck in a deep teal, warmer than she'd expected. A sweater went over it. Margot draped another turtleneck over her arm.

"Take this one too. Here, let me fix your hair." Margot pulled a brush from her purse and ran it through Aria's brown curls.

"Come." She led Aria out into the main part of the shop, where more neat racks of clothes filled the floor.

"Here you are." She presented Aria to Owen and Niall as if pleased with her work. Aria had completely lost track of time in the interminable darkness of the bookshop and tunnels, and she was surprised to see the clear light of early afternoon.

"Thank you, Margot." Owen inclined his head.

"She looks good, don't you think?" Margot prompted.

Owen's eyes flicked up and down with disinterest so obvious that Aria felt a little stung, despite her determination not to care. "Yes, thank you, Margot." His eyes shifted toward the windows at the front of the shop.

Margot frowned at his profile. "Be careful, Owen."

He smiled slightly, just a twitch. "You know I am."

She snorted. "Don't get yourself killed. Or worse."

"I'll try." The quirk of his lips held no humor.

With that, he slipped toward the door with noiseless steps. Niall followed, and then Aria, who glanced back at Margot with a grateful smile. The woman lifted one hand in a quick wave and smiled, but her eyes were grave and worried.

Owen led them block after block. Aria was surprised to see him stay in the open so long, especially during the day. No one seemed to notice him, though. His shirt was new, but his pants were worn and threadbare enough to stand out in this prosperous section of the city. Though the afternoon sun slanted into the shop windows, it gave little warmth, and forlorn patches of melting sleet remained in the shadows. His short sleeves and bare feet, and those of Niall, should have caused some remarks, or at least second glances, but people brushed by without seeming to notice them at all. _Interesting. I wonder how he does it. He's not invisible, since I can see him and no one actually bumps into him. He's just unnoticeable._

Down a narrow alley and back out into the sunlight of a broader street. This time he crossed and entered what appeared to be an old hotel. He stopped just inside the door, Niall and Aria pressed against his back. He spread his arms to keep them from advancing past him.

"I request entrance and an audience with Gabriel." His voice wasn't loud, but it carried in the open lobby.

Aria peered under his arm to see a white marble floor with several threadbare red rugs spread across it. A dark fireplace loomed at one edge, with worn leather chairs arranged for conversation. A balcony loomed to their right. No one was visible.

There was no sound at first, but then a door opened at the far side of the lobby, on the first floor. There was movement in the darkness beyond, and a glint of light on metal.

"What do you want?"

"I will speak with Gabriel directly."

"You'll tell me your message or you won't see him at all." Irritation tightened the voice, and Aria heard a soft, metallic click.

Owen paused, then said, "Eli. Do you hate me so much?"

A bullet cracked the stone above Owen's head. He didn't flinch, but Aria did, her heart racing.

"Get out!" the man shouted. He advanced just enough to show himself pointing the gun at Owen's heart, eyes narrowed.

Owen murmured, "Please wait outside."

Aria swallowed, unable to move for a moment. Niall took her hand in his small cool one and led her outside the door and just to the side, where they waited with their backs pressed against the stone.

Aria closed her eyes and tried not to listen. Her heart thudded in her chest, and she jumped at another shot. Then there was silence.

Niall peeked around the corner, then pulled her through the door again. Owen spoke softly to the man, who held a pistol in one hand dangling by his leg. He looked at Aria and blinked slowly, and then glanced at Niall.

"Yes. Yes, I will take you." He blinked again and shook his head, as if coming up from swimming. He looked back up at Owen. "That's not fair, you know."

Owen smiled faintly. "You have a gun, Eli. I have a human and a child with me. I don't want anyone hurt."

Eli scowled at him, but without much rancor this time. He waved the pistol as he talked. "Fine. Fine. I'll take you. Give me your weapons, though. I need to show I did my job. More or less."

Owen unbuckled his sword belt without comment and handed it to Eli, who slung it over his shoulder. He drew his knife and handed it over, hilt first.

"Come on then." He pulled the door open and led them down the hallway. At one intersection, he shouted, "Need someone on guard." At an answering shout, he continued on, then turned to go up a long flight of stairs. Halfway down another hall, he stopped at a nondescript door.

"Wait here. I'll go in first." He chewed his lip nervously for a moment, then opened the door without knocking, slid inside, and closed the door again before Aria could see anything of the interior.

They waited. Owen seemed to be listening, but Aria couldn't hear anything.

The door opened suddenly. "Come in."

Owen stepped forward and a shot cracked, deafening Aria. Owen staggered back, almost falling into the hallway. Aria caught him by one shoulder as Niall leapt forward and threw himself in front of Owen with a wordless shriek.

Owen shook himself free and lunged forward to catch Niall by his shoulders and jerk him back. He pushed Niall to the side, behind the shelter of the wall, and stayed upright, leaning against the doorframe and blocking it with his body. Niall trembled beside Aria, and she put one hand on his shoulder.

Owen growled, "I was not to blame for that, and you know it."

A deep voice answered, "You were. You should be glad I used lead and not _getlaril._ Why are you here?"

Owen raised his left hand to his chest, and then dropped it back to his side. Blood smeared his fingers.

"We had an idea. Wanted to test it." He paused and raised his hand to his chest again. "It might help you. Might help us both." He turned to catch Aria's eye. "Stay here." Then he closed the door in her face.

They heard the low murmur of voices for a while, then a long, disconcerting silence. Then voices again.

Finally, the door opened. Eli nodded them in, his face guarded.

Niall rushed to Owen, who was sitting in a threadbare chair. His black shirt couldn't hide the spreading dark stain from the wound, approximately where his heart would be if his heart were on the right side. He pressed his left hand to it, his fingers red.

Niall closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Owen's knee.

"Aria, Niall, this is Gabriel. He is the leader of the human resistance. Gabriel, Aria is human. Niall is my nephew. You've met before. He's been imprisoned for the last two years." Abruptly he looked down at Niall and said something in Fae. Niall looked up at him with a skeptical look and hesitated, but finally rose to stand at Owen's shoulder, a small, stern protector.

Aria and Gabriel studied each other cautiously. He looked older than Owen did, perhaps forty-five or so, with gray liberally sprinkled in his brown hair. A little thick in the waist, but still fit, perhaps a former soldier. Cautious eyes, irritated, but not afraid. He still held a pistol, though it wasn't pointed at anyone at the moment.

She tried to smile. "Hello."

Gabriel did not return the courtesy. "Why are you with this creature?" He gestured toward Owen with the gun.

Aria frowned. "Because I want to be. I trust him more than I trust you." The words came unbidden, but she knew they were true.

To her surprise, that provoked a slight smile from Gabriel. "Huh." He rummaged in a drawer of the desk and tossed a rag to Owen, who folded it and pressed it to his chest.

"You remember things now?" He nodded to another chair.

She sat, with a glance at Owen, who had closed his eyes. _He's really caught it lately. Even for someone,_ something _, as tough as he is, the last two weeks have been rough. How much is my fault?_

"Yes."

"Tell me." He leaned forward.

She raised her chin. "Not unless you put away the gun and get him a proper bandage."

Gabriel stared at her, then smiled tightly. "Done." He nodded to Eli, who left the room. Gabriel put the gun in a lower desk drawer and closed it, then clasped his hands on the tabletop.

"I take it you're not afraid of him then." She was proud of how her voice didn't waver.

"No."

"Then you shouldn't have shot him."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "I don't need to defend myself to you. You came to tell me something. What is it?"

Aria looked at Owen.

He blinked slowly, as if dazed, then said quietly, "Tell him."

"He removed my tracker about a week and a half ago. I didn't notice anything different at first. Yesterday I was talking with Niall, and he asked whether I remembered the violence." She shook her head, the images rising again.

Eli entered at that moment, and she watched while he handed a roll of gauze and medical tape to Niall. The boy positioned himself between Gabriel and Owen as Owen pulled off his shirt. She couldn't see the wound itself as Niall worked on it, but she did see Eli wince with involuntary sympathy.

"I didn't. He was surprised, and prompted me, and everything seemed to come flooding back. It's all jumbled now, but I'm putting things in order. I remembered a lot. I'd forgotten I had a brother." Her throat closed with sudden emotion, and she stopped, unwilling to cry in front of him. "How my father died. Things like that. I remembered when they put the tracker in."

Gabriel studied her, and she wished she could read his expression.

After a long moment, Gabriel asked, "Eli, did you ever have a tracker?"

"No."

"Hm. Nor did I." Gabriel tapped his fingers together as he thought. "Do you know the memories are true?"

"Yes." Aria blinked at him. _What kind of question is that?_

He glanced at Owen and said, "You know he could have changed them. He has that power."

"I did not." Owen's voice was low but clear.

"Can I believe that?"

Owen put out one hand and moved Niall aside so he faced Gabriel squarely. His bare chest was streaked with blood, but the bandage was taped on securely. He leaned forward slightly, and Aria shivered at the cold fury in his quiet voice. "Have I ever lied to you, Gabriel?"

Gabriel swallowed and looked down. "No." The denial was soft, ashamed. "No, you have not."

After a tense silence, Eli ventured, "The only one I know who had a tracker was Aaron."

Gabriel sighed. "Hm."

Aria wondered what that meant. Niall pulled a clean shirt from Owen's rucksack and helped him put it on. It didn't conceal the blood streaking both their hands, though.

Gabriel gazed at Aria thoughtfully for a long moment before standing. "You should see him. You will understand why I find this difficult to believe, and more difficult to plan around."

Aria nodded and rose. Owen stood too, only to stagger into the desk, barely catching himself with both hands on the edge. Niall glared at Gabriel as he tried unsuccessfully to get Owen to lean on him.

Gabriel paused, halfway to the door, and glanced back at Owen. "You're not up to your usual."

Owen shook his head, blinking dizzily. "No."

Gabriel led them down the long hallway and down a flight of stairs, then another. Owen stopped at one point to lean against the wall, eyes glazed, and Gabriel waited three steps below, neither impatient nor sympathetic at the delay. Aria offered her arm to Owen, but he shook his head, only resting one hand on Niall's shoulder as they continued downward.

Beneath the hotel was a cavernous room that had once been an underground concert hall. The chairs had been removed, though numerous small holes remained to show where they had been bolted to the concrete floor. The floor dropped toward one corner in deep arcs, with a larger flat area at the bottom. Groups of men and a few women were scattered across the open space, sitting or laying on bedrolls. Some were cleaning weapons, some reading, and others talking quietly with each other.

At Gabriel's entrance, two sentries straightened to attention, then relaxed.

They wove through the groups of people to a door at the far side. Aria tried not to stare, but they caught her attention. Everyone looked tired, worn. Most were between thirty and forty-five, and nearly all had the bearing of soldiers. _Who are these people?_

They went through another door into a darkened hallway, and Gabriel stopped at a door.

"We've been calling him Aaron, but we don't know his name. We think he might have been a journalist. He was caught in the middle of a battle between us and the Rev Forces. He lost his arm and nearly died. We saved his life, but his mental state has never been stable since. He might be mad. He's a liability, but we've done our best by him. It was partly our fault he was injured, and you know what they do to cripples. Most times he's not violent, but he's unpredictable, so we have to keep him contained." He gestured toward the door. "For his own safety, as well as ours."

They nodded, and Gabriel slipped a key into the lock and opened the door. He peered through the crack before opening it all the way. "Come in." He closed the door behind them.

The man was perhaps forty-five, but he looked older. A worn shirt hung on his thin frame, and graying hair hung ragged over his eyes. He sat on the edge of a cot, rocking slightly, staring at a spot on the carpet some three feet in front of his bare feet. The scar tissue on the bare stump of his right arm glistened in the light of an electric lantern set on a table by the door. He made a low, monotonous moan as he rocked, and gave no indication that he noticed their entrance.

"Aaron, you have visitors." Gabriel stepped closer and put a hand on his shoulder firmly. "Look at them."

There was no change at first, but then the man looked through his tangled hair and stared at them, focusing on Owen for one long moment. "I haven't seen one of your kind in years." He blinked, then his gaze shifted slowly to the far wall, ignoring Aria and Niall completely. "They came!" He shrieked and threw his one arm over his head protectively, hurling himself away from them into the far corner. He shuddered, rocking and moaning more loudly. The sound made Aria cringe.

Gabriel grimaced. "You see. It will be difficult to get many answers from him."

"Let me help him," Owen said.

"How?"

Owen turned to stare at Gabriel for a long moment. Gabriel said finally, "Very well. Shall I stay?"

"If you wish."

Gabriel sat at the end of the cot and leaned against the wall. He gestured to the place beside him, but Aria shook her head, preferring to sit on the carpet with her back against the door.

Owen knelt in front of the man, who flinched away from him, sheltering his head beneath his upraised arm. He spoke softly, and after a minute or so, Aaron relaxed, his forehead resting on his bony knees.

Owen turned to Niall and said something in Fae, which caused Niall to frown.

Then, "I'm trusting you with them, Gabriel."

Gabriel met his eyes for a long moment and then nodded.

Owen placed one hand on Aaron's head and began to sing.

Aria closed her eyes as his voice threaded through the air. Sweet and clear, the song wove up and around her, the words made of sound and rushing water and spring sunlight. She found herself breathing more deeply, slowly, at peace. _Owen stood in the middle of the mountain stream, water rushing past his knees, looking in her direction but not at her. A sudden smile, white teeth in his pale, handsome face. He cupped the water in his hands and offered it to someone._

Hours might have passed; Aria couldn't tell how long it had been. Owen's voice faded, the sound hanging in the air, waiting for the next note. He started again, then stopped, and she opened her eyes to see him crumple. He fell forward, his head hitting the concrete block wall next to Aaron's shoulder with a sickening thunk. Niall pulled on Owen's shoulders, and then Aria helped him carefully roll Owen to his back. Aaron sat in the same position, head down, unmoving as a statue.

Gabriel stood over them and stared down at Owen's supine form.

"What did he _do_?" He sounded concerned.

Aria might have been gratified at his change of attitude if she hadn't been so worried herself.

Niall waved an irritated hand at him and bent close to Owen's face. He was breathing shallowly, eyes closed, but did not so much as twitch when Niall ran a small hand over his head, feeling the bump that was already appearing at the hairline. He pulled up Owen's shirt to check the blood-soaked gauze, and then studied him again from a distance of about six inches. Finally, he went to the rucksack and pulled out one of the notebooks and sat down to write.

Everyone started when Aaron looked up and asked, "Where am I?"

Gabriel answered, "You're in the Resistance Headquarters. Do you remember I've told you that before?"

"Yes. You have. And you are Gabriel. Who is he?" Aaron looked toward Owen.

Aria answered, "Call him Lord Owen."

Aaron stared at him a moment. "Is he dead?"

"No."

He cocked his head to one side. "I saw him singing in the forest. I remember now. Too much."

"What is your name then?" Gabriel knelt in front of him.

"Joshua Whitemarsh."

"How did you lose your arm?"

"It was crushed. Someone cut it off." He blinked. "You were there, weren't you?"

"Yes."

Joshua considered Owen again. Aria asked Niall quietly, "What did he tell you before he started?"

Niall was scribbling furiously, but he stopped to write at the top of the page. _He said, "Trust me." He also forbade me to use any_ , he hesitated, then wrote a Fae symbol. He looked up at her hopefully, but at her confused look, he wrote, _"magic" on his behalf. He said I am not yet recovered enough._

"And you'll obey him?"

_Always._

He finished the other piece that he was writing and slapped the floor to get Gabriel's attention, then turned the notebook toward them.

_He needs food and time. Silence. Sunlight. Take your conversation outside and give him peace. Bring him food._

Gabriel nodded. "Agreed." He looked to Aria. "You come with me. There are things to discuss."

Several people stood when they saw Joshua emerge from the hallway behind Gabriel. "Look." The curious murmurs were quiet, but in the cavernous space, the sound carried.

Gabriel took them to a small alcove with a set of double doors that had been left standing open. He pointed across the hall to several people and motioned them to join the little group. He sent someone to get food for Owen and Niall before they closed the doors and spoke by the light of a flickering fluorescent bulb above a battered conference table.

"Joshua, tell us what you remember."

He took a deep breath and rubbed the stump of his right arm. He began hesitantly, "I used to be married." And there he stopped, staring at the table for so long that Gabriel leaned forward, about to prompt him for more.

Another deep breath. "My wife was killed in the last days of the Revolution. It was an accident; our neighbors next door had been denounced and she was coming home from work when their apartment was stormed. She was caught in the crossfire. I went a little mad. Ran out into the street. I was furious and terrified in equal parts. I'm not sure what I intended to do.

"They put the trackers in by city blocks, because there were so many to be done. We lived in the North Quadrant, near the western side, and were some of the last to get ours. I knew they were doing something strange, but I didn't know what. The reports were vague and spotty. The soldiers had come to our section to install the trackers and caught me then. It's a small metal object, like a pill capsule. After it was inserted, I went back home. I remembered little of my wife's death, barely remembered I'd been married. I scrubbed the blood out of the hallway myself." He stared at the center of the table for a long moment without continuing.

"It didn't bother me at the time. I went back to work. I wrote for one of the science magazines, Nova. But it had been closed for months, and I hadn't had paying work. We'd been scrimping and saving but were close to the end of our money. I was told to appear at the Office for Revolutionary Affairs and given a job in the propaganda office. I wrote pieces for the radio." He stopped again, his gaze distant. "I don't think any of them ever aired. I think they wanted to keep me busy. I worked there for about a year."

"You remembered none of this before?" Gabriel leaned forward intently.

"I remembered blood. My wife's face as she was shot. Tanks. The pain of my arm."

"Do you remember those things now?"

Joshua said, "Yes, but now they're memories, not an ever-recurring present."

Gabriel sat back. "Thank you. We have much to learn from this. Does anyone know anyone else who had a tracker? Ever?"

Silence.

"We'd assumed the trackers were used only for identification and location tracking. But we've wondered why no one seems to remember what happened. We've talked about brainwashing. Drugs. Perhaps the trackers themselves exert some sort of control over the mind."

"What about the delay then?" Eli asked. "Aria didn't have any flashbacks for days, and for Aaron, I mean Joshua, it's been nearly a year."

A woman from the back spoke up. "Joshua had raving nightmares for weeks after losing his arm. We assumed it was a result of the trauma, but perhaps some were actually flashbacks. He might have retreated into a few memories rather than dealing with all of them."

"And now he _can_ deal with them? That's strange, don't you think? What happened in there?" This from another man, who looked from Joshua to Gabriel skeptically.

Gabriel rubbed a hand across his face. "Owen sang. I have no problem believing there's healing in that. I'm unsure what to do with the knowledge. If the trackers are exerting some type of control, we should remove them. But that might not solve our problems."

"Why not?" This from a fierce-looking woman who loomed over Aria's shoulder.

"Is it drugs? Is it magic? Is it an electronic signal? If we don't know how it works, we can't counteract the effects of removing it, which may be severe."

"It's not drugs," Aria spoke up. "If so, it would have to be recharged or reinserted after a while. Right? That never happened. It was only the one insertion years ago."

Gabriel tapped his fingers on the table. "We haven't kept up with the propaganda. It's hard to keep abreast of it while keeping our heads down. Does it change? If so, do the trackers update? How? Can that be manipulated?"

Aria thought before she spoke, feeling the weight of their eyes on her. "It does change. At one point I remember Governor Matthias was a war hero, and later he was a criminal and was executed."

"That happens in every war. Heroes and criminals change places all the time."

"Yes, but someone should have said something about the change and his downfall. There should have been new information to change everyone's perception of him. It wasn't like that. It was just that he was favored for months, and then he was, and always had been, a war criminal, and weren't they glad they finally captured him? It was as if he'd never been a hero at all."

"Was it just rhetoric? That can also happen in war with a powerful regime. No one wants to voice their doubts." This from another man in the back.

"I don't think so. It was as if everyone truly believed it, like the past had changed. I didn't even remember that he'd been cast as a hero until after my tracker came out."

Gabriel grunted acknowledgment. He stared around the table for a long moment. "Think on it, everyone." He rose, and everyone began to file out.

"What now? I can't leave with..." she gestured helplessly toward Joshua's room.

Gabriel frowned. "Joshua, we'll keep you in your room one more night, to be sure you're stable. We'll move Owen out here unless there's an empty room."

Most of the rooms were filled with supplies, but there was one that was nearly empty, only one wall taken up with a ceiling-high row of stacked boxes of military rations.

"I think he'd rather be in here by himself." Aria felt confident stating that much. "And you promised food."

Gabriel gave her a sidelong look. "You're pushy, you know that?"

She gave him a cheeky grin. She couldn't maintain the cheerfulness, though, and her shoulders slumped. "At this point, I have nothing left."

Gabriel clapped her on the shoulder. "Help me move him, then come eat with us."

When they opened the door to Joshua's room, Owen lay in the same position she'd left him, as white as death in the stark electric light. Niall had moved the lantern closer and was writing in the notebook. He let her lean over his shoulder, but it did no good; all the writing was in Fae.

_Where is his food?_ Niall wrote.

"It's coming. We're moving you to a different room for tonight." Gabriel considered him for a moment, then stepped out the door. A moment later he reappeared with another man, who took Owen's legs. Gabriel lifted him under the armpits and they carried him down the hall to the chosen room, where they laid him on the floor again. His head fell sideways, limp.

Niall followed, kneeling by his uncle anxiously.

Gabriel nodded the other man out, then said quietly, "I'll be back."

He returned in a moment with an electric lantern and a bedroll. "Do you want a bedroll? And one for him?"

Niall shrugged, then shook his head.

Someone knocked on the doorframe, and Gabriel turned back toward them. They offered him two paper bags. "Here."

Aria spread her bedroll against the back wall. "I'll be out in a minute," she said to Gabriel. He stepped outside.

The boy's face was solemn, worried, and she finally asked, "What are you thinking?"

He shrugged one shoulder. Aria moved closer and put a tentative hand on his shoulder. He gestured helplessly toward Owen's face.

"There's food if you want."

He stared at Owen and shook his head.

"You should sleep. He would want you to regain your strength. You've been through a lot, too."

He twitched his shoulder again, then lay down, curled against Owen's side, his head against his uncle's shoulder.

"I'm going out for a bit, but I'll be back."

He didn't respond, but she hadn't really expected him to.

Gabriel waved to her from a spot on the other side of the theater. She felt everyone's eyes on her as she walked across the empty space, and tried to keep from feeling like she was under examination.

Dinner was a quick affair, but she was pleasantly surprised by the food. After a week of sandwiches, anything hot was welcome.

"This is good."

"Martha does it. She used to be a chef, back when there were such things." Gabriel returned her strained smile. "I'll tell her you said so."

"Why did you shoot him?"

Silence descended on the table.

"It's a long story. For another time." Gabriel stood. "I have work. Sleep when you want. There will be food when you wake up."

# Chapter Seven

Aria woke to the sound of the door opening. Her eyes were crusty, and she groaned when she shifted. She must have been lying in one position for hours; every muscle in her body ached. _You'd think I'd be used to sleeping on a hard floor by now, but no. It still hurts. Except after he sings._

She rolled over at Gabriel's startled exclamation. "Peace, Niall. I'm not going to hurt him."

Niall crouched in front of Owen's motionless form, holding the plastic pen like a dagger. He grunted and glared at him before lowering his hand.

Gabriel stepped into the room, leaving the door open. "I came to see if you needed help. More food?"

Niall shook his head, then wrote, _I think you've done enough, don't you?_

Gabriel raised his eyebrows but did not respond. "And you?" he looked toward Aria. "It's lunchtime, if you're hungry. You missed breakfast."

"I'll be out in a few minutes."

She turned her back to Niall and Owen and changed her shirt, scrubbed her face with her hands, and tried to make herself presentable. Not that it mattered.

"How is he?" she asked Niall softly.

He gestured, and she knelt beside him. Owen kept breathing, but that was all that could be said for him. Though no longer so obviously battered as that first night underground, he seemed somehow smaller. Weaker. Drained.

_I feel better now. I could help him if he would let me._ Niall's frustration was obvious, but so too was his own lingering weakness. Aria reached out with a gentle finger to trace the red ring around one thin wrist, and he slumped.

"He wouldn't want it. You should do as he said."

He nodded dejectedly.

She ate with Gabriel again in a quiet knot of men and women. She had the sense of solemn tension, a mounting feeling of something about to happen, but no one told her anything. When she walked by, conversations stilled. She wasn't part of their team yet, not fully trusted. She wasn't sure she minded.

She wandered back to Owen's room after she finished eating. She thought of it as his room, even though she and Niall both slept there, too. _Why do I feel safer with Owen, even unconscious, than in a room by myself? In this hotel, that would be creepy._ He hadn't moved. Niall looked up at her bleakly before settling back down with the notebook and continuing writing. He had already filled pages with his neat script.

"Do you need anything?"

He shook his head.

She laid down on her bedroll, still tired. _I haven't taken an afternoon nap in months. Years. A long time._

Aria woke slowly, aware of the lamp turned up and the soft rustle of paper behind her. She sat up to see Owen's eyes on her.

"Are you well?" he asked.

"I should ask you that."

"Well enough." He shifted with a wince. He sat propped against the wall of boxes, one leg stretched out before him, the other bent. He looked down at the notebook in his lap and flipped the page.

"What does it say?" She slid over to sit shoulder to shoulder with him, not quite touching.

"Niall has answered many questions I had about the testing facilities. The information may be useful when I go in again." He rubbed his chest absently, still reading.

"Did you know Gabriel would shoot you?"

Owen huffed softly. "No. I should have spoken to him before I stepped into the doorway."

"Why did...? How did you...?" She couldn't put her question in the right words. His clear blue gaze on her did not help.

"Why did I what?"

"You frightened us both!"

"I'm sorry. I told Niall to trust me. I did not expect it to be so frightening for him."

The boy drew his knees up to his chest. He didn't look at his uncle, but leaned in to rest his head on Owen's shoulder on the other side.

"Did you get any useful information?" He looked down at the notebook again.

"Yes. But you should know that. You were in his mind, weren't you?"

"I removed the darkness that covered it. I did not look into his memories."

"You could have, though?"

He turned to meet her eyes. "Yes. But I did not." After a long moment, he leaned his head back against the cardboard and closed his eyes.

"Was it worth it, then? What if we hadn't gotten anything from him?"

"Yes."

She stared at him. "Even if he had no information? How was it worth this?"

"I could give him peace."

In the harsh light of the electric lantern, he should have looked haggard, but she was starting to suspect that was impossible. It caught the gray in his hair and the slow pulse beneath his jaw. Only the slack posture betrayed his weakness.

"So it was altruism?" She raised her eyebrows.

He snorted. "Not entirely. Gabriel is an impetuous child, but he's not without honor. It makes him predictable."

"What?" She sat back to stare at him.

"I bought back his trust. He's a strong ally, but he needed to believe our goals are aligned. An extravagant act was more effective than words."

"So it was an act?"

He gave her a cold look. "No. Act, as in action." After a moment, he let out a soft sigh. "If Gabriel hadn't shot me, it would not have cost so much. I wasn't sure I had completed the task before..." he made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "But Gabriel would protect you. I ensured that before I began." His lips quirked slightly. "I was irritated that he shot me, but it may have been helpful. Guilt is a powerful motivator, and he knows he was wrong."

"How are you now, then? Recovered?" She looked at him skeptically. "What comes next?"

He snorted again. "Not even close. I doubt I could stand right now." He took a deep breath. "I need to speak with him, but after I rest."

"There's dinner for you, too." She brought the paper bags closer. "It's been sitting out, not refrigerated. I assume that's not a problem?"

"It doesn't matter."

Niall took the notebook from him and helped him sit up. The boy cut up the pig's hearts and they ate together in silence. Owen stared at the floor, each bite deliberate.

"You think Eastborn should be our first target then?" he asked finally.

Niall nodded.

There was a knock. "Come in!"

Gabriel poked his head cautiously around the door. He considered Owen for a long moment. "We need to talk."

Owen nodded. "Yes. We do." But he did not rise.

Gabriel hesitated, then entered and dropped to sit on the other side of the lantern. "Fine then. Finish eating." His voice was gentler than Aria had heard it before. "How do you feel?"

Owen slanted him a sideways look. "How do you think?"

Gabriel dropped his eyes and waited in silence while they finished.

Niall offered his shoulder to Owen. He leaned hard on it as he stood, blinking dizzily. He nearly fell, and Aria put one hand on his back, but Gabriel moved closer and pulled Owen's arm around his shoulder to support him.

"Come. Others must hear too."

They went again to the alcove. Owen's steps were slow, but he made it to a chair and dropped into it with a sigh. Others filed in and crowded around. There weren't enough chairs for everyone, but Aria and Niall sat on either side of Owen, with Gabriel at the end of the table.

Gabriel spoke without preamble. "Joshua remembered more after he slept. He said that after his tracker was put in, he spent a week in a gray room before reporting for work. Do you know anything about that?"

The image rose in Aria' mind. "I remember a room. I don't know what happened there. I think I got injections." She closed her eyes and pictured it. She hadn't thought about it for years, the memory lost. Now she saw the fresh gray paint, a slight stain on the floor in one corner that might have been blood. A screen at the front. "We watched videos, I think. A lot of videos."

"We?"

"There were about twenty of us in there at the same time. We sat in chairs with our arms and ankles strapped in. It didn't hurt, but we were scared at first. Not at the end, though."

"You didn't remember this before?"

"No."

Gabriel sighed. "It's not much to go on."

The fierce-looking woman spoke from behind Niall. "So the trackers make people forget? Do they have the technology to affect thoughts and memories that way?"

"No. Not by electronic means." Owen's voice was quiet but sure.

"How do you know?"

"If they could do that, they should be able to detect Fae more easily. The trackers cannot be self-powered; they must be passive. Their scanners have range and can be very precise as far as location, but the trackers aren't much more than product tags. The scanners detect a tracker, not a body. If you don't have a tracker, you're invisible. Only a few secure facilities have the advanced sensors to detect us, and those aren't strictly a technological solution. It shouldn't be that hard, either; just scan for bodies and alarm on the ones that are cold. They have those, too, but not everywhere."

Gabriel shot him a sharp look. "Why have you never told us this?"

"I don't recall parting on terms that encouraged me to share information with you." Owen's voice was mild.

Gabriel scowled. "So then what happened to you, Aria? And why the delay in regaining your memories? What happened to prompt you to remember?"

Aria answered, "I was arrested and held for several days. No water, hands bound." She took a deep breath. "I'm not the hero sort and it was pretty scary."

Owen said, "She was already troubled by evidence that didn't match her memories. The tracker insertion was associated with these memories, and removing the tracker along with Grenidor's subsequent psychological and physiological attack made her more open to recovering her true memories than she had been before. Then she heard me sing. The song was for healing."

"For her?" Gabriel asked.

"Only later. The first few times I sang for myself, and after her arrest, I sang for Niall."

"So she benefited by chance?" This from a man standing near the back.

Owen answered, "The song is a tool, not megdhonia itself, but it does carry some power."

Another man spoke from the back. "To clarify, people were detained and received the tracker and a drug cocktail that made them suggestible. Then they were brainwashed while under the influence of drugs?"

There were nods from around the table.

Owen said, "I doubt the cocktail was entirely mundane. They have made more advances in magic in the last ten years than in technology. That could account for the persistent effects."

There was a silence, and Owen added, "There was something in your brain, too. It wasn't doing anything, but I sensed it there. Perhaps it used to affect you."

"What?" Aria's voice cracked. "What are you talking about?"

"I felt it when I removed your tracker. It's inactive. Maybe it's broken."

She remembered the feel of his icy fingers against her scalp that first night under the bridge. "What did it do?"

"I don't know enough to guess. But it wasn't affecting you. It may have been inactive for years."

Gabriel let out a long, slow breath. "Right, then. Did Joshua have one?"

"No," Owen said.

Silence descended on the table for minutes. Someone whispered to someone else in the back, but no one said anything aloud.

Aria said thoughtfully, "Some people just disappeared."

"Perhaps they couldn't internalize the propaganda they were fed in a way that made sense," Owen answered, his voice so quiet that several people leaned forward to hear him. "Their worldview wasn't malleable enough. They couldn't be manipulated, for whatever reason, so they had to be eliminated."

"So I survived because my mind was weak?" Aria frowned.

Owen smiled slightly. "Call it flexible."

Gabriel leaned forward. "So removing the tracker wouldn't necessarily cause someone to reevaluate the memories. It's more a result of re-traumatizing them enough to bring up the memories, and then addressing the brainwashing."

"Perhaps." Owen slumped further in his chair.

"So how does this help us?" Eli asked. "We can't exactly start kidnapping people and removing their trackers, and it sounds like that wouldn't help much anyway."

Gabriel nodded. "And I suspect that if we were the ones to traumatize them, it might be less effective at establishing our position as the good guys."

Owen's lips twitched, as if he wanted to smile. He propped his head on his fist, eyes half-closed. Gabriel glanced at him and frowned. "We'll discuss this more later. Think on our options."

Owen didn't move as they filed out around him, though his eyes drifted closed.

"Are you awake?" Gabriel asked.

He grunted softly.

"You're staying tonight, aren't you?"

He grunted again, an ambiguous sound, but then murmured, "We have more to discuss." He straightened with some effort and fixed his cool blue eyes on Gabriel. "I brought you valuable information. It isn't free."

"I expect not." Gabriel inclined his head.

"I want fifteen of your men with me when I go against the Eastborn Imperial Security Facility next week."

Gabriel grimaced. "Fifteen is a lot."

"If we succeed, it could be important. For both of us."

Gabriel sighed and looked away for a moment, but Owen's eyes did not waver. Finally, he murmured, "You're right. We are stronger together. And I expect your fight and mine are not unconnected."

"Agreed."

Dinner was another silent meal. Aria ate with Gabriel and a different selection of soldiers. _I bet he rotates who he eats with, so no one feels slighted. Savvy, actually._

"Why didn't any of you ever have trackers?" Aria spoke up tentatively. "I thought everybody got them."

One of the women answered. "We lost the war, but we never conceded. We hid. We didn't know what they were doing, but we knew we wanted no part of it."

Aria frowned at her plate. "I have most of my memories back, I think. There aren't too many empty spots, anyway. But I still don't really remember _why_ there was a war. I don't think I ever really understood, even at the time. There was so much propaganda even before the brainwashing, we never really understood which side was which, or what they were fighting about."

Heads turned toward her. "What quadrant were you in?"

"North."

The woman sat back. "Ah."

Aria blinked at her. "What? What does that mean?"

"North Quadrant is the Revolution's home turf. They'd co-opted all the radio and television stations, Wi-Fi signals, bookstores, everything for quite a while before they made a move openly. You probably got your trackers earlier too."

"Where are we now?"

"East Quadrant. Just barely. But patrols are less frequent here, so it helps. They're still consolidating power."

"So why was there a war?"

"Power. It's always power." The woman took a drink from her canteen. "They wanted the power to tell people whatever they wanted. Arrest and detain people without going through the legal processes, declare war against the Outlanders for no legitimate reason, remake all the infrastructure to their own ends. Medical, legal, political, education, everything. It was like a new regime, except they started before they held all the power. We fought back. When people were captured, they disappeared for a time and then reappeared, suddenly compliant. We didn't know why or how, but slowly our efforts fell apart as everyone went along with it."

One of the men said, "The war began before we even realized it. It started slowly. The guns and tanks were desperation near the end, when we'd already lost but we didn't know it yet."

"So you all hid?"

"We haven't given up." Another soldier spoke from across the table.

"Were you all soldiers?"

"No. The soldiers were brainwashed first. A few of us escaped, mostly Special Forces. Tell her." The man gestured.

"I was a journalist."

"Information security."

"Dentist."

"Programmer."

"Orthopedist."

"Middle school teacher."

Aria blinked. They all looked like soldiers now.

Gabriel loaned her a book, which she read by the light of the electric lantern. It was easy to lose track of time underground, but she felt tired again quickly. Owen was asleep on the floor, pale and motionless, and Niall had curled up next to him like a forlorn puppy, head nestled against his shoulder.

Aria read the words, but the story was stupid, some crime procedural drivel that meant nothing and didn't hold her interest. Yet the mindless action of reading one word and then the next was soothing, and she put it away with a feeling of gratitude. She remembered none of it, and that was fine. She lay on her back and stared at the wall of cardboard stretching up to the painted ceiling.

Owen sighed softly, the first sound she'd heard from him in hours, and moved his head a fraction of an inch. That was a good sign. More like sleeping, rather than lying half-dead.

She didn't need to sleep again, and the floor felt hard and uncomfortable. But she didn't want to go out into the common area. It was probably night, and they would be sleeping. She turned to lie on her side, eyes drifting closed.

She noticed the movement by the shadow that blocked the lamplight. Owen sat up and put one hand on Niall's shoulder to speak softly into his ear.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I heard something. A vertril may have been drawn here. I'm going to check."

He stood and made his way unsteadily to the door. Niall and Aria followed him down the hall.

The theater was lit with numerous lanterns, and most people were up and moving about.

Gabriel waved to them. Owen led the way toward him, and as they approached, Gabriel said, "Something's out there. Big."

Owen nodded. "Give me my swords and I'll handle it."

"You can barely stand. We have guns. Go back to sleep."

"It's a vertril, isn't it?"

"What?"

"Big, wolf-like thing."

"Haven't seen it clearly, but could be. It's trying to break down the door up from the tunnel. We haven't gotten any good shots in. Can't shoot without opening the door. We have a team going around to catch it from the rear."

"Give me my swords. You don't want it to die here. They're tracked too. IPF will come investigate."

Gabriel blinked at him. "What?"

"They hunt us. They have no interest in you. I'll draw it away before I kill it."

Gabriel gazed at him skeptically. "You up for it? We do have guns, let me remind you."

Owen blinked at him slowly. "If you want the IPF on your heads, feel free to handle it yourself. Otherwise, get me my swords."

"Do _you_ want a gun then?"

Aria blinked at the offer. Gabriel had shot Owen less than two days ago, and now he was offering to arm him. _That's trusting._

"No. Vertril are more vulnerable to Fae blades than bullets. A flaw in the design."

Someone came running up. "The door is failing, sir. The team is not yet in position. What defensive measures do you want in here?"

"Get his swords from my office. Immediately."

The man sprinted off.

Gabriel led the way toward the far wall, where an open service door led down a hallway. Eight men were crouched at the far end in defensive positions, staring at a sturdy metal door. Growling sounded from behind it, interspersed with thunderous crashes as the beast threw itself against the door. The bolts of the hinges were sliding back and forth in their holes as the impact crumbled the concrete doorframe.

After another moment, Gabriel handed Owen's sword belt to him. He buckled it on, keeping an eye toward the door. Then he unclasped the scabbard of the larger sword and handed it to Niall with a soft murmur. Niall shook his head, but Owen stared at him a moment and he dropped his eyes.

"Again, I'm trusting you with them, Gabriel." Owen skewered him with a look, and Gabriel nodded.

"Everyone out of the hall except you." Owen pointed at the man closest to the door. "Open the door when I tell you. Don't shoot, just keep out of the way. Close it after I exit."

Gabriel appeared skeptical but nodded to his men to obey. They filed out and closed the lighter service door, then formed a defensive position behind it.

There was a pause, then the far door slammed open with a deafening crack that rang above the hideous growling. A snarl, several heavy thuds, and then silence. After a moment, they heard a knock on the service door. The man closest opened it.

The man on the other side was wide-eyed and slack-jawed. A splatter of blood crossed his face, but he was unharmed. "It's gone," he said at last.

The hallway had two large streaks of blood, and the industrial tile floor was marred by long scratches. The door at the end stood open.

The men closed it silently. Gabriel sent someone in search of heavy objects to barricade the door, and then turned to Aria and Niall.

With forced cheerfulness, he said, "Well, that's solved then. He'll be back soon, no doubt."

Niall stared at him with tight lips before turning and stalking back to their room. Aria licked her lips and gazed down the hallway at the closed door.

Gabriel considered her. "You know about these vertril? I've never seen one."

"A little. They're scary."

"Why did he leave his sword with you?"

_He said in case it went badly, I'd need a blade._ Niall kept his eyes on the notebook, refusing to look up at her. _I think he should have taken it._

"I'm sure he'll be fine. He's tough and smart."

_He's only fighting because of me. If he hadn't rescued me, he would have given up._ After a long period of thought, he added, _I did not expect this success with Gabriel. Perhaps there is hope after all._

"I think he knew exactly what he was doing."

He twisted his mouth in an expression she couldn't read.

Hours passed. Finally, even Niall grew tired of their cramped room, and he and Aria wandered out into the theater. Conversations hushed, then slowly resumed. A woman waved to her from a small knot of men and women sitting on the floor near one wall, and Aria led the way toward her.

It was the fierce looking woman Aria had seen earlier. This time she smiled and seemed friendlier. "I'm Evrial. If you want to eat with us, you're welcome."

"Thanks." Aria tried to smile. "I'm Aria. This is Niall."

"Your friend. He can really handle that thing?" She gazed at Aria with a mixture of skepticism, curiosity, and awe.

Aria forced herself to nod. "He's a little worse for wear right now. But I'm sure he'll be fine."

Niall frowned more deeply. He carried Owen's sword with him, unwilling to put it down, and clutched a notebook under one arm.

"I'm a squad leader for the mission he's leading next week. Do you know what he's planning?" She gestured. "This is my squad. Bartok, Levi, Jenison, and Malachi."

The men all nodded politely, eyeing Aria and Niall with obvious curiosity.

"Not really." She wasn't sure how much she should share. "I assume it's a rescue mission."

Niall wrote quickly and turned the notebook toward Evrial. _We believe Eastborn does not have the advanced sensors to detect our blood. Our chances of success are greater, and if we succeed, it could be important. Also, we have family there._

Evrial eyed him. "Can you not talk?"

He shook his head but did not explain.

"How many are in the Resistance?" Aria looked around. "This is impressive..." Her voice trailed away. "But the Empire seems really powerful."

"It is," Bartok agreed. He was a little younger than the others, perhaps in his early thirties, his light brown hair prematurely sprinkled with gray. Despite his wiry, athletic figure, his eyes seemed kind and gentle. "We have a safe haven outside the city. A few women and children who escaped the trackers are there. We could take you."

Evrial smiled gently. "What he means is, you don't look like a fighter."

Aria frowned, and Evrial waved a hand dismissively. "Don't be offended. I think we'd all prefer to be back in our old jobs. I was Army, but I was logistical corps. I didn't actually go on ops much."

Levi snorted. "You wouldn't know it. She might have been a drill sergeant in her former life."

Aria smiled. "And what were you?"

"I owned a dry cleaning business." He grinned. "Not too impressive, huh? Compared to these guys, I mean." His wave encompassed Evrial.

"What were you before?" She glanced around the group.

Jenison answered, "A lawyer."

Malachi said, "Management in a small financial firm."

Bartok smiled wryly. "A pediatrician."

"Really?" She eyed him curiously, then bent to whisper in Niall's ear, "Would you show him your mouth?"

Niall shook his head.

"What about you?" Bartok broke the silence.

Aria frowned. "I was a grad student. Studying history. Things didn't line up, and I found a book. It just made me question things."

Evrial sighed. "You don't know how to shoot, do you?"

Aria shook her head.

"If you're going on the mission, you'll need to practice. Better start now." She stood purposefully. "You won't be ready, but if Gabriel says you go, then you go. It's up to him."

The whole squad followed as she led them to the far end of the hall, down a long corridor and into a deeper underground cavern. It had been turned into a training room, with targets stationed at one end backed by thick rolls of carpet scavenged from other areas of the hotel. A jumble of boxes, nets, rolls of carpet, and ropes clogged one corner of the room.

"What's that?"

"An obstacle course. You have to find something in it, or run through it with a piece of chalk and mark all the designated items, or something. Timed. It's an agility exercise, mostly. We do a lot of hand to hand training too, but really, if it comes to that, you've already screwed up."

Evrial and Bartok took charge of Aria's training. They put on sound-dampening earmuffs and found a pair that fit Aria. Bartok brought Niall a pair, too, which the Fae boy examined quizzically before slipping them over his head. He settled in a corner with a notebook and the sword across his lap. Meanwhile, Jenison, Malachi, and Levi meandered over to the obstacle course.

Aria focused on the process of shooting. The gun felt heavy and unfamiliar in her hands.

"This is a version of an AR-15. It's semi-automatic, which means it shoots one bullet at a time every time you pull the trigger until you run out of bullets. Aim like this." Evrial demonstrated, bringing her own rifle up to her shoulder. "Line up the sights here and here. Then squeeze the trigger. Don't 'pull' it; everyone says 'pull,' but you really want to use a squeezing motion instead."

Aria went through the motions, putting the gun up to her shoulder and holding the target in her sights. Her arms trembled, and she felt awkward and embarrassed beside Evrial's smooth competency.

The first time she squeezed the trigger, she flinched preemptively. The earmuffs deadened the sound, and the kick was strong but not unmanageable. She frowned down the range at the target. The bullet had left a small hole near the bottom of the outer ring.

"That's not bad, actually. If this is your first time, I'm impressed." Evrial smiled at her encouragingly. "Try again. Don't be afraid of it."

She lined up carefully for each shot. The next five were all in the two innermost circles, an uneven scatter pattern of perhaps four inches.

"That's better." Bartok smiled.

They were patient teachers, and Aria was gratified to find her skill improving. They moved to use a 9mm pistol, which she found more difficult, but Bartok nodded approval at her accuracy.

After an hour, Bartok left the women and sat against the wall by Niall.

He said nothing for some minutes, but finally faced Niall and said, "So you're a Fae, are you?" The sound was barely audible through the earmuffs.

Niall nodded.

"Do you know how to use that?" He indicated the sword.

_Not as well as Lord Owen._

"Care to demonstrate?"

Niall shrugged but didn't rise. After a moment, he wrote, _For what purpose? Can you teach me?_

Bartok smiled. "I don't know much about swords. I'm a decent shot but that's all. Would you like to try shooting?"

Niall shrugged again, then put the sword and notebook aside and stood. They strode over to the makeshift shooting range. Bartok showed Niall how to check the gun for bullets, how to load it, unload it, sight it, and finally demonstrated how to shoot.

"Here. Start with a solid stance, like this. Brace yourself. It has quite a kick."

Niall sighted down the barrel and squeezed the trigger. Bartok blinked in surprise; the hole was in the dead center of the target.

"Try a couple more."

Niall squeezed off the remaining bullets one after another without pausing. Bartok raised his arm to get Aria and Evrial's attention, then jogged down the range to examine the target. He shook his head and jogged back.

"That's amazing. A half-inch scatter, if not less." He raised his eyebrows at Evrial. "Can you do that? At this distance?"

Evrial looked at Niall. "You've never shot before?"

Niall pantomimed using a rifle, then held up ten fingers, lowered them, then held them up again.

"Twenty times?"

He shook his head.

"Twenty what?" They stared at him, baffled.

Aria guessed. "Twenty years ago?"

He nodded and gave her an appreciative look.

Bartok straightened. "What? You're nine years old! Maybe ten at the most."

He shook his head again and jogged toward his notebook.

Aria said, "Fae age differently. I don't know much about them yet, but he's actually 78."

They blinked at her incredulously.

_My father said I should know how. He learned with older weapons, where the occasional poor shot was to be expected. He revised his expectations in light of the accuracy of modern guns._

Bartok blinked at him and let out a soft breath. "I would love to talk to you. I have so many questions."

Niall frowned, and Aria guessed that he wished Owen were back.

She put one hand on his shoulder and said, "He's had a rough time. The Imperial forces had a lot of questions too, and they weren't kind about asking them. I think it would be best not to push him."

Niall looked up at her and nodded. Then he took a deep breath and wrote, _but if my answers can help our mission succeed, I will try._

Bartok knelt in front of him, and Aria suddenly saw the gentle pediatrician, rather than the soldier. "I don't mean to upset you. I'm curious, but my curiosity can wait. Unlike many of the others, I don't believe all the legends. I'm just interested." He smiled a little, and Niall studied his face for a long moment before giving him a small smile in return. "I'm a doctor, after all. That's what we do. Research."

Niall's face hardened, and he turned away with an angry jerk. He pulled the earmuffs off and dropped them on the floor, grabbed Owen's sword, and stalked out the door.

Bartok stared after him, his face stricken.

Aria went after him, nearly running to catch up with Niall's quick steps. "You know he didn't mean it that way."

He did not slow down.

"Where are you going?"

He glared over his shoulder at her.

Niall paused at the far end of the theater, and Aria stopped at his side and faced him. "What are you doing? Where are you going?"

His mouth was tight, and he glared at her again before finally yanking the notebook out and scribbling, _It has been too long. I am going after Lord Owen._

"I'm sure he's fine. He would rather you stay here, in safety."

He looked at her scornfully. _There is no safety here for us. If he is hurt, he needs me. I am stronger now and I can help him._

"Are you?" She tried to keep her voice gentle, reaching for his still-bruised wrist with one hand.

He indicated the sword and raised his chin.

Bartok came jogging up, standing some distance away. "I'm sorry, Niall. I didn't know."

There was a shout from the entrance, and they all turned to look.

Gabriel entered, and behind him came Owen. His eyes caught theirs immediately, and he nodded.

Niall sprinted toward him and stopped suddenly at arm's length. He knelt, bowed his head, and raised the sword in both hands. Owen took it solemnly and clipped the scabbard back onto his belt. Niall rose and bowed, then flung himself at his uncle, wrapping his arms about him, face pressed hard into Owen's chest.

Owen murmured something, and Niall pulled back to grin at him.

"He did it." Evrial had come up behind them, unnoticed.

Aria smiled at Owen too. "I'm glad you're back. Are you all right?"

"Tired, but yes. I led it on a merry chase for several hours. I killed it close to IPF quadrant headquarters."

Aria noticed now that he had a bloody bandage wrapped around his right thigh. Niall gestured toward it with a questioning look.

"It's not bad," Owen said.

Niall pantomimed eating, and Owen smiled slightly. "Yes, please."

Gabriel sent Eli to get food, and Owen limped slowly to the small conference table. Despite his assertion that he was fine, it was obvious his leg was painful. Bartok and Evrial followed, no doubt curious, and Gabriel didn't protest. Owen dropped into a chair and stretched out his leg with a soft grunt. He had blood crusted into his hair near one ear, but there was no visible wound. Niall gestured toward the bandage again, and Owen nodded that he could look.

Bartok also knelt close and turned on an electric lantern. Owen drew his knife and cut the bandage off. Bartok winced in sympathy and started to reach forward to pull the torn fabric of Owen's pants away from the wound, but Niall struck his hand away and shouldered between them.

"Let him see. If they're to help us, they should know, Niall." Owen spoke in English, and he looked down to meet Bartok's eyes. "We are not your enemy. Remember that, though we're different."

Bartok nodded, looking a little confused. "Agreed."

Niall reluctantly sat back on his heels. Bartok pulled the bloody fabric away from the wound and examined the injury without touching it. "I need to wash my hands. This isn't sanitary."

"There's no need," Owen said.

Bartok glanced up at him. "You'll need stitches. It's pretty deep. You shouldn't have been walking on it. What happened?"

"I was slow."

"Evrial, would you get the first aid kit? And water?"

"There's no need," Owen repeated. "Just look at it."

"I have."

Niall motioned to Owen hopefully, and Owen studied him for a long moment and then nodded. Niall closed his eyes, one hand on Owen's knee.

_Spring in the forest. Fresh, pale leaves rustled silently in the breeze, dropping their dew. The smell of loam rose, rich and dark. Niall sprinted through the leaves, soundless and light as a deer, laughing. There was music in the leaves, in the sunlight dancing through the waving branches. Silent music._

"That's enough, Niall."

Bartok sucked in his breath, then leaned forward to pull the fabric aside and peer at the unmarked skin from inches away.

Niall leaned his head against Owen's knee. Owen murmured something to him, and he smiled.

Eli brought a paper bag.

Owen studied Bartok and Evrial in turn, and finally said, "You don't have to watch. But I'm hungry, and it's been a long day already."

Bartok stared at him. "Did you do that, or did he?"

"Niall did." Owen reached out to tousle the boy's hair affectionately.

He stared at Owen's leg. "Impossible."

"Improbable. Not impossible."

"But you could have done that too? You're the same kind as he is?" Bartok glanced between them.

"Yes."

"And you limped all the way back here on it because... why?"

"You and the others needed to see."

Niall wrote _Did you discover something? You seem pleased._

"Yes. I tested the sensors as I ran. I found another facility. It was concealed, and I was unaware of it before. It appeared to have only mundane sensors, perhaps for fear that we can sense the other ones." Owen spread the plastic and cut the pig's heart with quick, efficient strokes. Bartok and Evrial looked on with ill-concealed disgust, but Gabriel had his eyes fixed on Owen's face.

Owen continued, "If we could strike at both within hours, they may not be able to upgrade the sensors in time. I assume the concealment means there is something there they don't want us to find. Perhaps," he hesitated on the phrase, "test subjects. Perhaps something else entirely."

Gabriel stared at him. "That's risky."

With blood on his lips and blue eyes blazing, Owen's smile looked feral. "Yes. It is. Are you afraid, Gabriel?"

Gabriel rubbed his jaw and sat back. He stared at the ceiling and tapped his hands together, and finally said, "You want more men?"

"Twenty-five. Total."

"Why so many?"

"The test subjects will require assistance to flee." Owen's gaze did not leave Gabriel's face.

After a long moment, Gabriel nodded. "Agreed."

Owen smiled again, eyes bright and hard.

# Chapter Eight

Everyone studied the map as Owen drew on it with a stubby grease pencil to outline his plan. It was an old tourism map, thoroughly creased and worn, with tiny holes at the corners of the folds. Gabriel had covered it in clear packing tape to protect it since maps were hard to come by.

"We'll do this facility on H Street at 10:00 PM. I'll go in first and see what I find. I'll call for Jonah's squad if necessary. Evrial and Geoffrey's squads, Gabriel, Aria, and Niall will provide cover fire from here, here, and here. Dominic and Benjamin's squads should be resting for the mission at Eastborn. I believe, though I cannot be sure, that there are no test subjects held captive here. Other facilities that hold test subjects have non-standard security measures. As far as I know, this facility has only mundane sensors that I can bypass or disable. We will regroup here afterwards and immediately depart for Eastborn.

"The mission at Eastborn will likely be more challenging. It is an extraction effort, not an attempt to destroy the facility. We don't want to kill anyone if we can help it. Most of them are probably brainwashed. But don't let mercy get you in trouble. Niall and Dominic's squad will provide cover fire from here and here. I will enter first, over the wall here. I will radio back the best way in. Jonah, Benjamin, and Evrial will follow with their squads two minutes later. Geoffrey's squad will be split. Two will create some type of diversion here, and the other three will provide cover fire for the rear wall in case the front gate is too heavily guarded. The plan is to go out the front gate, but Geoffrey's squad will have ropes ready in case we need to go over the back wall. Dominic's squad and Niall will move as needed to provide cover as we escape.

"There are sensors here." He marked multiple places on the map, all around the perimeter and several within the complex itself. "They are all mundane. Most of them scan only for trackers, and if you don't have a tracker, you can pass without notice. Some of them are motion sensors. These scan for bodies and will alarm at non-standard body temperature. I can raise my temperature, but not indefinitely, and not without compromising my ability to free the captives. I can also scramble the sensor output, but again, it would compromise my strength too much. I think it best to rely on speed instead."

Niall waved to get Owen's attention and gestured towards himself. Owen shook his head, but Niall slapped the table and glared at him.

"No, Niall."

Niall wrote furiously in the notebook and turned it toward Owen. Owen straightened and stared at Niall, who glared back at him for a long moment before conceding with a scowl as he dropped his gaze. The humans stared at the map, uncomfortably aware of an argument unfolding that they didn't understand.

Owen spoke again after a moment, his voice even. "The captives are our first priority. They must be freed. Niall will save his strength to ensure that everyone makes it out."

Niall frowned stiffly at the map.

Owen pointed again. "I believe the cells are approximately here, underground. Only the cellblocks have 'magic' sensors and barriers. If we don't find someone with keys on our way in, it may take some time for me to gain entrance. I will need cover in order to focus."

"Could you open the barriers before you go in?" Evrial asked.

"Perhaps. But that will set off alarms as well, and the captives will need our protection as they escape."

Gabriel stared across the table. "What exactly _are_ your capabilities, Owen?"

"In what regard?"

"In general. You can disable the alarms from a distance? Could you cause the distraction yourself? Cause an explosion from a distance? Heal? Change memories?"

"Yes."

"Why do you need us?"

"We can do many things, but there are costs. Consequences. Most often they are physical. Given time, I could do a great many things that would surprise you. But I won't have time to rest in the middle of the mission. If I had thirty Fae and sufficient time, we could do almost all of the mission ourselves without leaving this hotel. But I don't." His voice was low and hard.

There was silence until Gabriel nodded.

Aria asked quietly, "What will I be doing?"

"You will stay behind."

She frowned at him. "I think I could be useful. Apparently I'm a decent shot. And I want to help."

Evrial nodded. "She is good, especially given her inexperience. I'm not sure I'd recommend including her, though. If it goes badly, we don't want a rookie panicking."

Aria glared at her as Evrial continued, "I mean no insult, but every squad works together as a team. Inserting someone new into a team right before a mission doesn't typically go well."

Gabriel and the others nodded. Owen studied Aria without expression for long enough that the silence drew out uncomfortably. Aria wanted to fidget, but forced herself to meet Owen's cool blue eyes. Finally, he gave a slight nod. "Agreed. You come. You will stay with Niall and provide cover for the front gate."

"When is the mission?"

"Four days. The first one at 10:00 PM, and the second around 1:00 AM, depending on security."

That night, she found herself in the little room with nothing to do before dinner. She'd finished the book Gabriel had loaned her and felt fidgety and nervous. Owen lay on his back with his hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling. His face looked as serene as if he were asleep, though his eyes were open.

"Will you tell me about your people?"

"What about us?" He turned to look at her. His blue eyes on hers made it hard to think straight. Did he know that?

"The Seelie Court and Unseelie Court, for example. I remember the words but I don't remember the legend."

Owen sat up to lean against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, and gave her a quirky little half-smile. "Those have more to do with human legends than with us. I believe they're a corruption of something a Fae once told a human."

"What is the truth, then?"

"Seelie comes from an Irish word meaning good, and it referred to fairies who meant no harm to humans. Friendly fairies, more or less. The others were dark fairies, malevolent toward humans. In reality, neither type has ever existed as any sort of formal court, or even organized factions. Most of us believe humans and Fae can live in peace." He smiled a little, eyes distant. "Or we used to. As long as we kept to ourselves, the affairs of men had little effect on us. For generations, humans forgot we even existed. That was acceptable. But the technological changes in the last twenty years and the Empire's interest in us have made isolation no longer a viable option."

"What about changelings?"

"What about them?"

"Do they exist? Did you ever play pranks like that? Steal human children? Pay a blood tithe to the underworld? Drink blood like a vampire? There are so many legends! Are any of them true?"

Owen raised his eyebrows, and she read amusement in his sidelong glance. "Pranks have been played, yes. I am unaware of any stolen children." His eyes hardened for an instant, and he clarified quietly, "Any stolen _human_ children, I mean."

He extended his hand to her, and she looked at it for several seconds before realizing he wanted her to give him the book. He held it a moment then tossed it in the air.

The book became a tiny brown sparrow that fluttered in a spiral, chirping madly, then perched precariously on the vertical edge of the cardboard box next to her ear. Its minuscule claws made scratching sounds as they dug into the cardboard, and it hopped closer. Aria didn't move, barely breathed, as the little bird poked its beak into her hair, hopped onto her shoulder, then her knee, where it turned to face her. It cocked its head to one side, then the other, examining her face with disconcerting intensity.

Aria glanced at Owen, who was watching her with an odd look in his eyes. Her eyes went back to the bird. She couldn't help smiling, and she reached one tentative finger out toward it. It hopped away, but only a few inches, and looked from her face to her finger and back again. She could feel the tiny movements of its feet through her pants. She smiled a little more when the bird let her touch its back with her finger, just brushing the dusty brown feathers.

It flew to Owen and alighted on his finger. He blew at it, and suddenly he was holding her book, which he extended back to her.

She blinked at him incredulously. "Was the bird real, or an illusion?"

"It was real."

"Where did the book go?"

"It was in the bird." He smiled enigmatically.

"Then where did the bird go?"

"It's there. In the book." He smiled a little more, and she suspected his smile was more at her look of consternation than at his own magic.

"I gather that wasn't as taxing as healing?"

"No."

"Blood tithe?" She raised her eyebrows.

"Fool's talk. What underworld do they mean? Hell? Tartaros? Mag Mell? What would the denizens want with a blood tithe, and what use is blood if it doesn't come from those being taxed?"

"Is it strange to live so long?"

He blinked at her slowly, as if he found the question puzzling. "Strange to whom?"

She suddenly felt childish, but came up with another question. "Can you heal humans or only Fae?"

"Humans can be healed, but it is much more tiring. Your bodies flirt so closely with death, it is difficult to keep it at bay long enough to heal you."

"Why did you want to wait four more days for the mission? I thought you'd be in a hurry."

"I will need all my strength. I'm still tired."

She studied his face in the lamplight. "Does it bother you to wait?"

He drew his swords out of their scabbards and laid them on the floor, then pulled a small, flat stone from his rucksack and began to sharpen the larger sword with long, deliberate strokes. It made a soft, rasping sound that somehow seemed primeval, at odds with the electric lantern.

He was silent for so long that she thought he might not answer, and when he did, his voice was soft. "Yes. But if I act before I am capable, it will gain them nothing, and may cost them much."

She licked her lips and wished she knew how to be comforting. She'd never been good at it, and she didn't know Owen well enough to offer reassurance. He continued sharpening the sword, his movements precise and methodical.

Aria offered another question, one she hoped would distract him from unpleasant thoughts. "What makes Fae blades so special?"

He nodded toward the shorter sword. "See if you can feel the difference."

She wrapped her hand around the hilt and lifted carefully. It was heavier than she'd expected, but then she'd never held any other sword for comparison. The metal caught the light, and she ran her finger along one smooth side, avoiding the razor sharp edge. The hilt was forged metal, subtly textured by regular hammer strokes in a repeating pattern. She imagined that it might become slippery with sweat, but Fae didn't seem to sweat as humans did. The guard was a practical crossbar, though it appeared etched or engraved with an ornate pattern on each side. She leaned down to study it; it might have been writing of some Fae dialect, or possibly only a complicated series of swirls and knots and spirals.

"I don't know anything about swords," she said finally. "But it's beautiful."

He glanced up at her as if surprised. "You think so?"

She nodded. "Is this writing? What does it say?"

He smiled slightly, looking back down at the blade in his hands. "It is an inscription of protection and honor. My great grandfather made it as a child. The blade is quite good, but he had not come into his own as a craftsman when he made it. My father was surprised when I chose it above the others he offered."

Aria sighed and sat back. What would it be like to have history like that? Even now, with her memories back, she didn't feel that sense of belonging. Her mother was a mass of disjointed memories, words, feelings. Baking cookies. An argument. The soft feel of her arms embracing Aria after a skinned knee. Her father, the memories more distant somehow. His laughter. His kindness.

Owen seemed grounded in a way she could only envy.

"You threatened to tell Petro that Dandra didn't get the maps for you. Who is Petro?"

"Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to."

"I do want to know."

She stared at him, and he sighed again. "I am not permitted to lie. But you might prefer if I did. Retract your question."

"No." She held his eyes.

His jaw tightened. "Petro is dangerous. I have approached him for information when desperate, but it is a last resort. He does not like to be wrong. When I asked him, he told me that Dandra could get the maps. I doubt Petro lied; that means she didn't tell me the truth. I didn't tell him about her failure." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I was angry, but I am not that cruel. A human should not face Petro's wrath."

"Is he human?"

"No."

"Fae?"

"No."

"Then what is he?"

He stared at her, his expression unreadable. "You ask a lot of questions."

"You've told me that before." She smiled at him, hoping for a smile in return, but he merely stared at her as if puzzled.

"Some things shouldn't be questioned. Some answers should not be known."

The days before the mission went slowly for Aria. Her stomach constantly churned with nerves. She practiced shooting under Bartok and Evrial's instruction, but then stopped because Evrial said they needed to conserve ammunition. She didn't know how she felt about shooting someone. Causing death. Bartok and Evrial were grim too, and she wondered whether they were as tense as she was.

Owen fought another vertril the morning of their mission, leading it on a long chase before he killed it. He slipped back into the hotel by the tunnel entrance, and Aria felt her shoulders relax when he said none of the blood that streaked his clothes was his.

They ate lunch in their room, and she asked him, "Why did the vertril injure you the first day, but sometimes you seem to have no problem with them?"

"It caught me in the hallway, pinned me against the wall. It's much better to fight in an open space, where I can move and dodge. I was distracted and didn't get into the open in time."

She swallowed, trying not to imagine how terrifying it must have been. "Why were you distracted?"

He raised one eyebrow and stared at her for a long moment.

"I'm sorry."

He smiled, amused by her discomfort. "I should have been paying better attention."

_He said they were tracked, that the IPF would know if they got too excited._ "Why hasn't the IPF found us here? The vertril keep coming."

He gave her another faint, sideways smile. "The vertril are excited when they find that Niall and I are here. I have to make sure they are more excited as they chase me, so the IPF doesn't pinpoint this location."

"You mean you tease them?" _Now that would be terrifying._

He nodded. "You could say that."

Aria licked her lips. "Why did you decide to let me go tonight? I'm glad you did, but what made you change your mind?"

"I remembered something." He studied her face. "Why did you keep following me?"

_Remembered what?_ She shrugged. "I'm curious." She wanted to add, _and you're interesting_ , but flushed with embarrassment and stifled the impulse. He'd never looked at her with anything that could possibly be construed as that sort of interest, even when Margot had prompted him.

She blushed even more when she realized his eyes were still on her. His lips quirked in a faint smile as he returned to his lunch.

Her embarrassment turned to irritation, and she scowled at his black curls. "You know, it's not polite to laugh at people."

He blinked at her innocently when he looked up. "Was I?"

She scowled even more as she looked down, feeling his eyes still on her flushed face. Was he embarrassed? At his own rudeness or on her behalf? She didn't feel any censure in his gaze, but neither did she want to look up to try to decipher his expression. He surely read much more in her face than she did in his.

His quiet kindness, his courage, and the ferocity of his love for Niall tugged at her heart. But just because she had begun to care for him did not mean he felt anything in return. She told herself it was foolish. His expressions, the quirky smiles that made her heart beat faster, were human. She assumed they meant what they would mean if he were human. But he was _not_ human, and it was easy to forget that.

She felt her heart thudding as he continued to study the top of her head.

After a long silence, he said softly, "I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

She glanced up to see his eyes still on her, more serious now. She shrugged awkwardly. "It's my fault. I'm sorry. I'm just irritable. Because I'm nervous." She swallowed and tried to smile. _Play it off. Just because you have a crush doesn't mean he needs to know it. Don't be stupid, Aria._

His eyes rested on her face, and she had the disconcerting feeling that he understood everything. Then he smiled and said, "First missions are always nerve-wracking. I like to think of all the possibilities and how I will deal with them. But if that makes you nervous, think only of your part and how your courage will enable the mission to succeed."

She looked down again. "Thank you." _For pretending you didn't just watch me embarrass myself._

# Chapter Nine

Ten o'clock.

Owen, Gabriel, Aria, Niall, Geoffrey, and Jonah's entire squad wore tiny wireless headsets with microphones that pressed against their throats. Designed for the military back before the Revolution, they still worked flawlessly, but there weren't enough for everyone. They'd tested the headsets that morning and decided on codes. One click of the tongue for yes, two for no, at least when silence was an issue.

The resistance forces had fourteen bulletproof vests. For the first mission, everyone wore a vest except a few of those providing cover fire.

"Do you have a video camera?" Owen asked.

Gabriel and Eli looked at each other. "Yes. Somewhere." Eli found it, an old digital model, with only a few hours of video capability. "It's not much good in the dark. At all."

Owen shrugged. "I'll take a penlight and see what I can get."

The target building was innocuous, more like an office building than a military facility. Aria didn't know what they expected to find inside. The squads spread out to cover each corner of the building. It wasn't large, just one corner of a city block, bordered by trash-strewn alleys to the rear that separated it from the other buildings on the block. The building was older, the concrete facade slightly worn, but not enough to stand out on this street. The windows on the first floor had all been bricked up, but that might have been an older modification. The main door showed faint lines of metal wiring crisscrossing inside the thick glass panes. Despite the protective measures, the inside of the well-lighted lobby was visible to Aria and the others standing outside.

It was clear the building was secure, but it could have been anything from a corporate headquarters to a bank. Nothing about it was obviously military. The armed guards carried law-enforcement issue pistols and the reception area had metal detectors in front of heavy metal doors. No insignia or logos marked the doors or reception desk. The guards were alert but relaxed, and Aria imagined they were used to long, uneventful night shifts.

Owen stayed some distance back from the building while they got in position. He slipped into the alley and they heard nothing for several minutes.

"Going in a third-floor window." His murmur would have been inaudible to someone standing in front of him, but the microphone picked it up.

Silence.

"Desks. Papers."

Silence.

The silence dragged on so long that Aria would have been worried, except that she could see Gabriel's face beside her. He seemed content to let Owen work without prompting him for a status update yet.

"First floor now," Owen said.

Silence for long minutes.

"Do you want us to come in?" Jonah asked.

"No."

More silence.

The guards chatted with each other. One of them pointed to something behind the desk, and Aria wondered if they had monitors back there, with a video feed of whatever Owen was doing. But what they saw didn't alarm them, and they went back to their discussion. She breathed a sigh of relief, then winced when she heard it over the headset. Everyone else was silent and professional.

"Going to the basement."

After another long silence, Gabriel asked, "Are you finding anything?"

Owen did not answer immediately. "Yes," he said finally. "Is it advantageous or disadvantageous to leave evidence of an intrusion?"

Gabriel's lips flattened as he thought. "What sort of evidence?"

Silence.

"Owen?"

A slight crackle in the microphone. "I'm three floors down now. Reception is spotty. Opinions on evidence?"

"What sort of evidence?"

"Missing hard drives. Dead vertril. Chemical spills."

Gabriel said finally, "Do as you think best."

"Understood." Then, "Losing reception. Remain in place."

It was nearly an hour later before they heard, "All clear. Mission complete."

He met them at the hotel with his rucksack slung over his shoulder, splattered with blood.

"You look gruesome." Aria grimaced at him. "Are you hurt?"

"No."

Inside, he emptied his rucksack on the conference table. Eight removable hard drives, a handful of folders filled with papers, and the digital camera. Then a larger bundle that had filled the rest of his pack. "We can analyze it later. We need to go. It's late." He jogged to his room and reappeared a moment later in a clean shirt. His face was still streaked with blood, and he accepted Aria's offer of a water bottle. He splashed water into his hands and on his face, scrubbed quickly and wiped it off, letting the water fall to the floor.

He spoke while he cleaned up. "The camera is full, but I don't know how much you'll be able to see. The basement is huge, the whole city block. I didn't explore all of it, but I got enough. The first basement floor is secure; most of the hard drives came from there. Possibly some sort of planning and intelligence center, lots of computers, conference rooms, secure video links. The second floor down had the chemical work; there were a number of labs."

He set the water bottle aside and untied the bundle to reveal a number of glass jars tied together so they wouldn't clank or break. "They're labeled, but I don't know what they do. The names aren't familiar. These three have some non-standard chemical structure. I'll be able to decipher some of their properties, but it will take time. I'd need to study more about human biology before I could guess what they would be used for. These others are mundane, but again, I don't know what they do. If you have a pharmacist or chemist among you, you might be able to figure it out, but I assume these are custom-made cocktails so it may not be obvious.

"The third floor underground had vertril of various ages. I killed them. This drive came from a computer on that floor; I'm hoping it contains documentation on them. That floor also connected directly to the sewer and underground rail tunnels."

Gabriel gaped at him. "That's amazing. And I thought windows in the secure buildings didn't open."

"They don't." At Gabriel's perplexed stare, Owen added, "I took it out of the frame. I put it back when I left, but given the other destruction, that was probably unnecessary. At least they won't know how I got in."

Gabriel let out a long, slow breath. "We have much to do."

"Not now. We need to go. If they've discovered the intrusion, the other facilities will heighten their security."

"I don't think they noticed." Gabriel frowned. "How did you do that, by the way?"

"Disabled motion sensors and proximity alarms. But at least some of the vertril had already been tagged. The tags report on their vital signs at intervals and alarm at irregularities. If the alarms haven't already been triggered, they will been soon."

Gabriel nodded. "Understood. Ready when you are."

The second mission had Aria's heart in her throat before they even departed.

Owen, Aria, and the squad leaders wore the headsets. The fourteen bulletproof vests outfitted everyone going into the facility except Owen and Jonah. Those providing cover from the walls would go without.

Evrial tried to give Jonah hers, but he flatly refused to take a vest while a woman didn't have one. "The answer is no, Evrial. I know you're a better shot than I am, and it doesn't matter. The answer is still no."

Gabriel silenced them with a look. "We have a few night vision scopes, too. Dominic, Geoffrey, and I will take those, unless you want one, Owen."

"No." Owen shook his head.

They made their way to the Eastborn Imperial Security Facility by squads. Owen guided Niall and Aria through the tunnels; the Fae didn't seem to need night vision, and they made no noise as they slipped through the darkness. They climbed a ladder and emerged into a side street, where they kept to the shadows, moving through deserted alleys and darkened commercial zones. Once Aria stopped walking completely, lost in the black night. A moment later Niall's cool hand slipped into hers and drew her forward, around a corner, to where the faint starlight illuminated the alley enough for her to follow Owen again.

They reached the facility, though Aria could see little. All the lights were trained inward; outside the massive wall, the shadows were dark.

Owen left her and Niall for some minutes, then came back and murmured, "I disabled the motion sensor at the top of the wall. I'll help you up."

He'd also secured a rope to the top edge of the wall with an eyebolt, which he used to climb up. Aria followed him with some difficulty, and he leaned down to haul her up by one arm.

"Stand here," he said, helping her get her feet onto another rope he'd tied between two eyebolts four feet apart about two and a half feet below the top edge of the wall. Niall followed her, and she felt the rope shift beneath her under his slight weight. It was tight, but with both of them on it, they sagged to the middle. She put her left foot on the eyebolt near her for stability. Owen slithered onto the top of the wall, where he lay motionless. "Can you shoot from here?" He leaned down to whisper the question between them, nearly inaudible.

She nodded and glanced at Niall. The wall was wide enough that he had to stretch to see the ground inside, but he nodded as well. The boy appeared as cool and unworried as Owen did, but Aria felt her heart pounding. The pistol felt heavy, the holster dragging at her belt.

Owen murmured so softly she heard him more clearly through the headset than through the air. "The front gate guards have not been alerted."

Clicks told her that the others heard.

"Were these already here?" she mouthed to Niall.

He shook his head, pointed to Owen, and mimed screwing the bolts into the concrete.

"By _hand_?"

He nodded.

Owen waited another few minutes. "In position?" he asked finally. He looked down and nodded to them, then slithered off the far edge of the wall. He dropped to the ground thirty feet below in a soundless crouch and paused a moment.

The inside of the complex was lit by spotlights mounted on the walls and the corners of each building. Aria thought he looked painfully exposed in the harsh light. No alarm sounded, though, and Owen crossed the two hundred feet to the nearest building in moments.

He slipped along the wall, a silent shadow, until he reached a utility door. It had no outside handle, but he leaned against it for a moment and then opened it. He reached up to the top of the frame and fiddled for a moment, then disappeared, leaving the door cracked behind him. Still no alarm sounded, and Aria glanced toward the front gate again. She couldn't see the guards from her position, but she would see if they moved into the facility or if the gate moved.

She held her gun tightly, her hands sweaty despite the chill. Her eyes scanned the open space.

In her ear, Owen's voice came through the headset. "Teams in now, over the wall. The door is open. Down the hall, left at the end, down the stairs, right to the end of the corridor. I'll meet you."

Aria glanced to her right. The three teams, fifteen people, rappelled down the wall and streaked across the grass without a sound. She looked back to the front gate. Nothing stirred yet.

Silence for some moments, then Owen said softly, "This is where the alarms start. From here we have three or four minutes at most. Your only concern is getting the prisoners out. I'll handle the rest."

A moment later, Aria winced at the deafening wail of an alarm that blared through the headset. On the outside of the building, floodlights flared to life along every wall, and through the second-floor windows, strobe lights pulsed red and white.

Aria and Niall kept their guns trained on the guards now visible at the front gate. They didn't move from the gate, though they glanced back at the buildings. Obviously, they'd been trained to hold their positions regardless of distractions.

An explosion sounded from a distant corner of the complex. "Distraction one is in progress," Geoffrey's voice said through the headset. "Guards arriving in minutes. How is the front gate?"

"Guards holding their positions," said Dominic. His squad was on the other side of the gate.

Niall motioned to her and she spoke into the headpiece as she figured out what he was saying. "Niall will take care of the guards. Don't shoot yet." She stared at him, trying to read his pale face in the shadows. "Really? Can you do that?"

He nodded. He wore Owen's swords, but she knew he didn't intend to use them. He clicked the safety on his pistol back on, leaped from the rope and disappeared into the shadows without a sound.

A few moments later, she saw a guard disappear. One moment he was there, at the edge of the spotlight, and the next he was gone. Another guard looked for him, stepped closer to the darkness, head raised in curiosity but not worry. That time she saw a small shadow leap at his back, and then he was down, flat on the ground with Niall's skinny body crouched over him. He dragged the guard into the darkness before the two remaining guards noticed.

Aria looked back at the building. The alarm still blared through the headset; it must be deafening inside the building. She heard a dull clank, then Owen's voice.

"El forgive them." He was breathless, though she couldn't decipher whether it was with exertion or emotion. The words made her throat tighten; what horror had he seen to provoke that response?

A sudden crack nearly burst her eardrums, and Aria cried out, jerking off the headset. A moment later she struggled to put it back on, eyes flicking between the building and the front gate. All the guards were gone now, pulled out of sight, and Niall stepped into the light for a brief moment and waved.

"Front gate is open," Dominic said before she could react. "No thanks to our team," he added.

Evrial's voice came over the headset for the first time. "We've encountered some difficulties here but should be out—" a burst of gunfire cut off her last words.

Silence, then several quick shots. "Still coming. Three guards down."

Aria could hear them breathing hard now, and several sets of pounding feet. "Yes," to some question she hadn't heard.

"Clear to exit?"

"Yes."

The door opened and figures streamed across the grass. Harsh white floodlights made the long dash to the front gate painfully exposed, and Aria held her breath as she scanned for threats. She couldn't identify all the figures, but she saw Evrial with a small form over her shoulders, perhaps a child. The others hauled adults with arms slung across their shoulders, the Fae staggering, stumbling alongside the humans.

She didn't see Owen.

"Going back in." Jonah's voice came over the headset, breathless. He'd been one of the first out and she saw him sprinting back to the door, another three men following close behind.

"Going home. Have twelve Fae. We're slow but we can make it. Bartok is staying to help the next group." That was Evrial's voice.

"Understood," Owen said. "Thank you."

Another burst of gunfire from inside the building, longer this time.

"Benjamin's squad is coming out. Cover now." Owen said, his voice composed.

"Time is short. Where are you, Owen?" Gabriel said.

A group of soldiers sprinted around the corner and Aria's heart dropped into her stomach.

The gunfire was even more terrifying as the shots rang out in the cold air rather than only through her headset. Dominic's squad fired at them, and one dropped, but the others found cover in the recessed doorway and began to fire on Benjamin's squad and the Fae they were helping across the lawn.

One of them fell; Aria couldn't tell who, but he lay there for a long moment unmoving. The Fae sprawled across him didn't move either.

Aria's nerves abruptly stilled as she lined up her shot. The soldiers had cover from Dominic's squad, but she could see them clearly from her vantage point.

# Chapter Ten

She aimed for their heads, as Evrial had taught her. They were wearing body armor, and a body shot might not even incapacitate them.

Her heart pounded, her throat tight with fear. She could feel herself shaking, but her shots were good. She would deal with the horror of killing later.

The fallen human, whoever it was, twitched. She shot again, though she didn't have a clear shot at the soldier she was aiming for. At least she could make him keep his head down. The man staggered to his feet and dragged the Fae with him in a stumbling run toward the gate. Niall darted forward and all three made it into the sheltering darkness.

"Owen, where are you?" Gabriel's voice came again. "Get out of there. More coming."

"Lots more." Dominic's voice sounded strained.

A loud clang sounded, and Aria looked back at the front gate. Between the two ends of the perimeter wall, a metal wall had materialized.

Dominic cursed. "Front gate is out of commission. Repeat, front gate out. Go to the back."

Aria stared at the gate. Thirty feet high, the metal gate looked heavy enough to withstand a bomb attack. "Where did that come from?" she breathed.

"Later." Dominic's answer was terse, but she hadn't expected an answer at all. "Moving to the back wall."

Aria debated, but decided she'd be of little use on the ground in back outside the perimeter wall, unable to see or shoot. Instead, she clambered onto the top of the wall, scraping her stomach and arms in the process. Owen had made it look easy, but she felt clumsy and exposed. On her hands and knees, she hurried toward the rear of the compound.

Jonah's voice came over the headset. "My squad is heading to the back wall. We'll need help getting up the ropes."

"Understood." Gabriel and Geoffrey said together.

Aria continued crawling. More gunfire crackled over the headset. Was anyone hurt?

Owen's voice finally came. "Three down inside. Need assistance at the back door."

Aria didn't know what she could do, and she didn't have a vest. Should she go?

"Assistance coming," Gabriel said.

The lights were brighter here, even more floodlights flaring out across the lawn and edging the concrete wall. Crawling was terribly slow, and she rose to a crouch and ran. The height made her nervous, but her heart was already pounding so loudly that she ignored the trembling in her knees in favor of reaching the back wall sooner.

A door she hadn't seen before opened and figures streamed out. She couldn't identify all of them, but she saw Owen's lean form, without a vest, sprinting across the lawn with someone in his arms.

Gunfire cracked again, but she couldn't see where it came from.

Inside?

Geoffrey's team was hauling both Fae and teammates across the lawn. Aria saw a muzzle flash at a second-floor window and sighted toward it. She couldn't actually see her target, but she shot anyway.

Owen disappeared back into the building. "Niall, heal the humans. Bartok first." He was breathing heavily. _Is he injured, too?_

Aria reached Gabriel and Geoffrey's squad ranged along the top of the back wall. Gabriel was closest to her; he whipped his pistol up at her face before he recognized her.

Niall was already below her on the ground, bent over Bartok's limp form.

Inside, more guns roared. "Owen, where _are_ you?" Gabriel barked.

"Coming." His microphone crackled, and she heard him grunt.

"Squad leaders, check in."

"A all clear except Bartok." Evrial's voice.

"B all clear. Bartok clear." Geoffrey's voice.

Another figure hurried across the lawn, a limp form slung across its shoulders in a dead man's carry. Just to the right of Aria, Gabriel crawled halfway down a rope ladder to help them up.

"This is Jonah. I think C squad is all clear except for me."

"Confirmed."

Silence.

"D squad? Call in."

Silence.

"All clear. Benjamin is injured, but he'll live." Geoffrey's voice again.

"E all clear."

Gabriel's voice again. "Geoffrey, Dominic, Niall, and I will stay to provide cover. Everyone else, mission over, retreat safely. "

Aria didn't move. Niall had scaled the wall somehow and was perched between Geoffrey and Gabriel, pistol ready. The door cracked open again.

An explosion boomed from behind the door, blasting it open with a flash of fire and smoke. Aria couldn't see inside the smoke-filled hallway, but the glow told her fire still burned.

"Need help just inside the door." Owen's voice was cool. "Niall, not you."

"I'm coming." Aria didn't have time to think. Gabriel was helping someone else up the rope ladder, and Dominic and Geoffrey were farther away. She slid down a rope and sprinted across the grass toward the door.

"No, Aria. You don't have a vest. Get back."

She was already nearly to the door, and she pulled her shirt over her face as she stepped inside. The hot, smoky air burned in her throat, and she squinted to see Owen kneeling beside Jonah. Gunshots sounded in the corridor, and she dropped to her stomach beside them.

Jonah struggled to sit up, his chest covered in blood. "What happened?" he croaked. He felt his chest and stared at Owen.

Gabriel's voice from the headset shouted, "Get out!"

Jonah got to his knees, swaying unsteadily, and Aria realized another figure was slumped beside him. A Fae woman, pale, slim, and beautiful. Her eyes were closed, and blood streaked her clothes. Owen turned to shoot twice through the smoke, then put his hand on her shoulder. She blinked.

"Niamh, you can walk? Get out. All of you."

The woman's eyes focused on Owen with sudden intensity. "You can't go back."

"Get out!" Owen snarled at her. He rose and sprinted back into the smoke-filled hallway.

Aria heard distant shouts. Soldiers.

The woman pushed herself up the wall, barely able to stand. She glanced at the door, then back down the hallway where Owen had disappeared.

"Come. He'll be out in a minute." Jonah pulled her arm. "We need to leave."

She resisted for a moment, but then swayed, near fainting. Jonah pulled her arm over his shoulders and half-carried her out the door, stumbling himself.

Aria watched them until they reached the wall, then turned her attention back to the corridor. A click above her startled her so badly she nearly dropped the gun. Suddenly water rained down on her, and she realized the explosions had set off the fire suppression system. The water was icy, and in moments she was drenched, her sweater heavy as it sucked the warmth from her. It dissipated the smoke, but she couldn't see much through the spraying water. The headset didn't seem affected, but she wasn't sure what effect it would have on her gun.

She couldn't leave, not while Owen was still inside. "I'm still here," she murmured into the headset. "Is everyone else out?"

After a long moment, she heard Gabriel answer, "Yes." She heard grunts and strained breaths as they hauled bodies up the rope ladder. Then Gabriel again, "Get them away. The farther away they are, the better."

An explosion sounded again, just around the intersection in the hallway, and a storm of bullets tore holes in the wall at the end. Aria could barely hear the crackle of the headset over the pounding of her heart, but she stayed in place, pistol trained toward the end of the hall, and waited for Owen to confirm that he was still alive.

Silence.

Then he materialized out of the smoke and water-filled chaos, half-dragging a young man. A Fae.

"Get out, Aria. Run." He stumbled and fell to his knees, the Fae on his back nearly tumbling off. He turned and shot again, then stuffed the gun in his belt. He remained on hands and knees for a long moment, chest heaving. She could hear his breaths beside her and also through the headset, creating a disorienting stereo as she watched him. He was covered in blood; it was hard to see against his black shirt, but the water dripped down his arms in crimson streaks. His black curls were plastered to his head. He'd been shot. She didn't want to count how many times. Five? Six?

"Take him to the wall. I'll follow you."

She struggled to lift the heavier Fae. He was younger than Owen and terribly thin, but still heavier than she was. She got one of his lean arms across her shoulders and wrapped her other arm around his bony hip by the time Owen pushed himself to his feet.

"Can you make it?" Owen asked. "I'll help you."

"Yes."

"Go." He carried most of the young Fae's weight, matching her step for step.

Gunshots cracked behind them, but for a moment, Aria thought they might make it.

Then she was facedown in the grass, unable to breathe for the shocking pain.

_I've been shot. So this is what it feels like when you die. I thought it would be peaceful, but it's not at all. Feels like a hot poker._

She felt cool hands on her back and shoulder, and the pain lessened. Owen.

He lifted her and sprinted. "Need a rope in the corner." Blood from his chest smeared her face.

"Got it."

Gunshots. He stumbled, then leapt upward, grabbing the rope with one hand even as he shifted her to lean against his shoulder. The wall was nearly thirty feet high, and he climbed hand over hand, one foot braced against each wall. Aria jostled against him, too weak to help, too aware to not be terrified. Searchlights flared, sweeping across the wall toward them

More gunshots. Owen grunted and faltered for a moment, grip slipping, before surging upward again. "Gabriel, catch her."

"Coming."

Gabriel caught her arm with one strong hand and hauled her upward, his fingers digging into her bicep.

Owen's voice in the headset. "Everyone get out."

The searchlights found them, and guns roared.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Owen fall. His hand brushed against her shoe.

He sprawled motionless on the ground, pale face turned upward.

"You have to get him!" Her voice rose in panic.

More gunfire. His body jerked.

Gabriel pulled her backward and forced her down the rope ladder on the outside of the wall, hand on her shoulder. His voice was in her ears, through the headset and in her other ear as he bent close, running beside her. "We can't do anything. He wants you away."

She strained to hear through the headset, anything that would let her know he was alive. Gunshots. Muffled shouting. A crunch, then silence.

Gabriel kept one hand firmly on her upper arm as he dragged her away. He pulled off her headset and took off his own as well. Aria shuddered, weeping, unaware of the tears streaking down her cheeks.

# Chapter Eleven

The conference room was too small for the group, so they were ranged in rows in the old theater, seated on the cool concrete floor. Aria was in shock, trying to listen. _Remember their names._

Owen's figure wouldn't leave her mind. Bloodied and motionless, he'd lain there, helpless, while she and the others fled to safety. It was wrong. Her heart cried out against it. He'd healed her with the strength he should have used to flee. Healed the Fae woman. Healed Jonah. He'd told her to go and she'd refused, trying to be helpful. Heroic. And then she'd been shot, and he'd chosen to save her life.

_He chose to. He had a choice_ , she reminded herself. _But he didn't. Knowing him, he_ didn't _have a choice._

Niall had healed her completely once they'd retreated to the relative safety of the hotel. The wounds had still been bleeding when Gabriel had pulled her away, but they were superficial, hardly life-threatening. Niall's additional healing had left her with smooth, unmarked skin and no pain, except for that in her heart. He'd completed Jonah's healing as well. Owen had been desperate, giving them enough to escape, saving his strength for the next emergency.

He'd been wise. Everyone but him had made it out.

The Fae sat in a silent group to one side, with the humans facing them. Gabriel and Aria sat in what might have been the heads of the table, if a table had been between them. Niall sat between the Fae woman and Aria, a wordless, trembling bridge between them.

Gabriel spoke quietly, but in the silence his voice carried. "We have little knowledge of Fae. I can plead only ignorance in the face of your accusations. We have never been friendly, I admit it, but we had no knowledge of their crimes and we do not condone them. Your cause is just."

The Fae stared at him coolly without speaking. Finally, one said, "Who are you?"

Gabriel smiled tightly, "My name is Gabriel. We are the human resistance against the Empire. We have our own grievances, and our causes align. We did not realize it at first, but we understand more now."

Niamh's eyes flicked to Aria. "Who is she?"

"I'm Aria." She tried to smile, but felt tears spring to her eyes.

Niamh stared at her, watched her as she brushed unsuccessfully at them.

"Owen was captured because of you." The words were soft, with a tone of both accusation and interest. "And Cillian saved."

Aria swallowed.

The young Fae was Cillian, Owen's younger brother? No wonder he'd been unwilling to leave him behind.

Cillian leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his blue eyes on her face so intently that she dropped her gaze. He said something in Fae that might have been a question, and Niamh answered just as softly. They sounded perplexed.

Niamh said finally, "We thank you for your efforts on our behalf. We will move on when we have the strength. Tomorrow, perhaps. In the meantime, Cillian will kill any vertril that become a problem." Her tone was one of dismissal. The Fae rose as one, graceful despite their obvious weakness, and retreated to their rooms. Niall motioned to Aria to accompany them, but when Gabriel started to follow, Niall gave him a cool look and shook his head. He was not invited.

The Fae were already seated in a rough circle when she slipped into the room. Several lamps turned down low set on boxes in the corners provided uneven lighting that made it even more difficult to read their expressions.

Niamh motioned to the floor across from her and Aria sat, trying not to feel nervous.

"Niall said you went to help Owen at the end of the fight. Why?" her voice was clear, but softer than it had been in the theater.

"He requested help, and I was closest." Aria swallowed.

"You had no bulletproof vest like the other humans."

"Jonah didn't have one either."

Niamh blinked slowly at her, as if her words had not answered the question. Her blue eyes were as cold and clear as Owen's. Abruptly she said, "He's my younger brother."

Aria blinked. "You're Niall's mother?"

Niamh nodded once, eyes on Aria's face.

Niall had been writing in the notebook and he turned it around so his mother could see. She read, eyes skimming the whole page, and then looked up at Aria again. "Owen has never traded upon his looks, and I doubt he did so with you. If anything, he conceals his beauty, and he is skilled at remaining unnoticed. Why then did you continue following him?"

Aria blinked. "I was curious, I guess. He was acting strangely. He wasn't wearing shoes, and it's freezing outside."

Niamh tilted her head to one side. "You should not have noticed that."

Aria frowned. "I don't understand."

Niamh stared at her for another long moment, then shook her head. "Most humans wouldn't notice, even when we're right in front of them. Perhaps you have some Fae blood in you, however slight." She reached over to draw Owen's sword from the belt that Niall wore. "May I?"

Aria eyed it. "What are you going to do?"

"A small cut only."

"I suppose." Aria held out her hand, trembling a little. Niamh's hand was cool on hers, and she touched Aria's fingertip to the blade gently. Aria winced, but almost smiled at herself; she'd had worse paper cuts. Niamh squeezed the end of Aria's finger to produce a single drop of blood. Then she leaned forward and sucked the blood from Aria's finger.

Aria jerked her hand away. "Ew!" The sensation was bizarre, discomfiting, personal, invasive, almost erotic in a horrifying way.

Niamh blinked at her with the same faint amusement Aria had seen in Owen's eyes. Then her expression changed. "Hm."

"Hm what?"

She spoke in Fae for a moment, studying Aria with renewed interest. Cillian continued to stare at her, and after a long moment, he answered in the same language.

"What?" Aria asked again.

Niamh said, "I believe you have a little Fae blood. It's distant, but it's there." She paused, as if expecting someone else to speak, but no one said anything. "You know nothing of magic, though. Nor have any talents unusual for humans?"

Aria shook her head.

Niamh smiled with a hint of warmth, changing the subject. "These are my people. I am Niamh, eldest of Lord Ailill." She gestured toward the others. "This is Cillian, second son of Ailill." Cillian looked much like Owen. Younger, without the faint touch of gray in his hair, but with the same cool gaze and subtle humor in the quirk of his lip. He was gaunt, with dark smudges beneath his eyes, which continued to rest on Aria with an unreadable expression.

Niamh, too, looked like her brothers, or they looked like her. Her features were more feminine, but had the same pale, fine-boned beauty. Her hair had sprung into a mass of black curls that fell halfway down her back. Like the others, she wore what appeared to be castoff clothing, faded and worn. She wore a dark brown man's dress shirt, a small size but baggy on her thin frame. Untucked, it hung past her hips, half-covering threadbare denim jeans with an incongruous line of pink rhinestones up one leg. Her bare feet were tucked beneath her.

"Siofra." Niamh indicated a younger woman. Equally pale, her hair was straighter and had a hint of red-brown. Her face was softer, and she smiled warily at Aria.

"Ardghal." The Fae man nodded to her, eyes on her face. He appeared to be in his early forties. Aria tried to guess what that meant. Three hundred fifty years or so? He too was gaunt, but he looked strong and muscular beneath his torn, blood-stained shirt. His hair was lighter, a reddish-brown that caught the light.

"Berach." He was also older, not quite so thin but somehow worn looking. Tired.

"Finn." A little older than Niall.

Lorcan. Conal. Aideen. Lachtnal. Tadg. Lonan. Conri. Fearghal. Sabd. Cathal. Aria forgot the names, but she remembered their faces. Tadg, Lonan, and Sabd were children of Niall's age and a little older, with the same hollow-eyed caution she'd seen in him at first. The others were older, ranging from young adults to Conri, the oldest. Aria hesitated to even guess at his age; if he'd been human, she'd have guessed somewhere between sixty and an athletic eighty. His hair was fully gray, and he stooped a little, but his eyes were bright and clear. There were more names too; twenty-three Fae had been rescued.

Aria tried to focus, but she kept thinking of Owen. How he'd jerked, hauling her upward even while they shot him again. His breath in her ears as his arms strained to lift her high enough. How he fell nearly thirty feet to the ground because he'd made it almost to the top. For her. ' _Gabriel, catch her_ ,' he'd said. Not _'help me.'_

"We need to go back and get him." She looked up to meet Niamh's eyes.

Niamh's lips tightened. "We cannot. None of us has the strength."

Niall paced behind Aria, a quick, agitated rush of air betraying his silent footsteps. He knelt to write in the notebook and showed it to both of them. _He rested before he rescued you. But he had only humans to help him, and you know we are stronger. We cannot leave him there._

"We will not leave him indefinitely, Niall. But it cannot be for at least a week."

Niall gave a soft wordless cry and looked at his mother. _They will kill him before then. You know they will._

"We can't, Niall. It isn't possible." Niamh's voice had softened, barely audible, but she spoke in English. She wanted Aria to understand.

_Grenidor hates him. After tonight, it will be worse._

"Yes, I know. But what would you have me do? Sacrifice everyone to save him? You know he would not want that, even if it could be done."

Niall glanced at Aria and back to his mother, then gestured toward Aria. She straightened, not sure what was happening, but Niamh gazed at her for a long moment.

Aria offered, "It wouldn't be alone. I imagine Gabriel would help. And I would."

Niall dismissed this with a wave of the hand. _They will not keep him at Eastborn. They will move him elsewhere for interrogation, or kill him immediately. We haven't much time._

Niamh glanced between them thoughtfully. "What are you suggesting?"

_Everyone should give their strength to Cillian and then go to safety. Cillian, Aria, and I will go to Petro for help._

Niamh sat back with a sharp intake of breath. "Absolutely not."

Niall stared at his mother, eyes glittering with tears. _I will go with or without Cillian. You cannot prevent me._

"Leave us, Aria." Niamh's eyes did not leave her son.

Aria slipped out the door gratefully. Her heart felt shredded.

Gabriel beckoned to her from across the room. She picked her way through the bedrolls and rucksacks toward a small crowd sitting on the floor. Aria sat near him, but she couldn't bring herself to look at the group. After a glance at Gabriel, she kept her eyes mostly on the floor, hunched and miserable.

Gabriel looked tired, rubbing his face blearily, but he shook out his shoulders and said, "We're beginning the debrief. I'm not entirely sure what happened and the Fae don't seem to want to tell us right now. Evrial, you go first."

"We went in. No problems at first. Owen warned us about the alarms; the door itself had a sensor that went off when he got close to it. He opened it somehow, magic I suppose.

"Inside was pretty big. The left side had a surgical table and a bunch of equipment. MRI, EKG, defibrillator, all kinds of stuff. It had been freshly cleaned, but they missed some bloodstains. On the right were cages. Rows of them, metal mesh on the front and solid metal sides.

"Owen touched the mesh on one trying to open the lock, and it blew him across the room. You probably heard the crack through the headset. He was pretty dazed for a minute, but he got the locks open after that without touching the mesh. He said he didn't think it would shock humans, but we didn't want to chance it and pulled the doors open with the handles of some brooms and mops we found. We met the first guards as we were leaving, but my team got the first five out and regrouped outside the front gate." Evrial sighed. "We heard the chaos but didn't see most of it."

Gabriel nodded. "Bartok?"

Bartok rubbed one hand down his thigh, staring at the floor. His voice was quiet when he began. "I went back in to help and got one of them nearly to the door. Then I got shot. It hit the femoral artery, painted the wall with blood. Owen was right behind me, and he did magic, I guess, healed it enough so I wouldn't bleed out. It felt..." he hesitated. "It felt exceedingly odd. I don't think he was focused on reducing the pain, but normally one would bleed out so quickly that the pain wouldn't last long. I think he healed the main artery but left the rest for later. I blacked out, and woke up outside the wall with Niall over me." Bartok's lean face was serious.

"How do you feel now?" Evrial asked.

"A little shaky and weak from blood loss. But there's no pain. The wound itself is completely healed. Niall finished when we got back."

Gabriel nodded. "Jonah?"

Jonah took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I went to the front gate and then went back in. Owen was somewhere back in the maze of cages. Cells. Whatever you want to call them. Fae were trying to walk, but most of them were in such bad shape they couldn't make much progress. I got one with an arm over my shoulder and hauled him to the front. We rounded a corner and met some guards. They were responding to the alarm, and they didn't expect us that close to the exit. But they got off a few shots before our team handled them. I was in front and didn't have a vest. A couple rounds caught me in the chest and I went down. Smacked my face pretty hard on the floor too, all tangled up with the Fae I was carrying. I blacked out. When I woke, Aria was between me and the door, covering me. Owen was there, the Fae I'd been carrying was gone, and a Fae woman was lying beside me instead. Niamh. Their leader, I guess. Owen told us to leave and went back. Niamh looked like she might argue, so I grabbed her and we ran to the wall. You know the rest." He rubbed his chest and stared at the floor.

Aria felt her throat tighten. _Owen, how many did you save at your own expense? But this was your mission, not theirs. It wasn't a choice, was it?_

Gabriel frowned. "Why did he go back? He heard me say you were out of time."

Jonah shook his head minutely.

"The last one, the one we brought out right at the end, is his younger brother." Aria couldn't look up from the floor, unwilling to let them see her tears, but she heard Gabriel sigh.

"Benjamin?"

"I got shot on the lawn. I don't remember at all, just running and bam, on my face in the grass, then blackness. I came to on the other side of the wall."

Gabriel said, "I think it was Charlie who got you up the ladder."

One of the men in the back nodded. "Yep."

Benjamin turned to catch his eye. "Thanks."

"Yep. I didn't know if you'd make it. That boy fixed you up pretty well, though."

Gabriel ran his hands over his face again.

"Dominic? What happened with the front gate?"

"The guards stayed in their positions even after the explosion in the back. We were considering changing positions when Aria said Niall would handle them. He did. Took them all out without a shot. I don't know if he killed them or just knocked them out. We didn't do anything though, just maintained our positions to provide cover fire when required. The metal gate came up a few minutes later." He shifted. "I don't think it was anything we did directly. Sometimes the advanced facilities have systems where the guards have to check in every few minutes or the ingress point is automatically secured. I'd guess this one was on a five-minute timer. A guard swipes his badge or presses a button with a thumbprint reader or something every five minutes. Otherwise the gate engages automatically."

Gabriel's eyebrows raised. "I didn't realize we had systems like that."

Geoffrey shrugged. "Most facilities don't. But the technology isn't new; it's just inconvenient to use on a daily basis. Imagine if cars were always going in and out; the gate would crush a car if the guard mentally checked out for a minute. But if security is important enough, you tolerate a little more inconvenience."

Gabriel sighed. "Anyone have any questions? Comments?"

Silence.

Aria wanted to say they needed to go back to get Owen, but she looked around the room. Without the Fae, what chance did they have?

"Get some sleep." Gabriel stood and waited while everyone meandered to their bedrolls. He shot her a hard glance when she didn't move, but said nothing. He stared around the room, his gaze lingering on the hall the Fae had claimed, and finally walked slowly to the conference room. He closed the doors. A line of white light showed between the doors and the floor.

Aria didn't know how long she sat there. A few lanterns remained lit; some of the soldiers who hadn't gone on the mission remained on watch. No vertril came.

_He had no choice. And no one but Niall seems to think we should, or can, do anything to help him._

Hours passed. The soldiers on watch went to bed and others took their places. The light under the conference room door remained.

Finally, Aria rose, her legs stiff from the cold concrete. She was hungry, thirsty, and shivering, but it didn't seem to matter. She straightened her back, took a deep breath, and walked across to the conference room. She entered without knocking.

Gabriel looked up at her. His boots were on the floor, his sock-covered feet propped on the table and his chair tilted precariously back against the wall. His arms were crossed over his chest.

"We need to go get him." Her voice was flat. "They said Grenidor will kill him within a week."

Gabriel didn't answer, and his gaze slid away from her to the far wall.

"We have to. You know he saved Jonah's life, and Bartok's, and mine. Maybe others. He didn't have to do that." She stepped closer.

Gabriel's jaw tightened. "It was his mission. He knew the risks."

"But they'll _kill_ him!"

His gaze flicked back to her. His eyes were red, and Aria wondered suddenly whether it was weariness or whether he'd been weeping. "There are worse things than death."

"Why do you hate him so much?"

His eyes were hard on her face now, angry. "Is that what you think? You know nothing! You've caused enough trouble for us. Go to bed."

She trembled, but she didn't move. "Do you know anything about Petro?"

"No. What is it?"

She searched his face, the lines of tension around his mouth, the tightness of his lips. Angry. Grieving. Frustrated. Doubting. "Never mind."

She turned toward the door and then stopped. "Thank you for pulling me up. You saved my life too."

He grunted. She glanced over her shoulder at him. He stared at the far wall, his face hard and unfriendly.

Aria lay on her bedroll on the floor in the room she'd shared with Owen and Niall. It was empty now; Owen was gone, captured or already dead, and Niall was still doing whatever he was doing. Arguing, most likely.

It was five thirty in the morning and she was so tired every muscle in her body ached. But sleep eluded her for another hour. Behind her closed eyelids, she saw Owen's blood-streaked body on the ground, wet curls stuck to his forehead. Saw him jerk as the bullets tore into him. Exhaustion finally won over guilt.

She had strange dreams. Dandra's face appeared more than once, though she couldn't remember the context when she woke up. She dreamed her tongue was cut out. It didn't hurt, but she was terrified, her mouth filled with blood. Later, there was so much that needed to be said, important things that should be conveyed, and she couldn't talk. No one would pay attention to her long enough to understand why she couldn't make a sound. She waved a notebook and pencil helplessly, suddenly unable to write. She tried, but the words made no sense, just long strings of meaningless squiggles.

She woke with a jerk to find Niall staring at her. He knelt on the floor in front of her, hollow-eyed and exhausted, one cool hand on her shoulder. She sat up and pulled the blanket around her shoulders. Cillian was crouched behind him.

"What is it?" Her voice felt like a croak, and she wondered how long she'd been asleep. "What _time_ is it?"

Niall scooted backward and sat with his legs crossed. He motioned to Cillian to begin and let his head hang down between his shoulders, as if he wasn't part of the conversation.

"About nine thirty. Niall says you would be willing to go with us." Cillian's eyes were bright on her face, so much like Owen's that Aria's heart twisted and she fought back tears.

"Go where?"

He blinked slowly, as if thinking about his words. "To ask Petro for help."

She nodded. "I don't know what he is. But I'll go with you, if you think it will help."

Cillian blinked again and drew back slightly. His gaze swept over her, a long, thoughtful look.

She swallowed.

"You should know what we know about Petro before you make your decision," he said finally.

"Owen said some things should not be known." _Why did I say that? I want him to tell me._

Cillian's lips tightened. "Owen is wiser than I am." He glanced toward Niall and said something, and Niall rose and left the room.

Cillian took a deep breath, and Aria saw again how similar he was to Owen. He had many of the same mannerisms. He looked disconcertingly close to her own age, but she knew he was much older. He was too thin, as if he hadn't eaten regularly in a long time. His shirt had been a white knit with a collar, but it was torn and stained. Through the holes, she could see the hard, stringy muscles of his chest and stomach. The dark smudges under his eyes had barely begun to fade. He had no bruises around his wrists or ankles, but he did have a long, livid red scar on one forearm from the inside of the elbow nearly to his wrist.

"Fae are not what you expected, I imagine. Few humans know anything about us, and most of what they have heard is wrong. Magic is also inaccurately understood. It is called magic because that is the closest concept in human thought, but the understanding you get from the word is partial and far from accurate.

"Magic is real, like what you call science. Imagine a bubble. The film of the bubble, the interface between the inside and the outside, is what you see as the universe. It encompasses the stars, molecules, time, everything you have ever heard of or studied. Scientific laws, physics, chemistry, etc., they apply only on the film of the bubble. Both the inside and the outside of the bubble are real, but they are not part of this universe, the one that humans inhabit. They are separate, and they are subject to separate rules."

Cillian paused, his eyes on her face. After a long moment studying her, he continued, "Humans live entirely in the film of the bubble. Fae extend a little ways outward, so to speak. Or inward. Direction is an irrelevant concept. This is one reason it is difficult to kill us; only so much of us is present in this universe, and with time and effort we can restore our physical bodies. It is easier with help, and there are limitations, but it is possible. We can manipulate the possibilities and shape the future in ways not possible for humans, using what you would call magic.

"Yet we believe that humans and Fae are closely related. We can interbreed, though for many reasons it is not commonly done. Our physical bodies are very similar, as are our emotions and intellectual capabilities. We feel joy and pain. We love. We grieve.

"It is thought that we diverged from a common ancestor, most likely an early human. While your ancestors were learning how to make fire and sharpen sticks into weapons, a few touched magic. It changed them in ways they didn't understand. Perhaps they studied healing first; it would have been advantageous. Their children found it easier to touch magic, but they became less human. As their control of magic increased, their bodies changed. They lived longer, they bred with each other rather than short-lived humans, and they began their study of magic early. But human newborns and Fae newborns are not as different as you would imagine. We are not human, but we are cousins to humans."

The door opened, and Niall slipped in. He put bags in front of each of them and dropped to sit to the side again.

Cillian stared at her a moment before opening his bag. "I beg your pardon for eating in front of you. Most humans find it off-putting, but I require sustenance." He cut the bloody heart with his knife, and Aria saw his hand shaking a little as he put the knife aside.

"It's okay." She swallowed. "I don't mind." She pulled her eyes away from his meal and opened her own bag. A thermos that radiated heat, a chunk of heavy, soft bread, an apple, and a bottle of water. "Thank you." She looked up to smile at Niall, who ducked his head politely.

Cillian spoke as he ate. "Petro is different. We live in time, as you do, and we live mostly in the film of the bubble, as you do. Petro does not. We believe that he is from entirely outside the bubble. Sometimes he intersects it. Sometimes, when he intersects it, he chooses to appear human. But he is _not_ human. Not even remotely.

"Fae are old. Humans are older, we think. If, as we believe, Petro exists outside of our universe, he is probably outside of time as we understand it. We think, and your science tends to agree, that time is a function of this universe. We know Petro has existed for hundreds of thousands of years, at least. Certainly since before Fae. Probably before humans. Possibly _long_ before. We believe he is not bound by the rules we understand, and he intersects this world only when he chooses to, for his own reasons."

Aria frowned thoughtfully.

Cillian ate another bite, licked his fingers, and continued. "Things that one would think would interest him usually don't. He has ignored great sweeps of history, battles, plagues, and empires rising and falling. He may have watched, but there was no evidence of him taking any particular interest.

"However, sometimes he follows events and people that one would not expect. We don't know why some things interest him and others don't. He interacts with us very little, and he never explains himself. Sometimes, when he follows a particular Fae or human, he begins as soon as they are born, which seems to support the idea of him interfacing with time differently than we do. Yet, we believe he has been surprised; perhaps he does not know or understand the future in its entirety.

"Sometimes he takes action. Sometimes he merely observes. Fae sometimes sense his presence, when he lets us, but humans don't. Sometimes there seem to be several of his kind on earth, but they might all be him. We are only present in the film in one location, where our bodies are. We believe he can touch in one or more than one place at a time. Or none. Sometimes he appears as a human. Sometimes he appears as... something else.

"I doubt it's possible for Fae or humans to threaten him, or even to deliberately interest him. We have no idea what he is capable of. We believe he has a sense of morality, but it is not ours. He is cruel, in that he thinks nothing of killing for his own reasons. But he doesn't seem to take pleasure in it; most of the atrocities in history have been of human doing, not his, and we believe he could do much worse if he wished. He does not appear to be malicious or evil. He requires nothing of us and is usually reclusive."

Aria swallowed.

"He has spoken to Owen more than anyone in memory, but even that isn't much. A handful of times, a few sentences each, in over two hundred years." Cillian's eyes rested on her face.

"What is he, then? Do you know?" Aria's meal was forgotten in front of her, and Cillian nodded to it, indicating that she should eat. She unscrewed the top of the thermos to find a thick chicken and dumpling soup. The smell comforted her.

He licked his lips. "He has been called many things. Petro is a name he gave Dandra once, and Owen used it when speaking with her. Owen knew him as Conláed and Drake at different times." He watched her face as he continued, "The name you would probably recognize is Dragon, but that generally refers to only one of the physical forms he takes, when he chooses to take a form at all."

Aria swallowed hard. Her throat seemed tight, and she felt her heart thudding unevenly.

"We need his help if we are to have any hope of rescuing Owen in time. He can supply the energy we need to heal, I think, if he so chooses. The problem is that he has never shown any interest in speaking to any of us. Even to those who can sense magic, he is hard to find. It is possible to sense his location if he lets us, but if he doesn't wish to speak with us, he will not be there when we arrive."

Cillian's eyes had not left her face. "Although he seems not to care what we think of him, he can take offense, even when none is intended. If he did not want to be sensed, we would not be able to sense him. But we can. He must be letting us, and that may mean he _wants_ to speak with us. But it may not. If we approach him too quickly or too slowly, or have misinterpreted the invitation, things will go badly. The opportunity will not come again, either.

"We assume it has something to do with Owen, because he has taken an interest in Owen in the past. However, Owen has also been in danger before, and he has done nothing. We wonder if the difference now is you."

Aria's heart skipped a beat. "Me?" Her voice felt squeaky.

"Have you not wondered why you are here, privy to discussions that humans have not entered for ten thousand years? Why you saw Owen when he wished to be unseen, and why he did not kill you for it? He should have, by logic. I would have. But he didn't.

"Petro once told Owen something that might have been a reference to you. That may have stayed Owen's hand. Or it could have been Owen's unusual beliefs. But it makes us wonder if Petro's invitation is meant for you. We don't know whether taking you to see Petro will increase or decrease our chances of speaking with him or of receiving his assistance. But Owen cannot wait for us to recover normally. They have given me as much strength as they can, and I would not wish to face a vertril, much less infiltrate wherever they are keeping him. We need Petro's help.

"This is our best chance. Our only chance. We need to decide what to do and then do it immediately. What do you think?"

She swallowed. Her voice failed her at the enormity of the question.

"Is there anything you sense? Do you know something that will help us make the correct decision?"

Aria closed her eyes against the burning intensity of Cillian's gaze. _Do I know something? I know nothing. I feel fear._

He waited while she thought, patient and silent. She heard Niall writing again, and wondered distantly what he was saying.

She forced herself to begin. "I don't think I can sense things the way you do. I have no secret wisdom or sense that tells me anything. But I know I want to help, and if Petro might be interested in me, then perhaps it makes sense for me to put the request to him."

Niall put the notebook between them. _It is dangerous to seek Petro at any time, and now the danger affects all of us, particularly Aria. Is the blood debt paid? It should have been mine, by rights, but Lord Owen claimed it. The debt was for my freedom. He gave his freedom for her. How does that weigh in the balance?_

Cillian sighed softly. "Only Owen knows the weight of the debt and whether it is paid. Until we know, we are obligated to protect you as if the debt is still in force." He looked up to meet her eyes. "But you can choose whether to approach Petro or not. I do not believe we have the right to prevent you. It is a question of wisdom. Is it the _right_ decision?"

Aria swallowed hard. "I will go. I count the debt paid if that makes any difference."

Niall gave her the ghost of a smile and shook his head.

"You sense nothing? And yet you would take the risk?" Cillian's eyes remained on her face, a hint of disbelief, even censure, in his gaze.

"Yes." She forced herself to nod.

"Then we should not keep him waiting." Cillian stood quickly, then swayed and put his hand out to the wall to steady himself. Niall rose more slowly, one hand braced against the cardboard boxes stacked to the ceiling.

Aria frowned as she looked at them. Gaunt and white as paper, they were both so weak they could barely stay upright. Her heart twisted for them and for Owen, who needed them.

"What?" Cillian asked.

"Is there anything I can do to help you? Before we leave?" She chewed her lip.

"No. Let us go." Cillian led the way out and down the hall into the theater.

"I need to tell Gabriel." Aria stopped outside the conference room, but it was unoccupied. She looked around, but didn't see him, and finally settled on Bartok. He was eating with some others in a small group. They hadn't been on the mission the night before, and Bartok seemed to be in the middle of a quiet explanation.

"I'm going out with Cillian and Niall. We might be back. I don't know when."

Bartok glanced between them. "Are you okay?"

She forced a smile. "Fine. Just terrified. We'll see what happens and whether it's justified."

Bartok frowned and stood. "Do you need help?" He glanced at Cillian again, as if he were the cause of the problem.

Aria shook her head. "No. Thank you. I guess... see that the Fae have what they need. And get some rest." She managed a nod and an unconvincing smile before turning away to follow Cillian toward the front door.

Niall stopped suddenly and wrote, the notebook pressed against the nearest wall.

_Grenidor will extract this location from Lord Owen. They should not be here when the soldiers arrive._

Cillian nodded. "You're right. We were too tired to consider this before." He thought a moment. "The Hamling Train Station is still secret, isn't it?"

Niall nodded tentatively.

Cillian made his way back to Bartok. "Grenidor is most likely torturing Owen for information before killing him. One piece he will focus on is this location. You should move immediately. It is difficult at any time to lie to or withhold information from a human, and Grenidor is experienced at torture. You have little time."

Bartok stared at him. "You mean go now? With all the supplies?"

"Immediately. We will meet you at the Hamling Train Station. If it is not safe, find somewhere else. We will find you."

"I don't know that location." Bartok frowned more deeply.

Cillian glanced toward the door. "It is likely Gabriel will know it. If not, then Eli should." He held Bartok's eyes and repeated, "You have little time. Move quickly."

Bartok nodded once and Cillian turned away.

# Chapter Twelve

Cillian led them out into a bright, cold early afternoon, the winter sun imparting no warmth as it flooded the street. He followed a circuitous path, walking slowly and pausing at each intersection before choosing a direction. Niall did not seem to have any argument, following without a questioning look. Cillian glanced at him once, as if to ask his opinion, but Niall only waited, and after a moment Cillian continued to lead.

Aria shivered, partly from an icy gust of wind, and partly from her thoughts. What if she failed? What if Petro didn't tell her what they needed to know? What if he killed them all?

It didn't matter. She had to try.

"Do you know where we are going?"

Cillian answered, "No. The route is of his choosing. I know only the next turn."

She frowned, puzzling over that. _So Petro knew where we were. And where we are now. Is this confirmation that he does wish to speak to us?_

Cillian stopped in front of a door. "He is here." He turned to meet her eyes. "Are you ready?"

Aria stared at the door. _Barton & Michel, Attorneys at Law._ The painted lettering was faded and worn. "Why here?"

"It is where he chose." Cillian sounded slightly puzzled at her question. "Are you ready?" he repeated.

She swallowed. "Yes."

The door was not locked. _Would it have been locked if someone else tried it? I should ask him later. But he might not know._ Cillian led them through a reception area that looked equally worn, down a short hallway, and into a tiny library, the walls lined with heavy, leatherbound books. A computer sat discreetly on a desk in one corner, and leather armchairs clustered in the corner closest to them.

Owen stood in the center of the open space, his hands clasped behind his back. "Good morning." His voice was low, and she heard the smile in it, though his expression was subtle.

Beside her, she heard Cillian's breaths, quick and ragged in the silence. He stared at Owen, his lips pressed tightly together. Behind Niall, the door closed, apparently of its own accord.

Owen did not look at Cillian or Niall, did not acknowledge their existence. He smiled at Aria, his blue eyes holding hers. "Do you love me?"

Aria's heart thudded, her eyes locked on his. _This isn't Owen. This isn't right._ "Who are you?" she whispered.

Owen smiled again, a kindly look in his eyes. "Who do you think?"

She licked her lips. "I've been told you have many names. Which would you prefer today?"

Owen stepped toward her, eyes still on hers. "Answer my question." His voice was gentle. "Do you love me?"

"I don't know you." She raised her chin and forced herself to keep her eyes on his.

Owen stared at her, familiar blue eyes searching her face, head cocked to the side as if he were puzzling out her strange human behavior. He smiled again. Then he was gone, and in his place stood _something_.

Perhaps it was a man. It might have been a young man, with bronze skin, golden hair and laughing golden eyes. For a moment, that's what Aria saw. For a moment, she saw a beast, a lizard with golden scales and glittering green eyes, towering far past the ceiling, staring down at her with an unblinking gaze. For a moment, she saw a woman, pale and voluptuous, sensual lips curved in a smile. Perhaps it was not a man at all.

In Owen's place stood a man perhaps twenty years old, with brown hair that flopped haphazardly over his forehead. His face was innocent, guileless, but his eyes made her blood chill. Something in them seemed cold as ice. His green eyes roved from her to Cillian, to Niall, and back to her. _Petro. Drake. Conláed. Dragon._

"You may call me as you wish. It matters not."

Aria felt Cillian's tension next to her, and her own heart beating wildly. Her voice shook. "We have come to request your help. Cillian believes you can help us save Owen." She wondered if he required an explanation of this, or if he already knew.

He stared at her with unblinking eyes for so long that she shifted uncomfortably. _He should blink. It would make the illusion more convincing._ The sudden thought was almost amusing, and it gave her courage.

"Will you help us?" she finally ventured in the face of his silence.

"Why do you wish to save him?"

Aria swallowed. _Why indeed? Because I love him? Because what Grenidor is doing is wrong? Because I feel guilty? Because he's their hope? Because Niall trusts me to ask you for help, for reasons I cannot fathom?_

She licked her lips and swallowed a lump in her throat. "Because it's the right thing to do."

He drew back with a knowing look. "Altruism." He stepped away, paced slowly down the length of the room and then back. "You have not convinced me." He met her eyes with a glance so cold she shivered. "Try again."

"Because I love him." Aria blurted the words, not glancing to the side to see Cillian's expression.

Petro smiled a little, a quirk of the lips that might have been calculated to resemble Owen's. "Love. Human love is no concern of mine."

"Why did you ask about it?"

Petro smiled a little more. Aria couldn't guess if he was amused by her efforts or simply mimicking human expressions for reasons of his own. _He's asking because it affects something, not because the emotion matters to him. But what?_

"What are you interested in, then?" she asked.

He stared at her for another long moment. "Data," he said finally. Beside her, Cillian twitched, but said nothing.

Aria frowned. "If you're not human, and you're not Fae, and you're older than anything I can imagine, what data could you possibly want? Haven't you seen everything before?"

Petro merely stared at her, his unblinking gaze so intense that she found herself trembling as she kept her eyes on his.

"Are we data points then? Of some sort of study?"

Silence.

"If Owen is interesting now, I imagine he will continue to be interesting in the future. Unless he dies. Then you'll get no more information." She raised her chin.

Again, silence, for so long that Aria began turning over new words in her mind, floundering desperately for another tack. What could Petro possibly desire?

"Why is he so interesting?"

"I require no further information from Owen."

Aria's heart skipped a beat, and she felt her breath coming raggedly. _Then Owen is lost._

"Where is he?" she asked anyway.

The silence drew out for another long moment, then Petro said abruptly, "He is at the Forestgate Imperial Security Facility in the second basement floor. You will find the gates unlocked at nine o'clock tonight."

"Tonight?" Aria's voice was only a whisper. Shocked that she'd succeeded. Confused. Why had he given in to her request? "Thank you."

Petro did not answer, did not acknowledge the thanks in word or expression. He merely stared at her, eyes unblinking, and then vanished.

Aria blinked. There was no flash of light, no shimmering, nothing to indicate how he had disappeared. He was just no longer present.

Aria let out a long, slow breath, heart still thudding in her chest. Beside her, Cillian shuddered and turned away from her toward Niall, who had sunk to his knees on the floor, face buried in his hands. Cillian didn't say anything, only knelt beside him in silence, one hand on the boy's shoulder. The other was clenched in a fist that he pressed to his mouth, as if he were trying not to be sick.

"Well, that went better than I expected." Aria finally offered. "Are you okay?"

Niall looked up at her, trembling.

Cillian answered, his voice low. "It was _profoundly_ disturbing, in ways you cannot imagine." He took another deep breath and let it out slowly. "We must talk to Niamh and the others." He helped Niall to his feet.

They made their way slowly back down the hallway toward the street. Aria had already stepped outside when she blinked in confusion and turned to look at the door again. The door was an unmarked metal service door, and they stood in a narrow alley. "Where are we?"

Cillian swayed a little and glanced both directions. "Off of Joslin Avenue." He hesitated, then added, "I didn't feel us move."

Cillian led them. Aria watched them worriedly; both seemed so shaken and weary that she wondered whether they would make it back to the hotel at all. She didn't realize where they were until they passed directly in front of Dandra's Books.

"Wait." She stopped. It was still closed, with a note taped to the glass door. Nothing seemed amiss, but she looked again at the note.

"This is different. It's a different note." It was still Dandra's handwriting, as closely as she could tell, and the wording was the same. _Closed until further notice._ But it wasn't the same note. Had she come back and gone away again? It was the middle of the afternoon. The store should have been open.

Aria shaded her face against the glare and peered inside. Everything seemed normal. She frowned. Maybe not. The shelves looked a little less organized than usual. Dandra liked to straighten everything before she left for the night; every book's spine an inch from the front edge of the shelf. Now random books were pulled forward, as if to set them apart from the rest. Aria shook her head. _That's foolish. Of course it's a little disorganized. If she was in a hurry when she left, she wouldn't have straightened the shelves. But why is the note different? And why would she be in a hurry to leave?_

She pulled on the door handle, but it was locked. Of course it was. The store was closed. "Can you open this?" She turned to glance at Cillian.

"For what purpose?"

She could hear the exhaustion in his voice, and she almost shook her head and continued on. _But if something is wrong, we should know. Owen said he didn't tell Petro, so why would she be gone for so long?_

"I think we should look inside."

Cillian reached forward without a word and placed his hand on the handle. He paused, and then pulled it open with a soft click.

Aria stepped inside, Cillian and Niall following. She walked through the little coffee shop area. _This was where I saw Owen first. What if I hadn't paid attention? Life would be so simple._

The scents of coffee and sugary syrups were faded, as if the machines had not been used since she'd been here last. She stepped behind the counter. The trash was emptied; Dandra did that every night as she left. The refrigerator that held the cream and milk was still on, and she peered inside. Everything was either out of date or close to it.

"This is strange," she murmured. "She came back to change the note, but she didn't replace any of the supplies. Why?"

Cillian sighed softly behind her, and she glanced at him. He leaned against the end of a bookshelf, eyes half-closed, shoulders slumped. She thought he might say something, but he only stood there silently, and she moved toward the bookshelf he leaned against.

She slipped down the aisle, looking at the books. There were few empty places; Dandra liked to keep a full inventory with a broad range of books, and books were often stacked lying horizontally above the rows when she ran out of space in a particular section. The first book that was pulled forward caught her eye.

_A History of the Jews._ Odd. Who were they? The next one was _American Superpower: The Rise and Fall of an Empire._ Aria frowned more deeply. The name sounded familiar, and she pulled the book out and flipped it open. The map in the front made her catch her breath. _That's here. When was this?_ Copyright 2061, just before she was born. The next book, just a little farther on, was _The Cold War: A New Understanding._ The next was _The Sound of Freedom._ And the next, _Red Rising: The Birth of Modern China_. She covered her mouth with her hand as her thoughts whirled.

_History. Dandra sells history books. Real ones!_ If these were true history books, it was probably sedition to sell them. Aria looked around the store again. It didn't look like the IPF had been here; maybe they didn't know yet. But Dandra must have believed she was in danger. Aria moved more quickly now, glancing at each title as she pulled them out and stacked them on a table in the back.

Another aisle. _The Death of Compassion._ That title stood out among the others, and she glanced inside briefly. _Today's world is cold in ways our ancestors could not imagine. We think it is because of the changes in the weather, the changes in politics, but we are mistaken. The coldness is in our hearts, and it has been long in the making._ She put it on top of the stack.

The next aisle had only a few books pulled out, and she moved down it quickly, with only a glance at each title. Her foot fell unevenly as she stepped forward, and she looked down to see a book kicked halfway under the shelf, the title hidden. She knelt to extract it and drew a quick breath. _Memories Kept._ A slip of paper marked the place where she'd stopped reading. _She knew. She left this book for me to find. And the others. She knew I would come. Does she need help? Where is she? Why did I not notice these books before? Was I that out of it? Did anyone else notice them?_

Cillian's voice came from the front of the store. "Have you found what you wanted?"

Aria swallowed. "Yes. We need to take these with us. There's a message in them, but I can't figure it out now. Maybe Gabriel can help. Or Owen. Later." She winced when she glanced at the pile of books she'd amassed.

She found plastic bags with the store logo behind the counter and doubled them, then stuffed them full of books. Five bulging bags, so heavy she struggled to lift two. Cillian stared at her for a long moment, then picked up one in each hand. Niall shouldered the fifth, skinny body bowed under its weight.

Aria tested the door behind them and was relieved that it locked automatically. She trailed Cillian and Niall, stopping periodically to put the bags down and flex her fingers. The plastic bag handles stretched under the weight and felt like wires digging into her hands.

Though the streets were not empty, no one seemed to notice her, and she was grateful. One man actually bumped into her as he walked by, but he neither apologized nor shot her an angry glance; he seemed completely unaware that she existed. _I might as well be a lamppost. Good. Cillian is probably responsible for that too. It's not like you see such a mismatched group every day, struggling under eighty pounds of books for five blocks._

Cillian led them to an entrance to the old subway system. The stairwell down was blocked by a locked metal door; he put his hand on it for a moment and then pulled it open. Aria winced at the rusty screech. If anyone was looking for them, they'd announced their presence. Cillian locked the door behind them the same way.

He led them through the darkness with unerring confidence. Aria followed more slowly, and she lost track of Cillian and Niall quickly. Neither made a sound as they walked, and, although the books were heavy, she couldn't hear them breathing. Her own breaths were loud in the thick silence.

Finally, Niall came back and grasped the handle of one of her bags and helped her with it, guiding her as he pulled. Aria had the sense of an open space and she pictured them on a small train platform at first, then a long narrow tunnel. Niall's guiding hand on the bag was welcome as she imagined herself misstepping and falling onto the tracks. No train would be coming, but the drop would be six or eight feet to a hard, uneven surface.

They walked for a long time. Aria struggled with the weight of the books, but it was her own decision to carry them. Besides, Cillian was carrying the two heaviest bags, and Niall was helping her. Niall didn't seem to be carrying the fifth anymore.

"Do you still have the other bag?" Aria asked finally.

"I have it," Cillian answered for Niall.

She heard the weariness in his voice and asked, "Do you need to rest?"

"No. We are close."

Her arms were burning and her hands were locked in excruciating cramps by the time they emerged into a larger space again.

Cillian stopped in front of them and spoke quietly. "It is us. Aria, Niall, and me, Cillian."

A lamp flared and he continued forward. Aria grimaced with pain and hefted the books again.

Eli lowered his pistol, darted forward, and began to take one of the bags from her. "Thanks." Then she looked toward Cillian. The third bag of books was looped over his right wrist, and he held the handles to the others in each hand. "Help him."

Cillian set the bags down and straightened slowly, flexing his fingers and considering them for a moment before looking up into the darkness. "Come. We must speak to the others." He left the books on the floor and led her past the lantern Eli had left toward another lantern some distance away.

The Fae had claimed the far end of the lower level of the two-story train station. Brick ceilings arched high above the second floor. Black train tunnels led in opposite directions; a second floor, reached by unmoving escalators, had tunnels at right angles. The station was apparently long forgotten, the stained concrete floor thick with dust. The air was cool and stale until she reached the circle of light marking the Fae encampment. A kerosene lantern lit their faces, but the darkness loomed in thick shadows at every corner.

Niamh and the others had been sitting in a rough circle already and Aria wondered whether they had been singing, sleeping, or merely sitting in silence as they rested. _They must have been singing, if not now, then not long ago. This air is fresh, like after a spring rain._

Cillian motioned her to sit beside him and Aria settled in with her legs crossed between him and Niall. He nodded for her to begin.

Aria recounted the meeting as well as she could, giving her words and Petro's verbatim. She frowned as she thought, trying to remember every detail and every impression. The Fae stared at her in silence until she finished.

She took a deep breath. "I thought you would help, or something. I didn't know you were just going to leave me to it." She tried to glare at Cillian but it faded as she met his eyes.

"We could not." His voice was flat, and he glanced at Niall as he spoke.

"Could not? What do you mean? You could have asked a question or something. I didn't know what I was doing!" Aria's voice rose.

Cillian did not react to her irritation. "We were kept silent. We were not given the choice to speak."

She blinked at him. _What did that mean?_ But before she could ask for clarification, he began his own account of the meeting.

"I did not realize until now that Petro did not appear as Owen to her for the entire meeting. To me, and I believe to Niall, he was Owen. The illusion was utterly convincing in ways that a human could not sense. The feel of him was Owen, through and through, down to the taste of his blood. It would have fooled most of you, and in a passing meeting, it would have fooled even me, his brother." Cillian paused, and Niall nodded, eyes flicking up to Aria's face for a brief moment before lowering to the floor again.

Cillian shuddered again. "If he can be so convincingly Fae, how many times has he interacted with us unrecognized? What has he done, and what has he said, that we did not realize were him? And humans can sense so little, he could have done much without being known."

Niamh stared back at him with wide eyes.

Aria frowned. She started, then stopped, and started again. "I don't think so. You said he doesn't seem to want much interaction. Why would he do that?"

Cillian shook his head slowly. "We don't know him. We have no way of understanding what he does and does not want. This meeting was proof."

She waited, watching him as he seemed to gather his thoughts. He flexed his fingers absently, working out the cramps. His wrist still showed the deep lines of the plastic bag handles. _I hope the books tell us something._

"The change in his appearance was obviously aimed at Aria. Why? He began as Owen, but either did not or could not maintain that deception. He settled on a human form, but showed her a non-human form as well. Was it a test or provocation for her? Or an expression of his limitations?

"Also, Petro answered her questions. Not all of them, but some of them. _Directly_. He has never done that for us. Owen has gained information from him, but it has been difficult, in ways it was not for Aria. He became less evasive as the meeting went on. I don't understand why."

Niamh's eyes rested on Aria again. "And you somehow managed to obtain his location from Petro." Her voice was soft, and her surprise was obvious. "This does not mean it will be possible to save him."

Cillian nodded. "No. He gave a time and said the gate would be open. That is all."

Aria spoke the thought that rose up unbidden. "Do you think he was lying?"

The Fae turned to her as one, but only Niamh spoke. "It is difficult for us to lie, particularly to humans. The consequences are immediate and severe. Unmistakable. We believe it may be more difficult for Petro. At least, we have little evidence that he has lied directly. It is possible for him to deceive, we think; he has given incomplete information that resulted in disaster. It may have been deliberate, but we do not know his purposes in doing so."

Cillian said, "Only to us. We have no such evidence regarding his interactions with humans."

For the first time, one of the other Fae reacted. They had been watching in utter silence, but now Ardghal spoke quietly. "He would know we would explain this to her. It carries risks."

Silence.

"It doesn't matter. We must try."

"What doesn't matter?" Aria was confused.

"Though we believe he spoke the truth, it does not mean there is any chance of success. Petro may be setting us up for disaster. He promised an open door and a location. He did not promise there would be no other interference." Cillian met her eyes, and apparently her confusion was still obvious, because he continued. "It doesn't matter. Because of Owen's position, and what we owe him, we must try. If there was no chance to save him, we could walk away, but knowing there is a chance, we must take it."

Aria swallowed. "Yes. We will."

Niamh looked at her strangely. "You will be a liability. You should stay here."

"No!" Aria's answer was sharper than she intended, and she tried to smile in apology.

Niamh's eyes were hard and unyielding.

Aria took a deep breath and thought about her words. "I care for him too. I know I'm slow and weak in comparison to you, but I want to help. If I die, then at least I'll know I did something worthwhile with my life."

Everyone stared at her in silence. Cillian's glare was perhaps the angriest, and she tried to think of something that would soften her demand.

"Petro gave _me_ the information. Don't you think he might have wanted me to go?"

Cillian blinked as he considered the thought. Niamh answered, "I imagine he did. But neither altruism nor love convinced him. His interest does not imply compassion."

Ardghal's quiet voice cut through the silence. "And yet, Niamh, she chooses to go. Can we prevent her?"

Aria stared at Ardghal. He was one of the older ones, gaunt and strong and silent. The question was odd.

"What do you mean, _can_ you prevent me? I imagine even now any one of you could physically prevent me. You're all much stronger than I am. But that's not the question, is it?"

Niamh nodded for Ardghal to answer. She seemed lost in thought, her gaze distant.

"We have choices, but we cannot interfere with you. Not the way you can with us, I imagine. If you choose to go on the mission, we can tell you the risks, and attempt to change your mind, but we cannot prevent you from going. Not physically. I doubt it would be possible to lie to you directly, and it would be difficult to deliberately deceive you. That is a right that we do not often have, and rarely use." Ardghal glanced at Cillian, who nodded agreement.

Aria felt her understanding slipping, then caught at a thread. The Fae had something in common with Petro then. She pondered the thought, not quite sure she understood, and tucked it away for later. Something to discuss with Owen.

"Right then. You have not changed my mind. I choose to go. I appreciate your desire to protect me." She smiled, trying to seem properly grateful. "But I believe I ought to go."

Cillian and Niamh locked eyes across the circle, and Cillian nodded minutely.

Niamh turned her gaze on Aria. "We have more to discuss among ourselves. You should rest. Eat. We will leave at 8:00."

The dismissal was clear.

Aria trudged toward the other end of the platform, making her way toward the lanterns scattered about. She was unsure what to do. The books were intriguing, and she was sure there was some message Dandra meant for her. There was also all the material Owen had obtained from the H Street facility. Her eyes burned with exhaustion, and she knew she should rest. Instead, she looked for a face she recognized.

She saw Bartok first, and meandered over to where he was lying on a bedroll, legs stretched out and arms crossed behind his head. A notebook lay open next to him, pages filled with cramped writing.

He blinked up at her. "You're back. Was it as bad as you expected?"

She dropped to sit beside him and leaned forward to put her face in her hands, hair falling forward. Her voice was muffled as she answered. "Nothing bad happened. I think. But it was confusing." She sighed heavily. "Everything is confusing."

Bartok sat up and patted her shoulder once. She could feel his awkward sympathy. They didn't know each other well enough for it not to be awkward, but she obviously needed some comfort.

She sighed again. "Is Gabriel looking at the hard drives yet?"

"I don't think so. He's touchy. You might want to leave him alone right now." Bartok frowned more deeply at her.

"It's not my fault. Is it?" She tried to keep her eyes on his, but felt her gaze slipping back to the floor. _Isn't it? You meant to help, and yet you made it worse. Possibly. Maybe. How can you know? Delusions of heroism. Trying to earn love, as if Owen needed_ your _help, out of everyone here._

Bartok put one finger under her chin and lifted her face, waiting until she met his eyes again. "No," he said firmly. "It isn't your fault. You meant to help. And you did. It was brave, and I'm sure Owen appreciated it. Jonah certainly does." He withdrew his hand but kept his eyes on hers. His voice softened. "He's married, you know. His wife is out at the safe haven with their two children. They're five and eight. You helped make sure they didn't lose their daddy."

Aria's face crumpled and she buried her face in her hands again. "And sacrificed Owen to do it! How can we know what is right?"

_It's not Bartok's fault. Don't take it out on him._

"Do you know where Forestgate Imperial Security Facility is?" She sniffled as she looked up again.

"No. Gabriel would. Why?"

"That's where Owen is. Probably."

Bartok's mouth twisted into a frown. "I'll go with you if you want to see Gabriel. If you think it's important."

"I'll tell him what we're doing. But I don't think any humans should go. Except me." She hunched her shoulders. The thought terrified her, but she didn't want to admit it.

"What _are_ you doing?" Bartok asked.

"We're going to try to rescue Owen. It could be a total disaster. But we're going to try anyway." She scowled furiously at her clasped hands. "I don't want to, exactly, but I need to. To be able to live with myself." She felt tears welling and brushed at them furiously. "I'm not brave like this, Bartok!"

He put both hands on her shoulders and leaned down to meet her eyes. "None of us are. We do what we need to do. That's all."

She sighed. "They told me to rest. I probably should." She forced a smile. "I bet you were a good pediatrician."

Pleasure flashed across his face. "I enjoyed it. I hope I can do it again someday."

"I'd better go see Gabriel." She didn't want to face him.

Bartok pushed himself to his feet and helped her up. "You got it." He led her away from the group toward an alcove near the entrance to one of the tunnels. An electric lantern shed some light, but she didn't see him. "Gabriel?"

"Yes." The answer was a little hoarse. Aria realized he was sitting with his back against the wall closest to them, his boots barely visible.

"Aria wants to talk to you."

"What does she want?"

She heard papers rustling and stepped forward, despite the unfriendly tone of his voice. She gave Bartok a smile she hoped was reassuring.

"Do you want me to stay?" His question was for both of them.

"If you want." Gabriel's frown could be heard, even though she couldn't see it yet. Aria shrugged, and Bartok followed her closer.

She dropped to sit across from Gabriel, not looking at his face yet. Bartok knelt beside her.

"I wanted to tell you that we're going to try to rescue Owen. Cillian and Niall and I went to see Petro. He gave us some information that might help."

"Who's Petro?" Gabriel set the papers aside.

Aria took a deep breath. "I'm not really sure. Someone, some _thing_ , they're very frightened of." She didn't know how much she should say. It seemed that the more she knew, the more complicated and tangled things became, and she wasn't sure if it was a good idea to draw Gabriel into the confusion too. "Something old and powerful."

Gabriel leaned forward and rubbed his hands hard over his face. His shoulders were tense, and she felt a sudden rush of sympathy for him. He was tired, under the pressure of leadership, and grieving, and she knew she was part of the cause.

"I think it will work out. I think we'll get him." She tried to sound more confident than she felt.

Gabriel looked up. "Do you know Colonel Grenidor?"

"I met him. He's the one who arrested me after Owen took my tracker out. Niall said he leads the experimental program." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. _It will be fine. If it goes well, he'll have Owen for less than 24 hours. Owen will be hurt, but he will be fine._

Gabriel's eyes shifted away. "Yes."

"Do you know him?"

"Yes." Gabriel did not meet her eyes. He hunched forward a little, frowning, then said, "I'll ask for volunteers if you have a plan to retrieve him."

Aria swallowed. "I don't think anyone should go except Cillian and me. I think it's going to be dangerous. I wouldn't ask it of anyone."

Gabriel met her eyes for a long moment. "I would."

_Am I wrong? Would more people be better? But there is more to risk that way. With only Cillian and me, I think it could work. If not, then only we two die with Owen. I think that is best._

She reached out to put one hand on his arm and he twitched in surprise. "I think it is best if it is only Cillian and me." She chewed her lip and continued quietly, "The other Fae will provide cover. That way if we fail, which seems likely, you won't have sacrificed any of your fighters. You need to keep going. It's important."

Gabriel held her eyes for a moment longer, then nodded once. "Understood. Where is he?"

"Forestgate Imperial Security Facility."

Gabriel blinked. "I think we have the plans for that one. Would you check?" he asked Bartok.

Bartok nodded and stood.

"You have the plans?" Aria asked incredulously.

Gabriel frowned, doubt in his eyes. "Jonah worked at the Department of General Services before he was identified as noncompliant. He copied or stole many of the plans for various facilities before he went underground. It was amazing work; it was gutsy and also very useful. We stole most of our equipment and weapons in early missions that relied on those plans. I think Forestgate might be among the facilities we have plans for, but I'm not positive."

They sat in silence for so long that Gabriel pulled the papers toward him again. "This is some of the material Owen retrieved from the H Street facility. I imagine the hard drives have more, but Jonah is still getting a computer set up. It's complicated. They're trying to find power to tap into that won't be obvious. Converters. We have a couple old laptops but nothing that's designed to work with the mil spec removable hard drives."

"You can do it, though, right?"

"Jonah can do pretty much anything with a computer. It's just taking a while to get everything set up. Then longer to read it, if everything is encrypted." Gabriel peeled off the top few pages and handed them to her. "This is on the brainwashing and such. If you want to read it."

Bartok came jogging back. "No. We don't have that one."

Aria let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Now what? How do we plan, then?"

Bartok handed her a book. "I thought you should see this, though."

"What?" The book was _Memories Kept_ , the book that had started her wondering about the past.

Bartok reached over to open it. "Jenison was going through the books you brought from Dandra's, trying to find a common theme, and he found your bookmark. Did you draw this?"

She stared down at the slip of paper. The uneven triangle of paper was torn from one of her pages of thesis notes; it was covered with the penciled ends of words. A black symbol had been drawn on it, the tip just barely protruding from the bottom edge of the book pages when the book was closed. "What is it?"

He stared at her. "It's a cross. The Christian symbol. You don't remember?"

She blinked. It sounded familiar, but she couldn't think of any details. "Not really. I mean, I remember the word Christian, but I never knew much about them. What does it mean?"

"You didn't draw it?" Bartok and Gabriel were both staring at her.

"No." She shook her head.

"There's more." Bartok turned the paper over to the back, and Aria recognized the shape of the crumpled paper that had been in Dandra's hand the evening Aria had first seen Owen.

The note read, "You must execute your escape plan. You have one day before the soldiers come for you. Petro." The writing was in crisp black ink, a precise all caps print except for the name Petro, which was written with a subdued flourish.

_He wrote it on my bookmark, and I put the bookmark in the book when I reshelved it. Dandra didn't have the book out when we left that night. How did it get in her hand when we were outside?_

Silence.

"Huh," Gabriel said finally.

Aria rubbed her eyes. "This is interesting, but we're planning a rescue. I don't have any idea how to do that, so any advice would be welcome."

Gabriel sighed. "Who's going?"

"Cillian and me. And I guess some of them to provide cover from the walls. We'll need guns."

"Let's talk with them, then." He scooped up the papers.

Aria led the way back across the platform. "Resistance fighters don't have coffee, do they? I'm really, really tired."

Gabriel chuckled softly. "Sorry, but we don't have any."

Aria sighed. "I thought not." Just one more trivial comfort that didn't apply to her life anymore.

The Fae looked up coolly as they approached and said nothing as Aria, Gabriel, and Bartok sat down near them.

Gabriel took a deep breath and Aria realized with some surprise that he was nervous. Nervous about the Fae? About the rescue? About everything, she concluded. He didn't know them well and probably found them unpredictable. _I should feel the same way. Maybe I'm just too tired to be nervous._

"Aria tells me you're planning to try to rescue Owen. Based on the statements of Petro?"

"Yes," Cillian answered.

"Can you trust him?" Gabriel frowned.

"We believe he did not lie. It is highly likely there is relevant information he is withholding for his own purposes."

Gabriel sat back. "So, the explanation I got from Aria is that Petro is old, and scary, and dangerous. And yet you believe he's telling you the truth. Why on earth would you believe that?"

Cillian and Niamh glanced at each other. Niamh answered, her voice quiet. "I am not sure we understand your question. Why would one not trust Petro's words?"

Bartok and Gabriel stared at them. Finally, Gabriel said, "Huh." The single syllable betrayed confusion, and Cillian frowned at him.

"Petro's statement was clear. What is there to doubt?"

Gabriel tilted his head slightly as he stared at them. "You don't think he might lie to you?"

"No." Cillian looked confused by the suggestion.

Gabriel rubbed both hands over his face and sat back. "Fine. When?"

"Tonight at 9:00 at Forestgate Imperial Security Facility. Second basement floor," Aria said.

"Why then? I thought you would want to heal first." Gabriel addressed the question to Cillian.

Cillian nodded. "That is the time Petro specified. It is possible that Owen will not survive past that time, or that he would be moved somewhere else or otherwise be inaccessible if we wait."

"But you don't _know_ that. And not to put it too bluntly, but none of you are up to much of a fight right now."

Cillian blinked slowly. "That is immaterial. We cannot wait longer."

Gabriel said after a long moment, "I will ask for volunteers to provide cover if you wish."

Niamh frowned slightly, then nodded. "Yes. That would be acceptable. Appreciated."

Cillian stared at Aria, but spoke to Gabriel. "You should convince Aria that it is unwise for her to go. Perhaps you can be more persuasive or authoritative than we were."

Gabriel turned to study Aria for a moment. "Why do you think she should not go?"

"She will be a liability. We cannot protect her, not as weak as we are, and I will need all my strength for Owen."

Gabriel glanced between Aria and Cillian.

"Also, we owe her a blood debt and are obligated to keep her safe until we know it is paid. But we have not the right to prevent her from going if she chooses. Perhaps you can assist." Cillian's clipped voice betrayed his irritation.

_So much like Owen! When he spoke that way to me, he had reason to, even though I didn't understand at the time. Maybe I should listen to Cillian now._

Gabriel studied Aria. "And you? What do you say?"

Aria raised her chin. "I think Petro wanted me to go. The information was given to me. Either the rescue will succeed, or it won't. But it might have better chances if I'm there."

Gabriel continued looking at her, then smiled faintly. "I think she has the right to decide. If she believes she should go, maybe she should."

Niamh and Cillian glared at him.

"Do you feel no obligation toward her? She is a human, as you are, and you are the leader of the human resistance. Does that mean nothing to you?" said Cillian.

Gabriel stiffened. "She is an adult, and neither a coward nor a fool. She makes her own decision."

Ardghal, who had said nothing thus far, reached forward to put a calming hand on Cillian's tense arm. He murmured, "Humans are baffling."

Cillian's nostrils flared, but he nodded once, sharply. "It is as you say."

Niamh stared at Aria, her glare turning more thoughtful. "Perhaps, if she survives, we will gain useful information from her. Obviously, humans see things differently than we do. Perhaps we may discover something enlightening."

Gabriel waited, tension thick in the air, until he said finally, "Will ten be enough to provide cover on the walls?"

"Yes," said Cillian.

"Then I'll leave you." Gabriel rose, and Bartok followed him without a word.

Aria didn't know what to do, but felt the cool irritation in Cillian's gaze and decided that she would go sleep after all. _You'd think I'd rather stay awake for my last hours, but I'm tired. Maybe the rest will help._

# Chapter Thirteen

Gabriel shook her awake. "I found them. They were in the papers Owen brought out."

"What?" she blinked at him blearily.

"Schematics! Come." He helped her to her feet and pulled her across the platform again toward the Fae.

"What time is it?"

"7:15. There's not much time."

He thrust the papers in front of Cillian. "We found these. Look."

They spread the papers out and studied them in silence for a moment. "Hm," Cillian said finally.

"What?" Aria asked.

He glanced up at her. "I do not think you should go."

"We've discussed this already! I'm going." Aria glared at him.

His mouth tightened, and he said finally, "Then it will be only us. Niamh, Siofra, Conri, and the humans should stay on the walls and cover us. This is likely suicide. Owen would not wish us to sacrifice more on his behalf." He frowned at the schematics again. "We will enter through the front. Petro said Owen was on the second basement floor. We will use this access stairwell and search the floor from this side."

"I don't think it's _impossible_." Aria frowned. "Maybe improbable. But he gave us the information for a reason."

Niamh said, "But we do not know his reason."

Aria shrugged. "I don't care."

Cillian sighed, as if he had already accepted that the mission was doomed. "If we make it out, I assume my strength will be gone, either through injury or healing Owen as much as I can. Ardghal will meet us here, at the top of the tunnel entrance, and carry Owen the rest of the way. Niall can stand watch and open the sewer as we get close."

Aria studied the floor plan. At first, it looked only like a crazed mass of overlapping lines, but after a moment, she figured out the symbols for stairwells and doors between rooms. There were four stairwells between each floor; Cillian had indicated they would use the one closest to the eastern side of the building. Perhaps the closed stairwell would limit the number of soldiers who could fire on them at one time. Or perhaps, the stairwell was simply the closest to the outside door. It opened onto a long hallway with many intersections. Plenty of opportunities to be caught or killed. Virtually no cover.

_Way to be optimistic, Aria._

She frowned at her own thoughts. "Okay. We'll do it."

"There are sensors all along the wall and at the gate to sense our blood." Cillian raised his eyes to meet Niamh's gaze. "Be careful."

Niamh nodded.

"Those on the walls should return here a different way. Perhaps, if we are pursued, they can cause a distraction." Cillian continued frowning at the schematics.

Gabriel put one hand on her shoulder, as if he wanted to be reassuring, and she wondered whether he agreed that the mission was doomed.

"Who else is going?" she asked him.

"Evrial and Jonah's squads." Gabriel waited a moment longer, in case Cillian had anything else to say. "Come. We'll get you a headset and vest."

Aria followed Gabriel back toward the clusters of lanterns at the other end of the platform. He outfitted her, loaded and checked her pistol for her, and finally looked her over with a frown.

"I'd rather you not go, too," he said finally. "But it's your decision."

She didn't answer.

Bartok appeared by Gabriel's shoulder, already wearing his gear. "We found some interesting things in the books you retrieved, in addition to that bookmark. Clint thinks it might be worth going back tomorrow to see if there are any other clues. He used to be a detective."

"Interesting like what?" Aria looked at him curiously.

"We're not sure yet. Deliberate clues, but we don't know what they're pointing to."

She frowned at him. "Huh." She would have asked for more detail, but Cillian had joined them.

"We must leave. Petro specified 9:00. We cannot be late."

"Are you going?" Aria asked Gabriel.

He frowned. "No. I've been asked to remain here. But you have good men going. Plus Evrial."

Bartok raised an eyebrow. "I don't think she'd be offended to be grouped in with the men. Not on a mission, anyway."

"Come," Cillian said.

He led the way into a train tunnel. They would split up later, once they were closer to the facility, but for now, they traveled in a tense, quiet line, flashlights bobbing in the darkness. It was a long walk, and Aria was already tired. _But it doesn't really matter, does it? Somehow I doubt that my fitness level is the determining factor in whether we succeed or not._ She wasn't confident in the logic of that thought. _If it is, we're doomed whether I'm tired or not. At least no one else is coming in with us._

She found herself walking next to Bartok, his strides long and confident next to her shorter ones. She pushed down her nerves and tried to smile.

"Are you nervous?" He glanced sideways at her.

"Do I look nervous?"

"A little." He gave her a quick smile. "I'll go in with you if you want."

The offer gave her pause, and she glanced at him again. "I don't think that's a good idea." _He must know we're probably going to die. Why would he offer something like that?_

He nodded. "I thought you'd say that. But the offer is real."

"Thanks."

They walked in silence for several steps, and Bartok opened his mouth once, then closed it again. Finally, he said, "Be careful."

"I will." _For what it's worth._

Evrial and Jonah led their squads into an access tunnel that would lead them close to Forestgate Imperial Security Facility. Bartok gave Aria a quick pat on the shoulder as he followed them. Evrial patted her shoulder, too, a sympathetic touch that left her looking after them into the dark. _Am I stupid to do this? I have to try._ Niamh and several other Fae followed them, all outfitted with pistols and headsets.

She followed Cillian, Niall, and Ardghal a little farther to a different access tunnel and some distance down the dark passage, where they reached the bottom of a long ladder.

Cillian paused to tousle Niall's hair and give him a quick, hard embrace. Niall leaned into him for a moment, thin arms circling his uncle's waist. Cillian hugged Ardghal too, and a murmur passed between them. Then Cillian started up the ladder, his bare feet silent on the rungs.

Ardghal patted Aria on the shoulder. "It is brave, what you are doing. We thank you." His voice was soft, sorrowful.

Niall hesitated, his pale face barely visible in the darkness, and then leaned in to give her a quick hug too. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, feeling the bones beneath his cool skin.

"I'll do my best."

_They think we're going to die._

She climbed up the ladder after Cillian, Niall behind her. Cillian waited until she reached him before moving the metal cover aside and slipping out. She climbed out next, and Niall closed the cover behind her, leaving just a crack through which he could watch down the street.

Aria took a deep breath and followed Cillian. They slipped down the street, keeping to the shadows, and circled around to approach the wall from the west side, where they could see the front gate. It was wide enough for two driveways for entering and exiting cars, with a guard post in the middle. The guards were in position, two visible standing outside the gate and at least three inside the gatehouse.

Aria glanced at her watch. Faint ambient light from the spotlights illuminated the face. 8:53 PM.

"What do you think is going to happen?" she murmured to Cillian.

He stared at the guards for a long moment. "Technically, the gate itself is open now. But we should not approach until 9:00."

Aria frowned. She glanced between her watch and the guards.

8:55.

She felt her heart thudding. _What do I expect to happen? This is suicide._

8:58.

One of the guards turned to speak with another and then nodded. He disappeared behind the gate. A heartbeat later, the other guard glanced around and walked inside the gate too.

9:00.

"Now." Cillian stepped forward.

Aria followed, hurrying to keep up. He strode toward the gate with apparent confidence. Aria could read his tension only because she'd studied Owen's face so intently. She kept her pistol hidden under her jacket, hoping that looking innocuous would help somehow. _What about the sensors? He didn't do anything about them. Maybe he can't._

The guardhouse had bulletproof glass walls on the three sides that faced away from the facility. Aria could see the shapes of the guards inside, bulky forms wearing thick army green jackets with the Imperial insignia. One figure turned briefly toward them, and Aria expected a shout of anger or a cry to halt. But he turned away again, as if Aria and Cillian were either invisible or simply unnoticed. Cillian strode through the wide car entrance and followed the driveway toward the front door of the building.

The driveway curved in front of the main building and continued to a parking area to the left. Floodlights lit the broad paved patio and bathed the driveway and front gate. Aria's heart thudded as she realized how exposed they were.

Cillian hesitated for only a moment before striding up to the large glass doors. He stepped through first, holding one hand out to keep Aria back while he glanced around the empty lobby area before continuing onward. A reception area faced them, with a metal detector for guests and turnstiles operated by badges. Cillian glanced around again before vaulting over a turnstile. She followed, the motion feeling awkward in comparison. She drew her pistol.

They headed toward the left corner, where a hallway led to the access stairs they had identified on the schematic. Down. And down one more floor.

They saw no one. _Perhaps that isn't so incredible. It is late, after all. But surely a place like this has security around the clock._ And then, _don't question, Aria. If we get caught later, so be it._

Cillian hesitated for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, his head raised a little.

"What is it?" Aria whispered.

"Blood." Cillian's silent steps quickened as he followed the long hallway, pausing only briefly at each intersection before leading her on. He turned right, then left, and continued straight for another thirty feet.

He stopped at a metal door. "He is here." He put his hand on the doorknob, and Aria heard it unlock with a nearly inaudible click. He pushed it open.

From the narrow doorway behind Cillian, Aria saw only that Owen was strapped to a metal table, head turned slightly away from them to face Grenidor. The colonel sat in a plastic chair on the other side of the table, and he looked up, startled, as the door opened.

Cillian lunged forward and around the table to wrap his hands around Grenidor's neck. "I should kill you!"

"Don't." Owen's voice was so faint Aria barely heard it, but it stopped Cillian.

Grenidor struggled to breathe against Cillian's harsh grip, his feet dangling six inches in the air. A clipboard fell from his hands and clattered to the floor as Cillian bared his teeth and growled. Grenidor's face darkened with blood as he choked.

"Don't," Owen repeated, only a breath.

Cillian threw Grenidor against the wall ten feet away. His head cracked against the concrete, and he slumped to the floor, dazed.

Aria turned her attention to Owen and caught her breath, tears welling in her eyes.

His left eye was shadowed by a deep bruise, and his right eye was swollen completely shut, the skin taut and dark. The angular line of his cheekbone was completely lost in a mass of bruises and swelling, with a deep cut that seeped blood into his ear. He wore the same clothes, the shirt plastered to him with fresh and caked blood. His chest moved with his breaths in slight, irregular starts.

Cillian moved to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

The bonds were not straps, as Aria had first thought, but metal shackles bolted to the table. She turned to Grenidor. "Where is the key?"

He glared at her, gasping, one hand raised to his throat.

She raised her pistol to aim at his knees, eyes holding his.

He swallowed and finally pointed to the far wall. "Second drawer on the left."

Aria stalked to the desk and opened the drawer, which was empty except for the single key. She hurried back and turned the key in a lock that secured the shackle around Owen's right wrist. She flipped back the metal and glanced at his face.

His eyes were closed, and his free hand lay slack on the table. She looked closer and sucked in her breath. The metal felt cool and smooth against her skin, like any other metal, but it must have been different for Owen. His wrist was raw where the metal had touched it, a livid band of angry red an inch wide.

"What is this?" She turned to Grenidor again.

"Getlaril," he muttered.

Cillian trembled beside her, his anger palpable, but he waited for her to unlock the other shackles, one hand resting on his brother's shoulder. He must have been doing something, because Owen suddenly took a deeper breath, a pained gasp that gurgled in his chest.

Aria was crying, tears streaking down her cheeks unnoticed, and she glared at Grenidor again. " _Why?_ Why would you do this?"

Grenidor glared back at her, though he didn't rise. "He's not _human_! This is science. My methods will save lives. _Human_ lives! You have no idea what you're dealing with." He cleared his throat with a cough and shot a furious glance at Cillian. "He might look human, but he's an animal. Animals do not have human rights, regardless of how pretty their faces are."

Aria wanted to scream at him, but time pressed upon her. They had to leave, get Owen out before soldiers descended upon them.

"He's better than you are," she muttered, not caring whether he heard or not. Then, "Can we lift him?" On a quick impulse, she unclipped the papers from Grenidor's clipboard and folded them in half to cram into her back pocket. Perhaps they had something that could help his healing.

Cillian frowned down at Owen, lips pressed together, then nodded. He knelt to slip his arm under Owen's shoulders and lift him into a sitting position as Aria shifted Owen's legs toward the floor.

Owen gasped and his left eye fluttered open. "Cillian?"

"Yes. I'm here. We're leaving now." Cillian's voice was low and steady, and he kept his face turned away so Owen wouldn't see his tears. "I'd do more, but I need my strength to carry you."

Owen's head lolled forward, and Aria bent to get his left arm around her shoulders. Cillian was strong, but he was also far from recovered himself, and she imagined the help was welcome.

Aria glanced over her shoulder at Grenidor as they started toward the door. He still crouched against the wall, breath rasping in his throat. But he might not stay that way for long. She considered shooting him, but couldn't bring herself to do it in cold blood. Perhaps, if he'd been chasing them, she would have; but not now, while he only glared.

She wrapped her right arm around Owen's waist and held his left arm over her shoulder, trying to avoid the burned ring around his wrist. Her right hand was sticky with his blood as she stepped forward, matching Cillian's strides. She glanced back again. Could she block the door somehow? But it opened inward, and there was nothing to use near the door anyway.

Owen's feet barely moved as they dragged him forward, sagging between them.

The alarm finally sounded, a blaring repetitive wail that was deafening in the confined hallway. The lights flickered in time with the sound.

Aria's heart sank into her stomach. There was no way they could escape. Cillian had been right. Niamh and the others would not be able to save them.

She hurried forward anyway.

Grenidor slipped out the door behind them, and she expected a bullet in her back in moments.

Footsteps sounded in a neighboring hallway. Boots running.

"You keep going. I'll handle it." Aria's breath caught in her throat, but she was proud of how steady her voice was; she sounded confident, competent.

When she started to shift from beneath Owen's arm, he slumped to the side. Cillian struggled to lift him, hitching Owen's right arm further around his shoulder and staggering onward.

Aria glanced behind them again and darted back to the last intersection, where she peeked around the corner. Immediately she pulled back, but not before a shot nearly hit her. The soldier approaching the corner had whipped his gun toward her without aiming in the split second she was visible, but training gave him reflexes much better than hers.

"Stupid, Aria!" she muttered to herself. She flattened herself against the wall and stepped back from the intersection, pistol aimed at the corner. He'd be around it in a moment. She couldn't hear his footsteps; he must be creeping slowly, ready to surprise her. She tried to keep her panicked breathing silent. _Stay calm. Keep it together, girl._

A metal door slammed across the intersection with a solid thunk. Aria blinked, then backed a step away. The door stayed closed.

_What happened?_

_Don't question, just run._ She sprinted toward Cillian and Owen, who had almost reached the stairwell.

She pulled Owen's arm back over her shoulder and hauled him upward. Cillian was fading, and she imagined he was giving as much to his brother as he could without becoming a burden himself. Perhaps more than he should have.

"It's not much farther," she muttered, as much for herself as for them.

Owen grunted, not a particularly reassuring sound, but at least it meant he was conscious enough to hear her. She didn't want to think about the long, painfully exposed sprint to the front gate, nor the streets beyond, where the soldiers would easily be able to catch them.

A hailstorm of bullets cracked into the cement beside her, and a metal door clanged shut to her left. Up the stairs. It was a struggle with Owen a dead weight between them. Aria's legs burned by the time they reached the top, but she ignored the pain.

Owen muttered something she didn't understand, and Cillian grunted in response. On, through another hallway. She stumbled, nearly dragging Owen down with her before she recovered.

They reached the front door. Aria darted forward again, leaving Owen leaning hard on Cillian as she peered out. "I don't see anyone. Yet. Let's go."

They hurried across the lawn.

_Where are the soldiers? We should be dead by now._

A shot cracked the glass of the front door behind them, but none tore into her back and she didn't dare slow long enough to look behind her.

_Are the guards asleep? The gate is still open. Go, go, go._

Teary-eyed and breathless, she stumbled through the gate and down the street.

Another block, and they would make it. _It's impossible. They'll catch us before then._

She startled when someone matched her steps on the other side. Petro. She stopped, her heart in her throat, then hurried forward again. "What are you doing here?"

His jaw tightened. He seemed reluctant to answer, and then said, "It was required in order to avoid undesirable results."

"Well, I hope you enjoyed the show." Her voice was bitter. _Can you slap a dragon? He deserves it._

Cillian stared across Owen at Petro, his strides uneven. Petro ignored him, cold green eyes still on Aria as he matched her steps.

Suddenly furious, Aria rounded on him. "I love him! This is painful, and you just watch, like we're some sort of entertainment! It's vulgar!" She brushed angrily at her tears with one hand. "It doesn't matter if he doesn't love me back. That's not the point."

Petro was silent for a long moment, and Aria caught sight of Niall at the sewer opening, the cover open in readiness for them. Finally, Petro said, "I've never understood why humans think love is important." He stared at her profile for another few steps.

"Love is everything." Aria didn't know where the words came from, but she meant them with all her heart.

Niall darted forward and pulled Cillian's free hand, helping him down the hole first. Cillian climbed past Ardghal and into the darkness; Ardghal helped Aria maneuver Owen's limp body into the sewer and onto his shoulders. He carried Owen down, breathing heavily with the effort, and Aria and Niall climbed down after him. Petro was gone.

"Where are the others?" Aria whispered as they hurried through the blackness. Ardghal and Cillian supported Owen between them.

"They will meet us," Ardghal answered.

Aria's hand trailing on the wall suddenly felt emptiness, and she followed the corner to the left. Niall's cool hand found hers, and he led her more quickly.

The train station platform was dimly lit by a few lanterns scattered about. Ardghal was silhouetted briefly as he entered, Owen's unmoving form on his back. Cillian was staggering in exhaustion, his shadow dancing on the walls. Ardghal must have taken Owen's weight from him.

Gabriel cursed and darted forward, but Cillian turned to him with a snarl. "Keep away from him!"

Gabriel stopped, hands raised placatingly. "What do you need?"

Cillian growled something Aria couldn't understand, and Ardghal answered for him. "Keep your distance."

As she hurried in behind them, Aria saw Gabriel frowning. She paused by him for a moment but didn't know what to say.

Finally, she choked out, "He's in pretty bad shape."

"I saw." Gabriel's voice was tight. "Is anyone following you?"

Aria took a shaky breath. "I don't think so. I think they would have noticed." She gestured at the Fae.

They stood in silence for a long moment, watching the small group move toward the lanterns at the far end of the platform. Niamh and several of the other Fae who had been on the walls were already there.

"Did everyone else get away?"

Gabriel said, "Yes. We're going over the material from the H Street facility when you want to join us. It's interesting."

Aria nodded, her throat still tight with emotion. "Maybe later."

Gabriel patted her shoulder once before turning away.

She hesitated, but finally made her way toward the Fae encampment. She rubbed at her face, trying to control the tears threatening to overflow.

Aria wasn't sure whether she had the right to be there while they sang for Owen, but she couldn't stay away. Niall saw her face and scooted to the side a little, and she dropped to sit next to him. Owen lay unmoving in the center of the circled Fae, scarcely breathing. The back of his head must have been bleeding too; the hair was thick with caked and crusted blood that had left a smear on the floor.

Niamh spoke, her eyes not leaving Owen's face. "Why did you not kill Grenidor?"

"He forbade it." Cillian's voice was nearly inaudible.

Niamh glanced up at him sharply. "He did _what_?"

"He said, ' _Don't._ '" Cillian's nostrils flared, but he said nothing else.

Niamh stared at Owen again, and Aria tried to read her expression. Fury. Confusion? Grief. Doubt, perhaps, though Aria wasn't sure on that one. After a long moment, she closed her eyes and began to sing.

_White stone cliffs fell away into crashing ocean waves. Owen picked his way along the narrow rocky shore, black curls crusted with salt. He knelt to pick up a stone and threw it into the waves. He turned, looked behind him, and smiled, white teeth flashing. He lifted one hand as if in acknowledgment, then looked back toward the water with a pensive expression. A wave surged toward him, and he waited, took a step deeper into the water, the sandy wash tugging at his trousers. He knelt again, pressed both hands to the ground beneath the water. It eddied around him, pulling at the hem of his white shirt, swirling sand and tiny bits of froth in chaotic patterns as it swept away._

_He looked back over his shoulder again and nodded, but he didn't rise immediately. He stared out at the next wave for a long moment, waiting as it approached, then slowly stood, eyes on the water as it surged around his knees. He opened his hands to let the sand and pebbles fall, disappearing into the water. The wave had begun to recede before he turned and started back toward the narrow beach._

Aria blinked as she stared at Owen's body. The music faded around her, but she smelled the scent of the ocean, a salty tang in the air.

The difference wasn't obvious at first, but after a moment she realized his breathing was more regular. Niamh leaned forward to touch his forehead with one white hand, and his left eye opened slowly. The right was gruesomely swollen, and Niamh traced the line of his eyebrow with one finger.

"Owen." It was only one word, but there was a weight of sorrow in her voice that made Aria's heart constrict.

He blinked at her.

Niamh frowned at him. "You should have let Cillian kill him. It is justice."

He said nothing, but his gaze roved slowly around the circle to rest on Aria for a long moment, then back to Niamh. His lips moved, but Aria couldn't tell what he meant to say.

Niamh drew back, her face tight. "Why? You ask _why_?" Her hand clenched.

Owen closed his eye and his lips tightened. Aria wondered whether he was frustrated or simply fighting pain.

"Let him be." Her words came without thought, and she bit her lip as everyone stared at her.

"This is not your concern." Niamh's voice was cool, but her eyes weren't exactly angry as she looked across at Aria. Aria tried to read her face. Was she puzzled?

"Let him be," Aria repeated. "He needs to rest, doesn't he? To heal? Don't bother him with questions, then."

Niamh continued to study her and Aria tried not to squirm.

The next question was addressed to her. "Did Petro help you in there?"

Aria licked her lips and thought. "Possibly. Doors closed, blocking soldiers from shooting us. I didn't do it."

Cillian nodded his head minutely and closed his eyes for a long moment. "There was more. We can discuss it later. Owen saw it too."

Niamh glanced at Owen. He opened his left eye again, but appeared to gaze thoughtfully into space, not meeting anyone's gaze directly.

"Do you truly love him?"

The question startled Aria, and she blushed. "Yes. But I don't expect anything from him, if that's what you're asking. It's not like I know him that well, really." She chewed her lip and tried to keep her voice from shaking. "I just saw how brave he was, and how he cared for Niall before himself. It's heroic. But it's okay if he doesn't feel the same way. I understand."

She looked up to see his gaze resting on her. His lips twitched, just the merest hint of a smile.

Niamh said finally, "We have done all we can for now." She leaned closer, speaking softly to him. "If you wish, we will leave you." He murmured something, and she leaned in further, her ear close to his mouth. Then she smiled, touched his face again with one hand, and stood. "Come." She led the others a little distance away, where they settled down to rest.

Aria slid forward to sit closer to Owen's face. His eye drifted closed and then opened again with some effort.

"Can I do anything? Would it help if I did human things? I can wash off the blood and put bandages on. I know it won't heal you." Her voice trailed away and she blinked away tears. She brushed at her eyes in frustration, feeling her face heat as his gaze rested on her.

His voice was nearly inaudible. "If you wish."

"You don't mind? I don't want to hurt you." She swallowed.

"It would be acceptable." He smiled a little, the expression more clear on the left side of his face.

She jogged across the long platform to where the humans were grouped and asked Eli for bandages, tape, scissors, and water. He found a bucket, and she went in search of a faucet to fill it.

Bartok accompanied her. He didn't say anything, but she could feel his quiet sympathy. His company was welcome because the deep shadows in the upper platform were eerie and echoing. She found a long-abandoned restroom and ran the water for several minutes to let the pipes clear before cramming the bucket underneath the faucet.

"They're less like us than we thought," Bartok said.

Aria frowned more deeply. "I think there's a lot we don't understand. I don't know how important any of it is, though."

Bartok reached out to put a gentle hand on her shoulder for a moment. "Be careful." He didn't say anything else.

He carried the bucket back to Owen for her and then left her with the second lantern, picking his way back across the darkened platform toward the warm circle of light at the far end, where the others were.

Aria settled in front of Owen. He watched her lay out the supplies without a word, and she couldn't read his expression.

"I think I should cut off your shirt. Instead of making you take it off."

He grunted softly, and she decided to take it as assent. She used the scissors to cut the shirt up from the bottom hem. It stuck in many places, and she used one hand to dribble water onto it, loosening the caked blood as she worked the fabric free.

As she pulled the shirt back, she caught her breath, tears in her eyes again. It was even worse than she'd feared. Most of the skin was no longer white; black bruises covered his whole torso, and uneven bumps showed the ends of broken ribs. Dark circles the size of her fingertips filled with crusted blood showed where he'd been shot, eight in his chest and two lower on his right side. She felt his gaze on her face, but she couldn't look up to meet his eye.

"Why did he—" she stopped. Surely she had less right to pester him with questions than his sister did. "Never mind. Just tell me if I make it worse."

Doing something for him, no matter how little it mattered, made her feel better. She folded one of the bandages into a thick square and dipped it into the water, then squeezed it mostly dry. Her hands trembled as she dabbed at the blood smears, circling around each bullet hole.

He kept breathing, but he said nothing and she didn't look at his face for a long time. She focused on the cloth and water, the raw scrapes and bruises. Finally, she had cleaned as much as she could and taped small squares of gauze over each visible wound. She didn't imagine it actually mattered, but at least it looked like someone cared.

Finally, she looked up to his face. Both eyes were closed, and she hesitated, but finally dipped the cloth into the water again and brought it to his swollen cheek. At the feather light touch, his left eye opened.

"Should I wash your face too?"

"If you wish."

She wished she could read his expression. She wondered what it felt like; if he wasn't warm-blooded, would the cool, damp touch feel refreshing on his swollen eye and cheek?

He submitted to her efforts without comment, and she moved on to explore the wound on the back of his head without asking. He turned his head to the right and she moved the lamp closer, but it was still hard to see the extent of the injury through his black curls and the thick, caked blood. With some gentle pouring and working her fingers through his hair, she got the majority of the blood out and decided that doing anything else would cause more pain than it helped. She folded a dry bandage and slid it beneath his head.

She sat back and looked at him. It would be a stretch to say he looked "better," because some of the wounds had been hidden before. His eye was closed again, and she leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees, her head hanging down.

The exhaustion of the last three days threatened to overwhelm her. She bit back tears and tried to calm her breathing. _He'll heal. He's strong, and there are others to help him. They love him, too, probably better than I do. We're away from the hotel, and Grenidor won't find us here. We have information, if we can decipher it. We're in a better position than we have been since the Revolution. It's just that I didn't know about it before, so I thought everything was fine. But it was never fine. Now we have hope._ The thoughts, logical as they were, didn't keep her from trembling.

She jumped at his touch. Owen had moved his left hand slightly, so the back of his hand rested against her knee.

"Why?" he whispered.

"Why am I crying?" She forced a tired smile. "I'm sorry. For you. For myself. For everyone. I used to think everything was fine. It wasn't. Now I know about it."

He stared at her for a long moment. "Did you go to Petro?"

"Cillian and Niall and I did." She took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to steady her voice. "It was strange. They can tell you about it. Apparently he acted differently around me."

He swallowed. "That was dangerous. They should not have taken you." He closed his eye again and his jaw tightened; it was obvious that speaking was painful.

"They warned me about the danger. But they said they could not prevent me if I chose to go." She thought back again to their words. _That was odd. As if they spoke of rules understood, rather than a decision agreed upon by the group._

He continued to watch her face. After a long silence, he asked, "Why did you say 'love is everything' to Petro?"

"He said, 'I've never understood why humans think love is important.' I disagreed." Aria blushed, thinking about what she'd said before that, but it didn't matter. He already knew she loved him, and it probably didn't mean anything to him. That was fine. She'd told everyone already. She didn't expect anything to come of it. _When did I become this brave? I never thought I'd bare my heart like this and care so little if anyone laughed at me._

Owen blinked and stared at her. "I didn't hear that."

"You were a little out of it."

"I heard what you said before it. I didn't hear Petro's response." He closed his eye and took a slow, painful breath. "Please ask Cillian what he heard."

She blinked at him. "What?"

"I think it might mean something. But I don't know what."

"I will. I think you should rest, though." She slipped her hand into his. He didn't react for a moment, but then he squeezed her hand slightly. She smiled, a little sad, a little grateful, and then let him go as she stood.

# Chapter Fourteen

Aria found Cillian, but he seemed to be sleeping, lying on his back with one arm thrown over his face. She stood for a moment staring at him, and finally found a bedroll and carried it back to sleep near Owen.

They were all exhausted. Owen's question could wait. He needed to heal, and they needed to rest before they could sing for him again. Perhaps it was improper, but she didn't think he'd mind her staying close. They'd shared a room before, and it felt wrong to leave him lying in the dark alone at the end of the platform.

She turned the lantern down low and curled up under the thin blanket. Cold, hungry, and aching with weariness, she finally drifted off to sleep.

_Shoulders relaxed, Owen stood knee-deep in the sandy ocean water. The cold wind frothed the tips of the waves, but it didn't bother him. As she watched, he stood motionless for long minutes, staring out into the water. The waves moved in and out, tugging at his trousers, the damp fabric dark as it clung to his legs. Birds shrieked, and he looked upward, squinting into the bright sunlight as he watched them pass._

She woke to the sound of quiet voices. Cillian and Niamh were closest to her, and they must have heard her wake, for Cillian turned to her immediately.

"We have questions for you." He motioned for her to come closer.

Owen's left eye was open, and the swelling in the right had gone down a little, though it was still probably impossible for him to see with it. He had not moved from his back.

"I thought you'd be able to heal him more by now. There are a lot of you." She meant the words as a question, not an accusation, but Niamh frowned.

"Grenidor did much damage. Most of it is not visible." She ran her hand gently over Owen's forehead. "He is actually better than I'd expected. We wondered if somehow you helped him."

Aria swallowed. "I only cleaned him up a little. I doubt it actually helped any."

They regarded her for a moment. Cillian asked, "What did you hear Petro say as we were leaving?"

"'I've never understood why humans think love is important.' That's what made me so angry. Even if he did help us, he was watching like some creepy voyeur." Even thinking about it made her tense in anger again.

Cillian stared at her and then looked back at Niamh. "You see?"

"See what?" Aria asked.

"I heard him say, 'I am not interested in love.' The difference in meaning may be subtle, but the words were distinctly different. And Owen heard nothing," Cillian said.

Niamh frowned, still looking at Aria. "I am more intrigued by the fact that he helped. Did he explain that to you?"

"He said it was required in order to avoid undesirable results." Aria scowled. "Like us dying, I suppose."

Cillian rubbed his face thoughtfully. "That would not normally be a concern for him," he said.

Owen murmured and they leaned closer to hear him. "We have almost no information about his dealings with humans. Only with us." He stopped to take a slow breath and then continued, "Perhaps the rules are different."

"What rules do you keep talking about?" Aria asked.

Cillian frowned thoughtfully. "Perhaps. You humans have many choices, many options in how you deal with each other. We are more restricted. More bound. We can see many options, as if we were human, but we cannot always choose freely. Sometimes we have a choice, but certain options are much more difficult than others." He must have seen the confusion on her face, because he continued. "Lying. We can lie to each other, but it is very difficult. It is even more difficult to lie to a human. Sometimes impossible. Sometimes merely difficult, with immediate consequences if we dare. It is difficult to withhold information that is directly requested. Especially if the human has a valid reason to request it. Even when it is harmful or dangerous to us, it is virtually impossible to deliberately deceive a human. This is one of many reasons we have kept our distance from humans; for our own safety."

Owen spoke softly. "I lied to Grenidor."

Niamh and Cillian both twitched in surprise. "You did _what_?"

"He wanted information. Your location. And the dark ones. How to contact them." His jaw tensed and he closed his eye for a moment before continuing. "I told him of the hotel after ten hours. I guessed you would have moved by then." Another difficult breath.

Aria chewed her lip as she watched him struggle. She wanted him to rest, but obviously, he thought this information was important enough to justify the pain of speaking.

"I lied about the dark ones. I told him it was impossible for humans to interact with them."

Niamh let out a slow sigh and looked back at Cillian. For Aria's benefit, she said, "That should not have been possible. At all. Grenidor, for all his cruelty, genuinely believes in his cause. That gives him the power to compel answers from us. Especially one like Owen, who is so obedient. Perhaps the rules _are_ changing."

Cillian leaned closer and touched Owen's shoulder with the tips of his fingers. "And yet I cannot tell." The whisper was soft, confused. "I am glad, my brother, but I don't understand."

Owen twitched his hand; he had something else to say. "I prayed. For strength. Forgiveness. I didn't think El would answer a prayer for the ability to lie, but He did."

Cillian's nostrils flared, his voice low and angry. "You should give up these beliefs, Owen. They do you no good. If that is why you did not allow me to kill Grenidor, you are _wrong_. He deserved it, more than anyone in both our long lives. You know it would be permitted, and you know it is justice!"

"They have something we don't, Cillian." Owen's voice was fading. "They have choices. I chose. I went against the rules, and it was permitted. But it might be only because I chose mercy."

"But you were wrong!" Niamh cried. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she reached out to touch Owen's face. "Why? Why would you let him live, after this?"

Owen smiled. "Because I _could_! Don't you see? We have never been permitted such freedom."

Cillian was trembling with anger, but he said nothing for a long moment, his eyes flicking from Niamh to Owen and back. At last, he said quietly, "I don't think we understand humans as well as we thought we did. Or Petro. This is important, but perhaps not urgent. We must move soon. Grenidor will be searching for us, and especially you."

Owen's smile faded only slightly as he closed his eye again. "Yes."

Niamh and Cillian frowned at the floor. Aria glanced around. There were several other Fae sitting a little farther back, but no one said anything. Ardghal was staring at her in perplexity, but at last, he began to sing. His voice was deeper than those she'd heard before, and in it, Aria heard the rush of the ocean waves, the steady strength of ancient oaks.

For the first time, Aria saw other Fae in the singing dream. Perhaps it was a dream. Perhaps it was some truth she did not yet understand. Owen sat on a rocky embankment, bare feet dangling, leaning forward as if listening to someone. Only a few feet below him, the ground spread out in a spacious clearing filled with Fae. They sat on the ground, legs crossed or kneeling, some leaned back on their hands. It was a casual gathering, and there were many smiles among them. Owen nodded and looked toward someone else, a young boy who stood respectfully as he spoke. Niall, his dark hair longer, his shoulders less bony. She couldn't hear his words, perhaps that wasn't permitted in the dream or perhaps she wouldn't have understood them anyway. But it was clear that he _could_ speak, and she saw Owen's affection in his face as he listened, a slight smile on his lips. He nodded again, and Niall sat down. Another stood, an older man, and Owen's smile faded into a sorrowful expression.

The song rose around her even as the image shifted into a forest, Owen sitting alone on a high tree branch, leaning back against the trunk as it swayed in the wind. His hair blew into his face and he shook it aside without seeming to notice, one leg hooked around the branch beneath him and the other stretched out in relaxation.

The vision faded, and she saw him again in the center of the circle, bloodied and bruised. Broken _. No. He is_ not _broken._

Niamh leaned forward again to touch his face with the backs of her fingers, barely brushing the skin. Owen did not move, did not react at all, not even a twitch of his closed eyes. "I cannot feel it either, Cillian. No stench of it."

Niall, who had nearly disappeared, scooted forward. He bowed his head to the floor beside Owen and remained there for long minutes, forehead pressed to the concrete.

"Niall," Niamh said at last, in a soft voice.

Niall shook his head, eyes closed, face still toward the floor. His shoulders jerked, and Aria knew he was crying.

She leaned forward to touch his shoulder, conscious of everyone watching her. Niall didn't react at first, but after a long moment, he raised his head to study her face. His eyes were red and tears glistened on his thin cheeks, but he kept his eyes on hers. His mouth twitched as if he was going to say something, and he glanced at his notebook. But he only studied her a moment longer, ducked his head in a slight bow, and nodded toward his mother.

"Is he asleep?" Aria whispered.

"If you can call it that." Cillian's voice had lost the anger.

"Is he in pain? While he's sleeping?"

Cillian's mouth twitched. "It is difficult to tell. He is far from us."

Niamh glanced over Aria's shoulder. "The humans are attempting to gain our attention."

Aria looked back to see Eli silhouetted against the lanterns, waving to her. "Please tell me if I can do anything," she said.

They blinked at her, as if surprised by the request, and Cillian nodded solemnly.

Aria headed toward the encampment at the other end of the platform. That area was more brightly lit, with both cool electric lanterns and the warmer tones of oil lanterns spread out across the wide concrete expanse. The supplies had been stacked against the wall at the end, boxes of dried food, ammunition, extra guns, rope, lantern oil, soap, and any number of other things. She didn't really know how they managed to survive, living in tunnels and abandoned buildings, but somehow they did.

Eli waved to her again and she trudged toward him. A small circle of people gathered around an array of papers, glass jars, and the old digital camera.

"We've found some information in the materials Owen obtained from the H Street facility. Come."

She sighed as she sat down next to him. "Like what?"

Bartok, sitting across from her, glanced up. "Are you okay?"

"I'm just hungry. Go on." Her stomach growled to accompany her words, and she winced. "Sorry."

Eli stood. "Carry on." He disappeared, but returned in a moment.

Bartok said, "As part of my residency, I did a pharmacology stint. It's been a while, and I focused more on clinical pharmacology and toxicology rather than psycho- and neuropharmacology. However, I can tell a few things about these substances."

He pointed at one jar. "This one contains chlorpromazine, which is generally understood to reduce a subject's aggression and argumentativeness. Valproate, which generally calms the subject without the more obvious signs of sedation. It's sometimes used to treat paranoia and schizophrenia. And methylphenidate, which is used to treat attention disorders and increase focus. I'm not familiar with triacetyl ethylene and amobarbital. I would guess, based on the chemical names, that they act on inhibitions, somewhat like sodium pentothal, the 'truth drug.' Without knowing what doses were used, I couldn't say for certain what these were used for. But they _could_ be used to dramatically alter the subject's state of mind."

Someone put a sandwich in Aria's hand and dropped an apple and a bottle of water in her lap. "Thanks," she said over her shoulder. Whoever it was had already disappeared.

Bartok studied the label on another jar for a long moment. "This one is a little different. Instead of triacetyl ethylene, it includes chlorpromazine-beta-five. It basically makes the subject very open to suggestion. It looks to me like this is a later variation on that cocktail. This would be used for essentially the same purpose, but would require a lower dose and be more effective. Possibly more dangerous, but highly effective. And this one is propranolol. It's a blood pressure medication, but at high doses, it can alter and even erase memories."

Gabriel frowned. "So these are the drugs used during the brainwashing?"

Bartok shrugged slightly. "I can't say with certainty. But it's possible. Very likely."

"What can be done to reverse the effects?"

Aria frowned. "What exactly _were_ the effects? I don't remember what they told us in that room. I remember we watched videos, but not what they were about."

Bartok glanced at her. "I'm not a brainwashing expert, nor a psychologist. But I would guess, based on the drugs and your description, that the drugs were used to accustom the subjects to receiving information from a particular source, and to regarding that source as trustworthy. Owen said that some of them also had a magical component. I can't evaluate that, of course, but it seems likely that the magical aspect increased the effective duration. The effects could be compounded, of course. If the source of information was repeatedly shown to be correct, the subjects would eventually cease to question it even after the drug had worn off."

Aria stared at him. "So the drugs might have worn off long ago?"

"I have no way to guess. I could take a blood sample, I suppose, but it would be impossible to evaluate without a lab. Of course, it's also possible for drugs to cause physical changes in the brain, which would persist long after the drug is no longer in the body."

"What about the others?" Gabriel gestured toward the other jars.

Bartok lifted one and read the label. "Hm." He frowned. "This is, or could be, a synthetic form of something that used to be known as scopolamine, or hyoscine. The effects vary. In small doses, it was used for reducing labor pains in childbirth, but it had some negative effects so that was discontinued back in the early 1900s. In larger doses, it can be used to essentially eliminate the subject's free will or critical thinking abilities. It makes the patients dangerously suggestible. The natural form has always been difficult to obtain. I wasn't aware that a synthetic form had been created. But this looks very similar in the chemical form; it may not be identical, but it's incredibly close. It may have similar effects."

"So they were experimenting with different drug cocktails? Or they used different ones in succession? Or what?" Aria asked.

Bartok shrugged again. "There's no way for me to know. But it's clear from the selection here that they at least explored medication as one tool in the arsenal." He lifted another jar. "Now these are different. There are several chemical names here I don't recognize at all. Now, I certainly don't know what every drug does, nor can I say with certainty how they were used, but I am reasonably up to date on legitimate medications and their chemical components. These are unusual. First, they aren't strictly chemical names. They're more like descriptions. This one, _lamia sanguis_ , translates as 'vampire blood.'" He raised his eyes to catch Aria's eye for a long moment, then looked down again. "This contains several I don't recognize and can't translate. Perhaps something related to breath? The term isn't derived from Latin, like the others. This one, _lupus animum_ , translates to 'wolf's mind.' Which doesn't make a lot of sense to me, but that's what it says."

Everyone stared at the jars. Evrial reached forward to pick one up and study it for a moment, then set it back down carefully.

Bartok leaned forward again to put his elbows on his knees. "Owen mentioned that you had something in your brain. Do you know anything about that?"

Aria shook her head. "When he took my tracker out, he put his hand on the back of my head here. I think that's when he sensed it. But he didn't say anything about it until he told you all."

"Maybe we'll find something in the records."

Aria took a deep breath. "Okay. What else is there? Anything in the papers?"

Gabriel pushed them toward her. "Lord Owen saw fit to bring these, out of all the thousands of pages he must have seen. But I'm not sure exactly what he saw in them. Aside from the Forestgate schematic, of course. The hard drives have a lot more. We're still prioritizing."

Aria frowned as she read the top sheet. A bill of lading? A shipment of crates containing unspecified wares delivered to Eastborn Imperial Security Facility. _It could be food for the mess hall, for all I know. Maybe there is nothing here. Maybe the only thing useful was the schematic._ She paged through slowly, not seeing anything that was immediately valuable or even particularly intriguing. A map of parking areas at Eastborn.

She pulled a few stapled pages out, a list of phone extensions at Eastborn. "Maybe this could be useful."

Gabriel glanced at her. "Maybe."

Bartok didn't seem to have anything else to say, and the others gradually dispersed. He leaned forward elbows on his knees, eyes ranging over the jars again. "You don't remember anything else about the week you spent in that room?" he asked finally.

"No. It's just vague." She frowned. "Even the things before it are still kind of fuzzy. My parents and stuff." She sighed. "I'd like to say it's weird, but I don't remember what it was like to remember it clearly. I have images in my mind, but they're distant."

Bartok's eyes rested on her face, and she felt his sympathy.

"How old were you when the Revolution started?" she asked abruptly. "What do you remember of it?"

"When it really started in the North Quadrant I was in high school. But I lived in the East Quadrant, so I didn't notice anything until I was starting my residency. I was twenty-seven. I was about ten miles south of here in the Rose Hill district, in what used to be called Virginia. The first two years were pretty normal. The third year we started getting casualties from the fighting in the North Quadrant, people who didn't want to go to the local hospitals. We heard things, but mostly we focused on treating the injuries."

"I thought you were a pediatrician."

"I was in my emergency and intensive care rotations. I started with a pediatric specialty clinic when I finished. I was thirty. I was only there about a year when everything fell apart." He looked down at his hands and rubbed them on his pants. "The district was suddenly swept up in the fighting. I found myself treating injuries on the street after tanks came through. I hadn't kept up with the politics of it; my residency was pretty intense and I didn't have time to wonder what was going on. So I didn't have a side." He hesitated, then said quietly, "Gabriel's son was fighting with him. He was shot in front of me. He bled out. I'm not sure he would have made it even if we'd been in the ER when it happened. Anyway, he didn't make it. Gabriel was close, and he swept me up with him in their retreat. I think at first he only wanted a doctor. He hated me for a while. But I think he knows now I did everything I could." Bartok hunched forward, not looking at her. "That was a year ago. So here I am." He glanced up at her and then away.

Aria took a shaky breath, caught up in his story. "I'm sorry." She put a hand on his arm.

He sighed.

_But that's recent. I thought all the fighting was over ten years ago! Even in the East Quadrant, I thought it had been over for years._ She swallowed. None of her memories could be completely trusted.

Aria glanced over her shoulder toward the Fae. They hadn't moved, a silent circle around Owen's motionless form.

Bartok glanced at her face and looked like he was considering saying something.

"What?" Aria asked.

He gave a minute shrug. "Never mind." He hesitated, then asked, "Should I go help? I mean, Gabriel told me to stay away. Emphatically. And I know they don't seem to need medical care the way we do, but maybe I can do something."

Aria shook her head. "I cleaned him up a little." Her throat closed with sudden emotion. "They didn't seem to think it would matter. It just made me feel better." She leaned forward to hide her face in her hands.

He rested his hand on her shoulder for just a moment. "It's hard to see someone you care about in pain." His voice was quiet.

She nodded, not looking up.

He sighed and squeezed her shoulder, then withdrew the comforting touch. "It's 4:30 in the morning. You're probably exhausted. Get some sleep."

"It is?" she looked up then.

He gave her a wry smile and rubbed his hands across his face. "Yes. Gabriel wanted to know if any of these things would be useful if you managed to get Owen out. I don't think so. Whatever they're doing, the purpose isn't healing Fae."

Now that she was looking, she could see the shadows under his eyes. He'd been up all night too.

"Thank you." She held his eyes for a moment, to be sure he understood that the thanks was for his kindness, for going on the mission, for his sympathy, not just for the admonition to get some rest.

He nodded slightly. "You're welcome." His smile said he understood.

_Did his smile look sad? Like he'd lost something? Maybe I'm too tired to read expressions well._

# Chapter Fifteen

Aria dreamed of strange things. The gray room. Injections. Being stripped naked, paraded in a shivering line with other young women down a hallway. Videos. Even in the dream, she knew she should hold on to the memories, but when she drifted toward wakefulness, they faded again. She scowled, still half asleep, and turned over, her back sore and aching.

She lay near Owen, close enough to hear him whisper, if he woke, and far enough to feel that she was not encroaching. Niamh and Cillian slept on his other side, and the others ranged out around them. After she had finished washing his wounds, one of the Fae stayed at his head at all times, silent and watchful. Now it was Niall, his thin shoulders bowed with grief. When she shifted, he looked over at her. The lamp was turned down low, a soft yellow glow that left his expression in shadow.

Aria murmured, "What time is it?"

Niall lifted both hands toward her, fingers splayed, then waggled one hand. _10:00, approximately_.

She assumed he meant AM, not PM. _But what day is it? I've lost track._ She tried to think back. _When did I go to Dandra's? Can I really call it love, if I've known him only for a few weeks? But I'm not asking to marry him! I don't know what I'd say if he asked, and I can't imagine that he would. Call it a crush. Every girl gets those. But it's not without reason. And it doesn't mean the feeling isn't real. I care._

She slid closer. The bruise around Owen's left eye had deepened as he slept, and the cut on his right cheek had crusted with blood again. His chest moved with faint, uneven breaths, the gauze pads stark white against his black bruises. Niall sat beside him with his legs crossed, the notebook beside his knee.

Aria whispered, "Why do you call him Lord Owen?"

Niall glanced at her, and she wondered whether her question was unwelcome. She meant it to be a distraction from his grief. _Because he is Lord Ailill's heir. Lord Ailill is the_ , __ he hesitated, then wrote _High King of our people. There is no word in English that conveys the authority he holds. Lord Ailill has given much of his authority to Lord Owen already. He is old, and he hopes to_ , __ he hesitated again, then made a helpless gesture with one hand.

"Hopes to what?"

_... go away. Ascend? It is not always given to High Kings, but he hopes it will be given to him. It is a great gift. He wants to be ready, and he is wise to rest his authority on Lord Owen before it is necessary. No one would argue with his choice, nor with Lord Owen's authority, but it is wise to support his heir in what may be his last days. His power has weighed on him, but he has always held it lightly. I believe that is counted in his favor._

"But he's captive, isn't he?"

_Yes, Lord Ailill is captive now. He may be required to die. That is also acceptable to him. We would grieve, but it is not unprecedented. It is only the manner of his death that is objectionable._

"What authority do you mean?"

_He is given much authority. His decisions are binding in ways that humans cannot understand. We can rebel, but to rebel against him is to rebel against El. That is not something to be chosen lightly. Unless his commands are against El's express order, we obey him as we obey El._

Aria swallowed. "Yet you argue with Lord Owen."

Niall smiled a little. _Yes, I have pleaded with him. Sometimes my entreaties move him. Sometimes his decision is firm. I obey._

"When he's unmoved, do you think he's wrong? Like when he didn't let you help open the cells at Eastborn? Do you think he would have gotten away safely if he'd let you help?" Aria wished she'd bitten back the questions as too prying, but her tongue seemed to have a will of its own.

Niall swallowed and remained unmoving, the pen poised over the paper for several minutes. He took a deep breath, put the pen to the page, and then raised it again. He brushed at his eyes angrily with his free hand.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked that."

_Define "wrong."_

Aria frowned herself, not sure how to answer him.

_For us, "wrong" means disobedient. For humans, I have been told it can mean many things. Incorrect. Defiant. Etc. I do not believe Lord Owen was disobedient in his decision. The outcome was not the outcome I would have chosen. Lord Owen is wiser than I am, and more intimate with El. I do not argue with his decision, though I grieve the cost._ He did not look up at her.

"And when he lied to Grenidor?" she whispered.

He looked up at her then, his clear blue eyes anguished. He shook his head and looked back down at the paper. _It was a sacrifice. He chose the worst possible thing. If he did not have the strength to remain silent_ , __ he paused, the pen trembling over the paper. _I do not blame him for that. But if he did not have the strength, it would have been better to give Grenidor the information. Even if we all died for it. The sacrifice he chose was too great. More than his life for ours. You cannot understand the cost._ He raised the pen again to wipe at his eyes. _All my life, I have looked up to him. He is the example, the most obedient, and the most pure. And now, when he is tested, he chose to lie instead of sacrifice us. I do not understand!_ The pen nib tore through the paper and he bent over, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook with silent sobs.

Aria reached out to put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, her head whirling. _What does he mean, the cost is too great? What could be greater than the death of everyone he loves? Who could blame him?_

Owen let out a soft sound that might have been a moan if it had been stronger. As it was, it made Aria's heart clench. Niall leaned forward and put his hand on Owen's shoulder, fingers resting lightly on the bruised skin. He frowned, brushed at his eyes again, and turned to Cillian, who sat up and moved to Owen's side.

"How is he?" Aria whispered.

Cillian shook his head. "Perhaps he has strengthened a little. It is difficult to tell. He should not have spoken so much."

Niall glanced at her and then back down at Owen.

"Grenidor will be searching. But I do not want to move him." Cillian frowned more deeply.

A shadow moved, and Niamh slid into the light. She looked up past Aria's shoulder. "What do you want?" The tone was harsh, but she kept her voice quiet.

"I came to see if I could help." Bartok strode closer, his voice quiet and calming. "I know your medical needs are different, but I wanted to offer."

Niamh's nostrils flared angrily, but she said only, "We have no need of your help."

"May I look? I won't touch him."

Cillian answered, his tone only slightly more friendly. "You may look."

Bartok knelt by Aria and set a plastic case down on his other side. He leaned over, eyes taking in everything, face grave. "Do you know if any of the bullets are still in him?"

Cillian said, "Some. Not all. But it doesn't matter. They are lead, not getlaril. They will be eliminated."

Owen's left eye opened. His gaze rested on Bartok first, then moved to the others, one by one, and finally to Aria.

Bartok said, "I could—"

"Leave us. He must rest." Cillian's voice was hard.

Owen murmured so softly that they all leaned forward to hear him. "It is kindness, Cillian."

Cillian frowned and said stiffly, "Thank you for your offer. It is unnecessary. Your human methods cannot help him and will cause pain."

Bartok nodded, his expression gentle. "As you wish. Please let me know if I can help."

Aria put a hand on his arm, suddenly grateful for his understanding. _I bet he's a good doctor. A good man._

Cillian watched him rise, cold blue eyes following Bartok as he turned and walked back toward the far end of the train platform.

"Should I leave you alone, too?" Aria whispered. _Please say no. I couldn't bear to leave him like this. Not for long._

They seemed to consider the offer, but Niall shook his head just as Owen breathed, "Stay."

Niamh reached out to touch his cheek, her slim fingers smooth and white. She raised her eyes to Cillian and said, "You have not yet told me of Petro's assistance."

Owen closed his eye again.

Cillian shivered but gathered himself and answered. "I believe the human guards will think it easily explained by equipment malfunctions, possibly some slight magic that we did. But there was much more.

"Some alarms that should have alerted the guards malfunctioned. Some functioned as designed but elicited odd responses from the guards; they noticed but merely logged the alert and switched off the alarms, as if they were conducting equipment drills or tests.

"Moreover, of the few guards who did respond, some of their shots were good. Some of the bullets that did not strike us _should_ have hit. One passed straight through me without causing injury. Another avoided Aria and hit the wall behind her. The trajectory _curved_ around her."

He closed his eyes and shuddered again. "More frightening yet, doors appeared. I saw two, but there may have been others. One closed between Aria and a guard near the beginning of our escape. Another closed later, as we fled down a hallway."

"An equipment malfunction? That Petro initiated?" Aria asked.

Cillian spread the schematics before them, the paper brushing Owen's left hand. "Look."

"What?" Aria frowned at the papers. Cillian pointed at the two doors in question, neatly labeled as part of the "sector containment" measures that dotted the rest of the diagram.

"Those doors did not exist when we planned the mission. Do you remember?" Cillian stared at her with wide eyes.

She thought and suddenly caught her breath, looking up to see Niamh looking equally stunned. "You're right. They weren't. When we passed by those corridors on the way in, there were no doors. I'm positive."

"Not only did they appear where we needed them, but it appears that they were _always_ there. They are on the schematics as original construction." Cillian's voice dropped. "I heard the soldiers through the second door. They were only surprised that the door was triggered, not that it existed."

Aria tried not to shiver. "What are you saying?"

"Petro either added the doors to the facility as they were necessary and altered all references to them, including the schematics and the soldiers' memories, or he actually _altered the past_ so that the doors were built, and left us with memories of a past in which the doors did not exist. Either way, this is terrifying." Cillian clasped his hands together. "Either would require power of a higher order than we have ever dreamed existed."

"Why were we exempted from his change?" Aria asked.

Cillian shook his head. "I have no way to guess."

Owen frowned thoughtfully at the ceiling and then shifted his gaze to Aria for a long moment. "I think it has something to do with you."

Aria straightened. "I'm getting credit, or blame, or something, for a lot of things that I don't understand."

"We don't understand them either." Cillian hunched his shoulders, as if he wished to hide.

Owen blinked slowly. "To our knowledge, no one has ever insulted Petro as you did and survived. Many have died for much less."

Aria scowled. "I wasn't brave. I was just angry. I don't think I was wrong to be, either."

Cillian answered her. "I am not sure I disagree. However, Petro is not someone you wish to offend. It has never ended well. Sometimes the offense is never even known."

Owen murmured, "And yet he did not kill her."

The Fae turned their gaze on her again, and Aria shrugged. "I don't know."

There was a long silence while Aria tried not to squirm under their examination.

Finally, Owen said, "Petro watched while Grenidor worked. He said nothing, but he was interested."

"In you or in Grenidor?"

"Both. I think." Owen hesitated. "He seemed surprised by my answers, especially the lie. And puzzled as to why I would choose to."

"As are we." Cillian's voice was cool.

Owen smiled faintly. "Are you? You should not be."

Niamh touched his forehead again gently. "Why, Owen? Why would you lie? How could you?"

"How? I do not know. But the why. It was to protect them. And you. Love."

Niamh closed her eyes, as if she could not bear to look at his battered face. Cillian dropped his head too. Only Aria saw Owen smile as his eye closed.

"Was it worth it?" she whispered.

"Yes."

They sat in silence. Owen might have been asleep or unconscious; it was hard to tell. Cillian glanced at the notebook, then read it silently. Niall turned his face away, sliding back from the light that showed tears streaking down his white cheeks.

Cillian caught his sleeve and shook his head. He murmured, "We are all surprised. Perhaps disappointment is understandable. But he is still Lord Ailill's heir, and there is no stench of it upon him. Do not be too angry."

Niall looked up, and Aria caught an astonished look on his face. _You are sure of that? He has not begun to_... Niall stopped writing, as if he were reluctant to name his fear.

"He has not."

Niall bent forward, pressing his face into his hands, and Niamh rubbed his back gently.

Aria rubbed her arms; the air was cold and still, and she heard the low susurrus of voices from the other end of the platform. Cillian and Niamh had continued to speak in English. She was grateful for that courtesy, but comprehension hid just out of reach, and she didn't think she had the right to pry too deeply. Not yet. Emotions were too raw.

Owen's song rose like a thread of silver in the dark, a faint sound that brought everything else to stillness. His voice hung in the air, twined around itself, wove into her heart, surged upward and fell. In and around and beneath her, soft gold and clear silver, it rose again.

_Owen stood with his back to her on a high precipice, his bare feet on the furthest rocky outcropping, toes curled over the edge. His black hair blew in a gust of wind as he looked out across a green valley. He knelt to put his face to the stone, eyes closed and strong arms stretched out before him. She watched for long minutes, the music rising around her in reverent harmony._

Owen's voice cracked, and the music shattered and fell away into brilliant shards that left Aria gasping, aching for its lost beauty. She drew a deep breath, fighting tears; the air was fresh, with a faint scent of green growth and morning dew.

Niamh touched his face. "You were not healed." Her voice was heavy with grief.

"I did not ask for healing." His words were barely audible.

"Your pain is greater." Tears spilled down her cheeks.

"I mind it less." He closed his left eye, and Niamh bowed her head over him, her shoulders shaking.

_She's weeping for him. Does he know it? What does it mean, that he didn't ask for healing?_

Cillian raised his head, eyes wide. "Petro is here."

Petro walked toward them from the middle of the platform, steps long and even. _Why did he appear there, instead of here in our midst? To give us time to prepare?_

"I must clarify things with you." He spoke directly to Aria without looking at the others.

"What things?" Aria asked. Her voice didn't shake, and she was proud of that, but her heart still thudded in her chest. _Dragon._ His eyes were the same cold green, his face the same guileless mask it had been before. _He is not human. The face is human, but the eyes are not. No human is both so innocent and so cold._

As she thought it, his appearance shifted subtly. He grew taller, his face colder, skin shining. She squinted at him. He looked like an incredibly handsome statue, a metallic sheen to his skin. _But what color? Something between silver and copper, changing with the lantern light. What is this appearance supposed to tell me, if anything?_ His clothing rippled in a wind she couldn't see, the generic collared shirt and trousers he'd worn before replaced with a robe that hung from one shoulder, belted about his waist. _He's beautiful. Beautiful and hard as a diamond._

His mouth tightened for a moment before he spoke. "It was made clear to me that the information I provided about Owen's location and the open door could be interpreted as a promise of support in your attempt to rescue him." His words were clipped and painfully precise.

"The attempt would not have succeeded. It was made clear to me that," he hesitated, then said carefully, "if you died as a result of a choice predicated upon a faulty understanding of my words, of which I was aware and which I could have prevented, I would have made a choice I am unwilling to make. My assistance was required in order to avoid this result. Do you understand?" His gaze had not left hers, the green eyes even more striking in his new form.

Aria frowned. "So if I died because you set me up, you'd be held responsible?"

Petro's mouth twitched. "A set-up would require the intent for you to die. There was never such an intent. Your death would merely have been a result, neither intended nor unintended."

She frowned even more. "Why are you telling me this? What do you want?"

"My intervention was required in order to avoid making such a choice, with consequences that I do not desire." His eyes flicked away for a moment, and then back to her. "I did not intend to be put in that position when I gave you the information. More importantly, I do not intend to be put in that position again. Any promises to you, implied or otherwise, have been fulfilled. Do you understand and agree?"

_Don't let him off the hook yet. If he's volunteering information, take advantage of it!_

"Why do you think love is so worthless?"

He turned toward Owen and studied him for a long moment before speaking. "I was mistaken when I said I required no further information from Owen. Changes in him are providing valuable data I did not possess before." He circled Owen, eyes roving over his bruised face and body. Owen's left eye followed him, wide and cautious, though he said nothing.

Petro said finally, "You spoke of romantic love, correct?"

"When?"

"When you said, 'I love him! This is painful, and you just watch, like we're some sort of entertainment! It's vulgar!... It doesn't matter if he doesn't love me back. That's not the point.'"

Aria stared at him, her breath coming fast. Not only were they her words, but it was her _voice_ coming from his mouth, her pause while she'd wiped away tears, her breathless anger.

Petro's eyes held hers. "You were referring to romantic love, were you not?"

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to regain some semblance of equilibrium. "Mostly, yes. But I care for him as a friend too. And as a, well, I'd say human being, but he's not. As a person of some kind, anyway."

Petro's nostrils flared a little. "You complicate things," he said finally.

"Me?" Her voice rose.

"I require more information. That does not imply an intention to intervene in any further matters. I have fulfilled any obligations to you. You agree?"

"What are you studying?" She flung the question at him like a weapon.

He glanced away and then back at her. "I am not required to answer that question."

"No, but you should."

He looked at Owen again for a long moment, as if his answer would be found there. Finally, he said, "Choices interest me. Consequences may sometimes be interesting. Your lives are inconsequential. Expect no further assistance from me."

She swallowed. It was more information than she could have hoped for, although she had no idea what it meant. "Agreed."

He was gone.

She barely heard Owen's long exhalation, but she saw the tension in his face. Cillian and Niamh turned away from her, trembling, and she couldn't see their faces.

Aria spoke first. "What did you see that was so terrifying? I mean, he looked _different_ , but it wasn't scary, exactly. I already knew he wasn't human."

Niamh shook her head wordlessly, not looking up. Cillian pressed both his hands to his face for a long moment and took a deep, shuddering breath, still not willing to speak. Aria watched them, their reactions frightening her almost more than Petro had.

Owen took a steadying breath and said, "You couldn't see that he was terrified?"

Aria frowned. "He was a little strange, I guess, but I didn't see terrified. I saw precise and excruciatingly clear."

"We saw stark terror. Related to you, but not your person, exactly." He paused, watching Cillian and Niamh for their reactions. "I would guess it would be the 'undesired consequences' of setting you up to die."

Cillian gave one sharp nod, but did not look up.

Niamh whispered, "Which means there are powers much greater than Petro. Powers great enough to terrify him." She was still trembling, shoulders hunched as if she wanted to curl up into a ball.

Cillian ran his hands through his hair and shook out his shoulders, as if consciously deciding not to show his fear any longer. Yet he couldn't hide that his hands were shaking. "If it terrifies Petro, I want no part of it."

Aria thought for a moment. "What did you actually hear him say?"

Cillian and Niamh stared at each other, but Cillian answered. "Almost nothing. I heard your half of the conversation, and nothing while he was speaking. I did not see his lips move, nor feel the vibrations of his speech in the air. I heard 'I must clarify things with you' and 'Expect no further assistance from me.' That's all."

Niamh nodded agreement.

"How did you know he was terrified, then?" Aria asked.

Niamh hid her eyes again, and her voice shook as she answered. "It beat upon us in waves. He could not hide it, though his human form showed little sign of fear. He spoke to you, but he _thought_ of fire and pain and a terrible screaming silence."

Aria swallowed. "But he wasn't afraid of _me_."

Owen's voice was faint. "No. Nor I think of El. Not exactly. It was as if he had veered too close to a precipice, and was correcting his course by speaking with you." He hesitated. "I heard more, but perhaps not all of what he said. Choices, and changes in me."

Cillian looked at his brother more closely. "Hm."

Owen raised one eyebrow.

Finally, Cillian murmured, "It's very subtle. I hadn't noticed until you mentioned it. But I do see something different."

"Different in what way?" Aria asked.

"I can't yet tell. If anything, he seems more _human_."

~FIN~

_The Dragon's Tongue_ , Book 2 in A Long-Forgotten Song, is available from your favorite retailer now.

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# WAY OF THE WOLF

### Shifter Legacies Book 1

**Mark E. Cooper**

**His old life shattered, his new life is consumed with revenge...and love.**

Dr. David Lephmann lived a normal existence until he was attacked by a shifter. Thrust into a world of violence and mistrust, he must battle for a place among his new people.

Only strange new alliances can keep him alive. A powerful master vampire may help him take his revenge on the shifter who destroyed his life. There's only one distraction from his mission: an intriguing shifter woman who opens up his world to werewolf romance.

With no way back to his old life, David has no choice but to bend to the rules of his new people. Can he survive the challenge?

_Way of the Wolf_ is the first book in the Shifter Legacies dark fantasy paranormal series. If you like shifters or the work of Anne McCaffrey, Christine Feehan, and Lynsay Sands, then you'll love the tantalizingly action-packed story.

# Part I
## 1

# Arcadian

Professor Elliot Massey finished the last of his cognac before shrugging into his overcoat. It was late and he was the last one to leave again. He didn't mind. He liked to spend the last hour or so alone going over the previous day's results, it kept him up to date with what everyone was doing. He grinned as he remembered some of the rumours he had heard about his prodigious memory. His colleagues seemed to think him remarkable in the sorts of things he could recall about their work. They knew him as someone who oversaw them with a light hand; he wasn't one to push himself into their research uninvited. So it seemed almost miraculous to them that he knew exactly what they were talking about with the minimum of explanations when they came to him with a problem. He of course, cultivated that persona assiduously.

Elliot put the glass away in his desk drawer, switched off his terminal, and made his way through the darkened lab to the door. He stopped at Sheryl's work area to switch off her comp. She was always forgetting to do that. A few feet further on, he scooped up some of Dave's papers and dropped them in his top drawer. He slammed the drawer closed and rattled it to make sure it had locked. Dave was the worst where security was concerned. Sheryl's comp might have been on, but at least she had logged off before she left. Dave's was dark, but he was always printing sensitive data and leaving it lying around.

Elliot took a last look around before exiting the lab. He patted his pockets listening for the jingle of his keys before punching in the alarm code on the keypad beside the door. The clunk of electronic bolts shooting home and the reassuring red light blinking upon the control panel informed him all was secure for the evening. Nonetheless, he worked the door handle out of habit then turned away toward the exit.

Outside he paused to turn up his collar against the evening chill. It wasn't that cold, but he was beginning to feel it more as the years rolled by. He sighed, he was getting old. It happened to everyone eventually, but how had it happened so quickly? Where had his life gone, and what of his grand plans?

_My god... you're actually feeling sorry for yourself!_

Elliot scowled at the thoughts going through his mind. He had nothing to feel sorry for... well not regarding his career at any rate. His personal life was another matter. There were things he had not done that he wished he could change, but who didn't have regrets? The biggest regret of his life was not spending more time with his wife while she lived. That most of all. But they hadn't known her time was limited. How could they have known? They used to be so good together—a team at work and at home. Her assistance with his work in genetics had netted him the Nobel Prize in Physiology and Medicine way back in 2016. Maureen had been proud of him, he knew she had, but then cancer had stolen her from him and ripped her from the world before they could enjoy the fruits of their labour.

Elliot blinked rapidly trying not to let his burning eyes shed the tears they so wanted to shed. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that the goddess had taken Maureen from him so soon, but he had one consolation. She had left him their daughter to care for, not that Susan needed an old man's help these days. She was grown and looking after him now. Elliot grinned, and then shook his head. She really should have left him to moulder alone and found her own way to love and happiness as he had done at her age, but he couldn't find it in his heart to regret her continued presence. Looking at Susan was like looking at Maureen when they had first met. They looked so alike.

Elliot rammed his hands deeply into his coat pockets and hurried across the parking lot to his car. His black Mercedes was alone in an ocean of darkness. He shivered and increased his pace a little, but then he stumbled to a halt when one of the shadows came to life and resolved itself into the form of a man. The man did nothing, he simply watched and waited. After a brief hesitation, Elliot continued walking toward his car.

"Professor Massey?"

Elliot stopped fumbling for his keys and said warily, "Yes? Do I know you?"

"Cadmon Blake is my name, sir, we've never met. You missed your appointment with Arcadian. Perhaps you wish to reschedule?"

Elliot scowled and turned back to his car. He pointed the remote at the door and pressed the unlock button. "Mister Arcadian and I have nothing to discuss," he said aiming the words over his shoulder.

"That is where you and he must differ. You should not have inconvenienced him; he doesn't enjoy being kept waiting or made to look a fool."

"And I did not enjoy our last conversation," Elliot snapped and glared at the shadowy figure. "Neither am I enjoying this overly dramatic confrontation you have going, Mister Blake. Say what you want to say and be gone. My daughter is waiting up for me."

"Ah yes," Blake said and pursed his lips. He frowned, looking at the ground a moment before raising his eyes again. "Your daughter. How is she doing?"

Elliot gripped the open car door to prevent his hands shaking. "She's fine."

Blake closed the distance a little more. "You have spoken with her then?"

Elliot relaxed a little now as more of Blake's face was revealed in the meagre light. There seemed nothing sinister in it. The face was clean shaven, the eyes a washed out grey. The man wore his hair in what he thought of as a military cut—short almost shaved at the sides, but longer and a little spiky on top. He looked bulky in his overcoat, but Elliot doubted it was due to fat.

"Professor?"

He blinked. "What? No, not today. Look, I have to get going. You tell Mister Arcadian we have nothing to talk about. Tell him not to call me. Tell him that if he keeps insisting on badgering me like this, I'll call the authorities." He began climbing into his car, but hands suddenly gripped his shoulders. Before he could yell, he was pulled roughly back out of the driver's seat. His keys fell from his hand as he wrenched at Blake's grip, but the man was built like a gorilla and he couldn't break free. "What are you doing? Let me go, damn you!"

Blake pinned him with his back against the car. "Struggle and I'll break your arm, Professor," he said without the slightest trace of emotion in his voice.

Elliot froze.

"Thank you. I do not want to hurt you, sir, but I will if you make me. Arcadian wouldn't like it if I did so, but if the choice is between you hurt, or me failing his orders, you can guess which I will choose. You can can't you?"

He swallowed nervously and nodded.

Blake smiled his dead little smile. It didn't reach his eyes. "I'm so very glad you understand my position. Arcadian can be a very hard master to serve. He does not take failure well. Now then, I take it you are unwilling to reschedule your meeting."

"I suppose I could meet with him."

"I do not believe you mean that. In anticipation of your reluctance, I've arranged for something to persuade you. Take this please."

Elliot fumbled and nearly dropped the link Blake handed to him. "You want me to call him?"

"Use the speed dial. Press one and then the connect button."

Elliot did and raised the link to his ear. It rang three times and was answered by a man's voice.

"Blake, that you?"

"This is Professor Massey. I was told to call this number."

Blake nodded in approval.

"One moment, sir," the voice said. A minute of silence followed and then a familiar voice came on the line. "Daddy?"

"Susan!" Elliot glared at Blake. "Where are you, are you all right?"

"Of course I'm all right, silly! Mister Arcadian is a wonderful host. How come I didn't know you two were friends?"

"I err... I must have forgotten to mention him. Where are you?"

"Waiting for you of course! Mister Arcadian was very worried when you missed dinner, but I said you were probably just working late and had forgotten the time. He said he would send someone to collect you. Did his friend find you all right?"

"I'm with his friend right now."

"Oh good," Susan said happily. "I'll see you in a while then. Bye!"

"Wait!" he said, but the line went dead. "You bastard."

Blake took back his link and slipped it into a pocket. "Insulting me will not help matters, Professor. Arcadian wishes to meet with you tonight. I suggest for your daughter's sake and your own that you come with me quietly. I have a car waiting."

Elliot couldn't see that he had any choice. He followed Blake as he led the way to his car. Blake opened the rear door of a silver four door Jaguar parked not far from the parking lot's exit. Elliot climbed inside and Blake followed him in. Their driver didn't speak or even look their way as they settled themselves. He simply piloted the car smoothly out of the lot and into the sparse traffic.

Elliot sat in uncomfortable silence for the entire journey. A couple of times he nearly blurted the questions crowding his brain, but he always held back and left them unvoiced. He had a feeling that Blake wouldn't tell him even if he knew the answers. With no hope of enlightenment, asking questions would only make his position appear weak. He almost laughed aloud at that. He was being kidnapped, his daughter held ransom to his good behaviour. How much weaker could his position get?

That was a question soon answered.

He had taken no notice of his surroundings during the journey, but remedied that when he felt the car pull off the highway onto a narrow country lane. The car's suspension was superb and turned what was a terrible surface into a tolerable one. Still, the driver was cognisant of the conditions, and had slowed down to pilot the car safely along the winding turns. The headlights revealed that trees and other vegetation encroached upon the little used lane. There was barely enough room for the car to pass without twigs and branches flensing away its paint.

He eyed his surroundings uneasily.

If Blake had wanted to kill him, he would be dead already, of that he had no doubt, but he could think of no better place to dump a body than this. Left here, he would never be found. He glanced uneasily at Blake only to find the man's amused countenance already turned his way. He had obviously deduced his concern and it amused him.

"I have already mentioned that Arcadian would take it amiss should you come to harm, Professor."

"But what about after the meeting?"

Blake's smile widened and Elliot shivered.

It was as he thought. Mister Arcadian was a man that no one said no to. He had little doubt that whatever the man wanted from him would be unacceptable, but he also knew that the consequences of his refusal would be dire. If it was only his own life at risk, he would have told Arcadian to go hang, but he had Susan to think of. Whatever he had to do to safeguard his daughter, he would do. Arcadian, that bastard, knew it.

The car slowed to a crawl and turned left. A few yards on it halted in front of a pair of tall iron gates. Elliot peered out of his window. He could just make out a high wall mostly obscured by shadows and overgrown vegetation. It was obviously old; it was weathered and covered in clinging vine-like creepers, but the iron gates set into it looked brand new. A man occupying a security booth stepped out and bent to speak with the driver. A few words were exchanged between them and the guard went back inside to open the gates. They were motorised and slid aside on silent bearings into slots cut into the wall. The car eased through the portal and along a driveway toward a large house that he had no problem terming a mansion. The place was huge with many windows blazing cheerily with light. The car stopped opposite the main door of the house. Blake gestured to indicate he should climb out, and joined him a moment later.

The car pulled away, its tyres crunching on the loose gravel driveway, and was soon lost to the night.

"Now what?"

As answer, Blake led him to the door which opened as they neared to reveal a man waiting to welcome them. Light flooded out into the night and the sound of music. He could hear the sounds of laughter and many voices. Obviously there was a party of some sort going on. He stepped inside followed closely by Blake, expecting an introduction to the waiting man, but his surmise that this dapper gentleman was Mister Arcadian was false. He was simply another of Arcadian's employees—this time playing butler not kidnapper. The butler, if that's what he was meant to be, was wearing a well-tailored suit of dark grey wool, the silk tie knotted at his throat was a blood red, and the creases in his trousers were so sharp they could probably cut like a knife. He had mousy blond hair parted neatly on the left and very pale blue eyes almost colourless. He was quite short and slim, especially in comparison to Blake who was easily head and shoulders taller. Elliot found himself in the middle position of looking up at Blake and down at the butler.

Blake introduced them. "Professor Massey, meet Morgan Cummings."

Morgan inclined his head in a brief bow. "Call me Morgan. I'm delighted to make your acquaintance, Professor. May I take your coat?"

Elliot snorted. "Don't you think this is all somewhat absurd?" he said, glancing from Morgan to Blake and back again.

Morgan raised an enquiring eyebrow.

"You standing there acting like the perfect English butler as if unaware of my status. My daughter and I have been kidnapped, man!"

"My word, how very dramatic," Morgan said and smiled. "As for me, I was born in England... Staffordshire to be precise. I've been many things in my time, but a perfect English butler did you say? That has never been one of my duties or talents. I'm the Arcadian's personal aide, not his butler. Now, if I might take your coat?"

He unbuttoned his coat and shrugged out of it. Morgan took it through a door nearby, and into a cloakroom that looked bigger than his entire apartment. A moment later, Morgan reappeared to lead him, with Blake still dogging his heels, deeper into the mansion to meet his host.

They found him entertaining his guests.

"Wait here," Morgan said, and went to speak with Arcadian.

Elliot edged just inside the room and waited. It was filled with conversation and people enjoying themselves. There were men and women dancing, drinking, laughing, or simply standing around the sides of the room watching the goings on. The room was furnished with what he realised must be genuine period antiques. The floors were polished wood with generous rugs scattered around giving the place a homey feel despite its grandeur. Many fine examples of interesting art were displayed upon the walls, and at any other time he would have enjoyed studying them, but not under the current circumstances. The room was well lit by two huge chandeliers blazing with light hanging from the high ceiling. There were hundreds of little bulbs up there. The chandeliers themselves appeared to be the originals, though for practicality they had been converted from candle power to electric.

He scanned faces searching for Susan and found her dancing with a young man he didn't recognise—he didn't recognise anyone in the room except Morgan, who was weaving his way through the crowded room looking for his employer. He started forward to join Susan, but aborted his plan when Blake's hand descended to grip his shoulder. The man didn't speak; he simply shook his head slowly.

_Damn him!_

Morgan paused behind a man talking with a pair of stunningly good looking women. The man, Elliot assumed he was Arcadian, was describing something with many pantomiming gestures and laughter mixed in. The women were hanging upon his every word while occasionally sipping their wine from crystal glasses. Both wore evening gowns and a fortune in jewellery around their necks.

Elliot frowned. The room was full of beautiful people. All the men were young and handsome; all the women were young and beautiful. He doubted any of them was older than thirty, and that seemed strange to him. There wasn't even one person in the room that he could point to as being plain or even average. All the guests were extraordinary in their good looks and dress, and that was just plain wrong. Arcadian must be someone who liked to surround himself with youth and beauty; it made his fear for Susan more acute. She took after her mother and was exceptionally beautiful in his eyes. He feared Arcadian would see her so also.

Morgan used a pause in Arcadian's conversation to lean close to him and whisper something. The man cocked his head just a little to listen, nodded and glanced toward the door. From clear across the room Elliot felt the force of that glance like a physical blow. If Blake hadn't been standing close behind him, he would have stepped back. Arcadian's gaze pinned him and held him up like a specimen for inspection. He didn't realise he was holding his breath until Arcadian let him go by turning back to his two charming companions.

"Holy mother goddess," he hissed under his breath. "What in the nine hells was that?"

"He often has that effect on those meeting him for the first time," Blake said, sounding inordinately pleased at his loss of composure.

Morgan rejoined them. "Arcadian will see you momentarily. Follow me."

He took one last look into the room before following Morgan. Susan was still dancing and enjoying herself. She seemed to have a string of admirers waiting to dance with her. She didn't know that she was hostage to his good behaviour. With luck she never would.

Morgan led them into a comfortable sitting room that had been turned into an office or private study. Blake pointed to a leather sofa to one side of the room, and Elliot meekly seated himself upon it. Morgan ignored the massive desk that sat before the only window and busied himself at the liquor cabinet. He turned back with two tumblers of cognac. Elliot scowled at this evidence of more prying into his life, but he didn't refuse the offered drink. He needed one, truth be told.

Blake wasn't offered a drink or a place to sit.

Morgan joined Elliot on the sofa while Blake stationed himself quietly to one side of the door. Stationed, he mused as he sipped his drink, was a good word for Blake's attitude. He was on duty, or that was the impression he received from the dour man.

"Can you tell me anything of why I'm here?"

"You know why," Morgan said. "The Arcadian invited you and a guest to dinner."

"Invited suggests I had a choice."

"Had you paid him the courtesy of attending dinner and listening to his proposal, Arcadian would have given you a choice. By insulting him, you forced him to take another path where you're concerned."

He finished the last of his cognac and placed the glass on the low table before them. "Research he said. Mister Arcadian mentioned private research when he tried to buy me. What kind of research?"

Morgan began to say something, but then he shook his head and climbed to his feet. Elliot stood to join him, and turned in time to see Arcadian enter the room followed by another man and a woman. The room suddenly felt crowded and not because of Arcadian's two new companions. He alone was enough to fill the room. Although he was of a height with Morgan and of similar build, Arcadian had a presence that seemed to dominate all he surveyed. Be that an empty room or one full of people, no one could doubt that he ruled it.

Arcadian held out his hand and said, "Welcome Professor Massey, you are welcome indeed."

He saw no reason not to shake the offered hand. Doing so meant nothing. Not doing so might antagonise the man even further. He shook noticing how cool and dry Arcadian's hand felt in his. The shake was firm but not a knuckle crusher. He obviously didn't feel the need to physically dominate those he met. Of course he didn't, Elliot thought, he had money and lackeys like Blake to do that for him.

"You've met Morgan and Cadmon of course," Arcadian said. "Let me introduce Chani and Peter. Chani especially has been looking forward to meeting you."

He shook Peter's hand then turned to stare at Chani. He had to force himself to look away long enough to take the woman's hand. She was flawless. Her skin seemed to glow with health; her green eyes sparkled like emeralds. He suddenly felt flushed and embarrassed, and knew she had detected his discomposure. The evening gown she had chosen to wear displayed a body that would fulfil every teenage boy's fantasy. She was long legged, big breasted without being too buxom, and exactly the right height for him to stare into her eyes... which he was doing he realised!

He blushed; he was holding her hand and simply staring at her unable to speak! He shook her hand gently and released it reluctantly. By the goddess, what was wrong with him? He felt intoxicated, and wondered uneasily if Morgan had put something in his drink.

"Pleased..." he almost croaked, and paused to clear his throat. He tried again. "I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance, Chani. That's a beautiful name by the way."

She smiled. "Thank you. That's why I chose it."

"You did?"

"I was born Chanah Mindel. Chanah means graceful in Hebrew, but I like Chani better."

Arcadian gently guided Elliot back to his seat with a touch on his arm. "Chani is the one person in my household that might possibly be able to understand your work, Professor."

"Oh?"

Chani smiled. "The basics only I'm afraid. The Arcadian is being kind. I have some medical training, but nothing in genetics."

The Arcadian kind? Elliot did not think so. The thought that Chani _did_ think so snapped him out of his strange mood. He took his seat and the others settled themselves. Arcadian chose a wing backed armchair that faced the sofa. Blake remained where he was while Morgan took his place next to Elliot and Chani on the sofa. Peter remained standing and fixed himself a drink—tomato juice it looked like.

"First," Arcadian began. "Let me apologise for the manner in which you were brought here. Your refusal to even meet with me, forced upon us a course of action I would really rather not have taken."

Elliot scowled. "You kidnapped my daughter and myself. I might forgive you for my abduction. Might. But there's no forgiveness for dragging my daughter into this. I find it absurd that you would think there might be."

Arcadian shrugged, the movement slow and cavalier.

"What will it take to get my daughter safely out of here?"

"You insult me," Arcadian said coldly. "Here under my very own roof you insult me? To think that I would harm a guest..." his eyes blazed with anger but then he calmed as if a switch had been thrown. "No. I will not be angry."

Elliot twitched in surprise as everyone relaxed or sighed quietly. He glanced at Morgan and then Chani. They were both tense as if they feared the outcome of this meeting. That more than anything he had yet seen scared him. If Arcadian's own people feared him, perhaps he should be more careful.

"Tell me what you want, and I'll discuss it with you."

"Oh you will?" Arcadian said in an overly pleased and sarcastic sounding way. "You'll discuss it with me? You'll listen with an open mind and not one closed with a decision already foolishly made on scant information?"

"I will."

"A most excellent decision! If you remember our earlier discussion on the link, you'll remember that I alluded to your work in genetics, and a private research project I am funding."

"Immortality belongs in the realm of fantasy not science. The human condition precludes it no matter our superficial resemblance to the Sidhe. Genetics does not lie. The Seelie and Unseelie elves are a separate people and not to be confused with any of the races of man. My work has real applications, serious applications relevant to the human condition as it _is_ , not how some would wish it to be."

"I remember your position. I also remember telling you how seriously I take this matter. Suspend your disbelief a moment if you will, and answer me this. If I were to introduce you to someone that cannot die—a man or woman let's say—who is in fact immortal. Would you be able to use your knowledge of genetics to discover why?"

"You're serious?"

"As death itself, Professor."

He considered lying, but decided against it. "I'm not sure, but I think not."

Arcadian didn't look surprised. "Why not?"

"Because my knowledge of genetics is entirely tied to the human genome. This hypothetical man would be, for all intents and purposes, not human."

"Almost exactly word for word what the others said before they joined us."

Morgan shrugged. "A disappointment I'll admit, but not unexpected. They're all products of their modern world."

"You have asked others this question?" Elliot said.

Morgan nodded. "Geneticists, scientists, medical doctors, and researchers... your colleagues, should you decide to join them in their quest."

"The project is a reality then?"

"It is," Arcadian said. "What would it take for you to join your colleagues in their work?"

"There's nothing you could offer that would make me give up my own research, especially not when I don't believe in the goal."

"Money?"

"Insulting," Elliot said mildly. "And no."

"Fame?"

He snorted.

Arcadian smiled. "Immortality?"

"My daughter and my work are all I have in this world. My wife passed away years ago, and I'm an old man. The thought of immortality at my age, were it obtainable, does not attract me."

"I think, were certain things made plain to you, you might change your mind about that, but no matter. Let us speak of your daughter."

"What about her?"

"She is dying is she not?"

"How did you..." he blurted in surprise. "No, it doesn't matter. Susan is not well, but she isn't dying."

"Not yet perhaps, but her condition is incurable is it not?"

He nodded reluctantly. "Research will find a cure eventually."

"In time to save her?"

"I believe so. I'm close, very close."

Arcadian pursed his lips and frowned. "Close. Is it possible that you overstate?"

"Anything is possible, but I don't believe so. Drug therapy will keep her condition under control until my research yields the answer."

"Any cure will be years in testing."

Elliot moistened his lips. "I have a way around that."

"I'm sorry to distress you this way. I'm sure you have many friends willing to bend the rules for you. What if I were to show you another way, a better way?"

"A better way to cure her? But what has this to do with your immortality project? You know I don't believe in that goal."

"I know and it doesn't matter. If you join us, you will come to believe in it, but more to the point right now, you will see a way forward for your daughter."

"What way?"

"I have a way certain to cure your daughter. One hundred percent certain, and not in years but in days at most. "

" _Impossible!_ " he gasped but his hopes leapt. A man such as Arcadian, one who was wealthy beyond dreams, might well have contacts that he lacked. If a cure existed and he not aware of it, a man like Arcadian might know.

"Not impossible, just unlikely."

"I don't understand."

"You will in a moment. Understand this, my cure for your daughter's illness is not free. It is _not_ free. You understand?"

"You want me to work on your project."

"That's part of it, but only a part. There is a price to be paid by both of you. My project is secret and requires you to keep that secret. Also, you and your daughter will be required to join the others and live with them until the research is complete."

"How long?"

"That's uncertain. I'm sure you don't need me to tell you the nature of research, but as things stand I would guess at no less than a year."

Morgan agreed with a nod. "Professor Langdon's last report was encouraging, but it might be longer than that... perhaps two years."

"Langdon? Would that be Jennifer Langdon?" Elliot said.

"That's right."

"I heard that—"

Arcadian smiled. "That she disappeared under suspicious circumstances? Yes, she did. If you agree to my terms, so will you as far as your friends are concerned."

His thoughts raced. Jennifer Langdon would never be a party to something so outlandish unless there truly was a chance of success. Two years away from his work could be disastrous, and yet... he nodded to himself. The others would ensure his work would go on, and what if Arcadian really had a cure? Two years away would be nothing then.

"I need something concrete to base my decision on. I need more information about your cure. Something... _anything!_ "

"I understand," Arcadian said. "Firstly, the cure is not without side effects."

"Side effects?" Elliot's stomach plummeted. "What kind of side effects, and how severe are they?"

"I'll come back to that." Arcadian stood. He crossed the room to his desk and returned holding a letter opener. He held it up for Elliot's inspection. It was more a dagger than letter opener. It had a silver hilt set with red stones that might be rubies for all he knew. "Exquisite is it not? It was a gift from an old friend of mine."

Elliot nodded.

Arcadian brandished the weapon making light reflect off the blade, and then plunged it into Morgan's chest in the blink of an eye. The man grunted with the impact, and Elliot cried out in shock. Morgan looked down at the dagger in wide-eyed surprise, and then back up at Arcadian.

"You crazy bastard!" Elliot shouted leaping to his feet and backing away. Blake took a single step sideways and blocked the door. "Let me out of here."

"Oh hush. He's in no danger."

"You stabbed him in the chest!"

"Only as a demonstration," Arcadian said, sounding defensive. "Morgan is one of my closest friends; I would no more hurt him than I would hurt myself. See for yourself."

He turned expecting to find that Morgan had breathed his last, but he was still sitting as before. He was no longer interested in the knife. He was just sitting there with it in his chest.

"Goddess bless me and hold me safe from evil," Elliot breathed. "What have you done?"

"Come come," Arcadian said, his mood shifting toward exasperation. "Don't waste the opportunity. Examine the wound. Perhaps I used a trick knife. Best you check, don't you think?"

Elliot looked to Peter and Chani for their reactions. Peter raised his drink in salute, and Chani smiled encouragement. He approached Morgan uncertainly, and bent to examine the injury. He touched the knife feeling it vibrate with each breath the man took.

"Does it hurt?"

Peter snorted and Chani tittered.

"Of course it bloody hurts," Morgan said in disgust, and glared at Arcadian. "I'd pull it out, but I think he wants you to do it."

Arcadian nodded. "I want him to be sure there is no trickery."

He shook his head. There wasn't much blood for such an obviously deep and fatal wound, but the knife was plugging it. "We should call an ambulance."

"Oh for Danu's sake," Peter said, moving to take charge.

"No," Arcadian said softly, and Peter froze. "Let him do it. Please proceed with your investigation, Professor. Don't take all night. Poor Morgan looks uncomfortable."

Morgan grimaced and rolled his eyes at Elliot. "He likes his little jests."

Elliot was shaking, but he gripped the hilt of the knife and pulled. Morgan grunted as the knife grated on his sternum, and a trickle of blood escaped his lips.

Morgan took a deep breath as the blade came free. "Thank you, that feels much better." He used a handkerchief to clean the blood from his chin and dabbed futilely at his sodden shirt. "Disgusting stuff, blood. I'll never get the stain out."

Elliot held the bloody dagger and stared. "May I see?"

"Might as well see the entire show," Morgan said opening his shirt. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Peter did this last time. I didn't know it would hurt as much as it did."

He didn't know what to say to that. The gaping wound in Morgan's chest was bleeding heavily, but it wasn't pumping the blood out of him. He reached to touch it, but glanced up at the last moment for permission. Morgan nodded to go ahead, and Elliot fingered the edges of the wound. It was no trick. The knife was an inch wide and had penetrated Morgan's chest for its entire length—about four inches. It had done massive damage. By rights the man should be dead. Not only wasn't he dead, there wasn't really that much blood. It was messy, and Morgan's shirt was sodden with it now, but for this kind of wound it should be gushing.

He swallowed as the wound slowly closed before his eyes. It was already half as wide as it had been. He knew what Arcadian's so-called _cure_ had to be, and it was evil.

"You're a vampire. I should have known it was all a trick. Vampirism as a cure for my daughter... you have a sick sense of humour."

"I'm a man, not a vampire," Morgan said but then cocked his head. "Well, a man with a little something extra, courtesy of the Arcadian."

"How are you responsible for his healing?" Elliot said.

Arcadian reached to relieve him of the knife, and he didn't resist. He held up the knife then slowly pushed it through the palm of his own hand. He held the hand out for inspection then pulled the knife out. A small puddle of blood welled up in his cupped palm, but then it seemed to evaporate. It hadn't of course. It had simply been absorbed via the wound back into his body. The wound closed and faded. It was gone in seconds.

"Please take your seat, Professor, and I will explain what this means to you and your daughter."

Elliot collapsed onto the sofa.

Arcadian put aside the bloody knife. "I am what you would call a vampire and my birth people would call a revenant. It doesn't matter what term is used, they mean the same thing. Basically, I am immortal."

Elliot couldn't let that stand. "Vampires are already dead and can therefore not be called truly immortal. Stasis is not immortality."

Arcadian scowled. "Semantics. I had hoped for better from you. Some would have you believe vampires are not alive. I ask you, do I look dead?"

Elliot turned to Chani and Peter. "Both of you as well?"

"Afraid so old chum," Peter said and Chani nodded.

"And you?"

Morgan shook his head. "I'm something else."

"He is my human servant," Arcadian explained. "He's my friend, my confidant, my aide if you will. He's a man who will not age. Neither will he die unless I do. Even by your narrow definition of such things, Morgan is immortal."

Morgan might be immortal by Arcadian's definition, but was he even human? He had no data to prove things either way, but he did have past research of shifters to guide him. Like Morgan, shifters began life as humans but they underwent huge physiological changes when infected by lycanthropy; their DNA itself rewritten by the virus. Vampire wannabes underwent similar changes when they submitted to the blood exchange and infected themselves with the vampire virus. That was fine and proven data, but what of a vampire's human servant? Was Morgan still human on a biological level? How could he know? He needed to get the man into his lab for tests.

Assuming for the moment Susan could become what Morgan was, she would be trapped forever unchanging in her twenties. No bad thing some might say, but what of the other side effects? What about daylight, and drinking blood? Did Morgan need to drink blood the way vampires did to survive? What of the soul and children? What about that? He frowned as all the old legends and stories of vampires and their servants crowded into his brain.

"Is Morgan immune to disease like you?"

Arcadian cocked his head. "Yes. Morgan is immune because I am. It has never come up, but I suspect that should some new plague strike me, he would also be infected through our bond."

Elliot's heart sank. "There is a bond?"

"When Morgan hurts, I hurt and vice versa. We are linked via the blood bond. When I stabbed him, I felt his pain."

He might have felt Morgan's pain, but he wasn't actually injured. There was no blood on Arcadian's shirt. "Let's be clear. You're saying that if Susan becomes like Morgan she will be cured?"

Arcadian inclined his head in assent. "She would be cured."

"What about the side effects?" he said and giggled. "Vampirism is one hell of a side effect!"

"Calm yourself."

"Easy for you to say," Elliot said not feeling like himself at all. He felt on the edge of something both scary and momentous. "How was Morgan... how did he..."

"How was Morgan made?" Arcadian offered and Elliot nodded. "As always, the secret is in the blood. We know how it works, but we don't know why. No one does."

"That's what you want isn't it? Your research is to learn why it works?"

"The exact opposite I'm afraid," Chani said. "The project was created to learn why it doesn't work. Making another vampire is chancy. If I were to infect you right this minute using my blood, you would have a two in ten chance of surviving it and making the transformation, but it doesn't end there. I might infect your daughter and kill her, or she might have a six in ten chance of pulling through. There seems no logic behind why it works sometimes and not others."

"It is mere chance then?"

"Not quite that bad. We've learned that certain techniques will increase the probability of a successful transformation. Repeated feedings upon a subject leading up to his infection and death will double his chances of being turned."

Peter butted in. "That's another thing I've never understood. Why does it take three days for some of us to come back, and others weeks? Why do some of us die and stay dead? Why did you die and bounce back before we could even arrange for somewhere to lay you out?"

Elliot blinked.

Chani noticed his confusion. "My turning was unusual. I died as we all must, but was back on my feet transformed in a heartbeat. We don't know why. We don't know why the blood bond works either, or how for that matter, but it does. We aren't just strong humans. We look human, but we're not. Science can't explain this for instance."

Elliot reared back in surprise when Chani's face changed into one of a stranger and then back. He looked up at Peter in time to see him turn into Blake and back.

"Goddess bless. I've heard of vampire mind tricks but never thought to experience them."

Arcadian chuckled. "No trick I assure you. It is true magic, or glamour if you want to get technical. All of us can do it to one degree or another."

"The stories?"

"Are true up to a point. Not all of them, but enough to serve."

"I always thought the Shadow was cool," Peter said and wiggled his fingers like a magician. "Clouding men's minds you know?"

He nodded calmly but felt chilled by this development. If they could cloud his mind and make him see things, how could he ever be sure of anything they told him?

"What about Morgan?"

"I can't do anything like that. I'm physically tougher but that's it."

"Blood, sunlight?"

"I wouldn't be a very good aide if I couldn't go about in the day time. I eat and drink in the human way, though I could abstain for longer than a normal human if push came to shove. I don't drink blood," Morgan made a face. "Nasty stuff."

"You get used to it," Chani said with a smile.

"Hypothetically speaking, let's assume I say yes to working for you and that Susan is agreeable to becoming what Morgan is, how would that work?"

Chani answered. "One of us, me probably as I do not currently have a servant, would bond with Susan. She would agree to let me feed from her, and then later she would take blood from me. It may only take one feeding, but three is the usual method. She will become like Morgan shortly after that. For this to happen, you both have to agree to live and work here with your colleagues. You will have no outside contact for an indefinite time, and will work for us as we direct. You will not discuss any of this with anyone."

"I can't agree to an indefinite time. Your research may never be realised. I would be signing the rest of my life over to your project."

Arcadian nodded. "Let us say a minimum of two years with options for renewal of the contract."

Elliot nodded slowly. "I need to speak with Susan. I can't go ahead unless she agrees."

"Excellent! I'm sure she will agree, Professor." Arcadian smiled slowly. "I'm certain of it in fact."

## 2

# Lephmann

"Am I boring you, Doctor Lephmann?"

David frowned at the mockery. "Not at all. I was considering your choice of subject. I don't know about you gentleman," he surveyed the others, "But talk of this nature... _troubles_ me."

Jan nodded her agreement, but it was already obvious that the others agreed with Hoberman. A cynical man might think to charge them with toadying—and be right. Doctor Hoberman was senior to them all and he was in tight with those that mattered. Jan was relatively new in her position, just as David himself was. Both of them were still on the outside looking in. He hadn't been able to make friends with Hoberman's little clique, and if he were honest with himself, he didn't want to. He saw the wall growing ever higher between him and the others every time he opened his mouth, but it was not in him to keep silent when he heard such bigoted trash expressed by professional and well respected men. They should know better. Opinions voiced in private were one thing, though the smell of such hypocrisy turned his stomach, it was better than the alternative. Saying such things where others could hear and perhaps act upon them was irresponsible in the extreme.

"Troubles you in what way exactly?" Hoberman said, playing to his audience.

"To differentiate between patients for such petty reasons as his or her race is abominable. I became a doctor because I believe in helping people. It doesn't matter to me whether the patient is human or something else, and it shouldn't matter to you gentleman." He tried to catch their eyes. "There is nothing in the oath we all swore that restricts our practice of medicine to humans."

One or two of the others did have the decency to look abashed, but they didn't have the moral courage to agree with him. They looked away trying not to meet his eyes.

Only Jan had the guts to speak up. "I agree. You must admit the situation has changed, if not, we are nothing but frightened peasants hiding from the bogeyman."

Hoberman glared. "The times have indeed changed and not for the better. Your bogeyman is as real as you are. We knew how to deal with such creatures as they deserved back then, but now we cuddle up with them and pretend not see what we've taken into our beds. Your peasants may have been ignorant savages beset by superstition, but they knew the folly of trying to live with these animals!"

Jan hissed in shock. Even the clique was shocked to stillness. Hoberman had called them animals. They weren't animals but people. Different from humans maybe, but they were sentient beings. They loved and hated like people, laughed and talked like people. They _were_ people!

"I believe you misspoke, Doctor," David said giving the man a graceful way to withdraw. "I hope you misspoke. I'm sure all here agree that it was people you meant, not animals."

"I said what I said and meant every word. You may call them people if you wish. You may even believe it, though how anyone could is beyond me. That is beside the point."

"What _is_ the point?"

"The point is, I'm in need of someone with your peculiar outlook where non humans are concerned. Alex Brauer called me yesterday and asked me to recommend someone to help him over at Mercy. I thought you might like a change of scenery. Unless of course you've changed your opinion about working with the animals?"

He gritted his teeth to stop himself replying immediately and rashly. Doctor Brauer worked at Mercy Hospital, which was understaffed. A change of scenery would be good right now, but knowing Hoberman, his exile was likely to become permanent in a hurry. He had only recently come on staff here at Saint Bartholomew's, and he had his future to consider. Making an enemy of Hoberman was not a good idea; his opinions had weight. If the man just happened to mention that a doctor of his acquaintance was a troublemaker, that doctor would find it very hard to find a worthwhile position anywhere.

"Ah," Hoberman smirked. "He's having second thoughts. It seems David's convictions have been tested and found wanting. Perhaps you, Janice?"

Jan shook her head and looked down as if ashamed. She glanced once at David then away.

"My convictions remain the same. I have no problem working at Mercy for a time. The experience will be good for me."

Hoberman raised an eyebrow. "Indeed? Well then, I shall tell Alex to expect you tomorrow. Shall we say ten?"

"By all means," he said with a sinking feeling. What would Michelle say when she heard about this? Whatever she said, he knew he wouldn't like it.

The rest of that day he couldn't stop thinking about Hoberman. Why did the man dislike him so? He had done nothing to warrant it, and it wasn't his opinions where non-humans were concerned either. Hoberman had spoken with Alex Brauer yesterday before their discussion about them, so the trigger couldn't be their opposing view.

It was late when he arrived home. He showered and took the opportunity to change his clothes before leaving the house again to drive to Michelle's place. He would rather drive almost anywhere else than explain to her how he had volunteered to work with non-human patients, but he couldn't hide it forever. Michelle and he were supposed to go out tonight, but he was late. She would be in a bad mood. By the time he parked his car, he had summoned enough courage to tell her what had happened and where he would be working for the foreseeable future.

Michelle opened the door and waited for him. She must have been watching the street. He tried to kiss her but she was having none of it. She spun on her heel and stalked back inside the house leaving him at the door. David sighed. He really didn't need this.

"I'm sorry," he said closing the door quietly. Michelle didn't like noise. "We can go another night."

"You could have at least let me know. Robert was free; he could have taken me."

"Why Robert and not Jennifer?"

Michelle shrugged.

He let his anger at the idea of Robert taking his place go. He didn't want to be angry with her and he certainly didn't want her angry with him. He stepped up behind her and clasped her shoulders. "I'm sorry. We had an emergency; I couldn't just leave."

"There's always an emergency with you. If it's not one thing it's another."

"Hey," he whispered. He tried to pull her into his arms but she resisted and shrugged him off. She stalked to the other side of the room. "What do you want me to say? I'm a doctor. I had to stay and save someone's life. I'm sorry if that messes up your social schedule." He winced as soon as that came out. He wished he could take it back, but it was too late and he knew it. He headed for the drinks cabinet knowing he would need one.

"I have a life too, David."

"I know you—"

"My life doesn't revolve around your work. If you think that I'm going to make an appointment every time I want to see you, you have another thing coming."

"I don't think that."

"Well that's what it feels like to me."

He poured himself Glenlivet over ice and threw it down his throat in one gulp. "I have something to tell you and I don't want you to interrupt."

"What is—"

"Hoberman asked me to work over at Mercy and I said yes," he said in a rush and winced waiting for the explosion. He turned to see her standing as before. "Well?"

"I'm waiting for the punchline."

"It's not a joke."

"How could you? You know what this will mean."

He rolled his shoulders trying to dispel the tension building there. "It means I'll be out from under Hoberman."

"He's a friend of my father, a really _good_ friend, and you knew that! Daddy will find out!"

"I don't care if he finds out. In fact, I have a good mind to tell him right now. This is going to be good for me. I just know it."

Michelle stared at him, appalled. "How could you let this happen? You have to tell him you changed your mind. Daddy will—"

"I want to marry _you_ , not your father. You know my feelings. I won't go back to Hoberman and beg for my old place back! I didn't go through med school to toady to the likes of him."

"Do it for us. Daddy says he can get you a place with him, but he won't do that if he hears about this. Think what people will say!"

"You're not listening to me. I don't want to work for your father. Hoberman wants me out of his playground. I'm more than willing to give him what he wants."

"Why are you so _weak!_ " Michelle stormed. "You're always so damn accommodating!"

He stilled. "Is that what you really think of me—that I'm weak? _Well is it?_ " He roared the question, stiff with anger. Michelle remained silent. "I see," he hissed and slammed his glass down. "I better go."

"David?"

"Yes?" He looked back from the doorway.

"Please say you won't do it. Daddy can fix this."

"I really would be as weak as you think me if I allowed that." He couldn't help slamming the door on his way out. Petty, but he felt a little better for it.

Alex Brauer as it turned out was a harried looking man in his late thirties. David could see Hoberman had not lied about him needing help at least. Attracting good administrators and staff couldn't be easy with the hospital's reputation for treating non-humans. Everyone working here was holding down two jobs and sometimes three. Brauer officially headed up the emergency department, but in real terms, he was senior surgeon effectively running the entire hospital alongside its undermanned and underfunded administration department. It was a heavy burden for a team of experienced doctors, let alone one man and a couple of juniors. He wondered if Brauer knew that his newest addition was also lacking in experience. Probably not, he thought when he saw the smile of relieved welcome.

"Doctor Lephmann?" Brauer said shaking hands. "I'm so very glad to meet you. I must confess that when I heard the news, I thought they were just fobbing me off as they usually do."

David retrieved his hand after it had been wrung a dozen times or so. "They?"

Brauer waved a hand at the ceiling. "They. You know they? _Them_. The powers that be—the almighty arseholes that cut my budget for the last four out of five years. _Them_."

"Oh _them_."

Brauer meant the mayor and the bureaucrats responsible for the health care of Mercy's welfare cases. Mercy Hospital cared for people without medical cover or the means to pay for it. It left Saint Bartholomew's free for cases that were more... _lucrative_. David was surprised at the depth of his own disgust for such a practice. Maybe there was hope for him yet.

He accompanied Brauer along busy corridors listening intently as he explained where everything was. The building was old and in need of renovation, but he could see that it remained functional. It lacked the ultra-modern sterility of Saint Bartholomew's, but although it didn't boast the convenience of the latest technology, it was solid where the basics were concerned.

Rumour had it that Mercy would be closed for good next year and the site cleared for the new stadium currently being planned. Goddess knew the area did need revitalising, but what of the people this place cared for? Saint Bartholomew's was big—much bigger than Mercy, but it was hard to imagine Brauer and his patients fitting in there.

"The labs are down that corridor there, and along this one, we have more wards. Would you like to see?"

"Yes please."

Brauer smiled. He had wanted to go in and see someone, and David had realised that. Besides, he would be working alongside the man and needed to learn all he could.

"There are very few private rooms here," Brauer said upon entering the ward. "Most of the wards are like this. We have ten beds in each usually, but we sometimes have to slip an extra one in where we can."

"Your patients are all non-humans?"

"Why do you ask?"

"No reason. I've never worked with non-humans before."

"Never?"

"No."

Brauer looked stunned. "But Hoberman assured me! He promised me someone that would..."

"That would?"

Brauer's face hardened, his posture now stiff. "Someone who would not find working here objectionable."

"Well then, he told you the truth. I volunteered for this, Doctor Brauer—"

"Alex, please."

"Hoberman didn't lie to you, Alex. I do want to work here. I hope you don't find my lack of experience in the area a serious problem. I assure you that I'll hit the books and make up for any lack."

Brauer waved that away impatiently. "Not all of my patients are non-human, about half are simply people without the means to pay for good care, but I was hoping for someone with experience of non-human physiology. I'm currently the only one with any kind of real experience in the area and I'm swamped. Well, no matter. After a few months here, you'll be an old hand. I can still use you, no question about it. I'm understaffed and underfunded. Any help is appreciated."

"How do you cover your costs, if I might ask?"

Brauer looked at him as if evaluating him. "Some of it comes by way of government grants—not nearly enough, not by a long way. The rest," he shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably. "There are a few people—private contributors—that help with funding. They like to remain anonymous. Without them I couldn't keep this place going for longer than a month or two."

David nodded and glanced around. There were twelve beds in the ward, but only half of them were occupied. The mystery of the missing patients was solved when he noticed the gathering at the far end of the room.

Brauer sighed and shook his head ruefully. "Poker game I suspect."

David wandered over to watch while Brauer spoke with the duty nurse about something—a patient most likely, but he didn't find a poker game. There were two men sitting at a table opposite each other staring. Neither man was doing anything interesting yet the audience was spellbound. The two men were almost vibrating with something—their need to move perhaps, yet both continued to glare hard at each other in silence.

He watched as the nearer of the two men clenched his jaw and started shaking harder. He was sweating and his fists were clenched now. David thought that perhaps he should intervene, but neither man was really doing anything. He looked around in puzzlement and shivered at the audience's intensity. His short hairs lifted. Something was happening here, but what?

"What are they doing?" he said.

"Hmmm?" an unshaven man in the audience said.

"What are they doing?"

The man eyed him up and down. "Are you new?"

"Doctor Lephmann—David."

"Nice to meet you. The name's Howard—gallstones you know."

"Gallstones?"

"Yeah, it hurt like a sonofabitch, but the Doc fixed me up. I'm outa here tomorrow."

"What are they doing?" David said nodding back to the centre of everyone's attention.

"They're only playing."

"I don't I understand."

"Shifters are always doing this kind of thing. You know anything about shifters?"

David looked again. The men were shifters? He was fascinated by the thought. He had only been here an hour and already he had met non-humans—his first as far as he knew. They were still sitting as before, but as he had noticed earlier, the man closest was sweating heavily. His opponent seemed to be sitting at his ease now. He must be winning.

"Are you one as well?"

"Me?" Howard snorted. "Nah, but I know a couple."

"Really? I thought they kept to themselves."

"They do, but a friend of mine got himself bitten and we kind of stayed in touch. He introduced me."

"I see, and by playing you mean what exactly?"

Howard waved a hand at the sitting men. "See, what you got to understand about shifters is that they ain't human. They look human, but they aren't. You know how wolves run in packs?"

He nodded still watching the show.

"It's the same with shifters. They stick together mostly—look out for each other, but the strongest always leads. The strongest has to prove it over the others. They call that one the Alpha. Shifters are always fighting for status, but there's more than one way to fight. They have their own magic you know."

"Magic? I didn't know that."

Howard shrugged. "Not magic like you mean, Doc, but they do have power. Shifters always recognise it and will submit if he's weaker, but if they're closely matched..." he gestured at the pair sitting at the table.

"They fight?"

Howard nodded. "To the death sometimes, but mostly it's like this. They push at each other until one submits."

"I can't let them hurt each other. Not here."

Howard eyed him sideways. "Never get between two shifters Doc—never, but you don't have to worry. Like I said, they're just playing." Just then, the sweating man slumped back gasping. "See what I mean?"

The two men grinned at each other and the audience began to disperse.

"Is the game over?" Alex said as he arrived. "I've told them there's a time and place for that kind of thing. A hospital is definitely not it."

David smiled. "It's over."

"Shall we continue the tour then?"

"By all means."

Brauer led the way out.

## 3

# Georgie

David signed the page, and turned to the next. He read it quickly, added a short note to the end, and dated it. Paperwork was one thing that had not changed when he took his new position at Mercy Hospital. Sometimes he felt less like a doctor, and more like some kind of administrative assistant.

He turned the page and sighed in relief. He was done for the day. A yawn surprised its way out of him and he leaned back in his chair. It was strange how quickly he had become accustomed to working with Alex Brauer. Just a month had passed, and already he knew that he did not want to leave Mercy. He liked Alex, and he especially liked the way his friend treated his patients—with skill and impartiality. Alex had taught him a lot during his time here, and he looked forward to learning more.

Alex Brauer was a fount of information. He had yet to find a question his friend could not answer. How had he learned so much about other species? How had he known that dwarves were often born prematurely, and that such premature children were allergic to certain types of magic? How the hell had he known that? Dwarves were so rarely seen that it seemed impossible to him that Alex had ever delivered a dwarven child, yet he knew so much about them!

It was uncanny.

And what about the elves? The Sidhe were reclusive and their animosity toward humans was legendary, yet Brauer knew all about their ceremonies and even some of their healing magic. It was inconceivable that an elf had allowed Alex to attend a healing circle, and elven ceremonies were always conducted in strictest secrecy, yet Alex could speak for hours on the subject. He was jealous. He knew he was, and suspected that Alex knew it too. Still, it was not a destructive kind of jealousy. Far from it—it drove him on and made him determined to learn everything that Alex had to teach.

He yawned widely and stretched his arms above his head. He checked his wristband and realised that he had been on call for sixteen straight hours. He should be exhausted, but all he felt was a pleasant tiredness—like a man who knew he had accomplished something worth doing and was ready for sleep.

He switched off his lamp and shrugged into his jacket before stepping out of the office he shared with Alex. The lights in the corridor seemed overly bright after working at his desk with just a single lamp. He made his way along the corridor with squinted eyes until he stepped outside into the night.

The air was pleasantly cool, and his breath smoked. He breathed deeply of it and crossed the car park toward the far side. His car, that only a few hours earlier had been accompanied by dozens of others, now sat alone in an ocean of empty space. His colleagues had left for home hours earlier, and those working the night shift had chosen to park closer to the entrance for a quick getaway come the morning. He smiled, imagining the stampede of tired people pouring out of the hospital doors in the morning.

David drove through the empty streets not really seeing their dilapidated state. He had long since become used to seeing the boarded up windows of abandoned homes and stores throughout the area. He hardly noticed the empty lots full of refuse anymore, or the hunched figures trying to warm themselves around bonfires built inside steel drums. The homeless were a common sight in the area.

He frowned in discontent at the music his car was playing for him. He wasn't using the autopilot, yet somehow it had defaulted to one of the old play lists Michelle had used with it as if trying to remind him of her. It annoyed him. He didn't want to think about her rejection of him, and he certainly didn't have to put up with her music anymore. He fiddled with the controls, trying to select something with a proper beat. He took his eyes off the road for a second—he would swear it was no more than that—when the woman burst out of the alley and ran straight in front of him.

"Holy shit!" He yelled cranking the wheel and stamping hard on the brakes. The car fishtailed and the tyres squealed punctuated by the crunch of breaking glass. He wrestled the car straight and stopped. The woman lay in the road where he had put her. "Oh my Goddess," he panted and fumbled for his seatbelt.

He climbed out of the car and ran back to the motionless form noting the amount of blood spreading around her. He called for an ambulance on his link while checking her throat for a pulse. "I'm at the corner of Second Street," he gasped in his urgency.

"Put her in the recovery position, sir," the operator said in calm and even tones. "Do you know any first aid, sir?"

"I know what to do, I'm a doctor," he said and checked the woman's vitals. She was breathing regularly and her colour was good. She had a strong pulse. He thumbed back her eyelids. Pupil dilation normal. "She's bleeding but—"

"Well now, what have we here?" A throaty purring voice came from out of the nearest alley.

He looked up and peered into the shadows, "Who's there?"

"Sir?" the operator said. "Is someone there with you? Sir, is something wrong?"

He didn't know for sure, but he thought there might be something very wrong indeed. He ignored the tiny voice from his link and tried to see into the alley. He thought the shadow to the right might be the speaker.

"I should thank you for bringing her down for me. She ran me a fine chase there at the end."

He didn't like the sound of that. "I don't understand," he said nervously. It was only now that he remembered where he was—a bad place to find himself alone at night. "The police will be here soon."

"Sir? Did you say that you need the police? What is happening there? Are you in danger?"

He prayed for the operator to take the hint. "The _police_ will be here _very soon._ "

The figure laughed and came forward. "Well then, I had better be quick."

The shadows came alive and a woman stepped into the street. David sighed and felt like laughing at himself. What had he expected, an ogre? Unlikely. They didn't like cities and were very shy creatures despite their size. They preferred mountains and wild places. The newcomer was just a woman. She was of average height and build with short dark brown hair left long over her left eye. It was quite appealing, though it must surely be hard to see properly with it like that. She wore black jeans, running shoes, and a shirt of a similar style to that of the woman he had hit with his car. There seemed nothing remarkable about her, except maybe for her visible eye. For just a moment, he thought he saw it flash a golden hue in the meagre light of the street.

"An ambulance will be with you in three minutes, sir. A patrol car will be there in less than two—"

He ignored the tiny voice of the operator when the injured woman groaned in pain. He looked down at his newest patient in time to see her open her eyes in confusion. They were liquid brown and suited her lovely face despite the blood.

"Don't move, there might be internal— _Gahhh!_ " David gasped as the woman, snarling in anger, grabbed him around the throat. "Please... I'm sorry..." he gasped prying at her fingers. She was unbelievably strong. He couldn't break her grip!

The stranger laughed making the woman pale in fear. A moment later, the grip on his throat vanished as she thrust him away. He literally flew away from her and rolled a dozen feet toward his car. His palms were stinging—he had skinned them on the pavement. The woman suddenly sprinted toward him, and he flinched thinking she was going to kill him, but no, she was running from the stranger.

"Look out!" he screamed.

She turned impossibly fast to meet the threat. She ducked and then exploded into motion a moment later. It was the stranger's turn to become airborne, but she didn't crash to the ground. She twisted her body in mid-air and landed upon her feet as if she did it every day of the week.

"Ronnie, Ronnie, Ronnie," the stranger said shaking her head. "You know you can never best me. Come back with me, and I promise not to hurt you too badly."

"Screw you, Georgie," Ronnie snarled. "I'm not going back."

"How did I know you were going to say that? I told Raymond he should just kill you, but he has a soft spot for you. Go figure."

"What he has for me isn't soft."

Georgie chuckled. "Maybe if you're nice to me, I'll let you go."

Ronnie growled, the sound deep and gravelly.

David climbed carefully to his feet. He knew nothing of their quarrel, but if he were to choose a side to be on, he would choose Ronnie. It seemed to him that she was the underdog, and he owed her for hitting her with his car. He leapt forward and jumped Georgie from behind.

"Run!" he yelled as he clamped his arms around Georgie, pinning her arms down by her side and determined not to let go.

"You fool! You don't know what you're doing—she'll rip you apart!"

He didn't have time to argue. One moment he had Georgie in his arms, the next she was loose and turning back with a look of pure rage upon her face. His eyes widened and he back-pedalled as fast as he could, but it wasn't fast enough. She stalked toward him and there was something strange about her eyes. They were shining a golden yellow, as if lit from within. Magic!

"Run, you idiot!" Ronnie shrieked.

He spun on his heels and sprinted away. There was the sound of ripping cloth, and suddenly he was falling. Something wet and warm covered his back and he screamed his agony into the night. He rolled away from the thing Georgie had become, but it was too quick for him. He barely had time to raise his arm as the creature went for his throat.

" _AEiii!_ " he screamed in pain and fear as the jaws clamped down on his arm. The pressure increased enough to break bone. " _Help meeeee!_ " he shrieked at the top of his lungs.

He kicked and thrashed, but there was no sign of Ronnie. She must have run away. He wished he could do the same, but his arm was firmly clamped in the maw of a huge wolf, and there was no escape. In a burst of clarity, he knew he was going to die. The wolf stared knowingly into his eyes, relishing his fear and pain as it slowly increased the pressure on his arm.

Suddenly it howled in pain and released him.

Another monstrous wolf had come. It was almost as big as Georgie. David kicked as hard as he could and scuttled backward just as the newcomer ripped into Georgie's vulnerable flanks, but he didn't have the energy to rise, let alone flee. He was in shock and losing blood fast. His back was a sheet of agony, and his arm... he swallowed sickly. The muscle of his forearm was shredded, but the bone wasn't broken. He knew because he could see it.

"Now then," he whispered between his pain-filled pants. "Remember your training, doctor. Stop the bleeding or the patient will go into shock and become comatose."

There was nothing to be done about his back. It was a mass of stinging pain, but he would have to hope that the injury was superficial. His arm most certainly was not. There could be tendon damage, certainly the muscle of his forearm was shredded and he was losing a lot of blood. While these thoughts went through his mind, he was tugging his belt free and attempting to fumble it one handed around his upper arm to slow the blood loss. He whimpered in pain as he pulled the fake leather as tight as he could above the ghastly wound. He watched the blood slow and stared when he saw movement in the wound. His tendons—unbelievably they were still intact and moving as his fingers spasmed with the pain.

Over his panting, he heard the howling and pained barks of the wolves as they tried to rip each other apart. He watched the smaller one roll and land in a ragged heap. It was bleeding and favouring one leg as it gamely returned to the fight. The bigger one seemed in worse shape, but it was still strong. The small one launched itself upon the larger, and screamed as it was smashed to the ground by a huge paw full of claws.

"No!" he shouted as Georgie buried her teeth in the belly of her enemy.

There was a howl of agony followed a forlorn whimper. That was when he heard sirens. The police had arrived. The night lit suddenly with colourful flashes from patrol cars racing toward them. The huge wolf grinned with lots of teeth at David. The look promised retribution. Georgie spun in place then ran into the night.

Ronnie dragged her broken and bleeding body across the road, whimpering in pain all the way, and disappeared into the darkness of another alley. David would have risen to help her, but he doubted if he could have done much with his arm the way it was.

He staggered erect and tottered to the furthest pile of clothing the women had left lying in the road, hoping to find out who Georgie was. He wanted to know where to lay the blame before the police could push him out of it. The shredded clothes seemed to rush toward him as he fell to his knees. He clamped his jaw willing himself not to pass out and picked up the wallet he found partially covered. It was lying within shredded cloth that had been blue jeans just a few minutes ago. Ronnie's jeans had been blue. He had chosen the wrong pile to investigate. Without really knowing why, he tucked the wallet out of sight in his pocket and slumped backward.

The sound of doors slamming and an ambulance siren split the night, but he was starting to drift now and hardly noticed. Uniformed police ran toward him and then into the alley with their weapons drawn, leaving him to bleed out on the street. He wouldn't like to be them. He didn't think guns and shock lances would slow Georgie down much, but they were probably safe enough. He doubted they would catch her. Who the hell could track a wolf in a city except maybe another wolf?

He lay back feeling very warm and sleepy. "I think... I think I'll just wait here," he whispered as the dark closed in.

Pain and voices woke him. He was lying on his shredded back and the movement of the ambulance was agony. He opened his eyes to find a paramedic looking back at him. The woman looked very concerned, and because of that, he decided to be very concerned too.

"Your name is David Lephmann?"

"Yes," he croaked.

"You lost a great deal of blood, Mister Lephmann."

"Doctor," he said.

"I'm a paramedic, sir."

He hissed as pain knifed up his arm. "No, I mean I'm a doctor. I have type B blood, no allergies, no medi—" he hissed in pain. "I'm not on medication, but I could use something for the pain, please."

"I'm sorry. You're at the limit already. I can't give you any more."

"Okay." He knew the reasoning, but he didn't have to like it. His arm would need surgery. She had to be careful that the drugs she administered didn't interfere with the anaesthetic. "What about Ronnie—the woman with me?"

The paramedic looked confused. "There was only you."

"But she—" he stopped himself from continuing.

It would do no good to argue. Ronnie must have dragged herself away. The thought of her dying alone in some dirty alley was heart-breaking. Had he gone through all this for nothing? Who was she really, and why was she running from Georgie? She had mentioned someone name Raymond, but Raymond who? He sighed and shifted more onto his side to ease his back. His arm was screaming at him, but there was nothing he could do about it.

His arrival at the hospital was a blur. A quick examination in Saint Bartholomew's emergency room and he was rushed into surgery. He answered everyone's questions to the best of his ability, but he lied about one thing. A police officer asked him if he knew the name of the woman or her assailant.

He made eye contact with the officer. "I don't know her, but she called our attacker Georgie."

There wasn't time for more questions. He was rushed away on a gurney and into the operating theatre.

The next David knew, he was lying comfortably drowsy in a room with an east-facing window. He knew it was east, because the sun was rising to stream through the blinds. The thin spears of light were enough to illuminate the room. He had visited many patients in rooms just like it.

His right arm was heavily bandaged. He could only assume that the surgery was a success. It was numb, but he had the I.V to thank for that. He hoped there would be no permanent loss of feeling, but considering how he came by the injury, he should be grateful he still had both arms. He was lucky to be breathing and he knew it. If the police had arrived just a few minutes later, he would be in the morgue now and so would Ronnie—if she weren't already.

He shivered. The room was just a little cold. He thought about calling for the duty nurse, but it was still very early in the day and he didn't have the heart. He would wait for shift change, which was in—he checked his clock—just over an hour. He could stand a little chill for some peace and quiet.

He wondered absently what Alex would say about his little adventure. It was certainly an experience to remember. Alex knew a great deal about non-humans, maybe he would recommend a text on the subject of wolves. He nodded to himself. He would ask as soon as he could use the link.

Where did the first shifters come from, and how did they do it? Was it something they had been born with—perhaps handed down from parent to child as was commonly assumed, or was it magical in nature as some of the gifted believed? It was a real shame that non-human biology wasn't taught. He knew only what he had learned from Alex on the subject. Whatever the truth was, it was fascinating. He would love to ask Ronnie her opinion, but assuming he did find her again, it was doubtful that she would tell him. Non-humans were very close-mouthed about their affairs.

The hour was almost up when he felt the first signs of a fever. He had a mild headache like a touch of the flu and he felt a little dizzy. He wondered at first if perhaps he was having a reaction to whatever was in the I.V, but no—he hadn't lied about his lack of allergies. As far as he knew, he had none at all. That was when the reality of his situation came crashing down onto his shoulders.

Georgie had attacked him, and Georgie was a shifter—a lycanthrope! "Oh my goddess," he whispered in shock as he finally realised what that meant. "Oh my goddess, I've got it."

Why hadn't he put it together sooner? He was a doctor; any first year intern knew how contagious lycanthropy was! Oh shit, he needed the serum and vaccine! He reached for the call button, and that's when the symptoms hit him big time. A monster of a headache suddenly blossomed from nowhere, and he cried out in agony. It felt as if his brain was going to explode out of his skull. The room was spinning and he squinted at the meagre light coming through the blinds as if at the sun itself. His eyes felt sensitive to the light and he was panting as sweat started rolling off him in rivers. He was burning up.

"Oh goddess be with me," he gasped and pressed the call button. He held it down until the nurse came.

David writhed upon the bed as every inch of his body burned and itched. He was burning up with fever and the pain in his joints was beyond anything he had ever felt. The nurse that came to his summons had called Doctor Revell when he urgently explained the necessity to her. She knew him as a doctor from his time here under Hoberman, and she did not hesitate. Janice—the goddess love her—had driven across the city at breakneck speed to be with him, but he had gone into convulsions soon after she had examined him. It was as if something were trying to claw its way out of his body. It was only the recently added restraints that stopped him from falling out of bed.

Now Janice and Hoberman were debating angrily over the best course of action to take, and ignored his pleas that they call Alex.

"Please," he said forcing the covers off his sensitive legs for the tenth time. "Oh goddess, you know he can help me."

"You are quite mistaken, Doctor Lephmann," Hoberman said. "The lycanthropy serum was administered immediately after surgery whether you knew it or not. It has a less than stellar recovery record as you know."

"The vaccine then," he panted, accepting some water squirted through a tube from a plastic bottle by a nurse. He swallowed the precious liquid and coughed a little. "Janice, help me."

Janice's eyes were glistening with tears that did not fall. She had a hand covering her mouth to prevent the useless platitudes she would normally offer a patient. Nothing she could say would help.

"He's right, David. The series won't work."

"Please call him. Just call him!"

Doctor Hoberman turned to Janice. "This debating does no one any good. I'll take this case. You have other patients to see."

Janice made to protest, but David's imploring look stopped her from uttering the words. She nodded, but not at Hoberman, and left the room. Hoberman took the squeeze bottle from the nurse and sent her on an errand. David was left with the man he wanted least to be alone with.

"You see now that my words regarding the monsters was true. You _do_ see that don't you?"

"There are many kinds of monster. Not all are non-human. You know the vaccine could work."

Hoberman made a face. "I might have strong views where non-humans are concerned, but I would never stoop so low as to allow you or anyone to be made over into one of those creatures. Have you heard nothing I've said? _I want them gone._ I certainly do not want more of them created! I admit that the vaccine has worked on occasion but only after the serum has been administered and run its course. It has never worked alone— _never._ "

"I don't believe you," he said fearfully. If Hoberman was correct, even Alex could not save him. "You're lying!"

"Why would I?"

David refused to answer because he didn't know what the answer might be.

Alex Brauer entered David's room in a whirl of activity. Three nurses from Mercy Hospital followed him into the room and immediately took charge of David's care. The nurse with the squeeze bottle was gently but firmly moved aside. Angry voices were raised, but to no avail. She was escorted out of the room.

"I'm calling Doctor Hoberman—" the closing door cut her off.

"Lynne," he said peering down into David's eyes. He was semi-conscious and unresponsive. "Draw the blood and get it back to the lab. I want you to wait for the results. The moment you know, call me. You have my number."

"Yes, Doctor," Lynne murmured, already setting up. She was extremely careful with the needle and wore gloves. No one took chances with lycanthropy. "Do you want a full work up?"

He shook his head. "Tell them what we're looking for. I need to know _yesterday._ The rest can wait until later."

"Yes, Doctor," Lynne said and gathered up the blood sample. "I'll call the moment I know for sure."

He nodded and Lynne left. Margaret was taking David's blood pressure, and Anne was investigating the room's thermostat. She turned the dial up, and the air conditioning shut off.

"Blood pressure is elevated," Margaret said. "One-forty over ninety—not dangerous."

Elevated blood pressure was one symptom of lycanthropy. Anne unpacked the box they had brought with them. She brought out four heavy duty restraints that were designed to withstand a lycanthrope's strength. They were wide and padded to prevent injury to the patient, but the main difference was the manner of their construction. The wide nylon straps were reinforced with braided steel wire on the outside.

"Give me one of those," Alex said and took the offered strap to secure David's left arm. Anne removed the standard restraints from his legs and replaced them with the new stronger ones, but David's right arm was heavily bandaged. "Remove the dressing. Let's have a look."

"Right," Anne said and fetched a pair of scissors.

"His temp is up," Margaret said. "One hundred and eight."

Alex hissed in frustration. Lycanthropes weren't human—they _looked_ human, but they weren't. One hundred and eight degrees would kill a human, but it was normal for shifters. Their metabolisms ran at a higher rate; it was one of the most important indicators he looked for when diagnosing lycanthropy.

"We might be too late," he said grimly.

Anne finished uncovering the wound and paled. "When did Doctor Revell say they brought him in?"

"Last night, why?"

"You better have a look."

He examined the wound. "Those stitches are ready to come out." He looked sadly at his friend. "He has it, no question."

"Too far advanced?"

"I think so. We can't wait for the blood work up. We have to chance the vaccine. I'll take the stitches out so you can restrain the arm."

He quickly and expertly removed the stitches and watched in fascination as the tiny wounds slowly closed. He was not sure it was even worth trying the vaccine. There was no question in his mind that David had lycanthropy, and there was no cure.

He frowned, trying to decide the best course. "We might learn something," he murmured and took the syringe from Margaret. "Small comfort for him, but at least I can say we did all we could."

Anne nodded and took the now empty syringe for disposal. Margaret placed the other two doses in the series on a tray and placed it beside the bed. Alex nodded his thanks, and peeled back David's eyelid.

He looked back at Anne. "Get another line into him—fluoperazine-triphosphate."

Anne nodded. Fluoperazine-triphosphate was a drug used to help suppress the change in lycanthropes. It was a tranquilliser of the same family as major tranquillisers, but it had only the one use.

"Hang it up, but don't introduce it just yet," he said watching the procedure.

A short time later, Janice Revell entered the room. She nodded to the nurses and joined Alex at David's bedside. "Hoberman ordered me out. How is he?"

"He'll live."

"The serum didn't work?"

"No. I've given him the first dose of the vaccine, but I doubt it will work. If I'd been there when they brought him in..." he shrugged. "We were too late."

"Hoberman," Janice snarled. "David begged him to call you, but he wouldn't and I waited too long."

"Don't blame yourself. The vaccine works on maybe ten percent of cases. No one knows why it fails on some and succeeds on others. The research budget is almost non-existent."

They watched and waited. David began thrashing around and mumbling to himself. No one could make out the words. When the time was right, Alex administered the second and third dose to his struggling friend, but if anything, it seemed to make him worse.

"Have you ever seen this before?" Janice said in horror as David's struggles became more violent.

"Once," Alex admitted. "It's rare for them to fight it this hard." He rubbed his arms as his short hairs lifted. It often happened around shifters, he didn't know why. It was if he stood in a draft, but he knew it wasn't anything so mundane as that. The room felt stiflingly hot to him, yet he knew David would find it pleasant. "There are different kinds of shifter you know?"

"I know nothing about them."

"Few people do, or care to. I know a few things. Shape shifters have always been with us. There are wolves, tigers, even bears—though they are quite rare I believe. There are reports of attacks by other kinds, but not in recent years. The so-called werewolves are the most well-known. Nowadays we call them shifters no matter what their other form happens to be, but they don't see themselves as the same. They associate with others like themselves and rarely with other types."

"They live in packs?"

"Exactly. Shifter communities live within the pack structure—wolves with other wolves and so on. Some are stronger than others, though any shifter makes even the strongest human appear weak. As with mundane wolves, they have an alpha pair that rules the pack."

Janice looked sideways at Alex. "How do you know all this?"

"I've made it my business to know. I work with non-humans all the time—" he broke off when David's thrashing subsided. He moved forward to examine him.

David opened his eyes and glared around the room. "Release me," he growled not sounding anything like the man Alex knew. His eyes shone gold; the inhuman light was a strong indicator that he was about to shape shift.

"Now would be a good time, Anne," Alex said urgently.

Anne nodded shakily and opened the tap on the I.V leading up to the bag of fluoperazine-triphosphate. A quarter turn was adequate.

David watched the procedure intently. "Anne..." he said haltingly, but then the beast rose up and took him again. He reared up fighting the straps. " _Release me!_ " he roared.

"What is going on here?!" Hoberman yelled as he entered ahead of a troop of people wearing the uniform of hospital security. David continued bucking and rearing against the restraints. The bed was lurching with the force of his movements. "This man is my patient—"

"This _man_ is a colleague of ours!" Janice said angrily. "He begged you, Hoberman. He _begged_ you to call Doctor Brauer, but you wouldn't. _This is your fault!_ "

Hoberman's eyes flickered with uncertainty, but then they hardened. "Nonsense. I did my best for him, but the serum was ineffective. There is no one to blame."

"I agree," Alex said and Janice glared at him. "If anyone is to blame, it's David's attacker. We will never know if my presence would have prevented this."

"Of course it wouldn't have," Hoberman said in exasperation. "The serum was administered the instant we knew that David had been attacked by a shifter."

"Release me!" David howled and fell back to the bed one last time. His eyes slowly changed until they no longer glowed. "Alex," he panted. "Take me out of here. For goddess' sake help me."

"I will," Alex said firmly.

"You can't do that!" Hoberman said fiercely. He turned to the security men. "I want these people removed from the premises. They do not work here, and they certainly have no license to take my patient."

The security men shifted uncertainly. "Sir, he's a shifter. Are you certain he should be here?"

Hoberman hesitated.

David took that moment to speak. "He can't hold me prisoner—there are laws. I discharge myself into the care of Doctor Brauer. I want to go to Mercy Hospital."

"There you see," Janice Revell said. "We can't hold him."

Hoberman was angry at the defiance, but it was obvious he did not really want to win the argument. Alex well knew Hoberman's views. Keeping David here went far against them.

"Very well. I'll sign the discharge papers and on your own head be it," Hoberman said to David. He glared at Janice. "See me in my office before you leave this evening.

Janice nodded a little uneasily. "I'll come by at the end of my shift."

Hoberman waved the security guards away, all of whom looked relieved. No one wanted to see what a shifter was capable of first hand. With one last glare at Janice, Hoberman followed them out.

"We need a few things," Alex said. "A gurney and stand, an ambulance—"

"I'll get you whatever you need." She clasped David's hand. "I should have come with you to Mercy."

"Maybe you still can."

Alex nodded. "We need as many good people as we can get."

"Jan is good people," David said and closed his eyes. They flickered open again. "Thank you for helping me. Hoberman is going to be pissed."

"I don't give a damn," Janice snarled but David didn't hear her. He had finally succumbed to his exertions and was sleeping soundly.

## 4

# Mist

David sat brooding in the dark of his room at Mercy Hospital. A week had gone by since he'd discharged himself and affronted Hoberman. Seven days in which Alex ran tests that both of them knew would lead nowhere. The serum had failed. The vaccine was as good as useless—worse, Alex told him that his reaction to it had been more than a little odd. There was a chance that the vaccine had made his condition worse, though neither of them knew how it would manifest or even if it would.

He stared at his arm. He wasn't really seeing it; he was seeing it as it had been. It had been shredded, maybe even beyond recovery, but now it was whole. There wasn't even a scar. He was full of crackling energy, and it frightened him. He had never felt so alive, so full of vitality. He was horny as hell.

He jumped to his feet. He had to do something even if it was just pacing, but as soon as he began moving, something else intruded. The I.V was still in his arm. He knew that without it he might slip into the change, but he was sorely tempted to remove it and take his chances. There was no cure for lycanthropy, and he had to face what he was at some point. Why not now? He hesitated a moment longer then closed the tap. He braced himself, but nothing happened. He stared at the I.V trying to feel if anything was different, but he felt the same—maybe a little nervous, a little apprehensive. That was to be expected though surely? He unpicked the tape securing the line to his arm. With another slight hesitation, he removed it and waited for something to happen. Nothing did. With a grim smile, he began his planned pacing. It was at least one way of burning up some of this excess energy.

**Running would be better—more fun.**

" _Eeep!_ " David said in startlement.

He was hearing voices... no, he was just talking to himself in his head. Everyone did that from time to time—right? If he was hearing voices, he might be called unbalanced, and he must not be. He had things to do.

"You're losing it, pull yourself together."

He took a deep breath and crossed the room to the drawer containing his clothes. For the next few minutes, he busied himself with dressing. Alex had been kind enough to arrange for fresh clothes. His old shirt and jacket were ruined. He put his wristband on and gathered up the loose change in the bottom of the drawer. His wallet went into his pocket next, but the final item in the drawer was not his. It belonged to the shifter he ran down in his car. Ronnie.

"Who are you Ronnie?" he said fingering the battered leather of the wallet.

"Who is Ronnie?" Janice said and gasped as David spun in a blur of speed to face the door.

David grinned unaware of the fright he had just given his friend. "Hi, I wanted to thank you for all you did for me."

"I tried, but I didn't—"

"Save me?" he said and crossed the room to welcome her, but her sudden stiffness stopped him. He lowered his arms and shoved his hands deep in his pockets. He stood there hunched in confused hurt wondering what to do to make it better. "It's okay, Jan, I'm still me."

_I think._

**The She smells good. We like her.**

This time he was able to mask his reaction, but inside he was shaking. He turned away to put some distance between them hoping that it would ease Jan's discomfit. At the same time, it covered his sudden fear. He was cracking up from the strain! He _was_ hearing voices. No, he wasn't hearing _voices,_ it was just his subconscious trying to come to terms with what he was now. That's it; it was just his way of dealing with his duality.

His fear lessened as he realised that he really might be onto something. A shifter had two sides; his human side, and his animal side. Maybe splitting one from the other was normal for shifters—a defence mechanism or something. His conscious self was still Doctor David Lephmann the human, and his subconscious was his animal nature—the wolf. Doctor and shifter, two personae, two voices... crap! He didn't even believe it! He was grasping at straws hoping for sanity but already believing himself halfway mad at the same time.

"David I—" Jan began.

He could feel her confusion and smell her fear. It rolled over him in waves. Goddess help him, her fear excited him. He closed his eyes and kept his back turned, but it did not help. Every inch of his body yearned for the comfort he imagined he heard in her voice, but he would not give in. He forced himself not to move. He remained utterly still, determined not to touch and perhaps hurt her.

An image of a wolf lying in the snow appeared in his mind. It sat up and turned to look into his eyes. There came a shocking feeling of recognition and David felt something click into place. Satisfaction rolled through his mind, and he somehow knew that the wolf was pleased.

"David?" Jan said.

She was so close he felt her breath caress his neck. He shivered and turned slowly to face her. Suddenly she was in his arms sobbing. He felt like crying too. He simply held her and waited for a sign from her to tell him what to do.

A little later, they sat together discussing what had happened and what it meant. David showed her Ronnie's wallet and told her how he came by it. His recounting of the accident and then Georgie's arrival was met with horrified silence.

"Why did you lie to the police?" Jan said. "Why not tell them everything?"

He shrugged. "At the time I felt guilty. The accident was my fault. I should have been paying more attention."

"And later?"

"She tried to save me. You should have seen them. Goddess, they were really something."

"You sound like you admire them!"

"In some ways, I guess I do. It wouldn't stop me from killing the one who did this to me," he snarled at the thought of Georgie. "But they're... I don't know—larger than life or something. I don't suppose that makes any sense."

"None at all," Jan said with a small smile.

David's own smile was half grimace. "Ronnie could have run and left me, but she shifted shape and attacked. She told me to run, but I was losing too much blood. The fight lasted... oh three or four minutes I would guess. Ronnie was badly hurt. She might be dead. I don't know. The last I saw her, she was dragging herself into an alley. I asked the paramedic about her, but she said I was the only one they found."

"And what about Georgie?"

"She ran when the police arrived. They couldn't catch her—lucky for them."

"She was that scary?"

He saw those huge jaws coming for him again. "Oh yeah. She's scary all right. You have no idea how much."

Janice looked through the wallet again. There was a small amount of money in five and ten dollar bills, and a piece of paper with some numbers on it. There was no identification of any sort. No driver's license and no address to hint at where to take the wallet if found.

"These might be link numbers," she said passing the paper across. "You could try them."

He nodded staring at the digits. "They're a starting point at least."

The silence stretched out. He was thinking about discharging himself and going home. There was nothing to be done about his _affliction_. Alex had tried his best, but everyone knew that lycanthropy was incurable. He would have to try to live with it. In time, he would come to terms with his new situation. What other choice was there?

"What do you plan to do now?"

"Try the numbers I guess. Oh, you mean after?" he said and Janice nodded. "If Alex still wants me, I'll stay on here. I had already half decided not to go back to Saint Bartholomew."

Janice bit her lip. "You know Alex will want you but—"

"But?"

"There might be a problem. Did you know Hoberman has links with AML?"

"I suspected it," he admitted. "You've heard him on the subject of shifters. He's xenophobic, and that's AML down to a tee. Do you know what they plan to do? I assume Hoberman told them what happened."

"I don't know, but whatever they decide it won't be good. Those fools are dangerous, David. And then there's your position here to think of."

"My position?"

"They could have you removed. You have—" she broke off unable to say the L word.

"Lycanthropy. You can say it."

Jan avoided his eyes. "The point is, you have a contagious disease. It's category one! They might use it against you."

He hadn't thought of that. Would _they_ let him continue practicing medicine? Alex wouldn't object, but what if _they_ did? With a chill, he realised that not only his private life was in ruins, but that his professional life was teetering on the edge also. He loved his work.

He felt sick. What would he do if they made him give up practicing medicine? "I'll worry about it when the time comes," he said firmly. It was all he _could_ say.

"I have one bit of good news for you. I've made my transfer official, did you know?"

"That's great! Alex could really use the help."

"He was pleased," she grinned at his snort. "Okay, closer to ecstatic."

"He's good, Jan, _really_ good. He knows stuff that no one knows. I've learnt a lot from him. Ask him to tell you about elven ceremonies."

"Their ceremonies?" she said with wide eyes. "You're kidding right?"

"Nope! He can talk for hours on the subject. Not that you'll ever encounter any of the Sidhe here in LA, but theirs is an interesting point of view. Their magic is innate; it permeates everything they do. According to Alex, they think our use of magic in medicine is crude and wasteful."

"No surprise there."

"True. They might be arrogant, but they do know what they're doing," he frowned as an idea occurred to him.

"What is it?"

"I was just wondering what they know about shifters. Maybe they can help me."

Jan look dubious. "I don't want you getting your hopes up. If they knew anything, don't you think we would know it by now?"

"They keep so many secrets, who knows what they know?"

"Maybe, but you say Alex has an in with them. He would have heard something."

"Maybe," he said in a distracted voice. He was wondering how he could meet one of the Sidhe and ask him. They just weren't seen in human areas. They hated cities. "Maybe. Anyway, that's for later."

"And what's for now if I might ask?"

"Home I think. We both know I'm just marking time here. Alex can't do anything more than he already has done."

Jan nodded reluctantly and stood to leave. "I'll get Alex."

"Thanks, and Jan?"

"What?" she said holding the door open.

"Thanks for being here."

She nodded once then left.

Alex stopped by not long after Jan left. He took note of the missing I.V and nodded his approval. Fluoperazine-triphosphate was a powerful tranquiliser, but shifters had heightened metabolisms. Drugs of any kind given to shifters lost potency very quickly. The I.V would have been pointless in a few more days.

"Is there anything I can do?" Alex said.

"My car is still in the shop. I'll need to call a cab."

"I'll drive you."

"You have work, Alex. I'll be fine with a cab."

"If you're sure?"

"I'll be fine."

Alex shifted uncomfortably, looking away for a moment. "Jan said something about your plans. The Sidhe?"

"I was just thinking out loud, but they might know something that can help."

"They know many things, but I don't want you getting your hopes up. I know something about this, David. Going to them won't do you any good, and it might do a great deal of harm. They trust me... well, they trust me as much as they trust any human. I'll look into this for you. Do you trust me?"

"I trust you."

"Then I want your word that you'll not try to contact them until you have spoken with me. I can't emphasise this enough. The Sidhe aren't all the same, no matter what you hear or read about them in the news. People call them the fair folk sometimes and think they're beautiful, and physically they are, but don't be fooled by that. The Seelie, and the Unseelie for that matter, do nothing without a price. You have to be _very_ sure they're asking for what you think they're asking for. It's no coincidence that the dwarves call them tricksy folk. They have always had that kind of reputation. Until quite recently, leading hapless human travellers off the path and into trouble was a common entertainment among them, and that kind of mischief is nothing compared with their other forms of entertainment. They may seem civilised, but they have their own standards of conduct that have no parallels with ours. Any similarities between them are coincidence. Believe me, I know."

"You have my word."

Alex nodded. "Let's get you that cab."

David nodded and followed Alex out into the corridor.

## 5

# Anti Monster League

David twitched the curtain aside enough to see the street outside. The two shadowy figures sitting in the car watching his house were still there, and he wondered whether it might be better to slip out the back. They were AML, but they hadn't approached him. The first time he noticed them he'd gone out to talk, but when they saw him approaching, they drove off. Obviously, they were only here to watch him—a relief when he considered what AML was most known for.

He let the curtain fall and tried to get back into the book Alex had lent to him. He had a number of them that his friend said might help, but this one seemed more fiction than fact. He had to wonder if there were any books actually written by shifters—surely the only real authority on them. He would try to find out, but being a shifter wasn't exactly the kind of thing anyone advertised.

He took a sip of his coffee and turned back a page trying to order his thoughts and be objective. He had just picked up the thread of what he'd been reading, when he heard another car pull up. He dropped the book on the couch beside him and rose to check the street again. He twitched the curtain aside and found Hoberman approaching his door.

"Finally," he said and went to his desk.

He found his gun in the drawer where he always kept it, loaded it quickly, and dropped it into his jacket pocket. It was an old Model 83 revolver with two-inch barrel. No one but collectors owned such weapons anymore. He would have preferred something else, something more modern such as a police issue stunner, but such things were very hard to get without answering many questions. Gun registration was something he had always been very much in favour of, but it was working against him now. A stunner could be used on non-lethal settings, his gun could not. He was as likely to kill someone with it as wound them.

The bell rang and he went to answer it. Hoberman was waiting with two friends flanking his shoulders. "I've been expecting you, George." Hoberman didn't like anyone using his first name, that's why he'd used it.

"May I come in?"

David shrugged and stepped back. "Why not?"

He led them into the sitting room. Hoberman's eyes swept the space, maybe looking for witnesses, before settling back to David. His AML friends took position at his back their eyes never leaving David. Their dark jackets were unbuttoned and the tell-tale lumps under their arms told of concealed weapons. They had dead eyes, and David shivered. He might have made a mistake by allowing them in.

"This is Benjamin, and this Thomas. They are my—"

"Keepers?" David broke in.

"Bodyguards," Hoberman said quickly. "May I sit?"

David indicated the couch and sat opposite. Hoberman's goons did not sit. One moved to stand by the window, the other remained by the door. "You want something from me?"

"Straight to the point, we can do that. I can help you, David."

"Help me? Help me how?"

"Don't be naïve; you know what I'm talking about. We both know you're looking for the animal that attacked you, and who could blame you? Really, who would blame anyone for wanting revenge?"

"I don't want revenge, I want justice. The police—"

"The police won't help you; you're one of the shifters now, but you needn't let your sacrifice be in vain. Work with me, work with _us_ , and I promise we'll find the one that did this to you."

"And kill her?"

Hoberman nodded. "Or if you prefer, deliver her to you so you can do it. We can work out the details later."

David stared, trying to see the man he had once respected. When he first joined the staff at Saint Bartholomew, he had looked upon George Hoberman as someone to emulate. He was famous in certain circles. Ian Goddard—Michelle's father—knew him well, they had studied together. Both men were well respected members of the medical community. He couldn't believe how naïve he had been to believe Hoberman's reputation. It hadn't taken him long to see the truth. The man was a dangerous bigot.

"How long?"

Hoberman frowned. "What?"

"How long have you been part of AML?"

"What has that to do with anything? You know my views, I've spoken of them often enough, and AML is an open book."

David snorted. "Hardly that. Promoting peaceful protest in the media isn't the same as practicing it. AML's public and private faces are diametrically opposed. Your ideals aren't consistent with what your members actually do in the dark of night, and you know it."

"What of it? It's not my place to police the league. That's not my function. Listen, we're not friends and we're not going to _be_ friends, but we don't have to be to work together. I can help you get what you want. That's what you need to concentrate on."

"And what will it cost me?"

"Nothing onerous."

"Let me be the judge of that."

He no longer had anything in common with Hoberman. He doubted they could agree on anything. He certainly didn't agree with AML's ideals and neither did he agree with Hoberman's view regarding non-humans—a diverse group that now included him.

"What are you, George?"

"You already know who I am."

David waved that away impatiently. "Not who, _what_. I know you're a member of AML, but what are you to them? You're nobody's toady, so that makes you, hmmm... political spokesman?" In a burst of clarity, he knew. "Running for election are you, _Mayor_ Hoberman?"

Hoberman's eyes widened in surprise. "How did you—what I am is someone trying to help you."

"What you are is someone trying to help _himself!_ You want to use me, and we both know it. As it happens, I might be willing to let you, so spit it out."

"Very well. My campaign manager tells me I'm going to need what he calls the sympathy vote."

"And I'm to supply this sympathy? I can see the headlines now: Shifter attack victim joins AML in ridding the streets of monsters. Am I right?"

"Yes, that's really very good. I'll have to remember that line. Maybe Max can use it."

"Max?"

"Max Farland," Hoberman said smugly.

" _The_ Max Farland?"

"Yes."

David whistled soundlessly. Maximilian Farland was the most sought after media consultant this side of the Atlantic. "If you have him, you don't need me."

"He says different."

He shook his head. "You and me just won't work. I didn't like you before my mishap, and now," he shrugged. "I didn't want what happened to me to happen, but nothing can change it now. I have to live with myself as I am. I wouldn't have helped AML as a human—I'm certainly not going to help as what I am now."

Hoberman glanced at Thomas and David tensed. He slid his hand down into his jacket pocket, but all the man did was hand Hoberman an envelope. He passed it across.

"What's this?"

"Open it," Hoberman said.

David did and frowned at the single sheet of paper inside. It was a letter from Hoberman to the governor. "You bastard!" He snarled and leapt to his feet. "You really are a piece of shit aren't you?"

"Calm down, David," Hoberman said edging away toward his goons.

Both men had weapons drawn. He wasn't surprised to see police issue stunners in their hands. AML had more than enough resources to arm its people with the best. They probably even had the correct permits. He didn't doubt they were set to kill. He threw the letter in Hoberman's face.

"Get out."

"That letter hasn't been sent yet, but it will be the moment I leave without your agreement."

"I said get out."

"You don't really want that—"

David's hand dived into his pocket and out again with the gun cocked. "Oh, I don't?" He aimed directly between Hoberman's eyes. David advanced in step as the frightened man backed toward the door.

"Sir?" Benjamin said. Both bodyguards had their weapons out and levelled. "Do we fire?"

"No!"

David kept his eyes firmly on Hoberman. "Tell them to drop their guns, George."

"They won't do that."

"Tell them!"

" _They won't do it!_ For goddess' sake, you're a shifter! They won't disarm for me or anyone! We'll leave. Benjamin, Thomas, meet me at the car."

"We can take him down, sir."

"I have him, dead on. No way he's walking," Thomas said with a feral grin.

"You were assigned to me. Follow my orders and meet me at the car!"

The one named Benjamin made a patting gesture in the air as if to calm David, and raised his gun until he was aiming at the ceiling. The strange thing, David thought, was that he was already calm. Here he was threatening to shoot a man, yet he felt completely calm and hyper alert.

Benjamin backed through the door first followed by Thomas. Hoberman edged into the hall and out the front door.

"You're making a mistake, David."

He kept his gun aimed but he stayed inside. He didn't want to be seen. "Maybe, but it's mine to make."

"Alex Brauer won't stand by you. He can't, not if he wants to remain at Mercy."

"Let me tell you something about Alex Brauer; he's a better man and a better doctor than you'll ever be. If you do anything to hurt him or his work, I swear I'll come for you." Whatever Hoberman saw in his eyes had the man backing hard and running for the car.

He slammed his door and sighed. "Damn the man." He carefully released the hammer on his gun and dropped it back into his pocket. "That didn't go well."

**We don't like him.**

David snorted. "Nothing to like there and that's certain."

Back in the lounge, he found himself unable to sit still. Hoberman's letter had unsettled him and it had created another dimension to his fear; fear of his new nature, fear of what it meant, fear of Georgie, and now the fear that his career in medicine was indeed over just as Jan had guessed would happen. Hoberman's letter hadn't pulled any punches. If he sent it to the Governor as he had threatened to do, and David didn't doubt that he would, the Governor would act. He wouldn't have a choice. No politician could afford to risk the fallout that would rain on him when AML's Doctor Shifter story went public.

"Sedona's tits!" he snarled not even wincing at the blasphemy.

He hadn't hidden his new status as a shifter, but Hoberman's letter made it seem that he had done just that and was doing so for some nefarious purpose. He had no idea what that purpose might be, and Hoberman hadn't bothered to make one up, but the media wouldn't care about that. When the story came out, all hell would break loose and he wasn't the only one liable to get hurt. There was Alex and Jan to consider.

"Damn," he said realising what he had to do. He felt like howling, it hurt that much, but he wouldn't let Hoberman and AML win. There was only one way to prevent it, and that was to resign his position at Mercy.

He crossed the room to his link trying to suppress the grief his decision caused him. He was choked up and very near tears when Alex answered.

"Brauer," Alex said sounding harried.

"Alex, its David."

"David! How's the diet working out?"

"Fine—a little too much meat if you ask me, but fine. My weight has stopped dropping."

"That's good. Anaemia among new shifters is darn common, David. They don't realise how important meat can be to their iron intake, not to mention the increase in selenium. Meat is best for that, and then there's your new nature to consider. You'll find yourself becoming more and more reluctant to eat vegetables, but you should make yourself eat at least some. Fruit as well. Apples are good, and most shifters I know seem to like them; not oranges for some reason. I know it's not a very satisfying explanation, but you need to eat larger portions and more regularly."

"I know, and I am. Listen Alex, Hoberman stopped by a while ago."

"Oh?" Alex said in a deceptively mild voice. "What did he want?"

"He wanted to recruit me for AML."

Silence.

"Alex? Are you still there?"

"I'm here. He came right out and said that's what he wanted?"

"Well, he didn't say he wanted to recruit me for AML, you're right, but they do want to use me."

Alex sighed tiredly. "That sounds more like them."

"True. He wanted my support in the coming election and threatened me with dismissal from Mercy if I didn't give it."

"An empty threat," Alex said angrily.

"Not so empty. He wrote to the Governor, even showed me the letter he plans to send. You'll probably hear from him soon."

"I see."

"I'm going to resign, Alex. I would appreciate it if you could arrange the details for me. I don't think I want to come in and see the others. I want you to say that I resigned immediately we knew I was infected. That might embarrass Hoberman and his friends. We can hope."

A heavy sigh came down the line. "If I thought we could win by fighting this, I would not hesitate. You know that don't you?"

"I know it. We would lose the moment the news broke."

Another sigh. "What do you plan to do now?"

"I don't know. I haven't thought that far ahead. I have a little money saved, and I can always cash in my investments. I don't think I should worry about my retirement any more, you know? I guess I'll be okay for a while. I can sell my car, and rent an apartment."

"I meant about Hoberman. He won't leave it; you have to know that. Even if he wanted to, his AML masters won't let him."

David shivered at the certainty in Alex's voice. "There are two of them in a car outside. You don't think they'll come after me do you?"

"Those two? Probably not, someone might have noticed them watching your house, but they will send someone eventually, David. You watch the news. You know what goes on."

He quickly crossed the room and peered outside. The car was still there, nothing had changed. "You're right. I need to drop out of sight for a while."

"You could use my spare room."

"Thanks, but that will be one of the first places they'll look."

"Jan then?"

He shivered at the thought of putting his friend in the line of fire. "The same goes for her. She's going to be upset when she hears about all this. She'll want to help, but I can't allow it. I'm not involving either of you. It's too dangerous."

"Who then?"

"I wish I knew. My sister lives in Baltimore, but I don't intend leaving the city. I want... I _need_ to find Georgie, and anyway, Hoberman knows about her. I'll think of something, don't worry."

"Be careful, just be careful. Will you?"

"I'll be careful," he said, but really, how careful could he be when he planned on confronting a shifter and possibly killing her?

"Bye."

"Goodbye Alex."

## 6

# On the Run

They came for him in a shower of breaking glass.

Four black clad and masked figures charged into David's bedroom and fired their weapons. The bed was ripped and chewed as thousands of needle-like projectiles hissed across the room to tear into the motionless form in the bed.

"Check him," one of them said when silence again fell.

"You check him!" another said, the voice was that of a woman.

The masked face turned slowly and his gun followed. "Check. Him."

"Okay! No need to get nasty about it." She edged carefully forward and yanked the covers off the bed to reveal more shredded pillows. "Oh crap," she hissed and turned a full circle with her weapon ready.

"Where is he?" a third man said pushing his back into the corner and looking fearfully around the room. He flicked his flashlight at the door and kept it there. "Downstairs?"

"How the bloody hell should I know, Brad?"

"No names!" the leader hissed sharply. He eyed the shredded pillows. "He could be waiting down there, and ready for us. Two, take Three and check out the bathroom across the hall. Four, you stick with me. Clear?"

The woman nodded and moved to shadow her leader.

David was running, his paws flew over the frozen snow barely touching down before lifting again. He dove through the undergrowth, his fur easily protecting him from the clawing branches.

**Manthings come, brother.**

The mountains called him home. He smelled a storm on the wind, saw it in the clouds, heard it in the quiet scurrying of life surrounding him. It was close now. He might not reach the den in time. The others would be there by now; he had to hurry to them. The pack needed him.

**Manthings come, brother. We must leave this place.**

The trees sped by in a blur. His breath smoked white as he panted into the wind of his passage. He grinned into the wind and his tongue lolled out. He was close to his limit, but he would not slow. Being caught in the white this far from his den would be death. He turned at almost full stretch, his tail held out behind him for balance, his body bending almost double in an effort to avoid the ravine. He made it by the narrowest of margins. He was almost there, almost—

"Home," he gasped and spilled his coffee. "Shit..." he hissed mopping the stain on his pants.

He must have fallen asleep in the chair. He remembered packing an overnight bag and sitting down to watch his watchers. He had planned to slip away after dark leaving a little present in his bed upstairs.

**Manthings come, we must leave!**

"What?" He froze at the sound of someone upstairs. He leapt to his feet and looked toward the window. "They're here?"

**We must go!**

He was across the room and holding his bag without conscious thought. He was already reaching for the door handle when he realised what had happened and he shivered in fright. He hadn't been in control, someone else— _something_ else had been. He fought the urge to open the door knowing if he did so he was dead. They were watching.

"Nothing... maybe... downstairs?"

He gasped spinning toward the noise. Someone was coming downstairs. There was more than one, maybe two or even three of them. He concentrated on the sound all the while trying to fend off Mist as the wolf fought to reach for the door handle again. There were four, he was sure it was four.

"We can't go out there. They will see us," he whispered. "Mist, they'll see us!"

**Let me out, I will protect us. They won't see us!**

He didn't know what to do. "I don't know if I can do that."

**We must go!**

He felt the change beginning and tried not to fight it, but his fear made that hard. Mist's anxiety seemed to lend the wolf strength, and David found himself almost a spectator in his own body. His eyes were burning, and he grunted as a cramp hit him in the belly. He fell to his knees trying not to scream at the agony. They would hear. He kicked off his shoes and tried to release his belt instinctively knowing it was needful. His heart was thundering in his chest, and the pain in his joints was indescribable. He shrieked silently as his bones dislocated and changed. His mind was lost in the burning agony as muscles stretched and tore only to re-knit themselves moments later into new patterns. His face erupted into a muzzle filled with teeth and his pants bulged and tore as they succumbed to his changed body. His stomach shifted within him and his heart thundered as it moved to accommodate his new physique. His kidneys, his liver—everything was moving and burning. Fur covered him in seconds and his ears lengthened. Claws scrabbled desperately at the wood of the floor trying to find purchase.

"In the lounge!" A voice yelled. "He's in the lounge!"

Mist climbed shakily to his feet and shook himself from nose to tail. He cocked his head at the voices approaching. He had learned from his brother what the manthing noises meant, but it was he and not David that was listening now. It was hard to understand the words without David's thoughts to listen to. He took a few steps toward the door and stilled again. Strange scents filled the room and they confused him. His ears weren't fooled though. There were four manthings coming and they meant to hurt David. He wouldn't allow that. David was his pack.

**The pack is good. The pack is all.**

Mist leapt upon the first one as he entered the room. The man barely had time to shout before his breath was stopped. Mist clamped his jaws down on his throat and squeezed. Hot and foul tasting blood poured into his mouth and made him want to gag. Manthings tasted disgusting, almost as bad as they smelled. He shook the man once to be sure then dropped him in time to attack the next one just entering the room.

This one was smaller, but Mist was taken by surprise by her speed and fell heavily as she fired her weapon. The pain made him snarl and snap at his side, but the anger of being hurt by one so puny brought him up and lunging at the woman's leg. He clamped down and blood spurted once again, but he couldn't get a firm hold and she kicked him off with the other leg.

" _Arghhh he got me!_ The bastard got me!"

Mist lunged again, and managed a better hold, on an arm this time. The weapon skittered across the floor and reduced the woman to kicking and flailing to no good purpose. Mist ignored the kicks and concentrated on ripping her arm off. He was well on his way to succeeding when her friends arrived and opened fire.

_The window, out the window!_

Mist didn't need David's advice, but he took it. When you can't fight, run. When you can't run, hide. That was the way. He dashed across the room and leapt through the window breaking the glass with a crash. He landed in the bushes and lost his bearings for a moment, but the voices from within the house lent him a sense of direction.

"Kill her."

"Don't! Brad we're friends," the woman's pain filled voice panted.

"Sorry girly girl, but you've been bitten. You know what that means."

_Braaaap! Braaaap!_

Mist leapt the fence and ran straight at an oncoming car. Another leap and he was scampering over the hood and away down a side road.

_Where are we going?_

**We should hide, but not here. They will come; we killed some of their pack. They will come.**

_They aren't like us. They don't think as we do. They won't come unless they're sure they can kill us without being seen._

**Cowards.**

_Yes they are. They will come when we least expect, when we think we're safe._

Mist loped along conserving energy. His side hurt and he wanted to lick the wound, but stopping now seemed too soon. They might not chase him, but he wouldn't take the chance. He slowed to a pained walk and turned down an alley. He stopped to scent the air and listen. There were manthings close, but they did not smell of burning metal things and fear like those others. These just smelled bad like manthings always did. He walked on.

"Here now, nice doggy!"

Mist turned to watch the old man approach. He was slow and frail, no threat. He reached out, but Mist stepped back and grinned at him—not a friendly greeting. The hand withdrew very fast.

"Nice doggy?"

Mist snorted and dodged by. There were many manthings living in the alleys. Mist avoided them when he could, scared them off when he could not. He was looking for a place to stop, somewhere to make his den for the night. He was still bleeding and in pain, he was limping worse than before. There were many places he could hide in, but most had manthings in them already. Everywhere smelled bad. There were no trees, or grass, or flowers. There were no hills, or valleys, or caves to hide in. There was only the smell of rotting things and manthings overlaid by the stink of their weakness. How could they live like this, why didn't they go up into the mountains where the air was clean?

_We, men I mean, live in cities. These people are poor and unwanted. They live here because they have nowhere else to go._

**No pack?**

_No._

**Then they should go away to die in dignity. When we can no longer hunt, when we hurt the pack by lingering on, it is time to die.**

_That is not man's way._

**Our way is better.**

Mist stopped suddenly and scented the air. A shifter had been this way in his manthing form. With nose to the ground, he circled the place widening his search until he had a direction to follow. He dashed to the end of the alley in excitement. A wolf had passed not long ago, and with her was her mate. He hesitated to follow the scent, but to meet others like him sent a pang of loneliness through him. He could feel David's excitement at meeting others like them and that decided the matter. He stepped warily out of the alley and followed the scent keeping close to the walls of the buildings hoping the shadows there would hide him from the pitifully weak manthing eyes. To wolf eyes, the night was full of shades of black and grey and not too dark to see, but to a manthing it would be pitch dark with only the occasional car headlight to break up the unremitting blackness.

Twice Mist lost the scent and had to backtrack. It confused him to lose the scent so easily. It should not have happened, but the jumble of human scents almost blotted out the one he needed to follow. The smell of manthings and their vehicles fouled the air—rubber, and oil, and hot metal things that Mist barely understood, but David knew them and therefore so did he. He found the scent again by running back and forth over the route she had used. The She had marked her territory by constantly using the same path to her den. There was layer upon untold layer of scent that told him much about her. She was fully adult and no longer in her prime, but she was still strong in body—a matriarch of the pack and wise. The She wouldn't be high in the pack, but neither would she be low.

Mist was limping badly by the time he turned into another alley and found his quarry. She was growling low in her throat and standing defensively before a manthing. He had been right; the grey in her fur was testament to her age. He was stronger than she, and therefore dominant, but this was her territory to protect. She had a right to what was hers and she obviously claimed the manthing too.

"I seek sanctuary, pack mother," Mist said in the language of wolves. It felt good to speak to another of his kind.

Her ears pricked up and she cocked her head. "I am Onida, this is _my_ place. You trespass."

"I am Mist."

"Who hunts you?"

"Manthings; they came to my den to kill me."

"Do they come here now?"

Mist settled painfully to the ground. "No, but I need to hide, and regain strength for the hunt."

"Onida, are you sure he's friendly?" the manthing said. He smelled of fear and of... love? Love for Onida?

Onida looked up at her manthing then trotted forward. She thrust her face into Mist's ruff in greeting; he did the same with her. She smelled good, like a cold winter's day.

Onida trotted back to her manthing and together they set off up the alley. "My mate will heal your hurts; follow."

Mist struggled painfully to his feet and followed a few paces behind. Their destination wasn't far. He followed them up a short flight of steps and through a door that Onida's manthing unlocked for them. Mist found himself in a huge kitchen. He knew what the manthings were, but the smell of food would have told him without those. Onida trotted through an open door while her manthing locked up again. Mist followed her as she led him up a long flight of stairs and into a room on the second floor.

The manthing hesitated at the door. "Onida?"

"Let George tend your hurts," Onida said and sat to watch.

Mist was doubtful, but he was in Onida's den. He dropped to his belly and lay on his side. It was more of a relief than he liked to think about. He didn't understand why it still hurt. It burned and he wanted to lick it, but it was out of easy reach.

"This doesn't look too bad," George said parting the fur carefully. "Hmmm. This should have healed on its own."

Onida got up and sniffed the wounds in Mist's side. Her tongue darted out to taste the blood still seeping from them, and she jumped back with a yelp. She shook her head trying to get the taste out of her mouth.

"Silver?" George said grimly and Onida whined. She was still chewing at the air trying to rid herself of the taste. "The bastards meant business, he won't heal like this. I have to get whatever they used out of him, but it's going to hurt like a bitch. He can't change if it _is_ silver, and we can't leave it—he'll be dead in a day from silver poisoning."

Mist listened in growing puzzlement, but David understood what it meant. Silver would kill them, that was easy enough to understand, but David had not known that it would prevent them from changing form. Their joining was new to both of them. Mist closed his eyes and tried not to snap at George as he poked and prodded with his fingers.

"I can feel them in there, but I can't get them. I'll need your help, Onida. I need Cassie."

Onida trotted out of the room.

"Don't worry; she'll be back in a minute. She has to change."

Cassie returned few minutes later and immediately took charge of Mist. She lifted his head into her lap and held him there.

"This will hurt," she said looking directly into Mist's eyes. "It will hurt really bad. If you must bite, bite me. If you bite George, I'll kill you. Do you understand?"

Mist whined.

"Here goes," George said and pushed his pocketknife deeply into the wound.

Mist howled at the new pain and scrabbled to get away. Cassie held him down with all her strength, but he was stronger. He snapped and snarled and almost threw her off, but David was fighting him, helping Cassie against him.

"I think I've got it. I've got it!"

Mist collapsed back to the floor panting and whining, but already he could feel the difference. The burning was less.

"Ready for the next?"

"Go ahead, I've got him."

Mist yelped, but it didn't hurt as much as last time. He didn't fight so hard. The burning was replaced by the natural itchiness of a healing wound. He snuffled at his fur and licked the place he could reach, but he was too exhausted to do more. He collapsed back to the floor.

_Let me out, and you can rest._

Mist agreed and let go with a sigh of relief. It was like falling into dreams for him, while for David it was waking to a nightmare of pain as the change took hold. He couldn't help crying out this time. The wounds in his side stretched and tore open as his muscles changed and realigned from a four footed critter into a two footed one.

He opened his eyes and groaned. Something wasn't right. "My hands."

"Concentrate," Cassie said urgently. "You must complete the change. Think about your feet, five toes not four. Come on, you can do it."

"So tired."

"If you don't finish now you'll regret it. Believe me, I know you're exhausted, but it will hurt a hundred times worse tomorrow."

He looked down and imagined he saw his feet as they had always been. Slowly the huge paws at the end of his very human looking legs shrank with a cracking of bones and more pain. His hands had five fingers; that was right, but the fingernails looked like Mist's blunted wolf claws. He concentrated and they slowly reformed.

"Good. Can you stand?"

He coughed and winced at the pain in his side. He clapped a hand to his ribs and groaned. He ached all over. "I think so."

"Get up and walk. We can worry about your eyes later."

"My eyes?"

"Later I said. Make sure everything is working properly, you have to make certain you do it right the first few times. It takes practise. I remember waking up with a tail once—"

George chuckled. "I remember that."

Cassie scowled. "It wasn't funny. It hurt like hell."

"Here," George said offering David a robe. "I don't need the competition if you know what I mean?" His eyes flicked down then back to David's eyes. He grinned.

David blushed and thrust his arms into the robe and quickly belted it to cover his nakedness. Cassie sighed, but she was fighting not to laugh at his blushes.

"You're new aren't you?"

He nodded. "I'm David. This was my first time."

"Your first change?" Cassie said. "I'm sorry. The first time is always hard, something about changing against your will makes it worse than if you change voluntarily."

"I changed on purpose. AML sent people to murder me. I had to change to get away."

"But you said this was your first time," George said glancing uneasily at Cassie. "Your first change is always involuntary."

"Always?"

"Always has been as far as I know and I know quite a bit," Cassie said with certainty. She shook her head. "That can wait; you need rest and time to heal. You can use our spare room and we'll talk some more tomorrow."

"Will you teach me what you know?"

"Tomorrow," Cassie said firmly and George led David away.

## 7

# Lost Souls

"So you're saying there's something wrong with me?" David said and took another mouthful of Cassie's excellent Cajun Lamb.

She shook her head. "I'm saying there's something different about your relationship with Mist, something very right if what I believe is true. Look, when a shifter is made it's always the result of violence. Even those of us born with lycanthropy have an attack in our mother's past to blame it on. The bond with our beasts reflects that. Danger, fear, anger, blood—violence or any strong emotion can trigger the change, and the first change is always involuntary because of that. Our beasts always come out to protect us."

"You said my first change was unusual."

"Because you chose it, it wasn't forced on you. What do you know of natural wolves?"

David shrugged. "Nothing."

"Our wolf form doesn't make us natural wolves. We may look like a natural wolf, though we're usually much larger, but we aren't wolves. We are a mixture. Wolves are pacifists you know?"

"I'm not sure I follow. I'm sure I've read of wolves attacking people."

"It's very rare. A wolf will always run away from a confrontation if it can and will only fight if cornered. Dogs are different. They can be vicious and will fight each other to the death, but wolves don't do that. There was a story a few years back of a wolf hand reared by a man and his family. The wolf regarded them as his pack including the family pets—a pair of Alsatians. The story goes that these two dogs got into a fight over something and the wolf became very distraught. He was shaking and whining with his tail tucked—he just didn't understand. Eventually he grabbed one of the dogs by the tail and physically pulled him off the other."

"Your point being?"

"The point I'm trying to make is this: don't be fooled by appearances. A natural wolf wouldn't come anywhere near us. We may look like wolves in our other forms, but we are not wolves. We fight and kill over things no wolf would understand or be interested in. Our human side curses us with feral natures."

His eyebrows climbed. "Our _human_ side does? I would have thought the opposite."

"No. Wolves are very social creatures; they never fight among themselves. Shifters do, all the time."

David nodded thoughtfully. Wolves were innocent creatures that had no concept of good and evil—those concepts were labels put on the world by man to explain it.

"David... when you talk to Mist..."

"Go on."

Cassie took a deep breath and tried again. "This is considered very rude among us. Rude is too mild a term for it. Asking personal questions is considered wrong because we can sense so much about each other that asking for more is an unwanted invasion of what little privacy we have. Our relationships with our beasts are very personal."

In his mind's eye, he saw Mist yawn widely and close his eyes. "I understand. I have no problem with you asking, and I know Mist doesn't care."

"Just so you know not to ask others without invitation. When in wolf form, can you... I mean do you..." she sighed and rushed on. "Do you remain in contact with Mist?"

"Yes."

Cassie gaped. " _You do?_ "

"Of course. Why, is that unusual?"

"Let me be sure we understand each other. You can talk aloud—or silently in your head—to Mist and he responds with images in your mind. Correct?"

"Sometimes," David agreed. "Mostly we just talk. He's shown me memories using pictures, but it was more like a dream. It was as if I were him."

Cassie stared silently.

David fidgeted under her scrutiny. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing is wrong with it, it's marvellous!"

"It is?"

"Yes! It means you have a very strong bond with your beast. Onida says very little. She sends strong images to me, but she rarely forms them into words."

"When I fought with AML at home, I _was_ Mist," he explained. "We were one, not two people—I was him all the way. Later, I sort of drifted and watched as we escaped. We talked a little, and then Mist found your scent."

Cassie looked excited for a moment but then her face went blank. She was talking to Onida. "When I change, Onida is completely in control. I can't do anything but wait for my turn. I'm lucky, because she never forces her way out, but I know she could if she chose. Her will is stronger than mine and that's normal for most of us, but not for you it seems."

He didn't mention his aborted struggle for control when he realised AML had come to kill him. He wasn't sure now whether he could have held out against Mist when he was determined to come out and fight. "But what does it all mean?"

"It means you have strong Presence—power enough to rival the strongest of us. Certainly you have enough to match anyone I've ever met. You might have problems when you meet others like us."

"What kind of problems?"

"You're alpha. Do you know what that means?"

David shook his head.

"It means you'll be dominant within the pack structure. How dominant depends on how strong the others are. Alphas are pack leaders, David. You can be a pack leader."

"But I don't care about that. All I want is to work with Alex at Mercy."

"He told you what he found at your place. They wrecked it," Cassie said shaking her head in sympathy. "Do you really think AML will leave you alone and let you go back to your old life?"

Alex was the one who notified the police of the break in. He had dropped by to talk and found the windows smashed. When he went inside, he found that someone had trashed the place. Luckily, the AML lunatics had taken their dead friends with them to hide their involvement. Lying made David feel guilty, but it was better for Alex. He had made up a story about escaping his attackers without a fight. Alex had readily accepted the story and was kind enough to bring a few things from home for him. Cassie and George had liked him right off, and so did Onida.

"Probably not, but I can hope."

"Hope is a fine thing, but you're a shifter now. There's only one thing you need to think about and that's survival. AML isn't the only thing you need to be wary of. Almost anyone you meet on the streets will curse you or worse if they learn what you are, so you have to hide it, but you can't hide it from another shifter. The strength of your bond with Mist is a good thing. It might be all that stands between you and them soon."

David nodded grimly and tried to ignore Mist who was grinning toothily and sending amusement to him.

Cassie waved a hand at his plate. "Have you finished? There's more if you want it."

"It was delicious, but I can't eat another bite."

She stood and took the empty plate away. "Not for an hour or two anyway."

"I don't think I'll ever get used to that part."

"You will. It takes time to adjust. You should know something about that being a doctor."

"Knowing it and living it are two different things."

"Very true," George said just then entering. "Cassie said much the same." He wandered over to his wife who was wiping down the kitchen counter and gave her a quick kiss. He turned to David and held out the package. "I got it."

David stood and took it. "Thanks for this."

"You sure you want to go through with it?"

He unzipped the dust jacket and fingered what it contained. "What, the Tux?"

George's grin was brief. "Not the suit. I meant what you intend to do with it."

"I don't see that I have much choice. Ronnie knows who Georgie is and I need to know that. Besides, with AML after my blood I can't stay here. Maybe Ronnie will help me figure something out."

"I still say you can stay with us," Cassie said. George hesitated but nodded his agreement after a moment.

"It's kind of you," he said knowing George was right to hesitate. "But it's too dangerous. If they find me here, it could get really nasty. It's better that I go."

"A hotel?"

"A public place seems a good idea right now, so yes at first. Later, who knows? Maybe Ronnie will put me up."

David stepped into the club full of trepidation. He had no idea what to expect, and from the strange looks he was receiving, he had already made some kind of social gaff. He would like to say the hell with it and leave, but that wasn't really an option. AML wanted his head on a platter, and none of his friends wanted anything to do with him any longer. Only Alex and Jan had stood by him, and he didn't want to put them in danger.

So the club.

It was slap bang in the centre of the waterfront district quaintly called Monster Central by locals. It was both an excellent and a terrible location depending on your point of view. For the owners, who were themselves monsters, it was very lucrative and an excellent place to do business. For the non-humans who were too poor to move out, it was the centre for shifter revelry and therefore a bad place to live close to. Very few humans dared to enter. Those that did were special in some other way. Maybe they had been invited by a shifter, or perhaps married to one though that was rare. Or maybe they had come looking for a thrill. If the latter, all they would likely find was a great deal of fear and pain.

He wasn't here for entertainment, no matter how thrilling it might be. He was looking for Ronnie, hoping she could help him learn about himself and those like him. He needed her. She knew who Georgie was and where she was likely to be found. He wanted to know that most of all.

Upon entering, he found a subtly lit club full of people enjoying themselves. He watched with eyes wide in amazement. Stepping into the club was like stepping back in time. Lost Souls was a club trying to remember days gone by—no, not trying. It had brought them fully into the here and now.

He stood just inside the main area near the doors trying to sort out all the scents. Unnoticed by him, the two very large gentlemen across the way had picked him out from the crowd as somebody to watch. Their senses were highly attuned to the smell of trouble, and to them he positively reeked of it. The air almost seemed to hum with power. David stood utterly still as it washed over him making short hairs stir on his neck. He had never felt anything like it.

"You gonna stand there all day?"

David murmured an apology and stepped out of the doorway. The stranger mumbled something and pushed on by. David stepped up to the chrome railing to clear the door and watch the main floor below. To right and left of him were stairs curving down to the main area below. The pushy stranger was half way down. He watched him move among the tables and find his seat. He was meeting friends.

David sighed. He remembered friends. They were good to have and he missed them, but they had proven a thing to him these past weeks that he couldn't forget... or forgive. They had proven that friendship was not strong enough to cross the gulf between what they were and what he had become.

He forced his thoughts away from the hurt and back onto what he was here to achieve. Lost Souls was a nightclub, but it couldn't be more unlike his expectations if it tried. The round tables were covered in glaring white tablecloths, and upon each there was a small lamp. Most of the tables were occupied by men and women wearing their finery and enjoying their wine. A large area had been set aside as a dance floor, and there were a good number of people swaying slowly to the music supplied by a live orchestra. Upon the stage, a woman in a long sequined gown stood before an antique microphone and sang her heart out.

The bar was popular, and he decided it was a good place to start his quest. Maybe someone would recognise Ronnie's description. He made his way down to the bar where two women were serving drinks. There was plenty of demand; shifters were heavy drinkers. He waited his turn to order, which seemed to surprise the other patrons, but some of them looked a little rough and he saw no reason to antagonise them by jumping the line.

His turn finally came. "Scotch." he said and the woman began fixing his drink. "Listen, I'm trying to find a friend of mine."

"Oh?" the woman said handing him a glass.

It was full to the brim. He carefully raised the glass and drank the first inch rather than spill it. It seemed that shifter clubs used bigger measures. He hadn't asked for a triple, but that's what she had given him.

"Her name's Ronnie. I really need to—"

"I don't know her," she said hastily.

He knew she was lying—he just knew, and by the frightened look she gave him, she knew it too. "I just need to talk to her. Just talk, that's all."

"I can't help you. Please don't hurt me. I can't tell you!"

He gaped in astonishment. "I'm not going to—hey!" he called after the terrified woman as she dodged by her co-worker and out of sight.

"What did you say to her you bastard?"

"I didn't say anything! I don't know what's the matter with her. I only asked her to help me find a friend."

"What friend?" she asked suspiciously.

"Her name's Ronnie..."

The woman paled and backed away.

"What's wrong with you people?"

"Get out of here," the frightened woman said. "Hurting me won't get you what you want. I don't know where she is. Tell Georgie she can lick my tail before I'll help her."

"But I don't understand!" he said as the second bar tender disappeared.

It was then that he noticed he was in trouble. The seemingly innocent patrons waiting their turn at the bar were watching him with angry faces. Golden eyes and snarling lips surrounded him suddenly, and he had no idea why.

"I need to find a woman. Her name's Ronnie."

"Get out. You're not wanted here!"

He turned to the speaker. "But you don't understand. I need to find her."

"I understand enough. You're not welcome here. Tell Georgie we won't give her up."

"But—" something slammed into his head and sent him into oblivion.

He awoke in darkness, disorientated and bound tightly hand and foot. He couldn't feel his fingers.

"Hello?" he said into the dark.

"Hello yourself," a woman's voice said.

"Ronnie? It is Ronnie isn't it?"

"You know me?"

"We met briefly."

"It must have been. I don't recognise your scent."

He would have been excited if not for the bonds. He knew his senses were more acute, but he hadn't realised that he should recognise people using his nose. It made sense though. Wolves and other animals had a heightened sense of smell. He was learning already.

"Can you untie me?"

"No," another voice said, a man this time, and Ronnie didn't object.

"Some light then?"

For an answer, Ronnie turned one on and David was able to look around a little more. He was bound with chains and lying upon the floor of a comfortably appointed room. Ronnie was just taking her seat again. The source of the other voice belonged to a man sitting comfortably across from her. He was wearing an expensive suit and seemed to radiate power.

"A mage?" David guessed.

The man smiled. "No."

"What then?"

"Something else. Why don't you tell me?"

David frowned. His eyes flicked around the room not settling on any particular thing. He realised that there were no windows. He couldn't tell if it was still night out. Ronnie was staring at him with a puzzled frown upon her face. A rich earthy scent rolled over him from her and Mist stirred.

**A strong She** , Mist said with approval.

David had seen her fighting Georgie. She was very strong indeed. He turned his attention back to his host—it seemed obvious that he and not Ronnie ruled here.

"A vampire?"

"Call me Stephen."

"Just Stephen? No other name?"

"Not right now. You have upset my friend."

"That was not my intention."

"No?"

"I came to find her. I need her help."

"I don't know you," Ronnie said.

"I told you. We met only briefly—well, you met my car actually."

Ronnie didn't laugh at his attempt at humour. "That was you?"

"You tried to save me—"

"Not you. I wasn't fighting to save you. Georgie was after me."

"I know, but she got me instead."

"Ah," Stephen said. "Things become clearer. You are newly changed. That explains some matters."

"Like what?" he said suspiciously.

"Like the reason you dared enter my domain without first asking my permission."

"You own Lost Souls?"

"Among other things, yes."

"And I was supposed to ask permission to enter? Entrance by invitation only is it?"

Stephen smiled. "For you it would have been. Not for others."

"I don't understand. Why me and not others?"

"You have power," Ronnie explained. "You will learn that in _our_ world power over others is everything."

"Exactly so," Stephen nodded in approval. "Your unannounced visit could have been a prelude to an attack upon me or my interests."

"You have reason to expect an attack? Who would do that—AML?"

"They are the most prominent and the most likely right now, but there are others."

"AML are hunting me."

"AML hunt us _all_ ," Ronnie corrected.

"That may be," David said, starting to feel annoyed with her attitude. "But they're after me in particular. They want to use me against the rest of you."

"And how do you know that?"

"I overheard a conversation."

"It explains some of their actions of late," Stephen said thoughtfully. "Something has stirred them up."

"Me," David said. "Doctor Hoberman is one of them. He knows about my change and he doesn't like shifters—us."

"Not many do," Ronnie said. "They're afraid of us and what we can do."

"And they should be," Stephen said.

"Hoberman isn't afraid. He feels that humans and monsters—as he calls them—should live apart."

"I doubt that's all he wants."

"Probably not. He has powerful friends and he doesn't like me. I need help. At least somewhere to hide until I can figure out what to do. I thought—"

"What?" Ronnie said. "That I would help you out of some kind of human kindness? Think again. I'm not human and neither are you."

"I didn't think that far ahead. I thought that if I could find you, you could lead me to Georgie."

"Ah," Stephen breathed, his eyes brightening with interest. "Now we come to it. You wish to avenge yourself against Ronnie's nemesis—the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Is that it?"

"Something like that," David admitted.

"You would kill her for attacking you. I completely understand that sort of motivation, but what if I were to tell you that Georgie was not your real enemy? What if I were to tell you that your real enemy is the one who orders her? What then?"

"I don't know. I guess I would have to discuss it with this person, but Georgie first."

Ronnie was watching him intently—evaluating him. She snorted. "Georgie would kill you."

David felt his eyes change. "Don't bet on it."

Ronnie rose to the occasion. She snarled and her eyes were suddenly golden orbs of pure malevolence.

"Now children, no fighting."

Ronnie backed off, but her eyes remained hard. "Send him away. He'll be nothing but trouble."

"I don't believe I asked your opinion," Stephen said mildly before turning his attention back to his guest. "There are some things you should know."

"Like what for instance?"

"Lost Souls is mine, and Ronnie is mine. All those living and working here are mine."

David didn't like the sound of that. "Yours?"

"Mine. Raymond and Georgie are not welcome here. None of their pack are welcome."

"What of the others at the bar and at the tables? They can't all be yours."

"Of course not. Lost Souls is a place of entertainment. Most of the shifters visiting here belong to their own packs. The others, like Ronnie, have nowhere else to go. They're mine until I say otherwise."

"You agreed to this?"

Ronnie remained silent.

"You're in a different world now, David," Stephen said. "Ronnie and the others gave themselves to me in exchange for my protection. When you came looking for her, it was assumed that miss Starett—Georgie to you—had sent you."

"I see," David said, still trying to come to terms with the way Ronnie had given herself to Stephen. In effect, she was his slave. "Where does that leave me?"

"With choices to make."

"What choices?" David said suspiciously.

"You can leave here none the worse for your adventure, or you can give yourself to me as the others have done."

"No."

"Tell him," Stephen said simply.

"Give yourself to Stephen or die. Those are your choices."

"But you said I could leave unharmed!"

"And I keep my word," Stephen said. "Tell him all of it."

"If you leave," Ronnie said. "You will be alone. Georgie will find you. You will never be accepted into a pack."

"I'm not looking for a pack."

"A lie," Stephen said simply.

"The pack is all," Ronnie said grimly.

David heard the need in her voice and wondered about it. "I admit I'm looking for help, but I don't need a pack. I'm not an animal. I'm a man, dammit!"

"You are what you are," Stephen said. "You must accept it and move on. The fact of the matter is you will not be accepted into a pack, but you need one or something as good."

"Why won't I be accepted?"

"What do you really know about what you have become?"

"I know enough—"

Stephen sighed. "Your lies become tiresome. You know nothing. If you did, you would have known not to come here without invitation. You would have known why you needed the invitation, and you would have known not to come alone."

"All right, I know some, obviously not enough."

"You know enough to get yourself killed," Ronnie said derisively. "But who else will die? That's the question."

"No one has to die," David protested. "Well, no one but Georgie and not her if she turns herself in."

Ronnie snorted. "She won't."

"The facts are these," Stephen went on. "A pack is led by the strongest wolf with the next strongest below him and the next below him all the way down to the weakest. You will not be accepted simply because you will not submit. No one will accept someone dominant to them—not easily at least."

"That's crazy. Why—"

"Why, why, _why!_ " Ronnie snapped. "Why you? Why me? Why anything?! It doesn't matter why! It never does. All that matters is surviving the day."

"It matters to me," David said stiffly. "I don't want to live from one day to the next always wondering whether I'll be breathing tomorrow."

"It's just the way it is. There's no changing it."

"Who says— _you?_ "

"It's how it has always been."

"It's time we changed it then," David said, trying to ignore Stephen's amusement. "What?"

"I was just thinking that you might become an interesting diversion."

"I'm not here for anyone's entertainment. If you won't help me, I'll find someone who will."

"Oh, I didn't say I wouldn't help you," Stephen said and Ronnie turned to him in surprise. "You can join my wolves."

"No," David snarled. "I'm no one's slave."

"As you wish. I will be sorry to hear of your death."

David scowled. "What, _precisely_ , would be involved?"

"It's quite simple. In exchange for somewhere safe to stay, you work for me."

"Work? What work?"

Stephen shrugged. "Whatever I say it is. You will agree to protect me and my property—that includes people like Ronnie here. In exchange, I protect you. It's the same bargain I offer all my wolves. I assure you I mean it when I say I'll protect what's mine."

David believed that. "What about AML?"

"What of it?"

"They'll come for me. People might get hurt."

"David," Stephen sighed almost sadly. "Haven't you realised yet? You will never be free of them, just as I will never be free of those wishing me harm. Kill one, and another takes his place—believe me, I know. It's just the way things are. You must adapt to thinking in terms of survival, just as Ronnie and I do. Only then will you have a modicum of freedom to enjoy life. Never forget what you are. AML won't."

"How can I live like that?"

Stephen rose smoothly to his feet. "I'll leave that for Ronnie to explain." He turned to leave. "Introduce him to the others and make him aware of what is expected of him."

"Why me?" Ronnie said sulkily.

Stephen stopped and turned slowly to meet Ronnie's eyes. She flinched and backed away. "Because I wish it. Do I need another reason?"

"No Stephen, I didn't mean..." she said and whispered fearfully, "please forgive me."

Stephen watched her in utter stillness. If he breathed or blinked at all, David couldn't detect it. Suddenly he was at the door, and David hadn't seen him move. He couldn't help gasping. The door clicked shut and he was alone with Ronnie at last.

"Release me, please."

"I should drop you in the harbour for this," Ronnie snarled. Her earlier display of meekness was gone as if it had never been.

"What did I do? Look, you're in this mess because you're in this mess. I didn't put you there; you did that before we met."

"This mess, as you so quaintly put it, is liable to get us both killed. I have enough to do looking out for myself without babysitting you."

"Fine," he snapped. He was fast losing patience with her attitude. "Introduce me around and let someone else be _burdened._ "

"I can't. You heard Stephen."

"And you always do what he says I suppose."

"Always," Ronnie said with finality. She crossed the room to the desk while he tried to think of a comeback. "I'll unlock your restraints," she said turning back with a key.

"Thank you."

Ronnie unlocked the chains that even a shifter could not break and backed away. David rose smoothly to his feet wincing at the pain of returned circulation.

"Well?"

Ronnie scowled. "This way."

He followed.

## 8

# Marie

Marie stood before the full-length mirror in panties and bra trying to decide what to wear. Her legs were long but she couldn't help thinking that they were too pale, and horror of horrors, she had fat thighs! All the cycling she did, all the working out, had just made them worse. She was sure they were bigger than the last time she checked. She pinched the flesh at her hips and found almost an inch of fat between her fingers. She groaned at this new evidence. It was a good thing Terry had never seen her naked. The only man ever to do that had run away screaming... well, not really. She didn't know what had happened to him. Martin had just disappeared one night.

Her eyes prickled and she dashed at the tears angrily. She would not cry. She didn't care what they said about him. She knew he had loved her. He would never just leave as the police insisted. She could imagine all kinds of horrible things happening to him, but not that. She could almost wish that he had dumped her. At least then, she would know he was all right somewhere out there.

She resolutely turned her attention to her appearance. She was determined to have a nice time tonight. It had been too long since she had really enjoyed a night out. The last time was when her father had taken her to the opera to see a recreation of Henry Purcell's Dido and Aeneas. She loved him for that gesture; she knew he disliked English opera, almost as much as she liked it.

She turned sideways trying to find something to appreciate in her appearance, but her eyes were drawn to her butt—flabby, and her chest—what chest? She sighed. Okay, she had nice hair didn't she? She grudgingly admitted that she did. It was very fair and had always been easy to work with. It had a natural curl that most people believed came out of a bottle or at least an expensive salon.

Her eyes were a startling green like her mother's had been—her father said so, and she had to admit that she liked them. Now that she was thinking about it, having a little meat on your bones was fashionable. Her stomach was as flat as anyone could want, and Martin always said he liked looking at her butt. If it was good enough for him, it was certainly good enough for Terry.

She turned away to look at the outfit laid out upon the bed. She had chosen a simple black sleeveless dress with spaghetti straps and square cut neckline. It would reach to mid-thigh, hopefully enough to convince everyone that her thighs were simply generous and not at all fat, of course they weren't fat!

"Fat thighs, who me?" She snorted imagining the whispers. "You must be thinking of someone else _dear_."

She would need to change her bra of course. Showing white straps was so tacky. She had bought a new black under-wire bra with very thin straps just yesterday. She didn't like the strapless kind. They never felt very secure somehow, and they almost always curled at the edges. She had chosen one with a little extra whammy in the cups. With luck, it would fool everyone into thinking she had a bust to be proud of.

She checked her wristband and noted the time. She had to shower and change before Terry arrived. He would be picking her up soon. She had better hurry.

An hour later she was ready but Terry wasn't apparently. He was late on their first real date—not a good start. She looked at her wristband for the umpteenth time and sighed. It was half past already. Maybe he was going to stand her up.

Great.

"Miss Stirling?"

Marie turned to find Andrew standing uncertainly at the open door to the lounge. Andrew was her father's assistant, bodyguard, and general all around lifesaver. Anything her father needed done, Andrew could arrange it. Her father said he was a treasure. He certainly looked like one. He had been a jock in his college years, which going purely by his looks couldn't have been that long ago, but that was a false impression. She had known him for ages. He never seemed to change to her eyes. His wide shoulders filled the doorway in which he stood—power at rest. He had nice hands. They looked strong and capable of...

She felt her face heating at his regard. She had known him since she was a kid! She shouldn't be thinking about him like a potential... like he had potential! She wanted badly to pull her dress down to cover her knees. Fat thighs, who her?

"Hey there. I thought you went home, Andrew."

"No, I'm still here," he grinned when she chuckled at the obvious. "I'm supposed to ask where you're going tonight, Miss Stirling."

"Oh? Did my Dad tell you to ask?"

"He worries."

She knew that he did worry about her, but she was a grown woman now. She had to admit that she was nervous, and that knowing her father and Andrew were here was comforting, but that was bad. She shouldn't need comforting like a child all the time. She should be a woman of the new millennium—strong and self-possessed, but she wasn't. She doubted that strength would ever be part of her nature.

"Terry didn't say. It's a surprise."

"Mister Sayles is known to me, Miss Stirling," Andrew said and took another step into the room. "You could—"

She held up a hand. "Don't tell me I can do better, Andrew. In case you haven't noticed, I don't have legions of men queueing at my door."

"I was going to say that you could have asked him before agreeing to this date. Your safety and that of your father is chief among my responsibilities."

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "I'll do that next time, I promise."

"Thank you, Miss Stirling," he said gravely.

"Andrew," she said it almost like a sigh. "How long have you known me?"

"Almost twelve years, Miss Stirling."

"Twelve years? Don't you think it's time you called me Marie?"

"It wouldn't be proper, Miss Stirling. I'm an employee, nothing more."

"You could be more. You could be my friend."

"I would like that, Miss Stirling"

"But?"

"But your father would not take it kindly if he heard me being so forward with you."

"That's silly. Elsa calls me Marie, and so does Katrina."

"With respect, Miss Stirling. The situation is somewhat different between you and them. Your father's housekeeper is a woman, and so is his office manager."

"I suppose you're right."

Andrew nodded and withdrew. At the door, he hesitated and looked back. "I am, and always have been, your friend. Remember me if you ever need someone to talk to."

"I will. Thank you, Andrew."

Andrew left and Marie paced. Would Terry stand her up? No as it turned out. He was just very late. It was a little after eight when Andrew appeared again, this time with Terry in tow.

"Mister Sayles is here to see you," Andrew said and Terry barged rudely by.

She stood and allowed Terry's hug. The kiss was quick and without passion, more like her father's kiss of goodnight. She told herself that she shouldn't be disappointed. Terry wasn't Martin and it wasn't fair comparing them.

Andrew was still standing by the door with a look she hadn't seen upon his face before. It was disappointment. How dare he be disappointed in her! What right did he have to think anything about her? She fumed for the barest instant but then remembered how kind he had been earlier. She needed kind. Her anger drained away to be replaced by... what? She could almost call it longing if it weren't so silly. Andrew was Andrew—her father's shadow. Ever there, ever dependable. He was her friend.

"Where are we going, Terry?" she asked and saw Andrew's small nod of approval. It warmed her, but then she felt confused. Why was she trying to please Andrew?

"I told you, to a party."

"I know you did, but where is it? Will I know anyone there?"

"You never know."

His smile was almost a sneer and suddenly she didn't want to go. She shook herself firmly. She wasn't backing out. She had to learn how to be normal—at least how to pretend to be normal. Normal was going out and having fun, not hiding in her room letting the world go by. She didn't want to be some kind of recluse all her life, but then she realised that she secretly did. She was appalled at that realisation.

_I really am crazy._

She glanced at Terry and saw his smile again; it was just a smile not a sneer. Had she even seen it? She was trying to find reasons not to go out with him! "Okay. I like surprises," she lied.

"That's good, because you'll be very surprised tonight."

Andrew led them toward the door and saw them out. Marie almost stopped and begged off when she saw the look on Andrew's face, but before she knew it, she was seated in Terry's car and buckling her seat belt.

"This is going to be great," Terry said as he drove along the driveway.

Andrew watched from the door until they were out of sight.

They drove into the city, but Marie didn't enjoy it. Terry drove too fast and she didn't like the area they were passing through. Not one bit.

"Where are we going?" she said nervously. She glanced out the car window again. "I don't like the look of this place."

"Relax," Terry said with laughter in his voice. "I won't let anyone hurt you. I promise."

She tried to smile, but she couldn't seem to summon one up. They were driving through a part of the city that she had never entered before, let alone after dark. No one with any sense would come here.

"Do you know where we are?"

"Of course I do, sweetheart. I told you we were invited to a party."

"So you said, but I expected it to be uptown not down here! Please Terry, this place is dangerous—"

"Not for us, sweetheart, I have an invitation."

Marie subsided. Terry was a mistake; she knew that now. If she were completely honest with herself, she had known it from the first, but she had wanted... what? Someone for herself, she thought wistfully—someone who would love her and listen to her. Someone who would take charge of her.

She scowled into the night.

Did she really want that? Did she really want to be cared for like a child for the rest of her life? What was wrong with her that she would want that? She knew the answer, but she did not like it. Daddy's girl—that's what she was. Martin was right.

Tears threatened as she remembered him. Why had he left her? She had loved him so much, and he had loved her. She was sure he had. They had talked about getting married dozens of times, but then one day he just vanished. The police said there was nothing they could do. Even her dad with all his contacts had failed to find him. Something must have happened to him. He would never have left without her.

"Here we go," Terry said cheerfully.

"You must be joking!" she said in horror. She stared at the club with wide eyes. "We can't go in there!"

"Sure we can. I've been in dozens of times. It's the best. They don't allow just anyone in you know."

"But it's a club for—"

"Vamps and shifters? Yeah I know. That's what makes it so great!" Terry said with excitement heavy in his voice. "Come on."

Terry climbed out and opened the door for her. Marie reluctantly climbed out and walked with him toward the main entrance of the club. She wanted to hide as they walked straight by the queue of hopeful party-goers. Everyone was glaring at her. She felt so exposed.

There were two very large men standing at the doors. Marie was sure they would stop her entering, but they took one look at her and waved Terry inside. They hadn't even bothered to check the invitations he clutched so tightly as if fearing someone would steal them.

The interior of the club was something of a surprise, though thinking on it she didn't know why it should be. She was far from experienced where these kinds of clubs were concerned, she didn't know what normal was, but surely this quiet elegance wasn't it. The foyer was plushly carpeted and subtly lit. It was completely free from the crowds of debauched revellers she had expected to find. She had heard all kinds of terrible things about non-humans and what they did for entertainment, but she saw none of those things. There were very few people, and as far as she could tell, none of them were monsters.

She watched a couple talking together and thought they looked perfectly human. She would have sworn they were if asked, but then the man noticed her watching him. He scowled and his friend noticed. She turned to see what had drawn his attention.

She gasped. The woman's eyes were golden, and so beautiful! They shone with an inner light, and looked so exotic, especially combined with her mixed Asian skin tone and subtly almond shaped eyes.

Terry chuckled. "She doesn't like you, sweetheart."

"Don't call me that."

"Why not? I thought you liked it."

"I put up with it, I never _liked_ it," she said angrily. "What is she?"

Terry looked the woman over. "A shifter probably. They like to shock people, you know? Shifters can make grandstanding an art form."

"I didn't know they could change just their eye colour like that."

"The strong ones can. I saw a guy grow a tail once—he was stoned at the time... and that's another thing—did you know that shifters have to use a ton of the stuff for it to affect them? Can you imagine a shifter with a habit?"

"No," she said. The thought was too horrible.

"Of course not. They couldn't afford it!" Terry laughed, but Marie didn't. He was becoming less funny as time went by.

Terry checked his coat with a woman behind a counter and pocketed the ticket stub she gave him. Marie shook her head at the woman's enquiring look and kept her shawl, though she didn't really need it. Holding it in place gave her something to do with her hands.

"He reserved the best seats in the place for us," Terry said in satisfaction and waving the invites as if fanning himself.

"Who did?"

"A friend of mine."

"Is he our host?"

"You might say so. It's his club."

Marie followed him toward the inner doors and through them. A strikingly handsome man in a white tuxedo met them on the other side. Terry said his name was Charles and that he was the floor manager. He had marvellously blue eyes that held her gaze and trapped it there. She felt much of her tension leave and a smile appeared on her face. He made her feel so comfortable that she had to wonder why she had been so uneasy before.

Terry spoilt the mood when he embarrassed them both by waving their invitations under Charles' nose. Charles stepped back a pace and lost eye contact with her. Marie suddenly felt chilled. Goose bumps dotted her arms and she shivered. What in the nine hells was that? Why had she been standing there with a silly grin on her face?

Charles looked a little disgruntled for a moment, but he was a professional. He took the cards from Terry. He obviously knew who they were and did not really need them, but he showed them to their table without fuss. He was a professional.

"Enjoy your evening."

Terry waved Charles away, but Charles wasn't speaking to him. He had again caught her eyes with his. His words seemed to reverberate in her brain until all she could think about was having a good time.

"Enjoy... evening," she mumbled and blinked awake. "Thank you, I'm sure I shall."

Charles inclined his head politely and left smiling.

"Seems like a nice man," she said watching him going back to his place near the doors.

Terry snorted. "You don't know anything do you?" Before she could even think of becoming angry at his tone, he went on. "Charles isn't a man, well not anymore. He's one of the monsters. You know, a vamp?"

"A _vampire?_ " she hissed under her breath. "You led me in here and didn't warn me? You _bastard!_ "

"Calm down. You knew what you would see in here, and if you didn't, you should have."

She scowled at him. She _had_ known, but the club was so nice that she had begun to forget her fears. They were back now in full measure. Her eyes swept the room trying to see just what she had fallen into.

There was music and singing, quiet conversation between patrons, and men and women enjoying their meals—there seemed nothing to fear. A live band was performing to one side of the stage. They were playing a love song better suited to a nineteen thirties music hall than to a club for non-humans. A very tall woman was singing her heart out. She was wearing a backless evening gown cut low in the front that would have been almost indecent in any other setting. It was soft silver in colour—like platinum, and very simple in its lines. Marie doubted she was wearing anything under it, but the woman made it seem more than ample. Her voice was pure gold. She could have been wearing a sack and no one would have cared so long as she didn't stop singing.

The table to the right had two couples sitting and laughing together. She paled when she noticed the men both had golden eyes. Their companions looked human, but they surely weren't. No one, man or woman, could possibly be so complacent as to actually date a shifter. Lycanthropy was hideously contagious.

She looked behind her and found Charles with another couple at the door. He was smiling and staring very intently at the woman. Less than a minute went by and the woman started as if just then realising that she'd been daydreaming. The woman rubbed her arms as if she had a chill, just as she had earlier. Charles indicated that they should follow him and led the way to their table. The woman was still dazed. Her companion put an arm around her shoulders and steered her toward their table.

Terry noticed Marie's distraction. "It's his job."

"What?"

"Charles. Calming the guests is his job."

"Why didn't he work his magic on you then?"

Terry shrugged. "I've been here before. I didn't need it. It's not really magic you know. Clouding minds is part of a vamp's nature. It's a kind of a defence mechanism, like those fish that puff up when bigger fish come by. Vamps use it to calm their prey so they can feed in safety."

She shivered. He'd said prey as if he didn't care that a vampire's prey had always been human. Vampires were cannibals when you really analysed them. They denied it of course. They insisted that drinking human blood was not the same as eating human flesh.

_Yeah right._

"How come you know so much?"

"I've been around. Some of the stuff I've seen would turn your hair grey," he said smugly pleased with himself.

"Terry," a warm voice said chidingly. "You are frightening my guest."

_And that is a bad thing._

Marie almost said the words aloud. They seemed appropriate to the mood somehow. She turned to see the most exquisitely handsome man she had ever seen approaching her table. Heads turned throughout the club, and conversations trailed off in mid-word as men and women craned their necks to stare. She didn't blame them.

He wore his jet-black hair long and loose, it flowed onto his shoulders like a waterfall made of night. His skin was pale and smooth like marble. No one was that perfect, it had to be a trick. She pulled her eyes away from his and focused on his hand where it reached for hers. It was just a hand, but she didn't want to touch him for fear of what she would discover.

One moment he was gliding to her table, the next he was holding her hand. She gasped at this evidence of his otherness. "Who _are_ you?" How many vampires were wandering loose in the club?

Terry was standing and she hadn't seen him rise. "Marie Stirling, this is Stephen Edmonton. He's the owner of Lost Souls and our host this evening."

_Get out, get out, get out.... RUN!_

She stared, paralysed with fear. A better description might be fascinated. She was like a deer frozen in the headlights of an oncoming car. Her mind was shrieking, but her body was completely still as if trying to be as small and unnoticed as possible. It knew a predator when it saw one. This beautiful man, this _thing_ , was undeniably a predator.

"Delighted to meet you at last," Stephen said and lightly brushed her hand with a kiss. "You will not fear me; there is nothing to fear while I am near."

"Nothing... fear..." she shivered and smiled up at him, but then she caught sight of Terry's face.

The excitement there was unmistakable and faintly disturbing. His eyes were fevered and a light sheen of sweat gleamed upon his face. She didn't know what it meant, but he looked as if he'd done something clever and was waiting for his reward like a good dog. She pulled to free her hand, and Stephen allowed it to slip out of his grasp. She had no doubt that had he not allowed it, she would have needed a crowbar to escape. A big one!

She licked her lips. "What are we really doing here?"

Stephen beckoned to a waiter and another chair was brought. He sat as he did everything else—gracefully. "Terry has simply performed a service for me. A favour if you will."

"A favour? What favour?" She tried to catch Terry's eyes, but he avoided looking at her. He made to sit, but hesitated when Stephen glanced at him.

"No," Stephen said simply.

Terry looked confused. "You promised."

"Leave," Stephen said without even looking at him. When Terry did not move, he turned and glared. " _Now._ "

Terry stumbled back as if pushed. He reached a shaking hand to his face and brought his fingers away bright with blood. His nose was bleeding, but there had been no blow.

"You promised."

"You shall receive your reward. Have I not given my word?" Stephen said and dismissed Terry by turning his attention back to Marie.

Terry retreated. "Thank you, Stephen."

"Don't leave me with him!" she pleaded, but Terry ignored her and continued backing away.

"Hush. No harm shall befall you," Stephen promised.

She believed him, which scared her worse than anything else. Was he using his magic on her? "What did you promise him, and what are you going to do with me?"

"Terry is a minor servant of mine. He has been useful to me in the past, but I think that is coming to an end. A pity."

He smiled but she noticed how he kept his lips tight. The thought of what he was made her faintly queasy. She ought to be screaming the place down, but she felt calm—she was curious more than anything. That fact would probably scare her later. Why wasn't she screaming? She found herself leaning forward trying to see his fangs.

Stephen noticed and allowed her to see.

"They're so tiny," she said in wonder. "I mean, I'm sure they're more than adequate—" she broke off in confused embarrassment.

Stephen's startled laughter rang through the club, and suddenly everyone was beaming in pleasure—including Marie. It was wonderful that he was happy. He should be happy. She wished she could think of something else to make him laugh. Maybe she could—the babbling in her head suddenly cut off as if with a knife. It left her feeling almost dizzy.

"Forgive my indiscretion."

"I don't understand."

He gestured to his patrons who were conversing with their companions as if nothing had happened. "I sometimes leak power. It can lead to embarrassing situations."

"You _leak?_ " she squeaked.

Stephen grinned. "They felt my delight in you and reacted." He tilted his head a little and his hair spilled from his shoulder to cover one eye. Marie's hand twitched and reached toward him of its own will. She wanted to brush it away, but she snatched control of herself and forced it to be still.

Stephen continued as if unaware of her confusion. "I asked Terry to make it possible for us to meet."

"Why?"

"Would you believe I was curious?"

"No."

"I didn't think so," he said approvingly. "What do you know of your father's business dealings?"

"What has my father to do with this?"

"Humour me."

"I know that he has interests in a lot of companies, mostly in electronics. Techtron is his though."

"Techtron is why you are here. Would you like to order food?"

She blinked at the subject change. "I'm not hungry."

"Some wine perhaps? I have some very fine vintages here, very fine," he said wistfully. "Let me choose one for you."

"Just the wine then."

Stephen gestured to one of the waiters, the same one who had brought his chair earlier, and spoke to him quietly. The waiter seemed surprised by something, but he nodded and left to fetch Stephen's choice of wine.

"You said Techtron is the reason you invited me here."

"That's right. Have you heard of AML?"

"Who hasn't?"

AML stood for the Anti Monster League. It was an organisation supposedly supported by concerned citizens that saw non-humans as a danger to humanity. Publicly, AML stood for peaceful protest with the aim of segregating all non-humans from human areas. Reservations were AML's public answer to everything monster related. Privately, AML fanatics could be credited with any number of atrocities against non-humans.

"AML is ready to launch its new campaign."

"And you think that Techtron is somehow involved? No, you wouldn't need me for that... you think it's my father!" she said in outrage.

"Not your father, but someone highly placed in his organisation." Stephen said appeasing her. "Ah, here is the wine."

The waiter placed a single glass on the table and then carefully, almost reverently opened the bottle. Marie watched all this in bemusement. She would like to ask what was so special about the wine and the occasion, but she did not want to display her ignorance. Stephen obviously took his wines seriously. She would not spoil it for him.

"Should I pour, sir?"

"No, thank you, Michael, I shall serve the lady. You can go."

The waiter placed the bottle reverently on the table and excused himself.

Marie was sure she was missing something. Was it unusual for Stephen to sit with a guest, or was it something else? The waiter had left with a strange look on his face—almost amazed.

"I remember wines of such variety and colour that today's vintners would scarce believe me should I try to describe them. So much has been lost—"

"A lot has been gained though surely?"

Stephen shrugged. "Oh... yes, I suppose so. There are the occasional bright spots. A new variety of grape was grown not long ago. I am told that it produces a wine that almost surpasses the great wines lost so long ago."

"You haven't tested it?"

"I cannot," Stephen said. "My condition prevents me."

"You can only drink—" she couldn't say it.

"Blood, yes. Water also, if taken in small amounts."

That was one way to finish conversation. The thought of Stephen sinking his fangs into someone in order to drink their blood was horrible. He was so beautiful that it was easy to forget the reality. Vampires were not called monsters for nothing. Best she remember it.

"Whom do you suspect at Techtron?"

"I don't."

"Then how do you know that Techtron is involved?"

"Techtron has suddenly taken an interest in riverfront property."

She waited but that was all. "Riverfront property. You mean property owned by monst... non-humans?"

Stephen nodded. "Property owned by us is being bought for huge sums of money. A building worth half a million at most is selling for three and four times that amount, yet one owned by a human—right next door sometimes, is not being sought at all."

"AML don't usually try to buy non-humans off."

"No. They would scare them off or kill them. This is something new, something clever."

"Clever? Why is it clever?"

"Killing us might not be illegal, but it is frowned upon," Stephen said a touch bitterly. "This way, AML gets what it wants without attracting unwanted attention."

"Killing a shifter is the same as killing a human," she said and it was true. Shifters were people with an affliction, they were not truly monsters like vampires—she looked at Stephen and tried not to think along those lines. "It's wrong."

"I'm glad you think so, but you must be aware that AML class all non-humans the same way. They don't discriminate between types. They simply kill them."

That was unfortunately true in too many cases. She remembered reading in the news about an entire family being butchered. She remembered the awful pictures showing the dead children. The worst part was that they were innocent. Their father had contracted lycanthropy from a botched blood transfusion. It had happened well after they were born. The children were pure human, but AML hadn't known or they hadn't cared. The police never found the murderer.

"I guess I could ask my father why Techtron wants to buy into the riverfront."

Stephen looked pleased. "I have tried to talk to him, but he won't see me. He won't accept my calls."

"That doesn't sound like him."

"You would know that better than I," Stephen said and carefully poured her a glass of wine. "Here, tell me what you think of this."

She tasted the wine. "This is _wonderful!_ " she said and it was. She was not a connoisseur of wines, but even she could tell that this was something special. She took another taste and savoured it.

Stephen lifted the bottle reverently, reading the label. "I saw this bottled. Well, it might have been another, but I certainly saw this batch created."

"Is it old?" she asked after emptying her glass. It truly was the best she had ever tasted.

"It was bottled in seventeen ninety-one. This is the last of that year I have."

She gasped. "And you opened it for me. It must be worth a fortune!" No wonder the waiter had almost been in shock.

"It has not been wasted. Wine is meant to be enjoyed, not left on a dusty rack as some kind of investment. I remember what it was like to eat and drink good food and wine. I wanted you to enjoy your visit." He poured her another glass.

"I have," she said and surprisingly it was true.

The unpleasantness with Terry had been relegated to the back of her mind and she did enjoy Stephen's company. She knew what he was, and she still liked him. She knew how dangerous it was for a lone woman in the company of monsters and didn't care. Besides, a woman alone was always in danger. It came with the job.

"What did you promise Terry to seduce me into coming here?"

"Seduction was hardly necessary. It had no part in this. It was a happy coincidence that Terry was already seeing you."

"Is that what he told you—that we were seeing each other?"

Stephen frowned in annoyance. "Ah, he lied then. I shall discuss that with him when next we meet."

"He lied," she agreed. "This was supposed to be our first date. I met him not long ago at a friend's party. He seemed nice."

"Nice?" Stephen said, his eyebrows climbing in surprise. "I don't think being nice is one of his qualities. It did surprise me when he said he knew you. I doubted him at the time. He hardly seems the type to move in the same circles as you."

"I don't have circles, not really."

"Surely your father being who he is?"

"I love my father very much. He's all the family I have, but his friends are not my friends. I have no interest in whether Mayor Richards is re-elected or not, and I certainly have no interest in the price of magically processed computer chips."

"Then what are your interests, if I might ask?"

She shrugged.

"There must be something?"

She laughed a little in embarrassment. "My college major was biology. My father wouldn't approve, but I used to think medicine might be something I could do."

"But something changed your mind?"

She nodded as the familiar hurt surged up and closed her throat. Martin and she had both considered it, but when he disappeared, she had let the idea slide. It didn't seem so important anymore.

"My friend and I talked about it, but then something happened and nothing came of it. If you don't mind, I don't like to talk about it."

"Forgive me," Stephen said with a slight inclination of his head.

She felt her eyes burning with the need to cry.

Stephen laid a hand carefully atop hers. "Forgive me," he whispered.

She nodded and let the tears come. Stephen produced a handkerchief from somewhere and she dabbed at her eyes. She tried to laugh, but it came out like a hitch in her breath.

"This is so silly of me."

"Pain is rarely silly. Your friend is dead?"

"No! I mean, I don't know. I hope he's well, but he just disappeared one night. Please, I don't want to talk about this," she said and tried to think of something else to talk about, but all she could see was Martin's face. "I'm sorry, but I would like to leave now."

Stephen stood as she rose. "I will have Terry drive you."

Her lips twisted into a sneer at the thought. "I'll take a cab. I don't want him near me."

"I understand, but there's no need for that. I'll have Charles drive you."

Her eyes widened at the thought of Charles alone with her. "I would rather—"

"Have no fear. Charles will be the perfect gentleman, I promise."

She found herself nodding. A short time later, she was reclining in the back of a white limousine with Charles at the wheel.

## 9

# A Promise Kept

Stephen watched the limousine turn into traffic from the steps of the club, and remained there thinking long after the night had swallowed it. Marie intrigued him, and that was something to be treasured after so long a life. Few things had the power to surprise him any longer, but she had managed to do it.

"Will she help?" Danyelle asked approaching out of the darkness.

Stephen nodded. "I believe she will." He turned back to enter the club and Danyelle paced him. "But we need something more."

"Dare we lean upon such a weak support?"

"You question me? Ah, you are jealous of her," Stephen said, strangely cheered by the thought. "You fear her."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'll still be beside you long after she is dust. She has nothing to offer you."

"You're wrong, she has herself to offer."

Danyelle was silent as they passed through a door marked 'Staff Only' and up the stairs beyond. They entered an office to find Edward Tansey, the day manager, busy at his desk. He made a polite excuse when they entered and put away his link.

Edward rose to his feet and offered his seat to Stephen. "Terry Sayles has asked for a meeting. He sounded upset."

"He shall have his meeting, and his reward," Stephen said and waved away the offer of a seat. He stood before a large window that substituted for the office's back wall and watched the show on stage below. Cassy had finished her set, and Jerry, a cigar-smoking comic, had come on. "Have Terry brought to me."

Danyelle nodded and left the room.

"Has there been any word from Leon or Raymond?"

Leon Pullen and Raymond Pederson were the Alphas of two large shifter packs. Pederson was wolf, and Leon coyote. Leon's pack was the larger but it had traditionally stayed neutral in past disputes. Stephen had honoured that neutrality, not needing more enemies, and so had allied with Pederson, but recent events had strained the alliance to breaking point.

"Nothing yet," Edward said and joined him at the glass. "You know what shifters are like. They're fully invested in the game of status. I doubt we'll hear for a few days."

"A few days we might not have. I need them Edward—badly. Mister Sayles aside, I cannot create more vampires. I dare not be seen as an empire builder as Alexander was in Chicago, but that does not remove my need for them. We are not strong enough should the worst happen and we be attacked by AML here. I need the shifters as allies, and I need them in numbers."

"We could offer Ronnie to Raymond. That might tip the balance back in our favour. Her being here is part of the reason for the rift."

Stephen frowned at the suggestion. It was a sensible notion, but it angered him. He was a man of his word still, and she was his now. His wolf to protect. If only he could replace Raymond with a more honourable man. David was strong enough, but he was too new and didn't yet know himself well enough to understand he couldn't live as he used to. Strong but naive wouldn't work. He needed strong and ruthless, but honourable too; honourable enough to stick to agreements. Raymond Pederson had proven that he did not value their alliance when he withdrew his support over something as petty as a single wolf leaving his pack.

"Ronnie is mine now. I protect what's mine and I honour my agreements. All know this about me. My reputation is important."

"Not more important than your life."

"Hmmm." Stephen frowned. "What I have built here could all be swept away so easily. Pederson is a lost cause I fear. It will have to be Leon."

"I will try to expedite."

"Good."

"There are other packs," Edward said tentatively. "Perhaps Jonas?"

Stephen shook his head. "His coyotes are a force to be reckoned with, but they're our community's enforcers. They're not my personal army to throw at AML. They cannot take my side. If they did, they would have to do the same for any other group who asked them. They must remain neutral in all disputes. Turning them into mercenaries would be more dangerous in the long term."

Edward nodded; he had heard all the arguments before.

There were other groups of shifters in the city, but most were hardly packs at all. They were small groups who called themselves this pack or that pack, but in reality were just loosely affiliated family groups. They had no standing in the wider community, and that meant they had little or no threat to back anyone as allies. They were usually ignored unless they were foolish enough to get in a larger group or pack's way.

He considered his options again but they were few. There was only one possible way to bring Jonas and his coyotes into a fight between him and AML—call for a vote to declare open war. If such a thing were to pass, Jonas' pack would certainly fight alongside every other member of the community. Every shifter pack, every vampire House, perhaps even the small family sized shifter groups could fight in such a war. A fine idea in theory, but it would never happen. The government would eradicate every non-human in the city if such a war started. They could never overlook such widespread and open violence. Alexander's shadow war with OSI would be as nothing compared to the one with AML he envisioned. Not that he would get the votes for it if he tried. No, he would never be so foolish as to declare open war. Any attack had to be defeated, while keeping the authorities ignorant.

"How did your meeting go with Miss Stirling?"

Stephen smiled at Edward's reflection in the glass. "I felt you watching," he said and smiled again at Edward's discomfit. "I think it went quite well. She will ask her father about Techtron's interests here in Los Angeles."

"That might help."

"Knowledge of one's opponent is always good to have."

He watched Jerry's act and noted the unenthusiastic response it received. This pleased him in a way. Jerry's act had never inspired him to laughter—few things did, but Edward had hired the man and thought him very good. The audience's reaction however, verified his decision to let Jerry go.

"Well?"

Edward sighed. "You were right, again."

"Thank you," he said dryly. "Send him on his way tonight."

Lost Souls was not typical of modern clubs, not even of modern monster clubs. Its decor, its acts, the food and wine, and even the service provided by his highly trained staff were all intended to recreate better days—days when gentlemen dressed for dinner and ladies would wear long evening gowns that trailed seductively to drive men to distraction.

"It's almost perfect," he said remembering the days that Lost Souls tried to emulate. "I do not want to lose this."

"You won't. I won't let it happen."

He was hardly comforted. "I will if AML and Techtron have their way."

Edward said nothing. There wasn't anything to say. Shifters had few rights and vampires almost none. A vampire, like all undead creatures, was not alive in the accepted sense. Therefore, they could not own property, or vote, or launch a lawsuit. They had no legal standing and couldn't defend themselves from those who did, not within the law at least. Outside of it was another matter. He could, and often did, defend himself very well outside the law, but doing so had caused complications in the past. Removing a rival was one thing, trying to remove a human controlled corporation like Techtron was another matter entirely.

Lost Souls was his, but his name did not appear on the deeds. His name did not appear on any legal document. A corpse could not own anything, he thought bitterly. He controlled all his holdings through front men like Edward. Edward took his orders from him, and everyone else took theirs from Edward. It was a good arrangement. He had used the same system of human servants countless times, but still the necessity galled him.

He felt rather than heard Danyelle approaching. If he reached out, he could have called her to him from almost anywhere in the city. "I will need your office for a few minutes."

"Stephen?"

"Mister Sayles is coming to receive his reward."

Edward paled. "Are you sure, _really_ sure you want him?"

Stephen laughed mirthlessly. "I do not want him at all, but I keep my word. Perhaps not the way he expects, but I do keep it once given."

"I know, but surely this once—"

"Compromise leads to the Devil, Edward. An old Christo saying, but still relevant I think."

Just then, Danyelle glided into the office followed by a nervously sweating Terry. Edward took his leave and closed the door on his way out. Terry looked around nervously before bringing his eyes back to Stephen.

"I did it. You wanted her here, and I got her here. You owe me."

He frowned. The man's gall was beyond annoying. It would be so easy to snap his puny neck and make his remains disappear forever, but he truly did value his word. If a dead man could be said to have honour, he wanted it said of him.

"You lied to me, Terry."

"I didn't lie. I told you that I knew her. I told you that I would give her to you."

"She is not yours to give. I asked how you knew Marie, and you told me that you were dating her. I do not tolerate lies. If I ask something of you, I expect the truth." He watched Terry nervously shuffling his feet. "Still, I did promise."

"Yeah, that's right. You did promise."

Stephen glanced at Danyelle. "You look famished. You may have him."

Danyelle moved in an eye blink.

"No!" Terry shrieked as Danyelle struck.

Stephen watched Danyelle feed while Terry kicked and struggled. His pain and fear were particularly sweet, and Danyelle appreciated it. Fear flavoured the blood; fear imbued it with power that was life to her and all their kind. He could have used his power to make Terry sleep, he could have used it to make Terry enjoy his death and so could Danyelle, but this was both his punishment and his reward; punishment for his lies, and reward for the favour of bringing Marie to the club to meet him.

Terry's struggles were weakening. Danyelle had fed deeply upon him and his death was moments away. His pulse would be weakening, while his heart would be thundering as it tried to pump an ever-diminishing supply of blood to the brain. He would feel as if he were floating in warm water. Perhaps he could already feel himself rising as his heart stuttered and missed a beat.

"Enough Danyelle," Stephen said as he felt Terry's heart falter. " _I said enough!_ " he roared and lashed her with his power.

Danyelle snarled at the pain he inflicted. She hissed and spat at him as her need overrode her discipline. He drove her back hissing and snarling. Her power, strengthened by her feeding, pushed at him trying to lash out, but he was her master now and always. Nothing could change that.

Terry lay discarded on the floor. The terrible wound at his neck still pumped blood. He was very close to the edge now. "Please..." he whispered.

Stephen knelt beside the scared man and looked into his pain-filled eyes. He ignored Danyelle who was slowly coming back to herself where he held her pinned to the wall with his power. "Now you see, don't you, Terry? Now you see what I am and what you hope to become. I give you a choice, one that I was never offered. You can stay, or you can go on to your eternal reward. Choose."

"I... don't... want... to... die..." Terry hissed as he struggled to talk despite his ruined throat.

"Dying is part of the process, but I understand. So be it," he said and slashed open a vein in his wrist. The discomfort was a momentary thing. "Drink of my blood and be reborn."

Terry suckled on his wrist desperately hoping for life. Slowly his body lost way to the grievous wound in his neck and he lost consciousness. A few minutes later, Terry Sayles breathed his last breath.

"May I come down now?"

Stephen stood to regard Danyelle where he held her off the floor and against the wall. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better thank you. Did you have to hit me so hard?"

"Yes," he said simply and released her to drop lightly back to her feet. He kicked Terry's corpse lightly. "Clear this mess up before Edward comes back. You know how bloodstains upset him, and this was a new carpet."

"I'll get right on it," Danyelle said with a happy smile. "Right after I wash my face."

Stephen nodded.

The limousine pulled carefully up to the gates and Charles pressed the intercom. Marie didn't hear what was said, but whatever it was must have been the right thing. The gates swung open and Charles drove inside.

Andrew was waiting outside the door when they pulled up. With him were two of her father's security team. None of them looked particularly intimidating, but something about them must have warned Charles because he did not get out and open the door for her.

The partition lowered and he turned to her. "Please climb out Miss Stirling. I think your father's bodyguard might kill me if they do not see you unharmed."

The way he spoke made her shiver. He didn't sound outraged about his possible death, he sounded resigned to it as if he faced similar or worse things every day. She climbed out and waved to Andrew. He didn't respond. The two men with him spread out a little more, and with a chill, she realised why. She was in their line of fire.

Charles' door opened a crack and he would have climbed out into who knew what, but Marie grabbed the door to prevent it opening fully. Charles looked at her and stopped. He could have forced it open, hell, he could probably have flipped the car over if he wanted to.

"No need to see me inside, Charles. Andrew is here."

Charles glanced over her shoulder. "Stephen was very specific."

"Stay in the car. You can watch me go in without getting shot, okay?"

Charles nodded and closed the door. The engine purred to life, but he was taking his orders seriously. He wouldn't leave until she was safely inside.

Marie walked toward Andrew aware as she did so of Charles at her back. She walked without hurry and tried to stay in his way. She had no reason to think that he would hurt Charles without her father's orders, but she was feeling edgy. So much had happened to her tonight that she felt anything was possible. Who knew what could happen on a night such as this?

"Miss Stirling, please go inside."

"You first," she said with a smile. "And send your friends in."

Andrew looked startled. "Where is Mister Sayles? We heard that there was a fight. Is he in the car, does he require medical attention?"

"You heard it wrong, Andrew. Terry is a bastard and I don't care if he needs a doctor, though I doubt he does. It was only a nosebleed. Let's go inside and I'll tell you what happened."

Andrew hesitated, but then he nodded to his men to go in. They obeyed. "After you Miss Stirling."

It was her turn to hesitate, but she reasoned that should Andrew want to hurt Charles, he wouldn't have sent his men away. She stepped around him and into the house. Behind her, she heard the car pull away and then Andrew coming inside.

"I would like to hear that explanation now, Miss Stirling."

The tension and excitement had left her feeling tired, but she had promised to tell him the tale. Sleep would have to wait. "Let's get comfortable," she said and entered a sitting room. "Where do you want me to start?"

Andrew sat opposite her. She saw a glimpse of his gun as his jacket gaped. "From the moment you left the grounds."

She would have protested, but she didn't have the energy. "Okay. Terry said the party was a surprise and wouldn't tell me where we were going..."

She told him everything that had happened including why Terry was no longer welcome to her home. Andrew seemed pleased that she would not be seeing him again, and angry when he heard the reason for her decision. Terry had sold her to the monsters for some undisclosed favour they would do for him. That was unacceptable behaviour. Marie thought that Terry might be receiving a little visit from Andrew sometime soon. She could hardly make herself care.

"...and then Charles drove me home," she finished and couldn't quite cover a yawn. She really was rather tired.

"Did this person, this Stephen tell you whom he suspected of involvement?"

"He said he didn't know."

"He likely knows, Miss Stirling. How else would he suspect Techtron's involvement?"

Techtron's involvement. Andrew had said that as if Techtron's involvement was a given. She felt cold. Was her father a member of AML? Or worse, did he control it? She had no doubt that her father was powerful enough to do so if the notion appealed to him, but did it?

"Andrew, you wouldn't lie to me would you?"

He smiled. "That would depend."

"On what?" she said indignantly.

"On whether telling the truth would put you in danger."

That made sense, and she should have known he would say something like that. She nodded as if she had already known. "Do you know if my father is a member of AML?"

"Yes."

"Yes you know, or yes he is?"

Andrew's lips twitched. "Your father is not a member of AML, but some of his employees are."

"Do you know who they are?"

"I know some of them. So do you."

She tried to imagine a friend of hers setting bombs and killing people. She couldn't. "Who?"

"I will not tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because being a member of AML isn't illegal. However, dismissing someone on those grounds would be."

"But they're terrorists!" she cried in outrage. "They kill people!"

"Only a minority use violence. Most are simply what they appear to be—ordinary men and women frightened of monsters taking over their neighbourhoods."

That might be so, but it made her uncomfortable knowing that there were AML supporters close to her. She wished she didn't know, and cursed herself for that feeling. She had to take responsibility for herself.

"Will you do something for me, Andrew?"

"I will look into this person's accusations."

"That's good, but that isn't what I was going to say. I want you to find out everything you can about a club called Lost Souls and the man who owns it."

"I can do that."

"Thank you. Will you keep this between us if I ask?"

Andrew nodded slowly.

"Thank you."

## 10

# Dinner

Marie sat quietly behind the wheel of her car trying to summon up enough courage to go through with it. Andrew had come through big time with his investigation into Stephen's allegations against Techtron. There was a lot in the file that had shocked her; she was sure her father didn't know about the worst parts. He wouldn't have stood by and let people be hurt in his name. She had made Andrew promise not to tell him about any of it until she'd had a chance to speak with him. She wanted to break it to him gently.

She reached for the file beside her on the passenger seat and opened it. She had the entire thing on disk, but she had a feeling that Stephen would prefer hard copy. The first item was a photograph of Christopher Wilson at a clandestine meeting with John Newman. She didn't recognise the others with him, but she didn't need to. Newman was well known as AML's fugitive leader. Christopher Wilson was her father's number two, and Techtron's chief of operations. He was on the board of directors and a very powerful man in his own right. It was worrying that her father didn't care that the second most powerful man in Techtron was sympathetic with AML's politics. Andrew said he knew about his political leanings, but he didn't care as long as he did a good job.

She leafed through the reports and photos then slapped the file shut and dropped it back upon the seat. What was she doing here really? The information gathered in the file was confidential. It could really hurt Techtron's stock if what it contained became public knowledge, and here she was contemplating giving it to an outsider. Not only that, Stephen was a... he wasn't even... alive? She winced; she didn't like parroting AML's line even in the privacy of her own thoughts. It felt like a betrayal. Why that should be, she didn't know. She barely knew him, and yet...

She remembered their brief meeting and his laughter. She liked it that she had surprised him. It was a silly inconsequential thing she supposed, but making him laugh had made her feel good. Made her feel alive again in a way she hadn't really felt since Martin disappeared and she began drifting. She had made him laugh and it was genuine. Stephen had noticed her, noticed that she was alive and a real person not a basket case for her therapist to study like some kind of baffling puzzle, not a daughter to be sequestered and protected from the world, but a person in her own right with her own thoughts. She had made Stephen laugh; an immortal knew that she lived. A silly thing to hold so much meaning for her, but in the centuries to come, long after she turned to dust and cobwebs, he would remember the woman who had made him laugh. It wasn't much of a mark to leave upon the world, but it was strangely comforting to her that she was in his memories now.

She watched people arriving and leaving the club, wondering who they all were. Andrew wouldn't like it that she was here. Lucky then that he didn't know. He thought she was at a friend's house. She had even borrowed Kelly's car in case he had people watching hers. He had done it before and she had let him. Just as she let everyone do things for her. It was easier; easier by far to let them take charge than to make decisions. Just drift along, don't make a fuss, don't argue or draw attention. Let it all go by.

Her features hardened into a frown. It was time she took charge of her life and did something with it. Helping Stephen was something she was uniquely qualified to do and she was determined that this time she would not let herself take the easy path. Before now, she hadn't shown an interest in her father's business, preferring her studies. Her biology major and a future in medicine had been her goal once, but now? She had surprised herself with how much she had enjoyed poking into things when Andrew gave her the report. Double-checking some information, going deeper into other areas herself when the report lacked something she felt needed investigation, had revealed a side of herself she hadn't known existed. Her father would have been stunned to learn she'd enjoyed researching his work; she had never shown an interest in where the money came from before. He had long ago decided she would not follow in his footsteps, not that he had ever asked of course. It was just understood. He would be more than stunned if he learned why she was interested now.

Marie took a firm hold of herself and climbed out of the car. She crossed the parking lot and bypassed the crowd of hopeful party-goers trying to ignore the glares they aimed her way. She didn't recognise the doorman and wondered if he would let her in.

"I need to see Stephen."

"Oh really," the doorman said, sarcasm heavy in his voice. He waved another couple through the doors.

"Yes really. He knows me."

"Is that so?" he said sounding amused and condescending.

She gritted her teeth and silently counted to ten. "Look, if you don't believe me, get Charles."

He turned a guy away for not wearing a tie and glared at her in irritation. "Look lady, I've got a job to do here. I can't leave the door."

"And if I don't see Stephen tonight, I won't be back. You can explain to him why I didn't give him this," she said waving the file under his nose.

He scowled and ducked his head inside to call someone to take his place on the door. When he turned back he looked pissed. "You had better be real friendly with Stephen, lady. If I take you in and find you conned me, you're gonna regret it."

Marie stepped back and swallowed nervously. The doorman's eyes had changed from grey to gold. She could almost feel his anger radiating from them.

She nodded nervously.

The doorman said a few words to his replacement and led her inside. They didn't go into the club proper. Instead, he led her through a door marked 'Staff Only' and up a flight of stairs into an office. There was a man sitting at a desk working with a computer.

"What is it, Lawrence? I thought you were on the door tonight?"

"Yes sir. I have a woman here. She claims to know Stephen and wants—"

"I _do_ know him," Marie interrupted as she stepped around him to enter the office. "Are you Edward Tansey?"

"Yes I am. You may go, Lawrence."

Lawrence nodded, closing the door as he left.

Edward smiled and offered his hand. "Miss Stirling, I am very happy to meet you at last. Stephen has spoken of you in the most glowing terms."

Edward Tansey was Stephen's familiar, another name for which was human servant. He had a very pronounced British accent, a legacy of years spent in England with his mother's family. According to Andrew's investigation, Edward was Oxford educated, unmarried, and loyal to Stephen beyond question.

She shook the offered hand. "Is Stephen here?"

"Regrettably not—a business meeting, but he'll be back quite soon."

She frowned in disappointment and it had nothing to do with the reports she held. She had been looking forward to seeing him again. "I have something he needs to see."

"You can leave it with me and I'll see that he gets it."

"I'm sorry Mister Tansey—"

"Edward please. Only employees call me Mister Tansey."

"Edward then," she said clutching the files to her chest. "I can't let this out of my sight. I had hoped to go over it with Stephen tonight."

"I'm certain he would be delighted to receive you. Would you like to sit while you wait?" Edward gestured to the leather sofa to the right of his desk. "Can I get you anything, coffee, tea, something stronger?"

Marie bit her lip but moved to the sofa and sat. "Do you have a coke? I'm driving."

"Of course," Edward said from across the room and busied himself half filling a tall glass with ice cubes and pouring the coke. He turned back and offered the glass. "Here you are."

Marie set aside the reports on the sofa next to her and took the glass. She drank the first inch. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Edward said and sat with her, the reports a barrier between them. "May I?"

She nodded. Andrew had researched Edward Tansey. She had no fear that Stephen would object. "Please."

Edward picked up the folder and began reading while she watched his reactions and sipped her drink. He read for a short while until reaching the point that referenced the photographs. She knew that because he stopped reading and shuffled papers until he found the right picture. He held it in one hand and frowned, re-read something and frowned again before going through all the pictures.

"Forgive me for asking, but is your father aware that Techtron is sponsoring AML?"

"Techtron is not sponsoring them," she began hotly. "Wilson is."

"Forgive me again, Miss Stirling, but that is naive. I haven't studied this in any depth, but already I can see Techtron and AML have a mutually beneficial relationship. AML wants the non-humans removed from the city, and Techtron wants to own the Waterfront District. Do you know what the locals call this area?"

Marie shook her head.

"Monster Central," Edward said and looked down at the files again. "If AML were to succeed in clearing Monster Central of non-humans, it would go a long way toward realising their goals. Los Angeles is home to one of the biggest non-human communities in the Republic. Success here would be a huge win for them.

"Stephen and I were puzzled about AML's strategy, a clever move we thought, and dangerous because it could work. They usually don't try to buy our people, they butcher them, but now I am starting to think we were looking in the wrong direction. AML are not behind this strategy; Techtron is. Your father's company is bankrolling AML and using its reputation to... ah, _encourage_ acceptance of its offers."

"My father is a good man. He doesn't know about this."

"You have talked with him then?"

"No but—"

Edward frowned. "Why not?"

Before she could answer, Edward closed the folder and stood, already looking toward the door. Marie turned and watched Stephen flow into the room. Flow, what a marvellous word. It was accurate too. Stephen was so graceful; he flowed through the door and into the room. She smiled when his distracted expression changed. For a moment she saw surprise and delight on his face, she was sure she had seen it, but it was quickly replaced by a smile of welcome. Her smile widened a little more, and she wondered if he was leaking again. The thought almost made her laugh.

"Marie! This is a surprise." Stephen reached for her hand and clasped it in both of his as she rose. He held her hand stroking it with a thumb as if unaware. "Have you eaten this evening?"

A shiver ran down her spine, she couldn't concentrate on anything but his hand holding hers. His skin was dry and cool, but not cold. She had imagined he would be cold, but his touch was pleasant. More than pleasant. Another shiver ran down her spine and her short hairs lifted. She was fascinated by his touch. She stared at his hand, his thumb stroking back and forth, back and forth and imagined him touching other things. A glow of warmth began low in her belly. Goddess, he was...

She forced herself to look up. She found his eyes and a thrill of fear shot through her. Never look a vampire in the eyes! Everyone knew that rule. She quickly focused upon the knot of his tie, but then she realised he hadn't tried anything. Daringly, she flicked a look at his face and found nothing to fear. He was still smiling, waiting for an answer.

_Talk fool! Say something intelligent for goddess' sake!_

"Ah... eaten? No I..." she was acting like a child! She tugged gently and Stephen released her hand. Had she imagine his reluctance to let go? "I brought something you need to see."

Edward offered the folder back and Marie accepted it gratefully. She needed the distraction. She opened the folder to the photograph of Christopher Wilson meeting with John Newman and turned the entire folder toward Stephen.

He glanced down reluctantly but his eyes sharpened when he realised what he was looking at. He reached to take the folder, glancing up for permission first, and took it out of her hands. He glared at the photograph as if it offended him. Good thing vampires were not pyrokinetic, because the strength of his glare might have made it burst into flames.

"I got it for you, the information you wanted. You said last time you needed me... my help I mean so... well I got it for you." She forced herself to shut up. She was babbling!

"Thank you, Marie. This is more than I expected."

"We can go over it together. I mean if you would like to. I can't let you keep it; it would do bad things to Techtron's stock if what that folder contains got out, and it would devastate my father to learn his friend is doing this."

Stephen's eyes danced over her face, studying her. "Be at ease, I give you my word I mean no harm to your father, and of course you must take this away with you."

Edward shuffled his feet, his expression uncertain. "But we need—"

Stephen raised a hand and cut Edward off. "I would very much enjoy your company for dinner this evening. We can go over this at the same time."

She hadn't planned to make this trip into a date, but she hadn't eaten yet. She had been too nervous. She wanted to accept, she realised, and she had to stay to go over the information with Stephen anyway, so why not over dinner?

"Dinner would be good," she said, and felt proud of her daring. She really was starting to take responsibility for her life again. She doubted her father would be thrilled with the way her new independence had manifested. "I don't think my jeans will look right in your club."

Stephen's eyes glowed briefly and Marie felt his delight in her acceptance of his offer. He was leaking again. The thought made her grin.

"No need for concern." He closed the folder and used it to gesture toward the door. "I have an apartment here."

"Here at the club?" she said as they left the office.

"Beneath. We call it the underground. It's very comfortable. My staff and I live there. AML are always a threat. It's safer for all if we stay together."

The thought of AML hurting Stephen chilled her, and ruined the mood that had been building. What must it be like, living in hiding and always on guard against attack? The club must have a giant target painted on it even without Stephen's presence. So many non-humans partying together must be like a slap in the face to Newman and his friends.

"Have you ever thought that your club is asking for trouble?" she said as they crossed the lobby toward another door on the far side.

Anger sparked in his eyes. "Blaming the victims?"

"No! That isn't what I meant at all. Lost Souls is a monster club. Humans don't come here."

"Some do, you did after all, but I know what you're thinking. Our people do need places like this where they can be themselves."

"But you didn't ban humans."

"That would be illegal," Stephen said wryly. "I have people on the door whose judgement I trust to weed out troublemakers of the human variety. They only let in those we can trust."

She made a face. It wasn't fair, but no one said it would be. In the Republic, non-humans were barred from many venues and businesses by law, but that same law protected human rights. It was literally illegal to discriminate against humans based upon their sex, or race, or age. Such hypocrisy was breath-taking.

"It's not fair," she said. "But I was thinking how your club must look to AML. It's a slap in their faces. You painted a huge target on it. They could bomb the place without fear of killing too many humans."

Stephen snorted as they followed the corridor to the end and called the elevator. "They have tried various things, not bombs yet, but they wouldn't care about killing a few collaborators and thrill seekers. That's what they call humans who associate with us. To them, such people are collateral damage at worst, not even worth a second thought."

Marie knew he was right. The story about AML killing a shifter and his family wasn't the first of its kind she had read about, it wasn't even that unusual. His completely human children hadn't warranted more than a brief mention by the media. A day or so later they were forgotten.

The elevator doors slid aside, and she joined Stephen inside. He entered a code into a keypad and then selected four. The elevator dropped smoothly and opened less than half a minute later to reveal a corridor with a few doors set in the walls. The floor was carpeted with a silvery grey carpet and the lighting in the ceiling was subdued. The walls were white, while the doors were varnished wood. Stephen ignored the rooms each side, leading her toward the double doors at the far end of the hall, but as they neared the last door, it opened to reveal Terry.

Marie stopped, startled. "What are you doing here?"

Terry closed the door. "I live here," he said and a strange light flashed in his eyes.

She stepped back giving him some room, feeling a wave of dizziness and nausea pass over her. Stephen was suddenly there. His hand flashed, once then twice, so fast she barely saw it move, but suddenly Terry reeled back from the backhand slap to his face. Blood trickled from split lips.

Stephen moved forward into the vacated space making him back away. The look of hatred on Terry's face was terrifying, and Marie wanted to shout for help, but then she saw his eyes burn red and his fangs descend. The realisation that he was a vampire shocked her into a horrified silence. Had he been attacked? Was Stephen looking after him? She didn't understand any of this.

"You _dare!_ " Stephen hissed angrily. "You dare to insult my guest and compound it by trying in front of me? Never try that on her again. I swear you are one breath from the final death at this moment."

"I'm sorry, Stephen! I swear I didn't mean—"

Another slap. "Don't lie to me!" Stephen roared. " _I made you, I can unmake you!_ "

Marie covered her ears and screamed; Stephen's roar had power, not just volume. Terry cringed, turning his face away from Stephen's wrath. It was wrath, not anger. She screamed again as Stephen's rage poured over her.

"Marie?" Stephen said softly an age later. "Open your eyes love, it's all right now. He's gone. I won't let him hurt you."

She shook her head.

"Please."

She shook her head again, and tried to speak. It wasn't Terry that had scared her.

"I should have thought. It's my fault. I knew he was down here, but I would never have believed him stupid enough to try that on you with me right there. I'm twice the fool now."

She didn't think he was a fool at all. He was as sexy as anything on two legs that she could imagine, as scary as ten demons appearing in her bedroom naked and ready for action, as powerful as... as powerful as a very powerful thing with no safety catch! He was all that and more, but she didn't take him for a fool.

"Tw... tw... twice?" she stuttered.

"For honouring my word and giving him the reward he sought, and then allowing you to meet him this way. It won't happen again. I will ensure he is elsewhere during your visits. Will you still have dinner with me?"

She opened her eyes and looked beyond him at the empty corridor. There was no sign of Terry. "It wasn't him. I mean he surprised me, but it was your reaction that scared me half to death."

Stephen's face fell. "Ah."

She felt his self-disgust clearly. "What did he try to do to me?"

"He tried to glamour you."

"But all it did was make me feel dizzy. Was he trying to do that, why?"

"No, you misunderstand me. He's too new; his power is weak. He tried to take control of your mind and make you his toy."

Marie paled.

"It's all right. I have impressed upon him the consequences of repeating his error."

She could guess what Terry's punishment would be if he angered Stephen that way again. She nodded, only then realising she was still kneeling on the carpet, and Stephen was crouching at eye level to talk to her. She gave him her hand.

"Help me up?"

Stephen's relief was obvious. He pulled her up, and steadied her. "Dinner?" he asked hopefully.

Why was he so interested in her, why so intent upon dinner? It wasn't as if he could eat. All he could do was watch her. It was flattering that he wanted to do that, but she was no child to believe an immortal saw merit in her. She was nothing special. The more she thought about it, the clearer it became that the only thing special about her was her father.

## 11

# Tea and Cookies

"I don't know, man. It just seems a little..."

"What?" Slick Willie said as he drove. "You ain't pulling out on me are you?"

"It just seems a little off you know? I mean, she's just an old lady, right? How much we gonna get from someone like that?"

"If you don't want to come in with me, Lenny, just say it straight. Are you pulling out? I can drop you right here."

"No man, I'm with you," Lenny said hastily.

Right here was a particularly nasty neighbourhood; not a good place to be alone and he knew that. Willie smiled into the dark. He didn't need Lenny for this little job. Hell, he didn't need anyone's help to relieve an old biddy of her savings, but she was expecting him to bring his _brother_ with him this time. The stupid bitch thought he was her friend. She thought him a nice boy for helping her carry packages up to her apartment and gave him tea and cookies like he was a damn kid. She had some nice stuff. Some of the china dolls she had collected must be worth a few bucks, and the picture frames were silver. He didn't know much, but he knew quality stuff when he saw it. Sal the shark would take them off his hands no problem at all.

Willie parked the car outside the old biddy's building and locked the door. He wanted the car to be still here when he came back. With luck it would be, though it wasn't his. He'd stolen it just an hour ago especially for this job.

He led Lenny into the lobby. The building used to be a good hotel back in the day. The floors, though worn, still had a look of elegance. They were clean and the marble tiles shone dully. The entire building was like that. It had once been something special but had declined slowly into just another apartment building with a history. Unlike some, the owner of this one had taken care not to let age turn it into a derelict. Yes, its splendour had faded with age, but its quality was still obvious. If he ever had the money, he would buy something just like it for himself.

They walked by the desk being held down by the so-called building supervisor. Willie nodded to Frank, but the old sot didn't even notice. Just as well. They didn't need the old fart getting involved and maybe getting hurt. Not that he was averse to hurting him if he had to, but it would be a hassle he didn't need. He wanted money not a fight.

The elevator dropped them on the fifth floor and Willie led Lenny to the old lady's door, but something wasn't right. The door was slightly ajar. His sense of danger was highly tuned and it kicked into high gear on seeing the door unlocked. Lenny, the dope, wouldn't sense danger if a guy stuck a stunner in his ear—he pushed the door open and grinned as if it meant their luck was in. Willie hesitated to follow as Lenny entered, but this was his job. He had to follow through. He pushed into the darkened apartment then on into the sitting room. He fumbled for the light switch, but couldn't find it. He stepped further into the room and his footsteps rustled. He looked down to find himself standing on a plastic drop cloth. The kind you used when painting the ceiling or something. Was the old biddy having some work done, was she even here?

"Mrs Marchant? Its Willie and Len... you invited us for tea. Are you there?" He peered into the darkness and his eyes slowly adjusted. The shadow sitting upon the settee didn't respond. "Mrs Marchant?"

"Ellen is sleeping," a voice out of the darkness hissed.

Willie gasped and spun to his left. A pair of eyes were revealed by a ray of light leaking into the room through the part drawn drapes. The voice was definitely that of a man, but the eyes reflected the light oddly. They almost seemed to burn red.

Lenny fumbled in his jacket pocket for his boomer. Willie cursed himself for a fool, but before he could pull his own weapon, Lenny collapsed bonelessly to the floor, hit from behind. Before Willie could react, powerful arms encircled him. With one hand trapped in his jacket pocket and the other down by his side, he could do nothing but curse and struggle.

"Thank you, Frank," the voice said again.

"You want me to take care of him for you, Mister Lochlin? I can't leave the desk too long."

"No, we can't have the lobby unattended at night. Hold him for just a moment."

"Yes sir."

Willie shook with fear. "Let me go man. I won't say nothing about Lenny. You can have him; you can do what you want to him. He's nothing to me. I swear I'll go and you'll never see me again. I swear it!"

"I'll not be seeing you again in any case," Lochlin said as he stepped closer. "You really shouldn't have come here. Ellen likes you, and that means I had to do something I would rather not have done. I broke a promise to myself and violated her trust because of you. You have no idea how angry that makes me."

"But he will," Frank said.

"Oh yes, yes indeed," Lochlin said and came forward in a rush, fangs already out and his eyes blazing red with his fury.

Willie began screaming.

## 12

# Slick Willie

It was a cool but bright morning in the city. The sidewalks were busy with shoppers and people hurrying to work, but traffic had yet to reach its peak. Chris smiled her approval and drove fast.

She beat a tattoo on the steering wheel and sang along happily to a song she'd heard that morning on the radio. "Hmmm, Hmmm..."

Her partner of four years, John Warner, was quiet but that was okay. They had been together long enough to be comfortable with each other's silences—

"Why don't you put a sock in it?" John growled irritably.

—and bad moods, she grinned and drove faster. She swerved around a car pulling out of a side turning, and with tyres squealing, she floored it. The car surged ahead.

"And slow down for the goddess' sake!" John yelled clutching the oh-shit handle on his side of the roof. "They can't get away, Chris, they're already dead. Remember?"

"Yeah, but it's so much fun. I _love_ this job!" she said and laughed at his growls. When John drove, he almost always put the car on autopilot, but she rarely did. She was a control freak and knew that about herself. It was one of her best qualities. "I have a need for speed!"

John grinned for a moment but then got serious. "Yeah, but you're going to get that pretty butt of yours in a sling if Stokes hears."

She sighed and slowed down. Stokes was her captain and he didn't like her idea of fun. She got along with most people in her department, she even got along with Cappy most days, but he could be a pain about certain things. Things like speeding to a scene, or damaging public property, or pressuring a suspect. He was the perfect captain, always ready to protect _his people_ against outsiders, but at the same time, he would be reaming her over the methods she used to take down the bad guys.

"I'll be good."

John looked at her sideways. "Really?"

"Yeah," she said and grinned. "Scout's honour!"

John sighed. "What's with all the uniforms?" he said nodding at the street up ahead. The street was jammed with people. Cops and newsies didn't mix well usually, but here they were, one big happy family.

Chris manoeuvred as far as she could into the chaos of cars and vans before parking. Hundreds of onlookers were trying to see the poor devils that had been stupid enough to walk through an alley in Monster Central without a stunner in each fist. They climbed out of the car and looked around.

"It's a real zoo down here," she said looking at all the reporters clamouring for a look-see at the city's latest morbid offering. "They make me want to hit something."

"You told Cappy you'd cut down on that sort of thing," John warned.

She shrugged checking that her badge was in place on her belt. Her police issue stunner in its holster rode the opposite hip, while her backup pressed into the small of her back; it was reassuring but illegal as hell. "I did and I am, but I haven't hit anything for over a week now. It's getting to me."

The uniforms were holding the line against the media, but unfortunately keeping the reporters back from the alley didn't stop them from reporting their bullshit. Their remote cameras, rotors buzzing like dentist drills were in the air over the scene recording everything in its gory detail. She heard the same old recycled and generic news spewing from the reporter's lips as she swept by. Channel 5 was doing its worst to trash the department as usual. How many times had she heard the like? Hundreds. Of course, they had no choice as yet. Later the stories would flesh out with names of the victims, and speculation on how, why, and when the murders had occurred as the department slowly released details. It was always the same.

She ignored the shouted questions just as she ignored the cameras overhead, hovering on their blurring rotors. Why ask her what was going on anyway, she thought grumpily. Couldn't they see that she had just arrived? Of course they could, the cameras were capturing video of her arrival right now and feeding it to the editors in the vans. No doubt, she would catch sight of herself on screen later.

John put on the headset they shared—it was his turn—but he didn't activate it. "What about the coffee machine you killed the other day?"

"That doesn't count, it had it coming trying to stiff me like that," she said absently as she flashed her badge at the uniforms guarding the entrance to the alley. She ducked under the tape with John at her side and made her way to where the action was. The severed head was the first thing that caught her attention. She crouched down to examine it better. John indicated he was going to have a look at the other corpse, turning on the headset to record the scene as he walked.

"I'll stay with this one," she said to his back.

The head had a face she remembered. Four years ago, she had been in uniform assigned to twelfth precinct, which included 104th street and the scum who owned it.

"Well, well, well. Fancy meeting you here, Willie," Chris said conversationally to the head. "How's it going?"

Someone coughed nearby covering laughter. She looked up to see a faintly sick looking young man in uniform, but behind him was another face she knew.

"I think ol' Slick Willie slipped on the sidewalk _de-tec-tive_ ," Sergeant Jacob Baines drawled.

Slick Willie was, or had been anyway, Willie Danvers' nickname on the streets. Back in the day, she had known him as a small-time thief—picking pockets was his main gig, but even then he had diversified from time to time. She wondered what he had been into lately, and whether it was big enough to lose his head over.

She stood to confront the sergeant. "Well shit, Baines, why didn't I think of that? Oh yeah! Now I remember, his head came off!"

Baines grinned. "I heard he was shaving at the time."

She laughed and continued their game. "Yeah? Witnesses?"

"Give me a minute and I'll find you a couple of dozen."

She laughed again. He probably could too. Willie was scum, and like all scum, he had plenty of people who hated his guts. Or rather, he used to have. Now he was less than scum. He was dead scum.

She stepped over the head and shook hands with her old sergeant. "How are you Jacob?" she asked looking up at him where he towered over her and his huge gut.

"I'm doing real good," he wheezed and shook her hand.

He was an enormous mountain of a man. He had been her trainer and inspiration at one time—her obsidian giant; not literally a giant. He was human enough and swore there were no giants in his ancestry. She still wasn't sure about that.

"Glad to hear that, Jacob. Who is your friend?"

"Let me introduce a new soldier in our fight against the bad guys. Patrolman Kevin Goodchilde, this is one of my old apprentices, Detective Chris Humber."

"Nice to meet you, ma'am," the patrolman said and shook her hand.

Chris liked him straight away, the way you couldn't help liking a puppy. "Same here," she said and turned her attention back to Baines. "Who's the other stiff?"

"One Leonard Joseph Lambe. That's Lambe with an E. He went by Lenny, not Leo, sometimes Whitey... the hair I guess."

Lenny had white hair then. Chris pursed her lips. "Never heard of him."

"Nah, he's new on the block. Well after your time."

"Let's go have a look."

Baines escorted her over just like old times. John was having a word with a guy wearing a vest and leather trousers and not much else; a witness maybe, though if he were, Baines would surely have said right off. John saw her coming but continued his questioning.

The second headless corpse was lying on the ground near a fire escape. Two decapitations in one day had to be some kind of record for the department, but then again, maybe not. This was Monster Central after all, and most non-humans used other weapons than boomers and stunners. Claws and teeth were usually preferred, but swords and other edged weapons were popular too especially with vamps. She frowned at the open door of the fire escape. If memory served it led into a club called Zero Gee; an apt name for a place where most of the customers spent their time flying high. Zero Gee sold more chemicals than Colombia.

"Someone chase him?"

"Not that we can tell," Baines said. "Take a look at his neck."

She crouched to have a closer look and frowned at what she saw. Something had taken a big bite out of him before taking his head off. Possibly a vamp, but they couldn't eat meat and didn't usually worry at a wound like this when feeding. They were fussy eaters, most of them; very finicky, and there was meat missing from the neck. This was looking more like a shifter attack, but they rarely used weapons. They preferred the home-grown variety—their own claws and teeth.

"An animal attack?" she said looking up with a grin.

Baines rolled his eyes. "Yeah, good one... not."

"You're thinking wolf. They _are_ the most common shifter type."

Baines shrugged. "Maybe, but what about Willie? No way did a shifter do that. The wound is too clean, a big knife not teeth. We have someone who says he saw Willie pushed out of this door by another guy. Then a minute or two later, Lenny here goes to take a look and wham—he's dead too. Considering your other case... _the certain high profile case that no one is supposed to talk about_ ," he stressed. "I figured you'd be interested."

Interested? Hell yes she was, but she couldn't see a connection between this scene and the Ghost. The Ghost was a serial killer with a bent for ripping the throats out of women with his teeth, not men. That kind of attack automatically shouted vampire to many people, her included, but Willie's head had been removed with some kind of weapon—a big knife like a bowie, maybe even an honest to goddess sword. As Baines just said, the cut was too neat for it to be anything else. The coroner would have to confirm. Whitey apparently did have his throat torn out, but the wound didn't match the others she had seen in the Ghost case.

"Anyone know who this mysterious fire escape user is?"

"The witness says no," Jacob said, hooking a thumb at the man talking to John. "He knows all right. He just ain't saying."

"No murder weapon and no witness to the killing," she said, thinking aloud. Without either one she had nothing to go on. "We can ask around, maybe come back tonight when Zero Gee fills up again, and see if anyone remembers seeing Willie last night. Other than that, I don't think I can do much until we have the autopsy report."

Jacob nodded. Chris noted a knife lying nearby and untouched. She bent to examine it but kept her hands well away from it. It was clean of blood and was obviously not the murder weapon. A butterfly knife like this one couldn't take someone's head, not without a lot of sawing.

"I'll track down the third guy and see what he has to say, but without the murder weapon..." she shrugged, leaving the obvious unsaid. The case would go cold quickly and end in the archives with so many other unsolved cases.

Jacob nodded unhappily and led his apprentice patrolman away. Chris watched him go remembering tagging along behind Baines as Goodchilde was doing. She had learned a lot from him.

She left the knife where it was for the CSI guys and their robotic probes to investigate, and went back to Lenny. She frowned at the wound. What type of animal could do that with a single munch? Could a wolf really do that much damage with a single neat bite? She needed to look into bite radius and pressure. There were reference texts for that sort of thing. A cat shifter of some kind might be a better fit. Lion? She had never heard of one in this state, but there was a first time for everything in this crazy town. Other cities had them, tigers too; she knew that.

"Anything?" John said coming back from the witness.

"Nah. Just a butterfly knife, but there's no blood and it's too small to have done this. What did you get?"

"Nothing that's worth anything. He works in the club behind the bar. Says he saw the victims going out the fire exit separately. He swears he doesn't know who the third guy is."

"You believe him?"

"Do I look stupid?" John with brows raised. "Don't answer that!" he finished quickly.

Chris shut her mouth with a smirk. "Want me to have a word?"

"Can't hurt, but I doubt you'll get much."

"We'll see," she said heading over to speak with the man. "What's his name?"

"Jones, if you can believe it. Jason Jones."

She nodded and cornered Jones just as he was about to leave. Things were winding down in the alley now. White clad men and women from CSI were setting up their gear ready to vacuum up any evidence. It was an exacting task but one they were adept at. She watched the sniffers and droids get underway then turned to the witness.

"You Jones? They call you JJ?"

"Some do. I guess you're supposed to be the good cop, huh?"

"I'm the _bad_ cop," she said with a fist full of his crotch.

Jones' eyes popped and he made to yell, but a gentle squeeze told him that it wasn't a good idea. "You... can't... do... this!" he gasped at the pressure she applied.

"No?" she asked, squeezing his privates again. John nudged her and flicked his eyes up the alley to where some of the guys were starting to take an interest. She eased off. He was no fun.

"Give me the name."

"I don't... _all right!_ " Jones hissed as she tweaked his privates again. "Anton."

"Anton who?"

"Anton is all I know... _come on!_ It's all I know I swear on my _mother!_ "

"You don't have a mother," she said and let him go.

"Bitch," Jones hissed as he slid by her.

"What was that?" She made to grab him and laughed when he took to his heels through the open door and back into the club.

John shook his head in amusement. "Cappy is going to have a seizure."

"Nah, old JJ won't make a complaint."

"Don't be too sure, you got him where it hurts."

"Yeah I did didn't I?" she said happily.

"I don't mean them!" John said with a snort of laughter. "I meant his pride."

"Oh."

They made their way back along the alley to the car. The street had pretty much returned to normal while they chatted with JJ. It was surprising how quickly people lost interest when the bodies left a scene.

"So we have a first name for the missing guy, unless it's a nickname, in which case we have nothing," John said. "Any idea who he is?"

"No, but I'll get him."

"Confidence is good. Just how did you plan on finding him without a surname or murder weapon?

Chris climbed into the car and was about to lay out her plan when they received another call. John raised an eyebrow and answered it. "This is Warner, what's up?"

"What's up?" she whispered. "That's hardly good radio procedure."

John flipped her off while they listened to the dispatcher.

_Possible homicide. Sutton Hotel, one-zero-two-four Greenwich Avenue. Officers on scene._

"Five-Alison-twenty-three on route," John said as Chris started the car. "Looks to be a busy day."

"Seems like," she agreed and pulled into traffic. "You know, we might get somewhere with this Anton character by pulling Jacob in on it."

John turned to her with a frown. "Okay, what the hell are you up to now?"

"Who me? I just thought that as he knows everyone around here he could help us out."

"Yeah, and what else? It wouldn't have anything to do with that puppy he was leading around would it?"

"Look, if Jacob chose Goodchilde to train, he must be something special."

John nodded grudgingly. "He does seem to know who to pick. You were one of his weren't you?"

"Yeah, he pulled me off traffic one day. He said he liked my look and needed some help. We worked together for two years. I swear I've never sweated so much in my life. He had me working beside him on every kind of case you can think of. I didn't figure it out until later, but he was taking jobs no one else wanted just to give me experience—he took on stuff that must have bored him silly just to help me. I would really like to make a start on paying off what I owe him."

"And you think pulling him and Goodchilde into an open and shut homicide will do that?"

"It's a start, and it's not open and shut until the case is closed," she said a little defensively. "Besides, a homicide is a homicide. It will look really good on Goodchilde's record."

John shrugged. "It's okay by me, but you'll have to get Cappy to sign off on it."

"I can handle Cappy. I'll say that Jacob has unique knowledge vital to the case."

John snorted.

She grinned. "I'll fix everything."

What John didn't know was that Cappy had worked with Jacob many years ago. They hadn't been mentor and trainee. They had been partners.

Chris pulled up outside the Sutton Hotel and shut off the motor. "You know, I'm getting a little tired of this place. Why can't they kill people somewhere else for a change?"

John snorted as he climbed out of the car. "I like it here."

"Yeah?"

"Seriously," he said as they entered the lobby. "Joseph and me go back quite a way. We do birthdays and everything!"

Chris eyed him uncertainly. "You're shitting me, right?"

"Would I do that?"

Joseph Sollis was the manager of the Sutton Hotel. He was talking to the uniforms when he saw John. He raised a hand, "Hey John! How's it going?"

"Good Joseph, and you?"

"Not so good my friend. You heard?"

"Yeah," John said grinning at Chris' stunned expression. "That's why we're here."

She shook off her surprise. "What have we got?"

"Dead hooker," Officer Chaney said.

"Hey!" Joseph said in outrage. "She had a name you know!"

Chaney had the decency to look embarrassed. He was new on the job. Chris turned her attention to the manager. He was a clean-shaven, balding white male approximately forty to forty-five years of age. He was wearing a shirt and tie with a sweater and no jacket.

Chris indicated that John should begin recording and he nodded he was ready. "How well did you know her?"

Joseph's eyes narrowed. "I knew her, but not the way you mean. I'm very married and happy about it." He turned to John. "Where the hell did you pick her up?"

"Around. Answer her questions Joseph. She doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"That's right. I don't," she said, getting ready to be angry.

"I knew her pretty well," Joseph said grudgingly. "She was a regular. I know all my guests."

"Her name?"

"Jenny Lovett. She came in with her man at around three last night."

"Describe him."

Joseph shrugged. "Just a guy. White, pretty tall I guess—"

"How tall? As big as Chaney?" Chris said.

"Nah bigger. About your size, John."

John nodded. "Six-two. Build?"

"Muscular. Brown hair kinda curly and almost to his shoulders. He hadn't shaved, but it wasn't a beard, just stubble. There was something off with him. I noticed it when they came in. Usually the guys hang back as if they're embarrassed to be paying a lot lizard, you know what I mean? Not this guy. He was different."

Chris frowned. "Different like how?"

"Like how he stood behind Jenny, kind of hovering over her. It was as if he thought she might get away or something. She wasn't scared," he hastened to add. "It was business as usual as far as she was concerned."

"You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure!" Joseph said hotly. "You don't think I'd let her go up with a guy if I thought he'd hurt her do you?"

"I don't know what you would do. There are all kinds of hurting."

Joseph fumed.

John stepped into the silence. "Anything else you remember?"

"Yeah, there was something wrong with his eyes. They were too pale, almost colourless. You know them people who are all white?"

"Albinos?"

"That's it. His eyes were like that, and he was pale, but his hair was brown so he couldn't have been one could he? I mean not like that guy... you know the Ghost that everyone's talking about? Shit, it couldn't have been him could it?"

Chris glanced sideways at John and he nodded. "Did you hear a name?"

Joseph shook his head. "He didn't speak."

"Did you see him leave?" she asked intently.

"Yeah. It was around four. I know because I was watching some vid and the news was on."

"Didn't you think it was odd when she didn't come down?"

"Why would I? They don't always leave together. Sometimes they stay the night. It depends."

"Depends on what?"

"On how much the guy paid I guess. Look, I don't ask the details. I don't want to _know_ the details!"

She snorted. "Okay. I guess that's enough to start with. Officer Chaney will take your statement again." She turned to Chaney. "Make sure he signs it, and do the seal up right. I want no mistakes on this one. Got me?"

Chaney wasn't upset with her extra instructions. He had caught the Ghost reference. "I don't make mistakes on the job. Ever."

She nodded. "Let's go see Jenny."

"Right," John agreed.

They called the elevator and rode it up to the third floor. The apartment was already the centre of attention when they entered. Forensics was already doing its thing and the photographers were busy documenting every inch of the scene. As usual, there were many more people hanging around than was strictly necessary.

"All right! Who was first on scene?" Chris yelled taking charge.

"I was," a voice called from another room.

She followed pointing fingers into the bedroom and a scene out of nightmares. Blood had splashed over the walls and the carpet was sodden with it. She clamped her jaw shut and fought not to toss her cookies.

"It's him," John hissed under his breath. "The albino thing, the eyes. It's him."

"We don't know that."

One of the police officers in the room approached her. Officer Dwight Fiscus was a veteran. He had seen all there was to see both off and on the streets, yet this one had even him spooked. He looked a little white around the gills as he squelched his way across the carpet toward them.

"Who called you in?" Chris said.

"The manager. He said one of his employees, a guy named Tim Granger, came up to check on one of the regular hookers they get in here named Jenny Lovett around half eight this morning. When she didn't answer he used his master key to get in."

Chris dug at the carpet experimentally with the toe of her boot. It squished. The blood hadn't dried yet, and that told her the time was probably about right. The forensics people would have to verify to be certain, but so far she couldn't fault what they'd been told.

"What does Granger do for Joseph?"

"Security," John said before Officer Fiscus could answer. "Joseph has a couple of guys to keep an eye on his regular _guests_. If you know what I mean?"

Chris did. Joseph might seem an okay kind of guy, but when it came right down to it, his _hotel_ was just a flophouse used as a brothel. He had Tim to keep the girls and himself from being ripped off. Why John had let himself become friendly with Joseph Sollis she would never know.

"Where's Granger now?"

"Downstairs making his statement," Officer Fiscus said.

"Okay, let's have a look at her."

Chris stepped up to the bed. She kept her eyes locked on the headboard. Only reluctantly did she lower her gaze until she saw the... _thing_ that had been Jenny Lovett.

"Holy goddess," John hissed in shock. "Merciful goddess, bless us and hold us safe from evil."

"Fuckin A," Chris said faintly. "Are you telling me no one heard anything—no one?"

"Not a thing," Officer Fiscus said.

John shuffled his feet as if they wanted to take him far away from here. "She's number eight, she must be. I'll call Raz."

"Yeah," she said faintly.

John left the room to make the call. Something he could have done right here, but she didn't blame him for wanting an excuse to get out. She wanted one too, but Jenny needed her.

The albino thing was too much of a coincidence for it not to be the Ghost, but the blood all over the place here and wasted—from a vampire's point of view—made little sense. The blood suckers needed it; why waste it this way? And what about the hair thing? Maybe he dyed it brown to throw off pursuit. If so, he needed bigger changes in his MO than just hair colour. If he was getting nervous, why kill Jenny like this and put himself firmly back in her sights as the Ghost? It didn't make a lot of sense.

As with most serial killers, this one rated a task force and Cappy had put her in charge of it. John remained, as always, her partner and an invaluable aide. Raz and his partner Matt Silvis were the third and fourth part of their little task force quartet. They all had other cases to run, like this morning's murders of Slick Willie and Whitey, but Jenny Lovett and the other victims of the so-called South Central Ghost took precedence. On the Chief's orders, she could ask for any kind of assistance and it would be forthcoming. The media had lit a fire under the Mayor's butt and he in turn had lit one under the Chief to make it happen. It was frustrating as hell, but without a suspect, she couldn't begin to make use of the Chief's generosity. She had unlimited resources and it didn't mean squat.

"She had to be dead before he did it right?" Fiscus said. "I mean, she had to be dead, right?"

"Goddess I hope so," she said, hating the doubt Fiscus had just managed to stir in her brain.

"Yeah."

She pulled her eyes away from what was left of Jenny Lovett to study the walls. The sick bastard had tortured and killed eight women in the past three weeks. He always left a message of some kind as his calling card. This time he had painted the walls with Jenny's blood. Chris had never seen graffiti anything like this, and she hoped she never saw it again.

"Could be he's trying to prophecy or something. Maybe he used the blood in a ritual. He's never done it before though."

Fiscus paled further. "You don't think he's magi—"

" _No_ ," Chris snapped, cutting him off before he could say it. "Absolutely not, and I better not suddenly hear that making the rounds at Central either."

Fiscus acknowledged the threat with a grimace. If even a rumour of magi involvement came to light, her investigation would come under White Council scrutiny. The council of magicians would land on her like a mountain, and with them the Feds. She would lose the case for a certainty, but more than that, her career could come to an abrupt end just for hinting at magi involvement, or letting others hint at it. It was a bloody miracle that the Feds hadn't already taken the case. She frowned, not for the first time wondering why they hadn't. Serials like the Ghost attracted Feds like flies to shit.

"Her head was on the dressing table over here," Fiscus said pointing at a puddle of blood. "We put it back with the rest of her after the photographers were done. It seemed the right thing."

"That's okay," she reassured him. "I couldn't have left it there either."

She studied the mirror hardly recognising the pale and haunted reflection as herself. She looked terrible. "Was she... I mean was it... the head looking at the mirror?"

"Yeah. What does it mean?"

"Vanity maybe. I don't know. This is my third headless corpse today."

"No shit?"

"Nope."

"Could it be related?"

"I don't think so."

Chris would have escaped the bedroom then, but John chose that moment to come back in.

"Raz is on his way up," he said as he entered. "He was downstairs talking with Joseph."

She waved a hand at the walls. "This stuff is pretty freaky. Do you recognise it?"

"No, do you?"

"I think he might fancy himself as some kind of poet."

"I wouldn't know—"

"I would," Raz said as he entered. "And he's no poet. The sick prick is just some kind of nut that gets off on tearing the throats out of women and taunting us. When I find him, I'm going to make him have a chat with my stunner on max."

"You can have him after I'm done," Chris said. "I get first crack at him."

Raz frowned. "How do you figure?"

"I rank you."

"Only by a couple of weeks," Raz protested.

"A couple of weeks or a couple of days, it's all the same. I rank you so I get first crack."

John shook his head. "We've got to find the sonofabitch first."

Raz held up a vid camera. "Yeah, about that. I want some pictures of the walls. I know some people who might recognise some of this stuff."

"Do _you_ recognise it?" Chris stressed.

"Kind of. I think it might be based on the Book of Revelations. It's part of the Christo holy book, you know the Bible?"

Chris shook her head. "If you say so. How does that help us?"

"I'm not sure it does. I'm not saying he's a Christo or that he prays to the hanged god, but if I'm right these writings are prophecies about Armageddon—the end of the world. At least that's what it reminds me of. They don't look the way I remember."

"You've read it then, this Bible thing?"

Raz looked embarrassed. "Don't tell anyone."

John looked as amazed as Chris felt. There were hidden depths to Raznik that she was only just beginning to uncover. Raz and John went to work with the camera and Chris decided to head downstairs to interview the muscle Sollis had hired. Tim Granger was the one who found the body. He might know something.

## 13

# Investigations

Captain Stokes read the report and nodded. "It's okay with me if it's okay with Jacob."

"He said he might have a lead on the third guy—a pimp by the name of Anton Chase. I can check in with him now and then—"

"I said _yes_ , Chris. Jacob is more than capable of handling it. He could have had his gold shield a long time ago, but fool that he is, he wanted to stay in uniform."

"But why?" She couldn't understand anyone not wanting to be a detective.

Cappy shook his head. "I can't say as I understand it myself. He tried to explain it to me once. Something about his brother and how he died on the job. You did know his brother was killed in the line of duty?"

"I heard."

"It has something to do with a promise Jacob made to him before he died; something about taking over for him. You know how serious Jacob takes stuff like that."

She nodded. If Jacob said something, you could lay money on it being true. If Jacob _promised_ something, all nine hells would freeze over before he broke it and that was a fact.

"If Jacob chose Goodchilde to train," Cappy went on. "The kid must be something special. I had better keep my eye on him. I don't want to lose him to Newton or Hollenbeck."

"Not very likely surely?"

"I'm not taking the chance. Meaweather knows Jacob, and he's pulled some stunts in his time. I could tell you stories... but I won't."

Maeweather was currently commanding officer of Newton Community Police Station. There was friendly rivalry between them and most of the other captains.

"Do you want me to tell Jacob?"

"I'll do it. I haven't spoken with him in ages. It will be good to see him again." He put the report aside and leaned back. "How are we doing on the Ghost?"

Chris sighed. "Do we have to call him that?"

"Not if you can give me his real name. No? Then the Ghost he shall be, unless you have a better suggestion."

"How about Mister X?"

"Don't like it."

"Or the perp?"

"Too many perps around here already."

She scowled. "Okay, Ghost it is. Raz has been working with a guy he knows over at Valley College. I've got to say that I don't like the way things are going there."

"In what way not like?"

"Jenny Lovett was murdered in a room at the Sutton Hotel. She was ripped to pieces and her blood used to write all over the walls."

Cappy grimaced. "I read your report."

"Raz recognised some of the graffiti as coming from this Book of Revelations thing, only it didn't. When he showed his friends the photos—"

"He did what? Are you telling me Raz has been showing evidence to someone outside the department?"

"I gave him the okay, Cappy. We weren't getting anywhere. I'll take responsibility. The guy's name is Radthorne, Michael Radthorne. He's a professor of anthropology over at Valley College. Radthorne brought in Jennifer Lockstone to help him. Raz says we can trust them. He's over there right now."

She shifted uncomfortably at the look Cappy gave her. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair in silence and she began trying to think of an argument strong enough to placate him. Before she could come up with anything, he stopped the annoying drumming and leaned his elbows on his desk.

"Okay, I've heard of Lockstone, but I want to be notified _before_ you bring in any other civilians on this case. You know what we're dealing with as far as the media is concerned. The more people you bring in, the greater the risk of a leak."

"Okay. We really do need them on this. Radthorne seems to think that we might be dealing with more than one perp."

Cappy's eyes sharpened. "Oh?"

"I don't say I agree with him. In fact, I don't agree with him, but his reasoning is hard to refute assuming he's right about the writing we found. Statistically it's unlikely that a serial killer like our Ghost will share his kills. A one in ten chance."

"There was Charles Starkweather and Carol Ann Fugate," Cappy pointed out. "What about the others?"

"Sante and Kenneth Kimes, Gary and Thad Lewingdon, Alton Coleman and Debra Brown, and there was Lawrence Bittaker and Roy Lewis."

"Why does Radthorne think we have a serial team?"

"Because of what was written at the scene of Jenny Lovett's murder for one thing. There was a lot of weird stuff; ramblings about Satan walking the streets of Los Angeles, dead men coming back to life. All kinds of crazy stuff. It's not what was written so much as how it was written that has got Radthorne so worked up."

"The blood you mean?"

"Not that. The handwriting for one, though how he can tell Jenny Lovett's murderer is left handed is beyond me. Our people are still on the fence about that. They say the sample is too small. They wouldn't be able to tell much even if the perp hadn't used blood and his fingers to write with. The thing is, Radthorne says that Sheryl Adams was killed by someone _right_ handed. Patsy Jordan too."

"Victims one and two. Weren't they the ones—"

"Yeah," Chris said grimly. "That's what has me weirded out by Radthorne's idea. The Ghost likes blond women. All of the victims were blond except for Patsy Jordan and Sheryl Adams who each wore a blond wig. Added to that circumstantial bit of evidence, is the fact the Ghost rips out his victims' throat with, the coroner says, his teeth like a vamp."

Cappy nodded. "Except victims one and two showed evidence of a knife being used."

" _Exactly!_ The coroner says he still used his teeth..." she felt faintly sick at the thought. "He ate some of Patsy and Sheryl's throat after they'd been cut and they were probably dead. A vampire won't do that. They can't digest solids. Vampires can't eat anything at all or they'll get really sick. They can die even. The cuts were from left to right on the victims and inflicted from behind. Meaning the perp was probably right handed, but maybe he wasn't too. Maybe he's just ambidextrous."

"Crap on toast. You didn't tell Radthorne did you?"

"Of course not," she lied. She had told him, but not until _after_ he had made his presentation.

"So he found the odd ones out just by comparing the writings?"

"It seems like it, but there's something else. We both know that serial killers escalate right?"

"Right."

"Our only witness, Karen Sykes, was attacked first—at least we think she was first. Ghost hasn't tried to hide the bodies and no one else has come forward. Karen was first, but she got away after a brief struggle. The first victim, the first _dead_ victim, Patsy Jordan, was attacked with a knife and killed, but the thing was badly executed. Defensive wounds, blood and flesh under her nails, the whole bit. Patsy struggled and Ghost was sloppy. Patsy died hard. Then Sheryl Adams is attacked with a knife—neatly this time. She dies without a struggle. The third victim, Susan Winslow, is attacked and killed, but Ghost doesn't bother with a knife. He's better now, more confident. His learning curve is steep as hell. The fourth and fifth victims died without a struggle. Six and seven were found dead in hotel rooms and so was number eight, but she wasn't like the others. Jenny Lovett was literally torn apart. I think he might have entered a new phase. We're behind the game, Cappy. All we've learned might be useless if he's escalated to a new or different level."

"There's nothing we can do about that. All we can do is keep working the evidence. When the next body turns up, we'll know."

"I _hate_ this."

"It's the nature of the beast. We catch serial killers when they make a mistake. So far he hasn't made even one."

"Not quite. Karen Sykes survived."

"Our only witness, but even with the description she gave us circulated by the newsies, no one has come forward."

Chris shook her head absently. "That still amazes me. How can a guy look like he does and not be recognised? He's an albino! I mean, I can't even go down to the local deli without someone recognising me as _that cop on the news_. He has to eat, right? He must have a job, neighbours... friends?"

Cappy rubbed tired eyes. "I don't know, Chris, but someone knows him. There must at the very least be a neighbour—someone who is protecting him because he or she just knows it's all a mistake and their albino friend must be innocent. Such a quiet sort, they'll say. Never hurt a fly. Helps take out the garbage."

"Yeah." She stood and made to leave. "I'll keep you informed, Cappy. I'll leave you to tell Jacob about his case."

Cappy nodded and turned his attention back to the reports he had been reading.

Chris returned to her desk to brood. She idly played with the keyboard of her computer and then shoved it aside in annoyance. She was waiting for another murder she realised. She _needed_ another murder to catch Ghost. It made her mad as hell knowing that without another body on the ground they wouldn't catch the bastard. He could stop at eight and never be caught, but he wouldn't do that. She hoped he wouldn't and that made her feel guilty. Another hooker would die, and she would be glad because it would give her another chance to get him.

No, he wouldn't stop until she stopped him. She usually had a sense of these things. It was sometimes spooky how she could get inside a perp's head, but Ghost was different. She couldn't read him. She couldn't get a sense of what he was thinking except for the obvious compulsion to kill blond hookers. Maybe he had a wife, maybe she was blond. Or maybe his mother was a hooker and she was blond, or maybe his sister was. Maybe, maybe, _maybe!_

"Goddess, I need something concrete!"

"Try one of these," Baxter said gesturing at his lunch. He was sitting at his desk across the aisle scarfing down ham and cheese on rye. "I swear this cheese must be as hard as concrete."

"Heh," she snorted.

She rummaged in the drawer of her desk and pulled out a street map. She stared at the eight red crosses not really seeing them but rather seeing the pitiful remains of the Ghost's victims in their places. She had done this so many times now that she didn't really need the map anymore. She could see the damn thing in her head.

The map was creased and worn where she'd folded it and refolded it trying to make it cough up some answers, but she just couldn't see it. She flipped open the little electronic notebook that she kept with the map. It had notes taken from reports the task force had assembled on the victims and their deaths. Cappy had given them Interview Room 4 to use as an incident room, and ordinarily she would have made use of it, but Raz and Matt were still with Radthorne over at Valley College. John was attending the autopsy of Jenny Lovett and Chris was happy to leave him to it. She had attended the others with him, but Cappy had wanted to discuss Jacob's case and her report. She was grateful for the excuse not to go. She had seen enough autopsies to know they gave her bad dreams for nights after.

So then, the task force, such as it was, was otherwise occupied and the incident room was empty. At least out here she had company. Besides, she knew all the data the room contained intimately well. She had helped compile it. She watched Baxter eating and contemplated picking a fight with him. If she snatched the apple from his lunch, he was sure to get upset. No, she didn't have the energy to fight. All she wanted to do was pound the street for an hour or two like her uniform days. See the sights, chat with old acquaintances, and breathe the pollution for a while. John would go ape-shit if she went alone though. Her eyes narrowed and she quickly swept the map and notebook into the open drawer. She locked it and rose to her feet.

"Hey!" Baxter snarled. "Give me that!"

Chris held the apple out of his reach. "I'll trade you for it."

"Gimme it before I hurt you."

"Nuh-uh, the apple for an hour of your time."

Baxter grinned. "I knew that you secretly lusted after me. I knew you couldn't hold out forever."

She snorted and tossed the apple to him, and then sat on the corner of his desk. "Want to go bust a few heads with me?"

Baxter beamed. "What a charming offer. Is this a date?"

"In your dreams. The others are all busy and I'm going stir crazy in here. We could walk around some dark alleys, maybe hassle some pimps, a few pushers—"

"Hookers?" Baxter said eagerly.

"There might be one or two early risers, yeah," she said with a grin. It was early yet for the lot lizards to be out, barely after one in the afternoon and most worked nights. "What do you say?"

"I say: lead the way."

"Great." She grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair.

They made their way out to the parking lot. Chris instinctively headed for her car and Baxter went along. Everyone knew she got nervous when others took the wheel. They climbed in and she pulled out of the lot and into traffic to head south. Karen Sykes had been attacked and pulled into an alley while walking along South Union Avenue. She headed that way without even planning it.

"Can I ask you a question?"

She glanced at Baxter. "Sure."

"Why didn't you pull me into the task force?"

"No reason. I already had John on the Patsy Jordan thing with me. When more bodies started turning up and we knew that we had a serial on our hands, Cappy told me to take Raz and Matt."

"Cappy told you, you're sure?"

"Sure I'm sure. Baxter... Dave, what's this about?"

He didn't comment on her use of his first name. He watched traffic behind them in the door mirror for a long moment in silence then said, "I'm thinking of retiring."

She swerved a little. "You're kidding!"

"No."

"But you're too young!"

Baxter grinned. "Thanks, but I'm heading for forty. I wouldn't stop working. I'd just retire from the force."

"And do what?"

"I'd find something to do."

Goddess, he was serious! She stared hard at the road ahead trying to see Baxter doing something else with his life and just couldn't. Baxter behind a bar flashed into her thoughts, but the familiar suited figure polishing glasses didn't work. In her mind's eye he threw down the glass and pulled a police issue stunner. Now he looked right. Baxter was... _Baxter!_ Who would she fight with when she was bored? John was good, but he couldn't banter with her like Baxter could. He was too serious. Baxter had been a permanent fixture in the department since before she came on the scene. He couldn't leave. She wouldn't let him.

"Did I do something to bring this on? I'll promise not to steal your candy anymore."

He chuckled. "You couldn't keep a promise like that, Chris."

"I would try real hard."

"It's not you, or anyone else in the department."

Not in the department. That meant outside it then. "Is it Mary Pat?"

Baxter nodded. "When I got shot last year," he said still watching the mirror. He frowned. "When I got shot, Mary Pat freaked. I shouldn't have told her, but I was wearing my vest right? So no big deal I thought. Wrong! It was a huge deal to her. I had a walloping big bruise over my heart. It took weeks to fade and every night she cried in the bathroom. She doesn't think I know, but I could hear her over the sound of the shower. She got over it, but I see her looking at me sometimes as if she can still see that bruise through my shirt."

"Oh that's nothing," she said, trying to make light of it. "Women look at guys just as much as guys look at women."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We're just usually subtler about it. A guy gets fixated on your tits, right?"

"I wouldn't know," Baxter said self-righteously. "I only look at my wife's tits."

"I've caught you looking a time or three."

"Never happened."

"Has too!"

"Has not!"

Chris snorted. "Have it your way, Baxter, but we know."

"We?" Baxter said a little nervously.

"Women's Union of the Republic."

"Oh, them."

"Right. So, men fixate on your tits and their brains leak out of their ears. They don't even know they're doing it. Women don't do that. We have bigger brains. When we look, we get everything in one glance and file it away for later. We don't need to stare usually. Mary Pat is just lusting after your body. She didn't ask you to retire did she?"

"No, she wouldn't do that."

"There you are then."

"Seriously Chris, I think my time's up."

"You haven't told Cappy have you?"

"Not yet," he said with a frown. "You think I should?"

"No!" she gasped, and then more calmly, "No. Don't tell him. If you tell him, you'll be relegated to a desk! He'll have to find someone from outside to take your place. Goddess knows where from. I certainly don't and I doubt he would either. With Lou gone, we can't lose you too."

"We?"

"Me and the guys," she said, looking at him as if he were dense. Her eyes narrowed as she thought of something. "When did you start thinking of retiring?"

"I told you—"

"No, I mean when did you seriously start thinking about it? It was around the time Lou got his promotion wasn't it?"

Lou Debono had been Baxter's partner for years before he was kicked upstairs. Lou was Captain of his own station now.

Baxter turned to her angrily. "If you think I'm jealous—"

"I don't!"

"—then you don't know me at all!"

"I said I don't think that! Settle down. I'm just trying to understand that's all. You know we're short-handed. Cappy has been yelling about it for years! We need you, dammit!"

"And Mary Pat needs me still breathing!"

"I told you what I think about that." She would have a chat with Mary Pat when they all got together over the weekend. It was her turn to bring the chips, she remembered. She would have to stop off and get some on the way home. "Mary Pat knew what she was doing when she got hitched to your wagon. Her dad worked the streets for almost forty years! She knows what it is to be married to a cop. What, you think she doesn't know her own mind when her mother brought her up in a cop's house?"

"She knows but—"

"But what?"

"She's pregnant again."

"Oh." Her mind went blank for a second. "Is it money?"

Baxter shook his head. "Junior's college tuition is covered and he's raring to go."

"Takes after his dad."

"Yeah," Baxter said with pride. "He's already found an apartment to share with his buddies and a little part time job for extras. I'm not worried about him. Beth and Carla have years to wait yet. It's not money."

"I can always do with more money."

"Me too, but this has nothing to do with that."

She wasn't sure she believed him. She would have a private chat with Mary Pat over the weekend. The barbecue would be crowded with all the guys and their families along. It shouldn't be hard to spirit her away for a minute or two.

"You're just feeling old, Dave. What you need is a snot-nosed kid for a partner, someone to make you run after him. That'll get you back into condition."

"Says you. I work out three times a week and my times are better than ever."

"Still can't shoot straight though."

Baxter was frowning at the mirror again and didn't seem to have heard her.

"I said you still can't shoot straight."

"Take the next right," Baxter said in a distracted voice.

"Why?" she said, already making the turn.

Baxter was watching the mirror intently. "Change lanes."

She did that while watching her own mirrors for manoeuvring cars. "Is it the black Ford?"

"Yeah. I think we have a tail. I saw him pull out after us when we left Central. Take a left."

She did and was rewarded by a black Ford, the same one, following her. She tramped her foot on the brake and the car skidded to a stop. In a heartbeat, they were out of the car with their guns pointed at the Ford's windscreen where it had skidded to a stop. Cars beeped horns at them and swung wide around the obstruction they caused.

"Get out of the damn road you freaks!" a driver yelled as he sped by, his engine roaring.

"—goddamn road hog!" another driver yelled leaning on his horn.

Chris ignored them. "Police! Hands... show me some hands... out the window! Do it now!"

A pair of hands appeared out of the driver's window. Another pair appeared from the other side, but Baxter had that door covered. Chris eased forward. There were two men sitting in the front seats. The back of the car was empty. She kept her gun on the driver and worked the car's door handle.

"Out slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them. No! Work the seatbelt with your other hand."

"There's no need for this, Detective," the driver said. "I have my I.D in my pocket—"

"Freeze!" she snarled and nearly pulled the trigger.

The driver froze with his hand reaching into his inside jacket pocket. She could see the gun as plain as day.

"Gun here," she called to Baxter who was covering the passenger. She reached into his coat and took the weapon—a K6 Remington stunner like hers. She was almost certain that she knew what she had here. Feds. The goddess be damned feds were tailing her. "Out!"

The driver glowered but complied and was careful to keep his hands out in the open. The passenger was receiving the same treatment from Baxter who had also found a K6. Baxter pushed the passenger against the fender of the car and searched him. Chris thought that was going just a little far until he came up with another gun. The hold out piece was an old 38 police special. Slug throwing boomers might be old fashioned, but they were still deadly. Baxter dropped it into his jacket pocket and shoved the passenger around the front of the car to join his partner.

"I.D now," she said deciding not to push her luck with the driver by searching him. She was certain now. He was a fed. She flipped open the wallets they offered. "Well now Agent Barrows, Agent Feinstein. Would you care to explain why you were following us?"

"You know damn well why!" Feinstein snarled angrily taking back his wallet.

"My weapon?" Barrows said calmly ignoring his partner.

Chris holstered hers and handed the K6 back to him. Baxter reluctantly did the same with both of Feinstein's guns. They quickly holstered them well aware of the scene they were causing. It wouldn't be long before one of the bystanders called the cops.

"I want some answers."

"Do you?" Barrows said. "And you think I'll give them to you for the asking?"

"You'll answer me, or it will be my captain and your department chief having this discussion."

"And that will concern me because?"

"Don't play games," Chris said with a put upon sigh. "We both know you're not here officially, tailing me I mean. The feds haven't been called in on this case."

" _Yet!_ " Feinstein said and got a very annoyed look from his partner for his trouble.

"We're within our authority, Detective."

"To drive around the city? Sure you are, but obstructing a police investigation? I don't think so. If you don't want me to take this further, you had better tell me something I want to hear."

Barrows glanced around. "A little public isn't it?"

She shrugged. "Okay, we'll wait for the black and whites," she said and Barrow's eyes tightened. He wasn't as blasé as he wanted to appear. "Don't like that huh? Tell me something."

"I, _we_ are investigating a case that might have links with yours."

"You're after my serial. The Ghost?" She wasn't surprised, angry yes, but not surprised.

"Not him, but someone we think might be linked to him. Before you ask, no I won't give you his name—it wouldn't do you any good. He has dozens of aliases. He's been on our books for a lot of years. He moves about, covers his tracks."

"His crime?"

"Murder."

"Serial?"

Barrows shook his head. "Not classic, but he's wanted for multiple murders in half the states in the country. Mass murder on his scale doesn't happen anymore."

"Really?" she said with scepticism heavy in her voice. "I have eight very dead people down at the morgue."

"And the guy we're after is responsible for more than eighty!" Feinstein snarled angrily.

"Oooh, theirs is bigger than yours, Chris," Baxter said with a smirk.

She grinned and Feinstein's face darkened. "You think I'll lead you to him?"

"Your Ghost will find him, or he'll find Ghost," Baxter said with no doubt.

"Why would he do that?"

Barrows wasn't willing to say apparently. He ignored the question. "When you find Ghost—"

" _If_ she finds him," Feinstein said.

Chris looked Feinstein up and down. "I don't like you."

Feinstein's eyes popped wide. "You can kiss my arse!"

"Doug, shut your trap and get back in the car," Barrows said.

"But she—"

" _Now._ "

Feinstein glared at Chris and got back in his car to sulk. He slammed the door. Barrows watched all this in silence.

"I don't think he likes me," she said with smirk.

"I don't like you either. Have you got any friends at all? No matter. I don't have to like you to use you. Find Ghost, Detective, and I'll be a very happy man. Take too long, and I'll have you removed from the case. Before you say anything, believe me that I do have influence enough to do it. I will have the case under federal authority if I must. I don't particularly want to do that, but I will." Barrows moved away to join his partner in the car as two black and whites arrived. "I'll be watching."

Chris and Baxter pulled out their badges and held them high as they slowly approached the patrol cars just then arriving on scene. Feinstein glared at her out of his window as Barrows pulled away and back into traffic.

They quickly dealt with the uniforms and tried to get back to work. The story would make the rounds back at Central, but there was nothing they could do about that. They decided between them to keep Barrows' name and status as a feebie out of it. Cappy wouldn't be too pleased to learn the FBI was sniffing about without informing him of its interest in Ghost.

"Whoa," Chris said as she sat behind the wheel of her car and thought about the consequences. The puff of air between pursed lips blew a lock of hair aside. "That was interesting."

"Interesting? Well yes you could say that. Barrows is after your butt. Maybe you shouldn't have given him so much lip."

"He doesn't worry me."

"I can see that," Baxter said as they pulled back into traffic. "But he should."

"I don't see why. I'm doing my job, he's doing his. As long as he doesn't stick his nose where it doesn't belong, I'll leave him alone."

"But will he leave you alone, that's the question?"

She shrugged and concentrated upon her driving. Barrows didn't worry her on a personal level, but his threat to take her case did. She knew his type. He would play by the rules and keep it professional as would she, but he knew how to play the system. He would use it to get what he saw as his job done. If he decided his job was to take hers away from her, he would do it. She could understand that. She knew how to play hardball too. He wouldn't take the case easily. The rules were specific where federal jurisdiction was concerned. The feds had to be called in through proper channels.

The problem was the Chief. He was basically a paper tiger and would go whichever way the wind was blowing. At the moment, it was blowing strongly from the Mayor's office. The newsies didn't much like Mayor Richards, but maybe they could be encouraged to be nice to him if he could somehow clear up the little matter of bodies piling up in the morgue. Barrows must think that he had the juice to pressure the Chief into making an official request for assistance. Maybe he did. It wouldn't take much to persuade the Mayor that a certain detective should be reassigned elsewhere. Eight bodies and the potential of losing popular support was a hell of a strong motivator.

"To hell with it. We have a job to do."

"You still want to roust some hookers?" Baxter said.

"Why not, you only live once."

Baxter grinned.

They parked the car in a no parking zone close to the alley where Karen Sykes said she was attacked. They walked the route the girl had taken along Union Avenue that night, and then down the alley. It was like hundreds of others; dark, smelly, and full of garbage where it had fallen out of the dumpsters or where careless people had tossed it.

"Pretty scary down here at night I bet," Baxter said looking around and wrinkling his nose. "What time did you say she was attacked?"

"Late. After midnight she said."

"She didn't have her wristband on?"

"It was busted. Needed a new charm laid on it or something. Why?"

Baxter kicked aside some of the garbage to reveal blankets and a few trinkets. A couple of old cans held a cut throat razor and soap brush. They looked neglected and abandoned. The razor had begun to rust.

"Someone used to call this shit-hole home."

Chris frowned at the items he'd discovered. "We talked to a couple of bums that heard screaming. They didn't see anything. They were probably telling the truth. It was dark as hell that night. No moon. They spent part of it at a soup kitchen and wandered back here after they'd eaten. We checked and confirmed that side of their story."

"Damn shame they're not here. I'd ask who this belonged to and whether he was here that night. You've got to wonder when someone with nothing leaves behind his shaving kit. It might have been all he owned, yet here it sits."

"Yeah. We could get it dusted for prints I guess. See if he has a record. We might even find him in the drunk tank."

"It's a thought," Baxter said pulling on a pair of latex gloves and collecting the items. "Don't get your hopes up though."

No, she wouldn't do that, but it was an indication of how desperate she was that she was even bothering with the items. Something like this was unlikely to go anywhere, but stranger things had happened, only not to her. They scouted around the alley familiarising themselves with it and its contents. Chris had done all this before with John, but for Baxter it was his first time on the case. Not that he hadn't thought about how he would run it if it were given to him. He wouldn't be much of a homicide cop if he hadn't. Baxter asked questions, Chris answered, and spent most of her time watching him hoping that fresh eyes would turn something up.

"Nice quiet little spot for a murder," Baxter mused. They had walked the entire length of the alley and he was studying the busy street that joined it. Nice and quiet it was not.

She snorted.

"He doesn't give a rat's tit for us or his victims," Baxter said.

"Obviously."

"Not so obvious as all that. Why does he bother taunting you with the messages he leaves behind if he doesn't care what you think of him? Is it ego, a power trip of some kind? What did the profile say about his mental state?"

"That's one thing the FBI is good for," she said with grudging admiration. "Their Behavioural Analysis Unit came through with a profile for us. He has an above average IQ, thoughtful, deliberate, a planner. He has a college education and they think he might have gone to a Catholic school previous to that. Some of the writing he left behind has a religious significance, so they think he sees himself as a religious person. Maybe he does, but I'm not so sure on that part. What he writes doesn't feel right to me, like back at the Sutton Hotel. It has links to religion, but not..." she shook her head feeling puzzled all over again. "Physically he's big and imposing. We have that from Karen. He's over six feet in height and strong with it. Very muscular, maybe that means his work involves heavy lifting, or maybe it did before he was turned if he's a vamp. Karen had no doubt that he's an albino. He chooses young blond women, pretty but not stunning; all of them working girls. He lacks confidence in his ability to attract women, probably the albino thing again. He has an inferiority complex and will probably seem awkward to a woman who meets him socially despite his size."

Baxter nodded. "Okay, so we have an intelligent guy who is shy and awkward around women; a guy who probably can't get a date so he has to pay for what he needs. That doesn't sound like any vamp I've ever heard of, Chris. Vamps have that mental mojo that makes them attractive to anyone they want. I'm just thinking aloud here, so don't bite my head off, but have you talked with the usual crowd about their customers?"

"Of course we did. That's one thing that really pisses me off about all this. This guy can't get laid without paying for it, so why doesn't anyone recognise the description when I ask around?"

"104th Street?"

"I asked them myself. All of them."

"Vermont?" Baxter offered.

"Yep."

"Ashdown and Boulevard... both shifts?"

"All of them, Dave! We went through every hooker in town! No one knows him."

Baxter shook his head. "He could be new in town then... from out of state even. You figure Barrows knows he's from over the state line? Maybe that's the connection."

"I don't know. I'm not sure Barrows isn't really after Ghost. If he's done this in other places—"

"That I don't believe. We would've had a bulletin to keep an eye out for him. Besides, your case is big news. Someone would have called us by now."

He was right. Someone would have made the connection and called with the information. It didn't make sense that someone so recognisable could move about unseen.

"You're right. Let's check out some of the other locations."

Baxter nodded and together they made their way back to the car.

Patsy Jordan had been murdered near derelict buildings, but she wasn't found inside the buildings themselves. Instead, she was discovered on waste ground adjoining the sites by a couple of kids who said they were just _scoping out_ the construction site. They didn't want to get in trouble and would Chris please not tell their moms? Apparently, both had been warned to stay out of the site because the buildings were being demolished and it was dangerous. Like all kids everywhere, they had taken no notice and found a way inside through a hole in the chain link fence surrounding the site.

Sheryl Adams was also found on waste ground. Not the same construction site where Patsy Jordan was found, but still in the same general area. A security firm had been employed to keep an eye on the place and one of its employees had found the body.

Baxter eyed the construction site with a vaguely puzzled look that she was coming to expect from everyone that came into contact with the case. "Is it just me, or does it seem really weird that a woman, hooker or not, would willingly come in here with a guy?"

"It's just you," Chris said dryly.

"Really?"

"No. I'm kidding."

"I'm not laughing," Baxter said with a glare.

"Who is these days? Patsy did fight, so maybe she didn't come along willingly, but Sheryl didn't. She just walked on in here happy as can be. There was no sign of a struggle."

"I don't get it then. What woman in her right mind would step through a chain link fence at night with a stranger? If the profile is right, he's shy and awkward around women. He would never be able to persuade them to come in here."

"But he did."

"Yeah," Baxter said looking around in puzzlement. "That's what I can't figure out. If he's a vamp, he could make them do it, but then why did they struggle? If he glamoured them, they would have just stood there for him. If he had such control over them, why waste the blood? While we're asking questions, why kill them at all? Vamps don't usually kill, it brings unwanted attention. If he was super hungry, why not just snack and then again with another hooker?"

Chris had the same sort of questions rattling around in her head and no answers. Everyone knew there was a serial killer loose. Everyone knew from the description circulated via the media what he looked like, yet women were still going into questionable situations with him seemingly of their own volition, hence the vamp theory.

She waved a hand at the construction site. "Sheryl walked in here, she wasn't carried. She was conscious... we think she was at least. The other victims definitely were. There were no drugs in any of their systems, no sexual assault, no DNA linking any of the victims together—even though the coroner swears all of them were bitten by the same perp. No saliva in the wounds, nothing, and that's just wrong. Even vamps have saliva in their mouths. It's different to ours; they use it to heal the bites they leave on their donors."

Baxter snorted. "Donors, right. We're missing something big here, something weird."

"Tell me about it," she said sourly.

They spent maybe twenty minutes wandering the construction site until the irate manager asked them to leave. They were distracting his men, he said, and if they didn't go he would call his boss. Ordinarily she would have argued on general principles, but they hadn't learned anything new and wouldn't now that the site was being worked. Too many people coming and going for one thing; the earth movers and wreckers had messed up the ground already.

Chris drove them to each of the murder scenes and watched Baxter go through the motions that she and the rest of the team had gone through. All of them had the same basic training, all of them had graduated from the LA School of the Streets and the police academy before that, but each of them had their own unique brand of experience gained through hard work on a myriad of cases. Each had their strengths and weaknesses, but none of it was any use. Baxter struck out just as the rest of them had.

"He started like a mugger—grabbed them off the streets and dragged them into an alley," Baxter said as he read some of the crap painted in blood on the walls of Jenny Lovett's hotel room. The room had been sealed to preserve the evidence. Joseph was really pissed about that and Chris was glad. "Sykes thought he was a mugger."

"Well, he could have been. If not for Patsy and Sheryl turning up dead, I doubt we would have connected her story to the Ghost."

"How did you find her?"

"She came to us," she said and nodded at Baxter's surprise. "Yeah. She didn't report the mugging until after she heard about Patsy. You know how it is. They get hit for the cash they're carrying and don't come to us for fear of losing a night of work. They can't afford to come up short when their _managers_ come by to do the accounts."

Baxter grimaced. "It's the pimps that disgust me more than anything. I can at least understand a hooker's reasoning. They've got something someone is willing to pay for and they have to eat, but the bastards who _protect_ them are just parasites."

Chris agreed, but she had less sympathy for the women than Baxter did. So okay, some of them deserved more than they got out of life, but that didn't absolve them. They were accomplices in their own debasement. She could understand them intellectually, but emotionally was another matter. She couldn't understand how any woman could have so little self-respect.

"So Karen and victim number one were friends?" Baxter said as he copied something into his comp.

"Not friends, but they knew each other."

"Professionally?"

She grimaced at the thought of the two women _working_ a customer together. "Something like that."

"You think maybe Karen and Patsy turned him down and he went after them for revenge... no, she would have said if she'd recognised him wouldn't she?"

"You'd think so."

"Scratch that then. It doesn't explain the others anyway."

She pointed out some of the graffiti above the headboard of the bed. "I don't think there's any way for us to anticipate his choice of victim, not when he writes crazy stuff like that. He's not on the same planet as the rest of us."

"I hope you're wrong, because if you're not we'll never catch him. What do you make of that?" Baxter said pointing to a patch of wall with a hastily scrawled message on it. "He was in a hurry it looks like."

_I feel him watching me,_

_Satan, dead man walking._

_No one sees, but I see,_

_I'm scared._

Chris shivered as she read that passage again. Crazy stuff and Baxter was right. It did look hastily written, not that any of them were neat. It must be hard to write in blood.

"It's just more of his nut bunny ravings. John has a friend of his looking into all this Armageddon stuff. I don't know if it will do any good, but we have to try."

Baxter copied it into his comp with the other ramblings of Ghost's delusional mind. "Where did Jenny Lovett usually hang out, Vermont Avenue?"

"No, around the corner on 104th Street."

Baxter checked his watch. "Let's go see if anyone remembers seeing her."

"Okay, but we did that already."

"We might get lucky. Besides, you promised we could roust some hookers."

She grinned and waved him out the door ahead of her. "You've got a one track mind."

## 14

# Closing In

Chris winced and held her head as someone slammed a door. She took a big swallow of her coffee and shuddered. John had made it extra strong for the entire squad room. They all needed it after the barbecue at Baxter's place. The booze had flowed a little too freely and all of them were feeling it now. John was sitting opposite her staring at his computer screen with bloodshot eyes.

"Good party," she croaked.

"Yeah..." John coughed. "Yeah it was. Baxter stiffed me for a hundred bucks."

"I've warned you before about playing poker with him."

John ignored her.

"Yes!" Baxter shouted from across the room and Chris groaned. "I've got the bastard!"

She watched Baxter talking excitedly on the link with someone and wondered how he could be so energetic after a day like the one they'd had yesterday. It was indecent, that's what it was.

"We've got him, Chris!" Baxter yelled as he hurried toward her. "John O'Neal. We've got him!"

"Not so loud," she croaked holding her head. "Who the hell is John O'Neal?"

Baxter dragged a chair up to her desk and she shuddered again at the noise it made. He sat and slapped a sheet of paper covered in notes down in front of her. "I just got off the link with forensics. They double and triple checked it for me. They found a latent print. John O'Neal's right index finger on the razor and on the bean can it was found in."

"Razor... Oh, okay. I got it. The razor from the alley. I remember."

Baxter peered into her eyes. "Are you okay? You don't look so hot."

She blinked slowly at him. "I don't think so."

"This will get your juices flowing. O'Neal was born with a hereditary medical condition. Want to guess which one?"

"Not albinism?"

"You got it."

Excitement swept through her obliterating her tiredness in seconds. "Holy shit you found him!"

Baxter grinned. " _We_ found him. You and me. We've got the bastard!"

"Goddess please be right," she whispered snatching up Baxter's notes. "It says here he was on medication for schizophrenia and depression. How the hell did you get this?"

"I called in some favours. O'Neal tried to off his wife and kid fifteen years ago, but she testified in his defence at the trial. I don't get that part. I mean he tried to kill her kid and she helps him?"

"Love I guess."

Baxter shrugged. "Right, anyway, he gets two years in a mental institution instead of prison—big difference there huh? When he gets out, his wife has divorced him, shacked up with some stud who used to be his best friend, and filed an injunction to stop him coming near the kid. O'Neal goes apeshit. He beats the living crap out of the wife's lover and disappears. He's turned up in the system a couple of times since then. Nothing heavy. Drunk and disorderly, petty theft, vagrancy... you know the sort of thing. He's just a bum now. If we showed the artist drawing of Ghost to those bums you spoke to down that alley, I bet, I just bet they would identify him."

"There must be a picture of him in the files too."

Baxter scowled. "Well yeah there is, but..."

"But?"

"You've got to remember that it's fifteen years old. People can change a lot in that time."

"Okay, what aren't you telling me?"

Rather than tell her he showed her by pulling up O'Neal's file on her comp. Chris studied it for a minute then pulled out the artist's sketch of Ghost. They looked similar but that's as far as it went. She really wanted Baxter to be right. If not for that, she would have said that both men were related but that they weren't the same guy. The artist's sketch was drawn from Karen Sykes' description, which portrayed O'Neal as lean but muscular with high cheekbones and Hollywood style good looks despite his albinism. The computer showed a man that looked considerably older and heavier. His features were blunted with heavy jowls and he was obviously overweight.

John stood behind her comparing the two images. "I don't know, call me crazy but I think there's something there."

She pulled at her lower lip thoughtfully and looked at the artist's sketch again in silence.

"I've got his ex-wife's address," Baxter said slyly. "You could take John for a ride and talk to her. He looks like he could use the fresh air."

"Hmmm."

"Come on Chris, it's him I know it!" Baxter burst out.

She nodded slowly still frowning at the computer screen. A fierce grin slowly spread across her face and she tapped the image with a finger. "I've got you."

She called the team into the incident room to give them the news. Cappy noted the excitement and wandered inside to listen. Chris held up a picture she had printed out and swept her eyes over the assembly, but then she frowned.

"Baxter!" she roared at the top of her voice making everyone jump.

Baxter popped his head around the door. "What?"

"Get your butt in here. When I said I wanted to brief the team I meant everybody."

"But I'm not part of the task force."

Chris glanced at Cappy who nodded almost imperceptibly. "You are now. Sit!"

"Yes ma'am!" Baxter said and grinned at the laughter his eagerness caused.

She waited for him to take his seat and held up the picture again. "Thanks to Baxter we finally have a suspect. This guy's name is John O'Neal. He's a schizophrenic and manic-depressive that tried to off his wife and kid fifteen years ago. This picture is a little out of date. He was heavier back when it was taken, but the similarities between it and Karen Sykes' description are too great to ignore. I don't have to remind you not to talk about this to anyone outside this room. O'Neal is our best lead and only suspect, but that's all he is at the moment. A suspect. Clear?"

She made eye contact with each of the team and nodded. "Okay. Raz, I want you to take one of these pictures and go see Sykes. See if she'll give it the nod. Take Matt with you. When you're done, see if you can track down those two bums we talked to and get them to look at it. I want to know if O'Neal is their missing friend or not and if they've seen him lately. After that, we need to start painting a picture of this guy. Things like where he used to hang out, what he liked to do, where did he eat, where did he sleep. Who were his contacts, his friends... anything we can dig up might lead us to him."

"Sykes then Teddy and Morris," Raz said. "Gotcha."

"John is going to continue working with Radthorne and Lockstone for now." John made to protest but she raised a hand. "Sorry John, but you've spent more time on those writings than the rest of us—not even Raz knows as much about them as you do now. O'Neal might not be the one we're after. We can't ignore the possibility that Lockstone's work will lead us to someone else. I'll take Baxter with me when I talk to O'Neal's wife."

John scowled. "Okay, but we are going to have a talk about this later."

Chris winced.

Carol O'Neal was now Carol Bridges. She had married John O'Neal's best friend and subsequent punching bag shortly before he got out of hospital. James Bridges was a lowlife—a lawyer, but he was an up and coming, well-paid, highly respected lowlife lawyer. Chris had never fallen foul of his tactics in a courtroom, but upon further investigation she had learned that the same could not be said for some of the others in the squad. When they learned which Bridges she was going to see, they came forward one at a time to offer her some advice. Advice like: aim low, squeeze the trigger don't jerk it, and kick him while he's down. All good advice for any lawyer, she thought, but she wasn't here to talk to James. It was Carol she wanted to see.

She pulled the car over and looked around. The Bridges lived in a nice little house next to other nice little houses in a nice little neighbourhood surrounded by nice little gardens and nice fences. The lawns were lushly green and wet from the sprinklers that were busy whirling away, the street was clean, and traffic noise was remote. No kids, no noise, no dogs. In short, the place was utterly sterile and without character or history. All the houses looked the same, little painted boxes surrounded by flowerbeds in bloom.

"Nice," Baxter said looking around at all the pretty flowerbeds, white painted fences, manic car washing husbands, and lace-curtained-with-bobs-on homes. "No rowdy barbecues in this neighbourhood I bet."

"Yeah," she said sourly. It was a picture perfect example of Middle America. What a nightmare. "I really must make a point of buying something around here... _not!_ "

Baxter grinned.

Chris made to open her door and climb out but Baxter grabbed her arm before she could. "What?"

"I just wanted to say thanks for bringing me in on this."

"Hey, this is as much yours as mine. You found us a suspect. Without your work we would be nowhere."

"Yeah okay, but thanks anyway. Mary Pat told me about your little chat."

Chris' stomach suddenly felt hollow. "Oh... oh shit. Now don't do something you'll regret. I didn't mean nothing by it and... and she seemed cool about it... and I really... what?"

Baxter was grinning. "I love watching you squirm."

"Yeah?" she said with her lips tugging up into a smile of her own. "So we're okay? You don't mind that I talked to her?"

"She's your friend. We both are. Of course you should talk with her if you want to."

"You know what I mean."

Baxter nodded. "I was _annoyed_ at first you know? When she told me what you spoke about I mean, but it kind of worked out better than I thought. We couldn't seem to get started on it. We both knew there was a problem, but we couldn't talk about it. When she told me what you said, it gave us another way to start. We talked about what you said, and that led to her feelings about it. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that she doesn't want me to retire. She knows how I feel about the job. I mean sure, she would love it if I got promoted to a desk somewhere. That would be heaven from her point of view—me still in the job but safe."

"Yeah, I can understand that."

"You know I would hate that, but if by some miracle it happens and I get that kind of promotion I would take it for Mary Pat's sake. I want you to promise me that if it ever happens you won't make waves. You promise?"

"You're looking forward to being Captain Baxter? That has to be a way off yet I figure."

"No. Like I said, I hate the thought of living behind a desk, but I don't want you telling Mary Pat. If it happens, I'm going to smile and take the desk for her sake."

"She knows how you feel, Dave. You've been married eighteen years. She knows."

"I know she knows! Like I know how happy it will make her to see me behind a desk! Look Chris, I've spent a lot of years on the streets _having fun_ , I can afford to spend some time behind a desk to make my wife sleep better at night."

"Okay, I promise," she said.

"Thanks."

They climbed out of the car and she led the way up the path to Carol's house. She rang the bell and was rewarded a moment later with someone calling faintly from inside.

"I'll be there in a minute!"

Chris stuffed her hands in her jacket pockets and turned to watch the guy opposite washing his car. Baxter took out his badge as the door opened and introduced them both. She turned to get her first impressions of Carol Bridges.

Carol was blond. That was the first thing she noticed and it might be called significant if only for the fact that Ghost preferred them. The second thing she noticed was that Carol bore a striking resemblance to victim number eight—Jenny Lovett. Baxter noticed it too. If Ghost was John O'Neal, and if he was still fixated on his wife, then it was one more piece of data that might help them nail him.

If _she_ had been Ghost and wanted to kill Carol, she would simply have blown her away and left it at that, but John O'Neal _loved_ his wife. He couldn't kill her could he? No, he had to kill her surrogate... multiple times. Whenever the tension built too high, he chose someone that looked like her and killed her instead... _if_ Ghost was John O'Neal.

Carol was slim, blue eyed, in her forties but still good looking. Her face was open and friendly though she looked puzzled about why the police were visiting her. Chris tried to clothe Carol in Jenny Lovett's barely there miniskirt and tank but it didn't work. Carol was too clean cut—a veritable Suzie Homemaker.

"Can we come in?" Baxter said putting his badge away.

"My husband will be home at five—"

"It's you we came to see, Carol," Chris said. "I can call you Carol can't I?"

Carol looked from Baxter to Chris and back. "I suppose so. What's this about?"

"It would be better said in private."

"I'm not letting you inside until I know what this is about."

Ah, stubbornness. They could do that. She stepped close to Carol, crowding her and keeping her voice low. "Do you remember what it felt like when John—you remember John O'Neal your husband... excuse me, ex-husband? Do you remember what it felt like when he put the knife inside you? Do you remember the fear, the terror of it?"

Baxter hissed as he drew in a sharp breath, but his protest died stillborn.

Carol eyes brimmed. "Why are you saying this to me? Go away!"

"John is back, Carol. He's out there killing women that look just like you. Now can we come in?"

Carol stepped back inside, defeated.

In the living room, Carol took a seat not inviting either of them to join her. Chris sat anyway and chose the seat opposite. Baxter wandered the room a moment and peered outside through the curtains before sitting at the opposite end of the sofa. Chris opened the folder she carried and gave the artist's sketch to Carol without a word. Baxter tensed and held his breath.

Carol covered her mouth as she stared at the artist's impression of the man that had come to be called the South Central Ghost. "He's lost weight."

Chris closed her eyes in abject relief. Inside she was screaming in exultation.

Baxter took up the slack. "We believe he was living on the streets for a time."

"That doesn't surprise me. He had trouble getting a job after he got out of hospital. I know that because he kept calling us and asking for money. I gave him some at first but James—that's my husband. James said I should stop. He was right. John stopped calling after the first couple of times that I turned him down. If I hadn't he would have bled us dry."

That sounded like something James the lawyer would say rather that Carol, but whoever said it was right to Chris' way of thinking. Paying someone like John O'Neal would simply encourage him to ask for more. They would never have gotten rid of him.

Carol looked up from the photo. "You said he killed someone?"

"He's a suspect in a number of ongoing investigations," Baxter said diplomatically.

"Ever hear of the South Central Ghost?" Chris said, piling in with the full horror.

Carol gasped and looked quickly at the picture again. "Oh no, oh John, what have you done?" she whispered with a pained look in her eyes. "I've heard the reports. I should have thought. The albinism... why didn't I put it together? Oh those poor girls."

"Why didn't you contact us about John?"

"I didn't think. I haven't seen him for years, Detective. I tried to forget about him. I didn't know where he was. He could have been on the other side of the country for all I know. I didn't think..."

She didn't think. Chris sighed. How many times had she heard that during one of these sessions? Why didn't you call the police, sir? I didn't think, Detective. Why didn't you call someone when you heard the screams? I didn't think he would really hurt her you know? Why didn't you call when you heard the shots? I didn't think. I thought it was the vid. People could be so _stupid_ sometimes!

"You know," Carol said, still studying the picture, "John could never see it, but he was a handsome man. We married young and it was the biggest mistake of my life, but I did love him. He was a big man physically; tall, broad shouldered, he had very strong hands. I didn't learn how much he hated the way he looked until after Louise was born."

"The albinism?" Chris guessed.

Carol nodded. "He hated it. It's hereditary; there's nothing anyone can do about it. When we first got married, everything seemed fine. He was happy, I was happy, but then I got pregnant. He started to brood and worry. He put on weight and let himself go. He used to be a very physical man, played soccer, and worked out in the gym. The doctor prescribed antidepressants and they seemed to help, but then Louise was born with ocular albinism. Her hair and skin are near normal, but her eyes are very pale blue almost colourless. She has to wear strong glasses to correct her vision."

"And John blamed himself," Chris said.

"Of course he did! And he was to blame genetically, but there's nothing anyone can do about it. I love my daughter, Detective. I would do anything for her, but when I first got pregnant, we talked about an abortion. John wanted children, but he didn't want to risk the albinism. I decided to keep the baby and it drove him nuts with worry. When Louise was born, he lost it. He went missing for almost a week, but when he came back, he seemed better. Things seemed fine for a year or so and then one day he attacked us. The rest you must know already. It's all in the report and psych evaluation."

"Why did you testify on his behalf?"

"I loved him."

"Then why divorce him?"

"Because I love my daughter more!" Carol said angrily. "You weren't there; you didn't see the rage on his face when he looked at Louise. She wasn't his perfect little girl, the one he dreamed of having. She was flawed so he tried to kill her. I got in the way and he nearly killed me. I couldn't let him near Louise ever again, so I divorced him."

Chris took back the picture and took out a page of notes from her folder. "You said the doctor prescribed antidepressants for John."

"That's right."

"Did you know he was diagnosed as a schizophrenic?"

"Yes, but that was later. John had to undergo a psychiatric evaluation. Doctor Rowan testified at the trial about John's health and mental state. He prescribed Haloperidol. John was held in the hospital for two years and seemed much better for his time there."

"You visited him?"

"Once or twice, no more than that. Can I ask you something?"

Chris shrugged. "Go ahead."

"You don't think he will come here do you? I mean, he won't come after me will he?"

She didn't think so but why take chances? "Is there someone you can stay with for a couple of weeks?"

"There's my sister."

"Maybe you should call her. What about your daughter?"

"She's in Wisconsin."

"That's probably best. Is there anyone you know of that might still be in contact with John? Any friends he might go to, family members?"

"No family, and I don't think he would go to his friends for help." Carol frowned hard in thought. "He was a shy man. He didn't like to push his troubles or himself on to people. It was very hard for him to ask me for money when he lost his job. Apart from me, he had no one. Here," Carol said rising and getting a pen. She scribbled some names and numbers on a scrap of paper. "If he goes to anyone it will be one of two men, but I really doubt he will. He was a very private man."

Chris took the note and glanced at it. "It was too much to hope for I guess." She stood to leave. "If you think of anything further, please call on this number," she said handing Carol her card.

"I will."

Carol saw them to the door and closed it behind them.

Chris looked around then followed the path down to the sidewalk. The car washer had gone in and another two further along the street had come out to pay homage to the god of shiny paintwork. It was Baxter who pointed out the feds watching them. He grabbed her arm before she could stomp on over there.

"It's not Barrows," Baxter said. "I noticed them pull up when we arrived."

"I don't care who it is."

"What's the point in chewing out one of his boys when it will do no good? They're just following his orders. Barrows is the one you need to work over."

"Yeah, you're right. You know, you're starting to sound like John."

Baxter snorted. "Let's look at this logically shall we. What's the common denominator here? Oh yeah, we're both partnering you! QED, you're the problem not us!"

She grinned. "Heh, good one."

They drove in silence for a time with Chris frowning at the rear view mirror. The feds were keeping their distance this time. Feinstein had obviously warned them. Baxter wondered aloud whether Raz and Matt had gotten anywhere with Sykes and then wondered if the two vagrants might have seen O'Neal.

"Don't know," she murmured each time Baxter raised a possibility. "Don't know."

"Where are we going?"

"Don't know... what?" Chris glanced at Baxter. "Oh, I err..."

"Give up, you don't know do you? You were daydreaming."

"Was not!"

"Was too!"

"I know where I'm going," she said quickly deciding that if she cut across Third and onto Shelby she could make it look as if she had been heading toward 104th Street the entire time. She made the turn. "I thought we could maybe flash O'Neal's photo around."

"Chrisssss," Baxter made her name sound like a whine. "We've done that a hundred times!"

"Not the sketch, the photo. Once more for luck. What do you say?"

"I say you're the boss, but I think seeing his doctor might be a better bet."

She snorted, but made a note to do that too. "What, you think a guy like O'Neal, a guy living on the streets for who knows how long, is still taking his meds? Get real."

Baxter grimaced. "Okay, maybe not, but it might be worth talking to Rowan. He might be able to give us something."

"Maybe. You make an appointment to meet him when we get back to Central. He might have something."

Baxter nodded in satisfaction.

They found a place to park outside Zero Gee and went in. It was a good time of day to start looking for certain people who would later be walking streets or standing on street corners. In here, they were off duty simply having a drink and waiting for night. They were more likely to talk to her here in the dark than outside on the street.

They stopped just inside the doors letting eyes adjust to the dim lighting. The noise level took longer to get used to. Baxter tapped her on the shoulder and nodded toward a table in the corner. Chris frowned into the shadows and her lips thinned. A group of men and women wearing ragged jeans, boots, and an assortment of leather jackets over black tee shirts sat huddled around the table. She knew all of them sported an angel tattoo somewhere on their bodies. She knew because of who their leader was. Angel, the small dark skinned woman sitting in the corner, had one tattooed on her neck and the others used it like a badge.

Angel used to be one of her kids, one of those she had helped in the past, but no longer was. They'd had a falling out. The last she'd heard, the girl had left her old gang to found her own group. That was damned unusual because woman were rarely accepted in leadership positions among the gangs, but Angel was special. She was smart and had magic in her arsenal. That made all the difference in a world where fighting to hold what you had was common. Her people were fanatically loyal to her or they were gone. Chris didn't want to know where they went, but she assumed that Angel had let them live. The bodies, if bodies there were hadn't surfaced anyway.

Chris stalked over and glared down at her. "Angel."

Angel looked up from her conversation. "Officer Humber, what a pleasant surprise."

"It's detective now."

"Congratulations!" Angel said in mock surprise. "I think that's great, I really do. I guess you must have finally caught a real live criminal huh? Is that why they made you a detective, Officer Humber, you went and caught a bad guy instead of shooting innocent kids?"

Angel's gang mates laughed but Angel didn't and neither did Chris. The pain Angel's words caused was sharp and immediate, but it was an old hurt and had nothing to do with why she was here now.

"We need to talk," Chris said.

"I don't think we do."

"Okay, I need to talk to you. _Privately_."

Angel hesitated, but she nodded at her friends and they climbed reluctantly to their feet. One man, named Flex for his huge muscular arms, made a point of shouldering Chris aside. She staggered and Baxter made to intervene, but she and Flex had a history as much as she and Angel did. She gave Flex her patented ' _that one was free_ ' look and let him walk.

Chris and Baxter sat opposite Angel who was just finishing her beer.

"So talk," Angel said reaching for Flex's half-full glass and taking a sip.

Chris tried to keep her voice even. "What happened to you, Angel? Why did you come back here, to this?"

"Is that what you want to talk about, me?"

"I found you a place, and people to look after you. What about school? You wanted to go to college. You said you did. You were happy."

Angel shrugged. "Things change. You should know all about that, Officer Humber, oh excuse me, _Detective_ Humber. Got yourself a pretty new shield now eh? A gold one right? Can I see it?"

Chris pulled her badge out and put it on the table between them in silence. Angel made a show of inspecting it closely. She shoved it this way and that with an extended finger before looking up and into Chris' eyes.

"Shiny, can't see the blood on it or anything."

Chris flinched.

Baxter slammed his hand down on the table making Angel jump. "That's enough," he said in a hard voice.

Chris grabbed his arm. "Dave don't, it's okay."

"To the hells with that that, it's not okay. Where does this little whore—"

"Way to go sugar mouth," Angel sneered.

"—get off talking to you that way?" Baxter turned and his hand shot out to grab Angel's collar. He yanked her across the table and pressed her cheek into the wood. "Listen to me, and listen close," he growled through his teeth. "For some reason Chris thinks she owes you something—"

"Dave don't!" Chris said pulling on his arm but he didn't let go.

"—but I don't owe you a damn thing. If you ever, I mean _EVER_ speak to her like that in front of me again, I'll splash that arrogant shit-eating grin of yours over the nearest wall. Do you hear me? _Well do you?_ "

"Yes," Angel hissed. Baxter shoved her face hard into the table for a second then let her up. Angel's eyes glittered at him for a long silent moment but then she raised her glass and drank a mouthful of beer as if nothing had happened. "Big bad cop."

This time Chris caught Baxter's hand before he could move. "Not this time, Dave. If you can't control it you can wait outside in the car."

Baxter shrugged her off. "Yeah, whatever," he said but he didn't get up. He sat back to listen.

Chris eyed him for a long moment then turned her attention to Angel. "I didn't come here to fight. Danny was a long time ago. I'm sorry he's dead, I'm sorry I killed him, but you of all people know why he was there. He was trying to be like you, but he wasn't like you was he? He wasn't tough enough to walk away from his friends when he knew they were getting in over their heads. I pulled the trigger, I had no choice, but _we_ killed him. It took both of us screwing up to kill him."

Angel shoved her glass away. "Tell me what you want or get out."

Chris retrieved her badge and put it away. She opened the folder, pulled out the photograph of O'Neal, and slid it across the table. Angel glanced down at it and froze. She covered it by taking another drink, but Chris noticed all the same. She tapped a finger on the picture.

"I want him."

"Yeah? What's it got to do with me?"

"You know people."

"I don't know him."

That was a lie. Chris pulled out the artist sketch and slid it beside the photograph in silence. She sat back to watch Angel's reaction.

Angel's eyes widened. " _No fucking way!_ "

"It's him, Angel."

"It can't be! He looks nothing like the Ghost; even you can see that. Look at these pictures. They're nothing alike!"

"Look closer. Look at the eyes, the nose."

"But I know this guy," Angel protested pointing to the photo. "He's just a bum. He's a nice old man, a little soft in the head maybe, but he wouldn't hurt a fly! Look, he pushes a cart up and down the alleys picking up crap looking for something worth trading. He owns nothing right? Nothing at all, but half the time he gives what he finds away! Does that sound like a crazy killer to you?"

"You would be surprised," Baxter said.

"Yeah I would be, _very surprised!_ Old John ain't your Ghost. No way in hell!"

Chris faltered at Angel's certainty, but Baxter was firm in his belief. He took the folder out of her hands and opened it to give Angel a page of notes. "Read it," he said in a hard voice.

Angel scowled but she angled the page into the meagre light and read silently. When she was finished, she handed the page back to him. "So he tried to kill his kid, so what?"

"So she was only three years old at the time."

Angel shrugged. "It don't mean nothing, happens all the time."

"Whether you believe it or not," Chris said. "John O'Neal is more than capable of murder. He _is_ the Ghost, but even that doesn't matter. What does is that I want to find him and you are going to help."

"Why should I?"

"I could say you'll do it for old time's sake, but I don't think that will work. How about this: you'll do it, or I'll make your every waking moment a living hell—and all your friends' lives hell—if you don't. How's that?"

Angel's eyes were calculating and hard. "Still think you're a bad arse I see."

"You of all people know that when I say something I mean it."

"Yeah, I remember that about you," Angel looked at the pictures on the table for a long moment and her lips thinned into a grim line. She looked up into Chris' eyes coldly. "You got a pen?"

Baxter rolled one across the table.

Angel turned the sketch over and wrote out three names and addresses. "I'm not sure about this last address. I haven't seen Leila in a while. She usually works 104th Street like the others, but sometimes she goes to Vermont for variety. She might be hanging out over there."

"What are these?" Chris said taking the sheet and reading the list.

"Whores. John is friends with nearly everyone around here. The crazy old geezer would give you the shirt off his back if you asked him, not that anyone would. He reeked to high heaven. I told you, he's harmless."

"Why these particular names?"

Angel shrugged. "Like I said, he was friendly with nearly everyone. _Nearly_ , get it?"

Chris's eyes brightened. "He didn't get along with these three?"

"I don't know why, but they didn't hit it off."

Baxter took the sheet from Chris. "Not blond are they?" he said offhandedly and Chris shot him a look.

Angel frowned. "Yeah they are, why?"

"O'Neal's wife is blond and he tried to kill her. Maybe he started calling them Carol or something... what?"

Angel's jaw was hanging open in surprise. "He used to call a lot of the hookers Carol. They used to laugh about it; he never could keep their names straight."

"Listen, this is really important. Lives depend on it. Do you know if John got along well with Patsy Jordan?"

Angel snorted. "Crack House Patsy? Get real. She used to tease him so bad he would run away and hide."

"And what about Sheryl Adams or Jenny Lovett?"

"I don't know about Sheryl, but Jen set the cops on him once. She said he molested her. As if you can molest a hooker right?" Angel sneered at the thought. "That's what they're for."

Baxter scowled and would have argued but Chris was putting two and two together and coming up with the mother lode.

"Calm down, we have to check out these names," Baxter advised. "Don't jump to conclusions."

"Conclusions nothing! We were looking in the wrong damn place! From day one, we've been looking for something to link the victims together—a customer they all had in common, but it was never about sex. It was simply about revenge."

"Revenge? You think old John killed them because they _teased_ him?" Angel said in disbelief.

"There are stranger motives for murder than teasing, kid," Baxter said grimly. "I had a guy once that killed a woman because she cut in front of him and stole his parking space."

"Revenge," Chris mused. "Revenge for teasing him, revenge against his wife for not having an abortion, revenge against an imperfect kid that he wanted to love but couldn't. He chose the hookers because they teased and humiliated him. They only superficially looked like Carol, and he used to call them Carol right?"

"Yeah he did," Angel said. "You think he's going after Kim and the other two?"

"That's exactly what I think and I hope he does because I'll be there." Chris shoved her seat back hard in her haste to rise. "We have to get these women into protective custody."

"Can you think of any others John didn't like?" Baxter said gathering up the papers from the table and slipping them into the file he still held.

"No, but it doesn't mean there weren't more. Unlike you, Baxter, I don't spend all my time watching hookers."

Baxter scowled.

"It doesn't matter," Chris said. "Now we know the right questions, we'll ask Kim and her friends about it. Let's go."

They hurried out of the club and didn't see Angel's gleaming eyes. Nor did they see the cold hard smile that had turned her features into something ugly. Once outside, they hurried to the car. Chris accelerated away from the curb as if the car had booster rockets. Baxter pointed out the quickest route and she swerved into a turn cutting in front of a truck in her haste. Baxter said nothing. He might be new on the task force, but he was as excited by their discovery as she was.

_Five-Alison-Twenty-Three, Five-Alison-Twenty-Three._

Baxter reached for the microphone. "Dispatch, Five-Alison-Twenty-Three receiving."

_Five-Alison-Twenty-Three, standby for a live patch to Five-Charlie-One-Niner._

"Standing by."

"Chris?" Raz said.

"She's listening, Raz," Baxter said.

"Where the hell have you been? I've been trying to get in touch for almost twenty minutes."

"Working. What's up?"

"We've got another one. Definitely our guy."

Chris hammered on the steering wheel. "Goddess no! Who is she?"

Baxter keyed the microphone. "Who is she Raz?"

"Another hooker. Her landlord says her name was Leila Newell. It's bad here Raz, just like Jenny Lovett."

Chris almost crashed the car when she heard the name. Leila Newell was on Angel's list of possible targets. Leila was the one she hadn't been certain of. Well it was more than certain now. She was dead. They hadn't put it together fast enough! If only she had brought Baxter in sooner, Leila might still be alive.

Baxter could read her like a book. "It isn't your fault."

"Yeah."

"I was just lucky with the razor," Baxter pointed out.

"Yeah, I know."

"Hey Baxter! You still there?" Raz said. "I don't know Matt... they just dropped off the air. Hello, any one there?"

"We're still here. Listen Raz, Leila Newell is one of three women we just identified as possible targets. We need to find the other two fast and put 'em away somewhere safe—"

"Get their location," Chris said.

"Chris wants to come over there. Give us your location."

Chris drove fast, thinking grimly about John O'Neal and what she was going to do to him when they met. She listened only absently to Baxter's questioning of Raz and Matt. Her eyes narrowed as an idea came to her and she nodded to herself. It wouldn't take much to convince Cappy, not after he heard about Leila. All she would need was the right clothes and a wig, maybe some makeup to go with it. She already had the authority to requisition anything else she needed. She smiled grimly. John O'Neal was one dead sonofabitch. He just didn't know it yet.

## 15

# The Ecstasy of Blood

Gavin snapped awake, and the dream faded. The bedroom was dark and silent as expected, but it hadn't been a noise that woke him. The sun, the ever present guardian of the day, had slipped below the horizon releasing him and his kind from its tyranny. He sat up and his senses reached beyond the room, the corridor, the building and he was satisfied that all was well. His people, his neighbours in the other apartments, were safe and happy. They were watching the vid in most cases. He could feel the soporific effect the shows had on them in the slow pulsing of their heart's blood.

He cocked his head and smiled as he felt the newlywed couple in the apartment at the end of the hall consummate their love once again. He breathed in the energy they exuded and felt revitalised—their love was strong. William was a lucky man. Marcia was very beautiful and very much in love with him. Marcia and William were friends as neighbours were, not close, but friendly. Marcia liked him. She smiled when she spoke with him, but that's all it was. He knew the difference. He could feel it as he could feel the air on his skin. There was no one but William for her—as it should be.

He rose from his hard bed and padded into the bathroom for a shower. The cold water pummelled him and washed away the dreams that seemed increasingly to come upon him as the years rolled by.

_Six hundred years and more. Where did the time go?_

Garvan Lochlain had been his name once, but now he was Gavin Lochlin. Not much of an alias as such things go, but then no one still living knew his real name, so why worry? He smiled and shampooed his hair. When he was done with his ablutions, he dressed in good quality slacks and caramel coloured polo-neck sweater. He smoothed the wool over his chest. He liked the feel of it. A friend had told him long ago that the colour suited his complexion. Neckties were a bane to him as cravats had been before them. He much preferred casual dress. Though he did miss the courtesy of those long ago days, he would never miss their styles.

He snorted at his musings. This was what came of having nothing to do. Musing on the significance of no longer wearing neckties—by the Gods, how had he fallen so low?

"Stupid question," he muttered in irritation.

He well knew why he was here, who had betrayed him to make it happen, and why he did it.

_"For love of you..."_

Gavin spun, but he knew there would be no one there. Charles was long gone to dust and cobwebs. He was alive now, only in his memories.

"For love of me, my old friend?" Gavin sighed as he opened the balcony windows and stepped out. "If he had truly loved me, he would have let me die."

The air was foul with the pollution he had come to accept over the years, though the elves had considerably improved matters with the introduction of hydrox over gasoline, it would take many years yet for the atmosphere to recover fully. Pollution or not, it refreshed him. Air of any description was a luxury few corpses could indulge in, and he was, undeniably, a corpse. Six hundred years dead. Six hundred years of yearning for what was lost. How many more before the long sleep took him?

He stepped out upon the balcony to survey the city. The sound of sirens floated up to him as a patrol car sped to the scene of some crime. He sniffed the air. He smelled smoke on the wind. Perhaps it was speeding to join the fire truck that was even now making its way through traffic. A dog barked in the darkness, and another answered him. He smiled as a memory surfaced of a young carefree lord riding on the hunt with his faithful hounds. That was long ago—before the curse and before his exile to Earth.

A scream made him tense, but it was nothing—just a group of street toughs fooling around. His eyes narrowed as they came toward his building. They stopped opposite the lobby doors, and he wondered if they would dare enter his House, but no, they moved on. He watched them go feeling faintly disgusted but disappointed too. He would have enjoyed removing them from this life. He knew their kind well. Brigands were brigands no matter what world he found himself in. On Tahir—his birth world—such men as they appeared to be would be robbers lurking along the border. Perhaps if they were brave, they might haunt a lonely stretch of highroad. Whatever their choice, he would have dealt with them as they deserved, but not here where someone might see. Brigands had more rights than honest citizens here.

This world was heading into a new dark age, and no one cared. Everyone looked to his or her own gratification, and never looked to the wider world. Living so long showed him clearly how society had declined as its dependence upon magic and technology grew ever greater. He could see nothing good coming of the trend. Despite the miracles he witnessed daily, the people were not satisfied. They wanted more, ever more.

He had lived in England just as that tiny island kingdom became the centre of the Old World. The War of Races had still been fresh in living memory when he stepped out of the portal onto this world. The European Empire of Great Britain and Germany had been so new back then, it had still been finding its feet and trying to integrate the elves into its royal houses and government. The chaos years they were called now. He was glad he had left. Though the journey had been the worst period in his long life, staying would have been worse. Sea travel... he shuddered at the memory. It was like drowning forever without getting wet. Without Charles, he would never have survived the trip. He would never go back, never.

Gavin surveyed his city letting the lives that populated it flow through him. The air was chill and damp on his skin. The rain had left the streets shiny and wet. It had been on a night just like this that he had met Angelina and her friends. He wondered what mischief she was getting into right now. There would be something he was sure.

He smiled as he remembered the tough little witch woman dressed in tight leather pants and worn jacket who had tried to rob him. It had been something of a surprise to both of them when instead of killing her he had spared her life. They had been friends ever since. Angelina reminded him of another woman he had known once in a better time and place. She had been betrothed to his brother and would have married him if not for the events that followed. If his memory was not lying to him, they looked alike as twins, but their manner was anything but alike. Angelina was a tough little street thief. Isabella had been a wallflower in comparison. Beautiful and charming though Isabella could be, he preferred Angelina's directness. Less subtle though she was, the little witch was no less lovely in her way.

He leaned upon the iron railing listening to the traffic and sampling the pulse of the city as best he was able. He needed to feed and his senses were depressed. He sensed millions of people going about their lives. Some were working, some sleeping. Some were dancing in the clubs, while others made frenzied love trying to fill their humdrum lives with a little pleasure before the dawn came again. He sensed another revenant, and tensed, but the man was far away and receding from him faster now that he'd been detected. The interloper knew he was the weaker. Gavin stroked that presence with his power, caressing it like a jewel in his head, and estimated he was easily three hundred years stronger—at the least three hundred.

Gavin frowned. He knew all those of his kind that hunted his city but he did not recognise this one. Each of them had a distinctive... call it a presence for want of a better word. It was like a pressure in his head and was quite unlike anything else. Humans for the most part did not even register in the same way. Although there were exceptions, humans with the sight came immediately to mind, the living generally didn't have the same... the same _weight_ to their presence as another revenant would have. This one must be new to the city, but no one had asked his permission to hunt recently. He wondered if Stephen knew this one but he wasn't concerned enough to ask. There were millions of people living in this one city alone, many more than the kingdom of his birth had in its entirety. Surely, there was room enough for one more.

How fared his beloved Lochlain without him? How faired the wider kingdom? Tahir was different. Much different to Earth, but people were people no matter the world they lived upon. Yes, they were the same—spiteful and petty, avaricious and treacherous... treacherous above all.

Turning back into the room, he closed the balcony windows and put on his coat. He felt for his wallet, and checked he had sufficient funds before leaving the apartment. He detested this part of his unlife. Not the feeding; that part was very pleasurable, but the purchase of a woman. A century ago he had not done this. He had hunted the streets and fed as his kind was meant to, as many of them still did despite the dangers, but not he. He lived quietly now, safely hidden from AML and others who would do him harm. Purchasing what he needed was his solution to the modern world, though it was very far from a satisfying one.

He stepped out of his apartment and locked his door before heading for the elevators. He didn't really need to lock up, not here of all places. He was at the centre of his power. The entire building and all those within it were his. His to protect, and his to be protected by. None could harm him here, not with so many guarding him through the daylight hours, and at night he feared nothing and no one.

"Good evening, Mister Lochlin," Mrs Marchant said as she entered the elevator by his side. "It's a lovely night for a walk."

"Good evening to you," he said summoning a smile for her. He took the opportunity to check his work upon her mind, but all was well. She remembered nothing of the boys she had befriended. "You're not venturing out alone I trust."

"No... well yes, but it's not far. Thank you for caring."

Gavin smiled again; it seemed called for. "You are visiting your boyfriend?" he asked her with a teasing grin. Ellen was a widow and seventy at least.

She tittered. "Oh you! He's just a friend to talk to. Everyone needs company now and then."

His mood plunged. How right she was. "I shall escort you."

"Well that would be very kind of you. I don't like to impose, but they still haven't caught that terrible man."

"What man is that?" he asked as they stepped out of the elevator and into the lobby. Frank looked up at their movement and nodded to him. Gavin inclined his head in acknowledgement.

He offered Ellen his arm and she took it unselfconsciously. Many women of this day would not have done that, but then she was old for a human. As little as fifty years ago walking on the arm of a gentleman was common. Perhaps she would have preferred living in a more civilised time. He certainly had.

"I'm surprised you haven't heard. It's on all the news channels."

"I have been preoccupied of late." He rarely watched the vid, and hardly ever the news when he did bother. He didn't need help to feel miserable. "This man, what has he done?"

"Eight women murdered in the last month! Oh, isn't it just horrible what people do to each other?"

"The police are sure it's the same man?"

"Well dear, I don't think they know very much at all. The newsies have started calling him the South Central Ghost. He's supposed to be one of those albino people. You know the ones with the strange eyes and really pale skin? He could strike again at any time. It's awful."

He supposed it was from her point of view, but what was one more killer added to those he had met? "What is the motive, do they know?"

"The police say there isn't one."

"Nonsense," he said crossly as they negotiated the still busy street. The headlights dazzled him but he made no complaint. "There's always a motive for what men do."

"I suppose you would know."

"I have come across a few like this," he lied. "My research tells me there's always a motive whether we recognise it as such or not."

"How is the new book coming?"

"Slowly, but I'll get there."

It was another lie but one that came easily. He often used it when asked what he did. He had been published in the past, and he still received small royalty cheques on occasion, but over the last couple of decades he had found himself unable to write anything of any worth. His stories were fantasies; at least that is the genre he wrote in. He alone knew the stories were factual. He knew the history of his birth world intimately and had used it as a foundation for his books. People enjoyed reading of the Sae'hrimnari and their place in the world of Tahir, so very different yet evocative of the elvish people of this one. He had written of Lochlain and the kingdom, bringing to life those places and the great heroes that had lived there so long ago, but those stories always made him yearn for home. One day he had just stopped writing halfway through a scene, and had never started again.

"That's the ticket. Don't let rejection letters get you down," Ellen said oblivious to his melancholy.

"I will try to remember that." He kept his amusement at her matronly advice out of his voice.

Ellen stepped up to the lobby door of her friend's building and gave him a small wave before disappearing inside. It was a rundown apartment block, but far from decrepit even yet. A little paint and a good cleaning would see it looking like new, but no one was interested—not even those living there. He shrugged, only mildly annoyed. He had lived long enough to know that people never changed.

With nothing better to do, he wandered aimlessly through the city streets. The sky was clear, and the breeze brisk enough to waft the pollution away a little. It was sad that all Earth's wonders had such a heavy price. Technology seemed so much like magic to him sometimes, yet where magic exacted its price upon the practitioner of the art, technology exacted its price from the Earth herself. It was slowly killing her, but no one cared. Even those professing to be anti-technology and pro-environment played their part in the destruction and there was nothing to be done about it. Without technology, half the Earth's population would starve.

104th street was as it always was at that time of night. It was badly lit and bustling with men looking for a certain thing that they were willing to pay for. To Gavin, the street was brightly lit by the stars and was somewhere he came to for survival. Some of the men were going into the clubs, which seemed to spring up with tiresome regularity throughout the area, others left stoned out of their minds or just simply drunk. There were many streets like this one, but none had such a selection of what he needed—whores, or hookers as was the current idiom. It mattered not what they called them. They were life to him.

He walked slowly along the street trying to decide. A tall black girl took his fancy, but when he had time to really look at her, she repulsed him. She was ill. He could see it as easily as he saw her desperation. Her aura was shot through with disgusting brown streaks. She was some kind of addict.

He passed on by.

The next girl came toward him with hope plain in her eyes. She was also tall, but she came by much of her height through her shoes. She had red hair apparently, but on closer inspection, he decided it was a wig. She had nice eyes, but her whining voice put him off.

He passed on by.

He was surprised when he found one he liked so quickly. Usually he had to watch them for a long time before he overcame his reluctance to pay for what he needed, but tonight was different. She was tall, almost exactly his height and that was a nice change. He was well over six feet. For a woman that was unusual. She was blond and very slim with very nice hands. Her fingers were long and delicate, but she wasn't weak. Her bare arms and legs were nicely tanned and muscled. Her face was open and friendly; she hadn't yet learned to view the world with cynicism. She must be new to the streets, he decided as he advanced toward her. He hadn't met her before and she was young. She wasn't much older than Angelina. Probably no more than twenty, maybe twenty-two he thought revising his estimate when he reached her. She had liquid blue eyes.

He stepped forward and interrupted her conversation with a prospective customer. He inclined his head gravely and ignored the man's glare. "Might I know your name?"

"Hey, get your own, she's mine!"

Gavin turned slowly toward the nuisance and pushed. The man staggered back, but it hadn't been a physical push and he was confused. The anger was quick to follow, but something warned him and he fled like the coward he so obviously was.

"Wow!" the girl said with a nervous laugh. "You're really good at that glaring stuff."

He smiled, she had a pleasant voice, very pleasant. "Are you available my dear?"

"Yeah... I mean, yes kind sir. I haven't been engaged this evening. My name is Sandy." She smiled shyly playing the role she thought he wanted. That annoyed him faintly, but she would learn.

"Would you care to accompany me then?"

"That would be very nice."

He offered his arm and she took it as he led her to the curb. He waved for a cab and they climbed in when it pulled up to the curb. "Vincienzo hotel," he said and the driver nodded.

"I've never been taken to that one before," Sandy said in delight.

Gavin smiled. He always used the Vincienzo for this kind of thing. The management and staff were discreet, and the hotel itself was of good quality yet not too good. For the most part, the Vincienzo's clientele would be unable to pass through a more expensive hotel's doors, hence its popularity with people of less than perfect character. If you had the means to pay for quality, yet needed your privacy, the Vincienzo was the perfect place.

He paid the driver outside the hotel and the doorman nodded a greeting to him.

"Nice to see you again, Mister Lochlin."

"And you, Henry." Gavin handed the doorman a tip. "For Margaret. She is well?"

"Very well, thank you, sir," Henry said tipping his hat to Sandy while pocketing the fifty. "She said to tell you she still remembers your kindness. I do to."

"It was nothing."

"As you say, sir," Henry said, and held the door for them.

Gavin escorted Sandy to the reception desk. "My key please."

"Yes sir, Mister Lochlin, sir," the youngster said. "I have mail here for you."

He frowned at the pristine white envelope that the boy slid across the desk to him. He pocketed it unopened. "Thank you."

"What did you do for Henry?" Sandy said in the elevator. "I've never seen a real live doorman before. The places I get taken to always use droids."

"Hmmm?" he said distracted from wondering who the message was from. Not many knew he frequented the Vincienzo and those who did had been forbidden to contact him here. "Oh, I helped his son. He had fallen in with some bad company I'm afraid."

As for droids, they had their place, but their limitations meant high-end establishments rarely used them. They could afford to pay the salaries human staff demanded, and they had advantages over technological alternatives. Henry could be relied upon to keep the peace and eject unwanted persons from the premises. Civilian droids could do quite clever things, but their programming prohibited anything considered harmful to a human.

Sandy nodded obviously disappointed when he didn't elaborate.

Ian, Henry's son, had fallen in with some people who made their money from selling drugs. They became wealthy, and Ian became an addict. It had taken less than a minute to break the boy free of the addiction and secure his father's gratitude. Ian hadn't appreciated it of course. Using his power to break the dependency did not cure the physical effects of his drug taking. All it did was stop him from using the drugs he craved. Henry said the boy deserved the pain for what he had put Margaret through. Gavin didn't know about that, but if anyone had the right to decide something of the sort, it was surely a father's right. Henry was a good man to have on one's side.

Gavin used his card, unlocked the door, and switched on the lights. The suite was a pleasant place that he kept solely for feeding. He never took food home; it would be too intimate. His home was his private retreat.

"It's nice," Sandy said, dropping her purse on the sofa. "Do you live here?" She went to look at the view through the windows. It was a good one of the city.

"No."

She turned back to him and he caught her gaze with his own. "You will not fear me," he commanded with a small and subtle push at her mind.

"Fear you? Why should I do that?"

She slipped the thin straps of her dress over her shoulders, and it puddled around her feet. Her smile was just a little shy and nervous. She was standing naked before him and she was truly lovely. Why was she on the streets? She could be so much more. Anything she wanted to be.

"I am... _different_ to other men," he said in massive understatement. He felt compelled to explain himself to this woman. He didn't know why, but he wanted her to understand.

"I doubt that," she said and ran her hands over her slightly upturned breasts making the nipples harden and jut toward him. "I've done vamps before."

He grimaced at the term. No doubt she had _done_ others, though her lack of any fear or concern appalled him. He had no plans to hurt her, but he wasn't exactly typical of his kind. Most refrained from killing, most, but not all. That preference had nothing to do with compassion. It was simple practicality and convenience. Not so much with him these days. The older he became, the easier he found it to become attached to his food. He had found abstinence the only cure for it; that, and never feeding too often from the same source. It was one reason for his current preference for feeding upon the working ladies of the night.

"How are you different?"

"Like this," he said as he bent to her neck.

"Ah," she sighed in pleasure as he cut into her throat and drank her life.

His aura surrounded her, enveloped her, and the usual result occurred. His bite was orgasmic in men or women; it made no difference and he had no control over it unless he worked himself into a fury on purpose to hurt someone. That's what he'd done to Slick Willie that night in Ellen's apartment. He had made Willie's punishment hurt very much indeed before applying his sword to remove his head as Lochlain tradition demanded.

"Goddess, you really are different!" she said and clutched him tighter as orgasm claimed her, shaking her entire body.

They lost themselves in the ecstasy of blood.

## 16

# Centre Field

"I don't like this, Mister Gavin. It _feels_ wrong."

Gavin frowned at Angelina where she shifted nervously from foot to foot next to the car. She wasn't a powerful witch as such things were judged, and she never relied upon her magic much preferring the more reliable technological weapons she habitually carried, but when a witch—even a little witch—said something _felt_ wrong, it was best to heed the warning. It wasn't her so obvious anxiety that made him frown at her however. It was that her words so mirrored his own thoughts and feelings. Something wasn't right, but he wasn't sure what exactly. The message had been legitimate enough. That Stephen wanted to use a neutral venue for their meeting was within expectation, but his haste was not. Still, Stephen and he had lived amicably for almost fifty years now. They respected one another's strength and territory. Although Stephen was the younger and less powerful due to that happenstance, he would make a formidable enemy. Unlike him, Stephen had broken with tradition and did not live alone. He had allied himself with shifters too, but Gavin didn't expect any unpleasantness. Not really. What concerned him was the reason for the meeting, not the meeting itself.

"You should have let me bring Flex and the others," Angelina said anxiously when he didn't respond. "He could take us out easy."

"Not so easy," Spencer said from the shadows on the other side of the car. "Stephen would warn us first."

"But that's stupid, Spence!"

Gavin smiled tolerantly. "Stephen is an honourable man. He will abide by our agreement. We're not here to fight."

"Then why do you need us?"

"Because the appearance of strength can often forestall unpleasantness. You and Spencer add to my power."

"Spence does, sure, but me? I can't do what he does, Mister Gavin."

"Nor do I expect it. You add to my strength in other ways. It seems strange to you I know, but trust me. They'll be impressed."

Angelina just shook her head and settled her weapons more comfortably beneath the coat he had bought her.

Stephen would be impressed with Angelina; he hadn't lied about that, and it wouldn't be the clothes she was wearing either. He had bought her an outfit that subtly accentuated her beauty while emphasising her other attributes. She knew how to look after herself. She was no innocent, as anyone would find should they try to cross her. The long coat covered a slim woman wearing a biker's leather pants and boots. The dark blouse she wore blended with the coat to hide enough firepower to start a war. Oh yes, Stephen would be impressed all right, but it would be her obvious loyalty and love for him and Spencer that would impress him the most, not her readiness for mayhem.

Gavin led the way through the parking structure and up the steps into the stadium. Spencer prowled on his left leaving the right for Angelina to cover. The meeting was to take place in the open. Centre field to be exact. With the stadium empty and the floods unlit, the stands could have hidden an army, but they didn't. Darkness hid nothing from him and his kind. Indeed, even as dark as it was, Spencer and he could see perfectly. Shifters were well suited to hunting in the dark, and the night was all Gavin's world. Besides, he didn't need eyes to know that they were the first to arrive and that the stadium was empty. He had other senses that could tell such things.

Angelina muttered something about taking foolish chances as they descended toward the field. Her eyes would take longer to adjust.

"We're alone, take your time."

"Don't worry about me, Mister Gavin," Angelina said. "I can see well enough to pull the trigger."

"I'm sure," Spencer said sarcastically from Gavin's other side. "Just so you remember not to hit me. Bullets smart."

Gavin chuckled.

They reached centre field without incident and waited. Perhaps five minutes of bantering among themselves found them joined by Stephen. Gavin turned to watch him approach accompanied by two others as agreed. Both were revenants. He knew Danyelle as Stephen's oldest companion, but he had never met the man with her. Spencer advanced a couple of paces and moved off to the side. Angelina did likewise so that should Stephen's allies attempt an attack, she would have a clear field of fire.

Gavin stood where he was unmoving.

Stephen's glamour was wasted on him. They were both strong enough to see through such things. With or without glamour, Stephen was an impressive looking man to his jaded eyes. He had night dark hair braided into an intricate rope, intensely blue eyes, high cheekbones, and aristocratic jaw. He was wearing a custom-made suit and a gold coloured wristband. A plain and battered looking wedding ring adorned one finger. Gavin had asked him about it once. Stephen said to ask again when they knew each other better. That was over forty years ago. The very real pain in Stephen's voice had convinced him to wait another century or so.

Stephen kept his distance and said, "Spencer."

Spencer nodded amiably. "Stephen."

"You're well?"

"Can't complain. A few years older, a few years wiser."

Stephen smiled at that and turned to Gavin. "Would you care to introduce me to your charming companion?"

"Angelina, allow me to present Stephen Edmonton, an old friend."

"Charmed," Stephen said with a smile and small bow.

Angelina kept her eyes firmly fixed on Stephen's shoulder. "Call me Angel, everyone does."

"Not everyone it seems," Stephen said with a raised eyebrow at Gavin. "But Angel is such an apt name for you."

"How true," Danyelle said sweetly. "Angel is a very _pretty_ name. You surround yourself with weakness, Gavin."

He did not quite smile. "We define weakness differently. We always have."

"She is merely human. Any one of us could snap her neck before she knew it was time to scream. If Stephen gave the word, Lee and I could kill you before she moved."

"I prefer to associate with the living not the dead," he said and this time it was Stephen he was talking to. Stephen frowned at the jibe. "You will find her more than prepared should you wish to test her. Angelina, show her what you're holding under the coat."

Angelina opened her mouth to protest, but then she shrugged and opened her coat with her left hand. Her right was seemingly buried in her coat pocket, but upon opening the coat things were made clear. She had removed the pockets so that her hands could reach through to the submachine gun she was holding aimed at Danyelle. The second sub gun was still in its holster under her arm. She left it where it was for the moment.

"It's an Ares FMG-P90 sub-machine gun, and comes in the box with laser sight and stunner attachment. I left them at home." Angelina said helpfully. "Made in Belgium... _Europe?_ " Danyelle scowled at the mockery. "It fires nine hundred rounds a minute, and has a fifty round magazine. I have plenty with me should you be wondering. It _will_ cut you in half, and I'm being literal. I tested it on a vamp once."

Stephen laughed aloud at Danyelle's dumbfounded expression and Gavin grinned. They stepped forward and embraced each other heartily.

"How have you been, Stephen, did the thing with the night club work out?"

Stephen nodded. "It's called Lost Souls. Appropriate no?"

"I've heard the name, but I didn't realise it was yours."

"You should visit. It's the best place for our kind. There's no need to wander the streets looking for food. It comes to me."

"Perhaps I will someday," he said but he wouldn't do that. He meant it when he said that he preferred associating with the living. Stephen's club might be a wonderful place, he was willing to concede the possibility, but he would find more than blood, music, and dancing there. Danyelle wasn't the only revenant allied to Stephen. There was Lee for one. "Lee is new isn't he?"

"He joined me just a couple of months ago. He's part of what I want to talk about."

"I assume by your choice of venue that the others are coming?"

"They'll be here in a while. I wanted to talk to you first."

Gavin raised an eyebrow at that. "Oh?"

"We two are the oldest in LA. What do you know of the Arcadian?"

Gavin stiffened. "The Arcadian?"

Stephen nodded watching him intently.

"I know that he's dead."

"You know it, or you heard it? It's important, Gavin."

He frowned at the urgency he heard in Stephen's voice. The Arcadian had been a revenant he'd met not long after his exile began. They had despised one another the instant they met. He had been newly dead and still possessed of the qualities he had carried in life, and struggling to reconcile his new existence with the dictates of honourable conduct. The Arcadian stepped boldly into his life one day and shattered what little he had built. The Arcadian was old. Not just old in years, but truly old. Where Gavin's life was measured in centuries now, the Arcadian's existence had been measured in millennia even back then. He had been ancient in more than just his years. He was ancient in his thinking and evil to the very core of his being. There was no doubt in his mind that the man had been mad and probably the oldest _living_ creature in the world.

"I saw him die," he said reluctantly and Danyelle gasped. The Arcadian was like a bogeyman to their kind. To hear that he had truly existed was a shock for her. Meeting him in person certainly had been. "I helped William and Francis destroy him."

Stephen sagged in relief. "Thank the goddess. I had hoped, but I wasn't sure. You have never been one to share your past, but I knew that William was involved. He let slip some of it to me many years ago and you two knew each other back then. No matter. If you say you destroyed him that's enough for me."

Gavin shifted uneasily as he remembered those times. He had helped William and Francis capture the Arcadian to destroy him, but he hadn't witnessed the deed. William was hurt during the capture and he had wanted to care for him. Francis had wielded the axe, he remembered, but he _had_ seen the body burned afterwards. The Arcadian _was_ dead. Irrevocably dead _._

"Why ask about this now?"

"I had wanted to wait for the others to explain, but no matter. People have been dying and in a way that points to one of us."

"I haven't killed anyone recently," he said then frowned only just then remembering the two boys in Ellen's apartment. "Who has died?"

"I do not accuse you. I merely state a fact. Eight dead women have been found in such a way that I think one of us is responsible. That's bad enough. I don't need police sniffing around. I can influence them one at a time of course, but this case is big news. There are dozens of reporters hanging around my club looking for a story and not just mine."

"And Lee has a part in this?"

"In a way," Stephen agreed with a nod. "Things are... _unsettled_ in the world. Forces are moving. We have managed to keep our internal struggles hidden for so long without discovery that some of us have become careless."

"You speak of what happened in Chicago last fall?"

"That and what is happening the world over right now."

"I don't understand—"

"Of course you don't!" someone called from out of the darkness.

Gavin and Stephen pivoted on the instant both caught unawares by the arrival of Rachelle and her bodyguard.

Angelina and Spencer moved along with Danyelle and Lee to bracket the newcomers. Rachelle smiled mockingly at them but continued her advance forcing them to retreat or else lose good position. The result left Gavin, Stephen, and Rachelle in close proximity and the six bodyguards warily eyeing each other in a ragged ring around their combined charges. Angelina went to one knee looking outward at a tangent to the ring so that she might sweep the newcomers with fire while at the same time lower the risk of hitting Gavin.

He was aware of Angelina's preparations, and that Spencer was growling low in his throat at one of Rachelle's bodyguards. The woman was sneering at Spencer. He obviously knew her and didn't like her. She was a human but there was something about her aura that said she was more. It took a moment of concentration, but he felt the darkness hovering about her. She was a practitioner, not in the same league as true magi, but she was vastly more powerful than Angelina was. Her magic had been enough to hide Rachelle's approach and it was a dark power she wielded.

"Spencer," Gavin said warningly.

Spencer didn't take his eyes from the witch. "She reeks. Her foul magic soils us all."

The woman scowled.

"I'm sure you're right," he said, though all he felt was darkness in her aura, not evil. Shifters were more sensitive to magic. "We are not here to fight. Do nothing."

Spencer quit growling but continued to glare at the witch. He wouldn't take his eyes off her now.

Gavin took Spencer's silence as assent and turned his attention to Rachelle. They had known each other off and on for more than a century. He had lived in dozens of cities over the years and their paths had crossed many times. He had rarely stayed in one place for longer than a decade or two before moving on. If he stayed longer than that, people began to notice his lack of ageing and he preferred not to be labelled as vampire. It was something of an experiment that he had chosen to live in LA for so long. By purchasing the building he currently occupied, he had created a buffer around himself. His neighbours were not only his tenants, they were his _people_ —his to protect as much as those of Lochlain had been. They protected him in their turn from the outside world. Wagging tongues had been silenced at last. LA was the closest thing to a home he'd had in a long time.

"Welcome to LA, Rachelle," he said with a small polite bow.

Stephen cleared his throat. "Ah, she has lived in LA for almost five years now."

"Five years? But our last meeting—"

"Was almost eight years ago my friend."

He blinked in surprise. Eight years? Had so much time flown by so soon? He had long ago stopped counting the years of his exile, but when had he stopped living those years?

"You see?" Rachelle was saying to Stephen. "I told you he wouldn't help. He doesn't even know what's going on!"

He shook off his confusion. "Stephen was just telling me about the murders."

"Bah! What care I if eight sluts get themselves killed? Eight or eight hundred, there are always more. This goes way beyond a few dead whores."

"She's right," Stephen said quietly. "I simply mentioned their deaths to make my point."

"What point?"

"That things are happening here that we need to look into, that what happened in Chicago is happening here, that forces are moving."

"What kind of forces and what evidence that the Chicago business has come here?"

"I said Lee came to me a couple of months ago. That's true. What I didn't say is that there are others. Not all have sought me out. Some went to Rachelle; some went to Michael. He should be here by now. I don't know what's keeping him."

Gavin frowned as he remembered the revenant he had felt upon awakening a few days ago. He hadn't recognised his aura and now Stephen spoke of the dire happenings in Chicago last fall. Could such be happening here and him all unaware of it? He didn't like to think that was possible, but it very well might be. He had been drifting, he realised. With no purpose to his existence, he had simply drifted hardly aware as the years rolled by.

"I would have felt it," he said uncertainly.

"I felt it," Stephen said.

"As did I," Rachelle said. "You've grown old, Gavin. Old and careless in your ways. You've retreated from the world just as Alexander did in Chicago before he fell."

He stiffened, stung by the accusation. "You accuse me?"

Stephen stepped figuratively between them as threat built in the air. "No! No Gavin. We do not live like Alexander and his brood and we certainly don't call you our master. You or anyone else either. We have no masters. We live free here."

"Then what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that one of us... no that's wrong. One of our _kind_ is trying to re-create what Alexander built in Chicago."

"Foolishness," Gavin hissed between his teeth. "The human authorities—"

"Are already suspicious!" Rachelle cried. "I'm not talking about the police or the dead whores. I'm talking about the feds! Their so-called Office of Special Investigations is taking an interest in these serial killings. OSI was involved in Chicago. That bullshit on the news about a gas explosion was a cover for an operation they conducted against Alexander's get—an operation that went badly for them and us. It should never have come to that!"

Gavin could only agree. Alexander had been a fool to turn so many. He had built himself an empire based on crime and controlled by other revenants he had made. When he lost control, they fought and died over his empire in a war lasting months. The FBI was called in as the body count rose and then the OSI was brought in when it became obvious something beyond the pale was involved. Very few of Alexander's brood survived the operations mounted by OSI. Those that did had scattered across the country where they were hunted down by local vampires trying to live in the traditional manner—quietly.

"I told you that forces are moving," Stephen continued. "OSI learned far too much about us in Chicago. The government has been keeping the truth about our territories and disputes quiet, but they _know_."

"What do you think they'll do about it?"

"Maybe a purge. It would be an inquisition the like of which the world has not seen since the War of Races so long ago. A war between OSI and us could never be kept quiet. I don't know where it would end. We must police ourselves if we want to remain free. If we don't, OSI or some other government group will do it for us and they won't care who they kill as long as it has fangs. Do nothing and we play directly into their hands and into the hands of those AML fanatics."

A purge. Gavin looked from Stephen to Rachelle and back again and saw the fear there. They were right to be afraid. Dozens of revenants were destroyed in Chicago and the same could happen here. Alexander had been a fool to believe the human authorities would allow him to build his empire unopposed. He was even more a fool to build it by creating more vampires. It was not in their nature to live peacefully together, yet he had made it work long enough that when the disaster finally befell him it was cataclysmic.

He had always lived apart, yet Stephen and Danyelle lived together and seemed content with their situation. He had to wonder how long that would last now that Lee had joined them. He also wondered about those joining Rachelle and Michael. How many did each of them have and did they not see how it looked from the outside? They were following Alexander's example without even realising it.

"We should disperse," he said.

Stephen scowled. "I knew you would say that. I don't want to leave my club."

"I won't be chased out," Rachelle added. "I might leave in a year or ten years, but I won't be forced. I make my own choices."

He felt the same way, but scattering was the sensible thing to do in this situation. "And is it your choice to surround yourselves with revenants like Alexander did?"

"I only took in three," Rachelle said defensively. "They're not strong, but they do offer me some protection from the OSI thugs. At least they will slow them down a little."

"Just two for me," Stephen said.

"And Michael?"

"I don't know," Stephen said with a worried frown. "I hope he's all right. He said he would come to the meeting."

"But he hasn't. We three, and Michael if he comes, are the oldest. The others come and go by our leave. We should close the city to them. That first of all."

"That will make waves," Rachelle warned.

"So it will, but I don't care. The trouble it causes won't be here in my city now will it? If they make enough fuss about not being allowed in, they might draw the Fed's attention away from us."

Rachelle's eyes glowed in approval. "That's good. That's good that is."

Gavin looked away and into the darkness. Good? No, it wasn't good. It was all there was. They had to calm the situation down. Give OSI nothing to investigate and they would go away. There were too many drifters constantly passing through for him to control them all. He dared not take them in and that was the only way to exert control over them. Gathering into large groups would draw too much attention. He frowned at Lee who looked nervously away. Rachelle and Stephen had already started along a road that could lead them all to disaster.

"Take in no more strangers," Gavin ordered. "Put the word out that the city is closed to them until this all blows over."

" _If_ it blows over," Stephen muttered.

"If it doesn't we will most likely be beyond caring. I will hunt down this killer of women and put an end to him. That should remove any reason for OSI to be here. While I do that, you two must look into this matter of empire building. Find out who or what is behind it."

"We'll take care of it."

Rachelle nodded her agreement.

"I will send someone to Michael with word of our decision to close the city," Gavin said. He gestured for Spencer and Angelina to join him. "We go."

## 17

# Undercover

"Get lost whip dick before I haul your arse in," Chris snarled into the loser's face and flashed her badge between them where none but he could see.

Said loser blanched and stumbled back from her ferocity. "Yes ma'am," he mumbled and made tracks.

_"Nice,"_ John said, his voice sounding odd through her earpiece.

"Shove it, John. He's not the one," she sub-vocalised to her partner who was watching the action with the others in the van. "He doesn't fit the profile."

_"Tell her to wiggle her fanny for the camera, John."_

_"She can hear you, Raz!"_

Yeah, she could, and her scowl had just scared off another mark. Raznik could be an arsehole sometimes, but she was glad he was here. She would never tell him that of course. They didn't have to be besties to back each other up. He was a good cop, and cops backed other cops. It was as simple as that.

_"She looks so hot in those pants. I wouldn't mind taking a shot at her myself."_

_"Fucking hell, Raz! Shut the hell up!"_ John snarled.

"Do I?"

_"Mind on the Job, Chris."_

She laughed throatily. "Come on, John. You can tell me. I won't blab."

_"How the hell did I ever end up with you for a partner?"_

"Do I?"

There was silence for the longest time that Chris began to worry that she had lost comms, but then, _"Yeah, you do. Those shorts look like you painted them on, and what is that in your bellybutton? Please don't tell me you got pierced for this."_

"Nope."

_"Wahoo!"_ Raz howled. _"Chris has got a tummy ring, Chris has got a tummy ring! Hubba hubba... heh he heh..."_

_"Raz! Get off the air!"_ John was getting truly angry now. _"This isn't a party. Shit, we're after a killer here!"_

Chris wiped the grin off her face and composed herself. She sauntered across the sidewalk giving Raz a thrill incidentally, and regarded her reflection in the shop window. Raz was right; she did look good in her hooker's getup. The calf length boots, the tight shorts that hugged her arse like a second skin, the blond wig that concealed her earpiece, even the top looked good. She had never worn a boob tube before for fear of it slipping—she wasn't exactly well endowed in the chest department. She had borrowed this one from Kim who was taking the next few weeks off.

She turned and strolled back to the curb.

"Hey baby, you new?"

Chris turned slowly and smiled her _come on_ smile, but she knew this guy wasn't the one. He had the right build—tall and muscular, but he wasn't white and pasty faced like O'Neal. This guy was a warm chocolate brown and had real nice eyes. She felt her smile tug up into a genuine one.

"Nah," she said. "I've been around the block."

"Yeah? Where's Kim, she okay?"

"Far as I know," she said looking the guy up and down and liking what she saw. "She went on vacation, visiting her dad I think."

_"Get him down the alley, Chris. Raz and Matt are ready for him."_

"You a friend of hers?"

"What's it to you?" she said trying to think of a way to accomplish what John wanted.

The mark's smile slipped and he stepped forward crowding her. She wanted to step back and pull her gun, but she held her ground.

"Maybe you ain't heard," he growled. "I look out for her."

_"Shit,"_ John said over the comm. _"I've got a make on him. He's Kim's ex. We busted him a couple of times—nothing heavy. I thought he was in the slam."_

"Brian isn't it?"

_"Yeah. Get him into the alley before he recognises you."_

"Yeah, that's me," Brian said.

"Kim told me about you," she said smiling slyly. "She said you were going away for a while. She didn't know when you were coming back." Kim hadn't known _if_ he was coming back either.

"Change of plans."

_"They paroled him! The bastards paroled him a week early even after we told them what was going down!"_

Chris ignored John's tirade and concentrated on the situation with Brian. If she didn't get rid of him quickly, the operation could be a bust. She didn't want to go through this again tomorrow night. She made herself move closer. She smiled and pushed her hipbone into his crotch. His eyes widened and his breath quickened.

"Kim's my friend. She says you're an okay guy."

"Yeah?" Brian said warily.

"It's slow tonight. Want to go somewhere with me?"

Brian blinked hardly able to believe his luck. "Okay, sure. Why not?"

She smiled her victory and turned away. The garbage strewn alley stank to high heaven and it was dark. She couldn't make out Raz and Matt, but she trusted they would be here somewhere. She led Brian by a dumpster and toward the back doors of Zero Gee with the intention of taking him all the way to the end. As soon as she stepped into the feeble glow of the single glow strip above the doors of the club, Raz and Matt pounced from behind the dumpster.

"What the—" Brian began and would have lashed out at Raz, but Chris chose that moment to shove him against the wall.

"Police," she said holding his arm. She knew he could break her hold easy enough, but he was more interested in the pair of guns trained on him. "Sorry about this, Brian. You're not in any trouble unless you want to be. Kim is doing me a little favour."

Brian pulled his eyes reluctantly away from the guns. "A... a favour? Kim is doing you a favour?"

"That's right, big man. She really did tell me you're an okay guy, so I'm going to let you go now. Don't try to run, okay?"

"Okay."

She stepped carefully back, but Brian was as good as his word. He didn't move a muscle. "My friends here are going to take you out the back way, Brian. I want you to go with them and stay away from here for the next couple of days. Go see Kim at her dad's place, not here. Okay?"

"I guess that would be okay."

"Sure it will."

Raz and Matt put up their guns and led the unresisting Brian away.

She watched them go for a couple of seconds then turned to go back to her post. She had barely reached her patch when she was propositioned again. She pasted a smile on her face and turned. The smile froze in place. It was him. He matched the description almost too well. He was white, a little over six feet, and dark haired. He was not as muscular as Brian was, but he looked athletic enough to fit the profile. Those eyes... they made her shiver with something close to fear. She remembered an almost hysterical woman's description of those eyes and agreed with her now that she was confronted with the reality.

Soulless.

O'Neal's eyes made her want to pull her gun and empty it into him. She had never felt that before. She had faced some scary things in her time. Murderers, rapists, even when facing a child killer, she had only wanted to kill him, not destroy him. This... this _thing_ in the guise of a man made her want to kill him and dismember him and _then_ burn all the pieces and scatter the ashes.

_"—him? For God's sake, answer me! Is it him?"_

Chris blinked and shivered. She had been staring at those eyes for... she didn't know how long. It couldn't have been more than a few seconds because he was still there waiting for an answer. O'Neal was utterly still, not like someone waiting for a bus could be still, but still like a statue was still. His eyes burned into her. His concentration was such that it felt like an almost physical force washing over her.

"Yessss," she whispered and blinked awake again. This time the shiver was more pronounced. She couldn't remember what she was agreeing to. "I mean—" A headache bloomed behind her eyes.

_"Don't!"_ John screamed. _"Don't go in there! Shit, shit, shit! I'm coming Chris!"_

"I guess being dead kinda sucks, huh?" Angelina said.

Gavin's lips twitched. "You might say so," he said keeping his keen eyes focused on the street below. "There are compensations."

"Yeah," the girl said kicking her feet back and forth where she sat on the edge of the roof. "Compensations."

He turned his attention away from the busy street to the young woman sitting beside him. What he saw pleased him on a number of levels. That she was here at all was pleasing, that she had changed enough to care—even in her own small way—about what happened to the people around her was a pleasant change from the tough streetwise woman she had been a few years earlier. He was to blame for that, and again it pleased him to think so. Not that she had changed very much. She was still tough and could be ruthless when necessary. That hadn't changed, nor should it. The world could be a dangerous place and this city was more dangerous than most—especially now.

Angelina didn't look tough or particularly dangerous, but that was an act she had perfected over the years. It had come in useful when money was tight, but there was more to it than luring a mark into an alley. She had to be tough to keep the others in line, which she had so far done with ruthless economy. She was pretty in a girlish way, a legacy of her Mexican mother she said. She didn't know who her father was and didn't care. She had startling liquid brown eyes that usually looked at the world full of wariness and suspicion, but here tonight, her guard was down. Gratifying that was. It meant she had come to trust him when she trusted few if anyone she knew. It meant something to him, her friendship. It meant a lot, too much probably—almost certainly.

"What's troubling you?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I've just been thinking about stuff a lot more lately."

"A part of growing up I fear."

" _I'm not a kid!_ " Angelina said hotly. "I know stuff—lots of stuff. I've seen things they wouldn't believe," she said waving vaguely at the pedestrians in the street below. "They'd run if I showed 'em."

He nodded at the truth of that. She had lived a harsh life and had seen more than a child should. She knew there were things in the world that couldn't easily be explained away, things that few would believe possible even if shown. She knew what he was and what he was capable of, and she wasn't repulsed by it. That was a rare thing.

"What things have you been thinking about?"

Angelina shrugged. "It's my birthday next week."

"Ah?"

"My twentieth birthday," she said quietly. "I've been thinking about my future."

"What about it?"

"I could die tomorrow and no one would know or care."

Gavin shook his head. "I would know."

"And care?"

"Yes, I would care—very much."

"But you couldn't stop it. I could die tomorrow or the next day or next week... whenever. I could die and I haven't done anything except bust a few heads for the money."

"What brought this on? Are you in trouble, is someone coming after you?"

"That's not what I mean. No one's after me, but that doesn't mean there won't be someone next week. It's happened before. You know it happens."

In her line of work there was always someone that wanted your place and was ready to kill for it. Angelina and he had met when she chose to mug him for his wallet. A bad choice of target, but it had worked out well for both of them in the end. He had shown her the error of her ways, and they had become associates and eventually friends. Angelina and her gang were his eyes and ears on the street. They listened and told him anything he needed to know. That was why he was sitting here on this roof. A certain man was going to meet his demise tonight and it was Angelina who had made it possible. He would have found him eventually of course, but Angelina had found him with her contacts first.

"So it happens," he said. "Are you thinking of leaving the city?"

"I have nowhere to go, but I wish..."

"What?"

"I kind of wish I did, you know?"

He could understand that only too well. His home was lost to him these many centuries, but there wasn't a night that went by that he didn't yearn for it with all his being. He closed that part of himself away as being too painful to contemplate and found a distraction in Angelina's attire.

"New dress?" he said eyeing the tight sheath and its hemline doubtfully. Standing, it would come to mid-thigh, but sitting as they were, it covered considerably less than that. Considerably less.

"I'm going to the club after."

"Ah."

Zero Gee was a popular club with Angelina's crowd, and was somewhere they wouldn't be hassled. It was neutral territory for the gangs, and Sollie, the owner, enforced that as hard as he enforced his no boomers rule. Sollie was someone that few liked and everyone respected. No one wanted to get on his bad side. Those that did tended to disappear.

"What's the occasion?"

"Do I need one?" Angelina countered.

"No, but the dress, the shoes... the coat is new too isn't it?" He had missed that before. He had rarely seen her in anything but jacket, jeans, and boots, and the dress had distracted him. "Who is he?"

She shrugged.

" _Who?_ " This time his voice was flat and cold.

"Just a guy. It's no big deal, Mister Gavin."

No big deal? She had dressed up and put on makeup. Angelina never wore makeup and the clothes were new. They weren't stolen, he would wager that she had personally gone into a store and bought them. He stared into her eyes and saw them flicker with uneasiness. She was hiding something from him, and that realisation made him angry. Who was this man that Angelina would defy him to protect? He could easily find out. She would have no choice but to tell him if he pushed, but she was a friend. He didn't have many and the few he did have were precious. He didn't want to lose her.

"Well, he's a lucky man."

"Awww, I ain't nothing to write home about, Mister Gavin," Angelina said squirming at the praise.

She was actually. He grinned at her blushes, his good humour had returned in full measure. "How long have we known each other?"

"Couple of years almost."

"Time enough to call me Gavin then."

"I'll call you Gavin when you call me Angel."

He scowled. "Angelina is the name your mother gave you. It suits you."

"But I don't like it—"

Gavin stiffened and turned his attention to the street below. Seemingly nothing had changed, but he didn't trust that. He did trust his instincts, and those instincts were screaming of danger right now.

"Mister Gavin?"

"He's here."

"Where? I don't see him."

"And you won't, but he's down there." He retrieved his sword from where it lay between them and stood stepping back from the edge. Angelina stood to join him and dusted her dress. "You should be safe enough up here. I'll join you after it's done."

"But—"

He knew what she would have said, but it was far too dangerous for her to accompany him. He moved to the eastern side of the building. There was an alley on this side with a fire escape. He looked back to make certain she had not followed. She was looking at him from their earlier position.

"Be careful," she whispered.

He heard her as if standing right beside her. He nodded and leapt over the side.

The fire escape led down to an alley, the alley to a busy road. He could sense that O'Neal was close by. The alley behind Zero Gee was where they would finally meet, he was sure of it. He sped across the road in front of a pickup so fast that afterwards the driver was sure he had imagined it. Gavin had been a black blur barely seen out of the corner of one eye.

The alley was dark, but that was no hindrance. The night was his element and lit brightly by the stars. Indeed, had it not been night, the meeting would have been impossible. He moved as only his kind could, but he was wary. His sense of where O'Neal was felt strange and somehow not reliable. He had never felt anything quite like it. One moment O'Neal felt weaker than him, easily centuries weaker, the next he felt almost like an equal. O'Neal's aura was... _flaring_ up then dying back like the flames of a bonfire and with it his strength.

He hesitated and put his back to the nearest wall for protection. Could this be a trap of some kind, could O'Neal be aware of his planned confrontation? He couldn't see how that was possible but... no, he would not second guess. He would make an end of O'Neal this night. He edged forward and paused again. O'Neal was just now entering the alley from the street ahead. He wasn't alone and Gavin tensed ready to attack or defend, but the man was completely occupied with his companion.

Something wasn't right about this, not right at all. The woman was merely a whore. He dismissed her as food. Perhaps that was why O'Neal hadn't felt his approach—he needed to feed. Deciding to take advantage of the man's preoccupation with his meal, he advanced to a point where a single leap would let him reach out and snap O'Neal's neck. The woman was passive, her arms down by her side while her captor suckled at her neck. Gavin was both fascinated and revolted. The smell of blood was heavy in the air and it excited him, but the thought of feeding in a dirty alley was repugnant. The woman was a pretty thing. Even under O'Neal's control she seemed different somehow. She was trying to throw off O'Neal's influence upon her mind. Gavin didn't take the time to wonder at his decision to save her. After all, he couldn't allow his enemy to gain strength from her.

He attacked.

O'Neal spun in a blur so fast that even Gavin failed to anticipate it. He tried to block, but O'Neal's fist landed with bone crushing force to launch him across the alley. He slammed into a dumpster denting it in and toppling him into the stinking garbage that lay all around. He blinked up at O'Neal in surprise and tried to roll away from the man's kick. A newborn shouldn't be this strong, not so soon.

"Ooof!" he gasped as the kick lifted him high into the air. He crashed back to earth a moment later.

Gavin snarled in rage and pain. Enough was enough! He launched himself into the air from his prone position and used his power to fade before he landed. O'Neal's headlong charge faltered as he evaporated into thin air. He hadn't really of course. It was simply glamour, a part of his nature that allowed him to calm his prey so that he might feed in safety. Any revenant could do similar things, but seeing through one to the reality beneath was another matter. It required strength borne of age. He could have made O'Neal believe he was facing a snarling slavering wolf if he wanted to, but should the man grab him he would feel the canvas of his coat and not the fur of a wolf. This was better. What the man couldn't see he could not hit.

"Who are you, why do you attack me?" O'Neal said scouting about the alley with his arms waving in front of him.

Gavin edged by him. It was obvious that O'Neal was a newborn and too weak to penetrate his glamour. He slid away from the dumpster toward the woman trying not to step on the garbage and have it give him away.

"We are the same. We should not fight!"

The same? Gavin snarled at the presumption. A mistake. O'Neal spun toward the sound and let fly a mighty kick. Again Gavin found himself sprawled upon the ground and he lost his grip on the glamour he had been holding. He ripped open his coat ignoring the buttons that flew in all direction and reached for his sword, but O'Neal arrived at that moment and kicked him in the jaw. The alley flashed white then red and Gavin's ears filled with a roar like pounding waves on the shore.

He shook his head to clear it only to find himself now at the woman's feet. She looked slowly down and his eyes locked with hers. He saw the terror and the bewilderment there, but surprisingly there was some strength also. She was still trying to throw off her stupor. Her lips drew back baring her teeth in a silent snarl of fear when she saw him. It was his eyes of course. They were burning solid red with rage. Blood was running freely from her ravaged neck, but instead of attempting to stem its flow, she was fumbling for a weapon in her purse. A boomer. She had a boomer in her purse. It didn't surprise him that a prostitute carried such a thing. Everyone seemed to these days, even children. He reached up and took it from her just as O'Neal reached him.

_Blaam, Blaam, Blaam!_

O'Neal was blasted back, but of course it didn't kill him. What it did do was give Gavin time to get his feet under him. He dropped the gun and opened his coat. The best and most sure way of killing a revenant was decapitation, the second way was by utterly destroying the heart, the third and most dangerous way was strangulation. Surprising really when they didn't need to breath, but the brain did need blood. Cutting off the brain's supply by crushing the carotid would work, but it meant getting in close and that was cursed dangerous. Fire would also kill, but it was very hard making a revenant stand still for it. A sword like the one he now held was the best weapon. A traditional stake wouldn't always finish the job. They all had remarkable healing abilities and could sometimes heal even a wound of the magnitude caused by a stake. A sword through the heart would slow O'Neal down nicely though, certainly long enough for a quick and clean decapitation, which is what he intended to happen. After that, he would track down and kill the one responsible for turning O'Neal and letting him loose on his city.

O'Neal climbed to his feet and stared numbly down at the holes in his chest. Blood was flowing sluggishly from all three bullet wounds and he put a hand up to cover them. It was a reflex action. Although they hurt, the wounds weren't life threatening. A human would have been dead with the first shot. O'Neal looked at him in confusion, perhaps still wondering why anyone wanted to hurt him, but then the puzzlement turned to fury and he snarled. He charged already reaching for his tormentor's neck as if unaware of the sword.

Gavin took a single fluid step forward to meet the charge and lunged. The movement came smoothly and without fault, but it didn't have the desired effect. The ancient blade punched through O'Neal's chest and erupted out his back, but he didn't fall. He screeched in agony and pulled himself up the blade in his attempt to get at his tormentor.

Gavin expertly twisted the blade hoping to cause an even more grievous wound, stepped back withdrawing the weapon smoothly, and struck O'Neal's head from his body in a fountain of gore. The body fell aside still reaching for him and the head landed at Gavin's feet. He kicked it into the shadows not wanting it to look at him while it died. It would take a few minutes.

A panting gasp had him spinning on the defensive, but it was simply the woman coming awake now that her captor's hold over her was broken. She drew breath to scream, but his power reached out and enveloped her fear snuffing it out like a candle flame. He raised glamour over his features in case his eyes should still cause her concern and bent to clean his sword on O'Neal's body. He hid the weapon under his coat and went to tend to her wounds.

She was bleeding badly and was glassy eyed. The confusion was as much his fault as the blood loss. Removing her fear in such a gross and ham-fisted manner had the effect of wrapping her thoughts in cotton wool like a drug. His touch was usually subtler than this, but he had been in a hurry. He doubted she was even aware of him in her current state. He turned her head to the side and she flinched at the pain. The bite looked messy. O'Neal had been determined to feed and hadn't worried about neatness. The carotid was thankfully still intact. Of course, she would have bled out before now if it hadn't been.

"Oh my goddess... oh goddess... what in the nine hells did he do to me?" she gasped covering the wound with a hand. Sweat poured from her and she was shaking in reaction. She was going into shock.

Gavin caught her as she swayed. He eased her to the ground.

" _Freeze arsehole!_ " a man shouted, taking a stance in the mouth of the alley. "Get the hell away from her!"

Gavin stepped back into the shadows already gauging his chances of getting by this new annoyance without bloodshed. "She needs medical attention. Call the police."

"Get down on your knees, _right now!_ "

"This has nothing to do with me. I'll leave her with you," he said edging carefully toward the mouth of the alley. He need only get within a few feet and he could charm his way out of this. He stopped when another two men appeared and pulled weapons. He couldn't influence all three at once, not with their fingers already on triggers. "You are police?"

"That's right arsehole, and so is she. You picked the wrong chicky to mess with this time, believe me."

"I have nothing to do with this."

"Yeah right. Cover him Raz. Matt, check Chris."

The youngest of the three eased into the alley to check on the woman—on Chris—but he was careful not to block his friend's line of fire. "She's unconscious!" he yelled. "The bastard nearly tore her throat out! We need an ambulance here."

"Baxter is calling one now," John said and turned his attention back to Gavin. "Now then mister hard-of-hearing. On your knees, do you want to get shot?"

He didn't relish the thought of getting shot. That kind of thing hurt, but he couldn't allow himself to be taken either. They would chain him with silver and runes. They would cage him like an animal. He would not be a prisoner; death would be preferable to him.

The one called Matt had remained beside the girl while Gavin was thinking over his options, peering into the dark trying to make out what he was seeing. It was the headless corpse of O'Neal. In the time it took Matt to turn to his friends with a warning upon his lips, Gavin moved.

The one named Raz fired first, at least he thought so. The bullet punched through him high in the chest, almost at the base of the throat. Blood erupted into his mouth and he folded forward choking on it. The searing agony of the bullet's passage was accompanied by a silence so acute that he feared himself deafened or dead. He wasn't sure if he was falling, running, or what, but then the world rushed back and he was committed.

The roar of the gunshot was still echoing down the alley when the other one fired but missed. They were using slug throwing boomers loaded with silver ammunition that burned like fire through him, not their standard police issue stunners. They knew what he was, that must be it, or they had guessed what O'Neal had been and had armed themselves accordingly. That was bad. They wouldn't let him close enough to use his power and disable them without bloodshed. He couldn't erase himself from their memories, not now.

The second bullet spun him around and he used the motion. Kicking against the wall above Matt's head, he launched himself toward the dumpster. The third bullet took him in the leg and it collapsed under him as he landed on the lid. He was up and snarling at the pain almost immediately. He jumped up and caught the ladder of the fire escape.

"Get him! Get him Raz!"

"I'm trying! Damn he's fast!"

"Baxter! Over here! Fire dammit fire!"

A fourth bullet punched into Gavin's back as he swarmed up the ladder, but by this time he was so lost in the burning agony of silver he hardly noticed. He kept moving upward though instinct urged otherwise. It insisted he go back and fight, but he wasn't an animal. Instinct didn't rule him.

He kept moving.

He climbed on with bullets ricocheting off the metal of the fire escape. He was hit once more just as he reached the roof; one of them had gotten lucky and had seen him silhouetted against the night sky. He ignored the added irritation and ran across the roof. He leapt to the next building and the next no longer worried about being observed, simply intent on getting back to Angelina and safety.

## 18

# Feeding Time

"Will he be all right?" Angel said watching Spence work.

"Probably," Spence said with a grunt as he forced the long-nosed pliers deeper into the wound in Gavin's back, wincing in sympathy as he pushed. "Damn thing would have saved me a lot of trouble if it had gone right through."

Gavin was motionless and whiter than she had ever seen him. His cheeks were sunken and the hollows made his face seem alien. His eyes were not quite closed and when she bent to look, she could see just a hint of red. She had only seen that once before, on the night she and Flex had tried to rob him. It happened when he was angry, or needed to feed. He wasn't aware of her, of anything really. He had gone away to a place free of pain.

"He needs blood."

"What he needs right now, my girl, is not to have holes in him. I can't let him feed until this is done. You know it makes him heal faster."

"Yeah, but still... have you got any for later?"

"He can have some of mine. Now shut the hell up and let me get these damn things out! If you want to help, go make me some coffee."

She wasn't some kind of servant! Angel opened her mouth to argue, snapped it closed again, and went to the kitchen to make coffee. When she came back, the massive hole in Gavin's back was hidden beneath bandaging and tape. Spence was probing the wound in Gavin's thigh.

"The bullet travelled on through," he said sipping his coffee before putting it aside. "But it needed cleaning. He wouldn't thank me for leaving it alone."

Angel nodded. Although he would heal with or without their help, anything left in the wound like a bullet or pieces of cloth from his pants would stay in there. Being sort of dead already—sort of anyway—she didn't think he could get an infection, but it wouldn't be comfortable for him.

"Need any help?"

"You feeling calmer now?"

She nodded.

"Okay. The wound keeps trying to close up on me. Take the spreaders," he handed her a shiny tool that looked similar to pliers but worked in reverse. "Hold this open for me."

Angel winced at the thought, but she did as he asked and in no time at all, he had thoroughly cleaned and bandaged the wound. It took both of them together to turn Gavin over; he was heavier than he looked. There was barely a scar showing where he had been hit in the throat. Spence decided to leave it alone explaining that Gavin's shirt had not intercepted the bullet. The wound was probably free of contaminants and it should heal without problems.

Spencer thumbed an eyelid open and leaned forward so that Gavin might see him better. "I don't know if you're in there, Gavin, but I'm going to assume you can understand me. You've lost a lot of blood—I'm going to give you some of mine."

"No..." Gavin whispered almost like a sigh.

"Yes," Spence said and before Angel could blink, he had slashed his wrist with a scalpel.

Blood spurted and he clamped his other hand over the injured wrist. Gavin's fangs budded at the first scent of the fresh blood. He was too weak to control the craving and as soon as the arm came within reach, his mouth sought and found the wound.

Angel watched Gavin's throat work as he swallowed the life giving essence of a shifter. They were both creatures of magic and that's what Gavin needed most, not so much the blood itself. She knew quite a bit about it. Vamps needed blood to survive, but it was the mystical connection between that blood and the donor that really fed them. It was the channel through which they syphoned the magic, or the life force, they needed. Older heads like Gavin probably called it essence, but the term was outdated now.

Vampires really were dead, though they disputed that and argued it amongst themselves all the time. Angel had no doubts though. Her _gifts_ leaned toward necromancy more than she was really comfortable with admitting, and although she had never been strong in that aspect of her power, it did give her an insight into the subject few without it could match. Vampires were corpses animated by magic, and it was the magic not the blood that fuelled them. Their souls now, they were a problem of another sort, one only the clerics seemed fit to answer. Gavin was a person not a zombie, which was another sort of magically animated corpse, and no one doubted that zombies had nothing between their ears but rotting mush. And what about ghouls? She wasn't qualified to say whether vamps had souls or not, but they had something.

Where Gavin's blood cursed him to an undying half-life in his own words, shifter blood lent him power. Spence was alpha, a strong shifter meant to lead, but he preferred not to get involved in pack politics. That was unusual in any alpha, but he was weird in a lot of ways. Not many shifters were friends with witches like her or vamps like Gavin either. Angel marvelled again that she could actually stand in the presence of these two men and think it perfectly normal. As she had said to Gavin earlier, she really did know stuff that most people wouldn't believe. She had seen Spence wearing his other forms many times and watched him change back. She had even seen him grow claws on an otherwise perfectly human hand—he had that much control over the change.

Spence was as strong in his way as Gavin was in his. The effect of his blood was immediately apparent. Gavin's eyes blazed with hunger. If anything, the blood had made his craving worse. He clamped restraining hands upon his friend's arm as if to prevent his escape. Spence had no such intention. He looked ecstatic as if Gavin's touch was an exquisite pleasure. Angel shifted uncomfortably at the sight. It was somehow an intensely personal moment for the two men—there was no denying it was sexual. She wished that she, and not Spence, was feeding him.

Gavin's face had filled out now. The shrunken and ghastly white visage of moments ago was gone replaced with one full of health and vigour. The gaunt alien was gone, and the man she had come to know these last few years was back, but still his throat worked rhythmically and his lips remained sealed to Spence's wrist.

"Mister Gavin?" she said edging forward, but there was no response. She grabbed Spence and shook him, but his eyes were rolled up and his jaw hung slack. She pulled on his arm trying to free it from Gavin's grasp, but it was like pulling on an iron bar. "Mister Gavin stop!"

He snarled and continued feeding.

Frantically she pulled on Spence's arm, but to no effect. In desperation, she grabbed Gavin by the hair and wrenched at him. He snarled again and his eyes locked upon her face. In his eyes, she saw rage and madness and a promise of retribution.

"You're killing him!" she screamed into his face and the eyes flickered. "Let go! Let him go you're killing him!"

Understanding flashed into Gavin's eyes, and with a howl of rage he threw Spence bodily away from him to land in a dazed and panting heap across the room. Gavin was up and leaning against the far wall, and Angel hadn't seen him move. He was magnificent in his power! She shook with fear and lust, more lust than fear she realised and was disgusted with herself. She went to check on Spence who was trying but failing to stand. She helped him up, but he staggered sideways and fell to hands and knees again.

"Stay there. Let me see it," Angel said and crouched to take his wrist, but his nature was standing him in good stead. The wound was barely seeping. It closed and faded as she watched. "Okay," she breathed. "You're okay. Stay there for a minute."

"Is he?" Gavin said from across the room. "Did I...?"

"No, he's all right. He'll be all right in a while," she said to his back, and he finally turned to look at her.

She gasped and stumbled back in shock at what she saw. He was... he was _glowing!_ A cold white glow radiated from his skin as if he were filled with so much light he couldn't contain it. His eyes shone with power—Spence's power. He would have turned away and hidden it from her, but she mastered her reaction and closed the distance between them.

She reached up to stroke his cheek. It was warm. "There's no need to hide it from me. I know what you are."

The choked laugh was more like a sob. "You think this is me?" He raised a hand and gestured at his face. "It's not. What you saw on the roof is me—a corpse that won't lie down. This," he said making a fist of his glowing hand, "I stole."

Angel shook her head. "Not this time. Spence gave it to you." Gavin looked up at the reminder and was beside the shifter in the blink of an eye. Angel shook her head and muttered, "I wish you wouldn't do that."

"Here old friend, let me help you up."

Spence waved him off. "Don't fuss, Gavin. I'll be fine in the morning."

"About that," Angel said. "He won't make it home before light."

"No problem," Spence said finally managing to stay upon his feet, though swaying a little. "I have a spare room in the back. Nice and shady."

Gavin snorted. It had to be more than shady or he would burn. He left the room to investigate and Angel took the opportunity to have a private word.

"You know what went down?"

"Gavin told me it would be tonight."

Angel watched the door for Gavin's return. "He killed the sonofabitch, but he didn't have time to hide the body before the cops showed up."

Spence frowned.

"Don't you see? O'Neal was a newborn. Gavin needs the corpse to find his maker before the bastard makes more of him."

"He might not—"

Just then Gavin came back in, "I'll need more blankets to hang at the windows... what?"

"Nothing," Angel said and reached for her coat where it lay over the back of a chair. "I gotta go, Mister Gavin."

Gavin sighed. "When will you stop calling me that?"

"I already told you," she said heading for the door.

"I'll see you out," Spence said following Angel into the hall. "About that... _matter_ we were discussing," he said very quietly so that Gavin would not overhear.

"I'll take care of it."

"Be careful."

Angel grinned. "I'm always careful."

"She's in shock..."

"Let's get a line into her Angie, whole blood."

"Bp's dropping!"

"Let me see here... nasty... bleeding heavily... might have nicked the artery... hand me the..."

Chris groaned and shook. Red eyes... red eyes staring and burning into her. There was a voice whispering in her head. The words. Listen to the words the voice insisted but she didn't want to. They made her feel like she was drowning. She groaned. Red eyes hovering before her. She screamed shrilly and struck out with fingers hooked like talons for those eyes.

" _AEiii!_ Hold her! Hold her down damn it!"

The eyes went away and Chris tried to struggle to her feet. Someone grabbed her and she screamed thinking it was him again, but there was more than one person piling onto her. She yelled and kicked but her brief surge of strength was fading quickly. She was panting with the effort to move and sweat was pouring into her eyes making her blink madly at her surroundings.

"Chris! Oh goddess, what did he do to her?"

"You're not helping her. Wait outside!"

"She needs me!"

"John!" she screamed. "Goddess help me, he's got me!"

"Chris!"

"Wait outside I said!" someone yelled from close by. "Someone... _anyone_... give me the damn _strap!_ Let's get her locked down people. Someone kick that idiot out of here! Angie, get that line in! We might have to sedate her."

"But the anaesthetic."

"If we don't stabilise the bleeding she won't live long enough to reach the theatre!"

"Right."

_Listen to the words... Listen to the words..._

No, she mustn't listen! She struggled humping her back off the ground in a spastic effort to get free, but with her arms pinned all she managed to do was wave her butt in the air. The thought would have been funny if not for the terror her captivity caused her. Jenny Lovett and Leila Newell... she couldn't let him do that to her! She struggled harder but it was no good. The voice in her head wanted her to be calm. Let go, it soothed. Let the fear go and float free of pain. No! Pain was life; if it hurt it meant she still had a chance. John would come. He wouldn't let O'Neal have her. She hammered her head against the ground in an effort to make the voice let her go but there was no pain. Why didn't it hurt? She slammed her head back again and felt a yielding surface like a pillow under her head. She glared around not understanding and flinched.

"Too bright," she groaned looking wildly around for O'Neal. She couldn't see him. She wasn't in the alley any longer. He'd gotten her away somehow. "Oh goddess save me, don't let him..." she mumbled hardly aware of what she was saying. When she turned her head and saw that he was trying to strap her arms down, she found the strength by way of sheer terror to wrench one leg free and lash out.

"Ooof!"

She was grimly satisfied to hear the sound of someone crashing onto the ground and cursing. "You're under..." she panted. "You're under arrest for the murders of... you have the right to remain silent."

"You can arrest me later," someone muttered. "After I save your life."

Save her life? It was so surprising a thing for O'Neal to say to her that she was caught unawares. The voice surged up before she could fight it. She howled in despair as her thoughts were drowned under a torrent of soothing words. Before she knew it the blazing eyes hovering before hers captured and held them. Chris collapsed back to the bed mesmerised by the soothing words.

_Listen to the words... Listen to the words..._

"She's going into arrest!"

"Give me... cc's of epinephrine... shock her... _clear!_ "

_Pain!_

_Listen to the words... Listen to the words..._

"Shock her again!"

_Pain!_

_Listen to the words... Listen to the words..._

Floating... no pain... blackness.

## 19

# Barrows

Special Agent Barrows had spent years of his life on the road. He rarely spent longer than a couple of weeks in any one place and hadn't seen his kids in over two years. His work was responsible for two failed marriages, a limp that was more pronounced in the winter months, a heavily scarred shoulder, and an ulcerated stomach that his doctor said was caused by work induced stress.

The hotel he was staying in might be a dump... no strike that. The hotel _was_ a dump—the bed was lumpy and uncomfortable, the carpets should be dragged out and burned, and the tiny kitchen was only fit for growing mould not cooking. Despite that catalogue of disadvantages, he wouldn't dream of being anywhere else right now. He had lived in dozens of places just like this since Executive Director Hawkings had recruited him out of the FBI's Criminal Investigation Division, and into his shadowy world of unsolved crimes and mysterious happenings.

Hawkings, who was then the newly promoted Assistant Director for the Office of Special Investigations, had been actively recruiting men and women from other divisions within the FBI and later from other walks of life (including various police departments, colleges, and even certain industries) for years.

Barrows had come to his attention when he read a report regarding the suspicious circumstances surrounding the death of Senator George R. Martinez. It was a suspicion that Hawkings himself had held back then, and like so many other investigations that OSI undertook, was hard to prove. It had taken him months of mind numbing research and digging, most of it on his own time when his superiors dismissed his suspicions out of hand, to prove those same suspicions correct. It was that kind of dogged determination together with a willingness to consider outlandish ideas that made him, according to Hawkings, the perfect candidate for recruitment into OSI.

Twelve years in OSI, and what did he have to show for it? Two ex-wives, two ex-kids, an ex-girlfriend squatting in an apartment that she insisted was his _ex-apartment_ because although he was paying the rent, her name was on the lease, and a nearly empty pizza box in a hotel room that stank worse than a whore's boudoir. He had seen more than a few of those in his time, so he knew. But then there was the job. He had that didn't he? Damn right he did, and it was an important one. The job had always been more important than anything to him. That's why the ex-wives. Even now he couldn't say he was wrong to pursue it so hard.

If he was honest with himself, a thing he tried to avoid at all costs when thinking about certain things like the kids, he loved his job more than anything—even his kids. That made him feel like a bad person. Well so be it. He _was_ a bad person in some ways. But he was a good person, the best person he knew, where certain things were concerned. Things like the case he was on right now, the secret case that only a select few knew about.

It was that secret that was on his mind right now.

Nothing handicapped an investigation like too much secrecy, but this secret had to be kept. There was no if, why, or but about that. It must be kept. There were all kinds of things he had learned through his years with OSI. Some were so startling that even he had trouble believing what he had seen. None of them came close to being as dangerous as this case should it become public knowledge. He knew all the whys and wherefores behind it, and he agreed with most of them, but that very agreement was making his job almost impossible.

OSI didn't have anything like the manpower of a city's police department. What it did have was unsurpassed data gathering and the ability to analyse that data to gain meaningful information upon which to act. When Director Hawkings told him they had new information on the Arcadian and that he had re-surfaced, he hadn't needed orders to investigate. He volunteered. He'd been one of those involved in the disaster in Chicago and had lost friends in the so-called Shadow War that had ended it. He knew first-hand what these _people_ (he used the word with some reservation) were capable of. That was why he was here. His lack of manpower coupled with the need for secrecy was why relying upon the local police was both necessary and frustrating. He needed them, but he couldn't tell them anything that would help them help him!

"It's driving me nuts!"

He slumped onto the couch and grabbed a slice of pizza from the box lying on the table before him. He put his feet up next to the box and switched on the wall-mounted vid with the remote. He wasn't interested in the ball game. He already knew the score, but he wanted the voices of the commentators for company while he ate.

While he chewed cold pizza—hmmm pepperoni, food for the gods—he picked up the report lying on the couch beside him and began to read. He had ordered a copy sent to him after his little run in with Detective Humber. He'd wanted to indulge his curiosity about her. According to the report, Chris was a rising star in the ranks of the police. Only four years on the streets had been enough for her to earn the admiration of her superiors and promotion to detective. A further three years in robbery homicide, where she earned a bunch of commendations and a medal after being shot in the chest and shoulder. That was two years ago and he didn't doubt promotion to Captain was in her future. It was just a matter of time.

The South Central Ghost was her second serial killer, the first being Randolph H. Johnston. Johnston had liked strangling college kids. Man or woman made no difference to him, he just didn't like them. Chris took him down hard—DOA at the hospital after she shot him three times in the chest with her stunner set to kill. There was an investigation of the shooting, there always is, and she was cleared of any wrongdoing. Of course, the old pump action shotgun found next to the body and the hole in the wall next to the door she had entered through had helped with that. It was a righteous shoot, just like all the other times she had been investigated. There were cops on the street that had never fired their weapon. That sounded unbelievable to many, but the stats were clearly true. Chris was not one of those lucky few, and neither was he.

She was one of those cops that seemed to attract trouble. If she hadn't been so good at her job, and if she hadn't been the kind of person to attract loyal friends without even trying, she might well have found herself ejected from the department for being too brutal. In this day of political correctness where even a righteous cop could be ousted for the bad press she engendered, Chris Humber was both an outstanding asset to her Captain and an appalling risk.

He wished he could have brought her in fully on the Arcadian. She might have some insights, something new he had not considered. Hell, something old he had dismissed that she saw merit in would be fine. At this point, he didn't care how he got the evil blood-sucking bastard as long as he did get him. A verifiable body on the ground was all he wanted from this case; positive identification was the watchword. Arcadian must die and his nut bunny ideas with him.

It was all his superiors wanted.

There was no chance of a trial of course, there never was where vampires were concerned—them being already dead and all. The dead had no rights under the law, so how could you put one on trial even if you wanted to? Even if there were a way, Arcadian would not get one. He had to be silenced permanently for the good of the Republic.

Humber would have made a good candidate for recruitment. He had considered it a few times before; he wondered if perhaps he might get permission to make the offer someday. It would certainly be an elegant way of letting her into the Arcadian affair, but no, his superiors wouldn't let a new recruit join the team on this one. It was too important no matter how good a cop she was.

He yawned and rubbed blurring eyes. Maybe it was time to turn in for the night. An early one would make a change and he had a lot to do tomorrow. He dropped the report on the table and was about to switch off the vid when his link signalled for attention. He fumbled in his jacket pocket where it lay over the back of the couch, and after a little cursing managed to find it.

"Barrows."

"Jack, its Nancy. I'm at the hospital."

"Are you all right?"

"Fine, and before you ask Tuck's okay too."

Jack relaxed a little. "Okay good. What's going on?"

"First off, O'Neal is dead."

" _Damn!_ " He reached for his jacket again. "You're sure? One hundred percent certain?"

"Absolutely. I confirmed the kill before they took the body away. He isn't coming back. Humber was hurt really bad; it doesn't look good for her. They don't think she'll make it. Do you want the details?"

"Obviously, unless you want to tell Hawkings yourself."

"Ermmm no, that's okay. We took over the surveillance from the others and stayed out of sight like you said. Humber didn't have a clue we were there. She was strutting her stuff just like all the other nights and everything was fine. I only looked away for a second, but when I looked back, she was gone. I couldn't believe it. One minute everything was cool, the next all nine hells broke loose. There were cops bundling out of the van shouting and hollering. The next thing I know the cops started shooting the shit out of someone in the alley."

"O'Neal?"

"Not O'Neal, someone else."

"Who?"

"We don't know," Nancy said obviously frustrated by that. "He or she got away."

"Could it have been _him?_ " he said intently.

"I don't know, maybe, but why kill his own?"

"Maybe because Humber knew who O'Neal was. She was closing in." He shrugged into his jacket and hunted up his keys while still juggling his link. "I'm on my way there. We need to talk to Humber; maybe she can give us a description. While you're waiting for me, call Doug. Tell him I want O'Neal's body under wraps before anyone gets a look at him."

"I'll tell him, but getting O'Neal's body won't be easy. This thing is way too high profile."

He was well aware of that, but stepping on local toes was the least of his concerns. O'Neal alive had been a possible way to find Arcadian—vamps always had a bond to their makers, but O'Neal dead could still work. Necromancy was a bad business, but he was way beyond letting his scruples get in the way of the job. He would do whatever it took; even steal a body and getting a necromance to work his mojo on it.

"I don't care about that. We can't afford anyone running an autopsy until we're done with him." That was a necessity. Messing with a dead body—like doing an autopsy—would screw up any necromantic rituals they could perform. "Tell Doug to get the authorisation, or just snatch the damn thing. I don't care which."

"I'll tell him," Nancy said before disconnecting.

He drove to Mercy Hospital and found Nancy outside the emergency room talking to someone with a familiar face. Detective Baxter had been with Humber on the day she first realised he was tailing her. That had been a memorable confrontation in more ways than one. Doug had taken an instant disliking to her. He'd had to listen to him bitch and moan about her all the rest of that day.

Baxter saw him approaching and turned to face him. "What the _hell_ do you want?"

Barrows ignored him and addressed himself to Nancy. "How is she?"

"Not good. She'll need surgery for certain, but they need to stabilise her first."

"She'll make it," Baxter said not liking Nancy's tone. "She's a fighter."

"Where's her partner?"

"He's inside with her. They tried to throw him out but he wouldn't go."

He checked his wristband and noted the time. He needed to get O'Neal's body under wraps. He gestured for Nancy to follow him to a quiet corner. Baxter stayed where he was watching them suspiciously.

"Did you get in touch with Doug about that matter we discussed?"

Nancy nodded. "No word back from him yet."

"Okay. Is there any chance of getting to Humber tonight?"

"None. Not tonight and maybe never. She flat lined a couple of times already."

He grimaced, another casualty in a never ending war. "Did she say anything when they brought her in?"

"Nothing that helps us. She was raving when they brought her in. You know the kind of thing. O'Neal bit her—almost ripped her throat beyond repair. Just a fraction deeper and she would have bled out at the scene. As it is, if she makes it out of surgery, she'll have a scar on her neck to match yours."

He winced and rubbed his shoulder in sympathetic pain. "They won't believe anything she says while in that state. Believe me. I know what she's going through."

"You better hope they don't," Nancy warned. "We both know this isn't just another vamp attack, Jack."

"They won't," he said and frowned in thought. "Okay, there's nothing we can do here right now. Tell Tuck to keep an eye on things here. Where is he anyway?"

"Having a smoke outside."

"I didn't see him. Tell him to watch and interview Humber if that becomes possible, and then you meet me at the car. I'm parked opposite the main entrance."

"Where are we going?"

"The morgue."

"You really know how to show a girl a good time."

"So my ex-wives keep telling me. Five minutes," he said and watched as she went to find her partner.

"Barrows," Baxter growled as he left his post at the door. "I want to talk to you."

Barrows began walking. "Sorry, no time to chat."

Baxter's hand shot out and grabbed his shoulder to spin him around. He went with the motion and turned it to his advantage. He grasped Baxter's hand, twisted it into a wrist-lock, and then followed it by putting the arm into an elbow lock behind Baxter's back before slamming him face first into the wall. It was instinctive on his part. He had been extensively trained in hand-to-hand combat when he joined OSI. The entire fight, if it could be called that, had taken a matter of seconds.

"Let go of me," Baxter hissed in pain.

"Not until you calm down."

"It's your fault that Chris is lying in there dying."

He let the arm go and shoved Baxter away. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about. My fault, how is it my fault?"

Baxter worked his arm free of pain and glared. "You know more than you're saying about O'Neal, and you knew it _before_ all this went down. There's something weird about this whole thing. I told Chris back then that we were dealing with something stranger than a vamp serial killer."

Barrows gave Baxter blank face and said, "I was told O'Neal is dead."

"He is, but we didn't kill him. Another guy chopped the evil bastard's head off, and I bet you know who don't you?"

He kept his silence on that one, and tried to keep all expression off his face, but polite interest wasn't cutting it apparently. Baxter's face darkened.

"Yeah, I figured as much." Baxter said in disgust. "You're as much responsible for Chris' condition as O'Neal is. You knew what she was up against and you did nothing."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"Don't try shovelling your bullshit in my direction. I've dealt with your kind longer than you've been alive—"

Barrows grinned; that was a slight exaggeration. He would judge that they were of an age with each other.

"—damned feds think they're better than the rest of us. You and your people should be locked up as accomplices to murder!"

"Are you finished? I have places to be and I don't have time for your hysterics."

"I want to know what the hell is going on. Who was the guy with the sword and why did he kill O'Neal?"

"I don't know," he said, but he did. Or he suspected he did at any rate. Offing O'Neal to cover his tracks was an obvious thing for Arcadian to do. Why he had left it so late though was a question. Arcadian had screwed up leaving the body behind. If he had acted sooner, he could have made him disappear with none the wiser, so why hadn't he? "I really don't know," he said again, but the answer was to his own internal question not Baxter's.

"You know," Baxter growled. "I know you do. I don't care why you're hiding what you're hiding, Barrows. I swear I'm going to find out what it is. The guys think we missed the other vamp, but I know we didn't miss. I _know_ it. We emptied our boomers into him—silver hollow points, Barrows, not stunners. We used enough silver to take down ten vamps not one, but he ignored us like we were nothing but an irritation. Just so you know what you're dealing with I'll tell you something: I never miss."

He wasn't oblivious to the veiled threat, but ignored it. "So you're a good shot. So what?"

"So I hit O'Neal's killer three of four times for sure. No ifs, buts, or maybes. Three silver rounds from my gun hit him square and he kept going. The others aren't as good as I am, but they hit him as well. I'm sure of it."

Barrows tried to school his expression but knew he had failed when Baxter's eyes narrowed. He looked away, then at his wristband again, and then back to Baxter trying to think what to do. It had to have been Arcadian. That much silver? It had to have been him. Only a really old vamp could have kept going.

"You're not surprised are you?" Baxter said.

"Listen to me. Don't tell anyone what you think you know, don't discuss it, don't ask questions, don't dig... for your own safety, don't dig. You have no idea how dangerous these people are and it's not just them. If certain powerful people were to find out—"

"Don't threaten me," Baxter growled.

"I'm not. I'm warning you. You don't know how seriously these people take this. They won't care who you are. They would kill me or anyone for breaking secrecy on this."

Baxter dismissed him and walked away.

"Baxter... _shit_ ," Barrows growled and stalked outside to find Nancy waiting by the car. "Get in, it's not locked!"

Nancy climbed in. "What did I do?"

"Nothing," he snarled and tramped his foot on the accelerator. The car burned rubber out of the parking lot and onto the road. Cars beeped horns and veered aside. "Sorry. I'm just in a bad mood."

"I noticed that. Still nothing from Doug?"

"No."

"Maybe he couldn't get the authorisation."

"No. If he hadn't got it he would have called to tell me. Try him again."

Nancy pulled out her link and used the autodial. She listed for a few minutes and shook her head. "No answer."

"He switched it off?"

"No, it's ringing. He just doesn't answer."

"I don't like that."

"He's probably just busy. O'Neal is dead. His head was between his feet on the gurney when they took him away. He isn't going anywhere. Doug will be okay."

"That's not what I'm worried about. Baxter told me what happened. They filled O'Neal's killer with silver and it didn't slow him down. I think it was Arcadian himself."

Nancy was quiet for a moment. "Drive faster," she said checking her weapon.

He floored it.

"How do you want to play it?" Nancy said. She had her back to the wall next to the main entrance of the morgue and was peeking around the corner and through the glass doors at the body of the security guard lying behind his desk.

Barrows crouched to make himself a smaller target and pushed the door. It opened easily. "Cover me. I'm going for the desk."

"Whenever you're ready."

He slid forward between the doors. He stilled trying to listen. The foyer was silent and empty of people except for the possibly dead guard. He glanced up at Nancy and she nodded that she was ready. He took a deep breath and bolted at top speed for the security desk. He watched the corridor leading off the foyer for a moment then checked the guard for a pulse. He found one. It was strong and steady. There was a strong smell of ozone in the air. Someone had stunned him at close range and not long ago either. He waved and Nancy hurried to join him while he covered the corridor.

"He's unconscious, stunner blast to the throat."

"Could have killed him."

He nodded. Stunners could kill even when not set for that if they hit the wrong spot.

Nancy scooted to the end of the desk and peered along the corridor toward the elevator. "Nothing. Doug must be downstairs. We should call the others in. We might need the help. If something happens and they don't know where we are..."

"You're right. Call Tuck. Tell him what's going down."

Nancy nodded and pulled out her link. While she was doing that, he decided to position himself nearer to the elevators. Nancy was probably right about Doug. The labs and operating theatres were below ground. If Doug had succeeded in getting the authorisation, he would be down there overseeing the removal of O'Neal's body from storage.

He watched the indicator above the elevator carefully, but it was the stairway he was thinking about. There was no way he was getting into the tight confines of the elevator when there was a chance that Arcadian was in the building.

"They're on the way."

He nodded. "Screw the elevator. We're going down the stairway."

"Fuckin-A," Nancy said with feeling.

He led the way. He felt an urgent need to find Doug, but he knew from hard experience that you don't rush into danger. Getting shot or worse before he reached him wouldn't help anyone. Two flights down a notice on the door proclaimed that they were in the right place. He opened the door just a crack. What he saw made him dive through without thought for the consequences, as if he hadn't just been cautioning himself not do exactly that. Nancy's gasp of surprise behind him made him check his steps abruptly, but he was already out in the open by then. If there had been someone with a weapon, he would have died right there in the morgue. Convenient. As it was, the only persons present were Doug and another guard lying upon the floor. Both were unconscious just like the guard upstairs. Good news, but odd. Arcadian invariably killed adversaries.

"Check the offices on the right. I'll take left."

Nancy nodded, but five minutes of checking proved the offices were vacant. Barrows went back to check on Doug. He was groaning and slowly coming around.

"What happened?"

Doug squinted and felt the back of his head. "Don't know... there were two of them. EMTs. They had a body bag to log in. One of them sprayed me in the face with something."

"They've got to be through there," Nancy said nodding at the last door. It was the cadaver storage area.

He eased the door open in time to see someone leaving via the fire exit. "FBI! Stop where you are!"

"That never works," Nancy muttered as they piled through the door and across the room in time to have the door slammed in their faces. "Damn! He jammed it shut with something!"

Barrows ran back the way they'd come shouting over his shoulder. "Look after Doug!"

He sped up the stairs and made his gasping way outside, but by the time he ran around the side of the building to the loading ramp, they were gone. Bent double gasping for breath, he wondered what the hell was going on in this city.

Angel pulled off her ski mask and shook out her hair. "Good job," she said to her crew in the back. She grinned, coming down from her adrenaline high. "Damn, we're good!"

"Where to?" Ash said, watching his mirrors for pursuit.

Flex moved forward from his position at the rear doors and poked his head over Ash's shoulder. "Keep your speed down, man. I ain't explaining to no damned traffic cop why I've got a headless corpse in the back."

Ash slowed the van to just below the speed limit. "No tail," he said as answer, but hung a left at the next intersection, and then a right a little further on. "Where are we going?"

"Hold on and I'll tell you. Just chill and drive nice," Angel said and used her link to call Spence. It rang three times before he picked up. "It's done."

"Any problems?"

"Nothing we couldn't handle. Put him on?"

"He's in the back covering the windows. I'll get him," Spence said and Angel listened as he took the link to Gavin.

"Angelina?"

"Mister Gavin, I have the corpse for you. Where do you want it delivered?"

"You have it?" Gavin said in disbelief, and Angel grinned imagining him counting to ten. "You risked yourself to get the body?"

"Not much of a risk, it was easy."

Gavin snorted. "I'm sure. Take it to Stephen at Lost Souls, do you know it?"

"Sure I know it. I don't think he'll like me dragging a body bag through his doors though."

"Don't concern yourself with that. I'll call him now and tell him to have someone meet you."

Angel turned to Ash, "Lost Souls," she said and Ash nodded already looking for the right road. "Okay Mister Gavin, we're on the way there."

"Good, and Angelina?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you," he said and broke the connection.

Angelina smiled and put away her link.

# Part II
## 20

# The Underground

David would never have believed that living among so many strangers, and underground at that, would feel comforting. Underground! But it did, it really did. His life had changed beyond all recognition and he regretted his losses—he still missed working in medicine, but the feeling of community here at Lost Souls was a compensation he had never expected to feel.

He inserted a finger in his book and glanced around the barracks, but didn't rise. He had a few minutes yet before he needed to dress for work, and it was relaxing just lying on his bed reading an old leather bound text instead of paging through the electronic version. He thought of the dorm room as a barracks because what else were they really—all the shifters living here—than Stephen's personal army? They certainly acted as if the vampire was their General. Even he said how high when the vampires said jump, but it was a little different for him, or he felt it was in any case. Maybe he was fooling himself. Who knew? Everyone working for Stephen might feel as he did and just be putting on a show of subservience, but he didn't think so.

Since the night he first changed, his abilities and senses had grown in leaps and bounds. Mist was responsible for that. The wolf was very good at sensing things around them and articulating what it all meant to him. The more David read about shifters and non-humans, the longer he was exposed to them, the better he felt he understood and was better able to cope with his duality. Mist was like a real person to him, not just another facet of his own personality. Books he had read disputed that point of view, insisting that shifter madness was literally that—a form of mania. He was no psychologist, but he knew that he wasn't mad. Shifter craziness wasn't a medical condition; he was certain of it. They were just different, that was all. The authors failed to realise that their own bias, their own very understandable but wrong human point of view, was skewing their understanding. It was like a marine biologist insisting he knew what a jellyfish was thinking and feeling. Not possible; they were too different.

What humans failed to understand deep down was that shifters weren't human. Oh, they professed to know that monsters were monsters, and they certainly discriminated against anyone not like themselves with gleeful abandon, but then they about-faced and were all indignant and horrified when elves, dwarves—and yes, shifters and vamps—acted like themselves and not like decent humans! Ridiculous double standard. Either they were not human and shouldn't be held to human standards of behaviour, or they should have the same rights as humans and then be expected to adhere to human obligations and standards. They couldn't have it both ways.

He turned his attention back to his book. It was called _Children of the Gods_ and attempted to explain how and why shifters were blessed with the ability to shift their shape. It went on to document each of the known types, which had been interesting, but for all of that it was the biggest load of hogwash he had ever read. It was full of mystical bullshit. The appendix was good, the types of shifter and their abilities also, but the explanation for those abilities? Laughable!

**Why are you angry?**

In his mind, David saw a wolf lying within the entrance of a cave—a cave that only existed in his mind. Mist's golden eyes stared at him, and his tail beat an uneven and irritated tattoo on the ground.

"I'm not angry," he said, trying to put his feelings into words for both of them. "I'm frustrated. It's just people's ignorance that makes me like this. They just don't understand."

**Manthings have never understood us.**

"By that you mean shifters," he said but felt Mist's rejection of that. "What then?"

**Manthings do not like us; they hunt us for no reason.**

"You mean wolves then. Do you have memories of a time before we were joined?"

**I remember.**

"What do you remember?"

Mist rolled onto his back kicking his legs playfully in the air. He smiled to see it. He could see him so clearly in his mind. The wolf was radiating happiness and his mood lightened under the influence.

**I remember running across the snow. A storm is coming. The mountains call me home, but the pack is in need. I hunt to feed the pack and my cubs. I remember blood scent on the wind. There are manthings close and they have fire—fire is dangerous. They do not see me, but I see them clearly.**

He saw it all as Mist spoke. The men wore furs and sat huddled around a small campfire. They were primitives. They had darkly bearded faces and carried bows not guns. To one side he could see shaggy ponies with their heads down trying to shield their eyes from the wind.

**I remember the hard-footed four feet. They taste good. My belly is empty, but manthings are dangerous. I remember my mate and that my cubs hunger. I remember manthings are dangerous. I remember everything.**

That was the most Mist had ever said to him at one time before, and the implication was staggering. He had instinctively always known that Mist was a real person, but this... it meant the wolf had been alive as himself in the far past and somehow was reborn in him. They were one.

**We are one,** Mist agreed happily, **now and forever.**

The implications were incredible! Many believed in reincarnation, but he never had. Sedona's clerics did not hold that view, though the Goddess could do anything she wished of course. He believed in her, he had followed her calling after all. She was the patron of healers and he had always known he wanted to heal the sick. As a boy, he had been devastated when he learned he was devoid of magic and could not be a healer or healer cleric, but it hadn't stopped him from finding a way to reach his goal. Medical school had been his way into Her service.

He watched the shifters getting ready for work and contemplated his changed life. He could not be a healer any more. They, the authorities, wouldn't let him. Where did that leave him? Here at Lost Souls doing whatever jobs came up, doing what he was told? Now yes, and until he could fix Georgie and maybe Raymond as well, but after? He really didn't know. He had no goals any longer and was adrift. Everyone here felt that way he was sure. They were all lone wolves... or shifters at least. There were a couple of people whose beasts weren't wolf. He knew of two cats—one a tiger, and one a lynx—and there were a couple of non-humans that weren't shifters at all. Half dwarf he thought one was. The other could only be an elf, but not full-blooded. It didn't matter. They were like family, living as close as they did.

**The pack is good the pack is all.**

"Is it though? We aren't really a pack here." He felt Mist's rejection of that and wondered at it.

**We are Stephen's pack. He is Alpha.**

"The leader you mean."

Mist agreed.

Well that was true at least, and he was definitely an alpha personality, but Mist meant Stephen was their pack leader. Alpha with a capital-A. A vampire leading a pack was... odd. In other cities, vampires were at the top of the food chain and ruled their territories like feudal lords, but they weren't considered pack. They treated shifters and other non-vampires like cannon fodder, and they could make it stick, but here in LA things were different. There were a couple of reasons for that. One was that Stephen and the other powerful vamps had treaties and alliances with each other. They didn't fight, but instead supported one another against outsiders, keeping the city to themselves and relatively peaceful. LA was a little vampire paradise. It was like an island sanctuary in a sea of chaos that was the rest of the Republic. Vampires fought and contested for territory all over the Republic, but never here. Another reason for the status quo was that the LA shifter community was very strong in terms of population. A war between vamps and shifters here would be very bloody, but the vamps would lose in the end. Elsewhere that wouldn't be the case.

To be fair, he didn't think Stephen would want it any other way. He was very modern and progressive in his thinking for a centuries old vampire. He liked living free of conflict, but that didn't mean he was safe. Flare-ups of violence did still happen from time to time when outsiders tried to muscle in, and AML was always a danger of course. Stephen had to maintain a strong defence; hence the underground and the shifters living here between the surface and the vault on the deepest level where the vamps had their apartments. He had yet to see Stephen defend his territory; he had missed the last attempted takeover by a few months, but he didn't doubt the vampire could be ruthless when the need arose.

**He would win,** Mist agreed. **Stephen is a good hunter. He will protect us.**

David frowned. Stephen did that for everyone here, but his protection wasn't free. The latest news spoke of unpleasantness brewing in the city, and they were on the lookout for trouble. Something to do with the South Central Ghost had the vamps worked up. Not that they would tell someone like him what the problem was; he was just one of the help, one of Stephen's many minions. He just had to do what he was told and enjoy the protections afforded him by doing so. He could leave at any time. Yeah right, and go where, do what?

He sighed and opened his book to continue his reading.

A few minutes later, Mist spoke up again. **Farris comes.**

David looked toward the entrance. Farris was Lawrence's wolf, or Lawrence was Farris' human? But he wasn't human... person then? He shook off the strange thought and the mood it brought it on. They were one, just as Mist and he were one. They were together now and forever.

**We are one,** Mist agreed sounding very satisfied with the arrangement.

Lawrence entered the barracks and paused just inside, obviously looking for someone in particular. He was alpha as David himself was, but lesser. Not in body, oh no. Lawrence was something a little bit special in the size and good looks department—according to the females anyway, and even David who was a staunch fan of the female gender and hetero himself, could admit there was something there. Lawrence was a rare breed of shifter in that he actively worked hard to improve what Farris and the lycanthropy virus bestowed upon him in such abundance. David had asked him once why he put himself through so much work and pain to overcome the virus' reluctance to allow modifications to its host. Lawrence replied just a little grimly, he now thought, that when everyone else could tear a car in half too, being average no longer cut it. Well, Lawrence was not average in body or power. He was alpha, just not the Alpha. Stephen was that, but David was also stronger than Lawrence. Much stronger, but that was all Mist not him.

**We are one. There is no difference, no division. As it should be. Lawrence and Farris are also one. The sum of our Presence is greater, that is all.**

That was very perceptive of the wolf. David had come to suspect that much of what went into creating an alpha was how well the two personalities merged and complimented each other. Cassie and Onida were fine people, but they were not alpha. Onida rarely spoke at all. Contrast that with the conversations he had with Mist and it was a telling difference. The wolf rarely shut up! He grinned at Mist's rumbled warning; he was pretending anger, but David could feel his amusement. They were perfectly matched, and that made them strong.

Mist sent his satisfaction and agreement.

Lawrence finished his brief scan of the room's occupants, not pausing on all the naked perfection it contained. Most shifters preferred going unclothed in private like this. It let them shift with ease, but it was more than that. All shifter senses were heightened and wearing clothes often irritated sensitive skin. They had to wear natural fibres because of that, but even so, they felt confined in anything but skin or fur. So out of sight of easily shocked humans, shifters tended to strip at the drop of a hat. David hardly noticed any more. He just didn't care; shifters weren't body conscious at all, taking their lead from their beasts in that regard. He had lost that particularly useless human emotion surprisingly quickly he now thought, but then as a medical professional, he hadn't exactly been a prude before his change. Embarrassment; what was the use of it? Besides, the only naked shifter he wanted to look at was Ronnie, and she was avoiding him.

**Callia likes me,** Mist said smugly.

"And we like her and Ronnie, so it's three against one. She'll come around."

His first weeks at Lost Souls had been a bit trying for Ronnie. He could admit that he'd been a little out of his depth and had followed her around like a second tail. That did not sit well with her, but her wolf, Callia, had liked it well enough. She was interested in Mist and apparently wasn't shy in telling Ronnie so. David snorted as he imagined some of their conversations.

"Hey, David," Lawrence said sitting upon the bed next to his. "Edward just posted the roster."

"Oh?"

Lawrence nodded and gestured back and forth indicating the two of them. "Main doors again. Security."

"Again?"

"He says there's always less trouble when you're on the doors."

That was because a lot of the club's clientele were monsters and able to sense his power. Shifters could always tell how strong another shifter was; it was part of what made the pack structure work. Shifter magic. His Presence was often enough to keep the peace all on its own. Other non-humans sensed different things in their own ways, but all of them responded to power. And the human thrill seekers? Well, that was why Edward partnered him with Lawrence most times. He was impressive in other ways—physically very imposing as well as being alpha.

"What's he expecting, World War Three?"

Lawrence shrugged. "Nothing good. There's trouble out there, big trouble. The vamps are upset about something, and some of the smaller packs are running scared. The _Alley Dogs_ are agitated about," he shrugged. "You know."

He meant Ronnie, but it went deeper than that. Stephen needed his army, but because it was mostly comprised of lone wolves, it rubbed the packs the wrong way. Traditionally, rogue wolves had the right to enter a territory and visit briefly, but they weren't supposed to take up permanent residence. If they wanted to do that, they had to petition a pack and join it. By giving so many rogues sanctuary and his protection, he had inadvertently challenged all the established packs. They didn't want to fight Stephen, and Stephen didn't want to fight them—everyone liked the status quo in LA—but by turning a blind eye to Stephen's unorthodox not-pack, they undermined the system that made the pack structure so successful.

Until now, the blind eye approach had rubbed along not without irritations, but nothing more serious than that. The _Alley Dogs_ however were a powerful pack and force in the community, and this time they had put their foot down. They wanted Ronnie back, or the Alley Dog's Alpha did. Raymond Pederson. He had been Stephen's most powerful ally until Ronnie came between them, but no more. It still surprised him that Stephen had not made the pragmatic choice of just throwing Ronnie back, back to the wolves so to speak, but he hadn't. Instead, he had stuck to his—seemingly ruinous—policy of welcoming shifters into his vampiric embrace if they would give themselves to him body and soul.

David grimaced. He hadn't been subjected to the body part of that deal. Yet. It could only be a matter of time though before he had to feed Stephen or one of his people. Blood was part of the deal. The fact they were so well fed made Stephen and his people a power among the vamp Houses of LA. Shifter blood had power and imbued them with it. Stephen wasn't the oldest vampire in LA; Gavin Lochlin was, but he was close in power to Gavin because of his feeding habits. Michael was second in age to Gavin, but he was actually weaker than Stephen. That was a stark reminder that in vampire circles the old saying _'you are what you eat'_ held literal truth. Well-fed vamps were powerful vamps.

He checked his wristband. Stephen had hours yet before he woke, but the club would be opening and hopping long before he rose for the evening. He had to get dressed now if he wanted to open the doors on time, and he did. Monsters were no more patient in a queue than a human would be. He didn't need to start his day breaking up fights and banging heads together.

He put aside his book and swung his legs off the bed. "Give me five minutes here and I'll be with you."

Lawrence nodded absently and picked up the book. "What are you reading?"

"Research, sort of."

"Children of the Gods," Lawrence said reading the title and then flipping open the book to a random page. "If you want to learn more about what you are, ask one of us. This bullshit won't teach you anything."

"That's where you're wrong, but I agree a lot of it's junk. Flip to the appendix."

David stripped out of his jeans and shirt to pull on his uniform. He thought of it as a uniform because it was Lost Souls approved clothing, but it wasn't really a uniform. It was 1920-30s style formal wear. Stephen wanted his theme reflected in his employee's manner and dress as well as the acts performing in the club. The interior decor of course perfectly mimicked the era. David wasn't averse to looking the part; it was nostalgic, but a doorman's uniform complete with cap might have strained his patience. Stephen hadn't gone that far. He wanted the ambiance from those swank nightclubs that Lost Souls emulated, but needed his people to be able to mingle when necessary to keep things peaceful.

His ego had become quite flexible all things considered, but he was glad he didn't need to wear a real uniform. One area where he had become less flexible and not more was in his inability to accept anyone weaker trying to dominate him. Hoberman would receive short thrift from him now if ever they met again. If that bigoted idiot had a scrap of sense, he would stay well clear. His new attitude was all Mist's influence and his changed nature. So far, it hadn't been too much of an issue here, because shifters could be very pragmatic once shown where they stood in the hierarchy. They usually settled down after a brief demonstration of why they should, but it was equally true that they wouldn't back down for less. It was programmed into them or something. They just weren't happy with uncertainty. They had to know where they belonged to be truly happy with their place in the pack. He supposed he could understand that. He hadn't liked uncertainty before his change. Why would he like it afterwards?

"I see what you mean," Lawrence said. "All that research and effort and he produces a trash book? That doesn't make a lot of sense. This is good stuff."

"We all have blind spots."

Lawrence grunted noncommittally.

David finished dressing and headed up to the club with Lawrence. "Do you ever wonder where you would be if not for Farris?"

"Dead," Lawrence said grimly.

That made him check his stride. "Dead?"

"Dead." Lawrence sighed and glanced at his wristband. Obviously deciding they had time, he ran a hand through his hair and launched into his story. "Most of us have an attack in our past to blame lycanthropy upon right?"

David nodded. He hadn't met anyone who didn't.

"Not me. How long do you think I've been a shifter? Have a guess."

"Five, ten years?"

"I'm thirty-five and I've been a shifter twenty of them."

David's jaw dropped.

"I wasn't attacked. I was in a car accident. My parents didn't make it, and I was paralysed. Broke my neck at C3."

David winced. "Paraplegic?"

Lawrence nodded.

"I'm sorry, but they fixed you up."

"No, they couldn't fix me. I was on life support for almost five years slowly going mad. I begged them to let me die. _Begged!_ They wouldn't of course. Sedona loves life; those who follow her cannot kill or allow harm to come to someone under their care... blah, blah, blah. Their rhetoric is sickening." Lawrence said bitterly. "As if forcing me to linger wasn't harming me. The clerics tried everything, but gradually one by one they stopped coming. Then it was the turn of the doctors to try all their crackpot ideas. Eventually they gave up too, and I was left to rot in a private room paid for by the insurance company."

"How did you become a shifter?"

"I couldn't do anything for myself. Nothing. I would have refused food if I could have, but they put tubes into my stomach and fed me that way. I have no family. None. There was no one I could beg to kill me, and the nurses were horrified when I raged at them. They stopped listening to me long before it happened.

"One night this woman put her head into my room looking for her friend. I told her to bugger off and leave me alone, but thank the Goddess she didn't. She said her name was Liz as if she hadn't heard me, all smiles and charm she was. She came into the room, sat down without asking, and just started talking to me. I ignored her of course, and eventually she left. She came back to see her friend off and on and stopped by to talk with me.

"Anyway, a couple of weeks later she came by one last time to tell me her friend was being discharged and they were going home out of state. That's when she offered to try to fix me."

"She was a shifter."

Lawrence nodded. "She hadn't told me before because," he shrugged. "You know. She didn't want me to start yelling about monsters and causing a fuss. I wouldn't have done that, not even back then. I was almost fifteen by then, and looked like a skeleton. All my muscles had atrophied. I was a real mess. You were a doctor. You know what happens."

He nodded, easily imagining it. Muscles waste away from lack of use and tendons shrink causing limbs to curl up. Without regular physiotherapy, Lawrence would have curled into the foetal position eventually. The hospital staff would have worked to reduce that, but they couldn't prevent such changes completely.

Lawrence continued. "So she offers to try, and I say I'll do anything to get out of that place. Anything. She could do whatever she wanted; bite me, kill me and eat me... anything. So she bites me. I wanted her to smuggle me out first, but the life-support machines couldn't go with me. She said if the bite didn't fix me, she would turn off the machines and let me die."

"And Farris saved you," David said quietly.

"Yeah. The bite worked but the change was very hard. Farris and I became one, but I was a mess. I still couldn't move as a human. Farris was mobile, but so weak that we nearly died turning wolf that first time. The change takes energy and I had none. I was the worst looking wolf ever. All skin and bone, but I could move again. I didn't care if I never turned back. As far as I was concerned, Farris could have our body and welcome to it. He wasn't enthusiastic about the situation."

David grinned. "Liz took you with her?"

"I stayed wolf for weeks. I had to play nice doggy around the humans we met until she could get us into the boonies and out of sight. She fed us up. I just let Liz and Farris get on with it, and basked in the freedom of being out of that damned room. Then one morning I woke up naked without fur. Farris, the sneaky bugger, had triggered the change in the night. I was human again, and weak as a baby, but I could move. I staggered into the house and here I am twenty years later."

"Explains all the gym time."

Lawrence shrugged. "I'll never let myself be helpless again," he said grimly. "Never. As for the body building, I enjoy it, but I wasn't kidding the other day when you asked about it. When everyone you know is strong, any edge is good to have. You should think about it."

He shook his head. "I've no interest in that. Besides, Mist is strong enough for both of us."

**We are one. We are strong enough for both of us.**

_True enough._

"You can never be strong enough," Lawrence said. "Ask the vamps. There's always someone stronger. Always."

All vamps were paranoid suckers... ha! Paranoid blood suckers! "We better get on the door before Edward comes looking for us."

Lawrence nodded and together they headed for the elevator.

## 21

# Alley Dogs

David rolled his eyes and said it again. "Dress code." The guy looked crushed. David checked the next in line and nodded in appreciation of the tux. "Nice. Armani?"

The guy grimaced. "It's a knockoff, but a good one."

"You're in."

"Thanks man."

"Hey, that's not fair!" the first guy said as the faux Armani-clad shifter side-stepped him and disappeared through the lobby doors. "Where do you get off treating a shifter better than me?"

David's eyes ignited as he glared down the steps at the nuisance this human was fast becoming. Said nuisance swallowed and paled at the sight of the glowing orbs, but he was too stupid to leave. David sighed, reining himself in, and looked the client over again. The fool had the era all wrong; he'd chosen the worst ensemble imaginable. Stephen would have his head if he let a 70s disco wannabe in.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," he said, trying for friendly and reasonable. "If you go home and change into a plain tux, even one as cheap as the junk you're wearing now and I'm still on the door when you get back, I'll let you in and authorise a couple of free drinks. But if you keep flapping your lips at me and making these nice people wait, I'll have my friend here rip your goddess be head off and hide the body!"

Lawrence grinned slowly.

"Now then, I can't say fairer than that, can I?"

The waiting shifters chuckled. Some even gave suggestions or alternative punishments. Not all were anatomically possible, and he should know. He was a doctor after all. The human finally realised he wasn't getting in tonight, and slunk away muttering threats but keeping them low enough that David could pretend not to hear them. Stupid little man. Any one of the waiting shifters could have broken him in half. Even the weakest amongst them.

"Sorry about that," David said to a party of four who were next in line. "We get all sorts of crazies here." He gave them a quick once over and let them in.

The line flowed smoothly through the doors for a while before another dress code violation. David was almost on autopilot by this stage. He could have been saving lives with Andrew now. They would probably have been making rounds, or debating a new elven healing ritual, but no, here he was safeguarding the club from the horror of black shirts and white suits.

"Dress code," he sighed.

"What?"

"The theme is 1920s speakeasy. Most of our male guests wear a tux."

"Oh, does it really matter? Double breasted is back in, and gangsters wore them didn't they? I'm sure I read that. Look, I even have the hat!" He put the fedora on and tweaked the brim expertly.

David smiled. He liked this one. "Put a tie on, and I'll let you in."

The guy's face fell.

"No tie?"

He shook his head.

David held out a hand to Lawrence who rolled his eyes and retrieved one from a pocket. David passed it to his new best friend, but had to tie it for him. The young human hadn't seemed feeble-minded a moment ago, but suddenly he was all flustered fingers and thumbs.

**He likes you.**

Oh, it was like that? The young man was a thrill-seeker and didn't discriminate by gender. At least the guy was circumspect and didn't try to touch. Not always a given. He allowed David to get the tie on him properly, standing silently flushing with pleasure.

"I'm going to trust you to hand this back in before you leave."

A nod.

"Have fun. Stay out of trouble."

Another nod.

He waved the red-faced man into the club.

Lawrence laughed. "That was so sweet."

He grimaced. "If I took all the little things seriously, I wouldn't have any time to stress over the big stuff." He let the next group in. "Besides, he's harmless."

"They usually are at first, but thrill-seekers can turn nasty when we reject them. Some advice welcome?"

"Why not, you're dying to lay it on me."

"When it's a woman, don't reject them. Make an excuse. You're working, you'll lose your job, you have a jealous shifter girlfriend who would literally kill you if you stray. Those work well. When it's a guy, you're straight, you're not out yet, or your boss would fire you because he doesn't like gays. Anything like that should work. You didn't mean to, but that guy will come on to you later because you encouraged his fantasy."

"I didn't!"

"In his mind you did. Ask Mist."

_Is he right?_

**Yes,** Mist agreed. **The manthing likes you very much now, more than before. You were kind to him.**

David sighed. "Okay."

The queue to enter the club dwindled to a trickle as late afternoon turned toward evening. The sun was touching the roofs opposite when real trouble came calling. Mist warned him of the approach of more shifters, and these weren't interested in good music and food. They were looking for trouble. He drew Lawrence's attention to a pair of cars entering the lot.

"Are they...?"

" _Alley Dogs_ ," Lawrence said grimly as men piled out of the vehicles. "That's their Alpha in the lead."

So this was Stephen's one-time ally and the current thorn in his side. Raymond Pederson; Georgie's boss, and according to Stephen, his real enemy. He looked eagerly for a sign that Georgie was here, but all the shifters were men. The disappointment that realisation brought made him snarl. It would have made things so much simpler if he could have dealt with both his problems here and now.

Pederson was an average looking man in his early thirties, roughly six foot, and around 190lbs. Just an average white guy, brown haired, seemingly normal in every way, but his Presence marked him as a strong alpha male, and Mist didn't like that. The wolf was hyper alert and warily tasting the air through David. That's what it felt like, but it was more than scenting or tasting air, it was a sort of reaching out to the magic that shifters exuded. A shifter's Presence was a form of power that they couldn't really hide. Alphas could do more with it than others, just as they had more control over their shifting, but that control didn't extend to making it seem more powerful than it actually was.

He tested Pederson's Presence, rolled it around on his tongue, felt it in the back of his head where Mist resided, and knew they were stronger. He was certain they were, but Pederson hadn't come alone. The Alley Dog's Alpha wasn't here for a social call and had chosen a time when the vamps were still down for the day.

He counted his would-be enemies, he was sure they were at least that, and came up with eleven shifters including Pederson. All of them were strong enough to be ranked somewhere in the middle of the pack. None was a weakling, and that right there was suggestive. They were here for trouble, another name for which was Ronnie.

"Get the others," he said to Lawrence.

Lawrence hesitated to obey.

"Go! And make sure Ronnie stays out of sight."

Lawrence bolted inside.

David positioned himself to block the doors. "Dress code," he said in a bored voice.

Pederson stopped as if surprised that anyone had the audacity to block him. His men bunched up behind him. "Stand aside."

" _Dress... code..._ " he enunciated the words with exaggerated care as if talking to someone deaf or simple-minded. "You can't come in."

Pederson looked at a loss for a moment and then he got his hackles up, perhaps realising how it looked in front of his pack. He was being challenged, though subtly, and balked; that sort of thing didn't happen to pack leaders, or shouldn't.

David grinned at him, perhaps unwisely, but Mist was making many things seem perfectly acceptable right now, when they would have seemed more than unwise to the old David. The wolf was snarling and urging action in response to Pederson's challenge, and it was all David could do to keep from complying.

_Calm down!_

**Protect the den; protect the pack! The Alpha sleeps, but we are alpha too, and he challenges us. He would take Callia from us! The She is mine! The pack is good, the pack is all, and the She is MINE!**

Before he could reply, Mist shoved power so hard and fast into him that David didn't have time to scream. He exploded out of his clothes, and spiralled into the darkness of Mist's mind as the wolf surged forward and into control of their body. Mist wasn't thinking wolf as the change claimed them, he was obsessed with thoughts of his challenger. Pederson's challenge, Pederson's assault on his den and pack, Pederson coming to claim Callia... his She! HIS! He wanted nothing more than to best his nemesis, be stronger, be bigger, be greater than Pederson in every way. In body, in Presence, in strength of will. He would be big, bigger, BIGGEST!

Mist snarled down at the suddenly pale and hurriedly backing shifters before him. He grinned at them all, not a friendly gesture, his muzzle rumpling to reveal finger-long fangs. He was BIG!

_Goddess, what have you done?_ David said. _We aren't wolf._

No, they weren't, but they hadn't truly been that since joining. They were manthing and wolf combined. Hybrid. This new form expressed their joining perfectly and literally. Mist didn't see it in those terms, but David did, and so he understood what the concept of a hybrid form meant. They stood on two legs like a manthing, but their head was wolf-like and their mouth was full of ripping teeth for battle. Their arms were long, good for catching prey, and when Mist flexed his fingers, wickedly sharp claws sprang out like those of a cat. He raised a hand and admired them. They were curved and so very sharp; perfect for gutting his prey.

Pederson was his prey.

_Like flick knives coming out, and sharp!_ David was calming down and starting to sound intrigued by their new form. _We are hybrid, the best of both our worlds, Mist. This is our Alpha form. Only alphas can do this I bet._

**Good?**

_For battle,_ David agreed. _Pederson looks scared, and his people look impressed. Maybe this will hold them and we won't have to fight._

**We should fight. I am stronger. It is the Way.**

_We don't want the Alley Dogs. I don't at least. Do you want to lead them?_

Mist hesitated. Given the choice, he would lead rather than be led, but also given the option, he would take Stephen's wolves for his own over Pederson's curs. He knew the wolves here; they were familiar now, and he liked Farris. There was Callia to consider too. She was safe here. There weren't many bitches in Stephen's pack, but Pederson's pack was larger and had many. She would be in danger of challenge there.

**No, I do not want them.**

_Then we fight only to protect the pack, not in formal challenge._

**Yes.**

Pederson seemed uncertain how to proceed. Mist was a huge obstruction, literally huge, but he hadn't made a threatening move since shifting shape. He towered over the _Alley Dogs_ , seven feet tall, seven and a half... more?

_More maybe,_ David said uncertainly.

Mist stood on the top step leading into the club and Pederson had retreated to the bottom. It made it harder to judge. That the _Alley Dogs_ had retreated was a victory, and well Pederson knew it. He had lost points in his pack's eyes and would need to make them up somehow later or face challenges. Mist could taste his anger and frustration, but there was fear there as well. It was very satisfying. He liked this new form, this alpha form. It felt strange, but already he could see how useful scaring an enemy into submission rather than fighting could be. Very satisfying it felt too.

Mist grinned, showing lots of teeth, and he allowed a rumbling growl to escape when one of the _Alley Dogs_ edged a little closer to test his power. The cur backed off.

Pederson decided finally and exploded out of his clothes. He chose his wolf form... no, he was changing again, this time into his own alpha shape. Mist watched while David speculated that Pederson couldn't go direct from human to hybrid, as they had done. Mist didn't care about reasons. The only thing that truly mattered was that the Alley Dog be smaller and weaker. Strength was all that mattered in decisions of dominance and pack position.

Pederson's men did not advance with him, and that pleased David. Mist would fight them all if need be, but he agreed that it did make things easier. He tested Pederson's Presence again and knew he would win this fight. There was no doubt. Pederson was no match physically, and his Presence was inferior as well. He was stronger than Lawrence was, but not close to Mist in power and certainly he was nothing in comparison to Stephen; he had no chance of winning, and he must know it, yet he came on bravely. Mist felt a grudging respect for him for doing so. It was an unwanted distraction that he dismissed a moment later. There was no room for it in a fight.

_Don't fight him. Force him to submit to us._

He hesitated at the suggestion. He would prefer blood be shed, but he could probably make Pederson back down if he tried. Before he could think on it further, the decision was snatched out of his hands. Pederson charged and struck the first blow, claws extended. Mist snarled at the pain of ripped flesh, his chest burned with it, and so he struck back without another thought. He raked his enemy's face snagging his claws in one eye socket. Blood and fluids gushed. It was a telling blow. Pederson screamed at the loss of his eye. It would heal in time, but he was already at a disadvantage in size, and now he was half-blind. He had already lost. It was obvious, but he couldn't just submit. He would definitely be facing challenges from his pack now.

Mist knew he had won, and David didn't want to kill anyone with so many witnesses to see it, so he defended himself rather than simply finishing the fight, and slowly took Pederson apart without landing the killing blow he could so easily serve up. He didn't think hard upon it, but from the point of view of the _Alley Dogs_ watching the fight, it must have seemed he was playing with Pederson, ripping him up, and not letting him land a blow after the first lucky clawing. They saw it as disrespect, not as an attempt to be merciful. That was understandable. Mercy within the community was an unusual concept, especially when applied to dominance fights. Most, if not all, were to the death. Very few preferred submission once first blood was drawn.

Pederson was staggering, and obviously unfit to continue when Lawrence and the rest of the Lost Souls shifters arrived, but it didn't have the effect of calming things; quite the opposite. The _Alley Dogs_ went furry en masse, and the Lost Souls shifters did likewise to defend the club. Mist landed a crunching blow to Pederson's staggering form, and dropped the half-dead Alpha in his tracks, but it was too late. The fight was already spiralling. Or rather it was, until Edward made an appearance carrying a police issue shock lance and began laying about himself with abandon. He didn't care which side anyone was on either! Mist caught a charge from it, probably by accident, as the human swung the weapon wildly trying to force the combatants apart.

"Back you idiots!" Edward yelled. "The police are on their way! Get back! Pick up your fool of an Alpha! Get him out of sight before we all spend the night in the slam!"

_Do it, Mist. I don't want to spend the night in a cage._

Mist hesitated, but no, he wouldn't be caged. Must not be caged, no. He picked up Pederson's dead weight and carried him into the lobby. He hesitated, not sure what to do next, but saw the door leading up to Edward's office and decided to hide from the police up there. The fighting continued outside, but it sounded less than before. Farris ran inside still snarling, muzzle bloody, but not raging. More wolves followed, and soon a flood of _Alley Dogs_ entered the club too. Edward ran in and threw the shock lance to Samantha, one of the hostesses. She caught it nimbly and stashed it out of sight under her counter. Edward went back outside to greet the police cruisers just then screeching to a halt.

The wolves quickly vanished through various doors. No one cared now that _Alley Dogs_ were mixed in with them, they were all shifters, all monsters together aligned against the human police in that moment. Mist looked around to be sure everyone was out of sight, and then left the lobby himself, carrying Pederson up to Edward's office to wait.

He deposited his burden on the couch running along one wall of the office, and studied his enemy. Stephen insisted it was Pederson and not Georgie who was his real enemy, but David considered them both that way. It seemed a little convenient to him that Stephen's current nemesis be their enemy too. Stephen was Alpha; he didn't need reasons to be obeyed. If he wanted Pederson dead he need only say so, and it would happen. He didn't need to pretend they had a common enemy. Mist would do it right now if Stephen gave the order.

David sent unease at the thought, not agreeing but aware that any number of people at Lost Souls would follow the order if they did not. Killing Pederson didn't concern Mist at all. If it would make them safer, then of course they should do it, if not, then perhaps they could let him live, but he had no preference. It was all the same to him, but not to David.

_Killing is wrong, Mist. Defending others or ourselves is one thing, but just simply killing someone because they might be dangerous one day is wrong._

**Say that to me after you've allowed hunters to roam free only to find your cubs and mate dead at their hands a day later.**

That silenced David.

When Edward arrived Pederson was still unconscious, but the bleeding had stopped and his eyelid had plumped. Mist assumed he had an eye again, but didn't know for sure or care enough to check.

"Is he alive?" Edward said upon entering the office.

"Sleeping, healing."

"Thank the Goddess for small mercies," Edward said, but checked for himself. Satisfied, he turned to regard Mist. "Impressive, and in more ways than the physical. Mist isn't it?"

"I am Mist," he agreed. He liked the sound of his new voice. It sounded deep, and it had a growl to it as if he'd been gargling with rocks. "David here too."

Edward nodded; he lived and worked with shifters. He must be aware of their basic natures. "Yes, impressive. That you stepped up to defend the club was a good thing, Mist. That you restrained yourself and did not kill is doubly good and impressive in such a new shifter."

"It was good not to kill?" Mist said, feeling a little deflated by that. He had not really agreed with David, but if Edward was saying it too? "Safer to kill him."

"Oh my yes. Yes indeed, but only when thinking short term. Long term—and you can bet good money Stephen will be thinking very long term as vampires all tend to do—it would have been a disaster. You have to consider how it would look to the other packs, not just the _Alley Dogs_."

" _Alley Dogs_ enemy."

"Not just yours I'm sure," Edward agreed. "Raymond's alliance with Stephen is broken, doubly so now. He didn't push through his attack on the club thanks to you, but the attempt will be more than enough for Stephen to take steps. To be fair to the _Alley Dogs_ Alpha here, it was already understood between them that the alliance was dissolved when Ronnie joined us and Stephen refused to return her, but declaring open war on us is very different from simply dissolving their association. The attack was unprovoked and without declaration of any kind. A sneak attack while our people sleep helpless. That won't go down well when Stephen wakes."

_Understatement of the decade right there,_ David said sarcastically. _Stephen will go nuclear._

"If this can't be smoothed over somehow, we'll have war with the _Alley Dogs_. That's dangerous, because it could escalate to the other packs."

"Why should they care?"

Edward sighed and checked Pederson again. He was still out. "It has to do with the nature of Stephen's business here and how he manages things. I don't mean the club. I mean how he rules his people. No one likes rogues; not the vampire kind and not the shifter kind, but no one likes having to deal with them either. We do it, because we have to do it to maintain the peace. Not handling them isn't an option.

"The packs like it that Stephen is their... what's that quaint colonial term? Ah! They like it that Stephen is their _go-to-guy_ where rogues are concerned. It means they don't have to lift a claw when a new shifter decides not to do the sensible thing and seek out a pack to join. They know that Stephen will most likely take him in or make him leave. If one of you gets rowdy, not that our people do or would dare you understand, but should that ever happen, they like the way he stands in as your Alpha. It's a structure they're comfortable with and support because it emulates their own pack structure."

"The pack is good. The pack is all," Mist announced.

"Exactly! So of course they all liked it when Stephen cleaned up the city, but now they see us as just another pack, one with a rather odd Alpha, but just another pack to deal with. The problem of course is that we really aren't a pack in the accepted sense. You've heard the name Jonas?"

Mist nodded.

"Jonas is Alpha of the Desert Warriors, a large coyote pack out Victorville way. He is our enforcer. By our, I mean the shifter community of the LA area. He is our final arbiter of justice, and his pack serves as our police force and executioners. The thing is, he only has power over our people—those who have given themselves to Stephen—if Stephen allows it, because vampires aren't really under Jonas' authority at all, you see?"

Mist nodded again. "Why explain?"

"Because he's already guessed what I'm going to do next," Pederson snarled sitting up.

Edward sighed and turned to regard the shifter as he changed form back to human. "Raymond, can we talk about this? Stephen will be awake soon."

Pederson finished his transformation and stood. "Awake? He's a bloody corpse, Edward, when will you acknowledge that?"

Edward's features darkened. "Around the time you acknowledge you're nothing but an animal pretending to be a man I should think, old boy. Not any time soon eh?"

Pederson scowled. "Well, _old boy_ ," he sneered. "Care to continue your lesson with the newbie, or would you prefer I do it?"

"This newbie kicked your arse," Mist growled the words David had been thinking word for word, and it went over well. He grinned and turned it into a rumbling growl of warning when Pederson almost lunged, his temper getting the best of him.

"Now now!" Edward cried. "No fighting!"

The door opened and Stephen entered followed by Danyelle and Charles. All three vamps looked pissed. Behind them, Lawrence and Ronnie crowded in, and suddenly Pederson looked worried.

"Yes," Stephen hissed with fangs out and eyes absolutely blazing with wrath. He was fully vamped out, and obviously knew what had nearly happened to his club. "No fighting, Raymond, you're in my House now."

Pederson raised his hands and backed away from everyone.

" _My House!_ " Stephen roared in a spittle spraying fury. "You dare come to my House to do violence? You dare lay claim to what is mine! I swear on all you love, I'll see you and yours utterly destroyed to the last wolf before my House falls. _I swear it!_ "

"Now don't—"

" _Fuck don't,_ " Danyelle snarled. "Let's go. You and me, right now. You can die first!"

"Danyelle don't! Stephen please be calm. Please," Edward said desperately. "We can fix this."

"Fix it?" Stephen glared. "How does one fix a sneak attack? How does one fix betrayal and ever again expect fair dealing? _There's no fixing it!_ If not for Mist, some of us would be dead by this betrayer's hand. Ronnie of a certainty. There's no fixing this!"

"But we must. We have to find a way," Edward pleaded. "We can't let his foolishness destroy everything you've built. Think about your life here gone, having to start over in another city. Please think. Please don't let your anger destroy us."

Mist was on Danyelle's side, but David liked Edward's point of view. Pederson and his people would die, yes, but so would many others, and if Stephen survived he would be driven out by the combined packs of LA. Their new life, just now becoming acceptable to David as his new reality, would end if he didn't die in the war that would surely ensue. Mist understood loss, but he also understood strength and allowing challenges to go unpunished was not The Way. Challenges must be met and won; _that_ was The Way.

"Arbitration!" Pederson cried over the hubbub. "I call for arbitration before the conclave!"

"You _dare_ say that now," Stephen snarled. "After I offered that very thing the day Ronnie came here and you refused point blank to consider it? Your gall is beyond belief!"

_Self-serving, but better than the alternative,_ David sent. _He's scared and needs a way out. This could serve us as well... if we win._

Mist grunted, and Stephen glanced over. "David say it good idea. Say Pederson doing it to save himself, but good idea still."

"Does he, and does he know what's involved? I doubt it. If the conclave finds against us, I would have to turn Ronnie over to them. Jonas would enforce it, and there's no appeal. Once done, it cannot be undone!"

Mist didn't like that, and neither did David. They would kill Pederson and take his pack as theirs before allowing her to be harmed.

_Tell him that. It might help._

"David say we kill Pederson and take the _Alley Dogs_ from him to protect her."

Lawrence hissed at hearing that, and Ronnie gasped in surprise. Mist glanced toward his friends noting the admiration on Lawrence's face, and the pure shock on Ronnie's. He had said nothing but the truth, and Callia had surely been talking to her about him. Why she was shocked he didn't know. He hadn't hidden his interest from Callia; far from it. He openly admired Ronnie's wolf, and had said so many times to Lawrence and others at Lost Souls. Maybe she didn't believe him? He would prove it by defending her!

**My She.**

_Ours,_ David agreed. _And we shall be hers._

**We will make her see us as the strongest. She will be our mate. She will choose us.**

_Yes, she must choose us. She will._

Stephen studied Mist thoughtfully, taking the time to note his immense size. His head nearly brushed the office ceiling and his strength was obvious.

Stephen's fangs retracted as he pursed his lips thoughtfully, and the red in his eyes bled away. Mist felt Stephen push at his Presence, trying to get a feel for how powerful he was, and pushed back; not in defence, but to help with that. Stephen's eyes widened a little in surprise at the strength of the push. The vampire smiled and turned to Pederson. He shook his head slowly at his one-time ally.

"Edward, get me Jonas," Stephen said, still glaring at Pederson.

"Right away," Edward said, sounding relieved. He rounded his desk and used the link in speaker mode to call the enforcer. "I hope he's home."

They all waited for the link call to go through.

"Jonas McNally," the voice out of the speaker announced. "I just got in; this had better be life and death. Ryan, if this is you, I haven't made up my mind yet. If it isn't, _speak up!_ "

Stephen chuckled. "Jonas, Stephen. I have a situation."

Jonas sighed. "Of course you do. What is the nature of the problem? You've killed someone you shouldn't have? You plan to kill someone you shouldn't and you need me to make it go away? What?"

"Surprisingly the second option is rather apt, but no, none of the above. The _Alley Dogs_ staged a raid on my House this evening."

Silence.

"Are you still there, Jonas?"

"I'm waiting for the punchline."

"I do not joke where my people's safety is concerned," Stephen said frostily. "I'm sure you've heard that about me."

"Is Pederson dead?"

"Surprisingly no. No one died tonight, but it's still early. Perhaps that might be remedied."

"Thank the Goddess for that! What do you need?"

"Raymond has asked for arbitration at conclave."

"He what!"

"Arbitration, you heard it right."

Jonas spluttered. " _He can't do that!_ He attacks another pack and then... oh. I guess he can, technically at least. Hmmm, tricky one eh?"

"You might say," Stephen said dryly. "The attack was unprovoked and unannounced. No challenge or notification of intention was issued. My House wasn't at war with the _Alley Dogs_ at the time. It was a sneak attack while I rested for the day."

Jonas hissed. "You know this is gonna be a shit-storm. Your House isn't a pack even though we pretend it is for convenience and various other reasons. There's no precedent for this."

"Well I suggest you dust off the rule books and figure it out, because he's calling for conclave tonight."

"Tonight. Right, of course. Tonight! I don't even know if all the Alphas are available. It's a little short notice."

"Short notice is far from my primary concern. I was given none at all. If you don't want to be down one Alpha come role call at the next meeting, you'll find a way to summon everyone together tonight."

"Give me fifteen minutes. I'll call you back on this number," Jonas said and broke the connection.

Edward turned off the link.

Everyone looked at Pederson in silence. He glared back, but said nothing. What could he say? He had managed a last minute reprieve. Essentially, he'd staged an unprovoked attack, been defeated handily, yet had lost nothing by it. Yet. That might change at the conclave, but that was still to play for. He was lucky to be breathing and must know it.

Stephen was the one to break the silence. He gestured at the door. "You're free to leave. Your wolves are under guard in the lobby. Take them and go. I'm sure Jonas will be in contact with a time for the meeting."

Pederson edged between the hostile shifters near the door. Ronnie snarled something low under her breath, and Pederson responded. Lawrence snarled at what he heard, but before Mist could do anything, Pederson slipped out the door and was gone.

Stephen turned his attention to Mist. "Thank you for what you did tonight, but I would like words with David now. If you would allow?"

Mist nodded and began the change.

## 22

# Conclave

David peered out into the night as the limo approached the long abandoned air base. George AFB had closed at the end of the last century due to budget cuts, and even civilian flights had dried up in the end. The base was a ghost town these days; the only things calling it home now were cockroaches, tarantulas, and wild coyotes. A sign flashed by announcing their destination. It was still legible despite desert storms attempting to sandblast the lettering into obscurity.

The limo turned into Phantom Street through the main gate, and onto the base, Charles piloting the big car smoothly. Off to the right, David could make out a group of storage tanks glowing in the dark. They were still white after years of abandonment. There was nothing else to catch his eye but broken fencing with the desert flatlands beyond, and scraggly sagebrush clinging to life in sandy soil.

"Why an air base?" he asked. "Why not a warehouse in the city, or one of the rundown buildings in Monster Central?"

Danyelle snorted.

Stephen smiled. "A few reasons, but the main one would be that Jonas controls this entire area absolutely. The _Desert Warriors_ are a big pack. They claim the base and desert all around here as part of their wider territory, and are strong enough to make it stick. That in turn means our privacy is assured."

"And the desert is good for hiding the bodies," Ronnie added. Lawrence nodded seriously. "You'll learn that secrecy isn't a luxury; it's a way of life. It's survival."

"Just so," Stephen agreed. "Some things, even what we would consider to be the least shocking, have a tendency to upset the human authorities. Our disputes are not the least shocking, or rather the results of them aren't. We do our best not to draw attention to our little wars, not always successfully."

David turned his attention away from sightseeing and back to Stephen. "What's going to happen? What can I expect tonight?"

"That's hard to say. We can rely upon Raymond to try weaselling out of any sanction or punishment for his actions. That's a given, but how he plans to do that I have no notion. Your statement of intention regarding Ms. Burdett here will be a spur to him. He'll think of something that we won't like, I'm sure."

"No doubt. You think me foolish to have said it within his hearing?"

Stephen shrugged. "Secrecy remember? Revealing one's plans to enemies is never a good idea."

"I didn't plan it. I don't want to take over the _Alley Dogs_."

"But you will?"

"If I have to."

"That's all that matters, and it might come to that. This escalation over Ronnie's rogue status must be ended before it gets completely out of my control. The root of the problem isn't Ronnie herself; it's my refusal to give her back. The _Alley Dogs_ see her as a rogue female in need of punishment; while I regard her as no different from other loners who I've taken in. I pride myself upon keeping my word once given, but even if that weren't so, I still wouldn't give her back. It would set a bad precedent. She's mine to discipline or reward, as all of you are. I'll not have anyone thinking they can interfere in my concerns whenever they feel like it."

David shifted uncomfortably at hearing that, but it wasn't as if he was surprised. It was part of the deal. Stephen was very open about it. He wouldn't hold anyone against their will, but if they wanted to work for him and enjoy his protection, they had to toe the line; his line. Stephen ruled his House, no other, and those living under its roof accepted that or they could leave LA. It was as simple as that.

"The _Alley Dogs_ consider it a kind of kidnapping despite the fact Ronnie gave herself to Stephen willingly," Lawrence put in. "They still think of her as one of their own."

"That doesn't make sense," David protested. "Georgie tried to kill her."

Ronnie grinned. "Of course it makes sense, maybe not in human terms, but we aren't human. In Raymond's mind, I defied him—my pack leader. I'm not dominant enough to do that and get away with it, so he has to punish me. If I won't accept his rule over me or my punishment, then he has to kill me to maintain his authority. It's really very simple and direct. In the eyes of the pack the only thing I did wrong was not let him screw me."

"That's insane, and disgusting."

"Not really. It's a tradition among the bigger old-fashioned packs like the _Alley Dogs_ for unmated males to have their pick of the unmated females. The smaller family packs don't do it for obvious reasons, and there are a lot more like them now than there are packs like the _Alley Dogs_. I could have avoided the obligation entirely by choosing a mate, but Callia and I didn't like any of the males enough to do that."

He was disgusted at the thought of Ronnie having to prostitute herself to gain a little safety. "Do all the bigger packs force their women to do this?"

Lawrence shook his head. "Not for a long time now. I'm not certain, but the _Alley Dogs_ might be one of the last holdouts in LA. I know the _Desert Warriors_ don't do it, and they're the biggest pack I know of."

"Leon Pullen's _Ghost Hunters_ are nearly as numerous. They do not hold to the old ways," Stephen said, not revealing how he felt about it. "I think you might be right about the _Alley Dogs_."

"I can't believe you're not outraged by this," David said and Lawrence shrugged. "And you're not either, are you?" he said to Ronnie.

"It's not as if I didn't enjoy myself," Ronnie protested. "I'm alpha don't forget. You're acting as if I didn't have choices. No one forces me to do anything. It wasn't rape if that's what you were thinking."

He just stared at her in confusion.

"There are plenty of betas among the _Alley Dogs_ ," she said softening her tone as she realised how he was feeling. "I chose partners from among them, not the alphas, and I'm strong enough to be dominant. It was when Raymond started taking an interest that I ran. I was fine with the betas. We had fun."

He knew that shifters were uninhibited and very sexually active. Living with them in the barracks at Lost Souls, he would have needed to be deaf and blind to miss it, but he couldn't feel easy with it himself; not yet, and maybe not ever. He still thought like a human. Imagining Ronnie living that way made him angry, but he had no right to feel that way when she saw nothing wrong in it.

"What did Janine think of Raymond's sudden interest in you?" Stephen asked.

"Who is Janine?" David said.

"Raymond's mate. She sent Georgie to kill me," Ronnie admitted. "I don't blame her for it. She could hardly kill Raymond, could she? If she did, she would lose her place."

"But I thought Pederson sent Georgie that night."

"That night?" Ronnie frowned at David, but then she brightened. "Oh the night we met? Yes, he did. Raymond wanted me brought back, but Janine wanted me dead. Georgie would have killed me though. She never liked me and could easily get away with it. She only had to say I wouldn't submit and fought to the death. It would have been the truth. I was determined not to go back."

He remembered that night clearly. It had been a vicious fight and it would have been to the death if the cops hadn't arrived when they did.

The limo slowed and pulled up outside a huge hangar building. There were trucks and cars parked haphazardly on the apron illuminated by light spilling between the main doors which had been left open a short space. He estimated there were only a few dozen vehicles. There couldn't be many people attending the meeting.

Everyone climbed out of the car, and flanking Stephen like the honour guard they essentially were, they entered the building. The moment they entered, Mist reacted, becoming more alert to their surroundings. There were a lot more shifters inside than the vehicles could account for. Many, many more. Hundreds. Stephen made no mention of it, his pace did not falter, but David felt his power flare briefly, as if surprise had caused his control to slip. He said nothing however and led the way toward a small group of shifters standing together near a long trestle table set up at the far end of the hangar. It was nothing fancy, just a battered wooden table with plastic chairs tucked under it. Functional. The computer atop the table though looked modern and out of place in the current surroundings. Carafes of water and some glasses rounded out the props supplied for the meeting.

There was an open space in front of the table about thirty-foot square and bordered in chalk to create an arena with the concrete freshly swept clean of dust. Mist went hyper-alert at the scent of old blood. David eyed one or two suspicious looking stains on the concrete and knew that challenges must often play out here. He wondered if he might get the opportunity to kill Pederson tonight, and make use of the arena so obligingly laid out.

Stephen picked out a broad-shouldered man in his early thirties with shaggy straw-coloured hair and green eyes. He was arguing with Pederson about something, but obviously getting nowhere with his remonstrations. The other pack leaders, David guessed they must be the Alphas here to judge the dispute, were listening and nodding along with the argument. The discussion abruptly ceased as Stephen arrived.

"What is the meaning of this?" Stephen said. "Since when does calling the conclave require such numbers in attendance?"

"And good evening to you too," Jonas said. "Raymond felt insecure without bringing most of his pack along. I decided that my boys should supervise them, if you take my meaning?"

Stephen glared at Pederson. "This betrayer should be given no special treatment. The other leaders of our community have followed our rules, as have I." He waved a hand toward David and the rest of his entourage. "Make them leave."

The pack leaders murmured.

"They aren't going anywhere," Pederson said. "You are vampire, not shifter. You have no rights here but those we let you have. Treating you as our equal is a courtesy that can and will be remedied."

Jonas grimaced. "We're here to judge your actions at Lost Souls, not revisit old ground."

"But it is relevant," one of the other Alphas said. "Stephen's status and actions are the cause of the dispute. It's perfectly in order to debate that."

Pederson's smile slowly widened.

Stephen was shocked, and David wasn't the only one to sense it. Lawrence murmured something to Ronnie uneasily. It was obvious Pederson had been working his contacts among the pack leaders, and to good effect. More than a few nodded and murmured their agreement.

"I'm officially requesting here and now, that the conclave consider removing Stephen Edmonton's right to take part in our deliberations."

Jonas hissed. He glared at Pederson, but it was obvious he had nothing to help. He sighed. "Show of hands?"

The vote was close. Damn close, but it failed to pass. David relaxed a little. Nothing was decided. Pederson looked uneasy again, but Stephen didn't look reassured. Jonas indicated seats, and everyone moved to find places at the table. One of the men activated the computer to record the meeting.

Jonas began. "Firstly, this conclave has been called not by House Edmonton, but by the _Alley Dogs_ to discuss the disposition of the alpha wolf, Ronnie Burdett, currently resident of House Edmonton—"

Stephen interrupted. "She is not resident, guest, or any other term you might wish to apply. She's mine; my wolf to reward or discipline as I see fit. No one takes what is mine."

"You're out of order," Jonas said without rancour, and David noted that he'd conveniently allowed Stephen to put his full case without interruption. The balance restored after Pederson's earlier attempted end run, he went on. "You'll have your turn to speak and make your claim upon her in due course."

Stephen nodded his agreement.

Jonas turned to Pederson. "It's my understanding that you staged a raid this evening upon House Edmonton without declaration of challenge or war. Is this the case?"

"He stole one of my—"

"Is that what happened, yes or no?"

Pederson scowled. "Yes but—"

"Yes will do," Jonas said, cutting the Alpha off, and the other pack leaders murmured unhappily. "No one was killed or suffered lasting injury, which is very fortunate for the _Alley Dog_ pack as I would've been forced to take punitive action in lieu of damages if there had been. Regardless of the outcome of this meeting, a sneak attack on any one of us cannot be ignored. Our laws are clear. A declaration of intent—whether that's a simple challenge or a formal declaration of feud or war—must be registered with this conclave before hostilities are initiated. Before, not after the fact."

Pederson glared. "And would any of you have done differently? The vampire took one of my wolves and he's refusing to give her back. Tell me that you wouldn't have done the same and I'll call you all liars to your faces. I didn't go to Lost Souls to attack him," he waved a hand at Stephen. "That should be obvious. It was daylight. He was still dead for the day! I went to talk to my wolf and persuade her to return. If not for this loner, I would have seen Ronnie and brought her home."

David laughed at that.

"You have something to add?" Jonas asked.

"I was... made? Turned?"

"Changed," Lawrence supplied. "Vamps are turned."

"Okay. I'm new as I'm sure you all know, but maybe you don't know how new I am. I was changed on the night Ronnie escaped by Georgette Starett. I'd like to take this opportunity to make my intention to kill her, formerly known."

Jonas nodded. "Noted," he turned to the computer using shifter. "Formal notification of challenge is heard and accepted."

The sound of rapid typing came from that end of the table.

"Continue," Jonas ordered.

"There's not much more to say. Georgie attacked Ronnie not to bring her back but to kill her. Ronnie had no choice but to seek sanctuary with Stephen. I was there. You can tell it's the truth. Ronnie was seriously injured and I was changed when I tried to intervene like an idiot. Pederson can say he came to Lost Souls just to talk, but he attacked me unprovoked and landed the first blow. I was security on the door and did not challenge him—"

"Lie," Jonas said without a flicker of expression or emotion.

David frowned. "I did nothing but bar the door and prevent him entering my territory. I didn't challenge him. It was my right to protect my pack."

Jonas turned to the others. "What say you? He isn't lying by intent, but preventing entry could be considered a kind of challenge."

The shifters whispered among themselves. One man gave the verdict. "It's a side issue and of no import. We judge no fault can be attributed to either party. Let's move on."

Jonas nodded. "What happened after you were attacked?"

"We fought, I won easily—"

Pederson snarled angrily.

"—but the _Alley Dogs_ went furry when Stephen's wolves arrived. The fight was brief because the police were called. Before they arrived we, both sides, got out of sight in the club while Edward spun the cops a story they would swallow. Stephen woke up not long after that, and Raymond weaselled... I mean _called_ for arbitration."

Jonas grinned at the slip.

"We called you, and that's about it."

"Very well. Does anyone have questions for this man?"

No one did.

"Your turn, Stephen."

Stephen nodded. "You all know me and that I believe in fair dealing and honourable conduct. Some of you roll your eyes when you hear that... yes Leon, I saw you."

Leon Pullen, Alpha of the _Ghost Hunters_ and acting as clerk on the computer grinned. He was the pack leader of the second strongest coyote pack after Jonas' _Desert Warriors_ and was allied with him.

"But think for a moment, all of you, what it would mean to be devoid of the concept entirely. You think me an anachronism and old fashioned in my thinking to hold to such ways, but without at least a framework like this our community would devolve into chaos. I'm not foolish enough to lower my defences even against allies. None of us trust too deeply; it's survival 101 for non-humans, but what would it be like if we could not at least rely upon the few laws we have put in place here in LA?

"I will tell you. We would have what the rest of the Republic has right now. Even our illustrious state of California does not enjoy the relative peace we have carved out for ourselves here in LA itself. Remember what it was like forty years ago? Those of you too young will have heard the stories. They do not do it justice I assure you. Killings nightly were the least of it. Entire packs decimated, vampire Houses rose and fell yearly taking out ally and enemy with abandon. So when one of our own flouts our laws to attack my house unprovoked—"

Pederson snarled, "Not unprovoked! That's the entire point of this conclave!"

"Shut it!" Jonas snapped. "You're out of order and I'll decide what the point of the conclave is. That's my job. You'll get your turn to put your side. Go on Stephen."

"When the _Alley Dogs_ attacked my House unprovoked I was angry as anyone would be, but I knew that I could bring my grievance here and see justice done. Now what do I find? I can already sense you leaning toward leniency. Why, because I'm not one of you? Because I'm vampire and not shifter, I should be treated the way the humans treat us all, with contempt? Think about what you're doing. Our laws don't prevent conflict. We still have our little spats, our broken alliances and feuds, but they do regulate them. We are, mostly, successful at keeping them out of the human world and their notice. Mostly. Do you want to be in a position where that regulation has no power?

"You all know what has been happening in the city. I have an unknown vampire making newborn vampires and releasing them rogue onto our city streets. I have OSI sniffing about. I have police officers attacked and others poking into things we all need kept out of the media! _I do not need this shit!_ " he roared making them all jump at its unexpectedness. "I need you to reign in the idiot _Alley Dog_ Alpha and let me get on with the job you gave me!"

"Finished?" Jonas asked dryly.

"Yes, thank you." Stephen replied calmly.

"Raymond, your turn."

"The fight at Lost Souls was an accident," Pederson said and flushed at the laughter the statement caused. "I went there to convince Ronnie to come home, not fight. If not for the newbie on the door, I would have succeeded. Because he's new, he challenged me... I'll make allowances now and not challenge him for the insult done earlier."

David laughed. "Of course you will." Jonas gave him a warning look, and he shrugged an apology. "What can I say, Jonas? I kicked his arse and it was disappointingly easy."

Laughter up and down the table made Pederson flush red with rage. Jonas sighed and shook his head. "I can see you're going to be trouble. You just can't help yourself can you? You'll want to watch that mouth of yours in the coming years. Either that, or you won't live long enough to settle in here."

David shrugged again.

"Raymond, you done?" Jonas asked.

"No."

"Of course not. Go on then."

"Forty years might not seem a long time to a vampire, but it's longer than I've been alive. A decision made back then doesn't have the same relevance to me as it does to him; maybe not to any of us. It was a different time. I don't think we should automatically assume that because our people decided to turn a blind eye to Edmonton's doings back then, that we should continue that policy."

"A blind eye?" Stephen said. "There was no blind eye! The packs of LA have left me to clean up their messes for decades! Who but I hunt down the rogues? Who but I take in the loners visiting before they become rogues, or see them safely removed from our streets when they're rejected by the packs they seek to join?"

"Who but you poaches our people, luring them away with your promises and offers?" Pederson sneered and looked around at the other alphas. "All of us have lost people to this blood sucker. Are you going to tell me you're okay with that? Are you going to pretend that if Ronnie had been one of yours you wouldn't have tried to get her back? Fucking hypocrites, all of you. I've heard you all bitching about losing someone to him over the years."

The shifters looked guiltily at each other and Stephen. David noted the reaction and wondered how bad the so-called poached shifters lives had been, that they felt leaving everyone and everything they knew for a life with vampires was preferable to staying. Stephen's people were amazingly loyal to him. It said something about their situations before they gave themselves to him. Something pretty bad he would judge.

Pederson went on. "I never had any intention of attacking House Edmonton. You can taste the truth of that. I had every intention of claiming what is mine."

David frowned. _Is he telling the truth, Mist? I can't quite tell._

**Yes,** Mist said, **and no. He never intended to fight at all, but would have stolen our She without fighting. That is what he means. It was a raid still, but not one where he expected the need to fight.**

_Tricky bastard. They're falling for it._

Indeed, the others were nodding at the truth they sensed in his words and looked surprised they were able to. Pederson smiled smugly. Jonas looked surprised too, but then narrowed his eyes as he caught on.

"What I want from this conclave is a new direction," Pederson went on. "It's time to look again at House Edmonton's status as a pack. It's not a pack and never was. Our laws do not fit, and bastardising them to fit any vampire House is ridiculous."

Many of the Alphas were nodding now. Lawrence looked uneasily toward David, and he got the feeling his friend was willing him to do something, but what could he do? Lawrence's eyes were saying _"fix this!"_ but how? He wracked his brain for an idea as Stephen took up the challenge.

"And how precisely will you revise our laws?" Stephen asked. "I have broken none. Which of them would you change?"

"Treating you as Alpha of a pack that doesn't exist is custom not law," Pederson snapped. "That first."

"Would you prefer to treat me as what I am? Would you prefer I treat you as others of my kind do yours outside the safety of LA?" Stephen said ominously. "You would not enjoy the experience."

"Don't threaten us."

"Dear, Raymond, I do not threaten anyone here. You speak out of ignorance. None of you has experience of what it's like living the way you so cavalierly speak of. I have. Shifters are treated as animals, not people; pets at best if you're lucky enough to be a favourite of one of my kind. None of you would do well in such a life. Being the strongest, you could possibly avoid the worst abuses, but to do that you would have to feed your people to mine. I use the word feed not by accident."

"We're strong enough to drive every vampire out of LA entirely!"

"Oh, yes? And do you think it coincidence that there are only four Houses left in LA and not a dozen or more like the old days? Do you think it's your threat, the threat of shifters who my people consider mere animals to be subjugated, and not ours that keeps them away? If you do, I feel sorry for you. They stay away because Gavin, Michael, Rachelle, and I keep them away. Gavin more than the rest of us in truth. His reputation is enough of a deterrent for all but the most determined. LA has a fierce reputation among my kind, but don't think for a moment it isn't looked upon as a prize by envious eyes."

Jonas intervened. "We're straying far from why this conclave was called. I think we've heard all we need to. Raymond Pederson, Alpha of the _Alley Dog_ Pack of LA stands accused of raiding House Edmonton—vampire House of LA—against the customs and laws we all abide by. I will now hear your words before making my decision."

Leon Pullen went first as Alpha of the second strongest pack. "I don't like what he did, but he spoke the truth when he said he didn't plan to attack House Edmonton. To me that means he isn't guilty of anything except stupidity. I mean, anyone with an ounce of sense could guess what would go down at the club. Raymond Pederson is a bloody idiot, but that's not against our laws. Maybe it should be."

"So, innocent of the charge then?" Jonas asked.

Leon nodded.

And so it went. David listened with growing dismay as each Alpha responded with similar sentiments. In different words, they made excuses for Pederson's idiocy. Each time his stupidity was brought up, he flushed angrily, but it meant nothing. He had them all on side and bamboozled, but if he thought that would help him, he could think again.

He had promised himself and Mist that he wouldn't let Ronnie be taken. He exchanged looks with Stephen, and nodded to let him know he was ready to kill Pederson and take his pack. Stephen's eyes narrowed just a trifle as he caught on, and nodded back his permission. David didn't need permission, not for this. Ronnie would be his one day even if she didn't know it yet. He would woo her, but in the meantime, he needed to fix her current situation.

"...innocent of the charge. I would like to see some kind of punishment. A tithe maybe?"

The Alphas rumbled agreement.

Jonas nodded his thanks. "So, the consensus is that Raymond is a frigging idiot who should have known better, but one who is innocent of a premeditated sneak attack upon House Edmonton. I'm advised to levy a tithe as punishment." He grimaced unhappily. "I see no option but to comply with the conclave's wishes. A tithe of twenty thousand dollars is levied, and will be given to House Edmonton in lieu of damages."

Pederson yelped. "What damages?"

"It's a figure of speech, you moron," Jonas snarled. "For the inconvenience of you and your cretins attacking his people at the club, and for disturbing the peace. You have a week to cough up the cash before I send my boys round to take it out of your hide."

Pederson snarled silently, and then nodded reluctantly.

Stephen's face was cold and hard.

"Before I call it done," Jonas said. "Any other business?"

David hesitated a moment too long.

Pederson spoke first. "I wish to propose that we deal with the vampire's status among us once and for all. He's not Alpha and his band of misfit rogues are not a pack. It's time we cleaned this up."

Jonas hesitated.

"Seconded," Leon said. Jonas shot him a look of surprised betrayal. "Sorry, but it's better to get it out of the way. Stephen is a friend to the packs of LA, all the remaining vamp Houses are, but they aren't pack. Maybe it's time we recognised that. We need to figure out exactly what they mean to us and begin treating them as what they are, not what some of us think they are or should be."

## 23

# Blood Drinkers

"Okay," Jonas said. "If the shit is going to hit the fan no matter what I do, let's wind the fucker up to full blast. State your case, Raymond."

"There are four vamp Houses in LA, but only House Edmonton is treated like pack. Treat Edmonton no different from House Lochlain or the others, like the vampire House it is."

"That's all?" Jonas said in surprise. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Wait!" David said noting the flash of victory on Pederson's face. He was sure he'd seen it. "Wait, wait, wait!"

"What?" Jonas said in annoyance.

"What does that mean?"

"What does what mean?"

"Treating Stephen's house as a vampire _House_ and not a pack."

"It means what is says!" Jonas said in exasperation. "Basically, it means we acknowledge him as a vampire master and head of his House with the power and authority to rule his vamps and territory. It means he has the authority to make binding decisions and alliances, treaties and deals on behalf of his House. It's a meaningless change, just terminology."

"Is it though? Can a vampire master be a pack leader?"

"Of course n—" Jonas turned and glared at Pederson. "No, of course he can't be a pack leader. Nice try."

"But he isn't a pack leader," Leon said unhappily. "That's part of the problem. We treat him like one, but it's not real."

Stephen just watched, stony faced.

"So if he can't be a pack leader, where does that leave me and the others," David said, waving a hand at Lawrence and Ronnie.

Stephen answered. "I believe it will mean I must turn you all out. Isn't that your goal?"

"Not necessarily," Pederson said. "You can employ whoever you like, but you can't pretend to pack status. Any shifter wanting to stay in LA must join one, leave, or be killed. Those three choices are all there have ever been."

"I warned you," David said quietly, ominously. "I warned you what I'm prepared to do. Think very carefully before you push this further."

"I will have an explanation for that threat," Jonas said sharply. "Now."

David kept his silence, his eyes boring into Pederson's.

"Now!" Jonas barked.

Stephen chose to explain. "David has expressed an interest in Ronnie's welfare. He has threatened to challenge Raymond for his pack before allowing her to be forced back to them."

That startled Jonas. "Really? How interesting."

"Rogues can't challenge anyone," Leon said reluctantly. He obviously would not have minded a change of leadership within the _Alley Dog_ pack. "Sorry."

"I'm not a rogue, I belong to Stephen," David said, managing not to stumble over it. He must have been convincing, because they didn't call him a liar. Maybe he really did think of himself that way? Damn. "I'm not going to allow Ronnie or anyone I call friend—and that means everyone currently under Stephen's protection—to be harmed."

"But Stephen's status is in question," Leon said looking around at the other Alphas. They all nodded. "If we revert to treating House Edmonton as the vampire House it truly is, all of the shifters including you will revert to loners needing a pack. Fail to join one, and all become rogues."

He'd known that was coming. He glanced at Stephen, but there was no help there. He looked to Ronnie. She shrugged. Lawrence shook his head. There must be an out, but he couldn't see it. He tried to stall.

"Is this what you really want?" he said, catching the other Alpha's eyes. "What you really want? Stephen has been cleaning up your messes for decades. The city is a better place for it, you must see that. If you do this, if you force this issue, you'll have to take over from him. You'll have to hunt the rogues, take in the loners. Is that what you want?"

Jonas snorted. "If that's what they wanted, they would never have abrogated their responsibility in the first place."

"Theirs? You don't do the same?"

"I run my territory my way and it's not in the city. No one but me or mine hunts here."

David looked the question at Leon.

"Same, but I'm also not in the city. Policing our territories," he waved a hand at Jonas and back to himself. "Is a different proposition. We can hunt in full beast form easily. Coyotes are a pretty common sight in these parts." He grinned. "Big suckers a lot of 'em. Ask the humans. They swear they've seen some twice the size the text books say is normal."

Chuckles swept along the table.

Jonas nodded. "A giant wolf or lynx running through the streets of LA isn't something anyone can pretend is normal. It was easier to let Stephen handle it."

"Then don't change things and he can keep handling it."

"No," Pederson snapped.

Jonas sighed.

Suddenly he had an idea. It wasn't something he was exactly eager to do, and he hadn't discussed it with Stephen at all, but he knew Mist would prefer it to taking over the _Alley Dogs_. He wasn't sure how to do it, but maybe Jonas would be receptive.

"I have a proposal. Will you hear it?"

"Why the hell not? Might as well get all the crackpot ideas out in the open. My night is already shot."

"Create a new pack. There must be a rule or something covering new ones? Make a new one and let us all join it."

A rumble of surprise swept the Alphas. Leon nodded; he liked the idea. Pederson didn't of course, but it was to Stephen that David looked to for approval. The vampire seemed intrigued, not supportive exactly, but not against either. He was turning over the connotations in his mind, racing along paths to find the downsides. And there were downsides. His House was strong primarily because of the numbers he could call upon to defend it. All of his shifters were loyal to him, and all of them were food at need. All of that would go away in an instant unless he could make other arrangements.

"Just like that?" Jonas asked. "Make a new pack and revert House Edmonton to its actual status of a vampire House?"

He nodded.

Jonas grinned and glanced at Pederson. He pursed his lips and surveyed the other Alphas. "Before we vote on it, let's be certain we know what we're voting upon. House Edmonton reverted, a new pack created to continue handling the loners and rogues?"

David hesitated. He should have considered that. It meant he would have to kill any loner who wouldn't join his pack or leave. He didn't want to do that. He knew Stephen and the other vamps handled rogues of their own kind themselves, like the Ghost so recently put down, but Stephen often had to handle rogue shifters too. He rarely handled that himself, preferring to send people like Lawrence. He could do that too, but he knew he would feel guilty if he did. He didn't want to kill anyone, but sending others felt somehow worse. Cowardly. Maybe he wouldn't have to. Maybe he could just force them out of the city. No one said he must kill them, only that they must die if they wouldn't leave or join a pack. Yes, he could do this. He could have them brought to him, and if they wouldn't be persuaded, he could transport them a long way from LA.

_What do you think, Mist?_

**We must do this. We are alpha. Protect the pack and Stephen. He will need us. He will be weak without us.**

_Yes. We have to do something about that. Alliance?_

**Yes. Our den need not change. Nothing needs to change except how these outsiders think of us.**

He nodded to himself. That was very insightful and true. They could live and work as before. As long as the Alphas here were happy, what business of theirs was it where and how they lived?

"That's about the size of it," David finally agreed.

"Well," Jonas said. "It's certainly a neat solution. Objections, Ray? I suppose I should warn you that the other option is still open."

Pederson frowned.

"David can apply to join any pack to get around the rogue thing. It doesn't have to be any of us, a small family pack would do. I'm sure if he offered them money, one of them would sponsor him. Once he's a member in good standing he could register a formal challenge, kill you, and take over the _Alley Dogs_." Jonas turned to David. "You sure you don't want to do that?"

Pederson spluttered angrily and David smiled. He liked Jonas. He shook his head and Jonas shrugged.

"Very well," Jonas went on. "If the vote goes your way, you can't just kill Raymond you realise?"

He frowned. "Why not?"

"Because as Alpha of a pack, a challenge to another Alpha is a declaration of war. It would be your pack against his. There are a lot of _Alley Dogs_. I would strongly advise against it. Besides that, wars are frowned upon. The whole point of conclave is to settle disputes of that sort. Little spats and feuds are one thing; open war on the streets is something else. Keeping the humans out of our business is a big part of what we do."

Stephen broke in, "And we have OSI sniffing about."

"Yes," Jonas said frowning at the reminder. "We need to talk about that later, but first let's get this new pack business squared away. All in favour?"

The vote wasn't unanimous. Pederson was against, and one or two others, but more than ninety percent voted for it including Stephen. Leon took over the meeting for a while in his capacity as clerk to register the new pack on his computer. It was all very organised, more like setting up a business than a werewolf pack.

"Name of pack?" Leon asked. "And don't say Justice Lea—"

"—ice League?"

Leon sighed. "Goddess save me from people who think they're funny. Seriously? You seriously think that no one else has tried that? I bet you think using something like _my password_ on your comp is a good idea too don't you?"

David shifted uncomfortably, and decided to change his password when he got home. "Of course not."

Leon snorted. "Nice try, and don't change it to _123456_ either. That's just as popular."

Damn! This guy was good. Now he needed to think up something else. "Wouldn't dream of it," he said and Leon rolled his eyes. He thought for a moment. Something appropriate, something that would resonate with Lost Souls and the shifters loyal to Stephen. "How about... _Blood Drinkers?_ " He looked at Ronnie and Lawrence. Both nodded.

Stephen smiled briefly.

" _Blood Drinkers?_ " Leon muttered and ran a search on his computer. "It's available. Name of Alpha?"

"David and Mist," he said.

"Your second?"

"Lawrence and Farris."

"Female Alpha?"

"Ronnie and Callia," he said and Ronnie gasped. Pederson snarled curses, and she grinned widely at him.

"Your second, Ronnie?" Leon asked.

Ronnie hesitated. "Can I think about it? We don't have many bitches at Lost Souls."

"Call me when you know."

"Okay."

"Sponsor?" Leon asked.

"Me," Stephen said.

"Objection!" Pederson squawked. "He's not a shifter."

Jonas raised an eyebrow. "Does that matter?"

Leon hesitated. "I don't know. I'll check." He typed a search query and began reading. "It says a sponsor cannot be human because he or she must be a member in good standing with our community, but that's all. Stephen qualifies."

Stephen inclined his head.

"Lastly the big one. Territory claimed?"

David was at a loss but Stephen stepped in again. "I offer the _Blood Drinkers_ pack formal alliance and hunting rights throughout the territory of House Edmonton. My territory is also theirs with the stipulation that I do not cede my ownership or any of my rights over that territory. Moreover, I reserve the right to terminate the arrangement at any time. I hereby release all shifters in my service to join David's pack if they wish, but I do _not_ release them from my employment unless they give a month's advance notice." He turned to David. "I'll need to make arrangements to replace them. I can't disrupt my operations."

"I understand and it won't be an issue. Mist agrees. We don't want things to change, not this soon at any rate. Maybe later, but we can discuss it."

Stephen nodded.

"House Edmonton controls a huge territory," Jonas said.

"Your point?" David asked.

"There are quite a few family sized packs resident in that territory. You'll need to make some kind of arrangement with them. I don't think Stephen bothered with formal alliances?"

Stephen shook his head.

"I'll talk with them," David said. "We'll figure it out."

Jonas nodded. "Then I think we're done here. This meeting is closed."

"I challenge Ronnie Burdett for her position as Alpha of the _Blood Drinkers_ pack!" someone shouted.

"Accepted!" Ronnie shouted back instantly, and turned to confront Georgie. "You're dead, bitch!"

"Oh bloody hell," Jonas sighed.

David shot to his feet, already snarling and lunging toward Georgie, but he slammed bodily into Lawrence. His friend grabbed him, and forced him to back away.

"You can't!" Lawrence hissed. "You can't challenge anyone but another Alpha now!"

He couldn't take his eyes off the smirking woman. She grinned at him, and his rage turned into an inferno, but Mist didn't even twitch. He was so angry, Mist should have exploded out of their body, but he didn't, the wolf just watched.

Lawrence was a big guy, bigger than him. He worked out constantly, but he was having trouble holding his position. There was strain and panic on his face, and David knew, _he knew_ , that he could easily overpower Lawrence. That realisation brought him up short, and he realised why Mist wasn't helping. They were Lawrence's pack leader now and should act like it not some kind of mad rogue.

He stopped struggling. "Explain, and make it fast," he growled.

Lawrence relaxed a little, but he didn't let go. "Challenges are for dominance and rank in the pack. No one can challenge anyone ranked below them, and no one is ranked higher than the Alpha. You can only challenge your equal now, and that would mean another pack leader. It prevents abuse of those less dominant than us."

It made sense, but now he couldn't avenge himself. Where was the justice in that? It wasn't fair. Georgie had killed the old him and stolen his life. He had lost everything—his career, his girl, his friends. Everything. He took a deep breath and nodded. He had Mist and a new life now. He had new friends like Stephen and Lawrence, and he had a new girl though she hadn't figured it out yet. A career? Well, he had the beginnings of one. His new pack might be a full time job for all he knew, and he had some ideas about changing how shifters had to live. Ronnie insisted there was no changing things and survival was all that mattered, but he hadn't accepted that before and didn't now. He wanted to help all shifters, not just his own pack.

The human world was incredibly tough on non-humans. A simple thing like getting a loan to start a business was almost impossible, and stuff like insurance and medical care was out of reach. Just getting a job with human run companies was hard because they had trouble with their insurance premiums if they hired non-humans. Many businesses were closed to shifters; places that produced, packaged, or served food to humans for instance. It was not only illegal to hire non-humans to work in such places; it was illegal to serve them as customers.

He had so many ideas about how to make things better, a lifetime of work ahead to fill his time, but he mourned the loss of his past dreams. In his heart, he was a healer still, but his patient had changed. He only had one now—society itself—and to heal it, he needed to change it.

"I'm okay, you can let go."

Lawrence studied his face warily, but he did step back puffing a little. "You're damn strong, and I'm not talking about just the physical. You nearly squashed me like a bug."

David frowned at that, but realised immediately what Lawrence meant. He had been pushing with more than muscle. He had been using his Presence to push too. Lucky for his friend he hadn't been aware of it and hadn't pushed very hard. Mist hadn't helped at all, though Lawrence seemed to think he had. Interesting.

Everyone was watching him. He grimaced. "Sorry. I've just realised I can't kill Georgie for changing me."

Jonas nodded. "Understandable but easily remedied. The challenge was delivered properly and accepted. Ronnie will fight in your place."

"No!" he snapped but then he realised he couldn't stop it. "I mean..."

Georgie laughed. "You're going to be such fun."

"You won't live a minute against Ronnie," he said staunchly, but he had his doubts. That night was emblazoned upon his memory. Georgie had gutted Callia that night; had literally eviscerated her. "If by some miracle you win, I'll see you challenged every day until you go down for good. I swear it. Do you want to withdraw the challenge now?"

The Alphas murmured among themselves and turned to regard Georgie speculatively.

She glared at them. "I'll take my chances. Maybe after I become Alpha, I'll arrange something special for you. Maybe your second would like to be Alpha in your place."

"I'd sooner gnaw my own arm off than mate with you!" Lawrence said.

Jonas laughed. "Enough of the funnies. I have to get up early for work. Let's get this thing done so my boys can bury the body before dawn."

David looked at Jonas in appalled silence.

"What?"

"Nothing I guess."

Both women stripped for the fight to make shifting faster and not risk getting tangled. The sight didn't move David at all. He was too worried to think about how beautiful Ronnie looked, or how muscular Georgie seemed in comparison. He couldn't get the image of a half-dead Callia dragging her broken body away the night he hit Ronnie with his car. By the goddess, what was he going to do? He couldn't let this happen! Georgie was too powerful.

**This is The Way, and our She will win. She is strong.**

_You can't be sure. You didn't see Georgie that night. She's a vicious fighter._

**I see everything. I know what you know. I see what you see. We are one.**

That distracted him a moment. _You can see my memory of that night?_

**All.**

_All? You can see all of my memories?_

**Of course. We are one, as it should be.**

_But... if so, why can't I see yours?_

**You have tried?**

_Well no, I didn't know to try._

**Try, but not now. They begin.**

Jonas' coyotes gathered to watch the fight edging the arena but not so close as to risk crossing the chalk line. That was forbidden apparently. Pederson's wolves had also gathered to cheer on their wolf. The coyotes seemed more interested in watching for interference than in watching two naked women fight for their lives. David was grateful, but not for Ronnie's dignity; she didn't give a damn. Shifters were inveterate exhibitionists, every single one of them. No, it was that they were alert for cheating. He didn't know how anyone could with so many witnesses present, but if there was a way, he was sure Georgie would know how and employ it.

"Don't worry. She's got this," Lawrence said.

"You didn't see the fight that night."

"No, but I've seen Ronnie fight before."

He looked at his friend in surprise. "When?"

"When she first asked Stephen to take her in. You don't think the others just welcomed her and let her take over without challenging her do you?"

"I hadn't thought about it."

"We haven't got very many females at Lost Souls, but those we do have aren't pushovers. You'll need to recruit more for balance. A healthy pack needs a decent mix of male and female betas."

He nodded; it was another thing to add to his growing list of things he had to take care of.

"Anyway, Stephen has a rule about fighting. He knows it would be pointless to ban challenges, but he does insist they're not to the death. He needs us; he can't afford to have us killing each other, so our challenges are always to submission. Ronnie took all of them apart in minutes."

"Martina too?" he said feeling more hopeful. Martina was a werelynx and a formidable woman.

"Yeah. Martina was one surprised kitty that day I can tell you."

"What do I do about her and Darrin? I don't like the thought of Stephen turning them out."

"They can join us. You need to stop worrying about the whole wolf with wolf and kitty with kitty thing. Oh sure, that's the best way when it can be managed, but sometimes it can't. I mean, how many werelynx or weretiger groups do you think are even in the country let alone LA? Sometimes a loner can't find an animal group in the area to join, so they become affiliate members of a pack like us. That's just the way it is."

He nodded and watched as Ronnie and Georgie circled each other, feinting and lunging but never striking a blow. They were pushing power at each other, grappling invisibly using their Presence alone. He wondered if perhaps Ronnie might win without even drawing blood, but no, Georgie had to die. He couldn't imagine she would ever feel safe until that was accomplished, and he wanted Georgie dead too. A short time ago, that realisation would have appalled him, but it no longer did. Ronnie wouldn't be safe with Georgie still breathing, so she must stop that annoying habit and do them all a favour by dying.

Georgie lost patience with the dance first and began to shift, Ronnie stayed in human form and took advantage. She rained kicks and punches into the shifting form as Georgie went furry. It was a vulnerable time for any shifter. When they were between forms, they couldn't do much but concentrate on the Change, which was extremely painful. Ribs snapped as Ronnie viciously stove them in, but David couldn't see any advantage in doing that. Georgie was healing the damage instantly as she shifted to her wolf form. Sure it must hurt, but the process of changing form hurt worse.

Ronnie didn't let up, if anything she forced herself into a frenzy, burning energy in an almost berserk fury of blows. She smashed her fists into Georgie's face, obliterating the semi-wolf features. Blood flew and splashed upon the concrete. Georgie howled and bit, ripping Ronnie's hands and arms to shredded ribbons.

"Go for it," Lawrence growled under his breath, willing Ronnie on as she mauled her opponent.

"Why isn't she changing too? She'll be on the receiving end of this when she shifts. She should have changed at the same time!"

"That's not what this is about. Georgie is healing all the damage as part of her shift, but that takes strength and energy. Healing and shifting are two sides of the same coin. They both work exactly the same way. Exactly the same. By ripping her up and forcing her to heal the damage, Ronnie is making her use up her strength. It will be as if Georgie shifted twice not once. This is going to come down to stamina, and Ronnie is conserving hers."

"That's... that bloody brilliant!"

Lawrence shrugged. "Challenges aren't all about strength. Well they are, but there's more than physical strength involved. There's your Presence as well, and tactics in the arena too, but strategy relies upon cleverness. A clever opponent can win against a physically stronger one sometimes. A super strong alpha doesn't necessarily make a good pack leader. He needs to know how to lead people, and persuade them to do what's good for the pack a lot of the time, not beat them into submission."

He nodded; there was another lesson in there. Lawrence was good at telling him things without appearing to do that, and it was no accident. A pack leader's second could suggest and advise but he couldn't be seen to be giving his Alpha orders or challenging him. Lawrence was a natural second; he'd slipped into the role as if he'd been doing it for years. It was no wonder Stephen had relied upon him so much.

Georgie was the stronger physically, it was obvious naked as she was, but Ronnie matched her in Presence, and now over matched her in cleverness. She was winning.

Georgie finally completed her shift to full wolf form and attacked. Ronnie backed off, bloodied but still very strong. Her hands and arms were shredded, but she let the blood spatter upon the ground not bothering to use her energy on healing. Georgie's wolf charged and ripped into Ronnie's leg in frenzy. David paled at the sight thinking something was wrong, but no, Ronnie wanted her enemy in close. She reached down almost casually and grasped Georgie around the neck, heaving her into the air and throwing her contemptuously across the arena. Georgie rolled back onto her feet and charged back in the blink of an eye, absolutely furious and raging with no thought in her head but blood lust and a need to kill.

Ronnie was ready.

David might have missed it, but Lawrence had seen it before and was waiting for the move. He hissed in excitement as Ronnie shifted her arms and hands. Suddenly they were no longer bleeding or human either. They reached down below her knees now and wicked claws sprang out as she flexed alien fingers. She stood her ground as Georgie leapt and David cried out an involuntary warning.

Ronnie caught the wolf easily in her new powerful arms and said almost gently, "Goodbye, Georgie."

Her wonderfully sharp claws sliced the wolf's throat open and ripped its trachea away. She threw the disgusting mess on the floor, and before the dying wolf could begin to heal, twisted its head all the way around and pulled with all her strength. Flesh tore and the head came free in a fountain of gore. The twitching body fell away. Ronnie held the head up before her, staring into its face until the still glowing eyes dimmed and flickered out, glazing in death.

Jonas' coyotes yipped and barked in that spine-crawling call of theirs.

David shivered. They were all in human form, and that sound coming from ordinary men and women's throats was just plain unnerving. Alien. Ronnie threw the head and Jonas caught it. He lobbed it like a football to one of his boys who caught it with a laugh. David felt his gorge rise as it shifted back to Georgie's human head, but the coyotes continued playing catch with it and laughing all the while.

"Keep it together," Stephen whispered. "Show no weakness here or anywhere if you can avoid it. This is your new reality. Embrace it, or learn to fake embracing it. I would advise the former for your own peace of mind."

He swallowed bile keeping his expression neutral as the shifters had their fun tossing the human head from one end of the arena to the other in a sick game of catch. Georgie's body had turned human too now, and Ronnie stepped over it, not giving it a glance. She was untroubled by the coyote's antics. He watched her approach. She was so damned primal, bloody hands and naked body splashed with gore. She was so beautiful to his hot eyes, but how would he ever understand her or his new people?

Georgie had needed to die. It was necessary and he was glad Ronnie had won, but it was obvious she had no qualms about anything that had happened. Survival was all that mattered to her, and she was full of her victory. How could he live that way even with her? The answer was he couldn't, but he would have to or change the reality they had to live with. He was determined to try, but it would take time.

**Our She,** Mist said with pride as Lawrence handed Ronnie her clothes. **Ours.**

_Ours,_ David agreed, still seeing the moment she ripped her enemy's head off. She was theirs, the goddess help them.

## 24

# Nspcl

"Be on your guard. I don't say you'll be challenged immediately upon our return, but you cannot know for sure," Stephen was saying. "Lawrence will advise you, but I know shifters at least as well as my own people. None of us like uncertainty. You will have to prove your dominance, probably more than a few times during the coming weeks. The others will insist upon knowing where they stand in your pack. I ask that you maintain the challenge to submission rule, at least while on properties I own."

David nodded and tried to concentrate upon his plans. The limo had regained I-215 now and the tyres hummed quietly over the pavement. It was dark outside and traffic was lighter than earlier. He had been staring out a window while the others discussed things, seeing Ronnie's fight over and over again in his mind. How could he be attracted to that, be turned on by that? He was. He could pretend disgust at the violence and blood, but it really would be just pretence. When he thought about it, really concentrated upon it, he wasn't disgusted at all. He was excited. It was that knowledge that actually did disgust him, not the violence itself. It wasn't civilised. Civilised behaviour was one thing he'd thought he was certain of; it was something to believe in and base his plans upon, but now when he imagined Ronnie killing Georgie all he felt was Mist's pride and sense of ownership.

**We are one. We are pack. Our She is pack. Lawrence is pack.**

As if that explained anything.

He shook his head trying to understand the changes within himself. They were ongoing. He hadn't stopped changing since the attack and his first day as a shifter. They were gradual, those changes, or they had been until now. His acceptance of Mist as a real person or entity in his head had only been the first of many. His lost career and relationships, his realisation at conclave that he really had given himself to Stephen, or his loyalty at least, and now things were going to change again. He was Alpha of the _Blood Drinkers_ , mate to Ronnie if she ever let him close enough, ally to House Edmonton... what else would happen in the coming days? So many changes, yet he didn't want to change so much that the old David died completely. He didn't want to turn into some ravening beast. He was a man, not an animal. He wanted to remain a civilised man, and become a civilised leader to his people.

**Do not fret so. We are together. We are pack. We are one. The others will challenge us, but we are strong. We will protect the pack, protect the den, protect Stephen and our She.**

Stephen was still talking and David tried to concentrate on his words.

"Do you not agree, Lawrence?"

Lawrence nodded. "I don't think there's much choice."

"Wait, what?" he said. He had lost the thread of the conversation.

"The little packs in Stephen's... _our_ territory need to be folded into the _Blood Drinkers_."

"By force?"

"If necessary." David didn't like that and his expression gave him away. "It's kinder."

"How can force be kinder?"

"They will face challenges. We all do, but until now no one has bothered with them because they lived in Stephen's territory. They were considered his, and were left alone for fear or respect for House Edmonton. His threat was enough to keep them safe, despite his disinterest in them."

"I was not disinterested in them," Stephen qualified. "I just didn't see the benefit of trying to negotiate terms with so many individual groups when I was strong enough without them. Besides, they would compete with each other to see who could gouge me the deepest!"

Lawrence grinned.

"You're saying that if I don't take them in hand, outsiders will? Who, Pederson?"

"Not Raymond," Stephen said. "His pack is big enough already. I doubt he wants to add more uncertainty into the _Alley Dogs_ right now. New recruits have to be brought into a pack under controlled conditions. You don't want too many challenges all at once; it would destabilise your power base while the hierarchy reorders itself. It takes time for newcomers to settle in and find their place within the pack's power structure."

"But the territory is yours," he protested. "The _Blood Drinkers_ will share it as we agreed, but we both know who really holds it. You do. Why won't the status quo remain as it always was?"

"You don't actually want that."

"Why?"

"He's right," Lawrence said. "You are too, but Stephen is more right. The _Blood Drinkers_ needs to make its rep. A new pack has no threat at all. Stephen could do the work for us by keeping things as they are, but that won't be good for the pack. We need to make our mark before other packs start thinking they can take our territory."

"I would not allow that," Stephen said, "But Lawrence is essentially correct. To outsiders it should seem that shifters living in our territory are your responsibility, while vampires and my business holdings remain mine. The reality can be whatever we decide it is privately, but my preference would be a full partnership, not just an alliance based upon defending the territory. It's in both our interests for outsiders to see a strong House allied with a powerful pack, not a strong House propping up a weak pack. Weakness will be exploited."

"And leaving shifters unaligned in my territory will be considered a weakness?"

"Outsiders will see it that way. They won't consider your preferences. All they'll see is a pack unable to exert control over its territory. They will nibble around the edges, trying to erode the borders. They do it now and always have. It will get worse for a time as you set your own pack in order."

He turned to Ronnie. "You agree?"

She nodded.

"And you?"

Lawrence nodded as well. "Challenge and counter is a way of life for us as individuals, but it's true of things in general too. Vampires do it and call it the Game of Houses. Outside of LA it's a way of life for them and not questioned. Actually, they probably enjoy it. They look at us here in LA and want to take us over, but they're also puzzled by us because of the way we live together. We have our moments, but not like what you'll find outside our borders."

"Understatement of the millennium," Stephen said dryly. "And he's right, we do enjoy The Game. Not much else can hold our attention for centuries or millennia. The four Houses of LA are unusual in that we do not play against each other, but we do still play against the rest of the Republic. We have little choice when outsiders insist upon coming here and trying to establish themselves. We keep their Houses out of our combined territories, and police the occasional individual who is either too stupid or new to know why he should stay away. House Lochlain is especially important in that area. Gavin's reputation and age is a strong deterrent."

"This challenge and counter thing extends to packs?" he asked already guessing that it would. It would make his vague plans harder if it did, so of course that would be the reality. "There's no way around it?"

"None," Ronnie said.

"There's conclave," Lawrence disagreed. "Challenge and counter is part of The Way, but conclave is a counter too. War is banned in LA and enforced by all members of the conclave not just the shifters. We still have our feuds over the borders—little skirmishes kept out of sight of humans—but wars? Absolutely not; not anymore."

Stephen nodded at that.

No war was a good thing, and it might open a way for his idea to work. He considered revealing it now, knowing Ronnie would ridicule him for it, but she had to know eventually. Besides, she wasn't just going to be his future mate, she was co-ruler of their pack too.

"You said at the meeting you would release everyone from your service to join my pack."

Stephen raised an eyebrow. "I did."

"I don't want you to do that. Their loyalty to you is extraordinary. At least it seems that way to me. I'm new, I know that, but looking around I haven't seen devotion like it anywhere else."

"I'm gratified you think so, but I'm not sure I see the purpose in perpetuating a fiction."

David frowned uncertainly. "A fiction?"

"A pretence then. Why pretend they remain in my service, when in fact they will be in yours from now on?"

"I don't want anything to change at the club, and I have some ideas that I want to try."

"Such as?"

"I want to set up an NPO for shifters," he said and Stephen's eyebrows disappeared into his hair. "Survival isn't enough. I don't want to live from one day to the next wondering if I'll still be breathing tomorrow."

"It's his damned crusade," Ronnie said and sneered. "The pack is all that matters; the pack and survival."

Lawrence nodded.

"And I told you that day I don't believe that. I will change it."

"There's no changing it. You're a fool to think otherwise. We've lived this way since the first of us turned furry. Ask the elves, ask the dwarves or even the dragons. They'll tell you there's no way to change the fundamental nature of things. We are what we are."

"I'm a man first."

Ronnie's voice lowered and she said almost kindly, "Don't lie to yourself, David. I felt you while I fought in the arena. I felt what you were feeling."

He flushed and faltered under her knowing gaze. He glanced at Lawrence and received a sympathetic grimace and a nod. Stephen smiled and nodded as well. Well... damn! So they felt him getting off on Ronnie's fight. Big deal. It didn't make his idea unworkable. Maybe it needed refinement, maybe there were things he hadn't thought through, but he had time to fix snags.

"I still want to try."

"Exactly what are you proposing?" Stephen asked. "You don't want things to change at the club; I have no objections to that. It makes things for Edward infinitely easier if he continues overseeing my interests as before, but what about this NPO? What purpose will it serve?"

"I want to create something a bit like the Y," he said and flushed as Ronnie burst out laughing. "Shut it," he growled, his voice deepening and his eyes flaring to amber in the dark of the car's interior.

Ronnie's eyes flared golden, but she did quit laughing.

_Taking an interest now are you? About time you got with the program!_

**Our She tests her boundaries,** Mist said with pride and approval clear in his thoughts. **We must let her run, but not too far or fast. We are Alpha to her as well as the pack. She must respect us, as we must respect her.**

He could agree with that at least.

"You want to create a YMCA for shifters," Stephen said carefully, not laughing but obviously wanting to. "And you feel this would be beneficial, why?"

"I do. I even know what to call it."

"Oh?"

"NSPCL. It stands for the National Society for the Protection and Conservation of Lycanthropes."

"National? Getting ahead of yourself aren't you?"

"No point in thinking small. Obviously I can't roll this out nationwide overnight, but I can start here in LA and fold other cities into the network over time."

"And start a war with those cities in the process," Stephen pointed out. "The packs won't let you get this idea off the ground."

"They will. When they see the benefits the Society will bring to all shifters. I'm not interested in empire building, or creating a super-sized pack. This will be an entirely opt in, not for profit organisation. Like a guild."

Lawrence snorted. "Your experience with guilds differs from mine then. They're definitely in it for profit. Political profit, financial profit, but profit."

"Hmmm," Stephen agreed. "I can't think of a single guild that doesn't require paid membership."

"The Society will tithe," he said reluctantly. "But the books will balance to keep its NPO status. The income will be redistributed to members as loans and used to provide the services they need like cheap insurance, medical, and other stuff. There will be some overhead. No way around that but I'll employ non-humans to run most of it, so that's employment for quite a few people."

"Fine. Let's say you do this. What is your goal?"

"Helping shifters and making their lives better," he said and Ronnie rolled her eyes. He pushed on. "We can't get loans, we can't get decent insurance, we can't start businesses without either one. Most companies can't or won't employ us, and those who do take advantage of us with low pay and bad conditions. I want to change that."

"A noble goal, but hard to achieve. Shifters have few rights, and my people have none," Stephen said. "How do you intend to address that?"

"Politics isn't on my agenda."

"Then you will fail. As long as it's legal to discriminate against non-humans nothing will change. The law as it stands supports those who take advantage of us. What will your society do for us on a practical level?"

"Start businesses and employ shifters, offer loans to them to start their own. I want a chapter of NSPCL in every major city in the Republic eventually. There will be a call centre and free advice. Representation provided by us in the courts and attorneys to sit in interview when the cops hassle us. Did you know the guilds won't accept non-humans? If you're in one already and then catch lycanthropy they kick you out without compensation!"

"I was aware of that, yes," Stephen said dryly.

"So if the cops arrest me, I can't even have a guild rep in with me. The attorneys they offer us on their so generous preferred credit terms are sub-par shysters in it for the consultation fees."

"Lawyers are the lowest form of life," Stephen agreed sombrely. "Demons in human form."

David frowned. "You're laughing at me, aren't you? You think I'm being stupid."

"Not stupid. Naive. You don't think we know how badly we're treated? You go on as if you're the first person to realise our inequality and are revealing it to us! I can't vote or own a business in my own name. I can't instigate a lawsuit or protect myself from one. After all, dead men can't own property, can they? Without proxies and front men like Edward, I would have nothing in this world. You think I haven't dreamed of changing that? Of course I have. I would give almost anything to change it!"

"Then help me."

"We are allies. Of course I will help you, but I must know what form that help is to take. You need money? Not a problem. You need influence with the Mayor? _Definitely_ a problem."

Ronnie snorted.

"There's nothing anyone can do to stop us. The Mayor, the cops, the state government... none of them can legally prevent anyone from setting up an NPO. It's the lack of funds and insurance that really hurts shifters, and causes their businesses to fail."

"And a lack of customers," Lawrence pointed out.

"That won't be an issue. If we do this right, our customers will be the non-humans that everyone currently rips off. If we offer fair dealing, they will flock to us. Stephen is known for it. With him backing the Society no one will doubt us."

"I'm so glad my reputation will be useful to you," Stephen said dryly.

David flushed. "I didn't mean for it to sound so cold-blooded, but you have to admit my reasoning is sound."

"It _is_ sound. This project is long term you realise? It will take years. Before you can start, you'll need to take matters in hand at the club with your own pack and then expand rapidly with the unaligned shifters in the city. We must secure the borders and my power-base, or I won't be around for my reputation to be of help to you."

He nodded and turned to Ronnie. "Who are you considering as candidate for your second?"

"Martina."

That would have been his guess, but why hadn't Ronnie simply named her at the conclave? "You're not sure she'll want the position?"

"She challenged me and lost. My guess is that she'll fight the others for it, and try me again. After I kick her butt a second time, she'll settle down as my second."

"Oookay," he said, wanting to protest yet another fight, but he was wise enough not to voice it. She would ignore him anyway. "So we'll have a lot of agitated wolves to deal with when we get home."

"That's about the size of it," Lawrence agreed.

"Have you got your link on you?"

Lawrence nodded.

"Call ahead and tell them what's happened."

"Is that wise?" Stephen said.

"I would rather arrive after they've settled on who will challenge us. I don't want to fight them all one by one."

Ronnie grinned. "Now you're thinking like a shifter."

"No," Stephen disagreed. "He's thinking like an Alpha. Very well-reasoned, David. I'm impressed."

He grimaced. Why did anything he did that felt wrong or uncomfortable to him impress them? He had a feeling that if he ruthlessly killed everyone who stood in his way they would cheer him on, yet if he talked his way out of trouble they would frown in disapproval. He preferred compromise to violence, but he knew those opposing him would choose violence as their first choice. So be it. He would deal fairly with those who dealt fairly with him, deal peacefully with those who preferred negotiation, but if they chose violence, he would respond in kind. Ronnie was right; he needed to think more like a shifter, but not because he was one. He needed to think like one because he would be leading an entire pack of them. To do that effectively and lead them well, he needed to understand them. He was no psychologist, but by understanding himself he should be able to apply that knowledge to them.

**The pack is all. That is all we need to know.**

_You say that as if it's literally true, but there's more to this than a single pack's welfare. I want to make things better for all packs._

"Make the call," he ordered and Lawrence pulled out his link.

David settled back and closed his eyes, trying to relax. The trip to Lost Souls would take no more than an hour if that. He wanted to take this time to think. There wouldn't be much time for it at the club. He listened to Lawrence's quietly murmured conversation, and tried to ready himself for the fighting to come.

## 25

# Convalescence Sucks

Eleven days into her medical leave had Chris climbing the walls of her apartment. She hated the thought of being desk bound, but she would have preferred that to this torture. Goddess she was bored! She had tried wheedling Cappy into letting her come into Central and work her desk, but he wouldn't let her, pointing to the regs. She had tried blackmail and promises, no joy there either. She'd been reduced to begging in the end. She hated begging! He'd just laughed her offers off as if she were joking. She hadn't been, not at all. Her offer to run errands and do reports for the guys, though a horrifying thought to her a few short weeks ago, was looking like a damn fine deal about now.

"I hate this!" she snarled to the empty apartment.

She missed the bustle of a busy department, and she missed the guys. She felt cut off from everything, and no one had time to talk when she called them on her link. She knew how that was. They were busy with their cases while she languished unable even to work her inactive files. Her active cases were an even bigger frustration to her; they had been reassigned. At least John had taken them on with Raz's help. That was better than giving them to someone who knew nothing about them. John knew as much as she did being her partner, but still. She couldn't help thinking that only she could handle them exactly right; arrogant to think so. No one was indispensable, but that's the way she felt.

The regs were screwing her over, and Doctor Carey had not helped with his assessments of her mental stability. As if he knew what stable was. She snorted. No cop she knew could pass his definition of stable! They would all have to be clerics or psychs like him to pass some of his stupid tests.

The medics had been more reasonable. Her heavily scarred neck was still tender under the bandaging, but it was healing well. They said she could undertake light work no problem at all. She considered her desk and maybe interviewing suspects as light. No actual pursuits of course. Chasing bad guys would be bad for her stitches... probably, but interviews and paperwork would have been fine in her opinion.

Carey had vetoed the idea. He said traumatic experiences such as hers mandated eight weeks minimum leave, followed by psyche sessions to evaluate performance once back on the job. Eight flaming weeks! She was barely into her second week and already climbing the walls. On pay or not, it was bloody ridiculous and she was determined upon another opinion. Getting the term cut in half was her minimum goal.

_Thwack thwack!_

Chris brightened. A visitor... or the mailman. Hopefully a visitor with a distraction. Goddess she needed something to take her mind off her situation, and that was a fact. She answered the door, to find a tussle-haired Baxter in the hall.

"Well well, look what the cat dragged to my door. Road kill." Baxter grinned at her. He had a manila envelope in his hand but there was no doughnut box in sight. "No sugar?"

"I can give you some sugar," he said making a kissy face.

She snorted. "I'm going to tell Mary Pat on you."

"She knows I'm a lech."

Chris chuckled. "Don't stand there like a lump. Come in."

"I was waiting for the invite," he said entering the apartment and looking around. "You're a slob, you know that?"

She looked about blankly and then flushed. She hadn't tidied in a while, and there were clothes from washday piled on the sofa. Her face reddened when she noticed her panties on display. She grumbled under her breath as she snatched them up to hide them, and Baxter chuckled. She scooped everything up and entered the bedroom. She didn't bother putting it all away in drawers. She dumped it all on the bed and closed the door firmly. There. She looked about again, and started picking up dirty plates and cups. Baxter helped take them into the kitchen.

"Beer?" she asked as she stuffed everything into the washer.

"Empire?"

"Of course Empire, what else? You're not in some dive on 104th street now." The uppity Brits might be a pain in the arse, but they knew how to brew good beer. "Check the refrigerator. Get me one too."

Baxter collected two bottles of brew and set them down on the island. She handed him the opener and he popped the tops off both. They took up a bottle each and clinked them together before taking a long pull of the nectar. Baxter sat beside her on one of her stools, drinking his beer in silence.

Chris eyed the envelope hungrily where it lay atop the island, but said nothing about it. He hadn't offered it to her, but he wouldn't have brought it with him if it didn't contain something interesting he wanted her to see. Finally, he finished his beer and slid the envelope closer.

"The feds are still sniffing around," he said without glancing her way. "They're not satisfied with Ghost being dead."

" _They're_ not satisfied! Well screw them, _I'm_ not satisfied! They lost my perp's body! Where the hell do they get off not being satisfied?"

Baxter shrugged. "Barrows was pissed, yeah, but he's lucky he didn't lose anyone. We nearly lost you, Chris. We were all lucky that night."

She shifted uncomfortably at the emotion she heard in Baxter's voice, but she was still fuming at Barrows' incompetence. How did it happen that after all her team's work they lose the body? More to the point, what was special about it to make someone steal the damn thing? O'Neal had simply been a run of the mill vamp like any other hadn't he? She wondered if Barrows knew why, if not who was behind it? He couldn't know who had snatched it. He would have been after him already if he did, not bugging the guys at Central.

She finished her beer. "Another?"

Baxter nodded.

She fetched them, popped the tops, and handed one of the bottles over. She didn't sit this time, but leaned back against the island facing the opposite way to Baxter in order to see his face.

"So, apart from my excellent taste in beer, what brings you to my door?"

He gestured at the envelope. "That."

"And that is?"

"Something I'm not supposed to have."

She raised an eyebrow and reached for it tentatively. He nodded and she snatched the envelope up quickly in case he changed his mind. Inside she found a disk and some papers. She emptied everything onto the island, but ignored the disk for the hard copy. There were half a dozen still photographs, obviously frames isolated and printed from a security network. She recognised them as coming from the morgue. She would have been hard pressed not to recognise the location. She had been in there a depressing number of times. She paged through them, studying each one. Baxter had obviously tried to get the best angles, but none of them was very enlightening. Oh, she could tell what they were supposed to be showing her. It was the raid on the morgue. She knew some of the details already. How an unknown group had posed at EMTs logging in a body, and had stunned the guards and gassed the feds. She would have laughed if it hadn't been her body they were stealing.

She glared at the photos. "These are useless. I can't see faces."

"You think so?"

Okay, now he was being coy. What was she missing? She frowned and studied each photo side-by-side, staring hard at each one. No faces, so she looked for other tells. Reflections? No, none. The weapons? K6 stunners they should not have had or been able to procure, but no surprise they had managed it. The gas? She peered closer, but it was a simple aerosol canister with a long lever-like trigger. She didn't know the agent used to knock out the fed, but it must have been potent and quick dispersing. None of the fake EMTs wore gas-masks. Maybe a tailored nerve agent then? The users could take the antidote orally before using it. Pop a pill and you were good to go. Mil-spec stuff that was, but everything was available on the streets for a price. Bounty hunters used it quite effectively on shifters she'd heard. It didn't keep them down long, but even a minute was enough time to get the runecuffs on if you were good and on the ball.

"What's on the disk?"

"The recording of that night. DD hacked in for me to get it."

Chris whistled. "How much did it cost you?"

Baxter grimaced. "Two."

"Two? That's not too bad—"

"In the dugout," he said sourly.

"Oh man!" she said in commiseration. "That sucks. I'm sorry."

"Yeah well, you owe her one of them."

She spluttered.

Baxter grinned and prodded one of the photos. "You're not seeing it, are you?"

She eyed the picture, still smarting about the ticket to the ball game. They weren't cheap dammit, and she didn't see how what Baxter had bought was worth the cost. The photo he'd chosen was of one of the thieves carrying Ghost's body from the freezer to the emergency door. She still didn't get it. She said so.

"That's Flex," Baxter said without hesitation. "I know it's him."

She looked up in surprise, already shaking her head.

"It is," he said without a trace of a doubt.

She tried to see why he thought so, but apart from height and general build, there was nothing else to go on. "I'm not seeing it. The build is right, but what else are you basing it on? There must be thousands like him."

"True, but pair him up with a chiquita like this, and who do you immediately think of?" He slid one of the other photos her way.

Chris picked them both up. Separately the people shown could be any one, but yes, put together they matched the builds of Angel and Flex. The problem was they also matched her and Baxter, or any number of people! This was a stretch, a serious stretch, like a rubber band stretched from one end of Manhattan Island to the other kind of stretch. They couldn't move on this! It was utter crap. Just one man's hunch... but Baxter's hunches had served her well recently.

She bit her lip in thought. Why would Angel be mixed up in this? She couldn't think of any profit for her or her gang in stealing a body out of the morgue, and she couldn't think of any other reason she would want to do it. Body snatching was so... _outdated_ now. Magic traditions had moved on a lot and most didn't go in for the truly black arts anymore; the cost was too high, and besides, Angel wasn't gifted in necromancy as far as she knew. Her magic was a form of compulsion that she used to employ on marks in her petty street cons.

"Did DD do anything with the disk? Any enhancements?"

"No, it was all I could do to get her to hack the servers in the first place. The feds have everyone feeling a little spooked. She did the printouts, took her fee, and threw me out of her cubicle. She was kinda scared, Chris, so I left it at that. I think Barrows has been at her."

"Bastard," she snarled. DD was harmless, a really quiet and nice analyst sort. She wasn't tough or able to fight back if the feds got nasty. "What was he after, do you know?"

"Same as us I bet."

"Probably."

She glared at the photos again and sighed. "These are nothing, Dave. I know you think they are, and maybe they even are something, but Cappy won't move on this. The case is closed... it _is_ still closed?"

"It's closed," he agreed.

"Getting it reopened will take more than this, more than we can possibly get. I don't see it happening at all. The Mayor must have sighed in relief when the Chief told him we got the Ghost."

"Oh yeah, he was real happy to go to the media with the good news."

"He'll want this to stay dead and buried then."

"But we don't... or do we?"

She grimaced. "I don't mind if it stays buried as such, but for my own information I would like to know what in the nine hells is going on! I admit it, this entire thing smells."

"Yeah, it does. It stinks of federal cover-up on massive scale to me, and I would love to stick it to Barrows."

"Hmmm. As long as we're the stickers and not the stickees. Okay, leave this with me. You can't do much more. I'm grounded for another six weeks. I'm working to halve that time, but anyway, I need something to do. I'll see if I can coax DD into a little work for hire on the side, and I'll look into Angel and her gang."

Baxter looked doubtful, his eyes resting on the bandaging wrapping her throat. "You be careful. Call for backup, do not apprehend, yada yada."

She grinned and saluted. "Scouts honour."

He rolled his eyes and pushed to his feet. "Seriously, Chris. Something is whacked about all this. Barrows was seriously freaked that night when he lost the body, and he said something to me while you were in the emergency room that's had me thinking."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. I dismissed it then as threats, but now I'm not so sure. He warned me not to dig. He said there were some people who wouldn't care who I was or that I was a cop, and that they would take steps to maintain secrecy. Like I said, I shrugged it off back then, but then I got to thinking about the other day when Barrows followed us. He said the guy they were after had a body count of over eighty, remember?"

"Yeah so?"

"So how come no one heard about that? Eighty kills and no bulletins, no news media—how does that happen without serious pull high up? Like higher than FBI high, more like military."

"Acronyms," she sighed. "I hate those acronym guys."

"I didn't say CIA... oops, I just did. Could be homeland too I guess, or something even darker. You know the Council has more than enough pull for this without the need for acronyms. You know that, right?"

She shivered; she knew all right. If the White Council was involved they were seriously screwed, but she wouldn't assume it. There were many reasons not to; one of which was the futility of trying to fight against anything the Council chose to do. If it was involved and wanted this mess to go away, it _would_ go away along with anyone connected to it with no evidence left behind. The fact there was evidence lying around to be found was the greatest indication that this wasn't connected to the Council. She saw nothing that pointed to anyone but her department and Barrows being involved as yet. She would keep assuming and preserve her peace of mind.

"Leave it with me," she said. "I'm the only one with time on my hands anyway." She followed Baxter toward the door. "What's Cappy got John working on now?"

"Stanton."

"Oh really? Damn, I'd like to take a shot at him myself."

"Wouldn't we all?" Baxter said stepping out into the hall. He turned back as if to say something more, but then shook his head leaving it unsaid. "See you around."

"See you," Chris closed the door and hurried to fetch the disk. She wanted to watch the full video before deciding how much to let DD extort from her.

Chris arrived at Central the next morning determined to enlist DD's aid, and she wasn't above guilt tripping her friend to get what she wanted. Baxter had succeeded in planting seeds of doubt about Angel and the possibility that she was in some kind of trouble. Angel didn't consider herself a friend of hers anymore, but Chris still thought of the girl as one of her kids. The gangly kid she'd known was older now, and had her own gang, but she remembered her as just another of the unwanted kids running wild in the district she had patrolled in her uniform days.

Angel had left the Tiny Rascals behind, but the gang was still active in Monster Central and Chris kept in touch with some of its members. They gave her information sometimes, and she tried to keep them out of trouble. She helped out with a little cash now and then too, and had given each of them a second-hand link so they could keep in touch with her. They were a good investment, but that wasn't why she kept an eye on them. They weren't just weasels to her. They were her kids, hers to protect, even from themselves. It didn't matter if Angel blamed her for things or hated her for what had happened years ago. If the girl was mixed up in vamp business, she needed help. Chris would get her out of whatever it was.

She headed up to the Cyber Analysis Division on the second floor of Central where all the geeks hung out. DD was one of the Cads, one type of techno geek that inhabited the place. Cads, named after their division, spent all their time taking computers and robots apart to analyse their guts and memories for evidence. There were other kinds of geek on the same floor, like the Cats (Cyber Action Teams) who investigated comp fraud and Infonet security breaches. They were DD's suppliers in a way. They collected the evidence in the first place and once analysed, acted upon the results.

She stepped out of the elevator but didn't head for DD's cubicle right away. She knew her friend would not be happy to see her, especially when she heard why. A small gratuity was in order to soften her up. Normally coffee would do, but this might take a high calorie injection of chocolaty goodness. She needed to disguise the taste of helping her out this time around because DD wasn't an Angel fan. In fact, DD wasn't a fan of much outside of baseball and ice hockey, but she had a serious crush on the LA King's current star player. Jarret Fraser played centre position and wouldn't know DD if he tripped over her, but that didn't quiet her enthusiasm. Such a rabid sports fan had weaknesses and might be persuaded to overlook her dislike of Angel this once if certain things were offered to her. What worried Chris wasn't giving her friend a couple of tickets for a bribe. They often went to games together anyway. She considered such things a gift not bribery. It was Barrows scaring her. If DD was still freaked out about the feds, she might refuse to help at all.

She checked out the selection at vending and chose DD's favourites. If two bars of instant diabetic coma didn't work, she didn't know what would. She bought a coffee for herself while she had the chance, and then headed for DD's cubicle.

Donna Delgado was a trim young woman of twenty-five and was pretty in a geeky sort of way despite having the dress sense of a demented elf. She was wearing a bright orange shirt with leafy patterns worked into it. The colour was vomit inducing. She wore it untucked, but then she had to. It was so short it left her midriff bare and revealed her piercing. The white belt with its chrome buckle did more than hold her pants up. It drew attention to her ultra-flat belly and sharp hipbones. It made Chris want to suck in her gut.

She watched DD bop and boogie her way around her cubicle, tapping commands into the various computers she had crammed into every available space. It was normal for her to be working on three or four things at once She was wearing earphones, big suckers not the tiny ear buds most used these days—DD was an aficionado of quality sound, or so she said—and wouldn't be seen dead using anything but her own creation. She wasn't just a wiz with software; she was into hardware in a big way. She often built her own gadgets and computers. She was a geek's geek.

Chris stepped into the cubicle and DD stopped dancing. She smiled automatically in greeting, but a moment later the expression fled as she realised who had come calling. Chris cursed silently. Goddess damn Barrows to the ninth hell! It was obvious DD wasn't happy to see her.

"Hey DD, how goes it?"

DD removed her earphones and switched off her music. "I can't help you."

"Sure you can."

"No, I really can't."

"Yes, you really can. Look here," she said and waved the ticket in the air. "Baxter says I owe you."

DD shuffled her feet. "Sorta."

"I always pay my debts, DD, and besides, we're buds. Here, take it."

DD stepped forward and took the ticket, barely glancing at it in her misery. "Thanks. Sorry, but I have work. I don't have time to chat right now."

Chris ignored her and took a seat on the edge of DD's desk. "I heard that bastard Barrows came by. He can't mess with you, DD. Just tell your Guild rep he's hassling you and he'll stop. He only gets away with it if people don't push back. So push."

"I'm not you, Chris, I can't."

"Sure you can, you're stronger than you think, but if you don't want to that's okay. He doesn't bother me, DD. I'll fix him for you."

"Really?" she said hopefully. "You'd do that for me?"

"Absolutely. Here, I got these for you." She passed the candy over and DD's eyes lit. She unwrapped one of the treats and bit in. "Good?"

"Hmmm," DD said.

Chris grinned, she was getting somewhere. "So, I guess you know why I'm here. Baxter showed me your stuff, but I need some Delgado magic worked on it."

DD swallowed and started on the second candy bar.

She would never understand how her friend could maintain her pixy-like stature with all the sugar she consumed. She must have the metabolism of a humming bird on crack.

"What do you need?" DD said after she finished eating.

"The stills you worked up? Can you enhance them?"

"Can I enhance them? Of course I can enhance them! Aren't I the best miracle worker in the department?"

"You're the best, DD."

"Damn straight. Of course I can enhance them, but I told Dave that day it wouldn't do you any good."

"He never said. Why won't it do any good?"

"Because the perps are wearing masks. I can enhance the imagery and bring out the individual threads in the masks if you want, but if I remember right they were just off the rack ski masks. That won't get you anywhere."

She scowled. "Will you do it anyway?"

DD shrugged. "Sure. You got the disk with you?"

She handed it over and DD got to work.

Chris supplied coffee and moral support as DD worked her magic. They chose the same scenes as Dave had asked for, but added a few more that Chris thought promising. She liked the gassing of the fed especially, and had DD spend some extra attention on it. A couple of hours later and they were done.

"You're right," Chris said. "This is bullshit. Cappy won't move on this."

DD shrugged. "I warned you."

Baxter had been so sure, but there wasn't anything here to prove it one way or the other. If it weren't for his certainty she would never have brought this to DD; she didn't believe in it herself, but there was one way to be certain. She could track Angel down and ask her straight out. Yeah right! Angel would laugh in her face unless she had some kind of leverage... she frowned as a glimmer of an idea came to her.

"I'm going to tell you something in confidence, DD. Baxter thinks these two," she pointed to two of the perps in the photos. "Are Angel and Flex."

"Flex?"

"Angel's lieutenant."

DD frowned at the pictures. "Right build for her, but I don't know him."

"It could be them, but it could be me and Baxter too."

"Yeah."

"How good are you really, DD?"

"You need to ask?"

Chris grinned. In her area, DD didn't lack confidence. She explained her idea. DD's eyes widened and she slowly began to smile.

## 26

# Angel

Chris found Angel as expected hanging out at Zero Gee with Flex. It was safest to hang with backup in Monster Central. Chris was feeling her own lack of that right about now, but John was busy working the Stanton thing, and besides, she didn't want to bring anyone from the department into this. She didn't want to burn Angel; she just wanted to get the girl out of the trouble she was obviously in and learn what in the nine hells was going on in her city. No way was O'Neal the be all and end all of this, not with Barrows still sniffing about. Besides, she hadn't forgotten the sword-wielding whack-job from that night. She wanted to know how he connected to it all. She was leaning toward him being O'Neal's maker. Maybe he had lost him somehow, forcing the need for a clean-up on aisle four—the alley where they met. Shame it took so many dead women to make him take action.

She didn't consider him to be one of the good guys in this despite his actions that night. He was directly responsible for making O'Neal into the Ghost in the first place. To her mind that made him the murderer and O'Neal his weapon. The law wouldn't describe it in precisely those terms, but the results would be the same. It called for termination. Besides, vamps couldn't stand trial as they were already dead. Dead, undead... what was the difference? She didn't care to find out.

The club was really hopping when she arrived. It usually was, but it was barely afternoon yet. Unlike Area 51, Zero Gee opened twenty-four hours and took full advantage of its position in the centre of the Waterfront District. There were plenty of desperate thrill seekers hanging about willing to risk their lives and souls mingling with the monsters. They tended to pay well and not care too much about the quality of what they were drinking.

Upon entering, her eyes darted to the corner where she'd last seen Angel, but there was a different group hanging there. They had the tell-tale glowing eyes of shifters. She shivered. The feel of her backup weapon in its holster tucked into the waistband of her jeans was a comfort. Not that she planned to use it on anyone, not even Angel, but only a fool went unarmed in Monster Central. She wasn't a fool, or she hoped not to be at least. She had sort of promised Baxter that she wouldn't pursue or apprehend anyone, but this was a special case. Angel might hate her guts, but she was still one of her kids. No, it was for the best that she handle this quietly with none the wiser at Central. She would take out the vamp and free the girl from his influence.

She wandered the club, slipping between gyrating bodies and drunken ones. Her glare was enough to fend off the occasional attempted grope, and for those too drunk to take no for an answer, she had boots on with a hard heel. It was amazing how painful a stomped instep was or kicked shinbone. She hardly had to stop, just left them shrieking behind her as she made her way through the club. The mood enhancers had been dialled way up already, and were affecting her. She had just begun to enjoy the buzz of the last smack down when she caught sight of Flex. He was carrying a couple of drinks somewhere. She let him lead her to Angel. She was guessing, but hoped the second drink was for her and not a squeeze he was renting for the afternoon.

It was.

She smiled down at Angel where she sat glaring up at her from her place in the booth. She would wipe that look off her face in short order. When the girl saw what DD had produced, shock alone would do it. What Angel would do then was anyone's guess, but it should prove interesting. Chris' head turned like a turret and her eyes narrowed when Flex made to stand. Angel's hand darted out and grabbed his arm, pulling him back down.

"Yes, that's right, be a good boy and sit," she said still enjoying the artificial buzz produced by the tech overhead. She forced the feeling back. This was no time to get sloppy. "We three have business to discuss."

Angel flicked a look at Flex who settled back into the shadows. He raised his glass and drank. Chris could read the hate on his face despite the shadows. She was glad not to find the same in Angel's assessing eyes. The girl had speculation and the usual disdain there. She was quite good at the superior attitude, needing it to keep her crew in line. Well, it wouldn't do her any good this time.

She took the seat opposite Flex, which put Angel closer on the left. "Not going to ask?"

Angel shrugged, dragging her eyes away from the bandaging wrapping Chris' throat. "Not interested. The days when I had business with cops are over. You've got nothing to do with me."

"Wrong again. Oh dear, oh dear... I warned you about getting that tat. Do you remember, Angel? Do you remember when I said it would cause you problems later in life?"

Angel scowled. "I remember. I remember getting it done the day you told me not to. No one tells me what to do."

"You should have listened to meeee," Chris said in a sing-song voice. "You're in the database, Angel. Gang signs and affiliations all nicely detailed and labelled along with your homies." She smiled at Flex. "You too, big guy. You're all in there. I have some really nice shots of that tat. I recognised it right off."

Angel was frowning hard now, not getting it.

"Tell me about that night in the morgue. Maybe I can cover this up."

Angel's eyes gave nothing away, but she went very still. Was that something? She wasn't certain. It could just be that the girl was trying to figure out what she was talking about; it didn't mean Baxter was right.

"I don't know what you're asking, _de-tec-tive_ ," Angel finally said.

Her eyes narrowed. That had sounded a little false to her. Her heart began to hammer. Could it be? Could Baxter be right again? How did he make such leaps and be right? Maybe right. As her answer, she retrieved two photos from her jacket pocket and held them up for Angel to see, but it wasn't Angel who reacted. It was Flex. He surged to his feet reaching for something. Chris' boomer was in her hand like magic, its barrel shoved hard into his muscled chest.

" _Sit!_ " she snarled, her heart hammering. Bloody hell, she hadn't believed Baxter, but she did now. "Whatever you were reaching for better come out real slow or I'll have to face a board of enquiry about discharging an unsanctioned weapon. _Again._ Of course, I don't suppose it will matter much to you. You'll already be six foot under by then."

Flex swallowed and looked to Angel. The girl didn't notice, she was staring sickly at the photos lying on the table and didn't see him begging for orders. He sighed and slowly withdrew his hand holding a K6.

"Naughty," Chris clucked. "On the table."

He carefully put the gun down and she quickly slid it into her lap to hide it. She shoved Flex to make him sit. He let himself drop back down, and she pocketed his gun. The sick look hadn't left Angel's face, but as Chris watched, the girl mastered herself and folded away her emotions. They had to be there under the surface, but she wouldn't know it by the disdain Angel managed to mask them with. The girl spun one of the photos around and looked directly into Chris' eyes.

"These are fake."

How did she...? Chris smiled and shook her head. The girl was bluffing. She was good at that herself, and recognised it, but Angel was also a witch. She was trying her itty-bitty powers of compulsion to make it stick. She could feel the effect where it clashed with the mood enhancement the tech was trying to impose. It tickled in the back of her brain.

"Stop it. That won't work on me. I'm onto your tricks," she said and Angel's eyes widened a little. Ha! That had set her back. "I felt it. Didn't expect that, eh?"

"How?"

"The tech in here is messing you up," she said, but it was a little more complicated than that. Her dad was witch born—a term he used for anyone with the gift—and was a practicing shaman. She wanted nothing to do with magic, but it was in the family and she could sense its use. "It tickles, Angel, please stop or I'll _make_ you stop. Don't make me hurt you." The tickling sensation went away. "Good decision. You know using magic on a police officer is a felony."

"I don't know what you're talking about, _de-tec-tive_. I haven't tried magic on you, and you can't prove I have."

"Good one, and you're right. I can't prove the compulsion attempt, but I can prove body snatching, now can't I?"

DD was as good as advertised and had done an amazing job on the stills. The photos showed one of the perps—the one they'd decided was the closest match to Angel—looking to one side with the gassed fed at her feet. DD had altered the fit of the ski mask just a little, just enough to reveal a slice of Angel's neck tattoo so that it peaked out from under the wool. It looked absolutely convincing, as Flex had so ably shown.

"What do you want? You wouldn't have come alone if you planned to arrest us."

"Oh I don't know," she drawled leaning back in her seat. "The big guy here is making me reconsider that. I think trying to kill me rates a different response. I think I'll keep things simple and just take you both into Central."

Angel snorted. "Don't try to kid a kidder. Where's your backup? You came in here wanting something from us. Stop wasting my time and tell me what it is."

Chris slipped her gun back into its holster. She didn't need someone taking notice and calling the cops on her. She laced her fingers together on the table, leaned on her forearms, and caught Angel's eyes with her own. She held them, wanting to see truth in them.

"I want to know what the hell is going on. Not for the job. For me." She touched her bandaging. "I got this. I nearly croaked more than once that night, like kicked off for good, Angel. I want to know why."

"And you think I know?"

"You know. I know you do. I want the whole story. Who was O'Neal to you, and why steal his body? How did you get involved with vamps in the first place and why? What do they have on you to make you do this stuff?"

Angel spluttered in surprise. "You think...?" she shook her head and laughed. "You really don't know anything, do you? Here I was thinking the cops are closing in, and you don't know a thing about what's been going on! Damn me, they thought you did. They're so fixated on what the cops are thinking and planning..." she shook her head. "Wait until I tell him."

"Tell who, who are they?"

Angel flicked a look at Flex. He shrugged and then nodded. She frowned. "I won't give you a name—"

"You will, or we'll continue this at Central!"

"Whoa, calm down. I didn't say I wouldn't talk, I said I won't give you names, not yet anyway. You don't dick around with these people, _de-tec-tive_. I won't say shit that will piss them off."

Chris could understand that stance at least. Screwing around with the monsters was a quick way to get dead. "Fair enough. Put me in direct contact then."

Angel snorted. "No." She raised a hand to prevent the protest. "I said no, but I'll ask." She checked her wristband and noted the time. "He won't be up for a few hours yet."

"He? He who?"

"I'm not sure what you know or don't know about what's been going on, but I can guess. Nothing much."

Chris' eyes narrowed at the dig. "I know O'Neal was a new made vamp. I know his maker lost control of him somehow, or worse, never tried in the first place. I know his maker screwed up and let his," she made air quotes, " _child_ kill a bunch of women, and had to clean up his mess. I know his mistakes nearly killed me!"

"Then I was right. You don't know shit. The vamp your guys shot that night was one of the good guys. He saved your life, _de-tec-tive_. He's been looking for the rogue who turned old John for weeks. I told him about you and your little undercover sting. They're still called stings, right, like in the movies?"

Flex smirked.

"Why snatch the body?"

"Isn't it obvious? The same reason the feds wanted it. You did know I yanked it out from under them before they could disappear with it?" Angel raised an eyebrow and laughed. "You didn't!"

"I was dying at the time," she said sourly. "That's why the feds were in the morgue? They were trying to take O'Neal's corpse?"

"Yep. They were signing it out when I got there. Lucky for us they hadn't thought ahead and were waiting for transpo. I brought my own, so took care of that for them."

"And the feds wanted the body why?"

"Necromancy."

She started in surprise, unable to help her reaction to hearing that. "No way!"

"Way," Angel said and laughed. "Old John was turned by someone, but he's dead. How were _you_ going to find his master then?"

She couldn't answer that. She'd been assuming the swordsman was O'Neal's master, and that Angel would lead her to him. If she believed the girl, and she was leaning that way, then how would she discover the rogue vamp behind all this now? But necromancy... it was the blackest of magical arts. It was shocking that Barrows would resort to it. At least she was shocked by it. Angel didn't seem to think it was remarkable, but then she'd been hanging with dead things herself lately. Working with vamps might change one's outlook she supposed.

"And you have a necromancer too?"

Angel nodded.

"And the result of the... ah, questioning?"

"No idea, I just supplied the corpse. It's someone else's problem what they do with it."

"It's been a couple of weeks. Your vamps must know something by now."

"I don't know what they know or don't. They haven't told me anything. Maybe necromancy needs a full moon or something. What the hell do I know about it?"

Chris frowned. Actually, some magical ceremonies _did_ depend on the cycle of the moon. She knew that from the stuff her dad did, but she had no idea what was needed regarding necromancy; apart from the corpse thing.

"Assuming the vamps know who this rogue is, what do they plan to do, do you know?"

"What do you think?" Angel said scornfully. "Look, there are four Houses that control every vamp in LA... you do know that?"

"Vamps are vamps. They're all monsters to me, same as the shifters. All I care about are the ones breaking the law."

"But you can't ignore their culture!"

Chris smirked. "Culture? Did you just say their _culture?_ "

"I might have dropped out of college, but I'm not stupid! You can't deal with these people the way I do and ignore how they live their lives or ignore the rules they follow. You talk about the law and that's fine, but they have their own laws and leaders. If you think your law is all that matters, you can think again. Break yours and a shifter might get a taste of the slam, but break theirs and nine times out of ten they're dead meat. No appeal. Vampires have no rights. You know that better than I do being a cop. You know what happens to them if they get on the wrong side of the law for anything, big or small. They get put down. When was the last time you heard of a termination though?"

"In LA? Years I guess."

"Exactly. The Houses are the reason for that. They control their people absolutely. You think they're doing a bad job? Look at Chicago or New York if you want to know what will happen here without strong House leadership."

"So what went wrong if your four Houses are so great?"

"They're not my Houses. I told you, they're for vamps, like packs are for shifters. The Angels are my crew; they're my House and pack."

"Damn straight," Flex rumbled.

Chris sneered at him, but her heart wasn't really in it. "You still haven't said what went wrong with O'Neal."

"Like shifters, the vamp Houses control territories in the city. The entire thing has been parcelled out with borders and everything. They don't intersect. The shifters have their territories too, some within vamp borders, some not, and then you have the human gangs like The Angels. Most don't give a fuck about the monster's territories because they're stupid; they're in a constant war with them because of it. Not being an idiot, I've made it my business to know how to deal with the monsters. The Angels are in a good place because I have allies. We fight who I say when I say and only _if_ I say. I don't do wars, they're expensive."

"Yeah, and we're not talking money," Flex said.

Chris nodded. "So what went wrong?"

"A vampire in Chicago got ambitious a few years back. His name was Alexander. He built an empire out of his House and went to war with everyone else. He got cocky and it all blew up in his face. The feds got into it and Alexander's House imploded. Vamps call it the Shadow War now. Alexander's crew, the survivors anyway, scattered across the Republic. Most have been hunted down now by vamps who want a quiet life and don't need rogues entering their territories making trouble. Most, get it?"

Chris groaned.

"Yeah," Angel said sourly. "We think one of them wants to set up a House here, but so far we haven't found him or her, and believe me we've been looking."

"So the new guy or gal is making trouble for our home-grown vamps?"

"That's about the size of it," Angel agreed with a small nod. "We think he's building an army to use against the Houses. Maybe old John escaped somehow, or maybe his master let him go for his own reasons. We don't know. Our necromancer will ask him about it among other things. As soon as we have a location, all hell is going to rain on his arse."

Chris grunted. "I want in."

Angel looked doubtful.

"I'm sure you can talk to someone."

"I can ask, but I don't see them agreeing. They don't like airing dirty laundry in front of witnesses."

"Especially not in front of cops," Flex said. "What can you offer them but official notice and trouble?"

She couldn't think of anything, but they owed her. Maybe that would move them? "Tell your vamp he owes me."

Angel snorted.

"Seriously. Tell him that his incompetence nearly killed me that night and see what he says."

Angel's eyes bugged. "You have got to be kidding! I can't say that!"

"Of course you can. Tell you what, give me the link when you have him on the line and I'll tell him."

"Ha-ha—no," Angel deadpanned. "I'll ask him."

"Suit yourself," she said, secretly pleased with the situation. "Call."

"I told you, he won't be awake yet."

"Awake, right." Chris checked the time on her wristband but they had a couple of hours until sunset. "I'm going to get a drink. Want anything?"

Angel shook her head.

"Suit yourself."

Chris went to the bar for a couple of beers. When she came back to the table with two open bottles of Empire, she found Flex arguing with Angel, but they went quiet as soon as she was close enough to hear them clearly. She didn't care. Flex probably wanted Angel to ditch her, but that wasn't happening. She was determined to meet the swordsman. She took her seat and slowly drank beer, waiting for sunset.

When the time came, Angel pulled out her link and made the call. "Mister Gavin, it's me... yeah I know. This is kind of an unusual situation. No, not that kind of danger... or that kind either. Listen, I have someone here who wants to meet you. She says you owe her," Angel winced and listened intently. "She's a cop. No, but if I don't bring her to you I have a feeling she won't go away."

"You got that right," she said and Angel waved her silent.

"Okay if you say it's alright. Yeah, I'll bring her now. Okay, bye." She put away her link. "I'm to bring you to him."

"I heard."

"Now is when you get to change your mind. If I take you to him and it goes bad, don't come crying to me when you end up dead."

She snorted.

"I'm not kidding," Angel said seriously. "If you come after me with fangs in your mouth, I'll stake you quicker than you can blink."

Chris believed her. "I would probably let you. I'd rather be dead than a bloodsucker."

Angel stood. "You have wheels?"

She nodded and led the way to her car.

## 27

# House Lochlain

"Do you keep in touch with the others?" Chris asked as she negotiated traffic.

"No."

"At all?"

Angel shrugged. "Most of them got out of the life years ago. That or they're dead. The only thing still the same at the Rascals is the name."

"TC still leads it."

"I know."

"You don't talk? You used to be tight."

"Yeah well, shit happens."

She frowned. She knew what had happened but didn't want to bring up Danny's death again. "This vamp, how well do you know him?"

"Well enough to know that if you cross him you won't live long enough to do it again."

"Is that supposed to frighten me?"

"It's supposed to warn you, but take it however you want. Mister Gavin and the Angels have a working relationship—"

She snorted her derision of that notion. "Don't pretty it up for me. He's one of the monsters, and it disgusts me that you work for him."

"Think what you want, but we don't work for him. We work _with_ him and the others in Monster Central. We do better than most. Don't believe me? Ask around. Fighting the vamps and furries is a waste of time and effort. There's no way to win."

"You've got that right," Flex said from the back seat. "You annoy them and they either make you into one of them or they make you disappear."

Angel nodded. "We have Lochlain protection because we're useful. Staying useful is my current goal in life."

Flex chuckled.

"Lochlain?"

"House Lochlain," Angel said. "You'll meet the master of the House soon enough. I suggest you think of something polite to say before we get there."

"Fuck polite, I want answers."

"You won't get them with that attitude, I can tell you that. He's over six hundred years old, _de-tec-tive_. If you want him to even notice you're in the room, you better have something to say worth listening to."

She fumed, but she did want answers. She was still inclined to go in demanding them, but her earlier idea might work better. A six hundred year old vamp was probably old school. The old tended to cling to tradition and look back at the past wearing rose tinted glasses. She bet someone as old as this vamp would be even more likely to follow outdated concepts. Did he look back and not see poverty and disease but chivalry? Did he remember open sewers and not smell it, but remember with fondness riding the streets on horseback? She bet he did, she just bet he did. If she went in there and made him acknowledge his debt to her, she might gain the answers she sought. It was a plan. A good one? That remained to be seen, but it did have merits—the main one being she didn't have another.

Angel indicated a place to park and Chris pulled up. They climbed out and the girl crossed the road toward an apartment building, her leather trench coat billowing behind her as the wind gusted along the empty street. Chris and Flex flanked the girl as they pushed through the doors into the lobby. It was a well-lit and clean space. She couldn't remember ever being called out to a murder scene here. There were still places in the city that she hadn't seen the inside of for work, but not many this size. She could tell it had been converted from a hotel to apartments; it still had the front desk, and it was manned.

Angel approached the man holding down the desk and nodded to him. "Frank."

"Miss," Frank acknowledged, looking hard at Chris. "Mister Lochlin is expecting you. "You want me to come up?"

"Nah, I've got her."

Chris scowled.

"You be careful. He's got visitors and they weren't happy."

"Yeah? Anyone I know?"

"Stephen and a new wolf he picked up somewhere. Rachelle was with them. She brought that witch of hers along. It's her you should be careful of."

"Rachelle?"

"The witch. She's dark, Spence says."

"Is he here too?"

Frank nodded. "He really doesn't like her; told me she reeks of the black."

"Yeah, I know. We've met."

Frank's eyebrows climbed.

Angel turned away and headed for the elevators.

"Did I hear that right? He's got a black witch up there?"

"A necromance, yeah. You heard right."

"Is she the one...?"

Angel nodded.

She felt better knowing that. She was finally getting somewhere. The witch was probably here to report on what she'd learned from O'Neal, and she wanted to know that real bad. She was determined to take down O'Neal's maker through fair means or foul. And she guessed it would be foul. The case was closed. Cappy would try to reopen it if she went to him and was persuasive enough, but he would come up against resistance from the Chief and the Mayor above him. Those two were in each other's pockets. Politics was the enemy of good police work. She sneered at the thought of trying to reopen the case when the Mayor wanted it to go away. It would never happen. No, this had to be handled on the down low, and Angel's vamp was already on the case. She didn't have to handle it alone.

The elevator let them out on the top floor, and Angel led the way. A door to the left opened as they walked by, but the girl took no notice. Chris noted the old lady standing there, glaring at her. What was her problem? Another door opened further along, and a man and boy stepped out to watch them in silence. What in the nine hells was this? Another door opened and another. She stopped to look back. All the apartment doors were open now and the occupants had come out into the hall to stare at them. They weren't friendly.

Angel stopped to look back. "You coming?"

Chris waved a hand at the crowd.

"Don't worry about them, they belong to House Lochlain."

"Belong?" she said rejoining the girl. "What does that mean?"

"It means what it means. They're under Lochlain protection, and in return, they protect the House. They're Mister Gavin's people. Everyone in the building belongs to him."

She didn't like the sound of that. What, they were his servants, slaves... food? Her lip curled in disgust at the thought, and Angel laughed.

"They aren't prisoners, _de-tec-tive_. You really don't know anything, do you? How can you do your thing in Monster Central and not know this stuff? No wonder the newsies think the cops can't find their butts with both hands. They're right!"

"I do my thing just fine thanks," she said, stung. "Ask the vamps and shifters I've dealt with if they liked it."

"Any of them still breathing? I remember how quick on the trigger you are."

Chris lowered her voice. "When will you let it go? I'm sorry he's dead. How many times can I say it before you'll believe me? Nothing can bring Danny back. I would if I could."

Angel turned away as her answer and Chris sighed.

Flex smirked.

Angel knocked on one of the apartment doors. It was the only one still closed. Chris shuffled her feet uncomfortable with all the staring tenants. It was creepy as hell the way they silently watched her. And it _was_ her they were interested in, not Angel or Flex. They were very obviously focused upon her, even the kids. She shivered, wondering what they would do if she did something they didn't like. She wasn't willing to find out.

The door opened to reveal a woman in red satin shirt and blue jeans. "Oh hey, Angel."

"Hey, Sandy. He's expecting me."

The woman nodded jingling the keys she was holding as she stepped out into the hall. "I was just leaving. Go on through."

Angel exchanged places with her. "Thanks."

Sandy smiled and walked along the hall to unlock her door. She stopped to look back and wave. Angel raised a hand in answer and entered the apartment.

"Girlfriend?" she asked and Flex coughed trying to cover a smirk.

Angel shook her head and locked the door before moving deeper into the apartment. "Breakfast."

Her stomach flip-flopped. "You mean she...?"

"She's food."

_Goddess, what a mad house._

"She's doing well for herself," Flex added. "She's looking good these days."

Angel nodded. "Hmmm."

"How can you say that? It's... it's _disgusting!_ "

"Grow up!" Angel said crossly. "You eat burgers. Do you care where the meat comes from? I don't think so. We all need to eat, but Mister Gavin does care where his food comes from. Sandy was a runaway and whore a month ago. Now she has her own apartment, money for clothes and anything else she wants, and she's back in school learning to be something other than a hole for some dick cruising 104th Street. She hasn't turned a trick in weeks. Get off your high horse for a minute and look around at the real world! You think it's sick to willingly feed a vamp, but you don't have a problem with her selling herself to men who could kill her as easily as screw her and probably would have one day! You're the one who is sick, not her!"

Chris just stood there, stunned at the tirade. Angel looked at her with absolute loathing, and she felt it deep in her chest. She had lost her; the knowledge stabbed her in the heart. She had known it, sort of, but had always held out hope that one day she might fix things with Angel. It would never happen; she knew that now. Angel was lost. There was no fixing the loathing and hatred she saw in the girl's eyes. It was over.

Flex edged by and followed Angel deeper into the apartment. Chris took a deep breath and followed.

The first thing she noticed was the size of the apartment. It was much bigger than she would have guessed from out in the hall, created by knocking two of the original hotel suites into one. The second and more important thing was that the room Angel entered was occupied by way too many monsters for her piece of mind. Angel and Flex were the only other real humans present. She didn't count the necromance of course, whom she picked out of the crowd easily. The woman's aura was black. Chris had never wanted anything to do with magic and had never cast a spell despite her dad urging her to learn his art, but magic was in her family and blood. She didn't like it, but she was sensitive to it. The witch practiced the black; no question about it.

There were three vamps present, and two other men that she recognised as shifters; they had the tell-tale glowing eyes. She had dealt with all kinds in her time on the streets, and judged them with a glance. They were muscle. It was an easy label to apply. What else were shifters good for? The eyes pegged them as wolves rather than some kind of cat shifter. The three undead were the centre of attention and the most dangerous. All monsters could kill you, or make you one of them, but only the undead could endanger your soul. She believed in the goddess and the god, but she wasn't one to pray or visit the temple except on special occasions. Despite her lack of piety, she did believe that vampires had no souls. The thought of being turned into one was horrifying. Still, she had a job to do and she'd always fought her fears. She would deal.

The meeting paused when Angel entered the room and went to speak to one of the vampires. He listened attentively and nodded before turning his attention to Chris. That was when she realised that she had stopped just outside the room as if about to flee. Not a good start. She forced herself to advance, and she did have to force herself. That made her mad, and she was glad of it. Anger overwhelmed the fear, and it was like that she made the acquaintance of three out of four of the most powerful vamps in LA for the first time.

"You owe me," she said before anyone could say anything to fob her off. "You screwed up and nine women are dead. I nearly died through your inaction. _You owe me!_ "

Angel groaned, but Flex grinned. The two shifters laughed, but then regarded each other strangely, as if just then realising they might become friends. The witch didn't laugh, and neither did the vamps. The vampires had turned into statues giving nothing away of what they thought of her claim. Two of them were men, one was a woman, but all were staring at her as if wondering what she would taste like. Chris shivered when she realised they really could be wondering that, though Angel's vamp had just eaten breakfast apparently. She kept her eyes on Angel's vampire, but she was careful not to let him catch her gaze. That was something everyone knew about the undead. She'd had all the courses the department mandated its officers had to pass before dealing with non-humans, but that rule was universal, not just for police officers.

"I don't believe we've been introduced," Angel's vamp finally said. "Angelina, if you would please?"

The girl nodded. "Mister Gavin master of House Lochlain, Stephen master of House Edmonton, and Rachelle master of House De Santis, this is Detective Chris Humber of Robbery Homicide based at Central. _De-tec-tive_ , meet the masters of the city of LA."

She sneered. "Masters of LA, right. Grandiose much?"

The shifters laughed again and received an annoyed look from Stephen this time. They shrugged their apologies and the laughter did stop, but their expressions continued to convey their amusement. She was glad someone was having a good time.

"You feel that you have been dealt with unfairly?" Gavin said. "You make claims against my House?"

She heard the emphasis he placed upon his house and assumed it meant something important to him, but it was only a guess. She hoped it meant he would deal fairly with her. She hoped it meant he would be willing to deal at all.

"I do. If you take your masters of the city thing seriously, then you must believe in taking responsibility for what happens within it. Do you?"

"What I believe, or do not, is not your concern."

"I say it is."

Gavin shrugged, making it plain how little he cared.

She scowled, but then an idea came to her. Shifters claimed territory just like the gangs, and from Angel's lecture earlier, she knew that vampires did similar things with her talk of borders. She wondered whose territory each of O'Neal's victims had been lured from. She wished she'd thought to bring her map, but she had it memorised. She had tried to force it to cough up answers so many times during her investigation, that it was burned into her memory.

"Which of you," she made air quotes, " _rules,_ 104th street and the clubs nearby?"

"Why?" Stephen asked suspiciously.

"I do," Gavin said. "It is Lochlain territory."

"As I thought. That's why it's your fault."

"Clever," Rachelle said, and smiled approval. "She has you, Gavin."

"She has nothing if I say she has nothing."

"Don't try to weasel out," Chris warned. "I might not know much about you vamps, but I know a few things about the gangs. If you don't control what goes on in your territory, it's not really yours. Which is it? Are you master of Lochlain or not?"

"Lochlain is mine," Gavin growled making her neck hairs stand up. "Any who doubt it may try to take it from me." He aimed that last declaration at Rachelle, but she dismissed the implied threat with a shrug.

"Then you agree that any vamp in your territory comes under your authority, whether turned by you or not?"

"I agree," Gavin said warily.

"Then O'Neal was your responsibility the moment he started hunting people in your territory. With me so far?"

"I saved your life and put an end to him, what more do you want?"

"I want his goddess cursed maker in two pieces at my feet! I want his damned _head!_ "

Gavin's eyes flashed silver. "Do you indeed? And are you asking me to murder this person for you as a representative of the police?"

She looked away, and then at her feet. "No."

"What was that?"

He'd heard her well enough. All monsters had heightened senses, but he wanted to humiliate her. She scowled but saw nothing to be gained by denying her intention to kill the one responsible for creating O'Neal.

"I said no. This is for me and the women O'Neal killed. The case is closed. I don't agree it should have been, but getting it reopened against the Mayor's wishes is impossible. The entire thing is surrounded by political bullshit now. Those women will only receive justice if you people do the right thing. I don't know your opinion of justice, whether it's a concept you recognise or believe in, but I do."

Stephen hissed at the implied rebuke. "Justice is a fine thing. It's a shame that in this country it's never applied even-handedly. When have my people ever received justice?" He waved a hand toward the shifters. "Ask David if he believes in your justice when applied to his people. Ask anyone not lucky enough to be human!"

"There's nothing I can do about that," she said. "I have no control of policy. I don't make the laws, I enforce them, but I do have control over what I do or don't do. So do you. What's it to be?"

Gavin frowned and glanced toward Stephen and Rachelle. Neither gave any indication of what they thought. "Stephen and Rachelle are visiting to discuss the one you seek. The newborn... _O'Neal_ did you say?"

Chris nodded.

"O'Neal has been questioned and his maker revealed. I was about to learn the name when you interrupted. If I'm now to do your bidding and remove this nuisance from life, I must have assurances."

Stephen didn't like that. "Are you sure this is wise? We can't have the police mixed into this. OSI are still sniffing about."

Chris frowned, who or what was OSI? "I'm on sick leave," she said touching the bandage wrapping her throat. "Think of me as a civilian observer."

Gavin snorted. "I can smell the gun you are carrying."

She shrugged. Vamps could do that? She hadn't known something like that was even possible. Maybe he smelled the oil she used or something. Live and learn.

"Okay, a well-armed civilian observer then."

"If I allow this, I need to know that whatever happens will remain between us."

"You have my word."

Gavin nodded, apparently satisfied with that, but this time Rachelle objected. "This is ridiculous! We can't take her word on this! I won't be bound by your foolish faith in this woman. You've only just met her, and she's police!" She appealed to Stephen. "Make him see sense, or I'm leaving."

"Rachelle is right," Stephen said. "We can't risk everything on her word."

"My word is good," she growled angrily.

"Is that so?" Stephen said focusing his attention upon her. "And I should believe you, why? A police officer who says she upholds the law, but is willing to contract vampires to kill for her? That sounds more like revenge to me than justice. What about this scenario should encourage me to trust you? Am I to base my trust upon speeches and your apparent belief in justice when we've barely met?"

She scowled, but she did— _reluctantly_ —see his point. "What can I say that will reassure you?"

"Nothing," Rachelle said. "Leave this for us to deal with. You have _my_ word that O'Neal's maker will be dealt with as he deserves."

Stephen nodded.

"No! I want to know what the hell is going on in my city. I want to look this vamp in the eyes as you take him out, and not hear later how he mysteriously got away. You don't trust me; I understand that, so don't expect me to trust you. We do this together."

"I'm walking," Rachelle said and started to leave.

"Do _not_ ," Gavin said, and Rachelle froze in surprise at his order. The necromance eyed Gavin warily from her patron's side. "You do not have my leave to go."

Rachelle looked shocked, and turned to appeal to Stephen, but he was no help. He looked as stunned as she did.

"We will explore this matter of trust and overcome the difficulties," Gavin said, pretending not to notice his guest's shock at his highhandedness. "We do not trust you, Detective, and you do not trust us, but I believe I have the solution, or rather, Rachelle does."

"I do?" Rachelle said.

"Your companion does," Gavin said and addressed himself to the necromance. "Don't you?"

The necromance hesitated.

"You do know how to lay a binding? A geas I think it's called now."

"I know how," the necromance agreed. "She doesn't have to be willing, but it would be better if she were."

"Like hell!" Chris said backing away and reaching for the weapon at the small of her back. "No one is using magic on me, especially not a black witch."

"If that gun comes out of your pants," Gavin said in a bored voice. "I will take it amiss and you won't live to regret it. I do this to accommodate you. You wanted to be involved, insisted upon it in fact. This is the only way you'll be allowed to join us. Choose."

She lowered her empty hand. "What exactly would I be agreeing to?"

"Simply give your word not to betray us and allow the witch to bind you with a geas preventing it."

She really _really_ didn't want to do this, but it was obvious she would get no further if she didn't. She eyed the witch's aura, feeling sick. She was a black witch, but then necromancy was dark enough to blacken a saint's soul. It didn't mean the woman would harm her, or did it?

"Your word that the geas will do nothing more than keep me to my promise."

"You have it," Gavin said and turned his attention to the witch. "You will do nothing more than that. Do not make a liar of me, or I swear I'll make a corpse of you."

The witch scowled. "No need for threats."

"It saves time. Do it now, we're wasting the night."

"What do I have to do?" Chris said.

The witch approached. "Nothing really. I hold your head between my hands and bind you as you promise. You have to say the words clearly, and use simple wording—nothing ambiguous."

"Like what?"

"Like... don't say you promise not to tell the police. That would let you tell someone else, and they could tell the cops for you."

Rachelle stepped forward. "Say that you will not reveal anything you see or hear while accompanying us, or discuss anything at all that you learn in connection with O'Neal or his maker from this moment on, with anyone not currently present."

"That's a mouthful," she said sourly, but it covered all bases. More to the point, it didn't actually bind her to anything she objected to, because frankly, although she wanted O'Neal's maker dead, she had no intention of going down by incriminating herself as an accomplice by talking about it. "Okay, let's do it."

The witch took her face in her hands, holding her head so that her palms had good skin contact with her cheeks and began muttering to herself under her breath. Chris shivered, though the woman's hands were warm. It was the feel of her magic, not her touch that repulsed. She held still and endured. The witch nodded and she set herself to do as she'd promised. Angel smiled at her, but it wasn't a friendly gesture. It was mocking. The girl knew her aversion to any kind of magic.

"I swear that I will not reveal anything I see or hear..."

## 28

# House Fabron

David watched the cop compromise her honour and sell her principles to House Lochlain in the name of justice, and felt sad. He had no right to feel that way. Hadn't he made the exact same choice when he allowed Ronnie to kill for him, and Stephen to sponsor him? He knew he had, but this felt worse. This woman, this cop was a city servant. She wasn't simply selling her own honour, she was in effect saying the law could not provide those dead women with the justice they deserved, and the only way to repair the injustice was to step outside the law into vigilantism. What made it worse was that she was right. He hated that she was right.

"I heard that the _Blood Drinkers_ are recruiting," Spence whispered, not wanting to disrupt the binding spell. "How's that going?"

Spence was a powerful wolf that he'd only just met, but Stephen knew him and thought well of him. He was alpha, but not Alpha of a pack. He was that very rare thing in LA—an unattached loner not considered a rogue. Spence was unique in that status, as far as David knew, and had attached himself to House Lochlain to maintain it. He was considered by the other Houses to be Gavin's wolf, just as everyone back at the club had been considered Stephen's. He would dearly love to know how Spence survived without a pack. He couldn't imagine living without one now, and knew Mist would hate it. How did Spence's wolf cope without one?

"You heard right, and it's going fine."

Spence grunted. "Not what I heard."

"Maybe fine is overstating a little," he said sourly, and Spence grinned to hear it. "Maybe I should have said it's going as fine as can be expected."

"Yeah. I heard there were some disagreements."

That was one way of putting it. Lawrence and Darrin were heading up his recruitment teams. That's what he called them, but in reality, they were the pack's enforcers. They were unavoidable because putting the word out that his pack was openly recruiting had led to an underwhelming response. Lawrence had warned him what to expect, but he'd wanted to try it. He'd felt, still felt really, that there should be a civilised way to handle the transition within House Edmonton's territory, but no one else seemed to agree. It was infuriating. There really was no need for violence, but in all cases so far it had come down to exactly that in the end. Shifters seemed constitutionally unable to submit voluntarily. They had to push the boundaries.

Lawrence and Darrin as his deputies had so far sufficed in strong-arming the loners and family sized groups into joining the pack, forcing out of the territory those who refused to join. That would become a problem soon; he could see it looming. The less submissive betas, leavened with a weak alpha or two, had chosen to flee to other packs rather than submit; they could be trouble once settled in their new situations, but what could he do? He wouldn't sign off on killing them, preferring instead to let them run hoping they would not do what he feared they might. Some would settle into obscurity again he was sure, but not all would. He could see some boundary disputes looming, just as Stephen had warned him would happen, and they would likely be led or spurred on by those who he'd allowed to run.

"Lawrence is a good man to have on your side," Spence said. "But you can't let him handle everything for you. Looking weak isn't the same as being weak, I know that better than most, but allowing him to lead your pack will give people the wrong idea."

David sighed. Even Spence thought he was shirking. "I lead the _Blood Drinkers_ not him, but I know what you mean. Lawrence has pretty much rounded up everyone he can easily handle now. He's strong and so is Darrin, but there are a few groups they're steering clear of. They're for me and Ronnie."

Spence's eyebrows climbed in surprise.

"It's all part of the grand plan. Don't worry about it."

Spence gave him a long considering look, re-evaluating him and what he thought he'd known. "Stephen has been coaching you."

"Why do you say that?"

"It's a gambit straight out of the vamp's Great Game handbook."

"Stephen didn't coach me, but we think a lot alike in some things. Not everything; not in anywhere near everything, but in this we do. I want House Edmonton secure so that my pack has a safe place to call home. I'll do whatever it takes to see that happen. After that, well, I have plans but I'm not sharing them with you. Not unless you want to join up?"

Spence snorted.

David grinned. "No harm in asking. How do you cope without a pack?"

Spence shrugged. "I just do. It's not as if I don't hang out with other shifters at Stephen's club and other places, but I like my own company just fine too. I haven't felt a need to join a pack yet, and it's been quite a few years now. I doubt I ever will."

"And your beast lets you get away with that?"

"Luan and I have an understanding."

"Handy," David said. Mist would never let him get away with remaining independent he was sure; for a time yes, but not forever. "And unusual I'd say."

Spence nodded seriously. "Saves on all the pack bullshit."

"Challenges you mean."

"That and being expected to lead. I won't be second fiddle to anyone, but I don't want to tell people what to do either."

"I know _exactly_ how you feel," he said, and he did, but Mist wouldn't let him remain independent. If he had to have a pack, and he did, he preferred to lead it. As Ronnie had impressed upon him that time at Lost Souls, he either chose to lead or became one who was led. There was no in between.

"Your beast—"

"Mist."

"Mist is dominant to you?"

"We're partners in most things but in this he is. All shifters are supposed to be that way, or so everyone keeps telling me. You seem different."

"Everyone says that," Spence said dryly. "I wouldn't know having nothing to compare my bond with. Luan and I get along fine as we are. Will we always? I have no idea, but I'm happy rubbing along like this for now."

"Here we go," David said, nodding toward the witch and the cop she was just about finished with. "Better get ready to duck."

"Why?"

"You'll see."

The witch lowered her hands and stepped away to rejoin her patron. The cop looked a little pale, but she was holding up. He had felt her fear of the binding. It impressed him that she'd gone through with it, but then again, Gavin really hadn't given her much choice. She was doing okay though, for someone out of her comfort zone. She was certainly doing better than he'd done his first few days among monsters. The mental adjustment of dealing with non-humans took a little time, but she was fine.

"Satisfied?" Chris said, glaring for effect. David could tell she didn't really feel angry. She felt relieved it was over more than anything right now. "I want to know what you're doing about O'Neal's maker."

"And so you shall," Gavin said. "But not until I'm brought up to date. I can hardly tell you what I don't know myself, now can I?"

Chris scowled.

Gavin turned to Stephen. "Where were we?"

"I was about to tell you that we know who turned O'Neal and where he is."

"Convenient. How do you know where this person is? Surely it makes more sense for his resting place to be a closely held secret?"

Stephen hesitated, but Rachelle blurted the answer, "It was Michael!"

"What was?" Gavin said turning to her.

"O'Neal's maker. It's Michael!"

" _Impossible,_ " Gavin snapped. "He would not. Your witch made a mistake, botched the ritual somehow."

"It's not a mistake," Stephen said. "It has to be why he hasn't come to any of our meetings or responded to our messages."

"I do not believe it. He can make a companion or two if he wishes, but why let this one run amok? It makes no sense for it to be him. None. He is already well situated here with us. Why risk everything this way? It's not him."

"It is," Stephen said unhappily.

"It definitely is," the witch added. "And just so you know for future reference, I don't make mistakes where my craft is concerned. I wouldn't live long if I did."

Chris nodded at that, and David wondered how a cop new anything about necromancy. Maybe the police had courses about detecting such things? He really didn't know.

"I witnessed the questioning," Rachelle added. "It was Michael. What are you going to do about it?"

"Not I," Gavin said scowling. "We. We will visit and ask him straight out."

"I'm willing," Stephen said. "But in case you're wrong, we must go prepared to fight."

"Fine," Gavin snapped. "Call your people. Have them meet us there. We go now. I will not waste another night on this foolishness. We need to discover who is really behind this, not waste time accusing allies of wrongdoing to no good purpose!"

"I'm going with you," Chris said.

"Of course you must," Gavin agreed. "Did I not promise? Make your calls."

David withdrew his link from a pocket as Stephen and the others began making their own calls. He had Lawrence on speed dial, Darrin and Ronnie too. He called each one in turn and gave his instructions. Lawrence had been waiting for the call, knowing ahead of time they would likely be going after Michael tonight. There had been a discussion with Stephen and Danyelle about simply taking matters into their own hands before coming to Gavin. Stephen's forces should be more than enough to deal with the problem, but he was hesitant to act unilaterally against another House when all four of them were allied. Bringing the problem to the others was safer, and it was certainly the more circumspect course politically.

"It's a go," David said when Lawrence picked up. "No changes."

"Right," Lawrence said grimly and disconnected.

He chose Darrin next. "It's on."

"See you there, bye."

He chose to contact Ronnie last because he had a feeling she would be the one to try arguing. "We're on our way to Michael's place. I just wanted you to know."

"Thanks. How did he take it?"

"Better than I thought he would. He doesn't believe us, but he's willing to ask him about it."

"Don't take any chances."

"I'll have most of the pack with me."

"Accidents happen. Be careful."

"I will. Bye."

"Bye," Ronnie said and disconnected first.

David frowned at his link. That went suspiciously well.

"What's wrong?" Spence asked.

"Nothing. Have you ever been ready for an argument, and then when it doesn't happen you feel kind of cheated?"

"Ha! A woman was it?"

"My future mate, but she's still holding out."

Spence grinned. "Congrats for the future then, but yes I've often been cheated out of a good argument. It usually means they're up to something sneaky."

That's what he'd been thinking.

"Angelina?" Gavin said. "Your van?"

"It's on the way. My boys are bringing my stuff."

Gavin surveyed his guests. "Everyone is to remember that we are visiting an ally. Nothing has been proven against House Fabron. You will not attack without provocation. Am I clear?"

Everyone nodded.

"Good. We go."

Michael Fabron had chosen to make his home not within the city as the other vampire Houses had done, but had instead chosen the prestige of the Hollywood Hills. He was unusual in that his territory was divided into two distinct zones. He controlled the mansion and grounds of his estate in the Holmby Hills as his well-guarded residence, while at the same time he administered the greater portion of his territory in the city through proxies and allies. That didn't mean he had chosen a hermit-like existence, as Gavin seemed to prefer; far from it. His huge estate in the Holmby Hills was well known for its lavish parties. Michael revelled in providing extravagant hospitality for his guests to enjoy, and he made them welcome often. There were famous celebrities numbered among his friends, many of them human holovid stars of both large and small screen. A neat trick when non-humans were considered lesser and treated more like sub-human animals than people. Everything about Michael attracted. His manner of speaking, of dress, his sense of self and humour... all of it drew others to him like moths to flame. It was his own personal brand of glamour of course, and it wasn't restricted only to humans. Many an unwary vampire had succumbed to his wiles, and left again a few short days later longing to stay. Neither sex was safe from his attentions, and no race could deny him; not human, not vampire, not shifter, or even elf. All loved him, and he loved all equally.

Only demons could truly be incubi, and despite AML propaganda to the contrary, vampires were not descended from that ancient race. Vampires were descended of humans, but Michael came as close to being an incubus as any could come without having demon blood running through their veins. A more flamboyant vampire in existence was hard to imagine.

Gavin's doubts were completely understandable to David, who didn't know Michael at all. He only knew him through Stephen's explanations on the journey from Lost Souls to Gavin's home. If the reality was only half close to Stephen's stories about Michael, he found himself siding with Gavin. Why would such a hedonist risk everything to turn a serial killer loose on the city? If O'Neal had been an accident, why hadn't he asked for help if he felt unable to deal with the problem? It really didn't make a lot of sense.

He didn't know anything about necromancy and didn't want to, but Stephen and Rachelle did. They were putting a lot of faith in the necromance and the damning evidence she had revealed. The witch was sure that O'Neal was descended of Michael, meaning Michael's blood had turned him—not even the final death was enough to sever the blood bond between a maker and his child completely. Her rituals and questioning in Rachelle's presence—and the thought of such questioning of a decapitated corpse boggled David's mind—had only strengthened her belief in Michael's guilt.

He turned to look out of the limousine's rear window. The cop was in her own car following them closely, and behind her bringing up the rear was Angel's gang in their van. The girl had chosen to ride with her people, while the three vampires had elected to stay together in the comfort of the limo. Stephen had invited him and Spence to join them. David wouldn't have minded keeping the cop company if she'd asked, but he could tell that she'd been relieved when the arrangements left her on her own. He had felt that very clearly, so he hadn't offered to join her.

"I'm surprised you allowed the cop into this," Spence said. "Why did you?"

"You heard her. I owed a debt," Gavin said and smiled briefly at Spence's snort of disbelief. "You don't sound convinced."

"You pay the debts you want to pay, and that's not always to the creditor's benefit. She seems to think that vamps are frozen in the past and that you somehow don't experience all the years you've been alive or the changes that have occurred in the world. She probably thinks you don't know how to drive and would jump on a horse as soon as look at it!"

"Probably. I do look back with fondness at some of what I've seen. I won't deny that. Would I go back to when I first arrived upon this world if I could? On the whole, no I would not. Would I go home to Lochlain on my own world? Yes, upon the instant, but that cannot be. As to your question regarding the detective; I want her under my eye. It is better she see what we want her to see and only that, than have her sneaking around in the shadows. Better she be controlled than force me to take permanent steps to prevent her interfering."

Permanent steps, right, it meant Gavin preferred not to kill her. David had to agree there. This was his world now, and making these kinds of decisions was something he would have to get used to himself. He was learning a lot by watching how the vampires handled things. Stephen was less direct than Gavin in the main, preferring alliances and compromises over precipitant action; that was strength not a weakness as far as David was concerned, and he liked that about the vampire. Stephen never took action without carefully thinking his options through, but that didn't make him indecisive; far from it. Once decided upon his course, he doggedly pursued it with ruthless efficiency.

The limo turned onto Carolwood Drive and abruptly slowed. The partition separating them from the driver slid down as the car stopped, and Charles looked back from his place behind the wheel.

"There's trouble," Charles said.

David peered through the windscreen and found Lawrence and Darrin in the road approaching the car at a run. "It's Lawrence," he said opening his door and climbing out.

"We've got trouble!" Lawrence yelled as he slowed. "Someone beat us to the punch. Michael is under attack."

Gavin snarled.

The cop pulled up and climbed out of her car to join them, spoiling for a fight. "What are you trying to pull now?"

Stephen's eyes flashed silver. "You know as much as we." He turned to question Lawrence. "Who is attacking, and why?"

"Humans, that's all we know for sure, but my guess? AML."

"We have to give aid," Gavin said. "Michael is our ally."

Stephen nodded.

Rachelle hesitated, but finally nodded. "For now he is."

Angel arrived in her van and parked nearby. Her gang spilled out of the doors around her as she attached herself to Gavin, stationing herself to guard him on the right. Spence had already claimed his left shoulder. Angel's gang consisted of two hard-eyed women and six men including Flex. All were well armed and looked ready for mayhem. David caught sight of a wide variety of blades and guns. The women carried machetes, and he was careful to stay well clear of them. He could heal bullet wounds he was certain, even wounds inflicted by silver, but those blades could take his head off. He was pretty sure it would be game over if that happened.

Angel was wearing some kind of vest under her trench coat, bulletproof maybe, with a myriad of blades slipped into loops attached to it. He would bet they had a high quality silver coating. The machetes looked electroplated too, now that he thought about it. They were very bright and shiny in the moonlight. Angel's knives looked designed for throwing and she had plenty of them to use, but she hadn't neglected to bring other weapons. There were two lethal looking sub-machine guns hanging low near her hips. It would take only an instant to grab them and spray her targets. They were certainly loaded with silver ammo.

David shrugged out of his jacket and began undressing. "You stick to Stephen like your life depends on it, because it does. Protect him."

Darrin nodded and moved to stand at Stephen's back.

Stephen glanced back at him and raised an eyebrow at David. "Do I suddenly give you the impression that I cannot defend myself?"

"Accidents happen. Why risk it?" He turned to Lawrence. "You're with me, but I want you in alpha form not human or wolf. Who did you bring with you, any other alphas?"

"Er, well... everyone wanted to come so I let them."

David stared at him a moment in disbelief, and then continued his undressing. "Who is looking after the club?"

"Yes," Stephen said wryly. "Who is looking after my club?"

"Edward said it would be okay," Lawrence said shuffling his feet under Stephen's regard. "I left him enough people from the day shift for security."

"Hmmm."

"So you _didn't_ bring everyone," David said.

"Most then, and yes all the alphas and most of the strongest betas."

"That's fine. You take your half around the back. I'm taking mine in the front. Do whatever it takes to keep our people safe—"

"And find Michael," Gavin interjected. "I want him safe."

David ignored the interruption. "—and we'll clean up the bodies afterwards. Don't risk lives to avoid making them. I want us all going home safe. If you can save Michael or his people then do it, but don't kill any of ours trying."

Gavin didn't like that.

David turned to him letting his eyes subtly change to make them glow faintly. "If you don't like how I run my pack, may I suggest using yours to find and protect your friend?" He nodded to Angel and her people arrayed at the vampire's back.

Now it was Gavin's turn to hesitate. He was very fond of the girl and did not relish sending her into danger. Before he could answer, she did it for him by giving her orders.

"Kill them all," Angel said. "They're AML fanatics and will attack us the moment they see us anyway. If Michael is alive, we get him out to safety. Right?"

Her gang mumbled or nodded agreement.

"I should call for backup," Chris said uneasily.

"No," all the vampires said together.

"But they're AML terrorists!"

Angel smirked. "Welcome to my world, _de-tec-tive_. Welcome to the real world of the monsters. They won't be AML terrorists for much longer. They'll be dead, and LA will be free of some of the worst scum living in it. AML will need a few weeks to replace them, and that's a bonus."

The vampires nodded.

The cop wanted to argue, but the geas would not let her call or tell anyone what was going down. David recognised the moment she finally understood that, and give into the binding. She pulled her boomer from the waistband of her jeans and checked it.

_Ready?_

**Yes.**

_Can you make a fast change straight to our alpha shape as you did at the club?_

**Yes, but it will hurt. We are not angry.**

_Never mind that. We need to be fast._

**I come!**

Before David could change his mind, Mist surged up into his thoughts and exploded out of their body. His shriek of agony was still echoing on the night air when Mist appeared, a fully formed eight-foot tall humanoid monster where he'd been standing. Stephen stared up at him in surprise, as did Gavin. The cop stumbled back, aiming her gun at him fearfully, but thankfully, she didn't shoot despite her horror and shock. Angel whistled in appreciation, and the two women with her laughed. Their eyes were fixated below his waist. Mist ignored them all.

**Good?**

_Yes. It hurt, but faster is better. Let's get this done before AML kills Michael... if they haven't already._

Mist glared down at Lawrence. "Change."

"One thing before I do. Ronnie came with me. She wouldn't stay behind. She's guarding the gates."

Mist snarled.

I _thought you liked her independence?_ _You said you did._

**She tests her boundaries, and that is good, but this is not a good time for such games. We will show her this.**

_This should be interesting._

"Let us kill these humans and go home," Mist said.

"Fuckin-A," Angel said with feeling.

Lawrence took longer to shift to his hybrid form, but a minute or so later, they all advanced on the gates of Michael's estate. Ronnie met them with the rest of the pack. Lawrence took half and ran off into the night, intending to circle around. Ronnie stayed behind to admire Mist and fight by his side, but he had other ideas.

"You and Darrin will protect Stephen. If he dies, we lose everything."

Ronnie frowned.

"You will obey me!" Mist growled, and lashed out with his power, enough to smart. Ronnie snarled and pushed back with her own power just as he had wanted. He lashed out again, this time with enough strength to overwhelm her easily. Her eyes widened in shock. "Obey me."

She nodded mutely, dumbfounded.

_Hmmm, that was too easy._

**She will test us again,** Mist agreed, but he was pleased. **She will convince herself that we can't be this strong. She will convince herself that it was luck. A few more challenges with us barely winning will make her try harder, and then we will prove to her why we are worthy to be her mate.**

_Good, because I don't want to wait years._

**Weeks. It will be weeks.**

"We go now," Mist growled.

"About damn time," Chris said.

"Enough of this!" Gavin said, and dashed for the broken gates.

Stephen and Rachelle gave chase using that almost magical speed that all vamps had. It wasn't teleportation, no matter how much it seemed like it when they flashed from one place to another without seeming to cross the intervening space. Ronnie and Darrin sprinted to catch up mere moments later. Shifters were fast too, but not vampire fast; they had to push themselves.

Angel cursed. "Mister Gavin, wait for me dammit!" She ran for the open gate with her gang in pursuit, but no human had a hope of keeping up with vampires and shifters.

The cop muttered something about madness and stupid amateur vigilantes before she too ran for the gate.

Mist looked around at his half of the pack. "Kill everything not us or allied with us," he said, and received barks and growls of joyous agreement, as everyone threw themselves eagerly into the change.

_Was that necessary?_

**Yes.**

## 29

# Aml

Michael's estate consisted of over four acres of manicured lawns and professionally maintained formal gardens with a huge house at its centre built over three sprawling levels. The house was brightly lit; all the windows blazed with cheerful welcoming light. Mist sprinted toward it across lush lawn with super-sized wolves spilling around him, threatening to trip him in their eagerness to be first to reach the fight.

Gunfire.

Single shots rang out, shattering the quiet. It didn't slow them. It was distant. More shots, this time rapid fire from some kind of assault rifle by the sound. Mist knew what the manthing was through David, but he had no fear of it. It sounded far away, as did the other shots, and he wondered if Farris had found a fight already. Some of his wolves peeled away from the group, having found interesting scents to pursue. More ran into the night howling for blood, and they would find it. The AML humans would not leave the grounds. Not alive.

He reached the house but did not slow his charge. The front door had been broken down, and he entered through it to find bodies sprawled over marble floors illuminated by harsh white light supplied by a magnificent chandelier hanging overhead. He waved his wolves up the twin curving staircases, and they dashed away, howling their excitement.

He inspected the oval shaped lobby looking for a clue where Stephen and the others were. The bodies lying sprawled upon the shiny floor in lakes of blood were no indication. They were both vampires or had been. Their scents gave them away for what they were, as did the form of execution AML had used. Both had been decapitated after being disabled by stakes or bullets. Either they had belonged to Michael's House or were guests of his.

He crouched to sniff for clues and caught what he was looking for. The human killers had left their spoor. He growled and ran in pursuit, hoping to catch at least one before Stephen and the others killed them all.

_Are you so eager to kill?_

**No, but we must protect what is ours. These AML are like lone wolves gone mad. Worse. They're like a rogue pack and should be destroyed.**

_They're not a pack of any kind. They're human, but I agree they are mad men._

**They must die for our pack to be safe.**

_Yes,_ David said sadly. _You're right. Kill them, kill them all and let us go home. I don't want to think about this anymore. I just wanted to work with Alex and help people. I'm a healer. I don't want this life of killing. Do what you must and let us go home._

Mist felt David withdraw, pulling away and submerging himself so deeply that he was barely there. It was the first time his bond mate had left him so alone, and he felt the loss keenly. Suddenly the manthings surrounding him felt alien. He knew that only moments before he had understood what these things were called and what they were for, but now they had names and uses that he couldn't quite grasp. They were like a name on the tip of his tongue that refused to come to him.

He ran through the house following the spoor he had picked out. Every room he entered contained bodies. He didn't know if they were Michael's friends or the enemy, but he suspected the former, as most were not human. He wasn't sure because David was far away and hadn't explained, but he thought AML were all humans and some of these were shifters. The dead humans among them might be thrill seekers like those who came to the club.

More gunfire had him spinning toward the sound and running that way. Shouts and screams added urgency. Perhaps he could make David less sad by saving them.

He found the source of the screaming in one of the rooms Michael must use for his parties. The humans cowering against the walls and in the corners had other things on their minds than partying. The scent of fresh blood hit him the moment he entered the room and made him hungry. That was his first thought. Hungry. His second was that the humans menacing the guests with guns while two of their friends finished decapitating their non-human victims, were about to die.

He launched himself into the room, already raging in his thoughts. He didn't care who any of these people were. He didn't care about Michael's guests or protecting them. None of them were worthy of protection as far as he was concerned. They had allowed a smaller weaker group to kill some of their number and had not fought back. Cowards, all of them, and more than that; they weren't pack. That was the most telling mark against them. Not that they were human, but that they weren't pack. The pack is good. The pack is all. It was a way of life, not something to treat as optional.

He landed behind the two men and ducked as one of them spun in place, trying to use his sword to defend himself. Mist plunged the claws of his right hand into the yelling human's belly, and ripped out a good handful of his guts. He dropped the mess on the already bloody wooden floor, and punched the other human hard in the face as he tried to bring a gun into play. The first man fell to his knees shrieking, trying to gather up his intestines. Mist ripped out his throat and jumped on his companion.

The scolding hot bullet punched into his belly, leaving a line of fire through his vitals, and he howled his pain. The silver in his guts burned, but the pain was already fading. The bullet had gone straight through him, causing a lot of damage in his back. He was bleeding heavily, but silver was better out than in. He remembered that from before. Silver burned, it hurt, but by far the most dangerous thing about it was the way it poisoned shifters and slowed healing. He didn't want to change shape, but silver in him would have prevented that too. He was already healing and it didn't stop him.

He grabbed the man's gun hand, and crushed it around the weapon, forcing it aside. It went off, and someone screamed. The bullet had hit one of the cowards in the corner. He didn't care. He was busy ripping his victim's heart out. He raised it like a trophy before the man's eyes as they glazed in death.

Mist's belly rumbled in complaint, and drool filled his mouth at the scent of blood and the intriguing feel of the morsel in his hand. Shifting shape had made him very hungry, but he didn't eat. David definitely wouldn't like it. Besides, there were others that needed killing. He let the corpse fall and dropped the heart before he gave in to temptation.

His enemies didn't wait to be attacked. They scattered. Some fired guns, some ran, one grabbed a hostage and tried to drag the woman away using her as a shield. That angered him the most, and he decided to kill that one first. He grabbed the shouting woman, and wrenched her out of her abductor's grasp. He threw her behind him to sprawl upon the bloody floor, and then twisted the man's head around.

He howled his victory, his cries answered in the distance by the pack. He howled again and attacked the remaining AML humans. Guns went off, bullets whizzed by, ricocheted, punched into plastered walls, and flesh. Mist grunted as some of the bullets found him, but he was fast, fast, _fast!_ The wounds did nothing but annoy him. Those in his legs were nothing. The new one in his belly hurt something fierce though. He dug it out with his claws snarling at the pain, and dropped the tiny thing upon the floor. He glared at the one who had fired it, and slaughtered him in the most bloody way imaginable. He literally ripped him limb from limb as retribution.

Mist finished up and looked for more, but it was over. He panted and glared around looking for another challenger, but he found only frightened humans cowering in corners. One looked at him and screamed, making him want to bite her to shut her up. The screams caused all the others to shout and carry on. Stupid human She. If he had wanted to hurt her, why would he have bothered to save her and the rest? The scent of her fear was exciting him, but thoughts of what David would do calmed him a little. His bond mate would be pleased that he had saved these worthless humans. He would not want them hurt.

"Are there more?" he growled, choosing one of the braver seeming humans. An older man with silver in his beard. He wasn't cowering like the others at least, though he was scared.

"They ran."

"Which way?"

The human pointed, and Mist dashed away to find another fight, leaving the bodies of his enemies behind to rot. Stephen would need to call Jonas before morning. He would want all this to go away without notice. He wondered how he planned to keep Michael's guests from talking about it. Would he kill them all and make their bodies disappear too? David would know, but his thoughts were too distant to understand. It didn't matter what Stephen did with them anyway. None of them were pack or allied with them. They were Michael's problem.

He ran outside and was in time to see Angel and Flex pursuing three humans as they headed for the dubious safety of the dark. The gardens beyond the huge swimming pool might seem safer than the house, but that was false. There were wolves prowling the grounds, left on guard by Farris. He could feel them out there, waiting to catch anyone attempting to escape. He approved.

Angel went to one knee and triggered a burst from one of her machine guns, sweeping it over the men and cutting them down as they ran. Two fell, sprawling upon the ground and obviously dead before they landed. The third staggered, half-turning to raise a gun. Flex fired first, and Angel fired again, bullets punching into her target throwing him backwards and into the swimming pool. A cloud of blood tainted the water as he floated face down on the surface. Angel reloaded and ran off with Flex guarding her back.

Mist went in search of trouble and another fight.

Chris ducked and fired back. She had no idea where her shot went, but it certainly hadn't gone where she intended because more rounds came her way. The guy's weapon chattered and spewed spent brass upon the patio in great profusion. She wasn't using a stunner and neither was he. Her backup gun had only one use, and that was to kill. It didn't have a stun setting, and she'd never bothered having it converted to accept a stunner attachment. That was what her service weapon was for, but using that here would make her an idiot. She hoped never to be one. Leaving bodies on the ground killed by a gun traceable to her would definitely call her IQ into question. She had no taste for stunning AML terrorists trying to kill her in any case. She might have been willing before she'd seen what they'd been doing in the house, but not now. No, she had no problem with putting them down like feral dogs.

The fire ended, and she took a quick look over the low wall she had been using for cover. He was reloading. She fired twice the moment she recognised her chance. The first shot was centre of mass, dictated by her training, but she realised her mistake straight away. He was wearing a vest. The hit staggered him but he didn't go down. She adjusted her aim.

Head shot, and that was all she wrote.

She had no doubt he was dead, but she kept her gun up and aimed as she advanced. There were others like him out here. She had seen Angel chasing some earlier. She kicked the rifle out of the corpse's hand. Training again, but he was definitely dead. One of the reasons she had chosen the Sharpe's Defender II was its stopping power. She had long since decided that if she ever had an _oh shit_ moment that required the use of her backup weapon, she wasn't going to sweat legalities. Better to face a board's questions than die for want of a weapon worthy of the name.

She peered into the darkness, hoping to see some sign of Angel or one her gang, but although she was sure they were out there—she could hear gunfire and screams—she saw no sign of them. She hesitated, but decided not to venture further from the house. She was only human, and the night contained many who were not; they could see better in the dark. Allied or not, she didn't trust monsters of any stripe.

She turned back.

She went through the house carefully and methodically. Most of the rooms were empty. Some were pristine while others contained signs of violence and decapitated corpses. How many vamps had died here? A dozen, two dozen? She didn't know, but it was a lot. She hadn't known this many were even in the city. She had always assumed that vamps preferred living alone. She was sure she'd heard that somewhere. Shifters were the opposite and lived in packs like the animals they could turn into. Sometimes she thought they weren't really people at all; they didn't act like it a lot of the time. Maybe they really were animals, but animals with a little something extra—the ability to turn human.

She shook her head, uncertain where her thoughts were leading her. It wasn't as if there weren't precedent for the idea. Dragons weren't human and never pretended to be, but they could take human form when the need arose just like a shifter... but no, everyone knew shifters were created by infecting a human with a category one disease—lycanthropy.

Dragons were born of dragon, elves were born of elf, humans were born of human, and dwarves were born of dwarf. All of the races were different, but all of them were perfectly natural in their places. Shifters though were other. They were essentially a walking disease, a very dangerous and contagious disease, as were vamps, but vamps at least were less contagious. It took real effort to create a new vampire. Not so with shifters.

She went through all the rooms, but if there were any AML fighters left alive, they had bugged out. The wolves were having fun hunting them down on the estate's grounds. She grimaced at the thought. None of them would become shifters. The vamps wouldn't let any survive the night she was sure. If by some miracle one did survive but infected, AML would put him down if he didn't suicide first. That was AML policy, and its members supposedly swore to die before turning furry. She didn't much blame them. She couldn't imagine the horror of becoming one of the monsters and didn't know how anyone survived the shock of it, but they did or there wouldn't be so many shifters in LA. It was common knowledge that shifters were crazy bastards, maybe that was why so many survived. The sane ones killed themselves.

Voices. She paused to listen. Allies not enemy she decided and made her way toward the sound.

Finally, she found someone she knew, not that she was exactly pleased to find this particular group. The three vamps had finally turned up. They were standing in the centre of the room discussing things, accompanied only by the dead lying all around them. AML had lost big here, and she wondered just how many soldiers they had lost altogether. Enough to prevent any more atrocities for a while? She could hope, but doubted it. There was a seemingly endless supply of fools to recruit.

She eyed the dead as she made her way toward the huddle, wondering how many drained corpses she would find around the place. She grimaced in disgust at the thought and sighed. She had signed up for this, and that meant the entire package. This sort of thing was what came of stepping outside the law to consort with the monsters. She had known she would likely see some nasty stuff, and had thought she was ready for it, but this slaughter was more like a war zone than any crime scene she had investigated. She stepped over the bodies and around the pools of blood as she approached the vamps. She didn't want to track blood all over the house, not that anyone else seemed to care. The place was already tracked up. It was a mess. It was a damn good job that forensics would never see this because they would have kittens if called out to a scene so screwed up.

"Where is he then?" Gavin was saying. "This makes no sense. He surely would not have left his guests to face these AML thugs alone. He prided himself on his hospitality. This violation of his House would send him into conniptions!"

Stephen laughed. "You are so right. When he sees the mess... ah here is our missing detective. You are well?"

She nodded and joined the group. "So, where is he?"

"That's what we are discussing," Rachelle said. "We seem to have mislaid him."

"Mislaid, right. What in the nine hells are you trying to pull?"

Rachelle's eyes flashed silver and she snarled, fangs out.

"Children!" Gavin chided. "None of that. We were discussing how Michael would not leave his guests in peril, and that narrows the possibilities."

"And those would be?" she said, keeping an eye on those fangs. Rachelle hadn't put them away yet.

Stephen chose to answer. "He might be dead, or taken, or perhaps he wasn't present when the attack began. He could be attending to business in the city and not aware of the trouble here."

Gavin nodded. "Those are the only options that I can see. We will search every room, every square foot of the grounds, but perhaps the easiest way to begin would be questioning Michael's guests. They should know if he is here somewhere. That at least will furnish a starting point."

Made sense to her. "Let's get that started as soon as we can. Tell me you have a way to clean up the mess you've made."

"Oh indeed we do," Gavin said with a small smile that revealed just a hint of fang. "Lots of practise you understand. You have your link on you?"

Stephen retrieved his own. "I'll call Jonas and take care of that side of things if you want to take Rachelle and the detective with you to begin the questioning. I'll join you when I'm done."

"That was my thought," Gavin agreed.

Stephen nodded and made his call.

Chris stepped aside to allow Rachelle to lead the way out of the room. She wouldn't let that psychopathic fang head get behind her, not now. She was too easily riled up, that one. Gavin and Stephen were models of gentlemanly decorum in comparison.

She wondered where the witch was, and doing what. Her imagination provided her with all kinds of nefarious possibilities and she shivered. Who knew what a black magic wielding necromance could find to do in such surroundings? Necromancy was all about death and the dead. Chris didn't like contemplating what she might be doing to amuse herself here amongst so many corpses.

They found the surviving guests under guard in a large open room obviously used for a party most recently. The party balloons on the ceiling and the buffet tables along the walls crammed with food were a big clue. It looked obscene now, amidst the carnage. She tore her eyes away from the massacre that had taken place. Bodies and pieces of bodies lay upon the blood-coated floor. Some were decapitated. Vamps then, but others had once been human. Someone had taken them apart, _something_ rather. Something with claws and teeth— _big_ claws and teeth. The vampires with her were unfazed by the slaughter. Of course they were. They probably saw the like all the time. They might be responsible for worse things for all she knew.

More and more she was regretting her decision to get involved in this. It was all Baxter's fault. She scowled. If not for his damn envelope, she wouldn't have been tempted to start colouring outside the lines. Now she couldn't stop. She had to see this thing through, but carefully. When it was done she would go back to her life and never step back out of it into this madness.

"You told your friends to hold them?" she asked, eyeing the naked men stationed at the doors and around the room. They had the windows well covered, obviously to prevent anyone getting adventurous. She recognised Ronnie, the only woman among so many men, and naked like them—and what was it with these freaks and walking about in the buff? Ronnie seemed to be the one in charge of the others. "What will you do about them?"

Gavin glanced back. "As you heard. We question them."

"And then?"

He cocked his head in puzzlement.

Rachelle obviously guessed her meaning and spoke up. "She thinks we plan to kill them."

"Why would we do that?"

Chris noted he hadn't protested the possibility of killing everyone; he had only questioned the need. She had no doubt that if he did see a need no one in the room would leave the estate alive.

"You would trust them not to talk about this, the humans too?"

Rachelle expression turned incredulous. "Of course not! None will talk."

"How can you guarantee that?"

"They won't remember anything to talk about."

"Your witch again? Where is she?"

"Around, and no, there's no need for her talents. Gavin and I will take care of it."

Chris remembered eyes in her head, watching watching watching, and whispers telling her to remember words that had faded from awareness over time. Vampires had mojo of their own. It wasn't magic such as the Council or the elves used, though she suspected it was probably related in some way. Her dad had always insisted that everything in nature was connected, but then he would. It was a tenet, one of many, that all shamen lived by and believed in. She did not involve herself in such things, but she believed in vampire and shifter mojo. She had seen some wacky stuff in her time on the streets of LA. The monsters had powers uniquely their own. It worked in her favour this time, because if the vamps could erase this night from memory, no one else needed to die.

She nodded and followed the vamps to begin the questioning.

## 30

# Michael

David groaned as his joints popped. By the goddess, he hurt. This rapid shifting back and forth was hell on the body. He shook his hands working his fingers free of phantom pain. Why did they call it that when the pain was real? It hurt, so it must be real. Maybe because there were no wounds to see, or maybe without blood to show it couldn't be real. Whatever. Besides, he was covered in blood, though it was the blood of his enemies. He looked around the grounds, letting his eyes go wolf to help him against the darkness, but found nothing to fear. The only witnesses to his change were the glazed eyes of his victims.

**Not victims, brother. Enemies.**

He nodded. True. AML was the enemy as were those sympathising with its goals. They had been the enemy of all non-humans since the League's inception many years ago, but he could foresee things becoming much worse soon. Stephen's cold war with them would heat up when news of his own NSPCL became known. That would have to be soon, certainly within the month. He'd made the pack certain promises when they joined and accepted him as Alpha. He wanted to begin making good on them. AML would not sit idly by while he built his power-base here in LA, especially not when they realised what the N stood for in the Society's name.

He frowned at the bodies but then shrugged. He could carry one back to the house, but not the other two. He decided there was no point. He could send someone back to collect them if necessary, but it was just as likely Jonas would tidy them up. He grimaced at the thought. He was becoming too blasé about this sort of thing. Mist had fought and killed them, not he. An easy and false way to exonerate himself of any guilt. It was false, because Mist was inseparable from him. They were pack, they were brothers, they were one, and he wouldn't change that now even if he could. He didn't want to be uncaring, and he certainly didn't want to become someone who killed easily on a whim, but Stephen was right. Ronnie too. He had to live this new life, not keep looking back trying to live his old one. It was gone.

He walked away, and didn't look back.

The night was quiet now that the fighting had ended. That was good. The estate was remote, but they couldn't be sure that someone hadn't noticed and reported a disturbance to the police. Stephen and the others could handle one or two police officers should they show up, but they wouldn't want to do that. If SMT (Special Measures Teams) turned up with their riot gear and hexes loaded for monster, then things could go bad fast. Stephen would want them all out of here as soon as possible, and the estate cleaned of all the evidence that anything had ever happened here.

He was all for that idea.

The house looked the same. All the windows were still blazing with light, but the grounds close by seemed crowded. He picked out faces he knew, glad to find them unhurt. Most were naked having just changed back to their human forms. He found Lawrence directing things. He had the pack collecting bodies and weapons. That was good thinking; it would speed things for Jonas.

"Where's Ronnie?"

Lawrence looked up and relief flashed upon his face. "Good to see you safe. She's inside with Stephen. They're fine."

David relaxed a little more. "Okay. Have you called Jonas?"

"Stephen did."

He nodded. "Did we lose anyone?"

"Nope. We're all fine."

"Injuries?"

"Nothing that changing back didn't fix. Stop worrying, David, this sort of thing is normal for us. Well not normal exactly, but not that unusual. Just another fight, a bit bigger maybe, and a bit more intense, but nothing to get bent out of shape about. We're fine."

It had seemed more like outright war to him, not just another fight, but then he had never had to fight physically for anything before his encounter with Georgie and Ronnie. This chaos should never be normal. He was determined to give his people a life where this sort of thing was unnecessary.

"Keep doing what you're doing. I left three more for you back that way." He pointed back the way he'd come. "Send someone to collect them up will you?"

Lawrence nodded.

"I'm off to find Stephen and find out what he plans to do next."

He hurried into the house.

He found Stephen and the others questioning the survivors. He sought out Ronnie the moment he entered the room, and found her safe as Lawrence had said. Feeling easier at the sight of her magnificent nakedness and her obviously uninjured state, he approached Stephen to ask what was happening. The cop was standing with him. She looked him over as he approached and muttered something about naked beefcake infesting the place, or some such thing. He ignored her.

Stephen was speaking, "...and you are certain that Michael was not taken?"

The human woman spoke dreamily, obviously under the vampire's influence. "Michael isn't here."

"I did not ask that, my dear lady. You will answer only what I ask you. You want to answer. Answering me makes you feel wonderful, but not answering makes you feel guilty. It feels bad not to answer or lie to me. You don't want to feel bad, do you?"

"No."

Stephen kept his tone calm, and spoke almost in a singsong voice. "Very good. You are doing wonderfully well. Answer truthfully and feel good. Now, think hard. When was the last time you saw Michael?"

David was impressed. He could feel Stephen's increasing frustration and rage, but his voice gave nothing of that away. By voice alone, anyone would think he was simply enquiring about the weather, not the fate of an ally and friend he had known for centuries.

"A week?" the woman said frowning. "What day is it?"

"It is Wednesday, my dear."

"It was last Friday. He went into the city."

"Oh, yes? Do you know why?"

She nodded, but didn't explain.

The cop snickered. Stephen glared at her, and she made that silly zipping gesture across her lips. That was just too much, and even David laughed. He also received Stephen's ire, but the vampire turned his attention back to business moments later.

"So you know why. Please tell me."

"Stephen sent a message asking him to a meeting, but aren't you Stephen?"

"I am indeed. I sent no message. You mustn't lie to me. Where did Michael go?" The woman swayed as he brought the full weight of his power down upon her. " _Answer!_ " he snapped, finally losing it.

She groaned and her eyes rolled in her head.

"Easy there," the cop said. "Take it easy."

"You'll injure her," David added. "To no purpose. Back it down a little. Let her up, Stephen!"

Stephen glared, but he did ease his grip, and the woman's distress seemed to lessen. "There, there. You are calm, you feel at ease. Michael went to visit Stephen in the city you say?"

"Yes."

"How do you know this?"

She smiled dreamily. "He told me."

"Did he indeed?" his eyes sharpened at that. "You and he are close?"

"Oh yes! He feeds from me often."

The cop muttered darkly.

David had expected something of the sort. Food was one of the reasons Michael hosted so many guests on his estate. Stephen did it too by feeding almost exclusively from the pack, though he kept things interesting by taking advantage of the club's clientele for variety. As he often said, food came to him. He did not need to hunt. David supposed that if his diet consisted of a single thing, he would prize variety too.

Stephen's feeding from the pack was something David had not been easy with at the beginning of their association, but he had come to see it as a good thing since then. It made House Edmonton and its vampires strong, and it was safer for them if their food was provided in house so to speak. There were numerous stories of vampires lured to their deaths through an unwise choice of feeding partner. AML especially liked using the tactic, probably because it was so successful at enticing vamps into dangerous situations. He had no intention of allowing any of _his_ vamps to feed from strangers and risk themselves.

He smiled ruefully. He was becoming as possessive of the Edmonton vamps as Stephen could be with the _Blood Drinker_ wolves! The pack was loyal to Stephen and saw feeding him and his vamps as a kind of repayment for the protection he had provided them in their time of need. It had been a way for them to strengthen their patron and make everyone safer at the same time. Nothing had changed now they were officially part of an allied pack rather than individual wolves working for him. They had never seen feeding vamps as distasteful. Apparently, it was quite pleasurable for both parties. He wouldn't know anything about that, having no experience of it, but thrill seekers did and they were rabid fans of being bitten. That was not a good recommendation to try it in his opinion. Thrill seekers reminded him of desperate junkies looking for a fix. Maybe it affected humans differently because he hadn't seen any ill effects in his wolves.

"And that was the last time you saw him? Did Michael often spend his days in the city?" Stephen was saying.

"Oh no, never!"

"Never?"

"No. He was always very proper and careful about returning before sunrise."

"But you said the last time you saw him was last Friday. Did you not see him return?"

"No."

"No, just no? You did not see him return, or he did not return?"

"I did not see him."

"Ask her _if_ he returned," the cop said. "Not if she saw him."

Stephen frowned at the interruption, but he did ask. "Did Michael return before sunrise that day?"

"No."

"Well that's not good," David muttered.

"Understatement much?" the cop said. "What about O'Neal? Ask her if she knows anything about him."

Stephen hissed. "Do you have any more orders for me? Let's hear them, by all means."

"No need to be snippy," the cop said. "We're all here for the same thing."

"Why don't I believe that?" Stephen turned back to his questioning. "Do you know a man by the name of O'Neal?"

"Oh him," the woman sneered. "Michael's newest conquest."

Stephen's eyebrows climbed abruptly. "Do tell us more, won't you?"

"Michael could have had anyone he wanted. He could have turned me! I've loved him longer and far better than John ever could or would. It's not fair! I begged him to turn me, but he gave his gift to that raggedy man instead. Why? Why?!"

"Hush now," Stephen said. "Be calm. Michael bestowed the gift upon O'Neal you said. Why did he not keep the man close if he was such a favourite of his?"

"He did at first. Michael loved him. They went everywhere together."

"But?"

"Something happened. I don't know what but Michael was very upset. John was suddenly nowhere around and I thought maybe he had died. Michael was so angry."

"When was this?"

"Weeks and weeks ago."

The cop muttered something. "I bet that was when O'Neal started his killing spree. The timing is right. Michael lost control of him somehow."

Stephen snorted. "Not possible, not even remotely possible. You have no idea of what you speak. No newborn could hope to resist Michael. The very idea is laughable."

"You see me laughing? There's nothing funny about nine dead women! Do you think it's a coincidence that Michael and O'Neal have a falling out right around the time the killings started? That O'Neal suddenly dropped out of sight leaving Michael pissed off and angry about something? I'm betting O'Neal got away and killed Sheryl Adams. She was the first woman to die."

"You do not understand. Michael is... _was_ O'Neal's maker. There is a bond. O'Neal should not have been able to hide from Michael. More than that, he should not have been able to resist a summons from him. No newborn should be able to do that. I made Danyelle more than a century ago, and even she cannot! If my maker were alive today and he wished it, I would have to go to him no matter where in the city he was. The bond makes it so!"

"Yeah? Well something went wrong when O'Neal was turned. He was already a nut bunny before Michael got him. Maybe that screwed it up or something. How the hell should I know? Whatever happened, happened. It doesn't matter now. All that does, is Michael's location."

David nodded.

Stephen frowned at the truth of her words. He glanced at the dreamy woman and then toward Gavin and Rachelle on the other side of the room. They were busy questioning the other survivors. Jonas would be arriving any time now, and they needed to adjust everyone's memories before they could let them go about their business. All of it had to be done before sunrise, and they still didn't know where Michael had gone or why.

"Where," the cop said darkly. " _The fuck..._ Is... _Michael?_ "

# Part III
## 31

# Taken

His driver held the rear door of the limo open, and Stephen climbed out. "Wait here."

"Yes, Stephen," Terry said very respectfully.

Terry had been exceptionally careful and well behaved since the incident with Marie at the club. He had settled down remarkably well, and Stephen found himself grudgingly pleased with his newest child. He hadn't expected that. He had turned Terry not because he needed or wanted another mouth to feed, but because he'd given his word to the man. He hadn't expected to find him useful, but he did.

He headed for the house and dismissed thoughts of Terry from his mind. He was looking forward to seeing Marie again. She had visited with him a few times now at the club, but this was the first time she had invited him to her home. He would have preferred it to be just the two of them, but this visit was business not pleasure. At her urging, Marie's father had finally agreed to a meeting to discuss Techtron's current aims in the city, but he was determined to enjoy some part of the evening with her despite that.

The door opened as he approached and Marie stepped out of the house to greet him. He smiled and reached to take her offered hands in both of his.

"Thank you for coming," Marie said blushing in a charming manner.

Seeing it made Stephen feel lighter of spirit. He truly did enjoy her. "Thank you for inviting me."

"Come inside. Dad is looking forward to meeting you."

He released her hands, and Marie led the way into her home. Stephen followed noting the unhappy faces of a pair of security guards hovering just inside. He nodded to them, acknowledging their watchfulness. One ignored him, the other nodded back. Both were tense, hands ready to reach for the suspicious looking bulges under their unbuttoned jackets. They wouldn't have occasion to use their weapons against him, but if they tried, he could easily disarm them. He did not fear them and took no insult from their guardedness. There were many dangers in the world and Marie deserved protection.

"That will be all, Andrew, thank you," Marie said.

Stephen smiled as the guard struggled to find a reason not to leave her with him.

"Yes, Miss," Andrew finally said, though he was obviously far from sanguine. He waved his colleague away and busied himself closing the door, and if he did so a little slowly to extend the time to remain nearby, what of it?

Marie smiled at Stephen and took him deeper into the house. "Dad is in his office. He usually is."

"How sad."

"Sad?"

"That he has you and such a lovely home but does not emerge from his office more to enjoy you both."

Marie laughed. "You are such a tease."

"I'm glad that I can make you laugh, but I'm quite serious. Many things are said of my kind, most are unpleasant, but we do have an appreciation for beauty and the finer things. You might say that being dead gives us a unique perspective on life."

Marie stopped and turned to face him. She was suddenly quite close and confrontational. "Don't do that! You're not dead. I don't like hearing you say that you are!"

"Hush, it's all right. I'm used to it."

"It's not. You're parroting AML's line. You can't beat them by joining them, Stephen. That might work in some things, but not in this. Prejudice and bigotry should be fought, never tolerated. AML are the worse examples of humanity. Don't emulate them, please."

"AML are only the most _vocal_. It's refreshing that they're willing to back word with deed. Strange to think, I know, but I prefer an enemy willing to fight me in the open to the snide comments and backroom deals that the government relies upon. _Politics,_ " he sneered. "And politicians invariably disgust me. Backstabbing two-timing liars most of them. They smile to your face while quietly slipping poison in your wine or a dagger in your back."

"At least politicians don't go around setting bombs and killing the innocent."

"Do they not? Not with their own hands perhaps, but that's what the military is for. Let us not argue over the rights and wrongs of wars undertaken on our supposed behalf. I'm here to see your father about a different kind of war, a more shadowy kind happening right here in LA."

Marie glared, frustration in her tense stance, but after a moment, she relaxed her posture and sighed. "Sorry. I don't mean to ruin your first visit it's just that..." she sighed again. "You sound entirely too much like dad, especially when he thinks I'm being naive. I don't like being condescended to."

"I didn't mean to do that."

"But you do think that I'm naive? No, it's all right; I can see that you do. To you we probably all seem like children—"

She didn't give him time to refute that.

"—but I'm not. I'm a grown woman with a good brain in my head."

"Indeed you are," he said and smiled appreciatively.

She blushed. "Well, okay then." Her eyes darted around and briefly caught his before she realised that she was doing something dangerous. They skittered away to settle upon his lips. He moistened them and she flushed harder. "Dad is waiting," she said weakly, entranced by his mouth and the smile that widened seemingly of its own volition.

He truly did enjoy her. Truly. "Then by all means, let us not keep him wondering where we are."

She nodded and led the way to a door.

William Stirling was a rotund man in his sixties, his hair was thinning but still dark, and the beard he wore was speckled with silver. He looked up from his desk comp as they entered and stood to greet them. He smiled at Marie, his love for his daughter shining upon his face. Stephen liked him for it _and_ his obvious suspicion when those pale blue eyes came to rest upon him.

"This is Stephen, Dad," Marie said and added, "Be nice."

"When haven't I been nice to your guests?" William said and grinned when she rolled her eyes. "Well, all right, but this one isn't a potential boyfriend. You can't expect miracles."

"He didn't like Terry," Marie confided to Stephen.

"I like him for that," he replied and laughed when William beamed at him. He seemed to be a very jolly fellow; he was glad for Marie's sake. "I'm pleased to meet you at last."

William nodded and indicated seats. Neither of them offered to shake hands. Stephen rarely offered, knowing that most humans would refuse and be uncomfortable refusing, and perhaps William was one of those people, as he seemed relieved. He was less sanguine however, when Marie chose to sit next to him on the same couch, leaving her father standing alone. She grinned at him, and William muttered something under his breath before finding his own seat.

"I've reviewed the reports that Marie commissioned," William began, sending his daughter a mock glare, but his pride in her was obvious. "They are, unfortunately, damning. I will say right now that these projects _were_ not and _are_ not sanctioned by me or Techtron's board."

"Convenient," Stephen said ignoring Marie's gasp and her father's flush of anger. "I'm a businessman as you are. Not on the same scale of course, but that doesn't change the fact that you are head of your House—Techtron—and are therefore responsible for what it does, just as I am responsible for what those who are sworn to my House do in its name. Techtron is working with an outlawed group, terrorists who spend their time killing and persecuting people like me."

William glared. "Not Techtron. These clandestine projects are not on the books. They're the sole responsibility of one man only, and he will be disciplined. I can assure you that Wilson is finished at Techtron, and any on the board who knowingly abetted him will be jettisoned along with him."

That was very satisfying. This mess had been festering for months. Without Marie's intervention, he would still be trying unsuccessfully to arrange a meeting like this one. Satisfying then that they had made such great progress all at once, but it didn't solve the underlying problem of AML. He wasn't sure anything could solve it, but in the short term cutting off its funding would help.

"What about Wilson's other activities? His meetings with Newman, his indirect funding of AML through shell companies owned by Techtron?"

"I'm in the process of tracking down all of them. Once I know how he managed to hide the syphoning of funds, and where those funds were transferred, I'll shut down the entire operation. That's one reason I agreed to this meeting. I want your agreement to allow me to investigate Wilson properly without interference. I'm aware of what you could do, but I'm asking you not to. I need to learn the extent of the rot before I start cutting. I don't want a recurrence of this a few years down the line."

Stephen nodded thoughtfully. He could understand the need to clean house properly. William's acknowledgement that he needed his cooperation to do that was gratifying. He had considered just killing Wilson more than once, but that really wouldn't solve the AML problem. Perhaps mapping their various sources of funding would begin that process.

"How far along with it are you, may I see?"

William nodded. "Marie, the red folder on my desk if you would?"

Marie stood and went to her father's desk, but before she located the folder there came a crash and a shout from somewhere in the house. Startled, she looked up and took a step toward the door to investigate. Stephen reacted instinctively to shield her and bar her way. It might be nothing, but then again it might be something. In a minor display of power, he was across the room and in front of the door. He held up a hand, and Marie stopped where she was in the middle of the room.

"What's going on?" William said, his face beginning to darken with suspicion.

"I have no notion. Perhaps nothing, but for Marie's sake allow me to investigate." He opened the door and peered out, but nothing seemed amiss. He advanced.

"Be careful!" Marie called.

"I shall," he said without turning. Something felt out of place, but he couldn't quite get a sense of it. He had the distinct feeling he had forgotten something. "I'll be back shortly."

He closed the office door firmly, wishing he could have locked it and stationed a guard to protect its contents. A few of his wolves would have been handy about now, or that security guard he met earlier. Yes, where was the fellow? He looked about himself but the house seemed deserted. The shout should have brought the man running, surely.

He listened intently and thought he heard something coming from the back of the house. He headed that way opening doors and peering into rooms. There was no sign of disturbance and he began to feel a little silly. Perhaps one of the staff had dropped something and the mishap had caused him to shout in startlement. He frowned; he didn't believe that—

The attack came out of nowhere and he was flying off his feet, snarling in pain. His chest was on fire! Not literally, but it hurt as if flames were consuming him. He crashed to the floor on his back, his hands ripping at his shirt and the flesh beneath. He tore the silvered daggers out of his chest, vowing bloody vengeance. As soon as the hated metal left his body, the coolness he associated with healing replaced the pain. The great beyond and the coolness of the grave was a balm to his kind.

He sprang to his feet and threw the daggers aside as his attacker arrived. It was a vampire, a young one, and his aura felt strange. He remembered Gavin's description of O'Neal; how his aura had felt weak one moment and powerful the next. This newborn was the same. Suddenly he feared for Marie and her father. Were they still safe? He had no time to check; he was busy fighting for his life. He thought longingly of his sword and wished he'd brought it, but as with prayer, wishes did him little good. He had his strength and his fangs. They would have to be enough.

Fists and feet hammered his body, but they did little to harm him. They did succeed in annoying him—they made it hard to retaliate effectively when he had to block the strikes. He used his speed, one of his greatest assets, to get behind his opponent and that was that. He grabbed the man's head and wrenched it hard back with a nice little twist to complete the move. The neck snapped. It wasn't a killing tactic, but it did inconvenience the man. It was hard to see your enemy and fight effectively with a broken neck. He didn't give him time to heal. He twisted the head all the way around, ignoring the man's snapping jaws and his scrabbling hands. Another full turn and he ripped the head free. The body froze for a timeless moment, and then collapsed like the dead thing it was.

Another dagger came out of nowhere and buried itself in his belly. This time he simply brushed it away, threw the head at this new attacker, and charged. The human's eyes widened in fear. He ducked the incoming head and brought up a machine gun of the type Angel sometimes carried. The man triggered a burst, but Stephen was already inside his reach and sweeping the arm holding the weapon aside. Bullets stitched the walls and ceiling, but none came close to their intended target. He grinned, his fangs fully extended and the man screamed. He didn't have time to scream a second time, a severed carotid artery and missing windpipe did tend to inhibit them.

He spat the morsel out and stepped aside to avoid the pumping blood, letting the soon to be corpse collapse writhing at his feet. He chose not to feed in Marie's house. It would have helped speed his healing, but he didn't feel comfortable doing it where she might see.

He could hear gunfire outside now, and more shouting. Security was apparently fighting back. He ran toward the sound. He didn't know who the attackers were, but AML would be a good bet. Gavin had fought and killed O'Neal, a newborn vampire, and here he was being attacked by another. AML were involved in Michael's abduction, and perhaps this attack was an attempt to replicate that success, or perhaps William was the target. Wilson may have learned about the subject of their meeting and sent them to disrupt it. It didn't really matter now; killing them did. Whoever they were, they had proven themselves to be a diverse group. He had never heard of AML working with non-humans before.

He found the fight. Security guards lay dead or dying upon the ground outside along with a similar number of their attackers. Going by numbers alone, he would say it was a standoff, but who was to say there weren't more of his kind on the grounds. He found a familiar face among the defenders. It was one of the two men he'd met briefly earlier. He couldn't recall his name but that didn't matter. What did was Marie's safety.

"Let me deal with this," Stephen began, joining the man behind the cover of a pretty balustrade overlooking the formal gardens. "Take someone with you and protect Marie. Do you have a safe room here, or a way to get her off the property?"

The man hesitated. "Yes but—"

"Don't argue with me. Get Marie and her father away from here."

The man nodded. He patted his companion's shoulder and together they scurried back into the house, keeping low. Stephen watched them go, and let his fangs descend. He was going to slaughter everything not belonging to Marie and enjoy it; perhaps enjoy it too much, but she would be safe and hopefully never know what he'd done to ensure it.

He laughed at the thought of what he was about to do and breathed deeply of the nighttime air, enjoying the sensation of raising his power. He rarely got the chance to let himself off the leash of discipline so hard won over the centuries. Truly, this night would be one to remember. His eyes flashed to silver, looking like liquid metal orbs in their sockets as he turned his power loose on the night. It manifested first as speed, second as physical strength, but perhaps the most impressive from his enemy's point of view was his glamour. To them, he appeared like a black winged avenging angel as he slaughtered them. They felt the wind stirred by his beating wings, felt the feathers on skin as he enfolded them in his embrace. It was glamour, just illusion, but all too real to men and women with no defence against it.

Screams filled the night air, and machine guns chattered as terrified people fired at phantoms, often hitting their compatriots in their panic. One by one, he silenced their voices, their blood and screams devoured by the black-winged angel of vengeance. He fed and fed and fed until he could swallow no more, and simply allowed the blood to flow out of them upon the thirsty ground. His wounds healed, replaced by fresh ones, but those healed almost instantly. His power was on him in full measure, and he raged through the grounds killing everyone he found.

Finally, he came back to himself, covered in blood and feeling empty again. He should be full to bursting, but he wasn't. He had drained a dozen humans. That would usually be enough essence to last weeks, but he had spent it all like a spendthrift upon killing his enemies. He did not regret it, but hunger was gnawing at his vitals again. He eyed the corpses, but they didn't appeal. A shifter might take a bite out of a corpse and take no ill effect, but his kind could not feed upon the truly dead, not even upon the recently dead. They needed live blood and donors.

He turned in a circle hopefully, but he sensed only death in the darkness. Bodies littered the ground all around him in every direction. Bent and broken weapons were stuck in the lawns and flowerbeds, their barrels planted in the soil like macabre garden ornaments. He pulled at his sodden shirt and grimaced at the feel of it peeling away from his skin. Edward would not be happy about this. His suit had been Armani, ordered especially for this occasion.

He tugged his tie loose and over his head. He shoved it into his jacket pocket and felt for his comb. He could do nothing about the blood on his shirt, but he could at least make an effort. He hoped Marie and her father were long gone from here, but if not, he didn't want them thinking ill of him. He combed his hair and removed his jacket, folding it over one arm and holding it to cover as much of his bloodied shirt as it would. It was the best he could do. He headed back to the house.

He entered through the rear and retraced his earlier route. When Terry appeared with Marie, he smiled in relief that quickly turned to alarm. She was crying, and Terry was holding her upper arm tight enough to bruise. Anger surged, and suddenly he knew what he'd forgotten earlier. It had been Terry. He had forgotten he was here, but more than that, he couldn't feel their bond. With his child right before him, he couldn't feel it. _Impossible!_ He gaped in utter surprise and shock when a group of newborn vampires exited the office at Terry's back and paused to watch.

Terry laughed and shook Marie roughly, making her cry out.

Stephen snarled, and would have launched himself at the traitor, but fear for Marie held him back.

"She's dead the moment you don't do what you're told," Terry said. "My new master has sworn that I can have her." He licked his lips ostentatiously. "He swore that I can have her in any way that I want her. He promised. All I have to do is deliver you, and here you are. Sound familiar?"

Stephen frowned. It was a variation on the deal he'd struck with Terry in exchange for bestowing the gift upon him. He had asked for an introduction to Marie. Terry had promoted himself as her boyfriend at the time, a lie as it had turned out. He was using a similar gambit again. He never had been very bright or original.

"Don't hurt her, and I'll come with you peacefully."

"You will anyway, or she's dead."

He snarled at the threat, taking an involuntary step, and suddenly Terry had Marie's throat in his hand. She gasped, her eyes bulging and pleading.

"Stop!" he shouted in horror as Terry squeezed the life out of her. Goddess damn it stop him! I swear if she dies I'll kill every one of you!"

The vampire audience shifted unhappily but they did nothing.

Stephen dropped to his knees and clasped his hands behind his head. "All right damn you!"

Terry grinned and allowed Marie to breathe. She gasped and sucked at the air greedily. "Very good. Put the cuffs on him."

One of the vampires advanced nervously. He was carrying a pair of heavy-duty rune cuffs; police issue by the looks of them. Constructed of titanium steel alloy to withstand a vampire's strength and electroplated in silver, the runes engraved in the metal of each cuff would prevent shifters from changing shape and would absorb magic of any kind. If those went on his wrists, he would be helpless.

He cast about for ideas, but one squeeze of her neck would send Marie to her judgement before the Goddess. If he could get Terry to let her go for just a few seconds, he could kill him and his friends. None were strong enough to withstand him one on one, or even two on one, but there were five including Terry.

The cuffs closed upon his wrists, and suddenly his anger drained away with his strength. The last thing he heard as he spiraled into oblivion was Marie crying his name and Terry's laughter.

## 32

# Missing

David shook Craig's hand and took his leave of him. Another two down without violence, he thought with heavy satisfaction at a job well done. Craig and his mate were strong betas and a good addition to the pack. They had good jobs, had never been in trouble with the law unlike some of the others he'd been forced to recruit, and although both had tried their strength against him and Ronnie, it was for form only. Craig and Maggie had known the moment they tried they would lose. They must have, because it had been obvious to him the moment he met them, and he assumed, to Ronnie as well. Mist had been exceedingly smug about it too.

Craig and Maggie were strong willed, and could almost be alpha. That had pleased Mist and was a big part of why he was so smug at besting them, but although they were strong, they lacked that little something, that extra spark that could have tipped their Presence from beta level to alpha. That was to the pack's benefit. The _Blood Drinkers_ were already top heavy, and already had too many strong males in the alpha range. True, it did strengthen House Edmonton and that was important, but as Lawrence had stressed earlier, a healthy pack needed balance to function well. He needed to recruit betas to turn the _Blood Drinkers_ from House Edmonton's enforcers into a proper pack.

"That went okay," he said as they headed back to the SUV. "What do you think of them?"

Ronnie shrugged. "He's okay."

"But?"

"But Maggie is a little quiet for my taste. It's lucky they have good jobs already. They wouldn't fit in at the club, and there's no way she would make a good enforcer for Stephen."

"Well, we knew that from the start. We don't need more fighters."

"I know, but we don't need liabilities either."

He frowned. He didn't see them that way. "Are we adopting trouble?"

"We'll see. Probably not. They're strong enough to stand up for themselves if they need to, it's just..." she grimaced. "Maybe I'm just spoiled. Living among so many big dogs at the club makes these two feel timid."

"Strong in Presence but timid at the same time? That doesn't sound like any shifter I've ever met."

"You haven't met many outside of the pack."

"True. Maybe Craig and Maggie are the norm, and we're the freaks. How would I know?"

"You could ask me."

"Okay. Are we?"

"Are we what, freaks?" she said and he nodded. "Not freaks, but unusual, sure. That's why we're recruiting people like Craig and Maggie. We're trying to dilute the strangeness in a way. Look, we all gave ourselves to Stephen because we were running from a situation in our pasts, right?"

David nodded.

"But running from your pack is very unusual to begin with. It's a really big deal rebelling like that. It takes a certain kind of person, not just Presence. It takes determination to throw away all you've ever known based only on the hope of something better around the corner."

"Okay, I haven't been in that situation, but I understand what you mean. So our pack is full of rebels."

He unlocked the doors of the SUV with the remote and Ronnie climbed into the passenger side. He climbed behind the wheel and buckled up. Ronnie rolled her eyes at his safety conscious attitude. She knew, and so did he really, that he could be ejected through the windscreen and take no long term harm from it these days, but that wasn't the point. It would still hurt, so why not wear the belt?

Ronnie powered the window down on her side to hook her elbow on it, and fiddled with the stereo. She found a station she liked but lowered the volume so they could continue talking.

David started the motor and pulled into the sparse nighttime traffic. "Do you know the way to the next one?" he said, glancing at the blank GPS in the dash.

"Keep going straight, I'll tell you when to turn."

"Okay. So we're all rebels?"

"Yes, except for you and one or two of the others. We're not timid, even our few betas aren't. We're a really powerful pack in terms of pure strength. I don't want you thinking we're not, but we're so top heavy that the pack is a little... _unstable_ , I guess is the right word. Stephen has kept everyone in line until now. We knew that without House Edmonton, we would have no sanctuary in LA. You'll have to do that for us from now on."

"No one has challenged me since that first day."

"They will though. They're still settling into the new situation. Once they have, they'll start to look around and make a move. We need to fill out our numbers with people who can settle them down without challenging them."

"And you don't think Craig and Maggie help us there?"

"It's not that they can't, it's that I doubt they'll feel motivated to try. They're mated and too timid. Like I said."

"The opposite would be bad in a different way."

Ronnie nodded.

"What's the answer?"

"We keep doing what we're doing, but I think we need to advertise for some single female betas." She noticed his grimace. "You're going to have to get over that. It's human silliness anyway. A couple of dozen females will calm things. I've seen it in action and it works. The _Alley Dog_ pack is mature and it's a big one. Pederson is a bastard, but he knows how to run a good pack. We could do worse than copying him. Well, in this at least; not so much in the screwing every bitch not nailed down arena. You're—" she broke off frowning herself now.

"I'm what?" he said with a crooked smile.

**We are hers, she is ours,** Mist said smugly.

"Never mind. Turn left here."

He made the turn. "Who are we meeting?"

Ronnie didn't have a chance to answer as her link chose that moment to chirp. She dug in a pocket for it and answered the call. "Yeah?"

David tried to listen in, but although the stereo's volume was low, he couldn't hear who was calling. He noticed Ronnie's frown as she listened, but when it turned to alarm his heart sank. What had gone wrong now? He began searching for a place to park.

"What does Edward say about it? He should be able to..." Ronnie was saying. "...yeah but that's impossible. He said that, or you think that? Right... no but we can lock the place down. Let me... no he's here with me. Driving. Okay I'll tell him. Just hang... no don't do that, Lawrence. I want to get a sniff of the place myself. Screw that... yeah... okay. We're on our way. Yeah, bye."

"Trouble?" David asked.

"Yes. Turn around; we're needed back at the club. Stephen's missing."

A chill swept through him. "What do you mean missing?"

"Like Michael. That kind of missing."

"But _how?_ He was visiting Marie wasn't he? That place has top flight security."

Ronnie shrugged. "Lawrence didn't know. Something went down though. There are cops all over it apparently. There's something else weird as well. Edward says he can't feel Stephen anymore. That should mean he's dead, but he can't be dead."

"Why?" he said hoping she was right.

"Edward is Stephen's human servant. They're bonded. Edward is alive, so Stephen must be too."

"You're sure about that?"

"Edward is."

David turned down another street and got them pointed the right way back to the club. He preferred to drive manually and not use the autopilot, and always had. He enjoyed it, but it was hard keeping his speed down right now. He wanted to race back and learn exactly what had happened, but getting pulled-over by a traffic cop or sanctioned by the AI traffic control system wouldn't improve his mood.

He tried to plan what he would do when he got back to the club. He could send the pack out listening for any word about what went down, but he would need to check Marie's house himself, or Mist could, depending upon what he found waiting there. There might be a way to track Stephen's scent. How they had managed to get the drop on such a powerful vamp puzzled him. Stephen would have fought and probably killed them unless seriously out numbered.

"Does Lawrence have any leads at all?"

"He didn't say, but taking out Stephen after what we found at Michael's estate? It has to be AML again."

"Hmmm. Hoberman might know something," he said, frowning in thought. "I wonder how far into their circle he really is."

"Who is Hoberman?"

"My ex-boss. Doctor Hoberman tried to recruit me for AML and wanted to use me in his bid for the Mayoral election."

Ronnie snorted her derision.

"It's not as stupid as it sounds. He didn't know me that well, obviously, but I can see it working with someone else. If I'd been racist or the kind who wanted to lash out, I might have accepted his offer. As it turned out, all I wanted was the one responsible punished, not every shifter in the city. He couldn't understand that."

"And he's part of AML?"

"I'm not entirely sure. The bodyguards with him were, but I don't know if he's a card-carrying member himself. They might just be using each other."

"It's worth thinking about," Ronnie said. "We can squeeze him if necessary."

"Let's talk to Edward first. He might have an opinion on it, and I guess he'll call Gavin and Rachelle too. You know, we should think about their security. AML, or whoever is behind them, has taken out two of four Houses. They might try for the entire set."

"I hope they try Gavin. He'll shred them."

"I'm not so sure about that. I would have sworn Stephen could protect himself, but here we are and he's missing."

"Yeah."

The rest of the trip to Lost Souls went quickly by in silence. David concentrated upon his driving while going over scenarios in his head. He wanted to know what was happening right now at the Stirling house before choosing a direction. Was OSI involved in the investigation? That would make things trickier, but they had their own cop, and she could probably find out more than he could with a single link call to her friends in the department. He would wait for Edward's opinion, but he had a feeling he would need to visit the detective tonight. Angel would know her address.

The club was in full swing when David parked in the lot, and it reminded him that he couldn't just send the entire pack out to search for Stephen. Life went on despite the disasters sent his way. Stephen wouldn't appreciate it if he closed down the club. Still, the _Blood Drinkers_ had the numbers to do both. He glanced at Ronnie as they marched across the lot side by side. He would leave Ronnie in charge of the club. He wouldn't leave it unprotected. The _Alley Dogs_ had been quiet recently, but they might think of Stephen's absence as an opportunity to make trouble. The other city packs were sniffing around the borders as everyone had warned him would happen, but they were a lesser concern compared to the huge danger the _Alley Dogs_ represented.

They found Edward in his office standing with Lawrence watching the news on the vid. The big screen had Channel 5 on and the reporter was speculating upon what had happened. The pictures were very clear, provided by hover cams buzzing overhead, recording the police and forensic teams investigating the scene and collecting bodies.

"That's right, Dave," the reporter doing the voice-over said cheerfully. "The police have now confirmed that billion dollar industrialist William P. Stirling died along with eighteen others in his home around 10:15pm this evening when it came under attack. Rumours are spreading that the Anti-Monster League has claimed responsibility for the atrocity already, but the police have so far failed to confirm or deny the story. Instead, they stated in their initial bulletin that their investigations have barely begun, and that they will inform the public at the appropriate time."

A small inset window opened showing the news anchor sitting behind his desk in the studio. "That's interesting, Liz. Do we know why AML would be interested in Mister Stirling? He was human, wasn't he?"

"That's right, Dave, but as we all know AML doesn't always limit itself to non-humans. They're well known for their indiscriminate use of violence often leading to collateral damage."

"You think Mister Stirling was collateral damage? If so, who was their target?"

Staged question much? David shook his head in disgust as he joined Edward.

"No one knows for sure, but rumours about Marie Stirling and her recent adventures in LA might explain AML's interest. She is known to frequent a particularly fashionable and popular monster club called Lost Souls in the Waterfront District. According to my sources, Miss Stirling invited the owner, a well-known vampire, to visit her at home this evening."

"Oh bugger me," Edward said in disgust. "That's torn it."

David nodded. "Check in with security front and back. Right now, Lawrence. The reporters will be all over this, and us."

Lawrence hurried out.

"Who do you think is her source?" Ronnie asked, but Edward shook his head.

"It could be anyone," David said. "Thrill seekers watch us all pretty close, and Stephen has a lot of fans."

Ronnie snorted.

It was true though. Stephen was well known in Monster Central as the owner of Lost Souls, and the club was very popular. Unless he took particular steps to maintain secrecy for a special reason or occasion—such as visiting George AFB for conclave—everything he did was under scrutiny and remarked upon by someone. Marie's visits had obviously been noticed. No doubt some poor sap was a few dollars richer for revealing them.

Edward turned off the screen.

"What do we know?" David asked.

"Nothing," Edward said and threw the remote underhanded to land on the couch. "I felt him disappear, but there was no warning."

"You felt the bond break?"

" _Of course not!_ " Edward snapped and rubbed his forehead. "The bond didn't snap. If it had I would be dead, and Stephen's death is the only force I know that could break it. He's alive but hidden from me."

"Magic?" Ronnie said.

"It must be some kind of spell. Necromancy possibly, or something else. A ward? I have no bloody notion what could do this. I didn't know this was possible! I don't... I feel... empty. It has been so long since I've been alone in my head. It feels wrong."

David could sympathise. If Mist were suddenly taken from him, he was sure he would feel something similar despite their bond being so new. How must it feel to lose a centuries old bond? Not comfortable he was certain.

"Did you ask Rachelle's witch about it? What does Gavin say?"

"Rachelle tells me she will look into it. Gavin has sent his people onto the streets. Angel has contacts she can tap. If there are any useful rumours she'll hear them."

"I was thinking we should add to Rachelle's and Gavin's security. AML are two for two. There's no telling whether they'll try for the full set. They could do that at almost any time."

Edward frowned. "We don't have the resources to search for Stephen and protect all three Houses. Stephen must be our priority."

"I agree," Ronnie said.

He frowned but let it go. "About that. I think I'll visit our cop and take her with me to talk with Hoberman. She can make herself useful by flashing her badge in his face."

Edward looked hopeful suddenly. "You think he might know something?"

"I was telling Ronnie earlier that when Hoberman tried to recruit me he was escorted by AML bodyguards, and not long after that I was attacked by AML. He's either one of them himself or he's working with them. He might have heard something that will help. A badge might make that easier."

Edward nodded eagerly. "Try."

"I'll come along," Ronnie began but scowled as David shook his head. "Why not?"

"I need you here. With Stephen out of the way, the club is vulnerable. I don't need a fight with another pack right now, especially not with reporters on our doorstep ready to record it all, but that doesn't mean we let them just walk over us either. One of us has to stay, and Hoberman doesn't know you."

"And what will Lawrence be doing while I protect the homestead?"

He winced at the scorn dripping from her words. "Coordinating a search. I want half the pack here with you and ready for trouble. The rest in groups sniffing around the city for information. I'll check out Marie's house after my visit with Hoberman. Maybe the cops will have packed up and moved on by then."

Ronnie wasn't happy but Edward liked it and that was enough.

David left them in the office and hurried back to the parking lot and the SUV. He wanted to leave before the reporters entrenched themselves and made things trickier. He reached the car before the reporters arrived but only just in time. He sat behind the wheel and watched the vans pull up and the reporters begin setting up. He shook his head as they tried to enter the club despite security on the doors. Darrin's eyes ignited and that was enough to back them up and down the steps. It was a good trick that he used himself when on the doors. It was enough to remind the humans what they were dealing with without getting physical. Martina's eyes ignited a few moments later. She swept them contemptuously over the milling crowd below her like some kind of demonic lighthouse. He laughed at the thought and dug in his pocket for his link.

He watched the show while waiting for Angel to pick up. Darrin must have called for reinforcements because two more of the pack came out to back him up. That allowed him to concentrate on his real job of vetting the guests and allowing them in or turning them away.

"Yeah?"

David turned his attention to his own business. "Angel, its David."

"Yeah?"

"Do you have our cop's address?"

There was a brief hesitation. "Yeah but... what do you want it for?"

"Nothing sinister. You heard what happened. I want her badge and expertise on this with me. I might have a lead. I think she can help."

"Oh, okay. Got a pen?"

"I'll remember it."

"Whatever—"

He listened as Angel gave him the address and directions. "Okay thanks, I got it. Keep an eye on Gavin."

"Why?" Angel said, suddenly sounding suspicious. "What have you heard?"

"Nothing like that. I'm just worried that AML is two for two now and might try for all four of our vamps, that's all."

"If they come here they won't be leaving, _like ever!_ " Angel snarled.

"You're there now?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Stay safe. Bye." He put away his link and drove slowly out of the lot.

## 33

# Questions

Detective Humber lived on the third floor of a shabby apartment block that had little to recommend it. Maybe it was convenient for her work or something. It wasn't that far from Central. Someone had spray painted the security droid manning the lobby doors an almost fluorescent shade of pink, and decorated it with yellow flowers. It looked quite fetching really, but it did nothing to secure the building. It was obviously busted; it had a bucket on its head.

David walked right on in.

Outside her apartment door, he pressed the buzzer and waited. The door didn't open and she didn't say anything, but he felt her arrive on the other side. He assumed she was checking him out using the peep camera above the door. All the apartments had them at least. Minimal security at most, but better than nothing. He eyed the lock on her door doubtfully. It was digital, but again it seemed basic. He was sure she must earn enough for better security than this. Why was she living in a low rent dump? Not his business.

"You going to open the door, _de-tec-tive?_ " he said trying out Angel's impudent drawl, and heard her growl a curse. He grinned. "Come on, you know you're curious."

"How did you get my address?" Chris said, her voice muffled by the door.

"Angel gave it to me."

"She wouldn't do that. Try again."

He shrugged. "She did, so I'm not going to try again." The door cracked open. He raised his hands when he saw the huge boomer in her fist. "Don't shoot, I surrender, I come in peace, blah blah. Can I come in?"

She lowered her gun, but the scowl remained in place. "Smart arse aren't you?"

"So they tell me. Do you want to do this in the hall?"

She stepped back and opened the door wider

He entered the apartment and waited for her to re-lock the door before following her into the main room. The space surprised him. She had it nicely painted in warm cheerful colours—pale yellow walls and bright white ceilings. She had chosen comfortable furnishings, not flashy, but not cheap junk either. From the outside, the entire block looked like a dump, but inside it was really rather nice, well, her apartment was anyway. He smelled fresh coffee coming from the kitchen. The vid screen was on with the sound low. She had Channel 5's news segment on, and yes, it was still reporting on the attack upon Marie Stirling's home.

"What do you want?"

He waved a hand at the screen. "Stephen was there. He's missing like Michael."

Chris' eyes narrowed. "Why was he there?"

"He was invited to discuss the proposed acquisition of various properties in Monster Central by Techtron."

"Ah ha," she said, not sounding convinced. "What was the real reason?"

"Techtron's involvement with AML."

That surprised her. She tucked her gun in the waistband of her pants. There was a holster there at the small of her back. She led him into her little kitchen and raised the coffee jug and an eyebrow.

"Black, please," he said and watched her pour two cups. He took a sip of his and frowned at how bitter it tasted. She couldn't make coffee for shit. "Thanks." He put the cup aside. "I need your help."

"Why mine?"

"You're a badge."

"I'm on leave."

"I won't tell him if you don't."

She raised that very mobile eyebrow again. "Tell who?"

"An ex-colleague of mine. Doctor George Hoberman."

"And how is he connected to this?"

"He came to my house with a pair of AML thugs not long after I was discharged from hospital and tried to recruit me. I think we both know that AML are involved with the latest abductions, and Hoberman is involved with AML. I think if anyone knows what they're up to, he might, and more to the point, he'll fold at the sight of your badge where a hard core fanatic won't."

"Point," she said nodding. "You're sure he knows what's going on?"

"No, but there's a chance. I don't know anyone who supports AML... I don't think I do anyway. If I do, they've kept very quiet about it. He's the only one who I can point to that I'm certain has worked with them. You?"

"No one still free, no."

He nodded. "Will you come with me to talk with him?"

"Let's go."

Hoberman looked ghastly. He hadn't shaved in a few days and his skin was sallow. He was wearing wrinkled pants and a blue shirt open at the neck. No sign of his habitual tie, and he had slippers on his feet. Well why not? He was at home relaxing. Why shouldn't he dress for comfort? No reason that David could think of, but he didn't look comfortable. He looked stressed and very unlike the powerful man he'd known.

Hoberman looked ten years older and worried when he opened the door. Chris' badge had been enough to get him to open it, but David had kept out of sight until that point. When Hoberman recognised him approaching, he tried to slam the door closed, but Chris had already pushed inside enough to hold it. David shoved the door the rest of the way open easily. He was very strong these days. Hoberman staggered as the door flew out of his hands to slam against the wall, and backed fearfully away.

"Evening, George," David said cheerfully and closed the door. "May I introduce _De-tec-tive_ Humber?"

Chris gave him a dirty look. "Nice to meet you. Call me Detective."

"What do you want?"

"I think you know," David said. "Don't you?"

"I'll ask the questions," Chris said and addressed herself to Hoberman. "Do you?"

"No I don't."

"Hmmm. I'm sorry Doctor Hoberman, but I've been in this job a long time and I know when someone is lying to me. Please don't do that. I don't like wasting my time. Let's try again. I'll ask questions, you answer questions truthfully, and we part friends. All clear so far?"

Hoberman's shoulders sagged and he nodded miserably. He turned away and led them into a sitting room. He collapsed onto a couch and put his face in his hands. David could feel the defeat rolling off him, and scent his fear and despair in the air. A frisson of excitement went down his spine and he shuddered at the feeling. He liked it that Hoberman feared him, and so did Mist. Of course the wolf took it only as their due. The less powerful should fear them. It was part of The Way.

Something had pushed Hoberman to the edge of emotional collapse. He tried not to gloat, but what goes around comes around as they say. This man had made his life hard when he was a junior doctor and had later tried to blackmail him. For all he knew, AML had been doing his bidding when they shot Mist that night. The wolf snarled, remembering the burning agony of silver in his guts.

David tried to put some warmth in his voice, but it was hard. "What's happened to you, George? You don't look well."

Chris glared at him. He could read her expression like words. Let _me_ handle it, she was thinking. He nodded to her and stepped figuratively back from things. He had wanted her along for her expertise. It would be foolish not to use it, but he wouldn't leave it all to her. He would get what he needed out of Hoberman if she couldn't.

"How did you get involved with AML, Doctor Hoberman?" Chris began smoothly. She was enquiring, not condemnatory at all, not accusing, and she certainly didn't call him a raving idiot racist fanatic, which he manifestly was and she knew it.

Good trick that.

"Wilson came to me," Hoberman began. "I swear I didn't ask for this. He came to me!"

"Wilson is?"

"Christopher Wilson; he's Techtron's Chief of Operations—number two in the corporation below Stirling himself. I met him at a fundraiser and we got talking about things. He mentioned the coming election and said Techtron was looking for a cause to back. I don't know why he chose me, but he said I would make a good candidate for Mayor, especially if backed by Techtron's resources."

"He probably found out about your AML leanings," David sneered and received twin glares from his audience. He shrugged them off. "Truth is truth. You can't go around saying what you do and not expect it to be noticed. Rumours spread. It's what happens."

Hoberman nodded reluctantly. "I won't apologise for it. I say what I think and I won't be silenced simply because it isn't polite or politically correct. Wilson was quite insistent about my campaign being something worth his attention and before I knew it, I had AML bodyguards and Techtron funding. I had high ratings in the polls and a good campaign manager and PR. I was on my way to election, I'm sure of it."

"But?" Chris said when he failed to go on. "What changed?"

"I heard some things. I confronted Wilson and demanded to know if what I'd heard was true. He didn't even try to deny it! I told him I wouldn't be party to murder, and he told me I would do what I was told or else he would withdraw funding. I told him I wouldn't be held hostage that way, and be damned."

"Good for you, George!"

"It was the end of my bid for Mayor. He pulled Techtron's support and my campaign collapsed."

"Go back to where murder became involved. Whose murder, where and when?" Chris said. She was, after all, first and foremost a murder cop.

"We aren't talking names—"

"I think we are. In fact, I insist."

"I don't mean it that way. I mean that I didn't hear names. It was an AML campaign with Techtron's backing, or maybe it was just Wilson backing it considering recent events."

"You mean William Stirling's death. You think Wilson was behind that?"

"I think AML was behind it, but Wilson will benefit hugely from it. Stirling was a thorn in his side. You wouldn't believe how many of his projects and schemes that Stirling vetoed over the years. He told me about some of them. Stirling dead, his daughter inherits but she's missing... convenient, yes?"

Goddess he sounded bitter. He supposed Hoberman felt hard used by Wilson, and from a political point of view, he certainly had been used. Hoberman had been a pleasant face pasted over AML's grinning death's head. He was a bigot and racist, but he had drawn the line at murder. David supposed that was a good thing, but he couldn't find it within himself to feel sorry for him. He should have known what he was signing up for the first day that AML sent bodyguards to shadow him.

Chris continued her interrogation. "What is AML's endgame here? I can see how taking out Techtron's CEO is good for Wilson, but what connects them other than money? _Is_ it only the money?"

"That's part of it. Wilson gains control of Techtron in exchange for funding AML's new campaign, and for a time, mine as well. Everyone knows what AML ultimately wants. You don't need me to tell you that they want a world free of non-humans."

"So do you," David said and Hoberman glared. "It's true. I've heard your views, remember?"

"Then I didn't explain myself very well. I do not want genocide. I want _separation_. That should be clear enough for anyone to understand. Even you, Doc—Mister Lephmann. Shifters are dangerous, vampires are dangerous, ghouls, zombies, demons... all non-humans creatures are dangerous! They can kill us, infect us, and even _eat_ us! They infect us and steal our humanity or our immortal souls, and you wonder why I want them segregated?"

"We're veering away from the main point," Chris said.

"Do you think so? I think AML's views are at the heart of it. I don't hold with Newman's fanatical ideals—they're tantamount to genocide, but I understand where he derives them from. Fear. I'm not ashamed to admit I fear you, David. I fear you, I fear your _kind_ , and I fear what your kind does to ordinary people like me and to our society. Every human _changed_ is a tragedy; every human _turned_ is a tragedy."

John Newman was a name well known in the Republic. He led the Anti-Monster League, and his ideals empowered its members to greater and greater atrocities against non-humans every year. He was a fugitive now, but a remarkably successful one in that he still ran his organisation despite having to hide from the federal government. A cynical man might believe the feds weren't really interested in capturing him, and be right in his opinion.

"And you have the answer, don't you?" he said.

"In the past we hunted and killed non-humans to protect ourselves, but now our young people seek them out wanting to join them! Some want excitement or the thrill of danger, but more and more are choosing the dubious benefits of immortality offered by vampires, or they're seduced by the allure of longer healthier lifespans offered by shifters. The young are the future of the human race, and they're being stolen from us!"

David laughed. "Paranoia."

"Fact!" Hoberman rebutted. "My answer might not satisfy Newman's fanatics, but it would work. Non-human enclaves administered and even protected by the federal government and the military."

"Prisons," David said flatly. "Worse. Concentration camps. Are you insane? Do you realise what would happen if your idea became reality?"

"We would be safe from things like you!"

"No you wouldn't. Do you really think the elves would let you pen them up? Do you think the vampires would or my people? Wake up man! Look to Europe if you want to know what will happen. What you propose has been tried. It led to the last War of Races!"

He wasn't an expert in European history by any means, but he knew the basics. The human-elven pact had ended the last War of Races, but only because the elves agreed to the founding of the Empire as a way of controlling the human population. It was a last ditch effort to prevent the continual persecution of the elves and by extension non-humans in general.

The Empire ruled all of Europe even to this day and had successfully kept the peace between the races. The half-elven emperors and empresses ruled from palaces in London and Berlin, alternating between the two every few years. The monarchies of Europe were so intermarried with each other and the elves that none was pure human any longer, and that more than anything had kept the peace.

Hoberman's idea of segregation was the polar opposite of what was known to have worked in Europe, not that the elves living on this continent would dream of interbreeding with humans. They were as racist as Hoberman in their own way. They preferred to keep their bloodlines pure and free of human contamination, and looked sort of sideways at their kin in Europe for not doing the same.

"Now who is giving in to paranoia?" Hoberman said.

"You're an idiot."

"And you're a—"

"Shut up both of you!" Chris said, glaring them both into silence. "We have bodies on the ground and people missing. I don't have time or patience to listen to two little boys argue the toss over history lessons we all learned in eighth grade. I don't give a crap about what the elves would or wouldn't do, or what they think! What I care about is finding out where the missing people are. Do you know?"

Hoberman shook his head sullenly.

"Who might?"

"Wilson maybe. It depends on how much AML trusted him, or how much he _distrusted_ them. If I had his resources I would have made it my business to find out as much about them as I could."

David shook his head in disgust. "To blackmail them with you mean."

Chris glared David into silence again. "Fine. Wilson is already on my shit list anyway. Now I have another reason to interview him. Let's go."

David followed as Chris stalked away

Hoberman hurried to catch up. "He won't talk. Hells, he won't even see you!"

"He will," Chris said confidently, and opened the door to let herself out. "My badge will get us in."

"And his high powered lawyers will see you right out again!"

"We'll see."

David watched her go for the elevator and secretly thought Hoberman might be right this time. "Keep your head down, George. This is likely to blow up in all our faces soon."

Hoberman nodded. He didn't exit his apartment, choosing instead to stand in the open doorway. "It's what I've been doing. I've taken some vacation time and don't plan on leaving my apartment for the next few weeks." He looked down, obviously wanting to say more but hesitating. "I didn't lie that day in your room. I really did try everything to save you from... from this."

"This? You can't even say it, can you? I'm a shifter. Say it."

Hoberman glared. "I tried to save you," he said and slammed the door in David's face.

He heard the locks click.

"Are you coming or what?" Chris said holding the elevator doors.

"Seeing as I'm driving, that should probably be my line," he said joining her in the elevator. "Where are we going?"

"Where do you think? To see Wilson of course."

"Okay. Do you know where to find him at this time of night?"

"No, but I know how to find out," Chris said and raised her link. "We detectives know stuff."

"Hmph!"

Wilson apparently, was one of those workaholic night owls that David had heard tell of, but had never met. According to Chris' sources, he was currently in his office at Techtron making billions of dollars or something for the mega corporation that he oversaw, and probably performing his evil overlord impression for his AML friends. David could easily imagine it. Such powerful men had reputations for being ruthless manipulators, and after talking with Hoberman, he was prepared for that to be the case here.

He drove them to the Techtron Building and into its parking facility beneath the massive chrome and glass needle-like tower. He parked as soon as he could and then rode the elevator up to the penultimate floor where Wilson held sway. Chris was quiet beside him, thinking cop thoughts, and tapping her thigh impatiently as the elevator raced for the 119th floor without stops.

"Do you credit Hoberman's story?" he asked to break the uncomfortable silence.

"Hmmm."

"Was that a yes hmmm, or a no hmmm?"

Her lips twitched toward a smile. "Yes."

"Which?"

"Yes I think he was telling the truth. It doesn't mean it is _the_ truth, only that he believes it is."

"You're no help."

"Be still my heart! My purpose in life isn't to make yours easier. I'm only here because there's a chance Marie Stirling is still alive and in need of my help. I'm here because if Wilson knows where she is, I might be able to get my hands on Michael Fabron. Remember him? The vampire who turned O'Neal and allowed him to run amok killing nine women in my city?"

"No need for snark."

"You think that was snark? You haven't heard snark. I don't give a crap about your vampire. I have my own vamp to find. If Stephen is being held in the same place as Marie Stirling, then fine, I'll help him too, but make no mistake—I'm looking for justice for nine dead women not to save a vampire from AML."

"Fair enough."

The doors opened and let them out on the 119th floor. It was late and the offices were deserted. They followed the signs and found their way to Wilson's outer office and reception area. A feminine android was in charge of the reception desk at this time of night. David noticed that Chris seemed reluctant to approach it, and wondered why.

"Shall I?" he said waving a hand toward the pleasantly smiling machine.

"I'll handle it," she said and marched up to the desk. "Detective Humber, Robbery Homicide Division out of Central to see Christopher Wilson."

The android smiled. "I'm sorry, Detective; he is not accepting appointments or receiving visitors this evening. May I make an appointment for you to see him tomorrow?"

David grinned as Chris growled something unpleasant that she would like to do to the dumb machine.

The android blinked very realistically and the smile disappeared. "Vandalism of this unit will result in legal action and your removal from the building by security."

Chris presented her badge. "Scan it and override security."

The android checked the badge and the smile was back. "Security override confirmed."

"Take us to Wilson."

"If you will follow me, Detective?"

David chuckled, and Chris glared at him. "That was entertaining."

The android led the way to an office door. It knocked and waited, still smiling. There was no answer. It knocked again and waited. David got the impression it would continue all night, stuck in a loop. Chris didn't have the patience to find out. She ignored the android's protests and opened the door.

"Well... hell," Chris muttered.

David peered into the office over the cop's shoulder at Wilson's corpse sitting behind his desk with a hole in his head and a matching pair in his chest. "Damn. I guess he felt so guilty that he shot himself."

"Yessss" Chris drawled. "That's it. You've solved the mystery. He shot himself in the heart twice, but felt so guilty about his part in AML's campaign that he shot himself in the head for good measure."

He smirked. "Not."

"Not, and you better take off. I have to call this in."

"Are you sure you want to do that?"

"I have to. Building security will have us all nicely recorded arriving in the lot and coming up here. I have to stay to guide things in the right direction. I can keep you out of it."

"I could stay to give a statement."

"You already did."

"I did?"

"You gave it to me."

"Oh yeah, I remember now." He smiled at her. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Really. Don't. Not to anyone."

"Understood. See you back at the club?"

"Maybe," she muttered and took another look at Wilson. "I'll call first."

He nodded and left her to make her call.

"Baxter I need you," Chris began. " _Get your brain out of the gutter!_ Goddess damn it all, how does Mary Pat put up with you? Listen, I have a corpse here for you... no I'm not kidding..."

David grinned, shaking his head in disbelief as he made his way back to the elevators.

## 34

# Fear No Evil

Despite her exhaustion, Marie couldn't sleep. If she closed her eyes even for a few seconds to ease them and cool their burning, she saw that horrible moment again when Terry came into the office. He had swaggered into the room followed by his new vampire friends, and Andrew had reacted instantly. He was so fast! His weapon was out and aimed almost in time to blow Terry's head off. Almost, but vampires are fast too. One of them blurred across the room and struck Andrew down even as he fired. His fully automatic pistol emptied itself into the walls and bookcases as he fell. The lethal flechettes ripped at the air as they screamed across the room to destroy the bookcases and priceless first editions that her dad had collected over the years.

Even as Andrew was falling, Terry was murdering Jon. Poor Jon. He didn't even have time to scream or use his weapon. He was slower to react than Andrew was, and died almost without a sound when Terry latched onto his throat. Marie had screamed then; she couldn't help it. The horror of seeing someone she knew so well murdered right before her eyes was too much. Her dad though was going for his desk and the gun he kept in its top drawer. He didn't make it. One of the vampires grabbed him, and another took charge of her. She had the bruises on her arms to prove his careless strength. Terrible as seeing Jon murdered was, what happened next was worse and would haunt her until the end of her days.

Her dad gasped and clutched his chest. He grimaced in pain, and he would have fallen if not for the monster holding him up. She had screamed again, trying to go to him, but her captor wouldn't allow it. Her dad gasped one last time and his face went grey as a massive heart attack killed him. His eyes had found hers one last time, his love for her shining desperately from them, but then they rolled in his head and he was gone. The vampire holding him cursed and let him fall, and all Marie could do was scream, and scream, and scream...

"Miss Stirling?"

Marie came back to herself and her situation. The cage hadn't changed, nor the basement where it had been installed along with the other similar cages. Her eyes sought out Stephen, but he was still asleep. Dead to the world. She could almost hear him describing it that way, and her lips twitched a little as if about to smile, but there was nothing funny about it. He was helpless, more even than she and Andrew were right now. A short while ago their captors had carried a vampire away while he slept. The same could happen to poor Stephen at any time, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it.

"Miss Stirling!" Andrew said again.

She sighed. "What is it, Andrew?"

"Where is your father?"

She closed her eyes in pain at the question and the reminder. "He's dead... his heart."

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you. How are you feeling? When you didn't stir, I thought you might die too. You've been unconscious all day."

Andrew gently touched his head and the wound that had bled so profusely. His fingers came away with fresh blood on them. "I've had worse than a bump on the head. Don't worry about me, Miss Stirling."

"Don't you think it's time that you called me Marie? I've known you for years and years. I was ten and still in pigtails when you came to work for dad. You used to drive me to school and tend my scraped knees, remember?"

"How could I ever forget that? You're sure about your father, completely sure?"

Tears leaked from her puffy eyes running freely over her cheeks as she saw her father's dying face again. "Yes, I'm certain."

"Then I don't think they'll hurt you. They'll want ransom money or something like that. I expect they planned to force your father to pay by threatening you, but now they can't do that."

"They could threaten to hurt you or Stephen."

"Never mind us. Just promise to pay them whatever they want. Getting you out of here safely is all that matters. Don't worry about the money; you can afford it. Besides, I'll track it down and deal with it after we're safe."

She didn't care about the money. If this was just about money, she would happily pay whatever they wanted if it meant freedom for the three of them, but Andrew was assuming a lot. What if she paid them, and they didn't let them go? What then? What would she do if they threatened to kill Andrew or Stephen, or both of them? _Anything!_ She would pay anything; _do_ anything, to save them. Her father was dead, and Andrew was the closest thing to family she had left. It felt as if he had always been there and always would be, but then, she had felt that way about her dad too. He was gone, and Andrew could leave her just as easily.

And Stephen?

She was confused about her feelings for him. He was her friend, but he felt like more than that. He wasn't human, not that she cared really, but she shouldn't allow herself to be attracted to him. Her father had taught her to be tolerant of differences, but not _that_ tolerant! Her friends would be ever so shocked if they knew how she felt about Stephen. In the social circles that she navigated daily, mixing with non-humans wasn't at all the done thing. Everyone heard stories of course, titillating and shocking stories about girls who did mix with the monsters and let them do... _things_. The thought of letting Stephen do some of them to her was strangely intriguing and exciting.

"Marie?"

She focused upon Andrew's concerned face. "I know what to do."

"Are you sure?"

She nodded. "I'll get us out of here. AML are always doing this—extorting money I mean. I've heard the stories. I'll buy our way out."

"Just get yourself out. Don't push them on anything beyond that."

She wasn't leaving him and Stephen behind, but saying that would only result in a tiresome lecture. Everyone treated her like a child. She frowned. Stephen never had, and perhaps that was part of the attraction she felt. Whatever the case, she wasn't leaving them behind, and if AML were true to form, she wouldn't have to. There were hundreds of kidnapping stories successfully concluded from a victim's point of view by the liberal application of money. If there was one thing she had plenty of, it was money.

What worried her the most was Stephen. As one of the monsters AML hated, why hadn't they simply killed him? And while she was asking impossible questions, why were AML working with monsters at all? Terry and his friends were all vamps. She had never heard anything like this happening before, but perhaps it meant that she really could buy Stephen's safety along with her own and Andrew's as well. She hoped so.

"When will Stephen wake? Shouldn't he be up now? They did take those hideous cuffs off him."

Andrew shrugged. "Sunset isn't far away. He'll wake around then depending upon how powerful he is."

"What do you mean? I thought vampires couldn't abide the sun."

"They can't, not direct sunlight at least, but the more powerful ones awake earlier and can stay up longer as long as they stay out of the light. Down here? He could probably stay up half the day if he forced himself."

"How do you know?"

"I've made it my business to know, Miss Stirling—"

"Marie."

He smiled. "Marie then. I've made it my business to study the threats I might have to face one day. It didn't do me or your father a great deal of good."

He sounded bitter about that, and probably should. Her father, his patron, was dead because he had failed in his duty. She didn't blame him, but he obviously blamed himself. He had lost his entire team back at the house, and like poor Jonathon, he had known them all for years. They had been his friends as well as his colleagues.

Stephen had yet to wake when they came for her. She tried to be brave, but Andrew's fear for her was obvious in his expression. The relieved glances passed among the other prisoners when it was her cage they unlocked made the fear worse, because they had obviously been here longer and maybe knew what was in store for her. She didn't resist when the armed men waved her out and up the steps ahead of them. What would be the point? They would only drag her and that would be degrading as well as painful. She had to at least pretend to be unafraid and in some semblance of control of the situation. Perhaps if her acting skills were good enough to fool them, she might fool herself into believing her own act.

They marched her up the steps, through the industrial-sized kitchen, and into the house. It was a big place. She could tell just by the feel that the estate must be much bigger than her home, and she wondered where in the valley they were. They were less than an hour from home. She had tried to keep track of the trip by counting time and noting things like the turns they took. She had seen movies where kidnap victims did that. It seemed silly now. What could she do with the information? Nothing now, but if she did manage to get away she might be able to lead the police back here. It was a hopeful thought that she tried to believe in.

Her captors led her into a room and left her alone. She watched them file out the door and close it. The moment she heard the lock click, she was across the room and checking windows. They had alarms. She glared at the little magic eye thingies, and tried to think of something to do about the damn things, but she was no super geek or cat burglar. There was nothing she could think of and her shoulders slumped in defeat. She turned on the spot inventorying the room, and hoping for inspiration.

The room was open and sparsely furnished, not meant for sitting or entertaining, but for displaying someone's collection. The contents were visible despite the room being unlit. The display cases ranged along the walls had their own lighting. Her eyes widened when she realised what they contained.

Weapons!

She ran to the nearest and opened it. The guns were the really old-fashioned ones. The ones with hammers holding a flint to make them work, not the modern magnetically or air-propelled types. She looked for a cabinet containing something more modern, and found one that held old-fashioned slug throwing revolvers of all kinds. She picked one up. It was heavier than it looked. She made the cylinder slide out hoping to find bullets already in place, but it wasn't loaded. She started hunting for the ammunition. There were drawers below the cabinets, but nothing she found would fit the gun.

_Oh! Why keep guns without keeping the right ammunition close by? It wasn't fair!_

She discarded the revolver and looked for any ammunition that she could find and match to a weapon.

"You will not find what you are looking for, Miss Stirling."

Marie gasped and spun to face the door. A vampire stood in the open doorway watching her with a small smile upon his lips. A mixed group of more vampires and humans attended him, standing silently at his back. Terry was one of them and he smirked at her. Rage ignited at the sight of him. He had betrayed her to the monsters not once but twice now, but more outrageous to her was his double-cross of Stephen. Stephen had dealt fairly with him, and yet despite that, he had betrayed his master just as he had betrayed her that first time.

"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Arcadian, and this is my home. _Welcome!_ " He stepped further into the room, looking around at the subtly lit display cases. "The guns you find so interesting are for show only—replicas many of them, though cunningly made and of the highest craftsmanship I assure you. Do weapons interest you?"

They certainly did right now, so she nodded.

"I do not favour guns myself. I prefer blades. Come, let me show you." He held out a hand to her.

Marie swallowed and went to join him. His friends stepped out of the way, and he escorted her into another room. He allowed her to precede him and she stopped a few paces later in amazement. The room was an armoury complete with elven armour as well as the human variety once favoured in Europe. Her host beamed. He was inordinately pleased with her shock.

"Wonderful, is it not?"

She nodded wordlessly, though wonderful wasn't the first word she would associate with all this. Priceless, surprising, stolen? She doubted the elves knew that some of their magical artifacts had fallen into this maniac's hands. Elven weapons and armour were highly prized by everyone. They did not sell such things, ever. These could only be prizes taken in battle centuries ago, and that meant they were heirlooms of elves probably—almost certainly—still alive today. To the elves, these things would be personal mementos belonging to their families and clans. How would they feel looking upon all this, perhaps still mourning their dead even centuries later? It would enrage them to learn all this had fallen into the clutches of evil. All undead were considered evil by them, even Stephen would be, despite his honourable reputation.

The elves didn't tolerate much beyond their own people and customs. They were akin to AML, if opposite in view. Anything non-elven was considered lesser at best, and totally anathema at worst. Invariably beautiful they might be, but they were cold hearted and prejudiced bastards. Still, in this case she wouldn't mind if they found out about this place and wiped out AML and its allies to take back their property.

"Everything you see here is original. There are no replicas allowed to contaminate this collection. Can you guess the era? No? It all dates back to the War of Races. Verified I might add, by experts in the field."

Wow! That was even worse. At the end of the war, prisoners, weapons, and armour—everything was repatriated to the original owners as part of the treaty. She couldn't imagine how nine complete sets of armour could have fallen into Arcadian's hands. The swords could be thousands of years old, yet they gleamed as if new. The magic within them kept them sharp and unsullied.

"Do you like them?" Arcadian said, surveying his treasures with pride.

"Very much, but how did you acquire them?"

"They were in a private collection in Chicago belonging to an acquaintance of mine. He no longer has need of them."

One of Arcadian's clique laughed, and the others smiled briefly.

Marie's eyes flicked from face to face, pausing upon the two women in the group. One was an exceedingly beautiful vampire; the other a young human who Marie thought looked puzzled and unsure. Terry seemed baffled by all the fuss. To him the entire collection was nothing but worthless scraps of metal. Cretin. The artifacts filling the room were historical treasures beyond price. Many would kill to own them, as Arcadian had no doubt done. She took his hint to mean that at least.

Goddess, she wanted out of this madhouse. She eyed the tall patio doors that led outside to the gardens. It was dark out there now, but she didn't care. She would be safer out there in the dark with whatever was hiding in the shadows than in here. Whether he noticed her evaluating an escape route or not she wasn't sure, but suddenly Arcadian was all business.

He took her elbow gently and began to guide her back the way they'd come. "Let us find somewhere more comfortable to talk."

"You came to LA from Chicago?"

"I lived there most recently, yes."

"Why am I here, Mister Arcadian? My father..." she swallowed what felt like a boulder of grief. "He died because of you."

Arcadian glared at Terry. "I'm sorry for that. It was not my intention to harm either of you."

"No? What _was_ your aim then?"

They entered a room and took seats. Marie assumed that Arcadian used it as his office. There was an impressive antique desk and a bar to one side. Electronic gadgets festooned one wall opposite the desk, all of them inactive, and other quality furnishings. She began to worry that her idea of buying herself free might be in jeopardy because it was obvious Arcadian didn't lack funds. He might reject any offer she made. Her thoughts raced. What could she offer if not money? Her shares? Still money, but better than cash. Techtron was a huge corporation and very profitable for shareholders.

"Does it matter now?"

"I would like to know," she said. Stephen would definitely expect her to ask good questions. She intended to report everything she learned to him. He must be awake by now. "If you wouldn't mind?"

"Certain agreements with my allies were imperilled by your father's investigations and his association with House Edmonton."

"But there is no association."

"Come now. Your father was meeting with Stephen to discuss it."

"How do you know that?"

Terry grinned.

Marie scowled. "The traitor told you," she said and Arcadian nodded. Terry's smile fled. "So you killed my father, abducted me and my friends, all for Wilson?"

"Wilson and AML are important allies of mine and will be for some little time yet."

"Not forever?"

"Not if certain things go as planned, no, but we digress. I had planned to discuss this with your father. I have no doubt we could have come to an agreement."

"By threatening harm to me you mean?"

"Exactly."

She swallowed, seeing the sudden gleam in his eyes. "And now?"

"That depends upon you. Will you drop the investigation?"

"I'm not on the board. I don't have a voice in the decision."

"Come now, you know that isn't true. You will inherit your father's shares and properties."

"But not his position on the board," she insisted.

It was true too. An interim chairman would be selected, and later a vote would be held. She would have influence as majority shareholder, but no one with sense would allow a twenty-three-year-old woman with no experience in the business to take the chair. The closest she had ever come to running a business was selling cookies at summer solstice!

She shifted under the intensity of his stare, careful not to catch his eyes with hers. "I could pay you to let us go."

His glare intensified. "Do I look like a merchant to you?"

He looked like a goddess cursed fiend to her! A damned psycho with a god complex! "No but—"

"Then do not attempt to bargain with me. You will stop this investigation. Say it."

"But I can't!"

" _Say it!_ "

She swallowed. "I'll stop the investigation," she whispered.

He beamed. "There, I knew you could do it."

But... he was a maniac. He really was mad! She couldn't do what he wanted, not because she didn't want to—she _didn't_ want to because Wilson was a snake—but because she literally couldn't prevent an internal investigation that her father had already initiated! There were people already working on it. Wilson was already finished, though he didn't know it yet. The story would break very soon. Her father had only been holding back long enough to discover how the transfer of funds had been accomplished. He'd wanted Stephen's agreement to let him investigate that aspect, but he hadn't counted upon it. His investigators were digging like mad already. Within days, a report would land on each director's desk.

"You're letting us go then?"

"You can't!" Terry said. "You promised that I could have her. You promised— _gah!_ " Arcadian's hand was around Terry's throat before Marie knew he had moved.

"Do not tell me what I cannot do, Terry Sayles," Arcadian hissed. "It's your fault and failure that forced me to this measure. You were ordered to bring her father to me, not kill him! This girl was to be your reward for that task. _A task you failed to complete!_ " he roared, shaking Terry like a rat in a cat's jaws. "You failed me; you're lucky I do not kill you for it. Take my forbearance as your reward."

The door opened and a man entered. "I'm sorry to interrupt."

"What is it?" Arcadian said, still glaring and throttling the life out of Terry.

Marie willed him on.

"You asked to be informed of any AML developments."

Arcadian turned to face the newcomer, still holding Terry off the floor by his neck as if he'd forgotten about him. Marie shivered at this evidence of his strength and mental state.

"What news, Cadmon?"

"Newman came himself this time, sir."

"He's here now?"

"Yes sir."

"Did he say why?"

Cadmon hesitated, glancing at Marie. "Yes sir. He came because of her. He says..." he swallowed nervously and glanced at the others in the room. "He said because you... because _we_ didn't take care of business in a timely, manner, he's had to take matters into his own hands, and that if we can't supply what was promised he'll find another supplier."

Arcadian hissed, his fangs descending and his eyes burning red suddenly. "He dares? He dares come here, into my House to say that to me? Is the man a fool?"

"I would venture not, sir. I think he might be shrewd enough to have taken precautions."

"Hmmm, probably so. I always liked that about him. Very little else to like, eh?" Arcadian laughed, and everyone mimicked him. The sound cut off as if with a knife, and everyone instantly fell silent again.

Marie stared. They were all frightened of him, she realized. They worked for him, yet they were scared spit-less to cross him or even speak up. What kind of man engendered that in his own friends?

Arcadian frowned when he noticed Terry and gently lowered him to the floor. "Terry my dear fellow, I was just thinking about you, and here you are! Take Miss Stirling back to her cage will you?"

Terry swallowed nervously, his eyes huge. "Yes sir, at once sir!"

"Good man. I need to speak with Newman and calm him down." Arcadian turned to Marie and gave her a polite but tiny bow of the head. "I'll come down later to finish our chat. I won't be long." He strode out, and his entourage hurried to follow.

Before Marie could react, Terry was on her, pinning her in place on the couch. "Get off me! He'll kill you for this!"

"Only if someone tells him. He gave you to me, and I'm taking what's mine before he changes his mind."

"He already did. He's letting us _go!_ " She shoved at him, but he was stronger than he looked now.

"Then there's no time to lose, is there?"

She gasped as his fangs punctured her throat. She tried to fight, but a warm lethargy stole her will and she was suddenly floating. It felt wonderful, and when he began fumbling at her clothes and groping sensitive flesh, she didn't care. She moaned and arched against his hand cupping her sex, and thrust against the heel of his hand. Fingers slipped inside her and her climax was immediate. She screamed her pleasure, or tried to, but a hand clamped over her mouth stifling her ecstatic cries. All chance of rational thought or protest shattered in a mind-blowing wave of pleasure that engulfed her entire body. Terry's mouth on her neck, sucking and swallowing her life became her world. Her blood flooding into his greedy mouth was all that mattered. She didn't care about anything other than what her body was feeling. Another orgasm shook her, and then another, and another, each one ripping through her in an unending stream of poor bliss. They blended together and they went on, and on, and on...

## 35

# Revelations

Stephen awoke and sprang to his feet snarling in fury the instant the sun's tyranny and power over the day released him. He slammed into the bars of his cage before he realised they were there, and howled in pain. They were electrified. They had caged him like an animal. Where was Marie, what had they done with her? The thought of her dead or harmed almost unhinged him. His eyes blazed in fury. When he freed himself, he would slaughter every AML sympathiser in the city. He would make them beg for death before the end, and then he would drain them dry! More, he would hire Rachelle's necromance to bring them back and hold them on the edge of death while he tortured them into gibbering _mindlessness!_ There wouldn't be a single one of them left sane before he gave them the mercy of death.

His fangs ran out of their own accord at the thought.

His eyes darted around his prison looking for escape. The bars of the cage were thick. He knew that he wouldn't be able to overcome them. The electrification was overkill. Pain wouldn't stop him from attacking the bars if he'd had any hope of escape that way. He didn't. The cage had been built with his people, or maybe shifters, in mind. AML were psychopathic fundamentalists, but they knew their business. They weren't in the habit of underestimating the monsters they hunted, and the strength of the bars proved they hadn't here.

There was no escape.

He reached for Edward and found nothing. Had they killed him? _No!_ There was no reason to assume that, but what else could prevent him reaching his human servant? Nothing he could think of. Grief clogged his throat and his rage built again. It threatened to send him careening into madness where he would spend it and his strength attacking the bars. No, he would not be a fool. He would husband his strength and spend it wisely upon killing his enemies.

He forced the rage away. He needed to be ready for any opportunities that might arise. They hadn't killed him, and they could have done that at any time while he slept the day away. They must want something from him; he couldn't imagine what, but something. He must find a way to turn their need against them.

_Edward..._

He closed his eyes wanting to howl his grief to the heavens. The thought of his old friend dead was like a dagger in his heart—sharp and immediate. They had been together many years. His poor friend... but wait. Wait a minute; just wait. There was no reason to think that Edward was dead. He hadn't seen or felt him killed, and he would have. The blood bond meant that if Edward had been injured or killed he would have felt it, and he hadn't. There was hope then. Yes, he would concentrate upon hope. He must assume all was well with his friend and that he was being blocked somehow, but how? He knew of no way. It didn't matter how, he decided firmly schooling his emotions. He would not assume Edward was dead until confronted with his corpse, and even then, he would invent a way to bring him back!

He took a calming breath. Some magic or other trick was blocking him. That was what had happened. AML wanted him to assume they had killed Edward. They wanted him to despair. He would not be fooled.

He stepped close to the bars, careful not to touch them, and took stock of his new situation. He was underground. He could sense the earth all around him. It was part of being vampire, this affinity with the earth. His cage was one of many in the room; each one a steel cube roughly twenty feet on a side. Their occupants were diverse; most were human, one or two were shifters, but he wasn't the only vampire. Three of the cages held newborns.

He reached out to them, trying to sense their lineage, but something was wrong. He couldn't sense a bond; he should be able to sense it easily. He might not recognise their maker if he was new to the city, but familiar or not the bond should still be there. He frowned, feeling only emptiness from where they lay. That wasn't right. They weren't awake yet but that was normal for such young vampires, and he could tell that these three were very young. By the feel of them, they were only a few days old, certainly no older than a week. They probably wouldn't wake for hours. Asleep or awake didn't matter; he should easily detect their bond with their maker, but it was absent. That was impossible. Bestowing the gift always forged a link between a maker and his child. Always. That was one reason why so few were turned. The bond was intense and very personal.

There was something very wrong with them. They didn't feel quite as weak as they should. Even inert he could sense their strength. They were far beneath him; that at least was as it should be, but their essence wasn't a constant low-level hum in his head. Their auras were flaring like the vampire he had killed... was it only last night? These three were akin to O'Neal. Sired by the same maker then? If so, there was something very wrong with Michael. His children were unstable, probably due to the absence of the bond, which was an impossibility... he frowned again at the sleepers. It was no longer impossible and these three were proof.

"Mister Edmonton, do you know me?"

Stephen turned to his left to regard a man in the cage next to his. He recognised the face, but had no name for it. "I recognise you from Marie's home."

The man nodded and winced. He put a hand to the back of his head and brought it back bloody. The sight of the blood made Stephen hyper aware of his hunger. He hadn't fed before his visit with Marie, and he'd spent the strength that he drained from his enemies fighting them. He doubted he would be allowed to feed tonight. He kept his distance in case something unfortunate occurred—his fangs were tingling, and that was a warning. He needed to feed within the next few hours, sooner if possible.

"I'm Andrew—Mister Stirling's chief of security."

"Forgive me for saying this, but I must question your competence given the circumstances."

Andrew grinned briefly. "Me too. I've been waiting for you to wake up. Miss Stirling's father is dead did you know?"

He shook his head. He did not remember seeing that, but he'd been busy with their attackers at the time.

"A heart attack I think. Our hosts were very upset. They wanted him for something. Money probably."

"AML fundraisers are often bloody affairs."

Andrew nodded glumly.

"Where is Marie?"

"She's here. They dragged her off a few minutes before you woke up. Someone wanted to speak with her. I don't think they'll hurt her, not now her father is dead. They need her."

Andrew didn't sound entirely certain of that, more hopeful of her safety than sure of it. Stephen had to hope she was safe too, because there was little he could do to affect matters. Andrew moved closer to the bars and Stephen backed up hurriedly. He was excruciatingly aware of the fresh blood perfuming the air.

"No closer."

Andrew frowned, but stopped his advance.

"I'm in need of blood. I will not vouch for your safety if you come too close. Take this as my warning and apology in one. If you come any closer, you'll become breakfast."

"Is that a joke?"

"Not a very funny one, but no, not really. I did not feed last night and I doubt our hosts plan to indulge my hunger tonight. These bars will keep you safe from me, but I advise you not to approach within reach."

Andrew nodded and took an extra step back. "Thanks."

"You are welcome," he said but wished he could have apologised after he'd drank from the man. His hunger snarled and spit in the back of his brain, urging him to feed. It wasn't enough to take control of him yet, but it would eventually. A starving vampire was little more than a ravening beast. "We need to escape before I lose all control."

"How long do we have?"

"A few hours. I can control it for that long. If we're still here tomorrow night, I advise you to keep your distance and trust nothing I do or say. Do not look me in the eyes for any reason."

Andrew had already been avoiding eye contact. "Have you any ideas how to escape?"

"There's no escape," one of the other prisoners said. He was human, around thirty or thirty-five years old, and red haired. His unshaven face looked haggard, hinting at the length of time he'd been a prisoner. "They'll feed you to your friend or one of the other vamps around here. That's what you're here for."

Stephen pursed his lips thoughtfully. "If so, what am I here for, do you know?"

The man nodded and indicated the newborns. "You're here to make more of those freaks."

"You know that for a fact?"

"You're not the first vampire to occupy that cage. I've been here a long time. Months I think. I've lost count of the days. He told me what they did to him."

"And what was that?"

"They drained him and used his blood to make more vamps like the freaks there."

Drained. The thought chilled him. "Why do you call them freaks?"

"It's what he called them. He said they were abominations and unnatural. Kind of funny when you think about it."

"How so?"

"He's undead. It's a bit rich calling them abominations when he's one himself don't you think?"

Stephen frowned. Either this man was an idiot, or he didn't care what happened to him. "A fully signed up member of AML are you?"

"That was a while ago, in college. I say _live and let live_ these days."

"Sure you do," Andrew said, sounding disgusted. "What did they say when you tried to re-join and talk your way out of here?"

The man scowled. "They laughed."

"This vampire," Stephen said. "Did he have a name?"

"Fabion or something like that."

"Fabron? Michael Fabron?"

"You know him?"

He nodded.

"A friend?"

He nodded again.

"Small world eh? He's not dead if that's what you're thinking. They took him out a while ago to drain him again. They always do that when you guys are asleep. I guess it's safer."

That made perfect sense and horrified him at the same time. They were taking no chances. He would be completely helpless to prevent them using his blood as they liked, just as Michael was now. Was this perversion of the gift the reason for the lack of a bond between Michael and his children? He couldn't see why using blood that way would have that effect, but perhaps there was more to the process than he knew.

"They'll bring him back soon. You better hope they don't put him in with you or your friend. They get off on watching."

"How do you mean?" Andrew said uneasily.

"He'll be mad with hunger and won't be able to stop himself. They like to bet on how long he can hold out."

Poor Michael. He was such a gentle sort, relatively speaking of course. He was a powerful master of a House, and no master could afford to be too compassionate, but Stephen knew him well. Michael did not like to kill. His particular flavour of power meant he rarely needed to hurt anyone. His food loved him, and he loved them in return. This forced draining and feeding cycle would be hateful to him.

"They might throw him in with you," Andrew was saying.

"They might," the man agreed. "I've been stuck here so long, it might be a relief. Of course, they could do worse."

"Oh?" Stephen said.

"They might turn me into one of the freaks. See those three?"

"I see them. What about them?"

"They were prisoners like me last week. We used to talk. Not much else to do down here. I bet all they'll want to do is eat me now."

There wasn't much doubt of that. They were young and uncontrolled. They had no master or bond to keep them sane. What he didn't understand was the purpose in turning them in the first place. AML wanted all of his kind dead. In fact, they wanted everyone who wasn't pure human dead. They didn't discriminate when choosing their victims. If you had any non-human blood in your veins then you were the enemy and fair game, even if that blood was generations in the past. Have an elven great-great-grandfather? Watch out. If AML learned of it, you'd find yourself on their to do list. Why were they creating vampires? What was their purpose?

David had proposed an idea that he had dismissed before now, but having seen this operation he was beginning to wonder. David had suggested the entire thing was a campaign designed to get the media and public opinion on side. A preposterous idea at first glance, but if AML could manufacture uncontrolled vampires at will and release them en masse, the carnage and resulting panic could easily do most of their work for them. The federal government couldn't possibly overlook something like that. It would deploy troops onto the streets, and that might begin the long feared purge. It would make the European purge of the 1940s look like a mere riot, rather than the decade long war it later became. There were many more non-humans living in the Republic today than there had been in all of Europe back then. They wouldn't take being forced into extermination camps lying down. Not this time.

Paranoia. Stephen glanced uneasily at those seemingly innocent vampires sleeping the sleep of the righteous. There had to be another explanation. A safer, saner, explanation. An explanation that was still in AML's interests, but one which would not result in the end of the world as he knew it.

He sneered at his own thoughts; since when had he become an optimist? He frowned and realised he'd become one the night he'd met Marie Stirling at the club. He hoped she was all right. It was all he could do right now. He would have prayed for her if he'd had any confidence that he would be heard, but praying would do him no good. He was vampire, one of the cursed undead and damned by all the gods and goddesses. Religious consensus was a rare thing, but the damning of his kind was universal amongst them.

Time dragged slowly by.

Andrew made use of the uncomfortable looking bed in his cage to rest. Stephen had encouraged him to sleep stressing the need to be ready when the time came. Andrew had been doubtful, but he had eventually agreed. There really was nothing else to do. While his only ally slept, he paced his cage thinking about Marie. AML were ruthless. They had never been shy about collateral damage and wouldn't care that Marie was pure human. If they thought torturing her would gain them what they wanted, they wouldn't hesitate.

He tried to contact Edward again, but nothing had changed. He tried Danyelle next, and then Charles. Nothing. He had exhausted his options already. Charles and Danyelle were his only children; they were the only Edmonton vampires he had a strong connection to. He had taken Lee and Elizabeth into his House only recently and hadn't bothered to blood oath them. It had made sense at the time. He had wanted to be sure that they would fit in at the club first. Now he regretted the decision. Not that the oath would have helped him now. If he couldn't reach his own servant, which was a very strong and intimate bond, he certainly wouldn't be able to connect with strangers, oathed to his House or not. Danyelle and Charles had never given the gift to anyone, and didn't plan to as far as he knew. He regretted that now, but he was no Alexander. He wouldn't risk attracting OSI's attention by empire building.

They dragged Michael down the stone steps and into the room around midnight. He was a pitiful sight. His eyes were blazing red with his hunger and madness. His fangs were out and he looked skeletally thin in clothes that hung off him looking two sizes too big for him. The guards dragged him snarling and raging toward his cage. Michael howled at the sight of it, struggling even harder to get free, but he didn't have the strength. His captors were vampire, and they had a firm hold upon him. The other three guards were human and were well armed. They kept back, and watched everything warily. They obviously didn't trust their vampire allies.

Stephen stared at the scene unable to believe any of his kind would lower themselves to work with AML. It disgusted him at the same time as it confused him. He couldn't think of any reason for AML to ally themselves with non-humans; they would sooner die. That was something he would be more than happy to help them with given the chance.

Michael howled in despair when the guards threw him into a cage and locked the gate. He crashed into the bars over and over, not caring that they were electrified. He bounced around the cage, slamming into the bars as if unaware of them. In his madness, he probably didn't even notice the pain.

"Better toss him a bone I guess," vampire guard number one said.

The other guard grunted and unlocked the gate to the chatty human's cage. The man was asleep, but woke quickly enough when the guard began dragging him out. He shouted and pleaded, kicked and struggled, but to no avail.

Andrew woke at the noise. "I'll stake you all for this!" he shouted. "I swear to the Goddess, you're all dead men!"

If only, Stephen thought. Given the chance, he would hold them down for him, but he doubted they would get the opportunity. The screaming human looked pleadingly at him, desperate for aid.

Stephen shrugged at him. There was nothing he could do.

The guards opened the gate, shoved Michael's dinner inside and slammed it shut. He moved in a blur of speed. The screaming abruptly stopped with him latched upon the human's throat. The struggling continued for a space, but it was over quickly. Michael was literally starving; he drained the man in less than two minutes, not wasting a drop. He came back to himself then, but it was too late. He began to cry. He dropped to his knees cradling the dead man and rocked him like a child.

The human guards laughed, shoving at each other like schoolboys. One of them held out a hand, and the other slapped a twenty into it. The vampire muscle did not laugh. They watched Michael in silence.

"Why are you doing this?" Stephen asked them. "How can you ally with them?" The guards ignored him. "You have no honour."

That got a reaction, but not a constructive one. They glared at him in silence. When Michael stopped his carrying on, they opened the cage and dragged the body out for disposal. Michael didn't try to escape; the humans had spread out to cover him with their weapons in case he tried, but he didn't notice. He remained kneeling in the middle of the cage, rocking to some internal rhythm.

"Another one to plant," one of the humans said in disgust, lifting the corpse onto his shoulder. "Maybe we should just drop him in an alley somewhere. I hate all this bloody digging."

"You have your orders."

"Taking orders from a damned vamp," the human muttered as he started up the steps. "It ain't right."

The rest of the guards followed him up.

"Michael!" Stephen called when they were alone, but his old friend didn't respond. " _Michael!_ " he barked the word, louder and more demanding.

"Stephen?" Michael said looking vaguely around his cage. "Are you real?"

"It's me. I'm real."

"He got you too?"

Stephen frowned. "AML raided the house I was visiting."

Michael climbed to his feet and approached the bars of his cage. He studied Andrew for a moment, and then dismissed him. "They're working together," he said finally.

"Who?" Andrew said.

"This is Andrew; he was captured with me, and there was a woman with us. A human. Marie is her name. Have you seen her?"

"No, I have not seen her," Michael said and inclined his head politely to Andrew.

"Who is our enemy, Michael? I've seen things here that I do not understand. Newborns with no maker bonds, vampires working alongside AML thugs. Name him to me."

"He calls himself Arcadian—"

Stephen inhaled sharply.

"No, Stephen, he isn't old enough for it to be true. It's an affectation, but I think he believes it. His people pretend, or maybe they believe it's true."

"What is happening? He's forcing you to make new vampires. Why is AML helping him? It doesn't make sense."

"He's insane, but it does make sense. An awful evil sense. He tried to recruit me, but when I said no he took my child."

"John O'Neal."

"How did you know?"

"AML raided your house, but we caught them there and killed them. I'm afraid they killed a lot of your guests. O'Neal is dead too."

Michael nodded grimly. "They took John. I loved him well, but I would not submit to Arcadian's madness, not even for him."

Stephen winced. "Do we have to call him that?"

"I have no other name for him."

"Can we get to the part where AML work for vampires?" Andrew interjected.

Michael nodded. "They think Arcadian is working for them. They're funding his research, but they don't realise his true aim. They think they will discover a cure for vampirism and a way to inoculate the human population. Basically, AML want a way to make us extinct."

"Sounds like them," Andrew said. "Is it possible?"

"I have no idea, but it doesn't matter anyway because he isn't researching a cure. He's designing a weapon, an airborne virus that mimics the gift. He says the human monopoly on population is the reason we have no rights. His idea is to create an airborne plague to turn as many humans as possible all at once. Once we are no longer a minority in the world, governments will have no choice but to recognise us as equals. Besides, most of them will be vampire too by then."

"That might actually work," Stephen murmured in surprise and Andrew shot him a look. He shrugged. "It might."

"No," Michael disagreed. "It won't. He says he wants equality but it's a lie. The weapon will kill a third of all humans alive today, and turn a third while keeping the remaining third alive as cattle to feed the new population of vampires. It's madness, and evil, but worse than that, it won't work. I've seen the abominations he's made with my polluted blood. They aren't sane, and they have no bond to their maker with which to control them. Their maker is a virus in a petri dish."

A world populated by insane vampires? "We need to stop this."

"Stop it, hell," Andrew said. "We need to kill this whack job and everyone involved. Imagine this thing falling into a terrorist's hands."

"I wouldn't trust our own government with this," Stephen agreed grimly. "No one must have this!"

Michael agreed, looking grim. "The researchers must die, and their work must be destroyed."

"We have to get word of this to Gavin, but how?"

One of the shifters in a nearby cage had been listening to them. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of his cage watching. "There's no escape. Only the dead leave this place."

Andrew regarded the shifter with sudden speculation.

"Don't even think about it!" the shifter snapped.

"He's immune in any case," Stephen said, guessing at Andrew's sudden interest in the stranger.

"Yeah, what he said." The shifter got to his feet and made a point of turning his back to them before sitting down again.

"Miss Stirling?" Andrew said. "Damn them, what did they do to her?"

"She's been bitten," Stephen said in a hard voice. "One of them has fed from her, hopefully nothing worse than that. She'll recover if they didn't take too much. Can you see the bite? Is it sealed?"

"I can't see properly. Miss Stirling? _Marie!_ Look this way... over here!"

"Andrew?" she said dreamily. "You're here too?"

"You're back in the basement with us. Can you remember what happened?"

She raised a hand to her sore neck. It felt as if she had the worse hickey in the history of hickeys. She winced as she explored it. "He bit me!"

"Who did?" Andrew and Stephen said together.

"Terry, that bastard!"

The anger cleared her thoughts and memory crashed over her. Oh Goddess, he'd raped her. She felt icky all over as she remembered responding to him. Oh Lady, she wanted a shower so bad right now. She would use bleach if it would rid her of this feeling. She was sticky down there, between her legs, and she felt bile rising. She forced it down. She would not be sick. She was stronger than this. Terry hadn't been able to get it up, thank the Lady. He had used his mouth and hands on her. Terrible as that memory was now, she was thankful. Her humiliation could always be worse.

Magical manipulation used to rape was a capital offence. All she had to do was survive and accuse him, and Terry would die. Executed. No trial, just a stake, and a quick beheading after that. She took a careful breath turning the pleasant thought over in her mind. She had always thought the law a barbaric thing when applied to non-humans. Where was justice in execution without trial? But for Terry, it would be justice.

"Marie, please talk to us... don't think about what he did," Andrew begged, sounding desperate and close to tears. "You'll be all right. Stephen says you won't be addicted if he leaves you alone from now on."

Addicted! She hadn't thought of that, but she remembered clearly, too clearly, how good it had felt. It would be easy to crave that feeling again. The thrill seekers who frequented Stephen's club had fallen into that trap. She wouldn't allow herself to become one of them no matter how good it felt.

"I'm fine," she said, forcing herself to believe it. Inside she was wailing like a little girl, but she wouldn't let the men see her lose it. She had to be strong for them. "Arcadian—that's the one in charge here—plans to let me go. He wants me to stop dad's investigation into Wilson."

"It's too late for that," Andrew said.

"I know, but he wouldn't listen."

"What went wrong? Why are you locked up again?"

"He told Terry to put me back down here while he meets with Newman."

"The leader of AML, that Newman?"

She nodded.

"It must be important for him to come out of hiding and risk capture. I wonder if it's about Wilson too."

"Could be," Marie agreed. "They're both supporting Arcadian for some reason."

She broke off as the subject of the conversation came down the steps. His friend, Cadmon, followed him looking grim faced. The others she'd met upstairs didn't make an appearance and she was glad, but she couldn't help wondering about them. She didn't want to think about Terry, but she would prefer to know where he was, rather than worry about him showing up.

Everyone watched Arcadian warily, including Cadmon. Stephen was studying his enemy intently. Marie didn't know enough about what he could and couldn't do, but she would bet he had a way to evaluate his nemesis. Andrew looked worried, as did the other prisoners. Everyone was scared and watched warily as the vampires paused in the open space between the cages ringing the room. Arcadian surveyed each prisoner thoughtfully, perhaps judging how they would taste. Who knew? She certainly didn't know what went on in a mad vampire's head.

"Miss Stirling," Arcadian said, acknowledging her. Cadmon switched the power off to her cage and opened its gate. "Please, step out if you will?"

She couldn't stop trembling. She stood and left the cage.

"Where are you taking her?" Andrew said. "She can't donate blood again so soon! Look at how pale she is, damn you!"

"Andrew don't cause trouble. I'll be all right," she said shakily, with visions of what Terry had done to her flashing into her mind. Oh Lady, please be with me! Her prayer didn't reduce her fears. She couldn't go through that again. She couldn't! "Don't get yourself killed."

"You should listen to her, young human," Arcadian said coldly. "She probably just saved your life. Come my dear. We have things to discuss. There have been developments."

"De-developments?" she stuttered. "Are you taking me home now? Can I go home now, pl-please?"

"Hush. We shall discuss it upstairs."

Andrew spun away from the bars when the basement door closed and the locks clicked. He prowled his cage, his thoughts racing. She hadn't said anything, but he knew. He knew what Terry had done. That sick fuck had raped her! He just knew. She said he'd bitten her, and that was true, but there was more. He knew there was. He'd known her for years, since she was a kid, and he knew when she was holding back. The look in her eyes had been... desolate? Yes, desolate and sickened. He had seen it clearly.

Marie was still a young woman, but she wasn't an innocent. She'd had sexual encounters with boyfriends over the years. He knew about all of them. She would never reveal something like that of course, but her father had been very protective. Overly protective in fact. He'd been ordered to investigate every one of her boyfriends and partners over the years and take steps where necessary. Her last boyfriend had needed such steps as it turned out. The fool had been what Marie's father would have called a player or gold digger. What he really had been was a foolish boy, trying his luck at entering a world of privilege by manipulating a vulnerable girl's affections.

_Well I fixed him. Problem solved never to return._

He couldn't fix the current problem so easily. Threats and money were out. He had no resources. The crack team he'd built for the Stirlings over the years was gone. His entire team was dead and no one knew where he was being held. He had no doubt that the police were investigating, but they would be looking at the usual suspects like AML. The Anti-Monster League _was_ involved, but not in a way that could possibly lead to rescue. This place, wherever it was, belonged to Arcadian—a vampire. Nothing could be more opposite to an AML member than a powerful vampire. There was no possibility that the police would be looking at the monster community for a suspect.

He spun back and stalked across his cage. Stephen was sitting on his bed hugging himself. Andrew stopped to study him. The vamp didn't look good. His cheeks were sunken and his hair had lost its shine. Stephen looked worse every time he stopped to look. Whatever it was that animated vampires was retreating from the surface, like a human body at risk of hypothermia sacrificing its fingers and toes to keep its internal organs warm, Stephen's body was abandoning superficial things like his appearance. His dwindling reserves were focusing now on survival. He was starting to look like the corpse he was.

He didn't know much about the reasons why vampires were different from other kinds of undead. Oh, he knew generalities; things that might impact his job like their strengths and weaknesses, but he didn't know why zombies were mindless for example, or why ghouls had animal like cunning and intelligence. Of all the undead, why were vampires the most like _real_ people? The evidence before his eyes gave credence to the common belief that vampires were just corpses animated by magic. He didn't doubt it seeing Stephen's deteriorating condition. He hadn't seriously thought about it before, but then he'd never associated with one before this.

He turned to Michael and nodded at Stephen. Michael had also been watching the ailing vampire. He seemed in pretty good shape for a vamp who had been repeatedly drained, but that was because whenever they brought him back they tossed him a meal. Usually a human from one of the other cages. It sort of topped up his tank each time, but no one had allowed Stephen to feed. Maybe they feared him, and wanted him weakened. There was no way to know, but it didn't make a lot of sense if that's what they wanted. It seemed to him that Stephen was more dangerous in his current condition, not less. Besides, they did whatever they wanted to Michael while he slept. They could do the same with Stephen.

Andrew clenched his fists, and prowled his cage some more.

What was happening to Marie right now while he did nothing but fret? He hated to think. They might have let her go. She said they wanted her to close down her father's investigation into Wilson. It didn't matter that she couldn't do what they wanted. All that did was getting away from here. Once away, she could contact the police or something, but getting away from here was the first step.

Stephen growled and Andrew froze. He had accidentally gotten too close. He eased back from the bars, watching Stephen warily. He had vamped out. His eyes were fully gone and his fangs were showing. They weren't all the way into attack position though. He was fighting it.

He took another careful step back almost too late.

Stephen launched himself at the bars, his clutching fingers reaching through them, fingers hooked like talons. His humanity had folded away, removing the illusion and revealing the true visage of a vampire. He was bestial in his hunger. If the bars hurt, he wasn't showing it. He was growling and whimpering at the same time. The utter desperation on his face was shockingly clear. Andrew felt sorry for him, but not enough to close the distance. In this state, Stephen wouldn't just feed; he would kill.

He frowned at the snarling demonic looking vampire, thoughts racing and determination hardening. He would save Marie, no matter what he had to suffer to do that. He _would_ save her!

"Michael?"

"Yes?"

"I'm going to feed him."

"Can I watch? He'll kill you, you know?"

Andrew nodded.

"Are sure you want this?"

"I don't want it, but I want to save Marie. I'll have choices to make. After I mean."

"There are always choices," Michael agreed solemnly. "I made mine. Stephen his. You must be sure of why you're doing this. No one really knows why some of us don't rise, but I have my theory—they didn't want it enough. Or, to put it another way, their determination—their will to come back, to survive—was weak. The weak do not survive long in my world, Andrew. You must be strong and certain of your reasons."

"For love of her," he said, stepping toward Stephen. He held up his wrist. "Tell Stephen the plan?"

"I shall the moment he comes back to himself. You must live long enough for him to feed you. You understand the process?"

Andrew nodded shakily and stepped within Stephen's reach.

## 36

# For Love of Her

Dreams of blood and suffocation were his only companions in the void. He couldn't breathe, wasn't breathing and panic made him cry out in denial. He didn't want to die! No sound. No movement. He had no air to make a sound and couldn't move! Something filled his mouth and ears. He could taste the dirt that gagged his cries and muted his ears. They had buried him alive! He struggled against his earthen prison; he had to get out or go insane! He put every ounce of strength he had into the task, but he couldn't even twitch a finger.

He felt the day passing. He explored the strange sensation, and concentrated upon it, distracting himself from his fears. Time crawled by. Yes, time was passing. He felt it doing that and it surprised him. Why did it surprise him, was there something about it that was important? It was important because... because... he couldn't remember! Someone had put him in the ground and buried him alive, imprisoned him in the earth while his body cooled as if dead, and he couldn't remember who or why or even his own name.

_Someone help me! I'm not dead! Help meeeeee!_

There was no sound from his lips and no air to make it. Maybe he really was dead. That notion made a kind of sense, not a comforting one mind, but thinking about it rationally eased his fears. He had always preferred to know the worst hadn't he? He wasn't sure but it felt right. The unknown was always scarier than the known. He might be dead, but no, that didn't fit the facts. He was aware and thinking wasn't he? Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he was just asleep. How could he wake up?

Why couldn't he remember? Was there an accident? He could be injured and in a coma. That would fit. He couldn't wake because... but no, he was in the ground not in a bed. He knew that. He could feel the earth around him, and taste it in his mouth. How long had he been here, and where was here? He didn't know. He didn't know anything!

He tried to concentrate on what he _did_ know.

He, yes, he was a he. It was a new thought. It was a beginning. His name was... it was... his thoughts were muddled and slow. He didn't know his name or how he came to be here, or even where here was. What did he know then? He knew he was in the ground and that the tyrant in the sky was holding him down. He felt it up there, trying to blot him from existence. It held him immobile and was trying to push him deeper into the earth, but the earth cradled him and protected him from the tyrant—the sun. Yes, it was the sun up there holding him down, imprisoning him in this hell. That ball of fire that would burn him to ash if not for the cool moist earth surrounding him. Suddenly the earth was not something to fear. It was home. It was protection, and he felt panic recede a little more. It wasn't trying to suffocate him; it was trying to protect him. It was holding him safe from the guardian of the day.

_Day!_

That was why time passing was so important. The day would pass, and night would follow. He would be free then he was certain deep in his bones. When the guardian of the day left the heavens, he would rise. He wanted to frown at the thought; there was something about it that tickled his memory, something about rising was important. It was on the tip of his brain, but it wouldn't come to him. He forced himself to think, but it wouldn't come clear. Was it about his first rising? Did he remember that or was it just a fantasy brought on by a mind empty of memories and desperate to fill it? He wasn't sure, but thought that it was a true memory. It was clearer than anything else he could remember. His first rising was important because... he struggled to bring it forward. It was important because...

_Marie!_

The name blasted into his memory like a bomb exploding, bringing with it images. He saw her in his head and yearned to go to her, but there was something important he had to do first. Marie was linked with his first rising. She needed his help. Yes! She was in danger and he had to help her. He struggled harder to move knowing that, but it was no good. He wouldn't rise until night. He felt that time approaching but it wasn't here yet. Soon now, very soon. He could feel the guardian lowering in the sky. Night was coming, and with it freedom and retribution.

_Retribution._

That was a new word and it found its place in his memory. It clicked into place and suddenly more words flooded his brain. His memory began to fill with thoughts, words, and feelings. Love... oh goddess that was a beautiful concept. He savoured that one. He felt love, and knew love. He loved Marie. Fear... he had known that one from the first and shied away from it, but this fear was subtly different. It was fear _for_ something, not fear _of_ something. He feared for Marie. Anger... that one socketed home in his head, and if he'd been able to move it would have rocked him back upon his heels—it had such weight.

More words and concepts flooded his mind. He was coming back to himself. These thoughts and feelings were him, and he was flowing back into his body from somewhere else. Somewhere bad? No, just somewhere else. He was coming back. That's what he knew. He would be himself soon. He would be _more_ than himself soon. That was a strange thought, but it was somehow comforting among all the strangeness. It was a familiar thought. He was coming back _for_ her, and he was becoming more. All for her. He was doing this for love of her.

Rage... another familiar word. Vengeance... oh! Goddess what a concept vengeance was. He could taste it, and it was sweet. He would have vengeance. Someone had promised it to him, and he would hold that person to his word. He would have vengeance upon those who had hurt Marie. Rage again at that thought, but it was already familiar. It was rage at the thought of Marie hurt.

Night was so very close now. He was going to rise; it was happening. He had beaten the odds and was coming back for her. He was...

Andrew roared as the sun dipped below the horizon, and the last fragments of his consciousness arrived home in his corpse. He bucked and spat out the earth in his mouth and suddenly he reared up out of his grave already raging. His thoughts were an inferno of hate. They had hurt Marie! Anger blasted into his mind, it felt external as it struck him, making his head feel as if it was going to explode. He would have screamed, but his lungs were empty.

His heart thumped once in his chest and stopped. He froze at the odd sensation. Another thump, and then nothing. A minute went by, more than one? Thump; another beat of his lazy heart. He had a very slow heartbeat, but he wasn't breathing. Was that normal? He didn't know, but he needed to practise breathing. How would he talk without air in his useless lungs?

Pain in his jaw. Gah, it hurt like the worst toothache in the world. He spat blood and dirt... and his upper canine teeth fell to the ground as fangs replaced them in his mouth. He explored them with his fingers. Damn, they were big suckers! Suckers... he giggled. Get it? He laughed again, and moaned as his belly cramped. Goddess he was hungry! He was suddenly starving.

**Andrew...**

He whirled around, but there was no one there. His eyes were unbelievably keen, and he could tell that he was alone out here. It was dark and there was no moon, yet he could see as if it had been full and high in the sky. Another cramp doubled him over. Goddess he needed... he felt sick when he realised what he needed. He needed blood didn't he? He had to feed. Isn't that what he was supposed to do now that he was one of the monsters? Grief for his lost humanity clogged his throat. He wanted to deny what was happening to him, but he had volunteered for this.

_I didn't know! I didn't know what I was getting into!_

He wanted to howl his denials to the heavens, to the goddess. Make it be all a dream, please! Make the attack not have happened. Make Mister Stirling be alive and Marie safe, and he would do anything she wanted. He would dedicate his life to her; do her work in the world like one of her clerics even!

_I would, I swear I would. Goddess please... please do this for me. Please don't let me be dead. I don't want to be dead!_

**You're not dead. You're undead if anything. It's just a label. Do not dwell upon this now. Hear me, Andrew! You must hear me! She needs you, as do I. Marie needs you. Can you hear me? You _must_ hear me or all is lost!**

He blotted out the strange voice in his head. Imagination is all it was. He was alone in his head and the garden both. Another cramp folded him double. Oh goddess it was happening. He was one of the monsters now, and he had to feed... he had to do it, for her. He wanted to cry like a little boy when he realised what he'd done to himself. He had given up his goddess given soul for her. _She_ was his soul now, and the centre of his world. She must live to give his own existence meaning. He would endure this unlife for her, torture though it might become. For love of her.

Could monsters feel love? He did. He knew love didn't he? This feeling was the same as before. It had not changed when he became this thing. What did that mean? Did he not need a soul to feel love, to be loved? He had always thought it was necessary. Vampires had no souls; he didn't now. His soul had left him to join the goddess he hoped. He had given it away to bring help to Marie. Yes, he must remember it was for her. After she was safe, he would think about things. There were always choices. He would save her, and then choose whether to live or die a second time and stay dead.

He looked around for a direction to follow. Stephen had told him what to expect and what to do. He said he would need blood immediately upon rising. All newly born vamps needed to feed first thing or die again. Permanently. He almost yearned for that, but Marie needed him for a short while longer. The quiet emptiness of the void would wait until he was ready.

The rage flooded back and obliterated all thought. He was racing through the garden toward the house before he knew it. He had to save Marie! He had come back for her, changed for her. They had hurt her! Terry Sayles was a dead man; he would have his revenge. He would rip him to pieces, literally. He would make him stay dead forever, and piss on his corpse. He would—

**_STOP!_**

The command slashed into his brain and took his control away. His legs stopped moving instantly, and he crashed to the ground unable to move. He raged and struggled against the spell that trapped him. It had to be a spell didn't it?

**Hear me, Andrew.**

He froze. The voice was in his head again, but this time he thought he recognised it. _Stephen?_

**At last! Yes, it is I. Remember what I told you. Remember where you are!**

_I do remember. Terry Sayles is dead. DEAD! He hurt Marie._

**Never mind him. Remember what I told you about your first rising. You must feed. Feed or die, and with you Marie. Find food. I will help you if you need it, but do it now! You don't have much time left. Feed, and go to my club for help.**

He wanted to refuse, but Stephen was his maker. His words and desires had the force of commands. He wanted to refuse, but he didn't struggle against the inevitable this time. He was Stephen's, body and... not soul, he didn't have one anymore. Tears threatened again. Mind and body then if not soul, but Stephen was right about this. There were too many AML thugs for him to fight alone, and what of the vampires living in the house? They were awake now, just as he was, and they would be stronger than he. He wanted to go to Marie and save her, but although his thoughts were centred upon that and killing Terry, he wasn't so far gone in rage to ignore sense. He would bring help. Stephen had allies. He remembered the report he had compiled for Marie. Lost Souls was teeming with shifters, and House Edmonton was allied with House Lochlain and House De Santis. Both were powers in LA.

_Let me up, Stephen. I will do as you say._

Control suddenly returned and he rose to his feet. He looked around for a way to proceed. He wasn't looking forward to this. If he screwed up and killed someone... but AML deserved it. If his first victim died, so be it. He had to survive to save Marie. He turned away from the house looking for a meal.

**Concentrate. Feel the night?**

Andrew stopped and tried. Pinpoints of light suddenly filled his mind. _What is that?_

**The guards patrolling the grounds. Feel them?**

_Am I feeling their blood?_

**No, it's the life force within them. The gifted call it magic, the elves call it essence. All living things generate it, but although we need it to live, we are undead and cannot create it.**

_I need blood._

**You do, but the blood we feed upon does not animate us, Andrew, despite all you have heard; life force does or magic if you prefer. All of us—even humans—are magical beings. Shifters are too, in a different way. They are like magical batteries. They generate and store it in great quantities to enable their shape shifting, and they regenerate it very quickly when we feed upon them. They're the best source of food for us. They don't become addicted the way humans do.**

_All AML are human._

**True. This first time you will need more than one unless you drain one dry. Can you?**

_I think so, for her._

**For Marie then. When we drink, the blood connects us with the donor and allows us to feed upon their life force. The blood is merely a conduit for it. Shifter blood is very potent, but with humans that you don't wish to kill, you should drink only for a short time. Don't use the same ones for a few weeks, or you'll become attached to them.**

_Why are you explaining this to me now? I'm grateful, but why now?_

**I'm your maker. It's my duty to teach and protect. You've been sleeping for three days. I've not fed since turning you. I might not be here when you get back.**

That alarmed him. Stephen was one of the monsters, but he was his maker. _His!_ He didn't want to think about their bond too hard, but he felt it there. It was a comfort. It steadied him. It was Stephen's presence in his head, that calmed him and held the rage at bay. If not for him, he would have run straight to the house and a fight he was sure to have lost.

_I need you!_

**Then I suggest you hurry your feeding and bring word to Edward quickly.**

_I shall!_

Andrew picked the nearest pinpoint of light and sprinted toward it. He didn't try to be stealthy, but he was so blindingly fast that the guard didn't have time to scream. The woman had barely begun to turn when his fangs sank into her neck and her blood filled his mouth. He wrenched her assault rifle away and sent it spinning into the night. The blood... oh goddess it was so good. He wanted to be horrified and sickened, but it was the best thing he had ever tasted. It quenched the fire in his throat and belly, and he felt strength begin to flow through him, but it was over too soon. He realised his first victim was dead when the blood stopped flowing. He snarled in disappointment. Already the glow of new strength was fading.

He let the corpse fall and went in search of another meal.

He fed twice more and drained both men before he felt strong enough to leave. Although he hadn't planned it that way, draining three was a good move, he realised. He wouldn't need to stop on the way back to the city and risk someone see him feeding. He would need to steal a car as well, but he wouldn't do that here. He wanted to leave quietly. He frowned at the bodies and decided to stash them out of sight. With luck, no one would find them until morning when their friends came on shift.

Leaving them tucked away in the shrubbery, he orientated himself and ran for the wall surrounding the property.

## 37

# War Plans

David hurried into Edward's office at Lost Souls to find him trying to calm a very distressed vamp. He didn't recognise him, and a glance at Lawrence and Ronnie told him they didn't either. The stranger smelled of anger and the earth. He sniffed again, noting the others were also trying to get a lungful, and knew he was right. The man's suit was filthy, and his shoes were muddy. He had dirt in his hair, and there was a strong scent of fresh blood. Mist suddenly became hyper alert. In his head, David saw the wolf sitting at attention, listening intently to Edward soothing the distressed man.

"I have to go back," the stranger was saying. "I have to save her."

"You will," Edward soothed. "But you'll have to wait just a little longer. I made the calls. You heard me make them. It won't take long for them to arrive. David is already here, see?" The stranger allowed Edward's touch on his arm and turned to study David and his friends. His eyes found Ronnie and his fangs descended. David tensed for an attack, but again Edward took steps. "You are hungry, Andrew?"

The stranger nodded, but he seemed embarrassed. He had covered his mouth to hide his fangs. David relaxed and smiled wryly. Ronnie did have a particular effect on most men no matter their species or race. She fascinated them all, and who could blame them? Certainly not he. He was as besotted with her as they were in his way.

Edward beckoned Ronnie. "Take Andrew and find him someone, would you? He's new. Choose someone kind, please."

Ronnie nodded and took Andrew's hand to lead him out of the office. He went along with her like a child, and she gave David a challenging look as she walked by. He knew what that meant. She was going to feed Andrew herself and was daring him to object. He declined the challenge, and smiled secretly to himself at her frown. Mist's plan was definitely working.

He watched them leave and turned his attention back to Edward. "What do we know?"

"He's Stephen's child, turned three days ago. AML captured him along with the others at the house when they attacked. He knows where they're being held."

"Then Stephen _is_ alive," he said in relief.

"We already knew that. If Stephen had died, I would have as well. He's alive, but that doesn't mean he's comfortable, or that he won't die before we can rescue him. I've sent for the others—Andrew will show us where to go after he's fed again."

"Again?"

"He told me that Stephen helped him feed on some of the guards before he escaped, but he's only hours old. He'll need to feed often the first few days or die permanently in his sleep."

Lawrence sucked in a breath, obviously not happy to hear that.

Edward nodded grimly. "He had no choice. He killed three guards and fled to find me."

"They'll be found," Lawrence said. "If they haven't been discovered already, they will be by morning. We have to get to Stephen before then."

David turned to see Gavin enter the room with Spence and Angel at his heels. The cop trailed into the office last and she was angry. He had rarely met her when she wasn't angry about something. She needed counselling in his opinion. Anger issues in someone who routinely carried weapons on the streets couldn't be a good thing. When he heard what she was angry about however, he suddenly had other things on his mind.

"His name is Barrows," Chris said. "He followed me here."

"He is of no concern," Gavin said dismissing her words. "If he interferes, I will deal with it."

"You don't get it!"

"Ah, Gavin?" David said recognising the name. "This actually is a big deal, and a serious problem."

"Explain."

"Barrows is a fed."

Chris grimaced. "You're wasting your time. I already told him that Barrows is FBI. He won't listen to me!"

"Barrows is hip deep in what's been happening. From Angel's description, he was the one who tried to grab O'Neal's body at the morgue."

Gavin turned to his companions for confirmation and Angel nodded. Spence just shrugged. He hadn't been there.

"And Gavin?" He went on, returning the vamp's attention to him. "Stephen told me before he disappeared that OSI is sniffing around the city. Barrows is part of that and the Shadow War in Chicago."

Gavin frowned.

"We will deal with Barrows when the time comes," Edward said. "My priority is saving Stephen. We know where he is."

"We do?" Chris said in surprise. "Since when and where is he? Is Marie Stirling safe?"

"I should have said we have someone who knows where he is. He's feeding. He'll be back shortly."

"A vamp?"

Edward nodded.

"How do you know he's reliable?"

"Quite," Gavin said, frowning at the way the cop had taken over the conversation. "Do I know him? Is it Michael?"

"Not Michael. He and Stephen are both captive. No, this one is new. Stephen turned him. I've verified that."

Gavin nodded, accepting Edward's word, but Chris didn't understand how such things worked. She questioned and Edward had to explain.

"My bond with Stephen means I'm linked to him and through him to his progeny. I still can't feel Stephen—I don't understand why not—but I _can_ feel Andrew, just as I can feel all of Stephen's children. He was turned just three days ago and rose for the first time tonight. I felt him rise, as did Charles and Danyelle."

"Where is Danyelle?" Gavin said. "Why isn't she here?"

"I sent her and Lee to fetch Rachelle and her people. They should be here soon."

"What are we going to do about _Barrows?_ " Chris growled. "We can't let him follow us around!"

"I'll take care of it," David said.

"How? I won't let you kill him."

"Let?" Gavin said before David could answer. "I fear you are labouring under a misapprehension, Detective. I allow your presence for the debt I owe you, but do not think for a moment that it extends beyond allowing you to observe. As my _guest_ , you may accompany me and observe. You will not be allowed to interfere with what I decide to do, or not do."

David broke in before the cop could rally with a fresh argument likely to piss Gavin off. "I'll deal with this. Barrows might prove useful considering we have AML to deal with."

Gavin dismissed the matter as dealt with. "The night is passing. Angel has her people waiting outside. What of your pack?"

David turned to Lawrence. "Rally the troops. All are coming, no exceptions."

Lawrence hurried away.

"Transport?" Gavin said to Edward.

"It's all arranged. We just need Rachelle and her people to arrive and we can go."

"Excellent. This matter has dragged on long enough. My sword will end it tonight."

Edward picked up his cane from where it lay upon his desk. He twisted the pearled handle, pulled, and the sword it concealed slid out a few inches. He grimly slammed it home again.

David stared. He hadn't expected Edward to fight with them, but he didn't object after a moment of thought. If Stephen died so would his familiar. Edward had served Stephen for a very long time. If he was going to die, it was only right he die trying to save his master.

Danyelle escorted Rachelle and her entourage into the room some ten minutes later. By that time, Gavin was very impatient to leave. He was in no mood for Rachelle's mouth or for Spence's dislike of the witch accompanying her. He glared hard at Spence when the shifter muttered about the smell suddenly permeating the office, and shared it with the witch when she responded by imitating a dog whimpering like a whipped cur.

David shook his head, wondering how anyone got anything done with allies that could barely stand to be in the same room with each other. Spence was right though; the witch did stink, but it was her magic, not body odour. She was a necromance and her aura was dark as a consequence. He wasn't sure that necromancy, though considered a black art, was more evil than any other kind of magic. The White Council, for example, was only called white because its members shunned any form of black magic, but did that stop them from using their powers to kill their enemies or defend themselves?

Of course not.

White or black didn't matter; magic of any kind could do harm, just as it could be used to help. Even necromancy had a positive side despite its dark reputation. Anyone wishing to contact a dead loved one had to do so through a practitioner of it. A medium was simply a necromance who limited himself to contacting spirits. That didn't mean that mediums couldn't do the other things associated with being a practicing necromance. Refraining from raising zombies was just a choice they made, not a lack of ability despite their denials.

"What are we waiting for again?" Rachelle said snidely.

"You know very well," Edward said. "Andrew is only hours old. I know it has been centuries for you, but surely you remember your own first rising."

Gavin snorted.

"Of course I remember!"

"Then you know what we're waiting for. He will be no good to us starving. He will certainly be no help if he drops dead before showing us where Stephen is."

David felt Ronnie approaching. He would know her Presence anywhere. "Here they come now."

"Finally!" Rachelle said as Ronnie led Andrew back into the room. The vamp looked much better than he had. He had taken the time to wash up and change clothes. "You know where Stephen and Michael are being held?"

Andrew nodded warily, and David remembered that apart from Danyelle whom he'd met only briefly earlier, Andrew was just now meeting more of his own kind for the first time. He was so new that Rachelle and Gavin were literally the first vampires not of his own House he'd met since being turned. David wondered if it was anything like meeting a shifter from another pack. He recalled that sense of kinship he'd felt when meeting Geoffrey and his family earlier. He had recognised them as shifters and wolves like him, but there had been a sense of wrongness too. Maybe that wasn't the right word for it. Perhaps otherness was a better one. That sense that they were kin but not pack had been striking. Did vamps feel like that when meeting vamps from a different House or line? He didn't know, but would like to. He would ask Stephen about it, and a lot more besides, but they had to rescue him first.

"Who is our enemy?" Gavin said intently. "AML yes, but who is behind them? I refuse to believe a few AML fanatics managed to capture Michael and Stephen. One of us might fall to them if taken by surprise, but two of us both captured and not slain? No, I do not believe it."

"He's a really old vampire named Arcadian—" Andrew began.

Rachelle gasped and seemed to sway as if struck. Danyelle paled and that was telling. Vampires were very pale at the best of times. It was Gavin's reaction that was the most interesting.

"Impossible!" Gavin snapped. "You lie!"

"He isn't lying," David said. He was still learning about what he could do now, but that lesson was one of the first that Mist had taught him. "I don't know who Arcadian is. Someone bad I'm guessing, but Andrew isn't lying."

"Arcadian is dead," Gavin said flatly.

He shrugged. "Then this man has the same name."

"None of us would use that name," Danyelle said. "No one would dare."

Rachelle nodded. She looked ill. Scared. Very scared.

"I say again," Gavin said, addressing himself to the very worried and scared looking Rachelle. "Arcadian is dead. I don't know who this man is, and I don't care. I do know he isn't who he professes to be. Be at ease, Rachelle, there is nothing to fear. I helped Justin destroy Arcadian—he is no longer a presence in our world. I swear this to you." He turned back to regard Andrew thoughtfully. "Now, what else can you tell us?"

"Arcadian..." Andrew hesitated at Gavin's ferocious glare. "I don't know what else to call him!"

"Never mind. Call him Arcadian, or call him Shirley Temple for all I care. Just get on with your story so we can end this mess tonight."

"AML has been backing Arcadian with money and supplying him with victims. They kept us in the cellar of the main house in cages. They're electrified. Stephen said the bars were too strong to bend, and he did try despite the pain. Michael did too. They have humans and shifters captive down there as well; they use them to feed Michael after they drain his blood."

"They drain him to create rogues like O'Neal I assume, but why?"

"It's much worse than making a few rogues." Andrew said grimly. "They're just as much Arcadian's victims as Stephen and Michael are. They're test subjects; the result of a weapon AML commissioned him to make, but he fooled them. They funded his research into a bio-weapon meant to kill vampires en masse, but that isn't what he created."

"How far along are they?" Rachelle said.

"The weapon is real, but it's not fully ready. It's not airborne yet, but it does work. The rogues were created by tainting Michael's blood with it. Arcadian is playing AML for fools. The weapon is designed to change a third of all humans alive today _into_ vampires, not _kill_ them."

David shook his head. "Madness."

"A third?" Gavin said. "Why only a third?"

"Michael said the virus will skip a third of the population entirely. They're going to be your... _our_ cattle. Food. The final third will simply die. I don't know why he chose that ratio, but maybe he thinks saving an equal number of humans for food is optimal for his new world order. I don't know, but Michael says it doesn't matter anyway, because the rogues are all insane. He says it's because their maker is a virus in a petri dish, and they don't have a bond to keep them stable."

"That would explain O'Neal," Gavin said thoughtfully. "I knew at the time there was something not right about him."

"We have to stop this," David said. "If this gets out, AML won't have to kill us all, the government will do it for them. This will turn every human against us."

"A purge," Gavin agreed. "Stephen feared it, and warned us it might happen. The government will not discriminate between guilty and innocent. A weapon like the one you describe would be enough incentive for them to kill every non-human in the country, not just my kind. They've been looking for an excuse for years. It's only fear of international condemnation that holds them back as it is... well that, and the elves."

"Those flighty pests don't like us any better than the humans do," Rachelle said snidely.

"True enough, but they would still see any purge as a potential threat."

"You're talking about war," Spence said. "A new War of Races, like in the old days."

David shivered. The last War of Races in Europe lasted decades and decimated populations there. Here in the Republic with humans wielding modern technological weapons against elves wielding battle magic and the ancient war spells created with it, the result could literally devastate the country. There were places in Europe where nothing would grow even to this day. Those deserts, the blasted lands, could occur in the Republic if things went wrong tonight.

"We can't let it come to that," he said. "We have to silence everyone involved." The cop looked uneasy suddenly. "Don't even think about it."

She looked surprised. "What?"

"You know what. I won't let you warn them."

"I would never!"

Gavin regarded her thoughtfully. "You will accompany me tonight in _my_ car. You will leave yours here at the club."

"But!"

"No arguments, Detective. I will have you under my eye until this is over. You can do what you want after that, not before."

She scowled but made no further objections.

Gavin looked around. "We go now. This ends tonight, for good or ill."

## 38

# Justifications

Professor Elliot Massey switched on his computer next to the bio-containment cabinet and navigated through his files to find his place. He had saved his work that morning before bed—the vampires insisted they work at night to allow them to oversee the research. Understandable he supposed, but damned inconvenient. He had never slept well during daylight hours.

He found his last entry in the current file and read through it. He nodded as he recalled the negative result and checked the reference number. He didn't want to waste time going back over old ground.

He took his seat before the level four bio-containment cabinet and pushed his hands into the gloves, forcing his fingers into the clinging rubber and working his hands until he had a proper fit. The samples were in sequence waiting for him to evaluate. He found the last one he had worked with, checking the reference number to be certain, and started work on the next in line.

He adjusted the microscope and laid bare the latest specimen's secrets. Specimens now? Those poor souls were mere specimens were they? When had they stopped being people to him? He couldn't pinpoint when it had happened. It had sickened him at first, participating in Arcadian's mad experiments, but rationalisations and justifications had led him further and further into damnation. The goddess would shun him for betraying his oath this way. Do no harm—it was such a simple oath. Surely, there had been some way he could have kept it, but no, it had been too late the moment Arcadian offered to save Susan's life.

Treacherous, foolish, hope.

He had allowed himself to become one of the inmates of this madhouse for hope's sake, and Susan was the key to his cell. Susan and Chani rather. The vampire had kept her word by making Susan her familiar—her human servant. As promised, the process had cured her, but now she and the vampire were bonded. Nothing but death could separate them, trapping him in this evil dream doing Arcadian's bidding. How far he had fallen. No not fallen. Pushed. Immortality research indeed. The project had never been about immortality. It was nothing but a eugenics program! Knowledge wasn't evil; research of any kind could be misused, but live human test subjects in the basement of a vampire's mansion were a big clue that the entire project was evil and illicit.

He sighed, and changed the current sample for the next one in sequence.

There was nothing he could do. He could refuse to continue his work. Jennifer and their colleagues would carry it forward, but at least he could deny Arcadian his skills. It would salve his conscience a little, but he doubted it would materially affect the end result of the project. It might slow it, but stop it? No. He needed to get Susan out of the house, out of Chani's reach long enough to call the authorities down on Arcadian. The problem was the bond. Chani could find Susan or call her to her side from miles away. Even clear across the city, and there was another problem with calling the authorities in. He couldn't allow harm to befall Chani. Harm to her was tantamount to harming his daughter—the bond again.

Whatever he did or didn't do, he needed to protect them both while at the same time ensuring Arcadian's mad scheme failed.

He pulled one hand out of the cabinet and updated his notes on the last sample on his computer. So far, the current study was proving to be a dead end and he thanked the goddess for it. A way to deliver the modified vampire virus en masse would turn a simple outbreak into a pandemic. He had to get himself and Susan away before his work reached that point.

He patted the pocket of his lab coat, feeling for the contents and mentally counting them. One, two, three... he felt better knowing he had them ready. Not that he had a good plan about what to do if he ever used them, but their presence was reassuring. The pressure syringes contained his one chance to get out of this madhouse and bring his daughter safely out with him. The syringes contained a concoction of drugs he had cobbled together that he was sure could drop a rhino in its tracks let alone a single vampire woman. If he used it on Chani, he had better have a way to contain her. If he didn't have her tucked safely in a cage when she woke up, he was a dead man.

He made a few more notes on the computer, and went back to work on the next sample.

Had he any pride in this research, he would have been extremely pleased with the team's progress to date. A lot of the work predated his arrival. Jennifer was responsible for much of that early progress, but the work had progressed by leaps and bounds since he'd joined the team.

Unfortunately.

He was very much afraid that time was running out. He needed to act and soon. They didn't have a reliable airborne delivery vehicle for the modified virus yet, but VH29C—the latest iteration of the vampire virus and the most successful—was already a viable candidate for the weapon that Arcadian wanted. And it _was_ a weapon no matter the vampire's demurrals. Why else research an airborne variant if not to weaponise it?

Another notation on his computer, another sample under the scope.

The flu virus he was currently studying belonged to a particularly virulent strain. He had tested and discarded hundreds of variations on the theme now, modifying the horrors found in nature to create something worse. He had never been so relieved when all his attempts had failed.

Another notation, another sample.

He peered into the eyepiece and froze. Oh goddess no... he wasn't ready! He peered into the eyepiece again hoping he was mistaken, but no, he had it right. This was disaster. His time had run out.

He looked around at his colleagues in the lab. No one was taking notice; they were too busy at their own scopes. He caught Jennifer's eye and beckoned her over. Puzzlement flashed upon her face, but she rose from her station and came over. He stood to give her access to his scope, and she sat before it. She made some adjustments and studied the current sample. She looked up sharply moments later, and he nodded. They had done it... and doomed themselves. He saw the realisation dawn on her face, and her excitement changed to fear.

He took his place back from Jennifer and removed the sample from his scope, noting the reference number. He read the entry on his computer, and frowned. It was a strain of H9N2, or avian flu, that he had modified. H9N2 was an old enemy of humanity long since conquered, but modified to carry VH29C he had created something entirely new—a virulent airborne plague with no cure. It would kill millions if released. Billions in time, and would change the survivors into something else. This was it, the culmination of their work—Arcadian's undead plague was a reality.

This was utter disaster. If Arcadian learned of this, he would want to go into full production immediately. The research phase was over, and their usefulness at an end, though only Jennifer and he knew it as yet. He put the sample back into the rack with the others to hide it. Jennifer's eyes followed it, unable to let it go.

"What do we do?" Jennifer whispered.

"I'll tell you what we don't do," he replied. "We don't tell anyone. That's first."

"And second?"

"We get out of here and call the authorities. They will stop Arcadian. They must."

"If they don't, he'll kill us."

He nodded grimly. "He'll kill us anyway. The moment he learns we've succeeded, he'll know he doesn't need us anymore."

Fear filled Jennifer's eyes again. "I wish I'd never heard of Arcadian. I wish I had said no."

"I did say no, but he wouldn't take that for my answer. He found a way to compel me. He would have found something for you too. You have family, friends, something to protect. He would have found it."

Her eyes were shiny with unshed tears. He reached out and rubbed her arm in a poor effort to comfort her. He wasn't very comfortable with women anymore; Jennifer didn't hit his radar as a woman most of the time anyway. She would probably be offended by that; she was still good looking despite her being of an age with him, but he had always considered her a colleague first, a friend second, and only then a woman. It probably said something about him that her womanhood came a very distant third in his perceptions. Her abilities and competence as a scientist and researcher had always been more relevant to him.

"We need to talk to the others, but quietly," he said. "Not all will want to chance leaving."

"They're scared."

"I know. So am I, so are you, but we can't stay here. Choose carefully who to tell."

"I know who not to," Jenifer said grimly. "There are a couple that will inform on us if they think they'll benefit."

"I think I know the ones you mean. Just be careful. We have to go tonight."

"Tonight!"

He nodded. "There are more guards patrolling the grounds during the day."

"But the vamps are awake now."

"Exactly. They feel more secure at night. Most of the guards are off shift."

Jennifer looked doubtful. "There are still a lot of men with guns, Elliot."

"True, but not as many. I've been thinking about this for a long time. I've counted them. The best time to go is an hour before dawn. The vamps are getting ready to sleep, and the guards are tired. They hand over to the day time guards around then."

"You really have thought this through."

He nodded.

She bit her lip. "About your daughter—"

"I have a plan, don't worry about that. We have to take Chani with us." Fear flashed upon Jennifer's face again. "There's no choice. I won't leave Susan behind. I'll deal with the vampire don't worry. I must if Susan is ever to be free."

She nodded and hurried away to warn the others. Elliot watched her go and took a deep breath. He needed to collect Susan and enlist her aid in subduing Chani. Susan knew the plan and her part in it. She liked Chani, a lucky thing because the bond was an intimate connection, but she would play her part. He had promised not to hurt the vampire in any permanent manner; an easy promise to make when harming Chani was tantamount to harming Susan. That he would never do.

He patted his pocket and headed for the door leading to the rest of the house in search of his daughter.

## 39

# Clean Sweep

"Don't get too close," Barrows said.

"Yes, sir," Sergeant Bechtel replied, ignoring the instruction. He continued his driving at the same careful pace, barely within sight of the dark coloured vehicles up ahead.

Barrows ignored the irritation he heard in the man's voice. The sergeant didn't like it that his team was subordinate to OSI for this operation. It was hard to blame the man. The military rarely liked civilian control of their actions, and members of elite special teams like Bechtel and his men liked it least of all.

Barrows frowned at the GPS in the dash. They were far outside of the city now, and into a remote area barren of habitation. He checked his map, but there didn't seem to be anything interesting nearby. He glanced uneasily out of his window, but the darkness was impenetrable. Considering what they were doing out here he should be thankful for Bechtel's presence, but he really would have preferred his own people accompany him. He knew and trusted them; they had backed each other up on these things too many times to count. He would have preferred an exclusively OSI operation even now, even knowing who they were going up against, but the President himself had taken a hand after the disaster in Chicago by making it a joint operation between OSI and the military. OSI retained the investigative side, while the military was tasked with the actual take down. Arcadian's assassination in other words. Barrows grimaced at the familiar thought, but there really was no alternative and the President would not hear the Director's protests about using the military within the Republic's borders. Barrows knew he had been lucky to remain in charge of the investigation, let alone running the final operation that would close the file once and for all.

He watched the tail-lights of the dark SUV up ahead and judged the distance had remained constant. It was tail-end-Charlie of a convoy of vehicles they had followed all the way from the waterfront district of LA. They weren't gaining, and that was good enough for now.

Humber had surprised him in how far she had been willing to go in her pursuit of what she saw as justice. Surprised and pleased him actually. Allowing her to blaze the trail had made his job much easier. Her contacts had given her a way to infiltrate the non-human community, one he simply did not have and couldn't replicate. OSI was persona non grata with vamp and shifter alike. His body would never have been found if he'd attempted what Chris Humber had succeeded in doing. It was amazing how creatures known for their paranoia and hostility had accepted her so easily. Either she was a superb actress, or she had promised them something they wanted very badly. He wondered what it had been. Not that he cared really. As long as it led to Arcadian's destruction, he wouldn't complain.

Brake lights flared red, and the convoy of SUVs and vans took a turn onto a side road. He checked the GPS but wasn't surprised to find it devoid of any side roads for miles. Typical. The software didn't include the narrow lane. No surprise, it was hardly a road at all, just a dirt track barely one car wide. He aimed his shielded flashlight at the paper map in his lap as Bechtel slowed to a crawl to allow Humber's team to open the range before taking the same turn. He knew what he was doing, but allowing the distance between them to widen still further was risky. They didn't want to lose sight of them completely.

"We must be getting close," Barrows said. "There's nothing on the map for miles in any direction except this place." He tapped a finger on the map and angled it for Bechtel to see. "There's no name."

"A town?"

"I don't think so. It looks too small for that. Maybe a house or cabin? I don't know. I guess we'll find out."

Bechtel grunted. "No kidding," he said and slowed even more. "They're stopping."

Barrows peered ahead as the sergeant pulled over. "This must be it. I'll want your people to set a perimeter around this place."

"Yes, sir."

"And Sergeant?"

"Sir?"

"I know what you were told about Arcadian and the Chicago thing. I won't debate with you who was to blame for our losses that day. Frankly, I don't care if you like me or not, but you _will_ follow my orders. Assuming she's alive and we can do it without risking the mission I want to extract the Stirling woman unharmed if possible." He hesitated but then made his decision. "I guess we can extend that to other human hostages if there are any, but they're not a priority. Get me?"

Bechtel nodded and smiled. He actually looked approving for a change. "Kill all non-humans. I like that kind of order. Makes things simple."

"Not quite. I'm including the AML fanatics in that kill order. Objections?"

"Nope. They'll be trying to off my men and me. I consider that sort of thing unfriendly."

Barrows nodded and opened his door to climb out.

The other vans had parked close by and Bechtel's men were assembling. He smoothed the map out over the hood of the closest vehicle and everyone gathered around to listen. Doug and the other OSI agents were conspicuous in their different appearance. Although all of them were wearing black body armour of similar design, Bechtel's men were like walking armouries. They had assault rifles in hand, but the loops on their vests sported many other weapons. Blades of all shapes and sizes were in evidence together with old-fashioned stakes and modern stun weapons. He could even make out a sword handle rising over the shoulder of one man, and if he wasn't mistaken, there were quite a few of the new gas propelled stake guns slung across chests. A few modern compound crossbows rounded out the mix. His OSI people were poor relations in comparison. They carried assault rifles and their K6 Remington stunners holstered under their arms, but that was it.

One of the men illuminated the map with a flashlight and Barrows pointed out the target. "I want this place locked down. No one leaves without our say so. Sergeant Bechtel will choose who stays with us for the main assault. The rest of you will surround the place and enforce containment. Weapons free, gentlemen. Secrecy must be maintained no matter the cost. Collateral damage is not on my radar, and I can assure you, it's not on the Director's radar either. The only thing that might get us canned is letting someone talk."

"Question, sir," one man said.

"Ask."

"What if they surrender?"

Barrows stared, and then glanced at Bechtel who rolled his eyes. The questioner was obviously very green. He was baby-faced and new on the team, recruited only recently.

"Cousins, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, Cousins, what part of the weapons free and secrecy must be maintained order don't you understand?"

Cousins flushed.

Barrows surveyed all the men. "In case anyone else is in any doubt: No... One... Leaves. Understood?"

The men mumbled agreement.

"Now then, I would like it very much if the human hostages can be rescued, but that's not a priority. Miss Stirling may or may not be still alive; we may or may not rescue her. If we can do it without losing containment, then fine—her family's friends have a lot of pull where it counts—but saving her at the cost of losing Arcadian is unacceptable." He let the seriousness of the situation settle in their minds with his silence. He caught and held as many of their eyes as he could, and received acknowledgements in the form of nods and their firming grip upon weapons. "Sergeant Bechtel, they're your men. Get it done."

"Yes sir," Bechtel said and began parcelling out his men into teams to surround and contain the area.

Barrows left him to it and stepped away. His own people followed him into the dark. "We go directly for Arcadian," he began. "I don't care what else we find in there, or how bad it is, he's our priority. If we can take him down it won't matter what else happens, we'll have won."

"As long as no one talks. If word of what the sick freak is doing gets out we're screwed," Doug warned.

Everyone nodded worriedly.

Barrows waved a hand at the soldiers. "That's what Bechtel and his men are here to prevent. We go in hard and take down all opposition. No one will talk. No one will be in a condition to talk when we're done."

"The Stirling woman?"

"If she's alive we'll deal. There are ways to shut her down—spells and even drugs that can wash memories."

Doug grimaced, but nodded.

He understood Doug's distaste. He wasn't a fan of wiping memories himself, especially not the memories of an innocent woman still grieving her father's death, but there really was no other option. He couldn't just take her word that she wouldn't tell someone about Arcadian. Even if he could, his superiors wouldn't let him. Giving her a free pass was out of the question.

"Sir!"

Barrows turned and Bechtel gestured up the lane. Two men were walking nonchalantly toward them. Within seconds, everyone had found some cover and was aiming weapons into the dark. He recognised them from the reports he had ordered written up. It was David Lephmann and his sidekick, Lawrence Bailey.

"No one fire!" Barrows said. "Let them come to us."

"Jack..." Nancy said nervously. She was peering into the trees, trying to pierce the shadows. "This feels all wrong."

"Stay frosty," he said, not liking the feel of it either. "Keep them covered, but don't start anything. Let's see what this is about."

Lephmann and Bailey stopped in the middle of the lane and surveyed things with glowing eyes. Both shifters were unarmed, but that didn't mean much. Their bodies were their weapons. Lephmann assessed Bechtel's men, his golden eyes locking on to each man briefly as if memorising faces, before moving on to the next. Finally, he found who he was looking for and spoke.

"Agent Barrows, a word please."

Barrows grunted in surprise. He hadn't expected to be recognised and wondered about it. Maybe Humber had mentioned his name. He lowered his rifle, stepping away from the protection of the van and into the middle of the lane. He stopped well back from the shifters, trying not to block his men's field of fire in case it dropped in the pot.

Lephmann nodded to him. "What do you see happening here? Whatever it is you'll need to rethink because I won't let it happen."

" _Let?_ " Barrows said. "I don't think you understand your position, Doctor Lephmann."

"David or Lephmann if you prefer, not Doctor. People like you won't let me be one anymore."

"People like me, what's that supposed to mean?"

"Human bigots in position of authority is what it means."

Lawrence smiled.

Barrows scowled. "You don't know me."

Lephmann waved a hand at all the gun-toting soldiers. "I don't need to know you personally to know _what_ you are. It's obvious what you plan to do. I won't let you kill my friend."

"Friends like Arcadian do you no credit."

This time it was Lephmann's turn to scowl, but being a shifter made his expression a little different to the human norm. His eyes blazed, literally. The golden irises brightened making Barrows think of searchlights.

"Arcadian is no friend of mine. Stephen is who I meant. Stephen and anyone he calls friend. I won't let him come to harm. _Leave._ "

"Heh, that's not happening. You're a fool to suggest it."

"I'm not fool enough to expect common sense from any human being, but I had to make the offer."

"Now who's the bigot? It works both ways."

"True, it does. You should let me and my people deal with Arcadian. Let us police our own problem children and we'll let you leave."

"I can't do that."

Lephmann nodded. "I know why you think that. Arcadian's insane plan, the bio-weapon, the need for secrecy... you should realise that stopping him is in my people's interests as much as yours. No one wants the attention of the White Council or the elven courts. No one wants to risk a purge or a new War of Races. I can swear any oath you care to name that Arcadian will cease to be a problem tonight, and all evidence of his mad scheme will disappear forever, but that won't suffice. Will it?"

"No."

"What do you see happening here? Right here, between us?"

Barrows frowned. "I will take you two into custody and proceed against Arcadian, or if you resist, my men will put you down first. It's your choice."

"You're right about it being about choices. Let me give you yours. You can let us police our own, and then move in to clean up the mess we'll leave behind. We both know none of this will be allowed to become public knowledge no matter which of us kills Arcadian. On the other hand, you can kill me, and Lawrence will kill you. Your men will then kill him, and then my friends will step in and kill everyone else before taking care of Arcadian as planned. You and your men will become another statistic on the national missing person's database. You'll become just another blip in a computer somewhere."

"Big talk," Bechtel growled. "Sir, time's wasting."

"Jonas!" Lephmann said. "Now please."

Barrows tensed as eyes ignited in the dark. He turned slowly to survey the trees. There were hundreds of shifters watching from the shadows, already in beast form. Hundreds of huge coyotes, and mixed in with them were tall humanoid monsters. They crept forward to reveal themselves, growling, and eager to attack. Bechtel's men reformed to cover all sides at once, but he could tell they were outnumbered three or four to one. He turned back to Lephmann expecting to see the man gloating, but he wasn't. He looked... hopeful?

"Stand down, Sergeant," Barrows said giving in to the inevitable.

He had no doubt a lot of people were only moments from death. The wrong people. Arcadian was the one who mustn't walk away. He didn't like it, but if Lephmann's people could take him down, there was no need for Bechtel's men to die here.

"But sir!"

"Stand down. We aren't leaving, but if these... _people_ want to do our work for us, I say we let them. No need to risk your men's lives if we don't need to." He turned back to Lephmann. "You win, but we're not leaving. I'm going to surround the area in case anyone slips by your..." he waved a hand at the monstrous creatures lurking in the shadows. "...by you."

Lephmann nodded and turned to leave. The shifters under the trees faded back and the glowing eyes were extinguished two by two. Barrows watched them go, thinking hard, and wondering whether to call in reinforcements. He could do that; he would be expected to do that under the circumstances. He could even call in an air strike by drone if he needed to. The Arcadian operation was that crucial. He really should report in and ask for orders, but if he did, he was certain to lose control of things. It would be no skin off his nose if Lephmann and all his people died in such a strike, but he didn't want to risk losing Arcadian. He wanted the vamp's headless corpse at his feet. He wanted absolute verification of death, not a crater in the ground that might or might not contain Arcadian's ashes.

"Sergeant?"

"Sir?"

"Change of plans."

Bechtel laughed. "No kidding."

## 40

# Old Friends

Gavin waited impatiently for the shifters to return. David seemed the reliable sort and Stephen must think highly of him, but he had to wonder what two wolves thought they could do that he couldn't. This Barrows person that everyone seemed to fear so much was merely human. Influencing him would be an easy matter. He watched Angelina checking her weapons and felt reassured at her obvious preparedness. She was wearing her vest again, festooned with blades of all kinds, and the machine guns that she liked so much.

"The armour is plate?" Spencer asked, also interested in Angelina's preparations. "You don't think they'll use armour piercing ammo?"

Angelina snorted. "I think they'll be loaded for monster as usual, so silver-plated blades, silver-plated bullets, and high silver content flechettes and needles. I'm wearing Kevlar not plate because of the weight not the ammo they'll be using. I'm a _giiiirl_ , remember?"

Spencer snorted.

"Both of you stick close to me," Gavin said. "Our target is this false Arcadian. Rachelle, that goes for you as well. Send your people after his followers by all means, but you stay with me."

Rachelle nodded.

Gavin turned to Edward, but before he could give orders, Edward spoke up.

"I'm going after Stephen with Andrew. Don't try, Gavin, please. You know I can't ignore his need even if I wanted to, which I don't."

That was true. Edward's bond with Stephen would be a goad to him, assuming it was restored as everyone assumed it would be when they crossed the wards enclosing the estate. He would be useless in a fight if distracted by his need to re-join Stephen. Gavin nodded, accepting Edward's position. He considered Stephen's newest child for a moment and quickly dismissed him. He was so new that he wasn't worth considering as an asset.

"Charles and Danyelle will accompany me for now," Gavin said. "Lee and Elizabeth as well. The shifters—"

"Are mine not yours," David called from out of the darkness.

Gavin turned to watch the two men arrive. "Indeed. You will have them fight with us I assume?"

"No need for sarcasm. They will fight, but my priorities are saving Stephen, destroying the weapon, and removing all evidence of it. We can't allow knowledge of this thing to leave here, and that goes for the fools who created it."

"Good. We are of like mind regarding that at least. Barrows?"

"He's been dealt with. He agreed to surround the area but not move in. He wants to prevent any escapes."

Angel snorted. "Like that's going to happen with Jonas and Leon prowling about."

"Barrows really agreed to that?" Chris said, sounding surprised.

"Jonas and I didn't give him a choice."

"You will come with me, Detective," Gavin went on. "I do not give you leave to go off on your own."

"Oh you can count on that. I'm not letting you out of my sight until this thing is done. You owe me, and I _will_ collect no matter how long I have to dog your heels."

"Yes, yes, I'm well aware," he said in annoyance at her repeated insinuations that he would try to avoid paying his debts. "This has gone on long enough, we _will_ finish it tonight."

With that pronouncement, Gavin led them to war once more.

He swung his sword experimentally as he stalked toward the gates, rotating and limbering his wrist. The weapon was an extension of his arm, its familiar weight a comfort, and reminder of home. It was the Lochlain sword, brought with him from his own world of Tahir. When he first arrived here on Earth, he had been horrified to discover it had come through the portal with him. His family had been dealt a terrible double blow when the ancestral blade was lost along with him when he died, but many years later, he had come to terms with his guilt over it. The ancient sword was a comfort to him now. His armour didn't hold the same emotional attachment for him. He did care for it and kept it in good repair. It was a memento that reminded him of home and was safe on its stand in his apartment. It would remain there with other curiosities he had collected over the years. The sword though, was a part of him, and its magic remained undimmed despite its antiquity. It was many centuries older than he was. His six centuries of unlife were a mere tithe in comparison to its age.

The gates came into sight and he broke into sprint. Angelina cursed as his vampire speed made him seem to disappear to her merely human vision. He hadn't of course. He couldn't teleport like a wizard. Many of the stories told about his kind had an element of truth, but like the ones that said vampires could transform into bats, wolves, or mist, teleportation was another fantasy. He could move exceedingly fast, but he did travel the intervening distance despite appearances. At the last moment, he jumped, clearing the gates with ease. He landed on the far side, and darted into the gatehouse where he sensed a pair of human guards. Inept human guards as it turned out. Though armed, both men were inattentive and they quickly became inept human corpses, shorter by a head.

Literally.

He ignored the blood fountains he had created and used the gate controls to let the others into the grounds.

"Mister Gavin," Angelina growled angrily as she re-joined him accompanied by Flex and the rest of the Angels. "Don't do that. We can't protect you if we can't keep up with you!"

Spencer grinned, obviously enjoying the spectacle of Angelina scolding him. Gavin cleaned his sword on one of the bodies, not really listening to the girl. It wasn't as if he'd been in any real danger. Two half-asleep humans had provided very little in the way of a challenge.

"Enough," he growled when the girl threatened to keep on with her nagging. The shifters were running by outside, some of them already changing shape in anticipation of the hunt. "We risk falling behind." They joined Rachelle and the others, and quickly chased the shifters into battle.

Gunfire shattered the night, and battle was joined. Shifters tumbled and fell to automatic weapons in the hands of AML soldiers, but most regained their feet already changing. The baying of wolves suddenly replaced howls of pain. Angel went to one knee and fired into the darkness in controlled bursts. Her crew were doing similar things. Danyelle snarled and dashed away to find something to kill. Gavin watched her ride a human to the ground and didn't interfere or call her to heel. She fed briefly from her victim, killed him, and ran into the dark looking for another meal. He did not try to stop her. Charles watched her go with a wistful look upon his face and Gavin sighed. No plan lasted very long once battle was joined, but to abandon it this soon?

"Very well, you may join her—" Gavin broke off as Charles charged into the night in pursuit of his blood sister. Lee did not follow. He awaited the order. "Yes, yes. If you must."

Lee sprinted away.

Elizabeth looked at him hopefully, but he couldn't give away all of his advantages. He shook his head and her face fell. A pout appeared. Really? How old was she to act so? He sampled her aura and decided that she hadn't yet reached triple digits. Still, she was old enough to have mastered her impulses better than this.

Rachelle laughed. "They'll remember this night fondly for the rest of their days."

Probably true, if they survived. Elizabeth's pout grew more obvious still. He ignored her and reached out to feel the night. He could sense a powerful revenant in the house. There were others in there too, but this one was more powerful by far. He frowned as he tried to judge his strength and grunted in surprise. He was of a similar age and power to his own. Interesting then that this false Arcadian, if indeed this was he, had chosen to remain in the shadows, rather than openly challenge him and the established order in LA.

"He's in the house. I will flush him out. Rachelle and Elizabeth will kill any of his brood that attempt to prevent me."

Angelina nodded and sent her crew on ahead to engage AML and any other humans guarding the house. They smashed windows and piled inside. Guns barked and shouts of anger and pain sounded from within. Gavin charged the front doors and smashed them down. Rachelle and the others flowed inside on his heels. Bullets tore into him and Rachelle, he spun toward his attacker, but Rachelle was already moving. She ripped into the humans like a demented demon, laughing all the while. Elizabeth suddenly launched into motion, surprising him by jumping straight into the air to scramble onto the upstairs landing. Screams of fear and agony sounded from that direction, followed by blood raining down. Elizabeth laughed gaily and threw the bodies off the landing to hit the floor in front of him. She jumped down, grinning madly.

"Wipe your chin," Gavin said. The grin vanished from her face, and she complied looking embarrassed. "You missed a spot," he said and reached out to fix it. He chucked her under the chin. "Well done."

She smiled happily and blushed at the praise. She had fed enough for the blush to look almost human natural. Rachelle finished her butchery and turned back for orders. He pointed the way deeper into the house and Elizabeth joined her to clear a path for him. There were a lot of humans in residence. Arcadian's AML allies. Gavin checked and found Angelina and Spencer covering his back. The detective was keeping close, trying to cover them all. Decent of her, he thought, though he didn't need her protection. He would take it on Angelina's behalf.

"There!" Rachelle shouted as she dashed to follow a vampire trying to sneak away.

Elizabeth looked to Gavin uncertainly.

"Protect her!"

Elizabeth nodded and raced away.

Angelina muttered something about taking chances, and Spencer laughed. She hissed something back at him, and suddenly he was exploding out of his clothes. He was into the change. He chose his hybrid form over his wolf shape. A good choice under the circumstances. Chris muttered unhappily, but she stuck close to him.

Gavin followed his sense of where Arcadian was, leading them all through the house. A figure ducked out of a doorway ahead, and fired some kind of assault rifle. Angelina cut him in half, proving her boast that she could do that by triggering a long sustained burst from her machine guns. Chris cursed at the sight. Angelina ignored her and reloaded. Spencer edged forward to sniff at the bisected corpse. He looked up abruptly, and snarled.

"Vampire, I go," Spencer growled and entered the room. There came the sound of snarling and shattering glass.

Gavin looked into the room only moments later, but Spencer was gone. Through the shattered windows on the far side of the room by the evidence. A breeze entered through the broken window, playing with the drapes. Howls and gunfire came from that direction. Spencer was no doubt giving chase.

"That's great," Chris said to Gavin. "That's just dandy. The way we're going it will be just you and me soon."

Angelina snorted. "I'm not going anywhere, _De-tec-tive_. I go where Mister Gavin goes."

"I follow her," Flex said definitively.

"Quiet," Gavin whispered. "He's close... _there!_ "

He darted across the hall to slam a door open. He entered the dimly lit room, noting the displays of armour and weapons. A man looked up in surprise and grabbed a sword from one of the nearby exhibits.

Gavin stopped where he was in utter shock. He knew this vampire. He studied a face he had never expected to see again, and hadn't encountered in centuries. "Francis? Can it be truly you?" Angelina and the others entered the room and arranged themselves at his back. "Do nothing. He's mine."

"Garvan!" Francis said gaily. "How wonderful to see you. You're looking well. You haven't changed a bit, haha!"

"It's Gavin now."

"Not much of an alias, old friend."

"Better than the one you're using these days. Why use that evil bastard's name?"

"We called him evil back then, but was he really? I don't think he was."

"You've changed if you believe that. You led us to him, helped us slay him."

Francis shrugged. "We all make mistakes. He was a unique power in the world, and his reputation makes certain things easier. It's just a name I use, like Alexander before this; I'll choose another when I outgrow it."

"Alexander?"

Francis raised his arms straight out to the side. "Surprise!"

"You were Alexander? _The_ Alexander who supposedly died in Chicago?"

"Do I look dead? Don't answer that, haha!"

Gavin shook his head sadly. Poor Francis. The passing centuries had maddened him. He remembered the man he used to call friend, and this was not he. He had changed beyond belief. He firmed his grip upon his sword. He had to end this madness.

Francis noticed his sudden tension and raised the elven blade he carried to a guard position. Gavin flowed smoothly forward, using all of his speed to strike first, but Francis was his equal in age. He defended expertly and their swords clashed, the sound of the two ancient blades singing a dissonant song. Gavin stepped back to disengage, and pivoted. The swords clashed again and then again in a flurry of thrust, parry, and counter thrust.

Chris cursed as she sighted upon Francis, but she was unable to keep him targeted. He was moving too fast. Angelina was ready for an opening, but the risk of hitting Gavin was too great. She edged around the room, trying for a better angle. Flex moved in the other direction, keeping watch upon the door as well.

Gavin was at the limit of his skill and speed, but he couldn't get a strike through Francis' defence. He had always been good with a sword. Both of them had bested William on occasion in practice bouts, and William had been extraordinarily good—a true sword master in a time when everyone carried a blade.

"Give up this madness!" he snarled and was finally able to draw first blood.

Francis' eyes widened at the stinging cut upon his sword arm. "A hit! _My turn!_ "

Gavin stumbled back, his cheek bleeding profusely for the few seconds it took to heal.

Francis laughed, and attacked again. "I've... been... practising," he sing-songed. "You... can't... _beat_... meeee... _ow!_ "

Gavin grinned fiercely as he added another wound to the first one he'd inflicted, this time to the thigh.

Francis touched the wound and licked the blood from his fingers. "You're better than I remember, old friend."

"Quite, _old friend_. This plan of yours will not succeed. Kill me and you'll still fail. Those with me will see to it, and if not them, the federal authorities are here with us."

"Oh indeed? Well, this isn't the first time I have evaded them."

"You're not leaving this place alive."

"We'll see, won't we?"

Gavin nodded grimly. "We shall see."

He charged.

Thrust, thrust, parry, parry, left, right, thrust again. High guard, low, a hit! Francis staggered back, eyes widening and blood gushed from his leg again. Gavin followed up the hit and reeled away with his own wound. His left arm suddenly lost feeling. The shoulder wound was deep enough to make the arm nerveless and unusable. He backed away desperately parrying strikes.

"Mister Gavin down!"

He threw himself to the floor as Angelina saturated the space he'd been standing in with lethal silver rain. She emptied both machine guns on full auto, and Flex joined in. Chris hammered away at Francis with aimed fire from her overpowered slug-throwing boomer. Gavin rolled away and back to his feet in time to see his old friend staggering back as bullets punched into his body, but he didn't go down. He spun away, ducking his head for protection, and threw himself at the window. Glass shattered as he crashed through.

Gavin snarled and ran in pursuit.

His shoulder was healing, and sensation returning to his arm when he caught up with his old friend in the gardens. Francis was strong, but so much silver in him had slowed him, and his wounds weren't healing as quickly as they normally would. He turned to defend as Gavin attacked, and the fight resumed. Angelina and the others climbed out of the window to support him, but he had the advantage now. Francis was flagging, his wounds telling upon him, as he desperately parried for all he was worth. He had abandoned his own offence in favour of defence. Gavin attacked recklessly, taking minor wounds himself in an effort to make maximum use of his advantage before Francis could heal and rally.

Strike, strike, lunge, parry. Francis absorbed more wounds, but he wasn't going down! He was speeding up! Incredible! Gavin struggled to keep up his blistering attack, and marvelled at his old friend's skill. He truly was a master of the sword now, and he admitted reluctantly, Francis was his superior in its use, but every new wound received was more blood lost, and no one had an infinite supply. All he had to do was keep up his current pace and wear Francis down. Time, if not his skill in the sword would win him this battle.

Gavin grunted as he took another wound to the same shoulder as before, and he retreated, flourishing his blade to create a blurring shield of ancient steel in an effort to gain room. It worked. Francis leapt back and out of range.

Chris' gun roared, her bullets punching into Francis' torso and upper chest. His eyes blazed red, promising retribution, and his distraction proved his undoing. He accelerated toward the cop, intending to take her head, but Gavin threw himself in the way. His sword swept around in a blurring glinting arc and this time there was no intervening blade to stop it. The blow connected. Francis' eyes widened in surprise as his head lifted off his shoulders and fell to the ground, the stump of his neck pumping blood as his body fell aside.

"Good bye, old friend," Gavin whispered and grimaced at the rolling eyes and snapping jaws. The head was trying to speak, but without lungs and a voice box, there was no way to know what its last words were. He preferred not knowing.

He groaned as his wounds made themselves felt. Gods, he wanted to feed and heal himself, but forced the thought aside. Sandy was waiting at home for him, and he would not disappoint her.

The detective put her gun away and approached to study the slowly dying head. She nudged it with the toe of her boot, shaking her head as it tried to bite.

"Damn," Flex said. "That's just nasty!"

"Yeah," Chris said.

"Are you all right, Mister Gavin?"

"Fine, just fine."

"You don't look fine—" Angelina began. Her eyes widened and she shoved him aside. " _Look out!_ "

Gavin staggered off balance. It was unforgivable of him. He was tired yes, wounded yes, but Angelina should not have been able to move him; she was merely human. He shouted angrily as he staggered a few paces, and then roared in denial as an arrow sprouted from Angelina's chest. The Kevlar vest proved itself unable to protect her from a modern crossbow bolt. It punched deeply into her chest. Shock and pain flashed upon her face, and her machine gun emptied itself wildly into the air as she fell. Gavin was moving fast fast fast! The bowman was still turning to run when he caught up and struck his head from his body. He glared down at the dead vampire, still seeing Angelina's fall.

"She's alive!" Chris yelled. "She needs an ambulance, _fast!_ "

"There's no time," Flex said grimly. "She's dying."

Gavin closed his eyes in grief, praying uselessly to the Gods of his fathers, and to the pantheon of this world too, that she not die. Useless. He was damned, as all his kind were. Damned, and cursed to damn those they loved.

## 41

# Escape

"Hurry!" Elliot hissed to the others, and they trotted by into the trees. "How are you feeling now?"

"I'm fine, Dad, stop fussing. She's not heavy."

Elliot eyed the senseless vampire draped over his daughter's shoulder sceptically. It looked very wrong the way she so casually carried the vampire; like a child carrying an adult. She was petite and looked too small to be this strong, but it was damned convenient, and he was thankful that knocking Chani out had not affected her at all. He didn't understand their bond, but he believed in its power. He'd known almost from the first that killing Chani had been out of the question even if he had managed to summon the courage to try. It would have killed Susan too, but the bond was not an equal sharing. Susan's death would not kill Chani, for example, though it apparently would have weakened her and hurt emotionally. He wasn't sure about that last part. He had seen scant emotion on Arcadian's face when he stabbed Morgan in the chest, but absent other data, he was willing to take it on faith for now. The inequality had suggested to him that there were loopholes in the bond and that they could be exploited. Loopholes such as the one he'd used to incapacitate Chani. It meant not only was short-term freedom possible, but that ultimate escape was as well. It meant he could control the vampire, keeping her alive while he found a way to free his daughter of her reliance upon the bond. It meant her eventual return to full humanity was feasible. She did not have to endure stasis, this unending half-life he had condemned her to when he shackled her to the vampire she carried.

"Let's get out of here. I can't hear the fighting anymore, but—"

"I can," Susan said. "They're killing everyone."

He shivered and not at the thought of the slaughter back at the house. They deserved their deaths, most of them. He felt sorry for the specimens downstairs, but even they had to die. They were unnatural creations. More unnatural than any undead to have gone before them. At least Chani and others like her were true to their natures. The abominations he had helped Jennifer create were something new and dangerous. No, it wasn't the thought of the slaughter that made him uneasy. It was the changes in his daughter. She was stronger, faster, and more... more... just more. That she could hear the fighting at such a distance was proof of profound changes. Would he be able to sever the bond? If he did, would she truly return to her previous state, or be stuck at some point in between?

He shook his head. "The others are getting away from us. Let's try to catch up."

"I hear them too. They're not far ahead."

"Good. Let's go."

Susan led the way quickly into the trees, but slowed to allow him to keep up. He was puffing and gasping for breath. He was out of condition. Too much sitting at a desk he suspected. Her concern made him consider lightening his load, but the samples and data the case contained was too precious to discard. The research had been loathsome, but the computer and blood samples represented almost two years of his life. Jennifer was right when she'd said to him that knowledge itself wasn't evil, but that its applications could be in the wrong hands. The Arcadian's hands were definitely the wrong ones. Besides, he might need to refer to it when he tackled his daughter's bond with Chani.

Susan abruptly stopped and swayed. The vampire slipped from her shoulder and thumped to the ground. "Daddy?" she said plaintively and crashed face first upon the earth in a dead faint.

"Susan!"

Black clad forms abruptly appeared out of the trees carrying lethal looking automatic weapons, and wearing night vision goggles on blackened faces. Two men dragged him back when he tried to reach Susan and Chani. More men hurried forward with heavy looking rune engraved manacles, and efficiently shackled them at wrist and ankle. Thick chains connected the runecuffs to the wide silver bands around their ankles. One of them men aimed a gun and shot Susan in the leg. He did the same a moment later to Chani.

"Professor Massey?" One man said, pulling off his goggles to reveal his face a little better. "I'll be taking that if you don't mind."

Elliot relinquished his burden, not caring in the least. His eyes were all for Susan.

"The drug will keep them docile, but no more than that," the man said looking back as his men lifted the two woman and carried them away. "They'll be fine for now."

"This is an outrage!" he blustered.

"Hmmm," the man looked disappointed. "My name is Barrows, Agent Barrows, and what I find outrageous is a man such as yourself having the boldfaced effrontery to react this way when at the very least he should be charged with terrorism, and at worst crimes against humanity. Genocide, Professor, you've heard the term I'm sure. Your work for the Arcadian equates to little more than that. The charges rate the death sentence if convicted, but I'm sure you won't be surprised when I say that this incident will never become public. Lucky you. No trial."

"What are you going to do with us?"

"You've begun to understand your position now have you? How truly good. What am I going to do with you? Well, that depends upon you doesn't it? Come along, I don't want to keep all the others waiting."

Elliot stumbled along behind Barrows. His men kept a firm grip upon his arms, but they needn't have bothered. He would have followed them without the need of force. They had Susan and Chani.

They exited the trees, crossed an empty road to the opposite side, and marched him up to the back of a black van like the police sometimes used. It looked armoured like those he had seen on the news, but it was plain black and didn't have the usual SMT markings. He didn't think this one belonged to the police. The doors were open and waiting to receive him. Jennifer and the rest of his colleagues were already sitting inside looking frightened. They were under guard by well-armed men wearing military uniform. His heart sank when he realised he had escaped one trap only to fall into another.

The military was about to become his new paymaster... if they even cared enough for the niceties to do that.

"Well, here we all are," Barrows said cheerfully, as Elliot climbed up into the van to join the others. Barrows handed the case containing the precious research to one of the soldiers sitting near the doors. "I'll be leaving you now, but we'll see each other again at debriefing. A little bit of advice. Think _very hard_ about how you can be useful to your government. I assure you, that your lives _do_ depend upon it. Who knows, in a few years you might even be allowed out on your own again!" He let the false cheer drop from his voice and face. "Get these idiots out of my sight!"

The van doors slammed closed.

## 42

# Aftermath

Mist snarled in pain as the bullets punched into his body. The burn of silver made him want to stop and take the time to pluck them out of his side, but the fighting was too immediate and brutal for him to take the time. Assault rifles chattered, the sound echoed out of the darkness. Angel's people returned fire before smashing windows and entering the house. Gavin smashed into the doors, going through them as if they were made of nothing more than cardboard. They succumbed to his strength that easily. The vamps with him flowed inside, their eerie vampire speed making them seem to float over the ground.

Andrew kept to his word, and stayed close to Edward as the others abandoned them to fight with Gavin. Mist suddenly realised Edward's increased vulnerability and felt even more responsible for him. It was David's unease he was feeling, but they were one. He felt it as if it were his own fear.

Attackers ran toward them out of the night, and Andrew sprinted to meet them. Newborn he might be, but he was of Stephen's line and blood, and he had fed well at the club. Ronnie was alpha. You are what you eat was a saying that for vampires was literally true. Her blood gave him power to burn, and it made him fast. He was very impressive for a newborn vampire. He crossed the distance in a flash, and was so fast that the two men didn't see him coming until too late. He backhanded the first man, breaking his neck instantly, and rode the other to the ground with fangs buried in his throat.

Edward drew his sword as another guard appeared.

Mist had his own fight to deal with. He dodged as his opponent fired his gun and wasn't hit this time. His claws flicked out and he buried them in the guts of the shooter. He grabbed a handful of what he found inside the shrieking man, ripped it out, and threw it into its owner's face. The dying man vomited blood and collapsed, but Mist was already fighting another human and didn't see him fall.

Farris in wolf form howled his victory over one of the human guards, and buried his face in the man's belly to feed. He ripped away a sizable chunk of the dead man's flesh, swallowed without chewing, and dashed into the night to chase down another victim. More howls and desperate screams came out of the darkness moments later as he ran down his prey.

Mist automatically responded with a howl of his own, as did their pack brothers and sisters, and turned his attention back to his own fight. He used his wonderfully long and powerful arms to grapple with his target. Another man. A bigger one this time and quite strong for a mere human. Mist was pleased to use his jaws on the man's throat and shoulder. He worried at the wound, while his claws ripped up his enemy's back. Blood pumped into his mouth and he swallowed convulsively. His eyes blazed as the taste exploded in his mouth; it threatened to make him rage. He ripped out a chunk of meat, but didn't swallow. David wouldn't like it; he was just this side of sane to remember that. He didn't know how long he could prevent his rage from tipping him over into frenzy, but for David's sake, he would try.

_Thank you, but you don't have to. I can pull back._

**No, Brother, do not leave! You weaken me—us—when you do that. When you leave me, I can't remember what the manthings are or how they are used. I need you.**

_I'm sorry, Mist. I should have realised from earlier. I will stay with you. This human is dead. Get the bullets out so that we can heal and stay close to Edward. He can lead us to Stephen._

That was a good thought. He used his claws to dig into his wounded side, feeling for the hated metal burning inside. He plucked the bullets out and let them fall. Such tiny things to hurt so much. There were many manthings made for hurting. He knew many names for them through David's memories. He concentrated and sped the healing of his wounds then looked around for Edward. He found him fighting with his sword against a man with a shiny blade of his own.

_Machete,_ David said.

Machete then. Another manthing made to hurt and kill. Mist decided to hurry the fight along and help, but before he could grab his enemy from behind, Edward ran him through the heart.

"Can feel Stephen?" Mist growled at Edward, trying to make his words clear. His voice made certain words hard to understand, so he limited himself to just a few. "Show?"

Edward cleaned his sword on the body of his enemy. "I can feel him now that we're inside the wards. He's underground. He says they have him caged in what he thinks is a basement. There are concrete steps leading down to it."

Mist grinned. That was very good news! If they were in contact again, Stephen couldn't be hurt too badly. "Michael too?"

Edward nodded. "And Marie Stirling—they turned her after Andrew left. He doesn't know. I think it would be best if we kept that to ourselves for now. There are shifters and humans caged down there too."

"Show," he demanded.

Edward led the way into the house. Gunfire sounded from all sides as Angel's gang took on AML holdouts on the grounds, but some of it came from inside the house too. They hadn't killed them all yet then, and anticipation of another fight sped his breathing. He pulled Edward roughly back, and stepped in front of him, shielding his friend with his own body. Andrew arrived and Mist pointed him to the right. Andrew nodded and carefully slid through the door in that direction. Mist followed him through the broken door and bullets stitched the wall near his head. He snarled and launched himself across the entry hall toward the shooter. He bit the woman. Hard. She screamed in anguish, but he quickly silenced her.

He let her body fall. "Which way?"

Edward took the lead again, and Andrew took up station next to him, while Mist brought up the rear to protect their backs. Andrew didn't know the way despite being a prisoner in the same place before being turned. He'd been unconscious on the way to his prison, and he'd been dead on the way to his burial.

They didn't encounter any more opposition in the main areas of the house. All seemed deserted, but that was false. The screams and howls of battle, the sounds of gunfire, the crashing and yelling... all of it had receded as the fighting spread through distant parts of the house and grounds.

Edward led them into the kitchens and found the entrance to the basement. Before he could descend the steps, Mist and Andrew took charge and the lead. Lucky they did, because some of the enemy had retreated to hide with the prisoners. Bullets punched into Andrew, and he snarled in pain, but he didn't let that stop him. He threw himself down the steps using his vampire speed, and bowled over the humans gathered and clogging the bottom of the steps. Mist chased him, and ripped into the guards. Two of them were vampires, and he suddenly had his first serious fight upon his hands.

Andrew finished the last human. "Sayles you bastard!" he cried as he slammed into one of the vampires.

Mist was grateful. He had barely been able to keep two of them from his throat. As soon as Andrew took a hand, the fight turned back in his favour. His chosen target used punches and kicks, but although they were powerful blows, they didn't have the same effect as claws. Mist used his to cut and slash, and then he grappled. They fell to the cement floor struggling and rolling. He howled in pain as he rolled into one of the cages, and scrambled away, snarling at the cramping in his abused muscles. The vampire leapt to his feet and tried to kick him in the face. It might have broken his neck had it landed, but Mist grabbed the leg and toppled the grinning vampire. He lunged before the man could get away, clamped his jaws around his throat, and snipped his head off with a single powerful bite like a pair of scissors cutting flowers.

The prisoners were shouting encouragement and pleading for release from their cages. There were a dozen people locked up—a mix of shifters and vanilla humans. All of them were desperate for release and a chance to fight their captors, but Mist was in no hurry to let them out. His eyes were all for Andrew and his battle.

Andrew slammed his opponent hard against Stephen's cage. Stephen ignored the pain from the bars to grab the vamp, and Andrew took advantage by twisting his head all the way around. The man froze, and then slumped in Stephen's grip. He let the body fall a moment later, and glared out of his cage, his eyes blazing with madness. His fangs were all the way out and he emanated an insane hunger. He looked demonic.

"Don't get too close," Michael advised. "They haven't been feeding him."

"At all?" Edward said, sounding appalled.

"No."

_Change back now. I'll feed him,_ David said.

Mist thought about that, and decided it was a good plan. He wasn't certain he could stand still for a vampire feeding upon him right now, not after fighting some of them. He allowed the change to enfold him, and spiralled away into David's mind as his brother rose up to replace him.

David groaned and worked his neck from side to side. It popped loudly, but felt better afterwards. He climbed back to his feet and winced as his joints protested. It always seemed to happen after the change. He looked around for a switch to turn off the power to the cages, and found it on the wall at the base of the steps. He used it and turned back to free Stephen.

"Let the others out," he said to Andrew, who was looking through the bars of another cage.

Andrew's expression when he turned to him was a mixture of horror and grief. "They turned her! The bastards killed Miss Stirling!"

Marie Stirling's corpse lay upon the bed in one of the cages, and the bite on her neck was obvious. It was black with old blood. She was still very dead, and there was no guarantee she would rise a vampire. Andrew was technically correct. They _had_ killed her, but hopefully that wouldn't last.

"I'm so sorry, Andrew. When she wakes up, she'll need you more than ever. She'll need a friend who knew her before..." he gestured at her corpse. "Before this."

Andrew nodded grimly. "The first rising is... _was_ not easy."

"Find the keys to the cages and let everyone out, would you? I'm going to feed Stephen so we can get out of here."

Andrew nodded and went to search the bodies for the keys.

"Be careful," Edward warned as David approached Stephen's cage. "He's barely sane."

He could see that. There was no way he was letting Stephen near his throat in this condition. "Will he feed from a wrist?"

"He's starving. He will latch on to anything he can reach."

He didn't doubt that for a minute. "Here goes then."

He tentatively reached toward the bars, and Stephen's attention became rapt. The moment he was within reach, the vampire lunged and pulled his arm through the bars. The bite wasn't as painful as he had thought it might be; sudden and sharp, yes, but the pain dulled quickly replaced by bliss.

"Oh goddess," he hissed, his eyes half-lidded in pleasure at the sensation. His body reacted fiercely and he wanted to thrust with his hips. The thought was humiliating, considering those present in the room, but true nonetheless. "Oh," he groaned as Stephen drank away his power. He felt it flowing out with his blood and it felt wonderful. No wonder the thrill seekers became addicted. He wanted Stephen to take it all, but he was sated all too soon.

David wanted to protest when his friend stopped feeding and licked the wounds clean to seal them. Vamp saliva had healing properties. Stephen nodded his thanks; he was himself again.

Andrew opened all the cages, letting the prisoners out. They milled about excitedly, babbling their gratitude and asking questions. He ignored them to give David the keys before going back to keep vigil over Marie. David unlocked Stephen's cage and the vampire stepped out.

"Are Elizabeth and Lee with you?"

"David's wolves are upstairs fighting AML," Edward reported. "Gavin claimed the false Arcadian for himself, but said he would need help with Arcadian's brood. So he commandeered our vampires to help him. All of them are here. I had feared that Terry had fallen, but now..."

Stephen nodded, but his eyes were for Marie. "Arcadian subverted him somehow. I can feel that Danyelle is nearby enjoying herself, and Charles is... well, you know Charles. He feels grim, but then he always does. They're fine I think."

David smiled; he liked Charles though he _was_ a little grim. Maybe dour was a better word for what he was. They had hit it off right away. A case of opposites attracting maybe.

"I must blood oath Elizabeth and Lee upon our return home," Stephen went on. "I've had time to regret my decision not to do that earlier. I will rectify that before dawn."

"Stephen!" Andrew called. "I feel her. I think she's coming back to herself."

"I feel her too. She will wake hungry as you did. I shall feed her."

"I could do that," David said trying not to sound too eager to feel that ecstasy again so soon. "I feel fine."

Stephen smiled, not fooled in the least. "I'm sure she would enjoy you, David, as did I. Thank you for the offer, but her first meal needs to be from me. Arcadian's blood runs in her veins. She is his child and because of that unhappy circumstance, he can command her from a distance as I can with Charles and Danyelle. My blood should counter his sufficiently to weaken his control over her. When he dies at Gavin's hand tonight, as I don't doubt that he will, his blood will lose its power over her and she will automatically bond with me. She will become a vampire of my line. Perhaps you will offer again tomorrow? She will need to feed often at first."

He nodded eagerly, and Stephen smiled.

David left his friends to attend to Marie, and wandered through the house looking for Gavin. All he found were bodies and naked shifters looking for friends among the dead and wounded. He thanked the goddess there weren't many of the former, though there were some. He hoped the missing faces would turn up but braced himself for some bad news tomorrow. He headed outside and found Gavin standing over a headless vampire. His heart sank when he recognised Angel lying upon the ground between the two corpses with Flex and the cop kneeling next to her.

"Gavin?" he said. "Is Arcadian dead?"

Gavin nodded to the decapitated corpse furthest away.

David's eyes drifted from it to the fallen woman. "Is she...?"

"She will be well. I will see to it," Gavin said grimly and went to tend Angel.

David watched him ignore the cop's protests to borrow a knife from Flex and slash his wrist. He offered the girl his blood.

Lawrence chose that moment to arrive. "Is she...?"

"No. Gavin will fix it."

"Damn. That sucks," Lawrence said and grimaced at the double entendre. "She'll hate being a vamp."

"I don't know about that. She has a thing for Gavin, and so does Spence come to that. Have you seen him?"

"He's okay. I saw him chasing a vamp around the pool out back."

David smiled as he imagined that.

"What will happen, Mister Gavin? I'm scared," Angel said in a weakening voice. Flex looked on grimly, and the cop looked scared.

"There's nothing to fear. You will fall into a sleep without dreams, and when you wake, you'll be well again. Stronger than ever, Angel."

She smiled. "You called me Angel. I... win..." she whispered and closed her eyes.

"Now none of that!" Gavin cried and slapped her cheek lightly.

"Ow!" Angel cried, blinking around vaguely. "What did you do that for? I'm so tired."

"Drink, Angel, and you may sleep." Gavin offered his dripping wrist. Angel grimaced at the taste. "Drink. Don't think about what it is. Pretend its tequila."

"I don't like tequila."

"Then pretend it's that poor excuse for beer you like."

Angel swallowed and grimaced but she kept at it and managed to down a few mouthfuls before falling unconscious. Gavin withdrew his wrist frowning at the girl, but unwilling to risk her choking.

"Will it be enough?" the cop said.

"I hope so. If she doesn't die, it will definitely be enough for the bonding."

"Like Stephen and Edward?"

Gavin nodded.

"And if she dies?"

"Then in three days I will be a father for the first time in centuries... if she swallowed enough of my blood and if it works."

The cop frowned at that but David understood what he meant by it. Turning someone wasn't the same as being changed into a shifter. Lycanthropy was a sure thing unless outside intervention occurred; even then, the serum wasn't infallible. Turning someone into a vamp was chancy at best. It involved the death of the recipient for one thing, so no second chances and it didn't always work. Sometimes they simply failed to come back. No one knew why.

Gavin sat back on his heels. "Detective?"

She looked up from Angel's peaceful face. "Yeah?" her eyes widened as his gaze caught and held hers. " _Awww crap..._ " she began but then her expression turned vague and her pupils dilated.

"Forget..." Gavin began to chant. "Forget..."

David shook his head and beckoned to Lawrence. "When he's done, take her home. Her car is outside the club. Better deal with that too."

"I'll take care of it."

David watched as Gavin erased the cop's memory of all that had happened to her, all the way back to before they had met. She wouldn't remember a thing. When Gavin was done, he instructed her to sleep and Lawrence carried her away. David frowned as he contemplated how odd his life was now, compared with how he'd lived it before. He could never have imagined back then the things he took in stride daily now. It was a very strange world they all lived in, and his was a very strange life.

**But fun,** Mist opined.

_Sometimes._

Gavin scooped Angel up into his arms and began walking away without a word. Flex put fingers to his mouth and blasted a piercing whistle into the night to summon his gang. They spilled out of the house and chased after Gavin, carrying various valuables they had found. David shook his head at some of the odd stuff they had filched. When would they ever have need of fancy armour and helmets? Maybe they could find a buyer who wouldn't ask questions. Flex watched them go for a moment before retrieving the Arcadian's fallen sword.

"Nice bit of metal," he said admiring the ancient elven blade. He nodded to David in silence and followed his friends into the night.

David gathered up both pieces of Arcadian. Barrows would demand proof the deed was done. He put the body over his shoulder and carried the head dangling by its hair into the house. He found Ronnie attending to Darrin. He had a broken arm. Shifters healed so fast that broken bones could set crooked. She was in the process of re-breaking the arm by the looks of it. Darrin shouted as she braced the limb and struck it a hard blow.

"You big baby," she muttered pulling and twisting. Darrin screamed and nearly fainted from the pain. His face went shockingly pale. "There. That's much better. Change it now."

The arm flowed with fur and back to skin. He sighed in relief and worked the limb to check its motion. It looked good to David's expert eye.

"Thanks, Ronnie. Any time I can break your bones for you, let me know. It will be my pleasure."

She laughed and punched his shoulder lightly.

"Ronnie!" David called. "Catch!" He threw the head to her and she caught it nimbly. "One Arcadian by name."

She juggled the head and held it up to study its face. "Doesn't look like much, does he?"

"Not anymore."

"We're done then? I saw Edward and Stephen leaving a few moments ago. They had Michael and that girl with them."

He nodded. "Follow me, and bring that with you."

Together they left the house and carried Arcadian out to the drive. He dropped his burden in the middle of the gravelled road leading up to the house, and Ronnie placed the head neatly on top for Barrows to find. He turned back to study the mansion as his pack straggled outside weighted down with loot. They laughed and joked with each other as they excitedly recalled and described the fighting.

He glanced at Darrin as he arrived, and then at Ronnie, thinking about all the bodies inside. "Burn it."

# Epilogue

Chris startled awake and dropped her keys. She retrieved them from the floor of her car and frowned into the night. She had parked in her building's lot, but she didn't remember doing it or even driving home. She must be more tired than she'd thought. She climbed out of the car and locked up, but before she could head inside to find her bed, she noticed someone standing on the far side of the lot watching her. Her hand wandered to the small of her back and her backup weapon, but the guy wasn't doing anything wrong. Maybe he was waiting for the bus. The stop was right around there.

She watched him watching her, but he did nothing else. He was a big guy, and heavily muscled. He must spend a lot of time working out. She liked the look, but could never find the time herself. Her caseload was always too heavy for gym time. She used to work out, and back in the day she'd done some kick-boxing at the academy, but she hadn't done any since gaining her gold shield. She just couldn't find the time any more. She sucked in her gut, but scowled when she realised what she was doing. She let it out again, wondering why she cared what he thought.

Just then, a car pulled up and he walked away from her toward it. He had a great butt. She watched him climb into the car a little regretfully, and turned toward her building and the empty apartment and bed it contained.

~FIN~

Wolf's Revenge, Shifter Legacies Book 2, is available at your favorite retailer.

Learn more on the author's website, or click here to sign up for his mailing list.

Book 2: Wolf's Revenge out now

# EROS

### Olympiana Book 1

**By Helen Harper**

William Shakespeare once wrote that, "Cupid is a knavish lad, thus to make poor females mad." The trouble is that Cupid himself would probably agree...

As probably the last person in the world who'd appreciate hearts, flowers and romance, Coop is convinced that true love doesn't exist – which is rather unfortunate considering he's also known as Cupid, the God of Love. He'd rather spend his days drinking, womanising and generally having as much fun as he possible can. As far as he's concerned, shooting people with bolts of pure love is a waste of his time...but then his path crosses with that of shy and retiring Skye Sawyer and nothing will ever be quite the same again.

A romance fantasy novel by the author of Blood Destiny, Eros is a seductive re-telling of the classic Greek myth, Cupid and Psyche.

# Part I

'When he had fallen into his first sleep, she silently rose and uncovering her lamp beheld not a hideous monster, but the most beautiful and charming of the gods, with his golden ringlets wandering over his snowy neck and crimson cheek, with two dewy wings on his shoulders, whiter than snow, and with shining feathers like the tender blossoms of spring.'

* * *

Source: Thomas Bulfinch, _The Age of Fable; or, Stories of Gods and Heroes_ (1855).

# Chapter One

The man sat slumped at the far end of the bar.  Outside the dark night was giving way to a shimmering dawn replete with streaks of brilliant red, which only seemed to tauntingly mirror his bloodshot eyes.  The other patrons had yielded to their beds hours before; even Colette, whose winning ways with many an alcohol-sodden tourist rarely failed her, had given up attempting to draw him into conversation and left to find more welcoming comfort elsewhere.

He stared down into his glass.  It contained little more than a few half-melted ice cubes so, frowning, he raised it in the air and waved it unsteadily at the bartender.

'I'll have another one.'

No answer was immediately forthcoming.  He tried again. 'Hey! I need another drink.'

The bartender looked up from the small sink.  'I think you've had enough.'

'I'll be the judge of that,' he grunted.  'Isn't the customer always right?'  As if to illustrate his point further, he shook the glass.  The remaining ice cubes clinked together feebly.

Sighing, the bartender walked over.  He reached behind and pulled a bottle from a dusty shelf, then turned and began to pour in a finger of expensive amber liquid.

The man waved the glass in the air.  'More.'

Another half inch slopped in.

Grunting, he raised it upwards in an unsteady toast, then gulped down half the contents.  Unfortunately, a large quantity missed his mouth and dribbled down his chin instead and onto what had once been a pristine white shirt.  The bartender watched with a mixture of amusement and exasperation, taking in the well-cut suit and gleaming gold watch.  He may have more money at his disposal than the vast majority of other customers but, when it came down to it, all drunks were the same.

'Lost your heart, have you?'

The man looked up but the words didn't immediately register.

'Huh?'

'I said, have you lost your heart? You've got that look.  She's not worth it, mate.'

Scorn lit the man's face.  'You think I'm here because of a woman?'

The bartender eyed him.  Even without taking his clothes into consideration, the man's well-groomed golden curls suggested someone who took pains over his appearance.  He shrugged. 'Man, then.'

'Spare me the pop psychology.  There's no man and there's no woman.  Love's a myth.  A sham.  If you think otherwise, then you've been conned.'

Despite the obvious bitterness in the man's voice, the bartender's reaction was mild.  Waiting for him at home was his fiancée.  They'd met at a party barely three months earlier, bonding over a disturbingly phallic-looking ice sculpture which had apparently been originally designed as a swan.  She'd uttered less than five words before he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.  He'd proposed a week later.

'What would you call it then?  Lust? A chemical imbalance?'

'A steaming pile of shit.'

The man took another sip, more carefully this time, and managed to avoid spilling any more whisky.  The bartender moved away.

'What?' the man called after him.  'You don't believe me? You think true love exists?'  He clasped one hand to his chest.  'That you meet the one and you're stabbed in the heart with a thunderbolt of love?'  His hand dropped back down to his glass.  'How is that true love?' he muttered.

'How is it not?' asked the bartender, picking up a glass and beginning to polish.

'Love doesn't work like that,' the man said.  'It can't work like that.  Love at first sight is a fallacy.'

The bartender smiled to himself.  Catching it, the man opened his mouth to say something before a shadow crossed his face and he clearly thought better of it.  Instead, he took another drink.  A moment of silence crossed the stale air of the room then he spoke again.

'You feel lust at first sight. And when that fades, you lapse into the comfort of companionship because you think it's better than being alone.  Anyone who thinks they're really in love, like in the stories, has been tricked.  Smoke and mirrors, my friend.' He eyed the bartender.  'Not that you'd be able to accept that as the truth.'

'And yet there are those who do fall in love.  Who marry and grow old, and remain as much in love as the day they met.'

The man's mouth thinned into a grim line.  'They're being manipulated.'

'How can you be manipulated by love?'

The man drained his drink, staring into the bottom of the glass for a brief moment with a morose expression.  'How can you not?'

The bartender opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by the intrusive beep of an alarm.  The man frowned, reaching inside his jacket and pulling out an expensive-looking phone.  He stared down at the screen for a moment, a muscle clenching in his jaw, then turned the phone off and put it away, planted his feet onto the floor and pushed back his stool.  He dug out a wallet and tossed some crumpled notes onto the bar, squinting back at the bartender.

'That should cover it so far.  You're not closing any time soon, are you?'

The bartender raised his eyebrows.  'We're open twenty-four hours.'

'Good,' he grunted.  'I'll be back in ten minutes then.'

The man spun round, swayed slightly and began to lurch towards the door.  He veered off to the left, narrowly avoiding crashing into a table, before correcting himself and staggering forward.  He stood at the door for a moment, as if suddenly lost in thought, then pulled it open, the sudden flood of sunlight causing him to wince.  He muttered something inaudible under his breath and stepped out.  The bartender shook his head slightly and scooped up the money, turning to the till to ring it in.

Outside, the man looked up and down the promenade.  The early sun glinted off the azure blue of the sea and a few hungry seagulls soared keening overhead.  Not too far away, an ice-cream vendor was setting up for the day, opening up a small red- and blue-striped parasol and humming away to himself.  The man ignored him and focused instead on the beach.  He could just make out a lone jogger approaching along the sand from the east.  Other than a figure throwing a stick to a dog down by the water's edge, the area was deserted.

'Fewer witnesses for once,' he muttered to himself, walking across the dull grey cement to where a set of uneven steps led down to the sand.

He supposed that she'd sent him here at this moment because she enjoyed the symmetry of the scene.  The poetic justice of the beach's beauty and the soft dawn sunlight.  He shrugged, clasping hold of the iron railing at the edge of the steps to avoid falling over, and stumbled clumsily down.  It made little difference to him.  He'd been doing this for too long to care any more.

When he reached the bottom, he sat down, leaning against the railing.  The jogger was getting closer.  He could now make out her lurid pink shorts and brightly coloured headband.  There wasn't much time left.  Closing one eye, he cocked his head towards the man with the dog, both of whom were still completely oblivious to his presence.  He was tempted for a moment to let them be.  _She_ wouldn't like that though.  He rubbed his forehead tiredly and reached back inside his jacket, this time pulling out not a phone but a small golden box.  He pressed on the lid and the device opened abruptly.  Without looking, the man assembled the different parts together, screwing the barrel into place to complete the manoeuvre.

There was a clatter from above as the ice-cream seller dropped something onto the hard pavement of the promenade.  The man ignored it and pulled what was now a gleaming gold weapon against his shoulder and aimed the crosshairs in the direction of the animal.  He smiled as the dog bounded into the water, completely unaware that he had its heart dead within his sights.  Then he swung upwards, switching to the dog's owner.  He might be drunk but his aim was true.  Truth be told, he never missed.

He watched the other man for several more heartbeats, feeling the pressure of the trigger tight against his fingers.

'For what it's worth,' he whispered, 'I'm sorry.' Then he squeezed.

He didn't need to check to see whether his shot had succeeded in hitting its target.  He knew it had; in fact, he was already turning to the jogger.

Now she was closer he could tell she was young and pretty.  He allowed himself a moment of reflection about what her life would be like if he chose to let her be.  If she'd go on to find someone to marry, to have children with, to grow old with.  Not that it really mattered; he was taking all that choice and all that suggestion of freedom out of her hands.  The dog splashed through the froth of waves and barked once sharply, as if in warning.  Too late.  The man pulled the trigger and struck her directly in the heart.

He unscrewed the barrel, clicked off the trigger, and pulled the gun apart, carefully placing each component back into the golden box.  Then he stood up, swayed and turned.  The ice-cream vendor was crouched down, writing down the day's gelato specials on a small chalkboard.  The man slipped the box back inside his jacket, and walked unsteadily back to the bar.  He needed another drink.  Or two.

Back on the beach, the dog was barking with increased fervour.  The jogger had reached both the animal and its owner and stopped.  The ice-cream vendor stood up from his writing and spared them a glance.  They were inches away from each other and smiling with shy excitement, the deep and sudden knowledge they'd met the one person who could make them truly happy shining out from both of their faces.  Meanwhile, pulling himself back onto his bar stool, Cupid, known as Coop to his friends and the God of Love to others, ordered another double Scotch.

# Chapter Two

Skye was sitting at the bar of a small homely coffee shop, chin resting on her hands while she stared out at the grey drizzle of the morning.  So far this morning she'd been to the job centre, where the best offering appeared to be working part time in a sandwich shop, scoured the internet for openings and put in an application for temping at a local law firm, as well as registering with yet another recruitment agency.  She wasn't being picky; right now any job anywhere would do.  The trouble was that all the prospective employers took one look at her CV and immediately dismissed her as over qualified.

'Look, sweetheart,' one helpful woman at an insurance firm had pointed out, 'we are looking for a data inputter.  With your qualifications, you'll do this for six weeks then leave as soon as something better comes along.  We need someone more long term than that.'

Skye had tried to protest, insisting she would be more loyal.  Yes, if a better opportunity came up then she'd go for it, but it had been four months since she'd graduated with a Master's Degree in English Literature and there was absolutely nothing on the horizon.  Not even a glimmer of a job for which she was genuinely well-suited.  The trouble was that knowing vast amounts about Romantic poets didn't seem to qualify you to do anything at all.  And it didn't help that she invariably became tongue-tied and hot cheeked whenever she tried to plead her case.

The sinking feeling in her stomach had been deepening as the weeks had gone past and the last remnants of her student loan had dwindled in her bank account.  Frankly, she'd have been more successful if she'd skipped university altogether and taken a college secretarial course.  Or learned a trade like plumbing.  People always needed plumbers.  They didn't need graduates who could quote Keats and point out the symbolic hyperbole of a sonnet.  She wondered, and not for the first time, whether she'd made a mistake in coming home.  At least in Edinburgh there had been more prospects of employment.  In deepest darkest Perthshire there were very few.

She swirled the murky dregs of her coffee around the cup with her spoon.  Skye had been nursing the drink for the better part of an hour; sooner or later, she was going to have to buy something else or leave.  But there was simply nowhere to go.

'"Human misery must have a stop,''' she quoted softly to herself, '"there is no wind that always blows a storm.'''

'Lady Gaga say that in one of her songs?' interrupted the waitress, bustling over to clear away her cup.

Skye coughed awkwardly.  She wasn't entirely sure she knew who Lady Gaga was.

'Er, no,' she answered, cursing the warmth she felt lighting up her cheeks, 'Euripides.'

The woman squinted at her.  'Didn't he win Eurovision?'

Skye couldn't think of an answer that seemed appropriate so just smiled half-heartedly.

'You're not looking for help at the moment, are you?' she asked hopefully.

All she got was a sympathetic look in return.  'Sorry, love.'

'Worth a try, I guess,' Skye murmured, pulling out a few small coins and handing them over.

The woman pocketed the money.  'Aye.  Don't stop trying, neither.  There's jobs to be had for those that look for them.'

Except I am looking, Skye wanted to scream.  All I'm doing is sodding looking.  Instead, she just nodded politely and scooped up her bag.  Maybe it was time to head home after all.  It was just possible the postman had already been and there'd be some replies to the many job applications she'd sent out.  She'd already checked her email and there had been nothing there other than a plea from an old friend saying she was stuck in the south of France having had all her belongings stolen.  She'd begged for a 'small' money transfer to help her get home.  Unfortunately for the author of the email, Skye knew her friend was actually currently in Manchester and about to get married.  She was most definitely not stranded in the Dordogne.  Skye had sent her a quick text informing her that her email account had been hacked – and wondered for half a moment whether scamming unwitting internet users was truly a profitable business.

The rain, which had been little more than a steady drizzle while Skye had been inside the coffee shop, suddenly seemed to pick up force as soon as she stepped outside.  She lifted her face upwards, letting the raindrops pelt her bare skin.  Despite the shiver of cold in the air and the oppressive clouds overhead, there was something refreshing about walking in the wet.  Of course, it would be more fun if there wasn't a hole in the sole of one of her trainers, meaning that the first puddle she inadvertently landed in caused her entire foot to become squelching and wet, but at least it was making her feel a little more alive.  In fact, her clothes ended up so sodden that it almost didn't matter when a car drove too quickly round the bend where she was waiting to cross the road and splashed her head to toe in a tsunami of dirty water.  By the time she finally made it home, she was completely drenched.

Putting her key in the lock and wiggling it just enough to manage to get the untrustworthy mechanism to turn, she pushed open her front door and stared hopefully down at the doormat.  There was indeed a collection of letters.  Bending down, she picked them up and quickly scanned each one.  Something from the phone company for her dad, an official-looking notice from _Reader's Digest_ for her mum, a damp catalogue which seemed to suggest her life wouldn't be complete if she didn't immediately purchase a garden bird-feeder in the shape of the Statue of Liberty, and two letters with her name on.

Her heart in her mouth, Skye took all the letters into the kitchen and carefully dried her hands on a tea-towel before opening the first one.  She sighed deeply when she read the contents.  It was from the bank, informing her she had gone beyond her overdraft limit.  The charges made her stomach drop.  Telling herself it would be okay, she turned to the second letter, slitting it open at the top and pulling out the single sheet of expensive-looking paper.  'Dear Ms Sawyer,' it read. 'Thank you for your interest in our company.  Unfortunately this time you have not been successful...'

Skye didn't bother reading any further.  She balled it up in her hands instead and threw it at the bin, landing it squarely inside.

'Well, at least I might still get a job with the New York Knicks,' she told the empty kitchen, then plodded upstairs to peel off her wet clothes and have a hot shower.

When she came back downstairs, towelling off her hair, her father had come in from work and was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper.

'Hello love,' he said, barely looking up from the sports' pages to acknowledge her.

'Hey.  Did they lose again then?'

He didn't answer.  Skye smiled to herself.  He'd wallow in misery for an hour or two at the not entirely unexpected loss of his beloved football team, before shaking off the defeat as nothing more than a temporary setback.  One which would no doubt be repeated again in a week's time.  She leaned down and kissed him fondly on the cheek then sat down next to him and began toying with the pages of the catalogue.

The front door rattled, signalling her mother's return.  She called out a greeting from the hallway then bustled in with a few heavily laden shopping bags.  When she spotted Skye's father sitting dejectedly over the paper, she raised her eyebrows at Skye, who nodded in silent amusement.

'Oh well, better luck next time.'

He grunted in return, and she immediately whacked him on the arm. 'I expect a better welcome than that when I come in the door.'

He gazed up at her with a doleful expression and she laughed.  He finally smiled in return and stretched up to hug her.  Skye watched the proceedings with a mixture of fondness and envy.

'How about you?' her mother asked, peering round to look at her. 'Any luck on the job front?'

Skye bit her lip and shook her head.  Her mother shot her a commiserative glance.

'Something will turn up eventually.'

If only she had her mum's optimism.  The guilt she felt at still living at home and sponging off her parents was becoming overwhelming.  Skye tried not to think about the letter from the bank and instead looked down at the catalogue, flipping it over to scan the back.  Then she frowned.  Something was stuck to the underside.  Peeling it off, Skye realised it was a postcard with the familiar, statuesque Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament on the front.  Turning it over, she read the words.

* * *

_Hey you!_

_How's life in Bonnie Scotland? Still looking for a job? I'm working at a nightclub that's always looking for new staff.  Money's pretty good even if the hours are a bit crap.  I can put in a good word for you if you want something to tide you over for a few months.  Let me know!!!!_

_Emma xoxo_

* * *

There was a phone number scrawled at the bottom.  Skye stared down at it for a moment.

'You're right,' she said slowly, 'maybe something has turned up.' She passed the postcard over to her mother, who looked down at it, her brow furrowing.

'A nightclub? Skye, you've got a Master's degree.'

'In English freaking Literature, Mum.  Much good it's doing me out in the real world.'

'Yes, but...'

Skye shot her mother a look.  'I can't stay here forever.'

'You know this is your home.  You can live here for as long as you want.'

Her father eyed her thoughtfully.  'I think what your mum is trying to say is that perhaps a nightclub isn't really the most suitable place for you to get a job.'

Skye bristled.  'Why not?'

'Well, nightclubs are generally loud, boisterous places with loud and boisterous people.  And you're...'

'Quiet? Studious? Boring?'

Her mum frowned.  'Skye, that's not what he's saying.'

'Yes, he is,' Skye said quietly.  'And he's right.  But beggars can't be choosers and maybe it's time I stopped being so quiet and mousy, and started standing up on my own two feet for a change.'

'Skye...'

'Surely even just being in London will make finding a real job easier.  This will simply tide me over, as Emma says.'

'Love, it's not that we disapprove of you working in a nightclub.  Of course we don't.  You should do whatever you want to.  It's just that Emma's not you.  She's more outgoing.'

'Which means she'll be able to introduce me to lots of people.  You never know what might happen or who I might meet.'

'If you want to do this...'

Skye stared down at the postcard.  A hot, zippy kick of excitement shot through her stomach.  'Actually, yes, I do.'

# Chapter Three

Coop had chosen to ignore the summons.  If she decided she wanted to send him out on another mission to shoot some poor couple in the heart with bolts of love, then she could damned well send him an email about it like she normally did.  He had better things to do with his time, and right now they involved lying under a parasol in the sun and hoping his bloody hangover would go away.

It was ridiculous, really.  What was the point in being a god if you still had to deal with the after-effects of alcohol? As soon as he felt better, he was going to seek out Bacchus and demand some answers.  If the God of Wine and Intoxication couldn't prevent hangovers then Zeus should give the bloody job to someone else.  In fact, he thought, stretching out lazily like a cat, he would be the perfect choice.  Bacchus could spend a couple of millennia forcing unsuspecting people to fall in love while he travelled the world ensuring his merchandise was of the highest – and, indeed, non-hangover inducing – quality.  It would be a dirty job, and no doubt involve a vast amount of sampling and tasting, but he reckoned he could do it.  Coop decided then and there he would bring it up the next time he was at Olympus. Not that he was planning to show his face there again any time soon.  He had far better things to be doing with his time.

'You know you shouldn't be here, right?' stated a voice from somewhere above his head.

Coop didn't bother to open his eyes.  'I can't think why not.  The sun is shining, I've been out and done all the jobs I was supposed to do, and my head feels like it's had Sisyphus's stone thrown at it several times by an angry Cyclops.  Until I start feeling better, this is where I am going to remain.'

'You've been summoned.'

'I know.'

'Coop, she's already pissed off enough as it is.  If you don't turn up, the whole of Olympus is going to end up hearing about it.'

'Herm, you need to chill out a bit.  Take some time off, relax, soak up some rays.' Coop sat up and eyed his old friend.  'Do you want a drink?'

'No.'

'Let me get you a drink.  Aria!' he shouted.

'I don't want a damn drink,' said Hermes irritably.

'Of course you do.  Aria!'

A voice floated over from the other side of the swimming pool.  Hermes looked up, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of the scantily-clad nymph who'd suddenly appeared.

'My lord?'

'Aria, this is Herm.  Herm, Aria.'

She curtsied prettily, dipping low enough so that the loose robe which was supposed to be covering her effectively hid nothing.  Hermes swallowed.

'Aria,' Coop continued, 'get my good friend Herm here a drink.  One of those purple things with swirls in and lots of ice will do.  I'll have the same, but,' he added with a wink, 'make mine a double.'

She curtsied again, and left.

'Isn't she marvellous?' he murmured.

Hermes, whose eyes had been following the departure of the sashaying nymph, snapped his half-open jaw shut and refocused his attention onto his friend.

'You seem to be in a good mood.'

'It's true,' said Coop languidly, 'I've been in a bit of a funk of late.  But I am indeed feeling remarkably chipper now.  Aforementioned hangover aside, of course.'

'And what's brought on this sudden volte-face then?'

'My friend, I've decided to take a holiday.  A long, extended holiday.  You might call it a sabbatical even.'

'I see,' said Hermes slowly.  'And have you run this, er, holiday by anyone?'

'I don't need to.  I am my own man.' He shrugged.  'Or god, rather. In fact, as a love god – as _the_ love god – I feel like it's time to put some of my skills into more ardent practice.  There are plenty more where Aria came from.'

'I feel faintly nauseous.'

Coop laughed and clapped his friend on the back.  'Join me.  You must be bored of all that to-ing and fro-ing to run messages for others.' His eyes gleamed.  'Let's have some fun.'

Hermes shook his head sadly, watching his friend with the expression of someone who was seeing the deep, dark chasm of doom.

'You should probably answer the summons first.  Before you make too many plans, that is.'

'She can't stop me.'

A shadow fell across the pair, blocking out the golden sunlight.  'Oh yes, she can.'

Hermes immediately straightened, colour highlighting his cheekbones.  He began to cough, although whether it was due to shock or embarrassment wasn't entirely clear.  Coop raised his sunglasses, noted the woman in front of him and lowered them again.  Other than that, he didn't move.

'Mother.  How good of you to visit.'

'Hermes, leave us.' It wasn't a request.

'Certainly! At once,' Hermes stuttered, wheeling round and almost stumbling headlong into the turquoise-blue pool in his haste to get away.

Aria, who was just entering with two tall glasses perched on top of an elaborate silver tray, caught sight of the new visitor, paused for a fraction of a second with her mouth dropping into a perfect circle, then abruptly turned and left.

'You're frightening everyone away,' Coop murmured.

Aphrodite stared down at her son, her face a frozen mask of wrath.  'Apparently I don't seem to be having the same effect on you.  That's unfortunate because if you don't pull yourself together, put on some clothes and present yourself properly at Olympus within the hour then, so help me, I will not be responsible for the consequences.'

Coop raised his sunglasses again.  'What?' he asked, with a mocking edge to his voice. 'You mean you'd do something to hurt your beloved son?'

The answering look in Aphrodite's eyes would have sent many a lesser being to cower behind the nearest rock.

'I have other children.  And all of them are a damn sight more responsible and trustworthy than you.'

'I fail to see what the problem is.  I was working yesterday, doing your bidding.  Today I am taking some time off to relax and recuperate.  Tomorrow I may just take off some more time.'

'You idiot,' she hissed. 'You have absolutely no idea, have you? Do you remember the assignment in Kos last month?'

Coop frowned, as if deep in thought.  'Hmm.  Kos, you say? To be honest, I don't.'

'Well, let me jog your memory.  You had to shoot the couple on the beach just after dawn.  You spent most of your time drinking in some dive of a bar.'

He smiled, a dimple appearing in his cheek.  'Oh, I remember now.  Good whisky.'

'Maybe if you hadn't spent so much time concentrating on what was in your glass and worried more about what you were supposed to be doing, we wouldn't be in this mess.'

'I really have no idea what you're talking about.'

'You got it wrong,' Aphrodite said flatly.  'The beach was deserted and you still managed to screw it up.  Do you have any idea how complicated it's going to be to straighten out your mess?'

'Mother, dearest, my aim was true,' Coop began.

'Oh, yes,' she said sarcastically, 'you hit your mark alright.  It was just the wrong mark.'

He raised himself onto his elbows, a furrow suddenly creasing his forehead.  'What do you mean?'

'You shot the wrong man, you fool.'

Coop began to lie back down on the lounger again as if in dismissal.  'No, I didn't.'

In a sudden fit of uncharacteristically physical anger, Aphrodite kicked the foot of the sun lounger, causing it to collapse with a clatter.  Coop, landing with a heavy thud on the ground, scowled up at her. 'That was completely uncalled for.'

'Get up.'

For a moment he considered ignoring her completely but there was a tinge of angry disappointment in his mother's eyes, which he'd never seen before.  And besides, his arse hurt from dropping so unexpectedly onto the hard concrete of the pool's edge.  With a sigh, he pulled himself up to standing height, towering over Aphrodite's shorter frame.

'Shoot the man on the beach,' he said finally, giving in to the inevitable.  'That's what your email said.  I may have been drunk but I remember it quite clearly.'

'By,' she replied shortly.

'Huh?'

'Shoot the man _by_ the beach.  Not _on_ the beach.'

'There was no man by the beach.  It was barely dawn, Mother, the place was deserted.'

She didn't even blink, just stared up at him, a tiny muscle flickering in her cheek.  Coop looked back at her, his face the picture of innocence.  There had been no-one else at the damned place, just the jogger, the man with the dog and the...

He blinked. 'Oh.'

'So you didn't remember quite as clearly as you thought you did?'

Coop raised his index finger in realisation.  'The ice-cream guy.  He was the one?'

She sighed.  'Yes.  He was by the beach.  Not on the beach.  By the beach.'

'On, by, to be honest it's a very small difference.' He shrugged.  'Easy mistake to make.  Besides, what does it actually matter? I'll find some other poor girl for Mr Rocky Road to fall in love with and everyone will be happy.  It's not a big deal.'

Aphrodite slapped him across the cheek.  'How dare you?' she spat.  'You know very well it doesn't work like that.'

The answering look of cynicism in her son's face was clear.  'If they were meant to be together, then they would be.' He raised a hand to his stinging cheek for a moment and looked Aphrodite directly in the eyes.  'My intervention wouldn't be necessary if it was true love.  Except true love doesn't exist.  So whether the jogger ends up with an ice-cream seller or a local with a dog, who cares?'  He shrugged.  'They'll be happy either way.'

There was the faintest slump in his mother's body.  'When did you become like this?'

'Like what?'

'Like someone who is so disgusted with the world that they'll ignore the natural order and throw every sensible thought and caution to the wind.'

'Natural order?' he scoffed.  'How is it natural if I need to shoot them for them to realise how they feel?'

'You know very well that sometimes a little push is required.  You've forced the wrong two people to be together and, unless I sort out your mess, they'll be unhappy for the rest of their lives.  All because of you.'

'Thanks to me,' he pointed out, 'they're now in love.'

'With the wrong person.'

'There's no such thing as the right person, Mother.  It's all smoke and mirrors.'

'The stars...'

'Screw the stars.  Screw fate.  And screw love.'

Aphrodite stiffened then pulled back her shoulders in a dignified gesture.  'You cannot spit on everything I stand for, Coop.  I will not allow it.' She took a step forward and stared up at her son.  'Present yourself at Olympus before the sun sets or I will not be responsible for my actions.'

With that, she turned on her heel and left, her back ramrod straight.  Coop watched her go, a scowl marring his handsome features.  She had spent too long as the Goddess of Love, he decided, and her vision was clouded by her ridiculous belief that some people were just destined to be together.  She simply couldn't grasp the fact that if it was truly their destiny, his services wouldn't be required.  She probably needed a long holiday too.  He'd suggest as much to her later when he turned up at the seat of the gods. Of course, he was only going to appear at Olympus because, as his mother, she deserved a modicum of respect.  He certainly wasn't afraid of her.  Bending over, he returned the sun lounger to its original position and lay back down.  There was still time for a little nap.

# Chapter Four

The trouble, Skye was starting to realise, was that it was all very well deciding to be more lion than mouse and up sticks to the big city, but the theory was an awful lot easier than the practice.  Emma had stayed true to her word, not only helping her get a job in Nemesis, the same nightclub as herself, but also putting her up in the house she already shared with two other girls, Joy and Chrissie.  Skye had felt welcome from the outset, even though the room she was sleeping in was more cupboard than actual bedroom, and the three of them were fun to be around.  But, almost three weeks into her big move, and she still felt like a fish out of water.  A floundering, flailing fish out of water.

Working at the club was fun, if bewildering.  It was a vast space encompassing a range of different 'rooms', which pumped out diverse music, allowing patrons to enjoy whatever they were in the mood for.  There were at least a hundred employees, many of them a similar age to herself, who worked as everything from waitresses to dancers.  As the newest recruit, Skye had been designated the Chill-out Room, a small space filled with ambient music where weary clubbers could relax.  Considering that the majority of Nemesis's customers went there to dance energetically or to see and be seen, few ended up in her area.  Skye was secretly grateful for that; she enjoyed finally having some work to do but she found the crowds that frequented the nightclub vaguely terrifying.  And that was to say nothing of the club's owner, a gruff, large bear of a man who barked out orders and stared hard at anyone who didn't immediately jump to his bidding.  In her one and only meeting with him, she'd found herself completely tongue-tied and red cheeked.  It was just as well Emma had already vouched for her.

Still, she got one day off a week, which she spent searching for other jobs more suited to her qualifications.  Nothing had turned up as yet but she remained optimistic.  Despite the late nights, she managed to rise early and use her time fruitfully.  Emma, however, was somewhat baffled by her efforts.

'Skye, you need to live in the moment,' she kept insisting.  'The wages at Nemesis are fantastic, the lifestyle is beyond brilliant and you get to meet all manner of people.'

Emma's eyes had gleamed at that last comment and Skye was fully aware what kind of people she'd been referring to.  Just the previous evening her friend had been flirting incorrigibly with a group of men who'd travelled in from the States on business and had come to the club to wind down and experience some of London's nightlife.  She'd finally tottered home at about ten o'clock in the morning, bleary-eyed, and headed straight for the warmth and comfort of her bed.

Skye envied Emma's relaxed manner and open, easygoing nature, which allowed her to make new friends at the drop of a hat.  Whenever a customer spoke to Skye, she was professional and polite but she couldn't strike up conversations like Emma.  Socialising was an art form, Skye decided, and most definitely one at which she did not excel.  If she was going to get anywhere in life, however, she was going to have to work harder at it.

With that thought in mind, she decided she would begin by winning over her colleagues.  Life at Nemesis meant antisocial hours, but that didn't mean it was an antisocial environment.  Skye might not find it particularly easy to force her way into conversations in the spacious staffroom during her breaks, but she knew she could get to know other people besides Emma, Joy and Chrissie.  And the best way to do that was by baking.  After all, she figured, everyone loved cupcakes, and they were definitely something she knew how to make.  That was the reason why she was foregoing her usual afternoon trawl for job opportunities and concentrating on swirling the intricate Nemesis logo in icing on top of a range of chocolate, red velvet and lemon cakes.

The radio was humming softly in the background and, while she moved from one delicate cake to another, she imagined the response in her head.

'Wow, these cupcakes are amazing!' the tall, Amazonian and slightly scary-looking Brazilian dancer Marina would say.  'Who made them?'

'Oh, just me,' Skye pictured herself replying airily. 'I had some free time this afternoon.'

'Darling, we simply must be best friends straight away.' And Marina would extend a graceful arm out towards her while planting several air kisses above Skye's cheeks.

A sleepy voice interrupted her reverie.  'What on earth are you doing, Skye?'

Half turning, she spotted Joy and grinned, holding a single cupcake aloft and waving it in her direction.  'I'm creating a conversation starter.'

'Cake?'

'Yeah, do you want some?'

Joy arched an eyebrow in her direction.  'You realise that if I eat it, I'll be too busy cramming it into my mouth to talk?'

Skye hesitated for a beat before recovering.  'But when you've finished it, then you'll be happy to chat to the master baker who provided it.'

'Hmmm...' Her flatmate's response was non-committal.

'Everyone loves cupcakes,' said Skye firmly.

Joy shrugged, reached into the fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice. 'Sure.'

Dismissing her lack of enthusiasm, Skye turned back to her sugary art work. 'I just need a way to get to know other people, that's all.  You guys are great.  I barely know you and you've been so welcoming and made it so easy.  But I find it harder at work.  There are more people and I clam up and then...' Her voice trailed off.

'Hon, you've just got to talk to them.  Have a chat, shoot the breeze, chew the fat, you know?'

'Talk the talk and walk the walk, you mean?'

Joy grinned without a trace of self-consciousness.  'Too many idioms in a row?'

Skye smiled back.  'Yeah, maybe.'

'Hey, we're not all masters of the English language like you.'

'If I was truly a master of the English language then I'd be able to speak it without automatically blushing,' Skye muttered to herself.

'You just need more practice, Skye,' said Joy gently.  'Leave those cakes alone for a moment and come and sit down.'

'I need to finish these off,' she protested.

'They'll wait.'  Joy took her by the elbow and pulled her onto one of the wooden kitchen chairs.  'Now, imagine I'm one of the bartenders.  We're in the staffroom and it's just the two of us.  What will you say?'

'Er, hi?'

'It's not supposed to be a question, Skye.  Try again.'

'Okay, yes, you're right.' She took a deep breath.  'Hello.'

'Hello.'

A moment of silence passed, while Skye shifted awkwardly in her seat.

'You're going to need to say something else at some point,' Joy nudged.

Skye chewed on her bottom lip.  'Um, do you come here often?'

Joy's shoulders started to shake and her face contorted in a spasm.  The kitchen door opened and Emma appeared, still in her pyjamas despite the late hour.  She began to lift a hand in sleepy greeting then stared down at Joy in some alarm. 'Are you okay?'

A tiny snort escaped from Joy.  She clamped both her hands over her mouth but it was clear nothing was going to prevent the explosion.  A single tear rolled down her cheek before she finally erupted into gales of laughter.  Emma looked completely nonplussed.

'What's going on?' she asked Skye, who was watching Joy with a look of resigned amusement.

'We're having an imaginary conversation,' she explained.  'Joy is a bartender in the staffroom at work and I'm me.'

Emma looked even more confused.

'Small talk practice,' wheezed Joy through her giggles.

A look of dawning comprehension spread across Emma's face and she grinned. 'Brilliant! Who can I be?'  She didn't wait for an answer but instead snapped her fingers.  'I know, I'll be Helios.'

'The owner?' Skye squeaked.  'Why would he be in the staffroom?'

Emma shrugged.  'Maybe he's checking up on his newest recruit.' She deepened her voice.  'So, how are you finding things at our little club then?'

Skye sighed and gave in.  'They're fine.  Things are fine.'

'Fine?' Emma boomed.  'Is that all you can say?'

Pushing her chair back, Skye stood up and walked back to the kitchen counter to pick up a cupcake, which she held out. 'Cake?' she asked.

Joy burst into another round of giggles.

Skye shook her head. 'This is no help.'

'I'm sorry,' Joy gasped.  'I'll be serious.  Instead of the staffroom, imagine I'm a customer.  Someone important.'

'And devastatingly handsome to boot,' added Emma.

'In fact, you've taken one look at me and you know I'm Mr Right.  How are you going to approach me?'

'Mr Right? At Nemesis?'  Skye tugged at her ponytail.  'I suppose I could ask you if you wanted a drink.'

'Go on then.'

'Would you like a drink?'

'No, not like that!' Emma licked her lips slowly and blinked.  'Hello,' she cooed.  'I'm Skye and today I'll be your waitress.  Is there anything you desire?'

Skye's cheeks flushed.  'I'd never say that.'

'Just try.'

'Hello.  I'm Skye and today I'll be your waitress.  Is there anything you'd like?'

'Is there anything you _desire_ ,' prompted Emma.

Skye sighed.  'Is there anything you desire?'

Joy smiled like a predator.  'Only you.'

Skye rolled her eyes.  'This is ridiculous.' She turned back to finish her icing.

'Don't knock it till you've tried it, hon.'

'It's just not me.'

'Promise us you'll try it just once tonight.  See what happens.'

Emma nodded.  'What's the worst thing that could happen if you do?'

'The ground will open up and swallow me whole.'

'Skye...'

'Fine.  I promise, okay? Anything to get you two to leave me alone.'

'Perfect.  And it'll be extra quiet in the Chill-out Room tonight anyway, so it'll be easier.'

Skye wasn't convinced that anything would make it easier but she was slightly perplexed.  'Why will it be quiet?'

'Haven't you heard? Orpheus are playing tonight.'

'The place is going to be rammed,' grinned Joy.  'It's so exciting.  I'm going to try and weasel my way into helping backstage.  Maybe I'll even get to meet Oz in person.'

'Oz?'

Skye received a light punch on the arm.  'The lead singer, of course!'

'Of Orpheus?'

Emma shook her head.  'You've never heard of them, have you?'

Skye just looked at her blankly.

'Despite your master's degree, your education has been severely lacking.  I'll get my iPhone while you finish off those cakes.' She grinned.  'We've got some serious work to do.'

# Chapter Five

It was late in the day by the time Coop finally made it to the heavy gates of Olympus.  In times gone by, the stronghold had been located on the summit of Mount Olympus in Greece; however, with the advent of tourism the gods had shifted slightly to a pretty cedar and pine-tree forest further down the slopes and close to the picturesque town of Litochoro.

The sprawling complex was still carefully concealed from most human eyes by some kind of clever manipulation by Hera.  It had once been a fairly simple operation but the advent of air flight, not to mention satellite technology, meant that the concealment methods had become more and more complex over the years.  Hera had attempted to explain it to Coop one afternoon and he'd done his best to listen politely.  She was, after all, the Queen of the Heavens.  Actually it was rather tedious stuff and he would be hard-pressed now to even begin to understand how it worked.

Coop wasn't entirely sure why they bothered trying to hide it.  Plenty of humans were aware of their existence; in fact, one of the reasons why he ventured into Olympus so rarely was the number of supplicants who arrived daily, asking for some boon or other.

His mother had told him patiently that if most of the world lacked faith, it was because believing otherwise would complicate their lives and muddy their understanding of how they thought things worked.  In other words, knowing there really were gods on earth would create so much chaos and confusion that it was easier to maintain their existence was a myth.

Coop had barely stepped foot through the door and he already felt annoyed.  Sweeping through the marble hallway was Apollo, with a ridiculously large entourage trailing after him.

When he caught sight of Coop he shouted, 'Cupid! I hear you've been a naughty little boy.'

Irritated, Coop balled up his fists and strode up to the Sun God. 'Well, you know what they say about all work and no play,' he replied evenly.

Apollo smirked.  'Are you trying to suggest that I'm a dull boy? I'm off out tonight in London with a few friends.  Orpheus are playing in Helios's nightclub.  If you really want to find out what fun is, you should come along.  Maybe I could teach you a thing or two about holding your drink.  You know, so that you don't screw up your one and only job because you're too drunk to see straight.'

A muscle jerked in Coop's cheek.  Apollo leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. 'Are you about to throw your toys out of the pram? I always wondered why you're depicted as a naked baby.  It seems those artists actually knew you rather well, after all.'

Hermes appeared out of nowhere at Coop's side.  'Your mother is waiting.'

Apollo's eyes gleamed.  'Yes, you'd better run along now.'

A growl emanated from Coop's throat.

'Coop,' began Hermes warningly.

'I'm coming,' he said shortly, using every ounce of willpower to turn on his heel and not punch the smug bastard in the face.

'You shouldn't let him get to you,' said Hermes, once they were out of earshot.

'Just because he's Zeus's bloody progeny doesn't make him special.'

'Actually, it kind of does,' Hermes pointed out.

'Whose side are you on?'

'I'm not going to bother answering that.  And your mother is waiting.  Let's not annoy her any further.'

The pair of them strode out through a small walled courtyard area.  Harmonia, one of the spirits, was sitting on a small marble bench with a book in one hand and a brightly coloured bird resting on the other.  She glanced up as they walked through.  Coop sent her a wink.  She smiled shyly back at him.

'If I winked at her, she'd probably run a mile,' grimaced Hermes.

Coop shrugged.  'You need to work on developing some more winning ways with the ladies.'

'And perhaps making myself look like I'm the God of Love,' Hermes said, with an envious look at his friend's golden good looks and well-toned physique.

'Believe me, I'd rather have your job.  It's not all it's cracked up to be, mate.'

'And therein lies the problem.'

Coop looked up and sighed dramatically when he realised who had just spoken.  'Mother.  You have developed the most irksome habit of showing up out of nowhere and interrupting my conversations.' He gestured expansively, stretching out his arms into the air.  'Come on then.  Tell me off again for making a simple error, so I can get out of here.'

Aphrodite raised her eyebrows.  'Oh, it's not me you're going to talk to.  I think I've made my feelings quite clear on the matter.' There was a particular edge of ice to her voice.

'So who am I going to talk to?'

She pointed over to the large double doors on the left-hand side of the hall.  They were engraved with serpents and monsters, each caught in a position of frozen wrath.

'Go in and find out,' she said softly, flicking a quick glance at Hermes.  'It's probably better if you stay outside.'

'Gladly, my lady.'

Coop glanced from one to the other and back again.  Then he straightened his shoulders.  'Whatever.  Bring on your worst.'

A sad smile touched Aphrodite's lips as he sauntered over to the doors, dramatically pulled them open and walked into the other room.  Then she followed him in.

The room was a vast, empty, windowless space with black marble floors that glinted and shone. A robed figure was waiting at the far end.

'Great,' Coop muttered, without breaking his stride.

He continued forward, walking as arrogantly as he dared.  When he finally reached the figure, he pasted on a smile and waved his arm around. 'Is this supposed to intimidate me, Lord Zeus?'

The King of the Heavens stared at him expressionlessly.  'You fucked up.'

Coop blinked.  'Okay, yes, I admit it.  I made a mistake.  It's hardly the end of the world though.'

'Your attitude is causing your kind mother considerable concern.'

He almost laughed aloud.  Kind mother? That would be the day.

'So give me my penance and be done with it,' he drawled.

'This is not about punishment, boy.  This is about learning a lesson.'

'Then I am yours to teach.'

Aphrodite sucked in her breath at the faint hint of mockery in her son's voice.

Zeus didn't react to it.  'What is the issue?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'The issue.  The problem.  Why are you so blasé about your job and your position?'

Coop looked him directly in the eyes.  'It's a lie.  You're asking me to go around changing people's lives on the basis of a lie.  I've had enough of it.'

'You've had enough,' Zeus repeated flatly.  'You've had enough of making people happy.'

'What I do to them, what I make them feel, it's not real.  It's not fair.  On the basis of some whim, I have to make them fall in love.'

'Some whim? You know very well these are couples who are destined to be together.  What you do gives them nothing more than a push in the right direction.'

'If they're destined to be together, then they don't need me.'

'You are trying my patience.  People don't get happy endings without a little bit of work first.  You just make that work easier.'

Coop shrugged.  'Whatever.'

Zeus's eyes turned stone grey.  'I am going to put you into isolation.  Maybe that will help you appreciate how important it is to be with another person.'

'Excellent.  That sounds like a brilliant idea, my lord.  I've been meaning to take a break.'

'You mistake me.' Zeus folded his arms.  'You will still do the job you have been tasked with.'

'Forgive me, but I'm hardly going to be isolated then, am I?'

'No-one from Olympus or from the human world will see you, Cupid.  From this moment on, until I deem otherwise, you will be invisible.  You'll still be able to do your job, but no-one will see you to interact with you.  Perhaps it will make you realise how devastating it can be to feel lonely.  It will also make it considerably harder to order drinks.'

Coop mulled it over. 'I think I'll manage,' he said finally.

'None of your friends or lackeys or hangers-on is allowed to visit your place of residence either.'

'Hold on, that's not fair,' Coop began to protest.

'The order is already in place.  And as soon as you leave here, the invisibility will take effect.  You will still do your job and complete the orders given to you by your mother.' Zeus looked briefly at Aphrodite.  'Fuck up again and the consequences will be more permanent.'

'But...'

'Now go.'

Coop stared at him.  This was a bit extreme, considering it had only been one teeny-weeny little error.  However, despite the fact it was meant to be a punishment, being invisible opened up all manner of possibilities.  He aimed for a hangdog look.

'Very well,' he murmured, then turned and walked out.

Both Zeus and Aphrodite watched him go.

'You realise he thinks that being invisible is going to be fun,' she murmured.

'It may well be for the first few days.  I don't imagine he will be feeling quite so happy about it in a few weeks' time.'

'He's so immature,' Aphrodite sighed.  'And yet so cynical at the same time.  I hope this works.'

Zeus permitted himself a small smile.  'Oh, it will work, believe me.'

Outside, Hermes was slumped against a wall.  He straightened up abruptly when Coop came out. 'It was Zeus, wasn't it? What the hell happened? What did he do?'

Coop snorted.  'He thinks by making me invisible I'll learn that being lonely is a bad thing, being in love is a good thing, and forcing people to feel that way is even better.'

'Invisible?'  Hermes started.  'Seriously? That's so cool!'

Coop grinned.  'Yeah.  And I know just where I'm going to start.  There's a certain Sun God who needs taking down a peg or two.'

'Er, is that really such a good idea?'

'Herm, my friend,' Coop answered, clapping him on the shoulder, 'it's more than good.  This punishment may well turn out to be the best thing that's ever happened to me.'

# Chapter Six

Skye smoothed down her black skirt and gave herself one final glance in the mirror.  She'd already deposited the full tray of cupcakes on the table in the staffroom, managing to transport them all the way to Nemesis without any of them getting too crushed or lopsided.  She was feeling good about this evening.  Joy and Emma had played her numerous songs from Orpheus's last album and then Chrissie, her other flatmate, had wandered in to join them.  Before long they were sitting in the kitchen using all manner of utensils as makeshift microphones and singing off-key at the top of their voices – until their next-door neighbour had started banging on the wall and shouting at them to shut up.

Despite not having heard of the band until a few hours ago, Skye hoped she'd be able to catch them singing at least one song during her break.  Then she'd still have time to hop into the staffroom and enact her cupcake plan to be more sociable with her co-workers.  She even felt good about her promise to the girls to try and flirt with a mysterious stranger.  Things were definitely looking up.

She headed out, ready for the ambient beat of the chill-out room, when she realised Helios, the club's owner, was coming towards her.

'You!' he said, jabbing a finger in her direction.  'You're that new girl, right?'

Skye nodded, her tongue suddenly cleaving to the roof of her mouth.

'You're going to be in the Rock Room tonight.  It's all hands on deck with Orpheus in attendance.  I've got a lot of special guests coming in and I want to make sure they're all happy.  You got me?'

She nodded again, feeling her cheeks heat up for what seemed to be no reason at all.  Damn her inborn shyness.

Helios stared at her.  'Well, what are you waiting for?' He shooed her off.  'Go!'

Skye squeaked out something which might have been a 'yes, sir' if it had been audible and scooted off in the opposite direction.  Clouds of nervous butterflies flew around her stomach.  It would be beyond busy and crowded in the Rock Room.  She hoped the crush of people wouldn't start making her feel claustrophobic, although at least as a waitress she'd be in the slightly more spacious VIP area.

Nervously, she opened the door to the bar of the Rock Room.  The other members of staff were already busy setting up for the night.  Spotting who she presumed was the head barman, she squared her shoulders and walked over.  It was okay.  She could do this.

She cleared her throat and he turned round.  He glared at her. 'What?' he barked.

Trying not to let his unfriendly attitude faze her, Skye smiled and stuck out her hand.  'Hi.  I don't think we've met before.  I've been working in the Chill-out Room but Helios told me to come here tonight.'

The barman's eyes travelled down her body and up again, making her feel rather grubby.  He jerked his head up to the gallery area, the only place where tables and chairs were set up.

'You'll be up there.  Tables six to fifteen.  Treat them well and don't get in my way.'

He turned and walked off.

'I've made cupcakes,' she whispered after his back.  'They're in the staffroom.  Please help yourself.'

'Hey!' Emma bounced up.  'What are you doing here?'

Skye explained and her friend beamed back. 'Brill! We'll have so much fun! Joy's over the moon too because she's backstage in the Green Room so she'll definitely get to meet the band.'

Skye grinned.  'Lucky her!' She looked up and realised the barman had turned back and was glowering at her from under his bushy eyebrows.  'I'd better go and make sure the tables are set up,' she said hastily.

'See ya!'

Skye weaved her way up to the gallery, leaving Emma behind.  She straightened a few napkins and made sure all the tables were spotlessly clean.  She might not have bothered; everything was already ready.  She checked for errant pieces of rubbish on the floor or chewing gum stuck under the tables.  She might be nervous about having been moved out of the relative comfort of the Chill-out Room, but that didn't mean she wasn't determined to do the very best job she could.

Soon the first customers began trickling in and, although the VIPs in Skye's section didn't start showing up until just before Orpheus started their set, she busied herself making sure everyone was comfortable and happy.  There was a definite buzz in the air and a thrill of electricity in the atmosphere that Skye found contagious.  She bounced from table to table, taking orders and ensuring no-one was left without a drink or nibbles.  She even managed a little bit of banter, joking with a group of well-heeled girls about the fact that Oz, the lead singer of Orpheus, was apparently still single.

Despite the fact her feet were beginning to hurt, it occurred to Skye that she was genuinely enjoying herself.  This was better than sitting curled up on the sofa watching soap operas and reality television.  John Keats had once said, 'Oh for a life of Sensations rather than Thoughts,' and, for once, Skye realised she might actually understand what he meant.

She'd only just delivered a tray of fizzing cocktails to one table when she noticed that Helios had suddenly appeared and was hovering around the entrance to the gallery.  He was fidgeting with a large ring which sat, squat and heavy, on one of his fingers.  Startled at the thought that the brash club owner might actually be nervous, she sidled over to get a better view of what was going on.

A large group of newcomers was just entering the room.  Every single one of them was dressed to the nines.  Skye gawked at them.  So this was what the other half actually looked like, she thought, suddenly realising how cheap and ill-fitting her clothes were in comparison.  She watched as Helios wiped his hands on his clothes then strode forward to greet them. A large man emerged from the throng, clearly the alpha male of the group.  He was just a fraction taller than the others, with hair which looked like spun gold even in the darkened club.  He held himself with a poise and confidence that screamed of a life of privilege, making Skye wonder whether he was some kind of celebrity.

There were a few gasps and some stifled giggles behind her.  Skye half turned and registered that the group of girls she'd been bantering with were staring open-mouthed in the man's direction.  She grinned to herself.  It appeared that the band weren't going to be the only thing providing this evening's entertainment.

One of the women beckoned her over. 'Who is that?' she shouted over the music to Skye.

Skye shrugged, 'I don't know.' Clearly, whoever he was, he wasn't a particularly famous celebrity after all.

'He's so hot,' one of them shrieked.  'And he's heading over in this direction.  Oh my God!'

'Can you find out his name?' the first girl asked.

Skye bobbed her head.  Anything to keep the customers happy.  Holding her tray by her side so as not to bang into anyone, she walked over to the stairs, then stood to the side as the man and the rest of his friends came up with Helios next to them.

'I'm so pleased you made it, Apollo,' Helios was saying.  'It's a real honour to have you here.'

Skye noted something of a curl to the guest's lip.  'Well, I hope you have the best table picked out for us.  After all, we don't want to be bothered by the riff-raff.'

As if feeling Skye watching him, his cool blue eyes suddenly flicked over her then slid away in abrupt dismissal.  She could feel her cheeks reddening in response.  He might look like he could give Michelangelo's David a run for his money in terms of sex appeal, she thought, but he was clearly a prick in real life.  Somehow it made her feel a bit better about herself.  She straightened up and, once the group had passed, returned to the group of still-staring girls.

'His name's Apollo,' she told them.

'Ooooh, Apollo!' The shrieker smiled broadly. 'Do you think he's Italian?'

'Too blond,' said her friend dismissively, eyeing him up as he settled down in a corner of the gallery.

Noting that the customers at a nearby table had almost emptied their bottle of champagne, Skye left the gaggle of women to it.  From what she'd seen of this Apollo's character, she rather hoped that none of them decided to get a bit closer to him.  At least they'd be distracted when the band came on.

Busying herself with making sure all her tables had their glasses topped up, Skye forgot about Apollo. There was a single man leaning against the balustrade and staring fixedly down into the crowd.  She was tempted to check whether he was allowed to be in the VIP area, but decided against it when she realised he looked abjectly miserable.  It was the bouncers' job to worry about trespassers, Skye figured.

The man was wearing a poorly-fitting wig.  She felt a wave of sympathy towards him.  He was probably trying to disguise a bald spot or something.  She asked him if he wanted a drink and he just shook his head, before suddenly grunting as if in pain.  Weird.  Skye decided to leave him to it.

It wasn't long before it became apparent that Orpheus were about to come on stage.  There was a lot of movement on the darkened dais at the front of the Rock Room and then, abruptly, the entire club was plunged into darkness.  Skye had just collected another tray of drinks from the bar and struggled to keep her balance as the crowd of people surged forward, eager to get close to their heroes.  She was jostled and jabbed from various angles, and had to push her way through to get back up to the gallery just as the stage was flooded with multi-coloured lights and the strum of a bass guitar sounded.

Skye quickly delivered the drinks and moved to the side to watch the band as they plunged into their first song.  It was one that Emma and Joy had played for her earlier that day – and one which the patrons of Nemesis clearly knew well, as they all immediately began singing along to the chorus.  Oz, the lead singer, cupped the microphone with his hands, flexing his tattooed arms with their well-defined muscles as he lifted up the whole stand.

Emma joined her.  'Aaaaaah!' she shouted.  'Aren't they amazing?'

Skye grinned at her friend, nodding in agreement and watching the audience as they jumped up and down in time to the beat.  She could get used to this.  With the customers at her tables more concerned about watching Orpheus than drinking, she had time to enjoy the music properly herself.  She watched awestruck as Oz leapt around the stage, feeding on the crowd's energy.  What must it be like, she wondered, to have so many pairs of eyes staring at you with such adulation? Strobe lights flickered across the room and she could feel her heart beating in time to the music.  The heat was tremendous and, even from where she was standing, she could see the sweat slick on Oz's skin.  He used the corner of his pristine white wife-beater to wipe his brow, displaying a rippling tanned stomach as he did so.

'Off! Off! Off!' the audience began to chant.

He grinned at them and made a show of lifting his shirt further to reveal more of his body. 'Is this what you want?' he yelled into the microphone.

There was a roar of approval.  The singer let go of the microphone and began to pull the top over his head, just as Skye's view was blocked by someone passing in front of her.  The rather supercilious Apollo, she noted, heading off for the restroom.

Emma nudged her.  'Wow, did you see that guy?'

Skye rolled her eyes and leaned over.  'Yeah, he's a bit of a wanker, though.'

'Language!' Emma admonished in mock horror.  'Although,' she paused, 'if you don't like him, he should be the one you practise your lines with.  It won't bother you if you get the brush-off then.'

Skye swallowed.  It had been too much to hope that her friend had forgotten about her promise to find someone to flirt outrageously with.  Emma was probably right, however.  She didn't want to get to know the arrogant Apollo, so it wouldn't matter when he ignored her and her skin turned flame-red. And at least it was dark.

Sounding much braver than she felt, she heard herself answer, 'Alright, then.'

Emma punched her arm and beamed.  'You can do it, girl! I'd better go check on my tables but I want to hear all the gory details later.'

Skye nodded weakly.  'Sure.'

She turned round to see whether her customers needed anything.  If they wanted more drinks she'd hardly be able to take time out to try and chat.  Unfortunately, their glasses were all full, and every single one was focusing on the stage in front.  Bugger.

Steeling herself, she twisted round to face the restroom door.  How hard could it be? It was three sentences.  Less than five seconds of her life.  You want to become more confident, Skye told herself.  You'll never manage it unless you try.

The door opened and her stomach lurched.  Apollo emerged, a small smile playing around his lips.

'Do it,' she whispered, and walked right up to him and smiled.

'Hello, I'm Skye.  I'm a waitress here at Nemesis.  Is there anything you desire?'

He looked her up and down with his cornflower-blue eyes and smiled disarmingly. 'Well, hello, Skye.  Actually there is something I desire.'

An alarm bell began ringing in Skye's skull.  Uh-oh.  Apollo leaned in towards her.  He smelled of musk and masculinity. 'What I really desire is,' he said, pausing for effect.

'Yes?' Skye breathed, suddenly terrified.

'For you to get the fuck out of my way.' He leaned back, his smile disappearing.  'My sights are set a little higher than on a serving girl.'

Stunned beyond words at his rudeness, Skye stepped back.  He pushed past her, returning to his group of friends.  She watched as he gestured towards her and said something.  There was a wave of laughter from the group as they turned towards her.  Feeling sick, she blinked rapidly and almost ran down the stairs.  She squeezed through the people to the bar and shouted to the barman that she was taking her break.  He gave her a brisk nod, as if irritated that she was bothering him, and Skye sprinted off to the sanctuary of the quiet staffroom.

She headed straight into the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror.  Her face was flushed and hot.  Don't be an idiot, she told herself firmly.  You knew what kind of person he was; what did you expect would happen? She turned on the cold tap and let the water run under her fingers for a moment before splashing her face in an attempt to cool down.  She grabbed a couple of paper towels and dried her skin, then took a deep breath and walked back to the door. Opening it, she realised that there were a couple of other staff members inside.

'Where on earth did these come from?'  It was Marina, the Brazilian dancer, holding up a cupcake.

'Goodness knows,' came the answer.

Marina tossed the small cake down onto the table.  'Must be some idiot who thinks that eating a mound of sugar, then dancing for an hour in a cage is a good idea.'

Her friend giggled.  'Yeah, I can just picture you vomming all over Orpheus.'

'Honestly,' Marina said scathingly, 'some people are just so stupid.'

Skye closed the door quietly and walked into one of the cubicles.  She flipped the lock, lowered the toilet seat, sat down and began to cry.

# Chapter Seven

Coop and Hermes arrived late at Nemesis, squeezing in behind a couple who were holding hands.  Coop rolled his eyes and pointed to them, forgetting for a moment that his friend could no longer see what he was doing.  He nudged him instead.

'Look at those two,' he said irritably.

Hermes jumped.  'At least they're happy,' he muttered.  'I look like I've got no mates and I'm coming to dance on my own.'

'You're wearing a disguise,' Coop reminded him.

Hermes scratched at his wig.  'Yeah, a bloody annoying one.  I should have asked Zeus to make me invisible, too.'

One of the bouncers walked into Coop, shoving him against the wall.  He cursed, while the bouncer looked momentarily confused, glancing around and trying to work out what he'd just banged into.

'It'd be a lot more fun if people didn't keep smashing into me.'

'I'm not sure any of this is fun,' Hermes said grumpily.  'Tell me again why we're here.'

'As I have already told you, you'll soon see,' Coop said as they walked into the Rock Room.  'Now, be a mate and go and get me a drink.'

'I can't,' Hermes replied flatly.  'You can't be invisible and have some drink floating in front of you and expect no-one to notice.'

Coop scowled.  'Fine.' He looked around, spotting the quieter gallery area.  'Let's go up there.  I'll be less likely to be walked into there.'

'Up where?'

'There.'

'Coop, I can't see you pointing, remember?'

'The gallery, up to the bloody gallery, alright? That's where Apollo will be anyway.'

Hermes closed his eyes for a second.  'I'm not sure that...' He didn't have a chance to finish his sentence before his friend grabbed his elbow and began yanking him over in the direction of the stairs.  A startled looking waitress passed him, obviously wondering why he seemed to be walking with his arm out in front of him.

'This is a really stupid idea,' he hissed.

'Chill out,' Coop drawled, climbing up the staircase and pulling Hermes over to the side.  'Look, Apollo's over there with all of his fawning minions.'

'Yeah, so?'

'We watch and wait.'

'Can't I just enjoy the band?'

'We're not here for the music,' was the terse reply.

Hermes leaned against the railing and stared down at the crowd.  He registered a small clear voice saying something next to him and half turned, realising it was a pretty waitress asking if he wanted a drink.

'No, thanks,' he muttered.

Coop dug an elbow into his ribs and he groaned in pain.  The waitress looked alarmed and he managed to grimace a smile.  Fortunately, she turned away and left him alone.

'Don't do that!' he hissed.

'What? I want a drink.'

'And I already told you that you can't have one.  Coop, let's just go.'

'No chance.'

Ignoring Hermes' protests, Coop turned round and watched Apollo.  There had to be at least eight people surrounding him.  Coop recognised a few of them as hangers-on from Olympus.  None of them had any real power to speak of, probably because it made Apollo feel more important if he surrounded himself with weaklings.

Coop also noted Helios hovering anxiously downstairs, flicking nervous glances at the Sun God.  Because, heavens forbid, Apollo shouldn't have his every whim pandered to, thought Coop irritably.

Even when Orpheus came on and began belting out their first song, he didn't turn back round.  He was waiting for just the right moment which, fortunately, didn't take long.  Barely three songs in, Apollo pulled himself up and began walking towards the men's restroom.  Coop grinned to himself and pushed off from the railing.  It was time to have some fun.

'I'll be back soon,' he said casually to Hermes, who muttered something inaudible back.

Coop trailed after Apollo, dancing behind him and pulling faces.  Okay, it was pretty childish but it was still fun.  As soon as they were in the bathroom, he set his plan into action.  Apollo unzipped himself at the urinal while Coop carefully turned on a tap until it was barely dripping.  He caught some of the water on his fingertip and flicked it at the urinating god.  Apollo jerked and turned around as if expecting to see someone there; of course all that was visible was the seemingly empty restroom.

Coop smirked and flicked more water at him.  Apollo cursed and this time looked up at the ceiling as if he expected to see a leak.  As soon as he did so, Coop carefully picked up one of the foul-smelling yellow urinal cubes and flung it at Apollo's back.  Apollo spun round, arcing a stream of urine onto the floor and making Coop laugh aloud.

A look of comprehension spread across Apollo's face.  'Let me guess,' he said slowly, 'the little God of Love is here to spread some mischief.  I'd have expected no less.  Did you really think I wouldn't hear what my father has done to you?'

The smile disappeared from Coop's face.  'You'd better watch your back, you know.  You'll never be completely sure whether I'm around spying on you.  You might call it mischief, but I'm going to be having a hell of a lot of fun.'

'Really?' Apollo asked drily.  'Do you think I should be worried that you're following me into the men's room to flick water on me? Frankly, my little cherub, if that's the most exciting thing you have to do with your time, then feel free.  And feel free to spy on me whenever you want.  All you'll discover is that my life is considerably more interesting than yours.' He zipped up his trousers and walked over to wash his hands.

'I'm going back out now,' he announced.  'You can come and join us, you know.  You can have fun watching all these human girls fall over themselves to be with me.'

Coop snorted.  'You know very well that they prefer me.'

'Not when you're invisible, they don't,' smirked Apollo.  He raised a hand in the air and waved it in a mock salute.  'Toodle-do, Love.'

Apollo walked out.  Coop remained where he was for a moment, seething.  Okay, flicking water in the toilets was an immature thing to do.  He was man enough to admit that.  But it didn't mean he was finished by any means.  He stalked out after the Sun God, just in time to see some poor waitress's face crumple as Apollo obviously said something insulting to her.

Coop watched as Apollo sauntered back to his friends and rubbed salt in the wound by encouraging them to laugh at her.  Coop's hackles rose.  He wasn't above some petty mischief but he wasn't about to stoop to a level where people actually got hurt.  He turned back to see the girl run off down the stairs and suddenly knew exactly what he was going to do to teach Apollo a lesson.

Spotting Hermes in the same spot where he'd left him, he walked over. 'There's something I need you to do.'

'Coop, there's always something you need me to do.'

'Yeah, but this time it's important.  That waitress? The one who asked you if you wanted a drink?'

'You're not getting any alcohol, Coop.'

'No, no, it's fine, I don't want a drink.  But Apollo does.'

'Huh?'

'When that waitress comes back, tell her you want to buy Apollo a drink.  Send over a bottle of champagne.  But she has to deliver it personally.  She won't want to do it but you need to make her.'

'Why would I want to make someone do something they don't want to do? I wouldn't want to wait on that smug bastard either,' Hermes complained.

'Trust me.  This will be worth it.'

It seemed an age before the girl came back to the gallery.  When she did, Coop noted the drawn look on her face and felt a wave of sympathy.  It was okay though: he was about to make her feel a hell of a lot better about herself.  He grinned.  Everyone needed an ego boost from time to time.  He nudged his friend. 'There she is.  Go and get her over here.'

'Coop,' Hermes began.

'Please.'

Hermes sighed heavily.  'Fine.' He beckoned the waitress over.

'Yes, sir?'

Hermes eyed her.  She appeared very subdued, especially against the buoyant energy of the crowd.

'I'd like to order a drink,' he said gently.

'Of course.  What would you like?'

'Champagne, please,' he said.  'A full bottle.  But it's not for me.' Hermes pointed over to where Apollo was sprawled across a chair.  'You need to give it to him.'

The girl's face dropped and she blushed.  'Um, I, can get you the champagne,' she started to stutter, 'but maybe it would be better if you delivered it yourself.'

Hermes felt awful, but he could feel Coop jabbing him in his side.  'No, I'd like you to do it.'

She stared at him, emotions openly warring on her face.  Then, finally, she nodded.  'Okay.'

Hermes watched her turn and head down to the bar to make the order.  'If you're doing this to torture that poor girl, Coop...'

'You know me better than that.  I don't mess with innocents.'

'I don't think I've ever seen anyone look less inclined to do something.'

'Perhaps.  But the "flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lonely. "'

'Huh?'

'Wordsworth.  He was a poet.'

'I know who Wordsworth was,' Hermes growled, as the girl returned with a tray.

She barely looked at him as she passed although Hermes carefully followed her progress.  When she reached Apollo's table, the Sun God looked up at her, amused.  He said something to her and her face flamed while his friends laughed uproariously.

'Coop, this is really bad.'

Coop wasn't paying any attention.  He'd pulled out his little golden box and was already assembling its contents.  He stepped to the side to get a clear shot and trained his sights down onto Apollo's heart.  The Sun God wouldn't know what had hit him.

As soon as Coop was positive that Apollo was looking directly at the girl, he squeezed the trigger and struck him directly in the heart.

# Chapter Eight

Skye was standing in front of the table, wondering whether it was possible for things to get any worse.  The man called Apollo was gazing at her with such a look of derision that she felt physically sick.  She should have stood up for herself and told that man to get someone else to deliver the sodding champagne.  Except this was her job, and she had to remain professional and do it to the best of her ability.  But the palpable mockery in Apollo's eyes at her return for more humiliation made her wish the ground would open up and swallow her.

He raised his eyebrows.  'You're hot,' he said, licking his lips slowly.  Then he cast his eyes around at his friends.  'Isn't she? She's blushing like a virgin at her first orgy.'

The whole table began to laugh as if he'd just told the funniest joke of all time.  Skye wished she could think of a witty retort which wouldn't lose her her job but her mind was blank.

'The gentleman by the stairs would like you to have this champagne with his compliments,' she said stiffly.

Apollo's brow furrowed and he leaned over to see who she meant, then looked back at her. 'It's really from you, isn't it? You're trying to impress me.'

Skye opened her mouth to make an angry reply but suddenly a spasm crossed Apollo's face and he blinked up at her. 'You're beautiful,' he said.

She stared at him.  What was he trying to pull now? He patted his knee and gestured towards her. 'Come and sit down.'

Skye was unable to keep the loathing out of her voice.  'The champagne is from the gentleman by the stairs, sir.'

She put the tray down on the table and turned to leave.  Apollo, however, was up in a flash and standing in front blocking her way.  He reached out and gently touched her cheek. 'Don't go.  Stay and have some champagne with us.'

Skye ignored him and side-stepped to the right.  He moved with her.  Then she side-stepped left.  He mirrored her movements again.

'I'll get rid of all these people,' he said.  'Then we can be alone.'

Skye gritted her teeth.  He was going to an awful lot of trouble just to humiliate her even more.  Before she could say anything, however, he jerked his hand over at his friends. 'Leave,' he said, keeping his eyes trained on her face.

There was a moment of silence from behind him.  Then someone snorted and Apollo hardened his voice. 'Now.'

It was clear there wasn't to be a discussion.  Without further objections, all of them stood up and walked past her.  A few gave her curious glances, while a couple seemed openly hostile.

Again, Skye tried to move with them and escape.  Again, Apollo blocked her path. 'You keep trying to get away from me,' he said.  'But I want you to stay.'

Something inside Skye snapped.  'That's enough,' she yelled.  'I'm just trying to do my job.  Just because I'm a waitress doesn't make me less of a person or less worthy than you.  I can't help the fact that I blush.  I guess it means that I have feelings.  Except you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? Clearly, the only feelings you've ever had have been of puffed up self-importance.  You think that because you've got money you're better than me.  You think that because you've got good looks, everyone should fall down at your feet and worship you. Well,' she paused for a moment then looked him straight in the eye, 'well, screw you.'

For a heartbeat, Apollo didn't speak.  Then he leaned in towards her, until his face was almost touching hers. 'You're magnificent.' And he planted his lips onto hers.

Skye jerked up her knee and slammed it with all her might into his groin.  He doubled over in pain.  Within a flash, Helios was there, glaring at her. 'Get your stuff and get out,' he snarled.  'You're fired.'

Apollo moaned something.  Skye stared down at him and up at Helios.  Then she gathered the very last scraps of her dignity and walked out.

The next morning, Skye lay in bed and stared at the peeling floral wallpaper.  Her adventure in the Big Smoke had ended in abject failure.  It was ironic, she figured, that in finding her voice and her spirit she'd managed to end up getting herself sacked from her job.

It had taken the security staff at Nemesis all of five minutes to escort her to her locker to collect her stuff and then shove her out onto the street.  She turned over listlessly.  She'd just have to go home with her tail between her legs.  Her parents were too kind to say 'I told you so', but she knew that's what they'd probably be thinking.

Skye hugged her knees to her chest and sighed.  Well, being a waitress was only ever a temporary option anyway, she told herself.  Something else would turn up soon.

The doorbell rang.  Skye ignored it and curled up into a tighter ball.  A moment later, it rang again.  She swore to herself.  Aware that her flatmates had enjoyed a much later night than she had, she pulled herself out of bed and padded downstairs, wrenching the door open and blinking out into the bright sunshine.

'What?'

There was a teenager standing in front of her, thrusting out a huge floral display.  Skye stared at it uncomprehendingly.

'Flowers for you,' he trilled.

They're obviously not going to be for me, Skye thought irritably, taking the heavy bouquet and scribbling her signature on a piece of paper before closing the door and taking them into the kitchen.  The bloody thing weighed a ton.  It contained all manner of roses: deep succulent reds, delicate pinks, sunny yellows. While she'd been traipsing unhappily through the streets of London, someone else had clearly garnered themselves a rich admirer.  She shrugged and began looking for a vase to put them in.  All she found in the cupboards was one small chipped glass affair, so she ended up separating the flowers into all manner of receptacles, from an old Pepsi bottle to a grubby but tall mug.  Then she stood up to go back to bed and return to both her duvet and her misery.

Before she had taken three steps there was a muffled ringing sound from her bag, which she'd dumped in a corner of the kitchen.  Hoping it wasn't her parents calling to check up on her, she dug the phone out and looked at the screen.  Unknown number.  Great.  It was probably someone cold-calling to sell insurance or something else that she couldn't afford.  She hit the green answer button and held it up to her ear.

'Did you get my flowers?' a deep voice asked.

Skye held the phone away from her face and stared at it.  The voice spoke again. 'Hello? Can you hear me?'

Slowly, she brought it back to her ear.  'Who is this?'

'Apollo, of course.  Did you get the flowers? I hope you like roses.  I wasn't sure if you would or not.'

Skye hung up.  How in the hell had he found her number? And more to the point, why was he calling and sending her flowers?

The phone rang again.  Skye looked at it for several moments, then answered it again.

'We got cut off,' Apollo said.  'Are you okay?'

Skye found her voice.  'How did you get my number? And my address?'

'Helios gave it to me, of course.  Would you like to meet me for lunch?'

'What?' she screeched.  'How dare he give out personal information right after firing me! There must be laws against that kind of thing.'

'I'm sorry you lost your job,' said Apollo solicitously.  'But you're better than that anyway.  And now you're not working, you'll be able to spend more time with me.'

Skye hung up again.  The whole world had gone crazy.  Any minute now she was going to wake up and realise all this was just a terrible dream.  She pinched the skin of her arm.  It hurt.  Bugger.

The phone rang once more.  She answered it and immediately began shouting. 'Stop calling me! I don't want anything to do with you, do you understand? I don't know what it is you think you're doing but you can't mess with people's heads like this.'

'Ms Sawyer?'

Skye's mouth dropped.  It wasn't him.  'Er, yes,' she said cautiously, her stomach dropping in horror.

'This is Love and Associates calling.  We received your CV via a recruitment agency.'

Her eyes widened.  'You mean Pendleton's?'

'Yes, from Pendleton's.  We were quite impressed at your background.'

Skye couldn't keep the scepticism out of her voice.  'I'd have thought Master's Degrees in English Literature were two a penny.'

'Oh, quite the contrary,' said Coop, scribbling down English Literature on a piece of paper and holding it up for Hermes to see.  'We often find that English graduates have a lot to offer.'

Skye blinked.  Was this for real?  If it was, and she'd answered the phone like that...

'I'm sorry.  When I answered I thought you were someone else.'

'Oh, that's quite alright.  It happens all the time. Now,' he said, looking at Hermes' own written response and grimacing, 'we were wondering whether you were still looking for a position.'

Skye sat down heavily on a nearby chair.  'What kind of position?' she asked cautiously.

'Personal assistant for a client of ours,' Coop said, keeping his fingers tightly crossed.  'A writer.  He's a bit of a recluse.  It's likely that you won't even see him as he likes to keep himself to himself. Nevertheless, he's looking for someone to help him out.  Sort out bills, do some typing, that kind of thing.'

For a moment, Skye didn't reply.  Was it possible that at the very moment when she'd thought all was lost, she had been saved by pure providence?

'Ms Sawyer?'

She took a deep breath.  'It sounds... nice,' she said.  That was an obvious understatement. It sounded more than nice, it sounded perfect. 'Is it in London?'

'Ah, no,' replied Coop. 'It's in Greece, a live-in position.  That won't be a problem, I trust?'

Skye's heart sank.  In Greece? Where she didn't speak the language? It would be even harder there to make friends than it was here.  She should have known it was too good to be true.  She opened her mouth to decline the offer, when the doorbell rang again.

'Sorry,' she apologised, 'there's someone at my door.  Would you mind terribly if I called you back in five minutes?'

'No problem.  In fact, I'll call you back.' Coop hung up.

Hermes was watching the seemingly floating phone through narrowed eyes.  'Is she going to bite?'

'I'm not sure,' Coop answered.  'If she does though, it'll be perfect.'

'In what way?'

'She'll come to my home and live there.  My darling mother and the King of Heavens have expressly forbidden anyone from Olympus from visiting, which means that Apollo, who is now madly in love with her, will be driven insane at not being able to see her.' The satisfaction in Coop's voice was obvious.

Hermes remained doubtful.  'But you're invisible.  Won't she think that's a bit strange?'

Coop dismissed his reservations.  'I'll work around it.  She'll never know.  The shy and reclusive Ms Sawyer will get a job, a wage and a good reference when I'm done with her so she can go on her merry way and be happy.  And Apollo will be tortured at every turn to know that she's with me.'

'If Aphrodite finds out...'

'She won't,' Coop said confidently.  'Apollo is too arrogant and concerned with his self-image to want to tell anyone he's found "the one" until she's actually in his arms.  And that will never happen.'

'If the girl doesn't agree, then this is all for naught.'

'She'll say yes.  I can feel it in my bones.'

Skye, meanwhile, had opened her door and was staring unhappily at the man on her doorstep.  Apollo had obviously decided that sending flowers wasn't enough.  This time, he'd come in person.

'Hello, my darling,' he said throatily.

Skye moved to shut the door in his face, but he jammed it open with his foot. 'You can't escape me, you know.  I won't rest and I won't leave you alone until you are mine.'

She gazed at his handsome face.  He looked – bizarrely – like he was telling the truth.

'If you don't leave, I'll call the police,' she said, with more conviction than she actually felt.

Apollo laughed.  'Don't you know who I am? The police can't stop me.'

The worst thing was, Skye reflected, that she believed him.  She had no idea who he really was but something about him emanated a sort of shivering power.  The kind that made her want to hide under the bed.  She thought quickly, then made a decision.  Why the hell not?

'Okay,' she said.  'But I'm busy today.  Let's meet tomorrow instead.'

'I'm not going to wait that long,' Apollo uttered implacably.

'If you want to spend time with me, then you'll just have to.'

He clasped his chest.  'You leave me no choice, my lady.  Tomorrow it is.' His eyes glinted for a moment.  'But before I go, you must grant me one kiss.'

'No.'

'I won't leave without it.'

Skye sighed.  She'd never see him again, and if it meant he left her in peace...

'Fine.'

Apollo smiled as if there had never been any doubt that she would grant his request.  He leaned in, his lips touching hers and his hand curving round her waist.  Skye felt his tongue pushing against her lips and tried not to recoil.  After a few moments, she pulled away.

A smile lit his perfectly sculpted lips.  'I knew you'd be a great kisser,' he said.

She tried to avoid rolling her eyes.  Given that she'd stood stock still and not moved a muscle, she'd hardly provided him with a passionate clinch.

'You said you'd leave me alone now.'

Apollo's eyes smouldered.  'Only until tomorrow.'

Skye forced her mouth into a vague semblance of a smile.  'Of course.'

'Adieu, sweet princess.'

'Goodbye,' Skye replied and firmly closed the door.

The telephone rang again.  This time she practically ran into the kitchen and scooped it up. 'Hello?'

'Yes, this is Love and Associates calling again,' said Coop.  'Have you made a decision? I realise it's very short notice but our client is rather desperate.'

'I'll take it,' Skye said, throwing all caution to the wind.  'But only if I can leave tonight.'

The corners of Coop's mouth turned up.  'Excellent,' he purred.  'We'll send a car around seven o'clock to take you to the airport.  Goodbye Ms Sawyer.'

Skye put the phone down.  If someone had told her yesterday morning when she was in here baking a few cupcakes that she'd be moving to Greece today, she'd have thought they were crazy.  She blinked rapidly.  Everything was happening so fast.  Then she glanced at the clock on the wall and realised that if she was going to pack she had better get a move on.

# Chapter Nine

By the time she finally arrived at the palatial mansion in Greece where she was going to live and work, Skye felt incredibly weary and travel-worn.  It had been difficult saying her farewells to Chrissie, Joy and Emma.  Emma in particular had been sceptical about the job. 'But you don't know anything at all about this man!' she'd protested.  'What if he turns out to be some kind of serial killer stalker?'

Skye had refrained from pointing out that she'd already found her own stalker right here in London and merely murmured that it was a great opportunity which had come along at just the right moment.  Joy was adamant she could get Helios to change his mind about sacking her but, the more her friends protested that she was being rash and putting herself in danger, the more determined Skye had become to see it through.  It might have been a coincidence that she'd been offered this job only hours after losing her last one, but she wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.  Besides, Skye had to admit, she'd been treated like royalty from the moment the shiny limousine had pulled up outside their small London terrace.

She was driven directly to the airport where there was a first-class ticket to Athens waiting for her.  And as soon as she emerged from the bustle of immigration and customs, there was another driver waiting to collect her.  It was a long drive and, as darkness had already fallen by the time she clambered into the car, she'd been unable to work out which direction they were travelling in.  However, the car was thoughtfully equipped with a mini-bar and television screen and the journey had been more than comfortable.

She attempted to engage the driver in stilted conversation about her new employer, but he said that he'd never met him: this was a last-minute contract job.  That made Skye feel rather nervous although she reminded herself of Shakespeare's words in _Macbeth_ : 'Screw your courage to the sticking place and we'll not fail'.  Of course, the tragic Macbeth's success had been famously short-lived but that didn't mean the sentiment should be ignored.

The driver helped her take her luggage into the house and then left.  Despite the fact that the place was bathed in warm orange lights, it seemed entirely deserted.  Skye wandered from room to room until, finally finding a large living room area complete with vast leather sofas and a carefully positioned chaise longue, she came across a note.

* * *

_Welcome._

_Please make yourself at home as much as possible. Help yourself to food from the kitchen.  I have taken the liberty of making you a small snack in case you are hungry after your long trip.  There is a bedroom for you down the hall – third door to the right.  You have free access to the premises apart from the east wing, which I must ask you not to enter.  I value my privacy and require peace and quiet in which to work._

* * *

_Kamadeva_

* * *

The words were etched in ink in an elegant looping script.  Skye spent some time reading and rereading the note.  Kamadeva was certainly an unusual name.  She wondered whether her new employer was of Indian descent.  Despite Love and Associates' warning about his reclusive nature, Skye was surprised he'd not appeared to greet her.  She had no way of even knowing whether he was in the house or not.

Shrugging to herself, she wheeled her luggage down the corridor to her bedroom.  The floor beneath her feet was cool marble, without a speck of dust in sight.  She felt like she was in a luxurious five-star hotel rather than someone's home.  Even so, she was stunned when she cautiously pushed open the door to her room.  She'd suspected it was going to be a far cry from her cupboard at Emma's place in London, but nothing had prepared her for this.  That whole house could have fitted into this room.

She stared around, mouth half open.  There was a huge king-size, four-poster bed, with billowing silk sheets hanging down from the wooden frame and plump pillows atop a pristine white coverlet.  Taking a step forward, Skye realised it was embroidered with birds, bees and butterflies, each one apparently individually hand-crafted because no two were alike.  She traced her fingers over its soft, smooth surface and took in the rest of the room.  There were gigantic splashes of colour from the artwork on the walls and beautiful teak furniture.  As well as the door through which she had entered, there were two others on opposite sides.  Skye opened the first one and entered an en-suite bathroom, tastefully tiled in matte black, with a huge old-fashioned bathtub and rain shower.  The second door led into a walk-in wardrobe.  Skye glanced ruefully down at her suitcase.  Her small wardrobe would look rather pathetic hanging up in there.

Leaving her bag, she wandered onto the balcony and peered down.  The first thing she saw was the turquoise-blue of the swimming pool, illuminated by cleverly placed lighting.  Skye wondered whether she'd be allowed to use it.  She'd not brought a costume with her though, so it probably didn't matter.  She bit her lip and stared out over the gardens.  Whoever her new employer was, he certainly wasn't short of a bob or two.

Coop, hovering in the doorway, watched her lean over the balustrade and rest her face in her hands.  He'd grinned to himself when he saw her reaction to the room and was glad he'd picked out the best guest suite for her.  He felt less happy when he caught her glancing at her suitcase and guessed her thoughts.  He'd have to arrange for her to buy some new clothes.  Maybe he could get a tailor to come up next week and take her measurements.  As much as he was doing this to get his own back on Apollo, he was determined Ms Sawyer wouldn't suffer any more as a result of his actions.  When she turned round and headed back to her suitcase, he quietly left to allow her the privacy she thought she already had.

The next morning Skye woke up early.  Despite being in a new bed, she'd slept remarkably well and felt refreshed and ready to face whatever the day might bring.  Determined to give her Mr Kamadeva a good first impression, she showered quickly then pulled on the smartest clothes she owned – a suit she'd bought from the high street at considerable expense for all the interviews she had mistakenly thought she'd be attending.  Then she headed out.

The mansion was quiet and peaceful and nothing seemed to have been disturbed from the night before.  Frowning, she wandered into the living room, but it was as empty as everywhere else.  Seeing a set of stairs which she'd not noticed the evening before, she walked down, feeling distinctly nervous.  Her heels clicked on the marble flooring, somehow making the whole place feel even emptier.  There was a small door at the foot of the staircase so she reached forward and opened it, blinking as the morning sun immediately sprang into view.  Realising she must be entering the pool area, she spotted a small table set up with a coffee pot, a jug of orange juice and various breakfast items.  But there was still no sight of anyone else.

There was a small note folded up on one of the plates.  Skye picked it up and read its contents.

* * *

_Ms Sawyer,_

_Please enjoy your breakfast. When you are finished, there is a list of errands upstairs in the kitchen which I'd like you to run for me.  The rest of the day is yours to do with as you see fit._

_Kamadeva_

* * *

Huh.  So her mysterious employer still wasn't deigning to show his face.  Maybe he was just a bit shy.  She could certainly relate to that.  Skye gulped down a croissant and quick coffee, then headed back upstairs, leaving the warm golden sunshine for another time.

There were five items scrawled in the same handwriting on a sheet of heavy cream paper, next to which sat a brand-spanking, new laptop.  First on the list, she had to ensure the kitchen was fully stocked.  A set of car keys had been left for her, along with instructions for how to get to the nearest town.  There was nothing to suggest what Mr Kamadeva wanted the kitchen stocked with, so she'd just have to guess.  Pulling out a drawer, she found a notepad and pen, then went round the kitchen methodically, opening every cupboard as well as the vast fridge freezer, and making a note of everything she saw there.  She didn't find anything that suggested her employer was Indian – all the food and left-over items seemed to suit expensive European tastes.  There were some oysters which, when she sniffed them, smelled decidedly off.  Skye had never eaten oysters in her life but she was pretty sure they weren't supposed to reek of rotting flesh.  The fridge also contained some squashed strawberries, over-ripe figs and dark chocolate.  There was a particularly pungent cheese lurking at the back, too.  Skye didn't recognise it and there wasn't a label, so she'd just have to do her best to source it.

She was halfway out the door when a thought occurred to her.  The note last night had said there was a snack prepared for her.  Unless that had been a lump of dark chocolate and a glass of wine, there was nothing else she'd come across that was actually edible.  And yet this morning she'd dined on fresh orange juice and a croissant which tasted as if it had just come out of the oven.  So why was there no further evidence of real food like that in the kitchen? Puzzled, Skye scratched her head then decided she was over-thinking things.  The orange juice and bread were probably all that was left in the house; if she'd had her pre-prepared snack the night before, that was probably what she'd have been eating.

Coop watched her go, grinning merrily to himself.  He'd deliberately given her a list of things to do which would take her ages to complete.  The shopping was the easiest, and even then he was fairly certain she'd spend the whole day trying to locate the cheese.  The local market didn't tend to go in for such speciality items.  But as long as little Skye Sawyer was busy, she wouldn't waste too much time worrying about her invisible employer.  He'd have quite enjoyed tailing her to see how she got on but unfortunately his mother had already sent orders about three jobs he had to complete that day.  It was annoying because he'd hoped to check on Apollo and see how he was doing now that his little lovebird had flown.  It was probably just as well though.  Coop doubted he'd be able to resist telling the god that Ms Sawyer was living with him; it would be more painful for Apollo to experience total loss and devastation before the searing hurt of jealousy.

'Love is a cruel mistress,' Coop said aloud, before smiling again and amending his statement to, 'Love is a cruel master.'

It took Skye ages to work out how to open the garage.  She spent what seemed like forever hunting around in the darkness before she found the light switch, then she had to open the door so she could drive out.  At least she located the nearest town easily enough but it took half an hour to find somewhere to park Mr Kamadeva's monstrosity of an SUV.  He clearly wasn't someone who worried too much about the environment, she thought sniffily, when she finally found a space large enough.

Things didn't improve when she located the shops and the local market.  She managed to get figs and strawberries easily enough, along with some orange juice, milk and coffee.  But she couldn't find the sodding cheese for love nor money and, whenever she tried to ask anyone, they looked at her in alarm when they realised she didn't speak a word of Greek and backed away.  Irritated with herself for not using the internet to find out what cheese was in Greek before she left the house, she eventually gave up and returned defeated to the car, only to find a motorcyclist had parked next to her and somehow managed to scrape its handlebars along the SUV's gleaming paintwork.

Wetting the edge of her sleeve with saliva, Skye tried to rub off the mark, but only seemed to make it worse.  Her heart sinking at the thought of telling the boss she still hadn't met that she'd ruined what was probably his pride and joy, she clambered back into the car and drove off, momentarily forgetting she was supposed to drive on the other side of the road and almost taking out an elderly cyclist.  Cheeks reddening in embarrassment as he gesticulated at her in a fashion which left absolutely no doubt as to its meaning, Skye felt utterly crushed.

By the time she found her way up the winding road and through the hills to Mr Kamadeva's house, her shoulders were slumped and she could feel a hard lump of tears building up inside her chest.  Skye threw the keys back down onto the kitchen counter, where they landed with a clatter, and began to pull out the rotting food from the fridge to make way for the new stuff, cursing aloud all the time.

Coop, returning from the last of his mother's tasks, took one look at her dejected frame and reached out for her without thinking.  He only just managed to draw back his hand in time before it connected with her cheek.  The list he'd given her had been intended to occupy her time and make her feel needed, not to upset her.  He was so absorbed in watching her and wondering what he could do to make her feel better that he almost jumped out of his skin when the phone in his pocket began to ring.

Skye, hearing the ring from right behind her, jerked her head up and banged it painfully on the roof of the fridge. Yelling in pain, she twisted around, assuming that the mysterious Mr Kamadeva was there.  But when she looked, the kitchen was empty and the ringing had stopped abruptly.  An oddly appealing smell of earthy cedar lingered in the atmosphere.

'Mr Kamadeva?' she called out.  'Hello?'

There was a thump from another room.  Skye followed the noise, her eyes narrowing.  It wasn't possible that the billionaire had run away because she was about to turn around and see him, was it? Skye was shy – but even she wasn't as bad as that.  Was anyone?

She felt an uncomfortable prickle across her shoulders and down her spine.  Everything about this just felt wrong.  Perhaps she'd made a huge mistake by coming here.  She wandered through every room, peering into each one, until all that was left was the large door leading to the forbidden East Wing.  Skye pressed her ear against it, but whatever – or rather whoever – had been making those noises and owned that phone had fallen completely silent.

Coop watched her warily, wondering what she was thinking.  Her usually smooth forehead was furrowed and his hand itched to lean over and massage away the creases.  Thank goodness he'd managed to turn the phone off before she'd turned around.  After twenty-four hours, he didn't think Ms Sawyer was quite ready to believe she was living with an invisible god.

When she gave up, and walked back off to the kitchen, he quietly opened the door to the east wing, walked inside and pressed re-dial.

'Hey,' complained Hermes when he answered, 'what gives? You hung up on me!'

'I was with Skye,' Coop said.

'Who?'

He shook his head slightly.  'Sorry, Ms Sawyer.  I was with Ms Sawyer.  She heard the phone and obviously realised someone was there.'

'So she knows you're invisible?' asked Hermes, aghast.

'No, she was turned the other way,' Coop explained.  'Look, just don't call me in the future, okay? I'll call you.'

'Fine,' his friend said, with an obvious note of hurt in his voice.

'I just don't want her to think she's going crazy, that's all.'

'You know the easiest way to manage that would be for you not to live with her.  She's going to catch on sooner or later, Coop.'

'How on earth is she going to do that? Who would believe they're living with the Invisible Man?'

Hermes sighed.  'I'm just saying I think this is a bad idea.'

'You've already said that,' Coop responded, 'several times.  Anyway, what were you calling about?'

'I thought you'd want to know what was going on with Mr Sunshine.'

'Apollo?'

'Who else? He went round to your girl's house this morning and pretty much went crazy when she wasn't there.  He's got half of his minions out looking for her.  They'll trace her to that flight sooner or later.'

'Yeah, that doesn't mean he'll work out she's with me, though.  I want him to enjoy the feeling of desperation that she might have disappeared before I move on to phase two.'

'Do I want to know what phase two is?'

'Probably not,' said Coop cheerfully.  'One more thing before you go, though, Herm.'

'What?'

'She's not my girl.  She's just a means to an end.' And with that, Coop hung up.

# Chapter Ten

The next day, Skye prepared her own breakfast and sat eating it at the large kitchen table rather than taking it down to the pool.  She was here to work, she told herself firmly, not enjoy the Greek weather and laze around as if she were on holiday.  Mr Kamadeva had left her a new list of things to do, which she glanced over as she ate.

To begin with, there was a pile of yellowing handwritten letters in some incomprehensible language which he had asked her to type up.  They sat on the table, at least an inch thick.  Skye wasn't bad at touch-typing but it would take her at least the entire morning to complete the lot.  After that, she was to bid for an ancient samurai sword which was going under the hammer at Sotheby's in England. Finally, she had to purchase a plot of land in Sicily.

Deciding to prioritise, Skye figured she could work on the typing at any time and that the auction wouldn't take place for at least another three hours, so the land purchase would probably be the best starting point.  When she opened up her laptop and searched for it, however, she discovered it was an area of particular historical significance.  There wasn't much visible on the land now, other than some very old stones marking out the site of an ancient temple, but the Italian government were trying to buy it themselves to preserve it for future generations.

She wrote out a note for her employer, detailing what she'd found out about the place and advised him that it might be worth reconsidering his purchase.  Then she took the laptop into another room which was set up as a study and started on the typing.

A few hours later, her fingers starting to cramp, she took a break and returned to the kitchen to make a coffee. She saw immediately that her employer had written further instructions underneath her own note.  Skye was confused.  The study looked out onto the corridor which led from the east wing to the kitchen and she could have sworn there hadn't been so much as a shadow pass by.  It was possible she'd been so engrossed in her work that he'd walked past and she'd not noticed but still...

Shrugging to herself, Skye read his latest words.

* * *

_The land is interesting to me. I think it would be a good site for a new resort to encourage more tourists into the area.  This will help boost the local economy.  Please proceed with the purchase._

* * *

She frowned.  Did he mean he was going to bulldoze what was left of the temple ruins in order to build a hotel? Unimpressed at his lack of social responsibility, she scribbled:

* * *

_I agree the land is interesting and the local area could do with some investment in order to boost the economy. However, as a site of historical significance, perhaps it would be best to find an alternative location for your plans._

* * *

Back in the study, she did some research and came up with a number of places ripe for development.  They'd probably be better alternatives because they had improved transportation links and were more picturesque – and therefore more appealing to the tourist market. She wrote out a list and put it back in the kitchen.

When Coop came back and read her words, he grinned.  He was only interested in buying the land because it used to house a temple which had been dedicated to his mother.  Buying it would make her furious and he felt it was time he got a little of his own back on her for ganging up against him with Zeus.  Not that being invisible was proving to be any hardship, of course.  And he had to admit, he was slightly taken back that his apparently shy and mousy little house guest was taking him on and arguing the toss.  Perhaps she wasn't as meek as he'd initially thought.  Deciding to see how far he could push her, and have a little fun himself, he wrote down some more notes.

* * *

_No. Much as I appreciate your research, this site is by far best suited to my plans. It will be an easy matter to have the old rocks pushed into the sea so that the land is cleared to build on.  I think a casino would work well.  We can create the Las Vegas of Europe!_

* * *

Skye was horrified when she read that last part.  The Las Vegas of Europe? On that quiet, pretty little plot of land? Instead of the last remnants of an ancient building which had stood there for centuries? She didn't stop to think before she scrawled down her next words.

* * *

_Monte Carlo has that area covered already. You simply cannot destroy Italian heritage in that way.  It's completely irresponsible.  As a forward-thinking and respected businessman, you need to take a step back and consider the bigger picture._

* * *

When she read over what she'd written, she blushed.  She'd only just started working for this man.  She'd not even met him.  And yet here she was, admonishing him as if he were a child.  She considered scoring everything out and simply agreeing to his demands, but then decided the issue was important enough to make a stand.  At least writing down her argument was easier than doing it in person, even if it did seem incredibly strange.

The next time she went back to see his response, all there was to read was a terse _Fine. _She gnawed at her lip, wondering whether she'd burnt all her boats and he'd decided she wasn't suitable as a personal assistant after all.  Thinking about how strange the last forty-eight hours had been, Skye figured that wouldn't be a bad thing entirely, even if getting fired from two jobs in less than three days would have to be some kind of record.  The elusive Mr Kamadeva, however, made no further reference to the altercation in any other missives.

It was later in the day, when she'd almost finished the typing, that the doorbell chimed, a long, loud sound that reverberated through the house.  Skye scurried to open it.  After not having spoken to anyone all day, it would almost be a relief to have another human being to talk to.  When she managed to pull open the heavy wooden doors, she saw a slight man flanked by two younger women standing on the threshold.

'Ms Sawyer,' he said, bowing with a flourish.  'I have been sent here by a Mr Kamadeva to help you organise your wardrobe.'

Flummoxed, she gazed at him.

He explained further.  'We are to measure you up for some new outfits so that you can better meet the needs of your employer.  He has suggested some lovely material which you may want to consider and a range of dresses that may suit you.'

The man waved a swatch of floaty, chiffon-like fabric in front of her.  Skye gaped. 'I don't need any clothes,' she said.

He smiled at her patiently. 'Ms Sawyer, your employer wishes to help you become more,' he paused and looked her up and down, 'stylish.  You should take advantage of this opportunity.'

Skye found her voice.  'Are you suggesting there's something wrong with what I'm wearing?'  There was the slightest hint of a screech to her voice.  She looked down at her functional black skirt and blouse.  What the hell was wrong with what she was wearing?

'Absolutely not.  Just that perhaps you might be more comfortable with more of a,' he licked his lips, 'range of clothing.'

Skye felt a flame of rage building up inside her.  How dare he? There was nothing wrong with what she was wearing.  She was damned if she was going to flounce around in something which not only wasn't appropriate to her position as a personal assistant but which was paid for by her boss.  It made her feel like some kind of chattel.  She firmly declined the man's offer, with as much politeness as she could possibly manage, then closed the door and marched off to her room.

Halfway there, she abruptly halted.  Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.  How did her employer know what she was wearing? They'd never met face to face.  Skye glanced up at the high ceiling.  Were there hidden cameras placed around the entire mansion? Were they in her room? The idea that she was constantly being watched sent trickles of fear down her spine.  This was not good.

Coop's eyes followed her as she stomped off.  The set of her back and the tight line around her mouth indicated that she wasn't best pleased.  He was confused.  All the women he'd had round before would have been thrilled to have a new wardrobe.  Why she was so angry? She could wear whatever she pleased, but she looked uncomfortable in that cheap formal suit and he knew from the size of her suitcase that she'd not brought much with her.  It was most curious. Eventually, deciding that the ways of women were a mystery, he let it go without pursuing it further.  He didn't even mention it to Hermes when he phoned later on to find out what was going on with Apollo.  It was a private incident between him and Ms Sawyer, not one which should be aired to others.

'I do have work of my own to do, you know,' Hermes grumbled.  'I can't spend all day trailing around after the bloody God of Sun and Light.  Sooner or later he's going to notice me.  He's already in a foul enough mood as it is because he can't find the girl.'

'Come on, mate,' Coop had replied. 'I'm either out making more fools fall in love, or I'm making sure Ms Sawyer is being kept occupied.  She zipped through all those tasks I left her yesterday so I had to come up with more today just to make it seem like I really need her around.'

'You mean Kamadeva needs her around.  I can't believe you picked that as a name.  What if she looks you up?'

'What if she does? She's hardly going to believe the truth, is she?'

'You're playing with fire, Coop.  Anyway, how long is all this going to take? You can't keep her with you indefinitely.'

'It's only been two days.  If I'm to make Apollo pay for being a prick, it's going to take a lot longer than that.'

'A week? Two weeks?'

Coop shrugged.  'Maybe a couple of months.'

'Months?' Hermes shrieked.  'You can't do that to her.'

'I'm not doing anything to her,' he answered calmly.  'She's got a job, she's happy, she gets to enjoy some sunshine for a change...'

'How do you know she's happy if you're not even speaking to her?'

There was a moment of silence then Coop changed the subject.  'Tell me what Apollo is doing.'

Hermes sighed.  'Oh, storming about and generally being a grumpy bastard.  As I suspected, it took his guys all of about five minutes to work out she'd got on a plane to Greece.  That's completely discombobulated him, you know, that she's wandered off to the motherland and he doesn't know where.  I'm told he's barely slept since he found out she'd left.  He even tore a strip off Helios for giving her the push from Nemesis.  The man is well and truly head over heels and going completely nuts trying to track her down.'

An invisible smile of smug satisfaction crossed Coop's face.  'Excellent.'

# Chapter Eleven

Things did not improve for Skye over the next few days.  She didn't catch either sight or sound of Mr Kamadeva but he left an increasing number of bizarre notes with ridiculous requests.  She'd scribbled down an apology about the damage she'd unwittingly caused to his car and his response was to ask her to get him a new vehicle.  The trouble was, the new car that he wanted was a 1954 Oldsmobile.  There were only four of those bloody cars in the world and none of their owners were prepared to part with them at any cost.  She'd relayed this back via a letter and received nothing more in return than 'Try harder'.

Her boss clearly believed that his money could buy him whatever he wanted.  She wanted to scream that the world didn't always work like that; the trouble was there was nobody to scream to.  Other than a few phone calls to her parents and one to Emma, Skye hadn't had a conversation with anyone who understood her for days.  She'd always enjoyed her own company and not thought she was the type to feel lonely, but the strange emptiness of the mansion made her feel incredibly isolated.  And there was that eerie feeling of being watched.  She'd searched her own room for any sign of tiny cameras following her every move, but had found nothing. She'd done the same thing in the rooms that she frequented the most, and had still found nothing.  But her fruitless search didn't dispel her sense of disquiet; after all, she was hardly a super spy who'd recognise a secret CCTV system when she saw one.

Taking the bull by the horns, she'd finally left a letter stating that she didn't feel comfortable living and working with someone whom she hadn't actually met; she didn't mention her suspicions about cameras because she didn't want to come across as ridiculously paranoid.  Skye didn't like the idea of leaving an ultimatum, and she didn't want to give up on her new job quite so soon, but things were getting too weird.  All she got in response was a note saying that Kamadeva would be away on business for the next week, and he'd talk to her when he returned.  Balling her fists up in frustration, Skye swore she'd give him another seven days to present himself and then, if he still wouldn't come out and meet her face to face, she was packing her bags and going: job, crazy stalker and humiliation at home be damned.

She was tempted to try and catch her boss out and had even made a couple of half-hearted efforts at padding quietly along the corridor in the hope of catching him writing one of his little letters.  Her efforts had been fruitless.  If it wasn't for the fact she was living in rural Greece in the most luxurious house she'd ever seen, she'd think the last week was merely a daydream.  Except there was no way her imagination would run to the level of luxury she was now getting used to.  Through some internet research, she discovered that there was a genuine Picasso on one of the walls.  She hated Picasso but having the real thing in front of her with its brash strokes and bold colours made her appreciate the painter in a way she never had before.

Of course Skye used Google to try to find out more about her employer.  She ran a search on Kamadeva but, frustratingly, all that had popped up was that he was the Hindu God of Love.  Right, she thought sarcastically, I've been given a job by Love and Associates to work for the God of Love who likes nothing more than to drive round in a gas-guzzling car, drink lots of wine and hide.  She'd rolled her eyes and given up; clearly if he was as much of a recluse in the virtual world as he was in the real world, she'd never find out who he really was.

For Coop's part, he was enjoying having her around.  She still dressed ridiculously formally and clicked around on the hard floors all day long in her silly high heels, but he had discovered he rather liked seeing her every day.  Just the previous morning, he'd wandered into the kitchen to get a drink and she was dancing around and singing at the top of her voice at having finally located the cheese she'd been looking for in the market.  She shook out her hair until it was all mussed up and was twirling around on her tiptoes, at one point almost careening straight into him as he leaned against the wall and watched her.  He knew she was only acting with such abandon because she thought she was alone, and somehow that made the moment even sweeter.

She talked to herself all the time as well.  She wandered from room to room murmuring comments, such as, 'He should be more environmentally friendly,' and, 'Maybe he was disfigured in a horrible accident.' He decided that he'd make her happy when he returned from the 'business trip' and tell her to buy a hybrid car instead of the Oldsmobile.  Perhaps he could use the disfigurement story that she'd come up with and talk to her from behind a closed door to set her mind at ease.  But then he wouldn't have the fun of watching her nose wrinkle and her lips purse when she read his notes to her.

At some point over the last few days he'd stopped thinking of her as 'Ms Sawyer'; now she was simply Skye.  He told himself it was because he was getting so used to having her around.  Considering that Zeus's missive had meant Aria had been summarily kicked out and no-one else was allowed to visit, he needed someone to provide a distraction.

On the fourth night of his supposed trip away, he was woken in the middle of the night by her calling out.  Alarmed, he thrust his bedcovers aside and ran barefoot to her room.  When he opened the door and saw her moaning, twisted up in a sheet on the middle of the bed, he didn't think twice. He went over and gently tried to shake her awake.  She pulled away from him and thrashed out an arm.  Coop grabbed her flailing limb and leaned over her body, this time gripping her shoulders and shaking her more vigorously to yank her out of whatever nightmare she was having.

Skye half-opened her eyes to find herself covered in a sheen of sweat and bathed in moonlight from the open window.  Her arm tingled almost painfully and, when she glanced down, she saw that there were faint marks on her skin, which were already starting to fade away.  A note of deep woody earthiness clung to the air.  Part of her brain niggled at her as if in warning but, despite the vestiges of her bad dream, she felt incredibly – and oddly – safe.  She closed her eyes and fell asleep again almost instantly.

The next morning the entire incident seemed as if it had been nothing more than a dream. Skye pulled on her black skirt and striped blouse, thrust her feet into her heels and wandered into the kitchen to make breakfast.  Deciding it was simply too beautiful a morning to sit inside, she took it out with a tall glass of ice-filled juice and sat at the small table and chairs beside the swimming pool.  She nibbled at a croissant and gazed out at the blue water, wishing yet again that she'd thought to bring a swimsuit.  But how could she have known she'd have sole access to such a beautiful pool? She wondered whether she should have taken up the offer of a new wardrobe which Mr Kamadeva had offered.  She doubted he'd have wanted to set her up so she could spend her days swimming, however.  And if he had wanted to buy her a swimming costume or, heaven forbid, a bikini – well, that was just too creepy to consider.

A flash of bright plumage caught her peripheral vision and Skye turned abruptly to see what it was, inadvertently knocking the table and spilling the juice down her blouse.  She yelped as the cold liquid soaked through the material and jumped to her feet, trying to wipe off the stain with the back of her hand.

Great, she thought ruefully, this is pretty much the only decent blouse that I've got and I've probably ruined it.  Not that it particularly mattered when there was no-one around to ever see it.  She had no idea why she bothered to keep dressing smartly; even when Mr Kamadeva was present, he didn't see her.  Right now, he probably wasn't even in the same country and there certainly wasn't anyone else around to see that she was making an effort with her appearance.  She glanced at the blue of the pool, then at the stain on her shirt and back again.  What would Emma do right now? Skye smiled to herself.  That was easy.

She unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it off.  Then she unzipped her skirt and wiggled out of it, kicking her shoes to one side.  She took off her underwear and threw the lacy scraps of material onto the pile of clothes, then stepped to the edge of the pool and dived straight in.

The initial shock of the cold water made her gasp but within seconds her body adjusted to the temperature.  The feeling of the silky water against her bare skin had her closing her eyes in pleasure by the time she reached the other side of the pool.  She pushed off with her feet, twisting round till she was on her back and floating, gazing up at the cloudless sky and wondering why she hadn't done this before.  She stretched her arms out, starfish fashion, enjoying the buoyancy of the cool water, completely relaxed.  An aeroplane was tracing its way across the sky and she remained there, watching its progress while she floated.  Okay, she might be lonelier than she'd ever been in her life, but there was a lot to be said for being able to skinny dip in a private pool without any worry of being interrupted.

Coop, returning from an early morning assignment, walked into the kitchen expecting to see Skye perched where she normally was, perusing the latest list of strange things he'd asked her to do.  Frowning when he realised she wasn't there, and concerned after the bad dream she'd had, he walked quietly round to her bedroom.  The door was ajar and it was clearly empty.  With an odd sense of disquiet, he went in, taking in the neatly made-up bed and the tidy surroundings.  The sheer white curtain was flapping in the breeze from the open window so, without thinking, he walked over to tie it back.  As he did so, he caught sight of Skye stretched out in the pool, her fingers gently moving through the water.

His mouth dried.  The sun was glinting off the water as it rippled softly around her and her hair was spread out in a dark halo around her face.  He took in the pale alabaster skin of her body and its curves.  Even from this distance he could make out the full roundness of her breasts and the rosy pink of her nipples half submerged in the water.  She was normally so prim and proper, it had never occurred to him to wonder what was underneath all those clothes.  Now he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to forget.  He watched as she turned over and began to swim with relaxed easy strokes and her lithe body cut through the water.  For him, the swimming pool was usually nothing more than an ornament.  He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually gone for a dip.  Watching Skye made him want to dive right in alongside her.

His phone vibrated annoyingly in his pocket.  He'd switched it to silent ever since the incident in the kitchen.  He wasn't about to risk another near miss like that. There were others, apart from Hermes, who might call to see how he was doing with his new status as an invisible being: some out of solicitude and some out of glee.  Without taking his eyes off Skye, he pulled it out and answered.

'The God of Love at your service,' he drawled into the speaker.

'Cupid, I need your help,' a sharp voice said.

Coop frowned slightly as he realised who it was.  'My little ray of sunshine.  To what do I owe the pleasure?'

'You're good at finding people,' Apollo said without preamble.  'All that tracking down future lovers and shooting them thing that you do.'

'Mmm,' Coop said, as Skye reached the edge of the pool and twisted round to swim the other way.

'You will find someone for me.' It wasn't phrased as a request.

It was amazing how much her hair colour changed when it was wet, Coop mused.  When it was dry, light bounced off its waves and there were red glints intertwined with darker highlights.  Now it appeared a deep ebony colour, incongruent with the light blue of the water.

'Cupid!' Apollo roared.

'Oh, sorry,' Coop murmured, although he wasn't.  'What is it you want?'

'To find someone,' Apollo answered impatiently.  'An English woman.  She was in London working at a club called Nemesis.  Then last week she disappeared.  I've had her traced to a flight to Greece but from Athens her trail vanishes.  You will locate her for me.'

'Why would I do that?'

'I'll put in a good word for you with my father.  Get him to change you back.'

'When has Zeus ever done what you've asked him?'  The King of Heavens was not only notoriously fickle but he rarely took the advice of others, whether they were his own flesh and blood or not.

'I wouldn't ask if I wasn't desperate,' Apollo hissed.  'You really think I'd come to you for help unless I had no other option?'

'Well, with such flattery, I can't see how I could possibly refuse,' Coop commented sarcastically, hanging up the phone.

Skye swam over to the small ladder at the pool's edge and began to clamber out.  Coop watched as her back turned to him while she scooped up her clothes and padded back inside, leaving a trail of perfectly formed footprints on the grey cement.  Then he left her room and went back to his own chambers to have a very cold shower, completely forgetting about the Sun God.

# Chapter Twelve

That night, Skye spent several hours tossing and turning before finally giving up on any semblance of sleep.  She didn't know if it was the previous night's nightmare or her disquiet at feeling so alone in the great house, but she wasn't going to be drifting off into dreamland any time soon.  Unable to continue lying in her bed staring at the ceiling, she got up and padded to the kitchen to get a drink of water, then wandered out to the garden to drink in the cool night air.

Skirting round the pool, she was about to sit at the water's edge when she caught sight of a small shape slinking off into the bushes.  It was a cat, probably no older than six months.  A smile curving her lips, she put the glass down and quietly walked after it, trying to coax it out.  The animal backed into the undergrowth, large green eyes watching her balefully.  It looked scrawny and skinny so Skye decided to try and crawl in to see if she could catch it.  The least she could do was give the poor thing a decent meal.

She knelt down and wriggled forward, ignoring the damp earth against her nightgown.  The cat remained where it was, staring at her unblinkingly.  Skye pushed herself a little further in then, bit by bit, inched her hands forward, trying to avoid any sudden movements that would scare the kitten off.

After what seemed like an age, and when her fingers were barely an inch away from its fur, it stood up and stretched, then stepped forward and rubbed its head against her hand.  Grinning in triumph, she grabbed it gently round its body and started backing out.  When there was more room to move, Skye carefully turned herself around; the cat was starting to purr in her hands.  Then, without warning, there was a splash from the swimming pool and the animal hissed in alarm, a growl building up in its throat.  It pulled away from her and sped off into the night, nothing more than a streak of black against an already black night.  Annoyed, Skye peered out at the pool to see what on earth had scared the cat, then sat back on her haunches in alarm.

The water was moving, small waves pulling away in opposite directions from the centre of the pool, all the way up one length, then back down again.  It didn't make any sense.  Skye blinked, watching the water and trying to work out what was going on.  There wasn't any wind and she was pretty sure that if Mr Kamadeva had installed a wave machine she'd have noticed it by now.  Fascinated by what she was seeing, Skye stayed where she was, staring out at the brilliantly illuminated pool from the gloom of the bushes.  Then things got even stranger.

As she watched, the waves seemed to dissipate but the steel ladder suddenly creaked and she could have sworn she saw it move. Suddenly there was a light whipping sound and a spray of water landed with a spatter onto the hard cement surrounding the pool.  Skye's mouth dropped open as first one wet footprint, then another, appeared out of nowhere, heading off in the direction of the house with short slapping thuds.  For a moment, the magic footsteps seemed to stop right underneath her bedroom window and Skye's heart felt as if it were in her mouth.  Then they continued onward.  The small door leading up to the main house opened as if of its own accord and then closed again.

Skye remained where she was for several minutes, her brain unable to process what she had just witnessed.  Eventually, she scrambled out from the undergrowth, walked over to the pool and stared down at the ground.  She hadn't imagined it.  There, drying on the concrete, was a trail of wet footprints.  She knelt down and traced one gently with her finger.  It was quite large, as if it belonged to a man.  Skye sat down cross-legged next to it, watching it fade away as the water dried, and she tried to work out what she was seeing.

Several hours later, Skye was in the kitchen, flicking through various news items on the internet.  She read through one then another, occasionally taking a bite of an apple and then reading some more.  Taking care to breathe through her nose, she kept all her senses as alert as she could.  When she thought she heard the floor creak and a light woody smell reached her nostrils, she stood up, walked to the fridge and pulled it open, looking inside.  Then she swayed ever so slightly from side to side.  She put her hand on the edge of the fridge door as if to steady herself, but it didn't work and her knees began to buckle underneath her.  The ground rushed up to meet her and she landed with a heavy thump on the cold marble tiles.

Coop stared at her supine form in panic, not sure what had just happened.  He rushed over to her and bent down, trying to lean in over her face to check her breathing.  He could see Skye's chest was moving up and down but she was taking short shallow breaths as if she couldn't quite get enough air.  Attempting to remember what little he knew about first aid, he moved his hands to her side to roll her over into the recovery position.  And that was when she grabbed him.

As soon as Skye's hands connected with what felt like warm skin, a bizarre mix of exultation and fear rushed through her.  The fact she'd been right, that she was living with the Invisible Man, didn't entirely make her feel better.  Reacting quickly, she wrenched on the invisible limb, ignoring the deep grunt of pain she heard from her prey, and twisted round, hooking one of her legs round what she presumed was his torso and locking him into place on the cool marble floor.  Then she stared down, realising how ridiculous she must look, hovering about half a foot in the air, even though she was actually straddling what felt like a very warm, very hard body.

'Why don't you tell me,' she said through gritted teeth, trying not to look as scared as she was feeling, 'exactly who you are and what the hell is going on?'

Coop gazed up at her in astonishment and with more than a tinge of admiration.  He had no idea how she'd managed to work out he was there, or indeed that he was invisible, but he was rather impressed.  He could easily escape from her tenuous 'capture', but he was enjoying the sensation of her thighs locked around his body.  He relaxed and grinned.

'Bravo, Skye,' he purred softly.

At the sound of his voice, Skye stiffened and tightened her grip.  'What's the meaning of this?' she yelled, aware of the screech beginning to seep into her voice.  'Are you some kind of mad scientist?'

Coop chuckled.  'Hardly.  Merely the victim of a rather undeserved punishment.  Tell me, how did you work it out?'

Skye ignored him.  'Look, Mr Kamadeva,' she began.

'Coop,' he interrupted.

'Huh?'

'Coop.  My name is Coop.'

'Whatever,' she dismissed.  'You need to tell me what is going on here – or else.'

'Or else what?'

Skye stared down at the blank floor underneath her.  She had absolutely no idea.  Now her suspicions were confirmed, she had no clue what to do next.  Mr Kamadeva, or Coop, or whoever he was, didn't sound particularly upset or even worried that she'd caught him out.  And if someone could genuinely be invisible, what else might they be capable of? She had a sudden vision of her body being fried and charred by lasers shooting out from a set of glowing eyes.

'Or else I'll call the police,' she said shakily. 'Let them decide what to do with you.'

'How will you get to a phone?'  Coop asked, enjoying himself immensely.

Nonplussed, Skye rocked back for a moment.  'Er...'

'Let me help you.' And with one swift move, Skye felt the body underneath her twist.  There was a pressure in the small of her back and, before she knew it, she was being flipped over until she was lying flat on the tiles and her imperceptible employer was sitting on top of her.  She shrieked and tried to escape from beneath him, writhing in the iron-clad grip on her arms and thrashing her legs.  She pulled one way then another, but no matter what she did, she couldn't budge an inch.  Eventually, tiring herself out, she stopped.

'There now.  Hold still, and I'll get you that phone,' murmured Coop, releasing one of her wrists and reaching into his pocket.

Skye watched, mouth dropping open, as from nowhere a mobile phone floated in the air.  It moved down towards her.

'You need to dial 100 to reach the Greek police,' he added, placing the device in her free hand.

She stared at the phone, then stared up at where she presumed her captor's face was.

'Go on,' he urged.  'Tell them you're being held prisoner in a luxurious mansion by an invisible man.  They'll rush straight over, I'm sure.'

Skye swallowed.

'Shall I dial for you?'

She watched disbelievingly as the buttons on the phone were pressed down and the number 100 appeared on the screen.

'All I need to do,' Coop said calmly, 'is press the little green button and you'll have a helpful operator to chat to.  You can tell them everything.  Just say the word, Skye.'

She gazed at the phone, realising the futility of such an action, then shook her head.

'Are you sure?'

Skye nodded.  She was completely screwed.  Nobody would ever believe her.  She was being held by an invisible man with good taste in aftershave and soft furnishings.  Her mutilated body would probably be found months from now, dumped in a Greek wasteland.  She thought of her parents and how they'd react, and misery seeped through.

Coop watched the different emotions flit across her face.  'I'm not going to hurt you,' he said softly.

'You're invisible!' Skye scoffed.

He pulled himself off her body and stood up.  'Yes.  I'm invisible.  But it's only temporary and, believe me, Skye, I'm not a monster.'

As soon as his weight left hers, Skye sprang up and backed away.  It was a long way to the front door and, even if she made it that far, he'd catch her before she took two steps outside.  Wishing she'd thought this through more, she tried to inject some calm into her voice.

'So who are you really?'

Coop looked into her dark-brown eyes, realising that there were, along with the very obvious and palpable terror being displayed, little flecks of alluring green.  He liked them, he decided.

'I told you,' he said, 'I'm Coop.'

'That doesn't tell me anything,' Skye hissed.

He walked towards her until he was right in front of her.  She seemed to sense he was there because she immediately tried to sidle away.  He grabbed one of her hands and squeezed it gently.

'Let's get a drink and I'll tell you.'

He pulled on her hand carefully, directing her towards one of the kitchen stools then, when she was seated, went to the fridge and pulled out a chilled bottle of wine.  Skye watched from her perch as it was uncorked, then two long-stemmed glasses floated through the air and landed on the table in front of her.

'I don't want a drink,' she protested.

'It'll be a much more civilised way of explaining my story,' Coop murmured.  'Just two friends chatting over a glass of wine about the vagaries of life.'

'I'm not your friend.  And it's not even ten o'clock in the morning!'

Coop poured the lightly fizzing liquid into first one glass, then another.  'So?'

Skye reached out and picked a glass up, lifted it to her lips and drained it.  'I don't want a damned drink.'

'Except you just had one,' he pointed out.

She stared at her empty glass.  She'd not even registered her own action.  What was wrong with her? Coop re-filled it then took a sip of his own.

'As I was saying,' he said, 'my name is Coop.  But I'm also known as Cupid.'

Skye's brain felt fuzzy.  'Cupid?'

Coop nodded then remembered she couldn't see him.  'Yes,' he replied patiently.

'Like the cherub? The naked baby with wings and a bow and arrow?'  The body she'd felt when they'd both been on the floor certainly hadn't been that of a child's.

Coop winced.  'Well, that's one interpretation.  Personally I blame Michelangelo.  I can assure you, I'm not a baby.'

Skye almost snorted.  She could have told him that.  She thought about what she'd read on the internet about the origins of the name Kamadeva.  'But you're still the God of Love?' she asked doubtfully.

He let out a bark of laughter.  'You're prepared to accept I'm invisible but not that I'm a god?'

'I'm not sure what I'm prepared to accept right now.'

'Fair enough.  I can assure you, however, it's very true.'

Skye raised her glass to take another sip, realised what she was doing and placed it back down again.  'You said you're invisible because you're being punished?'

'My mother,' Coop answered caustically.  'She seems to think being isolated will encourage me to think more highly of love.'

'You're the God of Love and you don't like love?'

'"Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove. "'

'"Oh no! It is an ever-fixed mark,"' Skye finished.

'Exactly.'

She frowned.  'I don't get it.'

'Neither did Shakespeare,' he commented drily.  'Don't worry, I'll show you later.'

This was getting stranger and stranger.  'So if you're Cupid, then your mother is...'

'Aphrodite, yes.' He watched her carefully.  'You still don't believe me.'

'No, I do, it's just...' Skye's shoulders sagged. 'Okay, you're right, I don't believe you.'

'Not to worry,' Coop said cheerfully.  'You will.'

Skye mulled everything over in silence for a few moments, chewing on her lip.  Eventually, she tilted her head up. 'So why am I here?'

Coop looked into her face.  He didn't want to tell her that he'd only brought her here to piss off Apollo.  All of a sudden his actions seemed rather petty and he didn't want her to think badly of him.

'Well,' he prevaricated, 'Zeus ruled that no-one from Olympus is allowed to come and visit me.  It's meant to make the isolation problem harder for me to deal with.  Except he never said humans couldn't be here so I employed you.'

'Zeus? As in the Greek god? The one who's in charge of everything?'  Skye couldn't keep the scepticism out of her voice.

'Hey,' he said, punching her lightly on the arm and making her jump. 'I'm a Greek god too.'

'This is so strange,' she said.

Coop eyed her.  'You don't believe just yet.  Even with the evidence of my invisibility right in front of your eyes, you can't accept what I'm telling you.'

'Is that really surprising?'

'I'll prove it to you,' he said, jumping off his chair. He took her hand and pulled her gently in the direction of the front door.

'Where are we going?' Skye asked warily.

'To get some proof.'

Skye let herself be led.  The feeling of his skin against hers was warm and the pressure on her hand was light.  If he was taking her outside where she might have more chance of escaping, then he couldn't be entirely bad.  But this was all still bloody strange.

# Chapter Thirteen

As soon as the door behind them closed, Skye realised something was very, very wrong.  Instead of the leafy driveway, lined with orange trees and the sweet scent of honeysuckle in the air, they were standing in a large lobby.  She felt a tug at her hand.

'Come on,' Coop urged.

Skye resisted, staring open-mouthed at her surroundings.  Someone wearing a white coat pushed past her, clearly in a rush to get to wherever they were going.'

'What in hell?' she murmured.

'We're in a hospital,' Coop said with a trace of impatience.

'But...'

'It's a god thing,' he explained.  'I need to be here on orders of my mother, so I can transport just by stepping out my door.'

'Where's here?' she asked baffled.

'Malaysia,' he answered pulling on her hand again and this time succeeding in getting her feet to move in the right direction.

'Malaysia?' she squeaked.

A woman walked past her, giving her a very strange look.  Skye snapped her mouth shut, and let herself be yanked into an elevator.  As soon as she was sure they were alone, she spoke again. 'Malaysia?' she repeated.  'But that's on the other side of the world!'

'I told you, it's a god thing.'

Skye blinked rapidly.  This could not be real.  It simply couldn't.

'We need to hurry,' Coop murmured, when the elevator doors pinged open.  'There's not much time left.'

'Not much time for what?' Skye asked.

She didn't get an answer.  Instead, she found herself jogging down a long sterile corridor, trying to keep up with the invisible force in front of her.  They passed several rooms that she peered inside as they went.  Each one appeared to be a ward, filled with beds and sick-looking people hooked up to all manner of machines.

'Ah, here it is,' Coop said finally, coming to one door which was only slightly open.

He entered, with Skye still clutching onto his hand.  Inside there were eight beds, although only three were occupied.  Coop ignored the first ones and headed straight down the room and towards a large window.  Skye looked outside, gaping.  There was a large car park – no surprise there – but beyond that she could see palm trees, bushes and exotic flowers.  A sudden movement drew her eye and she realised there was a small monkey leaping from a branch down to the ground.  It jumped along the car park to an overflowing rubbish bin, which it leapt onto.

'We really are in Malaysia,' she breathed.

'As I said,' Coop replied, giving her a gentle shove so that she was half obscured behind a curtain.  'Now, stay there and watch.'

'Watch what?'

'My job.'

'But I can't see you,' Skye protested.

'It's not me you need to be looking at.'

His hand left hers and she spotted a Chinese nurse walking in her direction.  For a second, Skye stopped breathing, wondering how on earth she was going to explain herself and how she'd suddenly ended up hiding in a Malaysian hospital without any identification.  Fortunately, the nurse paid her no attention; she didn't even notice her behind the curtain.  Instead, she pulled across another curtain revealing a bed with a man on it.  He had on a neck brace and his face was covered in scratches.  One arm was hooked up to an IV line, while the other was swathed in bandages.

'Mr Tan?' the nurse asked, bending over the patient.

He murmured something.

'How are you feeling? It was a nasty car crash you had there.  That road is particularly dangerous, you know.  We get many patients coming in who've had accidents on it.  You are one of the lucky ones, lah.'

Despite her banter, the nurse's tone was professional.  As Skye watched, she busied herself around the bed, replacing the IV bag with a fresh one and checking the man's blood pressure and heart rate.

'It was raining,' he muttered. 'I lost control.' Then he switched to Chinese, saying something Skye couldn't quite understand.

Still not sure why she was there, Skye looked out of the window again.  The monkey had disappeared.  Disappointed, she returned her glance to the nurse – and her mouth dropped open.  The nurse was sitting on the edge of the man's bed, holding his hand.  Ignoring the pain, he had pushed himself up onto his elbows and was looking into her eyes.

'My name is Wei Li,' the nurse said softly.  She reached down and brushed the man's cheek.

'I'm Jun,' he responded.  His cheeks coloured.  'I know I look a mess right now but I promise you I'm actually a good-looking guy.'

She smiled at him.  Except it wasn't the usual professional smile you'd expect to see a healthcare professional bestow on a patient; it was one which even Skye could recognise was filled with happy promise.  'I can tell.  Because you are already handsome, even with those wounds.'

Skye felt Coop's hand slide into hers.  He leaned in towards her, his breath hot on her cheek. 'Let's go,' he murmured.

Skye couldn't take her eyes away from the couple.  'But...'

'Now, Skye.' His tone was firm.

She let herself be led away.  Coop kept hold of her hand so she knew where he was as they walked back down the corridor and into the elevator.  Skye couldn't tear her mind away from what she'd just seen.  One minute it was just a patient and a nurse, then the next it was as if... She blinked.  That was unbelievable.

The pair of them emerged back into the hospital lobby and headed for the large glass doors.  Before she knew it, she was back in the familiar surroundings of Coop's house, the front door closed again behind her.

'Well?' asked Coop's voice.  'Now do you believe me?'

'They fell in love,' she said wonderingly.  'Right in front of our eyes, they fell in love.'

'If you can call it that.'

Skye didn't hear the note of cynicism in his voice.  'What did you do?' she asked.

'I have a gun.  It used to be a bow and arrow but they became rather cumbersome so I modernised.  When that couple looked at each other, I shot them.  And then they fell in love.'

'That's amazing.  The look on their faces was so―' she paused, searching for the right word; unable to find it she settled on something more mundane, '―so happy.'

'Mmm.'

'Why them?'

'What do you mean?'

'Why those two? Do you just pick people at random and shoot them? Is it just luck they get chosen?'

Coop snorted.  'Oh no.  My mother would have you believe it's written in the stars.  That Fate decides they should be together.'

Skye's brow furrowed.  'So why do they need you?'

He laughed.  'I knew there was a reason I liked you.  That's my point entirely.  If they need me, they're not meant to be together.  But according to my mother, some people need a nudge in the right direction.'

Skye sighed.  'It's beautiful.  You're so lucky getting to do that.  To make people happy has to be the best thing in the world to do.'

'But it's fake.  I'm forcing them to feel something by shooting them in the heart.  I'm taking away their free will.'

'They didn't look as if they were being forced into anything.'

'If love's not natural, then how can it really be love?'

'Coop, didn't you see the look on their faces? I've never witnessed anything so magical.'

'You quoted Shakespeare.  That love is an ever-fixed mark.  How can it be an ever-fixed mark if I create it in the first place?'

'But it will be ever-fixed now, won't it? They'll love each other for the rest of their lives.  I could tell that just by looking at them.'

'"Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds,"' he quoted again.

'That's not what Shakespeare meant and you know it.  Besides, you didn't alter love, you just helped encourage it along.' Skye wrapped her arms around her body.  'They're so lucky,' she whispered.

Coop's lip curled.  'That's what you want?'

'Isn't that what everyone wants? To fall in love? To be needed and desired and wanted by someone?'

'It's a house of cards, Skye.  It's simply not real.'

'It looked real to me.'

He shook his head disgustedly.  'I thought you'd understand.'

He dropped her hand.  Until that point, Skye hadn't realised he was still holding it.

'I've been doing this job for hundreds of years.  You've seen it in action once, for a couple of minutes.  Put yourself in my shoes and maybe you'll get it.'

'Your job is to change people's lives, Coop.  Do you have any idea what I'd give to be able to do something like that?  The only jobs I can get are bringing people drinks or tracking down stupid cars.' Skye realised what she'd just said and blushed.

Coop leaned in towards her and cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against her skin.  He pressed the length of his hard body against hers, and Skye gasped.  Then she felt his lips touch her own, feather light.  He took one hand away from her face and trailed it down her body, cupping a breast.

'What are you doing?' she squeaked.

'Shhh,' he said softly, then kissed her again, but deeper this time.

His mouth became more insistent and Skye could feel her heart thudding in her chest.  Her body relaxed and, without thinking, her arms reached around him.  He has broad shoulders, she thought faintly, as her fingers traced the muscles on his back.  Somehow the fact that she couldn't see him made her bolder, and she could feel herself pushing away from the wall and into him.  His tongue flicked at her mouth, then his teeth nipped her lips.  She moaned slightly, then suddenly he pulled away.

'Do you love me?' Coop asked with a casual tone.

'What?' Her senses were swirling and she struggled to make sense of the question.

'It's a simple question, Skye.  You wanted to kiss me.  You were enjoying kissing me.  But do you love me?'

Befuddled, she searched for an answer.  'I . . . I hardly know you.'

She felt him take a step back.

'Exactly,' he said, sounding smug.  'You enjoyed the kiss and you desired me.  But what you felt was lust, not love.  You know why?' He didn't wait for an answer.  'Because love doesn't exist.  Not real love.'

She reached out to slap him but misjudged where he was; her hand flailed through thin air.

'You're a bastard.  That was a shitty thing to do.' She turned and stalked off, leaving Coop to watch her departure.

He raised his fingers to his lips as his eyes followed her.  His heart was racing and he realised he'd been more affected by the kiss than he'd intended. He only felt that way because Aphrodite had pretty much curtailed any opportunity to satiate his more physical desires, of course.  It might have been a shitty thing to do but Skye had needed to learn that lesson, even if it was a painful one.  True love did not exist.

# Chapter Fourteen

The next morning, Skye sat in the kitchen waiting for Coop.  Judging by the empty bottles that stood on the side, it would probably be some time before he emerged.  She'd been shaking with anger after his 'lesson' the day before, and it had taken her a long time to calm down.  But she was feeling better now, and prepared to meet him.  Just because she was quiet didn't mean she didn't have opinions of her own, she fumed.  And just because she was quiet didn't give people like him carte-blanche to walk all over her.

Unfortunately for Coop, she'd also realised something else in the middle of the night.  Suddenly everything was starting to slot into place and Skye was far from a happy girl.

It was almost midday when she heard a thud. She looked up from the article she'd been reading and saw one of the kitchen stools move slightly as Coop sat down on it.

'Get me a drink, would you, Skye?' he groaned.

She ignored his request.  'So you finally managed to get out of bed, did you? Exactly how much did you drink last night?'

Good grief, she sounded like his mother.  'I'm a big boy.  If I want to drink, I'll drink.'

'Well, bully for you,' she said sarcastically. 'Because clearly your godly powers don't include being able to avoid hangovers.'

'Skye, this really isn't the time.'

'Oh, I think it's the perfect time.  Because you're going to tell me all about a certain man, or should I say god, called Apollo.'

Coop felt his heart sink.  'Oh.'

'Did you really think I wouldn't put two and two together? You did that to him, didn't you? He hated me then all of a sudden decided I was his one true love.  It was because of him I took this job! You screwed with him and you screwed with me!'

Coop sighed.  'It wasn't about you.  He just needed taking down a peg or two.'

'Listen to yourself!' Skye snarled.  'All high and mighty about how you hate your job because you're forcing people to fall in love with each other.  And then you go and force him to fall in love with me.  To take him down a fucking peg or two.'

He blinked.  'You're angry.'

'You're goddamn right I'm angry.  I had a good thing going.  I had friends and a job and I was starting to have fun.  By shooting your mate Apollo, you messed all that up for me.  Why couldn't you pick on someone else?'

'You were,' Coop swallowed, 'convenient.'

'And you're a prick.'

He rubbed his forehead.  'I deserved that.  But you didn't really have a good thing going, Skye.  You shouldn't be working in a nightclub and serving drinks.  You're better than that.'

'It wasn't your decision to make!'

'Which is my point about shooting people to make them fall in love,' he said tiredly.

'You do realise that makes it worse, not better? You hate forcing people into love and yet you did it to Apollo.  You hate making life decisions for other people and yet you did it to me.'

'I didn't force you to take this job.'

'You didn't leave me with many other options.'

Coop felt as if the layers of his soul were being peeled away.  Suddenly contrite, he looked up at Skye, wishing she could see his face and recognise the truth there. 'I'm sorry.  I'm really sorry.  It seemed like a good idea at the time and obviously it wasn't.'

'Obviously,' said Skye sarcastically.

He looked down, spotted her suitcase and looked back up again, alarmed.

'You're leaving?'

'Do you really expect me to stay?'

Coop stared at her, his eyes raking her face.  'I don't want you to go.'

'For once, this isn't about what you want.  I've barely known you for twenty-four hours and all I've seen is someone completely self-centred.  You treat people like garbage.  You've treated _me_ like garbage! I'm not your prisoner, Coop.'

'If this is about the kiss―' he began.

'It's about the lies,' she interrupted.  'All you've done is lie to me.'

'I won't do it again,' he said quietly.  'And I'll put things right with Apollo.  I just need to get the two of you in a room together, that's all.'

'Oh, you'll put things right with Apollo,' Skye hissed.  'But I'm still leaving.'

Coop thought quickly.  There had to be a way out of this.  At the very least, he could buy himself some time to make her stay longer.  He liked having her around and wasn't ready for her to go just yet.

'It will take me a few days to get Apollo to where I need him to be.  I already said I need the two of you together to make things right.'

'So invite him here today and let's be done with it.  I assume he has the same godly powers that you do and can transport himself here straightaway.'

'You remember the part I said yesterday about Zeus not letting anyone from Olympus come here?  Apollo is Zeus's son.  And, yes, he's a god with many godly powers.  That means he's not allowed to come here.  We need to arrange somewhere neutral and that may take time.'

'There is no "we" in this equation, Coop.  There's only you.  Arrange a time and a place and arrange it now.'

'Okay,' he said.  'There is just one thing though.'

'What?' she snapped.

'The girl I saw at Nemesis, the one I chose Apollo to fall in love with?'

'You mean me?'

'Yes, I mean you.  That girl – that you – would never have stood up for yourself like this.  So maybe being here is a good thing, Skye.  For you and for me.'

Skye stared at him, suddenly without any answer.

He sighed heavily.  'I'll sort it out.  Just give me a day or two, okay?'

'You've got forty-eight hours,' she snapped.

'Well, I'd better get a move on then, hadn't I?'

Skye sniffed in agreement, stood up, picked up her suitcase handle and trundled it back through to her bedroom.  As soon as she was out of earshot, Coop reached inside his pocket and pulled out his phone.

'Herm?' he said, when his friend finally answered.  'I need some help.'

Hermes exhaled loudly.  'Why am I not surprised?'

Having agreed with Hermes that his natural charm was the best way to win over Skye (at least, Coop had decided his natural charm would be the best way, Hermes had been less inclined to agree), he began with lunch.  His head was still pounding from the wine he had drunk the night before but he managed to pull himself together enough to zip down to the nearest village and pick up a sumptuous lunch of olives, creamy soft cheese, crunchy bread and taramasalata.  He laid everything out carefully on the kitchen table, adding a bunch of wild daisies and hyacinths as a centrepiece.  Once he was satisfied with his efforts, he strode along the long corridor and knocked on Skye's bedroom door.

'What do you want?' she called out from where she lay on her bed, bemoaning the fact that she'd moved countries to avoid one male idiot and had ended up with an even bigger one.

Coop cleared his throat.  'I made lunch,' he shouted back.

There was a moment of silence.

'I'm not hungry,' Skye replied eventually.

'Come on, you need to eat.' Coop crossed his fingers tightly.  'I promise I'll be good.'

For a moment, he thought she was going to ignore him but then he heard her padding in his direction.  She flung open the door with a surprising amount of force and stared out at him.  She still looked pretty pissed off.

'How many times?' she snapped.

Not quite sure what she was referring to, Coop did his best to smile charmingly, hoping his tone of voice would reflect his expression.  'What do you mean?'

'How many times have you sneaked into my room? Have you been watching me all the time?'

Her eyes were narrowed in his direction, although she had slightly misjudged where his face was and was looking at his chest, which Coop found oddly off-putting.  Nonetheless, the suspicion making the green flecks in her eyes more vivid was abundantly clear.

Coop blinked.  'I've not been watching you all the time, Skye.  And I've not sneaked into your room.'

'I don't believe you.'

'Okay,' he demurred. 'I came in when you first arrived.  But only to make sure you had everything you needed.  I stayed for no longer than a minute or two.  And I came in once when you had a nightmare.  I tried to wake you up because you were crying out in your sleep.'

Shifting uncomfortably at the thought of him watching her sleep, Skye focused on her verbal attack.  'Those were the only times?' she demanded.

'Well, there was one other occasion when I didn't know where you'd gone so I came in to look for you.  You weren't here.' He shrugged.  'So I left.'

She put her hands on her hips.  'When was this?'

Without thinking, Coop answered, 'Tuesday.'

Skye's face suffused with red.  'Tuesday? When...' she paused, 'when I was swimming?'

Uh-oh.  Coop watched her carefully, trying to judge what the best answer here would be.  'Swimming?' he asked cautiously.

'Tell me the truth, Coop.  You owe me that.'

He sighed.  'Maybe I walked out to the balcony to see if I could find you and I spotted you in the pool.'

Her face went even redder.

'Skye,' Coop began, 'I wasn't spying on you.  I tried to give you as much privacy as I could and respect your space...'

The door slammed in his face.  Shit.  He remained there for a moment staring at it then walked back to the kitchen, a muscle throbbing in his cheek.  That hadn't gone quite as well as he'd hoped.

Skye turned round and leaned with her back against the door.  She couldn't believe he'd seen her swimming naked.  She put her hands up to her hot cheeks and closed her eyes.  She'd not thought things could get any worse.  Now she'd have to spend the next two days with a man who'd seen every inch of her skin – and then some.  She should have demanded he arrange to meet Apollo straightaway.  Come to think of it, why didn't she just book into a hotel and get out of this place where she never knew whether she was being watched or not?

She sank down to the floor and hugged her knees.  She didn't have an answer for that one.  Skye wondered whether living with a genuine Greek god was attacking her subconscious and telling her to stay.

'A Greek god,' she whispered to herself.  It sounded bloody ridiculous when she said it out loud.  Of course that kiss would have meant nothing to him.  Given the muscles she'd felt when his body was next to hers, he probably looked just like a Greek god was supposed to and could have his pick of women.  She bit her lip.  Hell, he'd probably been the inspiration for all those perfectly sculpted marble statues. . .

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she'd not eaten for several hours.  Skye thought quickly.  Perhaps it would be better to have lunch now when she knew where he was, rather than sneak into the kitchen later when she'd have no idea whether he was watching her or not.  The thought of him hovering around, his eyes following her every move, was too creepy to think about.  She wondered what else he might have seen her do, and the flush on her cheeks spread down to her neck and arms.  Get a grip, Skye, she told herself.  You can't let this man intimidate you, whether he's a god or not.  Deciding that she wasn't going to spend the next two days cowering in her room – after all, she hadn't done anything wrong – she stood up, straightened her shoulders and went into the bathroom to splash cold water on her face.  Then she went out to the kitchen to face him.

Coop, who'd been picking forlornly at the flowers and wondering what his next move could be, didn't hear her arrive.  It wasn't until she spoke from behind him that he realised she was there.

'If I'm going to stay here for the next two days,' she said, hoping that he was actually in the room, 'we need to set some ground rules.'

He sprang up from his seat and turned to face her.  There were a few tell-tale spots of red visible on her skin.  It gave her a sexy, tousled look; Coop wondered what she looked like when she made love.  He shook himself.  Where had that thought come from? Trying to regain his composure, he answered her. 'Okay,' he said slowly, 'like what?'

'You need to wear a bell.'

He gaped at her.  'A... what?'

'A bell, Coop,' Skye said impatiently.  'You know, ding-a-ling-a-ling?'

'You mean like a cat?'

She folded her arms.  'Exactly like a cat.  That way I'll know where you are at all times.'

Good grief.  If anyone ever heard about that, he'd be the laughing stock of Olympus.

'Fine,' he said stiffly.  'I'll wear a damn bell.  Anything else?'

'You have to promise not to come into my room.  Not ever.'

'Done.'

'And no lying.'

'The only reason I lied in the first place is because you weren't in a position to accept the truth,' he said.

'Coop,' she answered warningly.

'Okay, okay, no lying.'

'Fine, then.  Now can I have some lunch?'

A grin spread across Coop's face.  'Of course,' he answered promptly.  'Then we can go out and buy your bell and meet a friend of mine at the same time.'

'A friend?' she asked suspiciously.

'Are you trying to insinuate that someone like me couldn't possibly have any friends?'

She blushed again.  'No. Just... no.'

'Good.  He's looking forward to meeting you.' Coop rubbed his hands in delight.  He loved it when a plan came together.

# Chapter Fifteen

'Why do you have a car when you travel anywhere you want to in a blink of an eye?' Skye asked, as she parked next to a seaside café.

'I like driving,' Coop answered.  'There's an element of power and freedom I don't often get in the rest of my life.'

She scoffed, 'You're invisible.  You can make people fall in love with each other.  How can you say you don't have power?'

'First of all, I'm not invisible by choice, darling.  Secondly, it's only people I'm told to target who I send my love bolts towards.'

'Love bolts? Really?  Is that what you call them?'

'What name would you give them?'

Skye paused for a moment.  'I don't know.  Something more romantic, I suppose.'

'Let me guess, you'd pick something like "heart flowers sent from heaven"?'

'No, don't be daft.  I'd go for something catchier at least.  Perhaps Byronesque,' she mused, '"immortal..."'

'Fire?' Coop finished.

Skye jerked slightly in surprise.

'What?' he asked with a sardonic edge.  'You think that just because I'm cynical about love, I don't read about it? Believe me, I spent many years trying to convince myself that what I was doing was a good thing, even in the face of overwhelming opposition.'

'What opposition?' Skye asked appalled.

'"Love goes by haps; some Cupid kills with arrows, some by traps".  I think Shakespeare pretty much summed up what I do there.'

'Rubbish.  "Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind".  Also Shakespeare.'

'I'm not blind though,' Coop pointed out.

'But he's saying love is deeper than just liking someone because of the way they look.  Therefore, love is true and good.'

'Yes, but "Cupid is a knavish lad, thus to make females mad." I think even you would agree with that one.'

Skye opened her mouth to argue further but she was interrupted by another voice.  At least this one belonged to an actual, physical person.

'Really? Is this what you two do all day long?  Argue about Shakespearean quotations?' said Hermes, appearing from round the side of the café.

'Hi Herm,' Coop said lazily. 'It's about time you showed up.  This is Skye.  Skye, Hermes.'

Suddenly feeling shy, Skye smiled slightly then looked down.  Frowning at her, Coop moved, causing the bell which now hung round his neck to jangle.

Hermes blinked.  'What in Olympus's name is that?'

Coop snorted.  'A bell.  She made me put it on.'

Hermes grinned at Skye.  'I guess there's no point asking who she is.  Good work.  It's about time this one was collared properly.'

Skye looked up, registering the open friendliness on Hermes' face and smiled back.  'It's kind of creepy,' she admitted, 'never knowing where he is.'

'I can imagine,' Hermes replied drily.  'Still, it's good to know you've taken him in hand.'

'I am still here, you know,' Coop interjected.

'Yes, but you're not staying.  Your mother wants you to sort out some couples in Atlanta, doesn't she?'

Skye started.  'You're going?'  As much as she had convinced herself she disliked the Love God, she had never met his friend until a minute ago.  The last thing she wanted was to be babysat by some stranger.

Coop reached over and gave her arm a squeeze, bell ringing as he did so, although the unexpected action still made Skye jump.

'I won't be long.  Don't miss me too much.'

'I'm not going to miss you,' she began. 'I could do with a break from your incessant complaining about your job.' Skye noticed Hermes grinning at her and realised it felt as if there was a hole by her side.  'He's gone, hasn't he?' she said.

Hermes winked at her and nodded.  'Never mind.  Let's grab a drink and we can gossip behind his back.'

Before she could protest, Hermes took her hand and placed it on his arm, walking her towards one of the tables outside the café.  He summoned a waiter and ordered two coffees, then fixed her with a serious gaze.

'So Coop tells me you're planning to leave.'

Squirming under his directness, Skye felt her cheeks warm up annoyingly.  'Yes.  As soon as he's taken off this silly love compulsion from Apollo.  And he's promised to do that by tomorrow.'

'Silly love compulsion?' he mused softly. 'You sound almost like him.'

'I'm nothing like him!' Skye protested.  'I would never manipulate people the way he does.'

Hermes watched her carefully.  'It's not entirely his fault, you know.  His mother has him manipulating people all the time.  It's hardly surprising that he's started doing it on his own.'

'But Fate...'

'Fate shmate.  Do you really believe your destiny is written in the stars and you can't escape it?'

Skye looked away.  'No.'

'Why not?' Hermes prodded gently.

'Because I don't like the idea that I'm not in control of my own future.  What's the point in doing anything if it's already going to happen no matter what I do?'

'Then perhaps you can understand a little of what he feels.'

'That still doesn't make what he's done to me any better.'

Hermes was silent for a second.  'No,' he said finally, 'it doesn't.'

The waiter arrived at their table and put down a pretty silver coffee pot and two cups.  Skye smiled her thanks at him and he grinned back before walking back off to the kitchen.

'I'm sorry,' Hermes said, once the waiter had gone. 'I ordered for you.  Perhaps you'd have preferred something stronger than coffee?'

Skye wrinkled her nose.  'Unlike your friend, I don't feel the need to down bottle upon bottle of alcohol to make myself feel better.'

Hermes sighed.  'He's in a bad place.  He's been in a bad place for a long time.  The drink, the women...' His voice tailed off.

'Women?'  Skye felt a ripple of discomfort.

'He's a pretty boy,' Hermes answered. 'And if there's anything he knows about, it's the art of love.  He has whoever he wants eating out of his hand.' He sent her an arch look.  'Apart from you, of course.'

She shook her head in disgust.  Hermes reached over and took her hand. 'He's not a bad person, Skye.  He's just been hurting for a very long time.  There's almost no-one he trusts and can open up to.  He needs someone to take him in hand and show him the right path.'

Her eyes narrowed.  'And you're trying to suggest that person should be me?'

'You don't have an ulterior motive,' Hermes pointed out.  'You're not trying to get into his mother's good books.  You're not dazzled by his ridiculously handsome appearance and you're not trying to use him for anything.'

'No, I'm not.  Because he's the one doing all the using.' She raised her eyes.  'You and he may have cooked up this little tête-a-tête to encourage me to stay, but it's not going to work.  He needs to sort out Apollo so I can go home and get back to my life.'

'We didn't...'

'Don't insult my intelligence, Hermes,' she said quietly.  'I don't like playing games.  And I'm not going to play the role of doormat for anyone.'

Skye stood up and pushed her chair back.

'Where are you going?'

'For a walk,' she answered.  'I need to clear my head.  It'll be nice to know I don't have some invisible being trailing around with me at the same time.'

Hermes watched her departure then leaned over and poured himself a coffee.  She certainly wasn't the kind of girl Coop normally hung around with, he thought, although he was starting to understand why his friend was so desperate to keep her around.  The pair of them were probably better for each other than either of them realised.

There was a scrape as the chair to the left of him suddenly moved, groaned and shifted under an invisible weight.

'Where is she?' Coop's voice asked.

Hermes took a sip and carefully placed his cup back down.  'She's gone for a walk.'

'And? How did it go?'

He shrugged.  'As you'd expect.  She's not about to suddenly change her mind about you based on a quick chat with someone she hardly knows.'

'Did you mention the drinking?'

Hermes sighed.  'Yes.  And the women.'

'And she didn't bite?'  The surprise in his friend's voice was palpable.

'No, funnily enough.  I can't believe you really thought she would.'

'Bad boy syndrome,' Coop explained in frustration.  'Every woman secretly wants a bad boy to reform.'

'I don't think this one does.'

Coop cursed.  Hermes eyed the apparently empty chair curiously. 'Why does it matter so much? Get another girl.  I'm sure there are plenty of human women around who'd be happy to keep you company.'

'But Skye's efficient.  She works hard and isn't afraid to stand up to me.'

'Is that the only reason?'

'Of course it is,' Coop answered, annoyed.  'What other reason could there be?'

Hermes shrugged and grinned.  'None that I can think of, mate,' he answered with a wink.  'Anyway, would you like a drink? I can get the waiter to bring over a Scotch.'

'Huh?' Coop asked, momentarily lost in a reverie about what he could possibly do to encourage Skye to stay.  'No, I'm fine.  It's too early for alcohol.  I'll have a coffee instead.'

Hermes' grin widened.  'Sure, Coop.  Whatever you want.'

Skye wandered along the pretty cypress-tree-lined boulevard, thinking about what Hermes had told her.  Of course Coop would have a string of women at his beck and call.  Why would she have presumed otherwise? He was the God of Love, after all.  She wondered why it bothered her so much.

Her brow furrowed.  It was probably because she felt sorry for him.  All that time he'd spent making other people fall in love and he'd probably never experienced love first hand himself.  He never would with his cynical attitude.  Her frown deepened.  And yet she could sympathise with his position.  Perhaps it wasn't fair to all those people he shot his love bolts towards.  But she remembered the look on the faces of the couple in Malaysia.  How could that possibly be a bad thing?

She straightened her shoulders.  No, she decided finally.  He was just a petulant child who wanted everything his own way.  Well, that wasn't going to wash with her.  In less than thirty-six hours, when he'd solved the problem of Apollo, she would be free of him.  She could forget she'd ever had the weirdness of working for an invisible love god.  She pursed her lips.  Easy.

# Chapter Sixteen

Coop kicked frustratedly at the wall, sending a cloud of red dust into the air.  He had tried everything he could think of.  He'd been nice to her.  He'd offered her more money.  He'd even worn the damn bell for the last two days at her behest.  And Skye was still determined to leave.  He was flat out of ideas.  He watched her walk out of the bathroom wearing that stupid black skirt and prim and proper blouse and sighed.  She'd tied her dark hair into a school-marmish bun.  All it did was accentuate her cheekbones and give her a fragile, ethereal appearance.

'Where's Apollo, then?' she asked.

'You're in a rush to see him again,' he responded grumpily.

Skye jabbed a finger in the direction of his voice.  'Don't you dare, Coop.  Don't you dare suggest this is because I want to see him.  Let's not forget whose doing this was in the first place.'

'As if I could.' He grimaced.  'Let's get it over and done with.  He's over there waiting by the pier.'

It had been almost too easy to get the God of Sun and Light to agree to come and meet them.  Coop had rather hoped Apollo would put up more of a fight but as soon as he'd mentioned Skye's name, he had instantly agreed, champing at the bit to see her again.  Coop had heard on the proverbial grapevine that Apollo had barely eaten or slept for the past week for worrying about where she was.  Coop supposed he should be glad about that; instead he felt sad.

Skye peered off into the distance.  The sky was already darkening into night but she thought she could make out a figure in the distance, leaning against the pier balustrade.  She felt vaguely nauseous at seeing Apollo again.  He'd been so horrible to her initially that she shivered at the thought of what might happen this time around.  But it was clear there was no other way.  If she wanted to be free of Coop, she had to do this.

Without waiting for Coop to say any more, she strode off in the direction of the lone figure.  It wasn't long before the jangle of the bell signalled that Coop was following her.  Admittedly he'd been very nice to her since the afternoon with Hermes, keeping his distance when she needed space but also chatting and joking with her when she felt a bit lonely.  Part of her wanted to stay.  Just a small part.  She had a good job and, when he wasn't being a manipulative wanker, Coop was fun to be around.  He made her laugh.

He's also an alcoholic womaniser, she told herself.  He lied and cheated to get her to Greece, just so he could get some petty revenge.  The quicker she was out of this situation, the better.  She picked up her pace.  By the sound of the bell behind her, Coop had slowed his.  Typical, she huffed.

Stopping and turning around, she glared towards where she imagined he was.  'You're going to do this quickly, right? You'll shoot him as soon as we're together?'

'As my lady wishes.'

Skye's eyes narrowed.  Was that a hint of sarcasm? Huffing again, she continued onto the pier.  It was time to get this over and done with.

She was barely halfway along the wooden structure when the figure at the end turned round and spotted her approach.  He immediately began jogging towards her.  Skye felt her stomach sink ever so slightly.

'Skye!' Apollo called out.  'Where have you been?'

She rolled her eyes and stopped, waiting for him to reach her.  The jangling bell behind her quieted as Coop halted to wait with her.

'Make this quick, alright?' she snapped, then immediately regretted her tone.

'He won't know what's hit him,' Coop murmured.

He reached inside his jacket pocket, pulling out his little golden box, flipped open the lid and began screwing the component parts together.  His fingers trembled slightly and he cursed.  Obviously he was nervous about what Apollo's reaction was going to be once the spell was lifted. But that was ridiculous: Apollo had deserved every inch of the misery he'd experienced.

Coop cast a quick look at Skye, whose back was ramrod straight as she watched Apollo's approach.  She was right, though.  She hadn't deserved any of this.  He sighed inwardly and lifted his weapon towards the Sun God until his heart was in his sights.

Apollo ran up and caught Skye in a huge bear hug, wrapping his arms around her.  'I've been looking for you everywhere,' he said, pulling back slightly and looking into her eyes.

Skye shifted uncomfortably in his embrace. 'Well, you've found me now,' she said, wishing Coop would get a move on.

Apollo smiled, displaying white, even teeth.  She'd forgotten how good-looking he was.  Skye had the impression from Hermes that Coop was even more attractive. . .

Apollo leaned in, clearly aiming to kiss her.  Skye moved her head to the side just in time and his lips landed on her cheek instead.

Coop's eyes narrowed.  He sidestepped left and adjusted his aim.

'You're beautiful, Skye Sawyer,' Apollo breathed.

Coop's lip curled.  Just because the Sun God thought he was in love with her didn't mean he had to slobber over her like that.

'Do it now.' Skye's voice was strained.

'Do what?' Apollo asked, confused.

Coop's hand twitched a millimetre to the left and he squeezed the trigger.  He watched carefully as Apollo frowned, then abruptly took a step back. 'What...?' he asked, looking at Skye in confusion.

She stared at him, unblinking.  He reached up and rubbed absentmindedly at the spot where Coop had shot him.

'It's done,' Coop said quietly.

Apollo's face twisted and he stared behind Skye's shoulder at where Coop was standing.  A look of comprehension crossed his face, and he snarled, 'Cupid.  I might have guessed.  This is all your doing.'

He shoved Skye out of the way and strode past her. 'Where are you, you bastard?'

'I'm here,' Coop answered, making no move to get out of the way and allowing the bell round his neck to ring so the Sun God knew where he was.

Apollo curled up his hand into a fist and lashed out, catching Coop on the chin and sending him reeling.

'You dared to do that to me? To shoot _me_?'

Wincing in pain, Coop straightened up.  He was very aware of Skye watching the proceedings with fearful eyes. 'I'm sorry.  It was a stupid thing to do.'

'Stupid? You have no idea, you little prick.  I'm going to bury you for this.'

He punched out again, but this time Coop moved out of his reach.

'What? You can't face me like a man and fight?'  Apollo sneered.

'You hit me,' Coop said tiredly. 'It hurt.  So you can go back and tell all your minions how you beat me.  Congratulations.'

'Oh, I'm just getting started.  Come on, freak boy.  Come and stand in front of me and I'll show you what I'm really capable of.'

'Apollo,' Skye began, taking a step forward.

'And you can shut the hell up as well.  I bet you were in on the whole thing, weren't you?'

'She had nothing to do with this,' said Coop.

'Like I'll believe that,' Apollo said, scoffing.  'Well, fine, Cupid.  If I can't see you to give you what you deserve, I'll just use her instead.'

Without further warning, Apollo spun round and grabbed Skye's arm, twisting it hard.  She cried out in pain.  Coop sprang forward, lunging at the Sun God.

'Leave her the fuck alone!' he yelled.

'Why?'  Apollo twisted harder, a malicious smile spreading across his face.

Coop's fingers snatched hold of Apollo's arm. 'Let her go.  She had nothing to do with this.'

Tears of pain were welling in Skye's eyes and she tried to pull away, but Apollo's grip was too strong.

'Let her go,' Coop repeated.

'You sound upset, Cupid,' Apollo grinned.  'Could it be you don't want your little human girl to get hurt?'

Coop snarled and, despite his best intentions to allow Apollo to rage until it was out of his system, he yanked hard on the Sun God's arm and balled his other fist up, slamming it into his face.  Apollo let go of Skye and she crumpled to the side, clutching her arm.

'I think maybe I've touched a nerve,' he said.  He glanced down at Skye.  And with that he reached down, picked Skye up as if she were as light as a feather and threw her off the side of the pier. Her yell of surprise was suddenly muffled as she splashed heavily into the cold water.  There was a shriek of pain from below.

Apollo smiled humourlessly.  'You get a lot of jellyfish in these waters at this time of year,' he commented.

Heart thudding with fear for Skye, Coop didn't think any further.  He launched himself up and over the railing, landed in the water with a gasp and grabbed hold of her flailing body.

Apollo leaned over the edge and looked down at the pair of them. 'If you think I'm done,' he shouted, 'think again.  I'm just getting started.  You'll rue the day you crossed me, Cupid.'

'I'm already bloody ruing it,' Coop grunted from the water, as Apollo strode off.

Skye cried out again, and Coop shifted his body round to her back, one arm curving round her collar bone. 'Shh, it's okay, I've got you,' he reassured her.

'It hurts,' she whimpered.

'I know.  We're not far from the shore though. Just stay with me.' He felt tentacles brush past his own skin and began to kick, pulling Skye with him.

'Kick for me, sweetheart,' he murmured in her ear.

Skye half nodded, sniffing, and did as he bade, even though her body was crying out in protest.  Despite the warmth of his body against hers, she was already shivering and the searing pain of the jellyfish sting was seeping into her bones, making her muscles convulse and jerk in response.  She gasped as a wave rose over her head, filling her mouth and nose with salt water.  Coop tightened his grip round her body and kicked harder.

'It's okay, Skye, we're almost there,' he said, half closing his eyes.  He should have taken steps to protect her from Apollo.  He'd known the Sun God's fury would be thunderous but he'd not expected him to take it out on Skye.  Coop's muscles tightened.  He should have known.

After what seemed an age to Skye, her feet were finally dragging along the sand. Coop picked her up by her armpits and helped her wade the last few feet to the shore.  Her teeth were chattering with cold but her skin felt as if it was on fire.

'It hurts,' she moaned.

'I know.  Just hang in there and we'll get you home and treated.'

'Aren't you supposed to pee on me or something to make it better?'

Coop chuckled softly.  'It's not far to the house.  Vinegar will work better, Skye.  Unless you really want me to urinate on you, of course.'

She shuddered.  'It's okay, I think I can manage to wait that long.'

He grinned.  'I thought you'd say that.'

Coop reached down and scooped her up in his arms, cradling her shivering body in his arms.

'I'm too heavy!' Skye protested.

'No, you're not.' He walked carefully up the ramp to the waiting car, then bundled her inside, buckling her into the passenger seat.

'You can't drive,' she said as he got in and turned on the engine.

'Of course I can.'

'But what if someone sees you? Or doesn't see you rather? What will they think?'

'It's a short drive, Skye.  Stop panicking.'

His voice was warm and gentle but it seemed to be coming from a very long distance.  Skye felt very light-headed.

'He was so angry,' she murmured.

Coop's hands tightened on the steering wheel.  'Yes, he was.'

She said something else.  Coop glanced over and realised her eyes were closing and her skin was very pale, apart from the livid red marks where the jellyfish had stung her.  Alarmed, he speeded up.

'Don't fall asleep, Skye.'

She moaned.  He took one hand off the wheel and shook her. 'Skye! Don't fall asleep!'

Her eyes half fluttered open.  'Not.  Sleeping.'

'Good.  Hang in there.  We're almost home.'

The road curved round until finally the mansion was in view.  Breathing a sigh of relief, Coop pulled into the driveway and stopped the car, then quickly got out and ran round to the passenger side.  He flung open the door and reached in for Skye, picking her up again.  He kicked open the front door, carried her into the living room and lay her gently down on the sofa. Then he sprinted into the kitchen, pulled out a bottle of vinegar and a clean cloth and rushed back.

He put some of the vinegar onto the cloth and began dabbing at the painful red marks. Skye stiffened in protest.

'It's okay,' he hushed her.  'Just stay still.'

Carefully pouring more vinegar onto the cloth, he continued to dab at the welts.  She moaned again.

'Skye, I'm going to need to take off your blouse.'

'No,' she shook her head.

'I have to,' he said gently. 'I need to get to all the stings.  You can trust me, I promise.'

Skye looked in the direction of his face and gave a small nod.  He smiled down at her, brushed away the wet tendrils of hair from her face and began to unfasten the buttons on her blouse.  He sucked in his breath when he saw the extent of the marks on her body.  He'd bloody well kill Apollo the next time he saw him.  Making sure every red welt was covered in vinegar, he laid the cloth to one side and picked her up again.

'What are you doing?' she protested.

'You need to rest,' Coop said, shifting his weight so she was secure against his chest.

He began to walk carefully down the corridor, passing her bedroom.

'Wait!'

'I promised you I wouldn't go into your room, remember? Just relax, Skye.  Don't worry, I'll look after you.'

Everything seemed rather hazy.  Being carried by the invisible Coop was quite possibly the oddest sensation in the world.  If she kept her eyes open, it appeared that she was floating in mid air through the house.  It made more sense to close her eyes than to let her brain struggle with what was happening.  And her eyes were so heavy anyway, it was a struggle to keep them open.

'That's it,' he said softly from above.  'Just rest.'

She gave in to the darkness and succumbed to sleep.

# Chapter Seventeen

When Skye woke the next morning and stretched out her limbs, the first thing that assailed her was the smell.  It was as if she just walked out of a fish and chip shop after liberally dousing herself in vinegar.  Her skin felt tingly and tight and there was a heavy weight curved round her waist.  Opening her eyes, she took in her surroundings.  She was in a bedroom and it wasn't her own.

The bedsheets half covering her body were white, contrasting against the heavy mahogany of the bed frame.  The room seemed similar to her own, but there was something more masculine about it.  The warm weight against her skin tightened and pulled her closer.

Coop.

'You're awake,' he murmured in her ear.  'How do you feel?'

Trying to force herself to relax, she pulled away and sat up. Realising all she was wearing was her underwear, she snatched up the sheet to cover herself, blushing as she did so.

'Uh, fine,' Skye answered.  'Fine.  The stings don't hurt so much now.'

She heard the bed creak as Coop sat up.  He had to resist the urge to reach out and smooth away her hair from her face.  He could feel himself hardening and moved further away to try to avoid alarming her.

He cleared his throat, hoping his voice sounded normal.  'That's good.  I'll nip down to the village and get some antibiotic ointment though.  You were hurt pretty badly.'

Skye drew her knees into her chest. 'Thank you,' she said quietly.

'For what?'

'Helping me.  You didn't have to.'

'You didn't think I'd just leave you there, did you?'

Skye half-shrugged, a little embarrassed.

Coop watched her carefully.  'I'm going to make him pay for what he did,' he said finally.

She blinked.  'You mean Apollo?'

'Who else?'  There was a grim note to his voice.

'Coop, you can't,' she said flatly.

'Of course I can.'

'No, you can't.  Unless you put a stop to this, it'll never end.  You shot him so he threw me into the sea.  Now you'll do something else, then he'll do something else and it'll just escalate until someone gets hurt.'

'Someone already got hurt,' he growled.

'I'm fine.'

'There was no reason for him to pick on you, Skye.'

'He thought I was in on the plan,' she pointed out.

'I told him...'

'Coop,' she interrupted, 'just leave it.  Please?'

He stared at her.  The green flecks in her eyes were pleading with him.  Sighing heavily, he acquiesced. 'Fine.'

She smiled softly.  'Thank you.'

Coop looked down and traced a shape on the smooth sheet.  'You know, it might be best for you to stay here for a while.  Until we're sure the jellyfish stings have gone away.'

Skye looked down at her body.  The marks were already starting to fade.  Last night seemed like nothing more than a bad dream.

'You're right,' she found herself saying. 'Maybe I should wait.  It would be best to make sure they've completely healed before I travel.'

Coop tried to keep the smile out of his voice.  'I'll go and see if the pharmacist is open.  The ointment will probably help with the pain.'

Skye nodded slightly, listening as he sprang up, bell ringing as he did so.  Then the bedroom door opened and closed and she heard him padding off into the distance.  She hugged her knees closer to her chest.  Why had she done that? There was nothing to stop her from leaving now.  It was hardly a long flight back to the wet grey skies of England, so using the stings as an excuse didn't really wash.  And yet she didn't want to leave.  She'd be going back to yet another jobless existence.  Here it was sunny, and she had a job that she rather enjoyed, despite Coop's many strange requests.  And there was Coop.

She chewed on her lip.  He'd done everything she'd asked of him.  He'd reversed the love spell on Apollo and he'd not lied to her since she'd confronted him.  And last night... She sighed.  He'd been so gentle and tender and made her feel so safe.  Then there was the way his arm had felt when it had tightened round her and pulled her closer to him.  She clenched her teeth and told herself off.  He wasn't interested in her.  The kiss he'd faked on her had proven that.  Plus, there was the part about him being able to have any woman he wanted.  He'd hardly pick her, would he?

Skye extricated herself from Coop's sheets and out of the bed.  It would be at least an hour before he returned.  That gave her more than enough time to get back to her room and shower off the stink of vinegar.  Then she'd call Emma.  Her old friend would be able to give her some sound advice.

Half an hour later, Skye was curled up on her enormous bed, finally wearing clean clothes and feeling ten times better.  Emma, who'd been delighted to hear from her, had been regaling her with stories about life back in London.  It sounded as if she was having a whale of a time.  Strangely, however, Skye had realised she didn't miss it at all.

'So what's the gossip with you? How's life in Greece?'

'It's good,' Skye answered slowly.

'Well that doesn't tell me anything! What's your mysterious boss like?'

Skye took a deep breath.  'He's really nice.'

'Nice?' Emma screeched into the phone.  'Is that all you can say?'

'Okay, he's more than nice.  I, um, fell into the sea last night and he rescued me.'

'You fell into the sea? How in the hell did you manage that?'

'It's a long story.  The thing is, Emma,' Skye began.

'Is that you've fallen for him, haven't you?'

Skye didn't answer.

'I knew it.  I could hear it in your voice. Skye, it's never a good idea to get involved with your employer.'

'I'm not involved with him,' she said. 'He's not interested in me. He's unbelievably good looking.' Or so I've been told anyway, she thought.  'He's wealthy, charming, funny.  He can have his pick of any girl.'

Emma bristled on her behalf. 'Hold on, don't put yourself down, Skye. Any guy would be lucky to have you. Have you met any other girls?'

'No,' she admitted.

'Well then! He's free, you're free.  I've changed my mind. Screw the employer part. You need to go for it, girl.'

'It's not that easy,' Skye said.  'I told him I wanted to leave.'

'Why would you do that?'

She sighed.  'It's complicated.'

'Skye Sawyer.  You're an intelligent, beautiful woman.  If he doesn't want you, then it's his loss.  But if you don't try, if you don't tell him how you feel, then you'll never know what could be.  Regret the things you do...'

'Not the things you don't,' Skye finished.  'You're right, Emma.  It's just easier said than done, that's all.'

'Rubbish.  You've got nothing to lose.'

She was probably right, Skye figured, hanging up the phone.  Because judging from the way she felt at the moment, she'd already lost everything she had to lose.  Her heart.  She hadn't realised it until this very moment.  She barely knew him.  He was invisible, for goodness' sake! And yet somehow, the way he'd looked after her last night had shown her what she'd been feeling all along.  What a mess.

The door to the mansion banged open and she heard Coop calling out her name.  Feeling suddenly awkward, she got to her feet and went to meet him, realising from the sounds he was making that he was in the kitchen.

As soon as she entered, he spoke, a surprised and not entirely happy note in his voice. 'You're up and dressed,' he commented.

'Yes,' she replied, 'and feeling a lot better.'

Coop had been hoping he'd find her still wrapped up warm in his own bed. 'That's good,' he murmured.  'I got you that ointment and some food.'

'Thank you.' Skye shifted her weight.  What on earth was she going to say now? She racked her brains.  Damn it.

Coop gazed at her.  She still looked drawn and the welts were still painfully visible on her soft skin, but she seemed well.  More than well.  The last thing he needed was for her to decide she was well enough to travel back to England after all.

'Will you take me with you today?' she asked suddenly.

He started.  'Um...'

'When you go out to do your job? You know,' she cocked her fingers into the shape of a gun and aimed it towards him.

He blinked.  That was good.  If she was with him, then she wouldn't be thinking about leaving. 'Certainly,' he responded.  'I've got three to do today, so it may take some time.'

She smiled, her face lighting up.  'Brilliant.  I want to know more about what you do.'

'You should go and put on the ointment first.' His voice was gruffer than he'd intended.  'It'll help with the healing.'

Skye nodded.  That was twice he'd spoken and sounded annoyed.  She wondered whether he was starting to wish she'd just make her mind up and leave.  Biting her lip, she grabbed the jar of antibiotic cream from the counter. 'I'll be back soon.'

He nodded back at her then remembered she still couldn't see him.  Bugger it.

'Great,' he said.  He almost added that he could help her put on the cream but then recalled the way his body had responded to her that morning.  It was probably safest to leave her to it.

By the time she returned, he had made her a light breakfast and left it on the counter.  Her cheeks coloured when he referred to it, as if she were embarrassed that he'd bothered to make her a meal.  He scowled.  He preferred it when she was arguing with him.  At least then he knew where he stood.

When she had finished eating, he reached out and took her hand.  She jumped, making him wish he hadn't.

'We should get going,' he said softly.

'Okay, great.  Where to?'

'New York.'

Skye's eyes widened.  Coop grinned. 'Have you been before?'

She shook her head.

'Well, maybe we can squeeze in a bit of sightseeing along the way.' He pulled her gently towards the door.  'Are you ready?'

'Yes.'

'Then let's do this.'

He opened the door.  The pair of them stepped through and Skye found herself blinking to adjust to the sudden change in light.  'It's night time,' she said surprised.

Coop laughed.  'Of course it is.  There's a seven hour time difference.'

Skye could have smacked herself on the forehead.  She had sounded like some kind of naïve little girl.  Why hadn't she thought of the time difference before she spoke?

'"Time",' he quoted softly, '"on whose arbitrary wing the varying hours must flag or fly.'''

Time certainly flew when she was with Coop, Skye thought.

'You know your Byron,' she said aloud.

'Did you ever doubt it?'

She smiled in answer and looked around.  'So where are we exactly?'

'MoMA.  The Museum of Modern Art.'

'It's 3 am though.  Surely it's closed.'

'It may be closed but some people are working late.' He moved behind Skye, holding her by the waist and gently moving her so she faced a small glass door set in the side of the building.  'Watch.'

Fully aware of his proximity, Skye tried to remember to breathe.  Before long the door opened and a small figure wearing a long coat and a rather precarious-looking hat emerged.  Whoever it was waved to someone inside, probably a security guard, and then began to make their way down the steps to the pavement.  A sudden gust of wind blew through the street, whipping off the hat and sending it tumbling down.

'Her name is Alice,' Coop said into Skye's ear, as he pulled out his gun.  'And there, to your left, is Frank.'

Skye turned to see a man walking towards them, hands stuffed in his pocket.  She watched, her heart in her mouth at what she knew she was about to witness.  Alice's hat was still scuffing its way along the street towards the man called Frank.  He bent down to pick it up, while she ran towards it.

Coop, feeling oddly bereft now that his hands had left Skye's warm body, quickly assembled his weapon.  He might not believe wholeheartedly in what he was doing, but it seemed that she did.  If doing this impressed her, then that was good enough reason for him. Coop aimed quickly and fired.  And frowned.  He stared at the couple, then down at his gun before flicking a glance at Skye who was still watching the pair of them, unaware that anything was amiss.  Shit.  He'd missed.  He never missed.  Trying not to panic, he aimed again, breathing a silent sigh of relief as his second shot found its mark.  Then he quickly turned to the man and squeezed the trigger in his direction.

Skye watched as Frank scooped up the hat and presented it to Alice with a bow and a flourish.  She took it, putting her hands up to her face and seeming to giggle.

'That's amazing,' Skye whispered.

Coop barely noticed.  He was still trying to work out what had gone wrong.  If his mother found out, she'd be furious.  He looked again at Skye.

'Doesn't anyone ever see you?' she asked.  'I mean, you'd think someone would notice a man pulling out a golden gun in the middle of a city.  Even at this time of the morning.'

'People only see what they want to,' Coop answered, focusing on her rather than his failure.  'Olympus is the same.  We have a large complex near Litochoro.  If you don't expect it to be there, you won't see it.  It's all to do with belief or something.'

Skye shook her head.  'Wow.'

Coop turned to watch the couple standing together under the dark sky.  Even from this distance he could see the look of surprised adoration with which Alice was looking at Frank.  If only Skye would look at him that way, he thought idly, then caught himself.  Where in the hell had that thought come from? Besides anything, she couldn't even see him.

'Come on,' he said.  'We have a bit of time before the next one.  How do you fancy standing on top of the Empire State Building?'

'Isn't it closed?'

'Shut your eyes,' he whispered in her ear, 'and you'll find out.'

She did as he bade, opening them only when he instructed her to do so.  When she did, she was almost completely bowled over.

'Oh my God,' Skye breathed.  'This is unbelievable.'

The whole of New York lay before them, twinkling lights stretching across the sweeping dark purple night sky.  She could make out the silhouettes of famous landmarks she'd only ever seen in films.  It was utterly breathtaking.

'Can you see that?' she asked Coop, pointing towards the glittering river.

He smiled, watching her face glowing.  'Yes.'

'It's magnificent.'

Coop moved up behind her and gently held her shoulders.  Skye, feeling the pressure of his hands, held her breath then slowly turned towards him. With her heart thudding in her chest, she seized the moment and reached out with one extended palm, feeling it connect first with his broad chest, then upwards to the rough hair where his shirt opened and over the stubble of his chin.  She rested her hand on his cheek and, for the first time, it seemed to Coop that she was gazing into his eyes.

He leaned forward and kissed her, his arms reaching round her back and pulling her in towards him.  His tongue ran over her bottom lip and his teeth nipped at the soft flesh there, then he deepened the kiss, entwining his fingers in her long hair.  She tasted of toothpaste and freshness and Coop was drowning in her scent.

Without warning, Skye pulled away.  Her face was flushed and her breathing quick, but there was a wary, troubled expression on her face.  'Is this another lesson?'

Coop stared at her, not sure at first what she was referring to.  Then dull comprehension seeped through.

'No.  By Olympus, Skye, no.  I...' He stepped back and raked a hand through his hair.  'I want you.  More than I've ever wanted anyone.' As soon as he said the words, he realised they were true. He took both her hands in his and fixed his eyes on hers.  'Do you...?' he swallowed.  'Do you want this?'

She nodded mutely and he felt cascading relief and joy flood through him.

'I've still got two more jobs to do,' he said, struggling to focus on anything other than her.

Skye looked confused for a moment, then her face cleared.  'Are they close by?'

'Not exactly.'

She licked her lips and his eyes followed her small pink tongue.  'Well, let's hurry up and get them over so we can get back home.'

He pulled her to him and planted a long hard kiss on her lips, and whispered in her ear, 'Yes, let's.'

By the time they made it back to the mansion, Skye felt more nervous than ever.  Coop's attitude towards his final two jobs had been perfunctory to say the least; even her continued amazement at what he could achieve with a single shot was dampened by the anticipation and trembling excitement she felt in the pit of her stomach.  He'd taken every opportunity to brush lightly against her, making her shiver.  They certainly hadn't gone on any more side trips to do some sightseeing.

As soon as the door closed behind them, she felt him move in front of her and press her against its sturdy wooden frame.  Regardless of whether she could see him or not, she could certainly feel every inch of him.  With his hot breath on her cheek, she reached up and traced her fingers over his biceps, marvelling at the rippling strength she felt there.  Then his breath moved down her face until she could feel it at the base of her neck.  He moved his arms, pinning her against the door so that she was trapped.

If this is what it's like to be the prisoner of a love god, then give me more, Skye thought, before his lips pressed against her skin and all thought fled from her mind.

'Don't move,' he whispered and began trailing kisses up her neck, pausing to nibble gently with his teeth at a place near her ear.

Skye sucked in her breath and closed her eyes while Coop continued upward, his kisses becoming more gentle as he reached her mouth.  The hot, hard length of his erection pressed insistently against her and she moaned under his lips.  As if in answer, he began to move his mouth back down her neck again, his kisses searing into her skin.  This time, however, he didn't pause at the base of her neck but continued downwards until she could feel his breath warming her through the light fabric of her blouse.

'You have no idea,' he murmured, 'how much I hate this piece of clothing.  I think I've wanted to rip it off you since the first time I saw you in it.'

Skye opened her mouth to protest but, before she could say anything, he shifted his weight slightly, still keeping her in place against the door while he pulled hard at the top of her blouse. Buttons flew off and spun across the marble floor, leaving her top half exposed.

Coop returned his mouth to her skin, kissing her collar-bone and the softer flesh below.  He paused briefly at the lacy edge of her bra, then his tongue moved down to the bare skin at the valley between her breasts and back up again.  Skye shuddered.

Gently, he reached up to one bra strap and pulled it down her shoulder before doing the same to the other.  Then he peeled the lacy cups down, exposing her breasts.  Skye felt him take a momentary half step backwards.  A hot flush suffused her skin.

'You shouldn't be embarrassed,' he said softly.  'You're beautiful.'

As if to emphasise his point, he leaned in and kissed her on the lips, then used his right hand to cup her breast.  She felt his finger and thumb take her nipple tenderly and she gasped.

Now that she had some more freedom to move, Skye reached out to find Coop's own shirt.  He caught her hand, however, and gently pushed it back against the door.

'You're a goddess, Skye,' he said.  'I want to pay homage to you.  Let me do this.'

Swallowing hard, Skye let her arm relax.  Then Coop's mouth found her breast.  His tongue circled her nipple then he began to suck while his hands reached down around her back to the waist of her skirt.  Before she could move to allow him easier access, he had unfastened the button and the zip and her skirt pooled in a black circle on the floor.

His lips left her breast and she started to utter a muffled protest but they immediately scorched a trail down her midriff.  Skye's hands involuntarily reached down until she realised they were clutching at what had to be Coop's hair.  Part of her registered that it felt softer and slightly longer than she'd imagined, but it was a half-formed thought as Coop's tongue found her belly button, rimming round it gently until she was gasping.  As his head lowered even further, she removed her hands from the down of his hair and pressed her palms against the warm wood of the door, her back arching.  He pulled back slightly, although she could still feel the fire of his breath against her skin and, with one finger, he traced along the edge of her pants.  Then his tongue followed the path his finger had taken.

Coop moved back again and rolled down the edge of lace barely an inch, tracing over the newly-exposed skin again with his finger.  His tongue followed.  Skye moaned and moved her own hands to pull off the fabric between them, but he took her hands again and returned them to the door.  Then Coop himself gently peeled her underpants over the curve of her hips and down past her legs to join her skirt on the floor.  For a heartbeat, he seemed to hang there, doing nothing.  Not being able to see him was incredibly erotic and yet so unbelievably frustrating at the same time.  Fortunately he didn't keep her waiting for long, gently inserting one hand between her legs to coax them open before his mouth pressed into her, flicking at her clitoris.  Skye cried aloud in pure, uncontrolled pleasure.

Once her body had stopped its orgasmic shuddering, Coop stood up.  He took her hand and guided it to his chest, directing her fingers to unfasten each button and expose the smooth hard flesh underneath.  Once he had shrugged off the shirt, he took her palm and pressed it against his heart, not saying anything but allowing her to feel how fast his pulse was racing.  He left her hand there while he undid his trousers and pushed them down over his hips, kicking them quickly away.  Then he grasped her hand in his and gently pulled it down until she could feel the rough hair underneath his belly and the hot, hard rigidness of his erection.  Her fingers circled his girth and, finally, it was Coop's turn to moan aloud.

Skye closed her eyes in delight at his reaction, lightly moving her fingers up his length and marvelling at his size and smoothness.  Coop leaned in towards her.

'Enough now,' he murmured in her ear.

He positioned his weight against her and thrust inside her wet warmth, completely filling her body and soul.  Skye curved her arms around his back and the pair of them moved together in unison, hips rising to meet each other's while their breath quickened.  Her skin slick with sweat, Skye felt herself tipping over the edge.

'Coop,' she moaned.

His lips found hers for one prolonged kiss, then he whispered in her ear. 'Skye.'

Coop slammed into her for one final tumultuous thrust and the pair of them exploded in a tingling, shuddering, shivering wave.

# Chapter Eighteen

Coop's phone buzzed annoyingly.  He ignored it and pulled Skye's sleeping frame closer to his, hooking one leg round hers as if to hold her in place and prevent her from ever leaving.  She murmured something and reached behind her, her hand seeking the warmth of his skin.

The phone buzzed again.  Skye shifted slightly, the sound finally penetrating her sleep, and her eyes fluttered open.

'Your phone,' she muttered.

Coop propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down at her.  'I can't hear anything,' he said softly.

The corners of her mouth curved upwards.  'Nothing?' she teased.

'Not a thing,' he asserted, pressing his lips against her temple.  'Other than my heart, which is probably thudding loudly enough to wake the dead.  It must be the excitement of waking up next to you.'

Skye turned towards him, wishing she could see his face and look into his eyes to read the expression there.

'I'm pretty excited too,' she whispered.

Coop trailed one finger down the curve of her waist and she shivered.  Then the phone buzzed yet again.

'You should probably get it,' Skye said.

'I should probably throw the damn thing into the pool,' he grumbled, reaching over her to scoop it up from the bedside table and answer it.

'Love God speaking,' he purred into the receiver while lazily caressing Skye's bottom lip with his thumb.

'Where in the hell have you been?'

'Hello, Mother.'

Skye abruptly sat up and pulled away from him, her eyes wide.

'I simply do not have time for your flippant, devil-may-care attitude.  Why didn't you answer your phone before now?'

'I was busy.  You should be happy, mother,' he said, keeping a careful watch on Skye. 'I've done what you thought I never would.'

'And what's that exactly?' Aphrodite snapped.

'Fallen in love.' The tone of Coop's voice was soft but, nonetheless, Skye's entire body tensed and her mouth dropped open.

There was a moment of engulfing silence.  Coop reached out and squeezed Skye's hand, barely registering the fact his mother was no longer speaking.  His concern was the woman in his bed.

It wasn't long, however, before Aphrodite found her voice. 'Interesting,' she said, in a tone which conveyed entirely the opposite.  'And would this be the reason why I've just discovered you missed a target yesterday?'

Coop frowned.  How in the hell did she manage to find these things out? He shrugged. 'I suppose so,' he answered eventually.  'It wasn't a problem though.  I corrected it immediately.  Besides,' he chided, 'you should be happy for me.  I've finally discovered the meaning of love.  True love.  It turns out it does exist, after all.'

Aphrodite failed to notice the sincerity in her son's voice.  'I have had enough of your cynicism and antipathy towards everything our family stands for,' she said.  'You have an hour to present yourself at Olympus.'

Coop opened his mouth to retort, but she had already hung up.  He sighed heavily.

'What's wrong?' Skye asked anxiously.

'It's my mother,' he answered.  'She insists I show my face at Olympus within the next sixty minutes.  Frankly, I'm tired of being at her beck and call.' He leaned over and kissed her.  'I've got you, Skye.  Why would I ever need anyone else?'

She pulled back.  'You're going to go, though?'

'And leave this "hallowed temple, this soft bed"? No way.'

Skye wasn't going to be distracted, even by the poetry of John Donne.

'She's your mother.'

'I'm not a little boy.  And she can't treat me like I'm her servant.'

Skye was silent for a moment, then she took a deep breath and spoke.  'Coop, do you think maybe she treats you that way because you've been acting like a little boy?'

He stiffened.

'I'm not trying to be hurtful,' Skye interjected, reaching out one hand towards him. 'It sounds crazy but I think I'm in love with you too.  I never thought...' Her voice trailed off for a second.

'You think I'm a little boy?' he asked flatly.

'I know you're not.  But,' Skye looked down, 'you have been a bit, um, self-centred sometimes.'

Coop moved back, pulling himself out of bed.

'Don't be annoyed.  I'm sorry, Coop, I shouldn't have said anything.' Skye hugged her knees to her chest, dismayed that she was already screwing things up.

'No,' he answered, sounding distant.  'You're right.  I have been acting like a petulant, spoilt brat.  The way I treated you proves that.'

'Coop...'

'Shh,' he said, opening his vast wardrobe to hunt down something suitable to wear.  'You need to say what you really think, Skye.  _I_ need you to say what you really think.  Because being with you makes me want to be a better person.  A more mature person.  You deserve the best and you shouldn't be afraid to tell me what you think.  I'm going to go to my mother and prove to her that I've changed.' He licked his lips.  'Or at the very least that I'm changing.'

Skye blinked, at a sudden loss for words.

'Get dressed,' he instructed.

'What?'

His voice was gentle.  'You heard me.  You need to come with me to Olympus so my mother can meet you for herself.  Then she'll understand.'

'I can't come to Olympus!' Skye squeaked.

'Of course you can.  I want you to meet her.  I want to show you Olympus and where everything really happens.  I want you to know everything there is to know about me, Skye.'

She bit her lip.  'She sounds a bit scary.'

'My mother? She's a bloody dragon of a woman.' He bent over and kissed her forehead.  'But she'll also love you as much as I do. "Come away, O human child",' he quoted, '"To the waters and the wild. "'

'Well if W. B. Yeats thinks it's alright, then I suppose I can't argue,' she answered, smiling up at him and trying to ignore the whirlpool of trepidation building up in the pit of her stomach.

'It'll all be fine.'

Skye had never seen anything like it.  The golden gates which led into Olympus were vast.  They swung open noiselessly as she approached hand in hand with Coop, revealing an even grander courtyard within. Standing next to the gates was a motionless guard, clad from head to toe in shiny armour. Even his face was obscured by a helmet. Intricate eyeholes were carved into the bronze, but all Skye could see through them were dark shadows. She shivered.

'Oh my God,' she whispered.

'Oh my gods,' Coop corrected with a laugh.

She dragged her gaze away from the sinister guard and looked around. The guard didn't move a muscle, allowing the pair of them to walk through. 'Everything's so pristine and perfect.'

'Believe me, it gets rather tiresome after a while,' Coop said as they passed a gigantic statue of Zeus glaring down at them with a thunderbolt clenched in his frozen fist.  'All this white marble and gold opulence.  Spend too long here and you'll find yourself longing for something more mundane and down-to-earth.'

'Is that why you don't live here?'

'It gets a bit stifling,' he admitted.

Skye stared around her.  'I can even see my reflection in the stone.  Who on earth does the cleaning?'

Coop pursed his lips.  It had never occurred to him to wonder.  The pair of them turned left down a sweeping corridor.  Several giggling girls dressed in swathes of white fabric passed by, giving Skye curious glances.

'You're still invisible,' she commented. 'They can't see you either.'

'No, they can't.' He squeezed her fingers gently.  'It's only temporary, Skye.  Does it bother you?'

'I'd like to know what you look like,' she said softly.  'To look into your eyes.'

'You've got little green chips.'

'Eh?'

He smiled.  'In your eyes.  You've got flecks of green.  They become brighter when you're angry.  Or happy.  Last night, when we were together, they were the brightest I'd ever seen.  You know, when you...'

Skye went bright red.  'Okay, you don't need to spell it out.'

Coop laughed.  'Don't be embarrassed.  I'm going to need to make sure I do a lot of things to make them stand out that much again.  Lots and lots and lots of things.'

Skye went even redder.

Coop tugged at her hand.  'Come on,' he said.  'I'll give you the guided tour later.  After I've made your eyes go greener and after we've faced my mother.  She's just down this way.'

Swallowing hard, and praying the flush in her cheeks was going to die down quickly, Skye nodded and let Coop lead her down the next corridor, past open gardens with elaborate fountains and grand-looking rooms which she only caught brief glimpses of.  She could have sworn that in one she spotted a man who looked as if he had the top half of a muscular man and the bottom half of a goat.  She shook herself.  This was certainly all a far cry from life at home.  Unfortunately their short walk was over far too quickly and they were soon standing in front of an unassuming door, which was engraved simply with a single rose.

'Her quarters are in here,' Coop said.

'Okay.'

'Don't be afraid, Skye.'

'Okay.'

'I mean it.  I won't let anything happen to you.'

She nodded.  'Okay.'

He squeezed her hand once more and pushed open the door.  What was revealed within was extraordinary.  Skye gaped up at the high ceiling adorned with a painted landscape of cherubs and clouds dancing across a blue sky.  The walls were, surprisingly, not the marble white of the corridors but instead a soft rosy pink.  In the centre of the room there was a gilt table with ornate legs and a huge display of exotic flowers.  And standing next to the table was the most beautiful woman Skye had ever seen.  Her face was unlined, although she had a maturity about her that suggested years of wisdom and experience.  Long golden hair flowed down her back, almost reaching to the floor, and her hands were clasped in front of her.  She was staring at Skye with an icy blue expression in her eyes.

'Mother,' said Coop.

'You're late.'

'I got here as quickly as I could.  You didn't give me much time to get myself and Skye ready.'

Aphrodite's lip curled ever so slightly.  'I didn't ask you to bring your latest girlfriend.  I asked for you.'

Skye stiffened.  Latest girlfriend?

'She's not my latest girlfriend,' Coop said, with a dangerous edge to his voice.  'She's my soulmate.'

Aphrodite folded her arms.  'I'm not in the mood for your jokes, Cupid.'

'And I'm not joking.'

Skye felt a tremor run through her.  Coop's goddess mother wasn't scary; she was absolutely terrifying.

'Well, she'll need to wait out here.  You and I are going to have some words together first.'

'Anything you say to me, you can say to Skye also.'

Aphrodite glared.  'We're going to do this alone.'

Skye let go of Coop's hand.  'It's okay,' she said, giving the invisible shape beside her a small nudge.  'I'll wait here.'

Coop would have continued to protest to the contrary, but there was a flicker of fear in Skye's eyes which made him relent.

'Fine then,' he snapped to his mother, softening his tone when he spoke to Skye.  'I won't be long.'

He leaned towards her, his lips gently brushing against hers.  Despite her surroundings and Aphrodite's glare, Skye still felt a shiver of pleasure run through her.

'I won't go anywhere,' she promised.

Aphrodite sniffed, and turned her back on them, her sandals slapping against the cool floor.  A door ahead of her opened and she entered.  Coop brushed Skye's cheek with the back of his thumb then followed his mother in.  The door closed firmly behind them.  Skye exhaled audibly and leaned against the wall.  Coop's mother was certainly nothing like her own warm and friendly parents.  Part of her was starting to understand his relentless need to kick back against Aphrodite's authority.

Skye shook her head to herself.  This was probably going to be even more complicated than she had realised.

As soon as the door closed with a dull thud behind him, and Coop registered who else was in the room, a snarl escaped him. 'What in the hell is he doing here?'

Apollo grinned lazily.  'Your mother is concerned about you, Cupid.  I suggested I might be able to help out.'

Flickers of hot anger ran through Coop.  'This is ridiculous.  I'm not about to let this jumped-up prick of a god give me a scolding.'

Aphrodite's answer was cold.  'You'll do as I damn well say.  Apollo's been kind enough to offer us his time.  You'd do well to show some gratitude.'

The scowl on Coop's face grew.  It was probably just as well he was invisible; at least it meant he didn't have to mask what was written all over his face.  His bloody mother had always had a soft spot where Apollo was concerned.  If only she'd see him for what he really was, then she wouldn't be so quick to admit him into her inner sanctum.  But Coop still had Skye's admonishment about his self-centred nature ringing in his ears.  No matter what it cost him, he was going to act like someone she could be proud of.  He straightened his shoulders.  How hard could it be to play nice?

'I apologise,' he said stiffly.  'It is very kind of you to interrupt your busy schedule to offer some counselling.'

A shadow of surprise crossed Apollo's face, affording Coop at least some satisfaction.  Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad after all.

'I fully understand,' said the Sun God suavely.  'It's not easy to accept advice from others.'

'And I'm sure your advice will be golden,' interjected Coop.

Apollo's eyes narrowed for a heartbeat then his features smoothed over.

Aphrodite clapped her hands.  'Excellent.  Now that's out of the way, explain to me exactly what happened yesterday.'

The missed shot.  Coop shrugged and decided the truth was his best option. 'Skye was with me.  I suppose I was trying to impress her.  Or perhaps I was a bit distracted by her presence.' His voice grew earnest.  'I really am in love with her, Mother.  It's just crept up on me.  I get it now.  I've never felt so,' he paused, 'so contented before.  I want to make her happy.  I want her to be by my side forever.  I even want others to experience what I'm experiencing.  If I can do that by shooting them, then I will damn well shoot them.  Because nothing feels like this.  It's indescribable.'

Aphrodite studied her son.  'You're telling the truth.'

He looked her in the eyes.  'Yes,' he said, 'I am.'

'So how long have you known this Skye girl, Cupid?' interrupted Apollo.

'My name is Coop,' he answered through gritted teeth.

'Coop then.  But you've still not answered my question.'

Apollo knew full well just how long he'd known Skye; he could hardly bring up that fact in front of his mother, though.  He rolled his eyes in exasperation instead.

'A couple of weeks.  What of it?'

Apollo rubbed his chin with his thumb, looking troubled.  'Oh.'

'What is it? This is good news, Apollo.  This is all I've ever wanted for him.' There was a glint of happiness in Aphrodite's eyes.

'You're right,' he said slowly.  'It's good news.  Of course it is.  It's just...'

'What?'

Apollo shrugged.  'It's really not my place to say, you know.  You should celebrate your good fortune.'

'Apollo,' Aphrodite said with a hint of steel.

He pasted on a look of embarrassment, while Coop glared at him suspiciously.  Clearly Apollo was out for revenge; Coop just had to work out what he was planning so he could stop him in his tracks.

'We don't want to embarrass him further, Mother.  Why don't we let Apollo get back to his busy lifestyle and you can come out and meet Skye properly?'

Aphrodite, however, wasn't paying attention.  'Come on.  Speak up,' she insisted.

The Sun God shrugged.  'It's just, well, we know that Cupid – sorry, Coop,' he corrected, 'has made a few mistakes lately.'

Coop growled.  'What of it?'

'Well, if I'm not mistaken, true love on its own needs time to develop.  Isn't that right, Aphrodite?  Obviously you are far more of an expert on the subject than I am.'

'You are right,' she answered slowly.  'There are exceptions but without an arrow or bullet from Coop, it does usually take time.  Sometimes a long time.'

Apollo gave her an innocent smile.  Her eyes widened and she gasped. 'Coop, you didn't!'

'Didn't what?' he said, not entirely sure where Apollo was heading.

'You shot yourself!'

His mouth dropped open.  'No.  Absolutely not.'

'How did it happen?'

'Mother, I did not bloody well shoot myself!'

Apollo shook his head.  'There's no harm in admitting your mistakes, Cupid.  You've been under a lot of pressure lately.  But with the fact you shot the wrong person a couple of weeks ago, then missed someone entirely yesterday...'

Coop couldn't help himself.  He lunged towards Apollo, launching a tightly clenched fist in the direction of his face.  Even though the Sun God must have known it was coming, he didn't attempt to get out of the way.

'Cupid!' exclaimed Aphrodite.

'I'm sorry,' said Apollo.  'Clearly the passion he feels is strong.  It can only mean it's not real.'

'It's bloody real, you wanker!' Coop thought quickly and switched tactics.  'And do you know what? Even if it's not what you call real, it doesn't matter.  You keep telling me, Mother, that the love bolts are meant to be.  That they create true love.  Well then, here you go.  True love.  What does it matter either way?'

Aphrodite looked troubled.  'Yes, but Fate decrees...'

'Not for gods,' he interrupted.  'We make our own fate.'

'That's true,' said Apollo.  'And there is, of course, another way to find out whether this is meant to be or not.'

'What's that, genius?' snarled Coop.

He smiled.  'The girl.'

Coop's stomach dropped.  The last thing he wanted was for Skye to have to deal with Apollo any more than she already had.

'You're right,' Aphrodite said.  'Has she told you she loves you?'

'Of course she has!'

'Are you sure?' asked Apollo.  'What were her exact words?'

Coop thought back, then cursed inwardly.  Damn it to hell.  'She said she thought she loved me this morning.'

'Thought?'  There was an unpleasant gleam in Apollo's eyes.

He sighed.  'Yes.  But I know she does.  She's shy.  She wouldn't have wanted to say it outright.  She was prevaricating and thinking out loud...'

'I don't like this,' said Aphrodite.

'No,' Apollo added.  'Neither do I.  And she is human, as well.'

'What the fuck does that mean?'

'Coop! Language!'

Apollo shrugged.  'Humans have been known to twist the truth from time to time to get close to us and the seat of power.  To obtain immortality.  They can be very manipulative.'

The rage inside Coop boiled over.  'She is not like that!'

Apollo met Aphrodite's eyes; she nodded back at him, concerned.

'There are many humans who would do almost anything to avoid the fleeting nature of their lives. The prospect of immortality is a desirable one.'

'You can't believe this idiot, Mother!' Coop yelled.  'Skye is the kindest, most trustworthy person I've ever met. She's not after sodding eternal life!'

Aphrodite tapped her mouth thoughtfully.  'Far be it from me to stop the course of true love.  Especially when that love involves my son.'

Coop breathed a sigh of relief.  Thank goodness.

'But,' she continued, 'we need to be sure she is genuine.  That this love is genuine. There have been too many mistakes lately, Coop.  I don't need to spend any more time picking up the pieces after you.  And I don't want to see you get hurt.'

Stung, Coop took a step back and folded his arms. Let his mother and bloody Apollo do whatever they wished.  All they'd discover was that he and Skye were in love.  He tried to push away the tiny voice of doubt that was whispering inside his skull.  She did love him; she had to.

'So what do you propose?'

Aphrodite paused.  'Has she ever seen you? I mean, you met her after Zeus put on the invisibility spell, right?'

'Right,' Coop said tiredly.  'She doesn't know what I look like.'

'Well then, we use that.  I'll lift the invisibility for the next three nights between the hours of dusk and dawn only.  If she can avoid sneaking in to catch a glimpse of you, then we'll know it's true love.  It'll mean she trusts you completely and you can trust her.'

'She'll have to know the spell is lifted,' said Apollo sternly.  'And most definitely not realise that this is a test.'

Aphrodite nodded.  'Yes, you're right, Apollo,' she said.

Fuck off, Apollo, thought Coop.  'This is ridiculous,' he said aloud.  'It will prove nothing.'

'No, I think it'll prove a lot.  If she can overcome her fallible human nature, I think we can safely say her love is real.'

'And if she fails the test,' Apollo interjected, 'you'll have to agree to leave her to live out the remainder of her human life without you.'

A twist of pain wrenched at Coop's heart.  'What's to stop me from leaving right now, taking her with me and never returning?'

'You're a god, Cupid,' Aphrodite said softly. 'You've got responsibilities.  You know things don't work that way.  Sooner or later you'd be forced to return.  And things wouldn't be pretty for either you or your girlfriend.  Zeus would see to that.'

Coop clenched his teeth, avoiding the expression of smug self-satisfaction on Apollo's face. 'Fine.'

'Give me your word.'

'Do you really need me to say it? By Olympus, you have my sodding word.  But in three days' time, you'll be sorry you ever made this happen.'

Aphrodite sighed.  'I hope so.  For your sake, I really hope so.'

# Chapter Nineteen

When the door finally re-opened, Skye was dismayed to see Apollo striding out.  She had no idea what he'd been doing with Coop's mother but considering how angry he'd been when Coop had lifted the love spell, she was pretty sure that whatever he'd been up to, it wouldn't be in either her or Coop's best interests.  He walked right up to her with a smile plastered on his handsome face.  Skye pressed herself against the wall and wished she were as invisible as Coop.

'Ms Sawyer,' he purred, taking both her hands in his.  'What a pleasure to see you again.'

A hot flush began at the base of Skye's neck and started to spread upwards.  She'd not been expecting this level of congeniality; antagonism would probably be easier to deal with.

She inclined her neck stiffly.  'Mr Apollo.'

He laughed.  'Oh, I'm hardly a "mister".  Dear me, I dread to think what darling Cupid is telling you about our little world if you're addressing me as such.' He paused for a moment and eyed her curiously.  'Isn't it strange that you can't see him?'

Skye eyed him nervously.  'I'm used to it now,' she said finally.

'But how can you possibly trust someone you can't see? They say the eyes are the window to the soul, don't they?  If you can't ever see what's in his eyes, I don't understand how you can stand to be around him.  He could be rolling them to the heavens whenever you speak.  Or making faces behind your back.'

'I don't need to see his eyes to know that he's trustworthy,' Skye spat back.  'Unlike you.  I can see your eyes perfectly well and I don't trust you an inch.'

Apollo threw back his head and laughed again.  She had the distinct feeling that he was laughing at her, rather than merely her words.

'He's terribly good looking, you know,' he murmured, leaning in to speak closer to her ear.  'I wonder if he's too handsome for you.  I mean, you're pretty in a human kind of way, I suppose, but if you saw him you might start to wonder whether you're really good enough for him.' He reached out and touched her shoulder.  'Perhaps you're right and it's better that he stays invisible, after all.'

Skye wasn't sure whether she was being insulted or Coop was but, before she could reply, the Sun God had released her shoulder and was smoothly walking away.

Coop emerged from Aphrodite's chambers after staying behind to inform her just how little he thought of her efforts to test Skye. He caught sight of Apollo leaning into Skye's taut frame, his eyes travelled to the hand that was resting lightly on her shoulder and he scowled in annoyance.  He stalked up to the pair of them, reaching them just as Apollo took his grubby paw off her and left.

'What did he want?' he snapped.

Skye jumped.  'I wish you'd put the bell back on.  I never know where you are.' She sighed and tugged at her hair.  'I think Apollo was trying to wind me up.  Knowing that doesn't make it easier though.  He still succeeded in completely riling me.'

Coop felt immediately guilty.  'I'm sorry.  He's an arse.' And a scheming, manipulative prick, he added silently to himself.

Skye glanced over at the open doorway.  'Is your mother coming back out?'

Coop gritted his teeth angrily on Skye's behalf.  Aphrodite had stated in no uncertain terms that until Skye passed – or failed – the test, she would have nothing to do with her.

'I'm sorry.  She's,' he paused, unwilling to tell a lie, 'being difficult.'

Skye winced.  That didn't sound good.  The note of worry and underlying rage in Coop's voice meant she had to make sure he was okay, though. 'It's alright,' she reassured him. 'Mums are often protective of their sons.  Just give her a bit of time.  Besides,' she said, trying not to fish too hard for information, 'how many other girls have you brought to meet her?'

Coop barely registered her words.  'She just doesn't understand!' he burst out.  'She'll put absolutely no credence in the way I feel.  She'd rather believe Apollo and his lies than listen to what I have to say.'

Skye reached out gingerly, her fingers brushing against his cheek. 'Oh, Coop,' she murmured, unsure of what to say.  'I'm sorry.'

You've got absolutely nothing to be sorry about.  It's the rest of us who should feel sorry about what we're doing, Coop thought, his anger continuing to grow.

He took Skye's hand and gently squeezed it.  'Come on,' he said.  'Let's just go home.'

Feeling ridiculously relieved, Skye nodded vigorously.  Thank goodness.  She'd had quite enough of Olympus and its machinations and marble.  If she never came back here again, it would probably be too soon.

Coop kept hold of Skye's hand as they walked back through the airy, impressive halls of Olympus.  Even now, back in his own home, he seemed reluctant to let go.  Skye was enjoying feeling protected by him, although she finally extricated her fingers from his when they entered the kitchen.  For some reason the visit to Olympus had made her absolutely ravenous.  It must be a reaction to all that stress, she mused.

'I'm going to fix a sandwich,' she announced.  'Would you like anything?'

I'd like us to run away together and never deal with any of this crap ever again, Coop thought miserably.

'That would be nice,' he said aloud.

Registering the unhappiness in his voice, Skye paused and looked in his direction.  Now that they were away from the confines of Olympus, Aphrodite and her concerns seemed very far away.

'What's really wrong, Coop?'

'Nothing,' he grunted, immediately regretting his terse reply when he saw a hurt expression flit across her face.  'It's just...'  He sighed, and watched her carefully.  'My mother is going to lift the invisibility spell every night between dusk and dawn.'

Skye's eyes widened.  'That's brilliant! I'll be able to see you! We'll be able to...' her voice trailed off and her cheeks coloured at the thought of the new carnal delights offered by actually being able to see Coop.  Not to mention the fact she'd feel closer to him when she knew what he really looked like.

Coop sat heavily down on a nearby stool.  'We also have to stay apart from each other during those hours.'

Skye blinked.  'What? Why?'

He ran his hands through his hair.  'We just do.  I can't explain it right now, Skye.  I just need you to promise to stay away from my rooms during those hours.'

Skye stared at the space occupied by his voice.  'I don't understand,' she said in a small voice.

Coop could see why.  But considering the restraints placed on him by Apollo and his mother, there was little he could do to explain.  Inwardly cursing the pair of them, he reached out and drew Skye to him. 'It's only for three days,' he murmured in her ear.  'Then we'll be free to be together.  Just trust me.'

Clouds of suspicion floated through Skye.  'You mean we're not free to be together now? Even though we're here together now?'

'As I said, my mother is being difficult.'

Skye frowned, trying to sort things out in her head.  She'd heard of men who were tied to their mother's apron strings, but she'd never imagined Coop would be one of them.  Maybe it was a good thing, she mused.  If he was respectful of Aphrodite, it showed how important family ties were to him.  And that could only be positive, right?

'Okay,' she answered slowly.

'Really?'

'I don't really have much choice in the matter, do I?'

Coop swallowed and moved back slightly so he could look into her face.  Despite what he'd just told her, the trust in her eyes made his blood sing.  He didn't deserve her, but he was damned if he was going to ever let her go.  A sudden thought hit him and he grinned.  Nobody had said she had to stay with him over these three days.  If she was out of country then there would be no chance of her slipping into his rooms during those hours when he was visible.  He trusted her implicitly but he was still concerned about what Apollo might do to force the issue.  He wouldn't put it past the Sun God to do something sneaky to have things work out in his favour.  This way, there would be no chance of that happening.

'Actually, Skye, why don't you take this opportunity to go back home? See your parents and your friends? Because I'm not sure I'll be willing to let you out of my sight after these three days are over.'

There was the slightest edge of glee to Coop's voice which made Skye pause.  She wanted to yell about the fact that he was never in her sight so this was hardly fair.  But it would be good to see her family and catch up with Emma and the girls.  She just wished she understood more about what was happening; there was definitely something else going on and Skye didn't like being kept out of the loop.  Didn't Coop trust her? She gnawed on her lip then made a decision.  If this was what he needed her to do right now, she'd do it.

'Okay,' she said, 'I'll go back home until the end of the week.  After that...'

'After that, I'm going to tie you to my side so you never leave again,' he whispered in her ear, before his lips moved down her neck and began planting little kisses along her nape.

Skye shivered.  She hoped this was some weird thing he had going on with his mother and not a convoluted way to get rid of her and get back to all his other girlfriends.  Then Coop's mouth found hers and she stopped thinking entirely.

# Chapter Twenty

Later that day, when Skye stepped out of the airport and realised just how cold and wet and grey the weather was back in Britain, she was too focused on keeping her head down to avoid the freezing rain to spot Apollo's golden head on the other side of the road, watching her and smiling unpleasantly to himself at Coop's predictability.

The Sun God knew that, without Coop in tow, it would take the girl several hours to get back to her parents' house.  That gave him plenty of time to put his own plans into action.  If there was a flicker of guilt inside him, then he squashed it quickly.  Both the girl and the stupid cherub had conspired to humiliate him in front of all of his friends.  He'd made a complete fool of himself and there was no way he was going to let that slide.  Coop and Skye were going to pay for what they'd done to him.

Less than an hour later, he caught sight of Skye's mother entering the small local supermarket.  Following her in, but moving quickly across a couple of aisles to wait for her to catch him up, he began perusing the wine section, selecting a bottle at random to pick up and study.  It was cheap plonk but it would serve his requirements.

Fortunately, the woman was a fast shopper and it didn't take long before she was wheeling her trolley past him.  He cleared his throat and aimed for a congenial tone.

'Excuse me?' he said.

Skye's mother looked surprised and turned to face him.  'Yes?'

'I was wondering if you could help me.  I'm cooking dinner tonight for a friend.  A special friend.  I want to get some nice wine to go with it but I don't really drink myself.  Could you help me out?'

Her eyes crinkled at the edges.  'I can try.  Does your, erm, friend, like red or white?'

'I have no idea,' Apollo said, looking stricken.  'Does it make a difference?'

'Why certainly!' she laughed.  'But if you don't know, perhaps it would be wise to go in between and try a rosé instead.'

Aiming for baffled, Apollo shrugged helplessly.  'What's a rosé?'

She smiled.  'You really don't drink, do you? Here, I'll show you.' She pointed towards the left, picking up one bottle and holding it out to him.  'This is a rosé wine.  You'll need to chill it before you serve it but it's not too expensive and it tastes quite nice.  I'm sure your friend will enjoy it.'

'Thank you so much!' Apollo beamed.  Before she could leave, he spoke again.  'I just want to make sure everything goes right.  I really want to make her happy.  I've only known her for a couple of weeks but I can just tell that it's meant to be.'

'Oh, young love,' Skye's mother said warmly.  'There's nothing quite like it.'

'Indeed,' he agreed.  'This happens to me all the time, to be honest.  When I fall, I fall hard.  I'm always in love for the first couple of weeks.' He paused and looked earnest.  'Sometimes even months.  It's important to keep them happy to begin with.  Then when the sheen wears off and I'm bored with them, at least they've had a good time and have some pleasant memories to remember me by.  I find that being in love is only fun during the initial period.  I like the excitement and the nervous fluttering feeling you get.  Once that rubs off, well, it's time to move on.'

The flicker of distaste which flashed in her eyes told Apollo he'd found his mark.  Trying not to grin, he continued. 'Thank you for your help.  I'm sure she'll enjoy this wine.'

Skye's mother pasted on a smile and pushed her trolley forward again.  'You're welcome.'

Apollo watched her go, amused at the straight line of her back which indicated her disapproval.  As soon as she had disappeared from view, he put the nasty looking wine back on the shelf and checked his watch.  Nemesis would be open in a few hours and Helios had already agreed to let him in early to have a chat to the girl's friends.  This was going to be easier than taking candy from a baby.

When Skye finally pushed open the door to her parents' house, feeling distinctly damp and very tired, she felt a rush of warmth at the familiar sights and smells.  With Coop to distract her, she'd not had time to think about missing home; now she was thrilled to be seeing her parents in person rather than talking to them on the phone.  Both of them immediately appeared in the small hallway, huge smiles stretching across their faces.

Her father stepped over and reached out to envelop her in a huge bear hug. 'We've missed you!' He pulled back and looked her up and down.  'You're looking good, Skye.  You're looking happy.'

Skye glanced over at her mother and saw the equally approving expression on her face.

'That's because I am,' she said softly.  'I've got so much to tell the pair of you.'

'It's great to have you home,' her mum said.  'Let me put the kettle on while you go upstairs and have a shower and change into some dry clothes.  Then you can tell us all about it.  Greece sounds wonderful.'

Skye's eyes shone.  'It is, Mum, it really is.'

Half an hour later, all three were in the living room.  The rain outside had picked up tempo and was drumming against the window but inside the house was warm and cosy.  Skye curled her legs up underneath her and sighed happily.

'Even though it's only a short visit, it's great to be back.'

'Are you sure you can't stay for longer?'

Skye nodded.  'I promised Emma I'd go and visit her on my last night.  I've only got three days. I need to be back in Greece by Friday.'

Her father frowned.  'He doesn't give you much time off, this boss of yours.'

Skye's eyes lit up.  'He's not really my boss,' she said.  'Not any longer.'

Alarm showed on both her parents' faces.

'Has he fired you?' her mum demanded.  'Just like that awful Helios man? I've still got half a mind to go down to London and tell him just what I think of the way he treats his employees.  Honestly, giving you the sack when all you were doing was standing up for yourself.' She shook her head.  'It's not on, Skye.  You've still got rights, you know.'

Skye smiled at her vehemence.  'It's okay.  It all worked out for the best,' she reassured her.  'And I've not been fired by my new boss.  It's more like our relationship has, um, changed.'

Her mum looked confused for a moment then her expression cleared.  'Oh.  Oh! You mean...'

Skye grinned.  'Yes.  He's wonderful, Mum.  I've never met anyone like him before.  His name's Coop and he's thoughtful and kind.  He loves literature and he's forever quoting it to me.  I'm in love.  Really, genuinely in love.' Skye's cheeks reddened at the truth of the words but her heart felt full to bursting.

'But he's your employer,' her mum said, looking troubled.  'Are you sure he's not taking advantage of you and the situation?'

Surprised that her mother wasn't happier for her, Skye answered, 'No! Definitely not.  He's told me he loves me and I believe him.  We just fit together.  He's not perfect by any means but his faults make him even more endearing.  You'll meet him soon and you'll see.'

'I'll look forward to that,' her dad said gruffly.  At least he seemed pleased for her.

'You've barely known him a month, Skye,' her mum interjected.  'How can you know you're in love?'

'I just know,' Skye said quietly.

'What does he do, this Coop?'

Skye was prepared for this.  As much as she loved her parents, she didn't think they'd quite be prepared to listen to the fact that Coop was an invisible love god. 'He runs a dating agency,' she said smoothly.

The corners of her mum's mouth turned down.  'Does he, indeed?'

'Mum! What's that supposed to mean?'

'Someone who runs a dating agency sounds like someone who knows a lot about the mechanics of love.  Who knows how to give the impression of being in love.'

'You've not even met him and you're already doubting him.'

'I'm sorry, sweetheart,' her mum answered. 'It's just I met this awful man today who...'

'I don't care about some man you met today, Mum! Coop isn't some stranger I met on the streets.  If you knew what he'd done for me and the way he treats me, you'd think differently.  We really are in love.'

'It seems so fast.  So sudden.'

'That doesn't make it wrong.'

Her mum sighed.  'You're right.  Just tell me this, does he do it often?'

Skye was puzzled.  'Do what often?'

'Fall in love.  Some men are like that, you know.  Serial monogamists who always have a new girl on their arm.'

'This is ridiculous! You should trust me and trust my judgment.' Skye pushed away the little voice in her head that reminded her of Hermes' words about all the women Coop had been with in the past.  She also tried to forget that Coop hadn't answered her question about how many times he'd taken girls to meet his mother.  She didn't believe he was lying when he told her how he felt.  The emotion in his voice was too clear.  Besides, why _would_ he lie? He had nothing to gain from it.

'Marj,' her father chided, 'Skye's looked into his eyes and seen the truth there.  She's not some airhead who lurches from man to man.  We should be happy for her.'

Her mum shook herself.  'You're right.  I'm so sorry, Skye.  It's just because of this man in the supermarket.  He seemed to think it was okay to fall in love at the drop of a hat and then move on a heartbeat later.'

'Only you could get into a conversation about love in the supermarket, Mum.  Coop's not like that.  He didn't even believe in love until a couple of weeks ago.'

'Then I'm happy for you,' her mum said, standing up and moving over to give her a big hug.  'I shouldn't have questioned him.  Perhaps you'll bring him with you next time?'

Skye smiled and nodded.  Only if he's not still invisible, she thought, biting her lip.  He sent you away, the little voice inside her whispered.  You've not looked into his eyes and seen the truth there at all.  Skye swallowed.  No, she had to trust him.  She _did_ trust him.  He felt the same way about her as she did about him.

Two days later Skye met Emma in the heart of Covent Garden.  Her friend bounded up to her with a face wreathed in smiles.

'You look amazing!' she yelled.  'How the bloody hell are you?'

Skye smiled.  'I'm good, Emma, really good.'

'It's so great to see you! I've got loads to tell you.'

Emma pulled on her arm and led her to a nearby coffee shop.  They ordered a pot of tea and sat down together.

'So how are Joy and Chrissie?' Skye asked, once they were settled.

'Oh, they're the same as ever.  They say hello and to tell you they're missing your baking.'

Skye grimaced.  She'd avoided ovens and anything like cupcakes since her disaster at Nemesis. 'Tell them I said hi.'

'I will, I will,' beamed Emma.  'But let's get down to more important things.' Her face turned serious.  'Your boss and the crush you've got on him.'

'It's not a crush,' Skye said quietly.  'I'm in love.  You should meet him, Emma.  He's just perfect.  I can't believe how lucky I am.'

The shadow on her friend's face was unmistakable.

'What is it?' Skye asked.

'I shouldn't say anything.'

'But you will,' Skye said.  She knew Emma too well to expect her to stay quiet when she had something to say.

Emma cut straight to the chase.  'You told me he was handsome.'

Skye's tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and she nodded mutely.

'You've never set eyes on him, have you?'  Her friend eyed her unhappily.

Skye started.  'How the hell do you know that?'

'It's true then.' Emma's shoulders sank.  'I had hoped it wasn't.  Skye, how can you be in love with someone when you don't even know what they look like?'

'You don't fall in love with someone because of their looks.  It's personality and what's inside that counts.  You can't tell me you think otherwise.'

'Not entirely, no, but...'

'But what?'

'Think of a painting.  You buy a painting because you like the way it looks.  Most people don't understand the craftsmanship or skills or thought that goes into it.  You need to have a baseline attraction from the start.'

'I'm not in love with a painting.'

'No,' Emma agreed.  'You're in love with someone who could walk past us right this very moment and you wouldn't know if it was him or not.  That's crazy, Skye.' She pointed to a dreadlocked man strolling past.  'It could be him.'

'It's not him.' Skye said flatly.

'How do you know? It's creepy, hon, not knowing who he really is.'

'I do know who he really is,' Skye burst out.  'How do _you_ know I can't see him?' she repeated.

Emma shifted uncomfortably.  'I promised I wouldn't say.'

Skye stared at her.  'That's not fair.  You're meant to be my friend.'

'And what kind of friend would I be if I broke my word to someone else? What kind of friend would I be if I didn't speak up when I'm worried you're making a big mistake?'

'I can't believe you're trying to tell me that appearance is more important than personality.'

'I'm not.  But you can't deny that appearance counts.  What if you finally see him for what he is and realise you're not attracted to him?'

'That's ridiculous.'

'No, it's not.  You can bluster and pretend all you like, Skye, but physical attraction is important.'

'Not that important,' Skye said stubbornly.

'Okay, then, what about trust?'

'What do you mean?'

'How can you trust someone when they won't show you their face?'

Skye looked down.  'I trust him.'

'Do you? It doesn't sound like you do.'

'Emma...'

Her friend put her hands up in mock surrender.  'Okay, fine.  I won't say any more.  Just think about it.  For me? If you get the opportunity to see him in person you should take it.  What's the worst thing that can happen?'

A ripple of unease ran through Skye.  'I don't know.'

Emma sat back.  'See? At least you'll know then who he really is.  It's not about being shallow, Skye.' She dropped her voice to a whisper.  'It was a guy called Hermes who told me.'

Skye blinked.  Hermes? But he was Coop's friend.  Why would he be running around talking to Emma behind Coop's back?

'He made me promise not to tell you who he was,' Emma confided.  'I think he likes you and doesn't want to see you get hurt.'

'Did he tell you what Coop is?' she asked cautiously.

'The god part? Yeah.  That's freaking weird, hon.  But I'd always had a few suspicions regarding Helios, you know.  Once I went into his office and the place was bathed in light.  It was so freaking bright, I thought my eyeballs were going to be seared off.  But it wasn't the electric light that was causing it.  And then this one time I thought I saw...' Emma's voice trailed off.  'It doesn't matter.'

'You're taking that part remarkably in your stride.'

She shrugged.  'Hey, I'm an open-minded kind of gal.  But not so open-minded as to think you can have a genuine relationship with someone when you don't know what they look like.'

'It's not his fault he's invisible.'

'So he says,' said Emma.  'Hermes suggested there was more to it.  That he'd deliberately made himself invisible.'

Skye's brow furrowed.  That just didn't make sense.  Why would he do that?

'Look, let's forget it.  Your room is all ready for you and I've got the night off.  Let's have fun tonight and you can decide what to do tomorrow when you get back to Greece.'

Skye clenched her teeth.  No.  This was ridiculous.  First her mother thought her relationship with Coop was doomed, now her best friend seemed to think they couldn't possibly have a real relationship together. Neither of them understood.  And what on earth Hermes had been doing, she had no idea.  Despite having only been away from him for two days, she missed Coop desperately.  She needed her friends and family to see how wonderful he was.  But they'd not even met him yet and already they were against him.  Skye was going to prove otherwise. Lion, not mouse, she told herself.  Instead of waiting for things to happen to her, she was damned well going to make them happen herself. She stood up and pushed her chair back.

'Actually, Emma, I'm not staying after all.  I'm going back home.'

'To your parents?'

'No,' she said firmly, dropping some money on the table.  'To Greece.'

There was no driver to pick her up from the airport this time.  Coop wasn't expecting her back for another day.  She'd been lucky to get on the last flight to Athens as it was; by the time she reached the mansion, he'd probably be fast asleep.  But that was okay.  She'd wake up his visible self and they could look into each other's eyes properly.  He'd understand.  If it meant the other people she cared about were more inclined to love and trust him, it was worth it.  Digging into her bag, she had just enough cash to pay for a taxi through the winding hills.

Unable to relax, she fobbed off the taxi driver's attempts at conversation and stared out of the window.  The moon was covered by clouds and even the lights of the city seemed dull.  Trepidation and excitement bubbled in the pit of her stomach.  Occasionally she felt a flicker of doubt and worried whether she was doing the wrong thing, but then she put those thoughts aside.  Coop had asked her to promise not to try to see him while he was visible but she'd not said the words, so there was no promise to break.  Besides, if he'd missed her as much as she'd missed him, this was going to be a hell of a hello.

The truth was that Coop _had_ missed her desperately.  He'd spent the previous two days moping around the mansion, listlessly wandering from room to room.  Skye's scent was still lingering in the air and everywhere he went there were traces of her presence.  The only thing he'd found to take his mind off her had been his job; somehow going out and helping others to find love made him feel better.  He made a mental note to tell that to his mother.  She'd been on at him for years to appreciate his job more; now he had Skye, he did.

After tossing and turning for two nights, barely able to sleep, today he'd gone for a long swim so he felt tired when he clambered in between the cool sheets of his bed.  Unfortunately that meant he fell asleep almost instantly, failing to hear the sound of the taxi – and Skye – pulling up outside.

After paying the driver, and with her heart in her mouth, Skye walked up to the front door of the mansion and carefully opened it.  The house was dark and quiet.  Skye grinned to herself.  He'd be surprised to see her but – she hoped –happy too.  She kicked off her shoes and padded through the house to the wing where his bedroom was.

At the door, Skye put her hand on the knob and began to twist it, then paused suddenly and pulled back.  Doubt filled her: was this the right thing to do? Coop had seemed adamant she mustn't see him while the invisibility spell was off.  She thought of Apollo's caustic comments about how handsome Coop was.  Was that because he wasn't good looking at all? Was he actually some kind of monster with horns and scaly skin?

But she'd felt his skin.  It was smooth.  And there certainly weren't any horns on his head.  She'd run her hands all the way through his soft hair.  Even if he wasn't as good looking as she'd been led to expect, it hardly mattered.  Appearance wasn't important, no matter what Emma said.  In fact part of her hoped he didn't look like a love god should –then she wouldn't feel inferior next to him.

She stood there, staring at the barrier of the door.  This might be her only chance to know what he looked like.  His mother might decide to keep the invisibility spell on indefinitely.  Skye straightened her shoulders.  She spent far too much time doing what she was supposed to, instead of what she wanted to.  Seeing him would put the naysayers in their place.  Even if Coop was angry, he'd get over it.  She smiled to herself.  She'd make sure of that.

This time she placed her hand on the doorknob and didn't hesitate, turning it and stepping decisively into his bedroom.  The lump in the centre of the bed indicated he was there sleeping.  Skye's heart was pounding.  She took a step towards him.  Then another.  At that moment, the wind shifted and the clouds covering the shining brilliance of the moon shifted.  A shaft of light hit the bed through the open window and Skye gasped.

He was unlike anyone she'd ever seen.  She'd thought Apollo, for all his faults, had been handsome but nothing prepared her for the sight of Coop.  He was naked, with half a sheet twisted round his body, revealing sculpted muscles.  Muscles she'd only felt with her fingers and now could see with her eyes.  His arms were covered in sweeping dark tattoos, similar to traditional Maori or Celtic ones she'd seen in pictures, but those hadn't been so elegant or intricate. In repose his face was angelic and somehow hard at the same time. The golden curls on top of his head would appear feminine on anyone else but on Coop they somehow added to his masculinity.  She reached out to brush one away from his cheek and, as she did so, his eyes opened.

For a moment the sleepy violet of his irises took her in, warm delight filling them to their depths, then suddenly they clouded over and he sprang up and stared at her in dismay.

'Skye,' he whispered.

She smiled at him.  'Coop.  I'm sorry.  I know you said to stay away but I had to see you.  I had to know what you look like.  You understand that, right?'

A muscle clenched in his cheek and it appeared as if a great rage was filling him.  His body shook and he clenched his fists at his sides.  Then he sprang forward without warning and pulled her to him, his mouth curving down towards hers.

Skye opened herself up to him, locking her arms round his neck and leaning into his hard body.  As erotic as it had been making love to him without being able to see him, this was far, far better.  He deepened the kiss until her senses were drowning and then, abruptly, pulled away.  Skye moved towards him and he held up his hands as if to ward her off.  He shook his head sadly, an angry fire still within him, although it didn't seem to be directed at her.

'Doubting Skye,' he said softly, reaching one hand out to cup her cheek.  Then he blinked and two enormous white wings appeared at his back as if from nowhere.

Skye stared open-mouthed.  Before she could react, he turned and leapt into the air.  He flew out of the window, silhouetted for a heartbeat against the orb of the moon as he turned to look at her one last time.  Then he was gone.

# Part II

'Cupid being more and more in love with Psyche, and fearing the displeasure of his Mother, did pearce into the heavens, and arrived before Jupiter to declare his cause.'

Source: _Apuleus_ (translated by William Adlington)

# Chapter Twenty-One

Three days later, Skye stepped off the train at Litochoro station.  It didn't take her long to realise that she was in the middle of nowhere.  The few other passengers who had got off with her had already vanished and there was no-one else in sight.  A distant rumble of thunder made her jump and a few drops of heavy rain began to fall from the overcast sky.

Her heart sank further.  Three days.  Three nights.  Interminable nights.  Since the moment Coop had flown out of the window with those magnificent snow-white wings, there had been no sign of him.  She'd spent the first few hours staring out into the night sky, expecting him to return.  Then, when he didn't, she had started to panic.  The realisation of just how badly she had screwed up sunk in, along with the overwhelming sense of loneliness which suddenly pervaded the once warm and welcoming mansion.

It wasn't until the following evening that she finally appreciated he wasn't coming back.  Skye had virtually ransacked the place searching through drawers and cupboards for a contact list.  Coop had a mobile phone; surely Hermes would have one too.  He would know how she could find him.  But she'd come up empty.  Even if Hermes was in a position to help her, she had no way of getting in touch with him.  She had no way of getting in touch with anyone, apart from her own friends and family, and she knew that they would be unable to help her.  She had created this situation herself; now she had to find a way to resolve it.  Coop had asked for her promise to stay away from him while he was visible; she had broken his trust.  She could only hope she could persuade him to give her a second chance.

Turning up the collar of her thin jacket and starting to trudge down a winding road, which she hoped led to the small town, Skye felt numb with weariness.  The gates of Olympus were the only place she could think of to try but, without the magic of Coop's godly powers, she was forced to find a way to reach them on her own.  Unfortunately she had very little to go on.  She knew from what Coop had told her that Olympus was somewhere near Litochoro, but she had no idea how to find it.  Skye had spent several hours researching, and looking for some – any – kind of guidance.  Nothing she had come across helped.  She was banking on the thought that someone who lived in Litochoro would be able to guide her.  Otherwise, all would be lost.

The looming mountain, which she presumed was Olympus itself, was shrouded in heavy fog.  The wind had started to pick up but, instead of helpfully blowing away the clouds and clearing the sky, all it did was blow around her with increasing ferocity.  Her eyes were starting to smart from the rain that was blowing into her face and her teeth were chattering.  Skye was so lost in her own well of misery that she didn't hear the car coming up from behind her until it was almost too late.

Half turning then registering the headlights that were beaming down on her, Skye's heart leapt.  Without thinking, she stuck out her thumb in the universal signal of a hitchhiker.  Unfortunately, the driver either didn't see her or chose to ignore her and didn't slow down.  The wheels splashed into a large puddle on the road, sending a wave of water in her direction.  Skye tried to jump out of the way but it was to no avail and the cold, dirty water drenched her from head to foot.  Rubbing at her face and eyes with the grubby sleeve of her jacket, she blinked after the car as it disappeared; yet again, she was alone on the miserable, grey road.

It was some time later, when Skye felt as if she'd been walking for hours, that a dim shape appeared on the horizon.  Blinking at it and trying to work out what on earth it actually was, she picked up her pace.  At this particular point in time, any form of shelter would be welcome.  She wasn't sure when she'd ever felt so cold.  Surely Greece was supposed to be warm and sunny? It was if the gods themselves were against her.  Coop's unhappy eyes, with their unbanked fires of rage, flashed into her mind.  Maybe they were.  Maybe the gods of Olympus were going to do everything they could to prevent her from reaching Coop.

Instead of weakening her, however, that thought strengthened her resolve.  Skye was going to confront the fact that she'd screwed up head-on and do whatever she could to make amends.  She couldn't imagine a life without him and she was damned if anyone was going to stop her.  Until she saw Coop for herself and he said he wanted nothing to do with her, she wasn't going to give up.

The poor visibility on the winding road was such that she was less than twenty metres away when a shape up ahead began to take form.  It was a ramshackle stone building with one wall crumbling down on the north side and a wooden door hanging precariously off its hinges at the front.  It didn't matter.  Shelter was shelter, and Skye ran inside, ducking her head and scooting into the dark interior.  There was a strong smell of manure but at least it was fairly clean.  She kicked away rotting wood and debris from one corner and slumped down against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest.  Outside, the wind howled as if in rage that she was no longer out in the open and the rain slammed down onto the tin roof, creating a thunderous racket.  But she was safe and under cover.  She'd just have to hope that Coop was somewhere nearby.

The truth was that Coop was barely five miles away, hammering on the door to his mother's chambers.  He'd spent the last three days trying to gain an audience with her.  All he'd received in return were messages stating that she was too busy to deal with him but that in light of his recent actions, the invisibility spell was being lifted for good.  He had the impression that she thought he should be grateful.  As if.

'Mother!' he yelled through the massive doors.  'You can't ignore me forever!'

He kicked the door in frustration.  If he could just speak to her, he'd have a better shot at persuading her this wasn't Skye's fault.  He could hardly blame Skye for wanting to see him in person.  Although he'd felt a wave of crushing disappointment to begin with, and a deep feeling of disquiet that she'd not trusted him, he realised she really did love him as much as he loved her back.  She wouldn't have left her friends and family to come back early to him if she hadn't.  He just had to keep remembering that.  They'd been so close to the deadline.  If only she'd hung on for a few more hours, everything would have been alright.

Not for the first time he cursed himself for falling asleep and not hearing her come back to the mansion.  She was going to be punished for the vagaries of the gods and it just wasn't fair.  He replayed the look on her face when he had left over and over again.  She'd been stunned when his wings unfurled but that expression had quickly turned to horror as he'd flown out of the window.  She deserved a second chance.  _They_ deserved a second chance.

He began thumping on the door again.

'Mother! Open the goddamn door!'

'You do realise half the palace can hear your bloody caterwauling?'

Coop stiffened at the familiar voice and turned round slowly to confront the smarmy grin on Apollo's face. 'Yeah?' he said challengingly. 'Well, if you want me to shut up then tell her to come and talk to me.'

'She's your mother.  It's not as if I'd have any sway with her.' Apollo smirked.

Coop bunched his hands into fists and took a deep breath.  'Of course you don't,' he said sarcastically.

The God of Light widened his eyes dramatically and clutched his chest.  'Dear me! Are you trying to insinuate that this sorry mess you've found yourself in is my fault? I'm horrified.'

Coop began to turn away, disgusted, but Apollo wasn't going to let him off that easily.

'You know those humans are amazingly easy to manipulate.  It took me barely a minute to, shall we say, encourage her mother to see you as a danger to her daughter.  And the friend! Well, she was even more persuadable.'

Coop froze and spun back, taking a threatening step towards Apollo.  'It was you!' he spat.  'I thought as much.'

Apollo grinned.  'I watched her going back to see you.  She looked so happy.  It was as if she couldn't wait to burst in and see you for the first time in person.'

Every muscle in Coop's body bunched up.  Unfortunately Apollo still wasn't finished.

'You know,' he mused, 'she actually looked rather pretty.  All glowing and in love.' He raised his eyebrows pointedly.  'Now that she's free I may have to seek her out for myself.  Considering, after all, that it was me she was initially interested in.'

Coop didn't wait any longer.  He sprang towards Apollo, fists flying in all directions, swiping at him with every ounce of energy he could muster.  The Sun God dodged him, but Coop didn't give up and barrelled into him, knocking him to the floor.  He drew back one fist and slammed into Apollo's face, enjoying the sickening crack as he broke his nose.  Then he pulled back for another shot.  Before he could launch his fist forward, however, an iron-clad hand gripped it, preventing him from moving.

Coop twisted his face upwards, wincing in pain as his fingers were crushed, determined to see who had dared to prevent him from smashing Apollo's face.  As soon as he registered who was interrupting their fight, however, Coop's body went limp.  Damn it all to hell, Hades and the Underworld.

'Father,' coughed Apollo.

There was a visible curl of distaste on Zeus's lips.  He tightened his grip on Coop's hand, making him groan involuntarily. 'What exactly is going on here?'

'As you can see,' said Apollo, clambering to his feet and ignoring the blood flowing freely from his nose, 'the little cherub here has decided to go postal on me.'

Coop snarled, finally wrenching his fist free from Zeus, and sprang upwards.

Zeus's face remained emotionless. 'The little cherub? The God of Love? You allowed him to hit you?'

Two high spots of colour lit Apollo's cheekbones.  'He came at me from nowhere!' he protested.

'You little shit!' spat Coop.  'You wanted me to punch you.  You were fucking asking for it.'

'Be quiet,' Zeus commanded. Although he barely raised his voice above normal speaking level, his authority and tone brooked no argument.  He gestured towards Apollo.  'Did you goad him?'

Apollo looked down at the floor and mumbled something.  Zeus took a step towards him. 'What was that?'

'He started it.'

Zeus's eyebrows shot up for a second before his face shuttered again.  'He started it?'

'He shot me with one of his damned bullets.  He made me think I was in love with some stupid girl!'

'She's not some stupid girl!' yelled Coop, unable to keep quiet.

'Shut up!' roared Zeus.  'The pair of you are gods, for Olympus's sake! And yet here you are behaving like a pair of three year olds.  You,' he jabbed his thumb at Apollo, 'you are meant to be my son.  You're meant to hold yourself at a higher standard.  And the best explanation you can come up with is "he started it"?'

Coop couldn't help smirking, but Zeus turned on him too.  'And you! You've been given the right to change people's lives for the better.  But instead of being proud to hold that honour, you've grumped and whined about it for years.  And now you're treating it as some kind of prank.  What were you thinking, shooting him?'

Coop's head drooped.  'You're right, I just...'

'I know I'm goddamned right, you idiot!'

'I messed up,' Coop said honestly. 'I realise that now.  I'm not the person I was three weeks ago.  I've changed.' He raised his eyes and stared at the King of the Heavens, unblinkingly.  'You need to believe me.'

'You've changed.  After the years your mother has spent agonising over your childish behaviour, now you've changed.  And it's only taken three weeks.'  The sarcastic edge to Zeus's voice was clearly audible.

Coop took a deep breath.  'I fell in love.  I am in love.  She's the most perfect person in the world.'

'Except she can't be trusted for even three days not to spy on you,' interjected Apollo sneeringly.

Coop rounded on the Sun God.  'You made that happen! And she wasn't spying.  She thought she was doing the right thing.'

'Oh yeah?  How do you know? She only thinks she loves you.  Anyway, she's human; she'll have changed her mind by next week and moved on to someone else.'

Zeus reached out to Coop and placed a restraining hand on his arm to prevent him from going after Apollo yet again. 'I know a little something about human women,' he said gruffly.  'Who is this one?'

Coop had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from retorting that the only reason Zeus knew a little about human women was because he'd spent half his life shagging as many as he could lay his hands on.

'Her name is Skye,' he said quietly.

'And you should know, Father, that she colluded with Cupid to bloody shoot me so I'd fall in love with her.'

'That's not true!'

The tiniest frown marred Zeus's forehead.  'Let me get this straight.  You,' he pointed at Coop, 'shot my son so he would fall in love with a human girl.  Then you fell in love with her yourself.'

Coop nodded.

Zeus continued. 'Then you,' he pointed at Apollo, 'did something to prevent this Skye from being with him.'

'I didn't...'

'Be quiet, Apollo.  I know what you're like and I know what you're capable of doing.  Sooner or later you are going to need to learn some respect for others.'

'None of this is her fault,' Coop said desperately.  'I've behaved like a world-class fool.  I know that.  I deserve to be punished.  Just... just don't punish her as well.'

'You made the deal, Cupid.  Three days.  If she could have managed to avoid sneaking in to see you for three short days, then you'd have won.  But she couldn't.  If she really loved you, she wouldn't have done that, no matter how much I meddled.'

Coop ran his hands through his hair.  'It's not about winning any more, Apollo.  Don't you see that? This isn't a competition.  It's my life.  My happiness.  Her happiness.  We're meant to be together.  Just because she made one mistake doesn't mean she should be punished for the rest of her life too.  She had nothing to do with me shooting you.  She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

Zeus pursed his lips thoughtfully.  'Does she love you?'

The door to Aphrodite's quarters slammed open and she appeared in the doorframe looking somewhat tired. 'She failed the test, Coop.  She's only human.  You'll end up getting hurt, sooner or later.'

Coop faced her.  'I'm not a little boy any more, Mother.  You have to let me make my own mistakes and stop interfering.  Besides, this isn't a mistake and she does love me.'

'How do you know? You weren't so sure before.'

'Because if she doesn't then I've got no reason to live,' he said simply.

Zeus met Aphrodite's eyes and a look passed between them.  Apollo was staring at Coop, his mouth half open.

'It does sound as if there's an easy way out of this,' Zeus began.

'No.' Apollo shook his head fervently.  'He gave his word.  Either she passed the test and they could be together, or she failed and he never saw her again.  And she failed.  End of story.'

A growl rumbled in Coop's chest and he pulled his shoulders back.  A flicker of agreement crossed Aphrodite's face. 'It's true,' she admitted.  'That was the deal.'

'But...' Coop began to protest.

Zeus held up a heavy finger in warning.  'Then my hands are tied.  The deal is done.'

'You'll get over her,' Aphrodite said.  'There are lots of human girls around.  And lots of minor goddesses who would be far more suitable for you.  Any of them would be thrilled to have you as their consort. Not to mention that you'll know they have no ulterior motives in wanting to be with you.'

'I will not get over her,' Coop forced out.  'Don't you get it?'

Apollo's eyes were lit from within with a malicious gleam.  'It's merely an immature infatuation, Cupid.  You'll feel better in a hundred years or so.'

Coop snarled.  His mother shook her head. 'You still have a lot of growing up to do, darling.'

Coop tightened his hands into two hard fists and tried to force down the painful knot that was gathering in his chest.

'Don't let me see you two fighting again,' Zeus ordered.  'Or the consequences will be dire.'

'Of course, Father,' stated Apollo, shooting a nasty sideways look at Coop.

Aphrodite turned and walked back into her rooms, closing the door softly behind her.  Zeus raised his eyebrows meaningfully at Coop and strode off, Apollo trotting dutifully at his heels.  Coop scowled after the pair of them, doing everything he could to quell the rage and hurt inside him, and forced himself not to run after them and throw himself at them in a suicidal attack.  Instead he remained where he was, frozen, barely registering Hermes pad up to stand next to him.

'So,' his friend said, 'neither Zeus nor your mother will listen?'

Coop grunted in response.  Hermes looked at him worriedly. 'You're not planning on doing anything stupid, are you, Coop?'

A tiny muscle throbbed in Coop's cheek.  'No.  That's what they're expecting.  At least that's what Apollo's expecting.  I could run out of here and find Skye and we could elope together.  We could find somewhere to live out the rest of our days.  Except I'm immortal and she's not.  And she deserves a better existence than one that means cowering against the retribution of Olympus for the rest of her life.  No,' he repeated, shaking his head.  'There's a way out of this where I can get both Zeus and my mother to see past what I was like before and recognise that what Skye and I have is real.  A way where they'll let her in, let us be and see that I've changed – as incredible as that may seem.'

Hermes clapped his hands together.  'Great! What's the way?'

'I don't know,' Coop responded glumly. 'I haven't worked that out yet.'

# Chapter Twenty-Two

Skye couldn't remember a time when she'd felt this cold before.  It was as if the wind was piercing through her very skin and attacking her bones.  She had a fleeting vision of her bone marrow gradually turning into ice and frozen stalactites hanging off her heart.  She wasn't going to give up though.  Not without seeing Coop and trying to explain what she'd done.  If she could just talk to him and beg his forgiveness, maybe everything would be alright.

She pushed away the terrifying thoughts of hypothermia and focused instead on imagining Coop's arms around her, hugging her to his warm body and keeping her safe.  Outside the wind continued to howl but the rain that had been hammering down upon her meagre shelter was starting to dissipate.  Skye bit her lip.  She could stay where she was, and hope the rickety roof and crumbling walls would shelter her until morning, or she could make a break for it.  Falling asleep where she was could end up being a bad thing.

She remembered a story she'd heard once about a young woman making her way home from a New Year's Eve party, who curled up to sleep in a field when she lost her way and never woke up again.  Skye was determined that wasn't going to happen to her.  At least if the rain had lessened its onslaught, it would be easier to continue her hike towards Litochoro.  Perhaps there she'd be able to find a cheap hostel where she could get a hot shower.

Making a decision, she pulled herself to her feet and grabbed her small bag.  She was shivering uncontrollably.  She gritted her teeth and forced her stiff and protesting muscles to move out back to the road.  She could do this.  She had to do this.  It couldn't be much further.

The wind whipped her hair about her face, and her eyes stung.  Glancing down the road and seeing nothing ahead other than darkness, she took a deep breath and shouldered her bag.  If nothing else, jogging in what she hoped was the right direction would help to keep her warm.  With one last quick glance at the shambling ruins of the house, she turned left and made a move.

The truth was that Skye wasn't as far away from Litochoro as she imagined.  Neither was she as alone as she had assumed.  Overhead, Zephyr, the God of Wind, was making his way back to Olympus.  He'd been amusing himself out on the Pacific Ocean, tweaking the trade winds here and there to cause havoc to the human sailors participating in the Transpacific Yacht Race.  He was a bit of a gambler and, with a considerable amount of cash on an Australian team to win, he had decided to help his cause along.  It wasn't that he needed the money or that he really cared who won.  He simply enjoyed reminding the humans who was really in charge.  He'd have stayed for longer, ensuring his gamble paid off, but the breaking waves on the horizon suggested that Poseidon had caught wind, so to speak, of his antics and was on his way to interfere.

As much as he hated to admit it, Zephyr was fully aware Poseidon's power was far greater than his own. Poseidon disliked any of the gods interfering with the humans.  The pair of them had almost come to blows several years back when Zephyr had attempted to help out a small fishing boat which was in trouble off the coast of Indonesia.  The results hadn't been pretty.  Zephyr still had nightmares about that day and Zeus himself had been so livid that he almost stripped both of them of their remaining powers.  It was only the fact that no-one else could take on the enormity of working with Mother Nature that had saved them both.

Zephyr snorted to himself.  He didn't understand what Poseidon's problem was.  Just because he'd had that problem back in the nineteenth century, when he tried to help the _Mary Celeste_ and it had all gone pear-shaped, didn't mean that he should object to ever coming to the aid of humans again.  The Sea God had suggested that with the advent of lighthouses, and then satellite navigational equipment, the humans no longer required his services.  When Zephyr had brought up the tragedy of the _Titanic_ as a counter-argument, Poseidon had remained markedly unamused.  It was probably just as well he omitted any mention of the Bermuda Triangle, he thought ruefully.  Poseidon did not enjoy being reminded of his mistakes.

Zephyr was so deep in his ruminations that he almost missed her.  In fact he would have, were it not for a sudden flash of lightning which lit up the area and highlighted her figure as she jogged slowly along the road.  Wheeling round, he went back for a closer look, blinking in surprise when his second glance confirmed what he thought he'd seen.

It was rare to catch a human out in this weather in this day and age.  Mechanised transport meant they were normally safely wrapped inside metal shells.  Zephyr occasionally wondered whether they had forgotten there was joy to be had in being outside and enjoying the power of the elements screaming around them.  But to see a human woman out on her own and braving this weather reminded him that some humans were more brave – or more foolhardy – than others.

He swooped down.  She was a pathetic, bedraggled figure.  It seemed curious that she was so close to Olympus and unlikely that it was a coincidence that she was out here.  The inhabitants of Litochoro enjoyed their creature comforts and would do what they could to avoid being outside during such a storm.  And it was hardly tourist season.

Zephyr watched her for a moment or two.  If he were Poseidon, he'd just sweep past her and leave her to her fate, whatever that may be.  But she looked so small and forlorn.  Zephyr grinned.  This woman, whoever she was, was fortunate indeed that he had come past at this exact moment.  Closing his eyes for a heartbeat, he made a few small changes to the howling atmosphere before continuing on his way.

Below him, Skye was almost at the point of collapsing when the wind suddenly did something different.  It shrieked around her, practically lifting her off her feet, and then abruptly changed.  Where she had been battling against it, feeling as if she were pushing through it, now it was at her back and gusting in the direction she wanted to go.  Its force was so strong and so powerful, it felt as if she were flying down the small road.  She was moving at twice the speed.  Skye had the oddest feeling that if she stopped her legs from moving, the wind would continue to push her forwards and lift her up towards her destination.  She found herself sprinting easily along the curving road until, all of a sudden, a cluster of twinkling lights finally signalled that Litochoro was just ahead.

Gasping with relief and praising her good fortune, Skye allowed the wind to carry her forward and down.  The town was larger than she'd imagined but, even in the darkness of the evening, the terracotta roofs and whitewashed walls were welcoming. She could just make out the glimmer of the nearby ocean.

As soon as she passed the first buildings on the outskirts of the town, the wind faltered and began to die down.  It was still bitterly cold, to the point where she wouldn't have been surprised if it began to snow, but she had made it.  Now all she had to do was find some real shelter for the night before beginning her search for Olympus the following morning.

For the first time in what felt like days, Skye smiled.

Back within the walls of Olympus, Zephyr headed through the marbled hallways.  He paused when he caught sight of Coop and Hermes up ahead, debating whether to join the pair of them for a moment.  The three gods often swapped stories about the humans they came across, and Zephyr was sure Coop would be interested in hearing about what he'd done that day to piss off Poseidon.

Snippets of their conversation floated over to him about the whereabouts of some girl who was no longer in Coop's house, nor with her friends or her family.  With an irascible edge to his voice, Coop was demanding Hermes work harder to find her.  Hermes, in return, was saying it didn't matter where she was, Coop wasn't allowed to see her or talk to her.  Deciding to leave them to it, a faint grin crossed Zephyr's face.  Coop was ever the ladies' man; his latest conquest had no doubt realised this and was refusing to see him.  Zephyr had heard enough of Coop's moans on the subject of love not to want to listen to any more right now.  He strolled off to seek out more good-humoured entertainment.

# Chapter Twenty-Three

The skies were clear and sunny the following morning, as if the storm had been a figment of her imagination.  It was still cold, but the air was crisp and clean.  Skye checked out of the small pension where she'd found a cheap room and went in search of both breakfast and information.

After purchasing a deliciously flaky pastry from a small bakery, she eyed the man behind the counter thoughtfully.  He had a friendly face, she decided, so she swallowed hard and asked him, 'Um, do you speak English?'

His eyes twinkled at her.  'Can't afford not to.  Not these days.  This is a tourist town, after all.'

A mixture of relief and nervousness squirmed through her.  Skye could feel her cheeks warming at the ridiculousness of her next question, but she quashed her embarrassment and took a deep breath. 'I don't suppose you could tell me where Olympus is?'

He let out a deep belly laugh, its rumble filling the small warm shop.  'Step outside and look up! You can't miss it.'

Skye scratched her head awkwardly.  'Not the mountain.  The, um, palace.  With the gods in.'

He suddenly stopped laughing, his face closing up.  He half turned away, as if fascinated by rearranging some loaves of bread. 'You've been reading too many fairy stories,' he grunted.

Skye stared desperately at his back.  He obviously knew something but he was unwilling to talk about it. 'But...' she began.

He looked over his shoulder.  'Sorry.  Can't help you.'

Damn it.  It was clear he wasn't going to say anything further.  Skye sighed and left.  She'd just have to find someone else to help her.  This would be a whole lot easier if Coop hadn't taken her to Olympus using his godly teleportation skills.  At least then she'd have a chance of retracing their steps to find it on her own.

The thing was, there were people who knew of the existence of Olympus as the lap of the gods – and who knew how to get there.  Coop had told her that worshippers and supplicants who still followed the old ways sometimes gathered at the mountain.  Emma had found it remarkably easy to believe in the sudden revelation of the gods' existence; even though most of the world lived in total ignorance of the fact that the ancient Greek myths weren't actually just myths, it wasn't a complete secret either.  All Skye had to do was find someone to point her in the right direction.

Casting around, she spotted an elderly woman on the other side of the street, carrying a bag of heavy shopping.

Skye jogged over. 'Can I help you with that?'

The woman turned and smiled at her, answering with a stream of incomprehensible Greek.  Clearly, even if she knew about Olympus and where it was, Skye wouldn't be able to understand her.  It served her right for not spending more time learning the language.  Once she sorted out this mess with Coop, she promised herself she'd make more of an effort.  _If_ she sorted out the mess with Coop, she amended.

Gesturing towards the woman's bag, she mimed the action of helping to carry it.  The woman grinned more broadly and held the bag out towards her.  Skye took it, hoping they didn't have far to walk. Resting one hand on Skye's free arm, the old woman began speaking again in Greek.  Skye smiled in return and shrugged to indicate she didn't understand.  The woman laughed and continued to chatter.  At least with the sun finally shining again, it was a pleasant stroll.

They made their way down the street, eventually turning into a cobbled road.  The woman pointed ahead of her, seeming to indicate her house was just up ahead.  Skye returned her shopping bag and cocked her head, not holding out much hope but figuring it was worth a try anyway.

'Olympus?' she asked, her eyes scanning the woman's face.

The woman threw back her head and laughed, patting Skye on the arm and turning away.  Skye's mouth twisted ruefully.  It had been a long shot at best.

The next person she tried was a younger man who she spotted close to the beach.  Not only was there a better chance that someone younger would speak English, but perhaps someone closer to her own age would be more sympathetic to her cause.  This particular man didn't look like a tourist although neither did he look like he was in a rush to get anywhere or do anything.  Straightening her shoulders, Skye walked up to him and smiled.

'Excuse me,' she said, keeping her fingers tightly crossed, 'but I'm trying to find Olympus.'

He looked at her, dark eyes glittering and grabbed her arm, twisting it almost painfully.  His face loomed down towards hers. 'They won't help you, you know.  They won't help anyone,' he hissed, a cloud of stale breath hitting Skye as he spoke.

Alarmed, she tried to wrench her arm away, but he tightened his grip.  'Let me go,' she said, sounding considerably calmer than she felt.

'They don't care about you,' he half sang.

'Sir, please let go of my arm.'

'They don't care about me,' he trilled, 'or the fish in the sea.' A half mad expression crossed his eyes.  'But why bother with the sea when they already have enough water for tea!' He frowned and shook his head.  'No, no, no.  Enough water for me. No.  Enough water for glee.  Gleeee!'

He dropped her arm abruptly and wandered a few steps away from her, still muttering to himself.  Skye backed off until she was sure he'd forgotten about her, then walked quickly in the opposite direction, rubbing her arm and grimacing.  Perhaps walking round the quiet streets of Litochoro and asking random strangers for help wasn't the brightest idea she'd ever had.

She sat down on a wall beside the seafront, her shoulders slumping, and gazed up at the mountains encircling the houses.  Mount Olympus stood proudly over them all, snow-capped and majestic.  Skye could see why the gods chose this area to live in: it was stunning.  Between the sapphire sea, the jade green of the surrounding forests and the backdrop of the mountains, the place was picture perfect.

Skye cast her eyes over the entire vista, wishing she'd paid more attention to what was around the palace of Olympus rather than the palace itself.  She had a vague memory of some trees and that was about it.  But between the town and the mountain were acres of trees.  It could be almost anywhere.  Chewing her bottom lip, she tried to think.  There had to be a way to find it.  Unwilling to ask anyone else for help after her last encounter, she was running out of options.  Skye scowled.  There had to be a map or a sign or something.  Anything.

She froze.  Maybe there _was_ something.  Pulling out her phone, she turned it on and scanned through its contents until she found what she was looking for.  She might be able to go one better than a map.  The internet connection was weak but eventually the familiar screen of Google Earth popped up.  She'd downloaded it months ago, simply out of curiosity.  Skye had been particularly amused to see her father had been captured in his scruffiest clothes in front of their house.  He'd been crouching down as if inspecting the wheels of his car and was revealing more skin than her mother would have liked.  However, silly voyeurism aside, the app did have its uses.

Skye quickly typed in Litochoro, bringing up the town and locating the spot she was in.  The photos must have been taken in the height of summer because the pretty seafront looked considerably busier than it was now.  Zooming out and scanning the area, Skye searched for any clues as to the whereabouts of the gods' palace.  There were no buildings that looked remotely like the marble monolith Coop had taken her to, but she did find a small road leading away from the town and winding through the surrounding forest.  Previous visitors had taken photos of different spots but the majority of them were of trees with varying degrees of sunlight filtering through their leaves or shots of the mountain itself.

Frustrated, she ran a hand through her hair.  Maybe she could find the road that led through the trees and follow it in the hope of seeing something.  It seemed like a stab in the dark. She frowned.  According to the satellite imagery, there was a waterfall called Agios Dionisis, which looked pretty; she could aim for it.  The guy who'd grabbed her arm had been babbling about water.  What was it he'd said? They have enough water for tea? Whatever it was, it hadn't made much sense.  Then her eyes widened.  Coop had quoted Yeats' description of a waterfall before they'd left for Olympus.

'"The water and the wild",' she whispered softly to herself, springing up.

The waterfall had to be involved; it was too much of a coincidence otherwise.  Spurred on, she looked at the map and estimated it would take her little more than a couple of hours to reach it.  If it didn't work out, she'd have more than enough time to get back to the town before dark and get a room again for another night.  But it would work out.  It had to.

Skye arrived at the waterfall faster than she had thought she would.  The winter chill made her move quickly and it was an easy trek to the well-signposted beauty spot.  The roar of water, swollen as it was from the previous night's storm, reached her ears long before she caught sight of the water itself, gushing down into a sharp ravine etched on either side with slate-grey rock.

She peered over the edge.  The place seemed deserted.  It had been too much to hope that she'd reach the water's edge and, all of a sudden, the glory of Olympus would reveal itself to her.  That didn't prevent her feeling disappointed, though.  Sighing audibly, she picked her way down to the pool at the bottom.  After coming all this way, it would be churlish to not see it properly.

Once she reached it, she gasped in awe.  The pool was a stunning limpid green colour, and the waterfall was truly astounding.  Kneeling down, she trailed her fingers in the water and drank in the peace.  Mist was sweeping in down from the high sides of the tree-lined gorge.  It was truly magical.

Skye considered her options.  She could travel out from the waterfall in concentric circles.  Then at least she'd know for certain that the palace was nowhere in the vicinity.  She wasn't leaving until she'd found the damned place and spoken to Coop; she wasn't about to give up on what felt like her one true shot at happiness without a fight.

She glanced up at the sky.  It wouldn't be long before it started to get dark; considering how close she'd come to dying of hypothermia the night before... it would probably be wise to head back to Litochoro and try again tomorrow.

With that thought in mind, she stood up – and almost jumped a foot in the air when she registered the two figures staring silently at her.  How had they clambered down to the pool without making a sound? Skye blinked rapidly several times then took a step towards them.

'Hello.'

Standing by the water's edge hand in hand, they stared at her.  Neither seemed to be wearing much clothing. The woman was draped in green, but her arms and most of her legs were bare. The man, who was what could only be described as classically beautiful, with alabaster skin, high sculpted cheekbones and dark hair, was wearing an artfully draped scarlet sheet.  For a moment, Skye wondered if she'd interrupted a lovers' interlude; maybe they'd been swimming in the pool when she came along.  That was ridiculous though.  The temperature had to be close to freezing.

Without a word, the man let go of his girlfriend's hand and gracefully moved towards the water.  The girl panicked, attempting to recapture his palm, but he brushed her off.  She looked so hurt at his dismissive action that Skye felt sorry for her.  Her boyfriend was clearly an arse.

Trying again, Skye offered the girl a small smile.  'I'm Skye.  Are you from around here?'

The girl blinked slowly.  'Around here?'

Skye nodded.  'Yes.  I'm actually not here for the waterfall.  I was looking for Olympus.' She laughed slightly nervously.  'Not the mountain.  The, er, the palace.'

Smiling back at her, the girl replied.  'The, er, the palace.'

Heat flooded Skye's cheeks.  Was she being made fun of? She glanced at the man, who seemed to be kneeling down over the water's edge and staring intently into it.  What he was looking at, she had no idea.  Feeling like an idiot, she called over to him. 'Do you know where Olympus is?'

He ignored her.  Skye's chest was getting tight.  She looked back at the girl who was watching her with an expression of extraordinary sadness.

'Olympus is?' she said softly.

Something in Skye snapped.  'There's no need to be bloody rude! Since arriving here, I've almost been blown away by a thunderstorm, died from hypothermia, been laughed at by an old woman, attacked by a young man and now you two are treating me like I'm some kind of freak!' Her voice was rising with every word, bouncing off the ravine walls and echoing around.  'All I sodding want to do is to find Olympus so I can tell the man I love that I made a mistake and beg him to forgive me.'

The girl looked away.  'Beg him to forgive me.'

'Jesus Christ!' Skye shrieked.  'What is wrong with you?'

'You?'

'Dion,' said the man.

Skye stared at him.  He was still gazing dreamily into the water.  She stomped over to him. 'What did you say?'

He reached up to his hair and twisted a curl round his finger, half smiling.  Skye realised he wasn't smiling at her; he was barely aware of her presence.  Instead, he was looking at his own reflection in the water.  She almost kicked him.

'What did you say?' she said, forcing herself to keep her tone even.

'Dion,' the girl whispered.

Skye put her hands on her hips and stared hard from one to the other.  Then she pulled out her phone and furiously jabbed 'Dion' into it.  Almost immediately, several results sprang up.  Skye's mouth dried.  Apparently, Dion was an ancient ruined city that had been built at the foot of Mount Olympus to honour Zeus, the King of the Heavens.  And it was less than ten minutes' walk from the top of the waterfall.

Her heart thudding in her chest, she turned on her heel and ran back to the path leading up the ravine's sides.

'Thank you!' she squeezed out.

'You,' said the girl.

The man didn't reply.  Skye didn't care.  This had to be it.  This had to be Olympus.

# Chapter Twenty-Four

As Skye marched along the narrow path leading to Dion, she scanned through various websites on her phone to find out more information about the place.  It had been used as a religious sanctuary since the fifth century BC and had an altar to Zeus, and a temple for his daughters, the Muses.  Skye could have kicked herself for not taking note of its existence before.  She just had to hope that the strange couple at the waterfall weren't leading her on a wild goose chase.

Everything she was doing was surreal.  Having been confronted by Coop's invisibility had made it easy not to question his existence and that of Olympus and the other gods.  The idea that she was now travelling to an ancient temple where she would find Zeus himself was nuts.  She couldn't care less about Zeus, though.  All she cared about was finding Coop and persuading him to give her a second chance.  She might come across as a stalker; maybe all she'd been to him was nothing more than a one-night stand.  But the thought of him made her soul sing so she had to try.  He had told her he loved her.  That had to be worth something.  Skye tried to ignore that he'd also told her emphatically that he didn't believe in love.  Right now, she didn't have much choice.

It didn't take her long to find the site.  When she emerged from under the canopy of trees and gazed out across the fallen stones and sweeping grassy walkways, however, she scowled and cursed aloud.  There was nothing there except a collection of ancient rubble.  Pretty impressive ancient rubble, but rubble nonetheless.  Skye yelled aloud in frustration then picked up a small stone and threw it with all her might.  Goddamn it all to hell.

'I think that's rather uncalled for, don't you?' said a male voice from behind her.

Skye turned round slowly.  A tired looking man was standing in front of her, his head cocked as he warily watched her hands which were still bunched into tight fists.  Loosening her fingers, she forced herself to relax, ignoring the embarrassment she felt at her momentary tantrum.

'Hi,' she said awkwardly.

'Hey.' He brushed past her and began walking down one of the paths which led to the centre of the ruins and what appeared to be a large open area.  Skye thought briefly of the man who'd grabbed her arm in Litochoro that morning and that she was now in the middle of nowhere with a strange man who could potentially be a serial killer.  Then she rolled her eyes.  She couldn't treat every stranger as if they were dangerous; besides, this guy couldn't have looked less interested in her if he'd tried.

'Excuse me?'  Her voice was more of a squeak than a yell.

Either he didn't hear her or didn't care.  Determined not to let the opportunity slide by her, she caught up to him and tried again. 'Excuse me,' she repeated, this time more loudly.

He turned towards her, his expression showing that he was trying to be polite but desperately wished she would go away and leave him alone.  Skye realised there was something strangely familiar about him, as if she'd met him in another life.  He certainly looked as if he'd seen better days.  Heavy bags lay under his eyes and his clothes and hair were rumpled and unkempt.

'What can I help you with?'

Skye answered him with a question.  'Where are you going?'

His face closed up.  'None of your business.' He turned again to go.

A ripple of something akin to excitement ran through her.  There was nowhere else to go here other than the collection of old stones and half-forgotten ruins.  If that was all he was interested in, why would he try to hide it? There was more to this guy than met the eye.

Skye took a deep breath.  'You're going to Olympus, aren't you?'

He gestured at the air in front of him.  'As you see.'

Her stomach dropped.  'Where...?' She licked her lips.  'Where is it?'

'Apparently all you have to do is believe.' He smiled sadly.  'I'm sorry, I have to go.'

'I believe,' she whispered to his back.  'I've been there before.'

Almost as soon as she finished speaking, there was a ripple in the air, some kind of vague shimmer like you see on hot days.  This had nothing to do with the weather, however.  When Skye blinked and peered more closely, the shimmer solidified and hardened into the familiar outline of Olympus, with its towering marble walls and gigantic wrought gates.  Her knees buckled and she stumbled.  It was here, after all.  Had her belief been stronger when she was with Coop himself? Was that why she was only seeing the palace now? She thought of the last words he'd said to her: 'Doubting Skye'.  She shook herself.  It didn't matter.  She was here now.  In a matter of moments she could be facing Coop again.

Running forward until she was just behind the man, she felt her heart thudding painfully in her chest.  He stopped at the gates and spoke to the guard, seemingly unfazed by the armour and the dark shadows which represented his eyes.

'Oz,' the man said.  'My name is Oz.'

Skye suddenly realised where she'd seen him before.  He was the lead singer of Orpheus, the band that had played at Nemesis the evening she'd met Apollo for the first time.  What was he doing here?

'Purpose of business?' the guard asked robotically, in a voice that sent shivers down Skye's spine.

'I'm here to petition Hades,' Oz answered, his voice laden with pain.

'Hades isn't here.' The guard took a step forward, but the singer stood his ground.

'Then let me see another god.  I don't care which one.' He shook himself slightly.  'No, I do care which one.  Let me see Hera.'

Skye watched as the guard bowed his head and stepped aside. 'Access granted.'

She grinned.  At least entering Olympus on her own was going to be fairly easy.  As soon as Oz had passed through the gates, she stepped forward.

'Name?'

'Skye,' she said firmly.  'Skye Sawyer.'

The dark holes in the guard's helmet where his eyes were supposed to be bored into her.  She had to force herself not to take a step back.

'Purpose of business?'

Here goes.  'I'm here to see Coop.  Cupid,' adding helpfully, 'the God of Love.'

The guard stood still.  Skye tried to smile.

'Let me in please,' she said in a small voice.

'Access denied.'

Skye gaped at him.  'What?'

He didn't answer.

'No!' she shouted.  'You can't do that! You let _him_ in.  Why won't you let me in?'

The guard still didn't answer.  Enraged, Skye sidestepped left, leapt through the open space next to him and began running.  Unfortunately, she'd barely gone three steps when she was dragged backwards and thrown back out.

'Access denied.'

'Fuck you!'

She threw herself at the guard and began pummelling his chest with her fists. 'Let me past!'

'Access denied.'

'Why?  Did Coop tell you not to let me in?'

'Access denied.'

'Give me a reason, damn you!'

'Access denied.'

She tried to get past him again but this time he was ready for her, and she barely put a toe inside the gates before she was picked up by her collar and tossed back out.  Landing with a painful thud, tears of frustration pricked at her eyelids.  Coop really didn't want to see her.  It had been over the moment she'd walked into his bedroom; she'd just been too stupid to see it.

'Skye? Is that you?'

Scrambling to her feet at the familiar voice, Skye felt rage filling every pore.  If Hermes hadn't sought out Emma and told her about Coop, then Skye would probably never have returned early to Greece.  This was all his fault.

She launched herself at Hermes and slapped him across the face.  It was the first time in her life that she'd ever hit anyone and it was surprisingly satisfying to see the shock reflected in his eyes.

'You prick!' she shouted.  'Why did you have to get involved?'

He took a step back and held up his hands to shield his face.  'Whoa! What are you talking about? I only did what Coop asked me to.'

Time froze around her as Hermes' words sank in.

'He...' The sick feeling in her stomach intensified but she managed to find her voice.  'He asked you to do this?'

Hermes nodded earnestly, his eyes scanning her face.  'We didn't know where you went, Skye.  I've been searching all over for you.  I don't think Coop ever dreamed you'd come here.'

All the pieces were starting to fit into place.  The hard knot of pain which had been in her chest since Coop had flown out of the window intensified.  Of course he didn't think she'd come here, Skye thought dully.  Because turning up at the gates of Olympus would cause problems for him when he clearly considered her as nothing more than an irritant.  Despite all his fine words and what she'd assumed were heartfelt kisses, she was nothing to him.  He'd sent his best friend to Emma.  He and Hermes had probably cooked up the whole thing as a way to get rid of her without Coop having to dump her personally.  Tell the silly human girl not to go and see him and manipulate her friend to encourage her to do just the opposite...

It had all been a game to him, just like the stupid thing he had going on with Apollo.  Another 'lesson' to prove that true love didn't really exist.  Skye felt as if she was going to vomit all over Hermes' shiny wingtips.  How could she have been so stupid? The whole invisibility thing had probably been a ruse as well.

Apparently oblivious to her soul-destroying epiphany, Hermes grinned at her.  'I need to tell him you're here.  You have no idea how he'll react when he finds out.'

Skye thought that she had a pretty clear understanding about how Coop would feel about her sudden appearance. 'Great,' she answered flatly. 'You go do that.'

Hermes threw his hands up in the air.  'Don't be daft! You can come in with me and show him yourself.'

'They won't let me in.'

Hermes looked momentarily nonplussed.  'Oh,' he said.  'That kind of makes sense.  Never mind.  I'll go and find Coop and bring him out here.'

Skye clenched her teeth.  No doubt this was so that Coop could humiliate her completely.  _Look at what reality is like_ , she imagined him taunting while the other gods and the stupid fuckwit of a guard looked on.  _How could I love you? You're just a pathetic human who can't even come into Olympus without my say-so.  _She let out a small moan of despair.

Hermes looked alarmed.  'Are you alright?'

She lifted up her head and looked him directly in the eyes.  'I'm fine,' she said.  'I can't wait to see Coop.  I'll stay right here while you go and get him.'

'Fabulous! Just hang on, this won't take long.' He moved past her and walked through the enormous gates, the guard not even registering his entry.

Skye watched as he was swallowed up by the marble interior.  She was damned if she was going to wait around here for Coop to treat her like she was a speck of dirt marring the perfection of his snowy white wings.  Screw that.  But she wasn't going to let him get away with this scot-free, either.  If he thought he could humiliate her, she'd find a way to humiliate him right back.  She had truly believed he was her one shot at happiness; right now the only thing preventing the pain in her heart from consuming her was the rage she felt at his casual manipulation.

'Lion, not mouse,' she said aloud.  Coop had enjoyed quoting Shakespeare.  He'd appreciate this quotation.  '"If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?' ''

Her voice was soft but the guard still turned his head and stared at her.  Skye dropped a melodramatic curtsey, then spun on her heel and left.

Less than five minutes later, Coop came flying out of the gates, his heart hammering with excitement.

'She came here!' he shouted to Hermes, who was falling behind.  'My mother and Zeus can hardly stop me from seeing her now.  It would be bad manners to ignore her and, Olympus knows, my bloody mother is all about manners.'

He came to a skidding halt when he realised the area in front of the palace was empty. 'Where has she gone?'

Hermes, panting, came up beside him.  'Er... she was right here.'

Coop slowly turned around and walked up to the guard. 'Where did she go?'  The emotion in his voice was barely under control.

The guard didn't answer.

'Where did she fucking go?' he yelled, pulling back a fist and slamming it into the shiny helmet.  'Did someone take her? Was she attacked?'

The guard didn't so much as flinch.

'Where is she?'

'Coop,' Hermes began.

Sick with worry, Coop looked at his friend in utter anguish.  'Find her, Herm.'

Hermes nodded and sprang up into the air.  Skye couldn't have gone far.

# Chapter Twenty-Five

It was true that Skye hadn't gone far – but she hadn't gone in the direction that anyone would have expected.  Rather than sticking to the trail, she had skirted the trees which lined the steep hills around Olympus and the ruins of Dion and begun doubling back.  There was more than one way to skin a cat, she thought grimly, keeping a close eye on the palace walls for any weaknesses or gaps.  The marble grandeur stretched back for what seemed like miles.  It didn't matter, she wasn't in a rush.  Not now.

As she made her way carefully along the tree-lined path, she replayed all the things Coop had said to her.

'I've finally discovered the meaning of true love,' she mimicked.  'You deserve the best, Skye.' What.  A.  Prick.

She was so caught up in her revenge fantasies that she almost missed the flicker of white by the towering palace wall.

'Pssst!'

Alarmed, she peered through the leaves to get a better look.  Her brow furrowed when she saw who was trying to get her attention: it was the old woman from Litochoro whose shopping she'd helped carry.

Skye warily stepped out from the trees and walked towards her.  The woman grinned manically, immediately bursting into a long babble of Greek.  Bemused, Skye shook her head to indicate that her inability to speak or understand Greek hadn't miraculously changed since that morning.  The elderly woman ignored her and continued to chatter while tugging on Skye's sleeve.  Still baffled by her sudden appearance, Skye let herself be led.  The woman took her right up to the very edge of the palace walls and pointed at them.

Skye shrugged helplessly.  'I don't know what you mean,' she said.

Without pausing for breath, the woman continued to speak, pointing first at the wall and then at Skye.

'I'm sorry,' Skye began.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, the woman took hold of Skye's hand and pushed it onto the surface of the wall.  It was cool and very, very smooth.  The elderly woman mimed climbing up it.

Skye shook her head.  'It's too tall and too perfect.  There's nothing I can grip on to.'

The woman nodded vigorously and began speaking more quickly.  She gesticulated fiercely, her hands waving down the length of the wall and then moving round in a circle.  Comprehension dawned.

'You're saying it's like this all the way round, aren't you? That the only way is past the guard.' Skye's posture deflated.  'You're saying I won't find a way in.'

The woman beamed at her.  Skye realised that, despite her age, she was still a strikingly attractive woman.  She had no idea why the woman had come here; it appeared she was trying to help her out.  At least there were still some nice people left in the world, Skye thought sadly.

She pursed her lips.  There were other ways to get revenge than confronting Coop in person.  She could cut up all his clothes back at the mansion, or throw paint over his car.  But that would only hurt him materially and Skye doubted it would make much difference to him, considering how wealthy he was.  No.  She needed to see him really hurting, the way that she was right now.

Her thoughts were interrupted by another stream of Greek from the woman.  Skye waited till she finished talking and then took her hand. 'Thank you,' she said.  'I don't know why you've helped me, but I appreciate it.  I just need to find another way to confront him.'

The woman cocked her head and fixed Skye with a steely gaze.  'Eros,' she said simply.

Skye stared at her.  That meant love, didn't it? She snorted.  'Not any more.' Her heart wrenched in pain.

The woman tsked and pulled out something from the bag at her feet.  Skye stared at it then looked at the woman's face.

'A grappling hook?' she said disbelievingly.

She received a wide grin in return.  The woman mimed throwing it up the wall and using the rope to clamber up.  Skye's eyes drifted to the wall, to the hook then back up to the wall again.

'Why do you have a grappling hook with you?'  She glanced at the old woman.  'Never mind.  Let's give it a shot.  How hard can it be to use this? I've seen a few ninja movies in my time.'

The woman's eyes widened for a moment then she handed over the implement and took a step backwards.  Skye's eyes travelled up the expanse of the wall.  It really was very high, at least thirty feet tall.  She glanced doubtfully at the hook in her hands.  It was a lot heavier than she'd expected.  The last time she'd tried to throw anything like this had probably been the javelin during her high school days.  After she'd sent it flying off course and almost impaled her PE teacher in the process, she'd avoided anything similar.

Taking a deep breath, Skye tried to focus and aim.  She was attempting to breach the walls of Olympus, where the Greek gods lived, with the help of a crazy pensioner who was apparently a cat burglar in her spare time.  Good grief.  Then Coop's face flashed into her mind and her resolve hardened.  She adjusted her arm slightly and threw the hook up with every ounce of energy she could muster.

The metal clanged noisily against the marble barely a few feet up the wall and fell back down, narrowly missing Skye's head.  It thudded down uselessly to the ground.

'Shit.' She picked it up and tried again.

This time she managed to get it higher but it was still nowhere near the top.  This was never going to work.  She was no ninja after all.  Skye looked back at the old woman and gave her a look of resignation.  The woman grinned in return and held up a single finger.  Puzzled, Skye was about to ask in English what she meant when a sudden crack rent the air around her.  As if from nowhere, the large figure of a man appeared, replete with flowing white locks.  Skye gaped.

The man's startlingly blue eyes slid in her direction then snapped to the woman, who was still there, grinning.

'Pandora!' he roared.

The old woman dipped slightly, before straightening up and blinking innocently.

The man let forth a torrent of angry Greek.  Pandora merely smiled back before calmly answering while pointing occasionally to Skye.  When she finished speaking, the man bent down and scooped up the grappling hook.  He turned to Skye and thrust it in her direction.

'She met you this morning,' he said.

It wasn't a question but Skye nodded quickly anyway.  She was absolutely terrified.  As the man spoke, he seemed to grow in stature.  His white hair suggested old age but there was nothing elderly about him.  Skye had the horrible feeling she knew exactly who he was.

'She was rather impressed at your determination,' the man continued.  He waved the hook close to her face.  'You were never going to get into Olympus with this toy, however.  It seems to be my lot to be plagued by foolish humans today.' He appeared more exasperated than angry.  'So you're the girl who's finally caught Cupid's heart?'

Colour lit Skye's cheeks.  'Actually, no,' she said.  'I'm the girl who he treated like an idiot.  He thought he could play me for a fool! He thought he could pretend to be in love with me just for kicks! Well,' she blustered, 'he can't!'

The man pulled the hook back and absent-mindedly scratched his chin with it.  'Interesting,' he murmured.

'Interesting?' shrieked Skye.  'Interesting? This is my life he's been playing with! You lot might be gods but you've got no right to treat us as if we're you're playthings!'

The man raised his eyebrows.  'I'd been led to believe you were quiet and shy.'

Skye blinked.  'Coop's been talking about me? To you? But aren't you...?'

He nodded.  'Zeus.  King of the Heavens to you.'

'Oh.' Skye's voice returned to a squeak.

'I can see why he likes you,' Zeus mused.  'It's almost a shame he's forbidden from ever seeing you again.'

'Forbidden? But...'

'You broke your promise,' Zeus said gently.  'You were not to attempt to see him in his corporeal form.  By doing so, you revealed your human fallibility.' He shrugged. ' _Que sera sera.'_

'What?' There was a high note to Skye's voice.  'Was this your idea? Or his?'

'I think it was my son's.'

'Apollo,' Skye breathed.

'Just so.  Now tell me, why do you not believe Cupid loves you?'

'He doesn't like being called that,' she snapped.  'His name is Coop.'

Zeus smiled faintly.  Skye realised she'd just scolded the most powerful god on Earth and swallowed, focusing on answering his question instead.

'I thought he'd contrived everything,' she explained.  'To get me out of his life.  That's why Hermes went to my friend and told her about Coop.  So I'd want to prove her wrong and would return to Greece to see him before I was supposed to.'

'Hermes did that?'  Zeus snapped his fingers together and, almost immediately, the messenger's figure appeared.

'Your Majesty,' he bowed, 'I am yours to command.  I just wonder if perhaps you could give me a bit of time first.  You see, there's a girl...' Hermes' voice trailed off when he saw Skye and his mouth dropped open.  'You're here?'

She scowled at him.  'As you see.'

Zeus ignored her.  'Hermes, did you speak to this girl's friend last week?'

'What?' He looked surprised.  'No.  I don't know what you're talking about.'

'But Emma said...' Skye began, before faltering.  Then her eyes narrowed.  'Emma said it was Hermes.  It could actually have easily been someone _pretending_ to be Hermes.  Someone like your son.'

'You mean Apollo.'

Skye nodded miserably.  At every opportunity she'd had to trust Coop, she'd failed.  He'd not been trying to get rid of her after all.

Zeus seemed to read her thoughts.  'You doubt him a lot.'

'I...' she hung her head.  'Yes, I do.'

Zeus made to turn away.  'And that was your downfall.'

'Wait!' Skye cried.  'If your son hadn't got involved, then I wouldn't have gone to see Coop.'

'You have no proof Apollo did this.' Zeus frowned.  'Although I wouldn't be surprised if he did.'

'So? You're the King! Give us another chance!'

He shook his head.  'I can't.'

Pandora said something.  Hermes leaned in to Skye. 'She's saying that Zeus forgave her once for being too curious.  Therefore he should forgive you too.'

Skye shot the old woman a grateful look.  So she really was _that_ Pandora then.

'That was a long time ago,' answered Zeus in English.

Making one last-ditch attempt, Skye wrung her hands.  'I didn't promise!'

'Hmmm?'

'I didn't promise I wouldn't see Coop.  I never said the words.'

'But it was implied.'

'I didn't promise,' she repeated stubbornly.

Zeus's eyes bored into her, as if searing her soul.  Skye held her breath.  Please, she prayed inwardly.  Oh, please.

'Wait here,' he said gruffly.  Then, as quickly as he had appeared, he vanished.

Skye turned to Hermes.  'I'm sorry,' she said guiltily.  'I thought...'

He put a hand on her shoulder.  'It's okay.  I understand.'

'Do you think Zeus will let me see Coop?'

Pandora shook her head.

'No,' agreed Hermes.  'He can't.  The deal was done and Zeus cannot change it.' He squeezed her shoulder.  'There's still hope though.'

'What do you mean?'

'He may just manage to get you a little wiggle room.  He is the King of the Heavens, after all.'

'Nothing's changed,' said Aphrodite.  'Even if the girl didn't promise, she still revealed her weak human nature when she sneaked in to see him.'

'One might argue she was provoked into that action,' said Zeus mildly.

'He's my son.  Nothing would make me happier than to see him in love.  But I want to see him with someone worthy of his attention.'

'By trying to scale the walls of Olympus, she has perhaps proved her worth.  It was a bold move.'

'It was a foolish and impetuous move.  I need Coop to be with someone who will encourage him to mature.  Not someone who will allow his adolescent behaviour to continue.'

'He loves her.'

'He _says_ he loves her.  He'll change his mind next week.'

'I don't think he will.  Aphrodite...'

'Fine,' she snapped.  'I will give her a second chance to prove herself.  But there will be no coming back this time if she fails.'

'You're not going to make it easy on her, are you?'

'He's my son.  He may be annoying and arrogant and immature, but he's still my son.  He deserves the best.  If she can't prove herself good enough for him, then it ends here.'

Zeus nodded.  'So be it.'

# Part III

'But Psyche, in a perfect consternation at the enormous work, sat stupid and silent, without moving a finger to the inextricable heap.'

Source: Thomas Bulfinch, _The Age of Fable; or, Stories of Gods and Heroes_ (1855).

# Chapter Twenty-Six

'Four tasks?'  Skye stared disbelievingly at Hermes.

He scratched his neck awkwardly.  'Yes.  But once you complete them, you and Coop will be free to be together.'

'I've heard that before.'

'You failed before,' Hermes pointed out gently.

'I didn't know it was a sodding test, did I?'  Skye balled her fists in frustration.  'And now I'm to be tested again? What is it with you bloody gods?'

'Skye...'

'And why four? I thought it was usually three tasks.  You know, in all the old stories the hero is given three feats to perform.'

Hermes coughed.  'Er, yes.'

Skye put her hands on her hips.  'Well?'

'Well, men get three.'

Skye stared at him.  'You're kidding me?  I get four because of my gender? It's harder because I happen to not have a penis?'

'I know it's not ideal.'

'Ideal?' she shrieked.  'It's completely unfair!'

'You're...' Hermes began, before faltering.

'What?' Skye snapped.

He swallowed.  'You're going to do them, right? Coop really is in love with you, Skye.  He's never been like this.  Not with anyone.  He'd do anything for you.'

'Except I'm the one who has to perform like a bloody circus seal to prove my worth while he gets to kick back and watch daytime television.'

Hermes looked pained.

Skye sighed.  'Of course I'm going to do the stupid tasks.  I promise I'll complete all four or die trying.  What else would I do? I'd do anything to be with him.' She closed her eyes briefly and pinched her nose as a fleeting image of Coop flashed into her mind.  'How hard are they likely to be?'

'Well, Aphrodite is setting them...'

'Aphrodite? Coop's mother? The woman who wouldn't even bother talking to me?'

'That's the one,' Hermes answered miserably.

'Great,' she said sarcastically.  'They'll be a piece of cake then.'

Skye kicked irritably at a clod of earth.  There was no alternative.  The thought of never being allowed to see Coop ever again sent a bolt of pain through her heart.  It didn't change the fact, however, that the foibles of these stupid gods were patently ridiculous.  She wasn't a hero.  She wasn't brave.  She was just a typical, average, run-of-the-mill woman.  How on earth was she going to complete four godly feats?

As if reading her mind, Hermes gave her a sympathetic look.  'They won't be impossible,' he said softly.  'That would defeat the purpose.'

'Oh yeah? And what exactly _is_ the purpose, other than making me look like a total idiot and a weak pathetic human?'

'Proving your worth.' At her look of derision, Hermes continued hastily, 'Coop knows your worth.  In fact he believes he's the one not worthy of you.  But you have to understand how his mother feels.  There are girls all over the place who'd give their eye teeth to be with him.  She wants to make sure her son ends up with the right person.'

'He's a god.  He's got to be hundreds of years old.  Why can't he be allowed to make up his own mind?'

Hermes just watched her.

Skye sighed again.  '"Action is eloquence.'''

'Huh?'

'Shakespeare.' She straightened her shoulders.  'Very well.  If this is what I have to do, then so be it.  What's first?'

'I'm to transport you to the first place.'

'And where is that?'

Hermes looked uncomfortable.

'Oh, I get it,' said Skye, 'you can't tell me.'

Hermes shook his head.

'Can you give me any hints at all?'

'I don't know what you'll be asked to do.  It will be possible though, Skye, even if it doesn't appear to be to begin with.'

She looked him in the eye.  Hermes was facing her with a look of absolute sincerity.

'Then let's do it,' she said decisively.  'Take me to it.'

'Are you sure? You can have a rest first and start tomorrow if you wish.  It doesn't have to be now.'

'The faster I complete these stupid tasks,' Skye grumbled, 'the faster I can see Coop again.'

Hermes bowed his head.  'So be it.'

He grasped her arm, instructing her to hold on tight.  Skye shut her eyes, feeling a lurch of nausea.  Moments later, her nostrils were assailed by the reek of manure.

'Shit,' she said softly, feeling Hermes' hand leave her.  Then she opened her eyes.

A huge barn stood in front of her.  A long, deep sound made her jump.  Terrified, she whipped around, her eyes searching through the dusky twilight to find just what monster it was that made that noise.  When she realised it was nothing more than a cow, and that she was standing in the middle of a field, she relaxed slightly. There was no sign of Hermes.

'Brilliant,' she muttered to herself.  'Now what?'

With no indication of what she was supposed to do, Skye eyed the vast structure in front of her.  No doubt that was where she had to be.  Wind whipped round her as she mused about what might be inside the rickety edifice.  She tried desperately to recall what she knew of previous tasks from the old Greek stories her parents had read to her at bedtime.  Everything she could remember involved slaying terrifying creatures.  Skye glanced doubtfully down at herself.  Perhaps she should have spent more time in the gym and less time reading.  Then she might have had some muscles to help her in a fight.  Wasn't there something about eyes, throat, groin, that women were taught in self-defence classes? She shook her head, realising she was shaking.  If this really was a monster she had to defeat, then she had no hope.  But there was simply no alternative.

Taking a deep breath, Skye walked forward, willing her legs to feel more like steel and less like jelly.  There was a small door in the front of the barn which she tentatively pushed open.  She peered inside, unable to make out anything in the dark, gloomy interior.  A cow outside mooed again, making her jump.

'Don't be a wimp, Skye,' she told herself firmly.  Then she stepped inside.

A rich earthy smell assailed her.  The barn's interior was still too dark for much to be visible but fortunately there appeared to be no sign of any kind of monster.

Reaching behind her, Skye's fingers felt along the wooden wall next to the door.  She breathed a silent sigh of relief when she found a light switch and flicked it on.  For half a second nothing happened then, abruptly, there was a loud hum of electricity and the barn was bathed in a flood of light.

Blinking rapidly, Skye tensed.  Her eyes darted around while she carefully took a step backwards in case a fire-breathing, three-headed, five-tongued monstrosity decided to appear.  There was nothing, however.  The barn was empty apart from a mountain of grain reaching up towards the roof.  She chewed her lip.  Okay, now what?

Keeping her back pressed firmly against the rough wall of the barn, Skye sidled along to her left, attempting to peer round the huge mound, her eyes constantly flicking around for any sign of movement.  There was nothing.  A large wooden ladder stood against one wall, the door was at another and there was the grain in the middle.  No monsters, no gods, no anything.

Now that Skye was certain she was alone she felt bolder and left the safety of the wall to take a few tentative steps forward.  When there was no sudden roar or rush of an attack to fend off, she continued until she had covered a circuit of the whole space.  Her fear was dissipating and being replaced by annoyance.  What kind of task was it if she couldn't even work out what it was she was supposed to do?

Just then, her eyes caught something sticking out at the top of the grain mountain.  It looked like a piece of paper.  Glancing around quickly again to make sure she was completely alone, she walked forward.  There was nothing to do except climb up and retrieve whatever it was.

Skye lifted one leg.  As soon as her foot landed on the grain, it sank in.  She cursed and pulled up the rest of her body, leaning into the mound and using her hands to yank herself upwards.  Mini-avalanches began to tumble down the slope, impeding her progress.  It was like trying to climb up a pile of sludge.  Every time she seemed to get somewhere, her body weight shifted ever so slightly and she slid back down.  When she opened her mouth to gasp for air, she ended up with mouthfuls of grain and she could feel the tiny husks getting trapped between her body and her clothes, scratching her skin.

Taking a deep breath, Skye decided she would have to make a rush for the top.  She tightened her muscles and fixed her eyes on the summit, then sprang upwards, her hands and feet scrabbling at the surface of the sliding mountain.  Her fingers just managed to snatch the edge of the paper before she began falling back down again so, holding it tightly, she turned and jogged back down, leaving sunken footprints in the grain.  The last thing she wanted was to be smothered by it collapsing on top of her.

Back on the safety of the floor, and spitting out grain from her mouth, Skye smoothed out the paper.  There was a message on it, written in an elegant looping script.

* * *

_Contained here are two different types of grain, wheat and oats. You have until dawn to separate each out into two piles._

* * *

Skye turned the paper over.  There was nothing else, not even a signature.  She stared disbelievingly up at the huge grain mountain.  Dawn could be no more than ten hours away.

She reached in and scooped up a handful, tracing through it with her fingers.  The difference between the oats and the wheat was clear but there was so much. This appeared to be an impossible task.

'Well, you're not going to get anywhere by looking at it, Skye,' she scolded herself.  And at least there wasn't a monster to defeat.

Realising there was little time to spare, and with the wind outside causing a few grains to fly upwards, Skye went back to the barn door, turned the latch and returned to the mountain. She squatted down and got to work, taking up handfuls and spreading them out on the floor, then picking out all the flakes of oat and setting them to one side.  She worked quickly, her fingers moving through the grain and deftly separating out the different types.  Her eyes stung from the dust and her neck ached but she continued, getting faster and faster as time passed.

After what seemed to be a couple of hours, Skye looked up to take stock.  Her heart sank.  She had barely made a dent in the heap.  The two piles were tiny compared to the mountain in front of her.  She rocked back on her heels and massaged her neck.  Outside, the wind continued to howl around the barn.  The wooden walls creaked and groaned but at least inside was warm.  It was certainly more sheltered than the ruins she'd been forced to hide in during the storm she'd been caught in on the way to Litochoro.  That was scant comfort, though.  Dawn was only a few hours away, and she would need a month to separate the grain.  She'd never get it done in just one night by using her hands.

Trying not to panic, Skye picked up a single wheat grain and examined it carefully.  Then she did the same with an oat.  They were clearly different sizes.  Perhaps all she needed was a sieve.  A very, very large sieve.  She put her hands to either side of her head and thumped her temples.  There had to be a way to fashion one.

Skye stilled.  Fashion.

She was wearing jeans, a t-shirt and her coat.  None of those would work but her underwear might because her bra was made of intricate lace.  She blushed as she remembered that the last time she'd worn it was when she was with Coop.  It was a kind of poetic justice if the scrap of material would also help her return to him.

She reached under her top and unclasped her bra, pulled down one strap and extricated her left arm, then her right.  She yanked at the material, freeing it from her clothes and frowned at it.

The cups were rather small.  Not for the first time, she wished she'd been born with larger breasts.  It still might work though.  Taking a small handful of the grain, she dropped it into one of the bra cups and shook, exhaling loudly as the majority of the wheat fell through the gaps in the lace while the larger oats remained in the bra.  Skye grinned to herself.  It wasn't a perfect method, but it had to be better than her hands.

She quickly developed a rhythm.  She pushed in her bra and scooped up the grain, then shook each cup to free the wheat onto one pile and emptied the remaining oats onto the other pile.  Some of the wheat clung stubbornly inside, catching on the lacy material.  It was fairly easy to get hold of those husks, however, and suddenly she was moving much faster than before.  Skye was aware she would never have time to separate out the entire mountain.  She would just have to hope that by managing to sort a large amount of it, Aphrodite would let her off.

Skye was so intent on her task that she blocked out everything else.  Scoop, shake, empty.  Scoop, shake, empty. For that reason she didn't notice the wind picking up and the door to the barn beginning to strain and bang against the latch.  The rusty nails holding it in place were no match for the might of the wind.  She stopped for a moment to wipe the sweat from her brow – and that was when the door burst open, allowing the wind's full force to gust in.  Before she could react, her two neat piles of separated grain were blown up into the air.

Yelling, Skye scrambled to her feet, waving her arms and attempting block the wind from destroying her hard work further.  It was too late though.  Everything she'd achieved so far had been destroyed, every separated grain pushed back against the original mountain.

Skye's mouth dropped as she stared in horror.  She ran back to the door and pushed it but, with the latch broken, she had no way of keeping it closed.  Swirls of grain blew up from the mound, mixing with each other.  She sank down against the wall and watched helplessly.  There was nothing she could do.  Dawn was little more than a couple of hours away and she had failed.

Her eyes pricking with tears, she followed the movement of a few errant oat flakes, dancing in the wind as if they were taunting her.  Skye cursed aloud and swiped at them but they jerked away from her, merrily sweeping upwards through the air.

'Bloody oats!' she cried, flapping her arms out towards them.

Then she stopped. 'Oats,' she said again, although this time in a whisper.

Only the oats were flying around because they were light enough to be picked up by the wind.  The wheat grains moved but they were far heavier and weren't carried as far.

Her mouth was dry.  Skye knew exactly what she needed to do.  Ignoring the flapping barn door, she ran to the other side of the building.  There was only the one entrance but, far above her, on the opposite side to the door, there was a large skylight set into the roof.  It was covered in glass and Skye could make out the night sky with the stars glistening above.  The tinge of purple indicated the approach of dawn.  It didn't matter, though; suddenly there was a way out of her predicament.

The ladder was heavy but it wasn't far away from the skylight.  She yanked it along the wall a few metres.  When it felt stable and it was close enough, she began to climb.  The skin around her fingers was tender from all her work separating the grains but Skye ignored the pain and pushed herself upwards as fast as she could.  It was fortunate the ladder was tall enough to reach the sloping skylight; if it hadn't been, all would have been lost.  But even though she managed to reach it, there appeared to be no way to open the window itself.

Without thinking, Skye pulled off her shoe and grasped it in her right hand.  Averting her face, she smashed the heel into the window as hard as she could.  At first nothing happened but she continued, sensing that the glass was weakening.  Wobbling slightly on the ladder, Skye took a deep breath and flung her arm at the glass.  This time it worked and the window cracked.  She gulped in relief and hit it again.  The glass broke off into several shards.  Taking care not to cut herself, she gingerly broke off enough pieces to create a large gap, then quickly slid back down the ladder.

'Come on,' she whispered.

Creating a gap into the outside world worked perfectly.  There was now a howling wind tunnel between the door at the far end and the break in the window.  The airflow was strong enough to swoop through from one end of the building to the other.  Covering her eyes with her sleeve to avoid being blinded by the flying oats, Skye ran out of the barn, her hair whipping around in all directions.  Irate cows in the nearby field bellowed their displeasure and Skye shouted gleefully into the wind.

'Do it! Come on!'

She jumped around like a mad woman while, high above her, a tiny smile played around Zephyr's lips and the first glimmers of the sun appeared on the distant horizon.

# Chapter Twenty-Seven

'It's hardly perfect,' Aphrodite stated caustically, her eyes sweeping over the mound of oats, which had been pushed to the far end of the barn as a result of the gusting wind.  'Not all the grain is separated.'

'You are being somewhat unfair.'

'The task was to properly divide _all_ the wheat and oats.'

Zeus raised a single bushy eyebrow.  'In twelve hours? Even you have to admit that she did a good job with the time she had.'

'She had help.  She couldn't have done this alone.'

'Your son hasn't left Olympus for days.'

'That doesn't mean he didn't inveigle someone else into helping.'

'Aphrodite...'

'Fine,' she snapped.  'The girl passed.'

Zeus watched her, his face impassive.  'He is really in love with her.'

'The question is whether she returns the sentiment.'

'Perhaps if you spoke to her, you would gain a better understanding of her character.'

A look of pain crossed her face.  'Liking her won't mean anything.'

'Is that why you're avoiding speaking to her face to face? You're afraid you'll like her?'

Aphrodite turned away.  'I'm not afraid.'

'You'll need to let go of him sooner or later.'

'And if she proves herself worthy, then it will be sooner.  There are still three more tasks to go.  We'll see whether she can really come up with the goods or not.  Besides, I'm hardly the only one around here who has to deal with problematic children.'

'Apollo's not a child.'

'Neither is Coop.  It doesn't mean the pair of them don't act like three year olds sometimes.'

'You're changing the subject.'

The goddess didn't answer.  Instead, without even turning, she snapped her fingers and vanished.  Zeus remained where he was for another moment, his gaze thoughtful.  Then he too disappeared.

Outside the barn, Skye was pacing up and down.  She'd been too afraid to look inside to see whether her plan had worked and the wind tunnel she'd created had done its job.  The thought of going back home without seeing Coop ever again was too painful to consider.  She _had_ to have passed.

'You did it.'

Skye closed her eyes in relief for a moment, then turned to face Hermes.

'Good,' she answered briskly.  'What's next?'

'When was the last time you got some sleep?'

'I'll sleep when I'm dead,' Skye snapped.  'What's next?'

Hermes eyed her warily.  'You're a lot more... angry than you used to be.'

'Well, I've got a lot more reason to be, don't you think?'

'Don't let them change you, Skye.  Don't let all this,' he gestured vaguely towards the barn, 'change you.'

'I'm still the same person.  I'm just getting mightily tired of being treated like a toy.'

For once it was Hermes who looked embarrassed.  'The gods are fickle.  And jealous.  And often slightly unbalanced.  Being immortal does that to you.'

'You're not like that,' she pointed out.  'Coop's not like that.'

Hermes smiled faintly.  'Not since he met you anyway.'

Skye blushed ever so slightly.

He grinned at her.  'Now that's the Skye I know.'

She squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye.  'Stop delaying and take me to the next task.'

He sighed.  'Okay.  Just be careful with this one.  Not everything is what it seems.'

Skye opened her mouth to ask him what he meant but before the words could form she was standing alone in a different location.  There was no sign of the barn and no sign of Hermes.  Instead, she was facing a gushing river and several fields, all cordoned off with barbed-wire fencing.  The gods of Olympus clearly had a thing for farming.

Looking around for another note to tell her what she was supposed to do, Skye felt buoyed by her earlier success.  As long as she kept her wits about her, these stupid tasks would be a piece of cake.  Hermes was right that the gods were fickle, jealous and unbalanced; what he'd failed to mention was that they'd obviously underestimated her.  Maybe she wasn't Hercules, but that didn't mean she couldn't pass these tests.

'Roar,' she whispered.  Then louder, 'Roar!'

'I had been told to expect a young human woman,' came a voice seemingly from nowhere, 'not a lion hybrid.'

Startled, Skye whipped round her head.  She was still alone, so where the hell had the voice come from?

'Hello?'

'Hello!' came the cheerful rejoinder.

Skye looked upwards at clear blue sky.  There was nothing there other than a few fluffy white clouds.

'Where are you?'

'I'm here, of course.'

Skye couldn't pinpoint where the voice was coming from over the sound of the river. 'Where's here?' she asked, exasperated.

'Right in front of you.  Can't you see me? See me! See! Get it?' The voice's owner laughed.

Skye frowned and took a step towards the river.

'There you go.'

She wrinkled her nose.  'You're the river?'

'The river is the river.'

What on earth was that supposed to mean? 'And the sky is the sky,' she responded.  'Except when Skye is me.'

'You're a sky god?'

'No,' she answered slowly, 'but you're a river god?'  She tried and failed to keep the question out of her voice.

'Well done! My name is Asterion.'

'Hi.'

'We've already done this part,' Asterion said solemnly.

'I suppose we have.  So?'

'So what?'

'Are you going to tell me what my task is?'

'Oh, that.  You need to collect the wool from the sheep in the field up ahead.  There's only one.  You'll know the wool when you see it.'

'That's it?'

'That's it,' he replied breezily.

'How much am I supposed to get?'

'An armful will do.'

That was remarkably vague, Skye thought to herself.  Then she remembered what Hermes had said. 'Is there anything else I should be aware of?'

'Ah! This one's no fool,' laughed Asterion.

Getting impatient, Skye folded her arms.  'Well?'

'I'm a river god, not a well god.  They're dank and smelly.  Surely even a human can tell the difference?'

Asterion brought new meaning to the phrase 'babbling brook'.  Skye sighed inwardly. 'Of course I can,' she said, trying a different tack.  'You're fresh and fast.  I truly admire your stunning crystal swell.  And even in winter, the song of spring is evident in your river shallows.'

'Why, thank you,' Asterion said.

Thank you John Keats for writing so many poems which featured rivers in them, Skye thought.

'You're welcome.' She leaned down towards the water and lowered her voice.  'Can you tell me what I need to watch out for?'

'Sadly no.  I am forbidden from revealing anything about this task by command of Zeus himself.'

Skye rolled her eyes.  Typical.

'But I can tell you my sister Lethe has a very sweet tooth.'

'Eh?'

'E, I, O, U.'

Skye blinked.  This was getting too weird. 'Alright,' she said finally.  'Thank you for your help, Asterion.' Such as it was.

'My pleasure, fair lady.'

Skye smiled overly brightly in the vague direction of the river, then bent down and took off her socks and shoes, rolled her jeans up to her knees and started wading across.  The water was icy cold and made her gasp aloud while the stones on the river bed were slippery. More than once, she had to pause to regain her balance. But it was nothing more than a river.

Hermes had said not everything was what it seemed.  Had he meant that in relation to Asterion? Skye shook her head: she really had no idea.  And considering she'd just held a conversation with a river, she was probably the crazy one.

Pulling herself out, she shook her legs and rubbed them down to dry them off as best she could, then padded to the edge of the field, carefully scanning every inch of it while she put her socks and shoes back on.  She couldn't see a sheep anywhere.  There seemed to be plenty of cows, placidly chewing the grass and ignoring her, but she couldn't see anything else.  Skye walked down the length of the fence, searching the entire expanse.

A flicker of movement caught her peripheral vision and she turned to glance at it, before being forced to shield her eyes suddenly as whatever it was glinted brightly in the morning sun.  Skye squinted towards the glare, trying to work out what it was.  Her mouth dropped open in astonishment: it was indeed a sheep.  Sort of.  It was the same size as a sheep and to all intents and purposes it was the same shape as a sheep.  This animal, however, wasn't covered in a white fleece; its coat was a rich, burnished gold.  The glare from the sun bouncing off it made it painful to look at.  Then the sheep trotted back behind the tree it had been hiding behind and Skye's vision returned to normal.

'A golden sheep,' she murmured to herself.  'Unbelievable.'

No wonder she'd been tasked with collecting its wool; a cardigan made of that material would be a sight to behold.  She smirked at the thought of Coop's glamorous mother with a pair of knitting needles.  Perhaps not.

Without pausing further, Skye carefully pushed down the barbed wire fence so she could clamber over it.  Sheep were hardly vicious creatures – but then sheep didn't usually have such valuable fleeces so it was entirely possible this was some kind of man-eater.  She could just make out the gleaming edge of its coat from behind the oak so she made a beeline straight for it, her eyes searching the ground for something to coax it into submission long enough for her to pull off what she needed.  The least Aphrodite could have done was to supply her with some shears, she thought ruefully.  She didn't want to hurt the animal.

A thought occurred to her.  Her skin was scratching where a few grains were trapped in her clothes.  Surely a sheep, even a golden one, would appreciate some wheat and oats.  Grinning to herself, Skye paused and began to shake out her jeans and t-shirt.  Several grains fell onto the grass under her feet.  She reached under her t-shirt to grab the flakes of oat which were still trapped in the fabric of her bra, taking a quick glance around in case anyone happened to be watching.  Then she bent down to scoop up her meagre findings.

Suddenly, there was a tremendous bellow.  Skye looked up, her insides transforming into jelly as she realised where the sound was coming from.  The cows, which had been contentedly chewing away while she was safely on the other side of the fence, were bearing down upon her.  She had just enough time to spot gleaming white fangs protruding from the beasts' large, cavernous mouths before she dropped everything, turned and ran.

Her heart was hammering against her ribcage as she pumped her legs as fast as she could.  She covered the distance back to the fence in a time which any sprinter would have been proud of but, when she was barely an arm's reach away, her toe connected with a stone and she went flying flat on her face.  Skye had only just registered what had happened when a sharp pain, worse than anything she'd ever felt before, tore into her. One of the smaller cows, which was clearly faster than the others, had sunk its jaws into her calf.

Skye shrieked, desperately trying to get back to her feet and safety beyond the fence.  The beast's teeth tore through her flesh while the remainder of the herd thundered towards her.  With an inarticulate yell, she yanked hard, freed herself from the cow's jaws and vaulted over the barbed wire.  The denim of her jeans caught on the wire and ripped and Skye fell forward.  She turned quickly to make sure the fence would hold the monstrous cows.  As one they had stopped, frozen like statues, and watched her with huge limpid brown eyes.  Then they turned and slowly trotted away.

Breathing hard, Skye stared at her leg and the stream of blood.  She gingerly pulled away the torn fragments of denim but, when she saw the wound reaching through her flesh and exposing the bone, she fainted dead away.

Skye had no idea how long she'd been unconscious.  The sun was high in the sky when she opened her eyes.  She tried to sit up but her stomach roiled with nausea and she felt so dizzy she was sure she was about to pass out again. Gritting her teeth, she took several quick shallow breaths.  The pain in her calf was intense.  Not even jellyfish stings could come close to a cow's bite.  She chided herself for not considering the animals might be a threat.  Her success at the barn had caused her to become far too complacent; she'd almost paid for that complacency with her life.

Aphrodite didn't just want her to fail, she thought dully.  The goddess wanted her dead.  For some reason, that strengthened her resolve rather than weakened it.  Skye shrugged out of her coat and carefully peeled off her t-shirt, wincing in pain.  Before she could faint again, she bound the cotton material tightly around the wound to staunch the bleeding.  Then she forced herself back into her coat and staggered to her feet.

'I will not fail!' she shouted.  'Do you hear me? I will not fail!'

Nobody answered.  Feeling hopelessly alone, Skye staggered to the fence.  Even if those bloody cows ripped her to shreds, she was not going to give up.  She would never give up.

Despite the fact that her vision was blurry round the edges, she managed to spot the section of ripped denim clinging to the barbed wire.  Skye reached out and touched it with her fingertips.  Then she laughed aloud.

'You see?' she yelled again.  'I can do this!'

Moving carefully from fence post to fence post and doing everything she could to keep the weight off her wounded leg, she hopped round the field.  The terrible cows seemed to ignore her presence but she was fairly certain they were aware of where she was.  Regardless, she continued until she found what she was looking for.  At various points around the field, golden curls were caught on the barbed wire.  The sheep had obviously brushed against the fence at different times and sections of its fleece had been pulled away.  In one corner there was a bush where she gathered several gleaming handfuls.  Although she was moving slowly, it wasn't long before she had an armful.

A wave of agonising pain hit her and she collapsed backwards, still clutching the soft fleece. 'Told you so,' she murmured, before she closed her eyes and blackness took over once again.

Moments later, freed from the golden chains of Olympus, Coop was by her side.  His hands were shaking with rage as he gently smoothed back Skye's sweat-soaked hair and brushed the blood soaking through the makeshift bandage on her leg.

'How could you let this happen, Mother?'  His voice was soft, but the steel lacing his tone left no doubt as to his true feelings.

Aphrodite's face was pale.  'I didn't want her to get hurt.'

'No,' he snarled, 'you just wanted to keep us apart.  So much for being dedicated to the course of true love.'

'Coop,' she began.

'Fuck off.'

He rearranged Skye's limbs and lifted her carefully up in his arms, holding her warm body against his broad chest.  He gazed tenderly down at her, before sending his mother a look of absolute loathing.  Then his wings unfurled and he flew up into the air, taking Skye with him.

# Chapter Twenty-Eight

Skye wasn't quite sure where she was but she felt very warm and very safe and very comfortable.  There was a slight throbbing in her leg but it was little more than an irritant.  Of far greater importance was the hard body pressed against the length of her back and the arm curled round her waist.

She sighed happily.  'Coop.'

'I'm here,' he murmured in her ear, pulling her even closer against him.

Skye yelped in surprise and she sat up, twisting round to stare at the tanned contours of his face as he smiled up at her.

'It's over,' he said softly.

'I don't understand.'

He pulled himself up to her level and gazed into her eyes.  'Just know that everything's going to be alright from now on.'

He planted a long, lingering kiss on her lips.  Skye moaned.  This was almost too good to be true.

She suddenly withdrew.  'I'm not dreaming, am I?'

Coop laughed.  'No, you're not dreaming.'

'The fleece?'

'You got it.  You collected an armful.  You showed all of them, Skye.  I'm so sorry my stupid actions put you through all that.  I won't let anything happen to you ever again.'

She frowned.  'But there are still two more tasks.'

He caressed her cheek.  'You don't need to worry about them.  You've proven your worth.  My mother has agreed to let you off.'

'But...'

'Shhhh,' he said.  'Everything is fixed.  We have an audience with Zeus in an hour and then you're free.  We're free.' He smiled.  'So come on, get your lazy arse out of bed.  We'll have plenty of time for that later.'

Skye's cheeks warmed.  Coop laughed again, happy lights dancing deep in his eyes.  He slapped her playfully on the thigh.

'We'd better not keep the King of the Heavens waiting.'

Barely forty-five minutes later, the pair of them were standing in Zeus's magnificent throne room, their fingers intertwined.  Despite being next to Coop, Skye was still hopelessly intimidated.  The large room was packed with people of all shapes, sizes and forms.  Some, such as Hermes, were openly happy to see her; others appeared merely curious.  And there were, admittedly, one or two who appeared hostile.  Apollo, in particular, was standing up near the dais and glowering at them.  There was a hint of mockery on his face as he watched them.

Coop squeezed her fingers.  'It'll be fine,' he whispered.  'Just don't forget to breathe.'

Skye swallowed.  Her legs were shaking.  She'd rather face the carnivorous cows again than stand here in this vast marbled room with so many eyes fixed upon her.

Aphrodite, draped in a long, elegant gown, glided over to them and inclined her head. 'Ms Sawyer,' she said stiffly, 'I apologise for any physical hurt you sustained during the course of your tasks.'

Skye tightened her grip on Coop's hand, aware he was on the verge of saying something he'd later regret.  He answered with a reassuring caress, his thumb stroking her palm.

Skye lifted her head and looked Aphrodite in the eyes.  'That's okay,' she said softly.

Something flitted across the goddess's face, then she pasted on a smile.  Skye watched her carefully, suddenly understanding why the abrupt volte-face.  If Aphrodite continued forcing Skye to complete the tasks, she'd have lost Coop forever, regardless of the outcome.  In order to keep her son, Aphrodite had yielded.  It had nothing to do with Skye proving herself as brave or resourceful or worthy of Coop's love.

Aphrodite opened her mouth to say something else and Skye tensed.  But a sudden fanfare sounded, indicating Zeus's arrival, and the goddess fell back.  A trickle of self-doubt ran down Skye's spine.

'What's wrong?' Coop whispered.

She shook her head, not trusting herself to answer and turned instead to watch Zeus approach.  He strode forward looking every inch the king, and towering over the assembled crowd, who knelt as he swept past in an odd mimicry of a Mexican wave.  When he reached Coop and Skye, she dropped into a curtsey, feeling both foolish and clumsy.  She inwardly cursed as, yet again, she began to blush.

Zeus ascended the steps in front and turned to face them.  His blue eyes were looking upon her kindly but Skye still felt terribly awkward.

'So,' his voice boomed, cracking through the room like the lightning he purportedly carried, 'today we meet to smooth out the matter of the human, Skye Sawyer.  What say you, Cupid?'

Coop cleared his throat and stepped forward, although his fingers still clung to Skye's. 'Skye was given four tasks to complete to prove her worth.  She has successfully finished two.  I petition Your Majesty to set aside the remainder of the tasks and allow us to live out our lives together.  To this end, I relinquish my immortality and position.'

An audible gasp filled the room and a shiver of horror ran through Skye.  Coop hadn't told her that was what he was planning.  She glanced at Aphrodite and saw misery etched all over her beautiful face.  Oh gods.

Zeus folded his arms.  'You can't just give up being a god.'

'Why not?'

Zeus shook his head and tutted.  'Aphrodite.  The tasks were yours to set.  Are you prepared to drop the matter?'

She took a step forward, but before she could speak, Skye pulled her hand away from Coop's. 'Zeus,' she said, rather more loudly than she'd intended. 'I mean, uh, Your Majesty.'

He frowned and looked down at her.

'What are you doing?' Coop hissed.

'I don't agree,' Skye said.

Clearly taken aback, the King of the Heavens blinked at her.  'Excuse me?'

Skye moved forward.  'I said I don't agree.  I was given four tasks to complete.  I will complete those tasks.  I will not leave a job unfinished.'

Coop looked stricken.  Skye glanced around from Aphrodite to Apollo and then back to Coop.  She smiled at him reassuringly. 'I love you,' she said simply.  'More than I ever thought I could love anyone.  You're my heart.  My life.'

'So why the hell are you doing this?'  The agony in his voice was evident.

'Because otherwise I'll never be truly accepted as worthy of you.  I promised to finish every task and that's what I'll do.  I will not have you give up everything for me.'

'I'm giving up nothing, Skye.  Don't you see that? If it means I can be with you then I'm giving up nothing.' His eyes pleaded with her.

'You are aware, Ms Sawyer,' interrupted Zeus, 'that if you go ahead with the tasks and fail, the terms state you will never see Cupid again?'

She looked at him steadily.  'I am aware of that.  But you have to see that I won't fail.  I can't fail.  I will honour my promise and see the remaining tasks through.  It was doubt that caused the problems between Coop and me to begin with.  I won't allow there to be any lingering doubt.'

'I rather think it is us as gods who have proved ourselves unworthy of you, Ms Sawyer,' said Zeus quietly.  'Very well.  You will receive the details of the third task this afternoon.  Whether you succeed or fail, know that you have our admiration.'

Without saying another word, Zeus strode down the stairs.  When he reached her, he stood for a moment in front of Skye and bowed his head.  Then he moved past, and walked out of the room.

'I've never spoken in front of so many people before,' Skye said shakily.

Coop grabbed her shoulders.  'What in hell have you done?'

'What was right.'

The others in the room began to walk out silently.  Skye looked up in time to see a flicker of approval in Aphrodite's eyes before she also turned and left.

'Skye, if you fail...'

She smiled at him, raising her hand to touch his cheek.  'But I told you.  I won't fail.' She tried to ignore the twist in her stomach which suggested otherwise.

'You know I love you, Skye Sawyer.'

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him.  'And that's why I have to do this.  I'd better go and get ready.  The sooner these two tasks are completed, the sooner we can be together.'

Coop watched her go, pain and pride warring inside him and his fingertips absently brushing his lips where the taste of her still lingered.

Behind him, Apollo cleared his throat.  'You don't deserve her, you know.'

Refusing to rise to the challenge, Coop gave the Sun God a half smile.  'I know.'

'I thought that you'd be more of a man, Cupid.  She's out there, risking her life to complete your mother's tasks while you top up your tan.'

'Maybe being a man means not treating her as if she's made of glass,' Coop remarked, turning to face his one-time adversary.  'If I could stop her from doing this I would, but she's her own person and I have to respect that.'

Apollo snorted.  'I wonder if you'll still be singing the same tune when she comes back to you in a body bag.'

'She won't,' he answered quietly.  'She won't fail.'

'You don't know that.'

'She told me she won't fail.  I trust her.'

'How do you know she's decided she just doesn't want to be with you, eh? Maybe this is her escape route.  Maybe even death is better than being with you.'

Coop lifted up his chin, a fathomless expression flitting across his face.  'I'm sorry.' He sounded as if he meant it.

Apollo blinked.  'For what?'

'For the way I acted towards you before.  It was stupid and I see that now.  And I'm sorry that you only briefly understood what it means to experience true love.  It changes everything.  I hope one day you'll feel it for yourself.  Otherwise what's the point in living?'

The sincerity in his voice was genuine.  Apollo, however, glared at him with distrust.

'Be happy, Apollo,' said Coop.  He gave him a smile and followed everyone else out, leaving the Sun God gaping after him.

Standing yet again outside the imposing gates of Olympus, Skye wondered whether she had made the biggest mistake of her life.  She'd been given a way out and she'd refused to take it.  The assembly of gods might have approved of her actions; she had definitely seen respect in many of their eyes, even those of Apollo.  But if she failed the remaining two tasks, that respect would be worthless.

Hermes appeared by her side.  'Here,' he said, handing her a chunky black box covered in velvet.

Skye, momentarily surprised by its weight, turned it over in her hands.  'What is it?'

'A container,' he answered, looking troubled.  'It's made of crystal so you'll have to be careful not to drop it.'

'Thank you.'

'You don't know what you have to do with it yet,' he replied grimly.  'The tasks were set before you began, so even if Aphrodite wanted to make them easier, she couldn't.'

Skye gazed at him.  'Do you think I made the wrong decision?' she asked softly.

'You mean continuing?'

She nodded.

Hermes shrugged.  'I can see why you did it.  Coop shouldn't have said what he did about giving up his immortality and status.  It doesn't work like that.  He was being dramatic.'

Skye gave a small smile.  'He certainly achieved that.  It wasn't the reason why I said I didn't want to give up, though.  It just gave me a little nudge, that's all.'

'So why then?'

'I'm not a quitter.  I promised to see this through so that's what I'll do.' Skye hoped the tremor running down her spine wasn't evident in her voice.  'But more than that, I would never be accepted if I just gave up.'

'Accepted by the gods? Most of them were on your side to begin with.'

'By the gods.  But by Aphrodite, in particular.  The breach between her and Coop is obvious to see.'

Hermes eyed her.  'They'd make it up sooner or later.'

Skye shook her head.  'I don't think they would.  Especially if she never truly likes or respects me.  It means little to me what she thinks, but it means a hell of a lot to Coop.'

'It's true that he would never forgive her if she didn't fully accept you.  If you do this, she'll not just say she respects you, she'll actually believe it.'

'Exactly.  And Coop won't have to spend the rest of his life hating her.'

'He's immortal,' Hermes reminded her gently.

A tiny frown crossed Skye's forehead.  'Yes,' she sighed.  'He is.'

She no longer had any lingering doubts as to Coop's real feelings for her.  Whether those feelings would remain the same when she was an old woman while Coop remained eternally young would be a different matter.  She couldn't worry about that now.  There were far more pressing matters at hand.

'You know if you fail, he'll still hate her.'

She shook her head.  'No.  I'm the one who stepped up when I had the chance to back off.  He'll see that.' She gave Hermes a pointed look.  'You'd better make sure of that.'

'I will,' he agreed solemnly.  'But I'm not sure it'll do much good.  You'll just have to succeed.'

'I'll do my damned hardest.' Skye straightened her back.  'Well, come on then.  What's the task?'

Hermes bobbed his head towards the box she was still holding.  'You need to fill the crystal container with water.'

She gave him an arch look.  'It's not going to be as simple as that, now is it?'

His mouth twisted.  'No.  It needs to be water from the source of the river Styx.'

'Oh,' she said faintly.  'The river Styx.  Isn't that...?'

'Yeah.  You don't actually have to go to the Underworld though.' Hermes gave a short laugh.  'That would be crazy.  The source is located behind Angel Falls in Venezuela.'

'Angel Falls?'  There was a hint of irony in her tone.

'Hey, we didn't name it.  That's entirely down to you humans.'

She rolled her eyes.  'Whatever you say.  Is Styx a river god too? I mean, like Asterion?'

'Oh, they all are.  Styx, Acheron, Phlegethon, Lethe...'

'Lethe?'

Hermes grinned.  'Oh yes.  Word is she and Styx had a huge falling out.  They're barely on speaking terms.' At Skye's glance, he held up his hands.  'Hey, so we gods like to gossip sometimes.  It doesn't make us bad people.'

No,' she said slowly, 'it does make you very helpful though.'  She raised her eyebrows at him.  'Do you perhaps have a kitchen I could use before we leave?'

# Chapter Twenty-Nine

Hermes left Skye at the edge of the vast river next to Camaina camp, a rustic collection of tourist accommodation on the fringes of lush jungle.  He wrapped her in a tight hug before he vanished, leaving her in no doubt how much he hoped she would succeed.  She carefully shouldered her bag, the constricting weight of the crystal container in its box shifting as she did so.  Skye had packed the contents very carefully, doing everything she could to keep them from harm.

The jungle sounds were louder than she had expected.  There was a continuous hum of wildlife, from the chirrup of insects to the calls of exotic birds.  It wasn't as hot and steamy as she'd expected but the humidity was still a shock after the winter chill of Greece.  The verdant, emerald green blanketing the hills and mountains took her breath away.  She couldn't quite see the Angel Falls from where she currently stood; she had to admit that, despite the very odd circumstances, she was excited to visit them.

Spotting a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye, Skye turned to see an athletic-looking woman piling up several bright orange lifejackets.

'Hey!' she called out.  'When's the next trip to the Falls?'

The woman straightened up, surprised, and looked her over.  'You're one of the new tourists?' she asked, in heavily accented English.  'You arrived on the bus last night?'

Skye nodded, hoping her cheeks wouldn't betray her.  She could hardly explain she'd just been magically transported here by a Greek god.

'I, um, wasn't feeling well before,' she said.  Perhaps that would curtail further questioning on the woman's part.  Skye needn't have worried, however, as the woman obviously had little interest in who she was and how she'd got there.

'The boats are leaving now.'

Skye blinked.  'What? Where are they?'

The woman pointed at a path leading away from the huts.  'That way.  Next to the restaurant.  You'll miss them if you don't hurry.  There's not another trip until tomorrow.'

Alarmed at the thought that she might have to hang around and twiddle her thumbs for twenty-four hours, Skye immediately took off, speeding down the path.  Her heavy bag slammed rhythmically against her back and she cursed, reaching back to attempt to steady it.  When she caught sight of a long canoe up ahead, pushing away from the shore, and other boats already moving away down the river, she sprinted harder and yelled, 'Wait!'

No-one seemed to hear her above the jungle cacophony and the roar of the water.  Skye forced her legs to continue pumping and tried to ignore the lingering pain in her calf then, when she finally reached the shore, she sprang forward.  Water splashed in all directions as her body slammed into the large canoe and it rocked dramatically.  Finally hands were pulling her into the vessel, gripping her limbs and yanking her into place.

Skye twisted round, attempting to avoid squashing the precious contents of her backpack, and sat upright.  There were three tourists staring at her open mouthed while a man in the front, whom she presumed was the guide, was giving her a disapproving look.

'What did you think you were doing?' he snapped.  'The river is dangerous.  It's easy to be pulled under by the current, even when it's not deep.'

'I'm sorry,' she gasped.  'I didn't want to miss the boat.'

He muttered something inaudible under his breath and threw a spare lifejacket onto her lap.

'Thanks.'

'Are you staying at the cabins?' asked one of the men behind her, suspiciously.

'Er, sure,' she dissembled, turning to give him what she hoped was a dazzling smile.

'I've not seen you.'

'I hurt my leg,' Skye said, as if that answered everything.

A woman leaned forward and punched him on the arm.  'Scott, don't be so rude!'

'We've paid a lot of money for this trip,' he grumbled. 'The last thing we need is any freeloaders.'

Skye forced a laugh.  She didn't have a single cent on her.  The last thing she needed was to be dumped off the boat into the dangerous current because she'd not paid her dues.

'Ignore him,' the woman said, with the obvious twang of an Australian accent.  'He's just in a bad mood.'

The third man, seated at the very rear of the canoe, didn't say anything.  He was paying Skye scant attention, his eyes focused on the other couple. 'Yeah, give it a break, Scott,' he drawled.  Then he flicked his gaze quickly to the woman, as if seeking her approval.  She didn't notice.

Unsure how to respond, Skye smiled at them all then focused on the scenery.  She wondered idly whether Coop took requests.  It seemed apparent that grumpy Scott and the woman were an item – and that the other man wished things were different.  Then she scolded herself for even considering the idea.  She was starting to realise why Coop had become so cynical about his day job.  It was far too easy to manipulate people into falling in love.  And far too easy to make snap judgments about people based on fleeting conversations.  This sudden flicker of understanding about his feelings made her feel closer to him, despite them being thousands of miles apart.

The long canoe wended its way down the river, with the guide expertly manoeuvring it through rocks and rapids.  There were three other boats ahead, filled with people chattering excitedly and pointing out flora and fauna.  The closer they got to the roaring Angel Falls, however, the more nervous dread trickled through Skye's veins.  She was fairly certain her plan would work – but she'd been fairly certain it would be easy to gather an armful of shining golden fleece.  The last thing she needed was to be overconfident.

The valley walls on either side of the river were getting steeper and higher.  Even though it was a sunny day, the further the canoe travelled, the darker the surroundings seemed to get.  The forest became increasingly impenetrable, except for the luminous flashes of colour afforded by the occasional flap of tropical birds' wings.

Just as Skye was thinking about the brooding desolation of the jungle, and feeling like she was travelling into the South American version of the heart of darkness, the canoe twisted round a river bend and the waterfall came into view, thundering its way down the cliff.  Clouds of spray caught in the sunlight and hues of orange and red formed at the base of the towering force of nature.  Skye's eyes travelled upwards; she was awestruck at what she was seeing.  It seemed that everyone around her was feeling the same.  The Angel Falls stretched up towards the heavens as if they were a mile high.

'By Olympus,' she whispered to herself, her words swallowed up in the deafening tumble of water. The waterfall next to Olympus had been pretty, but it was nothing compared to the scale of these falls. She curled her fingers tightly into her palms.  If only Coop were here with her now so they could experience this together.

She glanced back at her temporary companions.  The woman was reaching forward, her hands on her boyfriend's shoulders while he was extending his own arms backwards for her.  Despite her previous – and possibly very wrong – judgment about their relationship, Skye shot them a happy smile before turning back.

Using his paddle, the guide pushed the boat towards the shore where the ground was scuffed and bare from hundreds of other recent tourists.  The other canoes were already emptying, people pulling out cameras and phones to take pictures which would never do justice to the imposing waterfall.  Skye closed her eyes momentarily, enjoying the cool spray on her skin, then she carefully stepped back onto dry land.

The guide secured the canoe and gestured them forward to a well-beaten path leading through the jungle and up closer to the base of the falls.  Skye allowed the others to go ahead of her then fell in behind them.  She'd have to hope that she could sneak off unnoticed as soon as possible.

Her chance came sooner than she'd expected.  Once the group came out into another clearing closer to the water's edge, they all began stripping off to their swimwear, keen to take a dip in the cool waters in such a magnificent setting.  The four guides clustered together, sharing food and chatting.  Fortunately, none of them had decided to quiz her about her sudden appearance.  Skye figured that the last thing they were expecting was for her to abruptly vanish into thin air.

Giving one last glance to double check they weren't watching her, she swung her backpack onto her shoulders and took off, her slight figure almost immediately swallowed up by the jungle.  This time there was no path, so she simply had to hope she was heading in the right direction.  Clearly, finding the bloody source of the Styx was going to be the most challenging part of this quest.  Skye could imagine herself getting lost in the thick undergrowth and heading deep into the jungle instead of towards the wall of water.  She paused several times to listen for the direction where the water was loudest to make sure she was moving towards the right place.

Soon she was dripping in sweat.  Her skin itched painfully where she'd been bitten.  She had no idea how the insects managed to crawl so quickly underneath her clothes to find the choicest bits of flesh to nibble on.

Finally the trees began to thin out and the cliff wall next to Angel Falls became visible.  Thanks to the continuous spray, the ground underfoot was slimy and slippery.  Skye reached out, palms flat against the smooth rock surface, and began to sidle along carefully.  The closer she got to the waterfall, the more nervous she felt.  The force of the water was getting stronger and even though all she was feeling was residue spray, it stung her skin.  At least there was enough of it to conceal her should anyone below decide to look up.

Once or twice she almost lost her footing and only just managed to cling on against the side of the rock wall.  Despite the large pool at the base of the falls where the tourists were frolicking, Skye had no doubt that were she to fall, she would hit the jutting rocks long before she hit the water.

Spotting a suitable foothold, she carefully raised up one leg and forced her toe into the space.  Then she reached upwards, her fingers seeking purchase in the cracks along the cliff's surface.  She didn't have enough upper body strength to hang on this way for long; she had to find the entrance and find it quickly.  Pulling her body upwards, she raised up her other leg, moving her foot around to find another crack.  As soon as she did so, however, she shifted her weight slightly and almost lost her balance, one arm flailing around in mid-air.

With her fingers already losing their grip, she pushed all thought out of her mind and swung back towards the cliff face, finally managing to grip tightly with both hands and both feet.  She remained there for a heartbeat, gratefully acknowledging the fact she was still alive, and then tried to reach higher up.

'"Faeries, come take me out of this dull world,''' she gasped, as her fingers scrabbled against the wet rock. '"For I would ride with you upon the wind, run on to the top of the dishevelled tide, and dance upon the mountains like a flame.'''

Her heart pounding, she found a space big enough to squeeze in her right hand and grip on.  The trouble was, it was at least a foot above her head and in order to grasp it properly, she had to jump upwards.

'Come on then, faeries,' she muttered to herself.  'Where are you when I need you?'

Her arms were already aching and, between the spray from the falls and the sweat that kept sliding off her brow and into her stinging eyes, it was difficult to see.  Gritting her teeth, she heaved her body to the right and tried to feel upwards with her fingertips on her left.  She waved them around in the air but somehow, no matter how far forward against the cliff wall she leaned, she couldn't connect her hand with its surface.  Skye frowned and tried a bit lower down. And that was when she felt the ledge.  Her fingers curled over its edge and her eyes widened.  Praise the gods.  With one heave, she stretched herself up, managing to pull her elbow over the lip of the ledge so she was more secure.  Then she used the toe of her trainers to bounce off the sheer cliff and launch herself upwards, finally yanking her body over the edge and rolling away from the dangerous abyss below her, her breath coming in short, heavy bursts.

After a few moments, she pulled herself up to sitting position and glanced out.  A large overhanging rock concealed the cave's surface from outside view.  Few people, if any, would be brave enough to climb up the waterfall's length without first knowing for sure that this cave existed.  If she looked over to her left, it appeared she'd barely clambered up any distance at all.  The small clearing where she'd begun her secretive ascent seemed little more than a few metres away.  But if she twisted her head to the right and looked down, her stomach lurched with dizzying vertigo.  The drop down to the pool on that side was perilously far away.

Without wasting any more time, Skye backed inside and turned around.  There was just enough room for her to squeeze through the claustrophobic tunnel, although she had to take off her backpack and push it ahead of her.  Fortunately, the tunnel was short, soon opening out into a cavernous space that stretched up through the roof of the mountain almost as far as the Angel Falls themselves.  There had to be a gap somewhere above, because a cascade of white water was falling down in the centre as if it were nothing more than a shower, glimmering flecks catching the remaining dull light that was seeping in from outside.  What was it with these bloody gods and waterfalls?

Clambering to her feet, Skye searched for signs of the Styx.  She knew from what little Hermes had told her that she would immediately recognise the source because of its thick brackish blackness.  She moved deeper into the cave, avoiding the shower of water from the falls and skirting round the edges.  She hadn't gone far when a stale musky odour filled the air.  Skye straightened her back.  This had to be it.

'Hello?' she called out nervously.  Her voice was drowned out by the sound of the waterfalls, both inside and out.

She tried again, louder this time.  'Hello?'

Skye took a few more steps forward.  There, bubbling up against a collection of small stones, was a liquid black ooze.  She knelt down and peered cautiously at it, then nodded to herself and opened her backpack, taking out the heavy velvet box and opening it carefully.  Nestled inside was a crystal decanter with a corked stopper.  Skye squeezed out the cork and laid it gently to the side then placed the crystal next to the rocks.

'What do you want?'  The voice was so sudden, and so cracked and dry, that even though she'd been expecting it, Skye almost fell over in surprise.

Recovering quickly, she stood up and directed her voice down.  'I'd like some water, please.'  She was amazed at how calm she sounded.

'There's water everywhere.  You didn't need to call me to get some.  Take a bloody look outside.' Styx sounded bored and weary.

'It's your water I'd like, sir,' Skye said quickly, before the River God decided she wasn't worth his time.

'So take some then.  What do I care?'

She licked her lips.  'Well, I have a funny feeling that if I try to take some, something bad will happen.'

'Something bad? Do you know the last human who touched me became virtually invincible.  Don't you want that kind of power?'

Skye had thought this through already.  Sure, Achilles may have initially done well from his contact with the Styx.  Things hadn't worked too well for him in the end, though.  She may not know many of the old Greek myths but she was certainly aware of that one.  It wasn't worth the risk.

'Actually,' she said, 'I was rather hoping you'd help me and fill my container for me.' She jerked her head down at the crystal.

A dry laugh emanated from the black water, echoing around the chamber and drowning out the sounds of the waterfalls.

'You're not as vapid as you look.'

Skye stuttered out a smile.  'Thank you.'

'Now piss off.'

'Wait!' she cried out.  'I can give you something in return.'

There was a moment of scary silence.  Then Styx spoke again.  'What do you have that I could possibly want?'

Exhaling audibly, Skye reached into her backpack again and pulled out a brown paper bag.  'This,' she said triumphantly.

Styx was unimpressed.  'A bag?'

'Cupcakes!' She reached in and pulled one out.  Her exertions in getting to the canoe in time, along with her other travels, hadn't done the confectionery much good.  The mound of icing was smeared on the inside of the bag and now looked like red sludge on top of a very misshapen dark sponge.

'What do you get served at birthday parties in heaven?' Skye asked.

Styx didn't respond.

'Angel cake!' she answered for him, then laughed nervously.

'Is that supposed to be funny?'

Skye blushed.  'Clearly not.'

'Why, in Olympus's name, would I want cake?'

She took a deep breath.  'You don't want cake?'

'I know I don't want cake.'

'But Lethe wants cake.' The bubbling water at her feet seemed to grow in stature.  Skye swallowed.  'She has a sweet tooth.  Asterion told me.'

'Asterion is crazy.'

She wasn't going to argue with that.  'Give her some cake.  She might be willing to patch things up with you if you give her a present.' Skye glanced down at the forlorn-looking cupcake.  'And because it's obviously homemade, she'll appreciate it all the more.'

'Have you been speaking to Aphrodite?' Styx growled.

Skye started.  'Er...'

'Bloody woman is always trying to matchmake.'

Nonplussed, she took a step back.  Matchmake? That hadn't been her intention.  She wasn't Coop.  Something in the River God's tone had made her pause, however.

'I'm friends with her son,' she said softly.  She flushed more deeply.  'Actually we're not friends.  We're,' Skye took a deep breath, 'in love.'

'Cupid? And you?'  The River God seemed to be mulling it over.  'Fine,' he finally snapped.  'Put the bag down.  I'll take the cakes.'

Skye clutched the bag in her fingertips.  'Give me some water first.'

Styx sighed in annoyance.  Then a single plume of thick black water shot up in the air.  Skye jumped back, alarmed, but she needn't have worried.  The water curved up through the air in a perfect arc before pouring through the neck of the crystal decanter.  She hastily scooped the decanter up, rammed the stopper in as tightly as it would go and placed it back inside the box.

'The cakes,' Styx grumbled.

'Oh, yes.' Skye put the cupcake in its bag and placed it next to the dark spring.  'Mr Styx?'

'What now?'

'When you talk to her, you should be nice.  You know, tell her she's looking good.' Skye glanced down.  Did these river gods even have corporeal forms?  'Or that you've really missed her.  Tell her the truth and she'll come round.' She chewed her bottom lip.  'You have missed her, haven't you?'

'I'll tell her,' he returned gruffly.  'Thank you.'

'You're welcome,' Skye said softly, then left the way she'd come.

# Chapter Thirty

'So,' said Hermes, looking embarrassed, 'you remember how I said it would be crazy for you to be asked to go to the Underworld?'

Skye stared at him.  He coughed awkwardly.

'You're kidding, right?' she said finally.

'Um...'

'Goddamnit!'

'It's not as bad as it sounds.'

'Really?' she asked sceptically.  'What is it then?'

Hermes rubbed at his collar.  'Well, I've never actually been myself,' he began.

'You've never been?' Skye screeched.  'How am I supposed to go if even the bloody gods themselves are too scared?'

'I'm not scared, per se.  Just...' He flicked her a glance.  'Okay, maybe I'm a little bit frightened.  Only a little bit though.'

Skye was silent for a second.  Then she took a deep breath.  'Do I have to be...?' Her voice drifted away.

'What?'

'Do I have to be dead?'

Hermes' eyes widened.  'By Olympus, Skye, no.  It's true that only the dead are supposed to be allowed to pass through but other people have done it.  In fact, there was a guy only just last week who went.'

'Did he come back?'

Hermes nodded vigorously.  'Aphrodite doesn't want you dead.'

Remembering her ordeal at the jaws of the carnivorous cows, Skye wasn't so sure.

Hermes, as if reading her mind, placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.  'Well, definitely not now anyway.  She was really pleased when you came back with that sample of the Styx.  Honest.'

'You've already said that the tasks were set from the beginning and that she couldn't change them now even if she wanted to,' Skye pointed out.

'Okay, yes, that part's true.  But Zeus would never let her set a task that involved certain death.'

'No,' said Skye sarcastically, 'because that would be unfair.'

'It's the last task.  It's going to be the hardest because that's the nature of these things.  But do this and it's all over, Skye.  For good.'

She sighed heavily.  'Fine.  What do I have to do?'

'Just find Persephone.'

Skye racked her brain to remember who that was. 'She's Hades' wife?'

'Yeah.'

'That's it?' she asked suspiciously.  'Just find her?'

'Well, um, not exactly.'

'Hermes, spit it out.'

'When you've found her, you need to persuade her to give you some of her beauty to bring back to Aphrodite.'

Skye wrinkled her nose.  'Bring back her beauty? How is that possible?'

'Not all of it,' Hermes said hastily. 'Just a sample.'

'That's ridiculous.'

'Actually, it's not as hard as you'd think.  It has to be donated voluntarily, but it's a fairly easy thing to do.' At her look, he quickly amended his words.  'For gods.  Fairly easy for gods.'

Skye rolled her eyes.  'Of course it is.'

'I'll drop you off at the entrance.  It's normally invisible to humans so I'll need to show you exactly where it is.  You go through, find her, persuade her and the job's done.'

'What am I likely to come across?'

'In the Underworld? First, you need to persuade Charon to take you across the Styx, then you have to pass by Cerberus.'

'The three-headed dog? He's real?'

'It's all real, Skye.'

'"The vasty hall of Death,''' she said.  'Outstanding.'

'Shakespeare?'

'Matthew Arnold.' She sighed again.  'Let's go, then.'

Hermes watched her carefully, as if waiting for something else.

'What?'

He didn't answer, just gave her a hopeful, expectant smile.  She thought quickly.  There had to be something missing, something she was supposed to say or ask.  Then she snapped her fingers in sudden understanding.

'Coins!' She grinned at him.  'Can I borrow some money?'

Relief flashed across his face.  'Of course.' He dug into his pockets.  'Here.' Hermes dropped a small bronze coin into her palm.  'It's a danake.  It won't buy you much in the shops but I think it'll get you what you need.'

'Past Charon, you mean.'

He nodded.

Skye wondered whether she was missing any other important details.  What else did she know about Charon?

'Virgil,' she said softly.  'What did he say about Charon?' She searched the recesses of her brain, her face clearing when she remembered the words. '"A sordid god: down from his hairy chin a length of beard descends, uncombed, unclean; his eyes, like hollow furnaces on fire; a girdle, foul with grease, binds his obscene attire.''' Unexpected bile rose in her throat.  'Oh, crap.'

'Poetic licence,' said Hermes dismissively.  'He's really not that bad.'

'How do you know? You've never been to the Underworld.  Don't tell me you've met at some godly party.  You know, a themed event? I can just see it now.' She deepened her voice.  'Come to the 1500's party.  Dust off your favourite Renaissance outfit.  Food on offer will be seasoned tripe and stewed rabbit.  You will even listen to those classic hit tunes with the hurdy-gurdy, the hornpipe and the lyre!' Skye pinched her nose.  'Sorry,' she apologised.  'The lack of sleep is making me crazy.'

'Actually, that kind of sounds fun,' Hermes commented.

She sent him a droll look before becoming serious again.  'Do you think I'll do it?'

'Complete the task? Win the day and live happily ever after in sickeningly sweet love with Coop?' He beamed at her.  'Of course.'

Skye took a deep breath and turned away.  'Right.  Thanks.'

Behind her back, Hermes' face immediately dropped.  'Shit,' he mouthed silently.  Then he rubbed his forehead and pasted on another grin.  'Come on,' he said cheerfully, 'let's get going.'

Hermes left Skye in front of an innocuous-looking cave.  She made bets with herself about how many sodding waterfalls she was likely to find inside.  By the time she finished all these tasks, she reckoned she'd be an expert on them.  Perhaps if she failed, she wouldn't have to go back to eking out a miserable existence as a waitress; she could become the world's foremost authority on dark spooky caves and gushing streams of water.  Not to mention talking rivers and dangerous cows.  She smiled grimly to herself.  She was definitely letting fatigue get to her if she was contemplating failure.  The only way she'd succeed was if she truly believed that she would.  And regardless of what Hermes had said about the last task being the most difficult, this _was_ the last task.  She could be back safe and nestled against Coop in a matter of hours.

Steeling herself, she glanced backwards.  Hermes had already vanished.

'Thank you,' she whispered into the empty air, 'for everything.' Then Skye nodded once to herself and stepped inside the entrance to the Underworld.

She'd expected it to be dark and gloomy.  This was, after all, the gateway to the afterlife.  It served no purpose other than to provide an avenue for the dead.  She'd also expected the adrenaline to start pumping and for her heart to race.  It didn't get more terrifying than tangling with death, after all.  But she was surprised on both counts.

The interior of the cave was neither dark nor gloomy.  Instead it was lit by a warm blue phosphorescence, creating an almost welcoming, albeit ethereal, atmosphere.  And rather than her heart rate speeding up, it seemed to slow down.  She was enveloped in a state of calm.  It was possible that the sensation was being forced upon her; after all, it wouldn't do to have terrified newly-dead spirits causing problems hour after hour.  Regardless, she took a moment to breathe in deeply and take stock of her emotions; she wanted to remember how it felt to not be scared or nervous.

The path she was standing on was smooth and well worn.  All around her was silence but it felt oddly comforting.  Skye walked forward carefully.  There was a cluster of flickering images ahead which she tried to focus on – but every time the blurred images started to solidify, they suddenly slid away and dissipated into nothing.  From time to time she shivered involuntarily, as if someone was metaphorically walking over her grave.  She wrapped her arms around herself and continued forward.

To her left there was an odd, roped-off section.  It looked like the lines you'd see at a theme park, or in an airport, snaking off into the distance.  If she tried not to look too hard, she could see more hazy dancing images between the ropes.  Skye paused.  Was she supposed to queue? She shrugged.  She'd spent her life following the rules and being polite.  By entering the Underworld as a living, breathing human, she was already breaking some of nature's most important laws.  She reckoned that not standing in line would hardly be a grave sin by comparison.

She walked on.  No ghostly figures tutted or got in her way.  She kept going, past the hundreds and hundreds of zigzagging, seemingly empty, queues.

After what seemed like hours, she realised that the soft blue light was starting to change hues.  Up ahead it was more green than blue and if she peered closely, she could make out a figure.  It had to be Charon.  As she got closer, however, she realised that the boatman was nothing like she'd expected.  Instead of a hooded figure with robes and a shadowy face, he was middle aged, wearing a baseball cap, Bermuda shorts and a tattered t-shirt proclaiming that he was a fan of the Grateful Dead.  Skye smirked.  At least Charon understood irony, if nothing else.

When she was close enough, she raised a hand in greeting.  He remained motionless, watching her with expressionless eyes.

'Another one?' he said drily.

Skye swallowed.  'I'm sorry...?'

'Another live one? It didn't work out particularly well for the last guy.'

Skye realised what he had to be referring to.  'Hermes said he got out.'

Charon cocked his head.  'Aye, I suppose he did.'

'You mean he didn't?'  Her mouth felt dry.

'He got out.'

'He's alive?'

Charon's eyes shifted slowly left and then back again.  'Yes.'

Her stomach squirmed.  'I want to get across the river.'

'I figured.'

She tried to smile.  'I know Styx.  I met him yesterday.'

The boatman scowled.  'Name drop all you like.  I'm in charge here.'

'I didn't, I mean, I wasn't...'

'Can you pay the price?'

'What?' Skye stared at him wide-eyed.

He rubbed his fingers together.  'It's not free,' he said, leaning in towards her.  'I'm not running a charity here.'

Relief flooded through her.  'Oh, yes.' She fumbled in her pocket for the coin Hermes had given her and handed it over.

Charon turned it over in his hand, then raised it up to his mouth and bit the corner.

'I thought you were only supposed to do that with gold,' Skye said, before she could stop herself.

Charon pocketed the coin and glowered.  'Do you want to get across or don't you?'

Skye nodded, suddenly mute.  He stepped aside and gestured at a very rickety boat.  She hoped it wasn't going to leak.  After all her efforts to avoid touching the black water of the Styx at Angel Falls, it would be ridiculous if she ended up covered in the stuff now.

She licked her lips and moved forward, climbing gingerly into the boat.  Charon got in after her and sat down at the rear, starting up a small motor which sent the vessel chugging into life.  With a lurch, the boat jerked across the fast-flowing river.

Skye stared into the water.  It was so black here that against the green light it almost seemed purple.  She leaned out, sniffing delicately, trying to see how similar the water was here to the source.  As she did so, a huge scaly shape rose up. She shrieked and pulled back.

'You should keep away from the water,' Charon observed calmly.

Skye shot him an exasperated glance and scooted to the middle of the boat.  It rocked from side to side, as if the monster below was creating its own tide.  She clenched her teeth and hoped the journey would be over soon.

'The last lifer was a lot more friendly than you.'

Skye scowled.  'There's nothing wrong with being quiet.' She turned and looked at him.  'What's a lifer, anyway?'

'Who,' Charon corrected, making a slight adjustment to the boat's rudder.

'Fine.  Who is a lifer?'

'Someone like you.  Someone who thinks they can persuade Hades to give them back their loved ones.' He raised his eyebrows at her.  'It almost never works.  You should give up now.'

Skye frowned.  'That's not why I'm here.'

'Really.'

'Really!' she protested.  'I just want to speak to Persephone, that's all.'

Charon began to laugh.  It started off as a small sound but grew in intensity, until he was bellowing and making the boat shake.

'What's so funny?' Skye asked, stung.

The boat jerked to a stop against a small wooden pier.  Charon wiped his eyes.  'We're here.'

'Wait, why were you laughing?'

'You need to get out.'

'Tell me first.'

He gave her a dark, amused glance.  'You won't get in.'

'What do you mean? I'm here.  I'm in.'

'Lady Persephone doesn't spend much time in these parts.  Hades likes to keep her to himself when she's here.  He won't want the likes of you interrupting him.' Charon winked at her.  'The pair of them are busy.'

Skye felt her cheeks reddening.  'They can't be busy all the time.'

Charon smirked.

She drew a shaky breath.  'She'll see me,' she said.  'She has to.'

'I give you about fifteen minutes before you're running back here with your tail between your legs.'

Skye drew herself up.  'I'm not scared.'

He narrowed his eyes at her.  'You should be.'

Trying to push down her rising trepidation, Skye clambered out of the boat.  'Thank you,' she said primly then she turned on her heel and walked off the pier and onto the dark shore.

Shoving her hands into her pockets, Skye forced herself to appear as nonchalant as possible.  Her previous calm had disappeared at Charon's words.  As much as she tried to tell herself to ignore him and remain optimistic, she couldn't help feeling that she was strolling blithely to her doom.  You didn't have to do this, she told herself.  You could have quit ages ago and lived happily ever after.  She smoothed back her hair.  She'd been certain that she was right to continue with the tasks and make sure they were all completed; now she couldn't help feeling that she'd made the worst mistake of her life.

Spotting a dark shape and a large gate up ahead, she headed straight for it.  When she was about ten feet away, the shape moved.  Two red eyes were glowing at her.

Biting her lip, Skye took another step.  The shape moved again.  Then there were three eyes.  A fourth snapped open and regarded her unblinkingly.  Even though her insides were screaming at her to turn and run while she still could, she took yet another step forward.  Cerberus's remaining head jerked awake.  Now all three pairs of eyes were following her progress.  She sidestepped to the left.  The eyes swivelled towards her. She sidestepped right and they did exactly the same thing.  Skye held her palms out, trying to indicate that she wasn't a threat.

'Good doggy,' she said softly.  She stopped for a moment.  'Good doggies,' she rephrased.

A low growl began in the beast's throat.  It was lying directly in front of the gates so there was no way she could skirt round it.  She had to either find a way to pacify the three-headed dog so it let her past, or try and defeat it.

Skye thought carefully.  Her wits had helped her get this far.  Surely she could think of a way to get around this.  It was just a dog.  A three-headed dog with glowing red eyes, but just a dog.

She forced herself to calm down.  Dogs could smell fear.  If she acted like prey, it wouldn't hesitate to attack her.  She needed to show it who was boss.

Straightening her shoulders, Skye walked forward, straight at it.  All at once Cerberus leapt to its feet and each monstrous head began barking .  She stared at its size.  It had to be at least a storey high.  Three sets of jaws opened and shut, snarling and dripping with drool.  Its body was huge, with muscles rippling under its smooth dark fur. Skye spotted a studded collar around its neck.  Despite her fear, she admired whoever it was who'd been brave enough to try and tame this beast.

'Sit!' she said sharply.

No matter how hard she tried to sound unafraid, her voice still trembled.  It didn't matter, however, as Cerberus ignored her command.  The head on the left side lunged forward, jaws opening to reveal sharp white fangs and a lolling red tongue.  Skye stood her ground.  Okay.  That head was possibly the most aggressive of the three.  Perhaps she could appeal to one of the others, whose inaction had prevented the first one from reaching her.

She pointed towards each head in turn.  'Head One, Head Two, Head Three.' Then she moved slightly to her right and addressed Head Two.

'Hi there.'

It snapped and growled.  She was aware that Head One was glaring at her malevolently but, for the time being, she chose to ignore it.

'I'm here to see Persephone.  I've been sent by Aphrodite.' She licked her lips nervously.  'She's a goddess.  That means she's got more power than you.  You don't want to piss her off.  Believe me,' she said under her breath, 'you really don't want to piss her off.'

Skye walked forward two paces.  Head Two reared up and howled, making her ears ring.  Then, without warning, it sprang forward, fangs flashing.  She only just managed to jump out of the way.  Damn it.  She sidestepped again and looked Head Three in the eyes.

'Tell Hades I'm here.'  This time, her voice was clear and strong.

Head Three turned slowly and looked at its companions.  She could almost smell the disdain.  This wasn't working.

Backing away, she fumbled in her pockets.  They were empty apart from her phone.  She began casting around on the ground for something to help her.  Keeping one eye on Cerberus, she bent down and scooped up two small stones, hefting them in her hands.  Each of the heads growled.  For a moment she was tempted to see whether she could aim each stone well enough to strike the dog in its separate foreheads.  That was a foolish thought, however.  She only had to miss once and she would end up as Pedigree Chum.  There was a smarter way.

She tossed up one of the stones and caught it.  The three heads bobbed up, their eyes tracking the movement.

'You want to play?'

She tried the same with the second stone.  The same thing happened: each pair of eyes remained trained on the stone as it left her hand, heads jerking down as it landed back in her palm again.  Skye grinned.  She took a step forward.  Then another.  Very carefully, she unfurled her fingers and held out her palms, revealing a stone in each.

'Do you want to play fetch?'

A drop of spittle fell from Head Two's mouth.  Skye shifted her weight.  She had to be ready to run.

Head Three barked and Skye winced at the sound.  There would only be one chance to get this right.  She took a deep breath then, with all her might, flung one stone to her left and one stone to her right.  Head One went one way, Head Three went the other.  Skye sprang forward, shoving herself underneath Head Two while it howled in agony as the other two heads ripped it in either direction, vying desperately to be the one to run after the bouncing stones.

Skye threw herself along the ground and under Cerberus's belly.  Its tail, sharp and pointed, almost like a dragon's, whipped from side to side and she rolled along the ground like an acrobat to avoid it.  As soon as her hands clasped the cold metal of the gates, a triumphant smile curved her lips.  Maybe she'd make a ninja after all.

Quickly, before Cerberus could spin around and react, she yanked at the gates.  They clanged together but didn't open.  She could sense the three heads of Cerberus reacting as one, snapping one way then the other to try and stop the intruder from entering the Underworld.  Alarmed, she pulled harder.  The gates still didn't open.  Spotting a bolt, Skye leapt to her right and began fumbling at it.  It wouldn't budge.  She cursed and tried harder but no matter what she did, she couldn't raise the heavy latch to let herself through.

Something wet and sticky landed on the back of her neck.  Skye slowly turned.  Cerberus had managed to twist itself around.  All three heads were facing her and all three of them had hatred in their cold, red eyes.  Skye's stomach dropped and she could feel her legs trembling.  She could feel their hot, heavy breath on her skin.  Then she ran.

Cerberus leapt at her, its three heads now working in unison, all with one simple objective: to catch her and kill her.  She could feel jaws snapping at her back.  All she had to do was to get back to the pier; she knew instinctively that the beast wouldn't encroach upon Charon's territory.  Skye swerved left, then right, zigzagging in an attempt to fool Cerberus and get away.  There were ten feet to go, nine feet, eight... she was so close.  And then she felt searing pain as her body was lifted up in the air.  The mouth – she couldn't tell which head it belong to – shook her violently while the pressure on her ribcage made her feel as if every bone in her body was about to break.  Finally she was being flung like a rag doll to one side.  Her body slammed against a wall and she collapsed, barely able to breathe.  She pulled herself to her hands and knees and began to crawl, while every one of Cerberus's six eyes watched her.  Her fingers were clawing the dirt and she could hear herself moaning involuntarily in pain.  The beast was toying with her now.

'Please,' she whispered.  'Leave me alone.'

Then another voice filled the space, a cracked, dry voice which echoed in her brain and sounded familiar.

'Begone, Cerberus,' said Styx, a looming figure wrapped in water pulling up out of the river and pointing at the animal.  'Begone.'

Head Three whined softly.  Skye jerked her head upwards and watched as the animal turned and slowly padded back to the gates.  It lay down with a heavy sigh, each red eye still fixed on her.

Skye pulled herself over to the bank of the river Styx and collapsed, gasping.

# Chapter Thirty-One

'It worked,' said Styx conversationally, as Skye forced herself to sit up.  All she could feel was overwhelming misery and agonising pain.

'What?' she asked dully.

'It worked,' he repeated.

Skye glanced back to the gates where Cerberus was lying down again. 'No, it didn't.' She could feel tears pricking her eyes.  'I failed.'

Styx ignored her.  'Lethe and I are back on speaking terms.  The squashed cakes were perfect.  Can you make me some more? Maybe with little hearts on them this time?'

'I was supposed to find Persephone,' she whispered.  'I was supposed to be with Coop.'

'Huh?'

'Don't you see? I'll never get past that dog now! That was my one shot and I screwed it up.'

'Oh.  Sorry.'

'Whatever.'

She clambered painfully to her feet, her head still ringing.  Any minute now she'd start seeing little birds tweeting round her.  She'd been so sure she could do it.  Even with Charon's warnings and the enormity of the tasks, she had still believed she would succeed.  And now it was all over.  She wondered whether she'd see Coop, just one last time, so she could say goodbye.  Considering the terms of the agreement, it was unlikely.

Skye pulled out her phone and studied it.  The least she could do would be to call him.  If she was lucky he'd be allowed to answer and she could tell him herself that she'd failed.  That she would love him until the day she died and that she was so very, very sorry.

'The signal here is very good,' Styx commented helpfully.  'You wouldn't think it would be, but it is.  Charon's always playing silly games on his phone or checking his email.'

Skye took a brief moment to wonder who on earth would be emailing the Underworld's boatman.  It was probably just spam, she thought uncharitably.

Her heartbeat stilled.  She stared down at her phone as it displayed Coop's number. 'Email,' she whispered.

'Pardon?'

'Email.  Persephone.  Email.' She jumped up and down and then winced at the pain.

'I don't understand.'

'What's Persephone's bloody email address?' she yelled.

'I'm a river god,' said Styx, 'why would I use email?'

'Pomegranate@olympus.com.'

Skye's head jerked up.  It was Charon.  He stared at her for a moment then shrugged.  'You did better with the dog than I thought you would.' He smiled faintly.  'Not bad for a human girl.'

'Thanks,' she breathed.

'Persephone doesn't know who you are,' Styx pointed out.  'She's not likely to help a stranger for no reason.'

Skye grinned.  'Maybe I'm not a stranger.'

'So let me get this straight,' said Hermes, 'you've sent a spam email to Persephone, the Queen of the Underworld, pretending to be Aphrodite.'

'Yup.'

'You told her there was a themed party coming up and that she needed to borrow some of Persephone's beauty.'

'Yup.'

'And Persephone believed this? She's sent it to Olympus?'

'Yup.  In a pretty little box,' crowed Skye.  She held up her phone so he could see Persephone's email response.

Hermes shook his head.  'Unbelievable.'

Skye grinned.  'I know.'

'So that means...'

'That Skye Sawyer has passed every task with flying colours,' boomed Zeus, appearing out of the gates of Olympus.  His eyes twinkled at her.  'Congratulations.'

Skye suddenly felt shy.  'Thanks,' she mumbled.  'Where's Coop?'

'I'm here.' He stepped out from behind Zeus and moved towards her, cradling her cheek.  'You're hurt,' he said softly.  'I shouldn't have let that happen.' He rested his forehead against hers.

'I'll heal,' she said, losing herself in the depths of his eyes.

His arms curved round her waist.  'I'll never let you out of my sight again.'

Skye laughed.  'That's hardly fair! For most of the time I've known you, you've never been _in_ my sight.'

Coop smiled down and brushed his lips against hers.  'I'm so proud of you.  I'm going to spend the next millennia making sure that you're just as proud of me.'

Skye pulled back.  'I'm already proud of you.  But...'

'Congratulations, Ms Sawyer,' interrupted Aphrodite.  'You succeeded.  Your tenacity is admirable.' Her gaze flicked to Coop and softened.  'As is your influence on my son.'

'I love him,' she said simply.

'I see that now.  I should not have put you through what I did.  Perhaps Coop is not the only one who has learnt a lesson through knowing you.'

Skye blushed.

Aphrodite looked at Zeus.  'It's time.'

He nodded.

'Turn around, Skye,' said Coop in her ear, his fingers tightly holding on to hers as if he was worried she would suddenly escape.

Skye looked over her shoulder, then gaped at who was there. 'Mum! Dad!'

The pair of them were pale and staring at the imposing walls of Olympus.

'Oh my goodness,' her mum said, with her hand at her throat.

Her dad seemed lost for words.  Skye reached over and gave them both a tight hug, then smiled shyly.

'This is Coop.  The man,' she licked her lips, 'the god I was telling you about.'

'God,' her mum whispered.

Skye laughed, while Coop shook her dad's hands and gave her mother a peck on the cheek. 'It's an honour to meet you,' he said.

Her dad recovered first.  'God, you say? I wonder if you might be able to help me with a little problem I've been having?' Coop raised his eyebrows.  'My football team...'

'Dad!' Skye groaned and thumped him on the arm.

Coop gave him a wink.  'I'll see what I can do.'

She rolled her eyes.

'Hi.'

Skye looked up and spotted Emma.  'Oh my goodness! Where did you come from?'

Her old friend smiled at her.  'I'm so sorry, Skye.' She shook her head.  'I should never have got involved.  I should never have opened my big mouth.'

Skye hushed her and gave her a quick hug.  'It's okay.' She gazed at Coop.  'Everything's turned out for the best.'

'It's not over yet,' he grinned.

She frowned.  'What do you mean?'

'You'll see.'

'Skye Sawyer,' intoned Zeus, 'we ask you here, on the steps of Olympus and in front of this gathering of family and friends to make your vows to Cupid.'

Startled, Skye turned to Coop.  He knelt down on one knee and took her hand.  She was aware of her mother gasping next to her.

'We don't normally do it this way,' he said, 'but in your case I'm willing to make an exception.' His eyes searched hers, warmth, love and something that looked a little bit like nervousness reflected in them.  'Skye Sawyer, will you marry me?'

For a moment it seemed to Skye that she'd forgotten how to speak.  Or breathe.  Then she found her voice.  'Yes,' she said.  'Yes.'

Coop pulled her to her feet and kissed her until she felt dizzy, then he laughed.

'I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you,' he whispered.

'Skye Sawyer,' continued Zeus, smiling, 'as the wife of Cupid, you are welcomed into the family of Olympus.  The same rights and privileges are granted to you as to other gods.  Your humanity, kindness and compassion leave me with no alternative but to proclaim you as the Goddess of the Soul.'

'I don't understand,' said Skye, bewildered.

Aphrodite frowned at her.  'You mean you didn't know?'

'Know what?'

'That by becoming his wife, you become one of us?'

Skye stared at her dumbly, shaking her head.

Aphrodite sighed and glared at her son.  'If you'd told me that sooner, we could have been spared a lot of time.  She hardly had ulterior motives to get her hands on immortality if she didn't even know it was possible.'

'Immortality?' Skye paled.

'Can we damn well get on with this?' snapped Zeus.  Everyone fell silent.  'Very well, then.  Skye Sawyer, you are now a goddess of Olympus.' He extended one index finger and pointed it at her.  The top of his finger sizzled and there was a crack of thunder, then several gasps.

Skye felt a warm glow spreading through her body.  Her skin tingled.

'Your wings!'

Puzzled, Skye half turned, then gaped at the soft feathers extending from her back.  They weren't snowy white like Coop's; instead there were many multi-coloured hues, glimmering in the sunlight.

'Oh,' she said weakly.

'Are you okay?' Coop touched her face.

'We'll be together forever.'

'That we will,' he said.  'You know, "the wise want love.'''

She smiled faintly.  'Shelley? "Those who love want wisdom".  I think I understand you now.  I understand how you feel about true love.'

Coop looked pained.  'That's because I didn't think it was real.' He drew her close to him.  'Now I've got you, I see that it is.'

'When did you know you felt that way?'

He looked into her eyes.  'It was creeping up on me for so long, I hardly realised.  But that moment at the beach when Apollo tried to hurt you then he threw you into the sea? That's when I knew.  Because if anything happened to you, I wouldn't want to live.'

'We had to work for it.'

He laughed.  'That we did.'

'It wasn't just a sudden bolt out of the blue.  Maybe,' she paused for a moment, then took a deep breath, 'maybe it's sweeter now because it wasn't instant.  Because we had to fight for it.'

'What are you saying, Skye?'

'I helped Styx,' she said.  'I didn't mean to, but I did.  He's in love with Lethe although he won't admit it yet.  I helped him see the light.'

'And you did it without a magic gun.'

She nodded.  'Maybe you don't need to shoot people.  Maybe you just need to help them along a little bit.  Get them to make the moves themselves instead of doing it for them.'

'You mean sort of like a dating agency?'

'A bit.  Just one where you know they're actually meant to be together.'

'It might work,' he said slowly.  'Let's put it to my mother and see what she says.'

'Together?' squeaked Skye.

He kissed her deeply then smiled.  'Together.'

~FIN~

_Lyre,_ Olympiana Book 2, is available at your favorite retailer.

Learn more on the author's website, or click here to sign up for her mailing list.

# THE WILD HUNT

### Faerie Sworn Book 1

**Ron C. Nieto**

**Dark and Enchanting.**

Lily has a problem. She has just discovered that faeries are real, dangerous, and out to get her. She doesn't trust her savior, she doesn't understand his rules... but if she doesn't play and win, death might be the least of her worries.

Magic still lingers in the mist-covered corners of the world, wherever the Old Ways are remembered. However, as civilization and reason scoff at the Fair Folk, the paths to power have been forgotten by all but a few.

Lily Boyd was meant to become a faerie doctor, a warden of humans and a keeper of balance, until disbelief and pragmatism led her away from the hidden world and into a mundane life. But truth has a way to be heard and she will be forced to face it if she wants to save her family.

Armed with nothing but her childhood memories and protected by a debt of gratitude she doesn't understand, Lily must decide who to trust while she navigates a world that is darker and more twisted than she is prepared for.

And should she make the wrong choice, should she mistake friend and foe...the eternal balance between the Faerie Courts may shatter, and then there will be more than Lily's life on the line.

# License Notes

This book is a work of fiction. Though some actual cities, towns or locations may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarities of characters or names used in this book to any person past, present or future is coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people without express permission of the copyright owner. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

# Acknowledgments

As usual, my family gets the first and hugest "thank you." Their continued support through every new bookish adventure is both humbling and amazing.

Many thanks to my friend Carmen for beta-reading this one and telling me she loved it.

Many thanks to Mathia Arkoniel as well for designing the best cover ever, taking my comments and giving me something that was exactly what I asked for, nothing at all what I imagined, and a thousand times better. Every time I hit a creative bump I would zoom in on Troy's eyes, and somehow, that got me writing again with renewed enthusiasm.

Thanks to my wonderful editor, Amy Eye, who encouraged and reassured me while making sure everything was perfect.

And of course, always, thank you. There would be no point to my spinning of tales if you weren't there.

# Prologue

The beast howled and the gruesome lament drowned out the crack of thunder. The wind echoed the call, and in response, the blinds of nearly every house in the glen clattered shut.

A long time had passed since the beast's warning had been heeded. Its time upon the world was nearly past. Humans conquered their fears with their detached disbelief in anything but themselves, and knowing this, the beast had fallen silent for years.

But now, while rain fell in sheets over the small village where the beast resided, it felt the shift—the air became too cold, the lightning struck too viciously and the sky turned a sick, roiling purple that had nothing to do with a late spring storm. Its ears perked and its deep, red eyes stared into empty air. It sniffed. It smelled death. It chose to warn the cowering mortals one last time.

The beast howled again, and again the potency of its voice overtook the fury of the elements. The sound awoke people from their slumber, their limbs entangling in the bedding and cold sweat drenching their skin. Children cried and old people trembled, fearing the creature raised its voice for them. It sent shivers up and down every spine, for while they might have tried to forget the Grim from their graveyard, a primal part of their soul knew that the beast had not forgotten about them and could come howling to their door one day.

Only one little woman in one of the houses remembered the beast and paused in her task to listen to its desperate warning.

"Oh dear," she said. "Poor Grim has his fur tied up in knots, he does." She kept working, selecting strange implements from different boxes stored in her attic, paying no mind to the storm.

And yet, unaware as she seemed to be, she counted the howls while she gathered her things. She measured the cadence, the rhythm, the intervals. She even paid attention to the tone. Then, in a bout of silence following a roar of thunder that made the house's foundations shake, she nodded to herself.

"Not inescapable. Not quite yet. There's a little time left... I can always use some more time."

She went to her ladder and double checked to make sure it was properly set. Then, she went down with her things and sat at her kitchen's table, where she proceeded to prepare a cup of tea, not minding the late hour or the dark weather.

While it steeped, she sat primly at her table and ran her gaze over the stove, the gas jet, and the appliances that were plugged in, in spite of the blizzard. Her expert eye looked for accidents waiting to happen, but there seemed to be none. She frowned in confusion and then took a sip from her tea.

"Oh dear," she said, muttering to herself. "The taste isn't nearly floral enough. Where is the touch of sunlight? The spices of warmth? The tang of St. John's Wort?" She drummed her fingers upon her table and thought back to the Grim's howling and its meaning. Could it be connected? "Well, well. You wouldn't think summer's coming right around the corner after drinking this tea. Something needs be done... I should probably prepare some biscuits and see if that doesn't bring forth the heat."

She got up again and went to her bedroom. There, she rummaged in a drawer of her bedside table where she kept an assortment of items. Her fingers slid over a four-leafed clove and three tiny copper bells, glided thoughtfully over a stone as smooth as silk, and finally selected a leather pouch. Inside, there was a beautifully wrought silver necklace with three charms hanging from it. Each charm was a detailed rose in full bloom and, touching them, she felt comforted by their cold edges. The jewelry contained a life debt thrice extended and it would save her three times, one for each rose. The storm raging outside would help, too, because if it came to it, the pouring water would do nothing but strengthen her savior. She put it on before heading back to the attic to gather the implements she needed to prepare her special biscuits.

The woman selected bowls, spoons, and batterers. She had almost everything she needed when she heard it. A scurrying sound, nails rasping against wooden floors. She frowned. Of course there were fay living in her attic; she knew that. They kept her house clean and tidy as long as she told no one of their hard work. But they loved anonymity, and it was odd for them to be moving about so close and so openly.

Something moved up in the rafters, casting a flickering shadow upon her, and a box was pushed off from her neatly organized shelves. Startled, she stumbled back and her feet tripped over an old book that hadn't been on the floor a moment before.

She fell.

In a moment of clarity before everything went black, she realized her head was going to hit the shelf behind her in a most convenient angle.

_A perfect accident, of course. They do love their accidents so._

The old woman came to her senses, startled by a sharp pain in her lower leg, but her head felt fine. The shelf she had careened into had fallen, all its boxed contents scattered around her, but strong arms encircled her shoulders, protecting her and propping her up in a sitting position. A cold drop of water fell on the tip of her nose.

"So you made it," she said. Her hand reached up and patted his forearm.

"I gave you my word," the man replied. "However, I must admit I had expected to have fulfilled our bargain many times over by now."

"These old bones are still quite resilient, I'll have you know," she said, attempting to push away from the man's chest. A jolt of white hot pain radiated from her leg and she gasped. "Although perhaps not as much as they used to be," she admitted. "I suppose you couldn't have avoided that, could you?"

He shifted and helped her sit on her own, taking care not to move her too abruptly. "I swore I would save your life, within my ability, three times until my debt was settled. Pain was not mentioned in the exchange, I fear."

"You and your love for literal words." The woman scoffed, but couldn't keep from smiling. "You could at least get me downstairs."

"Not provided for in our contract, either," he said. But even as he pronounced the words, he gathered her in his arms and crossed toward the trapdoor, ignoring the mess on the floor. Someone else would sort it out later.

He maneuvered her down the ladder without jostling her then settled her on her couch. The living room lighting was better than the attic's and she took the chance to study him.

He hadn't changed since the last time they'd met. He was tall and his lean body moved with the fluid ease of a man in his prime. His pale skin contrasted his dark hair, which had been wet each and every time she had seen him. He possessed a sort of temporal beauty, like a statue, and only his eyes belonged to a living, feeling person. The vivid green reflected an easy camaraderie at the time, though she had seen them gleam with mischief, wickedness, curiosity, and laughter. She'd also seen them go very, very still, like cut emeralds—just as hard, just as cold. It was those eyes that made him look like either a young man or an old soul, for the rest of him was ageless.

"These past sixty years have treated you well, I see," she said after a moment.

"Sixty-six years, in fact," he replied with a small smirk. "You look well, too."

She smiled. Her hair had gone white, her skin showed how much she liked to laugh and her joints didn't want her to spend the nights wandering the countryside anymore, but she knew she had aged well. She had been happy all her life, after all.

"I would have expected you to be wiser, doctor," he said after a long silence where they just took each other in. "After the warning the graveyard's grim howled tonight, you should have known death waited for you and taken precautions."

"I did take them, boy. Why do you think I wore this tonight?" she asked, motioning to the necklace.

"Boy, indeed," he said, the irony of the endearment not lost on him. He didn't look bothered by what other fay might have considered a slight and Mackenna chuckled. The slight movement caused another pulse of pain to wreck her leg, and she sighed wearily.

"I should probably call a real doctor now."

He considered it, head tilted to the side as he listened. The storm outside was abating and the grim was silent, so he nodded.

"And I should probably go."

He nodded to the woman and turned away with purposeful strides. He'd entered by the front door, but left through the kitchen, likely to avoid the iron horseshoe hanging on the porch.

"Don't be a stranger for another sixty-six years, Troy," the woman called after his retreating back.

If he heard her words, he made no sign of it. She sighed and picked up her phone, exhausted after the incident and with no more adrenaline left to ignore the pain. Emergency services would be overwhelmed because of the storm, so she might have to wait longer than usual for an ambulance.

While the line connected, she felt a chill at her throat. One of the rose pendants from her necklace wilted, the silver being re-wrought by invisible, frozen hands, and a drop of water fell from it as the petals dried.

# Chapter One

Lily had forgotten the village. Only the picturesque home of her grandmother remained in her memory as an idyllic retreat from the prying eyes of the community, hiding behind tall, ancient trees and overlooking the still waters of the loch.

She frowned and let her suitcase rest on the dirt path twisting off the main road and into Grandma Mackenna's front garden. In her memory, the place had acquired a children's picture book quality with whitened walls, square windows, and a steep roof of red gables. It had been a safe haven, a place where her mum and dad sent her when summer holidays came along and she was too young to stay alone while they worked. In spite of the wet, chilly climate of Scotland, those days had always been bright and full of laughter and games—and those games never, ever involved knives.

It was planted on the side of the path, threatening to be devoured by the greenery. It was almost unobtrusive, nonchalant. And clean.

Lily took a step closer and poked the knife with her toe. It didn't budge. Whoever had done it had set the handle deep in the earth and packed it tight afterward. The blade protruded, standing like a sentinel in the path and reflecting the feeble rays of an early July sun. Fighting back a shiver, she grabbed her suitcase again and hurried down the lane. She would come back later and get that knife out, but first she wanted to say hello and perhaps catch a break. The train ride from Manchester to Aberdeen had been long, and the bus she had caught from there hadn't made the trip any more comfortable.

The house itself appeared after a bend in the path. It didn't look as she remembered. The white walls were a dab gray and the bright red gables didn't exist—the roof was covered in blue-black slate. However, Grandma Mackenna was exactly as Lily recalled her.

"There you are!" She had been sitting in a rocking chair in the porch, angled just so to get a better view of the newcomers. Even in the distance, Lily could see her smile causing a network of tiny wrinkles to surround her vibrant eyes. The gesture erased at least five years off her age.

"Grandma!" Lily ran, her luggage bouncing against her side, and met her on the stairs of the porch. "Don't get up," she protested as she hugged the thin body of the old woman. "You're not supposed to walk around."

"Oh dear. So long without seeing me and the first thing I get from my granddaughter is a scolding," chuckled the woman. She took the sting off her words by holding the girl tighter, her arms firmer than her age might suggest.

Lily feigned offense. "You mustn't have missed me much! Or else you wouldn't have argued so hard against my coming here."

"Nonsense. You can come any time. You know that. This is your home too, and being away from that awful city of yours is good for your health. I always told your mother so. But visiting isn't the same as babysitting."

"Grandma," Lily said, pulling away to stare at the woman, "you broke your leg and you live alone and far from the village. You need help."

"I've been living alone for a long time now and I'm not an invalid."

"Of course not! But the doctor did say not to walk around much, didn't he?"

"Well then, he shouldn't have given me a walking cast!" Mackenna pointed down at her leg and then began to limp toward the door. "But let's bicker inside. You'll need some refreshment after your trip, and I'm sure you want to settle in. Your old room is almost untouched, you'll see."

It was a silly thing, a small detail. Lily had stopped visiting when she turned eleven, and the toys and paintings she had treasured back then were not that important, nothing but summer companions. Still, the idea her grandma had held onto it for six years when her own mother had remodeled her house twice put a knot in her throat that made swallowing a difficult task.

"Is it?" she asked, her voice breaking only just.

Mackenna gave her a knowing smile and turned into the kitchen. "Of course," she said. "I only changed the bed when your mother told me how tall you had gotten. I realized you'd never fit into the old one. Go and see. Make yourself at home while I prepare some sweetened tea."

Her last growth spurt had happened at fifteen.

_How long has Grandma waited for me to come back?_

"Shoo. Off with you!"

Lily realized she had frozen in place, staring at the familiar corridor leading to the rooms.

"Don't putter around too much," she called out, coming out of her reverie.

"I've been here with a broken leg for three days already. What did you want me to do, starve?"

The good-humored grumblings reached Lily just as she opened the door to her old room. As promised, it was intact. The bed was bigger, an adult's now, but Grandma had ordered it in the same white pine with the same leafy carvings in the headboard. When she was a kid, those carvings had given her the impression of hiding in the middle of a forest, a princess safe in a white tower the monsters under the bed couldn't climb. Now, it made her feel childish and warm at the same time.

With a sigh, she heaved her suitcase onto the bed. There was a chest of drawers pulled up against the wall in front of the bed and she started to put her clothes away in ordered piles. Back in the day, the topmost drawer had been tall as Mount Everest. She remembered getting a small scar near her hairline when she had tried to climb and reach it, fully convinced there was a cache of chocolate cookies hiding in there. Of course, there had been no cookies. Grandma had made them later anyway, a consolation for the scary fall.

It felt odd to put her T-shirts there now. It felt odd to be back

When Lily returned to the kitchen, her grandma was already sitting at the table. As promised, she had prepared a tray with sweet tea and homemade pastries, and she sipped her cup while she waited.

"I didn't take that long." Lily laughed, taking the free chair in front of her.

Mackenna gave her a knowing smile, and for a moment, they drank in silence. There were too many lingering things to say, and though the old woman seemed content to let bygones be bygones, Lily felt a weight in her shoulders. She could cut the tension with a knife.

_Speaking of which._

"Say, Grandma," she started, "you been having problems?"

Mackenna arched an eyebrow. "I broke my leg," she said while keeping a straight face.

"I meant with the people around here," Lily explained, looking chagrined. "This used to be a quiet spot, I know, but people are getting crazier and more violent these days so..."

"Oh dear. You believe there's a band of local hooligans terrorizing your poor grandmother? Why would they do that now?"

_Because bullies like to attack people they consider different and weak, just like you._ Lily bit her lip and swallowed her words. Her thoughts had just reminded her of her mother, who always held a blank smile when talking about her own mother, whose obsession with normal could only be rivaled by her obsession with order. She took a deep breath and tried to stop channeling her, but—

"Okay," she burst out, unable to hold it in. "If there's no trouble, who planted a knife practically in your front yard?"

"I did," Mackenna said, giving her grandchild a quizzical look. "Who else would come out here to plant a perfectly good sterling knife in the dirt?"

Lily blinked. "You what? Grandma," she said with a groan, "why would you do that?"

"I know, I know." She ate a cookie. "It seems like such a waste. It was part of my dowry back in the day, and the weather will blunt it horribly. But there'll be storms this summer and I don't want the flower beds to be ruined. It's difficult enough to grow all the right things without hail and thunder making it any worse."

Lily gulped the tea because it gave her an excuse to look away from the easy smile and twinkling eyes in front of her. This was the reason her mother had stopped her summer trips to Scotland as soon as she judged her child old enough to stay at home without babysitting. Up here in the countryside, there were games and outdoors and fun, but there were also the odd little things. The knife standing sentinel against a summer downpour was new, but the iron horseshoe had always hung from the door. The small plate of milk had always been out in the porch, even though no stray cats ever drank from it. There had been small sayings and silly songs she had learned back then, words that made her mother furious and meant more to her grandmother than a simple game. Once, she had spent a whole night sewing bits of some herb in the hem of her clothes with Mackenna while she taught her an old story. That had been the last summer she ever visited.

When Lily lifted her gaze again, she found the eyes of her grandmother regarding her, full of understanding.

"You never told us how you broke your leg," she said, fumbling for a safer topic.

"I fell, of course." Mackenna held her silence, but relented with a smile when Lily gave her an irritated look. "I was getting something down from the attic and tripped down the ladder. It could have been worse, I reckon, but the doctor said I have a hard head." She harrumphed. "As if I needed to drive all the way to Aberdeen to hear that."

Lily looked up, as if evaluating the attic that sprawled across the whole house. By design, it was an open space. However, her grandma had so many boxes and shelves up there it had been her favorite place to play hide-and-seek.

"You probably shouldn't be climbing ladders anymore, Grandma."

"You can get me the things I need while you're here."

"Sure." Lily grinned. "I can do that."

# Chapter Two

Offering to fetch things from the attic was one thing, but finding exactly what her grandma needed was an altogether different issue. Lily crouched under the rafters, a notepad balanced on one knee while rummaging in the box marked "pixie pox." Her fingers closed around something slender and metallic and she pulled it free. It could look like a bartering spoon, she guessed. It was reddish, probably bronze, which made her find even more likely. Still, she wouldn't bet any money on it being a "blessed spoon of St. Wort's." It could just as well be the "nightly mixer," for all she knew... And that was the greatest problem.

Lily put the spoon aside with a sigh and randomly crossed one of the two items from her list. The attic was a nightmare to navigate, and she had expected that. It wouldn't have been a real attic if finding things had been easy. But she had expected the difficulties to come from tons of dust, disarrayed boxes, and cloth-covered, moth-eaten furniture standing in the way. That's what happened with your average attic. Not Mackenna's, though. Hers was pristine, not a speck of dust on the shelves, not a single box out of place, not an item out of its box. The floor was well cared for, cleaned and waxed, free of obstacles. A whole wall was covered with glass jars filled with herbs and small stones. A couple of the bottles were filled with seashells. And every jar was spotless as if right out of the dishwasher, so finding the handful of things her grandmother needed for the evening should have been easy. It would have been, had Lily known what she should be looking for.

Something hit the floor right under her feet and Lily screamed, high pitched and short. Two more knocks came in rapid succession.

"Are you quite done?" Her grandmother's voice drifted up. "I do need those things before supper."

"Almost," she called back. Lily let out a shaky laugh, trying to forget the embarrassment of her little shriek. "Your sorting system is not as great as you think."

"Sound and solid, it is. Everything is in that box, except the daisies. Those are in a jar, right under 'D.'"

Lily considered the box and its contents. It was a decent size, one by one by two feet, and filled to the brim with normal implements which had been dubbed strange names. She couldn't tell what was what, but she figured she could lift the box at least this one time. When she had to come up next, she would ask her grandmother for clearer instructions. She grabbed the spoon she had selected earlier and dumped it back in the box, along with her list. Then, she went to the shelf with jars and found one full of daisies. It too went into the box, albeit with more care. Taking a deep breath, she hefted it against her hip and headed for the ladder.

Negotiating it proved to be more complicated than just hauling the box. She laid it on the floor, then climbed down until her head cleared the opening. She stood no more than a couple of feet above the ground. Letting go of the ladder and precariously balancing herself on her feet and knees, she reached up to tug the box after her. She tried to hold it with one hand over her shoulder so she could use the other to guide herself down, but it was much too heavy for the maneuver. In the end, she jumped and landed with an ungraceful stagger.

"Uh," Mackenna said from the living room door. "I can see how I needed your help."

"And I can see how you broke your leg," Lily quipped back.

"You didn't have to bring down the whole thing, dear. That's why I gave you the list."

"I tried. I can't tell what is what, Grandma. You could try calling a spoon a spoon in the next list."

A fleeting look crossed Mackenna's eyes. It was too fast for Lily to fully comprehend, but she thought it had carried a bit of sadness.

"Those instruments do have the most original names, don't they?" Mackenna limped back into the living room and motioned for Lily to follow her. "It took me a while to learn them all too. Don't worry."

Lily put the box upon the table and stepped back to let her grandmother do the rummaging. "You could have just changed them," she said, watching the pots, purses, jars and spoons as they were placed upon the table. "Call a spoon a spoon and a pot a pot, you know."

"Oh, no, it wouldn't have worked. The nightly mixer mustn't be mistaken for a pot."

So the spoon had been the "blessed spoon of St. Wort's." Lily made a mental note, not expecting to learn but hoping to remember enough to avoid wrestling another full box from the attic.

"It _is_ a pot, Grandma," she said aloud.

"It most certainly isn't."

There was something about the way she said it that had Lily inching closer, peering at the little pot—the nightly mixer—and straining to see something that didn't belong. After a minute of waiting with baited breath, she relented and just asked.

"What's the difference?"

"The name, dear girl, the name!" Mackenna replied with a chuckle.

"Oh. Ha ha. Very funny."

"Not fun, just truth." Her grandmother leaned over and kissed the top of her head. "Say, where's the blessed—?"

"Spoon of St. Wort's," Lily finished with a sigh. "In there. I put it back once I realized I couldn't tell what was what."

Mackenna frowned. "I don't see it."

"It's right there," Lily insisted. A lot of the box's contents had been laid out on the table already, so the spoon should be easy to spot. She leaned in and peered at the half-empty pixie pox box. She reached inside and shifted its contents. She pulled a few things out and put them back in. "It isn't in there," she muttered at last.

"You must have forgotten to put it back in. Don't worry about it, dear. Go fetch it while I prepare the daisies."

"I know I put it in. I did it even before picking the daisy jar." Lily started to search again more frantically.

"I'm sure you meant to put it back in," Mackenna said with a strained smile. "Why don't you check upstairs to make sure you did?"

"Grandma, I'm not an idiot. I took it from the floor and dumped it in the box and—" Lily fell silent under her grandmother's pleading gaze. "Okay, I'll check if you want me to."

Lily climbed the ladder again. She had left the lights on, so she saw it as soon as she rounded the shelf. The spoon lay on the floor, smack in the middle.

"I put it back," she murmured, staring aghast.

"Lily?" Mackenna's muted voice broke her out of her reverie. "Did you find it?"

"Yes!" she called back, shaking herself. "It's here!"

Picking it up and holding it firmly in her grasp this time, she rushed back toward the ladder. She descended with more grace this second time, but still, she felt embarrassed.

"Sorry," she said once back in the living room. "It looks like you were right."

"Don't worry about it, dear." Mackenna took the spoon from her and patted her head. "This sort of thing happens all the time. You'll get used to it."

Lily yawned and stretched a kink out of her neck, groaning to herself.

_I should've gone to bed when Grandma told me to._

But she hadn't, and she wasn't sure which part of her current feelings was due to sleepiness and which part was actual regret.

Grandma Mackenna had spent the whole night brewing something with a dedication and fervor that amused and scared Lily in equal parts. On the one hand, there was something so folk about seeing her standing over a clay pot and counting the number of times she stirred clockwise, then counterclockwise. Saying small little rhymes under her breath. Fretting while the mixture boiled and condensed and adding this and that at just the right moment. It had been like stepping into a faerie tale, watching the witch while she brewed her potions for good or ill.

At night, it had been sort of magical.

But in the morning, when the sun was beginning to peek out, the magic went out and only the weird remained. Old-fashioned traditions, old-fashioned beliefs, old people. It didn't belong to the twenty-first century, except perhaps for the illiterate, and Lily became uncomfortable while Mackenna put the finishing touches in her remedy.

"There it is," she said with a tired sigh. Her grandmother looked worn, like someone who had spent the night fighting a storm.

"So that's supposed to cure pixie pox?" Lily asked, rubbing her eyes and giving a half-interested look to the small bottle Mackenna had just sealed.

"It will, believe you me," she said with a knowing smile. Then, she passed the bottle to Lily. "Can you do me a favor, dear?"

Lily gave a doubtful look to the small glass bottle thrust into her hands. It was tiny, the size of her index finger, and full of a milky liquid that seemed to have problems sloshing. "Well," she said at last. "That's what I'm here for, I suppose."

"I'd much appreciate it if you could take this to the McEnroe's."

"Sure. But I don't really know where they live."

Mackenna went back to the table, tore free a piece of paper and jotted down a few lines. "Here," she said. "Directions with a map and everything."

Lily studied the paper. The scale was wrong she was sure, but the line seemed to indicate a clear path going out the back, crossing a little bit of forest, turning to the left at some point labeled "broken tree" and then crossing the road and moving on to a "standing rock," where apparently the McEnroe's had their home. In paper, little more than ten minutes. Lily was willing to bet it would take closer to half an hour.

"I think I can handle this," she said with a smile that she tried to make bright in spite of her weariness. However bad she felt, her grandma looked much worse for wear... and she had a cast on her leg, too. "As long as the burned tree is big and there's just one standing rock."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll have no problem finding the place," Mackenna said, not quite getting Lily's joking tone. "You used to go that way all the time when you were little. Robbed them blind of blackberries, you did."

A vague recollection of running around in a field under shimmering, pale light, laughing and eating the most delicious blackberries ever flashed in Lily's mind and then it was gone. "They won't mind, will they? About my old delinquent ways?"

"Of course not! They wouldn't have eaten them anyway."

"Okay, then. I'll be off. About payment, what do I have to ask for?"

Mackenna waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing, dear. These things never work if you get paid for them."

"So you just spent a whole night up and running, when the doctor specifically told you to rest, for nothing?"

Her grandmother gave her a sharp look. "So it would've been just fine to do it if I had profited from it?"

"Not fine... but I would've understood it."

For a moment, it looked like Mackenna was going to argue. Then, she sighed and gave a longing look to her room. "One day you might understand," she said. "It's my duty to help these people, dear. And I've never wanted for anything, have I? In my line of work, what goes around comes around."

"If you say so," Lily said, not wanting to fight. "I'll run there and take this to them."

"Thank you."

When she was to the door and her grandma had just disappeared into her own room, Lily paused and called back. "Grandma? What _is_ pixie pox?"

But she got no answer, and after a second, she heard the springs of her grandmother's old bed creaking under the pressure. The soft snores began almost before the mattress had a chance to settle.

# Chapter Three

Just as she had predicted, it took her over half an hour to make her way to the McEnroe's. Close to an hour and forty-five minutes, in fact.

By the time Lily glimpsed the gabled rooftop of her destination, she had covered nearly all the area by foot. Someone had removed the burned tree and only a small and twisted—and nearly invisible—stump remained. She passed it twice before she managed to take the correct turn. Then, she discovered people in Scotland had the interesting pastime of carrying nice rocks around and leaving them behind, presumably to sit on later during their walks or while they minded their sheep. She inspected no less than five standing rocks before she decided which one her grandmother meant. In the end, it was an old pull from memory and the drifting aroma of berry bushes insinuated in the breeze that guided her to the right house.

"Mr. McEnroe?" she called after ringing the bell. "Ms. McEnroe?"

The door took a long moment to open, and when it did, it showed a small kid, not older than five or six at the most.

"Hullo," he said.

"Hi," Lily tried on her best smile. "Are your parents home? Mackenna Kirk asked me to bring them something."

The kid smiled and only then did Lily realize how sad he looked. His eyes lit up and his grin showed two missing teeth. "That's the medicine the doctor makes for my ma. She's home," he said, extending his little hand to grab for the bottle.

"I would like to talk to her." Lily sidestepped his grasping fingers. She was pretty sure her grandmother hadn't brewed anything dangerous, but she didn't want to give it to a little boy.

"You can't." The boy's smile flew and he pouted.

"You just told me she's home."

"You can't," he repeated, his tone going shrill as he prepared for a full-out tantrum.

"Look, I just want to tell her—"

The boy's cries cut Lily off, his lungs giving their all as he wailed and wailed. Lily's mouth hung open. She stole a glance back. Perhaps she could come back later, when Mr. McEnroe was home after work.

"Peter," said a soft voice from the inside. As if by magic, the boy, Peter, fell silent. "Be polite to the nice lady and let her in."

"But you're supposed to rest," he protested, his lower lip quivering.

"I promise you I won't get tired just seeing her." There was a smile in that affectionate tone, but then the words got cut short by a coughing attack. Peter rushed back inside, and since he had left the door open, Lily followed him.

The house was small, humble. They didn't want for anything at first sight, but they didn't seem to own anything unnecessary either. There was no hall, just a living room and a bedroom that opened straight into it. There, Peter climbed onto a bed where a woman was lying. She couldn't be old, not likely over forty, but she looked sunken and consumed amid the white linens. Still coughing weakly, she patted the boy's head and offered a small gesture to Lily.

"Welcome," she said, between heavy breaths. "I'm sorry I can't offer you some tea, but..."

"No, don't worry about it." Lily felt bad enough for pressing the visit. There was no need to add mooching to the list. "I just wanted to bring you this."

Ms. McEnroe nodded and gestured to Peter to get the small bottle. This time, Lily surrendered it without complaint and he busied himself with the pitcher of water that rested on the table. With more care than befitted his age, he poured a spoonful of the liquid and mixed it with deliberate gentleness. Then, beaming with pride at a task well done, he wrestled the pitcher over to his mother, who got a glass, and once more, patted his head. Lily felt like an intruder.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" she asked.

The woman drank her glass and gave her a frail smile. "You've done enough bringing the medicine. Thank you."

"I..." Lily hesitated. "I think you should probably see a doctor about that," she said. "A real one," she added when she remembered the title the little boy had bestowed upon her grandmother.

The woman shook her head. "Already did, first thing. This is not for them to cure, though. It needs a faerie doctor to go away, and thanks to Mackenna, I'm almost well again."

Lily went to protest, but bit back her words and frowned. Ms. McEnroe's voice had sounded a little bit stronger, less pained. Her breathing didn't seem all that labored... or was it her imagination?

"Okay," she said at last. "I guess I'll head back home then. But if you do need something..."

"Be safe on the way back," Ms. McEnroe said. "Peter, be polite and show the nice lady to the door."

Peter gave Lily a suspicious look, not willing to overlook or forget the fact she had tried to withhold his mother's medicine from him, but still, he complied and even managed a wave as Lily crossed the edge of their yard into the forest.

This time around, she found the correct rock with ease and the way across the road to the burned tree took only a little over thirty minutes. She walked up to the blackened, twisted thing that had been swallowed back by the greenery around it and gave it a little, vindictive kick. Like touching base. She was getting the hang of these instructions. Then she turned to the right, ninety degrees, and—

"Grandma!" she shouted, taking a hurried step back and nearly toppling over the tree's remains. "What are you doing here?"

Mackenna stood not three feet away, her white hair neatly combed, her eyes still tired and her smile a little bleary. She hadn't changed clothes, still wearing her dark blue, knee-length skirt and prim white blouse, but she had straightened them up a bit after the night's work. She didn't say anything.

"Why did you come? You are supposed to be resting, Grandma." Lily did some quick calculations in her head. Even getting it right the first time, this place was at least a quarter of an hour from her home at her own pace. When constricted by age and a walking cast, that distance could easily seem double. "This isn't funny, Grandma," she said with a frown. "Maybe you can stand and move around at home, but you certainly can't do this."

"Don't you trust me to know what I can do? Such an issue with trust you have. It'll be your undoing, you'll see. Not having it, losing it, misplacing it, betraying it."

"What?" Lily blinked.

"Go home, dear," Mackenna said, disregarding her confusion. "I'll follow you in a moment."

"Wha...? No. No way. I'll walk you back. It's okay if it takes a little longer."

Mackenna shook her head. She walked, limping only slightly, and perched down on the burned stump. "You go ahead," she insisted. "Just now I feel myself faint. Go home ahead and bring me a shawl and a little fruit."

"Grandma, be reasonable."

"I'll wait for you here." Mackenna smiled. She spoke quietly but with all the authority of a queen, and Lily found herself nodding.

"Okay," she said. "Okay, you stubborn woman. I'll be back as fast as I can... Don't move from that spot."

"I will not." Another smile.

Lily fast-walked the first few yards away from the burned tree trunk and then she began to run.

# Chapter Four

Lily hit the front steps running and she barged in the house like a bull in a china shop.

"Dear Lord!" said her grandmother's voice. "Whatever is running after you?"

She froze. "Grandma?"

"In here." Mackenna came out from her bedroom, looking more rested and slightly ruffled as if she had just jumped out of bed. "Are you well?"

In fact, she wasn't. Lily's head began to spin as she tried to reconcile the woman in front of her with the woman she had left behind.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Well, where would you rather I be?" Mackenna chuckled softly. "I may be able to walk a little, but I certainly am not up for hiking anywhere else."

"But I just saw you."

The smile froze in Mackenna's lips, a strained grimace appearing in its place. "I'm sure it was a misunderstanding. It must have been someone who looked like me, that's all."

"You talked to me!" Lily gestured wildly, her head spinning faster as her breathing became more labored. "You were there—where the burned tree... and you _talked to me_!"

Mackenna walked up to her, only a slight limp to her steps, and put her frail arms around her shoulders. "There, there. I'm sure there's another explanation. How could I have been there and here at the same time?"

Lily realized she was shaking. "I'm not going mad," she murmured.

"Of course not!"

"But it feels like it. The spoon first, now this. I—"

"I think you just were tricked by a faerie," Mackenna cut in. Her tone was perhaps a little bit too terse.

"Faeries don't exist, Grandma," Lily said with a heavy sigh.

Mackenna fixed her for a long moment and then her shoulders slumped, giving up the discussion. "Maybe they do, maybe they don't. But they're great pranksters, so it would not surprise me if this had been their idea of a joke."

Lily didn't reply. Arguing would lead nowhere. She'd seen it every time her mother tried to talk Mackenna out of the old ways. For her grandmother, faeries were there. She even called herself a faerie doctor as the visit to the McEnroe's had reminded her. That was the reason she had so many odd things about and had spent a whole night working on something Lily could only call a potion. But still, those beliefs didn't explain what she had seen, so—

"Come, Lily," Mackenna said. "Let's forget about the good folk. I have a gift for you."

"Really?" She grinned. "You didn't have to! What is it?"

Lily didn't forget about meeting her grandmother on the way back home, but she did push it to the back of her mind. While there were no faeries, the prankster theory did have its merits. Impersonating her grandmother to such an extent must have taken a lot of planning and effort and it was odd that anyone would bother, but what other explanation was there?

"Come and you'll see for yourself," her grandma called back over her shoulder.

Mackenna led Lily to her room. The bed cover was still askew after napping and she straightened it with care before sitting down and patting the bed by her side. Lily obeyed while her grandmother rummaged in the bedside table. After a few moments, she got out a small leather pouch and put in in Lily's hands.

"There," she said. "It will look lovely on you."

Lily loosened the string and spilled out the contents. Her breath caught in her throat when the silver chain flowed over her fingers.

"It's so beautiful," she whispered. The necklace shone, capturing every little ray of light available and glimmering like pale fire. The brooch, big and engraved with an elaborate rose bud, was designed to rest against her throat, holding the delicate triple chain closed and letting the charms hang from its end. Each charm hung at a different length and each was intricate and graceful. There were two roses in full bloom and one that had wilted, but even the wilted one was gorgeous, a decadent testimony of a lush past.

"I'm glad you like it."

"Like doesn't even begin to cover it," Lily said, her eyes captured by the jewel. "It's a masterpiece. It's amazing. It's... Where'd you even _find_ something like it?"

"That's going to be my secret," Mackenna said with a smile, squeezing her free hand.

"I'm not sure I can wear it. What if I lose it?"

"Oh, no, I won't have any of that. You simply must wear it. That's the only condition for the gift."

Lily grinned. "Well, I'll sacrifice myself then." With reverent care, she clasped the necklace in place. The metal felt cool against her skin and the weight settled comfortably around her throat.

Mackenna studied her, gave a nod of approval, and stood.

"Now that it's settled, I think I'll make myself presentable for the day."

"Are you sure you don't want to sleep anymore? The wake-up call wasn't all that nice on my part."

"Don't worry about it. It's a great moment to start doing things, and we wouldn't want to sleep perfectly good hours away when we can be using them."

"Okay. I'll prepare something to eat then. A late meal. Would you like anything special?"

"Thank you, my dear. Anything you pick will be fine."

"Pancakes then. I'll have them ready when you are." Lily needed something sweet after the rocky start of the day, and she thought she remembered where all the ingredients were in the kitchen. She might even manage to surprise and impress her grandma as a thank you for the incredible necklace.

# Chapter Five

Good will did very little to improve her skills in the kitchen, Lily found after puttering around for five minutes. She wasn't used to cooking and the only guidance she had to go by was a vague recollection of eating raw dough with her grandmother in her last visit.

She tapped the spoon against the flour container. How much flour did she need again?

"I see you were waiting on me," said her grandma, entering the kitchen just as the pondered whether to add more flour or more egg.

"Oh, hey. Not on purpose, but I've realized I don't remember how to make this as well as I thought." Lily turned to shoot her grandma a quick smile, but the expression wilted in her lips. Furrowed brows didn't belong with Mackenna and the odd expression sent yet another thrill along her already frayed nerves. "Is everything okay, Grandma?"

"I can't seem to find my blouse. The red one. I truly wanted to wear it today."

"That's not too bad." She finally chose to add another egg and hope for the grub she had prepared to improve. "Do you want me to help you look for it?"

A moment of silence followed and it made Lily glance at Mackenna once again. There was a thoughtful look in those blue eyes, but then she noticed her looking and shook it off, offering a tight smile instead.

"No, I think not. I'm sure it'll just appear when we least expect it. But let me help you. It looks like those pancakes could use it."

Lily made room and Mackenna took charge of the kitchen. It was easier that way, letting her give instructions and explain how to do it properly. Her expertise even salvaged Lily's disaster and by the time they had anything like dough going on, the both of them had flour in their hair and were laughing, the tiredness of the previous night and the weirdness of the morning all but forgotten.

"Now that looks more tasty, doesn't it?" Mackenna gave one last twist of the spoon and contemplated their work. "We only need add the yeast and we will be done."

Lily reached behind to the counter, to the spot where she had placed all the ingredients, and froze. It wasn't there. There was milk and flour and eggs, and even the cinnamon she had pulled out just in case, but no yeast.

She swallowed, her throat dry.

"I... It's not there. But I took it out," she said.

Mackenna didn't try to convince her otherwise. She dusted off her hands, went to the right cabinet and looked inside.

"Well. We seem to have run out of yeast."

"I know that's not true, Grandma. I took it, I put it on the table. It was there when we began cooking."

"It's not there now, dear, and there's no use in crying over what was." Mackenna's tone was kind, but the words had trouble coming out of her mouth. They felt wrong. Like her mind was on something else and she had to force herself to focus on calming a recalcitrant child from a spooky dream.

"It was there!" Lily insisted, feeling more and more like that recalcitrant child and unable to care. She had other things to worry about. Like her grandmother growing dopplegangers, spoons hopping out of boxes and yeast disappearing in thin air.

"Yes, dear. But it is not; not anymore."

"How can you be so—?"

Mackenna took a deep breath. "It's alright, dear. I'm sure we only misplaced it while preparing the dough. Why don't you walk to the store and buy some more? It should be faster than trying to find it, and I will clean the mess we have made meanwhile."

Lily choked on air and felt like a fool for it. They were little things, all of them. Easily explained away by pranksters and misplaced items. But there were so many odd little things, coming so fast one after the other, that she felt a wave of vertigo wash over her.

She had to grip the counter not to fall.

_Is this what Mom felt like? Like she was one step away from falling down the rabbit hole? Is this the reason she's obsessed with order now?_

_She might be onto something._

"Okay," she said when the room stopped spinning. "I will go."

Fresh air might do her some good.

She felt Mackenna's eyes on her back as she left, making every effort not to run. Running away from a homey kitchen wasn't normal, and normal was what she needed right then.

The path toward the village proper took her by the sterling silver knife planted to prevent summer storms and she looked the other way, relishing the view of the river instead. The surface was still like a mirror and it reflected the gray overcast sky, blurring the horizon line and calming her own thoughts.

A flicker of movement caught her eye when she had nearly reached the road: a woman knelt by the shore, her head bent over her task, and a flash of red cloth fluttered underwater.

Lily frowned. _Is she... washing? Is that even allowed?_

As if sensing her lingering gaze, the woman lifted her eyes and stared at Lily. A shiver ran down her spine in spite of the distance and she quickened her pace, hunching her shoulders against an invisible cold breeze.

There had been madness in that stare. The sort brought on only by grief and pain.

# Chapter Six

Lily didn't return home after purchasing the yeast.

She wanted—craved, needed—to see people about their business, to hear them laugh and talk or even grumble along. Spending a while just sitting in the main square, watching everyone act normal and then walking aimlessly around, mingling with them, helped put her more at ease than any amount of pancakes ever could. By the time her steps took her back to her grandma's, the day was darkening fast, partly because of the hour and partly because of what felt like an approaching storm.

She'd probably been gone too long. Mackenna was probably worried. She probably shouldn't have been freaked out by the morning's incident.

_God. I've been here all of two days and I'm falling apart worse than Mom. This is not what I came here for. I need to get a grip._

And to apologize, she decided. She would just be more open-minded and less of a worrywart for the rest of the month. It was the least she could do.

Then, when she approached the steps of the porch, something red flying in the breeze caught her eye and she stopped for a moment, unsure.

_What was that?_

The hair on the back of her neck stood up as she remembered the woman she'd seen when going out by the river Dee. There had been something red, too, something streaming down the current, but she had only looked for a second.

She turned her focus to the backyard beyond the house's corner. A breath of air caressed her face and she saw it again, almost hidden behind the wall, too vibrant against the encroaching shadows. It was real.

Lily lowered her shopping bag to the front porch and walked toward the flutter. She almost felt like a kid again, finding an adventure in the most mundane things, and although she felt foolish, a sense of wonder accompanied her when she cleared the corner with a quick jump.

It was the laundry line. The day was anything but ideal, and the only piece of clothing strung out to dry was her grandmother's favorite blouse. It was the one Mackenna had spent the best part of the morning searching for. Her grandmother loved the splatter of wild red flowers covering the fabric and said it was like carrying around your own spring. In the kind of weather they endured, she insisted it was the least she deserved.

Lily took it down from the line. It smelled fresh, like mountain rivers and morning dew, but it had dried already. She arched a brow, surprised, and checked her watch. She had been gone longer than she intended, longer than needed to reach the village and come back, but not quite long enough for her grandmother to find the shirt, wash it, and have it dry. She might have been out an hour and a half, two hours tops, and with the declining sun hiding behind heavy clouds and the moisture in the air ever higher, the blouse shouldn't have dried.

_Forget the drying,_ she thought. _Where did she find it? She took the room apart and the moment I'm not there, it appears._

"Grandma!" she called out, clearing the steps to the back door in a small leap. "Where'd you get it?"

Mackenna didn't answer and the sense of unease that had accompanied her for most of the day piped up. Her hand froze in the latch, pinpricks of apprehension tickling her fingers.

_Why isn't the radio on? Why isn't she outside, tasting the coming storm?_

She shook herself. Standing outside and wondering wouldn't help, so she banished the discomforting thoughts to wherever they'd sprung from and entered the kitchen.

"Grandma!" she called again, flicking on the lights.

Out of her peripheral vision, she saw a shadow, a huge shadow occupying the center of the room that slowly folded in on itself instead of evaporating with the flood of light. She had to blink, and when she focused her gaze, everything looked normal. With a quick look around, she moved toward the living room.

"Grandma, as a joke, this is crap," she said, her voice not quite as steady as it had been a moment before.

A noise came from the master bedroom. Lily left the blouse on the table and went to investigate. The hall lights were off, too, and it startled her. It was too dark, even though night hadn't fallen, and in the recesses of the house, she had to squint. It was odd that her grandma hadn't turned on the lamps to liven up the mood.

_If she's here at all,_ she thought. The idea crept on her and assaulted her, unfounded but unsettling. The house had never been this silent.

She opened the door to the bedroom very slowly without knocking, peering inside much like a child checks under the bed expecting to find all the monsters in spite of the irrational nature of such fears.

Holding her breath without even noticing, she reached in and flicked the lights.

"Hello? Is—?"

Something fell on her head. It wasn't too big, perhaps the size of a big tomcat, but the impact suggested something much heavier.

Lily jumped back with a screech, batting at the thing perched on her head. Her hand found a clump of matted fur and something sharp clamped her fingers when she swatted at it. She wrenched her arm free and the thing thudded to the floor at her feet.

She would've kept screaming, but no air reached her lungs. A mixture of fear and incredulity gripped her throat as she stared at the unflinching yellow eyes leveled at her.

It wasn't a tomcat.

The face staring at her might have belonged to a cat or a squirrel or a monkey, or to the twisted descendant of all three. Its ears were flattened against the sides of its head like a growling dog preparing to attack. It uncurled from the floor, stood on two legs and revealed long, ungainly arms, tipped with long fingers and twisted claws that came nearly to its knees. Its matted, brown fur was a mass of sweat and twigs with dull, rusty-red streaks that could have been dried blood.

Lily managed to drag in a breath and the air left her in a low, keening noise. The thing grinned at her, an expression entirely too human for its bizarre animal shape. There was amusement in that grin and its jagged teeth gleamed a thin crimson under the light from the bedroom.

Finally, Lily screamed, the sound tearing free from her throat and breaking the tableau. She stumbled backward, not daring to take her eyes from the thing, and it scurried after her with the disjointed movements of a two-legged spider. Something dug into her hip and there was a crash at her feet as Lily ran into the side table in the hall. She staggered and heard a hiss coming from the kitchen behind her, but it didn't register, not until something sharp and twisted sliced into her calf.

There were more things in the darkness. The second one grabbed her leg with its over-sized arms and Lily kicked like a possessed woman, trying to dislodge it. It clung on, its claws digging deeper into her flesh as it prepared to bite. With a yell, she grabbed a flower vase from the side table and smashed it against the thing's head. It let go with a yowl and Lily darted down the unlit hall.

She couldn't stop screaming. It was one continuous stream of sound pouring from her throat, scraping and tearing at her vocal chords.

Lily collided against the front door. She wrenched at it with all her strength, shoved against it, but it didn't budge. Behind her, she heard rattling laughter so close she could smell their tepid breath.

She had come in through the kitchen. The door she clung to now was locked.

Her trembling fingers held the latch for a few more moments, but then something big and hairy moved over her head, jumping lightly from one wall to the other, and her body bolted away of its own volition.

She crashed into the living room, the shadows and the panic making her trip and rush headlong into the furniture. The things scuttled behind her, their clawed feet tip-tapping against the floor, and their clawed hands scoured the walls with a screech.

She heard more scuttling in front of her. More things hid with her, and she lunged for a light switch. She needed to find an open window; she had to find something, a way to—

Through the sheer wall of terror, the state of the room hit Lily like a brick wall. The couch was overturned, shredded, spattered. There were red and black pools drying on the floor. The chairs had been shattered, and the table had become a convenient perch for yet another of those things. And the shades of every window were drawn.

# Chapter Seven

Somewhere in her mind, a rational part of her realized with clinical detachment that the things had laid in wait and prepared a trap for her—the silence, the darkened house to prevent her from truly seeing what had happened when she first came through. The creatures, whatever they were, knew she would come back and were intelligent enough to prepare for it.

She scanned the room again, this time trying to think, to analyze. Fear still held her, but the precious few seconds the three creatures gave her, just looking and chattering, were enough to let her regroup. Lily knew she had to run away, and she also knew that if those things were taking their time, almost laughing at her, that meant she had fallen in their trap. There was no way out of the living room, so she would have to create her own escape route.

Mackenna's house had a fireplace. It was just on the other side of the overturned couch. If she could only reach it, she would be able to use the bronze poker as a weapon. To do that though, she would have to get very close to the little monster perched on the table, and she would have to move fast before the three creatures stopped their yapping and closed in on her.

Lily got her feet under her and grabbed the first thing her fingers found: the glass bottle where her grandmother had put away the remnants of the remedy she had prepared that night, which was miraculously intact. She hurled it toward the table with all her strength and it shattered in front of the creature. The shards showered its face and arms, and it screeched in surprise, scurrying backward. Wherever the clear liquid from the mixture touched its dirty fur, a thin rivulet of smoke curled away, carrying the stench of burned flesh.

She lunged across the living room, vaulted over the couch with adrenaline-powered grace, and reached the poker. She turned back toward the creatures, brandishing it like a blade. Her breath came in short gasps, and her eyes roved wildly between the three monsters now crouched together in front of the living room door, but her hand held steady. She took a step forward and they scuttled back, shifting their weight, their eyes wide open.

_They're scared,_ she thought. One had fresh blood on its head where she had bludgeoned it with the vase. Another had charred tufts of fur and a gaping cut in one of its clawed hands. None of them made any sound anymore. _I've managed to hurt them and now they're scared._

A sliver of confidence made her stand straighter. She took two more quick steps and one of the creatures yipped and fled to the side.

_Okay. Okay, I can get out of here._

She kept walking slow and measured steps toward the door, menacing the creatures while moving slightly to the side so she could keep the one cowering inside the room in her vision. It moved farther into the room while the other two retreated into the corridor when she was nearly upon the door. She stepped close to the wall, ready to bolt while still keeping an eye on both groups.

Then, the creature in the room smiled up at her. It was a sweet smile, huge eyes blinking and bloody teeth poking from behind non-existent lips, and it froze the blood in her veins with a grip of terror. The poker wavered in her hand and she heard a snicker coming from the creature that seemed no longer scared. She focused her attention and found it staring at her with amused curiosity. Very slowly, one of its hands rose to its face and one wicked claw unfurled, pointing.

Up.

Lily raised her eyes. She stood below the trapdoor to the attic and the gleaming yellow eyes of a fourth creature stared down.

It launched itself at her, its claws extended, its mouth opening in a screech that displayed rows of jagged teeth. Lily brought the poker up but its feet kicked and slapped it out of her hands. It fell with a clank that was drowned by the thud of her body. Its face hovered above hers for a second, then it screeched again, bringing down its claws to rake her face. She twisted and brought her arms around her head, trying to curl into a ball to protect herself, but the moment her back touched the floor, the other three creatures rushed her. They held her arms and her legs, their claws slicing into her flesh. Teeth grazed her side and she arched her back, bucking, trying to dislodge the creature from her chest in a desperate attempt to escape.

She succeeded in forcing it to hold on tighter, its hands and feet opening bloody gouges in her upper body.

_Grandma, where are you? I'm going to die here! I need you!_ The thoughts floated around her head, swimming in pain and fear.

Then, the creature on top of her collapsed, gurgling. A spear of cold punched her chest and icy water tickled out of its mouth and down her neck, mixing with her tears. It didn't move again.

The one that had bitten her stopped gnawing and raised its head. Through blurry eyes, Lily saw it fall, struggling and fighting, clutching its belly. It had been speared by the poker. The figure wielding it yanked it free and the creature twitched before staying still. The figure then rose to his feet, arching the poker like a bat as he did. Warm droplets of blood fell on Lily's face and the head of the creature holding her arms cracked with a sickening noise.

Lily jerked and kicked her legs. The thing that held them offered only a token resistance and then let go, scuttling back and hissing at the newcomer. He stood by her head and held the bent poker loosely clasped in one hand. The other he held out, palm up, to her.

She grabbed on with both hands like a lifeline, but her legs refused to hold her weight when she tried to climb to her feet. The understanding of how close she'd been to death—how close she could still be—made the sobs uncontrollable.

"Stand," he said after a moment of her fumbling.

Lily felt fingers of hysterics reaching down her spine and she laughed between hiccups.

_I'm trying. I'm trying!_ She couldn't even form the words.

He canted his head to the side, his eyes fixed on the remaining creature as he considered it. His fingers tightened on her trembling ones. "There are more," he said in calm tones. "Stand."

And somehow, she did. She had to clutch his hand and forearm and use him like a crutch, but she did.

"My grandmother," she managed to say.

He shook his head.

"No, what?" she insisted, her voice barely above a crow.

"Not here." His gaze wandered the room, the house. He frowned. "We must leave. At once."

There were sounds of scurrying feet, of claws hitting the wooden floors. There was faint chattering and yapping coming from other rooms, other dark corners. Part of Lily was appalled at herself, but still she nodded. She had to get away and then she would think straight and figure out what was happening.

"Okay." She shuffled toward the door. He dropped the bronze poker and used his freed hand to steady her and hurry her along. They stopped by the living room door. "It's dead," Lily whispered, staring at the body of the fourth creature. She hadn't seen it fall—hadn't seen him attack.

"So it is," said the stranger, his tone amused. "And so are the other three, if you failed to note it."

"I didn't see you move." Somehow, that fact was important. It tried to tell her something, something she should consider instead of just following a man she didn't know, but the message got garbled and lost in the trauma of recent events.

As a reply, he gave the body a light kick, just enough to roll it on its back. A trickle of water escaped its nose and mouth, and Lily remembered the cold liquid on her neck when the first creature died too.

"Drowned?" She freed a hand to rub at her neck, fighting back a shiver.

"Yes. Now, if you are quite done?"

"Couldn't you kill the rest? So we can stay? I need to find my grandma, see what happened to her."

He pretended to be pensive for all of a blink and then began walking again, dragging Lily behind with little resistance on her side. "I will not," he said while they turned the hall and crossed the main door. It had been blasted off its hinges and lay haphazardly against the wall. "They are but overgrown rats, nigh impossible to exterminate."

"But—"

"They shall eat you the moment I turn my back for a fight," he cut her off. "They will not be caught unawares a second time."

Lily said nothing else and did her best to keep up with his long strides as they descended the porch.

"This is far enough," he said when they cleared the front yard. He pried her fingers off his arm and hand, not without care, and guided her to cling to a young tree instead.

"The house is right there," she said, fighting his movements. "They'll get me. They'll come out and eat me anyway! You can't leave me here."

He paused, stared at her and, once more, disentangled her fingers from his clothing, using a little more force. "This is far enough," he repeated.

"Don't leave me!" Lily cried, hating the terror in her voice, the need in her outstretched hands, the willingness to just escape, and yet not hating it enough to stop clinging to survival.

Before her sentence was finished, though, he was gone. His body melted, a liquid shape of pure blackness that flickered in the purple light of a rapidly falling twilight, and then it coalesced once more before her very eyes. The blackness solidified into smooth skin covering coiled muscles, its rugged edges a dripping mane, and when it shifted, powerful hooves turned up the soil in their wake.

Lily's knees gave out and she fell to the ground, her mouth opening and closing without any sound.

_"This is far enough for me to shift,"_ the man's voice said, sounding straight to her head.

"What are you?" she managed when he turned a steady gaze on her.

_"I cannot imagine you find me to be a worse alternative to your other guests."_

She tore her eyes from him and toward the house. She thought she imagined yellow eyes blinking in the darkened doorway. If this man—this other creature—in front of her meant her harm, it couldn't possibly be worse than what awaited her in there.

He sensed her resolution and the great horse head nodded. _"Come. Climb up and let us be away."_

Lily climbed to her feet, leaning on the tree for help, and then gingerly placed her hands on the horse's back, his arched neck. Her head barely came above his withers.

"I can't ride," she confessed.

Its forelegs bent, its back lowered. Its head remained tilted, staring at her with calm and intelligent eyes. _"You cannot fall,"_ the voice said.

She clambered on awkwardly, mindful of her wounds and stealing glances back. Once astride, she barely had time to brace herself before he surged to his feet, heaving a great snort and launching into a fast canter that quickly became a gallop. She didn't dare scream.

They cut through shrubbery and jumped clear through fallen branches, twisting around gnarled trees and evading rocky outcrops, and Lily didn't fall.

# Chapter Eight

Lily woke. She didn't have any recollection of falling asleep or passing out, but when she opened her eyes, the cottage was no longer in sight and she was no longer riding.

_A dream?_ She stirred and a jolt of pain traveled her body.

"I would ask you not to do that," the level voice of the stranger said somewhere behind her. "I took great pains to close your wounds and I dislike working in vain."

Lily moved her arm ever so slightly, just enough to glimpse her hand. In the dim light, it looked covered in a mud-like paste and wrapped in rough cloth. A doctor would fret at the possible infection, and it did feel numb, but after the attack and the overwhelming events, numb was too much of a blessing to complain.

"Where am I?" she asked instead.

"Someplace safe." He walked around and crouched in front of her, close enough for her bleary eyes to make out his features and study him. His coal black hair was wet and slicked back. Occasional droplets of water fell down his brow, running down the side of his face and neck. He had delicate eyebrows, a well-defined jaw and sharp cheekbones that gave his angular face a striking, atemporal beauty. His thin lips were smirking.

"Who are you?" Lily pressed on, fighting a sudden urge to crawl back and put some distance between them.

"A friend. The question is, dear girl"—his eyes caught the scant light and glinted, the luminescent green of lichen—"who you are. What is your name?"

"Lily," she said. He canted his head, eyes narrowed in thought, and after a moment she added, "Lily Boyd."

That startled a laugh out of him. He rocked forth on the balls of his feet, his crouch bringing him too close, breaking all illusions of personal space. She caught sight of his tongue, darting out to wet his lips.

"Such delicious naivete," he said. "It truly is, is it not? Lily Boyd." Her name rolled off his mouth, languid and sensuous, and she felt a chilling tingle down her spine. He watched her reaction and nodded, satisfied, before sitting back to give her a little more room.

"What's yours?" she asked, trying to shake the odd sensation.

"Why are you wearing that piece of jewelry?" he asked in turn, pointing to her neck with a long, delicate finger.

On reflex, her hand went up to grab the silver charms and the movement sent another flash of pain through her arm. She gritted her teeth through the worst of it.

"It's a gift. From my grandma," she said when she could form words again. "Why?"

"Who is your grandmother?"

"You saved me from her house. Why were you there, anyway?"

"Such inquisitive mind." He offered another smirk and reached out to touch the pendant around her neck. "So you are the faerie doctor's blood, then. Giving you her protection is much like her, yes."

"You're not... I'm not following you." Lily sighed, letting her head roll back and closing her eyes. Her head had begun to pound. "And you haven't told me your name yet."

"And I won't." He laughed. "But you may call me Troy if you must."

"Troy. Okay. That's easy to remember," she mumbled. She didn't feel strong enough to fight him for his real name, and there were more important answers she would rather have anyway. "The faerie doctor's blood is protection?" she asked, trying to make sense of what he had said.

"No. Some might even call it a curse."

"But I'm protected. You said so."

"You are."

"Could you just answer the question?" Irritation made her open her eyes again, ready to glare. He was too close and her anger left her body when he smiled.

"There was no question," he said after a heartbeat, amused. "But I shall imagine which one you meant to formulate. Your protection does not come from blood, but from this."

Lily realized he was still touching her grandmother's pendant, his fingers caressing the charms. If her hand weren't crudely bandaged and covered in paste, she imagined she'd feel his skin.

"Like... a magic charm?"

He nodded. "Yes. It is forged by magic and freely given as a gift. Quite powerful."

"My grandma could do magic?" She didn't think to question the existence of magic. Some things she could explain away, but she had been attacked by man-eating gremlins and saved by a man who could become a horse. At that point, if she denied magic, craziness was the only other option.

"No," Troy said. "She could prepare some potions and her workings have helped many in this region, but she had no ability to perform true magic."

"Who can, then?"

"Among you, none. But..." His fingers left the necklace and pressed against her lips. "To forestall your next question, among us, I can. And I did."

"Did she ask you to make it for me? For my protection?"

"No. I made it for hers, at no one's behest. I did say freely given, did I not?"

"You... yeah, you did." Lily blinked, wearily. "You speak weird, you know?"

He smiled again, a flash of white teeth in her blurry vision. It was not a comforting gesture. "Do I now?"

"Yeah. Strange words. Like, behest. Who says behest these days?" She made a tiny movement with her hand to interrupt him. "And don't say 'I do.' You aren't supposed to answer that kind of question literally. That's the other odd thing."

"Perhaps you should learn to appreciate the usefulness of literal understanding, then. Learn to ask the questions you truly want answered."

Tired and hurt as she was, Lily found herself rolling her eyes. "You're sidestepping the original question."

"You have yet to ask it." He gave her a long look and sat where he crouched, loosely wrapping an arm around a raised knee. "But perhaps it is unfair of me to ask so much of you after the trials of the day. Rest for now, Lily Boyd. Rest and heal. There will be time to ask your questions when you awaken."

Her name in his quiet voice caused another shiver to run down her back. There was something obscene in the way he used it, too intimate, like a lover's caress. Her eyes fell closed with its echo still ringing in her ears.

The next time Lily came to, she noticed the absence of pain. She looked down her arm and saw the mud dried and cracked. _It still isn't a dream._ She reached over with her other hand and began to peel off the bandages and the paste. Underneath, her skin was pink and raised, as a week-old scar would be, but whole.

In spite of everything she had seen, it surprised her.

With an effort, she sat up. Her head swam a little, but she felt remarkably... well. With quick fingers, she began undoing the knots securing the rest of the bandages. When she finished, she let out a little giggle—she was healed. Still a bit battered, yes, but healed.

"I trust your mirth to mean you feel better."

She startled at the sound of the man's voice. Troy's. Scanning the room, she found him sitting where he'd been when she'd gone to sleep and wondered if he hadn't moved at all while she rested and healed.

"Hi," she said.

He arched an eyebrow and his lips quirked at the corner. "Hi," he replied, mimicking her tone.

"Was I out too long?"

A shrug. "A while. As long as you needed to be, I suspect."

His voice carried the same politeness it had before, but still Lily felt chastised. As if he had judged her by her first question and found her wanting. She shifted under his stare and, to avoid it, she focused on their surroundings.

It was daytime. There was no direct sunlight, but the dimness from the previous time had disappeared. They seemed to be resting in a niche of sorts, an alcove between ancient rocks that wasn't quite a cave, but offered privacy and refuge as if it were. The floor was soft, rich soil, nearly black, but it was clean of plants in a circle around them. Beyond that, the foliage was thick enough to prevent her from locating any useful landmark.

_Assuming there are any landmarks I'm familiar with around here._

"So, where are we?" she asked once more, with a sense of déjà vu.

"Must we go through the same pointless questions?" Troy sighed. "It remains somewhere safe."

"Right." She took a deep breath. "Let's try this for 'pointless.' What exactly happened yesterday?"

"Very good," he crooned. "A considerable improvement, although the time marker could be misleading."

"Please. I just... I need to know. You understood what I meant, didn't you? Can't you just answer?"

"I could." He narrowed his eyes and studied her, as if deciding whether she was worthy of the effort. His gaze drifted down her neck, to the pendant lying between her breasts, and then he nodded to himself. "Just this once."

"Thank you." She was surprised to realize she meant it. He acknowledged her words with a nod.

"The simplest truth is that you were attacked by a bogey pack when you returned home. You were in danger, and if the situation had run its course, you would have perished. This fact called forth the magic from your necklace, apprising me of the situation and binding my actions to alter the outcome if it were within my possibilities. As it was, I could make a difference. I acted, and your death has been avoided."

Lily sat there, mulling his words over. She had about a thousand questions, but she bit her tongue and forced herself to think them through. Troy seemed to put a lot of weight on what was asked, its content, its wording. She had already blundered twice.

_They say three's the charm,_ she thought. Then, "Why were there bogeys in the house?"

A mischievous smile. A shift in position, to make himself more comfortable. "Because the faerie doctor employed brownies," he replied.

_Okay. It wasn't a good question, but at least this time it didn't bother him._

"What is the relationship between bogeys and brownies?" Lily tried.

"They are one and the same." He grinned. "Two sides of a coin as I believe the saying goes."

"Grandma would never let those creatures in the house. She's not into pets that eat people." She was horrified and something in her expression must have shown, because Troy leaned forward, frowning in curiosity.

"Do you not know what a brownie is, Lily Boyd?"

There it was again. Her name, needlessly employed, invading her mind with his pervasive tones.

"A—" She swallowed and searched for words. "A monster that nearly ate me?"

He burst out laughing. "The faerie doctor's blood, indeed. Tell me, Lily Boyd, are you truly that uneducated?"

"Yes," she said, her mouth dry, her hands shaking.

He shifted again, ever closer, drawing his face to hers inch by inch. His lips were still parted in an amused grin that showed teeth and Lily found she could not break away from his stare.

"Tell me," he said, his voice so quiet that she felt his breath rather than heard the words, "do you not know what I am, Lily Boyd?"

The answer gathered on the tip of her tongue, struggling to come out. Lily fought it, biting the inside of her cheek until she tasted the sweet coppery tang of blood.

"Stop saying my name like that." The words felt alien on her tongue and the air to form them choked her throat.

"You cannot make me stop using your name. You gave it to me of your own free will. So tell me, Lily Boyd," he said, adding a sing-song tone to her name, "what am I?"

"Something that's scaring me," she blurted, as unable to hold her reply any longer as she was of holding her breath forever. The relief, once the truth hung in the air between them, was immediate.

"Well done," he said, reaching out. His fingers glided down her hair, tucking it behind her ear. "Was it so hard?"

"I didn't want to say it," Lily said, her voice breaking. "You made me." She searched his face, but he said nothing. "How?" she asked after the silence dragged on too long.

"I only asked." He stood up, his long body uncoiling without breaking eye contact with her. "Your reward for a truthful answer shall be another answer, an obvious one to a question you have tried to ask. The faerie doctor would have employed a brownie to keep her house. They are tidy by nature and enjoy working hard, maintaining order in the home they've chosen in exchange for but a little milk, sometimes sweetened with honey. Surely you see the attraction?"

"They tried to eat me." She focused on the new conversation to recover from the unnerving moment.

"The bogeys did. A brownie is quite harmless."

"Didn't you just say that they are one and the same?"

"A bogey is a brownie who shows an inclination to violence. Essentially, the same."

"You're confusing me again." Lily rubbed her temples. "So, you hire a brownie and then it can turn around and eat you?"

Troy chuckled. "Not quite. Each of them sticks to their own tendencies for their lifetime more oft than not. It does point out a worthy question, does it not?"

"Why did they change?"

"Yes. And if the good doctor was forewarned, why did she not make preparations?"

"What makes you think she saw it coming?"

"She passed my protection onto you." He tilted his head like an animal that had just caught a sound. "Unless there was some other reason?"

The way he looked at her told Lily she had the answer, whether she knew it or not. To have something he wanted for a change was exhilarating.

"There might have been," she said. "First, though, I want to know what happened with my grandmother."

"I could just ask you again," he replied, amused.

The stark reminder of what he could do drained the certainty out of her, but she forced herself to remain outwardly calm.

"You won't," she told him, trying to sound certain.

"You should not be attempting to play this game," he said by way of answer.

"Or else?" She set her jaw against the sudden spike of fear. "Are you threatening me now?"

"Threaten?" He barked out a laugh, the sound rich like crystal bells tolling in the distance. "What need is there? No, Lily, I just remark on what a poor player you are."

"You're still here, asking and answering."

He accepted her rebuke with a nod. "So I am. I admit I want to know what caused the attack. The doctor was well liked in these lands."

"So? My answer?"

"Devoured, just as you would be were it not for me. And there lies your weakness—a question with an answer you had the means to deduce, results in a waste of your only chip."

Lily covered her mouth with her hands and felt tears choking her. "How can you be so cold? Just saying it like that?" She swallowed. "No other option?"

"She might have been kidnapped. She might have been killed and left behind." He made a dismissive gesture. "Each possibility abysmally less plausible than the one before. Now, I answered your question. I believe it is your turn."

"Right before giving me the necklace, I ran into Grandma," she told him, talking through a lump in her throat. "She had asked me to take a bottle of something against pixie pox to a neighbor's and I found her on the way home. But, and this is the unexpected thing, Grandma told me she hadn't seen me. That's stupid, of course, because she talked to me. Why would she lie?"

Troy crouched again from his idling stance and tapped his chin. "She would not. She did not, in fact. You saw a gercu."

"A what? Never mind. Don't you think I would recognize my own grandmother?"

"A creature without form. It borrows the appearance of the soon to be deceased and entertains itself by encountering their folk and stirring trouble. Nothing tells them apart from the original, if not the fact that the original cannot recall the conversations past."

"So she really is gone." Lily's voice sounded too dull to her own ears. He was telling her, and she had seen how vicious the bogeys had been, and part of her knew her grandma would have come to help her if she had been able to, but still it didn't sink in.

Troy stared at her, his eyes flickering about her features as if expecting her to shatter at any moment. Then, his fingers touched her hand, a fleeting contact that left her chilled and shivering.

"Kelpie," he said when her eyes snapped to his.

"I'm sorry?"

"I am a kelpie." He shrugged, rocking back on his heels and gazing over her shoulder. "You should have asked what I was in exchange for the tale of your encounter with a gercu."

Offering up information, clear and direct, without being prompted, was as kind as he had been. The name didn't mean anything to her, but it gave her something to hold on to that wasn't the certainty of loss.

"What's a kelpie?" she asked. If her voice sounded robotic, no one could blame her.

"Something that's scaring you, it seems," he replied with a hint of humor.

Lily giggled, and the tears escaped her control, and suddenly she was laughing and crying, sobbing and shaking.

# Chapter Nine

The hysterical attack ran its course and left Lily tired and aching. However, the pain was duller, tempered by anger against the creatures that attacked the house and desire to find a purpose for her loss. She dried her tears and turned to Troy.

"Thanks."

"I have yet to grasp what for, but I suppose your gratitude is welcome."

She debated whether she should try to explain that, after her reaction, she felt more capable to cope or that his sitting there without offering false words of consolation allowed her to keep going, contaminated by his calm. She decided not to elaborate.

"So," she began instead, "we still have a question unanswered. Why did the nice brownies change?"

"And why would the doctor protect you upon learning a sign of her own impending demise? Yes, there are parts of this tale still untold."

"How are we going to figure them out then?"

Troy's gaze snapped to hers, and for the first time, she caught a glimpse of uncertainty there. The way he held himself added to his befuddled look, made him seem like a cat who had suddenly found his whiskers wet. Lily laughed softly and his surprise turned to weariness.

_He must expect me to break down in tears yet again. If I want to fix any of this for Grandma, I need to get it together and fast._

"We shall not figure anything out," he said when it was clear no new breakdown loomed ahead.

"I refuse to let it go."

"You will."

"No, I won't! Grandma deserves justice. _I_ deserve justice."

Troy narrowed his eyes and studied her a moment before shaking his head. "You have no interest in justice. Revenge is what you seek."

"They're one and the same," she bit out, throwing the quote back in his face.

"Or not." He shrugged. "The matter could be more complicated than you can fathom." Lily sat up, ready to argue, but he silenced her with a raised hand. "Regardless, she shall get it."

"Oh. But hold on a second. You just said I will let go."

"As you must."

"You don't get it." Lily pushed herself to her feet to dominate the conversation. "She's my family. I loved— _love_ her. And I won't just let what happened in her house go. I won't let it become nothing but crazy antics. I will find out what happened and why." She directed her tirade at Troy even though it was aimed at herself, and he responded by standing as well.

" _You_ 'don't get it,' girl," he sneered, towering nearly a foot taller than she was. "You have shown yourself to be ignorant, weak, and gullible. Death is the only thing you shall find down this path should you choose to become involved."

"I can learn," she said. "I'm not weak, either. I'll be prepared to fight the next time."

Troy shook his head. "Return where you came from. Doctor's blood or not, this is not your world."

"I'll make it mine."

They were standing chest to chest, and for a moment, Lily saw such anger in his features that she thought he might be about to push his physical advantage. Instead, he took a step back and all tension vanished from his shoulders, presenting an insouciant facade with no apparent effort.

"Will you?" he asked with a dark smile dancing about his eyes. "Will you follow our paths and share our ways? Do you think you can?"

"Yeah." Lily thought back to the last couple of days with her grandmother, of the way she had shown her the name of all those instruments. She thought back to her childhood, to the silly rhymes and innocent games that had sent her mother screaming for the hills, and she realized it. Grandma Mackenna had always meant for her to be part of this other world. "She believed I could, too."

"Very well." Troy spread his arms out to the sides, encompassing the whole of the refuge, and then he performed a courtly little bow. "Show me how well you fit. Let us find the way to the riverside."

He walked past her, sinking into the foliage and barely rustling the thick leaves with his passing. Lily followed close at his heels, but he moved too fast. The greenery seemed to part for him but reach out to entangle her, and soon, she had to chase shadows. The color of his clothing blended in with the darkness, and his pale face looking back over this shoulder with a smirk was the last thing she could distinguish before finding herself alone.

Lily rested her hands on her knees and took a deep breath, in and out. She was fine, really, but her body had trouble believing it and the emotional baggage dragged her down. However, she had seen the twisted look of a bully right before Troy disappeared from sight and she wouldn't let him get away with it.

_If he thinks a little hiking will break me, he'll be disappointed._

The soil was soft under her shoes, the wildlife thick around her. The river had to be close, so she canted her head and strained to listen.

"There," she whispered. It was a sound just this side of her hearing and it reverberated through the closed space below the canopy, but it was there. She turned a full circle, trying to discern where it came from, but the lingering echoes made it difficult for her untrained ear. Still, after a moment of hesitation, she took a step, then another. The ground was not quite level, so it stood to reason she would soon find the river if she followed down the slope.

In spite of her intentions, Lily couldn't advance in a straight line. The trees weren't the true impediment as they were sparse, thin, and wrecked. Only their upper branches presented any thickness, sprawled like grasping fingers to touch one another and creating a green cover far over her head. On the ground, it was brambles and shrubs standing in her way. Sometimes they grew in thickets impossible to traverse, and other times they stood alone and defiant, forcing her to sidestep them. Whenever she did, she made sure to take the detour toward the down slope, which would bring her that much closer to the water. She could still hear it, its gurgling a cocoon wrapped around her, and so she pressed on.

She didn't know how many minutes she walked before the first strange thing registered.

_It's not getting louder._ She tilted her head again to listen, but she found the same curtain of watery music that had accompanied her up until that point. _How far can this sound travel in the foliage? How far can the river be?_

She looked around again, more careful this time. Scotland was a fertile place, but even so, this degree of lushness should correspond to a riverside, she was sure of it. Perhaps brambles weren't precisely popular plants near the water—or anywhere, for that matter—but the soil was fresh, the trees gnarled but full of life. There was moss in their trunks. She had to be close, so she sidestepped a shrub with pretty red flowers and kept descending.

Her legs began to ache by the time the next realization hit her. She lifted her gaze toward the canopy overhead and watched the brilliant green leaves quivering in the nonexistent breeze. Their borders were outlined by a faint radiance, as if receding sunlight shone beyond them, but no shafts of light crossed them to dance upon the floor. And once she truly looked, she had to wonder if the illumination had changed at all since she set out.

"Perhaps I haven't been walking so long," she said aloud, chasing the unease away with the sound of her voice. "I'm tired after everything that's happened, so it feels like hours but I must've been just one, tops. The light doesn't change that fast."

Somewhere to her left, a bird cawed as if in mirth and Lily flinched, her eyes searching for the animal. _Where did it come from?_ It was the first sign of animal life she had seen, other than herself and Troy. It hadn't bothered her until that point, but now its presence irked her. It had felt like the bird laughed at her, a girl lost and alone in the forest, unable to find a river that lay so very close. She turned in a slow circle, hoping to locate it, but it was nowhere to be seen. She was as alone as she'd been.

Throwing a last glance over her shoulder, she chose the downslope again to resume her search. She had to circumvent yet another shrub within three paces, though. Lily turned with a sigh and then stopped and turned to regard it so fast she got whiplash. It was a shrub right out of a children story, its branches giving it a naturally rounded shape, and bright red flowers stood in stark contrast against the deep green of its leaves.

It was exactly like the one she'd passed what felt like miles before and she retraced her steps.

It stood blocking her path in just the same manner.

_What the hell? Is that the same plant?_ Lily's heartbeat thundered in her chest, the surety she'd felt only moments before all but gone. She forced herself to remain calm. _Not possible. I've been walking down all the time, so circling back and not realizing isn't an option. It's just a similar bush. There must be a ton of similar-looking plants here._

Although her rational mind was happy with the thought, there was a larger part of Lily who had been nearly eaten by bogeys and been saved by a kelpie. She grabbed one of the branches with both hands and twisted until it broke. Her fingers came away sticky, darkened with green-black ichor, and the jagged bark snagged her hands when she stepped back to admire her handiwork. The picture-perfect shrub had become a mangled, misshapen thing. It was the only hint toward human influence she could see, too. Satisfied, she resumed her purposeful walk, taking care to always walk down the slope and following more the terrain than the ubiquitous water gurgle.

With each step, the weight of her legs increased and her movements became sloppy. The light still didn't change, so she took to counting her steps to mark the passage of time. Two hundred saw her losing her footing over a raised root she should have been able to avoid, three hundred and ten marked the first time she miscalculated and got grazed by a bramble's thorny branches, and by the time she reached five hundred, she was reduced to trudging on, trampling everything in her path or getting thorned by it. She knew she should mind the little cuts and bruises, but she barely had the energy to keep going, let alone to do so with any grace.

Eight hundred and thirty-one steps later, she found it.

Half the plant was round, coming up to her waist, covered in delicate red flowers. The other half had been twisted and flattened. Some red petals had fallen to the ground, and those that remained clinging to their stems were spattered with dark green-black droplets like congealed blood.

A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm her as she took in the only hint of human presence in the whole riverside. Her mind tethered on the brink of despair while her heart thudded to a stop, and then a burst of adrenaline kick-started her, sending a myriad thoughts racing along with the maddening staccato in her chest.

_Grandma told me stories about this, didn't she? People getting lost in faerie paths. How did the protagonists escape? There were lights, right? You had to follow them._ She swallowed. _Or was that the way to get lost in the first place?_ It had been too long and, at the time, they were nothing but silly nursery tales. Bits and pieces of information fluttered just out of reach, beckoning her, but not giving her enough to prove useful. _Sometimes, people surfaced after years wandering the paths, even though it felt like only minutes. I already feel like I've been walking all day long and then some._ She refused to think about the other stories. The tales of people never coming back—more often than not after having enraged a faerie.

A bird cawed and Lily jerked out of her thoughts. Its tone had been mocking and she half expected to find a huge, black raven laughing at her. She shivered and it cawed again, more urgently. She cast about, hoping to spot it. Somehow, her invisible companion scared her as much as discovering the faerie path did.

Nothing. She was alone.

"There was no call for violence," Troy's voice said, not two feet in front of her.

She shrieked. He closed his eyes while she did, as if to better take in her fear, and then his tongue darted out and licked his upper lip.

"And no true need for that, either, nice as it was."

"Since when did you get here?" Lily's voice shook, but not as much as she thought it would.

"'When' and 'here' are misleading concepts in this instance. I... watched you."

"I saw you disappear ahead of me."

"And you saw me appear again." He shrugged, as if visual proof meant nothing.

"You've been watching me stumble on all this time? Without saying anything?" Lily tried to cajole her fear into indignant anger. That, at least, felt a little like a shield.

"Saying anything? To guide you to the riverside?" Troy smirked. "That would defeat the purpose of our experiment, I should think."

"That's it? You were just trying to prove a point? And if I had gotten lost forever?"

"Then I would have been right." He stalked in a circle around her, drawing closer. "In fact, I believe I am. It has taken you this long to even recognize one of our paths, and it is quite obvious you are blind to its exit. No simpler snare than this lies ahead for you... And you are not capable of dealing with it."

In spite of her weariness, Lily drew herself up when she felt his presence behind her. "If there's an exit," she said, "I'll find it."

Troy stopped moving. She didn't dare look back at him.

"The exit has not changed since you began searching for it. You have not seen it, and you will not find it now."

"I know what I'm looking for this time," she insisted.

"In fact, you do not." There was a new nuance in his tone. Lily fought to place it. Was it... perplexity? "Why would you keep trying to cross a barrier you cannot even feel?"

_So I need to feel out for a barrier. That's something, I guess._ Aloud, she said, "Because I won't step away from this."

His fingers touched her arm. They were long, graceful, and cool. A shiver ran down her spine as she turned, following the lead of his slight pressure.

He stood close. She had known it, but it hadn't prepared her to face him, neck craned back to meet his gaze. His viridian eyes studied her, looked into her with a mixture of confusion and curiosity along with many other things she had no name for, and it made her dizzy. After an endless moment, he nodded and took a step back, breaking the spell.

"If that is what you wish," he said in a low voice. "You have been warned."

# Chapter Ten

It wasn't so much that the world changed as it felt like Lily herself changed. Something shifted in her center and her perception snapped into place. The echoes that had reverberated under the canopy dissipated, and the ground warped before her eyes. For a disorienting second, Lily couldn't tell what way was up. Then, it settled.

Rays of sunlight darted across the tree leaves and danced in her eyes, their angle suggesting a fast-approaching twilight. There was no real wind, but still she heard occasional puffs of humid breeze ruffling the vegetation. Birds tweeted somewhere in the background—there must be a nest nearby.

Dazed, she walked past the shrub of red flowers, following the clear gurgle of water, and not three yards later, she caught the glint of weak sun reflected on running water.

"What is this?" she asked, turning around. The place was both the same and different from the one she had stood on a blink before.

"The riverside," Troy said.

"I was on the riverside? All along?" She pointed the shrub, the path under her feet.

He narrowed his eyes, choosing his words with care. "The path you wandered was superimposed to the riverside, yes."

Lily thought back once more to the stories she could recall from her grandma. Most characters entering or exiting a faerie path wouldn't even realize they'd left the real world until it was too late, so it made sense. Still, for the entrance to have been so close, and for her to be unable to feel it...

She shivered and then, to hide it, began to pick her way to the river. Troy followed on her heels, his strides easy and confident.

"How long since the attack? You told me saying 'yesterday' could be misleading, and I think I remember time doing weird things in the faerie paths."

"Well done," he said, giving her a look of surprise and honest praise. "Time does tend to run quicker in mortal lands, and sometimes it folds many times over in the heart of our territory. This path was close to your world, and close to the river, so the correlation should be quite straightforward. I suspect little more than a day might have passed, perhaps two."

"I'm worried the trail will turn cold," she admitted. "Or that someone noticed the attack and called the cops. They'll never understand what happened and they might make it difficult for us."

Troy shrugged. "Mortals prefer not to see the affairs of fay."

"I can sort of see why."

They reached the river just then. It wasn't wide, but the water was pure and the current fast. Glancing up and down, she saw no known landmarks, no houses. For all she knew, it wasn't even the Dee.

"Is it far to my grandma's?" she asked, still worried about their timing.

"I shall take you there," he said, avoiding her question.

The memory of the way he had changed when escaping the bogeys rushed back to her and hit her like a sledgehammer. Her mind had shoved it into a box labeled delirium, allowing her to cope, but his comment brought the vision of a stallion flashing to the forefront of her awareness, with coat like coal tar and eyes like cut emeralds.

"Wait," she said. "Is there no other way?"

He smiled, the gesture reaching his eyes, alighting them with a wicked gleam, and stared at her long enough to make her squirm.

"And what appears to be the problem with this way, Lily Boyd?" His voice softened a little when he pronounced her name and she only felt a tingling and a gentle encouragement instead of the violent pull she had experienced earlier.

"I don't want to ride you," she blurted, blushing. His smile widened and she cursed her pale skin. Judging by the heat, her cheeks looked like apples.

"I thought all the little girls wanted their own pony," he pressed, amused by her distress.

Lily bit the inside of her cheek. Part of her wanted to react to his innuendo. Another petulant part wanted to tell him she wasn't a little girl. Yet another part wanted nothing more than to salvage whatever was left of her dignity, and in the end, the last part won.

"I can't ride, I told you," she replied, as if that were the whole reason.

"You did so quite admirably before." He went along, but his tone and eyes made it clear he hadn't been fooled.

"Must have been the stress. You know, life-or-death situation. I've read adrenaline does that to you."

"Judging from your delicious babbling, an insufficient stress level should not be a problem this time, either."

She opened and closed her mouth. "Damn it," she said at last, averting her eyes and glaring at the floor. "Isn't it embarrassing for you?"

"Not at all. Why would it be?"

Lily scoffed, but then she caught his expression. There was a hint of curiosity there. For him, it was a legitimate question and the fact gave her some pause.

_It can't be just me losing my mind in the gutter. The idea of a girl riding a guy is universally dirty, isn't it? Unless faeries don't work quite that way. Unless he thinks of himself more like a horse. Unless he's not seeing me as a girl at all. But I am a girl, and he isn't an animal._

She forced out a small cough. "Never mind," she said after too long in silence.

He nodded, claiming the verbal victory with grace, and then his form became a liquid shadow that shifted and coalesced into the tall steed.

_"You cannot fall,"_ he said in her head just like he had the previous time.

"Is it related to the protection magic?" she asked, feeling awkward for speaking to a horse.

_"It is related to a kelpie's nature. Our riders never fall."_

"Okay." Subdued, she did her best to climb on his back and he endured her accidental hair pulls and knee blows. Then, she was up and she felt what Troy meant. A subtle, gentle energy began pouring over her skin, the sensation not unlike being submerged in tepid water. A feeling she didn't want to dwell on.

"That's handy," she said, "but we should probably hurry."

And then they were off.

# Chapter Eleven

It was as if not a single minute had passed for the cottage. She'd expected to see police tape around the yard, policemen coming and going, outraged neighbors and curious onlookers, but there was none of that. Dusk was falling, just like it had when she had run away, and the front door rested against its frame where it had been wrenched off its hinges. The windows were closed and the blinds down as if the whole house made ready to rest for the night, oblivious to the violence within. Lily slid off Troy's back and shivered. In truth, she didn't want to go back in there. All her good memories had been replaced by a waking nightmare she had no wish to relive. And deep down, she wondered if Troy wasn't right, if the best solution wouldn't be a train to Manchester and a long time to forget.

She shook herself. _No. Grandma deserves better._

And so she steeled her resolve because she wondered if Mackenna wasn't alive and waiting for her to acknowledge that the old tales had it right most of the time.

"Will you come inside?" she asked Troy when he finished shifting back into human form. She knew she could communicate regardless of his current shape, but she still had a hard time thinking of the horse she had ridden as Troy, much less talking to him.

"Yes," he said simply. At her inquisitive look, he gave her a small, tight smile. "Would you know what to look for?"

"I... suppose not." Again, that feeling of being chastised. "Thanks."

Troy shook his head. "As I said, I have an interest in the truth as well."

"Okay, then let's..." Lily gestured vaguely toward the house. "Investigate."

"When I came into the doctor's home, the front door was locked." He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "Why?"

"I came in through the kitchen. I thought I saw something in the backyard and went to look. Then, it just made more sense to use the closest door. Is it important?"

"Could be." He started to circle the house, retracing with eerie accuracy the steps she had taken before. "Did it escape?"

"What?" Lily frowned and he halted again, one hand on the kitchen door's latch.

"Whatever creature you saw. Did it escape, or could you glimpse it?"

"Oh. It didn't escape. It was the laundry, actually."

Troy didn't move and his fingers drummed the door frame. "Why would your laundry line draw your attention I wonder?" he mused, barely above a whisper. "Unless it was not yours."

"It was ours. Grandma put out her favorite shirt. I guess she found it while I was fetching food."

He turned, looking at her from profile, and the visible corner of his mouth turned up in a mirthless grimace. "Shall I guess? When you told the doctor you had seen her outside the house and recalled a conversation she had not been part of, she gave you the necklace. Then, after but a little time, she decided it was imperative to wear this shirt of hers, but it could not be found. Then she realized there was some vital need to acquire something from the village, and so out you went. When you returned, the shirt was out, dry and clean. No doctor."

Lily hugged herself. Her blood had become icicles in her veins, colder with each spoken word. _How can he possibly know? That's a recounting, nearly hour by hour. He's only missed the woman I saw... or I thought I saw._

"Were you looking?" she asked, her throat dry.

"No." He breathed out a laugh. "However, I do recognize what happened."

"Am I missing something important?"

"Is there something important you ever see?" He shook his head and entered the kitchen. Before Lily could answer, he went on, "That question should not be answered. I used pure rhetoric, since you seem to be so fond of it. However, if you must know, you saw a bean-nighe, a faerie who launders the clothing of the soon to be deceased. Yet another ill omen you failed to recognize."

"You're capable of sarcasm," Lily said with a dry voice. The poor banter attempt helped her to avoid making the emotional connection to the events.

"Of course I am, though the fact is hardly pertinent to this... investigation." The way he hesitated before the word "investigation" made Lily uncomfortable. It was as if he didn't believe in what they were trying to accomplish.

"Ill omens, then. Do they stack? Like, if you get two, it's worse than getting one?"

"If two different people indicate they saw a flying monkey, the likelihood of a monkey who has learned to fly does not increase. It does augment the possibilities of the impossible having happened, though."

"I think I get your meaning," Lily said. The chances of her grandmother being alive and well got dimmer and dimmer... but she still had no proof of her murder, so she clutched hope to her chest and tried to focus. "Do you think we'll find something?"

"I am certain we will."

Lily paused in the door to the corridor while he gave a cursory look to the bedrooms. She didn't want to look at their rooms, so she zeroed in on the hint of amusement she caught in his tone—just like when they'd been playing twenty questions back in his refuge.

"And will this something be useful?" she asked, realizing her blunder.

He turned to her from the living room door and offered a bow along with a wicked grin. It wasn't praise, but it was one of the closest things to recognition he had offered her so far and Lily felt giddy in spite of the situation.

"Part of the missing tale is here, yes," he replied at length. "Either we are capable of reading it correctly or not."

"Either, or." She rolled her eyes and gathered enough courage to follow him into the living room.

It still resembled a battle zone, but there was no hint of the dark creatures that attacked her.

"Where are they?" The skin on the nape of her neck prickled with anticipation.

"I trust their comrades took them back," said Troy absently, perusing the various knick-knacks Mackenna had kept as souvenirs.

"It's like I dreamed it. Gone without a trace." She began to wonder if, indeed, she hadn't dreamed it. Troy didn't answer, but he picked up the discarded poker and offered it to her. It was bent out of shape, as if after delivering a blow, and its tip was covered in a fine dark dust. "That is...?"

"Blood remnants, yes."

"Why'd it turn to dust?"

"The reason is complex and not relevant." He dropped the poker again. Now, Lily saw other smudges of that same dirt on the floor and clinging to the overturned couch. "What hides there?" Troy asked, cutting through her thoughts with a precision that made her think he was more trying to keep her grounded than interested in the answer.

"Oh, the attic." Lily approached him. He stood right under the trapdoor in the spot where she had been overwhelmed by the bogeys. Small splashes of rusty red covered the wooden planks around his feet and she felt sick. _That's real blood. Mine. There's quite a bit._

A cool touch to her elbow helped her snap out of it. "Sorry," she said sheepishly. "This is affecting me worse than I thought." Troy nodded but had the decency not to say anything along the lines of "I told you so" and she pressed on. "What did you say?"

"I asked for a means to reach this attic. I believe the brownies nested there."

"There's only a lot of boxes and shelves." She frowned. "But I'll get you the ladder."

Troy went up first and Lily followed after a moment's hesitation. She walked around him to flick on the lights, revealing the attic as pristine as ever.

"The nest, indeed," he said. "Even after turning, they kept it clean and ordered."

"I always thought it was Grandma being obsessive about her faerie trinkets." Lily's fingers skimmed along one shelf. There was not a speck of dirt.

"No. I doubt the doctor ever had need to clean or organize anything in her home."

"Troy," called Lily. "I just remembered. When I first arrived, Grandma asked me to bring down some stuff. I... I'm sure I put something in a box to get it down to her, but it was not there a second later when we looked. Grandma sent me back up to check and it was just lying on the floor. It weirded me out, but she said it was normal." She looked at Troy, who listened with a pensive look. "Does it mean something?"

"The doctor did not want you to come live with her, did she?"

"She never admits it when she needs help. That's all." _Right?_

"I believed it to be an isolated instance, but..." He shook his head. "The brownies changed well before your arrival. She was aware of it."

"I don't think so. She would've gotten rid of them."

"Bogeys are a surprisingly persistent kind of fay. Not even moving out of a home convinces them to abandon their prey."

"Why aren't there more reports about eaten people if it's so hard to get rid of them?"

"You would call them evil creatures, but their intent is not always murderous."

"This attack was a fluke, then?"

"A fluke." Troy thought about it for a minute. "No. It was planned. You could say such fact in itself is abnormal, though."

"You said they're meticulous," Lily commented. "It would be normal for them to plan, right?"

"Meticulous because everything has its proper place and each place must contain nothing but what it is meant to hold. Planning is related to forethought, an unrelated aspect," he explained, his voice strained. It probably cost him to be clear and patient, and Lily tried to absorb the news. She was sure he wouldn't repeat himself.

"What could've gotten them to plan a murder, then?"

"The correct question might be 'who.' And I rather believe it was a murder spree."

"Grandma and me both." Lily nodded, but Troy found a small nook against the wall, cozied up by two slim pillows, and sat with a frown.

"The doctor, yes. Then, you... Or whoever had come into the house." He thought about it and nodded to himself. "You did not live here until very recently, but the bogeys were prepared and took great pains to ensure nothing seemed amiss from the outside. They expected someone to enter the house and planned accordingly."

"The outside still hasn't changed," Lily pointed out. "The door you broke down to rescue me was even propped in place."

"I do not recall stopping to fix it on the way out," he said, standing up without warning, "so whoever they were waiting for must not have arrived yet."

"And they're still waiting?" she croaked.

"Come," he replied, not trying to deny it and calm her. "In silence."

They went down the ladder and Troy hurried to check the rest of the rooms, this time more thoroughly. Lily did her best to stay glued to his back as they peeked into Mackenna's bedroom, her own, the little study down the hall, and even the pantry. Nothing ominous greeted them, no creatures, and no blood from previous struggles. When they finished, Lily breathed out in relief.

"We're alone," she said. Relaxing, she noticed the tension still held Troy's shoulders tight. His whole body was taut, ready to spring into action, and his eyes stared fixedly ahead, at some point beyond the walls. "Aren't we?" she asked, her voice trembling a little.

"They await outside," he said in a low voice.

# Chapter Twelve

Lily swallowed. "Can you see them?"

Troy nodded and motioned for her to come closer. "They no longer hide." He lowered his head, bringing his gaze level with hers, and then pointed out a crack between the blinds. "There," he said. "Do you see?"

Lily followed the line of his finger and squinted. There, between the leaves dappled in shadows, stood a dash of color. "Is that—?" She tilted her head. The angle was very poor and she tried to take a step closer to the window to better see. Troy's arm locked around her waist like an iron band, keeping her back. "It can't possibly be David the gnome, right?"

"Who?" For an instant, puzzlement overrode Troy's tight tone.

She felt foolish as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Of course he wouldn't know silly children's cartoons. "A gnome who lives on a tree trunk and acts as a doctor, helping out people."

"It is not David the gnome."

"What is it, then?"

"A gnome who lives wherever pain and sorrow have left an imprint, and he torments people, dying his cap with the lifeblood of his victims."

"I liked mine better."

"Indeed."

"Okay, so what do we do? I'll follow your orders, just tell me."

"Now you choose to listen to me," he said wryly.

"You're the one who knows what we're up against," she admitted.

"Is there any weapon you can wield?"

"The poker?"

She felt him shake his head and his grip on her midsection relaxed. "Listen to me, Lily. This is no longer a matter of house fay going rogue, and the foe standing before us is among the cruelest you could face."

"Worse than the bogeys?"

"Much, much worse. I want you to think very carefully now. Is there any iron in the house?"

Lily bit her lip. She would say yes, of course. What sort of house didn't have iron somewhere? But Mackenna had been a faerie doctor, used to dealing with creatures who saw the cold metal's mere possession as a mortal threat. The poker had been made of bronze, the cutlery was sterling silver, the kitchen pots pewter or clay.

"There's a horseshoe hanging over the door," she said at last.

"Nailed to it, I presume."

"Yes."

"Insufficient. They shall not wait quietly while we secure a means to destroy them, I fear."

"We could look through the attic. There's a lot of stuff up there. We might find something."

"It is a possibility." He squeezed her hip and gently pushed her aside. "Go and search. Do not take long."

"What, alone? Aren't you coming?"

"I must watch. Make sure they do not enter the house and catch us unaware." He spared her a brief glance before focusing on the creatures outside again. "Go. It is safe."

Lily touched her fingers to the pendant around her neck, understanding. He would know if she were in danger. The bogeys were gone, the house was secure—the only danger came from the beasts outside and he kept a close eye on those. She nodded, even though he couldn't see her, and then rushed up the ladder.

Following some silly instinct, she checked the alphabetically-sorted shelves for a box labeled "weapons." Of course it didn't pan out, but it offered her a good place to start. Working from the far end toward the beginning, she opened the boxes and glanced at their contents. She wasn't very thorough, but she hoped an iron object would jump out enough when everything surrounding it gleamed in the warm colors of bronze, copper, and a thousand shades of wood.

Nothing. Box after box was examined, a legion of spoons, pots, cauldrons, scales, candles and even swathes of cloth discarded in her wake.

Then she grabbed a box much smaller than the others. Peering inside, she found another box, tiny and filled with nails as well as a handful of pierced coins and a length of slender chain to make amulets out of them. She let out the breath she hadn't known she was holding.

_Iron. Finally. We might make it out alive, after all._

She made a dash for the ladder and went back down to Troy. "I found it," she said, thrusting the little box out to him.

Troy jerked out of his stance and recoiled, his pale skin becoming whiter, if it were possible.

"Never come upon me armed with iron, Lily Boyd." His eyes were hard as a bottle's glass and just as brittle. Though he kept his voice steady, there was a steely undercurrent behind her name that made Lily shiver with echoes of fear as the command took root in her soul.

She flinched as if physically struck. "You told me to fetch it," she stammered.

"I know." He collected himself, but didn't relax. "To use as last measure against them."

"So what should I do?"

"Take your pick, hide it, and keep it on hand."

Lily moved to the table in part to better sort through the box and in part to be less threatening to Troy. There, she grabbed the chain and hooked one of the coins to each end. She wrapped it around her wrist and closed her fist around the coins, creating a very light, very small, and hopefully very deadly version of a flail. Then, after only a moment's hesitation, she took out two more coins and hid one in each of her pockets. The last one went into her sock, just in case, and she chose to leave the box of nails alone.

"Okay," she said. "I'm ready."

Troy gave her a weary glance and motioned for her to stay a little behind him. Without taking his attention from the windows and front door, he moved toward the kitchen's unlatched door. He stopped a moment.

"There are several of them," he said. "Our best hope is to exit the house, cross the yard, and gain enough of an advantage to allow me to shift. They should not be able to keep up with us for long if we make it that far."

"Two questions. Why aren't you shifting straight away to make a great, galloping exit, and why aren't you sounding more confident in the plan?"

"The good doctor has certain protections in place around her home," he explained, grudgingly. "They greatly impede our magic, and it affects something as deep as a shifting more acutely than other minor works. As far as confidence goes, I assure you I have every bit that is reasonable, given the circumstances."

"You did magic when you rescued me before," Lily noted. "Drowned two bogeys, right? Can't you do that again?"

Troy gave her an angry look. "Do you not think I would do so if I could? That particular work needs time. If you recall, one bogey was caught by surprise and the other did nothing but cower for the longest moment. Believe me when I say the redcaps will not gift us any instant to spare."

"Okay. Well, then. You lead the way and I follow?"

He nodded, took a deep breath. Then, he froze.

"What's wrong?" Lily asked. She didn't dare get much closer to him while she had iron, but he pointed with this chin at the backyard.

Lily got her first good look at a redcap. It was taller than David the gnome, at least three feet plus the hat. It did look like him, though. Or like a garden figurine. Everything seemed to be there: white hair, white beard, small round eyes, blue shirt and pants, pointy leather boots and a red hat. But then it came closer, away from the tree line and under the moonlight, and it was all wrong. The boots were caked in mud. The clothes were ragged, torn, and covered in darker spots that could as well be blueberry juice as they could be blood. Hair and beard were tangled in gnarls with bits of leaves and small sticks poking out of it, and his visible skin was dirty with dust and soil. The eyes were fully white and reflected little sanity. And the worse thing, by far, was the hat. It looked heavy upon its head, dyed by layer upon layer of dried blood. It was dark brown and rusty garnet and even blackened crimson, depending on how old the blood was, and in some places the coating was flaking off. It looked like it needed a fresh dipping.

She swallowed.

"Greetings, Kelpie," he said. His voice was rich and unpleasant, earthy. It reminded Lily of manure.

"Redcap," Troy acknowledged him. He exchanged a quick glance with Lily and she saw in his eyes that this, too, was abnormal.

_Another fluke. Or something like that._

"You stand far from your domain and your power," the redcap said. "I sense your attempts to gather whatever strength is available to you, and I smell the acrid stench of foul iron. And yet, we have no quarrel with you."

"You are not the only one who can sense the gathering of glamour. Yours is not the stance of a friend."

"Not your friends, but neither are we your enemies. We do serve the same forces and so there is no reason to fight amongst ourselves."

Troy tensed when the redcap mentioned the forces they served, whatever they were. Lily saw it. His shoulders hunched—his whole body shivered. His eyes fled from the redcap he was talking to and danced about the yard, trying to locate every other redcap and to keep track of all of them at once.

"Take your leave and return unharmed to your pond, Kelpie," the redcap went on. His mouth twisted in a parody of a smile and his teeth gleamed in the moonlight. "We need only speak with the girl."

Lily froze. The monster just offered Troy a clear way out of a fight he didn't think he could win for a little price. Troy's eyes narrowed when he heard the offer. His hand reached for Lily, but then he hesitated, remembering the iron. His fingers closed into a fist and somehow she found the little gesture of anger to be reassuring.

"Troy?" she dared to ask in a thin voice.

He took a deep breath and turned to fix her with his gaze. "Parley, then," he said, addressing the redcaps while staring at her. She saw him, cold and hard, and then something feral glimmered in his eyes. It was enough for her to understand, though she herself couldn't say where the knowledge came from. In that instant, she knew it wasn't safe—far from it. But she also knew he wouldn't abandon her, even though he would play the game. She gave him a tiny nod and he turned back to the redcap.

"And then we shall be on our way," Troy finished.

"Our matters are various and not to be discussed here. Surrender the girl to us, Kelpie, and be gone in peace."

"No."

And then Troy was in motion, a dark blur rushing forward. The redcap he'd been talking to staggered and fell with a gurgle before Troy had even cleared the door, and Lily realized he had used the negotiation time to weave his magic and drown his enemy, leaving the path to the forest clear for them to flee.

She broke into a run as fast as she could, following Troy, but each of his long strides forced her to take two and soon he was slipping out of reach. She grit her teeth and kept moving. Troy would need time to shift, and those few seconds would be enough for her to catch up. Then, she would jump on and they would be off.

Troy reached the edge of the forest and then the nightmare began.

# Chapter Thirteen

Troy went down and Lily had no time to understand how.

Between one heartbeat and the next, he went from gaining ground to rolling down. The redcap figures they'd been tracking vanished in thin air, mere specters made of smoke and faerie glamour, and as they did, the real creatures were unveiled. They stood in the yard, much too close.

Lily jerked to a stop, contorting her body to the left, and a flash of reddish bronze swept the air where her leg would have been. The redcap who had exploded out of the shadows in front of her didn't lose his balance and followed up the strike with another, a backhanded arc meant to catch her across her belly.

She let herself fall back on instinct. The weapon missed her, but the price she paid was dear, for now she lay upon the muddy ground and the redcap had every advantage. She couldn't stay down. She needed to be able to move if she wanted to escape. Images from the bogeys tearing into her with their razor-sharp teeth after bringing her down to the living room's floor flooded her mind, and panic shot a current of raw determination along her spine.

The redcap shifted and swung his little hatchet once more, intent on crippling her. There was a maniacal grin on his face as he aimed for the fleshy meat of her thigh where the blood loss would be greatest and, coupled with the resurfacing memories, it gave Lily the strength to kick out. Her boot produced a satisfying crunch when it crashed against the redcap's knee and the blow made him lose balance and stumble back.

Lily didn't wait to see how long the redcap remained staggered or to check if she had aimed well enough to cause a break. She rolled to the side and fought to climb to her feet. She had to run.

Her head wrenched back, held fast by a handful of hair. The angle of her attacker twisted her neck to the side and made her fall again after she had barely pushed to her knees. Another redcap gave her a predatory grin, barely a few inches from her face. His eyes, crazed white engulfing a blue much too pale, focused on her exposed throat.

She screamed.

Fueled by nothing but adrenaline, she swung her arm back and then forward. The iron chain unfolded between her fingers, and the iron coins slipped free. The makeshift weapon lashed across the redcap's nose and stuck in his eyes.

The hand let her loose, tearing bloody tracks in her scalp in the process, and the creature shrieked. The smell of burnt flesh assaulted her nostrils and the redcap recoiled.

_Pop._

She heard the sickening wet noise over the sounds of the brawling, like a lollipop being pulled from one's mouth. Except it was the iron coin, pulled free of the redcap's face.

Bringing a roiling, sizzling eyeball with it.

Time stood still. She stared horrified at the burned socket, the blood blackened and dribbling down his cheek, finding the deep paths burned by the chain and running through them like a river down a crevice, eating the flesh up like acid and burning it and making it rot.

The eye shriveled, died, then turned to ash and dust right there where it hung from her hand.

Lily jerked back and struck again. And again. And again, until the redcap stopped eyeing her with the grin of a predator, until he stopped seeing her at all.

Then she stood and she ran.

She jumped over the drowned redcap, skidded around yet another who laid in a pool of blood, his macabre cap discarded a few feet away and his head split open by a powerful blow. She finally found Troy, blood gleaming down his side as he danced in and out of the shadows with two more redcaps around him.

She saw him stumble, saw one of the redcaps jump upon him, wicked sickle already glistening with blood.

"No!" The scream tore free without asking permission. She heard it, the rage and desperation and pain in a single syllable, almost as if she were a bystander outside her own head. Almost as if those hadn't been her lungs giving air to the heart-wrenching denial.

She reached into her pocket, then hurled a coin through the air. It bounced off the redcap, leaving a blackened, burned trail across his back just as he hit Troy.

The little beast went through him.

He went _through_ him.

Troy's figure shuddered in the air, mingled with the shadows that had danced around him but a moment before and then scattered with the breeze. Troy, the _real_ Troy, stepped out around the fading illusion and brought a jagged stone to the wounded, dazed redcap's head. The cap was knocked aside, dyed in blood one last time.

Troy straightened. The hand clutching the rock was covered in blood, the droplets having splayed up to his elbow. A wound did mar his side, a long, shallow cut that oozed slowly and dripped down his leg. The second redcap moved to circle him, wary after what had happened to his partner, but his eyes regarded her with a look of startled curiosity and paid no mind to his opponent.

Lily was suddenly very scared.

Then, in a blink, the curiosity shifted to intensity and the redcap who tried to take Troy unaware gurgled. He didn't drown, not quite, but he faltered and coughed, water pouring down his chin. Lily struck quick as lightning, following instincts she didn't know she had. She collided with the gnome, threw herself at him, and managed to land him on the ground. Not stopping to think, she pulled the coin from her other pocket and shoved it into his coughing mouth.

Too pale eyes widened as the iron burned a way down the redcap's throat and she stood as he began to convulse. She didn't stop to watch the effects of iron's touch this time; instead, she ran.

Troy had said to run to the trees beyond the yard to break far enough from the house and the redcaps to allow him to shift into his horse shape. She stuck to the plan.

"Lily Boyd." His voice cut through her tangled thoughts like a knife, but there was a measure of gentleness behind the sharp command. "Calm down." She twisted around and lashed out, the iron amulet still wrapped around her wrist. Her back went ramrod straight and her arm froze without her permission as a wave of pain hit her hard in the wake of another command. _Never come upon me armed with iron, Lily Boyd._ She choked on a sob. "Calm down." Troy's tone was a mixture of steel and velvet and his hands gripped her shoulders, his own tension belied under the firmness of fingers that tried to be reassuring. Her mind obeyed him, bypassing the fear and adrenaline coursing in her veins. She managed a small nod.

He took a step back, looked her in the eye. "You acquitted yourself well," he said. "We must seize this opportunity to leave."

She nodded again. He waited a split moment, only long enough to ensure she wouldn't break down in hysterics, and turned his focus inward. Lily fumbled with the chain at her wrist, untangling it and dropping the small weapon to her feet while he shifted. It was taking him long, too long. The darkness that enveloped him pulsed in time with his heavy breathing, skirted over his wounds and became a diluted murk in contact with his blood. She began to shake again. They needed to get away, they couldn't waste another instant, they had to—

Movement in the shadows caught her frantic gaze. There was a hint of red and bronze and she recognized the hatchet and didn't stop to think. Her fingers reached into her sock, pulled free the last coin and hurled it through the air.

Her pulse was wobbly and the bit of iron sailed over Troy's shoulder before glancing off the redcap. The redcap hissed in pain, but Troy screamed in terror. His green eyes flashed in the dark, showing white all around them, and he lost whatever grip he had managed to hold on the shift. The darkness unraveled and he stumbled back and to the side, all composure lost. Then he snarled at her, like a wild, caged animal.

Lily was horrified. After seeing how her own body had reacted to his command not to ever attack him with iron, she had somehow assumed it would be fine, that he would be safe because the binds he had placed upon her wouldn't allow her to hurt him. She had thrown the coin holding on to that certainty, but she had been wrong. There were, it seemed, ways to circumvent orders. Because she hadn't wanted to hit him, because she had been so focused on hitting the redcap to save him, the command hadn't even registered her actions for, technically speaking, she was not _coming upon him_. And she had nearly missed. She had nearly hit him instead and she fought to get rid of the image of him burning black, dying like the redcaps had.

Loopholes. It was all about loopholes.

Troy pounced, body taut with anger and fear that overrode his natural grace, and Lily flinched, bracing herself.

He never hit her. He fell upon the crawling redcap, who bled and sizzled, but continued forward, dragging an awkwardly bent knee, with revenge in his eyes. Troy wrenched the hatchet from the redcap's grip and discharged a blow on his head with a cry.

The little weapon stuck in the split bone and Troy shoved to his feet again, reached for Lily, and held her wrist with bruising force as he forced her to stumble along into the trees. He didn't bother to try to shift again. He just ran, and it was all Lily could do to keep up as they darted in and out of copses of trees, far from roads and houses and all traces of man.

Troy allowed them to stop when they reached the crest of a small hill where old, ruined stones suggested a vigil tower might have sat once. Lily couldn't breathe past the pounding of blood in her ears and throat, and it took an inordinate amount of effort to hear him speak over the agony of her burning legs as he shoved her into a corner of the ruin, pressing on her shoulders to make her sit.

"Hide and wait," he said, the words making barely sense. "I must ensure we have not been followed. There could be more of them. Wait here until I return."

And he was gone.

# Chapter Fourteen

She fought to swallow back a sob that threatened to spill past her lips. It became a lump choking her as silent tears slid down her cheeks. She no longer knew whether she cried of sheer terror or of relief, and the rising bubble of hysteria in her chest didn't care. The only important thing was to cry in silence because she couldn't forget about the creatures out there. The vision of them attacking, their crude weapons rusted over with very human blood, and their pointed teeth rotting in their hungry mouths flashed before her eyes every time she blinked. The agonized screams of the redcap she had hit with an iron coin as its flesh blackened and smoked, dissolving as if dipped in acid while it was still alive, echoed in her ears.

The scream of Troy haunted her too. It had been a noise of pure terror as the metal flew past his face, and she had felt him still trembling when he had forced her to run into the forest. Back in the house, when he had used her name, she had resented him. However, after witnessing what the coins could do, she thought she knew why he had done it.

_Where is he?_ She wished he would come back. Of course she understood the need to scout, to make sure they were safe. These creatures, unlike the bogeys, would follow them if they could and Troy wasn't sure the ruined, broken tower where they had found refuge wouldn't be a redcap burrow to begin with. Lily hugged herself and sank in her corner, hoping the ancient stones would protect her if anything did come looking.

She really wanted Troy to come back. If she were honest with herself, she had to admit the only moments she had felt safe were by his side. And the deep silence all around her made it very difficult to lie to herself.

_Troy's dangerous, too. I don't know exactly what a kelpie is, but he's as dark as the rest of them._

The rational part of her complained about trusting complete strangers, dangerous ones. Her fingers closed around her pendant, though. Three roses, one wilted and two in bloom. She squeezed until she felt the cold edges of the jewelry cutting into her palm—and she frowned. There was something off about those edges, and she lifted the pendant to catch the light. Two wilted roses, one in bloom.

_What?_ She remembered it was the other way around. Could she have been mistaken? Was she seeing things right now? What was even real? Not even the solid, tangible things could be trusted anymore, it seemed.

There wasn't much rationality in her life anymore. All the down-to-earth advice of her father's would not help her. Her mother's practical attitude would not save her. In this world, only the whimsical tales she had heard from her grandma held any meaning, had any power. _And this world_ —she thought with a shudder— _is the real one_.

But her grandma had trusted Troy to protect her. She had said as much, implicitly, when she had given Lily the necklace. And so Lily would trust her grandma and her own gut and count on him. He had already saved her from the bogeys and he hadn't left her when faced with the redcaps. He would come through again for her this time.

_Thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud._

She caught the faint noise of hooves hitting the packed earth, barely audible. The pace was slow but steady. It didn't hint at wounds, suspicion, or the need for escaping. Relief flooded her and she scrambled to her feet. The night was fair for a Scottish summer, but still the moonlight was faintly clouded and she had to use her hands to find her way over the fallen stones. Slowly, she extricated herself from the moss-covered tower and made her way toward the sound, weaving among hip-high vegetation.

Then, the hooves stopped moving.

"Troy?" she called, her voice barely more than a breath. She knew she should not be calling for him, attracting attention, but something had made the back of her neck prickle. And why had he shifted now?

_Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud._

The steps came again, halting, somewhere down the hill. Lily could almost guess indecision in the pattern. Crouching down, just in case, she moved to the edge of the hill and looked down.

It wasn't Troy.

The creature was big as a drafting horse, all bulging muscle and taut tendons. From her vantage point, some ten yards away, Lily could see them shift and tense, for there was no skin to hide them. From its back sprouted a gruesome rider like a mockery of a centaur, and its glistening blood fell in dark rivulets to mingle with the horse's. The monster didn't need a bite or bridle to guide his nightmarish mount and its arms hung free, almost to touch the ground. Its eyes were pits of darkness in contrast with the fiery red burning in the horse's single orb, and both unnerving stares were fixed in the same direction.

Hers.

She wanted to scream. To curl up and wait for someone to come and tell her she that there were no monsters hidden under her bed. Instead, slowly, very slowly, she began to retrace her steps, walking away from the edge and seeking the meager protection offered by the ruinous tower and the vegetation.

The thing below stirred and flexed its fingers, the claws ticking together a staccato. Then, it started to move.

_Thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud._ It looked for the path up the hill and each step seemed to sound closer.

Lily bit her knuckles to keep from making any sound and kept moving. Deep down, she realized the ruins wouldn't keep her safe and she couldn't outrun a horse, but futile or not, action offered a tenuous grip for her sanity.

The thing crested the hill and she whimpered. The rider's head rotated to look around, bare neck muscles quivering and pale tendons gleaming under the yellowing veins and black droplets of blood, and its empty gaze found hers.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._ It advanced with ponderous steps, showing no sign of urgency. Lily stepped back, forgetting about subtlety, and the verdant plants cracked beneath her feet. She dared to lower her eyes for an instant and saw the stalks yellowing out, becoming brittle and dead before her very eyes. She looked up again and the horse huffed. She felt lightheaded and nauseated, and for every step of their dance, the creature got closer.

She had no more iron coins. She wished she'd thought to bring the box of nails with her. They probably were too small, and the monster too big, but they would've bought her some time to escape. As it was, her hands fumbled blindly for a fist-sized rock she could use as a makeshift weapon. The crumbling walls of the tower were too weathered by age, though, and her fingers only skimmed small chips before feeling out the larger blocks.

The thing was on her. She smelled the tang of blood and the sweetness of decay mixed with salt water and drying algae and her back hit the ruined tower wall. She tensed to turn and bolt, to do anything but cower and die.

"Kelpie," it said, freezing her in place. Its voice came from both heads, a dying gurgle from the rider and a wordless moan from the mount. Just as its skin had been flayed alive, also its tones were stripped of anything superficial, leaving behind a painful rasp that wrecked her brain like nails against a chalkboard. "Kelpie," it repeated, reaching out one deformed hand. Its fingers curled and his fore claw ran a feather-light touch along her neck and down her chest. It was sharp as a razor and Lily felt droplets of blood blossoming in its wake. The rose charms hanging from her necklace jingled.

"Yes," she panted, her heart beating in her throat. "That's a gift from a kelpie."

The monster curled its claw, slipping it between the silver chain and her skin. It cocked both heads to the side and the equine one drew closer. It inhaled deeply and fat, yellow drops of pus oozed from its nostrils with the exhale.

"A gift," Troy's voice said. His tone was conversational and he approached them, clean of most of the blood, both redcap and his, and more composed than when he had left.

The creature's clawed hand dropped the necklace to fall back against Lily's skin and it took a nonchalant step back.

"Kelpie," it said, more like a greeting than like a question. "Thief."

"No." Troy shook his head. "She is the rightful owner of my obligations."

The creature turned around and left, following the path it had followed up, walking calmly and silently except for the soft thuds of its hooves against the ground. In its wake laid a trail of dead plants and caked soil.

When it went down the edge and disappeared from view, Lily broke down. She didn't cry, not anymore, but she folded herself into Troy and held on while hoping the tremors would subside. The permanent coolness of his skin permeated her clothes, chilling her to the bone, and clear droplets of fresh water dripped from his hair onto hers, but still she held on. After a surprised moment, his arm came around her shoulders and offered an awkward support.

They stayed like that for a long time.

"You had to save me again," Lily said when the tremors finally subsided.

She felt him shake his head and his words reverberated from his chest, under her ear. "You were never in danger."

Lily let out a humorless laugh. "We must have seen different things back there."

"You met an... acquaintance of mine. A kindred fay. You would call him a friend or ally, perhaps. He never intended you any harm. However," he added after a pause, "it is true that his breath can be noxious for mortals. Do you feel ill, Lily?"

Her head spun. "That monster was your—" She cut herself, breathing hard, and tried again. "You call that thing a friend?"

A shoulder shrugged under Lily's panicked grip. "In as much as I would use the word 'friend.' It is certainly preferable to 'monster' or 'thing.'"

"I'm sorry," she said, feeling ashamed even through her fear.

"You knew no better," he replied, dismissing it.

They stayed in silence another minute or so, and Lily forced her fingers to relax their hold on him. "Please don't say 'I told you so.' Don't tell me again that this is not my world and that I should return to Manchester."

"You should not." His words surprised her enough to make her step back and search his eyes. "I was mistaken," he went on. "The events have much to do with you, and you must not return to your home yet."

"I—I—Well, I wasn't expecting to hear that." She bit her lip. "What made you change your mind?"

"Redcaps do not negotiate. They do not trade. They never compromise. The fact they showed an interest in apprehending you makes me uneasy."

She considered his words. "For interrogation? I don't know a thing... But Grandma would've had answers, answers she might have given them if she thought they could protect me. And we didn't find any blood in the house, except mine. Do you think...?"

"It is a distinct possibility," he admitted.

"If she's alive, we can save her."

Troy was shaking his head even before she finished her sentence. "The doctor might still be alive, but breaking free of such obvious omens of death is unheard of. Her time is upon her."

"I'm not going to give up while there's hope. I won't sit back and let her be trapped by bogeys or redcaps or who knows what else. I _will_ find her."

"Finding her might be a trap."

"So we take the risk. If we know about it ahead of time, we should be able to avoid it, right?"

"It is not so simple. A trap laid out for you would confirm my suspicions."

"You can always share them, you know."

"The bogeys act against their nature. The redcaps act against their nature. Therefore, there is something commanding them. I fear I know what it might be." He averted his gaze and stared listlessly into the night, his countenance evidencing as much distress as it ever had. Lily waited for a moment for him to continue, and then she prompted him.

"Tell me?"

Troy sighed. "Come, Lily. There is someone I would like you to meet."

He began to walk, but her fingers closed around his wrist. "Wait," she said. "Is this friend like that other one, just now?"

He smirked, his eyes twinkling in mischief, and Lily realized she had sort of missed that look. "Not quite like him, no."

"Oh. Okay, then. Let's go and meet this person."

With a nod, he guided her down the hilltop, following invisible paths around the vegetation that seemed to part on command for him. When they reached the bottom, he stopped, disentangled his arm from her and took a moment to change. His brow furrowed with concentration and Lily thought his lips tightened a little as if in pain. His form rippled and shifted, the darkness enveloping him and growing to encompass his horse form. It held, straining and pulsing for a split second, and then the change was upon him. The horse bowed his head, breathing heavily, but then he fixed her with his unnerving green stare and she shook off thoughts of weakness.

Lily clambered onto his back, still awkwardly but with more surety each time. She twined her fingers in his wet mane and felt his magic at work, gently caressing her skin and cocooning her so she wouldn't fall. It felt strangely intimate, especially when there wasn't an urgency to hurry the process and she wasn't trying to keep her mind off the fact she was riding him. She squeezed her tights against his flanks and tightened her fingers, uncomfortable, and the magic settled.

_"Fresh water is not quite as harsh on its sprites as salt, so I believe you will find Glaistig to be quite comely,"_ his voice said in her head, conversationally, as he began an easy canter. _"And you shall be safe, for she dislikes devouring anything but young and hale men."_

"What?" she screeched.

She got an impression of wry mirth as Troy broke into a full gallop.

# Chapter Fifteen

Troy ran into the forest, but at some point, Lily felt him doubling back, taking a twisting path back to the outskirts and the river. The previous times she had ridden him, he had moved like a shadow gliding over the land and it had been difficult to get a sense of direction, but on this occasion, she could track their progress. She was also very aware of the way his muscles strained below her and of his flanks rising and falling with the strain of the quick canter.

Had it always been like that? Or had he been wounded more grievously than he admitted to during the redcap encounter?

As if reading her mind, he snorted and jerked off course, bursting through the dense foliage and down the sloping glen into the river. The waters of the Dee were freezing cold in spite of the summer and Lily's teeth chattered when a few splashes caught her lower legs and hands. Then, he stopped and shifted, not giving her time to react.

The darkness around her was thick and soft like velvet and she felt the magic that had linked them together dissolving gently, like a feather-light caress. It lasted but a heartbeat, and when it was over, she found herself waist-deep in the water, pressed up close against his back, her fingers still tangled in his wet hair. The current enveloped them and carried on with a faint tinge of red.

She wanted to ask if he was alright. But she didn't dare.

One of his hands came up, settling over hers. Tugged a little.

"I'm sorry," she said very quietly as soon as she realized she was still holding on to him. She let go and he took a step forward, shaking his head and slicking his hair back into place with his free hand. The other didn't let go of her and she realized there were white half-moons in her palm from the strength with which she had clutched him. "I didn't mean to tear off your scalp," she added after a moment of silence. "I'm really sorry."

"You apologize and thank and say too much, Lily," he said, turning to face her. His tone was frustrated, just like when they had bartered questions and answers and she kept missing the right ones, but she thought there was a note of wry amusement in there too.

"Sorry, didn't know I wasn't supposed to." She caught her opening too late and had to smile when he lifted a brow. Definitely amusement. "Why is it wrong, anyway?"

He shrugged. The lines of his body, Lily noted, were beginning to relax for the first time since they approached her grandmother's house.

"I should not say it is wrong. It does acknowledge a favor is owed."

Something stirred in her old memories. "And favors are the currency of faeries," she ventured.

"Just so." His fingers slipped from hers at last and he began walking down the current. For him, the water only rose to his hips. "Come now. Let us find Glaistig and be done."

By the time he made to the riverbank, the cold had seeped into Lily's bones and her teeth chattered.

"I said you need not fear," Troy said while he watched her struggle up the mud, drenched and slipping every other step. "Why would you tremble so?"

"I don't know." She slipped again, reached for a small rock to steady herself and overbalanced, pitching forward. "Maybe because you've insisted on walking in freezing water when it turns out it wasn't necessary?"

"You are cold." Was that look confusion upon his face?

She sighed. "Yeah, Troy. I'm cold as a Popsicle."

He grabbed her by the arm and helped her along the few steps remaining until she was clear of the treacherous slope. Then, moving with the care he would show not to startle a wild animal, he touched the side of her face with the back of his fingers. The contact was warm and Lily felt a new tremor that had nothing to do with exposure.

"A Popsicle must be something cold indeed," he said, frowning. His fingers moved and touched the other side of her face, almost as if he were awed.

"So are you going to tell me why the splash?"

"No." He smiled, tight-lipped, the expression not reaching his eyes. Lily realized with a start that, up to that blundering question of hers, he had been wearing an open expression.

"Wait," she said, shaking off her thoughts and rushing not to be left behind. "Is there... Can you do something to help? With the cold."

"It does not threaten your life."

"No, it only makes my teeth clatter and my hands shake and my thoughts run around inside my head."

"Judging from your much-too open attitude, I dare say your thoughts find that 'scattered' is their natural state."

Lily stopped walking and stared at him, not sure how to proceed. It had almost seemed like Troy was playful in spite of his words. He was obviously still frustrated at the way she spoke, or at what she said, or didn't say—she wasn't quite sure where the fault lay—but there was also a hint of long-suffering amusement in his tone and his eyes. What was the correct answer to that?

"Well, well, is that the doctor's whelp?" said a woman's voice.

Troy's eyes darted behind Lily and he inclined his head a fraction, half respect and half camaraderie. "Glaistig."

Doing her best to still her chills, Lily turned very slowly toward the voice. There, on the riverside, standing where not a moment earlier she herself had been trampling, stood the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. She had a magnificent green dress of spun silk, like a maiden from an Arthurian tale, and her auburn hair fell in rebellious curls down to her hips. Her skin was fair like porcelain, as soft-looking as Troy's and even a touch more translucent. Her eyes shone aquamarine. Her lips were full, red, and currently parted in a smile, showing her white teeth.

Lily stared at that smile, mesmerized.

"Kelpie," she said. Her lips moved, revealed new flashes of white. "It is pleasant to see you, even in the present company. To what do I owe the honor?"

The smile widened and twisted a little and the minute gesture served to convey how much of a jest she made of the term "honor."

"Is it so rare in this day and age to visit my good neighbor?" Troy said.

She let out a delighted burst of laughter and Lily managed to tear her eyes away from her mouth.

Her mouth, full of white, sharp, pointy teeth.

"It truly is, my old friend," Glaistig said. "And while I do love your presence and your words, do tell me the truth now. Why did you seek me?"

Troy nodded in acknowledgment. "To present you with a mystery and see if perchance you could unveil it." Then he added as an afterthought, "I must confess, however, that your directness presents me with yet another mystery to add to the first. Should I ask what ails you?"

"You should not. You should ask your question instead and let us see if our two mysteries are not, after all, one and the same. And you simply must introduce me to your mortal friend. I guessed correctly, did I not?" Glaistig's attention fastened on Lily then.

She had been observing her and her interactions with Troy, the both of them thrusting and parrying words as if they were master fencers. Watching the graceful exchange, catching the unspoken nuances and feeling how a hundred more details slipped by out of her grasp, she had understood a bit better Troy's insistence on speaking properly and even the disappointment he showed when faced with her own blunt, often misplaced questions and comments. When the focus of the beautiful fay fell on her, Lily felt very small, like a child playing make-believe in an adult world.

She opened her mouth to reply and introduce herself, but—

"So you did," said Troy, smoothly speaking over her. "Glaistig, do allow me to introduce the good Doctor's Whelp."

Lily's mouth closed again and she realized she would have given away her name once more had Troy not prevented her. If Glaistig took notice of the near miss, her expression showed nothing.

"Indeed. There is a certain family resemblance, would you not say? But enough of pleasantries. Be my guests, and once comfortable, we will speak more."

Glaistig lifted her skirts to protect them from the mud and disappeared into thin air. She had opened a faerie path, much like the one Troy had tested her with. One step had been enough to take her from one side to the next and Lily couldn't stop staring.

"Come," Troy said, walking toward the opening. "Do not tarry or you shall cause offense."

Lily followed him, one foot in front of the other, and she knew she should be paying attention, trying to discern the opening from the solid world. She knew it was important.

But she could only think of Glaistig lifting the hem of her skirts. She had revealed cloven feet.

Where Troy's haven had been lush and green, Glaistig's path led to what looked like the same muddy, barren river bank, adorned only by outcrops of rock and one gnarled tree.

It was under that tree that she sat, perched on a stone like a queen upon her throne. With a gesture of her hand, she commanded them to make themselves comfortable, disregarding the fact that there were no other seats around her. Troy simply sat on the ground, his long limbs gracefully arranged so that it seemed as if he were lounging somewhere fit for a king, and Lily resigned herself.

More cold. More mud.

She chose a spot close to Troy, as appealing as any other, and tried to imitate his poise. It earned her a bemused glance from Glaistig.

"Such an interesting little mortal," she said. "Tell me, Kelpie, how did you come by her?"

"Where would the fun be if all secrets were to be revealed?" Troy smiled. "I believe it is more than enough to address the matter of the doctor herself for the time being."

He had sidestepped the question while redirecting the conversation to what he truly wished to know and had done so in such an off-hand way that Lily would have been hard pressed to note the maneuver if she hadn't been looking for it. Glaistig, however, acknowledged his move with a polite nod.

"The doctor, then. In truth, I do not know what you might hope to learn from me. You were always closer to her than I."

"I would hesitate to claim such a thing. Was she not part of your flock?"

"Indeed she is. The babes, the old ones. They are my interest. And yet, you just said 'was.'" Glaistig leaped on the tidbit of information like a hound and Lily wondered if Troy had fed it to her or if it had slipped from his tongue. "Should you not ask someone else about the fate of the departed? The graveyard's Grim, mayhaps?"

"I would, if she were dead. Your confirmed claim over her just proved that she is not and that I did bring my questions to the right place." He smirked and it earned a minuscule frown from their host.

"Very well. Do answer me first. Why are you posing such questions, Kelpie? I would think your pet mortal to be the interested party."

Lily felt Troy tense beside her. Somehow, Glaistig had just regained the advantage and she realized it as soon as she read the unease in him.

"Let her speak," she commanded. "Tell me, Doctor's Whelp, what drove you to ask questions about your family to a stranger such as myself?"

Lily wet her lips. Her throat had gone dry under the sudden scrutiny and she could feel Troy's attention on her too, heavy with warning. But she couldn't warp words and weave traps like he could. She could only offer the truth and hope she would get an honest answer in turn.

"The house was attacked and she's disappeared," she said. "I'm worried about her. I need to know what happened."

The moment her words were out, Glaistig's polite smile widened into the feral grin of a huntress. Her pink tongue poked between her sharp, sharp teeth, as if she had just caught the scent of prey and was savoring the kill in advance. Lily shuddered and cut a side glance to Troy, who just stared at her with a blank expression.

"Ah," Glaistig said. "I understand your need to assuage the pain of the unknown, and I shall offer my help for I believe my answers might prove to be a balm for your mind and heart."

It couldn't be that easy. The faerie's look belied her words.

"Do you know where she is, then?" Lily asked anyway. She had to.

"Such eagerness," Glaistig said with a low chuckle. "I may or I may not, my sweet. Either way, just as I have proved such understanding of your predicament, surely it is only fair to ask you to return the favor?"

An alarm bell went off in Lily's head. In the tales and legends she knew, bargains were hardly ever fair. But what other choice did she have?

"What do you want?"

"The babes, the old ones, the cattle that sustains their lives. Such are the things I rule over. Yet as of late, a bout of a most irritating sickness is wreaking havoc among my charges, leaving them prostrate with a consumption their bodies cannot heal. All I ask is that you should retrieve for me a stone that will banish this plague from my lands."

Lily thought back to the cure for pixie pox her grandmother had brewed with her. She thought of Ms. McEnroe, lying in her bed, of her son who was just a kid acting like a grown man. She remembered how bad she had felt upon seeing them in their grief.

"Okay, I'll do it," she said. "And you'll tell me what you know about the disappearance of my grandmother in exchange," she added, feeling the need to clarify to avoid being cheated.

"I accept," Glaistig crooned. "It is sealed."

"Where is the stone?" Lily asked. "How will I know that I get the right one?"

"You will recognize it, rest assured. It is smooth and slippery, black as the poison it is meant to heal, in shape like the sole of a shoe. Furthermore, you will know it for the place where it rests, in the heart of the cave overlooking the Braeroddach Loch where the cuelebre stands guard."

"And what is a cuelebre?"

"A cuelebre," Troy cut in, "is a serpent meant to protect the secrets of the land from meddling mortals and from those who would misuse them. You shall find it holds remarkable resemblances to the guardian dragons plaguing the minds of your medieval ancestors."

"What!" Lily recoiled from his words, but also from his sharp tone and from the scathing look he had given her. "How am I supposed to get past a dragon?"

"Is now the time to ask such a question?" he said with a smile that was almost vicious.

"I..." No, it wasn't. The moment for it came and went, right before she accepted the bargain. "I don't have any real chance of killing a dragon, have I?"

"A cuelebre," Glaistig corrected, tutting faintly. "And while death is nearly assured should you charge off blindly like the knights of old, I expect you to use your cunning to defeat this foe if the need arises."

Lily snorted. "Of course it'll arise. It won't let me just go with the treasure it's meant to protect. You're just trying to get rid of me."

Glaistig narrowed her eyes and the good humor that had surrounded her evaporated. The look she gave Lily was long and hard, cold, and full of sharp edges, and it made Lily think of Troy's words. _For she dislikes devouring anything but young and hale men._ She could see the terrible behind the beautiful now and it made her swallow past a lump in her throat.

Then, as quickly as it came, the look went away and left a slightly colder, more formal Glaistig in its wake.

"I am sure it was an unfortunate choosing of your words that made it seem as if you implied treachery in my pact," she said, enunciating with exaggerated care. "In my magnanimity, I shall even remind you that cuelebres do not part with their treasures willingly, but they do accept offerings most graciously. Now go and come back when your part of the bargain is done."

Troy stood first and he left without word or backward glance, leaving Lily scrambling to catch up before he crossed the opening of the path alone and left her lost in Glaistig's domain.

# Chapter Sixteen

"Irresponsible girl!" Troy turned and hissed when they had barely lost the riverbank from sight. "Did you fancy yourself very clever for bargaining with the fay?"

"You think I enjoyed that deal? Because trust me when I say I don't look forward to facing that dragon... that cuelebre thing."

"You rushed into acceptance without even knowing of it."

And that was the crux of it.

"I'm sorry if I'm not as experienced as you would like me to be about faeries," Lily said. "But it's not like I could say no. There's too much at stake here."

"And you made sure she knew of your desperation, of course. Understanding that a service only has the value given to it by those who desire it is common sense, and the fact you handed over all negotiation power can hardly be blamed on your lack of education." He took a step back and ran both hands through his hair. Lily saw he was distressed, truly upset over the blunder.

"Is it that bad?"

"Yes."

"But we can do it, right? We can get the stone."

"We? I certainly do not plan on facing that beast." He resumed walking, not bothering to look back to see if she followed.

"We have a deal," she reminded him.

"Not quite. You have struck a ridiculous bargain, but I do not have part in it. There should be an alternate way to find the information."

"Grandma doesn't have time for us to waste thinking of other methods when we have already found one. And besides, technically, I'm bound to fulfill my end of the bargain, right?"

"Indeed. But as I said, only you are. I can find different ways to pursue the answers once you fail, so all is not lost in spite of your stupid wasting of the best source I had."

"You don't mean that." Lily breathed out, struggling now to keep up with him. His anger had lengthened his strides.

"Do I not?" he mocked, lifting a brow.

"No, you don't!" She grabbed his arm, pulled with all her strength, managed to bring them both to a stumbling halt. "You don't mean that!" she shouted, desperate to believe her own words. He just regarded her, cold as a marble statue, and she hit his chest, trying to get him to react because even if he laughed at her naiveté, it would be better than this indifference. "You're supposed to protect me," she finished lamely in a small voice.

"Should it be within my possibilities," Troy said. "If the redcap pack resulted to be such a harsh test, exactly how do you expect to prevail against the cuelebre?"

"We could find a way. Glaistig said it wasn't impossible, so there must be some trick. She even gave us a clue, didn't she? We could figure it out."

Troy sighed. Reaching up, he disentangled her fingers from the front of his shirt, where they had clung when she gave up on the hitting, and forced some distance between them.

"If you must know, she suggested you give the guardian a poisoned offering, as if such a thing were simple."

"Right. So that's what she meant. And I don't suppose you can kill a cuelebre with raticide, right?"

"No substance made by man would work. And you do not have the means to obtain the rarer ingredients that might do the deed."

"Do you think Grandma could have them?"

"No. The good doctor did not dabble in poisoning."

"But iron would still work, right?" She was clutching at straws, she knew.

"And how do you plan to slip it past his senses? Nothing in this world carries a stronger stench than iron. The cuelebre will see the ruse and know you are to blame."

"We have to try."

He shook his head. "Desist. Find a loophole in the bargain and let us find another way."

"I gave my word I would do this," she protested.

"And both parties neglected to mention when. Walk away from this folly and it will be no fault of yours if you choose to perform your task one hundred years from now."

It was so very tempting. Lily thought back to the river running red from Troy's wounds after the redcap encounter. They appeared to be healed now and he moved seemingly without pain, but it was a sharp reminder of what could happen should she insist on facing the cuelebre. He was giving her a way out, a way to continue the search and stay safe, and she ached to take it.

"Who else might know what happened?" she asked.

"Those who foresaw her death might be able to explain the nature of their visions."

"But she isn't dead. We know that now, so those visions wouldn't be accurate anyway."

"No," he admitted.

"Then there's no choice, Troy."

Troy bowed his head for a moment. When he looked up at her again, Lily could have sworn there was a tinge of something soft behind the harsh, cutting glass of his gaze. Was it pity? Regret?

"There is always a choice, Lily Boyd. Do remember that," he said in quiet tones that touched her soul without searing it with command.

And he chose to turn around, walking back toward his water domain and leaving her alone and dirty and cold on the outskirts of town.

Lily made it home in a daze. The front door was still propped up in place, so she entered through the kitchen. After their escape from the redcaps, they had left it ajar and the wind had blown dirt and dead leaves into the house. It was the only thing out of order. She looked at the kitchen clock. It said it was eleven-twenty and she couldn't remember if she should be worried, if it should be marking some other time. She couldn't even care what day it was. The only important thing was that the neighbors seemed to be intent on not realizing what happened around them and no one had come to the house, no one had called the police.

That was nice. That would allow her to prepare her trap.

She would just take a short shower first.

And perhaps a short nap.

She had to hurry, but surely she could spare a few minutes to rest. Her grandmother always used to say that tired minds didn't think straight, and she was so very, very tired.

# Chapter Seventeen

Lily woke when normal people went to sleep all around her. Before collapsing on her old bed, she had showered and changed clothes and she felt like a different person when she opened her eyes.

Different was perhaps the key word, she mused while stretching. This time, there was no urge to deny the events, to claim everything had been a dream. She was only too aware of her new reality. A new reality where one of the first things to do included listening for strange sounds that could identify potential killer faeries readying an attack.

She had been reckless, coming back to her grandma's after the last two exits she had been forced to pull, but she had also been out of options. She needed to take a deep breath and sit somewhere and think. And prepare a trap for the cuelebre.

_Step by step,_ she told herself.

Her first step was entering every room in the small house and turning on the lights. She was under no illusions. If the redcaps were back, or if something even meaner had been sent in their stead, then keeping the lights off wouldn't fool them. The lights, however, would prevent her from not seeing them until it was too late. Even though it reeked of small child scared of monsters under the bed, going room by room and turning on every light available, big or small, was the best option she had.

Then she turned on the light in the living room and froze.

Someone had been in the house after all. The overturned couch was back in place. Every chair was where it was supposed to be. The spots of human blood and the rust-like dust of faerie remains had been brushed off and cleaned. The pieces of the vase she had used as a weapon and shattered against a bogey's head had been picked up and placed in a neat pile where the original vase should be. The poker had been returned to its place too, and were it not for the odd way it was bent out of shape, Lily could have thought that her very real memories were nothing but madness after all.

But the vase was broken, the poker had been used as a weapon, and over on the table sat the small box full of iron nails. And she had to kill a dragon-like faerie and no time to wonder at the housekeeping abilities of a pack of monsters that didn't seem to be home anymore, if her uninterrupted sleep through the day was any clue.

She grabbed the box, weighed it in her hands. The nails inside were of various sizes, from a full inch to barely a quarter, and they were in all sorts of states, from bent and rusted to brand new. There had to be dozens of them.

So she had a weapon. Now, how to use it?

Glaistig had said to use an offering. Troy had said she wouldn't be able to slip the iron past the cuelebre´s sense of smell. She was inclined to believe him, judging from the way the redcaps had suspected iron as soon as she had stepped through the door the previous night—or had it been two days before? How long had passed already since her grandma went missing? Did time even matter anymore?

In any case, if Glaistig said she could use a ruse, and taking into account how offended she had looked when it seemed that Lily thought she was cheating, it seemed it may be crazy difficult, but possible.

What could hide the smell of iron? She took a handful of nails, brought them to her face, sniffed. If she was very hard-pressed, she might admit to a soft metallic tang in the air, but for the most part, it was unnoticeable. Perhaps the stench was more of a mystical thing, in which case she didn't know how to counter it.

_No. Focus on what you can control. Keep going step by step._

She took the box to the kitchen and set it in the counter. An idea was beginning to hatch. All her life, Lily had seen Mackenna leave the offerings out for the fair folk: bread, milk, honey. Every day she had been there, the small plates had been out in the porch, in the yard, or by the trees that farther on would become the forest. She could almost hear the words spoken with Mackenna's voice fifteen years earlier to a wide-eyed child too young to understand them. "This way they know to which house they should not bring harm." And harm meant blood and blood had iron.

Different, of course, but perhaps it could work.

Lily took out a container and mixed flour with salt. She also needed yeast and she found it where she had dropped it during the first encounter with the bogeys. She had a vague recollection of adding water too. Mackenna's voice from old memories explained how more water would make bread tasty, but would also cause it to harden faster, and Lily decided to add in a cup and a half of milk instead. She wanted it to be soft and taste great and, if things went badly, there would be no time to lament that it had gone too hard. Then she added a bit of honey, because you could never go wrong with honey and faeries. When the dough looked just about right, she dumped it on the table.

And, on top of it, she dumped the nails. And she began to knead.

It hurt. She bruised her knuckles and the nails broke her skin. She gritted her teeth and kept going, watching while the dark grey disappeared in the dough. Specks of red flourished here and there, traces left by her wounded hands, but she only stopped when she had to yank out a particularly rebellious nail from her flesh.

The wee hours of the night came. She shaped the dough, making sure no nails poked through the surface. At some point, she realized it was not going to get any better.

Now, how long in the oven? She recalled waiting with all her inexistent patience for warm bread back in the day, but any approximation of time was beyond her. However, such a silly thing could not be the demise of her plan, could it? Surely there were cook books or something with the information.

Perhaps she should have consulted them before half revisiting and half improvising the recipe itself, but no matter. It was done and it would have to work. She put the bun of bread in the oven, washed her hands, and set about to search for the information.

Mackenna didn't have proper cooking books. She had never bought anything like _100 Easy Recipes to Impress for Christmas_ or _Cooking Fast and Delicious Meals with No Salt_. That was more her mother's sphere. Her grandmother bought notebooks instead and painstakingly wrote the recipes as she had learned them from her own mother, who had learned them from her mother. Lily found a small stack of such notebooks stored in a drawer. There was no index, no order to the contents. Some lines were scratched out and notes to improve the recipes were added in the margins.

"You couldn't make anything simple, could you?" Lily muttered with a mixture of fondness and annoyance as if Mackenna could hear her wherever she was.

And, almost as if she could, a piece of paper fell from one of the little books while Lily carried them over to the table. She heard it rustle to the floor in the house's eerie silence and went back to pick it up.

_Dear Lily,_ it began.

She dropped the books.

* * *

_If everything has gone according to plan, today is your eighteenth birthday._

* * *

It hadn't. It wasn't. Lily had to blink to clear her vision.

* * *

_I began to write this little book of field notes when I was your age. I suppose it doesn't seem like I was a very good writer, showing such meager results after so long! The truth is that many things shouldn't be put to paper. They must be taught down the generations, for tradition has a special power all by itself._

_But by the time I write this letter, it is more than clear that your mother will have nothing to do with the wisdom I can teach her, and I'm afraid I will not have enough time to teach you in her stead all that I would have you know. Sharing with you these pages seems to be the only way to ensure that a little of the knowledge I've gathered over the years remains, even if what can be safely written is but a fraction of what there is._

_I have faith that, one day, you'll find it in your soul to understand and embrace the real world your mother turned her back against. If that time ever comes, and if I'm not there any longer to guide you as my mother guided me, you'll at least have these notes to help you as you learn._

_Learning by oneself also has its own magic._

_Love,_

_Grandma_

* * *

While Lily held the letter, her grandma's neat calligraphy went blurry and the signature dissolved into lines of gray.

She was crying. She could hear Mackenna's voice saying those words. She could picture her writing the letter one day, alone in her kitchen, sad and hopeful and looking forward to the day she could give Lily the notebook. She imagined her, counting the years until she turned eighteen so that she would choose freely whether to believe the words on the piece of paper.

It hurt. It hurt even more to know that, if she hadn't come here this summer, hadn't been attacked, hadn't met Troy... She wouldn't have. She would have chosen her mother's "normal" world instead of the real one.

Lily leafed through the notebooks, finding the one the letter had fallen from. It was written much like the cooking books, but instead of apple pie or stew, the entries mentioned cures for cattle feet and pixie pox, and there were indented comments here and there with bits of advice. She pressed the letter into place and took a deep breath. She wanted to sit down and devour the contents because she needed the knowledge and because it would help her not to feel quite so alone, but she couldn't yet. She had a bargain to fulfill. Then she would find her grandmother and they would read the book together.

Decision made, she put the notebook aside and began to search a recipe for bread. When she found it, she saw it had been baking too long and rushed to get it out.

It was done. She stared at her offering, her weapon, as it sat cooling in the kitchen counter, an apparently harmless bun that fit in her hand.

"Okay," she said aloud. "Let's do this."

# Chapter Eighteen

The Braeroddach Loch stood silent and majestic under the early morning sun. If summer hadn't turned out to be so cold this year, someone might have been practicing some sport or even fishing, but as it was, only the calm waters greeted Lily when she arrived.

After finishing the bread bun, Lily had packed her offering, her newly found notebook, a jacket, and some money into a knapsack and had set out well before sunrise. The lake was just a few miles northwest from her house and she could navigate the distance. It was better not to try to get a lift or hop onto a bus headed in that general direction because that would call too much attention and she would rather do without it. Especially when it was so easy to just hike.

Lily took only a moment to appreciate the lonely sight and another to orient herself, and then she began to make her way around the shore to the small promontory where she knew she would find her destination. Initially, when Troy had turned his back on her and she had realized she would have to find the cave on her own, she had panicked, but at some point while she kneaded the dough, she had known where she had to go.

There was a legend about Braeroddach Loch. Not very important, of course; it was nothing in comparison to Ness Loch. Still. The tales said there was a hole that was, in truth, a gate to the underworld. It was deep and gaping, and people said that sometimes, on the right day and at the right time, you could hear a sad song drifting up from the core of the earth. No one had ever descended the hole, either. When reminded of the legend, people scoffed and said that it had not been explored because it was nothing but a deep hole, so there was nothing to explore. That the sounds coming up were nothing but the wind, a trick like a giant seashell. Those were normal explanations, born from rational people.

It wasn't the truth.

And when Lily stood over the open maws of the hole, she could see why they would come up with those theories. There was something clinging to the place, a thin veneer that made it seem like it belonged to another world altogether.

It probably did belong to another world. Most likely it was an opening of a path, bigger and thus clearer for her senses than the ones she had traversed before.

_But what will I find on the other side? Am I even supposed to cross myself before I know the cuelebre is dead?_

She would rather not, but she had only one chance to pull this off and she couldn't leave it to blind luck. She had to go herself and make sure it worked. Drying her sweaty hands on her pants, she took out the bun and stood at the lip of the hole.

She let herself slip.

The transition between one world and the one hidden beside it was different this time. Either because of fear or because she was crossing over alone and uninvited, her stomach jerked and she felt an awkward pull in her limbs as if each part of her wanted to go their own direction.

She landed with a thud when the feeling reached just this side of painful and the impact took all air from her lungs.

Somehow, her offering stayed in her grasp.

Lily forced herself to breathe and look around. Nothing had jumped on her when she had landed and she took it to be a good sign, but still, she needed to have her wits about her. This would be treacherous ground and she was ill-suited to it, just as she had proved by being roped into the bargain.

The cave was nothing like Troy's hideout, not even like Glaistig's. Their areas of the hidden world were humid and cool, saturated with water. This was dry, so much so that the air seemed to suck even the moisture from one's skin. It hadn't been formed by constant dripping or by subterranean currents as many other beautiful caves were. Here there was only the pressure of the earth itself compressing and packing and breaking. While there was no clear source of light, Lily could see just fine. The rough stone walls were ocher and massive without so much as a fissure. The floor felt warm under her feet.

She swallowed.

"Cuelebre," she said, trying to sound as if she knew what she was doing. She was proud when her voice only wobbled a little. "I come to you bearing an offering."

"You have trespassed," said a rumbling voice. "No mortal may cross my boundaries without permission."

Then, the cuelebre appeared. One moment the cave was a closed, empty vault, and the next there were stairs leading out to a huge corridor. In the opening, curled over itself, laid the serpent-like guardian, staring at her with an amber, ancient eye. The creature must have been at least eighty feet long and its jaws were proportionate with the rest of the body. Seeing its sheer size, appreciating its teeth and the scales that plated its whole body, Lily understood what Troy had meant about impossible fights.

She wished she had better prepared for this part of the encounter.

"Please, forgive my mistake." She tried to sound formal, respectful. She tried to talk like Troy did. "It was caused by my eagerness to show my appreciation."

There was a sound of stones breaking and crumbling under infinite force and Lily realized with a start that the cuelebre had snorted a laugh.

She felt cold sweat pooling in the small of her back and she shivered.

"I've prepared an offering following in the ancient ways and didn't dare to risk a... misplacement."

"I see." It stirred and uncoiled and, in spite of its looks, its languid movement reminded Lily more of a cat than a cold-blooded snake. That was something. Cats were supposed to be cute, weren't they? "The ancient ways, you say? Tell me then, little mortal, who are you?"

"I'm a faerie doctor," she said without hesitation.

"Are you now." There was no question in its tone and it brought its great head closer, inspecting her.

Lily couldn't afford to be closely inspected. The iron nails might be mistaken for the blood in her hands, hidden as they were under the smell of fresh bread and the sweet cloy of honey, and if there was a more mystic stench, it might be mitigated by the symbolism of the offering, but it would not last long and it would not hold against a real examination.

"In training," she was forced to add. The hand holding the bun began to shake.

There was another rumble, the distant sound of upheaval produced maybe by an earthquake. "Ah," it said, thunderous mirth invading its voice. "And what part of your training are you accomplishing today, pray tell?"

"None, I—"

"Tsk," the cuelebre interrupted. "Nothing should turn a worthy soul from their goals. If it is training that you do, then you should train."

The mere surrealism of a giant serpent scolding her as if she were a schoolgirl who had forgotten her homework was nearly enough to dispel the rising fear and allow Lily to think. She faced a guardian of the secrets of the earth who despised idleness and was quite vocal about it. Then, there was only one correct answer.

"I rest from my training today," she said, "so tomorrow I may work on"—here she stuttered, only slightly, while her mind's eye reviewed the many odd things she had seen in her grandmother's attic—"on a stone mortar to help me prepare the brews."

"And why would you not work today?"

"Because first I had to thank you for telling me which kind of stone would be better for that."

There was another peal of that monstrous laughter, this time loud enough to make the floor vibrate under Lily.

"Clever little mortal," the cuelebre said. "Well played. However, you still trespassed. I should ask an additional price for that."

"Name it," Lily said, knowing she would regret her words. She should haggle, twist the situation so she came up on top, make it seem like she had done the cuelebre a favor instead... but she had gambled much and won so far. She didn't dare place any more bets.

The cuelebre narrowed its eyes and studied her for a long moment.

"You will take your mortar and leave your offering," it said at length. "And one year and one precise day from now, you will return and bring me a lock of hair of whoever benefited of your using this mortar for the first time."

Lily was sure that hair, nail clippings, and other such things were quite dangerous in the hands of a faerie, but she knew that one year and one day from that moment, either the cuelebre or herself would be dead. And even then, she didn't plan on using the mortar—it had only been the first half-logical thing coming to mind. All in all, it looked like a good bargain and she tried very hard to keep a straight and somber face as she gave the cuelebre her assent.

"And it is done," it said.

The cuelebre moved then, its great body unfolding to the sound of scales sliding against scales. There was a rumble and Lily's vision trembled, the air undulating as if it were too hot, and when the gossamer veil of heated reality settled once more, the corridor leading to the heart of the cave was clear and a small translucent bowl stood at its mouth.

"Go on, claim your prize," the cuelebre said, slithering around her.

The thought of walking farther into the cuelebre's realm and putting the huge creature between herself and the opening of the path she had come through didn't appeal to Lily, but she had come much too far to stand back now. She couldn't begin to second-guess herself.

Trying to act with aplomb, she walked up the stairs to a mortar and pestle made of exquisite crystallized quartz, smooth as if the stone had been born in such a shape. When she knelt to pick up the cuelebre's side of the bargain, she stole a look beyond the corridor. It was long, perhaps as long as the cuelebre itself, and on the far side, she could see some sort of dais raised low with a fist-sized stone atop. The chamber was lit by the same unnatural light that seemed to permeate the cuelebre's domain and she thought she caught shadows pooling around the stone she was supposed to retrieve.

The vision struck her as odd and it made her fingers falter when she gripped the mortar. The quartz was still warm to the touch and she put it in her knapsack almost reverently because, whether she would use it or not, she had been given a gift fit for kings and she knew it. Then, she deposited her bun of iron bread in place, and as she stood again, she realized why the shadows in the inner chamber of the cave had caught her eye.

Nothing in this realm cast a shadow, nothing but that stone. Just as the diffused illumination had no source, so there were no dark counterpoints. Not even she cast a shade.

She glanced over again as she began to walk back toward the opening, trying to be subtle but unable to resist.

The shadow was gone. And so was the stone.

The surprise caused her breath to hitch. Had she been tricked? Had the stone even been there before? Had the cuelebre found her out and was only playing with her?

_Please no. Please don't let it know I tried to fool it._

Her eyes darted to the path out. Could she make a run for it? No, she couldn't. While it traced a full circle of the entrance cave, the cuelebre's tail had planted itself right between herself and escape. And where was "escape" anyway? She had found the opening of the path by jumping down a hole. She couldn't very well jump up again and be out now.

The cuelebre slithered back to the opening of the corridor, its tail still trailing far behind its head and right where Lily wished to be. Its head rose over the offering and its opening jaws cast a gruesome shadow against the wall as the cuelebre's head dove to claim its due. Part of Lily's mind noted the lone shadow, noted the glimpse of darkness along with the size of the teeth and the glistening trail of saliva over the tongue.

Most of her could only chant the mantra— _Eat it, eat it, eat it!_

It did.

Lily breathed out a sigh of relief.

And then the cave exploded.

The bun of bread couldn't have been very far down the cuelebre's gullet when it reared its head, its long body tensing and convulsing, shaking Lily to the ground. It roared and the sound, beyond being reminiscent of an earthquake, set the cave itself to tremble.

"Treacherous mortal!" The agonized syllables collided like tectonic plates and the cave walls splintered, gravel and small stones raining down on Lily.

And then the cuelebre's head darted at her, its eyes shining with immortal rage, its teeth and jaws strong enough to break her just as the guardian's refuge was breaking all around and over and under her. She tried to scramble to her feet, but the cuelebre moved too fast and suddenly the shadow cast by that gaping death was upon her—

But the shadow moved faster than the creature itself and shoved her. She fell and skidded to the side and the cuelebre's teeth gouged out the very stone floor where she had been but a moment before.

Cool water splattered over Lily's face and a chilly hand pulled her up. And there, in place of the shadow that had flickered through the cave, stood Troy.

Lily felt safer.

"This way," he said, diving toward the cuelebre's trashing head.

She faltered, every instinct she had screaming for her to duck the other way. "Are you crazy? It's going to eat us!"

"He will trap us otherwise!" Troy countered, sparing her a glance as he hauled her along.

He was right, Lily saw as they both rushed at the very jaws of the creature that wanted to kill them. The cuelebre might be in its death's throes, but still it tried to circle them, creating a wall with its own trashing body.

Again, the massive head dove at them. Lily read Troy's tension just a fraction of a second before he threw the both of them down, using their momentum to tumble under the cuelebre's mouth. The scales of its throat were close enough to touch and the heat they radiated turned Troy's skin warm against hers.

Then, they were clear. The cuelebre had to maneuver around to restart its pursuit and the convulsions that shook it would make that very, very difficult. Still, Troy got them both to their feet and kept running, the fear in his gaze not diminishing in the slightest. The floor kept roiling beneath their feet, and the cracks in the walls became wider.

"What's going on?" Lily shouted over the falling stones.

"The cave is collapsing," Troy said. "We must find a path out and do it now."

"The entrance?"

"Already gone."

They reached the corridor leading out of the cave and Lily looked back. The cuelebre wasn't dead, but it was dying; the scales that should've protected it kept the iron inside its body as it burned and poisoned it. The cave itself seemed to contort, and indeed, the spot where Lily had first appeared was already covered by debris and rolling rocks.

"Do not stop!" Troy's voice jerked her out of contemplating the destruction and she rushed after him.

"Where are we going?" The spasms from the main room grew and hit the corridor like a whiplash, lifting Lily from the ground. She rolled with the fall as best she could, feeling the jagged edges of crumbled walls and cracked floor piercing her skin and bruising her bones.

Troy didn't reply. He stood beyond the dais where the stone she had been supposed to fetch had lain, studying the wall. His long fingers danced over the trembling stone, touching here and there, dragging almost gentle caresses over the surface even as it broke.

"Troy? What are you doing?" He ignored her and droplets of water glistened over the wall under his fingertips.

The corridor behind them collapsed. Lily threw herself up the dais, but the ripples caught her and she fell, the stone stairs biting her ribs and her cheek. She tasted blood.

She knew she had to keep running, but for a moment, she couldn't remember why. She couldn't tell which was up or down as the remains of the cuelebre's cave twisted and shattered around her. She couldn't hear the deafening noise of the earth burying them.

She tried to crawl forward, backward, _somewhere_ , but strong arms held her and lifted her. Without thinking, she wrapped her own arms around Troy's neck and clung to him for consciousness as he threw them both through the opening of a new path.

Before darkness claimed her, she thought she saw a woman over Troy's shoulder. She was a beautiful creature of black hair and pale, glowing skin, and she stood under the falling stones. Laughing.

# Chapter Nineteen

Lily came around to a strange mixture of dull pain and safe comfort. She didn't want to open her eyes and tear her mind from the calming emptiness where it had floated for who knew how long, but there was a vague sense of urgency that told her she should.

_I'm running out of time._

And she knew it to be true, even if she couldn't tell what the deadline was for.

She stirred, tried to force movement into her limbs, and a cool weight fell on her shoulder.

"Careful, Lily," said a voice over her, very close. Troy. "Your body requires more rest."

"I can't afford it," she croaked, struggling to open her eyes and sit up.

"Because time is running out?" Troy sighed. He sounded tired. "I believe I have already told you that time is meaningless here, have I not?"

"Where are we?"

"Safe." A smirk, tangible in his tone.

"We've had this conversation before," she mumbled.

"If the familiarity helps you feel better, we may rehearse it as many times as you wish."

"Oh, ha ha. Funny." She tried to twist around to see him and found she was curled on her side, her back pressed against his thigh as he sat sentinel over her. His hand still rested on her shoulder and she welcomed his touch. It worked like an anchor. "Seriously now. Can you tell me what happened?"

"You succeeded in slipping cold iron past the guardian," he said. "It appears to have killed him, but unfortunately the cave was tied to his existence. He had created his own haven, much like this is mine, and it crumbled to pieces without the will of its maker to hold all the threads together. We were forced to flee."

"So that place doesn't exist anymore?"

"Not as you saw it, no."

"That's... sort of sad. It was beautiful. In its own way." Lily felt a shift travel through her back and shoulder. A shrug from Troy.

"It is as it is," he said.

"Does that mean it was all for nothing? If we can't go back, we can't collect the stone. After everything, I botched the bargain."

Troy's hand moved from her shoulder, traveled down her arm, and captured her own, pulling it toward him. She rolled with the movement, lying on her back and staring up at him quizzically.

His green eyes bore into hers and his other hand pressed a smooth, slippery black stone into hers.

"You got it." Her fingers trembled.

"I stole it while you distracted Cuelebre with the bargain. You did a fair effort this time, but might I recommend against striking deals with every fay you encounter?"

"Wait." She struggled to sit up but his grip left her hand and returned to her shoulder, holding her down. He gave her a warning glance not to move and she ceased her attempts, but didn't let go of her questions. She had too many of them. "But why were you there? I thought you wanted no part in the confrontation."

"I assure you I did not."

"Was it because of the necklace then?"

His fingers slid to her neck and picked up the silver chain. He held all three charms and studied them, the back of his knuckles brushing the soft skin over the hollow of her throat. She felt her breath catch and he smirked when he noticed, a flash of white peeking between his lips.

He let the pendant fall back into place. "It would appear that is not the reason."

Lily squinted at it. "When Grandma gave it to me," she began, "I could have sworn that there was one wilted rose and two in full bloom. But the other day, when we met your friend, the especially weird one? There were two wilted roses. There are two wilted roses now. Does that make sense?"

"Yes."

There was a moment of silence and Lily stared up with all the stubbornness of a mule until Troy's lips cracked a thin smile.

"To answer your unasked question, the charms represent the number of times a life will be saved," he relented. "Blooms for promise and wilted carcasses for what has already come to pass."

"So you've saved Grandma's life once, and then mine another time." She let her fingers play with the cool metal, thinking. She wouldn't bother asking about her grandmother because getting that information could be too tricky, but then... "That doesn't add up."

"Does it not?"

"No. You've saved me three times already. Once from the bogeys, once from the redcaps, now one from the cuelebre." She counted each occasion out, tapping her fingers. "But I've only spent a bloom. How does that work?"

"In a most complex manner."

With a huff, she ignored his restraining hand and sat up. Dizziness caught up to her for a moment, but she managed to cover up her swaying under a shift to look away from him.

"You could just say 'I don't want to tell you,' you know," she said.

"And you might learn to phrase your questions properly, Lily. Each answer obtained is a debt incurred and I cannot understand why you would beg for favors when you already know the truth."

"Because that's what people do!" She whirled on him. "We talk about what we know and reassure each other and say important things without the other person having to wrestle each word out of our mouths!"

"That is what humans do," he said, his cool not breaking in front of her sudden passion. "You would do well to learn to think like us if you want to prosper while straddling both your mortal world and our own."

Her fire banked, leaving behind the embers of embarrassment. Hugging her knees to her chest, she took deep and even breaths until she regained enough control of her voice that she could sound as calm as he did.

"Okay," she admitted. "You're right. I'm not thinking in faerie terms and it's rushing me from bad situations into dire ones. I'll try to be smarter from now on." She dared to smile a little at him. "I guess that just giving me that piece of advice put me in your debt, right?"

Troy laughed and the sound washed over her like a river's current over pebbles on the shore. "Indeed it did," he said. "But worry not. I gave up on tallying after our first conversation."

"Sorry." Troy arched an eyebrow, still smiling, and Lily sighed. "Another notch?"

"If I were keeping count."

"Why is saying 'sorry' so bad?" Troy went to reply but she held up a hand. "Wait, wait. This is another of those things I already know the answer for, isn't it? Let me try." She began to tap her fingers against her lips. "It's because it means you've done something wrong... Because if you apologize _to_ someone, then that means you've wronged that person," she said after a moment.

"And this entitles them to demand compensation for each time you have apologized to them," said Troy. "Would you care to keep guessing?"

"About the necklace?"

He nodded.

"Sure. Let me think." She gave him a small, nervous grin. "I'm not sure I remember the wording you used that first time you told me about it," she confessed. "But you did say before facing the cuelebre that it had to be within your possibilities. Still, that can't be it because you did manage to save me so, technically speaking, you _could_. Am I right?"

"You are correct. In fact, even if you do not recall my exact words, you have inadvertently stumbled upon the answer already."

"Have I? What did I—? Not possibilities, so then saving me. That's all I said, and that's not an answer. That's talking circles."

"A clue?"

"Yes, please."

"You should know that 'please' and 'thank you' are nearly as terrible a misstep as 'sorry.'"

Lily laughed at his smug smile. "Okay, you! Out with the clue then!"

He regarded her for a moment longer, shaking his head with an amused light in his eyes. When her chuckles subsided, his eyes fell to her necklace, resting in the hollow of her throat.

"Saving _you_ , Lily, must not be mistaken with saving _us_."

"That's not fair," she said, suddenly subdued. "It doesn't count because you were there with me? You still saved me and it doesn't matter that you were in danger too."

"That was my mistake when crafting the necklace, Lily," he said with a shrug. "I hope you understand now the importance of detail?"

"Yeah, I think I do." She bit her lip and plunged on. "There's a detail I can't figure out yet."

"And that is?"

"Why were you there, Troy?" She caught his eye and he let her hold onto it. "You said you didn't want to. You told me to find another way, but still you came. Why?"

He was silent for so long that Lily had to avert her gaze. He was silent long enough that she was sure he wouldn't reply. He held his silence, and she felt his attention on her, studying her while their bantering mood dissolved in tension. She bit her lip to keep from fidgeting, and just when she thought she would explode and apologize to him in spite of what she now knew, she felt the back of his fingers against her cheekbone.

She startled and held her breath.

"You are a most peculiar creature, Lily," he said, his touch sliding down the side of her face and under her chin, tilting her head so she had to look at him. "In my experience, humans will blunder happily to their deaths because they refuse to acknowledge the world as it is, because they do not allow themselves to remember that they are neither alone nor quite as powerful as they believe in the true scope of things. You blunder forward with equal determination and enthusiasm. You court disaster with every step you take toward your goal, but you are conscious of it. And yet your awareness of danger, of how heavily outmatched and how badly outclassed you are, does not seem to arrest you, does it? That is peculiar and interesting indeed, Lily Boyd. Even though I know that only a fool would find foolishness worthy of respect." He stood up then, a languid unfolding movement that broke contact between them and freed her from the spell of his gaze. "If your curiosity is sated now," he continued, staring at the tree-line beyond their little clearing, "I would advise you to rest before we return to Glaistig. You shall need your wits and your energy for that encounter and we do not know when another opportunity for sleep and healing will present itself next."

She wasn't tired. Her body might have been, but thoughts whirred in her mind and she felt as powerless to stop them as she was to stop her heart from beating. Her curiosity was far from sated and she longed to continue their conversation even as he turned his back on her and walked to the edge of his riverside haven. Still, there was truth to his words, of course, and the least she could do after he had answered all her questions was respecting the need for distance he was expressing now.

She curled up on the ground and faced him, contemplating the lines of his shoulders and the way stray droplets of water would sometimes drip from his hair down his back, and let the vision of him lull her to sleep.

# Chapter Twenty

Lily wouldn't have thought it possible, but she did manage to sleep long and sound. When she awakened next, the weariness and disorientation she had felt before were gone.

"Are you ready?" Troy said as soon as she blinked her eyes open. He stood a few feet away from her with a restless tension about him that immediately hit her as odd.

"Yeah." She sat up and stretched her back with as much discretion as she could muster. "In a hurry, are we?"

"I did get the impression that time was of the essence, yes. It runs in a different manner while we are here, but it does run nonetheless."

Lily looked over at him and couldn't tell if he was puzzled at her sudden laziness or if he was mocking her usual comments of "when" and "where."

"You're right, I guess," she said. "I'm just not used to moving right after cracking one eye open."

"If you wish to linger, that would not be a great issue."

"No, no." She stood, yawning, and patted her pocket to ensure the stone that would fulfill her part of the bargain was still there. "Lead the way. Is it far?"

"Quite close, in fact."

He picked up her knapsack on his way and handed it to her. She slung it over her shoulders and fell into step behind him. Instead of heading for the river, as he had the last time, he took a different, winding path that soon had them climbing out of the humid forest.

"How did we get here yesterday? Or whenever it was. I forgot to ask."

"And we could never leave you without your answers," he muttered ahead before throwing a backward glance over his shoulder. "Through the deeper parts of our world. I daresay that is the reason you were so fatigued when you awoke last. Other than the blow to the head, of course."

"What, traveling to the deeper parts of faerie lands makes humans want to sleep?"

"No. Being yanked through different currents of time and across the empty spaces between without due control does."

"That sounds dangerous."

"And reckless. It was. It was also the only resource I had available."

Lily hurried up and captured his fingers. His skin was even colder than usual and, when he stopped abruptly to stare at her with a question in his eyes, his lashes were wet.

"I wanted to thank you," she said. "I wanted to say that even if it didn't count according to the necklace, what you did counted to me. So, there. Thank you. And you can keep track of it." She smiled.

After a moment of apparent surprise, he returned the gesture. It was a simple smile without mischief or malice in it, and Lily found it warmed her a little in spite of the cold seeping into her fingers. Then, he tightened his own fingers around hers and the world around them changed while remaining still. They had crossed the opening, and once more, she hadn't even seen it coming.

They stood now on the outskirts of the forest beyond where it became only a sparse population of lonely trunks and close enough to the river that the smell of fresh water and moss and mud overpowered everything else. Troy stepped back from her as if they hadn't just shared... something.

"Do attempt to think before speaking this time," he said, gesturing for her to walk with him.

"I'll do my best."

Side by side, not ten paces later, they crossed another opening that showed them a starker version of the same abandoned landscape. The only hint of movement was Glaistig herself, rising from her throne-like rock to greet them with a wide grin that showed sharp, pointy teeth.

"Well, well," she said. "It would seem I was right after all and the little girl survived her trial. Come and sit. Let us celebrate."

Glaistig didn't offer them food or drink. She barely gestured to offer them a seat on the ground at her feet. Her idea of celebrating, Lily thought, was very similar to other's people idea of a cat eying the canary.

"Tell me, then. How did you come to succeed?" she asked after a moment.

"That's not important," Lily said, very careful not to look at Troy for support even if that was what she wanted to do. "I have the stone you needed and my end of the bargain is fulfilled. That's what we should focus on."

Glaistig's eyes did cut over to Troy then, her lips twisting in a smirk that he answered with one of his own.

"I see you have become more cautious of your words, little girl," she said. "That is no fun, but no matter. I was to tell you of the good doctor now, was I not?"

"Yes. You agreed to tell me all you know about her disappearance."

Glaistig leaned back on her rock as if she were lounging in the most comfortable chaise and tapped her lips.

"So I did. Where do I begin? Should I remark upon the weather?"

"The weather? What has that to do with anything?" Lily said, puzzled, but Troy spoke over her words.

"The cold of winter lingers for far too long over our lands. That is an easy enough observation to make and hardly pertinent to the bargain."

"Hardly pertinent? Come now, Kelpie. I know you have noticed it in the water of your streams. I know you must have wondered about it when you realized there was a bogey pack where before only brownies stood in the house of the doctor. Surely you understand the implications."

"But would the weather be at fault for the change or would the change precipitate the weather?"

"That is the question, is it not? The answer I can give to the best of my abilities is that the weather prevailed."

Lily's attention darted from one to the other as they talked. The words must have some importance because Troy had sat up and forward, his upper torso angled just so to reveal his interest and his eyes narrowed. Glaistig also seemed to be delighted at her own information. It was clear they were speaking of something that went completely over her head and Lily chafed at it, but didn't dare interrupt. Troy would give her answers later... Wouldn't he? She turned to him and found him studying her with a thoughtful frown. Was she supposed to say something? She didn't know what and fear gripped her for a moment before she realized he wasn't looking at her, but at her necklace.

"You speak of the Grim's warning," he mused, speaking to Glaistig but not looking away from Lily. "I did wonder. Tell us more."

"Once the bogeys appeared, they kept to their old routines," Glaistig continued. "I ensured they would know they had all my attention, but I was told my concern was in vain for they had no intention of causing harm to the doctor."

"Preposterous." Troy scoffed. "They attacked the doctor and the girl."

Glaistig laughed. "Surely you do not mean to say that they lied!"

"There was nothing unintended about the harm they caused, I assure you."

"To the girl. They were under no obligations regarding her, and indeed they never even mentioned her presence. The doctor? They harmed her not."

"You seem very sure."

"I am. In fact, I will tell you that they protected her. The attack on the child must have been a very unlucky consequence of their agitation."

"How did you come to know this? Your sphere of influence runs deep, but not so much so that you can vouch for the actions of other fay."

"You met the redcaps. I saw it in your barely healed skin the last time we spoke. Much like you thought to gather information regarding the doctor's whereabouts from me, so did they and from them I learned this truth." Glaistig leaned forward, grinning like a maniac until her face was only a hand's span away from Troy's. "I learned the bogeys had been charged to guard and protect where the redcaps were meant to find and retrieve."

"The redcaps were a rescue party?" Lily blurted out, her tone a touch hysterical. Both Troy and Glaistig turned to stare at her. "I don't mean to interrupt your conversation. It's all very entertaining and informative, but did you just say that the redcaps were a rescue party? Because it sounded like you did and that's crazy."

Glaistig narrowed her eyes. "Kelpie, do keep your pet human in hand. She is most rude."

"I recall you had an interest in dealing with her before. Her speaking up is the consequence to striking the bargain with her and not me," said Troy. However, his position shifted and his hand came to rest on Lily's shoulder, a chilly warning to hold her tongue. "Perhaps her... emphatic comments are meant to remind you of this fact, Glaistig."

"I would hardly forget my own bargain!"

"Then perhaps you might speak in plainer terms that the one you bargained with might obtain the information you promised her."

Glaistig blinked slowly, contemplating Troy's words, and Lily realized that she hadn't in fact noticed that not a single word she had said made sense for someone with little knowledge of the fay. Her lips parted almost comically and Lily could have sworn she saw the exact moment Glaistig knew how rude she had been herself, and how close to breaking the letter of her bargain.

"It appears that bargaining with the uneducated folk is a double-edged blade," she said with a wry smile. "Very well. Rest assured that it was not my intention to cheat you of the knowledge you have rightfully earned, Doctor's child. In plainer terms, as Kelpie suggests that I speak, this is what I know. The incident that changed the brownies into bogeys and injured the good doctor was a planned strategy to change their alliance. Then, once they counted themselves among the dark ones, they received instructions to guard her and her home. Their strength was not enough and the doctor was taken. The attack upon you must have been the result of their frenzy over failure, I am sure. A trap meant to catch the ones who had robbed them of their charge and not you. When the news of the mishap spread, the redcap pack was sent forth to find where the doctor was and to free her if at all possible. They failed as well, perhaps because their commands regarding you were sloppily given and their nature caused them to lash out instead of to explain. I do not know."

Lily's mind reeled and she was grateful for the fact that Troy's hand still rested in her shoulder, seemingly restraining but in truth offering comfort. With every sentence out of Glaistig's mouth, it had become more difficult to breathe. There were too many implications. She had never entertained the idea that the monsters she had met, those who had tried to kill her, had actually been the good side. The side fighting for her grandmother. What could possibly be the other side?

"Who?" she heard herself ask. "Who attacked her then?"

"Ah. That I cannot tell you for certain, but I do know that there is only one force capable of imposing the change upon the brownies and of commanding redcaps to go against their nature."

"And there is but one adversary worthy for such a force," Troy murmured, somewhere close by Lily's side.

"That is my belief. But why the Queens would go to war, I do not know."

"You're talking over my head again," Lily said, swallowing and trying to focus once more. "Who?"

"The faerie Queens, child," Glaistig said, perplexed. "Surely even one such as you knows of them?"

"The most infamous tales of them speak of Winter and Summer courts," Troy explained. "Air and darkness and cold against earth and light and warmth. It is not an exhaustive explanation of what each court is, but it is accurate enough, I suppose."

"Are you talking Shakespeare? Mab and Titania are real?"

"Hush! Do not speak those names, for while they are not theirs, they fit well enough their mantle that they might hear, and you do not want their gaze turned upon you," Glaistig said.

"They are real."

"They are characters from a play," Glaistig said. "They capture but a fraction of what is real."

"Okay." Lily breathed out. "Okay. So there's winter and summer. That's why you began talking about the weather and such. And winter actually tried to help my grandmother, so you think that summer is involved. Why?"

"I do not know."

Lily wanted to scream. So what help had this whole thing been, then? There were no definite answers. She didn't know why her grandmother had been attacked, she didn't know where she was, and the one certainty she had clung to had been yanked out from under her feet when she had learned that the creatures trying to carve her up and eat her were actually the friendlies.

No, she didn't want to scream. She wanted to cry and hide in a corner until someone, preferably her grandmother, came to tell her that it had all been a nightmare and that pancakes were ready.

Except that she felt too numb to even cry.

Troy stood and brought her to her feet with him.

"A most enlightening conversation, Glaistig. Your part of the bargain is done. Take the stone and be in peace," he said. Something changed hands, but Lily couldn't bring herself to care about it. Then, Troy pulled her gently along the path.

She caught a faint glimmer marking the opening and then they were gone, back in the real world. One foot in front of the other, another opening, humid soothing air against her skin and the walls of numbness began to crumble.

She fell to her knees, somewhere safe.

# Chapter Twenty-One

"What are we going to do now?" Lily asked. She wasn't sobbing, but her hands shook.

Troy came to stand before her and she felt his eyes on her, but refused to look up. She might tear up if she did. Silence stretched on for a long moment and then he knelt in front of her.

"You handled yourself well," he said when he caught her attention.

"Fat lot of good that did me. She's still missing."

"It did. Look at me. A blunder might have ensnared you with more and more favors in exchange for meager portions of information. You did well guarding your words and ensuring there was no room for misrepresentation of hers. You even succeeded to shield part of your distress until we were out of her domain, and if part of your pain bled through, I cannot blame you. You did well, Lily."

The words were a meager comfort, but they did make her feel better. Perhaps because Troy was so sparse with praise and so open about her many shortcomings, but it still sparked a spot of warmth in her. On impulse, she slumped forward and let her head rest against his chest.

He started and his body tensed, quivering like a bow strung too tight against her cheek, but he didn't jerk away. She was grateful. She would have done a pretty amusing face-plant if he had. Instead, he brought his hand to her back, the ghost of a touch that screamed awkward and yet made her choke in emotion.

"I'm not supposed to say thank you," she said, "but can I say I appreciate you doing this?"

She heard his chuckle and felt the tremor of his body at the same time. It was a good sensation, even if there was still tension lacing it.

"I suppose that would be acceptable."

"I do, then. And I'm... Eh. I suppose I _regret_ breaking down. Back then. And now. I haven't really picked myself up yet and I'm making you uncomfortable, aren't I?"

"Slightly."

She sat back on her heels and straightened her spine, rubbing her palms over her eyes to dry the lingering wetness and to hide the high color of embarrassment. Strange, that she was embarrassed but not insulted.

"I'm—no, wait. I didn't mean to."

"I know. Do not fret over it."

"It's just I feel so lost right now. I thought we would know what to do by now. I thought we would be picking Grandma up by now. Instead, we have just been told, what? That this is some issue between people powerful enough to make what I've seen so far look like child's play? There's no way forward. You told me that I plunged on regardless of danger, but at this point I don't even know in which direction to plunge."

Troy shifted from his kneeling position to sit in front of her. He ran a hand through his hair, thoughtful, and Lily noted the way the movement caused small rivulets to run down his neck. It was always wet, his hair, most often than not wet enough to drip, and it didn't matter if he ran his hands through the black locks like he just had or if he shook his head, not even if he was trapped underground with rocks falling all around him and dust swirling in the hot air. It never dried. It was most curious. She wondered if—

"There is one clear direction forward," he said. She blinked, surprised, and found him staring at her with an intensity that made her blush. She hadn't been that obvious while observing him, had she? "But you must be sure that you wish to pursue it before we plan any further," he continued, purposefully ignoring her mortification.

"Of course I want to keep going," she said, almost on autopilot. "I've come this far, haven't I?"

"Listen carefully, Lily. Do try to think with your head before making a choice because what comes next is nothing like what you have faced up to now."

"Nothing at all? Not even a little bit similar?"

"Do not make light of it," he said even as he cracked a small smile. "The courts of faerie are sweeter and more ruthless than you imagine."

"Okay. I won't make fun. Still, fay are fay, aren't they?"

"Yes and not quite. Here, we follow the rules as they please us and have only our tedium and pride to contend with. The courts make game of adhering to strict codes so that they may circumvent them and their battles for position and favor are never ending. There is no prize for winning and only humiliation for those not playing."

"Which means I'll make a fool of myself in five minutes flat."

"Or worse. And time, since you mention it, might be another issue for you to consider. The courts lie much deeper into our side of the world than my territory goes. If the currents of time run different here, then the thrones of the Queens sit on the shore, untouched by such frivolities as hours or years."

"How will it affect me?"

"I do not know, but it will affect you in some way. Your mind is not made to ignore time. Still, I believe we can return before that becomes an issue."

"Where's the issue then?"

"We can return, but I have no way of knowing or guaranteeing to when."

"There's no approximate ratio? Nothing to guide us?"

"No. We may spend a few days in court and return to find a few hours have passed on your side, or a few years."

"My grandmother could be dead by the time we figure out where she is, who took her or why."

"Your _mother_ might be dead if luck does not favor us," he said in quiet tones, driving the point home.

Lily twisted her fingers until her knuckles turned white. She had been ready to face the dangers of traitorous creatures, but time was different. It was inexorable. It didn't give you a fighting chance. Up to now, everything had happened quickly and whatever trail the faeries left, it had caused people in town to avoid noticing her grandmother's house lay empty and the both of them were gone. The relationship between her mother and grandmother was strained, so there wouldn't have been phone calls. Things in Manchester would still be normal. If she chose to continue searching, she might never be able to return to Manchester, to see her mother, her father.

She could turn back now. She knew Troy would keep looking, if only to learn the truth of the matter, and she could go back to her parent's and tell them... Tell them what? That the bogeyman had taken away Mackenna in the dead of the night? She would have to concoct some story. There would be cops and investigations and questions. Lots of questions she had no answer for. And it didn't matter, really, because regardless of what she answered and how many times they looked, the authorities would never solve the case. They wouldn't find her grandmother.

Troy might, but he might also turn from the search once his curiosity over the events was sated. He had never made a secret of the fact that he believed the doctor to be dead or about to die and his motivation, more than saving her, seemed to be understanding what had happened.

So, in fact, she couldn't turn back. Not really. Not if she wanted to be able to look into a mirror and meet her own eyes. She couldn't buy a safe life at such a price.

"Warning noted. Also noted that you didn't really have to give it." She smiled, a tiny little thing that, she hoped, would tell him _thank you_ when her words shouldn't. "I'm still going to try. I need to do it. So, what's this next clear step? I gathered we're going for the courts... Winter?"

"Winter might have been attempting to help the doctor, but I would not take you to them. It is but the name one mortal poet gave them, but it was bestowed because winter is a time of darkness, of culling, of death. In far older times, it was called the Unseelie, which incidentally is the name the Queen prefers. In modern English, it would translate loosely as 'unblessed' and it is a name well earned. We should turn to the Seelie. Heat and fire kill as surely as a blizzard, but I like the chances better."

"I'm not sure it's smart to turn to the bad guys. If the redcaps were the good ones..."

"Do not oversimplify, Lily. We do not know the truth yet. How can you pass judgment on whose side was in the wrong? The answer, most likely, is both."

"Just saying. If winter... the Unseelie court sided with Grandma, won't they assume we did too?"

"Ah, the Unseelie court sided with the doctor, yes, but who did the doctor side with?"

"This is another mumbo-jumbo of word usage and twisted meaning, isn't it? Like, you can choose who you ally yourself with but you can't choose who will ally with yourself?"

"Of course. In short, simple terms, it means that since the doctor is still alive, it is reasonable to assume the Seelie are not quite as sure as you about her being their enemy, so they may consider you a potential asset. Even if they do not, their uses for pretty little mortals include entertainment, pleasure and servitude... They would hardly feed on you."

Lily felt a wave of nausea at his off-hand comment and, given the way his eyes darted to her and widened, she guessed she must have paled quite a bit.

"It's fine," she said. "Really. I just wasn't expecting to hear the possible bad outcomes spelled out in so many words."

"Was my choice of words too crass for the lady?" he said with a teasing smirk.

"To be honest, I think you couldn't be crass if you tried." When she smiled back, she was surprised to feel the gesture natural in spite of the topic.

Troy's smirk turned mischievous and his eyes darkened to the murky green of moss and still waters untouched by the sun. "Oh, I assure you I could," he said.

She blushed. How could she not? In that moment, he wasn't looking at her as if she were a clueless little mortal girl.

Then, his expression shifted into something more open, less dangerous, and the effect was gone as quick as it had come over her.

"There is another reason that inclines me to think you will find help among the Seelie court," he continued as if they had never abandoned the topic. "There was a time when one of the knights courted the doctor, and he might feel honor-bound to assist you now."

Lily opened her mouth and closed it when no words came. An image of her frail-looking, white-haired, wrinkled grandmother being wooed by Legolas was playing over and over in her mind.

"I didn't need to know that," she said, closing her eyes to escape the idea and finding the scene burned in the inside of her eyelids.

"On the contrary, you did. It will be one of the few hands you will be able to play at court and it is important that you prepare to win it."

"Do you know how wrong it is to talk about the romantic interests of your grandmother?"

He gave her a look of genuine innocence. "No?"

"Of course you wouldn't." She sighed, rubbing her eyes to try and clear her thoughts again. "Well, it is. Just so you know for future reference."

"Would it help to know it was sixty-six years ago?"

"No. Yes. I don't know." Another sigh. "If it was that long ago, I don't think he'll even remember."

"Such length of time is nothing for a knight of faerie. He will remember and you must make it so that refusing to assist you is not an option. He did claim to love her, so perhaps you should remind him that a love that fades is no true love at all."

"If he does love her, he should want to help, shouldn't he?"

Troy gave her a rueful smile and stood up. "Lily, whether he loved her or not is not the question. I doubt he still pines after a mortal woman, and even if his love still held firm, there would be great dishonor in admitting to such longing. The game, for that is what it is, is to make it seem like belying an oath of love would be an even greater dishonor, even if such an oath was given in a moment of passion and to a lesser being." He reached out a hand to help Lily up. "Now come. Let us make for the clearing. It is more comfortable there, and in the morrow, we will make for the Seelie court."

Lily didn't take his hand. She stared at him.

"Lesser being?"

"Do not take offense in truth, Lily," he said, not dropping his hand. "Humans live fleeting lives, are blind to the reality around them, fail to remember their past, and cannot even foresee the consequences of striking poor bargains in their future. That there are a few bright, extraordinary individuals does not change the fact."

Finally, Lily closed her fingers over his and allowed him to pull her to her feet. She didn't reply, though, because she found she didn't know what to say. Longevity was a point, she supposed. Immortality had always been a mark of the divine. With that much experience behind them, it was logical they would find it easy to twist words and situations like expert politicians and chess players all wrapped in one sharp, quicksilver mind. To such a mind, a human must seem almost like a child. He was right, she guessed.

Still, when she followed him to the clearing she had come to think of as his home, she did feel less like a child and more like dirt.

# Chapter Twenty-Two

"Wake up." His voice filtered down her subconscious and pulled her free of a dream. Its fleeting images dissolved like sandcastles under siege and she blinked her eyes open.

"If the dirt begins to feel as comfortable as my own bed, what does it say about me?" she mumbled, her voice sticky with sleep.

"That your own bed might be uncomfortable."

"Too early to deal with that." She groaned and sat up, stretching her back and letting the blood flow through her limbs again. "Okay, I'm ready," she said after a moment. "Let's cross over to wherever."

"To the mortal realm, in fact. We shall find an opening there to take us to the Seelie court."

He stood towering over her, one hand outstretched to help her out and her knapsack slung over one shoulder. She clasped his fingers and let him pull her to her feet.

"No direct path?"

"None that I would dare use with you."

"First you say I'm a lesser being and now you're ashamed of walking around with me?" She gave him a smile, and if it was a bit forced, she thought no one would notice. "I could get offended."

Troy's eyes snapped to hers and her expression froze in place. His gaze pinned her, like a butterfly affixed to its exposition case, and she felt just as vulnerable. Her casual words, remnants of the mood she had fallen asleep to, sounded petty in retrospect.

"I—"

He smirked. "You are not quite suited to play that particular game either, Lily. Such tartness in your tone is unbecoming, and the display of insecurity uncalled for."

"Is it?" And the answer mattered all of a sudden.

"Yes, on both accounts. Now, if that is all?"

"Sure, let's go. I'm, uh, I'll try not to react like that again."

He nodded, not adding another word, and led the way down the riverside. They slipped through an invisible opening and found themselves back in the mortal world. A chilly draft had picked up on that side and Lily shivered, wishing for something warmer to wear. When she had prepared her luggage back in Manchester, she hadn't thought about outdoor living, and the weather wore her down with as much enthusiasm as the worry and the lack of sleep did.

But she wouldn't complain. She wouldn't go back. She just trudged on, following in Troy's footsteps as he guided her across the forest. She had no idea of where they were, or what direction they had taken—Troy followed a precise, invisible path that meandered under the canopy and took turns at unpredictable intervals, and all she could do was trust him and follow.

The situation reminded her of that first time, in his haven, desperate to find the way to the riverside. There had been endless walking back then, too. She had also been unable to pinpoint for how long she put one foot in front of the other. Then, she had counted steps to have something solid to grasp in her mind. Now, she just didn't want to know the real distance they traveled.

"You are tired," Troy said, breaking the silence. A bird cawed somewhere, startled by the sudden noise, and the words took a moment to register with Lily.

"Yeah," she said. Her thoughts moved sluggishly in her head, as if they were floating in maple syrup. "Guess I didn't sleep that great."

His hand cupped her shoulder and the pervasive coolness of his skin invaded her. She began to shake as he guided her aside and pressed down to make her sit.

"We will rest for a moment. You may nap if you wish. We will proceed once you feel recovered."

"We don't have time to rest," she said, offering token resistance to his insistent pressure.

Her legs folded without her permission and she sat down, her back propped against a tree trunk. She frowned up at Troy, who knelt in front of her.

"That wasn't you," she said. She didn't ask.

"Forcing you to the floor? No, it was not. I fear it was your own doing." The corner of his lips curled up and his eyes glinted. Lily squinted at him.

"But you find it amusing."

"How could I not?"

She sighed, leaned her head back against the tree, and closed her eyes. "I guess you're right. I must look like a pathetic rescuer at this point."

She heard ruffling and a moment later Troy sat by her side, his shoulder jostling hers as he settled down.

"Sometimes," he said, "the only way to save time is to spend a little time."

"Meaning, I'll be useless if I don't get myself together now."

"Just so. Rest for a moment, Lily."

A shiver ran down her spine when he said her name. For a second, she thought he would command her but he didn't. It didn't matter. Exhaustion wore her down regardless.

When her eyes were almost closed, she heard his voice drifting down.

"To answer your previous jibe," he said, "you will recall I mentioned a few bright, extraordinary individuals."

She didn't reply. But her nap proved to be more restful than the whole of the previous night had been, and when she awoke, she realized her head had slipped to rest on his shoulder.

# Chapter Twenty-Three

"I see a glimmer," Lily said.

"The opening of the path. You are improving at detecting them."

"You sat us to nap at their doorstep?"

"I kept vigil. It appeared to be the best place if we wanted to cross while fresh."

Lily groaned. She wouldn't have been able to fall asleep if she had known where they were—which, she suspected, was the reason he hadn't told her.

"If I'm getting better at seeing them, how come I still can't see the openings to your riverside clearing?"

"I am more skilled at hiding them. Now, come. Let us not tarry more." Toy grinned, a note of pride entering the gesture.

He held out his hand and they crossed over together, the world shifting on its axis and warping around them. An instant of pressure pressed in from all angles, squeezing the air of Lily's lungs.

Then they were gone from one world and stood in another.

Trees tall enough to dwarf a man and remind him of his insignificance surrounded them. It was something Lily had read about, but she had always thought it was a poetic license. Or a description of a tropical forest. Either way, she hadn't expected to see them, to walk below their canopy, to feel such an inconsequential thing in comparison.

Each trunk was as wide as the pillars supporting the high vaults of a cathedral and they grew straight and tall, so tall. She had to crane her neck back to see the lowest branches. The bark was a warm bronze tone in contrast with a grass so green it seemed like they were traversing a forest of gold and emeralds. Sun rays somehow filtered through the thick foliage here and there, dappling the ground in honey, and when she breathed, she caught a scent sweet and vibrant permeating the warm breeze. She thought it was the smell of life, although the idea sounded silly even in her own head.

"This is incredible," she whispered, afraid to speak too loud. It would be rude, like chattering or shouting in a sanctuary back in her side of the world. "It's pure beauty. I don't ever want to forget this place."

"You shall not," Troy said. He had also stopped just after emerging from the path, most likely knowing that she would be arrested by the sights. "The sight of this place will accompany you forever and the true memories you make here will never fade. A gift or a curse from the land, take it as you will."

"I think it's a gift," Lily said, still looking around and drinking their surroundings in. "I guess not very many people get to see this place, and I'm glad I have, and won't forget." Finally, she turned to him, grinning.

He didn't share her wonder. She wouldn't say she was very good at reading him when he wore his blank facade, but still she thought he looked nervous. There was no trace of mischievous smiles, and his eyes, so intense and observant, skittered all over, darting from shadow to shadow to pool of light. The line of his shoulders and back was relaxed, perhaps too relaxed, and the fingers of his right hand drummed an arrhythmic tune on his thigh.

"Is everything okay?"

"As much as can be expected, I suppose," he said, barely sparing her a glance. "I must confess I miss the welcoming party."

"There's going to be a ball?"

"A ball?" At that, Troy did look at her in curiosity. "Why would they go to such trouble?"

"Well, you just said 'the party.'"

"Lily." He sighed. "The party of guards."

She winced. "Oh, that kind of party. Sure. It makes more sense. I don't know what I was thinking."

"I dare say nothing at all beyond appreciating the views."

"You weren't supposed to answer that particular comment," she said, trying to suppress a laugh at his matter-of-fact tone. "But you're right. I'll try to keep more focused through the next discovery."

"We shall see how you fare." His gaze flickered at a spot behind her and she tried very hard not to whirl around. Instead, she turned and schooled her features to mimic Troy's amused, unrevealing expression to the best of her abilities.

Her mask wasn't good to begin with and it shattered into a thousand pieces when she saw what had caught his attention.

There were four of them, so similar they could have been brothers. Each was tall and slender, standing at least a head taller than her meager height, but it wasn't height which made them imposing—it was their exquisite grace, their nimbleness that made them surreal, like wingless angels come to earth. They were all blond, different shades of wheat and gold and sunlight, and their eyes shone sapphire blue and silver gray.

Those jewel-like eyes were fixed on them, all four pairs, and a shiver shook her so badly she had to bite the inside of her cheek to control the knee-jerk impulse of hiding.

It was the party Troy had mentioned, and Lily thought it odd that Seelie fay, who associated with the summer court and displayed the warm tones of the earth so brilliantly, would have eyes as cold as theirs.

One of them took the lead with two gliding steps. His movement made no sound and the forest floor lay undisturbed beneath his soft leather boots. If she hadn't been staring at him, she wouldn't have realized he had moved at all.

"Kelpie," he said. "What a most unexpected visit. If I recall, you claimed to despise life at court. What then is so important to bring you back to us?"

The words themselves were bland but the tone had been measured with jovial notes underneath. It spoke of nothing but pleasant surprise. However, there had been a core of steel twisted around the whole message, sharp as a blade and just as hard. That part spoke of contempt over someone who had to swallow his own words and come begging for help. And there was yet another nuance, some flicker hidden in those cold eyes that conveyed a sense of amusement over someone who was forced to do something unpleasant for them.

They were different from him, just as Troy had claimed. Even different from Glaistig. They were beautiful, so very beautiful, but like snakes and other poisonous animals of her human world, the more gorgeous, the greater the danger.

"Even those who claim not to have the stomach for a feast are bound to appreciate small morsels," Troy said. "How could I not return to visit my gracious friends in their chosen abode from time to time?"

Troy's voice was still his, calm and carrying nothing but honesty, but Lily noticed the change in his speech patterns, in the rhythm of his words. He was playing the game too, and behind his polite words stood two clear insults. He had just told the other faerie he despised court because he couldn't stomach courtiers like him and had also called him out on his poor manners as a host all in one fell swoop.

Lily allowed herself a small smile even though the party leader remained unruffled.

"Would that you visited more often you would not feel the need to find unfitting pets to relieve your solitary tediousness."

Troy's hand cupped the back of Lily's head, his cool fingers digging under her hair and massaging her scalp. A show of possession, like a child warning another not to toy with this particular doll, but also a warning and a sign of support for her. Lily bit her lip, swallowing the words that had nearly escaped her and would have made a mess of the situation, and wondered when he had learned to read her intentions so well.

_And when did I become so able to understand his silent messages?_

The movement drew the leader's eyes to her, made him pay closer attention.

"She is lucid," he said with a blink that might have been surprise.

"She is, and I assure you she fits me well," Troy said in her stead.

The leader's features, still and perfect like a statue up to that point, relaxed enough to offer a hint of a smile, just a tilting upward of the corner of his lips. Something had transpired, but Lily wasn't sure what. She couldn't tell what the last bout had been about or who had won it. She only saw the moment the tiny gesture indicated a break.

"I see," the leader of the fay said. "Come. Allow us to offer hospitality before we are shown to be ungrateful for your visit. I will personally show you to your quarters and ensure you find refreshment after your travels."

He turned on his heel and a tiny pressure from Troy's hand told Lily to follow. The other three fay parted for their leader and then fell into step, flanking their sides and bringing up the rear guard in perfect diamond formation. They wore leather, fine linen and silk, and no weapon was in sight, but still, they were clearly soldiers. Or knights, Lily supposed. Except that she had no idea what sort of chivalry code they would follow and wasn't willing to bet it involved saving damsels in distress for the sheer joy of it.

She took an involuntary step closer to Troy as they were herded along.

At first she hadn't noticed, but now she saw the huge trees didn't grow at random. It wasn't a normal forest, not even in those very basic details, and while she couldn't see the pattern they formed, she could catch glimpses of it here and there. The distances between trunks were arranged just so to encourage you to follow one particular way, creating winding avenues intertwining at some points. They were following one such path and Lily itched with the need to wander off and see where the other paths might lead to. Did each of them lead to a different opening like the one they had come through? Like a labyrinth with the Seelie court at its heart, connected to everywhere in the human world at once.

Then they arrived at their destination. The trees fell away and they found themselves in front of a pure-white cliff with an entrance carved in the side, wide enough for five people to cross it at the same time and of proportionate height.

For some reason, Lily had thought the Seelie court would be an open clearing, easier to flee. When they entered the hall, a spike of fear shot up her spine and she had to force herself to breathe slowly. The construction was monumental, all open space and straight lines and a ceiling soaring high above, illuminated by light warm as the sun. Even when their escort fell behind and the party leader guided them off onto a side passage, the vaulted ceiling was higher than the corridors of a human palace or museum. Still, she had to fight a sense of encroaching claustrophobia.

At last they stopped in front of a heavy oak door set into the stone wall and their guide made a sweeping gesture.

"Your accommodations. I trust they will be to your liking."

"I am sure you would not offer us anything less than acceptable," Troy replied with a small smirk.

"Of course." The other offered a tight-lipped smile and left the same way they had come.

# Chapter Twenty-Four

Troy relaxed almost immediately. The forced calm and nonchalance dissipated and the coiled tension Lily had seen in him after crossing the opening into the faerie court's lands shimmered through as he opened the door with more energy than necessary.

She followed him in and he closed the door behind her.

"How did it go?" she asked in a murmur, as if the walls themselves might have been spying on them.

"As well as could be expected, I suppose," he said, leaning back against the door and closing his eyes. "This room is both a threat and a slight, but it shall work better for our purposes."

Lily looked around them. The room was square, at least twenty paces across, and the floor was covered in thick rugs with leafy motives embroidered in gold and mossy green. One of the walls had a fireplace, and a settee and two chairs were arranged in front of it with a low table, carved of honey-colored wood, in the middle. Against the opposite wall, standing over a raised dais, there was a king-sized, four-poster bed. The posts were of the same wood as the rest of the furniture with only a delicate carving of ivy at eye level as decoration, but there was something very elegant in the simple lines and excellent craftsmanship. The off-white curtains around the bed were pulled back, displaying mounds of fluffy covers and cushions that added soft russet tones to the earthy color scheme.

"A threat and a slight," she repeated dubiously. "It looks fit for kings to me."

"Mortal kings, perhaps," he said, and she could hear the smile in his tone. "It is a guard's room. By placing us here and not in the guests' wing, he is disrespecting our status as such and indicating that we are no better than a simple Seelie squire. On the other hand, we are surrounded by guards and that tells us that he does not trust us, and that the Seelie forces will respond at once to our mischief."

"Our mischief?"

"Should we choose to cause it." Now the smile sounded like a grin. A predatory one.

"I'm starting to wonder whether I should worry about your reputation here. Should I?"

"No. It would be useless now."

Lily plopped down in one of the chairs, wincing on behalf of the upholstery, and looked back at him.

"Now, you say. So I should have asked before coming here."

"That would have been wise. But you can also be assured that I would not have brought you here so agreeably if I knew they would be hostile to me."

"Right. I won't ask details. What's the next step then? Search for Grandma's old flame?"

"The next step involves a bath." He gestured to a corner. Lily hadn't seen it at first, but on the door's wall there was a vanity and tucked in the corner and hiding behind it, a porcelain tub.

She stood up again. "No way. I'm not going to... No."

"Be reasonable. You have slept twice in the wild, faced a cuelebre and hiked great distances without freshening up. It will not help our cause if you appear as a filthy beggar."

"I don't have clean clothes so a bath's not going to solve a thing. And I won't take it."

He arched an eyebrow and crossed over to the vanity. He opened and closed a few drawers and came up with a bundle of cloth. He shook it out and it turned out to be a simple linen robe. It looked like it was made to get out of bed—or out of the tube.

"You may use this for the moment. I am sure it will be easy to procure something adequate for you to wear while we are here. We can give your current garments to the resident brownies to clean before we set out again."

He held it out to her and she blanched. The tube was right there, in the corner but with no privacy whatsoever. She couldn't use it, not with him standing there. The thought of him looking while she—

Her cheeks burned. "No," she said.

Troy studied her for a moment and she did her best to hold his gaze. When she was about to break and run, he moved forward. He tossed the robe over the bed carelessly and kept going, getting closer without taking his eyes off her for a moment.

What was he doing? He couldn't have known what she had been thinking, right? That would be almost as embarrassing as the bath itself.

Then he touched her. His fingers traced her cheeks with a phantom caress and she felt her blood pounding in her ears. His eyes fell to the hollow of her throat where her pulse hammered madly away and his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip. The flash of white caught Lily's attention and she couldn't tear her gaze from his mouth, which was beginning to curve in a delicious half smile. She had to look away, she knew. She had to step away. But when his hand cupped the back of her head, when his fingers tunneled into her hair, she realized she... didn't want to.

It was definitely crazy and probably dangerous, but in the whirlwind of chaos her life had become, he had acted as a steady anchor for her. She felt safe with him, and she trusted him. He had saved her life because of the pendant, perhaps, but he had also answered her questions and given her information and advice he hadn't been obliged to.

She leaned forward without much of a conscious thought.

Something snagged in her hair as Troy pulled his hand free.

A twig.

He spared it a look, twirling it between his long fingers, and then he flicked it aside.

"There are more like it nesting in the gnarls of your hair," he said, his conversational tone at war with the hunger of his expression and body language. "You will take a bath now to solve that problem, Lily Boyd."

She froze. The command was gentle, almost caring as it settled over her soul, but that didn't make it any less relentless. The heat drained from her as her body tried to move past him, toward the tube. She locked her jaw and attempted to turn, to run, to hit. Anything. Her treacherous legs took her to the tub and her hand opened the tap. It began to fill. The initial burst of water splashed her hand and part of her noted it was warm. The rest of her screamed inside.

"Good," Troy said behind her. Farther away than he had been. "I shall leave you to the reasonable thing now. I intend to seek out the doctor's former paramour and to learn what I can of the situation, so be at ease. Bathe, relax, sleep some more if you wish. I shall not return for quite some time." His last words were quiet, followed by the soft click of the door.

It was much, much later when the knock at the door came. It had been long enough for her initial panic attack to subside, for her to get over the fear that someone would burst into the room and enjoy the way the hot water relaxed her aching muscles, for her to wash and disentangle and dry her hair. She even had had time to curl in the bed and read a good chunk of the notebook her grandma had left for her.

"Enter," she called out, arranging the linen robe she had put on to make sure nothing was visible or even insinuated.

Troy came in, a bundle under one arm and a light frown in place. "Are you feeling better?"

She thought about screaming "no" and chucking her notebook at his head. But while she soaked, she had thought she understood why he had done what he had. He had seen what she needed and had given it to her, whether she wanted it or not. It wasn't ideal, but he hadn't been cruel or taken advantage of her, either. He just hadn't thought she would feel so wretched. He hadn't known any better, and she shouldn't forget he wasn't human. She couldn't expect him to have the same moral limits a man would.

"Yes," she said instead.

He nodded. "Then you might be pleased to learn that you shall be attending a faerie ball after all."

She wasn't sure if she should feel thrilled or terrified.

"Is that a good idea?" she asked, settling for curious.

"Of course not." He smiled, coming over and settling the bundle he carried at her feet in the bed. "But it is the only way Cadowain will entertain you, and he will only discuss the doctor with you. Here," he said, opening the cloth package. "I have procured you a dress."

It was beautiful. More than beautiful. When he pulled it out, the fabric flowed over his fingers like water and pooled at his feet with the rustle of the breeze ruffling the newly born leaves in spring. The color shifted through a myriad of blues, all the tones of the open sky from dawn to twilight but also those of the rivers flowing down the mountains full of melted snow and twisting along the glens like silvery mirrors.

"Do you like it?" he asked when she said nothing.

"Yes," she said. "It's very pretty."

He let it fall over the bed. "I shall give you some privacy to dress," he said, turning the way he had just come. "I shall wait outside the door."

"What, now?"

He didn't turn to reply. "Yes. The festivities begin at sundown." And he was gone, and Lily was dumbfounded.

She closed her notebook and stored it back in her knapsack. Then, she took the dress in her own hands and studied it again. She couldn't tell what sort of fabric it was, but she noticed that the changing shades didn't depend on the light. Even while she held it steady at arm's length, it shimmered and shifted, a thousand shades of blue chasing each other in such a subtle way that it was impossible to tell where a tone melted into another or when the dress went from sapphire to cobalt to azure.

She slipped out of the robe and stepped into the dress. She could have sworn that people who wore dresses like this needed maids to don them. Wouldn't that be humiliating? Calling out for help because she was stuck in a dress. However, it turned out the cut was very simple: a laced body, a boat neckline, long sleeves and long skirt. Almost unassuming, and yet it made the whole dress that much more stunning. She struggled to tie the laces, and after some tugging and a couple of attempts, she managed. More or less.

She smoothed the skirt and looked down at herself.

It was not a pretty dress. Not even a beautiful one. It was otherworldly.

"I'm done now," she called out, not taking her eyes off her reflection in the vanity mirror.

There was a click and the reflection of Troy appeared over her shoulder. His eyes scanned her image and met her gaze.

"It appears you have missed a hook in the bodice," he said. "May I?"

"Go ahead. I'm almost surprised I only missed one."

He hummed in reply and focused on her back. There was a tug and a delicate pull, and his hands flitted over her waist and her hips, adjusting the dress. Then he tied it off again, not quite as tight, and she had to admit it was more comfortable.

"You do not need artificial means to accent your figure," he said. "And I was correct."

"About what?"

"The color." He found her eyes in the mirror, offering her a smile. Not a smirk, no mischief. Just a smile. "It does compliment your eyes."

She bit the tip of her tongue before the words "thank you" escaped her and began to arrange her hair. She only had a scrunchy and a few hairpins, so there would be no miracles, but she didn't want to leave it loose and wild. It looked unkempt rather than natural.

"So," she said while trying different looks. "About this Cadowain. What did you learn?"

"He is more infuriating than I remember," said Troy, from the corner. "I rather hoped we could use our stay here in the guards' wing to meet with him and avoid the unpleasantness of a court meeting altogether, but he was quite adamant about refusing to visit our quarters. It appears to be improper."

"I think he knew you wanted to avoid people and is just being difficult. Even if it were improper to visit us here, he could still have agreed to meet us somewhere more private. He wants a rise out of you, that's all."

"You are correct, of course. And I would not begrudge him if he would agree to talk to me, but he insists on your presence." There was a splash and Lily jerked in surprise at the noise.

"What are you doing?" she said in a voice she hoped didn't sound squeaky.

Troy had taken off his shirt. It lay discarded on the floor at his feet. He had claimed her washcloth and, perched on the lip of the tube, was using it for a cat wash.

"Back to wasting questions?" He opened the tap, wet the cloth, and wrung it. Slid it down his neck and shoulder. "And you were doing so magnificently."

"That washcloth is dirty."

"It appears to be the only washcloth available."

"Troy, _please_."

He stood and let the object of contention fall to the floor with a wet flopping noise. "What would you have me do? Sit at the high table in dirty rags?" He stopped close to her, giving Lily a faint sense of déjà vu, and bent his head to look her in the eye. "I need to freshen myself. I need to change, just as you have. I have procured you clothes and given you what privacy I could, but unfortunately, there is not a pitcher of water sitting in the open corridor for me to use now. So I ask you again. What would you have me do?"

"I could go wait in the corridor," she said in a small voice.

"No, Lily, you could not. Just as a hare could not sit to wait in the hounds' den. Remember that while you are here, you are prey." He ran his hand through his hair and turned back toward the tube. "If the sight offends you, wait on the settee and observe the many and varied qualities of the fireplace. I will make haste."

She wasn't sure if she should use the word "offend," but her blood was pounding again and she chose not to argue. She sat where he had indicated, her back to the tube and to him, and studied her laced fingers while she listened to the sloshing of water and the rustling of fabric.

Strange, she thought, that it's taken this for me to realize how attractive a man Troy is. The first time she had seen him, it had been a blur of terror and darkness. Then, he had changed into a horse of all things and she had actually ridden him. Then, she had been knocked out. They had argued. Fought again. Argued again. Fought once more. It had all been a roller coaster of action and, while she wasn't blind, she had thought of him as an ally, a companion. This room changed her perception. Sleeping curled up and leaning against his thigh in the wild was acceptable, but to do so in a bedroom made it different somehow. It was more intimate. And that shift in the way she perceived him had also changed the eyes with which she looked at him.

He was fay. Of course he was gorgeous, in a graceful, chiseled, statuesque sort of way. That's the impression she had gotten when she first studied him back in his clearing, and it ashamed her to admit that it had made him a bit of an object. She had been conscious of him being a man, as evidenced by her embarrassment when he suggested she rode his horse form, but it hadn't truly affected her. Not like it did there. In the room, he was more real, more tangible. Within reach.

Perhaps that was the key. After seeing the fay guards, she had realized that Troy did not possess the beauty of a statue, not at all. His skin might be flawless and his body perfect, but he was alive too. There was curiosity and mischief and anger and softness in his features, but she could not imagine the fay they had met before feeling, much less showing, such emotions.

"If you are ready, we should leave."

His voice sounded at her side and it startled her. When she looked up, she had to smile. They had given him an ensemble very similar to what the guards had been wearing, pants and shirt and doublet that made him look right out of a Shakespearean play, but instead of earthy tones, they had dressed him in solid black. It shouldn't be far enough from his usual colors of slate gray and mossy green to be shocking, but the change to his features was drastic. His cheekbones looked more angular, his lips thinner, the line of his jaw sharper. His skin was alabaster against the sable of cloth and hair and the only flash of color came from eyes that looked twice as green.

"I'm ready. Let's go." She stood and he offered her his elbow.

# Chapter Twenty-Five

Music guided them along deserted corridors. There was laughter interlaced with the notes, high-pitched and giggling, and Lily felt Troy tense more and more with each step.

"Any last-minute advice?" Lily said when they could see open space beyond the arch of their corridor.

"Do endeavor not to appear too out of place."

And then they had crossed the arch and had joined the ball. The music enveloped them and thrummed in Lily's veins like a living thing, and it was all she could do not to join the dancing figures that twirled and twisted around, silk skirts and scarves trailing behind like a kaleidoscope. The dancers were all beautiful, perfect enough to be surreal. They were men and women, if men and women could be untouched by pain and worry and grief, if they didn't know the meaning of time and toil, if their only purpose in life were to be admired and make merry.

"Gaping does make you appear out of place," said Troy in her ear.

Lily clamped her mouth shut and wrenched her eyes from the whirlwind of color and life that devoured the center of the party. She turned her eyes to the edges of the room and noticed her hand had fallen from Troy's elbow without her consent and she had taken a couple of steps ahead of him, wanting to join the revelry.

She kept forgetting how this beauty was meant to mask the dangerous and, when she moved closer to the high, white stone walls that encircled the glen where the ball took place, she remembered stories of humans dancing and dancing until death. After listening to the faerie music, watching their fluid motions and experiencing the longing to be part of the festivities, she could see where the danger came from.

"Okay. I've got it now," she said, ignoring his dubious look. "Where is he?"

Troy pointed discreetly with his chin and she lifted her eyes to find rows of exquisitely carved balconies. Some stood empty, but ethereal figures lounged in others, watching the dancing from afar. One of such figures, a man of white-blond hair and silver robes over silver-blue clothing, was leaning on the railing and staring at them. While Lily looked at him, he pushed back and disappeared into the shadows.

"He saw us. Let us reach the tables in the back and meet him there."

They began to circle around, avoiding the dancers at one side and trying not to shove the onlookers at the other. As they weaved their way, Lily saw that some of the attending fay, particularly those standing on the sidelines, didn't look quite as human-like as her initial observation had led her to believe. Some were too thin, some were much too short, others presented a curious tinge to their skin. Those who were not too engrossed in the dance stared at her with curiosity and she tried to stiffen her back and hold her head high. She couldn't blend in, but she could look like she didn't care.

Just like Troy looked like he didn't mind the hostile looks he received. From the moment they had entered the room, he had transformed like an actor on stage, shedding tension and worry and showing only a half smirk of mild entertainment. He looked like a tourist examining the little quaint traits of a people far beneath him, she realized. How he did it, how he could be so confident when he was surrounded by that many people staring at him was a mystery.

As if feeling her gaze on him, he sidestepped to walk by her side instead of guiding her. "You may relax," he whispered. "This is not one of their main festivals and only the lower ranks of the court are present."

"A mob this big is a pain, never mind the self-proclaimed importance of its members," she said.

Troy laughed openly, drawing even more stares their way. "A mob. Bravo, Lily. That is one fitting name and I for one would enjoy their expression if they heard you bestow it upon them."

"No, you wouldn't. That's the point where pitchforks come out, you know." But she felt the corner of her lips tilting upward anyway. She tried to sober up then because it was not the time nor the place for jesting, much less at the expense of the very people she hoped to ask for information. "So, Troy. Can I ask you something?"

"You will do so regardless of the answer, will you not?" He cut her a sideways glance and smirked.

"I'm not that bad," she grumbled.

"I beg to differ. But do tell me. What troubles you now?"

"Why are they looking at you?"

He stopped, the tables already in sight, and gave her an amused look. "Is that what you truly wish to ask?"

"No." She sighed. "Why does it look like everybody here knows you _and_ dislikes you?"

"I daresay it might be because they do," he said. His eyes were laughing and she thought it wasn't part of the mask of nonchalance he was wearing.

"You love being difficult."

"I do enjoy it." He resumed walking. "You almost played the game correctly this time, too."

"But I didn't almost win."

"No. Not quite. Which makes me wonder how you intend to win the next match," he said, nodding toward the lone figure that sat at a table, waiting for them with an unreadable smile.

Cadowain. Her grandmother's former boyfriend.

Lily took a deep breath. "Well, to be honest, I would settle for a stalemate at this point."

They reached the table and Troy pulled out a chair opposite Cadowain's for her. When she took it, he leaned in and his lips brushed her ear. A shiver ran down her spine and her cheeks flushed, involuntarily providing the perfect farce to hide one last message.

"Never aim for anything less than victory, Lily."

# Chapter Twenty-Six

"So you are Mackenna's grandchild," Cadowain said when they settled down. "How delightful. I can see the similarities, yes. Would you care for something to eat? A drink?"

"She would not," said Troy, speaking over her pangs of hunger. Really, when had it been the last time she had eaten something? How much time had passed—and, more important, how much time did her body believe had passed?

Cadowain made an impatient gesture. "I really wasn't talking to you, Kelpie," he said. "Or is it Troy still? Which are you using these days?"

"Troy fits as well as any other," he said, a muscle in his jaw twitching, belying the fake smile he plastered on. "Just as well as Cadowain does, I imagine."

"But there are hundreds of the sidhe here. It would hardly be practical to call us all the same. On the other hand, there is only the one of you."

Troy leaned back, crossed his arms, and let his eyes fall half closed. He must have been very irked to be so obviously uncaring, Lily thought.

"Use whichever name you prefer, Cadowain. We both know you shall do so in the end."

"So long as it is clear," he said. And he smiled. And Lily gasped.

Cadowain was gorgeous and stood just far enough beyond perfect to become unsettling. His hair shone like moonlight, his features would have made Michelangelo cry, and his skin was just as flawless, pure and white as marble. His clothing, unlike Troy's, had very little practicality and much elegance, and every detail, from the cut to the flowing tones of silver and icy blue to the embroidery was calculated to make him look even better. Regal was the word.

However, when he smiled, he transformed. His golden eyes shone with warm light and his statuesque features burst with life. It was contagious, and like the sun peeking from behind the clouds, it made you long to bask in his radiance.

"Well, then. As we were saying, would you care for something to eat?"

She very much cared for something, anything. She was hungry and the foodstuffs displayed on the other tables around them looked absolutely edible. And besides, it was the polite thing to do, accept what your host offers you. But she did remember that accepting food or drink from faeries was one of the last mistakes people ever made.

"No, I'm fine, thank you," she said, biting her lip as soon as the words were out. Not two sentences into the game and already she was in trouble.

Cadowain's smile widened and he leaned forward. "How positively delightful," he said. "But I am at a disadvantage here, because you know my name when I don't know yours. Tell me, how may I call you? Mackenna's grandchild is too cumbersome, don't you agree?"

"You could shorten it to 'child.'" The memory of her name falling from Troy's lips, sliding against her skin and sinking its hooks in her soul was too recent and far too terrifying for her to say anything closer to the truth, even though he did know her grandmother's real name.

He laughed. "Oh, no. That makes me feel too old. It won't do at all."

"Call her Doctor, then," said Troy, sounding bored. Lily could have kissed him.

"Is she?"

Troy shrugged. "Or close enough to make no matter. One way or the other, the name she will allow you to use is not the reason we are here."

"Hmm. Maybe not _your_ reason. And I have to say, it doesn't fit at all. Mackenna was Doctor... It feels past strange to address any other woman like that," Cadowain said with a small smile. "I will just have to call you My Lady, then. It has a nice ring to it."

"Okay," said Lily. "That works. But Troy was right bringing up the reasons behind our visit. Perhaps we should focus the conversation?"

"Are you in a hurry, My Lady? I could almost think you aren't enjoying your stay."

"You know very well—"

Cadowain lifted a hand. "Kelpie, I did say I would discuss this issue with her, didn't I? If you can't keep your mouth shut, I fear I will develop a headache and retire to my chambers for the evening. And it wouldn't even be an excuse. You have always brought the best migraines out of me."

Troy laughed, and it was sad. "I do have my talents."

"And being silent never was one of them," Cadowain said with a smile. Lily got the distinct impression there was old history between the two of them, and she burned with the need to know what it was.

But first things first.

"My grandma," she said. "Mackenna. She was... abducted recently and I think you might know something about it."

Cadowain leaned back in his chair, his golden eyes huge and surprised. "Are you implying I kidnapped her?"

"No." Lily hid a wince. First, she thanked him and then she offended him. At this rate, she would be lucky if they made it out of the Seelie court alive. "What I meant to say is that we believe—that is to say, I have reason to believe and Troy shares my opinion that the Seelie court might have been involved, and you, as a courtier, could perhaps tell us just how involved it was."

"Ah." He leaned forward again, steeping his fingers and tapping his lips. "So you need help."

"Help" was a watchword with faeries. She had learned that much after dealing with Glaistig and with an angry Troy. She did want help, of course, but it was all in the wording. She thought about it, linking her hands and wringing her fingers until the knuckles went white.

"You did declare your love for Mackenna, didn't you?" she said after a moment of silence. "I thought you might be grateful for the chance to prove your words."

"She did choose another man over me. And it was, what... half a century ago?"

"And here I thought declarations of undying love lasted a lifetime and came without conditions." Her voice didn't tremble... Well, it barely did. It wasn't noticeable, at any rate.

A very slow smile spread across Cadowain's lips and he turned to Troy. "That was your idea, wasn't it? It stinks of your twisted word games."

"Do you not think her intelligent enough to know the true meaning of words on her own?"

"I don't doubt she is intelligent, but someone had to tell her about my proclamations of undying love first."

Troy shrugged, smirking, and Lily bit the inside of her cheek while she looked from one to the other.

"It is hardly as if I were going to refuse to help you, My Lady, or to help you help Mackenna, as the case may be. There wasn't any need for that subterfuge," Cadowain said after holding Troy's gaze for a second.

"Of course you would have been pleased to help," Troy said, the smirk still present in his tone. "For a price."

"Headache, Kelpie," Cadowain said with an annoyed look. "I believe I feel the oncoming stages." Then he turned toward Lily and his features softened, true compassion showing through. "However, and while I am pleased to help you and to do so without any attachment or requirement on your part, I fear your trip might have been in vain."

"What do you mean?"

"My... position at court in the past decades has suffered. It may be the high regard I hold for a mortal such as Mackenna, or it may be that I have grown tired of their petty games, or any number of reasons, but the truth is that our queen doesn't speak to my ears as often as she did. If she had designs on Mackenna, and I am not denying it, she didn't see it fit to confide in me. However," he added, reaching over and curling his fingers over Lily's tense fists, "that I don't have an answer doesn't mean I won't seek one. I will make use of whatever assets are left to me to find out the truth, and I will rely to you all pertinent information."

Lily studied his golden eyes and nodded. Faeries couldn't lie and his promise was honest and accurate enough.

"I understand," she said. "When will this be?"

"I will begin tomorrow." He looked around. "With the revelry tonight, any inquiry would be a waste of time and a way of calling unwanted attention to ourselves. For now we must seem innocent."

"Aren't we?"

Cadowain grinned. "Well, yes. But to us, anyone who doesn't enjoy a party is suspicious regardless of their true intentions." He stood and came around the table, offering her his hand. "Would you do me the honor?"

# Chapter Twenty-Seven

Lily hadn't even thought of saying "no," but as Cadowain led the way to the center of the dance she began to have her doubts. This was clearly a bad idea. This was the sort of thing Troy would have warned her about, and with good reason. She had realized before that the music was dangerous, addictive. Giving in and dancing to the tune, and doing so with someone she didn't know and who might or might not have a hidden agenda, was not wise.

"I can't really dance," she said. Her palm had become sweaty, clasped between his fingers. "I should have said so sooner, and we probably shouldn't attempt this."

"Nonsense. Everybody knows how to dance. You just have to let go and listen to the rhythm. I will lead you." And he did. And, somehow, it worked. After an experimental turn, Lily felt confident enough to stop shaking, which made him relax his grip as well. "See? Not hard at all," he commented with a grin.

Mingling with the colorful bodies and swirling trains of silk wasn't hard. She didn't move with quite the same grace as the fay did, but this fact didn't bother her. She would have thought it would be embarrassing, like going to a school dance and being the odd one out who didn't know the steps or kept stepping in other people's toes, but there was something exhilarating to being part of the festivities, to celebrating whatever it was they celebrated, to just having fun.

In fact, she was so very at ease that it scared her. How long had they been dancing anyway? The music had changed, she believed. It was more lively and less elegant and Cadowain moved them about in a series of jaunty steps that traced lines and angles all over the place instead of gliding in circles. But when had it changed?

She couldn't tell. Her eyes darted around, trying to find the orchestra or Troy or something, but she only found more giggling, glittering bodies that danced and danced furiously all around.

"Dancing with you is a pleasure, My Lady," Cadowain said, jerking her attention back to him.

"Thanks. You lead well." When she replied, she found her breathing quick and shallow and her words muffled gasps.

"I have practice." He gave her a wry smile. "But regardless, we seem to fit each other well. There are some partners impossible to steer, no matter the effort. Born with three left feet I say."

She giggled. It was funny, imagining Cadowain trying to wrestle some stubborn woman into following the graceful steps of the dance and being stepped on constantly for his efforts.

Speaking of the dance, it had changed again. Slower. More regal. She flowed into the new patterns.

"Yes," said Cadowain, studying her through eyes narrowed in thought. "I conclude you are a delightful creature. Which leads me to a question, My Lady."

"Go ahead," she said. He nodded, accepting her encouragement, but it didn't look like he had needed it.

"What sort of threat does Kelpie hold over you?"

His tone had become serious and his words made her stumble, missing the beat. She would have collided with another couple if Cadowain's hold hadn't tightened, holding her steady.

"What?"

He offered her a strained smile. "You may tell me. This crowd around us keeps you safe and he won't know you shared the secret. That is why I asked you to dance, after all."

"There's nothing to tell. He's not threatening me. Why would you think that?" The dance was no longer graceful and entertaining. Now everyone moved too fast and got too close and Lily felt cold sweat breaking down her back.

"Really?" Cadowain cocked an eyebrow. "I find it strange that you come to the Seelie court with a notorious member of the Unseelie court just after they have launched their hostilities."

Lily thought back to the bogeys and the redcaps, to their sharp teeth and their bruising fingers holding her down, to the malice shining in their eyes. Glaistig might have said they had been tasked to keep an eye on her grandmother, but in her mind they were still the monsters that hid in the dark. Troy wasn't like that. He had helped her. He had even held her when she broke down, for crying out loud!

"I—I..."

"You did know he was a kelpie, didn't you? You weren't surprised to hear him addressed as something other than that ridiculous 'Troy' moniker," Cadowain said, eying her like a hawk. "Surely you knew that a kelpie is a creature sworn to the Unseelie queen?"

_What's a kelpie?_

_Something that's scaring you, it seems._

She remembered that first conversation. She had thought him more dangerous then, but shock and familiarity had dulled the edge of that fear. Perhaps her instincts had been right. Troy had said they would visit the Seelie territories because she wouldn't last in the Unseelie court, but he had never told her he was Seelie, not in as many words. He had just failed to mention the topic of his position. Why hadn't she thought to ask? She stared at Cadowain, lost, and saw surprise blooming in his features.

"You didn't know. What do you know about what a kelpie is then?"

She shook her head. Cadowain brought their dance to a halt and the other couples swirled around them, like a river parting before a rock.

"My Lady," he said, "kelpies are well known as the cruelest tricksters among the Unseelie. They will lure you to ride their horse form and their magic will seep in before you know it, tying your skin to their hide so tightly that you might as well be one. Then, they will gallop into the water, and still you will be linked to them."

_Our riders never fall._

The echoes of Troy's words drowned out the music. The memory of his magic weaving around her sluiced over her skin and she felt sick.

"What happens then?"

"You drown, of course. You become a soft, bloated corpse," he said in a low, measured voice. "And then, he eats you."

_Faeries can't possibly lie,_ her grandmother's notebook said.

There was not enough air in the room. Lily felt her knees giving out beneath her.

"No, no, no, no, My Lady." Cadowain held her up, his lithe frame stronger than it led the eye to believe as he began to make their way across the dancing crowd. "You can't possibly faint now. There is much we need to discuss now that I know you aren't in league with them, and while we can count in our dearest Kelpie to avoid the celebration and brood alone at the table, he won't sit there forever."

"Not in league with—Discuss—But—" It took her several tries, but then they were away from the press of bodies, in the opposite corner and slipping through an archway where a cool breeze made her teeth chatter and her scattered thoughts regained some coherence. "What should we discuss? You said you knew nothing about what happened to my grandma. And why would I be in league with anyone?"

"I said the queen hadn't had not shared her plans with me, which she hasn't has not done," Cadowain said. The archway led to a small balcony overlooking the forest of high trees they had crossed to arrive in court and he propped her up against the balustrade. "But I have other means to garner pertinent information, and low as I might have fallen, an event of this import wouldn't go unnoticed. But I couldn't share this with you while I thought you allied with the Unseelie court. Security reasons, you understand."

"No. No, I don't. You're not making any sense."

He looked toward the ball and then back at her. "You do know that Seelie and Unseelie are natural enemies, right?"

"No? I mean, why would you let Troy waltz in if he's so evil?"

"Because we are civilized enemies, of course. Are you or are you not a doctor?"

"A doctor in training," she conceded.

"I see. For how long?"

"I don't know. Time is tricky with you fay. Four days? A week?"

"Oh dear." His face fell. "Look, we don't have much time, so you must listen carefully. Seelie and Unseelie are enemies, but they are also bound by balance, yes? Not a side would dare to strike the other because the power balance will eventually shift and those you offended will be in a position to strike back. Easy to understand, yes?"

"Yeah. I don't see how I fit into your story, though."

Cadowain stole another glance back and then gave her an irritated glare. "I am trying to explain that part. Now, try to imagine what would happen if one of the sides found a way to tilt the balance permanently in their favor."

"Is there any way to do that?"

"It appears the Unseelie court has found it. There exists a... third power of sorts, if you will. An unstoppable force that exists both in fey lands and in the human realm, independent of both light and darkness. The Unseelie court believes if they can harness this power and use it to wage war on us, this action would permanently shift the balance and leave them ever dominant."

"The consequences to that would be—"

"Dire, yes. Of course. And there lies the importance of Mackenna because we believe her to be the key to this third power."

"What? For being a faerie doctor?"

"No, for knowing—"

"A most curious place to dance," said Troy.

Cadowain bit his words mid-sentence and stiffened. Troy stood behind him, leaning a shoulder against the archway, and while his body language was calculated to present a lazy, calm facade, his eyes glinted like cut emeralds.

"My Lady needed fresh air," he replied.

"I do not doubt that." Troy gazed between them and, when his eyes found Lily, she remembered Cadowain's words. _He eats you._ "The question is why she required it."

"Well, it seems she is underfed, and lack of food, coupled with my dashing company—"

"Are you one of them?" Lily spoke over Cadowain. Breathing had become a hard task again and her attention focused on Troy. The dance and their surroundings fell away, and she ignored the little voice in the back of her head screaming that losing control like that was too dangerous.

"Them?" Troy arched an eyebrow, the perfect picture of mild curiosity.

"Winter. The Unseelie court. The beasts who tried to eat me."

"Yes."

Just like that. Just a word, plain and simple, enunciated with care in that curious, clipped accent of his. Not even a hint of unease in his features upon being exposed.

The world dropped below Lily's feet.

"Why?" The question tore out of her insides and sounded more like a sob than she intended it to. She tried again. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you knew," he said. Surprise began to crack his calm exterior and Lily thought there was a flash of perplexity in his eyes.

"No, I never knew! I told you I didn't know what a kelpie was, remember? I knew nothing of what you are!"

"You needed not have known beforehand. The redcap speaker told you in as many words. He said he and I both served the same powers, did he not?"

The memory had slunk in the darker parts of her mind with all the other things she couldn't cope with that got shoved under a metaphorical rug so that she could keep functioning. That whole night had been experienced, the details pertaining to her grandmother extracted, and the rest had been stored and forgotten. Killing redcaps with her bare hands, watching them burn of iron poisoning, escaping death, having the skinned hand of a monster touch her while she drowned in the noxious vapors it breathed... it was all surrounded by a haze, but Troy's words pierced it.

The redcap had, in fact, told them that exact thing. Right before he made an offer for her custody, right before Troy refused and all hell broke loose.

She had known she had been traveling with one of them all along.

"I didn't take note of that. I was half in shock and you were negotiating over me, how could you expect me to realize it?" And now, shock was fighting with anger, and both emotions were losing in the face of fear and a yawning abyss of dismay.

"You are, in fact, expected to realize it and more so when the situation is dire and you know nothing. It is at such times that you must pay the most attention. Even if you had not, and even if this behavior could be excused due to your mental state at the moment, I fail to see how you can place the blame upon me when you did not think to raise a single question." Troy's anger rose to meet her recriminations, and she saw in him the cold eyes and menacing lines she had glimpsed during their first conversation, when she feared to be hit. She had all but forgotten about that moment, that feeling.

"Well, now, entertaining as this exchange may be—"

"Does your kind eat people?" she asked, once more speaking over Cadowain. She had barely heard his attempt at ending the confrontation. Right then, Cadowain formed part of the outside world, and where she stood, only she and Troy existed.

A muscle jumped in Troy's jaw. "What relevance does it have?"

"Do _you_ eat people?" She insisted, fear and hope and disgust knotting together in her stomach and spiraling out of control.

"Yes."

The world began to spin. Lily ran.

# Chapter Twenty-Eight

Music still played when Lily burst in the dancing floor, but it reached her through layers of distortion, as if she heard it through murky water. The dancers weren't graceful but desperate in their twirling, moving with an urgency that stank of fear over the merry-making. She didn't feel the need to join them as she shoved her way through.

Someone jostled her. She thought someone grabbed for her. There was color and faeries and swirling cloth, and she couldn't be sure of the direction she was running anymore. She gathered her skirts and ran anyway.

She'd reach a wall. She'd see the tables or the musicians. She'd escape the dance floor and find—

There it was. An opening in the white walls, a passageway into the palace proper. She rushed to it.

She hit the corridor and bowled over a creature that came through at that instant. White beard, three feet high, looking like a garden gnome with a blue cap. Lily screamed, pushed him away and ran faster. Her path took a twist and became much darker without the light spilling in from the ball, but there were faint glowing globes interspersed, almost like magical torches, and it was enough to see by.

It was enough to see that this hadn't been the route she had followed to arrive at the ball.

Footsteps echoed behind her and she didn't stop.

She recalled the room had been isolated, so she took a small corridor as soon as she saw it. She could go back there, barricade herself in. It'd let her flee the insistent cries behind her.

Her name reverberated along the smooth stone.

She tried to go faster. She tried to lose him. He was the monster hidden under the bed.

She took more turns. She couldn't tell when, or which ones; they just felt right, and she kept running down endless, empty corridors. Fleeing kept her from breaking down and sobbing, and that was good.

_Wasn't it?_

She heard a curse behind her. There was no longer a hint of music, only her breathing, her feet slapping the floor, and the footsteps behind her. One set? Two sets?

Her corridor ended in a door ahead of her, a plain thing of flimsy wood. She launched herself at it. It gave.

"Lily! Wait!" Troy's voice. Getting closer.

"Come back, My Lady!" Cadowain was with him. So there were some things they would still team up for, it seemed.

She staggered forward, struggling to regain her lost momentum.

"Lily Boyd, stop!" The command hit her like a whiplash and sunk hooks full of bitter poison into her soul. Her back arched taut, all her muscles tensing for one endless moment that didn't allow her to breathe, and she collapsed in relaxation's wake.

She tried to crawl forward, but she couldn't move. Her treacherous body had stopped like a wound-down clockwork doll.

Then, she felt Troy's hands on her shoulders, sliding down to her upper arms, twisting her around to make her look at him. She gave him the most defiant glare she could muster and couldn't protest when he pulled her up with him.

"You fool," he whispered, low enough for her to hear. His mouth was pressed in a hard, angry line and his eyes twinkled in the dark. Droplets of cold water fell in Lily's face and a tiny rivulet ran down her bodice.

There was a swooshing sound. Cadowain had closed the door again.

"You know her name," he said in the silence that followed. Lily caught a note of wonder in his tone.

Troy's fingers tightened their grip on her, but he didn't reply. Lily tried to work her lips so she could speak.

"Now you do, too." Her words came out rasping and mangled, but they brought a laugh out of Cadowain.

"But I don't own it. It wasn't freely given to me, you see."

"Going to stop you from using it?" She still couldn't move, but talking was a bit easier. Breathing was a bit easier, too.

"In fact, yes. I couldn't use it, you see? That would be stealing. And that would be wrong."

The idea of morals struck Lily as very funny indeed, and she laughed quietly while Troy picked her up and carried her back to the room they had been given. Cadowain followed them for all his initial reluctance to approach them in their quarters.

"Shouldn't you allow her to move now?" he asked Troy somewhere along the way.

"She can." She heard his voice and felt it through his chest. She tried flexing her fingers and found she could. She didn't want to. It was easier not to fall to pieces when she was in that brutal vacuum brought on by his commands.

"But the order you gave—"

"Worn off already," Troy interrupted. "She only needs rest now."

"Oh. Well, forgive me for being surprised at her meekness in your arms after she made us run across the whole court chasing her while she fled you."

"You are not forgiven."

Cadowain chuckled, a dry and mirthless sound. "Forgiveness was never in your nature."

They walked a bit more in silence. Lily began to relax with the gentle rocking of Troy's steps. Then, he said, "What game did you play with her?"

"Me? It wasn't me she was scared of, let me remind you."

"She did not heed your calls, either. Forgive me for knowing how much you enjoy your games and how often they leave broken mortals in their wake."

"Not forgiven. Absolutely not forgiven." Cadowain spoke in a heated voice at odds with his previous easy manner. "I would never jeopardize Mackenna's blood."

"So you say."

"Do you claim me a liar? I have many talents, Kelpie, but I am still fay."

"And you are still a courtier." Troy cradled Lily closer to his chest for a moment, used his freed hand to open a door.

Their room. The fire cackled in the fireplace. Someone had been by, had cleaned the bathtub. Her mortal clothes were folded over the vanity, clean. The bed's covers had been thrown back.

Troy deposited her in the bed. He didn't take off her dress, and he didn't have to take off her slippers. She must have lost them during her mad dash away from the dance. He did tuck her in, and Lily watched with detachment.

"Try to rest, Lily," he said. "I shall try to procure you some food for when you wake. Surely rest and a full stomach will let you appreciate the situation as it is."

"Are you leaving her alone?" Cadowain asked, doubtful.

Troy gave her a long look and sighed. "Yes. She needs space."

"I am not sure—"

"Come, Cadowain." Troy moved toward the door, not looking back. "I recall you did not want to be seen visiting us in the guard's chambers."

"Well, yes. But that was before I worried."

"Let her cope."

Cadowain lingered a bit longer at her bedside, his beautiful, fair eyes darkened with concern. Lily managed to conjure a small smile that more resembled a grimace, and a nod, and then he left as well.

# Chapter Twenty-Nine

Lily woke with a startled gasp. She hadn't realized she had fallen asleep and she couldn't tell what had roused her.

"Down here, My Lady!"

She sat up straight, pulling the covers up as a shield even though the voice had been high-pitched and squealing like a child's. Her eyes darted around the room. Had she dreamed it?

"Down here, I say!"

There was a little sprite. Lily watched as she grabbed a fistful of bedding and began to climb onto the bed.

"Tinkerbell," she whispered.

The little woman tutted. "What a silly name to give. It does not fit, not at all."

It did to Lily. The sprite was about a foot tall with red hair and a little dress in fiery oranges, and she had gossamer wings that hung down her back like a cloak. Peter Pan's friend might have been blond and preferred green, but other than that, the similarities were astonishing.

"Okay. So what do I call you, and why are you here? Better yet, how did you get here?"

"You are unseemly rude," said the sprite, tiny fists propped in her hips. "All questions, not a gracious word. Good thing I was warned this could happen."

Lily bit back an apology. "Gracious guests don't wake up their sleeping hosts either," she said instead.

The wings stirred to life with a low humming and then the sprite gave her a wide smile. "At least it has spine, this mortal! Very well, you may call me One."

"Hi, One. Nice to meet you." She wiggled in the bed, trying to look decent. Her beautiful blue dress was wrinkled and the neckline had twisted out of place. It had become uncomfortable.

"Greetings. I would not say nice, but meeting you is interesting." One shook herself and her wings hummed again. "Right. Now that formalities are out of the way, I may give you my message. Cadowain asked me to ask you if he could ask you for a meeting."

Lily's head swam. "That's lots of asking in just one sentence," she grumbled.

"Look, it is not hard," huffed One. "Will you talk to him, yes or no?"

"Yes," she said, kicking the covers back and standing up. "Oh, yes. We have to talk."

"Hush!" One used her wings to keep her balance and then rushed to Lily, grabbing onto her hand and half-hanging there. "You must be quiet! This is a secret meeting!" The little faerie cackled.

It did sound a touch unhinged, but Lily chose to listen to her anyway. She sat back down and lowered her voice. "Why is it so secret? And why didn't he come himself?"

"He did not come because there is a dark fay sitting by your door," One said in a "duh" tone. "And I do not know why it is so secret. If he had told me, where would the secret go?"

"Right. You're just a messenger here. Did he tell you how we were going to meet if Troy's standing guard?"

"He is by the door! We must only go to the window!" One pointed and giggled. "That is how I came in, by the way."

The window was open. The curtains flapped a little in the breeze. Lily walked over, One clinging to the sleeve of her dress, and took a deep breath before peeking out.

Her room was in the lower level, so the ground was perhaps twelve or fifteen feet below her. There was open, grassy space and then, several yards away, the huge trees rose to the sky in their peculiar forest.

"There!" One pointed at a shadow, deeper than the ones pooling around it, and then Lily caught a glimpse of silver clothing. Cadowain.

He stepped out, until he stood directly below the window, and One dropped down and perched on his shoulder. They exchanged nods and the little sprite flew toward the trees, her gossamer wings whirring like a bee swarm. Cadowain stared after her for a moment and then looked up.

"Are you feeling well, My Lady?" he asked.

Lily took a moment to think of the appropriate answer. She felt calmer, she supposed. Still far from well. She shook her head and he frowned.

"If I could help you deal with the shock you must be feeling, I would." He sounded sincere. His eyes never wavered from hers. Faeries couldn't lie.

Lily wrapped her arms about her middle. "You were telling me about this instrument of unbalance and what it has to do with my grandmother," she said, not acknowledging his comment.

Cadowain shifted. Had he just camouflaged a wince?

"Well, yes. We were talking about it before we were so rudely interrupted, weren't we? But in truth, I came to see how you fared. It didn't sit well with me, leaving you alone and upset like that."

"I'm better. I did need the quiet to calm down, I suppose. And I needed to rest. Now let's finish our conversation."

"Ah. Of course. Well." His eyes abandoned her face for the first time and he had to drag them back. "The Unseelie court believes they have found a way to unbalance our world. Everybody believes Mackenna knows where to find the key. End of the story."

"Like hell," Lily almost growled.

"Hush! You will attract attention—"

"You promised to help, so you're going to tell me the details. I don't believe for a second that's all you know."

"In technical terms, I promised to deliver all pertinent information and—"

"I can't believe you! This is pertinent. You were going to tell me before!"

"Before I learned that Kelpie has complete command over you," he hissed, pressing his palms against the wall and craning his neck even farther back. "You have all pertinent information, My Lady. I am holding back, yes, but only the details, and I am doing so because I am bound by far older oaths."

"What do you mean?"

"I cannot betray my court, my lady. If I tell you all I know, Kelpie could learn it with but a simple question. Your intentions might be noble, but you couldn't deny him the truth."

She was kneeling in front of the window, though she wasn't conscious of moving. Her cheeks were wet, but she didn't know when she had begun crying.

"Please," she said, understanding the full implications of the word and using it nevertheless. "Please, there must be something else you can tell me. Something that is safe to tell me."

"Don't cry, My Lady." Cadowain's voice sounded pained below her. He sighed. "The neutral force I mentioned is known as the Wild Hunt. Are you familiar with them?"

Lily shook her head. Then, she realized he couldn't see her from his angle and whispered, "No."

"Long, long ago, the King of the Fay graced the King of Men with an offer of friendship. The offer was accepted, and the fey king visited the human one when a prince was born. During his visit, he was greatly offended and even threatened by the human king's courtiers, but he bore the insults with nobility and said nothing. Then, when the time came for the human king to visit the fey, our sovereign gave him the chance to make amends. Still he chose to insult his host. Not wanting to be unfair, the fey king then gifted the human with a hound, who would guide them back to the mortal world if they were worthy of soul. After a sniff, the hound caught the scent of the human king's wickedness and led them on a never-ending path across the forests that populate the frontier between our worlds. The human king and his retinue have spent mortal centuries in those lands, and the lands have changed them to better reflect who they are. That is how the Wild Hunt came to ride: a host of twisted mortals who achieved immortality, feeding their life-forces with that of their prey. Prey that can never escape."

"Is that a legend or is it true?" asked Lily. Her tears had dried as she got sucked into the story. Cadowain had a talent for storytelling, that was undeniable.

"It is the story as our bards tell it," he said. "I don't know how much embellishment is there, but I know there is a host of creatures, neither mortal nor fey, who inhabit the edge between the worlds, and that they always succeed in bringing their prey down. The name of Wild Hunt seems to fit them well enough."

"So, the Unseelie court has found a way to somehow control this Wild Hunt? To sic them on whoever they choose?"

"Yes."

"How?"

Silence. Lily straightened up and dared to peer down. Cadowain wasn't looking at her now. His regal figure was hunched as if in pain and his eyes were fixed upon the ground.

"The human king's hunting horn," he said, his words muffled by heavy breathing. "It was a gift from our sovereign and can be used to summon the host and to command them to ride out."

"Is that the information everyone wants?"

Cadowain shook his head in a jerky movement. "Everybody knows that much. Mackenna, she knows where the horn is."

"What?"

"I—I can't." He shuddered and leaned against the white wall for support. Lily had to lean forward to keep him in sight, and she caught a glimpse of his ashen face, covered in sweat. "The oath binding me to my court is not a gentle one."

Lily bit her lip. She knew how it felt like to try to resist a command, and she didn't feel great about Cadowain pushing himself like that to answer her questions. Still. She remembered the flying iron coin, almost hitting Troy instead of the redcap. It was all about loopholes, wasn't it?

"The reason you can't tell me," she began, "is because Troy could get the answer from me, right?"

"Yes. If I told you where we believe the horn to be, he could command you to get it for him. If I told you where Mackenna is, he could use his command over you to force her to give it to him. In both cases, my court would be in dire danger."

The air rushed out of Lily's lungs and she felt dizzy. "You know where my grandmother is."

Cadowain nodded. "In Seelie custody."

So close. Lily was so close to putting an end to the nightmare. She racked her brain for a way.

"How did she get involved in the first place?" she asked.

"The Wild Hunt accosts the realm of men as often as ours, if not more. We believed that taking the horn away would put a stop to their gory outings. Mackenna was chosen to hide it somewhere no fay could ever take it, and it was one of the few decisions ever made in unison by both courts. Now, it seems it was a ploy."

"If you weren't meant to ever find it, how come you know where it is?"

Cadowain opened his mouth, closed it again with a grimace. He shook his head.

"Okay. There must be a way around this." Lily's heart pounded in her chest and her blood became a thrumming roar in her ears. An idea was taking form in her mind, but it was risky. Very risky. "What if... What if we took the horn out of the equation?"

"You can't destroy it, My Lady."

"No, but we could put it back where it belonged. It wouldn't be vulnerable, right? There wouldn't be a reason to seek out Mackenna in that case, and you could tell me where she is."

"The idea has some merit," Cadowain murmured. "But it would bring us to the status quo as it was, with the Wild Hunt free to roam. And they would be furious for the attempt to restrain them. The price could be dear, and it would be paid in blood."

Lily hadn't thought of that and it horrified her. It horrified her that she didn't care much as long as the blood wasn't her grandma's. Or hers.

"A trick, then," she said. "We will hide the horn somewhere else. If the Unseelie think my grandma no longer knows where it is, they have no reason to pursue her."

"Unless Kelpie asked whether you knew the horn's whereabouts."

Lily grinned. "No. I will say no, and it'll be the truth."

"What do you mean?"

"We must hurry, but it could work! Listen, I'll give you my word not to tell Troy and you'll tell me where the horn is. I'll fetch it... you'll hold on to it. Then I'll go to my grandma, and she'll be free because there's no more reason to keep her secured. Then, we'll ask her to hide it again, someplace else. The Unseelie won't act because they'll believe the horn is in Seelie hands, the Wild Hunt will be contained, the balance will remain, and grandma and I can go our own way."

There was a moment of weary silence.

"That could work, I suppose," said Cadowain at last. "The risk involved would be extreme if anybody found out I have the horn while I do have it, and there is a slim chance the Unseelie court would still lash out at Mackenna out of frustration, but..."

"Let's do it then."

"You do understand you would have to go alone, right? That you might run into more members of the Unseelie court and I cannot go with you if we hope to keep the plan a secret, that—"

"I promise you I'll retrieve the horn and won't let Troy know about it in exchange for you telling me where it is."

"Oh." Cadowain sighed, and his voice sounded worried. "You have a bargain, I suppose."

"Wait a minute."

Lily rushed toward the vanity, fighting the laces of the dress bodice on the way. She tore it off her back and wrestled her cleaned mortal clothes on as fast as she could. Then, she laced her sneakers tight, threw her grandma's notebook into her knapsack and slung it over her shoulders.

"I'm coming down," she called to a surprised Cadowain.

"Now?"

"Yes. Troy's giving me room and letting me sleep now, so it's our best chance."

"Maybe you do need the sleep, My Lady," said Cadowain.

Lily was already dangling her legs out of the window, her arms clutching the sill to lower herself as much as possible before letting go.

"Or maybe not," he added with a wry tone. "Come, I will catch you."

Lily let go.

More than catching her, Cadowain managed to break her fall. He was tall and lean, but not as strong as Troy and they both tumbled a little with her forceful landing.

"I'm ready. Where do I go?"

"No fay may take the horn because Mackenna hid it in hallowed ground," he said. "We can't enter, but you, a mortal, shouldn't have any issue."

"Hallowed ground? Like, a church?"

He nodded. "Or its grounds. In her own hometown, we believe."

"So I just have to find the way we came in through and then what? Cross again to give you the horn?"

"No, if the horn enters Seelie territory, the queen will know and she will order me to surrender it. I shall meet you near the opening you already know, in the forest humans call Glenbuchat. And since you were right about time being of the essence, you will follow a different way to Aboyne now. I can't guide you, but nobody will miss One." He pointed to the tree line and there, floating half-hidden behind a trunk, was the little sprite. "Not for a bit, anyway. She will take you through a shortcut and return before her absence is noticed. You will be alone for the recovery of the horn, and until we meet again for the exchange. Be most careful, My Lady." He gave her a rueful smile. "Mackenna would never forgive me if you were harmed by a harebrained plan I consented to, and I would be most sorry to see you hurt as well."

"I'll be fine." Lily answered his smile with a brave grin of her own and dashed off toward One. They had only a bit of time before Troy noticed her absence at dawn, and she wanted to be done with her part of the bargain by then.

# Chapter Thirty

Taking One's shortcut wasn't a pleasant ride. When they burst through the opening and into the mortal land, Lily doubled over and fought back the need to retch.

"Oh, but I am good!" said One, not paying her any mind. "Look! I brought us right to the gate!"

Lily managed to straighten and look around her. She stood in the Green, where every summer the Highland games took place, and just in front of her loomed the iron gates to the parish church. It was an old temple, built sometime in the nineteenth century over the ruins of Aboyne's original church, and it was all hard lines and massive planes. It didn't look inviting like other buildings from the same period would, but foreboding.

The low stone wall circling the grounds and enclosing hundreds of crooked headstones and moss-covered crosses didn't help.

"How can I enter?" she asked One.

The sprite shrugged. "Through the door?"

"It's the dead of night. The door will be locked."

"Well, how do you expect me to know how to get someplace I cannot even get close to? It is your task now, not mine." One's wings whirred and she shot up.

"Wait!" She didn't, and Lily was left staring at a pitch-black sky, surrounded by twisted silhouettes of trees and centuries-old dead.

Her brilliant idea didn't seem quite so brilliant anymore and the hairs in the back of her neck stood up. She had visited this place during the day, of course, back when she was a kid. It was very centric and you were never alone. Now, in the darkness, she was alone and she wished she'd feel that way. The eerie sensation of being observed nagged at her and made her knees wobbly.

Hoping against all hope, she tried the front door of the church. It didn't budge, of course. She dried her palms against her jeans.

_Okay. Let's try the back door. It's on the other side of the wall, so perhaps they don't lock it._

She began to circle the outer wall of the cemetery. Her steps took her away from the open Green and under the trees, and the discomfort increased. Lamplight was nonexistent this far from the streets and the moon couldn't make it beyond the canopy, sparse as it was. She stumbled over rather than saw a rock by the wall, dislodged from the oldest part of it.

_That's it. I'm not looking further._

The climb wasn't too hard, only five feet or so of eroded stones that offered plenty of ridges to act as hand and footholds, and still Lily stumbled.

She dropped on the other side and overgrown ivy tangled her feet. She caught herself on a granite Celtic cross that stood sunken in the vegetation. It had an inscription, but it was too eroded to read.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to whoever had been buried there.

She had known she would feel fear, but she hadn't anticipated the wrongness that came with breaking into a church in the dead of the night, falling on top of ancient graves and disturbing the sleep of the dearly departed. They had departed, they couldn't care anymore. And she might be sneaking in, but she didn't have unholy intentions in mind, and surely God would understand her reasons.

Still.

She hurried along, picking her path to avoid the graves as best she could, and reached another door into the church. Locked as well, and she was not going to break a stained glass to enter. There she drew the line.

Options. There had to be more.

The minister's office. It wouldn't take her to the church proper, but it was connected.

She walked around the building as fast as she could, reached the side eave, and saw the much smaller door she was looking for. A quick trial showed that it, too, was locked. The Aboyne community didn't take risks with their parish, it seemed. But there was a window, not of stained glass but something more modern. Lily stood on her tiptoes and heaved. It was closed, but they hadn't thrown the safety lock and it gave.

When she dropped down on the other side this time, she didn't fall on anything. The minister's office was draped in shadows, but the dark hulks suggesting furniture were few and far between. Office table, narrow locker-style cabinet, couple of chairs... there couldn't be much more.

Which was good. If she had to go through the minister's belongings to find a magical horn of faerie make, she'd feel much more like a burglar and less like a rescuer.

The door connecting the office to the church was open and Lily slipped through. Her sneakers squeaked against the polished floor and the sound echoed in the empty space. Moonlight filtered through the stained glass and lit up the place in a colorless glow that would make the search, if not easier, at least less impossible. The pulpit stood like a lone sentinel in front of a sea of upholstered chairs, more prominent even than the simple altar at its side. High galleries adorned three of the four walls, each supported by marble columns and each with their wrought iron stairs to reach the upper seats. Other than that, it was empty.

Where would Mackenna hide the horn? Not in plain sight because that would risk someone relocating it to an unsafe location. So it wouldn't be where people would stumble upon it by accident either. Most ancient churches of the Midlands would offer a hundred nooks to store a small object out of sight, but the interior of Aboyne's parish church was almost aseptic. Perhaps it was because it had to be restored and could no longer be considered ancient.

Lily shook herself. By standing there and thinking architecture, she'd solve nothing.

First the galleries. The steps going up and down. The banners hung upon the walls. The underside of the seats of every chair. The underside of every seat in the main eave. The back of the portrait. The pulpit. The altar. The organ. She couldn't see very well, but she felt her way through it all, looking for a hollow sound, a raised border, a shape out of the ordinary.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

She should have brought a flashlight. She should have thought to pick one up and throw it in the knapsack. Granted, it might have called a neighbor's attention, but this groping and fumbling in the dark couldn't be much better.

The dark wouldn't last forever, either. Lily could almost feel the first hints of predawn creeping up on her. Soon, the graves outside would be covered in morning's dew and the sky would go gray and she'd be out of time.

She might be out of time already, taking into account the way its passage didn't have an exact correlation between mortal and faerie worlds.

She felt like a rendition of Alice's White Rabbit. Late, late; rushing around in circles and managing nothing. There was not a hint of the horn in the church. And really, when she stopped to think about it, it made sense. Mackenna was a very proper woman—except for the odd bits concerning faerie lore, of course. Still, even those bits had made her more polite, gentle, and self-aware than average. You didn't overstep your boundaries when dealing with faeries, and so Mackenna had never overstepped hers when dealing with normal people, either. Imagining her breaking into a church and hiding something there, like a pirate's cache, was just wrong. The church might be for the whole congregation, but it didn't belong to any one member and she wouldn't have been comfortable putting something of hers in a public place, no matter how faerie-proof it was.

But if Cadowain had been wrong and the horn wasn't here, then where was it?

_Hallowed ground._

_Of course. Of course!_

Mackenna didn't own the building, but she did own a plot of its hallowed grounds, didn't she?

Lily ran back to the minister's office. She put one of the chairs below the window and used it to climb out with less struggling. Perhaps the next morning they would notice someone had broken in and hadn't touched a thing, and perhaps by night she'd be laughing at their confused looks with her grandma while they scratched their heads and tried to understand. It didn't matter.

She hit the outside floor with a thud that left her breathless for a moment, and she used it to get her bearings. It was one place she hadn't been to since she was little, but the impression of the cemetery in her child's mind was quite drastic and she recalled to the last detail the visits she and Mackenna had paid to that place every Friday afternoon. Her feet took her there by memory, not stumbling or hesitating once and slowing only when in front of the correct Celtic granite cross.

It looked much like the one she had fallen on top of before, but it wasn't as old. Ivy and overgrowth had been kept in check with a firm hand and weeds hadn't dared to invade the tomb yet. The carved name was smoothed by the elements but still starkly visible. It said "Cormag Kirk. More beloved than forever."

Her grandfather's grave.

She knelt in front of it and ran her fingers over the corners where they sunk into the ground.

There! Upturned soil, the vegetation pushing up again but not quite equal to the older grass. The dirt packed, yes, but not settled.

She began to dig with her bare fingers, her blunt nails cracking and the scratches in her knuckles reopening. She cleared one inch, then another, and then she touched something rough. A burlap bundle, stained as brown as the earth itself.

It resisted, but with a harsh tug, she pulled it free and shook the dirt out. It was very light, about a foot long, and Lily parted the cloth with trembling fingers and baited breath.

And there it was, bone and bronze and mother of pearl and gold.

The horn of the Wild Hunt.

# Chapter Thirty-One

A spear of freezing cold hit Lily's chest the moment her feet thudded on the other side of the cemetery wall. Icy fingers squeezed her lungs and she gasped for breath, her free hand reaching up to the burning spot.

It was her pendant. Her fingers slipped below the chain and pulled it away from her skin, trying to escape the sensation, and a droplet of cool water slid down her knuckles and wrist. She held it up to eye level, and before her eyes, the remaining silver rose bloom wilted and wept.

Her hand shook. The wilted flower settled into the new shape, the water dried upon her skin and the preternatural cold seeped from the silver charm until it was no colder than any other metal would.

The chain slipped from her fingers and fell against her skin, settling in the hollow of her throat.

She lifted her eyes and found Troy.

For a split second, the tableau held. They just stood there, her shaking and him steady like a statue of cut ice, her lips attempting to form words and his pressed in a hard line—her not knowing what to feel and his emerald eyes showing her nothing at all. Then, the stillness shattered.

Troy's body hit hers and they tumbled down in a heap. Her grip around the knapsack tightened and the horn dug into her side. She saw stars exploding in her vision. Something thudded against the cemetery wall. Something else whizzed past her head.

An arrow feathered in white. An arrow!

She kicked out and Troy cursed, rolling them about. The new position gave Lily purchase and she sprung up. Running back into the cemetery would be the wise thing, to protect the horn and to make sure they couldn't reach her, but whoever was firing had the same basic grasp of strategy and kept the arrows raining between her and the low wall.

She raced toward the trees for whatever cover they would offer. She made it as far as the first row when Troy caught up to her again. His arm locked about her waist and he hauled her back to his chest. They both crashed against a tree trunk, the bark scraping Lily's cheek, and he used a leg to pin hers and keep her from kicking out.

She screamed and tried to use her elbows to hit him.

"Do not be a fool," he snarled in her ear, slapping a hand over her mouth.

Suddenly, the world around them changed. It wasn't like stepping over an opening. This was more disconcerting perhaps because it came with the certainty of not having moved. It brought a shifting of shadows, a translucent veil draped over her eyes to murk her vision and a sense of detachment from her own skin.

Then, she saw him.

He came from deeper into the trees, walking on silent feet. Tall and slender, he moved with the grace of a feline and Lily recognized him as a sidhe faerie, like Cadowain. Unlike him, this one looked more like a hunter and less like a courtier. His clothing was dark to blend in with the night and his rolling steps were more suited to stalk prey than to dance. He was strong, and he was dangerous, and if Troy hadn't manhandled her as he had, she would have ran into him. Like a hare flushed out by the hounds.

He stepped past them, a light frown marring his perfect, inhuman features. His eyes scanned the surroundings and never focused on them. A look of bewilderment twisted his mouth and he moved out of Lily's vision.

Troy's heart beat a furious rhythm against her back, and she felt his grip become less proficient and more desperate as he struggled to keep his breathing silent. Whatever he was doing to keep the sidhe from noticing them was costing him dearly. Lily remembered he had explained to her that workings needed time to prepare, but he had managed to hide them at a moment's notice, while struggling against her. For how long would he be able to keep it up?

Moments stretched into eternity, and then, without a word of warning, Troy stepped away from her. She staggered at the sudden lack of support and his hand grabbed her wrist, hauling her into a run that had them doubling the hunting party.

Lily raced awkwardly, one arm still secured around her bundle and the other pulled by Troy. He was guiding them away from the safety of the hallowed ground, but also away from the sidhe and his arrow-flinging hounds, so she followed his lead.

Until she recognized where he was headed.

"No!" she said, digging in her heels with enough force to rock him back. "We can't cross over."

"I cannot hold the illusion forever," he snapped back. His breathing was ragged and sweat droplets seemed to be mixing with the usual water dripping from his hair. "My own domain is the only place I can hope to surpass him."

"If we cross over with the horn, the queen will know. They will know it's no longer safe."

"They already do, fool. That was Marast, the Unseelie Queen's best knight. Can you not see how you have been played?"

A voice clear as the stars shouted something in the background. They had found their trail.

"Played by whom? Who's the only Unseelie here?"

"Who warned you not to strike thoughtless bargains?" he shot back. Then, his eyes fixed at a point over her shoulder and widened, the white showing around green irises.

An arrow flew past by her.

Troy leapt forward and grabbed her, twisting them around to move away from the incoming attack. Toward the river.

The arrow hadn't meant to kill them. It was just flushing them out, again.

"Stop!" she said. "They'll back us against the riverside."

He grinned back over his shoulder, not stopping. It was a gesture sharp as a knife. "They are welcome to try."

The shadows of the shift began to coalesce around him while they raced the Unseelie sidhe hunter.

_Our riders never fall._

_Drown them, eat them._

The last rose, wilted. No more obligations to save her.

"No! No, no, no!"

The hunting party caught on to his intentions at the same time Lily did and began firing in earnest, but by then it was too late.

Troy's arms wrapped around her waist, the world titled in its axis and then the change was upon him and Lily could do nothing but scream as he hurtled them toward the river.

Someone shouted behind them, the voice barely heard over the thundering of blood rushing in her ears, and then Troy sank and took her with him. Every muscle in her body tensed when she hit the freezing water and she fought to break free of his magic, to push away from him and cling to the surface, but she might as well have been trying to escape her own skin. She went under, the murky river swallowing the predawn light, and she tried to claw at Troy, to pull on his mane, to get him to let her go before the darkness trapped her.

But her throat burned. Her chest ached, squeezed by an invisible fist that urged her to breathe.

She fought harder.

It didn't make a difference. She knew giving in would kill her, would only hasten her toward a watery grave, but there was no escape and her body betrayed her. She took a frantic gulp—

And a rush of fresh air soothed her starving lungs.

~FIN~

_The Wild Curse,_ Faerie Sworn Book 2, is available at your favorite retailer.

Learn more on the author's website, or click here to sign up for her mailing list.

# A DEMON BOUND

### Imp Series Book 1

**Debra Dunbar**

Samantha Martin is an imp, enjoying an extended vacation from Hel. All she wants to do is drink beer by the pool, play mischievous pranks on the humans, and get her hot neighbor in the sack. It's a relaxing break from her infernal home as long as she manages to avoid the angels, who won't hesitate to execute her on sight.

But when her naughty hellhound lands her in trouble with the local werewolf pack, Sam is blackmailed into helping track and catch a killer. The steps she must take to appease the werewolves will put her right in the crosshairs of the angels. And with angels, there is no second chance.
_To Dr. Hadley Tremaine (1939–2001), Chairman of the Department of English, Hood College, Frederick, Maryland, who taught me that there is great treasure to be found in what others consign to hell._

# Chapter 1

I parked down the street from the bail bond office and pretended to fuss with some papers on the passenger seat as I watched two boys race toward me out of the corner of my eye. They were hauling ass, and one darted across traffic in a daring effort to cut the other off.

"Wait for it, wait for it," I muttered as they sped toward the car.

_One, two, three, open_. I flung the car door out to its full width and a wave of satisfaction rolled through me as I heard a thump and felt the door vibrate against my hand. The boy toward the outside had managed to dive out of the way, missing the door by inches and rolling expertly as he landed on the ground. The inside boy wasn't so lucky. He'd bounced off the door with the thump I had felt and hit the cement sidewalk with a meaty thwack.

"Yeah," yelled the outside boy as he hopped to his feet. He punctuated the word with an exuberant fist pump. I got out of the car and gave him a high five.

"All yours, Roberto," I told him.

I paid a twenty to any kid who watched my car while I took care of business. That normally wouldn't have been a good deal. A Corvette in this neighborhood would attract a lot of attention, and a kid watching it wouldn't necessarily deter theft. But my car was well known. All the kid needed to do was inform anyone looking to lift the tires that this was my vehicle, and let me know if anyone was stupid enough to do so anyway. Well worth the twenty.

I turned to the other kid, who was staggering to his feet from the pavement and wiping a bloody nose.

"Maybe next time, Dante," I said. He nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose and staggered off.

I had a moment of panic as I shut the car door and thought that Dante may have dented it. Humans were soft and squishy, but he'd hit with a good bit of force. I lucked out this time, though. No dent, just a bit of blood and snot that I wiped off with the side of my arm. Fuck! That was close. I don't always think things through before I do them, and it would have really sucked if he'd damaged my car.

"Are you going to evict Old Man Larson, Ma'am?" Roberto asked me.

"Nope, just collecting rents," I replied.

Most people would rather have been home by the pool with a cold beer on a hot day like today, but I actually liked collecting rents. I'd spent the morning taking cash from those tenants who didn't trust the mail system, or who found it impossible to obtain a checking account. This was my last visit of the day with one particular tenant who needed an in–person, see–the–light kind of call.

I'm a slum lord. Commercial, residential, it doesn't matter as long as the building is cheap, squeaks by code and I can rent it. About seventy percent of my tenants pay promptly. I've been told that's an incredible percentage with these types of properties. The others shove cash–stuffed envelopes at me as soon as I ring the bell.

I'm also a demon, which is probably why I have such a high compliance rate on my rent collections. We demons usually live in another realm and pop over here to vacation. Low ranking demons save for centuries to pay someone for safe passage. Ones with status in the hierarchy come over whenever they feel like it. Of course, it is still risky trying to get through the gates undetected, and to hustle your ass back before your fun activities bring death down on your head. The more often you come over, the greater the chance is that you'll be caught and killed by the angels.

I've been here over forty years on a sort of extended vacation, which is unheard of among my kind. I've managed to stay alive by laying low and posing as a human, with as little energy usage and bad behavior as possible for a demon. So far I've succeeded in remaining undetected.

I walked the block down to the apartment building feeling the heat from the broken sidewalk right through my shoes, and kicked an empty whisky pint out of the way to ring the doorbell. My tenant should have been waiting for me since I pulled some favors and had a friend arrange a drug buy. Otherwise he would most likely hide in the back and pretend he was not home. When that happens, I have to sneak around the place peering in windows and eventually breaking in to confront the tenant. I hate that. These houses are all over one hundred years old and the windows aren't standard size. It's very difficult to get them repaired. My tenant was expecting a buyer and not a landlord, so I hoped I didn't have to break any windows to get in this time.

After a few moments, I heard some shuffling near the door and sensed someone looking out the peephole. I tried to look around nervously like I was a proper yuppie addict. I'm a terrible actress, so I was actually a bit surprised when he opened the door and ushered me quickly in. He looked me over and visibly relaxed. Humans are sometimes uncomfortable around me, but once they really look at me, and their eyes tell them I'm an average sized woman with average features, their brain squashes any fearful instincts. I go out of my way to look harmless. Not covered in tattoos, not pierced all over, no punk hairdo. No big warts, bulging muscles, glowing eyes, horns, etc. (could these two lists go together?) Just a nice normal, middle aged, rather plain woman.

"Are you Brad?" I asked him while looking around the place.

The inside looked like a frat house with old pizza boxes and beer cans carelessly tossed on coffee tables or stacked on the rather dirty beige carpet. I eyed it in distaste. I'd have to clean that carpet when their lease ended. I'd charge them double for it too. A plaid second–hand couch sat in front of a huge flat screen TV on the wall. Two guys sprawled on the couch with pistols visible in their waistbands. They were big, but flabby with wrinkled dirty clothes and longish hair. They looked pretty stoned and rather unaware of my presence.

"Yeah," he replied "what are you looking to take home?"

"The rent." I gave that a moment to sink in. "I'm actually the landlord, not a buyer."

That announcement was greeted with laughter from Brad. The guys on the couch didn't budge, still slumped with their eyes fixed on the TV. At least they weren't lunging at me with guns drawn at this point.

If the stoned guys on the couch managed to somehow achieve a miracle and hit me, I could repair almost any wound. It would hurt, and it might take a while, but I wouldn't' die. Or I could convert the bullets before they reached me.

When demons convert, we dissect the molecules or atoms of something and rearrange them into something else. Transmutation, as the human alchemists called it. That is the big 'magic' of demons. Sometimes conversion works out neatly and you end up with all your atoms and molecules used and accounted for. Sometimes you have spare shit that you have to figure out what to do with. Some of that shit isn't particularly stable on its own, leaving you to borrow atoms out of other things around you to stick together. All this has to occur in fractions of a second because that's usually all you have before something explodes, or there is chlorine gas, or worse.

In the bullet scenario before me there were some troublesome atoms to deal with. You could do pretty much anything with carbon, but iron was the atom demanding attention when a bullet was speeding at you. Not a big deal when viewed on a world disaster scale, but kind of messy to deal with on the fly like this. And _any_ conversion action on my part could possibly be messy enough to attract notice of the angels, who dedicated their existence to noticing these kinds of things and coming down with holy fury on our heads.

I could weld the steel triggers of the guns. Just shoot a blaze of energy across the room and melt the guns, burning half their pants off in the process. Back home, no one cared if you set the guys on fire welding triggers. Back home, no one would even bother with welding triggers, just shoot a big flashy burst of something and cook them all dead. Problem solved.

I couldn't afford to be too flashy though, since I was living under the radar as much as I could. I would bet that a small amount of energy from me wouldn't set off alarm bells with the angels, but why take the chance? Plus, I kind of got off on the risk of handling these situations without any energy usage at all. It was a real adrenaline rush. A bullet to the head or a vital organ would most likely kill me in this form, contrary to mythology.

"Come on, cough it up," I told him. "You owe it, I'm here. Just pay me the three months rent and no one gets hurt."

I had a premonition someone was going to get hurt. Might be me. Definitely would be Brad.

Brad sneered. If I had been a human, I probably would have been shaken. It was a good sneer. Very dramatic. Very Hollywood.

"You are the only one likely to get hurt, babe," he said. "And you're not leaving here with a dime."

Brad then proceeded to look me over like I was a steak on the grill and added an addendum. "Maybe the guys and I could enjoy some quality time with you to repay us for time wasted on this bogus deal you set up."

To bring his point home, he took a menacing step toward me.

Now this is when the fun starts for me. I live for the day this sort of thing happens. I smiled at Brad and let my mean out.

"All three of you?" I asked. "I haven't had that kind of pleasure in a long time. I prefer to leave my tenants alive and functioning so they can pay their rent, but if you're offering this in lieu of cash payment I am very tempted. I get a little carried away with the rough stuff though, so I can't guarantee that any of you'll survive."

I didn't see how the guys behind me reacted, but Brad looked unnerved for a brief second before he pulled himself together. He must have been made of tough stuff or perhaps sampling his own wares since he took the remaining three steps toward me, well within my zone of personal space, and gripped my chin in his hand. I locked eyes with him and froze him to me. Stupid human. To meet a demon's gaze like that was to give them control.

I smiled, convinced that I had him and was shocked when he punched me in the face. It was a good uppercut to the chin that knocked me on the filthy stinking carpet. I was reminded of Dante as I felt blood drip down my chin, although mine was from my mouth. Fucker had made me bite hard into my tongue. What had happened? Why couldn't I lock him in place? Was he legally blind or something? Maybe his drugs had blurred his vision? Did I suddenly suck at this particular skill?

"You are one sick psycho, freak," Brad told me. "Maybe you'll be less cocky with a few broken bones."

He went to kick me in the side and I rolled out of reach, scrambling in an embarrassing fashion to my feet. I was pissed enough to want to just blast him through the front of the building, but instead held back and assessed the situation. I backed up to a table and glanced quickly at the two on the couch. They sat still as statues, so thankfully all I needed to deal with was Brad.

Brad dove at me, and I spun out of his reach, putting the table between us. This wasn't working out like I'd planned. He had greater strength than me in my human form, and I wasn't exactly skilled in human fighting methods. I was reluctant to use any of my demon energy, but it would really suck if he pummeled me. My reputation would suffer.

We circled the table a few times. Brad looked smug. It pissed me off further. Pissed me off enough that I reached down and used some energy to snap a leg off the table, hoping it wasn't enough to be detected by any angels. The table remained improbably upright, so I kicked it over with my foot and dove at Brad, swinging.

His visual impairment wasn't so severe that he couldn't see a table leg coming at his head. He backed up, ducking and dodging as I chased him into a corner, and I finally connected the thing with his stomach. He doubled over and presented me with a lovely opening to whack him on the head. He dropped, but I gave him a few more swats to his kidneys just to make sure before I rolled him over and really locked him in this time. Fucking bastard. I should kill him. I should Own him.

It had been so long, and the urge to Own was beginning to gnaw at me with an annoying regularity. It would be risky, though. Owning is our process of gathering the essence of a being into ourselves. Of course, the physical body dies, and it's not pretty either. Humans have their spirits so deeply embedded in the flesh that there is a lot of shredding that happens when we Own. That's part of the appeal, honestly. The pain, screaming, thrashing about, terror as you rip them from their very cells, it's very stimulating to a demon. And the fun continues because they live on inside you to play with and enjoy as long as you live. Brad didn't look like he'd be worth the risk though. Sad, since I haven't had the joy of Owning a human in several decades. Killing him would be almost as much fun. I didn't like to kill tenants who paid though. And I was hoping he'd pay.

"Perhaps you'd rather just pay the rent?" I asked him as he stared up at me.

# Chapter 2

Moments later I left the row house with the back three months rent, plus four months forward on their lease. I really don't understand why Brad would have let those two stoned guys on his couch have guns since they were far too impaired to use them. How they were supposed to join in on a threesome rape in that condition was beyond me. It was all rather anticlimactic.

I headed toward my car and grabbed my cell phone. It was just after noon, and I was pleased that I had wrapped this up so early. "Michelle, I'm done and three fifty one is paid through December."

Michelle is my property manager. I've been through quite a few property managers over the last four decades, but Michelle is a keeper. Our partnership has profited her, too, and she now owns her own company — although she still continues to manage my properties personally.

"Woohoo!" Michelle cheered. "Are you coming by? We can grab lunch."

Michelle's eagerness to see me had less to do with our friendship and more to do with the fact that she got an under–the–table cut of all cash payments. A large amount of my business was off the books, and Michelle whole heartedly supported this.

"I can't," I told her. "I'm going to just grab a bag of tacos and get home in time to ogle the lawn service."

"You go girl!" Michelle said. "It's Friday, meet us at The Wine Room for happy hour. You know, your hottie neighbor will wrap up mowing early so he can hit the clubs tonight."

I hated The Wine Room.

"Wait," I hesitated. "Will they let me in? After last time?"

"Yes, they will let you in," Michelle sighed. "But no more groundhogs. That thing bit a waiter."

"It wasn't me," I lied. "I told you it wandered in off the street."

I'm a terrible liar. I don't think she believed me.

"All the girls will be there, and a real estate agent whose been pestering me to meet you. She's handling that block by the canal on the south side," she said. I was grateful she dropped the groundhog subject.

Most of Michelle's friends didn't like me but she always asked me to join her for social events. Our friendship gave a gritty edge to her very businesslike reputation, but this time I was sure she just wanted her cash before the weekend. No hurt feelings on my part. I'd show up dressed inappropriately, and see how many people I could make uncomfortable in an hour or so. The real estate agent was a mild draw, too. I really wanted this block of canal houses.

"Sheesh, Michelle," I complained. "I don't want those dilapidated pieces of crap. And you know the bank will want fair market value because they loaned some idiot twice that five years ago on spec".

"Come anyway," she said. "She'll buy you a Cosmo to try and get on your good side, and you can scare all the suits at the bar."

I hated Cosmopolitans with a passion, but agreed to be there at five.

"Any problems, Roberto?" I asked my young car watcher.

"Some weirdo was giving it the eye, but they left when I told them it was Satan's car," he said.

It was a huge stretch to refer to me as Satan. The appropriate term would have been Ha–Satan, The Iblis, or The Adversary, but no one had held that title in over a million years and my actual level in the hierarchy was far below that. Ah well, whatever got the job done was Okay with me.

Roberto took in the growing bruise on my chin and the red staining my shirt. "You have some trouble, Ms. Martin?"

"Nah," I told him as I looked carefully over my precious car. "I bit my tongue. You should see the other guy though. He'll be pissing blood for days."

I thanked him and handed him a twenty.

The noontime sun was intense and the pavement shimmered in front of my car with the radiated heat as I slowly edged my way through downtown traffic. A jay walker darted across the road and I swerved, barely hitting her big purse with my rear view mirror. It sucked that I hadn't hit her properly, but my mind was on other things. I kept thinking about the energy I used to break off the table leg. It wasn't much. It wasn't like I'd converted or anything. It probably wasn't enough for any angels to sense. Hopefully.

The city gave way to farms interspersed with one–street towns. Cows huddled under scrub trees to escape the heat, and the crops drooped in the blistering sun. I was hoping there would be some heat lightning this afternoon. Enjoying the gorgeous day, I cranked the air conditioning with the windows open as my tacos made a mess on my lap.

In thirty minutes I was pulling carefully down the long rural lane toward my house. I passed by my neighbor, Wyatt's house on the left. Wyatt had bought the place a few years back when it had gone up for tax auction. I'd bid on it, but he was willing to pay a bit more than I was. It was one of those old, Cape Cod style houses that had suffered from fixed income elderly owners, and neglect. Wyatt hadn't done much to fix it up, but he didn't seem to have a lot of money. He constantly played computer games and did odd jobs to keep him in Ramen noodles. That's how he came to be in charge of my lawn mowing, stable care, and pool care.

When I saw what an incredible specimen of maleness had moved in next door, I had promptly trotted over a basket of baked goods along with a six pack of beer and introduced myself. We'd struck up a friendship based on my continued bribes of alcohol and food, and my willingness to let him treat my house and property as his own. Early on he had offered to do barn work and it had progressed from there. He tended to do the lawn mowing without his shirt on, so I ensured he had to do it several times a week. Everywhere else lawns languished in the drought, but my grass grew like it was on steroids. Wyatt never mentioned how unusual this phenomenon was.

I'd razed the old farmhouse when I bought this place. Instead I'd built a sweeping contemporary with stone and cedar. There was a seldom used front porch with Adirondack chairs and lots of glass windows that looked mirrored from the outside and clear from the inside. It was around the back of the house where I spent most of my time. Huge two story windows and sets of double French doors looked out from the kitchen and bedrooms to a lovely patio and pool. From the front and back of the house, wide pathways lead to the barn, horse pastures, and a little landscaped garden with a fountain and private spot to sit. I'd become really fond of this home. Especially the pool.

I parked in front of the house and headed around to the barn, hoping I hadn't missed the lawn mowing peep–show entertainment of the afternoon. Wyatt was pushing in an empty wheelbarrow as I walked over. He had on cut off shorts and a wife beater. His dirty blond hair was sun streaked and hung around his ears in front and in back to his shoulders. Wyatt always looked like he was a few months late for a haircut. It was a good look for him. His was the sort of broad shouldered, lean musculature that comes from lifting hay bales, not dumbbells. He grinned as he saw me and I caught my breath at his fineness.

"Hey, Sammy," he called. "I mucked the stalls, but am waiting to let the horses out to pasture until later since it's so hot. I'll put a round bale in the feeder, then I'll weed-eat." He peered at me closer. "What happened? I thought you were just collecting rents, today. Did someone give you a hard time?"

"I bit my tongue." I really needed to fix my wounds. My jaw was throbbing and my tongue hurt so bad that I couldn't eat or drink without pain. Eating tacos on the ride home had been an agonizing experience.

"Looks like you took a face plant into someone's fist."

"Yeah, that too. I beat the shit out of him, though." I turned to walk into the house. "I'm going to chill by the pool with a beer. Come join me when you're done."

I had only taken a few steps when he called out.

"Sam, have you seen Boomer? He hasn't been around all day."

Boomer was my Plott hound. He hunted at night and pretty much slept in the barn all day. Wyatt was always after me to contain him somehow, to curtail his nighttime wanderings. He was worried that Boomer would wind up a stray collected by Animal Control, or possibly full of buckshot from a neighborhood farmer. I knew my hound could take care of himself. I reassured Wyatt that he'd be back eventually, and ran in to change out of my taco stained jeans and into a swimsuit. First I stopped by the kitchen to throw some beers and ice into a cooler, and then headed up the stairs, stripping as I went.

Throwing on my itty bitty powder blue bikini, I raced out to the pool. The water looked cool and inviting on the hot day, but I didn't want to miss the entertainment by swimming. I'd pop in later. Outdoor piped music on, cooler with beers beside my lounge chair, shades on. I strategically placed my chair to watch a shirtless Wyatt weed–eat and hoped he didn't wonder why my back was blocking the sun.

I was closer to Wyatt than I was with any other human. After he'd moved in, he'd immediately started doing odd jobs for me, but he also came around all the time to just hang out. He was over every day, sometimes several times a day. It wasn't unusual for him to be hanging out in my kitchen, or swimming in my pool. Every now and then I'd ask him to do some handyman kind of work, but most of the time he'd just take the initiative to do stuff like mulch the garden or clean out the fountain. Then we'd sit by the pool and drink, or cook something up in the kitchen, or relax and watch TV. He was over here a lot and I liked that.

Of course, I'd wanted to have sex with him the moment I saw him, but I waited. Demons are not usually so patient. Humans have such short lives and they tend to crank through them quickly. It seems that in a blink of an eye they are dead and gone. So if you want one, you've got to grab him or her quick.

There was also that pesky age thing. Wyatt was mid twenties in age and I was closing in on one thousand. If I did the math, he was slightly older than me in demon years. As Samantha Martin, I was in my forties, but for humans in this day that kind of age difference didn't seem to matter much.

I saw women come and go from Wyatt's house without a repeat appearance and I knew he was a player. That wasn't something that bothered me at all. What did bother me was that I wanted our close friendship, I wanted sex with Wyatt, but I also wanted more. I liked him; I wanted him to be with me. I fantasized about having him for eternity; about Owning him.

Maybe after I became bored with him, I'd Own him. The prospect was exciting, but then I'd think about our friendship and have doubts. I liked hanging out with him by the pool, talking about our day, listening to him go on and on about some video game he was playing. If I Owned him, all that would be gone. The thought of losing his friendship was a painful ache in my middle.

Done with the trimming, Wyatt skimmed out the pool, then dropped his cutoffs and dove in for a cool down swim in his boxer briefs. I watched him swim long laps under water, my head moving back and forth like at a tennis match. How transparent would those boxer briefs be after a swim? They were pretty clingy before he dove in and I'd had a nice profile look and a breath taking view of his tight ass before he hit the water.

Finally cooled off, Wyatt rose from the water in front of me like a Greek god and flung himself in the lounge chair beside me dripping streams of water in a path from the pool. Silently, I handed him a beer and he used the edge of the chair to pry off the cap. All this without one word to each other. I can't begin to describe the amazing warm contentment and sexual tension that I felt that afternoon. It was perfect. Better than anything I had back home.

"You're looking better," Wyatt broke the silence with his cheerful voice. He reached over with a finger and touched my jaw. "Swelling and bruising are totally gone."

"My tongue is healed too, see?" I stuck my tongue out and he leaned over to get a closer look. Romantic, I know.

"Amazing how fast you heal," Wyatt drawled. "And your grass needs cutting every two days too. It's like everything is on hyperspeed at your house, Sam."

"I'm special," I told him.

"Yeah, I think so," Wyatt said. I felt all sorts of happy inside at the compliment. "You heading out tonight?" he asked.

"Wine Room." I grimaced. Wyatt wrinkled his nose in sympathy. "I've got some business I need to do, and an agent wants to unload some bank owned properties on me. It's those canal row houses I told you I was interested in, so I probably need to meet her. You?"

"I really need to work, too. Some zombies need killing," he said, referring to one of his video games. "I may hit the club early for some fun and kill zombies on an all–nighter."

"Techno music, Ecstasy, and a curvy blond?" I asked ignoring the video game part of his comment. If zombies ever invaded the realm, I'm guessing Wyatt would save the world. He would totally be my go–to guy if I found an animated corpse wandering around my pasture.

"I hate X," he replied, "but the dance club and the curvy blond sound good to me." He reached over and tapped my beer bottle with his own.

What the hell was that about? I really didn't understand the subtleties of human interaction sometimes. I liked curvy blonds too, but was this action on his part supposed to mean that we were doomed to be only platonic buddies? Or that I was equally the player? Or that he thought I was a lesbian? Humans were so confusing, so hard to read. The anticlimactic afternoon with Brad had me craving sex, and having Wyatt so close was tempting beyond belief. I could take him now. Sex, body and mind, Own him as part of me forever. Then run like crazy for the nearest gate home, and hope I made it out of here before an angel caught me and tore me to bits. Instead, we sat for a moment in silence and drank our beer.

"Hey, do you want to ride the horses tomorrow morning? Early, before it gets hot?" Wyatt asked, turning to me.

"Sure you'll be up to it, with your blond and zombie all–nighter?" I asked, more than a bit of bitterness creeping into my voice.

"I have amazing stamina," he said grinning and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. "I'll be here at six to tack up. Think you can drag your lazy butt out of bed that early?"

"Doubtful," I told him, taking a swig of my beer.

"If you're not there, I'm gonna come up and get you," Wyatt teased. "And yes, I know you sleep naked. You've told me repeatedly."

Maybe there was hope for consensual sex, after all. I daydreamed for a moment about Wyatt and I having sex in a field with the horses grazing nearby. Or maybe in the tack room on top of the saddle pads. Or maybe we'd never get out of my bedroom.

We finished our beers, and Wyatt headed back to his house, announcing that those zombies weren't going to kill themselves. I went inside and studied my wardrobe to see what outfit might shock all the movers and shakers at The Wine Room. I decided to go with comfort and pulled on my faded skinny jeans with the strategic worn patch on the upper thigh. I made sure I had on a good push up bra for maximum cleavage then, thinking of Wyatt with his wife beater, I yanked a thin, tight, white tank top over my head. The scooped neckline barely covered the lacy edges of my bra. I added some worn cowboy boots, a blingy belt, and _voila_! Sexy country girl. I never bother with my hair or make–up, but for some reason tonight I went all out. Thick mascara, sweeping eyeliner, and deep pink lip stain. I piled my shoulder length brown mane high up on my head and let pieces escape to hang straight along my face and at the nape of my neck. I was very happy with the overall look. It was like one of the Petticoat Junction girls had come out of a good romp in the hay.

I thought about driving my Suburban to complete the look, but parking that thing downtown was a pain in the ass. I only drove it when I was hauling the trailer or picking up feed. The Corvette was my true love.

The Wine Room was as pretentious as you could get. It was purposely small, so it was always packed. Crowds of hopefuls waited to get in the door. Huge panes of glass covered all the exterior walls, so you could see and be seen. It was especially a nightmare to try and eat there since the bar crowd was inches away from the dining tables. Nothing was worse than trying to eat your eighty dollar prime rib with a gin–drinking lawyer six inches away and staring at your plate.

The guy at the door recognized me and nodded me in once he checked to make sure I didn't have a large bag with a groundhog in it. Not that it mattered much. They normally ended up kicking me out within an hour of my entering, even without a groundhog.

Michelle and her posse were in the usual spot. Theirs was the best location, and one they would have had to arrive unfashionably early and fight for to score. From their special spot, they could see and be seen by passerby on Main Street. It was hard to see them from the door, but I knew they'd be there and wove my way among all the navy and black suited business people with their ties and sensible pumps. I made sure I rubbed my boobs and hands over everyone I could on the way back.

Michelle had done her hair different. She normally had a mess of long black braids intricately arranged around her head, but she had taken the extensions out and had a pixie-looking straight do. I'm sure it was twenty times cooler in this heat than her usual style. She was tall and thin with high cheekbones and dark eyes in her ebony face. She grinned when she caught sight of me. She had a slight gap between her blazing white teeth that I found totally sexy. She was beautiful in an exotic, angular kind of way.

"Samantha." She drawled out my name in a slight island accent as she took in my cowgirl attire. Michelle's mom was Jamaican or something. I could never remember. "Were you out riding that neighbor of yours? Where are your spurs, girl?" She gave me a hug.

Spurs. Yum, what a visual.

"I wish. Hey, you have any gum? I had tacos for lunch." I rooted in her bag without waiting for her reply, pulling out a stick of gum and placing the fat envelope full of cash under her wallet.

As I stuffed the gum in my mouth, Michelle winked at me and on impulse reached over to kiss my cheek. Michelle was straight. Not that that mattered. I'd considered many times assuming a male form and picking her up some night, but good business associates were hard to find. Especially property managers. I wasn't about to jeopardize that relationship for a night of sex. Besides, a conversion of that scale would be like sending up a flare for the angels to see.

I turned to look at her friends. A few were trying hard not to notice me. Two stared at me in amazement, taking in my casual outfit and my bold freedom with Michelle's purse. I picked out the real estate agent right away. She was a walking stereotype. In a sea of drab suits, she had on a bright yellow skirt suit of all things, with a flowered shirt peeking out the jacket. Her blond hair fluffed out in a big wave. She was the most immaculately groomed person I'd ever seen. I met her eyes expecting to see vacuous excitement and got a shock. Shrewd brown eyes met mine in calculating appraisal. She wandered her eyes over the rest of me taking in the ripped blue jeans with a raised eyebrow and a twitch of her bronze lips before raising her eyes back up to meet mine.

"Candy Star," she announced, reaching to shake my hand.

I almost burst out laughing. It was a stripper name. What kind of bimbo mom names their kid Candy Star? She must have been horribly teased in school. Why in hell hadn't she changed it? I glanced at her left hand. Maybe Star was her husband's name. I never could understand the whole human thing of taking your husband's name, and this would have been a good reason to break that custom.

"Hi Candy, I'm Samantha Martin," I replied in a bored tone. I didn't want her thinking I was excited to meet her. "I'm getting a drink, can I get you something?"

"Oh, I was going to get you a Cosmo," she bubbled back, channeling a perky real estate agent personality that was in direct contrast with those shrewd brown eyes.

"I hate Cosmos," I told her as I edged toward the bar.

"Me too," she muttered under her breath and eyed the one in her beautifully manicured hand with disgust.

I discretely threw my gum on the floor where someone would be sure to get it all over their three hundred dollar shoes and squeezed between two half–drunk lawyers at the bar. I brushed my hand and boobs against the one, and my rear across the other out of habit. They eyed me appreciatively. I seriously needed to take this much care with my appearance more often. I'd probably get laid a whole lot more.

Standing up on the rail under the bar that you rested your feet on as you sat, I sprawled the upper half of my body across the gleaming mahogany showing cleavage to the front and sticking my rear out in the back. The bartender practically knocked down a waitress in his rush to ask my boobs what they would like to drink.

The only redeeming quality of this place was that it offered a wide choice of quality vodkas, and did some cool infusions. Vodka was amazing. It was one of the best human inventions, ever. Back home, everyone drank dull old wine, sometimes warmed up, sometimes cold. It was Okay. Nah, who am I kidding, the stuff sucked big time, but — whoo–boy! — vodka was the shit.

"Two shots of Van Gogh Double Espresso Vodka. The stuff in the freezer," I told him.

The bartender poured the shots into equally chilled shot glasses, all the while managing to keep an eye on my breasts. No doubt in case one escaped and burst into full view. I tipped him well and made my way back to Candy and the other girls.

"Here's to our future partnership," I said, handing her one of the shots. She looked at it nervously, grimaced, and tossed it down. Her eyes watered and she choked a little, sipping the Cosmo in her other hand in desperation. It was a shame because up until that moment I had thought she was kind of cool. Chasing the very elixir of life with that swill, how could she? Disappointing.

I looked around the bar at the ocean of black and navy and thought about going home and watching _X–Files_ reruns. Normally, I'd be inspired to start some trouble, but I just didn't seem to have it in me tonight. I was still worried that my energy usage earlier today may have exposed me. I was missing Wyatt and wondering if he'd found a curvy blond. Besides, this place really sucked . They got all stuffy and bent out of shape if you broke a bottle on some guy's head or threw your steak knives at the wall.

Just as I lifted my glass to drink my vodka, I heard Michelle say in a soft worshipful voice "Ohhhh, look there. Just look at him."

I glanced toward the door, because that tone was the most un–Michelle–like I'd ever heard. And I saw the angel.

# Chapter 3

I'm not sure how I knew right away that he was an angel, but I knew. I drew a ragged breath, choking on the vodka and dove behind one of Michelle's friends. The pudgy one who was luckily wearing a floaty muumuu thing. It should have been embarrassing, cowering behind a fat girl like that, but I was more concerned about my probable death.

Panic was throwing my heart around my chest and beading sweat on my forehead. Shit. Shit, shit shit. No, fuck, fuck, fuck, actually. Was he here for me? Stupid, of course he was! He must have been close enough to sense the small amount of energy I'd used to break off that table leg and brain Brad. Why else would he be here? I'd been so careful for all these years. I snuck through the gate with great skill, and had performed no conversion in decades; nothing but the tiniest of energy which I'd carefully covered up. The biggest display I'd made was when I'd taken and Owned Samantha Martin, but that had been so long ago. If that had alerted him, he'd have been on me twenty years ago at the latest. It had to have been today, and he must have been close to sense it. Damn my lousy luck.

I crawled across the surprisingly clean floor as far as I could from the angel, making sure I avoided my discarded gum. You'd think he wouldn't take me out in a crowded place like this since angels were supposed to be all goodness and light, but truth was I'd heard they didn't much care about collateral damage. The stupid humans didn't even notice me crawling and scooting between their legs, they were so enraptured.

I'd only had a quick glance at him before my dive to the ground, but he definitely stood out in a crowd. Tall. Like way taller than anyone in the room tall. Big chestnut curls on his forehead and touching the top of his ears. His skin was a strange white tone and texture. He was like a walking marble statue; a Greek god come to life. I hadn't seen his eyes and didn't want to. From the noises in the bar and the migration toward the door, I could only assume the humans were mobbing him. Probably pawing him all over like he was a unicorn or something. I wondered how he'd react to that.

Thankful for the crowd and the distraction, I reached the fire door. Very carefully, I put my hand against the bar to open it, and my other hand near the door catch. Gently, I sent a small trickle of energy into the door, completing the alarm circuit around the latch. Pushing the door, I quietly tiptoed out of the bar. I hoped that hadn't been enough for him to sense. Luckily, the humans had tons of energy flying around with their microwaves and cell phones, and that masked quite a bit.

As I turned to make sure the door closed without a sound, I saw a quick hand hold the door open. In my panicked state, I brought every speck of energy I had within reach to the surface, ready to deflect and defend. Luckily, I noticed the beautifully manicured nails and tennis bracelet before I started blowing things up. Candy slipped out behind me and pushed the door shut before turning to face me. We stared at each other. I know I didn't look exactly human at that moment, with such a massive amount of energy humming out all my pores and my eyes glowing, ready to strike. Candy, though, was unfazed as she surveyed me thoughtfully. She met my eyes for a moment, nodded as if I had confirmed something, then turned on her heels to walk with purpose down the street.

I didn't waste any time. I raced down the block and ducked into an alley. I wasn't sure what to do. Part of me wanted to go back and watch the angel leave to see what he was doing and where he was going. Not knowing what he knew about me and my assumed life was the most fearful part of this whole situation. I was terrified to get that close to him, though, in case he could somehow sense me near.

Should I head for the closest gate and get the hell out of Dodge? The most reliable gate was near Baltimore, but everyone used it. The angels kept a close eye on the area and a guardian routinely took out any who tried to use it. There was a small wild gate west near Sharpsburg, but wild gates were very dangerous and I didn't have time to study and master it. I didn't know where it went to, anyway.

I had come in through a gate in Seattle, but I wasn't sure I could make it all the way across the country. Plus, I really didn't want to run and abandon all I had worked to build over the last forty years. I had emergency procedures in place to protect my assets in case I had to make a quick break for it, but I hated to leave the life I loved. It's not like I could take my Corvette through the gate with me. Or Wyatt, unless I Owned him first.

I was too afraid to even peek around the corner toward The Wine Room. Was he still there? He could be walking down the street toward me right now. My heart thudded away and I gasped in air.

"Hey," I hissed at a young guy walking past the alley. He looked startled, but not terribly alarmed. Happy hour downtown was fairly safe, even if someone was accosting you from the shadows.

"Yeah, you," I insisted. The guy took a step towards me, curious. "Look down the street and tell me if you see an angel."

He looked around the alley for hidden video cameras.

"I'm serious. Down that way." I pointed helpfully.

He looked at me quizzically, but backed a few steps out of the alley and looked down the street. "Yeah, I see one."

I freaked. "Where? Is he coming this way? Is he glowing? Oh fuck! Oh fuck!"

I was making my new friend nervous. "No, it's that painting on the side of the building. You know, the one that looks like an old guy leaning out a window, but he has shadowed wings behind him. I thought that's what you meant."

"This is not _I Spy_ ," I shouted at him. "I need to know if a real angel is anywhere on the street, if you can see one. I really don't want him to kill me."

"I'll walk down here a bit and check," the guy said in a placating voice as he backed slowly out of the alley. "Just stay right here. I'll look for killer angels and be right back."

I knew better. The guy walked quickly toward a more populated area of downtown while I snuck around the block to my car to make my escape. He'd either sic the cops on me or send the angel my way.

I thought about my situation as I drove toward home. If I was going to die tonight, I was going to do it in my own house, surrounded by the things I loved. My mind whirled, and I had to finally set the cruise control as my speed was fluctuating wildly between the legal fifty five and well over a hundred miles per hour.

The angel hadn't locked right in on me at the bar, so my energy usage must not have been strong enough for him to have an absolute fix on me. He hadn't come running when I'd opened the fire door or, more importantly, when I pulled a bunch of energy to the surface for defense. Maybe I would be Okay. If I could just keep things absolutely minimal, fly even more under the radar, maybe he would give up and go kill some other, more careless, demon.

I was so distracted with my thoughts that I was three miles past my road before I even noticed. I pulled into a little local bar to turn around and stopped. I needed to calm down and focus. And I was suddenly afraid to go home and be there alone waiting for death to possibly find me. At least here I had a chance of blending into the crowd.

The Eastside Tavern was a local's hangout. The narrow front parking lot was packed with trucks and bikes. People milled about the fenced deck beside the front door, smoking cigarettes in the cooler evening air. I edged my way between the carelessly parked cars and around the back, searching without success for a parking spot. The place _was_ packed. I finally found a parking spot way out at the rear lot, past the dumpster, by a little wooded area. The Corvette might not have fit in with the motorcycles and trucks, but I did with my jeans and boots. I got out and set the car security. There were a few people around back here too, smoking or talking.

"Nice car," a bearded man said waving his smoke at it. "I have a Corvette too, but it's not as nice as yours."

I smiled at him in acknowledgement. There were wooden steps leading up to a back entrance that appeared to open to a dining area or perhaps some kind of banquet room. I walked around to the front of the building and headed up the wooden stairs past the smokers' deck. The front door was a slab of heavy glass, reinforced with metal bars. I wrestled it open and paused to take the place in.

Everything in the Eastside Tavern was cheap and fake. I don't know if this was so it would be inexpensive to replace when patrons trashed it, or if the owners didn't give a shit about even pretending to run a classy joint. Probably both. The floors were fiber board with a photo of wood grain laminated on top. The long u–shaped bar had the same wincingly artificial wood as the floor. The tables were cheap metal and Formica topped with metal rims. Torn vinyl–covered metal chairs were scattered around each table. The owners had dispensed with any kind of ceiling and instead had hung old license plates and plastic light fixtures resembling deer antlers from the exposed floor joists of the second story.

The tables were full of people gleefully smashing crabs and picking out meat with knives and fingers. Dismembered carcasses piled high on the brown paper protecting the Formica, or spilled onto the floor in a mess of broken shells and Old Bay Seasoning. Observing all of this with placid faces were the only non–fake things in the bar: a plethora of mounted deer heads; pheasants, foxes and boars decorated the walls side by side with aluminum sports signs and neon beer advertisements. I loved humans' affection for taxidermy. Killing something, and then displaying its dead body in a prominent place to show everyone what a successful and powerful killer you were was near and dear to my heart. I envisioned humans eyeballing each other's kills and suffering from antler envy. We weren't so different.

I headed around next to the pool table so I could look out across the expanse of the bar and the people eating their crabs. I wouldn't have a clear exit if an angel stormed the front door, but at least I'd see him first and have a brief moment to hide. The pool balls crashed behind me and I heard the cheers and smacking palms of a good break. The guy beside me flicked his eyes to me, and then turned his gaze back to the TV screen above the bar. He had dried mud on his work boots that extended almost a foot up his jeans. There wasn't a navy suit in the place.

Two women worked behind the bar, hustling primarily beer for the customers. I really wanted a drink, and thought about draping myself across the bar as I did at the Wine Room. I reconsidered when I realized I'd only piss off the women on the other side. Instead, I flagged a bartender down with some help from the guy next to me. I didn't rate any attention, since I was clearly not a regular, but the guy next to me certainly did and she came promptly over when he bellowed for her.

"Do you have any vodka in the freezer?" I asked.

She looked at me, as if she were waiting for the punch line of the joke. I wasn't about to drink warm generic vodka, so I ordered a bottle of Bud Light.

Another guy had joined the muddy dude on my side of the bar, flanking me between them. Muddy guy had a plate of food covered in gravy plopped in front of him, and proceeded to ignore everything but his meal. Nobody was paying any attention to me at all. I looked around behind me at the men and women engrossed in their pool game and realized no one seemed uncomfortable with my presence. Relaxing, I took a swig from the cold beer bottle and looked around.

There was a group of bearded guys by the smokers' door trying to pick up a shapely girl with legs a mile long; an overweight couple stealing fries off each other's plates and laughing; several rowdy groups gleefully smashing crabs and clinking beer mugs; a Latino guy in a construction logo hat who looked like he'd been up since before the sun; a really hot blond guy with some blond girl rubbing her boobs on his arm. Hey. Our eyes met across the room. Pleasant warmth spread down my body as I smiled into Wyatt's beautiful baby blues.

He made a beeline for me, practically dragging the curvy blond hanging onto his arm.

"Sammy," he said, clearly delighted to see me. "I didn't know you ever came here."

"I haven't been here before. I was on my way home and thought I'd stop in." I looked around. "I like it here," I said honestly.

There was a sense of calm I got from the place. Not that it appeared to be a mellow, chilled out kind of bar. It was just familiar. I felt I could relax and maybe be a little bit myself without getting thrown out every time I came in. Or at least I'd get thrown out with others hitting the dirt beside me.

"You. . . you look _really_ nice," Wyatt said, his eyes traveling down me, as if he hadn't seen me almost naked this afternoon.

I caught my breath and stared at him in amazement. Could this day have any more wild swings between shit and great? Where had this come from? Had someone slipped something into his drink? Had I transformed from his older, scary, moderately attractive, neighbor buddy into a potential friends–with–benefits candidate?

"Thanks," I replied. "I need to do the make–up and hair thing more often. Maybe then I'd have sex more than once a decade."

"The gravity defying boobs are pretty eye–catching, too." Wyatt grinned. "Honestly, Sam, if you'd at least pretend to be normal you might get laid more. You scare all the girls and boys away."

I knew he was teasing, but I think he meant it, too. Hopefully he meant the boob part.

"If I get horny enough I'll just whack someone over the head with a pool cue, duct tape them in place and have my way with them." I was only partially kidding.

Wyatt laughed. The woman on his arm tugged slightly, clearly wanting to move Wyatt away from me and my duct taping ways.

"Are you scared of me?" I asked him suddenly. I hoped not. I'd hate to have to eventually resort to duct tape with Wyatt. He'd be a whole lot more fun with his hands free.

"Absolutely terrified," he said.

I wondered if both Wyatt and I had been waiting for the other to make a move, like in those sappy movies on Lifetime. I appraised the woman hanging on his arm. Wyatt hadn't introduced me. In fact, Wyatt was rudely ignoring her existence. Not that I had a problem with that. She was pretty. Nice figure. She looked like a boring fuck to me. I was going for it, and blondie wasn't going to get in my way.

"The waitress just brought our beers out," Wyatt said, disengaging with great difficulty from his blond albatross. "I'll go get them and be right back."

The second he turned his back I snapped my eyes to the girl and glared at her. She shook a little, and then raised her chin in defiance. Ooo, putting up a fight, was she? Well, I didn't have time for this nonsense since Wyatt would be back in a short moment.

"Get out right now," I snarled at her, throwing every bit of mean I had into it.

Her eyes widened in terror and, without delay, she took off out the door.

"Woman, you really _are_ scary," the muddy guy next to me said in admiration before turning back to his chicken fried steak. Yep, I liked this place.

I chugged down my beer as I saw Wyatt approach, shoving the empty on the bar.

"Your friend left." I snagged the second beer out of his hand and took a swig. "She won't be coming back."

Wyatt raised an eyebrow and I was relieved to see he looked amused.

"I like this one better anyway, Wyatt," said the guy next to me.

Thumbs up from Mr. Chicken Fried Steak. I wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or not.

Wyatt's smile reached his eyes and we talked in that comfortable, easy way we always did. He'd nixed his original dance club plans for the night pretty soon after he turned out my horses for the evening. Instead, he had popped in here for a few beers, intending to go straight back home to kill the zombies.

I told him about my Wine Room experience, leaving out the angel, of course. Wyatt made sympathetic noises when I described my outrage at the vodka abuse Candy had perpetrated. I told him I'd left early and never really got to discuss those canal properties with her. We chatted comfortably as the evening drew late and I felt myself relax fully. After we finished several beers, I reluctantly told him I needed to head back home. I intended to hide all night under my bed from the angel. Maybe he'd keep me company.

"I'll walk you to your car", he said.

The summer bugs were making a deafening racket in the wooded area behind the bar. The smokers had migrated closer to the door, and a few said goodbye to Wyatt, addressing him by name. I beeped the alarm off the Corvette and turned my back to the driver's door. After two years of flirting and friendship, Wyatt suddenly became a guy of action as far as I was concerned. He swooped down for a kiss, wrapping one arm around my back to curl me up against him and reaching the other up to brush his hand along my neck and up to gently hold the base of my skull. Smooth. Unexpected. Dreamed about many days and nights for a very long time.

I love kissing in human form. Their lips are so full and soft. You can bite down on them with your dull human teeth, or run your tongue across them, or suck on them. So many nerve endings and so many senses at play. You can be a little rough, too, without worry of slicing anything off with razor sharp teeth, or asphyxiating someone with a two foot tongue down their throat. Humans don't get off on that sort of thing. At least, not the ones I'd met to date.

Wyatt was feather–light to the point of frustration. Lips, tongue, teeth, even his thumb rubbing along my jaw line were just barely at the point of contact. Every nerve ending in me quivered as if they were trying to reach out and complete the connection. I'm not good at the whole delayed gratification thing. I grabbed his shirt on either side of his waist with both hands and spun him around so I was pressing his back into the car.

Wyatt gave a muffled laugh and kissed more firmly. Just to make sure he knew where this was going, I straddled one of his legs, and rubbed my thigh up against his crotch. He returned the favor, easing his hand from my waist to cup my ass and hold my hips in an optimal tilted position. Heat scorched through me, and my breathing turned ragged. Nothing existed outside him at this moment. I could no longer hear the million bugs singing in the night, or cat–calls from any smokers who might be watching. I could no longer smell the mix of cigarette smoke, fried foods, and dumpster garbage that was the parking lot. I didn't think about Wyatt's belt potentially scratching my beloved car. And I most definitely did not think about the angel.

I stretched all my human senses as far as they could go and filled them with Wyatt as my hands yanked his shirt up and roved up his bare sides. It was so much, but it wasn't enough. I'd had purely human sex with hundreds of men and women throughout the centuries, but this particular human pulled forth very conflicting desires. I wanted so much more, but if I Owned him, our relationship would change forever. I'd still have him with me, but not in this physical way, and definitely not the warm friendship I'd grown to enjoy so much. _No, no Owning_. Not with an angel so close, and especially not Wyatt. Not Wyatt.

Unable to resist exploring beyond human limitations, I carefully sent tiny gentle feathers of my personal energy into him, touching, seeking, and gathering knowledge of him without taking. No Owning, just checking things out. No Owning. Wyatt pulled his mouth from mine and gasped, his pupils huge in his blue eyes.

"Oh my. What are you doing?"

He didn't sound fearful, or in pain. Actually he sounded turned on beyond belief, which ratcheted up the desire on my end as well. I added more feathers of my personal energy, and focused them on his neural pathways. Wyatt shuddered in obvious pleasure, and bent to kiss me again, running his lips over my jaw and down my neck. I'm ashamed to admit it, but at this point I just lost it. It's hard enough to maintain control when your flesh in this form is so stimulated. It had taken lots of practice and the guidance of my foster brother, Dar before I could have human sex without killing my partner. And here I was, wanting that human orgasm so bad, and at the same time right on the edge of Owning him completely. I tightened the feathers within him, and I pulled.

"Mine," that familiar voice deep within me announced in silence. It was a word that carried power, that announced claim. It was my way of marking my territory and enveloping what I would soon Own.

Wyatt went rigid and with a sharp breath pulled back. We began an escalating tug of war deep inside him that would have been funny had it not been so deadly. Want, want,want. I was firmly attached and nothing he could do could shake me off. His tugs started to take on a feel of desperation. I pulled steadily, making slow progress only to be halted as he dug in with all his might.

We were at an impasse. I could take him against his will, but I would need to rip him free of his body. It would be even more bloody and messy, and a clear act of violence to anyone who would be watching. It also would result in my head being lopped off by that angel before I could complete the act.

The sexual stimulation had ended with Wyatt's insistence on not becoming dead. His unwillingness to proceed and give his whole self over was like a splash of sanity on my desire and I relaxed slightly in my grip. What the fuck was I doing? No Owning. And no Owning Wyatt. How could this have gone so wrong?

"Wait," I told him in what I hoped was a reassuring voice. "I'm pulling free, but I need to do it slowly so you don't rebound and go into convulsions or start hemorrhaging". Okay, maybe that wasn't so reassuring.

"Don't pull back hard. Just hold your ground and gently ease back. Don't panic."

I'd never done this before. I'd never had an unsuccessful Own, or stopped part way like this and backed out. I was a little worried that I'd screw it up and end with Wyatt dead. I took a calming breath and began disengaging the feathers one at a time, with great care. When they were barely touching, I gently drew them back through Wyatt a few at a time. It was taking forever, but Wyatt held very still. I'm surprised he trusted me, but I guess he really didn't have any other option. His breath hitched as I pulled my energy back within me and I paused worried he was going to panic and injure himself.

Slowly I continued, pulling the last of my energy out of him and stepped back. It felt almost cold after all the heat our closeness had generated. Wyatt stared at me but I couldn't read him in the darkness of the parking lot.

"What on earth were you trying to do? What _are_ you?" he said, his voice firm now that he wasn't fighting for his life.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice a pitiful whine. I wasn't sure what to say. "I lost control. I'm so very sorry. It won't happen again."

"What are you?" he repeated, careful not to touch me. "Normal people don't do whatever it was that you were doing. I've always thought there was something weird about you, but you've been my friend so long that I just ignored it."

I squirmed. I really didn't want to tell him. Either way this was probably the end of any potential sex with Wyatt. This was probably the end of anything with Wyatt.

"Wyatt, you've known me for two years," I pleaded. "I don't want to lose you as a friend. Please forgive me. I promise it will never happen again. Never."

"Are you some kind of alien? A witch? Are you the devil, like that Jehovah's Witness guy said this spring? You need to tell me what you are right now or this friendship is definitely over."

I sighed, closing my eyes. "Your kind would call me a demon. I'm not like you think, though. I don't run around mildewing the global crop harvest, or trying to enslave the human race. I just want to have a normal life, like everyone else."

"A . . . A demon?" He sounded rather panicked. "As in Satan demon? You take people's souls and condemn them to hell? You like to tear people's limbs off and torture them before you kill them?"

I winced. Yeah. Although it sounded so much worse when he said it.

"No, no, not at all," I assured him. "I'm just an imp, no more than a cockroach in the scheme of things. I'm still me, Wyatt. The same me that I've always been."

He looked undecided. But undecided was better than hating me, or never wanting to see me again.

"I never wanted to hurt you. I'm sorry. Once I realized what I was doing, and that you didn't want it, I stopped. You're okay, I swear. And I will never do it again. I promise."

"Were you trying to kill me? How is that not hurting me? How in the world would you think I'd want that?" The indecision was teetering in an unfavorable direction.

"I would never kill you, Wyatt," I told him, my eyes beseeching him to forgive me and go back to the way things were between us. "I just got carried away. It's been a really weird day. I would never hurt you, never kill you." I was lying. There was a good chance that I would eventually lose control and hurt him, probably would eventually kill him.

Silence stretched on between us. I smelled the dumpster nearby, listened to the bugs singing. I wished Wyatt would say something, or hit me, or knock my head against my car. Anything. I couldn't even leave since he was blocking the door of my car. This fiasco ranked right up on par with the angel showing up tonight. I'd never see Wyatt again after this. No relaxing conversations by the pool. No sex. No Owning. I was a stupid fucking idiot and I just wanted to go home.

Wyatt stared at me in silence for what seemed like eternity, and then he stepped aside and opened my car door for me. I felt like my guts were going to drop out of me when he did that. It seemed so dismissive, so final. I slid by him and bent to crawl into the seat.

"Get some sleep, Sam," he said in a calm, tired voice.

I drove right home. And I didn't really care if the angel showed up and killed me in my sleep or not.

# Chapter 4

I had a restless night and was just starting to get back to sleep when my cell phone rang.

"Ugh," I grunted into it, not able to focus on the screen enough to see who was calling me at such an ungodly hour on a Saturday.

"Get your lazy rear out of bed and get down here. I've already tacked up your horse." Then a click.

I stared at the phone fully awake and perplexed. Wyatt. And he sounded downright cheerful. Was this how humans dealt with conflict that involved someone nearly killing you? How they dealt with finding out their neighbor and best friend was a demon? True, he wasn't in my bedroom dragging my naked ass out of bed, but he was still intending to keep our riding date. With a spark of hope, I leapt out of bed and pulled on jods and a polo shirt. I grabbed my field boots by the door and ran barefoot out to the stables. Wyatt tossed my helmet at me as I dashed in.

Piper, my big bay gelding, stood ready with his English saddle and bridle. Piper was a Thoroughbred Shire cross. He was tall and solid with a placid, unshakable disposition. Horses don't like demons, and they especially don't like me. It had taken me years to get Piper to let me put a saddle on him, let alone ride him. I loved riding, though, and the time it took to gain the horse's trust was time well spent in my book.

Wyatt had saddled up Vegas for himself, a chestnut Quarter Horse gelding with an impressive pedigree. He was smaller than Piper, and less muscular, but full of heart with a silly sense of humor. Wyatt must have suspected I bought Vegas for him when I brought the horse home last year. I don't ride Western, and have never been into Quarter Horses. I spent a fortune on this horse hoping Wyatt couldn't resist and would ride with me. It had worked. Since Vegas arrived we tended to go out a few times a week when weather allowed.

I eyed Wyatt as he finished with Vegas. He looked the same as usual. Well rested, freshly showered (unlike me), cheerful. Had last night not happened at all? If I'd realized my neighbor was some strange powerful being who wanted to fuck me and kill me at the same time, I don't think I would be out riding horses with her the next day. Well, maybe I would, but I'm not a human.

I hopped around the aisle of the barn in an undignified manner, putting on my boots as Wyatt tightened Vegas' girth. We hadn't spoken a word and I wasn't sure how to break the ice while managing to carefully avoid mentioning the last six hours. I strapped on my helmet, then smiled and tossed Wyatt one off the rack.

"Catch."

He caught it and scowled playfully.

"You must be joking. Since when have you ever seen me fall? Cowboy hat, maybe; riding helmet, no."

I have this argument with Wyatt every time we ride. I'd done the whole "my stable my rules" and "my horse my rules" thing. He argued, but always gave in. And it's true he never fell. The guy rode like he was crazy–glued to the saddle.

"Accidents happen, Wyatt. And I can't put your brains back in your head".

Wyatt looked at me speculatively.

"Can't you? You seem to be able to heal yourself. To what extent can you do it with others?"

"I don't technically have the ability to heal," I explained. "I can fix myself, but I usually screw it up when I try to fix someone else. Besides, I'm not good with brains. They're really tricky."

Wyatt thought a moment. "Okay, why are brains so hard? As opposed to, say, a liver or an amputated limb?"

"The actual physical formation of the brain isn't an issue; it's all the neural pathways." I loved explaining this sort of thing, and it was kind of nice to have this conversation with Wyatt.

"You have no idea the number of neural connections in the human brain. Plus, they change from moment to moment. You're literally not the same person you were a few seconds ago, each experience changes the connections in slight ways. I could do a decent job, only to have you missing half your life experiences or a significant change in your personality. One little missed connection has huge consequences."

Wyatt looked at the helmet with new respect.

"If you were a flatworm, I'd say 'go for it'. I'd be pretty confident I could fix your neural network and you'd still be fairly close to the flatworm you were before the accident. Since you're a human, I can pretty much guarantee I'd fuck it up big time."

I was very serious. Wyatt seemed to realize that and put on the helmet without further argument.

We rode for hours without a word, just like we always do. Fast. Through woods, and over coops into adjoining fields and the public trails that snaked all through this section of Maryland. Normally we'd meet the occasional mountain biker or four wheeler, but today it was just us and nature.

I'm a terrible rider. Couple that with the fact that horses don't like me or my kind much, and it means I spend a lot of my time in the dirt, on my ass, staring up at the horse. I only fell off once that morning, losing my balance over a coop. Piper stopped as soon as I hit the ground and looked at me reprovingly.

"Sorry, boy," I told him, then looked around for a log, fence, rock, something to get me up high enough to climb back into the saddle. Piper was a big boy. After trying a few things unsuccessfully, I clambered up the coop, but couldn't get Piper close enough. Wyatt rolled his eyes at me and finally hopped off to throw me back into the saddle.

As we cooled down the horses on a walk back toward my barn, Wyatt looked over at me cautiously.

"So, do you demons possess people? Like in _The Exorcist_?" he asked.

I shuddered. Possessing involves putting yourself in a human body with the human still in there. It is stupid and dangerous. You have maybe ten percent of your power, and it announces your presence like a bullhorn. Demons who regularly do possessions don't last a fortnight.

"No. Only the very lowest demons do that. Not me." Well, not since that time a few centuries back when a priest yanked me out and stuck me in a pig body instead. Pigs don't appreciate that sort of thing.

We hopped off of our horses in the stable yard and walked in together. Wyatt still looked rather nervous. I could see the fear in him, even though he struggled to hide it. I wished I could show him that I was still the same person he grilled steaks with Thursday night. The same girl he pitched into the pool headfirst last week. I hated that he looked scared of me.

Tossing his saddle pad in the corner, Wyatt took his saddle into the tack room while I brushed Piper. I hoped he could move past this. I hoped we could at the very least still be friends. No doubt I'd see a for–sale sign in front of his house within the week.

"Sam? You need to come in here," Wyatt called.

I walked into the tack room carrying my saddle and saw Wyatt standing over Boomer. My hound was sprawled on the floor, his brindle fur covered with bites, cuts and blood. He thumped his tail and panted as he saw me. I bent down and examined his wounds carefully. This couldn't have been the angel. If it were, Boomer would have been dead and disintegrated. I couldn't imagine what could have attacked him. No dog would have gotten a tooth on him, let alone tore him up this bad. A fox wouldn't have taken him on. There were coyotes around, but even cornered and fighting for their life they wouldn't have caused this kind of damage. The Allegheny Mountains used to be home to Eastern Panthers, but they were no more. A few had been sighted down south, but not up here. A bear maybe? A black bear defending her cubs may have done this. There did seem to be more claw marks than bites, which would indicate a bear. Boomer wasn't one to back down from a fight either, stupid dog.

"Uhhh Sam? You're, uhhh, leaking," Wyatt said observing me cautiously.

I looked down and realized that I had let some of my raw energy creep up to the surface where it was glowing across my skin like a sheen of sweaty light. An opalescent drop fell to the floor and sizzled like acid. I discretely neutralized it. I never leak. It was a point of pride with me. How embarrassing. Just one more slip I couldn't afford to make with an angel so close.

"Sorry. I was trying to think what could have done this. Boomer is smart, and much stronger than he looks."

"I'd speculate big cat," Wyatt said, bending down to look closer. "Or grizzly, but not in this part of the country. We really need to get him into the emergency vet."

"No, he'll be Okay," I assured him. "It's not that bad."

Wyatt looked at me in disbelief.

"Let me at least carry him into the house and do first aid from the vet kit."

"He _stinks_ ," I countered. "I'm not letting him my house like this."

Wyatt glared at me. It was a good glare. We stood that way for a while in a silent contest of wills.

"Okay!" I threw up my hands. "I'll fix him." I couldn't say no to Wyatt. Especially now that our friendship was teetering on the edge.

"I thought you said you weren't good at that when it wasn't yourself. Let's just take him to the vet," Wyatt urged.

Wyatt had enough to freak out about without my explaining that Boomer wasn't a normal dog. That would have to wait.

"I can do Boomer. He'll be fine. Really."

I picked up a rubber handled screwdriver and looked around. Crickets and spiders were too small. The barn cat hadn't had her kittens yet, or I would have used one of them. Ah, there was a big mouse over behind the feed tub. I locked eyes with it holding the animal in place as I carefully moved the feed tub. Then I impaled him with the screwdriver.

"Here," I said handing the squirming bleeding mouse–on–a–stick to an incredulous Wyatt. "Take this and stick him in the bug zapper."

"Can't we just take him to the emergency vet?" Wyatt asked, holding the mouse with an admirably firm grip.

"The mouse?" I asked confused. "He's almost dead. I don't think they can do anything for him."

Wyatt sighed in exasperation and left the room with the mouse.

I surveyed Boomer, and when I heard the distinctive sound of the bug zapper, I put my hands on him. Before I fixed him, I wanted to check out his damage and make very sure that he hadn't been in close contact with an angel. I couldn't imagine an angel would scratch and bite, but just in case I sent energy down inside the wounds to explore. No angel or demon energy. Just plain old bites and scratches, thankfully. Satisfied, I pulled my energy back and readied myself to fix my dog.

One way I can fix is by driving cell reproduction into overdrive and accelerating the natural healing process. It involves minimal energy, but has its issues. You're making a copy of a copy of a copy, and those cells aren't as stable as what they originally were. For a really good heal, you need to recreate and that involves conversion. The resulting cells are solid and perfect. Better than they were before injury in most cases.

Unfortunately conversion has a very specific energy signature. Any angel who senses conversion (and they have very acute senses for this) knows exactly what he is dealing with and usually can track the energy to its source. So basically, what I was about to do to Boomer was like sending up a flare. I hoped that the energy of the bug zapper electrocuting the mouse would mask my own energy. Human energy usage often did, if the energy I used was small enough. Still, it was a risk. I was a fucking idiot risking myself like this just to make Wyatt happy.

It took seconds. I fixed everything at once. Cracked bone, chipped rib, torn muscle, veins, nerve connections, skin cells, regrew hair. He'd had a bowel perforation which was just disgusting. I had to recreate the section of intestine, and then search throughout his abdomen taking out bacteria and microorganisms that had no business outside the digestive system. As I stared down at the newly whole Boomer, I realized that Wyatt was still electrocuting the mouse.

"Okay, I'm done. You can stop now," I called.

Wyatt came running in and handed me the screwdriver with a blackened, reeking lump of burnt mouse on the end. I looked at him in astonishment. What did he expect me to do with it? Eat it? It looked like a macabre shish kabob.

"I thought you needed that," he explained. "For a magic spell or something to heal Boomer."

His voice trailed off as he noticed Boomer was whole and standing beside me thumping his tail.

"Oh yes, worked great," I told him tossing the mouse and screwdriver into the metal trash can. "Thank you"

I wasn't about to go into lengthy explanations of how I hoped the electricity would cover up my quick fix of Boomer. How I hoped that I didn't have an angel bearing down on me right now.

We finished with the horses and turned them out to pasture for the day, then stood awkwardly looking everywhere but at each other. Neither one of us knew what to say; how to end the morning.

"I'm going to grab a nap. I'm having some friends over for a gaming party tonight and we'll probably be up all night," Wyatt said looking at the rafters.

"Me too. Nap I mean, not the gaming party. So, see you around?"

He nodded, still looking at the rafters. We each paused a moment, then left. One step forward, two steps back. At least he was still talking to me.

I made a ham sandwich, showered, and curled up for a long nap. I had a busy evening ahead, and unfortunately it didn't involve crashing Wyatt's gaming party.

# Chapter 5

I languished in bed a good chunk of the day, curling up in the feather pillows and indulging in some much needed sleep. Late afternoon, I hauled myself up, showered, and ate some leftover Chinese food from my fridge while in the nude. I saw the blinking light on my cell phone telling me I missed a call from Michelle.

"Hey girl," I said as she picked up. "Sorry I left last night without saying anything."

I was undecided what excuse to give. I couldn't very well tell her that I was running for my life, or that I had a date to suck the life force out of my sexy neighbor. Luckily Michelle herself supplied a plausible alibi.

"No problem, I know you and Candy had business to discuss."

Ahhh , right. Candy had left when I did. I was surprised she hadn't stayed and pawed the angel with everyone else. She must have really wanted to sell me those canal properties to follow me out the back door like that.

"Were you there when that movie star arrived?" Michelle asked.

For a second I was confused, and then I realized she must mean the angel.

"I'm pretty sure he was in that action flick from this spring with the runaway train. They're filming some Civil War romance out at Antietam battlefield this week and he must be in it. He was so nice. Everyone mobbed him and he didn't get angry or snotty or anything. Huge guy, built like a tank and just gorgeous. All those curls, and his eyes were black. I mean black. They were darker than mine. He signed a few autographs. Jeff thought he was that wrestler, but this guy had longer hair and was older than him."

Yeah, much older. I listened to Michelle continue to speculate on what movie star the angel might have been.

"Did he mention where he was staying or how long he'd be in town?" I asked. Or if he was hunting down a demon?

Michelle didn't know where the angel was holed up, or if he was still in the area or not. She didn't seem to know much and I wondered if angels had the ability to wipe memory or influence emotion. I wished I could do that. It would be a very useful skill.

I hung up with Michelle without much more knowledge than before, and with an unsettling hunch that I would probably see this angel again. Finally, around dusk, I threw on some running clothes and laced on my shoes. Boomer was waiting for me on the doorstep.

Boomer isn't a full blooded Plott Hound. He was what humans would have called a hell hound. One of my kind had impregnated a female dog, and the result was Boomer. It's really not as disgusting as it sounds. We have sex with just about anything we can catch. Breeding, though, is a different matter that requires intent on our part, even cross species breeding. Spawning a hell hound wasn't cause for embarrassment, but it would get you teased a bit. Producing animal hybrids could be very lucrative, as there was a good market for them. So, some of us put up with the teasing and earned a good living through hybrid breeding.

I hadn't sired Boomer, I'd actually won him off another demon in a bet. Back home, there was a certain enhancement to my reputation in having him in my household. Unfortunately, I'd had to lock him down tight when I'd brought him here and he was not as useful as I wished. I don't have the best impulse control, but Boomer has none at all.

The first time I'd brought him here, we'd had to run for our lives hours later. Several times, I'd experimented with different degrees of reduction of his powers, but I'd ended up having to practically neuter him to keep him from being detected. He was little more than a regular dog in his current state, and that made me feel a bit guilty about his injuries. If he'd been at his full strength, nothing shy of an angel or one of my kind could have hurt him. Of course, I was a little pissed at him too for not backing off and retreating before he was so dangerously injured. A normal dog would never had made it home in that state, but Boomer had enough minimal use of his energy to keep himself going and drag himself home.

"Take me there, boy," I told Boomer softly, and he headed down our lane toward the main road.

As we passed Wyatt's house, I saw the cars lined up all over his grass with people laughing and cheerfully carting boxes of electronics toward the front door. Wyatt jogged out to the road when he saw me. Boomer eyed him, then wiggled up to him and nudged his hand for petting.

"You hump his leg and I'll rip your head off," I told him. I meant it.

"Me or the dog?" Wyatt asked in good humor. "You're going for a run this late?"

"Yeah, I slept all afternoon and my internal clock is out of whack," I said.

Wyatt looked up. "Should have some decent moonlight. Come over when you're done to help us kill insurgents and protect the homeland. We'll be going until the wee hours."

I nodded, and Wyatt broke away to answer one of his guest's questions regarding cable compatibility. He seemed more comfortable with me. Almost like before. I felt an ache of hope and longing as I watched him carry a box in his house. If I got back early enough, I think I might just go kill some zombies.

Boomer and I reached the end of the lane, close enough to hear the cars on Route 26. Boomer looked at me expectantly and broke into a trot. We headed west weaving through country roads and cutting across fields. Although I appreciated the efficiency of as–the–crow–flies travel, I struggled to get over barbed wire fences and undetected through people's lawns. The terrain was hilly with rather treacherous footing given the dim light. We crossed from Carroll into Frederick County and I wondered how far Boomer had been ranging. Finally, about five miles from home, we paused at the fence line of a mowed hay field. There was a tiny, one story ramshackle house at the back edge of the field. Boomer again looked at me expectantly.

There were no lights leading up to the house, and no porch light, although the lights in the house indicated someone was home. I wasn't sure what was going on. Boomer's injuries didn't look like they were caused by any guard dog that this human might have. I couldn't imagine this homeowner having a bear or a mountain lion as a pet. Finally. I just walked up to the front door and knocked, figuring I'd ask the resident if he'd had any bear trouble lately.

The door swung open on its hinges from the weight of my knock. You would have thought with all the movies I'd watched that I'd know better than to walk in. In every cop show, in every horror movie, bad things happened when the door was ajar like this and the hero/victim walked right on in. I wasn't used to considering myself as either a hero or a victim, so walk in I did. And I got knocked sideways into the wall. A dirty, unshaven, vagrant–looking man glared at me. Then, I did my second stupid thing. I pulled out my mean and ordered him to back off.

I should have realized he was bumfuck nuts. Insane. Mentally unstable. Mean works great on just about everyone except crazy people. They are very sensitive to my kind as it is. They recognize us, and they won't back down ever. No matter what you throw at them, what you do to them, they will not back down. They will vocally and physically fight you with every whacked out insane skill they have. They will out you to everyone they see. Luckily, no one believes them most of the time. Insane people have followed me all over downtown and for blocks informed all passerby that I was a fire–breathing, plague–spreading devil come to kill them all and end the world. The only thing you can do is look embarrassed and hope the cops come to haul the guy away.

"Demon," this particular crazy guy shrieked at me in a pitch so high it hurt my ears. "You send your hell hound to spy on me, and here you are to take my soul. You will not succeed."

He started grabbing random things and throwing them at me. He was very accurate in his aim. I deflected the pillows and shielded myself from the bottles and books. I ducked and dodged while running around the room trying to get in a good position to dive at him, or to force him in a place with fewer potential projectiles. He didn't seem to be running out of ammunition anytime soon, so I dropped to the floor and dove under a table. This crawling on the floor thing was beginning to be a habit.

"Could use some help here, you fucking worthless cur," I shouted at Boomer who peeked in the door and laughed at me.

The house was like a damn hoarder's, I thought as I hid behind chair legs and avoided picture frames, headphones, lamps and ashtrays. Ashtrays. Who the hell smoked in the house anymore? All the while, the guy continued to shrill accusations about my kind and my supposed intentions. According to him, I had been stalking him for decades and was planning on forcing him to eat his own eyeballs while I gnawed on his spleen.

This could go on all night, and the guy could easily overpower me if he found an opening and grabbed me. I knew the risks involved, but didn't have much choice. I shot a burst of electricity at him converting so I could get it past the air's resistance. It wasn't much, only twenty five thousand volts, but I kept the amperage low and the burst short. Hopefully it was just enough to throw him off balance and get him calm enough to tell me where the bear was.

The guy screamed and dropped to the floor clutching his heart. Drama queen. There was no way that did more than shock his skin. I darted from under the table and held him in place with a chair. I knew better than to try and touch a crazy person. I should have known better than to shock one.

"Have you had a problem with any bears? Maybe raiding your garbage? Or perhaps someone around here has an exotic pet? A big cat?" I felt like a total fool asking someone these questions while I was pinning him to the floor with a chair.

Imagine my surprise when, with an inhuman roar stinking of garbage breath, the guy flung both me and the chair across the room and against the wall. Things got blurry for a few seconds. As the guy ripped the chair away and went to slap me, I raised my arm in defense and was again surprised when his nails tore through my arm, raking strips of flesh and muscle down to the bone. Finally focusing, I realized that instead of hands he had claws. And an elongated jaw with sharp teeth. Very unfortunate and unattractive deformities.

I felt the claws dig into my side, and was flung once again across the room, to skid on the floor and into the couch. Pain ripped through my side, but I was relieved to realize he hadn't punctured my liver or any other important organ. This was really enough. I wasn't about to fight like a human while he tore me into jerky strips. I breathed in and threw a much larger bolt of electricity at him. About one hundred amps worth. It was a small amount, but still overkill when converting it through the air between us and pushing it through the skin's natural resistance directly into his chest cavity. I was capable of producing at the level of lightening, but I didn't feel like setting the house on fire. A billion volts and a hundred thousand amps would be hard to control too as it blew through the human and out through the wall behind him.

The guy convulsed as the current crashed his heart, seized his diaphragm, and burned out organs as it exited down his back. He danced like this for a few seconds while I was sure to keep the current going steady. In electricity, it's important to keep a constant stream as humans have been known to survive short intermittent bursts even at very high levels. It really sucks when you think someone is dead, only to have them get up and stagger at you a few moments later. Finally, he collapsed with a smell of burnt hair and skin.

I walked over and lay my hands on the man, letting my energy explore him. He was dead, which given the oddness of my last twenty four hours I wasn't taking for granted. He was also weird. DNA is mostly the same among all mammals, but there are slight differences. This guy had human DNA, but there were anomalies. The areas I noticed were similar to those humans with Hypertrichosis, although it was more than the X chromosome link, and he didn't seem furry enough. Perhaps he indulged in laser hair removal? He didn't look like he could afford that kind of thing, especially since it would have had to be extensive. Hypertrichosis also didn't explain the extended jaw and elongated strengthened nails.

Reluctantly, I pulled away from the man. Curiosity killed the cat, but I couldn't let it kill me. I had to get out of here. With an angel so close and presumably on the hunt for me, I was worried that my energy burst, even one so common place as electricity, would be investigated. I looked around at the wreckage of the house, and headed home.

Easier said than done. Five miles with deep lacerations on your forearm and waist, plus a concussion and bruises was not a cake walk. I jogged when I could, and walked a lot. In some spots I needed to go around entire fields as it was too much for me to get over the fencing. The whole way home I cursed Boomer, who had hid outside the door during the entire fight and was without a scratch. The trip in had taken an hour max; the trip back over three hours. I limped by Wyatt's house at past three in the morning in considerable pain and longing for my bed. His yard was filled with cars, and his house lit up with flashing lights of video games and sounds of shooting, screaming, and laughing. People milled around the porch with the deep hum of conversation. I know I was invited, but there was no way I was popping in to visit Wyatt and meet all his friends dirty, sweaty and covered with blood and gashes. I paused and looked longingly at his house, then walked on by.

Boomer got another scolding as I locked him in the barn. There's nothing a hellhound likes more than eating corpses, and I didn't want him heading back out to snack on the dead guy, or getting in any more trouble. I was thinking of sending him back home for my household to care for if this was the kind of bullshit I'd have to deal with. Bad, bad dog.

Giving one more longing look toward Wyatt's house, I headed in. Running attire went into the trash, and I showered, nearly passing out in pain as the hot water hit my wounds. I had slowly begun fixing the damaged flesh, but I was taking a very long time to avoid any excess energy use, which might give me away. I'd done way too much in the past few days as it was, and I could hardly keep frying mice or causing power surges in my house. I would just have to deal with injury and pain and make this a slow project.

Finally clean, I dug around in my bathroom and carefully bandaged my side and arm. They were healing nicely, but I didn't want to take the chance of anything breaking open and oozing blood on my sheets. I have absolutely no experience in first aid, and the tape pulled uncomfortably on my skin. I tossed and turned in bed for a while before giving up and heading down to doze off watching TV.

# Chapter 6

Sunday was another scorcher. I was in my usual spot by the pool with fluffy towel and a mug of hot sweet coffee. It had been a rough night of sleep, partly due to the invasion of Anime from the TV into my dreams. My injuries were healing, but were still angry red welts across my arm and waist. Ugly, even if they did match the red kiss marks on my bikini. Not that it mattered. No one was likely to see me sweating alone by the pool.

Taking a swig of the hot coffee, I rolled onto my stomach. The heat on my back was intense, even this early, and drops of sweat tickled as they rolled across my back and down my sides. James Brown shouted in my ears and I just let my mind wander. That guy last night was so weird. And not just his mental state either. I wished I could have brought him back here and taken him apart at my leisure; tease apart his genetic sequence and see what his body told me. I toyed with the idea of going back and seeing if I could stuff his body into the Suburban. I'd need to hide it from Boomer while I played with it though. Otherwise he'd eat it.

I wondered what the authorities would think when his body was discovered. Electrocutions did happen, although you'd usually expect to see a fire, or at least a burnt out socket or appliance. It clearly looked like there had been a fight in the place too. House trashed and resident apparently killed with a burst of electricity to the chest. I'd probably left some of my blood behind and that would be puzzling too. I can hold my blood to strictly human parameters, but under stress or when I'm using energy, my own signature mixes in along with energy. It would totally fuck up their analysis, I thought with amusement.

A shadow touched my thigh and moved up to block the sunlight on my back. I rolled over and thought how incredibly sexy this was to be lying here sweaty and nearly naked, squirming as I shifted on the lounge with Wyatt standing over me. Wyatt's eyes roved and I adjusted the bikini top making sure to give the girls a good jiggle. My eyes roved too and I really liked what I saw at this angle.

Wyatt's eyes stopped and he frowned.

"What on earth did you do to yourself?" he asked, horrified at the raised red welts in slashes across my body and arm. At least they weren't oozing any more. "Did you have a fight with some barbed wire last night? Or that bear that tore up Boomer?"

"I should have stuck with the treadmill," I said, skirting the topic.

"They look awful," he continued, clearly not willing to let go of this one. "I know how quickly you heal; you must have been practically cut in half to still look like that."

"I'm fixing them very slowly," I confessed. "I kinda need to lay low and watch it, so I'm going to look nasty until later tonight. It wasn't that bad, really."

"Why do you need to lay low?" he asked.

Ugh. Why couldn't he just stand there and look sexy?

"I'm a demon, Wyatt. If I make my presence here too obvious, there are things that will come to take me out."

That scared look flashed across his face, again. My gut tightened in reaction; here we go again.

"What things? You're a demon, what in the world would be able to take you out?" he asked.

"I'm not immortal. Damage this body enough and I won't have time to fix it or create another before I die."

"Humans wouldn't come after you for healing yourself," he persisted. "What would?"

"Angels," I admitted. "If they detect us, they come and kill us."

Wyatt stared at me a moment. "Angels."

I wasn't sure what to say, so I just let the word hang in the air.

"So, how did you get these injuries?" Wyatt finally said, breaking the silence.

"Barbed wire," I lied. No sense in making him an accessory after the fact.

Wyatt studied the cuts in silence and nodded.

"Do I need to burn up another mouse for you? Or something larger, like a squirrel perhaps?"

Ha, ha. Very funny. Actually I was relieved that he was somehow beginning to take all this horror film weirdness in stride.

"Nah, I'm good. I've got fresh coffee in the kitchen. Grab yourself a mug and pull up a chair."

Wyatt looked amused.

"It's got to be one hundred degrees out here and you're drinking hot coffee?"

"I like it hot." I told him. "Throw some ice in it if you want though."

Wyatt disappeared into the house. I loved that he was so comfortable around and inside my place. Like he belonged here. He'd know right where the coffee mugs were, where in the fridge I kept my special stash of cream. I wished he was as familiar with the upstairs portion of my house as the downstairs.

I heard him return with his coffee and the scrape of the lounge chair he pulled up.

"I've got to go over to Mom's this evening for a family dinner," he said conversationally. "Amber's home from college. Her birthday is Tuesday and we're celebrating."

"Amber is your younger sister, right?" I asked. I could never remember human family relationships. Back home, no one knew or cared who their parents or siblings were. We were raised in group homes and didn't have these complicated family trees to keep track of.

"Yeah, she's nineteen," he paused for a moment as if considering whether to continue. "I did have an older sister, but she died before I was born. Rachel was three when she drowned in a neighbor's pool. I wasn't born until five years later, and Amber was born five years after me."

"Your folks are divorced?" Humans always seemed to get divorced. I couldn't figure out why they got married at all.

"No, Dad died when I was ten. He was installing a two–twenty line in the garage for a dryer hookup, and he somehow electrocuted himself."

Okay, that was really freaky, given all the electrocution occurring yesterday. Clearly, it was a coincidence since it had happened fourteen years ago.

"Anyway," Wyatt continued, "have any ideas on what to get a nineteen year old girl?"

I moved down my sunglasses so he could clearly see my raised eyebrows.

"Okay, I guess it's gift card time."

"How about those stuffed animal pillows I see on TV?" I suggested with amusement.

Wyatt laughed. "Amber isn't the cheerleader, pink, cutesy toy kind of girl. She's more geeky– Goth wannabe." He paused and grinned. "A gift certificate for body piercing and a tramp stamp?" he laughed. "Mom would kill me."

In the end, he decided the gift card was the safest option.

I enlisted his help in giving Boomer a much needed bath, and then we brought the horses in from the heat and made sure water buckets were fresh and hay bags were full. Wyatt headed off, and Boomer and I ordered pizza and settled in to watch TV. Watching one show at a time was pretty boring, so I had installed four TVs next to each other on the wall in a square arrangement. Wyatt said it looked like something from _A Clockwork Orange_.

I watched each channel's news simultaneously, but there was no report on a dead man found in his house in eastern Frederick County. The guy did look like a vagrant, so it could possibly be weeks or even months before anyone discovered his body. He didn't look the type to have social commitments where his presence might be missed. I decided I should just forget about it and relax.

# Chapter 7

My Monday morning always starts with the six o'clock Zumba class at the gym. It's packed because the instructor looks like a Latin god. Everyone loves to get in their early–morning eye candy, and they desperately try to attract his attention with their spasmodic hip thrusts. I try to never miss the Zumba class since I believe comedy is a great way to start your week.

This class, I positioned myself amid a group of tittering soccer moms. It was great fun, although I had to hold myself back from turning it into a giant mosh pit slam dance. Last time I did that, they kicked me out for a month. Today, I enjoyed watching an eighty year old lady — with a cane no less — shimmy, her boobs flying like weapons around her waist.

After the class, while everyone else lined up to flutter their eyelashes and thank the hot instructor in rusty high school Spanish, I headed out and did my real workout. There was a flyer for a Judo class and I fantasized for a moment about taking it and beating everyone into a bloody mess. I'm so competitive though that I know I'd be sparring and lose control and pop someone's head off. That would be a lot of fun, but it wouldn't be a good thing for my continued life in this realm. No Judo for me.

I was joining Michelle for lunch and meeting her at an end–of–lease walk through, so I actually showered and pulled on the clean shorts and tank top from my bag. I just watched while she inspected the oven, fridge and carpet. I can't remember the last time I did a walk through. Usually Michelle only called me in if she thought the tenant might get violent. This guy was harmless. Short skinny balding guy on government disability supplements. He was moving in with his daughter. His eyes flickered to me every few seconds, and if I moved, he jumped in alarm. It was kind of funny actually, so I made a point of moving a lot.

"The toilet paper holder came off the wall, but I put a new one on," the tenant pointed out, practically shaking with anxiety. Did he think we were going to yank it off the wall and shove it up his ass? We just wanted a decent apartment and money, not his personal pain and suffering. Sheesh.

We ended up deducting a carpet cleaning and some dry wall repair from his security deposit. No one gets out for free. We'd find something to charge even Martha Stewart for. Hot glue mark or excess faux stained glass on the lighting fixtures. The guy didn't argue, and in fact thanked Michelle and me profusely as Michelle handed him a check and collected the keys.

"Mexican?" Michelle asked as we locked up and walked toward the commercial area of downtown. This apartment was actually in a decent neighborhood close to the trendy eateries. I think I could get fifty more a month for it now.

"No way. I need a salad or I won't be able to shit for a week," I replied.

"Lovely visual there, Samantha."

I got my salad. Michelle had a ruben and enough fries to feed a small nation. I don't know where she put it. She always ate hearty, never seemed to work out, and was thin as an international model. I guess good genetics and height made all the difference. Michelle and I discussed work, as we usually did on our lunches. We debated trying a new plumbing contractor, talked about upcoming leases and who might renew versus who might move out. We commiserated about the tenant who was always losing his keys. We charged him for the copies at an exorbitant rate, but keeping spare sets and having someone run them over at very inconvenient hours was wearing on us. I wondered if one of those numerical locks would help. He'd probably forget the number, but at least we could just tell him over the phone rather than having to run over there in the middle of the night. Maybe we could still charge him each time he called for the code. Finally, as we were finishing up, I approached the topic I really wanted to discuss.

"I've got a relationship issue and want your advice," I said.

Michelle stared. We seldom discussed personal stuff. I didn't even know if Michelle had a steady boyfriend right now or not.

"What, like someone tried to spend the night? Or actually had the nerve to want more than a hook–up in a dark alley? You need to know my advice on where to dispose of the body?"

Okay, that was hitting a bit close to home.

"Wyatt and I made out Friday night, but I freaked him out and things didn't end well. He's still coming by my house and we seem to still be friends. Do you think I've ruined my chances and we're only platonic now?" Crap, I sounded like one of those whiny, desperate letters women wrote to magazines.

Michelle squealed like a murdered rabbit.

"You guys made out? Finally? I want details. Details, girl, details!"

Great. Now I regretted saying anything at all. I imagined having this conversation with my foster brother, Dar. He'd laugh his head off, then advise me to haul Wyatt into my basement, tie him up, and do whatever I wanted until I got bored with him. He'd think my extended vacation was making me weak and vulnerable. There are no girlfriend talks at home, and this was making me kind of squirmy.

"We were kissing outside a bar, up against my car, and things got a bit intense. I really freaked him out. "

"Was he into it at first? What freaked him out? How did he react?"

Hmmm, how to explain this one.

"I was doing some stuff to him that he had never done before. He was into it at first, but then I got a little carried away and it was too much for him. I could tell he wanted to stop, so I did. After I stopped he didn't seem as scared. He seemed angry, but not smash–my–head–against–the–car angry." How was that for vague?

Michelle sighed. "You're not going to give me the details, are you?"

"Nope," I told her.

Michelle looked disappointed.

"Girl, I always figured you were into the really kinky stuff, but Wyatt seems to be more of a bread and butter guy if you know what I mean." She wiggled her eyebrows. I wondered if Michelle was into the really kinky stuff. Probably not the same kinky stuff as I was.

"What happened after?" she prodded. "Before you guys left to go home. You said he's still coming over?"

"We talked a few moments. I tried to explain things. I apologized over and over like a damned broken record and swore up and down it would never happen again. He called to wake me up Saturday morning and tell me to get my lazy rear down to the barn for our ride. He seemed cheerful, but cautious and nervous at times."

"Have you guys talked about what happened since then?"

"No, but when something comes up that reminds him, he still gets that scared look. He's starting to tease me a bit about it though. Is that a good sign?" I was pitiful. The other demons would never let me live this one down if they found out.

Michelle nodded thoughtfully.

"I think you should be a little flirty with him. Make a comment, then back off and don't pursue it. Let him know you're interested still, but let him make the move. But give him lots of openings where he _can_ make a move, though. He needs to be the one to initiate it, so he feels like he's the man."

I had no idea what the hell she was saying, but I smiled and nodded and swore to myself I'd never do this again. Be flirty, but not too flirty. Give him openings to initiate sex, but not too obvious. Fuck this. If I had to do all this crap just to have Wyatt, I might as well fall back on my traditional approach. The one Dar would advocate.

I ran a few errands and headed back home late afternoon to see Wyatt heading down my driveway. I pulled alongside and thought about incapacitating him, stuffing him in the Corvette's tiny trunk and dragging him into my basement. I didn't have any decent rope, but I did have a lot of duct tape.

"Hey," I said to him, restraining my impulses.

He leaned into the car resting his forearms on the window edge. Seven inches away. I could lean over and kiss him. Or grab him. But I was supposed to let him make the moves per Michelle, the love doctor.

"What are you doing tomorrow morning?" he asked.

"Eating oatmeal. Reading the paper. Taking a shower. Naked. With a loofa sponge."

Was that flirty? Or too flirty? Shit, I didn't know how to do this thing. Wyatt did laugh though, so maybe it was the right thing to say.

"Come over to my place around nine. I want to teach you how to shoot."

"With a gun?" I was a bit confused. I couldn't imagine why I'd ever need to shoot a gun.

"Yes, with a gun," he said.

"Because I clearly need some way to defend myself?" Did he think I was in need of human technology for protection of my person? After everything that happened between us?

Wyatt reached in the window and ruffled my hair. It was the first time that he'd touched me in an affectionate manner since our 'incident'.

"No, I just thought it would be fun. "

"I didn't even think you shot real guns. Just the computer game ones." Maybe that was insulting, I though too late.

"How do you think I killed those groundhogs last fall? The ones you asked me to get rid of?" He laughed. "Did you think I stabbed them with a screwdriver, or caused them to spontaneously combust?"

I hadn't considered _how_ he killed them. They were there, putting big, horse–tripping holes in my pasture, and then they were gone. How they got gone never crossed my mind.

"Okay, I'll be there" I told him. Didn't Michelle say I should take an interest in his hobbies? At least this was more palatable than sitting on a couch, waving some little plastic thing around in front of the TV.

The next morning, I locked Boomer in the barn to be out of the way of any bullets that might loop around the house and whizz onto my property. Satisfied that he was safe, I proceeded to walk down to Wyatt's.

Up close, the dilapidated Cape Cod looked like a damned shack. The paint was peeling, and the window sills and eaves showed signs of significant rot. One broken window had a plywood board nailed over it from the inside. Was Wyatt so poor that he couldn't make even basic repairs to his house? He never complained about needing money, or doing without, but his house was in shambles. From the outside, it looked like he hadn't done a thing in the two years since he'd bought it. Perhaps his home repairs had started on the inside? It would take a lot to fix this place up, so maybe he was just doing a little at a time? Either way, the place made me feel anxious inside, like I should find a way to sneak Wyatt more money, or arrange for a contractor to show up free of charge. How could I manage this without offending his pride, I wondered? Then I wondered why I gave a shit about Wyatt's falling down house or his pride. That wasn't like me at all.

It was just as bad in the back yard. There was a dangerously rickety deck off his kitchen, grey with age and full of splintered, bowed planks. He had an equally rickety card table set up on the ground in front of the deck with a target out in my back field. There were cigarette burns, and bottle rings on the card table. An assortment of guns was laid out like a flea market sale.

I'd seen guns in movies before but had limited experience with them up close. I remembered a huge long gun about two hundred years ago when I had popped over here for some fun. It was a stupid weapon. It took forever for the guy to get it ready, and then it was just as likely to explode in his face as fire. It never seemed to hit its mark either. I'd pretty much written them off after that. They looked awesome on TV, but I know the liberty producers take with reality.

Wyatt introduced me to the guns. No really, introduced me. Like we were at a cocktail party. I got to meet Mr. Shotgun. I learned about smooth–bore barrels, the difference between gauges and calibers. This particular one was a 12–gauge, which was supposed to be the most common and thus easier to find and purchase ammunition. It was also a pump action which, according to Wyatt, was more reliable than the semi–automatics, whatever they are. Evidently, I was going to get up close and personal with Mr. Shotgun (whose first name was Remington) before I got to meet the other weapons at the party this morning.

Wyatt handed me Remington and I just looked at him. The gun I mean, not Wyatt. I stuck the butt end under my arm and grabbed the barrel with my left hand, my right hand on the bottom of the gun holding the trigger.

"Here, let me show you," Wyatt said moving behind me. "It's not loaded."

I think I stopped breathing when Wyatt put his arms around me. He moved the butt of the shotgun to the hollow in my shoulder, putting his left hand on mine and moving it back to the appropriate position. We stood there with his arms and hands against mine, the entire front length of his body pressed against my back and rear, and his lips so close to my ear that my hair moved with his breath. A slow warmth built low in my abdomen and eased down between my thighs. Maybe we could stay this way all morning.

"Sam?"

Oh, crap. He'd been giving me some kind of directions and I was supposed to respond. I had no idea what he'd said.

"Yep. Okay."

I hoped that would suffice. Wyatt gave a low chuckle against my ear.

"Should I go over that again?"

I said no. If we kept this up I was going to have to take matters into my own hands. I wished that I'd brought some duct tape.

Wyatt loaded the gun and commented that he was out of bird shot, so we were using slugs. I gleefully envisioned cramming slimy slugs into a shotgun and blowing them out the barrel. That would be so cool. Someone should invent that. Everyone would want one.

Carefully, I racked the gun and placed my left hand on the forearm and my right on the grip behind the trigger where Wyatt had positioned my hands before. Pointing it at the target, I pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

"Take off the safety," Wyatt said, pointing to the appropriate part when I looked at him blankly. "And don't forget to seat the gun against your shoulder".

I clicked off the safety and pulled the trigger. There was a roar, and a slam of pain, and I was on my ass sprawled into the dirt of Wyatt's back yard.

"Ow, motherfucker!"

"It's a 12–gauge," Wyatt said, helping me to my feet. "And we're using slug ammo. You need to get it positioned solidly on your shoulder, with your cheek against it to site it better. You're strong, there's no reason you can't shoot this gun".

I dusted my rump off and Wyatt assisted in cleaning me off, even licking a finger and wiping a smudge from my forehead.

"Let me see," he said pulling aside my tank top and bra strap to look at my shoulder.

"Ouch. You'll have a bruise."

I was feeling anything but pain as he ran a finger across my collarbone.

"Are you okay to shoot it again? Do you want to fix your shoulder first?"

"I'm fine. It's not bad."

Mr. Remington Shotgun may have won this round, but I'd be damned if I let him get the best of me.

"Did I hit anything?" I asked Wyatt.

"No, and if we're lucky you missed the neighbor's cows."

I really didn't give a shit about the neighbor's cows, but I had Wyatt show me again how to position the shotgun properly. This time, I tried hard to concentrate on what he was saying and less about his body pressed to mine. I wasn't entirely successful.

Five rounds later I was managing not to get knocked on my ass, but still didn't seem to be shooting anywhere near the target. My shoulder was killing me, but there was no way I was going to give in. Wyatt finally threw in the towel for me and suggested we bypass the rifle and move on to the pistols instead.

There were three pistols at the table. Wyatt picked up the shiny one first and showed it to me.

"This is a 9mm, which refers to the ammo. It's a Beretta. This is pretty much your standard, common–use pistol. It holds fifteen rounds in the clip, so you can get a good number of shots off before needing to put in a new clip."

Wyatt showed me how to load the clip and the bullets inside it. Next up was what appeared to be a gun for a toddler. Wyatt called it a "pocket gun" and said it was a Colt Magnum Carry which was a six–shot revolver. It was evidently an ideal backup weapon that you could strap to your calf or carry in a purse and use if something happened to your larger pistol. I still liked the idea of preschoolers packing, but I could see this had its uses for adults too.

"I have another revolver, too. My father's Colt Peacemaker. It was used in the army back in the late 1800's and is what you would have expected to see gunslingers carry in the Wild West. It was mainly a cavalry gun, but it was very popular outside the military at the time. It's a reliable gun, and even though it is single action, you can do that move you see in the westerns where the sheriff pulls the hammer back with his palm and lets it go to fire the gun rapidly without using the trigger. That's called fanning. My father taught me to shoot with that gun."

I quickly calculated human life expectancies.

"But your Dad wouldn't have been alive when that gun was made and these new guns are so superior. Why would he have bought such a relic and used it?"

Wyatt smiled.

"History is important to us, to me, and to humans in general. It links us to our ancestors and makes us see the totality of our achievements instead of just what we can accomplish in our short lifetimes."

He picked up the Beretta and looked at it fondly.

"We wouldn't have these firearms, or even the amazing weaponry in our military, without exploding cannons in the sixteenth century and generations of people dedicated to improving them. Keeping historic items around, it helps connect us with our past and allows us to feel like we can individually contribute to a chain of knowledge and advancement that builds our future."

I can't really describe how I felt hearing him say this. Humans mentally were like amoebas compared to us. The simplest things took them forever to think out and put together. I knew humans learned from each other, but this was the first time I realized the sum total of their advancements. They were mental midgets individually, but collectively and over time their intelligence and their accomplishments grew exponentially complex. Who knew what they'd be in a few thousand more years.

"I've grossly underestimated you," I said. I meant the human race as a whole, but I think Wyatt took this as a personal compliment because he beamed at me. I tucked this away to contemplate it later, and looked at the last pistol on the table. It was a huge ugly hunk of metal. I think I was in love.

"What this one?"

"This," Wyatt announced as if he were presenting me to the queen, "is a Desert Eagle .50–caliber. It has a gas operating repeating system with rotating pistol locks."

Wyatt went on to describe the firing mechanism that produced enormous pressure in the barrel, and some other stuff about backward slide movement and recoil springs. I picked it up and the sucker was heavy. About seventy two ounces heavy. It was blocky, ugly, big, and held only seven rounds, but I fell in love just as Wyatt clearly had. It was such unbelievable overkill. I did love overkill.

I picked up one of the bullets and let my energy explore it. Brass casing with bullet inside, gunpowder, and a chemical mixture of lead, sulfide, and barium nitrate at the back end. I could envision the process of ignition in the primer, subsequent ignition of the powder, and combustive pressure ejection of the bullet. Brass is soft, so the powder combustion would push the cartridge case against the inside walls of the barrel, sealing the sides and allowing maximum pressure to propel the bullet with the expanding gas. Simplistic and still inefficient since, by my quick calculations, only about twenty six percent of the energy created by the combustion would propel the bullet. The rest would be wasted in heat or unused energy. Clever, though.

I got to shoot the Beretta. Wyatt had me shoot it two handed with the butt of the gun resting in my left palm. One handed was supposedly ideal since you could turn your body and present a smaller target to your opponent, but using both hands stabilized the gun, especially for inexperienced shooters, and allowed for greater accuracy. I could have had four arms like the goddess Kali and I still wouldn't have hit the target. Five rounds with the shotgun and fifteen (a whole clip) with the pistol and the target stood there pristine and mocking me. I was tempted to just reach out and blow it to bits. That would have not only been accurate, but very efficient in energy usage. I decided that indulging in my urge to show off might send the tentative and rather promising advances in our relationship back a few paces.

Wyatt wasn't so humble. He slapped a new clip in the pistol and, with one hand, pounded out five shots in rapid succession. He didn't even look like he was aiming. In fact, he was holding the gun at some strange crooked angle which was in direct contradiction to his instructions earlier. We walked over to look at the target which had a nice cluster of holes where the drawing indicated a head should be.

"I think you killed him," I said, admiring the grouping. I wanted so badly to add that I could easily do this without a gun, while doing Sudoku and playing piano at the same time, but I figured that he knew that and I didn't want to rub it in.

I helped him put the guns back in his safe where I saw at several others he hadn't trotted out for our session. The card table and target went under the dilapidated deck.

"Come have lunch with me," Wyatt said putting a hand on my shoulder and sliding it down my arm to squeeze my hand.

I'd never been in Wyatt's house beside my journey to the gun safe just a few moments ago. It seemed strange that we'd known each other these two years, and he was so free with my place, yet I'd never been in his home. I hoped this offer of lunch indicated some trust on his part.

The house inside was just as bad as it was on the outside. Furnishings were sparsely scattered around on the chipped linoleum and worn carpets. Wood paneling covered most of the walls, except for a strange wallpapered photograph mural in what must have been the dining room depicting a green forest scene. The furniture all looked to be hand–me–downs or thrift store, and the appliances didn't match. Wyatt clearly spent every dime of his earnings on his computer equipment and TV which took up the entire living room in a humming sprawling mess of boxes and cables. I reached into the lemon yellow refrigerator to get the iced tea and the door nearly fell off in my hands.

"Shit, Wyatt. Your damned fridge door is falling off its hinges. I know what I'm getting you for Christmas."

Wyatt shrugged unconcerned and told me I'd need to lift it a bit when closing it to make sure it sealed tight. The shape of his home didn't seem to embarrass him at all. In fact, he seemed oblivious to its dilapidated condition.

We made Panini's for lunch. Wyatt didn't have a Panini press, so we used an old waffle iron instead. What he lacked in modern, functioning appliances, Wyatt made up for in the contents of his fridge. I expected a case of beer and cold Ramen noodles, but he had almost as many gourmet foods on his broken shelves as I did. We fixed turkey Panini's with gruyere, artichoke, and roasted red pepper. They were amazing. I'd not cooked before coming to this realm, but luckily many of those I Owned did know how to cook and I could call on their memories. Otherwise, I would have been at the mercy of take–out for forty years. Still, this was really good and beyond what I usually managed on my own. I told Wyatt he should come over every day and cook me dinner on my decent stove. He thought I was joking.

I hated to leave, but I had some zoning documents I needed to review this afternoon. The city was trying to extend the historical district to encompass a few blocks where I had five apartments. Having to comply with their regulations would seriously cut into my profits and just piss me off in general. I was covering the bribery and threatening bases, but it still was good to explore their logic and reasons in case I needed to rebut this in a more civilized manner. These documents would be boring as hell, but I needed to buckle down and plow through them.

Wyatt walked me to the door and as I turned to say good bye he planted a kiss on me. It wasn't passionate. It was gentle and tentative. I pushed back my raging hormones, kept my hands to my sides, and my tongue in my mouth.

"Wow, I didn't die," Wyatt said in amazement.

"And you didn't shoot me," I added.

Wyatt laughed.

"Are we okay?" I asked.

"Sam, you're my best friend," Wyatt said softly. "I can't just throw that away."

He kissed me again this time with greater intensity. I kept my hands fisted and firmly locked to my sides and kept myself in check. It wasn't easy as he held himself under no such restrictions and brought his hands up to cup my face, his fingers in my hair. I really wanted to press myself against him, but held back, even as he ran his tongue over my bottom lip. He stepped back and looked at me appraisingly.

"I'll call you later tonight," he said.

"Okay," I told him breathlessly and headed down the lane toward my house. Hmmm. A lot to think about and absolutely no desire to peruse zoning documents and historic district guidelines.

I let Boomer out of the barn and flicked on the radio and outdoor speakers by the pool. Maybe the documents would be more palatable if I read them outside. Pop music blared from the speakers, pumping out a Rihanna song. Walking over to the water I slipped off a sandal and dipped in a foot. What the hell. Work could wait. I pulled off my clothes, throwing them haphazardly around the patio and dived naked into the pool, reveling in the feel of the cool water against my skin. I did laps, and then sprawled on the inflatable lounge for a while. Fuck zoning, this was too nice a day to read that crap. I rolled off the lounge and did more laps.

As I came up for a breath of air, I saw a pair of high heels walking across the patio. They stopped a few feet from the edge and I swam to them. Pushing the hair from my eyes, I looked up and saw an immaculate Candy Starr before me. Her blond poof of hair was pulled tightly back, and she daringly wore white capris and a crisp tan and white button down shirt. I would have had dirt or coffee spilled on that outfit within seconds of putting it on. I wondered if she had a dirt repelling force field surrounding her pants. Or maybe some other kind of repelling force field, I thought humorously.

I knew I didn't have an appointment with her, and it was pretty ballsy to come out to my home uninvited to discuss business deals. I stared at her silently, not giving her the courtesy of a greeting.

"I have a rather unfortunate matter that I need to discuss with you," she said.

# Chapter 8

Okay, now I was curious. I couldn't imagine the canal row houses being an "unfortunate matter". Candy was at the bar when I saw the angel. I was hoping _that_ wasn't the "unfortunate matter" she was referring to.

I swung myself up and over the side of the pool, noticing Candy's uneasy expression when she realized I was swimming in the buff. I decided to expand on this by pulling myself upright to stand square in front of her, and wringing out my hair onto the patio. I didn't know whether she was more alarmed at the prospect of getting pool water on her gleaming white capris or the full frontal view.

"What's up?" I asked as she looked around unsuccessfully for a towel to hand me.

"I am a representative for Bobby Winegarten" she said, giving up her search and deciding to only look at me from the neck up.

She said this like I should know who the hell Bobby Winegarten was. He can't have been important or I would have remembered his name. Although I was really bad at names in general.

"Is he one of the county commissioners?" I guessed. "The one who dated the previous mayor?"

"No," she said watching me carefully with those shrewd brown eyes of hers. "Bobby Winegarten was found dead in his house on Rosecrest Lane off Old Annapolis Road last night. I'm here because he was part of my pack. As head of his pack, I represent him."

Oh fuck. The electrocuted unwashed crazy guy. It wasn't on the news last night or this morning though. And what was a pack? Why was Candy even here? Did real estate agents moonlight as crime scene investigators? Was she undercover FBI with license to deviate from the bland clothing? She'd have to be better than Spencer Reid to trace this back to me, especially in such a short time.

"I don't know him," I said casually. "Did he leave me money or something?"

Candy sighed.

"No. You killed him and I'm here to claim weregeld as the head of his pack."

I understood weregeld. We don't have family so to speak, but we do maintain households and those in our households are our property. If one is murdered, accident or not, it's not a big deal. The killer does need to pay a price to the owner, though. If not, it calls their status into question and they could be knocked down in the hierarchy, or even killed themselves. If Candy was the head of this Bobby's household, whatever she called it, then I did indeed owe restitution. I'd gladly pay it, but only if she could prove I did it. Another demon would have been able to read my energy signature and pin this on me, but I doubted this human had a video tape of me doing the deed or something equally incriminating. A murder with no evidence was no murder at all.

"If this man was murdered why aren't the police investigating it?" I asked.

"Do you really want the police investigating this?"

I shrugged and smiled. I'm not afraid of the human law enforcement officers.

"Well _we_ don't like to involve others in our matters. Our kind prefers to handle this on our own. I went to check on Bobby after he missed an appointment yesterday. I found his house in disarray; clear evidence of a fight and a struggle. Bobby was dead apparently from some kind of high voltage strike to the chest."

I walked over to a lounge chair and sprawled into it making sure I flashed Candy all the good parts. She winced and darted her eyes back to my face. She didn't want to involve the police, and her rambling about her "pack" sounded a little off the deep end. I was beginning to figure she was in the Klan or with some subversive terrorist group. I could take her. And no one would find the body. I shot a quick glance at Boomer, who casually got up and stretched before wandering off to guard against intruders.

"What makes you think I killed your friend?" I asked. "Is there a super high–powered defibrillator in my car with my prints all over it?"

Candy looked at me carefully as if she understood the gravity of her situation.

"Bobby came to me last week as his pack leader and advised me that a hell hound was spying on him. To be honest, Bobby had his struggles with reality and was always concerned that someone was trying to follow him or even kill him. I told him to continue to report on this hell hound, but not to engage it in a fight. I didn't want him tearing up the neighbor's Rotti and have to deal with covering that up.

"Late Friday night, Bobby called me and told me that the hell hound had broken into his house and he had severely injured it trying to defend himself. He was terrified that the demon who owned the hound would retaliate. I had a strong suspicion what you were after we met in the Wine Room, so I didn't want to just dismiss his claims. I met with him Saturday morning, but couldn't get a good scent on this hell hound Bobby was talking about. I could clearly smell the neighbor dog, though. Since Bobby was uninjured and there were no unusual smells I figured he was having one of his psychotic episodes. I had him take his pills and told him I'd check back with him on Tuesday. When I didn't hear from him before then, I thought he'd regained some sense of reality.

"I went over there this morning and found him dead. He apparently died late Saturday night. There were very clear scents in the house. I recognized your scent from the bar, and this time I did pick up the scent of your hound on the door sill."

"And what do my dog and I smell like," I said. This woman was clearly off her rocker. She had nothing on me, and I was looking forward to killing her.

"Your dog smells like hot chocolate and wet dog."

Yum. Well, except for the wet dog.

"You smell like dark burnt chocolate — that's very strong. You also smell like the human form you have now, and behind all that I can smell wisps of hundreds of humans and animals. I can't differentiate the humans and animals. You have the most complex smell I've ever known, and the most distinctive."

"It's nice that your nose is so acute," I said in a bored tone. "You're quite the human bloodhound." It was time to wrap this up because I suddenly wanted some pudding. The kind you cook on the stove so I could eat it warm right out of the pot.

Candy looked at me as if deciding what to do. Slowly she began unbuttoning her shirt and slipping off her heels. I watched her disrobe with interest. She clearly wasn't aflame with desire. I could only assume that maybe she felt she would negotiate restitution better if we were both on an equal, naked playing field.

Candy obviously worked out. Hard. Her body rippled with lean muscles, and her breasts were small and natural with a slight gentle droop that comes from age and childbirth. Her belly showed confirmation of childbirth too. Low down on the six pack abs she had soft folds of skin and a cesarean section scar pale above her light brown curls of pubic hair.

She carefully folded and placed her clothes on a dry lounge chair. Facing me, her muscles began rolling under her skin like a thousand tennis balls, and her bones twisted and turned. I shot up out of my chair and stared in horror.

"Fuck! Fuck! Oh shit! Fuck!" I shouted as her body twisted and turned beyond the capabilities of the human flesh she wore.

Now to put this into perspective, I don't gross out easily. I think Texas Chainsaw Massacre is a comedy. Pain and suffering doesn't bother me, but this was brutal. Watching her spend ten minutes contorting her body, changing small sections at a time as she converted was agonizing. I can't imagine how painful this must be, and I wondered how she didn't pass out. Finally she was done and a huge wolf stood before me panting with eyes a little glazed from the difficulty of the transition. She was grey, with black tips on the edges of her coarse fur. The same shrewd brown eyes looked back at me as I admired her.

It was a good conversion. Excellent control and command over the details of the body. Solid, well formed. A bit bigger in the fore body than I would have done, but powerful and imposing none the less. The wolf took a deep breath and began to transform back with the same agonizing slowness. No, it actually took longer and it looked like some portions got stuck and had to be forced into the correct form. I winced quite a few times. This would clearly win a torture contest back home. I made a mental note.

Candy stood naked before me and slowly sat down on the chaise trying not to look weakened. She didn't need to prove herself any further to me; I was impressed all to hell.

"Holy shit on a stick!" I shouted at her. "Why the fuck did you take so long to do that? You didn't have to make it last that long to impress me. You are one tough bitch, girlfriend."

Candy looked at me puzzled.

"You're not surprised that I'm a werewolf? Like something out of a horror movie? I doubt you've ever seen one of us before, since we need to keep it hidden to be in compliance with our existence contract."

"Hell, yeah I'm surprised you're a werewolf. I thought that dead guy had some mutated form of Hypertrichosis, but I didn't realize he could convert. Can you only convert to the two forms? And why did you take so long to change form? Damn that must have hurt like a motherfucker!"

Candy stood up a bit wobbly and put on her clothes.

"We are only able to assume the two forms. I don't think it's the same kind of form change that you can do. It can take anywhere from ten to twenty minutes to do a full change. It's also very difficult to change back so quickly."

When I convert, I change everything simultaneously. It takes less than a second. Basically, I hold my core personal energy, my spirit, along with any raw energy I have stored, explode out all the other molecules and structures, and then collapse them back in the form and order that I need. There are times when I do a slow conversion or a modification. Like when I want to scare the piss out of someone by having horns on my head. It's much more effective to "grow" them by extending them out my skull slowly. Flash, bang, instant horns isn't as scary. It hurts to form them slowly like that, but it's manageable. Slowly converting my entire form over up to twenty minutes was something I've never wanted to do.

"It must suck when you're attacked and it takes ten minutes to change your form." I commiserated.

"If the wolf form is optimal, we try to prepare beforehand. With today's weapons technology, though, we mainly use our wolf form only for the joy of hunting and socializing with our pack. We're strong and we have some special skills in both of our forms. If we're really in a tight spot we can change and hold a partial form for a brief time to get out of danger."

That explained the claws and elongated jaw on the dead guy. I sat back down on the lounge. Candy had earned my respect. I'd admit guilt if a demon detected my energy signature at a crime, and as a werewolf, Candy's nose was in the same category. I was ready to pay my weregeld. Just not too much.

"So, how much was the life of this psychotic troublemaker worth to your pack?" I asked.

Candy began to speak, then paused gesturing at me.

"Can you please put on some clothes? Or at least a towel."

I met her gaze then slowly reached up and pinched my nipples. Candy turned bright red and looked up at the sky shaking her head.

"Fine. It's not money I am requesting, but a service."

This was so fun, flustering her like this. I was tempted to lean over and lick one of my nipples, but she did have a legitimate petition here and I needed to be serious.

"I can't accept or decline until I know what sort of service you require."

I'd expected a dollar figure, or a request to pay an inflated price for the row houses. Judging from compensatory damage awards in lawsuits, humans put a dollar value on everything. This service request was unusual and more in the nature of what a demon would have asked.

"What do you know about angels?" she asked keeping her eyes firmly above my neck.

I went cold. What did _she_ know about angels? Humans thought of them as a vague manifestation of their deity. They bought hideous, kitschy decorative figurines depicting pious winged figures, supposedly what the angels looked like. I had no idea why the humans associated those benevolent statues with the creatures I'd heard about back home.

"Not much. Few demons still around were alive during the wars. Since the separation treaty took effect, no demon has ever survived an encounter with one. We usually pop over here for some short time fun, then get the hell out of Dodge before they kill us. They can sense us when we convert, although no one is really sure how much energy usage or how close they need to be for us to show up on their radar. Once they lock in on our energy signature, it's difficult to come back. Pretty much game over if one is on your trail."

Back home, we didn't talk much about the angels or the wars. I know we used to live together in Aaru, what the humans called heaven. We'd always had strong philosophical differences though. Angels are all about self control. They hold to their spiritual form and only become corporeal when absolutely necessary. When they are in physical form, they endure it by holding themselves apart from the form and denying themselves the experience of the flesh as much as possible. They believe that physical manifestation sullies their purity and dims their capacity for enlightenment. We on the other hand feel that experiencing everything we can in the physical realm, diving deep within the sensations of the flesh, is a necessity of life. How can one possibly be whole without feeling, touching, knowing everything one can?

I knew that these differences set the stage for the war and eventual separation. I suspected there was more to the war than philosophy, but either no one remembered or no one spoke of it. It's not like we could just walk up to an angel and discuss it. The treaty completely separated our kind. And if we met one over here, we were dead. Not much time for an enlightening conversation.

Candy waited to make sure I was done, and then dusted off a lounge chair, sitting down and putting her elbows on her knees as she leaned forward toward me.

"By our count, there are about fifty angels in this realm at any given time. I don't know what a lot of the angels do, but there are groups that are enforcers. There's one in charge of Werewolves, and one is a liaison to the Vampires."

Vampires. I hadn't seen one of those in six hundred years and I'd assumed they'd died out. Candy continued.

"These enforcers catalog everyone in their group. They ensure everyone acts within the parameters of the existence contract and kill anyone who violates the contract. Basically, werewolves all exist at the whim of the angels. This isn't a paternal kind of relationship."

"Wow, sucks to be you," I told her cheerfully. I couldn't imagine having an angel breathing down my neck every second, waiting for one to pop out of nowhere and lop your head off because you forgot to put the cap on the toothpaste or something.

She ignored my comment. "The angel in charge of enforcing the werewolves is named Althean. A few years ago, he started killing werewolves, and we knew the kills weren't justified under the contract. Lately, he's escalated."

"So why is he killing you off? Why now?" I asked suspiciously. "If he's just gone off the deep end, can't you report him up the chain of command? He's got to have a boss. They all have bosses."

Candy looked uncomfortable.

"Some of the angels hold the opinion that we're Nephilim. I'm not sure how far up this goes. It could be that Althean's boss approves of his actions."

"What's Nephilim?" I asked. It sounded like a type of cookie.

"The offspring of fallen angels and humans. Back when humans were just starting to evolve, a group of angels began having sexual relations with them. They had supposedly spawned a whole race of hybrid beings before the rest of the angels found out and came down on them with holy fury. There were no werewolves prior to this event, so many angels figure that we were the product of this joining: the Nephilim."

No way. She had to be making this one up. Angels hated being in the flesh. They would never have lowered themselves to reproduce with humans.

"Others think we were just a random event of evolution," she continued. "If we're Nephilim, then we're condemned to extermination as a reminder of how even angels can go wrong. If we're a product of evolution, then we fall under the protections and privileges that the human race holds."

Angels took forever to decide these kinds of things. It was likely this guy was just some vigilante, but he could have supporters who agreed with him, who were likely to turn a blind eye to his actions.

"Wait," I interjected. "Is this Althean the angel we saw in the bar?"

Maybe the angel in the bar was looking for Candy and not me. That would make my life so much better.

"No, based on my information, I suspect that the angel in the bar is one named Gregory."

I let that sink in. I knew where this was going.

"So who is this Gregory angel?" I asked with a growing sense of doom. Cue the scary music.

"He's over all the enforcers and takes on anything serious that's beyond the lesser angels." She looked at me sympathetically, "He's the angel who takes out the demons. If the others sense a demon presence they think they can't kill, they defer to Gregory to handle it. Gregory has killed pretty much every demon that _has_ been killed in the last eight thousand years. From what I've been told, he has a sword he uses to kill demons. The sword sucks the power from them and reduces them to a pile of sand."

I felt rather sick.

"What does any of this have to do with the service you are requesting?" Hopefully if we changed the subject I wouldn't be dwelling on the ever increasing likelihood of my being turned into a pile of sand.

"I want you to kill Althean. "

I stared at her. This was not within a mile of what I'd expected. What an insane request.

"You're fucking kidding me. My eliminating an angel, which no one has done since the war, somehow equates to the life of a crazy vagrant?"

"It's genocide. He's on a rampage to kill off our species. If he's not stopped, we'll all die."

"And that matters to me why?" Did I look like the Lone Ranger or some kind of super hero? Demon Zorro to the rescue?

Candy switched tactics.

"You've got Gregory on your trail right now. He was there in the bar for you. You know this. You're going to need to go home real soon. Imagine going home with this feather in your cap. What would this do to your position in the hierarchy? There's a reason the angels end up deferring to Gregory when it comes to demons. None of them can handle more than the weakest among you. You could take Althean out and go home a legend."

Now, that _was_ tempting. It was also absolutely insane to even dream that I'd be strong enough to take out an angel. Plus, I was hoping I could lay low and Gregory would go hunt down some other demon. A huge battle with another angel wasn't exactly laying low.

"We'd be blameless, and there wouldn't be any retaliation on us. That's important because we have to live here. You can go back and forth. You can take the blame and the fame. And the other angels would believe it was you who took out Althean and not us because they truly fear you. That's why you were banished."

We weren't really banished. It was a stalemate with a division of realms. Kind of like North Korea and South Korea.

"You'll just get another angel assigned to you," I told her. "Maybe a worse one. If this is their grand plan to exterminate your species, this will only delay that not prevent it."

Candy looked pained.

"I hope that the other angels don't care as long as we follow the rules. If this is a segment of a larger campaign though, then killing Althean will buy us time. Give some of us a chance to try and go underground or prepare to take as many of them out as we can until we're dead. I'm hoping the former."

I snorted. This whole thing was insane.

"What makes you think I could possibly take out an angel?"

Candy smiled grimly. "You've got the talent and power to do this." She looked at me speculatively with those shrewd eyes. "You're smart. Most demons could never be here this long posing as a human and remain undetected. Clever and enterprising. I think you've got great power, but you may be rusty since you haven't used it in so long."

She was good. Flattery to butter me up, then subtle insults to manipulate me into doing what she wanted. I was full of admiration. And I was NOT rusty.

"Even if I could, that Gregory guy is nearby. He would be on me like flies on shit. He'd probably kill me before I could finish the job. No deal. Think of something else for weregeld. Maybe I buy those canal properties at fair market value?" Michelle would kill me for paying so much for those things. Ugh.

Candy took a breath and looked at me cautiously.

"I've let every pack leader in North America know about you. Your appearance, your financials, your smell signature, everything. It just takes one call and the angels will have you. They'll kill you, disburse your assets, eliminate the humans you've marked as yours."

I winced. I normally don't care about humans, but Wyatt. . .

"If you leave, we'll let the angels know about you and wipe clean everything you've put together," she continued. "You'll never be able to return, either. They'll be on the lookout for you, and we will too. Doesn't matter what form you take, we can smell you and turn you in."

Fucking bitch. I might only be an imp, but I'm still a demon. I envisioned Candy in my basement with duct tape, her skin hanging in strips from an oozing body. Of course, I'm sure every werewolf in the nation knew exactly where she was. One werewolf I could take, more than five, probably not.

"He was there," she added. "At Bobby's house. The angel. Not Althean, Gregory. He's closing in on you. He sensed your energy usage, and he's coming for you. Any day now, he'll be sniffing around your house. You'll come home and find him standing over your dead dog, waiting for you."

I felt my heart pound. I'd used a small amount of energy at the tenant's house, plus what I'd done to heal Boomer, and the electricity at the werewolf house. On their own, they might not have brought attention, but all together and with an angel close by. . . I was so fucked.

Either way, I was dead. One, I go after Althean and go out in a blaze of glory. The other, I run and hide under rocks until this bastard, Gregory, finally hunts me down. I was so tired of being just an imp, a lowly cockroach.

Candy leaned forward, her face sympathetic and friendly.

"We can cover for you. Give you time to get away. You can probably still remain here, too, if you keep your energy usage low. We'll offer you friendship with the werewolves. We'll always cover for you and run interference between you and the angels. Think. You'll have the status of taking out an angel, you'll satisfy the weregeld, and you'll have valuable allies that will be duty–bound to have your back."

I thought furiously about how this might work. I could make the kill with as little energy usage as possible. If the werewolves stalled any other angels, and I held my energy tightly to myself, I'd probably have a few hours before they tracked me down even in the worst case scenario. That would give me time to get to a gate and get out.

"You need to vow to protect Wyatt, too," I told her. "I'm under no illusions that I'd be able to stay after this. I don't want the angels taking their fury out on him. I need to know that he'll be safe."

"Who is Wyatt?" Candy asked perplexed.

"My neighbor," I said, not sure what to call him. "You werewolves, each and every one of you, vow to protect him with your life, or it's no deal."

Candy didn't hesitate. "Deal."

"If I do this, you and others need to be actively involved. You're not just going to point me at him and shoot like I'm a cruise missile. I know you want to stay off the radar on this thing, but I need your knowledge and familiarity with this guy. We would need to work together to review intelligence and plan an attack. If I'm the muscle here, I'd need you to be the strategist and set up the actual event."

Candy nodded in agreement and a look of relief began to dawn on her face.

"Let's meet next week sometime for a planning session. Now, if you don't mind, I have some zoning documents I need to review before this evening."

"Tonight. We need to meet tonight. I'm afraid we'll miss an opportunity if we wait any longer to review details and strategize."

That seemed pretty fast to pull all this together. In fact, the whole thing seemed a bit fast and meticulously well planned. Like a carefully thought out game of chess. I began to suspect Candy had orchestrated this whole thing, vagrant guy and my dog and all.

I nodded in agreement. "Okay, let's meet at The Eastside Tavern tonight then. It's off Route 26, just a few miles east of here. Bring everything you have and we'll see what we come up with."

Candy indicated that she would be there tonight and left promptly.

I put my head in my hands. _How the hell am I going to kill an angel?_ I'm assuming demons could. The wars had gone on for thousands of years and we'd managed to hold our own, so we must be able to take them out. Still, they'd killed every single one of us they'd encountered since the treaty. Not exactly good odds on my part. Then there was the pesky problem of getting away even if I'd managed to kill the damned thing and survive.

And Wyatt. Just when things were starting to get better between us, this had to happen. I'd never see him again. Even if I managed to sneak back over, it could be a hundred years or more. He'd be dead of natural causes if an angel didn't bring vengeance down on his head for knowingly associating with me before. I needed to let him know about this, show him where everything was for when I left and what to do if the angels came after him. He was just starting to come to terms with my being a demon, and now I needed to tell him about angels and werewolves. Great.

"Sam, your stupid dog just bit me. Do you think he's rabid? He did get bit by that bear or something. Please tell me you remembered to get him his shots this year."

I lifted my head and saw Wyatt coming around the corner of the house holding his hand. Boomer was trailing behind him looking smug. I jumped up and went to look at his hand.

"Crap, I'm so sorry. I had someone here for a business meeting and I asked Boomer to guard against intruders. He should have known that didn't mean you."

Actually, I wouldn't have liked Wyatt to hear the conversation between Candy and me, but I wasn't going to tell him that. I looked at his hand. Boomer hadn't even broken the skin. Even so, I looked over at the dog and sent a disciplinary burst of energy at him. It was the kind of thing we did to naughty children or household members who got out of line. Boomer yipped and looked at me with big hurt hound eyes.

"Bad dog. No biting Wyatt." I told him.

I looked up at Wyatt and realized that while I had been occupied with his wound and Boomer's discipline he was staring at me with raised eyebrows.

Oh, damn. I was naked.

"I was swimming in the pool and Candy just came by." I trailed off unsure what to say. "I didn't put on any clothes because she's a repressed tight ass and it was funny to freak her out. She doesn't swing that way."

His eyes roved over me with interest and my breath caught. I was still holding his hand. And I was naked.

"I totally forgot why I came over," he said in a rather distracted tone.

I sighed with regret. I was meeting Candy tonight and had to prepare. No time for sweaty heart–pounding sex right now. Hopefully later.

"I gotta meet Candy later tonight about a business deal," I told him, pulling away and throwing on my clothing. "Come with me. There's something important I need to show you."

We walked through the huge glass doors and past the kitchen into the living room. I grabbed his hand and pressed it against a photo of an old farmhouse sending a jolt of energy through the pair of us. I thought he would yelp, or at least flinch, but he just looked at me puzzled.

"This is my safe. I've just keyed it to you so you can open it. Go ahead and put your hand on the picture so I'm sure it works smoothly."

Wyatt placed his palm on the picture and it dissolved into a blur before an open space appeared in the wall.

"If I'm missing more than two weeks, check the safe. I'll have instructions for you and power of attorneys along with directions on what to do with my assets. I'll also have a list of all my aliases and off shore accounts so you can safeguard them. I'll indicate some way in which I'll contact you."

"And why would you be missing more than two weeks?" Wyatt asked.

"I'll get to that in just a minute," I replied.

I showed him how to close the safe and make the picture reappear then led him over to a large mirror surrounded by cabochons. It looked very shabby chic.

"This is a communicator. It's sort of like Skype with an answering machine. Each of the cabochons represents someone I know, or a member of my household. The blue one here is a kind of 'other' indicator. The white one here is me. If you need to open the safe, take the mirror to your house. I'll light up the white one and try and contact you if I manage to jump a gate into home. All you need to do is touch the cabochon and it will work. If you touch the white one, it will try and contact me at home. Don't ever touch any of the other cabochons, even if they light up."

"The red one is glowing" Wyatt pointed at it.

I touched it to ignore.

"That's Dar, my foster brother. He's a pain in the ass and he calls me all the time. I never call him back."

"Why are you showing me this? What's wrong, Sam?" he asked. He was starting to get angry.

"I'm trusting you to take care of things, to cover for me and make it so I can come back if the shit hits the fan and I need to run for it."

"Sam, what are you into? This is not just some real estate deal with Candy is it? Are you in trouble? Involved with the mafia or a gang? If you trust me enough to ask me to do this for you, then you need to trust me enough to let me know what you're involved in and what you're up against."

I planned on telling him everything. He needed to know everything so he could be safe.

"There are angels here. They are enemies of my kind. They kill us on sight and have no mercy when it comes to demons. I've been lying low for forty years, now, living as much as a human as I could to avoid detection, but that may have come to an end." I paused, wondering how much background he needed to know.

"Look, I kill zombies for a living, if you tell me an angel is after you, I'll believe you."

Wyatt seemed sincere, and concerned. I didn't realize killing zombies in a video game constituted making a living, but I could see that he was willing to suspend disbelief in this instance.

"Over two and a half million years ago, my people were in a very long war with the angels. I don't know what life was like before the wars, but there seem to have always been differences between us and fighting between our races. In the end, there was a stalemate and we divided the realms between us. We demons live in Hel. The angels have the homeland, Aaru, and they also rule this world."

"Is Aaru like heaven?" Wyatt asked.

"I don't know," I told him. "The treaty forbids us from crossing into each other's territory. We take great joy in sneaking here to give the angels the finger before dashing back home, but no angels have ever tried to cross over to our world. We have no way to get into Aaru, otherwise we'd be sneaking over and playing ring and run there too. Anyway, if they catch us here, we're dead. No one has ever survived a fight with an angel. When it gets too hot, we get out of the kitchen. We cut and run. It's about to get really hot in my kitchen. I may have to leave, and I may not be able to return."

Wyatt looked grim.

"Does this have something to do with your meeting with Candy?"

I took a deep breath. He wasn't going to like this one bit.

"Candy is a werewolf and they are being exterminated by the angels. She has enlisted my help to kill one."

Wyatt looked up at the ceiling. I think he was beseeching his god for something.

"You just said no one has ever survived a fight with an angel. So isn't this rather suicidal?"

"I'm special," I replied.

"Special, like maybe stupid? Or reckless beyond all belief? Or with a death wish?" Wyatt was beginning to sound angry. He was right on a few of those points though.

"I don't have much choice, Wyatt. I killed one of them and now I owe the werewolves a service."

"This isn't service, this is suicide," he interrupted. "Tell them no."

"I've been exposed. They know who and what I am and have threatened to bring the angels to my door. I can't hide from them, they can identify me no matter what form I take. I'll never be able to return. This way at least I'll have a chance of staying, or coming back."

Wyatt shook his head, unconvinced. "No. Tell them no."

"If I do this, they'll cover for me, they'll run interference with the angels, they'll make it so I actually have a chance to stay here. Plus, they'll protect you. You're in danger from the angels, too."

"Just because we're friends?" Wyatt asked. "I thought angels were loving and forgiving. They'd really hunt me down and kill me just for being friends with you?"

I didn't want to let him know that I'd marked him. When I'd almost Owned him, I'd left enough of my signature on him that he was clearly identifiable as mine. He could have had a big fucking sign on his forehead and it would have been less noticeable.

"Angels are psychotic assholes," I told him. "They'll kill everyone who has associated with me." Not true, but it might make him feel better. Like he was in good company.

"Sam, how are you going to kill an angel and survive? You can't even stay on your horse."

"I've been locked down pretty tight in this world, so you don't realize the extent of my abilities. Besides Candy is calculating beyond belief. She's an information warehouse, and she's anal about details. I think with her dotting the 'I's and me exploding stuff, we'll make this work."

Wyatt stared at me. He was mad, and worried.

"I'm in on this. I'm coming with you."

"No fucking way. Absolutely not."

"I'm not staying back here like a swooning maiden, safe in my house, while you ride off and battle angels. You're my best friend. No way you're going to do this without me." He looked me straight in the eye. "I'm not being your proxy unless you include me."

Humans were fragile. Soft and squishy. He'd get caught in the crossfire, he'd be in danger. Plus if an angel saw him with me, then they'd definitely connect the dots on our relationship. I didn't give a flying fuck if Candy got killed, but I couldn't bear the thought of Wyatt dead.

"Sam, the past two years that I've known you have been the best in my life. I should have abandoned my house and run screaming after Friday night, when you explained to me what you were and what kind of things you do to us humans. I know you'll probably eventually do that to me, too, and if I had any common sense I'd never see you again. But, you _are_ my best friend. You make me feel alive, like I want to do crazy stuff. I want to do crazy stuff with you. I'm not leaving you to face this thing, friendless and alone."

We stood silent for what seemed like hours. This was beyond stupid, but I couldn't say no to Wyatt.

"Okay, you're in."

# Chapter 9

I strolled into The Eastside Tavern and grabbed a quiet table out of the way. Some people appeared to have never left the place. Maybe they had a cot set up in the dry goods storage area for naps. The guy with the Rip Van Winkle beard was propping his chair against the wall in a corner and I truly don't think he moved since Friday night. The pretty leggy woman was playing pool this time. I guess there were regulars and there were super regulars here.

I figured Candy for a prompt kind of woman, so I had come a bit early to scope out the place and make sure I grabbed a private table. That way no one would hear us discussing killing angels and think we needed guys in the padded van to come haul us away. Wyatt was to come in a few moments after she arrived. I wasn't sure she'd come in if she saw me sitting with him, so he was back in the banquet area socializing with the staff. As soon as I had plopped into a chair, a waitress sat a cold shot of vodka in front of me and beamed at me happily.

"My name is Kelly, and I'll be taking care of you tonight."

I looked at the waitress. She had to have been over two hundred and fifty pounds with light blond hair in a pony tail and smooth glowing porcelain skin. She was really pretty, and I thought it was unfortunate for her that fashion right now did not favor a generous build. I wondered what "taking care of" encompassed. Back home, that phrase would have meant she was mine to do whatever I wanted with for the evening, but here those things would be frowned upon. Pity, because I found her very attractive.

She smiled at me expectantly, glancing alternately between my face and the vodka encouraging me to drink it up. The older woman behind the bar was nodding and smiling too. I felt like one of those celebrities in a foreign country that have to eat the raw pig's testicles or they'd insult their host. I wasn't fond of the lemon vodka they'd brought me, but at least it was cold. I raised it in a toast to the woman behind the bar and threw it down as fast as I could. Ugh. Nasty.

"Can I get a Bud Light?" I croaked resisting the urge to suck down my water. I remembered asking for cold vodka before, but I can't believe the bartender would have remembered. She'd barely acknowledged my presence. Of course, I had left with Wyatt, and he seemed to be a bit of a favorite son around here. He must have called ahead for them to have had it chilled like this. It was such a sweet, thoughtful thing to do; I was astounded.

"I'll bring you a piece of cherry pie too. It's homemade," the waitress said before hustling off.

Cherry pie and Bud Light? Maybe she would bring a cup of coffee too and I could have a Twin Peaks déjà vu moment. Where was Agent Cooper when you needed him? Or the log lady. Bet she could kick some angel ass.

My waitress was just putting down my beer and pie when Candy arrived. She raised her eyebrows at the combo putting a large tote bag stuffed with papers on the seat beside her.

"Please bring my friend a slice of cherry pie and a cup of coffee black as midnight on a moonless night." I told the waitress waving my fork majestically as if I were issuing a royal proclamation. Candy shook her head no at the waitress and sent her away without ordering anything.

The werewolf didn't appear to get the reference, which was a shame. Wyatt might, but he'd been a bit young for Twin Peaks. And speak of the devil, there he was in his worn Levis and t–shirt sliding in the chair beside me.

"Look, Wyatt," I said excitedly. "They have cherry pie. You must have some with coffee black as midnight on a moonless night."

Wyatt looked for a second like he thought I'd gone insane.

"I can call you Agent Cooper?" I prodded. "We'll discuss the Laura Palmer case?"

He finally smiled. "Will the log lady be joining us? She was my favorite."

I squealed in delight and planted a kiss right on his lips almost knocking him backwards off his chair in my enthusiasm. Sexy as hell, familiar with cult TV classics, and he arranged to have cold vodka for me. Wyatt rocked. Life would be just horrible without him.

Meanwhile, Candy was looking as if she'd stepped into another universe.

"What is _he_ doing here?" she asked, regaining her composure.

"Wyatt will be joining us in our adventures," I told her. She opened her mouth to protest and I told her "my kill, my rules."

That shut her mouth. She glared at Wyatt as he stuffed his backpack under his chair.

"Fine." She dug in her bag, pulling out a stack of glossies and a little box–shaped magnifying glass. "These are photos of the last twenty kills, with ascending order numbers, locations, and dates on them. I didn't include any of the earlier ones. Althean's kills from five years ago back were pretty routine. Basically for offenses against the existence contract like attempting to breed outside our species, assuming wolf form in front of humans or outside the dates specified, not registering, living in a non–designated area without approval, congregating in groups larger than ten without special dispensation, etc."

I was appalled. Who'd agreed to this shitty existence contract? No way would I have put up with that restrictive crap.

"Althean tended to execute in the traditional manner back then, too," Candy continued. "They'd have a tiny wing mark on their forehead as a warning and notice of the justice delivered. As you can see by the photos, the kills have become bloody, and the victims are being genetically altered before death."

If I'd been a werewolf, my ears would have perked up at that one. I didn't think angels could do that. I didn't think any but our kind could do that.

"The DNA markers that indicate loupism, or werewolf species, are removed and replaced with strictly human ones. He is basically turning them human, either before or after killing them."

"They still have the wing marks on their foreheads," I noted.

Candy nodded.

"They mark the victims as deserving of death, of violating the contract in some way," she said. "By marking them, Althean is showing that he believes they truly should die. That his actions are justified."

Why would he turn them human, though? What was the purpose in that?

If this were indeed a genocide, if this angel thought the whole werewolf species should be wiped out, then I doubted he'd turn them human _before_ killing them. Then he'd just be killing a human, plus he'd be removing them from his scope of control. No, I was pretty sure that turning them human happened after their death. But even then, why? Were they such an abomination that even their dead bodies should not be allowed to litter the earth? That all the markers of their species should be removed, to eventually wipe out all trace that they even existed?

I looked at the pictures as Wyatt peered over my arm. They were professionally developed and I wondered if Candy had a photo finishing lab in her basement. I envisioned her stopping in Walmart to pick the gory prints up and snickered.

Candy looked offended, no doubt thinking I found the crime scene photos funny. I didn't care.

"Okay, so what do these people all have in common? They are mostly female, but no one under twenty years old to date it seems. They are from all over the country. Could they have committed the same offense?" I asked.

Candy shook her head. "I can't see that they have anything in common beyond their species."

I frowned. This angel couldn't be just randomly roving around the country killing werewolves. If he were human, I'd suspect the killing locations coordinated with business travel. Maybe we could access the angel's travel itinerary for the next few weeks.

"Any ideas?" I asked Wyatt.

He reached into the backpack under his chair and pulled out one of those tablet computers. I'd seen them in the stores and they looked very cool, but I wasn't sure what I'd do with one. Wyatt swept his fingers over the screen and there was an amazing blur of boxes, shapes and colors. He tapped at the screen, and then waved his fingers around some more. Like Merlin. Without the hat.

"Okay," he said turning the tablet so we could all see it. "I've plotted the last twenty years of werewolf kills against this map and loaded the details into a statistical program. I know twenty years is way outside our window, but a big sample is critical when trending. The bigger the data set, the more accurate the predictions are."

I stared at him. What the fuck? How did my lawn–mowing, eye–candy, neighbor turn into a math geek?

The map was a mess of colored dots, more concentrated in some areas than others. I couldn't make sense of it at all. It reminded me of those ink blots tests. Was it a butterfly? Maybe, a polka dotted phallus? Candy glanced at the map, and then glared at Wyatt.

"Did you hack into my computer and get this?"

Wyatt looked smug.

"Your smart phone communicates with your network, no doubt to synchronize your appointment schedule. I just pulled the network IP address, impersonated your cell phone to get a toe in, and _voila_!"

Whoa. Wyatt did more than kill zombies in his spare time.

"I have passwords, and firewalls! I paid a lot of money to an expert for security from this kind of breach," Candy said, more angry at her security dude than Wyatt.

"Yeah, it looks like Barrett's work," Wyatt commented. "He talks a good line, but he sucks. If his dad wasn't connected he wouldn't get any work at all. I know one company who hired him because they wanted to get in good with his dad, then promptly replaced the whole system. Go with Edmonds Smythe next time. I can still get through, but it will take me a lot more than ten seconds."

"I might go with you, next time," she said to Wyatt.

I admired her ability to take a hit to her pride and move on. And Wyatt was proving to be very useful. Useful beyond moral support and hopefully good sex.

"We have restrictions around where we can live, mainly to keep us from forming large groups and becoming a threat," Candy said, returning her attention to the map. "In cities, we're allowed a greater density. We need to be especially careful in urban areas to avoid detection and a violation of the existence contract. In wide open spaces, we'd be more likely to formulate rebellion and go undetected since we wouldn't need to restrict ourselves so much."

Clearly, the angels liked the werewolves to be confined to the cities, outside their preferred habitat. So they must have been more worried about organized action than public safety. If the angels had been concerned about protecting humans, they would have rounded up all the werewolves and stuck them in some remote area. Like a werewolf concentration camp. Interesting.

"Does the map of the kills reflect the overall distribution of werewolves?" Wyatt asked.

Candy looked again and nodded.

"It seems to. An equal percentage of the population in each area, but of course, we'd need to run numbers just to make sure."

Wyatt turned the tablet back to face him, ran his fingers over it as we watched with baited breath. It took a few moments. I ate my pie and drank beer while he worked his magic. Finally he turned the tablet around. TaDa! The map had been replaced by a spreadsheet showing locations and numbers in descending order.

"Actually, there's a ten percent greater incidence of killing in the smaller cities and rural areas and a seventy percent greater incidence in North America."

Candy frowned at the tablet. "You would have needed to know the address of every werewolf for that. That information is encrypted on a virtual server. Even I don't have full access."

Wyatt nodded. I was beyond being shocked by any of this. Wyatt was clearly not what he seemed, either.

"Yes, I know. Now if we plot just the kills with the genetic alteration, we see that at this point they are all in North America. Connect them in their order of occurrence and you do begin to see a pattern. If I run a regression analysis and plot that on our map, we can see a prediction of future hits somewhere along this line. Then, I'll just run a second regression on the timeline pattern and it will tell us where in this predictive line he is likely to be by certain dates. If we select where we're interested, I can try and narrow it down with some statistical probability."

I looked at Candy to see if she was understanding any of that. Nope. We'd both been staring at Wyatt as if he'd suddenly began speaking in a strange alien language. I, for one, was turned on as hell. Wyatt was proving to be rather smart for a human. Who knew?

"Why would he kill in this pattern?" Candy asked.

I shrugged. "Angels are really weird about patterns and things weighting out to a neutral state. Who knows why they do these things."

"This accounts for location and timeline," Wyatt continued, "but we still need motive and any other commonality in the victims to better predict his next hit."

"Tell us, oh mighty Oz," I said. "Who will the angel kill next and where? And can I have a heart too, if it's not too much trouble."

He shot me an annoyed glance, then peered at the screen.

"With what we've got so far, I'm betting in the next five to ten days we'll see a hit among this cluster of forty werewolves. If we combine them into household groups, we've got twenty eight households we need to look at."

"We need to narrow that down," I said, looking at Candy.

It wasn't just the numbers that were an issue, either. Even if we got some indication that there was a kill in progress, we wouldn't get there in time to catch him. We'd need to be pretty confident on a target, then do some kind of stake out. The prospect of sitting outside a house for five to ten days was frightening. Torture would be preferable. I'd be bored beyond belief. I'd be lucky to last a few hours before I went stark raving mad. I wished we could just track the guy down and kill him in a sneak attack.

"I'll dig around and see what else I can do to get a profile on the victims," Candy said sorting through the pictures. "That's the York/Lancaster area, so at least we don't have to go flying halfway across the country to test our hypothesis."

Candy gathered up her pictures, casting another dark look at Wyatt and his tablet, then told me she'd call me in the morning. After she left, Wyatt snuck a bite of my cherry pie and made approving noises while I mulled things over.

"You're a whole hell of a lot more useful than Candy ," I told him with admiration. "You've been holding back on me. I thought all you did was kill zombies."

Wyatt shrugged. "You never asked, never really seemed interested in any of the computer stuff I do, so I didn't bother."

I peered at him to see if he was hurt, or angry. He seemed rather cheerful, eating my pie and relaxing back in his chair.

"It's probably the most boring thing I've ever heard in my life," I confessed. "But I'm glad you know all that stuff. It'll probably keep me from getting killed. Thank you for coming."

I meant it. I was glad Wyatt was here. He might get hurt, but everything was a lot more fun when he was around.

Wyatt smiled and saluted me with his fork.

"You are welcome, Sam. I'd do anything to help you out."

Wyatt polished off the rest of the pie.

"Why would an angel suddenly decide to go on a killing spree?" I asked, half to myself. "To begin a genocide? I'm pretty sure they didn't even really want _us_ exterminated during the war. They just wanted us to abide by some crazy list of rules. If we'd complied, we would have been in the same spot as the werewolves, but I can't see them offing us just for the heck of it."

"I can't see you or any of your kind complying with those types of rules," Wyatt said, pushing the empty plate away.

"Oh, no. Totally against our nature. They were insane even to demand it. If there hadn't been the treaty and the division of the realms, the wars would have only stopped with the extermination of one or both of our races."

I went back to pondering this particular angel. "The genetic alteration thing bothers me, too. That's not something angels do. Plus, the bloodiness of the kills doesn't seem in keeping with them either."

"So, maybe he's not an angel supremacist trying to rid the world of werewolves and preserve the master race. Maybe something happened to him that sent him off the edge of what angels view as acceptable. Maybe he's got something making him crazy, turning him un–angel. Or uber angel."

Or rogue angel, I thought.

# Chapter 10

It was about four in the morning when my ringing phone woke me up.

"He's hit again. York. Time of death between midnight and three–thirty that we can tell."

Candy, I thought rubbing sleep and gunk from my eyes.

"Two victims this time. A husband and wife. I've asked the local pack to secure the scene until we get up there to look at it. They've already done their sniffing around, but your skills may be able to find something beyond our ability."

"Are you up there now? Do I meet you, or do we ride together?" I asked, still groggy.

"I'll head up there now. If you can meet me up there as soon as you can, I'd like you to check everything while it's still relatively fresh. Besides, the local guys really do need to start cleanup soon, before neighbors notice anything."

York was about a two hour drive. I took down the address, writing it on my pillowcase since I can never seem to find a pad of paper when I need one. Then I quickly called Wyatt and threw on some clean clothes. A shower would have to wait. Wyatt was just coming up the drive when I emerged from my seldom used front door. He raised his eyebrows a bit at the pillow case I was carrying, but didn't comment.

I wasn't a morning person, but this was the kind of morning to make me want to change my habits. The normal nighttime din of insects had quieted, replaced by early birdsong. It was still fully dark, but there was an expectation of light, an anticipation hovering on the eastern horizon. Everything seemed to be suspended, teetering right on the edge of daybreak. On a razor's edge of becoming. Even Boomer, standing at the corner of the house watching us, seemed to be in transition. As if he were two different beings, one day and one night, on the verge of transformation.

We drove north, taking back roads to Route 15, with Wyatt sleepily navigating through his cell phone GPS. The sun came up with orange and red over the little farmhouses and fields. It was pretty much just us, the early morning commuters, and the cement truck drivers from the plant, although there were signs the dairy farmers had been up earlier. Huge milking barns, long and flat, were lit up brightly before the first rays reached up over the horizon.

We'd made a quick stop at a 7–11 for some coffee and Wyatt grumbled. He was grumpy and the beauty of the morning was lost on him. Evidently, zombie killing last night hadn't gone well, and he'd not had much sleep. He complained repeatedly that he was tired, hungry and hated 7–11 coffee. I was ready to dump his coffee over his head if he didn't shut up about it. I may be a vodka snob, but I'm not a coffee snob. And I don't bitch and moan constantly when I don't get my preferred vodka. Well, maybe just a little. When I got tired of listening to him complain, I pointedly turned on the radio. I had thought about finding some soft rock just to annoy him further, but instead put on blue collar comedy. Wyatt was more fun when he was in a better mood.

The sun was up and Thurmont was stirring with the beginnings of their country rush hour as we passed through toward the highway. Wyatt saw a Sheetz and insisted on stopping, pointedly dumping his previous coffee into the bushes as he walked in. I bought another coffee, too, just so I could compare them. I couldn't tell the difference. The both tasted like cheap generic coffee prepared hours ago and slowly burning on the bottom of the pot ever since.

This area of Maryland was really beautiful. Green covered mountains flanked the highway, separated from the road by flat acres of fields. Signs indicating directions for various national parks, orchards, and historic attractions didn't detract from the stunning morning view. Route 15 was a scenic route north of Thurmont. Mountains all along the horizon were the backdrop for miles of forests and picturesque farms. The occasional fruit orchard, with the requisite roadside stand, and its manicured, geometrically arranged trees dotted our view.

The coffee seemed to be rousing Wyatt from his sleepy state because just over the Pennsylvania line he looked in surprise at his phone GPS and at the highway marker.

"Why are we going this way to York? Why didn't we go 70 up to 83? It would have been much shorter."

"Rush hour up 70 into Baltimore? And 83? That's even worse. That road sucks when it's _not_ rush hour. I'd rather take the back roads and risk getting behind a tractor or some slow poke."

Wyatt fussed over his GPS, not convinced.

"No, Sam, this is really taking us out of our way. We could have gone through Westminster up 27, then through Hanover on 94 if you wanted to take the back roads. We would have gotten there much quicker."

"94 goes smack through downtown Hanover. There are a ton of lights, truck traffic that takes forever each time they stop to try to get back up to speed, and there are two railroad crossings. Two. There is a stupid train taking fucking forever every time I go through there." There was an Utz factory outlet there, though. I had a terrible weakness for Grandma Utz potato chips. They'd be closed this early in the morning, though.

"Even so, we'd save a ton of time going 94. Hanover would put us so much closer to York than this roundabout route."

"I'm not really comfortable going through Hanover, right now," I said.

Wyatt glared at me in suspicion. "You weren't the one who burned down the Hot and Spicy Burger, were you? I really liked that place. Was it an accident, or did they somehow get on your naughty list? Maybe they didn't put enough salsa on your burger?"

"I did not burn down the Hot and Spicy Burger," I protested. "I've never even been there and I don't just go around randomly setting fire to places. At least not on purpose," I added in the spirit of truthfulness.

I really didn't feel like explaining that I'd set loose a couple of those huge holiday inflatable lawn decorations this past Christmas and bounced them down 94 at rush hour. There were a lot of people that probably still remembered me. Especially the ones who'd wrecked their cars. It was so funny, though. Big inflatable Santa flying into the road and cars swerving everywhere. I've totally got to do that again, sometime. Maybe Halloween.

Wyatt looked unconvinced, but didn't pursue the topic further. He continued to pore over his phone, looking up as I exited the highway.

"You're joking with me, Sam. Route 30? You're going to haul down Route 30 from 15 to York? That's forty five minutes on a good day. It's two lanes, cuts through every tiny town this side of the state line, and will be filled with tractors and hay wagons. What are you thinking of?"

"Do you want to drive? You're so full of knowledge, Mr. GPS, maybe you'd like to drive?" I exploded at him.

Wyatt looked at the interior of my Corvette with something akin to lust in his eyes.

"Yes, I do want to drive," he said.

"Well, you're not." I told him. No way Wyatt was driving my precious car. No one drove my Corvette but me. Only a select few were even allowed in the passenger seat.

We meandered our way down 30 to York with Wyatt complaining under his breath the whole way. I kept turning up the radio volume, but it never seemed to sufficiently drown out his complaints.

I did need his navigation skills once we reached the York city limits, and Wyatt quickly guided me through the outskirts of town to a series of new housing developments. We went past all the gorgeous new homes toward the back, where an older section with fully grown trees hid.

The houses were built in the seventies; row upon row of split level ranches and bungalows filled the streets. They were all variations on an identical theme, with their reversed layout and different colored siding. We parked a couple blocks down so we didn't draw attention to the crime scene. Nothing like an expensive grey Corvette in the driveway to make the neighbors take notice and give everything away. Not that I was the master of stealth. I insisted on driving around the neighborhood nearly five times before I found a place I felt reasonably safe in leaving my car. Wyatt was ready to strangle me. The two hour car ride early in the morning obviously hadn't done much for his patience.

The house looked pretty much like all the other houses. A split level ranch with brick on the lower, partially underground level, and white siding on the rest. There was a car port off to the side of the house with a compact sedan parked in it. The house had been loved. The shutters and door were shiny with fresh green paint, and well–maintained begonias hung invitingly in baskets at the edge of the small roof covering the entryway. Carefully edged and mulched beds with newly planted, tiny boxwoods lined the path to the door. The mailbox by the edge of the driveway was cleverly shaped like a windmill and looked recently installed.

Candy met us at the side door, under the carport, her face grim.

"What on earth took you so long?" she asked.

Wyatt gave me a pointed look, but for once remained silent.

We followed her through a small pantry and into the kitchen and dining room area on the upper level of the house. The kitchen had a skillet soaking in the sink, and fresh coffee in the pot. The smell was heavenly. I wondered if Candy had made it when she got here. Thoughtful, but I didn't think you were supposed to make yourself at home in the kitchens of crime scenes.

"It's set to brew automatically at six in the morning," Candy said, noticing my glance. "Looks like all was calm at dinner, and they would have filled the coffee maker and set it right before going to bed, I assume."

The dining room was undisturbed with fresh flowers at the center of the gleaming oak table, and car keys casually tossed into a dish on the matching oak sideboard. We walked past the stairs leading to the lower floor and the front door and headed toward the bedrooms.

"They were killed downstairs, but I want you to see the bedrooms first." Candy noted in a strained voice.

There were three bedrooms. One had been converted into an office and the other appeared to be a child's bedroom. A baby's bedroom so immaculate and organized it looked like Candy herself had staged it. The crib had elephant themed sheets and bumper pad, and a parade of elephants hung from the mobile above it. Wooden elephant cutouts in bright colors danced along one wall. A glider rocker sat against the other with a bookshelf beside it. Stuffed animals were artfully arranged in the crib and along the shelves next to scores of books.

"I thought you said there were two victims," I asked Candy. "What happened to the baby?"

"I didn't know until I got here," Candy said, struggling to keep her voice neutral. "The female was pregnant. Very pregnant. So, really, there were three victims."

My kind breed a lot. It's not uncommon to have over a thousand offspring. Of course, a huge percentage of those never make it past infancy, let alone into adulthood. We don't have any agony over the mortality rate. We don't raise our children or have any kind of familial bond with them. We just form them, and hand them over into a kind of group home for their upbringing. There is no lengthy pregnancy, and once you hand them over you never bother to find out whether they survive, what they turn out to be like, nothing like that at all. We just don't really do the children thing.

At home, there was no particular taboo against killing young, or killing a parent who was in the process of forming an unborn child. This was definitely a terrible crime to angels, though. Did he know she was pregnant? Did he care? Genocide was one thing, but killing a baby, even an unborn one? How could he have done such a thing, violated the precious code the angels live by and get away with it? We get cut down for far less by them.

Wyatt and Candy appeared to be giving the room a moment of silence, so I went across the hall to the master bedroom. The queen–sized bed had the comforter turned down, and one side slightly rumpled, with the sheets aside. Someone had gone to bed briefly, and then gotten up. I was guessing the female.

"Does it look like she hurried out here?" I asked Candy as she and Wyatt came into the room. "Do you think she heard something going on in the basement and ran to check?"

Candy went over to the bed and looked at it carefully. She pointed to the bedside table where a set of reading glasses and a thick pregnancy guide lay.

"It doesn't look like she raced out of here in any hurry," she said. "Everything looks carefully placed. Glasses on top of the book. Book marked at a spot and placed evenly on the table. If she hurried, I'd expect to see the sheets pulled from the bed a bit and dangling on the edge, and the book tossed aside."

I thought about this as we went downstairs. Had her husband been quietly dead before she went down? Had she surprised the killer and he had no choice but to kill her too? Or had the killer waited for both of them to be together before he made his move?

I expected downstairs to be a bloodbath and I wasn't disappointed. The room itself is what you would expect to see. Couch. Two comfy chairs. Coffee table. TV. There was also a small desk with a laptop on it.

The guy was sprawled on the floor by the laptop. He looked like a human. A human with his head twisted backward and his torso sliced open from sternum to pelvis. The guy didn't have a shirt on, and his sweatpants were sliced at the drawstring waist where the cut extended. The blood appeared to be localized in a pool around him. Not sprayed all over the walls or on the ceiling. I walked carefully around to look at his face. His head was turned at an abnormal degree, the neck clearly broken. Blood had seeped out his nose and mouth. His expression looked placid. He had a pale set of angel wings on his temple, like a birthmark.

"Looks to me like he may have been killed before he was even aware there was someone in the room," I told Candy, wanting her opinion on the matter.

She nodded. "If an angel showed up unannounced in his house, he'd have been partially transformed. It would have been an immediate, instinctual thing. He was clearly dead before he had time to realize the angel was here."

"Maybe he thought it was a friendly visit? If an angel knocked on your door, would you invite him in and serve him tea?" I asked Candy. "Would you automatically think you were in danger? Especially if you hadn't done anything wrong?"

Candy shook her head. "If he'd knocked on the front door, the kitchen and dining area would show signs of late hospitality. He would have put a shirt on out of respect. And she wouldn't look like that." Candy pointed to the figure crumpled against the front wall of the room.

Wow, I thought walking over to the female. This had been a struggle. There was blood sprayed in arcs all around her and over the sofa. A huge smear of blood started high up on the wall, almost at the ceiling, and dragged down to the floor. I couldn't see much of her without touching her, but the heap of pajama clad flesh was torn and burned all over. Claws curled from massive hands, inexplicably at the end of delicate wrists. I saw a pretty white gold chain bracelet with an initialed heart charm and a tiny baby shoe attached.

I turned to Candy. "If it's okay, I need to move the bodies and better examine them."

She nodded, looking at the female werewolf with glassy eyes. Her lips twitched even as she clamped her teeth into them to hold them still. I looked at her and did the math. She looked to be mid fifties. She'd clearly had at least one child, probably more from what I saw of her body the other day. Her kids would be the age of this young couple. Maybe she was expecting a grandchild. I don't know why her distress bothered me, but it did.

Wanting to give Candy a moment to pull herself together, I asked her to go upstairs and get me a towel. I would probably need one anyway to wipe the blood off myself. She headed up, passing Wyatt on the way as he came down.

"Wow," he said surveying the scene. My thoughts exactly. "I haven't had a chance to look at the computer upstairs, yet. I thought I'd come down here first," he told me.

I nodded over at the laptop. "There's one down here, too. I'm thinking the guy was on it when he was killed."

He looked at the body blocking access to the small desk. "As soon as you clear that aside, I'll take a look at the laptop."

Okay, game time. I removed my clothes, but unlike Candy, just flung them over a chair in a relatively clean corner. Candy came down with a towel and skidded to a halt at the bottom of the stairs.

" _Why_ are you naked?"

"I only have the one set of clothes and I don't want to be walking around in blood–soaked clothes all day." Or get it all over my Corvette's seats. "What did you think?"

Candy had the grace to look embarrassed. "Sorry," she muttered.

I thought I'd start with the guy first. I went over to him and removed his sweatpants and boxers. His genitals were intact. The cut ended a good three inches above the pelvic bone. It didn't look like it was done for torture or need to access the organs, which were all there. Why had the angel slit him down the middle like this? The neck breaking action had clearly happened first, and had caused the werewolf's death. Maybe there had been an interruption before the angel could do what he intended with the organs?

I ran my fingers through the body and sent out feathers of energy to explore. There was no energy in it beyond the normal energy that all matter carried. I could feel the DNA signature of the werewolf with its odd mutation. All the other kills had been altered and turned basically human. Why had this one been left werewolf? The angel must have been interrupted before he could finish.

I couldn't feel anything of the angel until I ran my fingers along the burnt edges of the skin. There. There was an energy signature with a faint personal energy note. This hadn't been a weapon, or claws or teeth. The cut had been made by a burning energy, but it wasn't just used to cut the flesh, it was used to explore the victim. Once something is dead, we usually don't mess much with it, so this finding was perplexing. Why would the angel want to explore the werewolf after his life essence left? Why didn't he just do the DNA conversion and hit the road? Was this part of the process he needed to do for the DNA conversion?

I gripped the victim's head on either side, sending feathers into the brain. No one was home, but the brain was intact and free of any angelic energy signature. The angel hadn't been looking for memories. I searched through the circuitry of the connectors in the brain, checking to see if I could access any remnant of the guy's last thoughts. I'm not very good with brains, so I wasn't sure I could gain anything by this or not. I could only find a relaxed sense of comfort. Well, at least he'd died in peace.

Reaching up a finger, I grazed the wing marks on his temple and the energy signature poured into me. Gotcha. This was strong. Very strong. I'd recognize him. I'd have a good chance of sensing him if he was anywhere in a mile or two radius from me and used his energy. Adrenaline flooded me. Fuck, I loved a good hunt. This was the best feeling ever. Better than sex even.

I rolled the body over, away from the desk so Wyatt could reach the laptop. There was nothing at all on his backside. And I checked it very thoroughly just to annoy Candy.

"It was an angel, not an alien," she told me. "I don't think anal probes were involved."

"Best to check," I told her cheerfully, my mind furiously working the angel's energy signature and locking it in to my memory.

"I'm done," I told Wyatt as I moved to the female, carefully wiping my hands on the towel Candy gave me. Wyatt leaned over the blood soaked carpet, and carefully picked up the laptop, stretching the cord to a clean spot.

I looked at the female and wondered where to begin. I lay her face down first. Peeling off her shirt, I noticed her backside was surprisingly clean of cuts and burns. She didn't run, didn't turn her back on him, I thought with admiration. There was a significant hole in the back of her head though, with a great volume of blood streaked down her hair and soaking her shirt back.

I stuck my finger in the hole and realized that it was about the size of my index figure in diameter and jagged as if something had been shoved in and dragged upward and out. I looked up the wall, up the blood smear to the round splat near the ceiling. Too high. Grabbing the chair from the desk, I dragged it over and stretched as far as I could. There was a huge nail protruding from the wall. A hefty ten penny nail, which must have originally held some type of heavy artwork. It must have been in the wall pretty tight as it hadn't been removed, and had been painted over. Now it was red with blood. Okay, he was strong enough to pick her up and pitch her high up against the wall where she smacked her skull on the nail and slide down in a trail of blood.

Hopping off the chair, I rolled her over to see the front. Now, this was where the action was. Her hands were massive claws, and her snout extended slightly to accommodate strong pointed teeth the size of my thumbs. Her lips curled up in a snarl and her eyes, even in death, were fierce. She had a burn–edged slice across her right cheek and nose. Her neck and legs were covered in the same burned slices. The huge bulge of her belly was untouched. Interesting. It was as if the angel didn't want to target the area where the baby was. I examined the wounds. They were not terribly deep, but one on her leg had severed her femoral artery. Game over, girlfriend.

Looking at the blood on her claws, I ran my finger over them. I'd never had an angel genetic signature before, since normally I'd be dead if I ever got that close to one. I was kind of surprised to get one from the claws. I'd expected that they'd fought from a distance and she'd not been able to actually cut him. I caught my breath as I processed the unusually long DNA chain. It was the same as the one I carried. Outside of markers for personal characteristics, we had the same DNA. I'd expected them to be vaguely similar. Our races had formed about the same time, and we had some overlap in skills and abilities, but I hadn't expected this nearly carbon copy. How ironic, given our past. I looked up at Candy. Wyatt was furiously typing away on the laptop in a corner of the room.

"I'm thinking the angel came in and surprised the male while his back was turned breaking his neck. I'm conjecturing, but I think he placed the angel mark on the male's forehead, then proceeded to slice the cut in his abdomen with his energy. I'm assuming it's part of that genetic modification he is doing. He didn't get that far before he was surprised by the female. The victims don't have the genetic alteration, so the angel left in a hurry before he could complete the job."

Candy nodded and I turned to face the pregnant body on the floor.

"She interrupted the angel, who shot her at a distance, taking some care not to cut her where the baby was." I waved at the splatter of blood on the walls and couch. "Those cuts were rather superficial. I think he probably didn't know how to subdue her and get away without causing her and the baby's death. She approached him and actually got her claws on him. He was injured, but I don't know how badly, and he's probably healed himself by now. When she clawed him, he sliced her legs, then grabbed her and threw her against the wall. "

I walked over and pointed my finger at the line of blood soaked carpet. "He hit her femoral artery, and she bled profusely. It flew across the room as he threw her against the wall." I pointed to the wall, near the ceiling. "She impacted with her head against a large nail, up there, and slid down the wall. But, it was the cut to her leg that killed her. She couldn't lose much blood with a fetus, and she'd lost too much by the time she hit the wall."

Candy nodded. "That's what the werewolves who were here earlier thought, too."

"I don't think he intended to kill her," I said. "I think he meant to kill the male, and head out without her knowing. Not that that makes him a saint," I added hastily. "He's killed other women by your records, just not any children or pregnant women, which follows their code somewhat. I don't know what peace of mind it will give you, but I honestly don't think he meant to kill either her or her baby."

Candy looked thoughtful. "Is there anything else here we need to see? Do you have enough to maybe track and find Althean?"

"I've got his energy signature, so I think I'm done here," I said slowly, looking at the wing marks on the female's temple.

As an afterthought I ran my finger over them. It would be the same as on the guy since I already had the angel's energy signature. Shocked at what I felt, I jumped about a foot across the room and toppled over on my ass with enough speed to make Candy and Wyatt jump, too.

"There was a second angel," I said in amazement.

Candy stared at me while Wyatt looked off in the distance toward the bookcase with a slight frown on his face.

"The energy signature on this wing mark is completely different from the one on the guy. Two angels were here," I insisted.

"Is the blood from the first angel or the second?" Candy said, her brows knitted in concentration. "Could one angel have killed the guy, left, then another came here, did the weird abdomen cut, then was surprised and killed the female?"

"I don't know," I replied slowly. "I have the DNA signature off the blood on the claws of the female, but that's different from energy signatures. I can't tell whether the blood DNA belongs to the first or second angel." I was so frustrated. I thought I had it all, and here was that big old monkey wrench.

"Let's just watch the video," Wyatt said from over by the bookshelves. He was holding a small round device. "It's a security camera. I have these at my house. This one is active right now and feeding to the computer up in the office."

Jackpot!

# Chapter 11

Up the stairs we went, with Candy carrying my clothing and trying several times to encourage me to put them back on. Just to irritate her, I ignored her motions and continued to walk around buck naked.

Wyatt quickly overcame the passwords on the upstairs computer and we watched six grainy black and white boxes of video displaying boring images of people walking about, eating, watching TV. The majority of the recording time was just empty blank rooms. Wyatt sectioned out and expanded the downstairs camera, but the resolution was horrible blown up. He reduced it to a more clear size and zipped through the time code stamp on the lower corner of the image. At nine in the evening, the female werewolf clicked off the TV, kissed the male who was on the laptop and said some indecipherable words to him before heading up the stairs.

"The audio on these cameras is horrible, so I don't think we're going to know what they are saying," Wyatt said.

Wyatt fast forwarded slowly until a few minutes after ten, when the male werewolf looked like he was ready to get up. He stood and stretched a bit, then sat down to do a few more things on the laptop.

"Based on the laptop record, he was just doing some random surfing. News site, clicked on a few links, nothing noteworthy," Wyatt pointed out.

Hmm, no illicit porn surfing, snuff videos, or werewolf revolutionary front chat rooms. I didn't see where this guy could possibly have violated the admittedly strict existence contract. He was squeaky clean, from what I could tell.

A dark shape appeared quickly in the room. "Whoa," Wyatt said, freezing the screen and backing it up a frame at a time.

At ten twelve PM, a dark shape showed at the edge of the stairs, quickly, and silently, approached the werewolf from the rear, and snapped his neck with a smooth, clean motion. He had to have been amazingly strong to have done that, even with the element of surprise on his side. The werewolf fell back and sideways out of the chair as his body attempted to follow the movement of his head. We couldn't see the angel's face clearly from the poor quality of the picture and the angle of the camera, but it didn't matter to me. I had his energy signature; I didn't need to know what he looked like.

The angel paused, kneeling for some time beside the werewolf before bending down and placing his hand on the temple. A blur appeared around his hand and he withdrew it to stare at the body again.

"What is taking the stupid shit so long?" I muttered. "Does he want to get caught or something? I would have been halfway to Baltimore by now."

Finally, he reached down with a finger and a blaze of light traced the cut in the body's midsection. A scream bellowed out of the computer and we all jumped with hearts racing. The whole death had been silent, and I, for one, had forgotten that there was a soundtrack, no matter how shitty. The female werewolf stood at the bottom of the stairs.

Wyatt was forced to move frame by frame at this point to keep everything from being a blur of speed in real time. Crap, these people were fast, fast. The female had screamed, and simultaneously her claws and snout shot out as the angel whirled around, energy flaring. He lashed at her with energy bursts and moved to the side as if trying to push her away from the stairs. She held her location blocking the stairs, but advanced toward him and managed to rake him twice. Once across the face with her right, and a downward strike from his right shoulder with her left.

It was remarkable she'd been able to advance at all with the energy bursts he was tossing around. Reeling from the claw marks, the angel brought energy in a steady stream, a blade shape up from his left, slicing the deep fatal cut into her right thigh. Dissolving the blade, he grabbed the front of her shirt and flung her up against the wall as he dashed from the room and up the stairs. The rest of the video showed her frame by frame sliding down the wall to rest in a crumpled heap of spreading blood. Wyatt paused the video.

"One angel killed them both," he said.

"Yes, but he ran out before she had hit the wall. I wonder if he even knew he'd killed her?" I mused. "And where is the second angel. There is a second angel." I insisted.

Wyatt fast forwarded the video and for a few speeded up seconds we saw the blood pool expand across the carpet, then a whole lot of nothing for hours. Finally, as the time clock showed around one in the morning, a blurred figure appeared.

"Whoa, there he is!" I shouted. As if I was the only one who noticed.

Wyatt backed up the video and we saw the angel descend the stairs to stop at the bottom and scan the room. He was tall and built like a bull. It looked to my eyes to be the same angel as in The Wine Room.

"Do they all look alike? Because I'm thinking that is the one from the bar earlier this week." I asked Candy.

Wyatt paused the video and looked up. "What do you mean 'the one from the bar earlier this week'? You told me you had an angel after you, but you didn't tell me you had seen one up close and personal."

"No, they don't all look alike, although they have similarities," Candy explained. She turned to Wyatt. "That's Gregory," she said pointing to the screen. "He's the angel that kills any demons who cross into this world. We saw him last Friday at The Wine Room."

Wyatt glared at me. He was pissed that I'd neglected to tell him that particular detail when I'd let him know that angels were after me. I felt guilty and it was a weird feeling. I knew what guilt felt like. The humans I owned had all felt guilt many times in their lives, and I had all their memories and feelings stored within me. I didn't like feeling guilty, myself. I'd really been wearing this human form too long and leaning too heavily on human memories. Why would I tell him? It's not like he could do anything to help me out. He'd just worry and do some stupid human macho thing that would get him killed. I didn't know what to say.

Wyatt stared long enough for me to feel even more uncomfortable, then turned around and resumed the video. Gregory walked over to the male victim and looked at him carefully without touching him. He shook his head, but it was hard to read his expression from the poor quality of the tape. He walked over to the female and glanced up at the smear on the wall. Then he bent down over the female.

"Slow it down," I told Wyatt, leaning in. "Frame by frame."

The angel examined her wounds and ran a hand over her rounded belly, less than an inch from the surface. Checking the baby for life? In the slow motion of the frame by frame I saw him reach his other hand to her temple and a flash of light as he left the wing mark.

"Wait," I shouted to Wyatt. "Back it up one more frame." There. Was there a flash of light from his other hand too? I darted from the room and charged down the stairs to the bodies. Pressing my hand against the female's belly, I searched and searched and found. There. An energy signature. A mark of angels wings on the temple of the fetus' head.

Wyatt and Candy reached the downstairs just as I stood up. "He marked the baby," I told them, and I was feeling pretty outraged about it. "He put the angel's wings on the baby's head. And on the female's. What the fuck? The mark is supposed to be a sign of guilt. He's covering it up. Althean fucked up and killed an innocent female and an unborn child, and Gregory covered it up by marking them as if they were guilty of a crime. How could an unborn child _ever_ be guilty of a crime? It's against their creed."

"They are _all_ innocent," Candy said indignantly. "Hundreds of kills in the past five years and we can't tell they've done anything wrong."

"Yes, but they can always twist the contract, find some tiny little detail somewhere to justify it. Nothing justifies this," I gestured to the pregnant female. "Is Gregory in on it, too? Or is he cleaning up Althean's mess and hoping to catch him and set him right before the other angels discover his misdeeds and come down on his head as the boss? Because with this, it's going to be a very short time before Althean finds himself in deep angel doo–doo."

We reviewed the rest of the video, but found nothing else beyond long stretches of no activity punctuated by the local werewolves and their investigative efforts, then us arriving. Wyatt took the laptop thinking he might find something in there that would have caused this couple to be a target, or even be on the angel's radar.

"Do you still have the information on your predictions?" I asked Wyatt. "That repression analysis you did?"

"Regression analysis. I'll add in this data and we should be able to narrow things down further. He's definitely moving faster. If we can identify one or two targets, we'll need to think about how we're going to handle it. Probably some kind of stake out, since alarms and such won't give us enough time to arrive all the way from Maryland and catch him in the act."

Stake out. The thought depressed me.

We drove to a nearby breakfast diner so Wyatt could run his registration analysis and we could all have Moons Over My Hammy with some much needed coffee.

Candy and I were arguing over my supposedly excessive ketchup use on the hash browns, when Wyatt interrupted us by shoving his tablet in our faces.

"There," Wyatt said pointing at the map. "These three places are very close together and all within the modified predictive line. I'm worried about the timeline though. My model shows two to three days, but I don't have enough recent data points, and it could be as soon as tomorrow."

"Gettysburg," Candy said looking at the map. "Let's head there now, grab the closest hotel room to these three likely spots, and then hit the outlets for a couple changes of clothes and toiletries. We'll reconnaissance the spots today, well before we think the hit will be, then be ready tonight and tomorrow. We'll just pull this straight through. We really need to catch him this week, before his trajectory takes him further away from home and we have to deal with travel."

"Cool, we can go down Route 30," I told her. "It goes straight into Gettysburg."

Wyatt looked at me with disgust. "Not Route 30, again. We just crawled down there, and now we have to go back?"

"It is the quickest way to Gettysburg," Candy told him.

So back down Route 30 we went. Traffic wasn't quite as slow, but it was steady and crowded through all the tiny little towns. As we got closer in to Gettysburg, the small houses in various stages of neglect got closer together and became more interspersed with an eclectic array of businesses. There were used car lots, thrift shops, a sheet metal manufacturer, tile wholesaler, and, oddly, a gourmet tobacco store.

The modern houses gave way to restored Victorian homes as we entered the city limits, then majestic historic mansions and row houses as we entered downtown Gettysburg. The historic knickknack shops, coffee houses, inns and restaurants enchanted me. Crowds of people peering at brochures choked the streets and sidewalks. At my insistence, we searched the downtown inns only to find that none had any vacancies. A helpful coffee house employee informed us that this was the height of their tourist season and we probably wouldn't find anything this close to the battlefield. He recommended we head back north out of town, closer to the highway, where some privately owned motels may have vacancies.

Hours later, we were tired and grumpy from the endless stream of 'no vacancy' signs when we finally found a place. It was fairly close to the houses we needed to investigate, but was by no means our first pick of sleeping quarters.

Our home away from home was one of those two story local owned motels popular fifty years ago. The white paint was patched in not–quite matching colors all over the cement block walls. I hadn't realized white came in so many shades. The doors and trim were a thick red, as if twenty layers of glossy paint had been stacked on top of each other over the decades. Chips along the door and window frames revealed the trim had at times been green, blue, and a lovely shade of baby poop yellow. Judging from the frequency that cars came and left from the parking lot, the motel mostly catered to a rent–by–the–hour crowd.

The guy at the front desk took one look at hot young Wyatt in the company of two middle aged women and made some pretty lurid assumptions based on his expression. He took a bit of convincing that we were indeed planning to stay at least the night, if not several days. Candy begged and badgered, but couldn't get him to give us a ground floor room. I wondered if they were reserved for the hour rentals. People could make quick getaways if needed, maybe out a back window. Plus, ground floor would be easier for the frequent maid service needed with hourly rentals. That is, if they bothered to clean between rentals. Ick.

It had become overcast as we left York. A kind of hot humidity filled the air as it always does in mid August and I doubted whether the threatened rain would cool things off. The old air conditioning units whirred and hummed away, spewing hot air at us as we climbed the cement stairs and headed down the outside hallway toward our room. Ours was the one with the big pool of air conditioning water spilling across the walk and dripping down onto the parking lot below. I imagined the cold dirty water dropping down on some unsuspecting cheating person as they went in to meet up for an afternoon delight. The inside wasn't terrible, but I could tell by Candy's face that this was a huge sacrifice in comfort on her part. Two double beds with cheap floral bedspreads were crammed in the room with just enough space to squeeze by them and the fiberboard dresser placed against the opposite wall. An old TV squatted on top of the dresser, and the beds shared a painted plywood bedside table with a phone and a cheap alarm clock. Laminated and firmly taped to the bedside table was a sheet indicating various charges for phone calls, and pay movies.

"You've got to be kidding me," Wyatt said as he walked over to the TV. I thought he was referring to the age, poor quality, and limited channels of the unit. He reached up and grabbed the remote off the top and I saw it had been drilled and outfitted with a ring which was connected by a long metal chain to an identical ring on the TV. I laughed. All that trouble to safeguard a ten dollar universal remote. If we really wanted to steal it, a good set of tin snips, heck probably a decent pocket knife, could have freed it from the chain. Or we could have just grabbed the TV too.

"What, no mini bar? No room service?" I asked, delighted. I was enchanted by the place. Sleazy sex downstairs, tacky theft prevention. I wondered if the bed vibrated. Yes! There was a coin operated box on the side. I dug around for a quarter and threw myself on the bed to enjoy the ride. Better than the kiddy rides outside Walmart.

Candy was not so amused. She looked as though she was about ready to grab some Clorox wipes and go to town. The expression on her face as I set the bed to shaking was priceless. This was going to be the most fun hunt ever. More fun even then catching that sorcerer for the elves a few centuries back.

Candy pointed to the bed closest to the door. The one I wasn't lying on.

"This is _my_ bed. I don't want to see you sleeping in it, I don't want you having sex in it with him or anyone, or even by yourself. I don't want anything involving bodily fluids going on in this bed. In fact, I don't even want you to sit on it. Especially not naked. You too," she added as an afterthought pointing at Wyatt.

"What if I put a plastic bag down first?" I asked playfully. "I can spray some disinfectant on it afterward to kill the germs."

Candy glared at me. I guess that was a no.

There were some logistical negotiations regarding the shopping expedition. It was silly for us all to go out to buy toothbrushes and cheap jeans, but Candy was afraid to let me shop for her and Wyatt needed incomprehensible stuff at an electronics store. I think he was a little worried about me shopping for him too. He should have been. I purchased more on entertainment value than fashion sense. With me in charge, Candy was liable to end up in a French maid outfit and Wyatt in a bondage harness.

Finally, Candy took down our sizes and preferences and agreed to do the clothing and necessity shopping. She was immersed in one of her lists when I decided that I just had to do something this afternoon or I'd explode.

"Go with Candy," I told Wyatt. "There's got to be an electronics store at the outlets. I'm going to go canvass one of our three potential sites."

"It's starting to rain," Candy noted. "Why don't you wait until I get a change of clothes for you?"

"I'm really fidgety. I can't hang out here for hours and watch network TV or porn." I had to get out of that hotel room and shake the wiggles out or I'd be liable to make poor decisions later. "The one site is only three miles from here and it's not raining hard. I think I'm going to jog."

"Cool, I can take your car then," Wyatt said before the words left my mouth.

"Nope. Nobody drives my car." Like nobody sits on Candy's bed, I thought.

"It will be faster if we don't have to ride together. I swear I'll be careful."

"No."

"Sam, I've known you for two years. You can trust me to take good care of it. I know how much it means to you."

"No."

"You trust me with the key to your safe, to take care of all your affairs if needed, but you won't let me drive your car?"

"No. It's my car."

"So, if you have to flee back to your home land, am I allowed to drive it then? Or do I have to let it sit and rot wherever you left it last? You'd rather some redneck with plumber's butt hoist your car onto a flat bed or drag it down the road on a hook to the impound lot than allow me to drive it?"

I thought for a moment. "Well, maybe then," I said, grudgingly. "But not now. You can't drive it now. Or in the foreseeable future."

Wyatt glared at me. This was clearly an issue he would continue to address. I realized that I'd probably eventually have to let him drive my car sometime or he'd harp on it forever. Not now though. Maybe after we'd had sex.

The pair left to run their errands and I was alone in the no–tell motel room. I'd looked at the map and directions on Wyatt's tablet, and he'd set it up on my cell phone so I could use the GPS feature to get there and back if I took a detour. I sat for a moment to prepare myself and bring back up the angel's DNA and energy signature. It was like waving a dirty sock in front of a Bloodhound. I focused and a great anticipation grabbed me. I hoped the angel marked his victims prior to the kill. Scouted out their homes, watched them to see their habits, planned his moves. I had so much on him, if he so much as coughed on a twig I'd notice.

I locked the door, with an actual key no less, and headed out. Thankfully the light rain had stopped, although the humidity would have me just as soaked in thirty minutes. I jogged down the busy four lane commercial route trying to look like I was just out for some exercise. Six blocks, then a left. Two more blocks then a right. The tightly packed houses started to spread apart with more sizable yards, then separated by fields of corn or soybean. A mile down and I turned onto a winding hilly country road that didn't seem wide enough for two modern cars to pass. Heck, two Suburbans would have to four wheel it, especially with no shoulder on the road. Little clusters of three or four modern houses broke the expanses of crops, hay fields, and cattle pasture. I listened carefully for cars. They'd never be able to see me with the hills and curves in the road until they were almost on me. Jumping out of the way into a muddy ditch or barbed wire would have been my only option on a few stretches.

I quickly realized that running in blue jeans was a horrible idea. They clung to me in the wet heat and the seams were rubbing and chafing. Thankfully I'd worn a supportive bra and a pair of old running shoes, or the situation would have been dire. Still, I was seriously contemplating taking the damned jeans off and running in my underwear. The road was pretty deserted this time of day. I considered it, but decided I'd rather suffer than draw attention to myself when I was on a hunt. That's all I needed was some country boy trying to get lucky with streaker girl.

I was only a hundred yards from the house when the sky opened up and sheets of rain poured down on me. Fuck, could this get any worse? The jeans were like two hundred pounds of wet sandpaper at this point, and my running shoes squelched water with every stride. This was hell. Not that medieval painting of horned dudes gnawing on limbs and fucking asses. Wet jeans were far worse than chewed up limbs and a sore rectum. I knew this for a fact.

I looked up at the house through the haze of grey rain and wet hair. It was set back from the road down a long driveway. Two story, colonial style with shutters on the windows and vinyl siding. No trees, no deck or patio, no front porch, no landscaping bushes, no cover at all. Just a straight shot until you reached the house where there was a small detached garage and a prefab shed. Couldn't anybody have planted any trees? Or a nice stone fence? Or a privet hedge?

I pretended to tie my shoe and thought for a second. That's when I saw it. There was a drainage ditch running along the driveway about two feet out. It was about two feet wide and eighteen inches deep. This was going to suck big time. Staying bent over, I slithered into the ditch. The downpour was not kind to me. The ditch wasn't full enough of water to splash my way up, but it was wet enough to create a good two inches of mud at the bottom. Where was that rock hard Maryland red clay when you needed it? Did it just stop as you crossed the Pennsylvania border?

I did my best imitation of an army crawl through that muddy ditch. I got to say that, although crawling about twenty yards through mud and rain was physically exerting and dirty business, it wasn't anywhere near as painful as jogging in soaking wet jeans. By the time I reached the end of the ditch at the side of the garage, I was unrecognizable. I couldn't even tell the color of my pants or shirt under the brown sludge. I carefully looked up out of the ditch and didn't see anyone around the house or garage. There were no cars or trucks anywhere, and this guy supposedly lived alone. He was probably at work in a nice warm dry office with all the good people of the world. I was the only fool out here, crawling through the mud in a downpour.

The roof stuck slightly out from the side of the two–car garage and I plastered my sludge–covered ass against the wall, gaining a bit of a reprieve from the rain. Not like I could get any wetter. Wiping my muddy hands on my equally muddy pants proved ineffectual, so I tried wiping them on the side of the garage instead. It didn't help.

I wasn't having any luck sensing Althean, or even Gregory. With Gregory, I only had a dim energy signature. It would be a huge long shot to pick anything up from him, but Althean I should have been able to sense. So either this place wasn't a target in the immediate future, or he didn't do planning or reconnaissance whatsoever before moving in for the kill. I didn't think he was quite that insane, since he'd managed to get away with this so far and a lack of planning will get you caught pretty fast. Still, I thought it might be best to get a closer look in case he was trickier than I thought. I checked around the shed area first and found nothing but an old riding mower and some lawn tools. The backyard revealed that a neighbor's cat occasionally came over to prowl and pee on the sand of the horseshoe pits. That had to piss a werewolf off to no end.

I looped around between the garage and the house. There was simply no cover at all around this place. It looked like a divine hand had plopped a house and outbuildings smack down in the middle of a mowed hay field. If the angel came here, he'd need to be ballsy enough to stride right up the driveway in full view. There had to be an easier target. One with less risk. I wanted to be thorough before I ruled this place out though. Since no one was home, I walked around the house peering in windows where I could. It was a typical house. Decent furniture in a living room, a pile of mail on the dining room table, comfortable looking sofa and a wood stove in the TV room. The yard sloped a bit and the kitchen windows in the back of the house were a too high for me to see through. I hooked my hands on the sill and carefully pushed my weight up to stand on an outdoor faucet. The kitchen had a couple of dishes on the counter, a coffee cup on the breakfast table, newspapers piled on a chair.

I managed to ease off the faucet without slipping, but before I could congratulate myself, my other foot sank deep and firmly into sucking mud and I went down on my rear. Well, it wasn't like I could get any more muddy. That was when I heard the familiar click of the safety on a gun. I sat very still.

"Keep your hands where I can see them and stand up slowly."

That was truly easier said than done. Like a game of Twister, I rotated at the waist and onto my hands and knees. The mud retained its firm hold on my shoe and that foot was stuck at an odd angle. I looked up and through my dripping hair I saw a man. A man holding a shotgun. The gun looked like the one Wyatt had back in his gun safe. The guy was in his early thirties, lean and muscled with tan work boots, and a sleeveless shirt advertising a high school sports team. The brim of his baseball cap shaded his face from my view, but I could see a well trimmed short beard decorating his jawline.

"My foot is stuck." I told him.

"Well, pull it out, but keep your hands on the ground," he said unsympathetically.

I braced my weight on my hands and other foot and pulled. And twisted. Finally I tried rocking back and forth and the foot slowly came free. I stood, careful to keep my hands where shotgun guy could see them. He looked me over.

"Who are you and why are you prowling around my house?" The rain had slowed thankfully and he no longer had to shout to be heard above the racket.

"Samantha Martin. I was out for a jog and was just trying to get some shelter from the rain until it stopped." I so wanted to push my wet and muddy hair out of my face, but I really didn't want to get shot. Especially at this range.

"In jeans? And getting out of the rain involves dragging yourself to the house in a muddy ditch rather than walking up the driveway like a normal person? And instead of standing under the garage roof, you sneak around the buildings and look in my windows?" Suspicious kind of guy. He looked ready to shoot first and finish with the questions later. Actually, he looked rather scared. Strange for him to be scared, him a fit werewolf with a gun and me a soaking wet middle aged woman with no visible weapon. There was a good reason for him to be scared, but he wasn't supposed to know about it.

"Is this not the first time you've had someone prowling around your house recently?"

The guy looked at me a moment. "Hold still."

I held very still while he reached down, grabbed the hose nozzle and proceeded to spray me down. It was pretty humiliating to stand there with my hands in the air while some guy with a shotgun blasted me with water. It was uncomfortable too. The water was icy cold and it stung with the force of a fire hose.

"Turn around slowly," he told me.

I complied and had the further humiliation of having my ass sprayed off.

I turned around to face him again while he looked. At least the blast of water had pushed my hair back out of my face. I did my best to look harmless. It was easier than usual since I was soaking wet.

"There were some murders up in York late yesterday night," he said slowly. "They are part of a series of murders, so I'm a bit careful."

There is no way he should have known about that couple. It wasn't common knowledge, and there hadn't even been enough time for the gossip mill to get going. I wondered if he'd been part of the local cleanup crew who discovered the bodies. The tape had been too grainy to easily recognize faces, and I still couldn't see this guy clearly with the brim of his cap so low.

"Do you have reason to believe you may be a target?" I asked trying to give him a significant look. One of us was just going to have to come out and say it soon because all this dancing around was not good for my patience.

"Are you an angel?" There, shotgun guy did it for me. I liked him more and more.

There were all sorts of witty comebacks and innuendos I really wanted to make to a question like that, but I decided to keep with the straight talk program.

"No, I'm the one who's going to kill the angel."

He pushed the brim of the cap up and looked at me in astonishment. Okay, I didn't exactly look impressive right at that moment, but his disbelief was a bit insulting.

" _You're_ the demon?"

So not only did this guy know about the murders, and the angel, but he knew I'd been contracted to save their asses. This was a guy I wanted to talk to.

"Have you had anyone nosing around your place but me? Any reason to suspect you might be a target? We think someone in the area might be, but if you could help us pin it down then we might be able to kill this thing."

He looked undecided about whether to lower the shotgun or not. "How do I know you're not an angel?"

Again, I had to bite my tongue. Oh, this was such an opportunity for smart comments. Instead I shrugged. "What do I need to do to prove it to you? I could find the cat that's been peeing in your horseshoe pit and dismember it with my bare hands. Or we could have wild muddy sex here in your yard. I can't see an angel doing that."

Shotgun guy's lips twitched. "You're not of my species. That would be against the rules."

I grinned. "I'm all about breaking the rules."

He grinned back. "Me too actually, but I'll decline your offer for now." He lowered the shotgun and stuck out his hand. "I'm Craig Stottlemeyer."

Craig was my new best friend. He invited me in, allowed me to drip mud and water all over his kitchen floor, wrapped me in a huge soft towel and gave me a hot mug of tea. I was happy to see his place wasn't pristine. He had a stack of dirty dishes in the sink and piles of papers and old mail scattered around. My tea mug advertised some temporary labor agency and the handle had been crazy glued back on at some point. After meeting Candy and seeing that house in York, I was beginning to think all werewolves were OCD neat freaks. What a relief.

Craig was also easy to look at. And look I did as soon as he took the hat off. His neat brown beard matched his ultra–short clippered hair. He had high cheekbones in a thin face accented with an equally sharp nose. The severity of his features was softened by a generous splash of freckles. His eyes twinkled, too. I had no doubt he could dispatch anything that threatened his person or his home, but he looked like he'd do it with good humor and a sparkling smile. He was a cute guy to be a bachelor. I assumed that werewolves had difficulty finding suitable partners since they had to restrict themselves to their own species. In the cities it might be easier, but I could imagine it was slim pickings out here.

We sat at his kitchen table and talked. Craig was well informed of the danger he and other local werewolves were in. From what he'd gathered, the angel liked to strike in people's dwellings when they were alone, which usually equated to night time. There had been a couple of instances when the werewolf target worked a night shift, or was home during the day and they had been killed at that time. Craig was usually at work during the day, but he'd taken off the next few days to prepare a defense. He had hid his cars down the road at a neighbor's and snuck back quietly staying in a deer blind a good two acres away in the tree line at the edge of his property. There, he ate beef jerky and kept an eye on his house with binoculars. It must have really sucked with the heat and the rain we'd just had. That was really roughing it.

"I figured the freak would sneak around first and plan his attack. I've got a good nose, and I'm a good hunter so I can stay alert in a deer blind for two days with binoculars glued to my eyes. I haven't seen anyone but you since I began at six this morning. I came straight here after we left the Randolph's house in York. They wanted me to help with cleanup, but I used work as an excuse. I'll be in a good bit of trouble with my pack leader when they find out, but protecting myself is more important than cleaning blood off a carpet."

I agreed. "You got a map? There are some other places around here that are potential targets and I wondered if I pointed out their location and gave you their names you could tell me anything you knew about them and their properties. Anything. The more information the better."

Craig got out an old fashioned map of Gettysburg and circled in red all the werewolf residences he knew. Having some local knowledge was priceless. I dotted the ones Wyatt had indicated were in his predictive line.

"These are the houses he may target, according to our analysis."

Craig noted his place, then traced a finger over. "This is the Smythe place. They're in Hawaii for two weeks. They just left Monday."

Lucky them.

"This one is Robinson. He's a long distance trucker. He's expected back tomorrow night or the day after tomorrow. Took a truckload of appliances out to a regional warehouse in Iowa."

Could be Robinson then. That would buy us some time. Or it could be Craig.

"That leaves you," I told him. I felt like I was on one of those dramas where the surgeon tells a man he has an inoperable brain tumor. You have a malignant angel. It will kill you in three days or less.

Craig raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips as if considering his funeral options. "Or, it could be Mrs. Staley." He dotted the map in a spot between his place and Robinson's.

I looked at the dot. "According to the master database there isn't a werewolf living there."

Craig gave me a significant look. Ah. Ms. Staley was off the grid. "If she's been able to avoid registration and/or death, then how do you know about her? How does anyone know about her?" I asked.

I watched him take a sip of his tea and look worriedly out the kitchen window. "Sometimes you fake a death, or don't record a birth. It's easy to get human identities and the angel that is in charge of the werewolves doesn't pay much attention to the humans. They are really stupid about most technology, too. It's very difficult though. You can't live as a werewolf. You can't socialize with them, hunt with them, you can't even think of letting your wolf out during the moon. It's a life cut off from your culture, your people, even a part of yourself. You live as a human. You can't mate with a human because it goes against millennia of teaching and culture, but you can't mate with a registered wolf and not blow your cover. There are no records of you as a werewolf. Even the local wolves don't know who you are in case one is tortured or there is a snitch. There are only a few hundred in the world who live like this, but it's important to the freedom and future of our species to have a handful off the radar, just in case.

"Ms. Staley does my taxes. She lives alone. Never mated, never had kids. She's in her mid–sixties. She hasn't changed form in almost twenty years. If she hadn't told me in a fit of loneliness one day I would have never known. She doesn't even smell like a wolf anymore."

Craig looked at me, his eyes no longer twinkling. "That's a horrible way to live your life. Of course, I don't know if ours is much better tiptoeing around, minding our P's and Q's and hoping our friends don't find our body in the kitchen one day with angel wings on our forehead."

I agreed, but I didn't see how my killing one angel was going to help their case in the long run. I didn't get how the humans got to run amok, breeding like rabbits, taxing the natural resources and driving themselves closer and closer to extinction with their folly, but others like the werewolves were hammered with impossible rules and unnatural restrictions. Maybe just to strike out once would be enough. They'd have the satisfaction of knowing they didn't go gently into that good night.

I shouldn't have cared. If the angels wanted to make life miserable for this species, drive them into extinction, why should I care? It wouldn't make any difference to me. The whole thing bothered me, though. Angels were such controlling assholes. What gave them the right to target a species like this? The werewolves were so outclassed, too. If all of them united they'd never stand a chance against even a couple of angels. Bullies. And the thing with the baby. Hypocrites. Even if Althean accidentally killed the woman and the baby, to mark them as guilty, to cover it up was deplorable. Fuck, I hated angels.

I asked Craig if he'd mind driving me back to the motel. I was still damp and muddy in spite of the hosing off, and my jeans were beginning to dry into the stiffness of plywood. Even though the rain had stopped, I didn't relish a jog or even a walk back. My legs would have been chewed through to blood and bones by the time I reached the vacancy sign. Craig looked a little surprised as if he expected me to sprout leathery wings and fly back. I could do that, but I was pretty sure I'd be chopped out of the sky by an angel with a sword before I reached my destination. We walked over to the neighbor's house and he motioned for me to get into a little Toyota pick–up. I'd pegged him for a Chevy or Ford man myself. The Toyota was trashed inside with dirt on the seats, balled up fast food bags on the floor, and a box of shotgun shells spilling out of the cup holder. At least I didn't worry about my muddy ass staining his upholstery. I was more worried about week old barbeque sauce staining my muddy ass.

Craig turned to me even before we pulled out of the driveway.

"So, what do you do? Do you throw lightning, or shoot laser beams out your eyes or something?"

I didn't blame him one bit. I hardly looked like a bringer of death, and the most impressive thing I'd done so far was get my foot stuck in the mud outside his window. Heck, I even had to ask him for a lift. Badass me.

I shrugged. "I can do a lot of things."

It was a good question, though. What could I do? I didn't know what it was going to take to kill this angel. I didn't know what he was going to throw at me, or what he was susceptible to. What if nothing I had worked? What if he ended up being vulnerable to something stupid like aluminum beer cans? Deep down inside, I had a secret fantasy of Owning him. It would be epic to go home and parade around Owning an angel. That was a total fantasy though, and I knew better. Just concentrate on killing him before he killed me. I was thinking that, when I confronted this angel, I should probably start with the basics in terms of my skills and work from there.

Electricity and fire in varying intensities were pretty much gifts at birth. Caretakers had to be fast and proactive around the infants they guarded since babies let loose bursts of energy without warning or provocation. There was just no control at that age, and many would cook themselves, seriously injure their caregivers or accidently kill a foster sibling. Even the Low managed to master electricity and fire to some degree, although they often couldn't do anything complicated. I'd always been skilled at electricity in all its strengths and forms. I was good at persuading elementals to service too, not that I was aware of any elementals on this realm. My greatest skill, though, was that I could shuffle the periodic table around like a dealer in Vegas. I wondered what a bolt of lightning would do to an angel. Could I use conversion on him? Turn bone to liquid? Harden joints and shatter them? I had thought I might have to fall back on just heaving raw energy at him. Very crude, but when you don't know your enemy it's difficult to be flashy.

Craig didn't look wowed at my vague answer, but he kept silent the rest of the ride. We exchanged cell phone numbers in the hotel parking lot and agreed to call each other if any new developments emerged.

# Chapter 12

Candy and Wyatt were back before I was. I had to stand outside muddy and wet while Candy carefully laid towels from the door to the bathroom. I wondered if we had any towels left for showers. There was a good possibility they might not bring us anymore. This wasn't exactly the Hyatt.

"Take off your shoes and socks," she instructed, "and walk across the towels to the bathroom. There you can shower and dry off. Leave your clothes in the sink. I've already put a clean set in there for you."

"Why don't I just take off my clothes here?" I asked. I'd drip less mud if the clothes stayed on the outside of our room.

"No. I don't need to see anymore of your body, and the other patrons do not need to see your naked backside standing on the balcony here. Just try not to get anything on the carpet."

I obeyed walking the tightrope of towels. Wyatt had wires and plastic things strewn all over the bed (not Candy's bed), and barely grunted a hello. I wondered if he was still mad about not getting to drive my Corvette.

Nothing feels better than a hot shower after you've been wet and muddy for a few hours. Well, except for the parts of my inner legs rubbed into red raw chunks. Those stung like a motherfucker when I peeled off the pants and the water hit them. Hopefully I could stealthily fix the skin before I had to put clothing on.

Even though it was humid and sticky out, being rained on somehow makes you feel cold and damp. I got in with my clothes on figuring I could kill two birds with one stone and get them rinsed of their mud layer. After the water ran clean, I peeled them gently off and plopped the sodden mess in the sink. Candy was considerate enough to have bought shampoo, conditioner, soap, and even some razors. I hadn't even thought of that since most hotels I stayed at had decent supplies in their bathrooms. Of course this one didn't. So their guests didn't take showers after their hour long rendezvous? Or just rinsed off? Or perhaps they brought their own little clean up bag with them, like I do to the gym. I let the water steam over me thinking about the similarities of Zumba at the gym and sweaty mattress aerobics on the first floor.

My warm feelings toward Candy faded when I saw the clothes she had bought me. A pack of cheap cotton underwear. Okay, no problem. It's not like I needed slut panties for the next two days. Inexpensive jeans. Okay, although I resented that she bought me curvy/relaxed fit. The sports bra was Okay. The shirt was just revolting though. It looked like it should have come with a Mennonite cap and a long skirt. It was long sleeved. Perfect for these ninety degree days we were having. It was pink with little white gingham checks all over it. It buttoned up to a little peter pan collar with picot lace around the edge. The sleeve cuffs were edged in the same picot lace. I put it on and looked in the mirror. There was no fucking way I was even leaving the bathroom in this shirt. I walked out in my bra with the shirt in my hand hoping to see if I could slice enough of it off with my utility knife to tolerate wearing it until I washed and dried the muddy clothing.

Wyatt snickered as I walked out and Candy handed him a folded bill.

"I bet her a twenty that you wouldn't even wear it out of the bathroom. She thought you'd slice it up and wear it frayed just to piss her off."

"You'd have won if I'd brought my multi–tool into the bathroom with me." I told Candy as I tossed her the shirt. "I'll just do the bra thing until my clothes get through the washer and dryer."

"No need," Wyatt said grinning. "I bought you a present."

He handed me a bag. It was glossy pink with an antiqued gold banner and a crest on it. Candy nodded approvingly seeing the designer logo.

I pulled out the t–shirt and unfolded it admiring the bold black and red colors. "Look," I said turning it around and displaying it across my chest. "I'm 'Juicy'"

Wyatt's grin threatened to engulf his whole face and Candy choked a bit.

"It's Juicy Couture," she said, dismayed. "It's a designer brand name."

"Yes, but I'm 'Juicy'," I told her. "Do you think I'm 'Juicy', Wyatt?" I turned to him all innocent.

"I certainly hope so."

"See, it says right here that I'm 'Juicy', so it must be true," I said. "Wyatt, you'll need to have one that says 'Crunchy'. I think that you're probably 'Crunchy'. And Candy can have 'Chewy'. Or possibly 'Tough and Stringy', if they have that one."

"Can I have 'Hard'?" Wyatt teased. "Maybe "Huge and Hard."

I looked at the portion of his anatomy in question. "From this angle, I'd support that. Although I still like 'Crunchy'. I'm very fond of 'Crunchy'."

Candy shook her head in exasperation and neatly folded the shirt I had thrown at her before tossing me a pack of plain white t–shirts she bought for me to wear.

"What did you find on your prowl?" she asked, deftly changing the subject.

I brought them up to speed on my pleasant visit with Craig Stottlemyer, although I left out the part on the off–the–grid werewolf.

"So nothing at his house. The one house is out since they are gone for weeks. We've got some time with this Robinson guy. We could check out his place tonight, get some sleep, and start surveillance tomorrow before he gets back." Candy said, putting the hideous shirt in a drawer.

Wyatt and I agreed. I threw on a white tee so I didn't get rain and mud all over my new Juicy shirt. Wyatt called shotgun as we piled into Candy's car and headed out.

Robinson had a little one story house that looked like it was delivered on a flatbed. His garage was three times the size of his house, no doubt to accommodate his semi when he was home. The big garage was empty but for a monster–sized Ford 350. This must be where his money went. It had chrome all over, a custom painted Pittsburgh Steelers logo covering the back window, and pink rubber testicles hanging from the trailer hitch. Sheesh. The guy drove a big rig, had a huge truck, I was guessing his dick was the size of my pinky. Since he wasn't home, I covered the ground outside his home in a grid pattern twenty feet out from his walls. Nothing. By the time I was done, I was starved.

"Do you think Althean got freaked out over killing a pregnant woman and is going to hold back for a while?" I asked, stuffing down a burger and fries at a local diner. "Maybe Gregory caught up with him and has pummeled his ass into submission?"

Candy shrugged. "I don't think he can hold back for long. From the video we saw I think he's snapped and gone crazy. He was pacing all over the place, and didn't act like he was rational and in control of his actions. Still, if we don't see anything in the next two or three days, then we'll have to rethink our strategy. It could be that Gregory has caught up to him and stopped him, but I'm not convinced of Gregory's intentions. It could be that he supports Althean and would only want him to be more stealthy in his kills."

Three days. Shit. I had horses and Boomer, and a zoning hearing. Normally, Wyatt would make sure my animals were okay, but he was here with me. My neighbors weren't on a friendly basis with me, so I called Michelle.

"You read those zoning documents yet?" she asked.

"No, and I'm probably going to miss the hearing. Can you sit in for me?" I asked in my nicest voice. "I'm out of state for a couple days, and I wondered if you'd please go by my place and check on my horses and dog. The horses are in the field, so you won't need to do more than toss a bale of hay at them. Just dump some food in Boomer's bowl. It's in the barn by the tack room."

"Sam, I'm a black girl raised in the heart of Baltimore. I'm not getting anywhere near those crazy animals of yours. Where is Wyatt?" She paused and I heard her gasp in excitement. "Oooo, are you both on a romantic trip? You've _got_ to tell me what he's like in the sack. I'll get Darleen to check your farm for you. You just enjoy yourself and call me the minute you're back in town."

"Wait," I said before she hung up. Who the fuck was Darleen? "Is Darleen your fat friend? The one with the curly hair who sings when she's drunk?"

"She was raised on a dairy farm. Cows are the same as horses, so you can trust her."

Crap, I hoped she wasn't going to try and milk my horses. Especially since they were all geldings. I wondered if I should burst her bubble about my 'romantic' getaway with Wyatt. I was pretty focused on my hunt, and I'd hate to disappoint her with no lurid stories when I returned.

"We're actually up here with Candy on some business. Just wanted you to know that," I said looking at Wyatt and Candy. Maybe I should have waited and had this conversation in private.

Michelle was silent a moment. I squirmed. I might be bad to the bone, but I didn't want Michelle to get pissed at me. She was the best property manager I'd ever had.

"I didn't think Candy was licensed to sell outside Maryland," she said in a very scary calm voice. "And I'm certainly not licensed to manage out of state properties."

"It's a real long shot, Michelle," I said soothingly. "If I buy anything you can open a Pennsylvania office and hire someone already licensed here to manage under you. You're the best, and I'm not about to deal with anyone else. If you would cover for me while I'm gone, I'd really appreciate it. I'll call you the moment I'm back and let you know how things stand so you can get the jump on things." How cryptic was that? I hated stroking egos. It's not a skill I grew up with.

Michelle seemed reassured and chatted on, gossiping about local politics and prominent business owners in town. Finally, she announced she had to go as she had a date with some guy named Javier.

Candy rolled her eyes as I put my phone back. "That girl could be a powerhouse if she ever learned to focus."

"She's young. She's bright. She seizes opportunities and takes calculated risks; she's got a great future. I don't entrust my business concerns to anyone but the best." I replied. Don't criticize my people.

We headed back to our motel room. Wyatt took a shower while I ran my laundry down for a quick run in the washer. I left it spinning, thinking I'd throw it in the dryer in the morning, and popped back in the room just as Candy was finishing a phone call of her own.

"I love you and I'll see you soon. Call you tomorrow."

"Your husband?" I asked as she hung up.

"No, my son. I've been divorced for seven years now, and we really don't speak any longer. I did see my ex–husband at my son's wedding last year, though."

Wow, I must have caught her in a sentimental mood to reveal this kind of personal information to me. I was even more shocked when she dug in her purse and pulled out a vinyl album of pictures.

"Here's my son and his wife at their wedding. The bridesmaid here is my daughter. She just graduated college this spring and is working up in New York. My son and his wife are in Philly."

She continued to flip through the album. Her kids were attractive, smiling, happy. A lovely family. She even had a shot of the whole wedding party with her husband and his new wife.

"What happened with your marriage?" I asked. Was that a polite thing to ask? Humans asked questions and showed interest in each other's lives, but I never knew where to draw the line.

Candy shrugged. "We were married fairly young. It's not always easy to find a mate, so if you're attracted to someone in your area and they're available, you tend to jump on it and rush into commitment. As we both grew older, I became stronger, more involved in business and in werewolf politics. Especially after the kids grew up. I think he just wanted a mate who wasn't so dominant, who was less of a mover and shaker, less ambitious. We don't talk, but we're not hostile toward each other. These things happen. I know his new wife. We're not a huge community, so you tend to know everyone, especially if you deal in politics. She's very nice. They seem happy."

Her voice was pragmatic, calm and reasonable. She didn't mourn his loss, but I think she mourned the loss of something. Maybe intimacy? Maybe companionship?

"You never found another mate? Never remarried?" She was on a roll, so I thought I'd ask.

Candy shook her head sadly. "There aren't a huge amount of us, and with our existence contract we're limited in where we can make our home. Even if I wanted to marry someone in, say Richmond, I'd need to petition to move there to be with him, or he'd need to petition to move to my city. Plus, I'm very involved in my business and in politics. It's hard to find time for long distance dating."

She showed me additional pictures of rounded babies and skinny adolescents. Her kids when they were young. They looked human. Kids with baseball bats, kids jumping in pools, kids making silly faces at the cameras. It was clear that parenting had been one of the most important parts of her life. I wondered how easy it was to move from one phase of your life to another? Candy was successful, but was she happy? Did she long for those days with a husband and her young children again, for a past her?

"I'm hoping for grandchildren eventually," she sighed. "Werewolves live slightly longer than humans. Our average life expectancy is just over one hundred years, and we have a long window of fertility. We need it, because we don't seem to get pregnant easily and we don't always carry a child to term. I was so blessed to have two healthy children, but our numbers are dwindling because our fertility is low. Over the last five hundred years, it's declined dramatically."

"You need some hybrid vigor," I told her. "Cross breed with humans. They are fertile like rabbits, and have a high live birth rate. You could interbreed with the hybrids then and strengthen your species."

Candy shook her head. "It's forbidden in our existence contract. No breeding with the humans. No sex with the humans at all. It's been that way for thousands of years and it's gotten to the point where we feel repulsed at the very idea. It's just ingrained in our culture."

There was something about that pronouncement that lit a spark in my memory. What was it with angels and cross species breeding with humans? They seemed to freak at the thought.

"Wait," Candy said suddenly, a strange look on her face. "Didn't Wyatt say there was a higher incidence of kills among females? I'd noticed that a few of the early kills had admitted to fertility treatment. I didn't think anything at the time because that's a real grey area in our contract. But now I'm wondering if Althean is targeting the more fertile among us. Can angels discern that sort of thing? It would really hasten our extinction if he picked his victims based on their ability to produce offspring."

"I don't know if angels can do that or not," I said. "Either way, killing an already pregnant woman and her unborn baby is not allowable for them. I could see killing the father, assuming he's the fertile one, and coming back to kill the mother after she gives birth, but not while she's pregnant."

"Do you think it could help us identify who the potential victims are?" she asked.

I shrugged. "I can't sense someone's fertility. I don't think it's going to help us catch him."

I left Candy and scrolled through the TV stations. Candy had ruled out any porn while she was in the room, so I ended up watching NCIS reruns. Wyatt finished his obscenely long shower and emerged from the steam with sweat pants and nothing on top. The guy had the best chest ever. Slim, but cut and muscular, with arms Popeye would give his eye teeth for. I stared like a starving orphan. This was going to be the most torturous night of my life. Wyatt pulled the bedspread and top sheet down to the bottom of the bed and tossed himself on it holding the remote–on–a–chain. Damn, that was just sexy.

I was not allowed to change into my pajamas in the room and was banished to the bathroom to disrobe and brush my teeth. Candy had outdone herself on the nighttime wear selection. Normally I just slept in the nude. Tonight I would be sleeping in flannel shorts and a Tinkerbell t–shirt that could easily have contained three longshoremen. Yep, it was that big.

As I walked out of the bathroom, Wyatt caught sight of me and made a choking noise. I pivoted around to show him the entire glory of the Tinkerbell shirt that came well past my knees. I didn't know why I bothered with the flannel shorts since you couldn't tell I had them on under the tent of the shirt.

"Come on, baby, you know you want me," I told Wyatt while posing seductively. I could have been three hundred pounds in this thing and you wouldn't have been able to tell the difference.

"Sorry, Sam, my libido vanished at the sight of that hideous nightwear," he laughed.

I plopped down on the bed next to him and watched Candy take her toothbrush into the bathroom.

"Do you think we have time for a quickie while she brushes her teeth?" I asked Wyatt.

"I heard that," Candy said over the sound of running water.

"That's a no, then." Wyatt seemed genuinely regretful. I wondered if he was still scared of me. I wondered if we'd ever have sex. Hopefully soon before he got old and less attractive. Humans have such short lives, and are not very appealing in the early or late stages of them. Wyatt was very appealing now, spread out on the bed before me like a prime rib buffet. I just wanted to rub my hands up his naked chest. And my mouth. Heck all of me, like a cat against a chair leg. Full of sexual frustration from my imagining, I turned on my side with my back facing him and squeezed my eyes shut trying to sleep.

Candy came out and the lights and TV went off as the others settled in. In spite of Wyatt's claims that he never slept, he dozed right off. I could hear Candy snoring softly too. Just me, awake and horny with my head full of thoughts. How was I going to kill this angel? I didn't know much about them, and Candy only knew a bit more than me. I wasn't sure how to face off something that was at very least my equal and probably much more powerful than me. I'd killed a few of my own kind, but those were accidents. In spite of the propaganda painting us as evil murderous beings, we really didn't battle or assassinate each other on a regular basis. Yeah, there was the occasional feud, but it was over pretty fast. Life was hazardous enough. We're a pretty hardy species, luckily, so it would take a wallop of power to bring one of us down when we were in defensive mode. I'd just have to assume the same with the angel and maybe double it just to be safe. Overkill. When it just has to be dead.

About a half hour into my musings, Wyatt rolled over and grabbed me pulling me across the bed to him, squashing my back up against his chest and wrapping his arm and leg around me. I think they call it 'spooning'. I froze and didn't know what to do. I'd never slept with anybody. We just don't do this sort of thing. It was like being in a straightjacket; one that breathes on you and wraps your legs up too. The whole thing was both uncomfortable and a turn–on. I was starting to get kind of hot having Wyatt wrapped around me like a blanket, and feeling him pressed against me like this wasn't helping me fall asleep either.

It was a long night. I'd doze off, then move into a more comfortable spot only to have Wyatt grab me and jerk me in tighter. Plus I didn't realize that male humans had erections off and on all night long. How the hell was I supposed to sleep with a boner pressed against my ass, reminding me of the enjoyable things I could be doing? It was fucking torture and I woke up to my cell phone beeping, sleep deprived and in a hideous mood.

It took me a few moments to extricate myself from Wyatt's grasp. I thought I'd have to gnaw my limbs off at one point. Of course, my struggles woke him up too.

"What?" he asked groggily as I climbed over him to grab my cell phone off the bedside table. I made sure I smashed my boobs into his face on the way as payback for a night of dick on my ass. I looked at the phone. Craig. His text from a few seconds ago said " _he's here now_." I vaulted from the bed jabbing a knee in Wyatt's stomach and knocking the lamp on top of Candy's head. I had my keys and was out the door before either of them could say a word.

My Corvette screamed along the roads to Craig's house taking up the entire road as I shot around the narrow curves. It was too early for traffic, but I narrowly missed a tractor and a fox. A squirrel wasn't as lucky, and I was relieved to see it flopping around in death throes behind my car as I sped off. At least it hadn't gotten hung up in my undercarriage. At the last moment I realized that I could hardly go rocketing up Craig's driveway smashing into the angel like something from Mad Max. I whipped into the neighbor's driveway, and dashed through their back yard toward the tree line that extended to Craig's deer blind. If they were up, I'm sure the neighbor's were startled to see an expensive sports car spinning out gravel in their driveway followed by a half naked woman darting across their back yard. Not something you see every day over your morning coffee.

My feet were scratched and bruised by the time I reached Craig's deer blind. "Where is he?" I asked breathlessly.

Craig stared at me in amazement. I looked the ruthless killer in my nightshirt with a toddler sized Tinkerbell on the front, bloody bare feet, and bed head. At least my morning breath was fear inducing.

"He's gone. He was only here a few moments around the side of the house. I didn't get a really good look at him, so I can't describe him. He just appeared out of nowhere around the side of the garage, walked over to the house, stayed there for a few minutes, then walked back and disappeared."

"Maybe he crawled up the ditch by the driveway like I did?" I suggested. Stupid idea. I couldn't picture a powerful angel scooting on his belly through the mud. Although it would be really funny to watch one do that. Really funny.

"No, he didn't look rumpled or dirty. Plus, I can see the ditch from here, that's how I saw you coming to the house."

Another testament to my incompetence. This guy probably thought I was a total boob. I was beginning to think I was a total boob.

We walked down toward the house and Craig showed me where the angel came from and where he went to. By then, Candy and Wyatt had arrived, pulling in the driveway like civilized folk. They were dressed, and Candy had even combed her hair, although she had forgone the make–up in her haste.

"We missed him, he was only here a moment." I told them as they walked over to us.

Craig put his hands on either side of a window, then straightened up and walked back toward the garage. "That's exactly what I saw him do. It probably only was three minutes and he was gone."

I looked carefully at the garage and along the path the angel took. Nothing. I looked at the house and at the window. No smudges, no marks, no energy signature, no DNA markers. I stared at the window in despair, and noticed a slight distortion. It was like the window had rippled under heat and a dull prism reflected back. Why would he have applied heat to the window? It didn't appear to be enough to break or even weaken the glass. Was heat a byproduct of his presence? If so, why didn't his energy signature appear to me, and why wasn't the siding where he placed his hands warped or melted even slightly?

I'd done all I could do with my human senses, so I put a hand up and sent a tentative trickle of exploratory energy to the window making sure I anchored it firmly in myself so even the smallest of information would come through. The second my energy touched the window, I felt an explosion slamming me to the ground. Pain seared me, and all I saw was white. White, pain, and a screeching noise like roofing nails on a chalkboard. Was I dead? Was I dying? Or maybe blind and deaf. I wasn't even sure I was still at Craig's house. Definitely not dead since the pain was still excruciating. Pain. Pain. I couldn't seem to find my way out of the sound, light and pain.

Finally the white dimmed a bit, and the sound began to recede. I realized someone was holding me and stroking my hair. "Sam, Sam." Wyatt murmured in my ear as he rocked me like a human child with a boo–boo. I appreciated his calmness since I was pretty sure whatever injury I'd suffered it hadn't been pretty. Things began to swim into focus around me, and I concentrated to identify where the pain was to cut it off.

Oh my. My left hand was melted up past the wrist. I removed my personal energy from the flesh, leaving it just a blob of melted fat, bone and tendon. It was as if a wax sculpture had been put too close to a blowtorch. It was pretty dramatic, but it no longer hurt now that I'd isolated it. I must have instinctively shut off my probe or whatever melted my arm would have continued and shot right through me. It would have killed me.

My kind tends to tear ourselves up pretty regularly, what with rough sex and our risky lifestyle. The key is to make sure the flesh has only minimal feeling and that your personal energy is safely away from the areas being ripped or torn, or chewed. Most accidental deaths happened from someone having their personal energy out and about during an unexpected trauma. My personal energy had been extended out and firmly rooted deep to my core. I was very lucky. This could have easily been the death of me.

Wyatt still stroked my hair and I heard Candy and Craig in hushed voices to the side.

"It's going to kill her with one blow. This isn't going to work. Is there some other demon you know? Maybe a better one?"

Great. I was going to be sacked in favor of a 'better' demon. One with red skin, a pointy tail, horns, and a goatee no doubt. They wanted scary? I'd show them scary. I struggled to my feet, pushed back the pounding headache which was fifty percent from lack of coffee, and staggered to the garage. The three followed me. Wyatt at least looked worried.

There was no hatchet to be had in the garage. What self respecting Pennsylvania country boy doesn't chop his own wood? Even better though, I found a hack saw. I smacked my left arm up on a workbench, sending bits of melted flesh flying. Giving myself an inch past the melted part, I started to saw my arm off. It wasn't easy since I hadn't clamped it down first. I had to give myself enough feeling to hold the arm in place, but not enough that it would be agonizing. Still, I made it nice and slow, making sure to stick it in the bone a bit so I had to wiggle the saw blade loose. Bone is usually spongy and hard to cut through without power tools, but whatever melted my hand had made the bone more brittle than usual and somewhat easier to cut. Craig made retching noises; Candy stared with her mouth clamped shut; and Wyatt looked everywhere but my arm. Sorry, Wyatt. I hadn't really wanted him to see this kind of thing. Guess we were back to square one, again. No sex for me.

After I had separated my arm from the rest of my body, I made sure to let it spurt blood a bit over the workbench. I left the melted arm there too. Let Craig clean it up himself, asshole.

Time for a new arm. Like I said before, I could convert myself a new arm in an instant. Wham, new arm. It's not very impressive though to just make an arm appear supposedly out of thin air in a flash of light. I looked at my stump and slowly converted matter around me into a new arm. Bone first, nerves and veins snaking down out of the stump, muscles that grow outward and flesh crawling like a tan plague over the surface. It hurt like a bitch, but it looked horrifying.

"Okay," I said, wiggling my new fingers experimentally in the air. "Let's go back and take a look at that window again, shall we?"

"Don't touch it, Sam," Wyatt implored. "I can't take all this again before breakfast."

I approached the house and held my energy tight to myself as I looked at the window. I could see it now clear as day. That's when I realized it wasn't just the window. Whatever coated the window, coated the entire house. It was so clear and obvious, I wasn't sure why I couldn't see it before. I assumed it wasn't made for human eyes, and it was not something I'd ever see done at home. I looked carefully at the dull rainbow of colors and heard the faint scratching noise. It made a pattern. A pattern I recognized from long ago. Far back in my memories of visits, here.

"It's a hex," I said, half to myself.

"A hex?" Candy looked all over the house and obviously saw nothing. "Like the ones the Pennsylvania Dutch put on the side of their barns?"

I shrugged. "Kind of. The ones around here on the barns are pretty artwork, but they usually don't make any sense from a symbolic point of view, and the makers don't have any power to charge them and create actual wards of protection. They probably had some superstitious meaning a few centuries ago, but they've lost that now. This hex, you probably can't see at all with your eyes. I couldn't see it at first, either, since it's based on color, pattern, and sound, subtle work that we don't use back home. This one is based on the same ancient symbolic nature that the pretty barn decorations use now. It's a kind of ward to protect and guard the occupants of the house."

I motioned with my hand. "There are a series of circles covering the house. They symbolize eternity and tell me that this protection is meant to last forever. Inside are both five and eight pointed stars which carry the protection against evil. Within them is a tulip which is for trust and faith. The symbols add up to an eternal protection from evil that is based on faith. Faith extended from the angel, which is a significant gift." I looked at Craig. "You should feel honored to be gifted this. It's well crafted, and powerful. The main color of the hex is white, which is the energy that powers it. The white is huge. When I touched it, that's all I could see. It practically blinded me. The power behind this is just immense. There are other colors, too. Blue to reinforce the protection, black to bind the hex together as a whole, and a set of reddish purple angel wings like an artist's signature. The wings stamp it as a divine gift. So any idiot who tries to break it knows whose hammer is about to drive him into the ground."

I silently admired the hex a moment. It was just amazing. I couldn't believe the amount of skill that had gone into creating it, let alone the immense power behind it. What angel could possibly have power to just toss into a hex like this? This angel was way out of my league. Way out of any demon's league. The crafting, the level of detail and intricacy of the thing was awe inspiring. I could feel the power humming from it. The whole thing stirred something deep within me. Something beyond admiration. I shook my head trying to clear it of the fascination I felt contemplating this magnificent work of art and its equally magnificent creator.

"In short, it's a protective hex," I told the others. "It guards against supposedly evil spirits, which is why it practically fried me into the ground. I've seen witches do this in the past, but it's not been as powerful and doesn't really do much to keep me out. Those are mainly to keep bad intentioned humans out and as good luck charms. Plus, theirs are visual since the makers are at least mostly human and the protection extends against evil humans who would need to see the warning."

"Why would Althean put a protective hex on the house of a man he was about to kill?" Candy asked, bewildered. "Why bother to protect him against evil spirits when he's planning to kill him in the next day or two? Does he want to make sure no one else gets him first?"

"I'm pretty sure this hex would work against angels as well as my kind and many others. The way it's formulated and how it's activated would keep any angel except the one who placed it from touching the house, and that extends directly to the owner inside or within a certain range outside the house." I turned to Craig. "You could be anywhere within a thirty foot radius, and be totally safe from evil intent against your person, and be safe within your house even if there is no active evil intent. I can stand here and talk to you, but I can't enter your house. And if I decided to do you harm close to your house, the hex would extend out to me. Best of all, Althean won't be able to touch you or enter your house, because it's Gregory who placed this hex."

TaDa! I'd freaked them out with my arm sawing, and now I'd wowed them with my folkloric knowledge. Better not be any more talk of finding someone "better" or I'd have to start chewing limbs and fucking asses.

"Gregory?" Candy looked lost. "Why would he do this? If this is such a powerful and significant gift, then what has Craig done to deserve such protection?"

"I think it's less about Craig personally, and more about trapping Althean," I said. "Gregory knows he's got a problem on his hands. An escalating problem. And he's in charge of these enforcing angels. He's the top dog. It reflects badly on him to have Althean running amok, wiping out innocents. He's got to get him now before there's notice from his higher–ups, or perhaps before you all feel there's nothing left to lose and there's a werewolf rebellion. Think, we've got a couple in Hawaii for two weeks. That leaves Craig and Robinson. He can't be two places at once to catch his naughty boy, so he's safeguarded one, essentially herding Althean toward Robinson. And Robinson isn't due back until late tonight or tomorrow which gives him some time to plan and set a trap."

"So what do we do now?" Wyatt asked.

"I'd propose we do the same. Watch Robinson's to see what Gregory does, then be there when Althean makes his move."

Hopefully, Gregory wouldn't be there, otherwise there would be no move for me to make. No way I was going up against _that_ angel. If he showed up, I'd leave him to deal with Althean. If this hex was any indication, he had enough power to kill me with the flick of a pinky. I was going to make sure I stayed out of the range of that pinky. Even if that meant abandoning Wyatt along with Candy and her weregeld and racing for the nearest gate.

# Chapter 13

Wyatt and Candy headed over to Robinson's house to watch for angel activity, while I drove back to the motel to put on some clothing. Blood and bits of my flesh had splattered on the Tinkerbell shirt. I felt it was a good look for her, and Wyatt commented that I looked like I'd been to a Disney themed Gwar concert. Cool idea, but I wanted to get into something less tent like. Plus I was tasked with bringing coffee and donuts.

I didn't want to wear my new Juicy shirt and get it blood covered in some battle. Plus, my street cred was fragile enough without my prancing around proclaiming my juiciness. Thankfully, no one had stolen my t–shirt and jeans from the motel washer. I threw Tinkerbell in the washer, equally confident that no one would steal her either, and proceeded to wait for my choice of clothing to dry. I took my time, grabbing a shower and drying my hair. Remembering the wet hair hanging in my face yesterday, I pulled it into my usual pony tail. Hopefully that would keep it contained and out of my eyes. I walked naked to get my clothes out of the dryer since Candy wasn't there to yell at me, and then headed for coffee and donuts. I really didn't need to get there too early. Robinson wasn't home, so we weren't expecting any action from Althean. He probably wouldn't even try to scout it out until later in the day. Plus, I really wanted to avoid my own personal nemesis, Gregory, who might come to set his own trap and sense me nearby in the process.

The whole stake out thing was boring to the nth degree, sitting there, eating donuts and drinking coffee until I was ready to squirm out of my skin from the sugar and caffeine high. We sat for hours, crouched in the hedgerows, waiting for anything to show up. I played games on my cell phone until the battery was almost dead, then took twigs and leaves and made a series of obstacles for increasingly frustrated and anxious ants.

Finally, just as I was ready to call and have pizza delivered, someone walked up the driveway. Wahoo! Action time! We couldn't see clearly who it was, so I inched along the hedgerow and slowly crawled up behind him pulling my energy up. It was Craig. What a letdown. He was lucky that he heard me with his superior hearing and turned around before I blasted him into bits. I was so disappointed that I almost blasted him anyway. Anything would be more entertaining than another few hours pestering ants behind a bush.

Craig was shaking, his eyes big with fear. And that's saying a lot for a werewolf if Candy were anything to compare by. "An angel came by my house again. I don't care if there's a hex, I'm not staying there."

"Was it the same angel as before, or a different one?" I asked as Candy and Wyatt came from their cover behind a huge forsythia.

"I don't know. They all look the same to me. It might have been the same one, or it could have been the killer. I'm not staying there. I'd feel more safe with a demon who saws her own arm off."

I wasn't sure that was a compliment. I turned to the others. Candy was frowning at Craig in disapproval. Wyatt looked relieved. I couldn't stand hours, possibly all night, of this stake out business. I would go insane if this stretched on with nothing to do but sit and wait.

"Look, I can't take much more of this hovering around with nothing to do," I told the three of them. "I'm an action kind of girl. And I want a beer. I'm going to break into this guy's house and find some booze, and maybe some reading material, anything to entertain me until I can kill something."

I walked over to the door and jimmied the lock in my own special way as Candy argued with Craig regarding his safety choices. Wyatt watched them for a moment then followed me in.

Robinson's tiny box of a house had a small living room, an eat–in kitchen, and a ridiculously narrow hallway leading to two tiny bedrooms. I availed myself of the bathroom and was happy to snag a few naked girl magazines. Too bad there weren't any guy ones, but I was thinking that maybe werewolves were strictly heterosexual. I wasn't, so I'd be happy enough with the girly ones. I also saw some car magazines and a People. I grabbed them too thinking Candy might appreciate some reading material herself.

I was bored and feeling nosy, so I looked through the guy's bedroom. Lots of flannel, and belts with a variety of heavy, picturesque belt buckles. I'll bet _this_ guy had an axe in his garage. Whole lot of condoms in the underwear drawer with the tighty whities. I checked the expiration date on them. A few were pretty old. I opened one up for the heck of it and it was a bit dried out. Very careless of him. I wondered who Robinson was getting it on with? He was pretty restricted in his sexual partners with the existence contract. And with the state of those condoms, he'd not just be violating the sex part, but the breeding part also if he were fucking humans. I glanced again at the girly mags and wondered if jacking off to photos of human women would violate the contract. Stupid angels.

The kitchen revealed that Robinson didn't eat much. Or maybe he wasn't home enough to bother with stocking up on groceries. There were some cans of tuna, white beans, and stewed tomatoes along with an almost empty bag of stale chips. Jackpot in the fridge though. It was full of beer. Coors Light, but hey I wasn't going to be picky about stolen beer. It wasn't really stealing anyway. I was going to save the guy's ass, so he owed me some beer. I glanced out the window and saw Candy still arguing with Craig. She waved her finger at him, then walked out of view. I could imagine the conversation now: "Don't you walk away from me, young man."

Wyatt popped open two beers, handed me one and took one back to the bathroom, snagging a magazine out of my hands. There are some things he evidently didn't want to do out in an open field. I hopped up on the counter and sat there drinking my beer. I'd wait for Wyatt, grab a six–pack, or maybe a twelve–pack, and we'd head back to our comfortable spot behind the bushes.

I'd finished my beer, started on a second and was beginning to wonder what the hell was taking Wyatt so long. I'm a get it done kinda girl. Maybe he was at a particularly engrossing part of the magazine and just needed to finish the article. Right. I hopped down from the counter and was about to head over when a boom shook the house practically knocking me off my feet. What the fuck? Did a truck just come through the living room wall or what? I ran to the front of the house, which was all of five steps, and saw a blur of light. The front door was split and sideways on its hinges, Candy lay in a bloody heap by the door. The light emanated from an angel, who had a limp Craig in the air as he shot some kind of energy through him. Craig looked a lot like a colander at that moment. I pulled up my raw energy and sent a blast at the angel. It would fry Craig too, but he was probably dead anyway.

Craig dropped to the floor as the angel flew back from the blast, smashing through drywall and wall joists into the master bedroom. He narrowly missed Wyatt, who ran down the hall towards us.

"Help Candy," I shouted at him, more to get him safely out of the way than any real concern over the werewolf. I jumped through the considerable hole in the wall and flung another burst of energy at where I thought the angel might have landed. I was a few feet off and blew a hole in the floor as he scrambled for cover behind the bed. I went to dive across the bed at him and just missed having my head blown off by whatever the fuck it was he was throwing around. I rolled away just in time and smacked him with a pillow on the way. Take that, you bastard. He looked confused for a moment, which bought me enough time to roll safely off the bed and avoid another blast. The bedroom was full of holes by this time and drywall dust filled the air.

Lying on the ground, I grabbed the metal frame of the bed and ran a good sized charge of electricity through it, hoping that if he was touching it, he'd at least be stunned. The mattress smoked, but as I scooted around the corner, the angel was alert and waiting. He threw more of the white stuff at me and I tried to duck out of the way. It hit my left hand and I was shocked to see that it blew my hand right off.

"You fucking bastard! I just regenerated that hand!" I shouted at him as he dashed out the door and back to the living room.

I hurtled after him heaving two more chunks of energy toward him from my right hand and my left stump. One hit, knocking him through the wall and into the kitchen. I saw him slam his back against the island counter, cracking a chunk of the plywood and linoleum off as he slid to the floor. He scrambled to his feet, diving around behind the island. What the fuck would kill this thing? He threw a few more wild blasts at me from behind the island, and out of desperation I blowtorched the whole lot. Maybe fire would do the trick.

Nope. The bastard stood up and tried to make a run for the back door. I wasn't having any of that, so I hit him again with a blast of raw energy and flung him into the fridge. By now, the middle part of the kitchen was on fire, there were holes blown through most of the house, and the fridge door was hanging off its hinges. None of the beer fell out, though. I took it as a positive omen.

He threw more white stuff at me as he struggled to get up from the floor, but it was weaker and his concentration and aim seemed to be going. Maybe I was slowly wearing him down. I took a moment to regenerate my hand while easily ducking his blast. I hate having a stump where my fingers should be.

I saw the angel dive down and guessed that he was going to make a break for the door again. I ran for it and beat him there, blocking the door with my body. That's when he made his fatal mistake. He met my eyes square on. I locked him in place and held him there. It wasn't easy. He still had a lot of power, and he knew his life depended on getting away. He squirmed like a bug pinned to a board, unable to break my gaze as I slowly moved across the burning kitchen toward him. Damn, he was strong, I thought as he kept pace with me, backward through the kitchen and into the living room, past Wyatt and a bloody but alert Candy. Finally, his back hit the front wall of the living room where he kicked and thrashed, his eyes wide with terror.

"I'm not going to just kill you," I told him calmly. "I'm going to Own you so I can keep you with me forever. I'll peel the skin from you one strip at a time. I'll reach up your ass and pull your insides slowly out, gnawing on them and ripping them with my claws. I'll dislocate every joint in your body one at a time. I'll take your bones and heat them, burning bits of you with your own flesh, and just when you think you're dead, I'll bring you back and do it all over again."

I was beyond excited. I _had_ him. He was weakening and I was so strong. Mine. I'd be the only one of my kind to Own an angel. I reached him and began to send the mix of raw and personal energy into his body to force him to yield. Oh, this would be so sweet. The raw energy surged within me, and I reached out with the feathers of my personal energy to follow their blazed trail and take what I wanted. I felt him build one last bit of strength within himself to fend me off and smiled as I reached out to touch. . . the wall. He was gone. Gone. Where the fuck could he have gone? I had him. He was locked in place. No fucking way. Not again.

I shrieked in rage and hit the wall with my fist. That wasn't helping, so I turned around and grabbed the nearest thing, which happened to be Craig's dead body. With a blast of energy, I ripped his arm off at the shoulder and began smashing it against the wall with all of my might.

"Son of a bitch!" I screamed. "Damn mother–fucking cock–sucking son of a bitch!"

I continued to scream curses and smash Craig's arm against the wall with both hands, sending bits of flesh and blood flying around the room and smearing red all over the walls. I kept at it until the arm was a mush of pulp in my hands. Breathing heavy from the adrenaline and the exertion, I realized that I hadn't heard a sound since I'd begun my tirade. I turned my head and saw Candy and Wyatt standing well away from me to the side, staring in horror at something behind me. Turning all the way, I saw a different angel, huge, dark and fearsome, framed by the burning kitchen behind him. I choked a bit and my heart felt like it hit the floor.

# Chapter 14

The first angel had been tall and thin with blond curls and androgynous features in an oddly stone–like face. I'd not gotten a good look at Gregory from my brief glimpse in the Wine Bar. Not much beyond his height and dark red curls. I could see why the patrons had mistaken him for an actor. He was over six feet and built like a champion weightlifter. His crossed arms and chest looked ready to burst out of the navy polo shirt. His legs were snug in the acid washed jeans. I wondered what angel wore polo shirts and jeans? Where was the flowing white robe thingie?

His tanned features were clearly masculine in the odd marble–textured face, almost harsh in their angles with a sharp nose and squared jaw. Dark chestnut curls fell around his ears and one dropped on his forehead. The whole effect would have been terribly sexy had it not been for his eyes. They were black. Black as midnight on a moonless night. They looked at me with a mixture of disgust and hatred. I was so scared that I had to consciously keep my energy at the surface ready for defense. I very much wanted to hide. Maybe if I stood really still, he wouldn't see me. Wouldn't see me here, all bloody, in a wrecked house, holding a mangled arm.

"You cockroach," the angel said, his voice oozing cold fury. He actually hissed a bit when he said it, like a snake. I seriously thought I was going to piss my pants. "I spend my time and energy establishing protection for this man, and you lure him over here and get him killed. What a waste." He shook his head at Craig's body, minus the one arm.

"My carefully laid trap, completely ruined by your impulsiveness. How many more will die now? And you have the gall to think you can Own one of us? The arrogance to think you can Own an _angel_? You miserable, lowly cockroach. I'll squash you like the vermin you are."

He pulled a sword seemingly out of nowhere. A long blade that glowed with a milky iridescence. He grasped it with two hands, and I noticed the guards curved up from the hilt were shining gold angel wings. Was this the sword he used to chop up my kind and reduce us to a pile of sand? Probably. I doubted it was for dicing tomatoes. Either way, I really didn't want to find out what it felt like against my neck.

In desperation, I dropped the pulpy arm and yanked every bit of raw energy I had to the surface hoping I'd at least cause him some pain before he took me out. Even if the sword sucked up most of the energy, maybe there would be enough to knock him sideways and give me a few minutes to try a desperate attempt at escape.

As Gregory took a step toward me there was a deafening roar and the angel shook his head in astonishment. There was Wyatt, his huge grey pistol pointing at the angel. Wyatt, with a combination of fear and resolve on his face, had shot him. With his big grey pistol, he'd had shot an angel point blank in the head. I was torn between admiration at the balls it took to shoot an angel, and a surge of appreciation that Wyatt cared enough to go head to head with one to protect me.

Sadly, a fifty caliber bullet doesn't seem to do much to an angel. Gregory frowned, the sword disappeared, and he shot one hand out to grab Wyatt's wrist and knock the gun to the ground. The other hand went to Wyatt's throat.

It was a perfect opportunity. Over the decades I had managed to store an immense amount of raw energy. I could have shot it in a stream at Gregory and possibly killed him in a massive blast. It would have killed Wyatt too, but that sort of thing never bothered me before. Demons are not sentimental, and as much as I liked Wyatt, my own personal well being should always come before anyone else's. I shouldn't have thought twice. It should have just been an automatic defensive action. Instead, I dropped the energy back within me and launched myself physically at Gregory. He clearly wasn't expecting it. I knocked him to the ground away from Wyatt who slumped beside us clutching his throat. My stupidity continued as I straddled Gregory's huge chest, grabbed his curls with my hands and whacked his head repeatedly on the ground.

"Pick on someone your own size, asshole," I shouted at him. "Leave him alone. He's just a human, you fucking bully." Brilliant. I was so dead.

The angel looked at me with shocked surprise. Yep, I'll bet he never had a crazed demon sit on him and bash his head on the floor before. He reached up, pinned my arms against the sides of my chest and easily tossed me across the floor like a bowling ball. I slid before coming to an abrupt stop against the wall decorated with Craig's blood.

Before I could get my head to function clearly, he had my arms pinned against my chest again and had lifted me up against the wall with my feet dangling, eye to eye with him. It wasn't very dignified, and I really didn't want to look in those dark eyes. I kept trying to pull my energy up, but he was doing something to me. It felt like my energy had a slippery silicon coating on it and I couldn't grab it. I tried and tried, and it slipped away. He just held me there, silent and staring as I struggled, willing me to look at him. I kept my gaze determinedly fixed at his chin and kept trying to pull up some energy. Somehow I managed to grab a small handful and threw it at him. It was a tiny amount, the same that we use to discipline naughty children or disobedient servants, hardly likely to do more than piss him off further. It was the equivalent of smacking him on the nose with a rolled up newspaper. Bad doggie!

He didn't even budge. Just held me and stared at me until I finally stopped trying to grab my energy and reluctantly looked up at him under my eyelashes. We remained there, looking into each other's eyes while I clenched my jaw to keep from shaking. I wished he'd say something. Something dramatic about what pain and torture he was going to inflict on me or what a horrible nasty cockroach of a being I was. Anything. Anything to distract me from wondering what I was seeing in those black eyes.

"Are you afraid of me, cockroach?" he asked. His voice was deep and oddly seductive. I was far more afraid than turned on, though these two states weren't mutually exclusive for a demon. He didn't seem to want a response. I didn't need to nod. He knew I was scared shitless.

"You should be afraid. You may have been a match for a weakling like Althean, but you are no threat to me at all. You would do no more harm to me than an annoying fly buzzing around my head. I fought in the wars, I was present at the banishment of your kind, I've killed every demon who has faced me since the division of the realms. Far more powerful demons than you have fallen quickly and easily to my sword. Your death would be nothing to me. It would take me no effort at all to end your life, and reduce you to a pile of dirt."

He paused a moment and I could feel him exploring me with his power. It burned as it channeled through my flesh and probed my personal energy. I probably couldn't have blocked him out, but I was surprised that I didn't even try. I just let him poke me and turn me over like an interesting rock he was examining.

"You are just an imp, a baby imp," he commented, his tone filled with curiosity. His examination of me lost its rough edge and took on a note of wonderment. Nervously I guarded my stash of raw energy from him and tried to keep his probing closer to the surface. Pinning me against the wall with one hand, he released my shoulder with the other and put his fingers against my temple. I shook a little wondering if I was about to have angel wings imprinted on my forehead prior to my demise.

"A baby. Simple, and unskilled. Lucky perhaps, but not so powerful after all." He suddenly no longer had that hissing sound in his voice and I hoped that was a good thing. I didn't think it was a good moment to argue that at nine hundred and thirty six human years I was well beyond the age of majority, so I kept my mouth shut.

"I have more pressing matters to attend to than sending you to your grave at this moment, and I think you might prove to be of some use to me," he said.

He gave that a few moments to sink in, then abruptly let go dropping me to the ground. I hadn't expected it, and my legs weren't exactly strong at that moment, so I crashed into a heap. The angel turned to the others. He looked at Wyatt in disgust.

"Her stench, her mark covers you like a dog she owns." He shook his head. "You have free will to do as you choose, but what poor choices you make. Stupid human."

He then walked to Candy who stood steady and calm, streaked with blood, her hands and face back to their human form. "You make deals with demons to solve your problems rather than ask other angels for assistance? You have truly lost your way."

She raised her eyebrows and I admired her fortitude. "When have you or your kind ever given us cause to trust you? We have seen none of you, only Althean. Didn't you pay attention at all to what he was doing? Surely you saw his actions, yet you ignored us."

Gregory glared at her. "You should have come to me, or to another angel. Why would you suffer in silence like this? Why would you turn to a demon to help you? We are also bound to work within the terms of your contract, you should have brought this to someone's attention."

"How do we know you don't feel the same?" Candy asked. "We know many think we are Nephilim. How are we supposed to know who to trust? Any of you could feel the same way. Do you blame us for seeking help elsewhere? We rightly assumed that you sanctioned his actions."

I held my breath waiting for Gregory to whip out that sword and proceed to smackdown. Instead, he nodded slowly.

"The Council hasn't decided yet on whether you are Nephilim, and I will not act without their decision," he said, avoiding giving his own personal opinion on the matter.

"We will right this thing," he went on to assure her. "There have been too many innocents killed, and although I deplore your actions, I can see they were made in desperation."

Gregory flicked a hand at the flaming kitchen and the fire died. Instantly. There wasn't even a smoldering coal left. I was willing to bet if I put my hand on the charred island it would be cool. I could do that, but I wouldn't have thought to be so thorough about it. Slowly, he turned and looked at the wreckage of the house.

"Samuel Robinson won't be pleased with the state of his dwelling, little cockroach," he said reproachfully.

Common wisdom says that when you're faced with a being that can kill you three times before breakfast, you should hold your tongue and not aggravate him. So I told him that his friend Goldilocks had done just as much damage as I had. Then I made matters worse by suggesting Robinson use Craig's house since he wouldn't be needing it any more. Candy and Wyatt looked appalled. Gregory frowned.

"It's a much nicer house, he should be thrilled. Plus it's got that amazing hex on it. You did a bang up job on that hex. Melted my hand up past the wrist. " Yep, I'd lowered myself to shameless flattery. Next I'd be groveling before him and licking his boots. It didn't do any good. The angel shook his head and actually turned his back on me.

"Unfortunately, the next area will be Waynesboro where there's a sizable werewolf population," he said to Candy and Wyatt. He was ignoring me. Because I was a cockroach. And not even a fully grown one. A baby cockroach with no skills or power whatsoever and not worthy of the slightest notice.

"It will be difficult to drive him into the direction I want with the short time window we have, so I will be using your help," he continued.

He was clearly going to be some time telling Wyatt and Candy what they were going to do for him, so this cockroach decided to see what beer in the fridge was salvageable and if any magazines remained unburned. The beer was less cold than I preferred, but the broken fridge door had blocked the hottest part of the fire from the inside of the refrigerator. I pulled out fourteen of the coldest beers and found a dented roasting pan to carry them with. The magazines were burned beyond recognition, but before I mourned them I remembered that Wyatt had taken one into the bathroom with him. I walked into the living room, past the lecture in progress and down the hallway to retrieve the magazine. I hoped it was a good one. Again I passed by the others without notice, grabbed the roasting pan full of beer and headed out the backdoor with my stash.

I went all the way down the driveway and around to the spot where we had hidden our cars, then crammed my goodies in the miniscule Corvette trunk, snatching a beer for the road. I chuckled taking a swig of the beer. Evidently, all you needed to do to escape an angel was to get him blathering on about something and just walk right out the door. I wondered if I could make it to the gate near Columbia Mall before he finished talking. I took another swig of the beer, slamming the trunk shut and spinning around to get in and go and smacked my face right into a chest. A really big, hard chest wearing a polo shirt. I choked a little and beer came out my nose and onto the polo shirt. Gregory stood there patiently while I coughed, showering him with beer and snot.

"Shit. Could you not sneak up on a girl like that?" I sputtered, finally able to take a decent breath.

"I think I will need to keep you within my sight at all times, cockroach," he said with a hint of irritation in his voice. "I haven't postponed your execution just to have you run amok burning buildings and desecrating corpses. I have some tasks for you to accomplish before I kill you."

Really motivating speech, I thought, as he took my arm and hauled me back to Robinson's house. I nearly fell, twisting around to lock my car as he pulled me along.

Back in the charred kitchen, a lively discussion broke out about the driving arrangements needed to get back to the motel. Gregory wouldn't let me go anywhere without him. I wasn't driving him in my car, and I wasn't letting Wyatt drive my Vette, so we could all go in Candy's car together. With the driving logistics still unresolved, we began to argue over whether we should spend the night in the motel and head up to Waynesboro fresh, or head up now and hope they even had a motel in Waynesboro where we could shack up. Wyatt had very specific views on what routes we should take to get there. I announced that I had clothes in the washer still, and that I was hungry and wanted pizza. Wyatt offered to pick up pizza in my car, and I told him no. He was _not_ driving my car. That was when Gregory made a frustrated noise, ripped my keys out of my hand and tossed them at Wyatt while grabbing me in a bear hug. Suddenly, we were in front of our motel door. Everything spun around me and I was grateful that Gregory still was holding me against him or I would have pitched right over the railing into the parking lot below.

I'd been through gates many times before. I wasn't as talented as Charon, who actually hired himself out to those not skilled enough to find or cross gates on their own, but I could do it solo, and could even manage some of the wild and Elf gates. We didn't make gates. Elves could create some limited ones, but all the big stable gates were created by the angels. Some wild, natural gates existed, but angels were really the masters of this skill. I'd never done any inter–realm gates. I didn't think we even had any, back home. Plus, this was fast. Super fast and disorienting. It took me a while to feel steady, my vertigo probably made worse by my thinking this angel could crush me like a beer can and fling me over the railing before I could take a breath.

"Are you a Succubus?" Gregory asked, his deep voice rumbling at me through his chest. It was oddly soothing, that sound. I had a strange, tiny urge to do whatever he asked, but quickly shook it off. "You entrance men and women, cleaving them to you as slaves to satisfy your every desire? At first I thought you were just a young trickster imp, but you seem to have this skill."

I snorted. Slaves to satisfy my every desire? Sounded like a great plan to me.

"Oh yeah. The worst Succubus in all of eternity, that's me. I've been pursuing that male human for two years now — _two years_ , and I'm not even to second base with him. If I were a Succubus, my sisters would have had me killed six centuries ago for ineptitude."

Back home I knew several Succubi and Incubi. There weren't a lot of them, thankfully, because they made quite a stir even among our kind. They didn't have a great amount of power, but what they had was very specialized into sexual desire. Popping over here and enthralling humans was a favorite activity. With barely one foot across the gate they'd have a stream of humans of both genders lined up around the blocks to do whatever they wanted. Even back home they were popular choices for households. They had some influence over our own kind and made good negotiators. Good sexual partners too, although they couldn't withstand some of the really crazy stuff.

How on earth could he possibly think I was a Succubus, though? Even my own kind weren't overly interested in me. He'd surely encountered Succubi before. Was it possible that he was in some weird way attracted to me and was attributing it to an innate power or skill of mine? I clearly had no such skill, so any attraction he felt would be freely generated from himself. I chucked at the prospect that an angel might have the hots for me. Now that would be funny.

"What level are you then? How many legions do you command?" Gregory rumbled like thunder and velvet against me.

"That's none of your business." I told him, feeling slightly dismayed with myself for not giving him the answers he wanted. I wondered if _he_ was some kind of angel Succubus. Attractive weird human form aside, he did stir something within me. All that power, and a sort of remote coldness. Like he'd been petrified, and the fire inside him was only a spark, buried deep and waiting to burst into renewal. I wondered if he'd ever been unfrozen. What would he be like with the fire breaking through? Intriguing thought, but no way was he getting my name.

American GIs might recite name, rank, and serial number upon capture, but no fucking way I was going to. Names had power, and the fewer of mine anyone knew the better. My level or current place in the hierarchy would allow him to better know my talents, power level, and possibly even discover one or more of my names. Nope.

Besides, I was beginning to think he knew as little about us as we did about them. He was old enough to have fought in the wars, but so much had changed since then. We no longer had legions. No sense in having a standing army when you haven't had a war in over two million years. Plus, we don't have the temperament for that amount of organization. Need had overcome our inclinations during the war, and we'd also had an Iblis, one of us powerful enough to lead and keep a large organizational structure from breaking down. The Iblis kept us operating as a whole toward one goal. That was a remarkable thing for our kind. We hadn't had an Iblis for a very long time. Even the oldest among us didn't have that level of influence. Or really care to.

Gregory sighed and released his hold on me. "Fine," he said, making it clear that we'd revisit this topic again in the future. "Go ahead and open the door then."

I looked at him blankly. "You took my keys and gave them to Wyatt."

He rolled his eyes. "Are you that much of a cockroach? Do you need keys to open a door?"

Oh. Yeah, that's right. Well I had been acting as a human for forty years after all. I reached over and snaked in the energy to click the lock.

We went in, and I began to gather together our belongings, careful to separate Candy's toiletries as she would have wanted. I didn't need two of my traveling party gunning for me. Gregory looked around for a bit, reading the laminated rate sheet and examining the chained remote with bewilderment.

"Why is this plastic rectangle chained to the television set? Is the zinc plated chain somehow integral to its operation?"

"It's a remote control for operating the TV and it uses low level infrared signals." I glanced at the remote while stuffing socks into a plastic bag. "The chain is to deter theft."

Gregory frowned and snapped the chain off the remote, breaking a chunk of the plastic off the end with the ring. "How does this deter theft? Any human with a pocket knife could break this."

I shrugged, agreeing with him and resolving to steal the remote just to annoy the management. Candy would probably get charged for it on her credit card, but she was likely to anyway since the angel had broken part of it off.

"If you think that's perplexing, look at this." I stuck a quarter in the bed and sent it to vibrating. Sure enough, the angel looked astounded.

"It's supposed to enhance a sexual experience," I told him.

"Does it actually work?" he asked in amazement, watching the bags bounce their way across the bedspread.

I shrugged. "Not that I can tell. It is a lot of fun though, and it totally freaks Candy out. Maybe if you were in the act of penetration it might enhance the orgasm. I haven't had sexual intercourse on the bed, so I can't really speak from experience."

Gregory shook his head in disbelief at the bed, and then walked around to see if there were any other unexpected human gadgets to examine. I sat on the bed and let it bounce me around a bit so I felt like I actually got my quarter's worth. It was a short ride.

Done perusing the room, Gregory watched me continue packing with his arms crossed in front of him. I felt like a prisoner. I guess I kind of was. After a few moments, he announced he was going down to check us out. "Stay here," he said ominously.

As soon as he walked out the door, I shoved the remote in a bag and proceeded to dig through Wyatt's things. There. The little toddler gun. I quickly stashed it in my rear waistband pulling the shirt over it. It was tiny, and it's not like Gregory would strip search me or even suspect I'd be packing a human firearm.

I'd put all of our belongings into separate shopping bags when I remembered my laundry. The shirt was still damp in the washer, so I threw it in the dryer hoping a few moments on high heat would finish the job. My mind worked furiously. Screw Candy and this whole werewolf thing. I needed to get away from this angel as soon as possible or I'd be dead. Who knows how long he'd find me useful, and eventually this job would be over and he'd finish what he started at Robinson's house. He was fast, he could gate all over the place in less than a second. I'd have to get away from him without using any energy so he couldn't track me and then head to a gate he wouldn't think to intercept me at. He couldn't guard them all. The one at Columbia Mall might be too far, and I was really scared to use that wild gate in Sharpsburg, although it was the absolute closest. Wild gates could rip you apart, and sometimes they had buffer zones where a traveler could get lost and trapped. Sometimes they spit you out somewhere unexpected. Like across the universe unexpected. Not that I knew this from experience. Obviously.

Forty years I'd been here undetected. I was used to living as a human. I'd watch for a chance to get away, then go underground and head for the gate in Philly or maybe the one near Wichita. I mulled my options wondering if he ever slept when I felt myself grabbed by the shoulder and flung against the cement wall of the motel. I hit hard on my left shoulder. Ow.

"What the fuck is your problem?" I snarled, fixing the dislocated shoulder. Gregory loomed over me with menace. What the hell did I do now? Was it against some angel law to dry your clothes?

"I told you to stay in the room," he hissed at me.

"No," I argued, because that is clearly the thing to do when faced with an enraged angel. "You told me to stay _here_. I am here. At the motel. Drying my shirt so we can leave." Idiot.

He was hovering over me and breathing heavy, like he'd run around the building a few times, although I think it was more trying to control himself and keep from killing me. I helped him by continuing to sit on the dirty floor looking up at him. I really wanted to get up and punch him, but my minimal self preservation had finally kicked in.

Grabbing at my arm with the fixed shoulder, he hauled me to my feet and held me a few inches off the ground. "I won't lose you," he muttered half to himself. "You will not slip through my grasp. You will not escape me."

I could see him struggle to gain control when, almost as if with a will of its own, he hissed, "Mine."

It was quiet, but the word pulsed with power. Certain words are more than just words. Certain words can carry the strength of all creation. This was one. I used it when I Owned a being, I used it when I claimed territory, when I created a household bond. I had never used it with such power behind it, though. I felt it slam into me and wondered what he'd meant. In what way had he claimed me?

He managed to finally get control of himself and took a big breath. "I really don't want to have to bind you to me. It would hurt a lot and be very unpleasant."

I appreciated his concern for my comfort.

"No," he said, seemingly reading my thoughts. "It would hurt _me_ a lot, and be very unpleasant for _me_. Pain to you would only bring me great joy."

Well, then. "Look, this was all a misunderstanding. See? I'm right here, drying my clothes. I didn't run away. I didn't try to escape your clutches. If you let me go, I'll just pull the shirt out of the dryer and we'll be on our way. Candy and Wyatt should be here any moment and we can head out. You're really scary, and I'm going to do whatever you say." Okay, maybe the last bit was over the top, but I really wanted him to relax and give me enough slack on the leash to slip my collar and bolt.

He looked suspicious, but he did let go of my arm. I grabbed the shirt, and with an angel trailing behind me I went to the hotel room and gathered our things. We went down to the lobby to wait for Candy and Wyatt. What was taking them so long? Did they stop for pizza? Did Wyatt take off on a joy ride with my car? I fretted over the safety of my car. Wyatt might be my best friend, but I'd kill him if he dented my precious car.

We remained in the lobby, air thick with tension, surrounded by the shopping bags. Gregory sat in the little plastic chair placidly ignoring the young girl at the front desk. Probably the owner's daughter, I thought watching her stare enraptured at the angel. I could have stripped naked and done a pole dance with the gumball machine and she wouldn't have broken her gaze. Maybe if she jumped him in an adoring frenzy I'd be able to make a quick getaway.

Candy and Wyatt pulled up and I inspected my car thoroughly for damage. Wyatt looked me over for damage, too.

"Are you okay, Sam?" he whispered. "What can I do to help? You've got to get away from him."

No shit, Sherlock. I had no idea what he could do to help, but I was formulating a plan.

"Just hang tight with Candy," I told him. "Don't antagonize him. I don't want him to kill you."

I was treated to the joy of watching Gregory cram himself into my passenger seat. Corvettes may be sports cars, but they are American sports cars, made for big oversized Americans. Still Gregory took up more than his allocated share of space. I'm assuming he had to buy two seats when he flew commercial. I took the lead and we headed out of town with Gregory silent and brooding beside me. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him staring at me with hostility. Was he still pissed about the dryer episode? Or just pissed in general about my existence?

Gregory's leg was encroaching on the stick shift and I kept grabbing it instead of the shifting lever. It happened a lot, and I swear I was not doing it on purpose. It was like grabbing a block of cement. Still, I couldn't help but be a bit turned on.

I wondered if I could snake my hand up further and get in a quick grope before he removed my arm from my body. I wondered what angel genitals felt like. Did they even have genitals? Maybe they were anatomically like Ken dolls. I hadn't noticed any bulges, even while I was pressed against him through the gate, but I didn't think I was his idea of a potential sexual partner. The thought of sex with me probably left him cold and flaccid. Actually, the thought of sex with me probably hadn't even crossed his mind. Angels probably did it in some ethereal way that didn't involve genitals. Some kind of sterile, esoteric sexual experience. I imagine it was horribly boring. Maybe I could convince him to do it the human way. Or the demon way. I fantasized for a moment about a threesome with the angel and Wyatt. Like _that_ would ever happen. This was not a good train of thought for me to be having.

"How did you manage to survive Wyatt shooting you in the head? That would probably have killed me, but you hardly moved. You didn't even bleed." I was curious, and I really needed to get my mind out of the gutter.

He gave me a disgusted look. "You are too imbedded in your physical form, almost like a human. If you hold yourself apart more, these things couldn't affect you. Of course, I wouldn't expect a demon to have the self discipline to do that sort of thing."

Jerk. "Ah, so that's why your form sucks so bad, then. I thought maybe you just weren't skilled enough to create and hold a decent physical form. I wouldn't expect an angel to have the aptitude for that sort of thing."

He glared. "For someone so close to death, you are surprisingly insubordinate."

Yikes. I needed a distraction before I got myself even further into trouble, so I turned on the radio. It may sound weird, but I'm a sucker for 1970's–era love songs, so that's what I put on. I bopped along to Temptation Eyes, then heard familiar opening notes.

"Oh, I love this one," I announced.

Samantha Martin, the human Samantha Martin had a nice set of pipes. She was in church choir when she was young, and was a darned good amateur singer before I Owned her. If they'd have had American Idol back then, she would have at least made it on the show. I Owned an opera singer too, but that skill didn't come up much. I sing whenever I get a chance. In the shower, in the car, karaoke in bars. Sometimes I just sing randomly because it freaks people out. So it was nothing for me to perform car karaoke right now. Even with an angry, pouty, potentially violent angel sitting beside me.

* * *

_"When it all goes crazy and the thrill is gone..."_

* * *

It was "Just Remember I love You" by Firefall. I loved this song. Mushy, sentimental, perfect for serenading an angel. I grinned at Gregory and he looked back at me, a combination of amazement and anxiety on his face. He looked like I'd just sprouted two heads and scales. Of course, _that_ he'd probably seen before.

I continued to sing, belting out the chorus before turning my eyes back to the road. Gregory scooted a little away from me, a look of near terror on his face. It's not like he could scoot far, though. He was supersized and my car was too small for distance.

The station was really on a roll. I continued to serenade him with "Band of Gold" and "Don't Pull Your Love Out On Me Baby" but turned the channel when they played "Jackie Blue". I never liked that song.

"I had you pegged for a Slayer fan, cockroach," he commented in a strangled voice, as if the whole experience was more than he could handle.

"Slayer? I can't understand a damned word they are singing. It's all 'bwaa, rhaa, whaa, grrr, grrr, grr'. What the fuck does that mean? I'd rather listen to harpies wail than that shit."

He nodded his head in agreement and I'd swear I saw his lips twitch. No way he could actually be amused. At least I'd managed to put him in a less hostile mood with my unusual music tastes. Good thing as we pulled out of town and onto Route 15 south. I glanced at Wyatt and Candy behind me in the rear view and put the pedal to the metal. In a roar, I had dusted them.

The highway was two lanes each way with a decent shoulder all the way into Montgomery County, Maryland. This time of day the cars were evenly spaced with a good bit of commercial truck travel along the route. I weaved in and out of traffic, honking rudely, darting around cars, cutting off the semis and passing on the shoulder. Today, I wished that I'd bought the red model Corvette instead.

I was glad Gregory didn't know anything about roads, or he would have wondered why I didn't take the shorter way down 116. Wyatt was probably in Candy's car looking at his GPS and bitching and moaning about the extra distance of my chosen route. Route 116 was shorter, much prettier, and there was not much traffic. This way would take us on the busy highway back tracking down into Maryland, then through Emmitsburg to loop back into Pennsylvania on Route 16. I looked over at the angel to see if his improved mood had survived our increase in speed.

"Shouldn't you keep your eyes on the road?" Gregory asked me. He didn't look pissed. He probably thought I was trying to shake him up with my crazy driving. I wondered if he had ever been in a car before. Probably not, if he could gate everywhere. I doubted he'd ever driven, either. That would make him an auto virgin. I laughed out loud at the idea.

"You know, you can't kill me by wrecking your car," he commented in that bored voice. "You'll just destroy your vehicle. I won't suffer more than a scratch. Won't slow me down at all. You're not going to get away from me so you might as well drive like a normal person." He actually leaned his head back and closed his eyes, as if my erratic driving methods were putting him to sleep.

I continued to drive like a possessed maniac. Stupidly, it took nearly five miles before I saw the flashing lights behind me. Good thing as we were almost at the Maryland border. I kept driving a bit, weaving aggressively but trying to keep the speed down so I didn't lose the state trooper struggling to keep up. Finally, I pulled over into an old abandoned gas station, spinning out dramatically with a rooster tail of gravel dust.

"Looks like I'm going to get a ticket," I said. Gregory frowned at me with narrowed, suspicious dark eyes. "I was speeding, you know. Happens to me all the time. It will only take a minute and we'll be on our way."

The Pennsylvania state police car behind us was a big white sedan. A huge Crown Victoria with the trooper badging all over and the light rack on top. It was a stupid car. If I were a state trooper, I'd make them get me a Ferrari.

The guy behind the wheel took his time getting out. I wondered what in the hell was taking him so long. Did he have to fill out fifteen pages of reports before he even got out of his car? Finally, he opened the door and slid out. He was a young guy. Thin and fit in his grey shirt and dark grey pants. He wore short sleeves in the heat, and the shirt had black fringed thingies on the shoulders. He had a hat on with a chin strap, and I could tell his hair was a short buzz cut underneath. I couldn't really see if he was cute or not, but he had a good body, and looked damned sweet in that uniform.

The cop walked up carefully from the rear of the car, flicking the leather strap on his pistol holster for easy access. He also had a baton, and some pepper spray handy and ready. The baton wasn't a big deal, but I hoped he didn't spray me with the pepper spray. I hate that shit. I unwound the window before he got there, and just as he leaned in, I pulled out my mean and threw it at him while simultaneously pulling the pistol from my waistband and laying it on my lap. I put every bit of menace I had into my voice and announced that he was a fucking pig and I was going to knock him on his ass.

It had the desired effect. The cop leapt back from the car and pointed his pistol at my head screaming "Out of the car! Out of the car and keep your hands where I can see them." I looked curiously at his gun, but didn't recognize it. I was hardly the expert from seeing Wyatt's small collection, but thought maybe I could recognize the caliber. The trooper waved his gun at me, again indicating that I needed to get out right now. Or presumably he would shoot me.

I smiled smugly at Gregory and he glared back at me in open hatred. Carefully, I opened the car door, letting the gun drop to the floor of the car while keeping my hands raised. Gregory got out too, and I realized he was doing something to try and soothe the officer and me. He was talking to the police guy in a low calm rumble and I swear I actually saw the deep blue wash over us both. It pulled and tugged on me with warm persistence, and I wanted to leave the cop alone and get back in the car. I wanted to rub myself on Gregory like a cat and have him look at me approvingly. Fuck no, I didn't want to do any of that shit. No fucking way. I shrugged off the urge and glared at the officer again. The cop looked confused and began to lower his gun.

"You fucking pig," I snarled at him, trying to regain control of the situation. "I've killed cops before and I'll kill you too. I'll blow your fucking head off." I took a few steps toward him.

Gregory redoubled his efforts and the air was thick and sweet with blue. I saw the officer shake a bit, sweat rolling down his forehead. The poor guy would be in therapy for years from this. Fuck, I'd probably be in therapy for years from this. The urge to kneel down at the angel's feet and wrap myself around him was nearly overwhelming.

The cop was slipping from my grasp though and I knew I needed to go all out. I walked up to the officer and slugged him right in the jaw. Not hard enough to knock him out, but enough to override all the calming blue shit. It worked. The guy grabbed me and slammed me face first against my car, yanking my arms behind me to cuff me. In a few moments, I'd be on my way to the police station. I could kill the cop, ditch his car, and be on my way to a gate while Gregory cooled his heels at some local station waiting for me to make bail.

The angel kept pressing his calming influence to no avail. The cuffs were on, and I was halfway to the police car, when Gregory threw up his hands, reached out and grabbed the cop. I felt him let me go and turned to see the angel whispering in his ear. In an instant he had slumped and Gregory held him upright, moving to put him back in his car. I quickly broke the cuffs, and bolted. Plan B.

I like to run. I'm not fast off the block, but I can go forever and keep a strong steady pace. The angel was a huge hulk of muscle. I hoped he wouldn't be able to keep up and I'd somehow lose him. He couldn't find me to gate to me if I kept my energy to myself.

Unfortunately, I only made it about twenty feet before he tackled me from behind. I smacked into the gravel and slid across it with his considerable weight on top, scraping a good layer of skin off my face and body, and knocking the breath out of me. For good measure, he flipped me over on my back and punched me in my stomach.

Looking up at him, gasping for breath, I realized that he'd totally lost control. His face was white and solid looking without pores in the skin, and blackness filled the entirety of his eyes. His teeth were no longer human, but sharp pointed little spikes, like piranha teeth. He actually glowed. Seriously glowed. He was so bright it burned my eyes. There was nothing in him but rage. Not a speck of feeling I could appeal to. Nothing but fury and hate. I grabbed my energy and prepared to empty the whole lot at him. It would probably blow a chunk out of the lower half of the state, but I might as well kill him along with myself. Better than me dying alone.

His eyes widened with the realization of what I was about to do, and he smacked me hard across the face before I could even begin to form the blast. The blow knocked my head sideways and caused my grasp to slip a little. Enough of a slip for him to coat that silicone stuff over my energy again.

"Oh no you don't, cockroach," he hissed at me through those pointy teeth. "Hold still," he commanded, grabbing my arms by the wrists and thrusting them up above my head.

Oh, sure. 'Hold still while I kill you.' Like that was going to happen. I wasn't sure if he was going to execute me straight away or beat the crap out of me first, but I figured it was going to be excruciating either way. I wasn't going down without a fight. I thrashed around with all my strength to see if I could budge him loose from on top of me. I even tried to knee him in the groin, assuming that would do anything. Wrenching one hand loose I flung a handful of gravel and dirt into his face. He shook his head and grabbed, unsuccessfully trying to secure my loose hand while at the same time attempting to pin my legs down with his. I bucked like a wild bull and smacked him with the little bits of energy that I could form. It was all I could manage to break free from the slippery shell he held in place around my energy.

After a few minutes of this, he hissed in frustration, grabbed me roughly around my waist and flung me over his shoulder. My breath whooshed out as my diaphragm smashed against his shoulder and my head bounced on the concrete of his back. While I frantically tried to recover, he began striding off toward the abandoned gas station and my car. Gasping little breaths, I squirmed, kicked and hit and scratched with all my might. Unaffected, he continued on, tightening his grip painfully around my waist to make sure I didn't manage to wiggle free. Wyatt and Candy were far behind us, not that they could intervene at this point. My mind worked furiously trying to find some way to break his hold, to get enough energy to knock him aside, to do anything, for surely I was going to die real soon. I'd tire physically, and without the use of my energy he had all the advantage.

Suddenly, he shrugged me off his shoulder and slammed my back against the cement block side of the building. My head spun again and I felt the warmth of blood sliding down the back of my skull and onto my neck. Without allowing me even a second to move, he pressed himself against me, crushing me between his body and the gritty, pebbled concrete wall. I felt the stone embed itself into the torn flesh of my head and ground my teeth with the pain. At this rate, I'd be a shredded bloody mess by the time he finished me off.

Slowly and carefully he transferred my wrists to one hand, yanking them above my head and pinning them to the wall. With his other hand, he maneuvered my hips, straddling me and pinching my legs between his own. Within seconds, I was held immobile between him and the building. The only thing still free was my head, so I tried to head butt him and bite whatever part of his face came within range. He was a good foot taller than me, so the best I could do was a light tap on his chest with my forehead before he grabbed my jaw with his free hand and held my head still. At least he didn't have a third hand to whip out his sword. Of course, he could always bring that item out after I was a bloody mess on the ground.

He held me in place and looked at me a moment, hissing with those pointy teeth, his eyes still huge, black, and horrifying. I hurt. I knew my face was a mass of road rash, could feel the blood trickle from my cheeks and down the back of my head in a slow drip. My arms were extended up at their limit with the joints straining uncomfortably in their sockets. My chest was heaving against his with tiny short breaths, and sharp chunks of concrete dug painfully into my back with the pressure of his body against mine. I was at the point of panic. I was trapped, and there was no way out. My mind helpfully imagined all the ways he could dispatch me in this position. He could rip my arms from their shoulder sockets, crush my jaw, dislocate my pelvis, pulverize my bones and organs against the side of the building, and then shred my flesh with his pointy teeth before finishing me off with the sword. That's how I would do it.

He took a breath, then he wrenched my head to the side facing my left arm, and I saw him out of the corner of my eye as he bent his head down. I felt an odd sense of disappointment that I wouldn't get to see him rip me to bits. Anticipating popping joints and tearing flesh, I took a quick breath and tensed. The feeling that came was like a thousand hot needles as he bit down on me, right on the soft underside of my arm, just in front of my armpit. My shoulders ached, but stayed in joint. This was going to take forever if he was going to concentrate primarily on chewing me up. My faint hopes for a quick death vanished, and I felt him bite down harder.

A burning sensation shot down into my chest and a mixture of vibrations shook me. Was there some poison in his bite? Was it that white stuff that Althean had shot at me? Would my insides dissolve like my hand had? It burned clear through my flesh and into my personal energy, branching out and searing tiny pathways. "This is it," I thought, my mind blurring from the agony tearing through me.

Then unexpectedly, underneath the pain, a far more enjoyable heat surged through me. Pleasure and pain are not mutually exclusive to my kind, and sex frequently involves what humans would consider abuse. Even so, I didn't believe the angel intended to kill me in an act of rough sex. The warmth flooded me and the burning pathways in my personal energy filled with an electric glow. Reddish purple soared through my being. 'Mine' I thought silently as I floated in the stream of color. It was a faint and fleeting thought, without intent or power; almost like an echo from someone else. Strange.

I didn't think revealing my strange state of sexual arousal would do my current situation any good, but I couldn't help the quick gasp and relaxation of my body as tension fell away and I ceased trying to struggle. Well, at least I'd be easier to kill now. And death would be a hell of a lot more fun.

The angel paused for a second, then pushed himself harder against me ensuring I was held fast and continued with the hot needles in my arm. The pain was quickly changing over to pleasure and I wanted to give in to the incredible sensation. Dissolving in a huge wet orgasm at the point of death seemed like an undignified way to go out so I tried to think of things like zoning hearings, taxes, when my next oil change was due. Anything but the red purple waves singing through me. Shit, I hope he killed me soon, this was taking fucking forever and I was running out of boring things to think of.

Floating in the pleasure, I was halfheartedly daydreaming about useless kitchen utensils when I felt a pull deep within me. Like strings had been embedded throughout my body and the angel was trying to draw them out. At first it didn't hurt, then the strings stopped moving and Gregory began to yank, pulling with increasing irritation and frustration. Finally, there was an agonizing pressure, like he was digging in on a tug of war contest with all his might. The strings didn't budge, but it felt like my whole body was about to turn inside out. Then there was a crack and snap as everything rebounded into me. It was a good thing I was held so firmly against the building because I probably would have fallen ten feet backwards from the release. I waited for it to begin again, but I only felt a stinging sensation and that familiar warmth as Gregory bit down again.

An eternity seemed to pass before he finally lifted his mouth from my arm. I felt him stare at me, although I couldn't see him clearly with my head held sideways against the wall. "Here it comes," I thought. My bitten arm throbbed. I held my breath, waiting for my death. Slowly, he loosened his grasp and relieved the pressure holding me against the wall. I didn't know what was coming, so I dropped my arms from their achingly extended position and stood there, looking at the front of his shirt and trying to slow my breathing. Finally, he took my arm, the one he hadn't been gnawing on, and walked me over to the police car. That was it? A chewed up arm? Perhaps he was going to continue the job over here?

"Fix yourself," Gregory commanded, pushing me to sit on the ground beside the car while he reached in and finished whatever he was doing to the cop. I was pretty sure the cop was dead. I wondered if he was sticking angel wings on his forehead too. Covering this one up and making it look like the cop had it coming. So much for benevolent messengers of the gods.

I had scrapes down the front from my slide across the gravel; my face was raw, bloody, and was bruised and swollen from his blow. My wrists hurt from the handcuffs, my shoulders ached from being held at that impossible angle, and the bite still burned and throbbed in an enjoyable kind of pain. I was a fucking mess. I wasn't sure I _could_ fix myself right now, I was shaking so badly. Why wasn't I dead? And why did he bite me like that? What the fuck was that about?

Gregory put some finishing touches on the cop, who appeared to be asleep in his squad car, then turned to me. He looked me over and shook his head, his face still grim but no longer glowing with pointy teeth and huge black eyes.

"Fine. I really don't care what you look like, or if you bleed all over your seats. You will get in your car with me, and you will drive to Waynesboro. You will obey all the human traffic laws or I will destroy your vehicle and slowly break every bone in your body. Repeatedly. Over the course of several days. Do you understand?"

I nodded. And we drove to Waynesboro in silence. No singing. Fifty five the whole way.

# Chapter 15

We sat outside in the parking lot of some local restaurant called The Lamb waiting for Wyatt and Candy. I was hoping from the name that they had Greek food, but it didn't have the usual décor of a Greek restaurant. Maybe they did English food and specialized in mutton? I was starving and we'd been waiting here for quite a while. Candy must drive like a ninety year old lady on her way to church because there had been no sign of them. I thought about calling Wyatt on my cell phone, but was trying to be subdued and careful around Gregory. Just in case he was wondering whether to finish chewing my arm off.

"Fix yourself, or you're not going in," the angel commanded again.

Back home, it was typical to see those of my kind looking like they'd had the shit beat out of them. It was a point of pride. When someone higher up the hierarchy chose you for a fun romp, they conveyed their status on the energy signature in your wounds. Displaying them showed your peers that you'd been found worthy of someone higher up the food chain, and that you were tough enough to survive it. The more battered you were the better. Limbs dangling by a tendon, chunks of flesh burned off; all that revealed that you were tough and powerful. Leaving a significant sexual encounter with just a few flesh wounds was embarrassing. It meant that you'd been found to be uninteresting, or too fragile to enjoy properly.

Here though, looking beat up just marked you as a victim. Especially if you were female. A guy could pull it off by implying that the other participant was just as damaged, or claiming to have been in some kind of vehicle accident. No one believed the lies if you were female, though; everyone knew you were covering up domestic violence. Going into The Lamb looking like I did would probably result in the police being called and Gregory taken in for questioning. I liked the idea, but given our last encounter I didn't think it would turn out well. Gregory didn't seem to have any problem taking out civilians when necessary. He'd proven that he wouldn't shy away from murder when it came to thwarting an escape attempt.

I sat there as if all the spirit had been crushed out of me; channeling the submissive, obedient servant. It wasn't easy. I didn't own any submissive people, I liked the fight and challenge too much and submissive humans were boring. Slowly, I fixed myself, taking some time to do it as if I barely could manage even this. It was painful, repairing my wounds this slowly, but definitely in keeping with the wounded, broken spirit I was trying to portray.

"Do your clothes, too," he ordered. "They're torn, dirty, and covered in blood. You're not going in looking like that. It will cause too much attention, and I've got enough to think about without having to enthrall all the humans in the restaurant."

My shirt was a disaster. The jeans weren't too bad, especially since torn and tattered jeans were in style right now.

"I can't do clothes," I told him truthfully.

He stared in disbelief. "What do you mean you can't do clothes? That should be ridiculously simple for you. Even _I_ can do clothes."

Implying that he couldn't do much else beyond clothing? So angels weren't good at matter conversion? They were legendary at energy conversion, and they had unparalleled skill when it came to manipulating dimensions and creating gates. I knew they couldn't do the physical form conversion to the extent we did. From what I'd seen so far, their human form was pretty pathetic. I'd just assumed that converting inanimate objects would be a skill they would have. Perhaps that wasn't where their talents lay.

"We don't wear cloth back home," I replied. "If we're cold, we just make ourselves furry or up our metabolism. If we have a humanoid form at the time, it's always naked. We do sometimes skin another creature and wear it like a trophy, but we don't create cloth. Here, it's just easier and quicker to buy it than learn to make it. Especially these weird blends with altered petroleum molecules in the fibers." I looked at my tattered poly blend shirt fondly. Humans were actually pretty clever. I predicted amazing things from them in another hundred thousand years. If they didn't manage to wipe themselves out before then.

He made a motion as if he were going to take his shirt off and give it to me. I wasn't sure how he was going to manage that maneuver in the confines of my car. That I wanted to see. And I did want to see him without his shirt on. Crap, I bet he was ripped beyond belief. Yes, crazy me. The guy pummels me to bits and vows to kill me and I'm all revved up to see him semi–clad. Of course, the shirt wouldn't come close to fitting. It would be huge on me; bigger than Tinkerbell, even.

"They won't let you in the place without a shirt on," I told him reluctantly. "It says there right on the sign."

He paused and looked around the car as if he expected a shirt to appear out of nowhere. Nope, none in the glove box or under the seat either.

"Put on a shirt from the bags you had back at the hotel."

"They're all in Candy's car," I told him. "My trunk is really small and full of beer, so we put them all in hers."

He sat for a moment contemplating his options, then opened his door. "There's a gift shop in there, they've got to have some novelty t–shirts for sale. Stay here." He got out then paused. "In the car," he added, leaning in to look at me sternly. "And the car stays right here in this spot in the parking lot. You and the car don't move."

I had to bite back a smile. He learned quick, this angel did. To hide my amusement, I trembled a bit and tried to look properly cowed. I even tried to squeeze out a tear from big soulful eyes. Gregory frowned at me. "Do you feel sick? Do you need some crackers or something?"

I shook my head at him. So much for my acting skills.

While the angel was doing his shopping, Candy and Wyatt finally pulled up and parked beside the Corvette. Wyatt practically launched himself from the car, running around my car to pull open my door and inspect me.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his face tight with worry. "You're shirt is torn and bloody, what did he do to you?"

"We had an incident," I said vaguely. "I'm okay, though," I lied. I was reluctant to let Wyatt know all the details. My arm still stung from the bite, and it was in a place where I couldn't really see it without a mirror. I was glad it was my right arm, and Wyatt couldn't see it from where he stood. I really wanted to get a look at it first. When I fixed myself, it hadn't repaired. I could feel the red purple strands of it snaked throughout my body down deep into my personal energy. It worried me. I didn't want to check it out with Gregory in the car, but I was desperate to see what the fuck was up. What _had_ he done to me?

"She drives so slow," Wyatt said, looking at Candy with frustration. "You took off, and I knew something was going on. I kept trying to get her to drive faster and she wouldn't."

"She's smart," I told him. "No sense in you both getting yourselves killed in the crossfire."

Wyatt reached in the car and brushed my hair back from my face. I appreciated the gesture.

"Come on, get out of the car," he said gently, as if I were a child or an invalid.

"I can't," I told him. "I have to stay here, in the car, and the car needs to remain right here in this spot in the parking lot."

"What has he _done_ to you?" Wyatt asked. I sensed his agitation.

"Wyatt, you need to get out of here," I told him. "I'm going to give you my car keys. Sneak out when we're in the restaurant and get as far away from here as you can. I mean it. Things are getting really bad, and I want you to be safe." He had to know it was bad if I was willing to let him drive my car.

He glared at me. "I'm not leaving you, Sam. I won't abandon you like that."

"You are way out of your league, here," I told him as gently as I could. "Fuck, _I'm_ out of my league, here. I'm trying to get away as soon as I can manage it, and I'm really worried that if I slip out of his grasp, he'll take it out on you. I've seen what he can do. He will hurt you, Wyatt. He won't lose any sleep over killing you."

At that time, Gregory came back out of the restaurant with a little bag. I quickly slipped my car keys into Wyatt's hand, and tried to resume my subdued mien. The angel nodded at Candy and Wyatt and seemed pleased to see me with my butt rooted to the seat of the car as when he had left me. I yanked my torn shirt off as he tossed me the bag.

It was a small pink tank top. Really small. You'd think he would have had a better idea of my size from crushing me against a building. I snapped the tag off and unfolded it, pausing a moment when I saw the design. A stylized geometric angel in gold with a triangle body, triangle wings, circle head and a halo was featured prominently on the front, filling the shirt from neckline to waist. I hadn't realized Gregory had a sense of humor. I had to force myself not to laugh as I pulled it over my head. Submissive, meek, obedient, I chanted to myself in my head.

The shirt was outrageously tight. It molded against my breasts and the outlines of my abs. My cleavage burst above the neckline like my boobs were trying to escape the confines of the shirt. I looked less like an angel and more like a Hooters' waitress. Wyatt's eyebrows shot up when he saw the effect, and he glared at Gregory in suspicion and jealousy. Jealousy? Now that was funny.

When we walked into The Lamb, I saw the reason for Gregory's fashion choice. And the reason for the name. The whole gift shop was awash in angel and Christian religious items. I was actually grateful he hadn't gotten me a "Jesus is my co–pilot" shirt, or the one with the blond, blue eyed, Germanic Jesus praying to what would have been my left boob if I'd had the shirt on.

The hostess sat us near the buffet, casting adoring glances at Gregory the whole time. There were crosses on the walls, and scripture verses on the placemats. I wondered if I should oblige them and burst into flames or something. None of the employees seemed to notice the irony of my presence here. It would have been great fun to have Wyatt pretend to exorcise me, but I doubted this was the appropriate time for those kinds of antics. Maybe we'd come back in a week or two. If I was still alive then.

Wyatt and Candy began telling Gregory what they'd discovered on Wyatt's tablet. They'd found a campground nearby and snagged us a cabin; not easy to do since we were at the height of the summer holiday season. Candy placidly avoided looking at me, while Wyatt shot furious glances back and forth between me and Gregory. Great. All I needed now was Wyatt to get testosterone filled and start a cock fight over me. If a .50 caliber bullet didn't harm the angel, I doubted Wyatt's fists would do much except piss off Gregory enough to snap his neck.

"I need to use the bathroom," I announced. Gregory hardly gave me a glance, and the others ignored my statement.

I actually did use the bathroom, mainly to delay looking at my arm. Finally, I could avoid it no longer. I took a breath and pulled the armhole of the overly small tank top down, raising my arm to the mirror. Fuck. The tattoos of angels' wings on the werewolf victims were small and tan. They looked like tiny birthmarks, or skin discolorations from too much sun and too little sunscreen. You wouldn't even notice them if you weren't looking for them. This was over three inches long, in black and deep red purple. It was vivid and clear; a sword with detailed angel wings curving up as guards from the hilt. Gregory's sword, tattooed in his color. Surrounding it was a round area of reddened raised skin. Like a hickey. I wondered why I hadn't been able to fix the hickey? I wondered if I exploded myself out and recreated my whole flesh from the DNA pattern if the tattoo and the hickey would go away? I doubted it. Besides, a burst that big would bring a furious Gregory barreling into the women's room to beat my ass.

I carefully ran a finger along the hickey mark and the tattoo, feeling with my energy as well as my skin, and just about dropped to my knees. Lust poured through me and I shook with desire. Great. Just touch it and I was ready to hump the sink faucets. I felt it more gently, trying to explore it without triggering the sexual stimulation. The tattoo, the very color of it, thrummed and vibrated within me. I ran my finger over the hickey and felt the same humming, although it was more flesh centered and not as deep. The hickey mark seemed to have a direct line to my genitals, where the tattoo poured its red purple streaks down into my personal energy. The tattoo was just as much a sexual stimulation as the hickey mark, only different in that it turned on the non–human, non–corporeal part of myself.

Well, this was just splendid. I now had a super sensitive erogenous zone on the under part of my arm. No need to get in my pants, just run your fingers up my arm and watch me melt. Or lick it. I envisioned for a moment how that would feel, and my whole body trembled. Mmmm. Maybe I could ignore my hunger for food and just lock myself in the bathroom, drive myself to ecstasy for a few hours.

Tempting as that was, I lowered my arm and concentrated on trying to explore the weird red purple stuff that had invaded my very core. It was like a network of roots, of tiny little hairs driven deep into my personal energy. It was solid, cold, impersonal. I tried to probe it, to feel it out, to determine what it did and how it operated, but couldn't discover anything. It resisted all my attempts to explore it.

Next, I tried to push it out, to gather it together into a manageable mass, or even cut it into sections, to no avail. It just sat there like an uncomfortable alien presence imbedded inside me. I couldn't imagine how I'd ever get it out. I doubted I'd be able to absorb it or neutralize it, and it seemed to resist any attempt at removal. Maybe Gregory could get it out. Not that he'd care. He'd stuck it there and the only way it was probably going to leave was with my death. Which would no doubt be soon.

Pulling myself back to more constructive thoughts, I wondered what the purpose was of the tattoo and the hickey. I didn't think Gregory intended to put a sexual brand on me. He was furious when he'd done it, not remotely in an amorous mood. I couldn't imagine what it did beyond turn me into even more of a horn dog than I had been before. Common sense would lead me to believe that this was either some kind of punishment or a method to track, find, and control me. I doubted even the most ignorant angel would think sexual stimulation would be punishment to a demon, so it must be the latter. Strange, because I really didn't feel like I was under his or anyone else's' control.

Unable to withstand my hunger any longer, I walked out of the bathroom and grabbed some food from the buffet on my way back. It was typical country fare, and I loved fried chicken, backfat green beans, and corn casserole.

Candy remained her placid self at the table, picking at her country ham, but Gregory looked furious. He was practically grinding his teeth and had his napkin balled up tight in a fist. I looked at Wyatt in alarm. Wyatt looked back and shook his head. He clearly didn't know what was going on either. I sat down and scooted my chair a few inches away. Gregory took a deep breath as I sat down, and let it slowly out. I felt him glare at me as he struggled to relax. What the fuck was wrong with this guy? I told him I was going to the bathroom. I didn't sneak out the window, I didn't use any energy, did no conversions. Why was he so mad at me?

"What is your problem?" I asked, unable to resist confronting him. He'd smacked me around, chewed up my arm, stuck a bunch of his whatever into me and added to my already heightened libido. He had no reason to be so pissed at me. "I didn't try to get away, I didn't kill anyone. I was just in the damned bathroom. Why the fuck are you so pissed off?"

Candy kicked me under the table and mouthed "shut up" at me in desperation.

"She doesn't need to shut up," Wyatt snapped at her, coming to my defense. "It's your fault. You and your stupid werewolf problems. And you," he said turning to Gregory. "She's not hurting anyone. Your angel buddy is the one who attacked us. You have no right to treat her this way."

Now I was alarmed. Gregory looked at Wyatt as if he were barely restraining himself from killing him right here in the busy restaurant with everyone looking on.

"I have every right, you miserable demon toy. This is not any of your business. You shouldn't presume to interfere in the affairs of higher life forms."

The angel began to glow slightly and I tensed, ready to dive in front of Wyatt if I needed to.

"Don't believe your silly folk tales," he continued. "Being human is no protection against me. I'm allowing you to live because you are useful to me at this moment. Cease to be useful, or become too much of an annoyance and I will not hesitate to kill you."

Wyatt did not look like he was about to back down. Admirable, but stupid. I knew Gregory fully meant what he said, so I grabbed Wyatt's hand under the table and squeezed it. He looked down at me and I could see him struggling to retreat. I got the feeling Wyatt had never backed down from a fight in his life, and this was terribly hard for him. I could sympathize, but in this instance it was either back down, or die.

Candy distracted Gregory with some discussion on strategy as I smiled at Wyatt and rubbed my thumb on his palm. This was going to be hard trying to stay alive, escaping the clutches of this angel, and keeping Wyatt's knight–in–shining–armor impulses from getting him killed. I needed to keep a lid on my stupid mouth and go back to my meek and submissive routine if I had any hope of success. Somehow I managed this throughout dinner, and even crammed up against Gregory on the drive to the campground.

The cabins were tiny and the ranger wasn't pleased that we were squeezing four people into one. There was no other cabin available though, so he let it go. The campground had winding loops of dirt roads leading to areas for tent camping, RV camping, and finally the cabins. Our section had ten cabins, spaced about an acre apart and surrounded by woods. Each cabin had a grassy patch in front of it, kind of like a lawn that reached from the porch to the road. The road widened in to form a parking area where campers were expected to carry their belongings across the lawn and into the cabin. Worn paths showed where hundreds of campers had lugged their gear back and forth for years.

Rough hewn logs made up the exterior and interior of the cabins. Electricity service ended with the street lights, and Wyatt grumbled that he would need to charge his electronic devices through the cars. There was no television, no phone, no coffee maker, and no vibrating bed. There was no bathroom, either. We'd need to walk down the road about a quarter of a mile to a shared bathroom that thankfully had propane heated showers. There was a woodstove in the cabin; not that we'd need it in August. Hopefully, the woods would help cool things down in the evenings and we wouldn't miss the conveniences of air conditioning or fans.

As soon as we got in, Gregory announced he had some things to do and left. I was shocked he actually left me behind. Perhaps the meek and submissive routine was working? I doubted it. Of course if the tattoo thing was a kind of homing device, then he wouldn't really need to have me within eyeshot every waking moment. He'd be able to locate me within seconds. The thought was depressing.

No sooner had Gregory left then Candy's placid air disappeared and she rounded on me. "You are going to get us all killed! I manage to get him calm and cooperative, then five minutes with you and he's ready to go on a massacre with that sword of his."

"I'm just trying to keep myself from getting killed."

"If you were helpful and stopped making him so angry, he might let you live."

"What planet are you from? His sole purpose is to kill my kind. And he has a perfect kill–ratio, so far. If I don't get away from him soon, it's game over for me. Do you seriously think he's going to decide I'm not so bad, after all, and let me go? Trust me, it's not gonna happen."

"He's an angel. He's supposed to be merciful and on the side of law and order. If you toe the line, he'll probably just banish you and let you live," she countered. Clearly she'd forgotten Gregory's ominous speech to Wyatt in the restaurant.

"No fucking way he's going to let me live," I told her vehemently. "They don't banish us, because we keep coming back if they do. They kill us, every single time. The only mercy I'd get is a quick death, and I seriously doubt he's got an ounce of mercy in him."

"He's not like you," she insisted. "He's good and you're evil."

"The _fuck_ he's not like me. You go ahead and swallow the Kool–aid propaganda they've doled out over the centuries. He's _just_ like me. He killed a fucking cop today just to keep me from getting away. An innocent cop who was doing nothing but his job. He's probably got a wife and kids, and that fucking angel didn't think twice about it." That gave Candy pause.

"You've seen what the angels have done to your own kind — to your werewolves. Althean is on a killing rampage, and Gregory cares only to cover it up and subdue Althean before he gets caught and Gregory gets his ass nailed by some higher up. He doesn't give a shit about humans, werewolves, anyone but his own kind. I killed your pack mate in self defense. I've been here forty years living as a human and you don't see me enacting some genetic cleansing program, do you? I may be a tough bitch, but I'm not killing pregnant women and cops." Well, there was that one cop in Atlanta, but she didn't know about that.

Candy paused, considering my words. "All right, so he's not what popular culture has made angels out to be. He does seem to be more like you than unlike you, honestly. I don't just have my life here to think about, though. I've got the future of my species. I know this sounds callous, but I'm trying to figure out what course of action to take that will result in the best outcome for my kind." She looked at me sympathetically. "He's cleaning your clock, Sam. He may be the better bet here."

Wow, that was brutally honest and I actually appreciated it. I had suspected Candy was calculating and ruthless, and these were qualities I admired. I could hardly fault her for them. Besides, Gregory _was_ cleaning my clock. Hell, I'd throw my bet behind him in her place, too. The odds were much better.

"I know this sounds crazy, but I don't think he truly wants to kill you," she added with that shrewd look in her eyes. "I don't think he really hates you, I think he feels something else for you. I think he's attracted to you in his own way," she said carefully.

Well, that wasn't the right thing to say in front of Wyatt who'd been silent up until then.

"I _knew_ it. Did he make a pass at you Sam? Is he trying to Own you?"

Angels don't Own, but I got what he was saying. And maybe, in a way, that's what the strange red purple stuff was. Some sort of ownership mark. "Mine," that voice deep within me announced, silently and unexpectedly. As if I were the one trying to Own, trying to take possession. That was weird. I shook my head and chalked it up to the unnerving events of the day.

"No, he doesn't have any attraction toward me at all," I replied. "He's not trying to Own me. He beat the crap out of me and did this." I showed them my arm, which I had been keeping carefully glued to my side all evening.

They both gasped, and I was taken by the drama of the moment. Candy actually paled. "What does it do?" she asked.

"Is that a _hickey_?" Wyatt said, practically foaming at the mouth. "He gave you a tattoo and a _hickey_?"

"I think the hickey is just a byproduct of the tattoo." I needed to be careful with Wyatt. He was on the verge of going on a kamikaze attack, and I really didn't want to see him die. "I don't know what it does." I lied. I knew one thing it did, which I assumed wasn't its intended purpose. I hardly wanted Wyatt to know Gregory had put a big 'fuck me' spot on my arm.

"It looks like a brand," Candy said. "Like maybe some kind of tracking or homing device?"

That's what I was assuming, but it wouldn't need to be rooted so deeply within me for that. Wyatt came over to look closer and before I could stop him, he ran a finger around the outside of the sword tattoo, right over the hickey. Lust rushed through me in a hot wave. "Don't touch it," I hissed between clenched teeth. If he did that again, I was liable to knock him over and screw his brains out.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It must hurt."

Hurt. If only. I looked at Candy and she had the one eyebrow, wise Spock look going on. Didn't fool her. She might be a total prude, but she knew exactly what had happened when Wyatt rubbed the mark.

Slowly, she walked over and held my arm up to examine the tattoo and hickey closer. "Don't touch it." She'd get the lesbian shock of her life if she did.

Instead, she leaned in and sniffed it. I hoped my deodorant was still working. Not that it mattered with a wolf's sense of smell. Letting my arm go, she looked at me thoughtfully.

"I like you," she said slowly. "You're amoral. You screw anything you can hold still. You don't care about anyone beyond what they can do for you at the moment. You're nasty, irritating, crude, and reckless. You'd sacrifice us without a second thought, even him," she gestured to Wyatt, "to serve a selfish purpose. But in spite of this, I like you. Let me know what I can do to help you get away, to help you live, and I'll do it. Within reason," she added hastily.

Wyatt nodded in agreement. "You know I'll help you anyway I can, Sam."

This was odd. I wasn't used to others volunteering to put themselves in harm's way for me. I could see Wyatt doing it, humans did all sorts of weird things under the influence of friendship and sexual attraction, but Candy had no such motivation.

"There's no way I can make it all the way to a gate with this thing on my arm. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't make it out of town. I'm trying to think of a plan, though. I may just need you to distract him for a moment." I told Candy. "In the meantime, if you could keep him more focused on the trap for Althean and less on beating the shit out of me, I'd be grateful."

I turned to Wyatt. "See? This is why I want you to leave. You heard what he said to you in the restaurant. He won't hesitate to kill you. Please take my car and go home."

"I'm not leaving you, Sam," he said stubbornly.

I sighed. I had a feeling this wasn't an argument I was going to win.

"Well, at least go out and get me some cold beer. Please," I added. "That shit in my trunk is probably skunked by now with this heat."

Wyatt ran out to get beer for me. He even took Candy's car without pestering me to drive my Corvette. I appreciated his running out for me since I had a feeling I was under house arrest. Besides, I was trying to show Gregory what a good girl I was. See? Branded, domesticated, staying within the confines of my enclosure.

Candy decided to sleep on the couch since she didn't want to share with anyone and there was only one bed. I told Wyatt to go ahead and go to sleep, figuring I'd make some excuse to sleep on the floor later. I couldn't take another night of straightjacket torture, and if he accidently rubbed my arm during the night, then that erection of his wouldn't go to waste.

I sat on the porch for hours listening to the chorus of night bugs, drinking beer, and lining up my empties on the railing. If this tattoo really was some kind of homing device, then Gregory would know it the minute I made a bolt for the border. I'd never make it to one of the major gates before he caught me, and I doubted Althean's killing pattern would take him near a major gate in the next few days. I could try to stall the project. Althean would probably head near a major gate eventually. I didn't think I'd be able to foil his capture for that long, though. Besides, even if I did, Gregory would just decide I wasn't helping, that I was in the way, and I'd be dispatched.

The wild gate at Sharpsburg was about half an hour away at speed in the Corvette. I didn't think Gregory knew about that gate. I'd heard that angels didn't even sense the wild gates. Normally, he'd never expect me to head there. With this thing on my arm, I suspected that he'd find me wherever I went, and know if I strayed more than a certain distance from him. I needed to somehow get us closer to Sharpsburg so Candy could distract him and I could be through the gate before he knew I was gone. I'd probably be ripped to shreds in that crazy wild gate, but at least I had a chance there. Staying here, I had no chance whatsoever. I'd look at Wyatt's projection of the killings in the morning to see if we circled back down into Maryland. If so, I'd have to work hard to make the trap at Waynesboro unsuccessful. Anything to get us closer to that gate and my last chance.

I finished my beer, and started to put the empty on the railing with the rest. It was a pretty reddish brown color, as most beer bottles were. It had been molded through a rather cheap and sloppy process, and there were a few bubbles and imperfections in the glass. Humans often applied only the minimum of effort necessary to suit their needs. They were satisfied with this beer bottle as long as it didn't stick them with sharp edges, kept the beer contained and temperature consistent, and was fairly sanitary.

Many of my kind were this way, too. Why apply excess time and energy if less would get the job done? The elves were different though. Everything for them had to be perfect and artistically formed. Everything was an opportunity for art and expression. Their homes, yards, stables were filled with intricately embellished functional items. They would never have been satisfied with this beer bottle. Its very presence would have grated on them.

Changing my mind, I took the glass bottle back off the railing, melted the glass and pulled out the air bubbles and tiny bits of debris marring the glass quality. I needed to keep a thin buffer of cool between my human hands and the molten glass as I pulled and rolled. Looking at the blob of clean glass in my hands, I was suddenly inspired, stricken with the urge to create. It was an urge that demons occasionally had. I warmed the glass again, twisting and shaping it. When I was satisfied, I let it cool in my hands. It was now a small brown glass horse in gallop with mane flying and nose to the sky. I ran my finger down the glass muscles in its back and smiled to myself.

"That's beautiful," a deep voice said behind me. Gregory. His tone was that soothing rumble. I got the impression he'd been there watching me for a while as I'd been engrossed in my glasswork.

I looked up at him. His black eyes were hard to read in the moonless night, but at least he didn't appear pissed off. Maybe whatever errand he'd run had allowed him to relax and recover his control.

"Back home, I'd gift it to the one of the elves," I told him.

The elves loved art, but they were not often satisfied with their own creations. I thought their art was beautiful and perfect, but they deplored the lack of emotion and feeling. They were always grateful to get something we had made, and they frequently invited us to their social events. We annoy them, but they've always tolerated us like we were crazy eccentric relatives.

"You know elves?" Gregory asked in wonder. "You actually see them socially?"

Oh yeah, the prodigal children. The elves as a race had always been doted on and favored by the angels. They had originally sided with the angels during the war, but became increasingly disillusioned with them as the fighting dragged on.

To everyone's surprise, and seemingly against their own best interests, they ended up pulling themselves from the conflict and declaring neutrality. The angels had been winning before, but after the elves pulled out, we reached a stalemate and thus the division of the realms and the treaty. I'm not sure what caused the elves to come to our turf, but they carved out their own space and refused to enter this realm. The whole reason the angels had created the big stable gates was in hope that their beloved species would come to their senses and join them again.

"Yeah. They ward their land heavily against us, and their adults are kind of stodgy and boring, but their young are fun and playful. They sneak over into our land and play pranks on us, and we reciprocate. It's all in good fun. We sometimes perform services for each other. If we establish a business relationship, then it results in being invited to their social functions."

"Do you go? Are you invited?" Gregory asked, sitting beside me.

"Occasionally. I've performed some services for one of the high lords, and he invites me to holiday functions, and the occasional great hunt. Honestly, I think I get invited to the hunts because I ride like shit and they all get a huge laugh at seeing me hit the ground regularly."

I handed him the glass horse and he examined it carefully.

"I saw you pull the impurities out of the glass. Why did you bother?" he asked, sending strands of himself into the glass to better feel its structural integrity.

I wasn't sure how to respond. Elves would have said that things of beauty should not be marred, that they should attempt to approach divinity in their perfection, that sloppy imperfect work was an offense against nature and the forces of creation. Perhaps the elves had just rubbed off on me?

"I don't know," I replied shrugging. "I didn't have any particular reason, I just did it."

"It's perfect," Gregory handed the horse back to me. "And it has such feeling and expression to it. That I expected, but I would never have expected this level of detail from a demon. Honestly, I would have expected you to shoot the bottles off the railing or twist them into a horrific mass. Not create this delicate thing of beauty."

"There is equal beauty in the things called horrific. The act of destruction is an expression of beauty, too. I destroyed the bottle to make the horse. Is a pretty glass horse worth the loss of a bottle, but the sound of shattered glass and bits flying through the air isn't? Is transformation only worthy if you approve of the end result?"

Gregory stared at me in silence for a while. I think I shocked him. He'd probably expected me to say "fuck that" and blow up the glass horse or something. Well, I wasn't always a stereotype.

He reached out a hand to me and I tensed involuntarily expecting him to blast me with that white stuff or pop my head off. Unfair, I know, since he was calm right now and we hadn't exactly been arguing. Still, after today, I was leery of his intentions toward me. And it's not like he'd necessarily have to be angry with me to kill me. The whole process could be as emotionless as pinching the top off a dandelion. Gregory paused for a second then gently took a piece of my hair and carefully rubbed it between his thumb and fingers.

"Your human form is perfect too," he said, half to himself. "Down to the last cell. Your energy is so tightly contained. You don't leak like so many other demons".

He leaked. The power flowed off him in waves. It was like sitting next to an open oven. And his form sucked. It was so weird with the strange skin and faint glow. He blurred at the edges sometimes, too.

"You don't have the slightest imperfection in your form," he continued. "I could walk right by you on the street and not know what you are. I could be in the same room with you for hours and not know."

"You did," I told him. "Last week in The Wine Room. I was there when you came in looking for me and I managed to sneak out the back door."

He looked at me in surprise. "You were? I wasn't looking for you. I was there to find Candy in an attempt to gain any information the local werewolves had on Althean. I could sense she was there, but she got out the back door while the humans were smothering me with adoration." He rolled his eyes, as if the reaction of the humans was both amusing and annoying. "I didn't know you were there at all. You were a few yards from me, and I didn't even sense your presence?"

"You weren't looking for me?" I asked. "But you must have sensed me. You were at that werewolf's house a few days later. The one I killed with the electricity."

He shook his head in confusion. "What are you talking about? I had no indication of your presence until you blasted Althean at Robinson's house."

Damn. Candy had lied. She'd made up the whole thing to manipulate me into doing what she wanted. All my panic, this whole madness with Candy had been because I'd thought he was on my trail. He hadn't even known I existed, that I was right there. He hadn't been after me at all. I could have just gone about my life and he would have never known.

He continued to rub my hair between his fingers and I felt him push his energy in once again to examine me. It was pretty rude. He'd examined the glass horse with more consideration. Poking around like this at me was so annoying. I knew I wasn't strong enough to force him out, so I returned the favor and poked back at him with my personal energy. It didn't have the same effect. He brushed me off repeatedly without effort, and certainly didn't get the hint on how disrespectful this sort of thing was. I was nervous he'd find out how much raw energy I had stored within me and tried to compress it tighter, but he was careful to avoid contact with it. The rest of me was fair game though. It was like having someone root through your underwear drawer.

Without warning, I felt him snatch hold of the red–purple within me and pull violently.

"Owww," I yelled and punched him as hard as I could in the arm. It was like hitting a cement block. "Asshole. That hurts. Cut it out."

He stopped and I felt his surprise, but he didn't let go and didn't remove his energy from me. I sat there and braced myself for more pain, but he released and gently pulled back to himself. Silence stretched on between us, but it wasn't awkward. If someone had told me a week ago that I'd be sitting on a porch next to an angel listening to the locusts sing at night I would not have believed it. I was fully aware of his strength and the enormous power imbalance between us, but for some reason I felt a sense of peace.

We continued to sit there in silence for several hours, and then I put the glass horse on the railing beside the empty beer bottles and went in to sleep. My intention was to grab a blanket and curl up on the floor, but I looked longingly at Wyatt snoring softly in the bed. I might not be around much longer. As much as I dislike having someone crush me all night, I really wanted as much closeness with him as I could. I wanted to feel his warm flesh against me. I didn't want to regret missing a moment of that. Filled with longing, I pulled off my clothes and climbed under the covers with Wyatt. He immediately sensed my presence and turned to face me, wrapping his arms tight around me and twining my legs between his. Seconds later and I was clamped against him. There was nowhere I'd rather have been.

I slept some, and woke in the morning to the now familiar feel of Wyatt's erection against my thigh. As if that weren't bad enough, Wyatt ran his one hand down my back to cup around my ass and brought the other up to the side of my breast.

"Sam?" his groggy voice asked. "Why are you naked?"

I'd forgotten about Candy's presence and her edict regarding night wear.

"I always sleep naked," I told him.

He caught his breath. "Do you think Candy is a light sleeper," he whispered, his hands roaming across my skin. That morning erection of his had gained focus and was now a hard steel pipe on my leg.

"I'm a very light sleeper," a stern voice from the sofa announced. "And there will be no sex going on while I'm here."

"Can you leave?" I asked her hopefully.

"No. Sam, get up and put some clothes on and go outside while Wyatt calms certain parts of his anatomy down. I've got some bottled water for us to brush our teeth with. We'll wait for our orders from Gregory, and then hopefully we can grab coffee and breakfast on our way."

Candy was very organized for such an early hour in the morning. I would rather have had slow thorough sex with Wyatt then snooze while Candy ran out to fetch coffee and donuts, but that was clearly not going to happen. Reluctantly, I got up and dressed in yesterday's torn dirty jeans and a clean shirt.

When I went out to the porch to stretch my legs, I noticed the glass horse was gone. All the other bottles were still lined up on the porch rail, but there was a conspicuous empty spot where I'd put the horse. I was oddly delighted that he'd taken it. It must have been him. No one else had left the cabin, and it wasn't likely that some prowler had come around, especially with Candy's werewolf hearing. I was glad he liked it. Hopefully after he killed me, he'd look at it and remember me fondly.

I grabbed the empty bottles and one at a time threw them off the side of the porch against the trunk of an oak. The first bounced off without breaking, so I put a bit of energy behind the next one and was gratified when it shattered with that lovely breaking glass sound. The others quickly followed, and I ended by blasting the remaining whole one as it lay by the base of the tree.

"I can't quite see how that was a thing of beauty, but I'll allow you to have your differing opinion on the matter," Gregory's amused voice announced.

I turned and was surprised by the incongruity of seeing him holding a drink carrier with Styrofoam cups and a bag. Judging from the smell, the cups contained coffee.

"You brought coffee?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I know humans are basically useless without this morning beverage, and I assumed you'd be the same."

At that moment, we were interrupted by Candy, who burst through the door brandishing a broken remote control.

"I'm not paying for this," she told me, waving it at my face.

I immediately threw the angel under the bus. "It was him," I said pointing at Gregory. "He broke it off the chain and I was just trying to hide the evidence."

Gregory raised his eyebrows at Candy and handed her a cup of coffee.

"Oh," she said in confusion, taking the coffee. "Thank you. I mean, no problem. I'm sure it was an accident."

"No," he told her. "It was no accident. I purposely broke it."

Candy turned bright red with embarrassment and sputtered something about how it was no problem at all, vanishing back into the cabin with her coffee. I grabbed a cup for myself out of the holder and laughed.

"You're mean. I like it. Especially when it's not directed at me."

He handed me the drink holder and the bag along with an address on a slip of paper.

"Meet me at this address in half an hour. We've got a long day ahead of us. If you're late, I'll turn your car into a useless ball of metal."

Without waiting for a reply, he gated away. I assumed that meant the camaraderie was over and we were now back to our former adversarial relationship. The thought made me rather sad.

# Chapter 16

Do it," Gregory commanded. "Do your thing."

We were at the first of the werewolves' houses and they were away at work. It was a family of three. Father, mother, ten year old son. I didn't know what the hell Gregory wanted me to do.

"Your _thing_ ," he said impatiently. "Do it."

"What thing?" Was I supposed to fuck Wyatt on the lawn, blow a hole in the driveway, throw a bolt of lightning through the picture window, or strip the skin off some human and forcibly Own them?

"Change," he waved his hand around. "Change into something, then change back. Leave a big old demon energy signature right here on the front lawn to scare Althean away."

Great. He was too lazy to hex the place, so I needed to convert my entire flesh. Did he want me to do this at every house? There were forty werewolf residences in the Waynesboro area. Was I supposed to do this at thirty nine of them? Fuck that. And what good would it do? Was Althean so stupid, or possibly so insane that he wouldn't realize that that fortieth house, the one without my energy all over it was a trap? Any self respecting demon would just head elsewhere. Somewhere outside the little regression line Wyatt showed on his computer. Stupid fucking angels. Like a dumb ass lemming.

"You're joking. You expect me to convert my entire form at thirty nine houses today? Do you realize how much raw energy it would take for that? I'd be drained to nothing," I announced dramatically. I had more than enough raw energy, but I didn't want him to know that.

Gregory raised an eyebrow. "Do it," he commanded. His voice had power behind the compulsion. Huge power. It swept over me with the intensity of a forest fire. I admired his ability to put forth such a huge volume of power, but in spite of it, the compulsion slid over me without effect.

"Fuck you," I told him.

He frowned and I could tell he had expected the compulsion to work.

"Do it now or I will make your human toy into a eunuch," he announced, changing tactics.

Wyatt turned white. He'd do it too, without a second thought. Asshole. Fine, I'd do it, but I wouldn't make it pretty.

I was pissed, so I exploded out everything but my personal energy and stash of raw energy in a rapid blast. Time froze, as it always did when I converted my whole self and I felt the seductive pull of eternity. I could just let the matter go, let it drift on out taking my personal energy with it. I would fade into the fabric of creation, become whole. I forced myself to focus and snap back into flesh. It was like a sonic boom, once out and once in. Crack, crack. Wyatt and Candy were both knocked to the ground. Gregory stood as if untouched, the bastard.

"And she's naked again," Candy said, getting to her feet and dusting off her pants. "There doesn't seem to be a day that goes by that I'm not treated to the sight of your naked body. Can't you possibly do this without losing your clothing?"

Of course, I'd blown my clothing to bits when I converted, and didn't know how to create new ones.

"Is she always like this?" Gregory asked me, gesturing toward Candy. "No wonder Althean is trying to exterminate the werewolves if they're all as annoying as she is."

"She's alright," I chuckled. "I'll bet she fucks with all her clothes on and the lights off, though."

Gregory looked around, no doubt sensing my energy usage.

"Do it again, over here a bit. I don't think that will be close enough to the house to suffice."

Fuck, this was going to be even worse if I had to do a conversion multiple times at each house. I really would be running low if he kept this up. Was this some way to determine how much I had stored? How much I could do before I collapsed exhausted in a heap? I complained again that this was a stupid idea and that there was no way I was going to be able to keep doing this.

He stopped and looked at me sternly. "Did we not just have this conversation? Let me see. Yes. Yes, it was the same conversation. There was some whining from you, then I threatened to do physical harm to your toy, then you grudgingly complied. Perhaps we can just skip all the middle part and get to the part where you comply? Otherwise, I'm liable to get angry and do all sorts of things I'll really enjoy now and mildly regret later."

I hated this angel.

I walked over closer to the house and again converted myself violently in an explosion of pressure and sound. Wyatt and Candy stayed farther back this time and managed to stay on their feet.

"I had forgotten about the clothing thing," the angel said as he turned his back on me and walked toward the car. "You'll need to strip each time you do this since we don't have a truckload of outfits for you to ruin."

I glared at him as I followed him, naked, to the car, and noticed him rub a hand over his ear. Blood. That was interesting.

The next house he stood back farther. I smiled to myself and blew everything apart and back with even more force. Candy clutched her head. "Can Wyatt and I be somewhere else for this? If she keeps it up I'll be tossed into the adjacent county. Maybe we can just wait for you all to finish this at a local coffee shop?"

Gregory shot Candy an irritated look, and didn't reply. He clearly had a slight nose bleed this time. "I don't think you need to change your whole self next time," he said rubbing his nose. "Maybe just a portion of you, instead."

The following few houses I experimented, changing just portions of me, using less energy, changing the residents' dog into a rat, which Candy insisted I change back. I can easily convert myself, but I'm not so good at changing other beings. The dog didn't quite go back the same as it originally was. The owners would never be able to tell, but the unfortunate thing would die in a few weeks. I should have left it a rat. At the next house I burned a circle in the lawn with green fire. None of these seemed to have any noticeable impact on Gregory.

"The fire isn't going to have the effect I want," the angel scolded. "The energy signature is too vague and like natural fire. You need to actually change something, preferably yourself."

Men. They always want you to change yourself, why can't they just like you the way you are? I recreated a foot, but did it with a vengeance. Pop, pop. Candy stuck her finger in her ear, and Wyatt stretched his jaw, trying to normalize the pressure in their ears. And there it was, the light trickle of blood. So it wasn't the size of the conversion that affected him. Was it the pressure change, or the sound, or both?

He stood back further the next time. I was bored with just recreating Samantha Martin, so I decided to experiment with some of my forms from back home. This time I snapped back as a gryphon, making it extra loud. Gregory looked grim as he approached me. He was coughing this time and I could see the specks of blood.

"You can't drive around in the car looking like that. You need to change back into human form."

I didn't wait for him to back away, I snapped out and in with a huge sonic boom. He staggered, then shook his head. Blood dripped from his nose, and trailed down from one ear.

Sound. Everything he'd done with his energy, everything Althean had done had sound or color. Plasma and the usual destructive forces didn't have maximum effect on them, even my raw energy glanced off them with less than expected damage. I couldn't do color, but sound I could do.

"This isn't going to work," Gregory said, turning away from me and surreptitiously wiping the blood from his face. "It's way overkill. You're leaving a huge signature and he'll suspect something."

Well duh, he'd suspect something anyway if he could see I'd been to thirty nine of forty houses, conveniently leaving one house free with a big bow on top and a 'kill me' sign on the door. I wasn't sure what the fuck Gregory's game plan was with all this. Was Althean's drive to kill the werewolves in a bizarre pattern overriding his common sense? Were we just herding him toward our trap? If so then the overkill wouldn't matter. I couldn't believe Althean would be so stupid, but I really didn't know anything about angels. A demon would never have gone for this. We'd have been merrily killing werewolves halfway across the country if we saw a blatant trap like this being laid down.

"What do you mean it's not going to work? I'm exhausted from all this, and now it's not going to work? Plus we have twenty six more houses to go," I whined. There was no way we could watch twenty six residences. Althean had the odds in his favor. He'd strike again and get away, hopefully moving closer to Sharpsburg where I could take my chances of escape through the wild gate.

Gregory paused for a moment. "We'll split up. I'll take ten houses and hex them, and you take sixteen. Just make sure you leave one open. Meet me back at the cabin whenever you're done."

What, leaving me unattended with Wyatt and Candy all day? With plenty of time to escape? And no very specific orders to be here at this time, and there at that time? Did he want me to run, so he could snatch me back out of thin air, deliver a smack down, and teach me a lesson? Maybe he needed some private time. Candy had been annoying as all hell, and spending the day in the company of a demon couldn't have been easy for him either. Or possibly he was just tired of the constant nosebleeds my conversion was causing him. Either way, he had to have some faith that I'd stick around, or that he could find me if I tried to bolt for it.

I puzzled over this and my tattoo as we drove to our allocated houses. Did the mark allow him to find me and bring me to him, or only let him know if I strayed outside a certain distance from him? That kind of constant monitoring would probably require a deep connection, and a sharing of personal energy. If that were the case, then the red–violet inside me could hold a portion of him, and he might have even taken on a portion of me. Oh, that would be unbelievably ironic! My kind does this type of personal energy swap when we breed, but we don't keep the connection to the other person. We just combine their energy with ours to make a new being, then isolate it. There's no desire to carry around a portion of someone else inside you, or maintain a kind of link with them. How much would it irk him if he had a chunk of me inside him, or if his own precious self was tied up inside me? If this were the case, no wonder he was in a crappy mood.

By late afternoon we were down to the last five houses, and I was tired and bored. I'd been riding around naked. I hadn't brought a spare set of clothing from the cabin and had nothing to change into until Candy raced into a Walmart and picked up a pair of jeans and a tank top for me. I refused to wear them since taking clothes off and putting them back on at each house was a pain in the ass. After a long argument, Candy insisted the least I could do was wrap myself in a blanket from her trunk. She claimed it was so we wouldn't get arrested. I'm surprised she didn't put newspapers down on the seat.

I'd gotten creative with my form, doing a goat–lion cross I'd put together for one of the elf parties decades ago, and variations of the stereotypical devil theme from artwork throughout the ages. Wyatt particularly liked the sexy red one with big boobs, and long rope tail that I twirled around suggestively. It looked like something out of _Heavy Metal_. He did not like the muscular black one with the huge two foot phallus and testicles like bowling balls.

We pulled up to a lovely McMansion, with a professionally landscaped yard out back, complete with a grotto pool and hot tub. These werewolves had it good. Wyatt and Candy sat in the air conditioned car while I took my time admiring the pool. Half the pool was edged in flagstone with a wide set of flagstone steps rising from the water to the naturalized patio. The other half consisted of a man–made cave and a twenty foot molded boulder with tiny streams of water trickling down the edges. The cave was partially underwater with a ledge to hold drinks and snacks. My pool was the standard issue, and I thought about possibly adding a feature like this. The molded boulder was probably fine by human and werewolf standards, but its fakeness annoyed me. If I did this at my pool, I'd create my own boulder. I missed my pool, and since I was naked anyway I jumped in to do a few laps.

The water was wonderful. They used a saline system instead of chlorine, and the minerals made the water slide like silk over my skin. I explored the little cave a bit and floated around in the water. Candy and Wyatt had to be wondering what was taking so long. Screw them. And screw that pissy angel, too. I'd get done whenever I felt like it. I did a few more laps, swimming low to see the decorative tile work in the bottom of the pool.

That's when I noticed an odd shimmer in the pool wall. Diving down, I took a closer look and just about swallowed the water in excitement. It was a gate. A wild gate. Well, it was actually more like a wild jagged tear. It extended the entire depth of the pool, but it was narrow. I wasn't sure I'd be able to squeeze through it and not leave a chunk of myself behind. It was wider down at the bottom thankfully. I came up for air and went back down again. I couldn't really tell where the gate came out at, but I was running out of options.

This was my only chance. There was no way I could manage to sneak away tonight and come back here. We'd never be close to this house, again. If I didn't go for it with this gate, my only other chance would be the long shot that we'd somehow come close enough to the one in Sharpsburg. This was my bird in the hand, and I needed to grab it. I'd been told my whole life that I took insane chances with minimal regard to my safety, and that's saying a lot coming from my kind. This was the time to prove them right. I went up for air one more time, then swam down and slipped through into the gate.

It was a bad, bad idea, and I realized how bad the moment I stepped in. The gate engulfed me in blackness, snapping shut behind me. It felt like I was encased in black Jell–O. I tried to push through it, but it resisted against me bouncing back. I could rip and tear it, but it was slow going, and it flowed back to itself, leaving no trail of where I'd been. I couldn't tell how far I'd come, but it felt like I'd been plowing through the stuff forever. I had a horrifying feeling that I was going to spend eternity in here suffocating in black Jell–O. It could be worse, I thought.

Never think that. The Jell–O was starting to become sticky and cling to me. I shook it off, trying to push it away and noticed red bloody marks where it had tenaciously stuck on my skin. As if one hickey mark wasn't enough, it seemed I was about to be covered in the things. I wasn't one to give up, so I kept slashing and pushing, making my way each precious inch at a time. Hope filled me as the Jell–O began to soften and liquefy, and a glimmer brightened the darkness. Finally, I thought, I might be reaching the other side of the gate. I hoped it didn't open up into a black hole or something equally deadly. The glimmer expanded and I was blinded by a white flash. I felt something more solid than Jell–O encase me and with a second flash I realized I was underwater. Maybe I had gated into a rock in an underwater cave. I hoped so.

No such luck. As my vision cleared, I realized that the rock was covered by wet cotton fabric. Shit. I should have known. Gregory's grip shifted, but instead of being swept up in his arms, I was dumped over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes as he carried me up the steps and out of the pool.

He had to be furious. I'd had no idea how he'd managed to find me in that horrible Jell–O mess of a gate, let alone get us both out of there. I can't believe he bothered. He must have known what that gate was. If it had been me, I would have said "screw this" and let him die in that thing. Why had he risked himself to pull me out? Was I really of that much use to him? Or perhaps he was too proud to allow me to escape him at all. Maybe he had a need to have absolute control over me and my demise. He slid me down off his shoulder and held me tight against him, my face smashed into the wet cotton of his polo shirt. I waited patiently to be crushed to a pulp. Instead I was held in place, with the angel's ragged breath warm against the top of my head.

"I have no idea how you've managed to survive this long, little cockroach," he said, his voice tight. "How did you make that gate? That was the worst thing I've ever seen in my long, long life. Crippled lobotomized elves with one eye could make a better gate than that."

I didn't know specifically what having one eye had to do with gate creation, but I got his point.

"And you didn't end it anywhere. The edges weren't stable; it didn't really _have_ edges. The whole thing was slowly collapsing in on you. I honestly don't know how I managed to find you in that thing, let alone pull you out of it in one piece."

I held very still against him. He didn't sound very angry. I thought he'd be furious, smashing me into little bits for defying him and trying to get away.

"If you're so bent on killing yourself, cockroach, just be patient a little longer and I'll do it for you." He said, sounding as if he anticipated that moment. "I don't know what to do with you. I can't be with you every second, I can't bind you any tighter. Now, I find you can create gates, no matter how terrible and ineffective they are. I should just go ahead and kill you now, you are such an annoyance. Any usefulness you provide is far outweighed by your time wasting and disrupting actions."

Okay, so he risked himself to pull me out of a wild gate only to kill me himself? I guess it was more satisfying if you did the deed yourself rather than have your target die through suicide by stupidity. I could identify. It was so disappointing when your prey fell off a cliff and broke its neck before you could sink your teeth into it and have it die by your hand.

We stood there for a few moments more, then he slowly pulled away and looked me over. I was naked and covered in bloody Jello–O hickey marks. Not exactly a good sight. I risked a quick look up at him. No pointy teeth, no black filled eyes, no glowing, no sword. He actually looked rather bleak. These were hopefully good signs for my continued existence.

"Fix yourself," he said with a sigh, and stepped back to let me work.

I stood and stared at him a moment, sure that I heard him wrong, and that any minute he was going to lop my head off with that sword of his.

"Go on," he urged. "I don't really care, but if we walk back to the car with you looking like that, your toy is going to go insane and try to blow my head off with his little cannon, again. I've killed one human this week; I don't want to kill another. I'm way over my quota for the year, already."

I had an odd feeling the last statement was some kind of angel humor, but I didn't want to ask. Quickly I fixed the Jell–O marks, thinking that Wyatt was going to flip anyway with us walking back together, both soaking wet and me naked.

Wyatt was not happy. He was even less happy when Gregory grabbed the blanket from Candy's car and proceeded to dry me off, himself.

"Here, put your clothes on," the angel told me. "I'm going to gate you to the last few houses so I can keep you with me. I'll hex them, and these two will follow us in the car."

Wyatt turned red and clenched his jaw, but at least he kept his gun to himself.

It was a slow process. The gating around was fast, but then I had to stand there a moment squished against Gregory to keep from falling over while the world righted itself. Then we had to wait an eternity for Candy and Wyatt to arrive, since Gregory informed me he couldn't trust me to my own devices while he was occupied creating the hex. He told Candy at the first house that she was to watch me and if he found me so much as a foot from where he left me, he'd bash her face into the pavement. I wondered if angels were always this violent or if I was having a peculiar effect on him.

I was a good girl, much to Candy's relief. Besides, where would I go? He'd catch me, and just be more pissed off. Part of me still wanted to try for the Sharpsburg gate, but part of me was really afraid to try that shit again. There were more pleasant ways to commit suicide. That sword of Gregory's probably wouldn't be as bad as dying in a wild gate, but I didn't really want to give him the satisfaction of causing my death. I'd rather suffer horribly.

We finished by dark, and at least three of us were starving since we'd missed lunch. The house with the pool and the wild gate was our intended target. Not that it mattered. I wasn't about to try Jell–O world again, especially if it didn't lead anywhere. We grabbed take–out Chinese and headed back to the cabin to collapse in exhaustion. I didn't even bother with the Tinkerbell shirt, and just wrapped myself up naked in a blanket to sleep on the porch. Candy took her couch, and Wyatt the bed. Gregory sat in the porch chair with his feet up on the railing so he could keep an eye on me. It was rather unnerving having someone stand guard over you while you sleep, but I was worn out and dozed off quickly.

I woke up with my heart racing. It was early, well before sun up, and it took me a moment to realize where I was and what had woken me. Something was here, something I knew, something I wanted to kill. I reached out and felt his presence, about five hundred yards into the woods to the northeast. Althean, stealthily creeping closer.

What in the world was he doing here? Two who are gunning for him are here, and none of his targets. Then it hit me. Candy. Maybe he was ready for his hit, and she was here and sleeping soundly. I'd left no strong energy marks around the cabin, and Gregory hadn't hexed it. We hadn't thought that Candy could be a potential victim, since she wasn't a local. Maybe Althean wasn't going off a database or map, but some kind of sense that located werewolves themselves. That could have been why he'd hit the Robinson house, with Craig and Candy both there.

I carefully turned my head to look at the porch chair. Gregory was gone. I reached out to look for him. I was fairly convinced I could accurately determine his location if he were nearby with all the time I'd spent with him recently, and this tattoo with the red purple stuff inside me. I couldn't feel him within a quarter mile radius, but I wasn't positive in the outer edges. That left me alone, with prey approaching and no one to interfere with my hunt. My focus narrowed to a laser. I wanted this kill. I was going to die anyway; I might as well have a last supper. Smiling, I slid out of the blanket and tracked my victim, edging quietly around to flank him as he approached the cabin. I wished I could convert into something scary and vicious looking, but I needed to keep this under the radar until the last moment so I didn't scare him off.

Althean's gold curls shimmered in the faint moonlight. He was not trying to be as human in his appearance, and his skin was solid and marble looking with the glow and the blur at the edges. He was naked, which was kind of bizarre. He'd had clothing on at Robinson's. Did the nakedness signify something important? Did he just lose his clothes or blow them to bits like I always managed to do? Of course, I was naked too, and he'd probably wonder the same about me if he saw me. I assumed that his teeth were pointy and his eyes dark. Better keep my arms away from those teeth. One tattoo was enough for me.

I watched him edge toward the cabin. There was a clearing of about fifty feet long between the woods and the porch steps. The best place to grab him would be right at the edge of the woods. He'd pause there to check out the clearing before he made his dash. If I waited until he was in the clearing, he'd be liable to see me and gate out before I reached him. Better to grab him while his attention was on scanning the porch and clearing for activity. Slowly, I trailed him from the side, utterly silent, my heart thudding and adrenaline surging. I had to struggle to keep my energy deep within myself where he couldn't sense it.

Finally, he paused at the edge of the woods to survey the clearing and I made my move. I blew everything out, then back in with a boom of sound. The trees disrupted some of the effect, but Althean dropped to his knees. I jumped on him, knocking him into the clearing and straddling him, and punched him in the face just because I felt like it. It didn't do much except hurt my hand and give him a chance to throw me off and scramble to his feet. I hit him again with another boom of sound, and he staggered. I threw another one at him, knocking him down and giving me a chance to straddle him again. Then I began pummeling him with the sound; he clutched his head. The blood dripped out his nose, eyes and ears, from the corner of his mouth, and even began to seep out his pores. I knew I wouldn't have the time to own him, so I'd have to be satisfied with just killing him. Once he was dead, I'd shred him to bits. I'd roll in the blood and flesh of his empty form. I'd savor the pain and fear of his last moments.

He was struggling less, so I placed my hands against his chest and made ready to hit him hard and loud, when I was grabbed from behind. I knew who it was, so I spun around and threw the blast I had into Gregory instead. He made an _oof_ sound and grabbed me in a wrestling hold.

"Stop it," he commanded, covering my energy with that slippery shit, again. I didn't have to look, I knew Althean was gone.

"You fucking bastard," I snarled. "I had him, and now you let him go. He was here to attack Candy."

"I know," he said, sounding oddly affectionate and still holding me against him. "You were just protecting your friend, I'm not angry with you. But you can't kill him. I won't let you kill him."

It was less about protecting my 'friend' and more about making my kill, but whatever.

"Well _I'm_ angry. You let him get away. Again! You don't care anything about stopping him, bringing him to justice, or having him pay for his crimes. All you care about is covering your ass by sweeping the whole thing under the rug, protecting your reputation and Althean's. You'll grab him, take him to Aaru, and stick him in some nice office job. Then you'll assign another angel to the werewolves and act like the whole thing never happened."

"What, because that's what you'd do?" Gregory asked. Now he was angry. "You know nothing about me, nothing about how we operate. Don't go making assumptions about our society based on your own twisted lawless nature. You know nothing about us."

"I know enough," I retorted. "I was at the place in York. I know what happened. I felt the bodies, saw the video tape. Althean killed a pregnant woman. An innocent woman and an innocent child died. And from what Candy says, lots of the victims have been innocent. I honestly don't care who you kill, but you have an agreement with these people. They've given up a lot, the least you could do is keep to your end of the bargain. Althean isn't keeping the contract, and neither are you."

"There are subversive factions among us who would bypass protocol and take action. If Althean were just one of these vigilantes, he would be punished harshly. And trust me, prison and punishment among our kind is worse than death. He's wavering in his convictions, though, making him capable of redemption. The last few kills have caused him to go nearly insane with doubt and guilt. The death of the woman and baby have put him over the edge. I know there is something in him still worth saving," Gregory insisted.

"He's not worth saving, and neither are you. You were there in York, too. You covered it up. I saw you put the mark on the woman and the baby, I read your energy signature. Even without the video tape, I know your energy signature very well by now. It was you. You marked them both as if they were criminals. You fucking hypocrite. You'll save Althean, cover the whole thing up, but where's the justice for the werewolves? Their dead have _all_ been marked as criminals. A baby, for fuck sake!"

He'd held me by the wrists away from him to look at my face as I ranted. Finding I had a foot free, I kicked him in the shin. It was like kicking a wall with my bare foot.

He looked down at me in amazement. "Marked them as criminals? What are you talking about?"

"The angel wings on their temples," I told him. "I could see it on the woman, and I saw you place it there from the video tape. I got your energy signature off of it, and then I felt the same mark, the same energy signature on the unborn baby. How in the fuck can you justify marking a _baby_ as deserving of death? It's not only against the contract, it should be against your very nature. Unless your kind has changed that much in the last two million years, it should be contrary to all you hold dear to condemn an infant, especially an unborn one."

Gregory stared at me as if I'd gone insane. "Criminals? The wings don't make them criminals, they are to convey that someone has paid for any crime they may have committed, that they are clean. They're a forgiveness mark, a blessing, not a condemnation."

I was stunned. What incredible arrogance it was to deign to convey forgiveness on those they killed. I hated these fucking angels.

"So those who violate every rule, every clause of the existence contract, they get forgiveness, too? Same blessing as an unborn baby? Because all of the executions bear that mark."

Not that I thought dead people gave a shit about some pompous asshole angel granting them forgiveness. What the fuck? No wonder we ditched these psychos for our own place. They were so full of themselves, it wasn't even funny.

"Yes, even the worst criminal deserves forgiveness. They've paid their dues with their death, and they should approach their afterlife with a clean slate."

I rolled my eyes. When I finally could resist it no longer and let my entire being scatter throughout the universe, I doubted if it gave a flying fuck whether some angel gave me the thumbs up or not. All were equal in death. Maybe that's what he was saying though in his own full of shit way.

"You'll still cover it up. I know you will. You killed a cop, and you covered that up too. Fucking holier–than–thou hypocrites, all of you."

"I did a lot of things in anger that day that I'm not proud of, but I refuse to feel guilt for that death. I will never let you get away, never let you escape me, and the deaths of a million humans are an easy price to pay for that," he said with determination, finally letting go of my hands.

It was a little unsettling to know that he'd casually plow through a million human lives just to have the pleasure of killing me himself. And they say _we_ are evil.

"He's one of yours," I insisted. "Tell me honestly that you'll kill him, that he'll see justice, because I just don't believe that's going to happen."

"Althean will pay for what he's done but _you_ cannot kill him. The justice needs to come from our own kind, from someone with the proper authority to deliver judgment."

We stood there a moment as the bugs sang in the woods around us. I wasn't sure I believed him. I suspected Althean would live for millions of years as they plowed through the red tape of who had jurisdiction and what laws pertained to this suspected offense. There was something else I wondered about though.

"Those demons that you've killed, do they get wings too? Are they granted your forgiveness?" I asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it.

Even in the dim moonlight, I could see a bolt of pain cross Gregory's face before it hardened into a rock like mask.

"Demons are filthy creatures, abominations beyond redemption and forgiveness," he said bitterly. "They don't deserve forgiveness or mercy, either in life or in death."

I shrugged. "Doesn't matter. None of us want your blessing. None of us give a shit about your forgiveness. Like we even care. We return the same. You'll get no mercy from us. No forgiveness, either."

I saw him wince at the last few words.

"None of you has the _capacity_ for mercy or forgiveness," he said. He was furious, but at least he wasn't glowing. "Your vibration pattern will continue to diminish, you'll continue to devolve until the lowest worm has more divinity than you. You deserved to be banned from Aaru, to be banished for all eternity. You deserve to be killed on sight with no mercy. I should have killed you the moment I saw you. I should have killed you when you tried to escape me. I should just kill you right now."

That pronouncement should have had me on my knees, begging for that mercy he told me he'd never dish out. But I was pissed, so I taunted him the best way I could think of.

"Then why did you do _this_ instead of killing me? What is this you've done to us both?" I asked, running my finger up the underside of my arm and over the tattoo of his sword.

Gregory jerked and clenched his fists. "That," he said. "That is a terrible mistake."

I smiled to myself as he stalked away into the woods. Just what I had thought. He'd fucked up whatever he'd done to me somehow and what the mark did went both ways. If only I could find out exactly what it did and how to work it, I could do to him as he did to me. Whatever that was. Right now, I could turn him on. Funny as that was, I couldn't see how it would work to my advantage in the long run. Hopefully, more useful applications would reveal themselves in the near future. Hopefully, before he killed me.

I turned around to walk to the cabin and my smile faded. Candy and Wyatt had woken up to the booms of sound in the front yard as did many of those in the neighboring cabins. They'd all been an interested audience to the whole exchange. The neighbors must be particularly entertained to see a naked woman arguing with a clothed man in front of the cabin. I also had a depressed feeling that any chance I'd had of a continued relationship with Wyatt was vanishing by the moment.

# Chapter 17

I woke up rather pleased that I'd managed to get through the last night without damage to my physical person. Candy announced she was making a breakfast and coffee run for us and pointedly left me alone with Wyatt. He sat on the bed and messed with his tablet while I walked around the cabin moving stuff around, and basically hovering. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore, so I scooted up on the bed next to him.

"Please talk to me?" I pleaded. "There is nothing going on between me and that angel. Nothing sexual, nothing romantic, not even remotely friendship. I've been trying to get away from him, and somehow that always ends up with me injured and usually naked. He seems to be less fired up about killing me the past few days, but I've pretty much run out of options. He'll eventually kill me; I'm just trying to stall until I can think of something. There was a wild gate in the pool at that house. I tried to go through and he dragged me out of it. It was a good thing, actually, since I would have died in there. That's how desperate I am, I went into some crazy wild gate with a million to one chance of coming out in one piece and somewhere reasonable. Because a million to one chance is still better than zero."

Wyatt paused a moment, then tossed his tablet aside and gathered me up in his arms. He was still shirtless with his pajama bottoms on and his skin felt glorious against my face and arms. Warm and smooth with his heartbeat against my cheek. He had muscle, but the muscle and flesh had a firm give to it, so unlike the hard rock of a chest I'd spent the last few days being crushed against. I snuggled against him like a puppy and breathed in the scent of his skin as Wyatt tightened his arms around me. It felt so good. I was actually considering giving the straightjacket of sleep another try tonight.

"When he first came after you, I had a knight–in–shining–armor impulse." He laughed. "Stupid, I know. A human can't do anything against a being like him, and you are a thousand times stronger and more capable of protecting yourself than any woman I know. It's horrible to stand back and watch you two go at it, though. It makes me feel worthless, that I'm not worthy of being your friend, let alone anything more. I'm so outclassed, and I'm not used to that. I'm used to being the big fish in the little pond. The one who can get any girl he wants, and could easy smack down any threat or competition. This situation has smashed that illusion to bits. Then every time I turn around you're naked and pressed against him with his arms around you like something from a dime store romance."

I felt him twirl my hair in his fingers for a moment. "I'm making this whole situation about me and my feelings of inadequacy, when it should be about you. You're the one fighting to survive, and I'm pouting about having a supreme being hone in on my woman. I'm sorry, Sam. I'm a selfish jerk. I should be helping you and not having a pity party, here."

I pulled away a bit to look him in the face, and put a hand on his cheek.

"I'd be dead if it wasn't for you, Wyatt. You fucking _shot_ him. Point blank, in the head, with that huge gun of yours. I know it didn't kill him like you intended, but it distracted him. If you hadn't done that, he would have lopped my fool head off right then and there. I was practically wetting my pants, and you had the balls to shoot an _angel_. You _are_ a big fish in my book. You're clever, fun, hot beyond belief, and you're my go–to guy when the shit hits the fan." That was super hokey, but it was true. And to make my point, I leaned over and kissed him.

Kissing Wyatt has to be one of my favorite things ever. It's soft, then it's firm, then he runs his tongue over my bottom lip, then I run my tongue around the inside of his mouth, then he bites my lower lip, then I suck on his tongue. He dug his hands through my hair and gripped, like he thought I was going to run off if he didn't hold me in place. We made out slowly and thoroughly as if we had all the time in the world. Things were heating up to the point where it was hard to keep activity confined to mouth only. Wyatt let go his grip on my hair to yank my shirt off, and expertly remove my bra.

Now we were both bare–chested. I claimed his mouth with mine again and rubbed my breasts against him, happy for additional skin to skin contact. He rubbed a thumb over my nipple, sending a hot pulling sensation down between my legs. I could feel his hard length just a few thin layers of clothes away as I sat on him. How fast could we move this along, I wondered? If we hurried, we could both be sweaty and spent by the time Candy returned with the coffee. Wyatt bent his head down and ran his tongue over the other nipple, pulling it with his teeth. Fiery sensation washed over me, and I closed my eyes. Coherent thought was impossible and I reveled in the feelings flooding through me. I wanted to get his pants off, but couldn't figure out the logistics of removing them while keeping his mouth on my breasts. If only his pants would remove themselves.

Through the fog of my desire, I heard the door open and a loud "Arrrrrr!"

"Go away, Candy," I said firmly. She sounded like she'd walked in to find dog crap on the floor.

"I left you two to talk and make up, not to engage in sexual relations on the only bed in the place." She complained, showing no signs of leaving.

"Please?" I begged, although Wyatt had already stopped his wonderful exploration of my body and was lying back on the bed taking deep breaths.

Candy took her time getting a donut, and adding cream and sugar to her coffee. "I'm taking my breakfast outside, because it stinks in here, now," she announced, banging the door on her way out.

I threw myself down on Wyatt and scattered frantic kisses up his shoulder. "Oh, let's go for it," I said breathlessly. "You're ready, I'm ready. I'm so ready. You have no idea how ready I am."

I felt the rumble of his laughter against my chest. "I get the feeling that you're always ready, Sam," he said, rolling me over so he lay on top of me. In spite of the promising position, I had a feeling that our opportunity had passed. He gave me a glorious kiss as I ran my nails down his back, then rolled off the bed announcing that he was going to take a cold shower.

"You're killing me, Wyatt," I told him as he grabbed a towel and supplies to head to the communal bathhouse in the campground. "You'll come back and find me shriveled to dust in some female version of blue balls."

"Oh, the drama," he teased, heading out the door. I hopped up and put on my shirt, draping my bra across Candy's couch just to piss her off, then went to dig through the donuts. Things felt very right with the world again. I grabbed a chocolate cream and went outside, not finding Candy on the porch or in the front clearing.

I just can't seem to leave well enough alone, so I went ahead and sent out a search for Gregory. Casting in a radius around the cabin, I found him surprisingly close. Just around back by the woodpile. So of course I crept around back to see him. Because after making up with my hopefully–soon–to–be boyfriend, it seemed like a smart thing to seek out the homicidal maniac that wanted to kill me and was causing all the trouble with said hopefully–soon–to–be boyfriend. I hoped it took Wyatt a good long time to cold shower his genitals back to a relaxed state, because if he returned to find me behind the woodpile with Gregory, things were not going to be pretty between us.

As I snuck along the side of the cabin, I heard voices and realized that Candy and Gregory were talking. Well, at least Candy was talking.

"She's distracting you with her antics. You would have caught this guy days ago, if you weren't having to chase her down. You can find her any time you want, just let her go. Let her go home. Even if she slips through a gate, no one knows you've seen her except me and Wyatt. We're not saying anything. Althean will be out of the picture, and he's crazy. Even if he says there was a demon, no one would believe him. She's served a purpose, give her a pass. Let her go."

"No"

Well, that was short and to the point.

"She's crazy, she's clearly got some death wish. She'll be back across in a couple of years and you can grab her then. No one back at her place would seriously believe her escaping you. They'd think she was full of it."

"No. I've marked her. Permanently. I'm not letting her go."

Crap. So much for ever getting this damned tattoo off my arm.

"She's living as a human. She has friends, business associates. Humans depend on her. Just let her go on with a human life, then. Take her powers away or something so you feel she won't be a danger to anyone, and just let her be."

Take my powers away? Could he even do that? That would be like blinding someone, or ripping out their tongue. I didn't like the sound of that at all. I think I'd rather he kill me.

"No. End of discussion. I'm going to watch the house. I'll be back."

I scurried silently back around the house to sit on the front porch and drink my cooling coffee. I was grateful for Candy's efforts, but it didn't look like this angel was ever going to let me go unless it was as a dead pile of sand. Probably not even then. I could see him sticking the sand in an urn and putting it somewhere unpleasant just to spite me beyond the veil of death.

I know it wasn't productive to keep harping on my impending death like this, but it somehow kept diminishing in my mind, as if it were truly only a remote possibility. It wasn't. It was real, and I needed to keep remembering in order to stay focused on trying to get away. I wanted to hang around this angel, to be near him when I should be trying to be as far away as possible. He's going to kill me. He's going to kill me. Maybe if I chanted it, I would focus on survival and not on wondering what he was doing right now.

We muddled around the cabin for the morning. Candy had the forethought to bring a paperback to read. I was going stir crazy and my death chant wasn't having much of an effect, so I announced that I was going to buy some more clothes to replenish all the ones I'd ruined so far. Wyatt offered to come with me, but I told him I needed some alone time. In reality, I was going to do something stupid. Fuck, my impulse control was becoming worse than Boomer's. I _was_ crazy and clearly _did_ have a death wish.

I found the nearest Walmart and blindly threw some jeans, sweat pants, and t–shirts into the shopping cart. Then I found a liquor store. It wasn't easy. They aren't usually open in the morning. All the higher end ones were closed for hours, but I did manage to find a seedy little liquor store with metal bars over all the windows and doors that had proudly opened at eight AM. And if that wasn't testimony enough to their target demographic, their alcoholic offerings clearly were. The only vodka they had was Gilbey's.

I'll admit I'm a vodka snob, but I have nothing against Gilbey's. It burns like Liquid Plumber going down, and you get drunk faster than you can snap your fingers, but at least it's honest. Some of that high end stuff in the fancy bottles was just as brutal and cost five times as much. Still, I'm not drinking it. I'm not that desperate.

The regular clientele of this liquor store clearly _were_ that desperate though. There was a whole wall dedicated to various whiskeys. Not a craft beer in the place, although I was pleased to see they at least had Bud Light. It was a bit dusty and behind stacked boxes of Busch advertised for $9.99 a case in huge blue numbers. The wine selection was just as dismal. Lots of Boones Farm and sweet fruity wines. I wondered what angels drank. I hadn't seen Gregory eat or drink anything, so maybe that was all part of their abstinence routine. The elves drank wine nonstop. I don't think I ever saw one without a goblet in his hand. Angels loved their elves, so maybe they drank wine, too? I doubted they drank Jack Daniels. I strolled around the store in indecision while the clerk looked at me nervously. I'm sure their usual customers were in and out in five minutes flat, while I looked like I was making the decision of my lifetime.

Finally, I grabbed a bottle of blackberry merlot that looked somewhat less rot–gut than the other wines, and paid the clerk the ridiculously cheap price. I just wasn't going to be able to find a decent bottle of anything in Waynesboro at this hour. Maybe it would be the thought that counted.

I drove out to the McMansion, parked my Corvette a block away, quickly locating Gregory. And there I sat for half an hour, almost turning around. Starting the car. Turning off the car. Banging my head on the steering wheel. What the fuck was I doing? Idiot. Should I do it? Should I just go back to the cabin? Maybe I should sit here and drink this nasty wine myself. Finally I got out of the car and made my way as stealthily as I could over to him feeling like the dumbest ass in the whole world.

"Hey," I said. He ignored me.

"Got any bites yet?" I asked, as if he were fishing. "I wonder if he'll make a move today after what went down last night. I walloped him pretty good; you might be here for a long time."

Silence.

"Sitting here staring at a house is really boring, so I brought some wine. I think it tastes like crap, but the elves like it, so I thought you might, too. Actually, I don't think the elves drink this particular wine. In fact, I'm sure they'd think it was crap too, but there isn't much to choose from in Waynesboro at this hour. See, I brought a corkscrew and some little plastic glasses. I'll open it right here in front of you so you know I'm not trying to poison you or anything."

Silence.

I struggled to open the bottle until I realized that the top was a screw off and not a cork. Yanking the corkscrew out, I wondered if I could just pour the wine through the hole I'd made in the cap. The alternative was probably the better choice, so I screwed off the mangled cap and poured a bit, sniffing the glass in what I hoped was a knowledgeable way. The stuff smelled like air freshener. Seriously. Like something I'd hang in my car. Or possibly one of those scented candles that everyone gave me at Christmas.

"Ah, the bouquet," I said, trying to keep a straight face.

I swirled it around in the glass. It coated the sides in a purple sheet and slowly oozed down like a gelatinous monster from a horror movie. If it were any firmer, I'd be having nightmare Jell–O flashbacks from that wild gate yesterday. I'll try anything, so I took a swig.

"I can see why it says 'serve chilled' in huge letters on the bottle," I told the angel, grimacing at the taste. "I'm not a wine critic, but this tastes like grape juice with a couple pounds of corn syrup mixed in. I can smell the blackberry, but I can't taste it at all. Fuck, this stuff is sweet! I hope you brought your insulin. Ugh."

Silence.

I poured him a glass and sat it down by him, arranging myself on the dirt. I filled up my glass and took another gulp, shaking my head at the strange acidic aftertaste.

"I don't blame you if you don't drink it. It might be good for discipline, though. Better than a hair shirt. You should at least give it a shot. Who knows, I could be totally wrong. This could be the best wine ever. One of those secret treasures of the cheap liquor store."

Silence.

Fuck, I was babbling like an idiot. What was wrong with me? I left a hot guy, whose company I enjoy to run over here and bring wine to an asshole who wants to kill me, thinks I'm an abomination, and now won't talk to me. If Wyatt were here instead of this angel, he would be rolling on the ground laughing with me right now. We'd be daring each other to drink the swill, taking bets on who could sip it the slowest without puking. Wyatt was fun. This angel was not. I should just shoot myself because I clearly had no sense left in my head whatsoever.

I sat there beside him, drinking the horrible wine and braiding blades of grass. After a few moments, I dropped onto my back and stared at the thick, dark clouds moving in. He didn't say anything. Didn't even glance at me. He shifted occasionally, so at least I knew he wasn't dead. I thought of all kinds of inane things to say, but I'd made enough of a fool of myself, so I just sat there in silence and watched the storm clouds gather on the horizon.

I'd killed about half the bottle of wine. He hadn't touched his, hadn't spoke to me, looked at me. Hell, he didn't even grunt at me. I plopped my empty glass next to the bottle and his untouched wine, got up, dusted off my rear, and just walked off. I couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't make me seem like even more of an idiot that I already appeared. I really wanted to bash my head against something. It's not like we'd ended last night on friendly terms, and he'd made it clear in the conversation with Candy that he wasn't feeling kindly toward me. I don't know why I was sort of hurt by all this, why I was at all surprised by his reaction, or lack of reaction, to me.

I drove back to the cabin, and unloaded my purchases. No one was there. I glanced through Candy's paperback, only to toss it down and pace the cabin. I don't deal well with boredom, and there was nothing to do in this stupid cabin. Things were starting to get a bit dark and I heard the distant rumble of thunder, so I went out into a big field by the tent area to watch the approaching storm.

Electricity and plasma are near and dear to our hearts. They are some of our first talents as children, and we always have an affinity for them. Storms here in this realm are just amazing. The smell, the power, the rain, even that strange yellow color the air gets. I was feeling really down and needed a good storm to bring me right again. Was I homesick maybe? Humans are awesome, but there are some things you just can't share with them. Things that would freak them out, or things that are just beyond their understanding. We have such different lives. Our skills, our talents, our culture and society, how we're raised, what we value. Maybe that's why I was tagging around after this angel like a half–starved stray dog. I missed my own kind. And I _was_ rusty. Forty years over here and I had an angel beating up on me and one that had twice eluded my grasp. Shameful. Dar would never let me live it down.

The blackness was rolling forward in the sky and I could feel the charged ions above me. I smiled and hummed a bit, waiting for the flashes in the sky to get closer. It was a good storm. The campground lights flickered on in the darkness, and cold hard drops began to pelt down on me. A huge flash lit the sky with an almost simultaneous roar of thunder. It shook hard enough to set off somebody's car alarm, and I laughed as I reached out and called it down to me.

The bolt shot right to me like a lover to my arms. I let some of it dance along my skin, twisting in colored bands of barbed light up my arms and neck, then down my torso and legs. I kept it moving circling and surrounding my flesh, and then flashed it in a disco ball of light around one arm before pulling it into me with a _swick_ of sound. I called down another bolt, holding it in my hands in a globe shape, where it flashed and darted about in a prism of color. The next bolt I divided into hula hoops of white, swirling them around my hips and arms. I hadn't had this much fun in, well, in forty years. I hadn't realized how very bleak my life had become.

I called down a huge bolt, shaping it into a giant donut above my head, then let it rain down around me, causing a ring of fire in the grass.

"Be careful, little cockroach, or you'll set the whole place ablaze," said a soft voice behind me. I was so preoccupied that I hadn't felt him near, but I wasn't startled. Maybe some part of me did know he was close by. I should have known he'd come running the moment I did something like this, no doubt to make sure I didn't burn the whole town down.

I extinguished the ring of fire, leaving it blackened and smoldering, and then called another bolt down, letting it dance along my skin. This storm was fast and violent. I'd probably only have a few more bits to play with before it moved on.

"Gather it closer," the angel instructed. "It's leaking out and the humans in their tents will be hurt. You've got talent, but you're sloppy and lazy with this energy. I know you can do better."

Asshole. It's not like others' safety is ever our priority. Who cared if it leaked out and cooked someone? It's their fault for being in a damned tent during a lightning storm. Still, I pulled it in around the edges just to show him I could.

"Can you work the lightning?" I asked, with the bands still flashing around my arms.

He shrugged. "Most of us can't, it's just not one of our talents. I've been around a long time though, so I can." He called down a small bolt from the clouds and shaped it into a fleur–de–lis with nice tight defined edges. Showoff.

"I used to come with my brothers when the planet was still young and we'd play in the lightning," he mused. "Everything was pretty much plasma and energy then, all these complex molecules hadn't formed yet. We had to manifest in an energy form to hold our being."

"What type of energy?" I asked, curious. That was so long ago that I couldn't even imagine what the world was like. I felt very young next to him. A baby.

"All sorts," he said vaguely. Then he seemed to make a decision. "I'm most skilled in fire and fire–type energy, so I used to manifest as flame. Smokeless fire, I believe the humans call it. There's no real word for it in their language, though. Sa. . my youngest brother," he corrected, clearly not wanted to reveal his brother's name. "He had great talent with electricity and we'd marvel at the things he would do with lightning. I have some talent, but not anywhere close to his level."

"He used to zap us with lightning sometimes, when we weren't expecting it, just to see us jump." He smiled fondly at the memory and turned to me. "You remind me of him, sometimes."

I looked at him in shocked surprise. I reminded him of his brother?

"Was your brother a _demon_?" I asked.

He laughed. "You weren't always demons, you know. You used to be angels. Always different from the rest of us, very different, but still angels."

"Are we no longer angels?" I asked, thinking that his answer meant all the difference in the world.

"I don't know. I thought you had all devolved to a far lesser state. Now, I wonder," he mused.

I stared at him with the lightning still rolling over my skin, waiting for him to say something else. I was afraid I'd break the spell and he'd return to the cold enforcer who was ready to kill me at any moment.

"We were five, my brothers and I," he continued. "The middle three were the least strong, although they have gained in skill and power with time. We've always been close, especially back then, but my youngest brother and I had a special bond."

I could feel a pain and sadness from him. Actually feel it, like it was inside me. Why was he sad? Did he and his brothers no longer have these good times together? Why should an obviously fond memory bring him pain?

I pulled the electricity within my stash of raw energy and looked up at the brightening sky. "These things are so fleeting, always over so fast."

"Yes, they are," he replied, and I realized he was talking about more than just the storm.

I was fairly wet from the big plops of rain. The storm had moved off fast before the downpour could start. The folks about a mile or two down the road were probably getting drenched. I wanted to just walk off and leave him standing in the clearing, or trailing after me. My ego was still smarting from the whole wine thing. Pride isn't my sin, though, so I stood there squeezing the water from my hair.

"Do you work with water much? Can you do this?" he asked unexpectedly as he suspended the water drops I'd shaken from my hair and floated them around me like little opaque balloons. It was pretty cool.

"Wow," I said, genuinely impressed. "Are you using some kind of force to overcome gravity or are you doing something to negate the effect of gravity in an area surrounding the water?"

"The latter." He swirled the little droplets together to make a large sphere, hanging before us. "I'm no expert with water, though," he said with false modesty. I could tell he was showing off.

I shook my head. I'd go ahead and stroke his ego a bit, because this _was_ pretty cool. "That's really delicate, technical work; not something we're encouraged to do. We tend more towards big and flashy. Or exploding. Back home, no one would bother spending a lot of time to learn this. I mean, what would the point be if others didn't appreciate it, or it didn't destroy anything?"

I walked over to the globe sticking a finger through the gravity suspension field and into the globe of water. Gregory held it in place around my finger, and maintained the integrity of the shape and field as I withdrew, showing his amazing control over the most minute particle. The guy was really fucking impressive. I'd never seen anything like this before. I stuck my finger in a few other places and he held the field perfectly each time. The sphere didn't even quiver as I moved my finger over and through it. I wondered what else he could do. I'd never been around someone with this much power and control before. I wished I had a few millennia to just trail around after him and watch him work. It would be amazing.

The outside of the water globe began to take on a solid shape and I realized he'd frozen about a quarter inch of the outer water, leaving the inside to swirl about like an elaborate icy snow globe. The outer rim of ice on the globe was as clear as glass with the inside a churning prismatic liquid. Gregory walked over to pluck the globe from the air and handed it to me, placing it gently into my cupped hands.

I carefully ran my hands over the cold surface. It was absolutely clear, perfectly round and smooth. The water inside continued to churn and swirl in a pretty dance. He kept it frozen in the heat of the day, but the warmth from my hands created a slick wet surface as I held the globe. I was amazed to notice that the wet against my hand wasn't cold. Then I realized that he was holding the cold tightly against the surface of the globe, and the wet was actually a created buffer between my hands and the ice. I suppose he did this to keep my hands from sticking to it? Or possibly to keep my hands from being cold? Whatever his motive, it was a skilled piece of work to differentiate the temperature so cleanly and sharply in such thin layers. He made it all seem so easy. Fuck, he was _so_ damned impressive. Damn it all, now I was even _more_ drawn to this asshole.

I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do with the globe. Just admire it? Stick it in my freezer and save it as a souvenir? Instead I sat it in the grass in front of me and tried to raise it. I could shoot it with a burst and blow it across the grass, but I couldn't get the darned thing to float at all. I kept messing with it while Gregory watched and continued to keep the globe contained and frozen. I attempted different methods to see if maybe I could move it sideways instead, since up seemed beyond my talents.

"How long have you been here, on this side of the gates?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

"A little over forty years," I told him, getting the globe to rock a bit. No sense in lying at this point.

"Wow, I guess that makes me rather incompetent," he said, as if the idea amused him.

"It's not like I came in with guns a–blazing." I tried to get the globe to roll further to no avail. "Before this, I'd do like everyone else and pop over to wreck havoc and party, then dart back across the gates. This time I intended to stay, so I was very careful in cloaking my energy signature when I arrived. The biggest thing I've done before this week was Owning this flesh, and assuming its form. It was risky, but she was an ideal candidate for a long–term identity to assume."

"How did you manage that without detection," he asked with interest. "We should have been on you fairly fast after an Own and a full body conversion."

I shrugged. "I don't know. I was surprised too. Human's have made a perfect environment to conceal small energy usage," I told him. "Cell signals, microwaves, x–rays, power grids. If you're careful, it's easy to stay within the parameters of the existing power flow. For big stuff, you can mask under an electrical storm, or blow out a power grid in a surge. The really big stuff is impossible without detection, but you can still get stuff done and run under the radar. I have no idea why you didn't catch me back then, though."

He stared at me, fascinated. It's not like I was giving any big secrets away. No one would have the slightest desire to repeat what I'd done, and I'd either be dead or unable to return. I might as well spill the beans.

"Forty years. Why would you _want_ to do that? To live so hindered?" He seemed truly perplexed. "What appeal could this possibly have, to live without the use of your power? To live as a lowly human? You're a being of spirit. You're so much more than this."

"I have my reasons," I replied vaguely.

"Can you not return? Will you be killed? Are you a runaway servant?"

"No," I said indignantly. "I have status, and a household awaiting my return." Not that my household was big. I was just an imp, after all. And everyone had someone gunning for them. That's just the way life was in my world.

"Is it the human you've marked as yours? Do you stay for him, for love of him?" he asked with a strain in his voice.

Was he insane? That I could love a human? That I could love at all? Wyatt was my best friend, and I did want to stay here to be with him. But love?

"He amuses me," I said slowly. "I know he's only a human, but he amuses me. The chase, the sexual tension. He's fun, and I really enjoy his company."

We stood there and the silence stretched on between us. I could feel that pain in him again, as if my words bothered him. His dark eyes bore into mine searching for something.

"Go home," he finally said, as if the decision caused him agony. "I won't come for you, I won't stop you. I'll ensure you have safe passage through the gate near Baltimore, the one in the mall in Columbia. It's the most stable gate on the northeast coast, and the safest. It will put you out near the elf border."

You would have thought I'd be gone in a shot, but I remained there with stupid indecision as my hand crept up my arm, stopping just shy of the tattoo. I didn't want to leave Wyatt. I didn't want to leave this angel. I didn't want to go home.

"Why? Why are you letting me go now after telling me you'd slaughter millions before letting me go?" I asked.

"I can't kill you," he said, a hint of desperation in his voice. "I'm afraid if you stay, that I will kill you, that I'll find myself in a situation where I have to kill you. I can't go through that, again."

"But what about this?" I asked, touching the tattoo lightly. I was bound to him, his demon.

"I can't remove that," he said. "With some study, I may be able to eventually dull some of its effects, but it's there permanently. I don't know how you're going to explain it when you return home. I'm not usually so rash. I'm sorry."

Wow, an apology. From an angel. Pigs truly do fly. I didn't know what to do or say, so I wandered in a daze slowly back to the cabin and put my bags back in the car. Candy and Wyatt still hadn't returned, so I sent Wyatt a quick text and headed out. I didn't see Gregory again.

# Chapter 18

**I** t was about seventy miles from Waynesboro to the gate. I know I went down through Emmitsburg, then took Route 140 up to Westminster, but I honestly don't remember the trip at all. I was very close to home, but couldn't bring myself to go there. Wyatt would take care of everything for me, and be a rich man for his troubles. I hoped it helped make up for me not saying goodbye in person. I had turned off my cell phone to avoid his calls. I just couldn't talk to him right now. I just couldn't tell him in person that I would never see him again. I tried to keep my mind off of him and off Gregory as I drove numbly down the road. The back roads from Westminster to Columbia were beginning to fill with late Saturday traffic, but I was driving in the opposite direction and thankfully didn't hit any gridlock.

Columbia was a well manicured suburb outside of Baltimore, filled with expensive homes in wooded subdivisions, consultant and technology offices down tree lined avenues, and winding, well maintained streets. The place had an overwhelming air of neat, liberal money. On the surface, it gave flashy lip service to environmentalism, but underneath it was as shallow and selfish as anywhere else in the world. It was as fake as a boob job and acrylic nails. A very expensive boob job and acrylic nails that people lied about and claimed were real. I shopped here a lot.

I always got a bit lost trying to find the damned mall. All the streets looked the same, and the buildings and signs were artfully hidden behind maples and oaks. I know this seems like a strange place to put a major gate between two dimensions. It's not like the angels intended to put a big gate at a mall. Heck, they didn't intend it to be anywhere near civilization.

When the gates were first built, they were in remote areas where it would be easy to see anyone coming and going, and to guard them. The humans are like ants though, breeding like crazy and spreading themselves over every surface of the planet. For some reason, all the major gates ended up engulfed or near big cities and, unfortunately for the angels guarding them, tended to be in a high traffic areas. The one in Columbia was no exception.

The universe clearly had a sense of humor, for a mall had grown up around it. A big, upper middle class shopping haven complete with a Nordstrom's, and Macy's. You didn't want to cross during the night, when the mall was closed, but during the day it was open season. The poor gate guardian had the worst job ever. If you hit it during Labor Day or the weekend, the place was teeming with people. Through some weird design fluke, the gate moved around the mall area, but once you located it, you just blended in with the teens and harried soccer moms and slipped right through. Because it was so popular and well used, the gate had to have a full time, alert and powerful guardian. He constantly changed his appearance, and he didn't take prisoners.

I parked my car safely on the outer edges, even though I'd never see it again, and walked in the Nordstrom's entrance. The gate was clearly not in the shoe section, and I checked it thoroughly. Nor was it anywhere near the rhinestone studded Ralph Lauren belts. I hoped it was in the Sephora store. It wasn't, but a really cool shade of MAC lip gloss was. I was now accessorized with a little bag as part of my shopper disguise. Clearly, no one would suspect me with a cosmetics bag, although I had no idea what I was going to do with lip gloss back home. Most of my forms there didn't even include lips.

I spent several hours weaving my way through stores, looking for the gate. I hoped it wasn't on the outside of the mall today. It would be harder to slip in unnoticed while in the parking lot. Not that I needed to be unnoticed this time, since I had my handy dandy get–out–of–jail free card from Gregory, but old habits die hard. I had made it down to the food court, and was contemplating buying a smoothie when I heard a voice call me in a name that should never be spoken this side of the gates.

"Azi Niyaz!" a voice said, with a tone of relief.

I froze. Two of my names. Crap, it's a wonder the idiot didn't go ahead and spew out the others. I turned carefully around and saw one of the Low behind me. He was in the flesh of a thirteen year old boy, which was disturbing in and of itself. I don't like to Own children. They don't have a lot of life experience, so it's really a waste of time. Plus, they make fool decisions in regards to their willingness. It just felt wrong, but they were easy prey so it was something the Low did if they got the chance.

The form he took had floppy brown hair in a mop around his face and ears and pale skin with blue eyes. His jeans hung practically off his hips, and his t–shirt advertised some kind of surfboard. It was a well put together form, but the eyes gave him away. They were incorrectly formed and like rat's eyes darting around under the curtain of brown bangs.

As soon as the Low said two of my names, he sputtered to a stop, realizing his error. He cringed back from me and corrected himself.

"I mean El. I'm so sorry, El. I welcome your punishment."

Yeah. I could hardly flay him or remove a digit here in the food court. Punishment would be in order back home, not just for saying my names this side of the gates, but by addressing me that way in general. There were titles of respect you used for those above you. Names were for peers and above only. This guy was Low; he wasn't even in the ranks of the hierarchy. He really shouldn't even have been addressing me at all. Using the title El was a good call, though. El meant "Mighty Being" or "Powerful One" and was a title used far above my pay grade. He was flattering me to make up for his mistake. He should have used Baal, which means Lord, and is more in keeping with my level.

I waited for him to proceed. He must be desperate or he wouldn't have come within twenty feet of me, let alone spoke to me. He shifted from foot to foot, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground right before me. The guy clearly knew his manners.

"My apologies, El, for disturbing you with my presence. I am unable to find the gate and would be glad to offer my person to the lowliest of your household in return for assistance."

Wow. It was way above his station to ask me for assistance. He truly was desperate. He can't have been a total idiot. Beyond his initial error, his etiquette was impeccable. I would have been offended if he offered himself to me, as I was above his station. To offer himself to the lowest rung of my household was fitting, but the service he was asking was far beyond that gift.

I looked at him closely. He probably saved for centuries to purchase assistance crossing the gates on a long awaited holiday, and now found himself stranded by his guide and unable to return. I wondered if Gregory would even bother with someone so low, or if he would have one of his minions dispatch him. The angel seemed to take some pride in doing it himself, so maybe this guy would rate.

"Did you pay Charon for passage, or some other guide?" I asked.

The Low let out a huge breath in gratitude, keeping his eyes firmly on the floor in front of me.

"Oh no, El. I could not afford Charon's fee, so he advised me to try another guide. The journey here was uneventful, but it's been two days since he was to meet me and I fear I am stranded. I don't have the skill to find the gate on my own or avoid the guardian."

Great. He probably paid Phlegyas or one of his flunkies. Phlegyas was good. He wasn't as good as Charon, but he could activate the gates and get someone safely back and forth. He was very untrustworthy, though. It didn't matter how much you paid him, he was liable to forget about you or just not bother. The Low should have withheld partial payment, and had someone back home ready to beat Phlegyas to a pulp if he didn't return as expected.

Two days. He must be starving and scared. He was so Low, a human could probably kill him with bare hands. I wondered if he'd been sleeping in the parking garage with the homeless people. He didn't look very dirty. I wondered if he could even convert, or if he'd had someone else do it for him. His form was pretty good for the level he was at and his speech and manners were good. Maybe he had some unrecognized talents. I should send him home to see if my household could use him. If not, they could play with him a bit and set him loose. Did my get–out–of–jail–free card include a Low?

"Follow me. Remain at least ten feet behind me at all times. Try to act as if you're not following me." I spun around and headed out, knowing that the guy would rather slit his own throat than lose me in the crowd.

Finally, I found the gate — by the carousel of all places. It was a few feet in front of a bench parents used to watch their children go round and round on the plaster horses. The humans walked by and through it without the skill to activate it. Humans could fall through some of the wild gates accidently, and the elf gates were sometimes set up to snag unwary humans like a carnivorous plant and bring them over, but the angels had done a good job. Their gates were complex and perfect creations. Many of us had the skill to activate them, but an equal number could not, resulting in a thriving guide industry. Some guides were on the level, and some would take your money and get you killed.

I popped into Starbucks and sipped on an iced latte while looking casually around for the guardian. I assumed the Low was still following me. I didn't check and I certainly didn't offer to get him a coffee. Normally, I would have roamed around here for hours excluding people and narrowing down the loiterers until I identified the guardian, but not today. Tossing the remains of my latte in the trash, I walked right up to the gate and placed my left hand upon it. Before I had a chance to activate it, my wrist was in the surprisingly firm grip of a tiny elderly woman with purple hair and a wildly patterned dress.

"You should not touch that, dearie," she said in a pleasant voice. I saw a flash of sharp little piranha teeth as she smiled.

"You should not touch _me_ , dearie," I replied, turning my other arm to show her the tattoo.

She jumped like I'd stung her and stared at the mark. It would have been one thing if it were just the tattoo, but that damned hickey was still there too. And I had the feeling that it wasn't supposed to be. She better not try and touch it or I'd punch her across the floor. Then I'd get arrested for assaulting a little old lady. I wondered if I could call Gregory from jail and have him come down and make bail for me. I didn't think he had a cell phone. Even if he did, I doubted he'd bail me out.

The gate guardian peered closely at the tattoo and I held my breath, fist ready. Finally she released my wrist, and looked me up and down, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Well, I'm certainly not one to question my superior's actions or decisions," she said in a rather sarcastic voice. Then she went on to question them anyway. "That's plain _wrong_. I've seen bound demons before, but not that. That's just insane, that's what that is. What was he thinking? Not that it matters. You're walking dead anyway, and the bond will break once you're killed. I've been told to let you cross, which I had to have him repeat twice. I've _never_ been told to let someone cross. And why he'd let you cross with _that_ on your arm, I have no idea. Why would he want you walking around the other demons with that? Perhaps he just wants to freak them all out and send them into a state of panic."

I wondered what it was about the mark that would send my kind into a state of panic? Would they be alarmed that one of their kind had been bound and not killed like we normally were? Would they suspect me as a spy?

"This has been a very enjoyable conversation," I told her. She seemed rather insubordinate for a guardian. Maybe all the years hanging around teenagers at the mall had affected her attitude. "Can I activate it now and go, or are we going to discuss this over salad and an iced tea first?"

"So what has he compelled you to do?" she chatted on. "Are you going to bring back a hoard of demons for him to exterminate? Act as a go between and negotiate something with the elves? Maybe blow up your entire realm? Usually it's building stuff, but you don't seem the type to put up temples, bridges or pyramids."

"Do I look like I'm compelled to do anything? Do I _seriously_ look like anyone could compel me to even bring them a coaster?"

She looked me over again. "You look like you're compelled to cause trouble, but I doubt that's the boss' directive."

"Can we get on with this, then?" This guardian was a pain in the ass.

"Oh no, you can't activate the gate. I have specific instructions that I must activate it for you. In fact," she dug around in a large purse, "I took notes."

She pulled out a brown fast–food napkin with writing on it and read from it.

"Do not let her activate the gate. She is liable to close it in on herself half way through. Then I'll need to come back here to pull bits of her crushed body out, and that will cause me to work months restoring the gate. Activate the gate for her. Also, make sure she doesn't accidently drag in dozens of shopping humans and the kiddy carousel with her to the other side. It's never happened before, but she'll find a way."

Ha, ha. So funny. Gregory the angel comedian. "Fine," I told her, flicking my wrist for the Low to approach. He darted over to stand silent looking at the floor in front of my feet.

"Oh, no," the guardian protested. "He told me you, not you and some sniveling worm. You can cross. I'll take care of this one. He's not significant enough to bother the boss with."

Well, that answered that question. I put some steel into my gaze and hefted the weight of my raw energy to the surface in a flash, just to show her what I was packing. She didn't even budge.

"How disappointing," I sneered. "I will just go back to the angel and let him know that I was unable to complete the task he _compelled_ me to do because the guardian would not allow me through with my servant. He'll have to leave the pressing matter he is dealing with to accompany me back here."

The guardian clearly didn't like that idea, but I could see her weighing if it was a bluff or not.

"He's not even high enough to be considered a being," she said grudgingly. "I could see where maybe the boss didn't notice his existence. Still, I'm going to activate the gate, and go get some sweet and sour pork. As far as I'm concerned, you crossed alone."

Good compromise. She activated the gate along with a repel perimeter to make sure I didn't accidentally drag in any humans than headed off to the food court.

One step and I'd be home. Back to my household, my own kind, the life I'd grown up with. The time I'd spent here wasn't much when compared to my life so far. Just an extended vacation. Time to end it and get back to business.

Time to do something reckless and impulsive. I turned to the Low and took his hand. With a flash of energy, I twisted his hand completely around, breaking the wrist and facing it palm up on the arm. I'll give the guy credit, he didn't even flinch. He might be useful after all.

"Go to the steward of my household and show him this. He will have you pay for the service I've rendered. Whatever payment he deems fitting." I motioned to the gate, and the Low crossed, ducking his head in gratitude but never raising his eyes. Then I closed the gate, dismissed the repel perimeter and walked out the nearest mall exit.

# Chapter 19

Of course, the exit I took was at the opposite end of the huge mall from where I'd parked. I walked all the way around the exterior of the mall, including the parking garage, to the outer edge of the lot by Nordstrom's with my little bag of lip gloss. I wanted to make sure the guardian didn't see me. As far as she knew, I was gone. As far as Gregory knew, I was gone. I hoped the bond wouldn't register if I kept my energy usage to zero and I kept my distance. It's not like he'd be looking for me if he thought I was over the border. I'd have to be even more careful about my energy than before. I'd also have to make sure I avoided any proximity with those of my kind over here. If Gregory showed up to get them, he'd sense my presence nearby and know I'd remained.

Could I possibly be free? Free to take the assets I'd hidden and start a new life. I couldn't assume a new form, but I could use the human methods to gain a new identity. They were very clever about their forgeries, if you had the money to pay them. I'd contact Wyatt and have him meet me. I'd have to get a new identity for him, too. He could still kill zombies with a different name.

I took the highway home, slogging through traffic, then pulled down the road past Wyatt's house. I should feel happy. This was my choice. I felt just as miserable as before, though. I looked over at Wyatt's house, thinking of his broken fridge door, and shooting guns in his back yard. I wandered about my yard, patting Boomer, dipping a toe in the pool and watching my horses in the field, grazing peacefully. My eyes were getting misty, which was a human thing, not typical of my kind. I went inside, and saw the blinking button on the answering machine. It hit play, thinking this would be the last time I'd hear this person's voice. It was Wyatt.

"Hi, Sam," he said sounding miserable. "You're not picking up your cell phone. I don't know if you'll stop by your house, or even listen to your messages before you leave. Probably not, but I wanted to leave a message just in case. You must have shook up Althean pretty bad, because he killed someone outside of Hagerstown today. He bypassed Waynesboro entirely. We're heading down to Sharpsburg which looks to be his next area. There are only a couple werewolf residences there, so I'm hoping we can nab the guy and wrap this up.

"I'm tagging along with Candy to help her out for a couple of days. If this thing isn't resolved by then, I'll probably call a friend to come pick me up and I'll head back. I know you said Michelle was arranging for your animal care. I called her to make sure she'd cover for the next few days until I get back. I want you to know I'll go right to your safe and follow all your instructions. I'm hoping you'll find a way to come back, although it doesn't look like that's going to be possible. If you ever make it back in the next sixty years or so, I might still be alive. I'd love it if you looked me up, even though I understand we'd hardly be able to pick up where we left off."

There was a few seconds of silence on the tape before he continued. "Sam, knowing you made all the difference in my life. Everything is different when I'm with you, risks are fun, amazing things are possible, anything can be overcome. I was never a serious person, but with you I really saw how humorous and fun life could be . . . if I only took a chance. I'll always remember you. I know you're immortal, and that your time with me was a grain of sand on the beach of your life, but I hope that knowing me meant something to you, too. Good luck, Sam."

I really had been away from home, living as a human for too long, because my eyes were leaking all over the place and my chest was heaving air out in choked bursts. It was very unpleasant.

I cried until I felt like I didn't have any more in me to cry. Didn't make me feel any better and I looked like shit. My face in the mirror was red and blotchy with puffy eyes, and I couldn't breathe through my nose. I missed home, missed my own kind, but wasn't ready to go home and deal with the politics, the power struggles, the stupid breeding petitions. I liked my life, here. When it got boring, fun was within arm's reach. Humans were plentiful, and very entertaining. And Wyatt. I really liked being with Wyatt.

There was no logical reason for what I was about to do at all. I was staying here in this realm, but I wasn't going to run off and hide under a new identity either. I couldn't really go back to the way things were before this week. I'd just have to make the best of what lay ahead. What I was doing was a leap off the cliff, trusting in my instincts that things would somehow be okay. I got a much needed hot shower, changed my clothes, packed a small bag and headed west toward Washington County and Sharpsburg. Whatever happened, happened.

Sharpsburg was a dot on the map. A series of country routes led there from the highway around the mountain and through Boonsboro. I prefer the steep winding narrow roads right over the mountain and down into the heart of the little town. With less than a thousand residents, it's got that typical small, one street town kind of feel. The place would have faded into oblivion except for the fact that it saw the bloodiest day of the Civil War right on its doorstep. Over twenty three thousand dead, wounded or missing. That's pretty impressive, even by demonic standards. The historical folks did a decent job with the battlefield site, too. It had scores of informative plaques, monuments and some cannons. It would have been far more impressive to have tens of thousands of mannequins posed for battle, bloody and shot to bits, and scattered around the fields so visitors would walk amid the carnage and really get a feel for the action, for the scope of the slaughter. It's a shame preservation groups didn't take these things more seriously.

It was such a tiny town. I searched for Althean, trying different vantage points to make sure I covered the whole area. I wasn't sure what I was going to do, now that I was actually here. Should I wait for Althean to show up, and then swoop in dramatically? Should I text Wyatt, letting him know that I hadn't left? Should I search for Gregory? Maybe not. I wasn't sure what he'd do to me since I had not crossed the gates as told me to. I knew I was going to have to face him, eventually. Either way, I knew he wouldn't be pleased. No, I really didn't want to find Gregory. Not yet. I searched again for Althean, then went to the General Burnside Tavern for a drink. I was not really good at this waiting thing.

The bar was small. One room with a few tables and a couple of dart boards. Some guy with a guitar played in the corner with his case open for tips. It didn't have a lot of money in it and I suspected what was there was placed by the guitarist himself in an effort to prime the pump. Everyone ignored him. There were four guys at the bar drinking beer and watching football on TV. It was too early for the pro season or even college. Did they show football re–runs in off season? The best of last year? I plopped down next to them and ordered a Bud Light. I knew better than to ask for vodka in this place.

Part of my thoughts went to a constant scan for Althean. That was a boring activity though, so I drank my beer, eyed the patrons and wondered what I could do to entertain myself until I could kill something. The four guys at the bar were riveted to the game on TV. There were a couple of guys playing darts. The guitarist started up again bellowing some ballad about love and tulips. One of the guys at the bar glanced at him in irritation and turned the captioning on the TV. I didn't realize they close captioned football games. Huh.

"What's the guitarist's name?" I asked the bartender.

"Bob Burrows," he told me, glancing over at the singer. "He annoys everyone, but the owner's sister knows him so we have to let him play."

I took a swig of beer and looked over at the guy. He was skinny, with a short beard and longish brown hair. Mid–twenties. His hands on the guitar were rough and calloused with a wedding ring on his left hand. He had that far away look in his eyes of a man whose dreams have been derailed by reality. The guitar was second hand, but in decent shape. The case battered with some band stickers that clearly were not placed there by the current owner. His sheet music was propped up in the lid.

"How often does he play here?" I asked.

The bartender shrugged. "A couple times per week if we're lucky. He works construction. Went to Shepherdstown College across the river for a year for music, but got married and dropped out. His wife gets irritated if he's out here too many evenings."

I got up and walked over to the guy. "Are you Bob Burrows?" I asked.

He looked at me, clearly noting I was not one of the regulars, or even a local in this small town. "Yes."

"I'm a private investigator out of Hagerstown," I told him. "I'm doing surveillance in a divorce case. I just wanted to let you know that your wife is fucking the propane delivery guy. His wife hired me to get proof after she found some naked pictures of your wife on his phone. You seem like a nice guy, and I just thought you ought to know."

I never saw a man scramble up his guitar and case so fast in his life. He raced out the door and a few moments later a truck roared out of the parking lot. His wife probably was cheating on him. Loser was so hung up on what could have been that he can't have been very present in their relationship.

I turned around to see the patrons staring at me. Even the four football watching guys had torn their gazes from the television to look at me with their mouths open.

"You wanna play darts?" a short wiry guy asked me.

Althean was still nowhere nearby so I played some darts and ordered the hot wings that were on special.

The hot wings were good, but they didn't improve my dart game. I finally gave up and started tossing darts into the various decorations on the wall holding the dart board. My favorite was in the nose of the mounted deer head. It was very amusing to see a lovely cluster imbedded in the deer's left nostril. The patrons and bartender started to look at me warily. They probably were beginning to think they had been better off with the guitarist. Much to everyone's relief, the bar finally announced last call. I'd filled the deer head and a painting of some military guy with dart holes, and was trying to convince one of the drunken guys to put a stalk of celery in his mouth in a William Tell–style feat of accuracy. The bartender managed to shoo us out the door before I impaled the guy.

Still no Althean. It was two in the morning and I was getting bored with walking the one street town. I could go to the all night Waffle House up the road, but I was worried it would be too far to get an accurate fix on my target if he arrived. Everything was closed in this town. Crossing the street, I made my way again to Burnside Bridge Road, where a small gas station occupied a corner.

The gas station had closed hours before, but there was a soda machine humming away outside the garage building. I only had change enough for one soda, so I used a small trickle of energy to dislodge the rest out of the machine and wasted some time shaking them up and pitching them against the gas pumps. The minimum wage attendant would get quite a shock when he opened in the morning and found the pumps sticky with dented soda cans strewn about.

Finally, I couldn't take any more boredom. I texted Wyatt letting him know that I had decided not to leave anyway, and that I was in Sharpsburg vandalizing a gas station. I told him that he should come down and bring some beer so he could drink with me. Then we could pitch the bottles into the road.

Maybe I should just pick up Wyatt and go back to our houses. If I wasn't allowed to kill Althean, then the whole thing was going to be pretty snoozeville. Although, I did want to watch and see what Gregory was going to do to him. I could learn a lot from that guy. Wyatt called back immediately.

"Sam? You're really still here?" he asked in a hushed tone.

"Yeah. Why are you whispering? Where are you? What's going on?" I asked, whispering back.

"Gregory wanted us both to leave, to go home and let him handle it, but Candy insisted she needed to stay. I think she wants to make sure it's truly resolved before she goes back. I'm still here because I have the computer models, and I don't have my truck so I don't have a way back. We're holed up at one of the werewolf houses off Burnside Bridge so Candy doesn't get attacked separately again. Gregory has been gone for hours. He's in a horrible mood. Seriously horrible mood.

"Sam, why didn't you leave? What are you doing still here? You're not safe, here. I don't know what he'll do if he knows you're still here. He's a sanctimonious jerk; I don't think he's going to tolerate you living over here now that he knows about you. Plus, the mood he's been in this evening, he's liable to just kill you on sight. You really need to make yourself scarce."

Sanctimonious was a good word. I had no idea Wyatt had that kind of vocabulary.

I didn't know what I was doing, either. What was I trying to gain from this? Why didn't I just scoop up Wyatt and go back to the house? Because I was a stupid idiot and couldn't keep away from this damned angel. I needed to see him, needed to know who he really was inside. Candy wasn't the only one who needed to see this through. I had to see if Gregory would deliver justice or just cover it up. I shouldn't really give a shit, but I needed to know if the angel was a hypocrite, to know what his moral framework was, to know if he lived by the inflexible code which fractured our races so long ago.

"Where are you?" I asked Wyatt. "I just want to make sure you and Candy are safe. Don't worry about me; I know what I'm doing." Lie, lie, lie.

Wyatt told me the address, somewhere off Burnside Bridge Road. I told him to stay tight, and that I'd call him in a bit.

I went out again, casting around for Althean without success. Dreading what I was about to do, I drove to the outer portion of town, as far away from where Wyatt and Candy were as I could get and converted every cell of my being in a huge pop of noise. I hoped it was far enough away to not scare Althean, but close enough to jar Gregory's exterminate instinct and bring him running.

It was barely a second later before something large and rock like flashed an inch from me and knocked me to the dirt.

I slid across the ground for about three feet. "Damnit, I just took a shower and put on clean clothes."

"You!" the angel said. He closed his eyes, and then opened them again, as if I were an illusion that would disappear. "The guardian _saw_ you cross. She told me she saw you go through the gate with her own eyes. How did you get back here?"

I wasn't about to narc on the guardian. "I have mad skills," I told him.

He looked at me blankly.

"I am a being with many diverse talents," I explained. The guy really needed to work on his modern slang.

"I know, what 'mad skills' means, I just don't see what that has to do with anything," he said. "Why? Why did you come back? I go against the council decree that I should kill you on sight, then actually allow you to freely return home and you not only come back to this realm, but you come here and bring yourself to my notice less than twenty four hours from when I let you go."

He took a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh. "When I want you to stay, you practically kill yourself trying to get away, and when I want you to go away, I can't get rid of you. You, cockroach, are truly my worst nightmare manifested. What was my sin that I am punished by having you constantly around, messing things up, thwarting my plans?"

Thwarting his plans. It sounded like some bad guy in an old western. All he needed to do was twirl a long handlebar mustache and chuckle deviously.

"Yes, well dastardly villains like you deserve thwarting," I joked.

"How do you think I'm a villain?" he looked confused. "Do you still think I won't punish Althean? Or is it because I killed that human law enforcement officer? That was unfortunate, but I was not about to allow you to escape me."

"It was a joke. You know, because you used the word 'thwart' and it's such a cliche word. Oh, never mind." He had to have a sense of humor somewhere in that thick head of his. Or maybe not. "I came back because I need to see this to the finish. I owe Candy a blood price for killing one of her pack mates and my taking out Althean was the price. I don't want it said I go back on my contracts, on my word."

"You know I will not allow you to kill Althean. So your contract is void. You are simply unable to fulfill it. Candy will have to renegotiate another blood price with you. Why are you really here?"

I could hardly tell him I was obsessed with him and that he better get used to me stalking him like a creeper in a white van.

"I have OCD," I told him desperately. I don't know how my mind made the jump to that. Maybe because I'd been thinking of Candy and I was fairly certain she had all the symptoms in the diagnostic manual.

He sighed dramatically. "Okay, please enlighten me as to what this OCD is."

"Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It's a mental condition some humans have where they do repetitious behavior, or actions that are driven by compulsion and not the logic of the situation. So you see, I have OCD and cannot quit in the middle of this. I just need to see the hunt through. If I can't kill him, then fine, but I need to see it through to the end before I can move on. Or I'll go crazy and wind up in an institution somewhere."

That was the stupidest excuse ever, but maybe he'd believe it.

He scowled. "You are the worst liar in all of creation. I have no time for any more of your ridiculous falsehoods. You've drawn me away and even now Althean may be at the house attempting to kill while I stand here bantering with you"

I'd been scanning constantly since I had arrived. "No, he's not there. I can sense him and track him if he's within a couple miles radius. That's how I knew he was at the cabin in Waynesboro. Will that help you? Maybe you can use that skill of mine?"

The angel paused thoughtfully. "I can't sense him until he uses some energy, so your skill would possibly help save a life. If you try to kill him or hinder me in any way, though, I will not spare you. Don't think that because I let you go once that you have special privileges. You are a cockroach and I won't tolerate your interference."

I nodded. "If you're not with me, let me know how I can contact you. You don't have a cell phone number I can text you on, do you?" Damned angels were so backward about human technology I wasn't even sure he could use a walkie–talkie.

"No, I don't. You're energy use is how I sense you. If you convert something or use your energy to call me when he's near, Althean will be tipped off and flee. You've nearly killed him twice. I doubt he'll risk fighting you again."

It was really wicked, I know, but I ran my finger over the tattoo. "I can call you this way," I teased.

He ground his teeth. "Will you stop doing that? Stop messing with it until I can find some way to disable that unfortunate feature?"

"Is it always this strong? Does it fade with distance or time? If I'd crossed the gate, could we still feel it? Would it even remain?"

He rubbed his face and ran his hands through his chestnut curls. It was a very human gesture. "It will always remain and time won't do anything but maybe make us more used to it. I don't know what effect distance will have on it. Perhaps it will be weaker. Perhaps I won't sense you at all if you're far enough away or across the gate. The original binding that it's based on, that it was supposed to be, is meant to summon you no matter what realm you're in or how far away you are; to know your location when I want to find you and be able to gate to you; and to compel you to do as I command."

There was that compel thing again. He must have fucked that part up too because I didn't feel particularly compelled to obey him.

"So, you mean you didn't intend to put a two way erogenous zone on my arm?" I asked, running my finger over it slowly. It felt amazing and I found myself wondering again if angels had genitals. He'd probably kill me, though. I got the feeling angels didn't do sex.

"No," he ground out. "And if you don't stop that, I'll remove your hands from your body."

"Then I'd be forced to use my tongue," I said, rather breathlessly. That sounded like an even better idea.

"I'll remove your tongue, then. Repeatedly. Until you get tired of growing it back."

He seemed very serious, so I reluctantly stopped. Besides, it was difficult teasing him when I myself was getting turned on twenty times what he was.

"You will remain near me and tell me when he's close." Gregory said, in a voice that sounded suspiciously commanding. I was okay with what he was proposing, but the whole compel thing had me a bit on edge, so I decided to pester him a bit more just so he wouldn't get any ideas that I was compelled to do stuff.

"We'll be joined at the hip," I told him, wiggling my eyebrows suggestively. "Or maybe joined at other parts of our bodies."

"Not going to happen," he said. "Although I may be tempted to drag you by your hair."

"I might like that."

He shook his head in exasperation. "Are you sure you're not a Succubus? You seem really obsessed with the sin of lust."

"It's a good sin. I like gluttony an awful lot, too. Sloth has its moments, but I just don't understand acedia at all. I mean, what the fuck _is_ that anyway? Oh, and greed is good, to quote Gordon Gekko. Anger, envy and pride," I ticked them off on my fingers. "I don't often have much use for them. It's a shortcoming that I'm hoping to correct in the next millennium or two. I'm not very old; I can't be expected to have mastered them all yet."

"I think you've worked too hard on some of those," he said dryly. "Maybe you should switch over to virtues instead. Give yourself a much needed break."

Virtues? Yeah, right.

"Virtues are too difficult," I told him, shaking my head. "Look how old you are and you've hardly made a dent in them. I'll admit, you seem to have zeal nailed, as well as faith and temperance. Self control? I've got my doubts based on your recent actions. I'm not seeing the kindness, love or generosity, either. That humility thing seems to be pretty far beyond your reach, too. Really, really far. I'm sorry to tell you this, but from what I can see, the sin of pride is a major component of your character. Dude, you're fucking old. You should have these things pretty well ticked off your shopping list by now. I'm seriously disappointed. Seriously."

He stared at me, his face unreadable. I wondered for a brief moment if I'd pushed him too far, but he didn't seem angry. Crickets chirped in the background, like an old cliché, but I just met his gaze and refused to break the silence.

"I can hardly wait until this is over," he finally said. "Then I never have to spend another moment with you for the rest of eternity."

He turned and walked away, and I followed him, feeling rather relieved.

We gated back to the target werewolf house. Gregory stood there, patiently holding me upright while I got my bearings. It didn't seem to take quite as long this time, but we did gate a fairly short distance. Less than five miles.

The house was a beautiful single story log cabin nestled in the woods. The driveway actually had a small bridge to cross over the creek to get to the road. Pines flanked the driveway and formed little oases among the hardwoods, with their tall dense canopy. Underneath, their orange needles cushioned the ground like a soft mattress. I knew I'd get sap all over my jeans, but I couldn't resist sinking to sit on them and breathing in their fragrance.

Gregory sat beside me in silence while I continued to cast around for Althean. It was early morning, and I could see a faint lightening of the sky to the east. It would remain dark in these woods for quite a while, though. Sunday wouldn't bring any early sounds of workday traffic, and we'd have hours before even the earliest church goers headed out.

"I know you think Althean is capable of redemption, so you're probably not likely to kill him. Are you going to punish him yourself, or lock him away in some jail?" I asked him the question that had been on my mind for days.

Would he change his mind and kill Althean? Would he banish him? Was there some kind of rehab for angels who went crazy? Electroshock therapy or something?

"Why didn't you just let me kill him the other times?" I continued. "You've got to admit, your actions make it look like you really want to take it easy on him."

Gregory sighed in exasperation. "You just won't let this go will you, annoying little cockroach? No, I don't want to kill Althean. I'm hoping I can save him, that we can rehabilitate him. I know why he is doing these things, and there are others among us who feel the same way. I don't want him to become a martyr to his cause. If that happens, the council will have a whole faction to wipe out instead of just a few random extremists. Looking at things with a long term perspective, it would be best to keep Althean alive and convince him to change his mind on these matters."

I shivered in the warmth of the summer air. I had no doubt about this angel's methods of changing someone's mind. I think I'd rather be dead.

"This is bigger than just a few dead werewolves," he told me, rather heartlessly. "There are subversive groups in Aaru who wait to pounce on any opportunity for political gain and possible overthrow. We keep a very tight leash on these groups, but a martyr would benefit their cause. The issue with the werewolves has been going on without resolution for a long time, and people feel strongly on both sides of the issue. Opposing factions would love to seize on this as their banner."

He looked over at me, and then quickly looked away. "I won't allow you to kill him, little cockroach. I know you desperately want to, and I'm sure you have the skill and power to do so. If you did, you'd be signing your own death sentence. The council would never allow your continued existence if you killed an angel."

I sat for a moment in silence. "You're going to kill me, anyway, why do you care if the council decrees my death or not?" Not that I even knew what this council was.

"I'll kill you when I'm ready to," he assured me. "That is the directive, and you will eventually die. I have discretion on when and how I dispatch demons that enter this realm in violation of the treaty. I usually kill them on sight, but I've bound you to me and you are under my authority and control. The council won't interfere with my decision in this matter. But if you were to kill an angel, I doubt I could protect you."

He looked grim and I got the feeling he would fight tooth and nail to protect me. I had no idea why. What use could I be to him beyond tonight? Did he really feel it was worth it to keep me around and tolerate my annoying behavior? Was there something else he had planned for me that would make this all worthwhile?

The lights came on in the cabin. Wyatt and Candy were probably up. I wondered if the other werewolves, the ones who actually lived there had managed to go to sleep. I wondered how much they knew about what was going on, what danger they were in. I glanced at Gregory, sitting like a brooding statue beside me. It didn't take much of my attention to continuously cast for Althean, so my mind wandered. At least Gregory didn't intend to kill me right away. That was a huge relief. Maybe we could actually hang out together sometime. Perhaps hang out for a few decades. At least until my usefulness was over. I knew that was a ridiculous fantasy, but I still indulged myself in it.

To keep my hands busy I grabbed a nearby pinecone, and stuck some sticks and needles into it creating a bizarre prickly and sap covered animal while I daydreamed about playing with lightning beside this angel, or possibly fire. Maybe he'd teach me to manipulate water and make that cool globe. I eyed my needle covered pinecone animal. Great. In my boredom, I'd been reduced to creating children's campfire crafts. My hands were covered with sap, and the stuff just didn't come off. I ended up coating them with dirt so at least they were no longer sticky. If this stupid crazy angel didn't show up soon, I was going to go out of my mind.

Finally, as the morning sun had fully risen, I sensed him. Good thing, since I'd stacked my loose change into little piles, had a whole stable full of pinecone animals, and was now making little pine needle haystacks for them to eat. I was covered in sap and dirt.

I tugged Gregory's sleeve and indicated with my hands that our target was at two o'clock, about fifty feet away and moving slowly in. He frowned at me uncomprehendingly and looked with astonishment at my pinecone menagerie. I guess he didn't watch too many spy movies, or experiment with nature crafts. I pointed and went through the motions again, carefully whispering this time.

He nodded. "Stay here. Don't move. Don't do anything. Don't say anything. Nothing. I want your posterior rooted to this spot."

I nodded in agreement. I lie and I don't follow directions well, so as soon as he left the little pine tree shelter, I got up and followed him. I had to stay a good distance back so he wouldn't hear me. He edged up closer to the house, and waited a moment before walking into the tiny yard of cleared trees in front of the house. It had to have been only fifteen feet from tree line to tree line.

I edged up behind him, staying behind a pin oak, hopefully out of sight.

Althean appeared at the edge of the tree line directly across from Gregory. It was like the scene from High Noon without guns or tumbleweeds.

"Have you finally leashed your dog?" Althean said derisively. The nervous glances he was casting around gave his bravado less credibility. "I thought you were neutral in this, but I now wonder after you had your demon practically tear me apart."

"She is not easy to control," Gregory confessed. "I _am_ neutral in this. The council has not given its decision though and you cannot run around like a vigilante delivering your own personal brand of justice. We are sympathetic to your views and understand why you've acted the way you have, but you must cease and return to Aaru."

Althean paled. "So you can imprison me? So you can bring me back to 'sanity' and obedience? I am not the only one who feels this way. The council is taking too long in their decision and the time to act is now. You can bend me to your will, rip my mind apart, but others will be right there to take my place. They are Nephilim. You know that."

"We do not know that for a fact," Gregory said. "The council will not exterminate a species — will not commit genocide — until we are certain they are Nephilim."

"The council is committing genocide through attrition," Althean countered passionately. "The existence contract is so restrictive that the werewolves are slowly dying out. In a few millennia they will no longer exist and the council can walk away with clean hands and claim innocence. Cowardice. Have they become so weak they are afraid to shed blood? Afraid of delivering justice and hard mercy? There are still angel renegades that escape them, Nephilim still walk the earth. It is clear to many of us that the council is incompetent and unfit to rule."

Gregory barely restrained his anger. "You are not privy to the workings of the council, and are not in any position to pass judgment on their fitness to rule! Would you lead a war against them? Attempt a revolution? It would be over very quickly, I assure you. And the result would not be to your satisfaction."

He paused to calm himself and continued. "I will offer you the chance to live, exiled among the fallen ones whose path you have mimicked. Or you may choose to return to Aaru for redemption," Gregory said.

Fallen ones? Did he mean us? He'd banish Althean to our realm? We'd eat the guy for lunch within ten seconds of crossing the gate. Dude would be better off choosing to fall on his sword, instead. It would be a far more pleasurable way to die.

"You would send me to the demons?" Althean asked in horror. "Clearly, your vicious reputation is deserved if you would consign me to that eternal torture. I will return with you to Aaru, but be aware that my 'rehabilitation' will not even put a bandage on the seeping wound of this division within us."

Gregory walked toward Althean, who had bowed his head in submission. I felt something within me pinch with alarm and knew what was coming long before Althean even began to formulate the blast. It seems Althean decided to go out like a man. Impossibly fast, he threw a stream of that white energy right at Gregory.

Before it even left his body, I had darted out in front of the pin oak and shot my own bolt of raw energy at him, curving it to loop around Gregory and leave him untouched. It was a tricky piece of work, especially since I was doing it on the fly. It hit Althean just as his bolt of energy left, cutting his blast short and knocking him solidly to the ground. Gregory jerked to the side, either in anticipation of Althean's blast or in reaction to my looping energy. The white stuff the angel had shot missed him by inches and unfortunately smacked me right in the chest, throwing me backwards into the pin oak where I slid to the ground.

Fuck, this stuff hurt. This was the same shit that took my hand completely off back in Gettysburg, so I was a little alarmed. I pulled my personal energy safely inside and started to regenerate. It must have been a smaller blast than the one before because it hadn't blown through me. It did leave a nice hole in my right lung, destroying the ribs and tissue and leaking blood all over the place. I sealed off the blood vessels, and explored the damage. I'd had worse.

Gregory looked over at me in surprise. He took in my injury and exploded in anger. His vaguely human looking form disappeared in a wash of bright light and power. He shone so bright in his fury that they had to have seen him all the way to the road. "Oh fuck," I thought in panic. "I've disobeyed him and he's gone insane with rage. He's going to come over here and finish me off."

Instead he strode over to Althean who was trying frantically to get upright. I must have hit him pretty hard, I thought smugly.

"She's just a demon!" Althean said in panic. "You can't kill me over a stupid, worthless demon!"

Gregory picked him up by the throat and held him, his feet dangling from the ground. "She's _ **** mine_," he hissed. The word sang with power and ripped through the air in a wave, trembling the earth and raining pine needles to the ground. The morning bird sounds stopped abruptly and the silence was eerie.

Althean began to shake. "No," he choked out. "You cannot. She's a nasty stupid cockroach. She's not worth it."

Gregory tightened his grip and Althean's words ended in a gurgle. "Mine," he hissed and began to shake the smaller angel.

I covered my ears as a high pitched screeching sound, like nails on glass filled the air. Althean convulsed and he tore at Gregory's arms frantically with his hands. I saw what appeared to be dirt falling from him, then realized that it was sand. Slowly, Althean was dissolving into a pile of white sand from the feet upward as I watched. The process was agonizingly slow; Althean kicked and shook while Gregory continued to hiss and stare at him with those merciless black eyes. In minutes, only his torso and head remained and the sand rained down upon the ground. Gregory kept at it until there was nothing left but a pile of the white grains. He stared at it, grim–faced, and then proceeded to wipe his hands casually on his jeans.

As I watched all this with interest, part of me was getting worried. The white energy was having the same kind of slippery effect on my raw energy that Gregory had when he touched me. I was able to regenerate small portions of myself with the bits I could grab, but the white stuff was eating in deeper and quicker than I could fix. Giving up on regeneration, I concentrated my efforts on getting the white stuff converted and cleared out of my system. It was persistent and multiplying fast. If it destroyed too much of me, it might reach my personal energy. Or I'd be too dissolved to hold in the massive amount of raw energy I had stored within me. Releasing all that energy would be like a bomb going off.

Gregory turned from the pile of sand to look at me, his expression becoming alarmed.

"Fix yourself!" he commanded, an edge of desperation in his voice.

"I'm trying, you asshole," I replied.

I felt hands on my side and realized that Wyatt and Candy were there. Candy looked worried and Wyatt was trying to apply pressure to the wound. I looked down at Wyatt's hands and saw that the blood oozing between his fingers was becoming streaked with an opalescent white. Crap, the raw energy was leaking out and causing me to lose form. I didn't want that to happen with this stuff eating its way through my flesh.

"Hold on, Sam," Wyatt said, applying more pressure. He needed to stop or the raw energy would burn his skin like acid. "Is there anything human doctors can do? Should we call an ambulance?"

I shook my head at him and kept trying to convert bits of the white stuff into nice neutral carbon based molecules. If I could just grab enough raw energy, I could dispel the whole lot of it, but the slippery coating was only allowing me access to a tiny bit at a time. I had to fight for every little bit. Meanwhile, the remaining white stuff expanded faster than I could negate it and was dissolving several important organs. The body I was in was on the verge of failure.

Fuck. I put my hands to the ground and started to slowly trickle raw energy out into the earth. If I could release some of this, then maybe I wouldn't blow half the county up when I went.

"You need to get out of here," I told Wyatt, bubbling blood up from my ruined lungs. "You and Candy. Fast and far. As fast as you can."

"I won't leave you, Sam," Wyatt insisted.

"I'm not joking. You need to leave right now," I told him, enunciating as best as I could.

Wyatt continued to protest and I looked at Candy.

"You promised to protect him, to keep him safe. Get him out of here." I told her and she nodded grimly.

I didn't have time to argue with Wyatt any longer. I turned to him and put every last ounce of strength into pulling out my mean. "Get the fuck out of here right now," I snarled at him.

He jumped back and looked hurt. Candy seized the moment and grabbing him by the arm dragged him as fast as she could toward her car.

I gave up trying to stop the white stuff and began concentrating on dumping as much raw energy as I could. The ground around me was beginning to smoke. The whole thing was an exercise in futility. It would take me nearly two months at this rate to dump my stash of energy. I looked up at Gregory, who just looked back at me.

"Now would be a really good time to get that damned sword of yours out." I told him, trying to speak the words as clearly as I could with all the blood I was spitting. I needed to say this before my lungs totally gave out. "I'm assuming it collects our energy as you kill us so you don't blast half the planet apart. How much capacity does it have?"

He told me, pulling the sword out of thin air. It wasn't enough. The sword would hold about half my energy. If I could dump another two percent before I croaked, then maybe it would be enough to limit the destruction a bit. He'd probably die, so I wasn't about to reveal the limitations of his sword to him. I didn't want him changing his mind and gating out of here to save himself, leaving me to blow a huge chunk out of the ground. I wondered if the sword would survive the blast. If not, then we were back to square one. Not that we had any other options.

"Do it." I told him.

He paused. "How much raw energy are you packing?"

I rounded down. Way down. Like ten percent of what I really had down. He raised his sword and began chanting something. I closed my eyes. I don't have any problem facing my own death, but I simply could not look this angel in the eyes as he killed me. The chanting stopped and I held my breath; then it started again.

"Would you hurry the fuck up? I don't have all day here," I told him, keeping my eyes closed just in case.

The chanting stopped again and I heard him whisper something under his breath. I tensed, waiting, but instead of my head rolling on the ground I felt myself pushed onto my back in the blood wet grass. I risked opening my eyes and saw Gregory kneeling above me, shining white with his black–filled eyes and sharp teeth. What the hell was he doing? If he killed me this way, then everything would most likely be blown to bits. His eyes met mine.

"I'll surely burn for this, but I seem to be heading down that path anyway," he said as he leaned down into me, shoving his hand into the hole in my chest, and placing his lips on mine.

I thought it was a pretty inappropriate time for him to be getting his freak on, even by my standards, but who was I to judge? I opened my mouth to kiss him back and winced as his hand dug deep within my ruined flesh. Just like sex back home, I thought. I felt a vibration humming through me and realized that Gregory was slowly dragging the white energy out of my body and into his hand. It hurt terribly as the stuff burned and ripped its way out through my flesh. Another sound, like bells with his red–purple energy tinged in gold, was spreading out from his mouth across my flesh in a wave of regeneration. He was trying to heal me. I appreciated the effort, but I was really far gone and the hold on my raw energy was severely compromised. Desperate, I tried to shove some into him to hold.

He accepted a good sized chunk, so I proceeded to transfer the entire lot to him. Ridiculous, I know, but I wasn't thinking too clearly at this point. I heard his quick intake of breath, as he realized the volume of energy and attempted to block the transfer. Things were getting fuzzy around the edges of my consciousness, and I was frantic to unload this energy before I croaked. I shoved it back at him more firmly, and he again blocked it. We continued this game of hot potato, with my slipping through additional chunks here and there as he was distracted trying to resist the largest portion. I knew it was too much for him, but I couldn't help it. I could taste his blood filling my mouth as I continued to overload him with raw energy. Finally, with a massive effort, he crammed the largest portion back, shoving it deep within me and yanked with all his might on the remaining white stuff. The pain was intense and everything narrowed in to black . . .

* * *

When I came to, I realized that I was breathing with both my lungs. Gregory lay on top of me, with his weight thankfully on his elbows and knees. His face was turned away from me, but I could hear his ragged breath. Everything seemed to be in the right place. Personal and raw energy, flesh, bone, most of my blood. I reached up a hand and twirled one of his chestnut curls around my finger, tucking it back behind his blood crusted ear. His human form really sucked, but the hair was awesome. Soft and shiny, dark coppery red with a hint of brown. The curl sprang free from behind his ear and back onto my hand. So pretty.

He turned his head to look over at me, yanking the lock of hair free from my fingers. His eyes were still dark and his teeth pointy. He was covered in blood, both mine and his. "You _lied_ to me," he hissed.

He was really pissed. He had a reason to be since I'd nearly cooked him from the inside out. That said, this whole "save me, then want to kill me" pattern seemed to be an ongoing theme in our association.

Gregory grabbed me by the shoulders and thumped me gently against the ground. Very gently. With great restraint. I was starting to rethink my assessment of his lack of self control.

"You _lied_! You have fifty, a hundred _times_ the energy you said you have. My sword couldn't even have absorbed it all, and it was created to take out the most powerful demons with room to spare. There is no way you can hold that much energy and be stable. No way you can carry that around long term. Nothing can do that."

I just looked at him. What was I supposed to say? We don't need to carry around energy back home, it's plentiful around us. I had been surprised at the amount I'd been able to hold over here. I was actually a bit depleted with all the conversions I'd done this week. I didn't think telling him that would reassure him though.

He smacked me on the ground again. "Angels cannot hold raw energy. The sword can absorb it, but it needs to change, to _become_ something before I can attempt to hold it within me. You were killing me by shoving that much into me. Couldn't pass up on an opportunity to be free of me at last, could you? You attempted to kill me while I was trying to save your life."

"I didn't intend to kill you," I told him. It was kind of the truth. "If I had died, there would have been a huge explosion from the release of all that raw energy. I was trying to find a safe place for it. How am I supposed to know you can't hold it? I don't know anything about angels."

He stared in disbelief at me, his face so close to mine. "I should have killed you the first moment I saw you. I should have let you die just now. You will never be anything but a worthless disgusting cockroach. But no, against council decree, against all common sense I healed you. I've let you go free, I've saved you from death, and I've healed you."

"Are you not listening?" I shouted. He was inches from me, but I was pissed. "What fucking alternative did I have? Let's review the options here: One — I die from Goldilocks' blast and release my raw energy, killing you and a whole stinking bunch of humans. Two — you absorb some of my energy with the sword and kill me. I release less raw energy and kill a smaller bunch of humans and hopefully your sword doesn't blow up, too. You may or may not die. I don't fucking know. Three — you heal me, but I lose control and release enough raw energy to still kill a bunch of humans and possibly you, too. Or four — you heal me and help hold the energy so it doesn't blow anything up. Wow, four sounds good to me. How the fuck am I supposed to know you can't hold it? Fuck you."

He glared down at me. I kind of wished he'd get up. Having an argument this close was really disconcerting.

"And why does a little cockroach like you care one bit about human death? Why would you care at all if an angel lived or died?"

"I don't know," I shouted. "I don't fucking know. Now get off me, you asshole."

Abruptly he stood up and continued to frown at me while I scrambled to a seated position.

"You need to go home. I'll take you to the gate myself and see you through it. Stay there and don't come back." His voice sounded flat and hard. This was clearly not negotiable.

"No," I told him. "I want to stay here. I have a life here and I'm not leaving. You can shove me through the gate, but I'll be back. You can't watch them all, and I'm very good at sneaking through."

Gregory sighed and ran his hands through his hair.

"Fine. In the interest of my sanity, I'll agree to let you stay as a bound demon. But there are rules. No Owning. No killing humans. No breeding. I see any plagues, asteroid strikes, or another ice age and I'm going to rip your head clean off your neck. Got it?"

Sheesh, like I could do any of those last things. I was just an imp, after all.

"Scouts honor," I said. "Totally. Absolutely got it."

He frowned. I was lying, and he knew it.

"Cockroach, do not push me on this. If you're too much trouble, I can always take you back to Aaru and drag you around on a leash for the other angels to pet."

Yikes. The idea of being a demon slave in Aaru was truly frightening. I nodded and tried to look sincere.

"Hey, can you gate me back to my car before you go?" I asked in what I hoped was a friendly tone. "I left it, like, five miles from here."

He gave me an incredulous look. "What am I, your taxi?"

"It will just take you a second. I mean, I _was_ helping you tonight. I _did_ save your life after all. It's the least you could do, you know."

He shook his head and with an exasperated noise, gated away. Asshole.

Figuring I'd have a better chance hitchhiking if I cleaned up a bit, I walked down to the creek and tried to wash off as much blood as I could from my shirt. My bra was hysterical. One whole side was missing and it had been hanging in tatters under my destroyed shirt. Taking it off, I hung it on a tree limb and left it. I looked rather scruffy, braless with a backward torn shirt, but hopefully some hung–over local would give me a ride.

As I walked down to the main road, I saw Wyatt coming toward me. We walked casually toward each other as if we'd had a chance encounter while out on a walk.

"I told you I wouldn't leave you," he said, smiling as we met.

"What did you do, leap out of Candy's car? Smack her on the head with a box of wet wipes?"

"I threatened to shoot her if she didn't let me out," Wyatt said. "I would have done it, too. She told me she hadn't promised to protect me from my own stupidity and let me out."

Candy and I were going to have words.

"Aren't you going to ask me if I'm okay and feel me up for flesh wounds?" I was hopeful he'd get the hint on the feeling–me–up part.

He grinned. "You're up and walking around. You don't have a huge angel sword sticking out your back. I've learned that means you're okay."

"I get to stay, Wyatt," I told him. "If I can manage to behave myself, then I get to stay."

Wyatt nodded, his eyes warm on mine.

"Well then, let's go find your car, go home, put some steaks on the grill, and get you a shower. Naked. With a Loofa," he teased.

"I'm very injured and will need you to help scrub my back," I told him.

"I was planning on it," he said, putting an arm around my shoulders as we walked side by side down the road.

I was going to go home. My earthly home. The one here in Maryland. Where I intended to stay as long as I could. With Wyatt. Hey, I'd be able to catch the Monday Zumba class tomorrow morning. Cool.

# Epilogue

The sun was at its highest point, offering no relief for any creature foolish enough to be out midday. Iguanas, normally basking on rocks, were nowhere to be seen. The goats that climbed along the seaside cliffs were hidden away in caves.

The angel stretched his wings over the red dust, watching it cling to the taupe colored flight feathers. The feel of the heat, the dry, red, sandy dirt reminded him of somewhere else. Of course, he could never be in this form there. The blasting winds would tear apart this soft flesh even before the radiation cooked through skin and bone.

This place was enjoyable. Even though he never fully committed himself to a corporeal form, he could still feel the bake of the sun on skin, the scrape of rock on his wings, the bright light causing his dark eyes to water slightly. He frowned, wondering for a moment how the demons could stand it. How could they endure the constant onslaught of sensation that a deep physical form brought? He could barely endure this.

He looked up to see a man approaching him. It was another angel with dark spiked hair and wings of pure white. He looked down at his own wings with their swirling colors of cream and taupe. The scars were barely visible after all this time. He could feel them though, aching deep beyond the muscle and bone to the spirit part of him. It had been so long ago, but the scars still felt like fresh wounds.

"Brother," the dark haired angel acknowledged as he walked up to the seated figure.

Gregory rose. "Brother."

The dark haired angel shuddered slightly as he took the offered hand and clasped it. Shimmering, he shifted into a female form, although still with the short dark spikes of hair.

"Female?" Gregory asked.

The woman grimaced. "You're very much to the right at the moment, and it is uncomfortable not to have balance between us."

Gregory frowned. Was he? He was often accused of being too far to the right, but not so much that he caused such discomfort that others to feel the need to change. It was her. She was so very far to the left, and he'd just gotten used to balancing in her presence.

"Brother, what are you doing?" the woman asked, sitting down on a large rock. Gregory sat too, in a silent agreement that this would be an informal family meeting and not a confrontation.

"What kind of horrific binding did you do with that demon? Why didn't you kill her? And now you've killed Althean. Brother, you are creating enemies left and right. You're lucky everyone is too scared of you to take action."

Gregory smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. He was well aware that his three remaining brothers were happy to stir the pot and spread doubts about his competency, about his sanity.

"I'm also lucky that I have such loyal brothers to watch my back," he said

"Seriously," the woman urged. "Why didn't you kill her?"

Gregory shrugged. "I thought she'd be useful in hunting Althean. They have skills. I think I may use her in some other projects before I kill her. I might as well since I took the time to bind her."

At least he lied better than that irritating cockroach of a demon. She'd surprised him, acted very un–demonic in protecting her human toy by jumping on him and smacking his head on the ground. It made him curious about her. No, it made him wonder with a fleeting hope if maybe there was some spark in them, something left of the angels they used to be. It was a whim he'd indulged in, with horrible consequences.

"Brother, there are rumors about the binding. Rumors that it is too in the flesh, tied to sensation, that it binds you as much as it binds the demon," the woman said.

"She was not easy to bind," Gregory interrupted. He paused, realizing that he sounded defensive. "I haven't bound a demon in ages, and I was very angry at that moment. Yes, the binding is flawed. I will fix it as soon as I have the time."

Angry was a mild word for what he was at that time. It wasn't the first time he'd let his temper get away from him with disastrous results. He'd always struggled with anger. And pride. It seemed over the ages that he been giving in far too much to sin and too less to virtue. Funny how that happens.

"But if you, too, are bound, Brother?" The woman let the question hang in the air.

"No. She's just a baby, and far too Low to have any idea of how to use a bound angel," he insisted.

But she wasn't Low. All that raw energy, and that perfectly formed human flesh with her spirit embedded deep and tightly contained. Such potential hiding in a dirty little cockroach. It was a shame she'd not live long enough to realize that potential. Not that it mattered. Even if she did somehow manage to survive, she'd never bother to expand her knowledge and skills. Demons only wanted to roll around in the muck of sensation, and play frivolously in the physical world. Such a waste.

"Besides," Gregory added. "I don't plan on having her live more than a year or two."

"What? You don't plan on walking her around Aaru on a leash, like a pet?" The woman laughed.

"She'd just pee on the carpet," Gregory said, amused.

The woman waved her hand. "Enough about this filthy creature. Why have you not formally reported on Althean's death? The longer you wait, the more the factions accuse you of wrongful murder."

"As soon as I am able," Gregory assured her. "I gave Althean a chance to return on his own, or be banished to Hel with the demons and he refused either option."

The woman laughed. "You seriously gave him the option of being banished with the demons? Like he was going to choose that? Wow, you _must_ have been pissed. Still, I can't believe you actually killed him."

Gregory couldn't believe it, either. Again, it was anger. Blinding, white hot anger — not that Althean attacked him, but that he'd so injured the little cockroach. Just thinking of it brought up the urge to pulverize something, smash it into the rocks.

"Althean attacked me," he replied.

"Come on." The woman grinned. "You could have subdued him, taken him down. You dusted him."

"He would not back down," Gregory insisted. "I had no choice. He was determined to be a martyr for his cause."

Probably. Not that Gregory had given him a chance.

"Was it the demon?" the woman asked. Gregory stiffened. "Did she kill Althean? Are you covering for her?"

"No. I told you she is Low," he said.

They sat in silence for a few moments. The dark haired angel let her eyes trail along Gregory's outstretched wings, shifting her own white ones so they swept the red dust in a pattern of lines. Picking up a wing, she admired the red dust clinging to the bottom edges.

"We cannot go back in time, Brother," she said sadly, affection in her voice. "Even if we could, I'm not sure it would be right. What's gone is gone. They are not angels anymore, they are demons, and we cannot bring back our loved ones by indulging in reckless fantasy."

Gregory nodded, looking out along the shore. His brother was right, but encasing himself in stone, trying to petrify the hurt inside hadn't helped either. Still, something deep inside him felt like it was chipping away at the hard edges. Like it was trying to get out. He wasn't sure if he should let it. When he meditated on it, he saw a laughing imp playing with lightning, or sometimes his younger brother, also laughing and playing with lightning. But she was not the brother he still mourned. That was foolish thought.

The red haired angel stood and stretched his wings once more.

"There will be no reckless fantasy," he assured his brother before gating away.

~FIN~

_Satan's Sword,_ Imp Series Book 2 is available at your favorite retailer.

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# VALKYRIE'S VENGEANCE

### An Introduction to Loki's Wolves Series

**by Melissa Snark**

A thirty-year alliance that aligned wolves and hunters has shattered.

Victoria Storm leads a few surviving members of her pack in a desperate flight. As the only surviving child of their leaders, the she-wolf inherited the role of Alpha. The violent deaths of her parents and the man she loved left her devastated, and the lives of her followers depend on her decisions. Simple survival often conflicts with the demands of preserving her Norse heritage, so she must struggle to balance her duties as Freya's priestess and Odin's Valkyrie. When innocent children are abducted, she must set aside her differences and work with her worst enemy to rescue them.

Valkyrie's Vengeance was adapted from "The Child Thief". This is an 33,000 word expanded version.
To my husband and my children. I love you.

# Acknowledgments

_Valkyrie's Vengeance_ is an expanded version of _The Child Thief_ , so I'd like to acknowledge the beta readers who provided input on the original story. Many thanks to Carol Braswell, Lucinda Gunnin, Rissa Watkins, and Lara Parker.

My thanks also to the individuals who provided more insight along the way: Gabby-Lily Raines, Ana P. Martinez, Pamela Talley, and Jessica Kisia.

* * *

I can't begin to express my gratitude to Michelle Devon and Lynn Hunter for their patience and shared wisdom over the last couple years as I've developed my Loki's Wolves series. You guys rock!

* * *

Sheryl R. Hayes and Lisa Rayns are two of the best critique partners a girl could ask for.

* * *

Jen Whitten, thank you so much for the constructive feedback!

# Praise For Valkyrie's Vengeance

_This book is a great time! It combines all the best elements of the paranormal with a spine-chilling mystery. Although short, it is a well-told story full of twists and turns. The author has a light easy-going touch with a descriptive style that draws the reader into the action._

* * *

_Although a little light on the shape-shifting aspect of the characters, the story explores other aspects of the supernatural, drawing inspiration from Viking mythology. This use of mythology in a modern way opens up a plethora of new ideas for the genre. "Valkyrie's Vengeance" is a nice easy read, perfect for unwinding after work or on a Sunday afternoon._

InD'Tale Magazine

12/09/2015

# Chapter One

Special Reader Bonus!

_Before we start..._ Be sure to subscribe to my newsletter for free reads, exclusive sneak peeks, and giveaways. Get a free story just for signing up! You'll also have the chance to scoop up new releases for 99 cents and enter fantastic giveaways.

"Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho! Merry Christmas!"

Cowboy Santa's recorded greeting ended on a nerve-grating crackle. The decoration fell blessedly silent once again. The large red and white inflatable St. Nicholas swayed with the force of the air blower keeping him erect.

Wincing, Victoria Storm started the mental countdown. T-minus thirty until the inflatable doll would once again bellow its holiday cheer. The constant drone of the machine's engine grated on her nerves and hurt her sensitive werewolf hearing. But it didn't annoy her nearly as much as the nails-on-chalkboard static.

She stood at the northwestern corner of a busy four-way light in front of a Western apparel store in downtown Albuquerque. People were out in droves taking advantage of the clear weather to do their Christmas shopping. The morning air was crisp and chilly, but the sun shone bright. Harried mothers herded rambunctious children. Women out for retail therapy moved at a more leisurely pace, chatting as they walked. Couples young and old had arms loaded down with bags and boxes. Traffic moved along at a snail-paced crawl. Vehicles navigated an obstacle course of curbside parking, stop signs and lights, and busy crosswalks.

"Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho! Merry Christmas!" _Crackle._

"Should we kill it?" Teenage werewolf Jasper shot Victoria a smile and a conspiratorial wink.

"It's just so..." Rotating her head, Victoria tried looking at it sideways. But no, doing so offered no improvement to the aesthetics of the decoration.

"Ugly?" Jasper quipped.

She pressed her lips together to contain the laughter shaking her sides and struggled to inject a note of warning into her voice. "Jasper, please..."

"Hideous?"

She heaved a long-suffering sigh.

"Want me to put it out of its misery?" Grinning, Jasper took a menacing step toward the blowup doll. He hiked his hand, fingers spread to suggest a claw.

"That would be wrong, and you know it." Victoria reprimanded him with a stern frown, unwilling to admit how tempting she found the suggestion.

A month ago, back when she had a lot more freedom and fewer responsibilities, she would've enjoyed a stab 'n run. Before she became Alpha of the Storm Pack following the violent deaths of her parents at the hands of hunters. As their new leader, Victoria was now the center of the spiritual connection shared by all the members. Today, her conscience dinged her for even daring to consider it. A proper leader didn't engage in vandalism or juvenile pranks.

"Blowup Santa dolls are wrong."

"Jasper..." Exasperation edged her voice. Her struggle to not dissolve into giggles hurt. "I said no."

"Huh." As Jasper huffed, his long arms swung far and wide. He came within inches of striking one of the many pedestrians crowding the sidewalks. The woman performed a sharp swerve to avoid getting hit and shot him a nasty glare as she passed.

"But I'm bored. How much longer do we have to wait?"

Victoria ducked and slipped neatly under his waving arm. The fifteen-year-old's hands and feet were larger than the rest of his body, making his movements awkward.

At a couple inches shy of five feet, the top of her head was even with his mid-chest. She had the muscular build of a dancer. Even though it had been years since her last formal training, she moved with the grace and precision of a ballerina.

"I don't know for certain," she said. "Freya didn't provide any specifics."

"But it has to be right here on this exact corner?" He stabbed at the ground and then flung his arm toward the opposite street corner. "Why can't it be over there?"

She settled her hands on her hips. "What, are you four? The goddess has commanded that we wait right here, so this is where we wait."

"But jeez, we've been here over an hour now." He stared at the invisible watch on his wrist and pulled the estimate out of thin air.

"It's been twenty minutes at most. How long we've been here is beside the point," she explained. "When a goddess tells you to wait–"

"You wait."

She nodded. "We wait."

Jasper didn't miss a beat. "Just what are we waiting for?"

"Freya didn't say."

His tongue poked between his teeth and past his lips. "Can't you ask?"

"One does not interrogate a goddess." Victoria frowned over his impertinence. All the while, she acknowledged her own edginess, feeling very much the hypocrite. Mentally, she extended a prayer to Freya. _Goddess, what are we waiting for?_

Freya's gossamer giggle flittered through her mind. _Who is the child now?_

Victoria sighed and replied telepathically, _Well played._

_Just a little longer, my priestess. Be patient, please._

_I'm trying, but Jasper's not making it easy._

"I'm bored." Jasper paced furiously. "I mean, like, _really_ bored."

Victoria bit her tongue. Through the pack bond, she felt Jasper's impatience as if it were her own emotion. As pack mates, they shared an enduring and mystical connection. The empathic and spiritual union served as the foundation of their magic and held their social group together. It was most effective at close range. Only extreme trauma provided enough potency to unify them across great distances.

Glancing around, she resisted the desire to nag further. At twenty-four, she was nine years older than the boy, but it often felt like much more. She wondered how he'd reduced her to acting like his mother.

Her grungy appearance didn't help her disposition. She wore her pale blonde hair back in a braid. It had been weeks since she'd indulged in luxuries like makeup or nice clothing. Hot meals were few and far between, hot showers were even rarer.

"Did Freya hint at why we're here?" Jasper asked. "Are you a priestess or a Valkyrie?"

"Good question." She rocked on her heels, surprised at the boy's ability to parse the two. Her duties as Freya's priestess and Odin's Valkyrie often proved compatible. But the two things were far from the same. Not everyone understood that, even within her own pack.

"If you're here as a Valkyrie, I'll finally get to see you collect the souls of slain warriors destined for Valhalla." Eagerness energized the boy's voice, making it clear which option he preferred.

"It seems unlikely this will be the location of a great battle." She cast her gaze about the bustling venue. Not a warrior in sight. "You wouldn't be able to see the spirits of the fallen anyway."

"How do you know who to take?" He leaned forward, a bloodthirsty gleam in his eyes. Like most young men, Jasper loved stories of valor and glory, the gorier the better.

She smiled, willing to indulge him. Anything to alleviate his boredom and her own. "A Valkyrie witnesses the warrior's death with her own two eyes. If she finds the man or woman worthy, then the soul is collected and escorted to Valhalla to serve in Odin's army."

"Across Bifröst." Jasper's eyes gleamed.

She nodded. "Yes, across the Rainbow Bridge."

"That's something I can't wait to see."

Her smile lapsed and her eyebrows knit, creasing her forehead. "Don't be too eager. You won't cross Bifröst until you've died. Goddess willing, that won't be for a very long time."

Jasper hauled up, crossing his arms. A mutinous scowl etched the lines of his face. "Once I die, I'll be with my mother and father again."

Victoria's concern morphed into horrified realization. "Jasper, _no_. Your mom and dad died defending the pack. They fought so you could live. Your duty is to honor their sacrifice. To do so, you must live, grow old enough to become a man and take a mate, and have children of your own. That is how we commemorate those who have passed."

Grief pressed upon her, an awful pressure within. She had no relief. Not even tears. Her conscience refused to permit the self-indulgence. As Alpha, she couldn't afford to show weakness. Not while the others looked to her for strength.

Jasper stared at her in guilty silence and then averted his gaze. His mouth turned down in a pout. "I'm starving."

"I know." Victoria squeezed two fingers into the front pocket of her skintight jeans and fished out a crumpled twenty. Gnawing her lower lip, she stared at the last of her cash. She loathed parting with it. Especially since she couldn't risk accessing her bank accounts or credit cards.

Not with hunters after her and her pack.

Her stomach rumbled its emptiness, a noisy reminder she hadn't eaten in two days. As the Alpha wolf, Victoria had a duty to see to it all her pack mates ate properly and regularly, an area where she'd failed shamefully. The well-being of the pack's youngest members took priority. Even if it meant the adults spent long nights dining on squirrels and gophers at the park.

She forked the money over to him. "Here. Take this and go get something to eat."

He caught the bill in one greedy hand. He glanced down, and proclaimed, "Thanks!" He took off like a shot down the sidewalk. If it weren't for the fact he was running on pavement, he'd have raised a cloud of dust in his wake.

Turning so she could follow his progress, Victoria watched him uneasily. Allowing the teenager out of her sight wasn't an easy thing to do. It took all her self-control not to chase after him like an overprotective hen. She managed to remain outwardly calm, but a flight of moths banged around inside her gut. Still, she couldn't treat him like a pup. Jasper was a young male werewolf intent on asserting his independence and proving himself. His testosterone exceeded his common sense by an exponential factor. At best she managed his stupider impulses and hoped he didn't figure it out.

Being stuck out in the open, surrounded by normal humans, agitated her primal instincts. As a werewolf, she radiated a predatory aura. People shied away from her and circled to either side to avoid coming too close.

Hunters, however, were a whole nother matter. Superior numbers and resources gave them an advantage. Since they were human, they blended into crowds. She could be under observation, unaware of the danger until it was too late.

Shifting her stance, she scanned the passing faces, ever watchful. Her imagination cultivated suspicion, perceiving potential enemies everywhere. Being the hunted instead of the hunter was exhausting, and she despised it. Werewolves were top predators, not prey animals.

Freya's voice spilled through Victoria's mind. _I'm sorry for placing you and your pack mates in the path of danger, Victoria. Please believe me. It is necessary for you to be here._

Her lips parted, and she expelled her breath. _I know, Goddess. No apologies are necessary. I'm simply tired..._

_I am trying to locate a safe haven for your pack, but our options are limited. Perhaps if you reconsidered the possibility of taking a mate..._

Victoria cringed. Two weeks ago, her lover, Daniel Barrett, was murdered right in front of her. She had failed to protect him and wasn't able to heal his grievous injuries. His loss eviscerated her, leaving an aching hole in her chest and her life.

She gulped air. _My Lady,_ _please. I know it'd be the practical thing to do, but I can't–not yet. Right now I can't even think about another man._

Freya's voice softened. _I don't mean to be insensitive or cruel._

_I know that too._

In the distance, Victoria spotted Jasper's tall, slim form as he emerged from a corner deli, carrying a white paper bag. She breathed a sigh of relief to have him back in her line of sight. As he walked toward her, she turned her head and tried to look like she wasn't watching him.

_You're being far too obvious. More to the right,_ Freya advised.

Mouth twisted in a grimace, Victoria spun on her toes and almost walked through the restless spirit of a woman. An icy hand closed around her arm. Startled, she rocked on her heels and wind-milled her arms to avoid tipping over. The chill of the grave swept through her body. Gasping, she froze, staring at the distraught apparition. Without question, _this_ was why Freya had commanded her to wait.

"The child thief has stolen my son! Help me. Please!" The woman had light brown hair and an olive-toned complexion. A white nightshirt, stained with dried blood, hung to mid-thigh above her bare legs and feet. Her appearance mirrored the condition of her body at the time of death. Dark bruises marred her face and throat, and she had defensive wounds on her hands and forearms. The side of her skull had been bashed in.

"Please, Michael is all alone. He's so scared. I need you," the spirit pleaded, taking advantage of Victoria's silence.

Her gut clenched. As Valkyrie and priestess, Victoria had a duty to respond to a spirit's call for help. As a nurse, a healer, she had a nurturing nature and rarely passed on an opportunity to render assistance to those in need. The circumstances left her questioning Freya's wisdom, even though such thoughts were wrong. With resources so scarce and her pack's straits so dire, she wasn't sure she could take the risk. Living people were counting on her.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but I don't think I can help you."

"You must help me," the woman pleaded. "No one can see or hear me."

"Do you understand why that is?"

Approaching at a jaunty trot, Jasper skidded to a halt. His bright eyes focused on the empty spot before her, and his eyebrows rose, disappearing beneath his lank brown bangs. His tongue flickered across his lips and moistened them against the aridness of the winter air.

"What's up?" he asked, eyes bright with curiosity. "Is a ghost here?"

"Shhh." Victoria waved a silencing hand at him. She cast an anxious glance about, concerned their odd behavior would attract the wrong sort of attention. Neither Jasper nor any of the other humans present could see the dead woman. They lacked Victoria's gift of spirit sight.

Fortunately, no one spared them a second glance.

Ignoring her shushing, Jasper bounced on the balls of his feet. "What does it want? C'mon, tell me what's going on!"

Victoria stepped closer to him and dropped her voice. "It's a woman. She says her son was kidnapped, and she needs me to help him."

Jasper grinned. "Cool!"

"Not so much for her." Victoria glared at him, irritated with the teen's insensitivity. Not that she really blamed the boy for craving excitement, but their lives were already dangerous enough. They didn't need to add to it.

"Find out what we can do for her," Jasper urged. He had a good nature and a kind heart, but he didn't take the dangers the pack faced into account. He failed to consider how assisting the ghost would sap their resources and expose them to discovery.

Rolling her eyes, Victoria exhaled through her nostrils so her breath formed a cloud of vapor on the brisk air. Born and raised in Arizona, she found the extreme winter temperatures of the high desert familiar. The thin air left her lightheaded.

"Come over here so we can speak privately," Victoria said, addressing both the spirit and the boy. She shook off the ghost's hand.

Victoria grasped Jasper's forearm and moved out of the path of pedestrians. The fifteen-year-old stood a full head taller than her and outweighed her by a whole lot, but she moved him with ease. He lacked the stature of an adult male and deferred to her because she outranked him within their pack's hierarchy. They sought shelter in the natural alcove provided by the Western apparel storefront.

The dead woman followed.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know how I can help you," Victoria said. "I have to protect my own people."

The spirit moaned, low and anguished.

Jasper cut in, "Victoria, we have to help her! It's the right thing to do."

Victoria stifled a groan. _Yep. Too much testosterone, no common sense._

The ghost mother clasped her hands together as if praying. "Please, he's going to be eaten."

Horrified, Victoria flinched, and her reluctance crumbled. It was better to die than dishonor her calling. "Where's Michael at now?"

The woman opened her mouth as if to offer a ready answer, but her face froze in an expression of anguish. "I... I... don't know. He's close, and it's so dark. Please, he's so scared."

Victoria's nostrils flared. What was it with ghosts? Never capable of providing straight, simple answers. "I'll need more than that to help him," she said, swallowing her impatience. "If only you can give me some way to find him."

"I-I don't know." The outline of the spirit's body wavered.

Victoria's sense of urgency spiked. Afraid the distressed ghost would dissipate, she softened her tone. "What's your son's full name?"

The woman's flickering form steadied. "Michael," she said. "Michael Allen Frasier."

"Good, that'll help me find Michael," Victoria said. "What's your name?"

The spirit blinked. "June," she answered with less conviction. "June Frasier. I'm thirty-two. I'm a court reporter."

Victoria nodded, hoping the gestures would encourage the spirit. The conversation was progressing better. The woman had volunteered more than she'd asked. "How old is Michael?"

June's lips quivered, and her eyes filled with tears. She grabbed Victoria's hand. "He's six. Please, you have to find him. He's all alone, and he's so scared."

"Okay, tell me where he is, and I'll look for him." Victoria glanced up and down the busy street. Her wary gaze watched to see if their odd behavior was attracting attention. Fortunately, none of the shoppers appeared to have noticed.

June's eyes widened. She shoved a fist into her mouth and bit her knuckles. Static ran through her pattern so she flickered, indicating she might wink out at any moment.

Ghosts were displaced souls trapped between the planes of existence. Their ability to interact with the physical realm depended on many factors. Force of personality played an instrumental role, as did the trauma associated with a person's death. Because June lacked a solid presence, Victoria suspected the only thing anchoring the mother was her love for her son.

"Where did you die?" Victoria's sense of urgency increased with each passing second. "Is your child still near your body?"

"What do you mean? I'm not dead!" June stared at her in open horror.

"No, wait! Don't go!" Victoria lunged, grabbing for the ghost, but her hand passed through the spirit's arm. Within seconds, June had dissolved into a shower of gray and white sparkles.

"Damn it!" Victoria stomped her foot on the pavement.

"What happened?" Jasper asked, dancing with excitement.

"She's gone." Victoria ran a hand across her scalp to the base of her braid.

"Gone? Where'd she go?"

Victoria exhaled a breath she'd been holding. "I don't know. Sometimes the soul crosses over once the person realizes they're dead. Other times, too much stress can disrupt the ghost for a while. She might recover and come back."

Jasper's fists clenched. "How long will that take? We can't wait! If her son's been taken, he needs help right away."

"We know their names. There are other ways of finding them." Reaching out psychically, she sent a wave of cooling energy over Jasper, soothing his wolf.

The boy's rigid stance relaxed somewhat, but his tone remained anxious. "Where will we start?"

Victoria opened her mouth but froze before an answer crossed her lips. Her gaze locked on the classic muscle car parked alongside the curb on the other side of the street, a few hundred feet down.

Her breath hitched. Was that...? Could it be...?

"Hey, Victoria? What's wrong? What're you looking at?" Jasper's voice buzzed in her ears, increasingly insistent. The meaning of his words failed to register.

Heart in her throat, she walked north. Pedestrians passed her on either side, but she barely noticed them. Before she got close enough to read the Arizona plates below the rear bumper, she verified her suspicions. The 1970 Chevelle SS 454 convertible was red with black racing stripes and a buttery soft white leather interior. With as much time as she'd spent in the car with her lover, she'd know it anywhere.

It had belonged to Daniel.

# Chapter Two

The nearer Victoria got to the car, the louder her heart thundered in her ears and slammed against her breastbone. The top was down, and the raised hood concealed the identity of the man leaning over the engine. Only long denim clad legs and scruffy black short boots were visible. He wore a revolver strapped to his thigh.

Vertigo spun the world, worsening the lightheadedness from the altitude. Maybe she was breathing too fast or not at all. She lost all sense of connection with her own body.

The first time Daniel took her out on a "date," it had been under the pretext of a vampire hunt. Working in tandem, wolf and hunter slayed an entire nest, and the only difficulty they encountered happened on the way home. The Chevelle had overheated on a dirt road in the middle of the desert, miles from anywhere. When the temperature indicator climbed into the danger zone, he pulled off to the dirt shoulder. "We need to stop for a while."

"You've got to be kidding." The convertible's top was down, so Victoria tilted her head and let her long hair tumble down her back. She stared up at the clear, starry sky and then shot him a challenging grin. "This has got to be the most tired ploy in the book for getting a girl alone."

He turned off the engine and released his seatbelt. His white teeth gleamed in a cocky smirk. "It's not a ploy."

"Oh, it isn't?"

"No, I'd never risk damaging the engine like that."

Her eyes narrowed. She flushed with mixed irritation and embarrassment. Okay, so maybe her assumption was a bit conceited. Her ego certainly stung. In her defense, the man couldn't exactly mask his attraction from her sensitive nose. His basal aroma was warm and earthy, thick with arousal, distinctively male and virile.

Her lips thinned. What the hell was she doing out here alone with him anyway? Hunters were off-limits, not to mention completely inappropriate.

She noticed he hadn't taken out his cell phone or made any attempt to get out of the car. She promoted him, tone impatient. "Are you calling for a tow truck?"

"There's no service out here." He smiled. "Maybe in a bit. Let's just give it a chance to cool down first."

"Maybe I'll shift and run home." Punching the release button on her seatbelt, she snapped the safety strap aside. She bunched her legs beneath her, intending to boost herself over the front door. "I'll let a tow truck know where to find you."

"Victoria." Daniel caught her forearm in a firm grip.

Her head swiveled, and she stared at his hand. "Be careful you don't lose that."

"I think I'll take my chances." Drawing her toward him, he captured her gaze. His pupils were fully dilated. He never flinched or wavered. He radiated unshakable confidence. His strong shoulders framed a rock solid stance. Passionate red-toned hues dominated his aura.

"You're a brave man." From beneath lowered lashes, she looked up at him. She gripped his forearm, pressing hard enough with her nails to leave half-moon indentations. She found him appealing, but she'd be damned if she'd make it easy for him.

"I don't need to play games. I know what I want," Daniel said in a tone strong with conviction. He leaned in close so the heat of his breath caressed her lips.

"Are you sure? _This_ is against the rules." Over their locked arms, she dared him with her smile, invited him with the breathy rasp of her voice.

"Fuck the rules."

"Oh, really?" Her snicker conveyed skepticism. "I'm sorry. Are you _not_ Jake Barrett's oldest son who does everything his daddy says?"

His brown eyes glittered with anger, and his jaw tightened. His dangerous chuckle sent shivers coursing through her. "Not everything."

The roomy front seat of the Chevelle suddenly seemed cramped, and the man loomed larger than life. He oozed raw charisma. Wolf shifters had higher basal body temperatures than humans, but she perceived him as toasty warm. His soul radiated intense heat that caressed her skin like sunlight.

"No?" Victoria arched her eyebrows. Her hand settled on the base of his throat, her fingertip pressed to the jugular notch, monitoring his strong pulse.

"No." He exhaled.

She breathed in, learning his scent, hungry to experience his essence. She broke eye contact to stare at his defined mouth and dragged the tip of her tongue across her upper lip in a deliberate tease. "Prove it," she dared. "Show me."

He leaned in close enough so her hand became trapped between them. His lips ghosted across hers, soft and silken. He was rich and smoky on her tongue, molten heat, a unique flavor she fancifully likened to cardamom soaked in burgundy.

She hadn't held him, touched him, or tasted him in weeks, and she never would again. Recoiling from the bittersweet memory, Victoria forced her thoughts back to the present. Daydreams were an indulgence she couldn't afford.

The man bent over the Chevelle's engine straightened, and his top half emerged from beneath the raised hood. She stared, expecting to see Daniel, and for a full second her imagination supplied the memory she desired. He stood before her, all six-foot-plus of him, handsome and healthy, bursting with vitality.

_Quintessentially alive._

Except, in simple reality it couldn't be him. That would be impossible. She'd witnessed Daniel's death with her own two eyes. The vision was a lie, an illusion embodying her heart's desire. She blinked and reality asserted itself.

Fear coursed through her body, chilling her blood to a toxic sludge.

Daniel's father stood on the opposite side of the street. Jake Barrett, the notorious Hunter King, the man responsible for the death of her parents and most of her pack, and a living legend in his own right. Men revered him, monsters feared him. Lots of things were said about him, often impolite, but all were in agreement on one basic point–the man was a scary, seemingly invincible badass.

Jake stared at her in clear surprise. Squaring his broad shoulders, he adopted a wide set stance. At six-foot plus, he had a dense, muscular physique. Salt-and-pepper dappled his brown hair. Sixty years of exposure to the desert sun had weathered his skin to tanned leather. Battle scars marred his flesh. She knew a dagger tattoo covered the back of his left forearm even though she didn't have a clear view of it from her current position. According to stories, the tattoo became a physical weapon in his hand. A knife with a blade that glowed like molten steel and seared everything it touched.

Time stopped. Reality narrowed to a microcosm. Only wolf and hunter existed. She cringed, recoiling from the accusation in Jake Barrett's eyes. A serpent coiled within her chest, constricting her lungs and crushing her heart. Outside their private bubble, the real world continued to turn. People strolled past on the sidewalks. Voices and engines combined to form a muted hum. Cars crammed the street between them.

Blinking, Victoria tried to force her rigid body to relax. She extended her thoughts to Freya. _Goddess, he seems as surprised to see me as I am to see him. This can't be a coincidence that he's here in Albuquerque, on the same street, at the exact time that I am._

A hesitation preceded Freya's answer, and then she spoke in a voice laden with remorse. _I'm sorry, Victoria. It was vitally important that he find you. You'll need his help to save the little boy._

Shocked at the betrayal, Victoria spoke aloud, "Goddess, what have you done? He's more likely to kill me and the members of my pack than to help!"

Beside her, trembling Jasper latched onto her elbow. "V-Victory, is that?"

"It's okay. Don't panic." Her hand closed on the teenager's forearm, delivering a reassuring squeeze. Through the pack bond, she pushed the command to his beast. Her first and foremost instinct as Alpha was to protect the younger wolf.

The Hunter King's unwavering gaze appraised her and then Jasper in turn. In a useless but reflexive gesture, Victoria stepped in front of the boy. Despite the background din, the hunter conveyed the scary impression of knowing what they were saying.

"Calm?" Jasper's voice soared toward soprano. "But you just said he was going to kill us!"

She winced. "I misspoke. If he wanted us dead, we'd already be dead."

"Th-th-that's hardly reassuring!"

Jake Barrett's head tilted, and his brow lifted in a silent question.

She glanced down the street in the indicated direction toward a pedestrian crosswalk. The stoplight stood in front of the Western apparel store with the blowup Cowboy Santa. Turning, she met his gaze again and nodded her agreement.

When he walked toward the crosswalk, the dreadful knot in her gut hardened to an aching agony. She should run, but she couldn't. Victoria always struggled with blind obedience to her mistress. Freya's will trumped hers, and the goddess had made her desires known. This confrontation needed to happen whether Victoria wanted it or not.

In answer to her doubts, Freya touched her mind. _Have faith, Victoria. I am acting in our best interests._

_Yes, Goddess._ Victoria twisted to the teenager. "Jasper, listen. I need you to leave. Now."

Rebellion flared on his face. "But–"

"Don't argue. Please don't argue." She tightened her grip on his forearm. "Go back to the others. Run. Don't look back, and don't stop. Tell Rand what happened."

"What about you?" Fear skewed the young man's face. His distress traversed the empathic connection, assailing her already precarious emotional balance.

"I'm staying." She shoved Jasper and reinforced the command, infusing power into her voice so it reverberated. "Go."

He staggered several paces and skidded to a halt. The expression of utter hurt and confusion on his face broke her heart, but she didn't have the luxury of time. If she survived, she would explain and apologize later.

Victoria turned her back to Jasper and walked away, hopefully making it easier for him to leave. She hoped he could overcome his young male need to prove himself just this one time.

Half a block down, Jake waited at the corner, his finger pressed to the walk button in a telling gesture. She quickened her pace to a jog, determined to meet him midway. She refused to show fear or give him a reason to chase her down. As much as she dreaded facing him, as furious and sick as she was over the death of her parents and so many members of her pack, she owed him. The man was entitled to an explanation about how his son had died.

Daniel's blood was on her hands. The guilt consumed her like a cancer, eating her alive.

When she arrived at the corner, the sign indicated no walking, so she chose to wait beside the trunk of a mature ash tree. The wide branches stretched overhead were barren of leaves. Head held high, shoulders squared, she faced Jake with fierce pride and raw determination.

Time ticked past in millennial seconds. At what had to be the world's longest light, they faced one another across the two-lane divide. Vehicles rolled through the intersection, but she barely noticed them. Jake's stone-cold gaze mirrored the smooth, slate-gray surface of his aura.

Shrapnel exploded from the tree trunk beside her face. A sharp wooden shard gouged her cheek. She flinched from the lancing pain beside her eye. The distinctive crack of a gunshot followed the impact.

Her heart slammed against her breast. Wide-eyed, she jerked her face toward the trunk. Hot blood gushed down her cheek before her accelerated healing kicked in and forced the splinter from her flesh. Her flared nostrils caught the toxic fumes of hot silver. Snarling, she ducked just in time to avoid the second shot. The bullet struck the inflatable Santa.

A great whooshing sound accompanied a blast of air from St. Nick's great round belly, and he deflated rapidly. The same shot struck the store's window. Shattered glass rained down upon terrified pedestrians. Voices raised in shouts of confusion and fear. People scattered in every direction, running blindly into the street. Horns blasted, and several vehicles collided.

"Victoria!" Jasper's frightened call carried over the shrieks of the crowd.

"Jasper, get down!" Victoria swung toward the sound of the teenager's voice, desperately searching for him.

"Sawyer! Stop!" Jake's shout cut through the din. The rest of his words were lost to the background racket.

She caught a glimpse of Jasper running toward her, towering at his full height above the hunched crowd. Terrified for him, Victoria sprinted toward the teenager. Once she got close enough, she tackled him and wrapped both arms about his middle. Her momentum knocked him off-balance and toppled him over backward.

Jasper landed flat on his back, gasping as he got the wind knocked out of him. She landed on top of his chest, and he cushioned her fall.

No more shots rang out.

She scrambled to her feet. Gambling precious seconds, she appraised their surroundings. People stampeded in all directions, many seeking shelter within stores. She'd lost track of Jake in the mayhem.

Twisting her head, she searched for the shooter. After a second, she saw Sawyer Barrett, Daniel's brother, bearing down on them at a dead run. The hunter looked to be in the grip of blind fury. Violence etched the lines of his body, and he carried a drawn .45 Magnum.

"Shit." Her heart slammed against her chest. She surged upright, intending to grab Jasper and run, but the hunter was already on top of them. Her action brought her gaze level with the muzzle of Sawyer's gun.

She tilted her head back and stared into Sawyer's face. Overwhelming certainty filled her that her last sight would be his hard blue eyes, burning with animosity. Hatred distorted his handsome features into an ugly mask. "You die now, bitch," he grated. "For my brother–"

A large, fast blur entered Victoria's peripheral vision. Then Jake tackled his son, knocking the younger man clean off his feet. Sawyer's arm jerked skyward, the firearm swung wide, and the .45 went off. The shot boomed.

Around them, humans screamed and stampeded.

Victoria grabbed Jasper's arm and hauled him to his feet. She spared the wrestling hunters the barest glance. She had no idea why Jake Barrett had stopped his son from killing her, and she didn't plan to hang around to find out. Getting Jasper to safety was her utmost priority.

"What's happening?" Jasper asked, staring at the hunters with wide-eyed fascination.

"Keep your head down," she ordered. Dragging Jasper behind her, she set off at a full run due east, dodging people and obstructions. She followed the side street until they reached a narrow alley behind the Western apparel store.

Far fewer people occupied the sidewalk. If they continued to run in a straight line, any hunter with a rifle would have a clean shot at their backs. Yanking Jasper to the right, she shoved him into the alley ahead of her. Her hand slapped his shoulder. "Run!"

"Victoria!" a man's familiar voice shouted.

She cast a frantic glance over her shoulder at the man standing a few hundred feet behind her. She recognized Skinner, a hunter who worked with Jake. She knew the African American man as a passing acquaintance. Before his death, her father had often worked with the hunters who lived in the Phoenix metropolitan area. Acting in concert, wolves and hunters had tracked and slain vampires.

Skinner stood with his arms held tense at his sides, his hand hovering above a holstered firearm strapped to his thigh. He was a large man on the high-side of fifty who looked like someone who broke people in half with his bare hands. Intricate tattoos covered his shaved scalp, neck, and arms.

He had a clean shot at her. She wondered why he hadn't taken it.

"Victoria!" Jasper hissed her name. The teenager remained safely within the cover of the alley but hadn't fled as she'd ordered.

She caught movement from the corner of her eye and realized Jasper was easing closer. She bit back a curse. The teenager was once again placing himself directly in harm's way. If she delayed too long, he'd pop out into the open again. She didn't dare spare the boy an ounce of attention, not while opposed by such a renowned hunter.

Tension vibrated in the air between them. Victoria held his gaze, well aware his eyes would betray his decision to act before he moved. Her breathing slowed. Primal energy coursed through her body, and muscles rippled beneath her skin. She gauged the distance, calculating her speed versus his reflexes. She wasn't sure she could cross the short distance before his gun cleared the holster. A silver bullet would kill her. In a fistfight, no human, not even a skilled hunter, stood a chance against a werewolf's strength.

She'd never killed a real person. Only animals and monsters that sometimes looked like people. She wasn't sure she could start now even if her reluctance cost her life.

"Running won't do you any good," Skinner said in a gravelly voice. "It'll go easier on you and what's left of your pack if you surrender."

Her humanity fell away, and plush white fur pushed through the skin on the backs of her arms, but she retained her human form. A growl trembled in her throat, balanced on razor-sharp incisors. "Take care with how you threaten me or mine, Skinner. I don't want to hurt you, but I will to protect my pack. I'm not easily eliminated. Even if you kill me, I'll come back. I'm Freya's priestess and Odin's Valkyrie."

"The irony is killing me," he said.

She didn't understand his statement and lacked the time to puzzle it through. "I'm taking my charge and leaving."

Skinner's eyes narrowed. A muscle in his jaw jerked. "Nothing is gonna stop Jake from finding out the truth."

"Tell Barrett we can talk." She edged toward the alleyway, holding up a staying hand toward Jasper. She fervently prayed the boy would stay put and not get his dumbass shot. "I'll meet with him just as soon as he gets that crazed asshole under control."

"That crazed asshole is his son."

She clicked her tongue. "I know who Sawyer is."

Skinner chuckled. "Yeah, I'll let him know."

Victoria took his response as a dismissal. Time to go. Before Skinner changed his mind or Jake got through dealing with Sawyer. Determined to escort Jasper to safety, she ducked into the alleyway.

Both hands splayed, she herded the teen ahead of her. "Hurry."

He danced in a circle. "Victoria, that was Skinner, wasn't it? I've heard the stories. Is it true what they say about him?"

She cut him off. "Yeah, that was Skinner. And yes, the stories are true. We're lucky to be alive. Now move before he changes his mind."

"He got his nickname cause he skins–"

"Enough." In an ill-tempered outburst, she delivered a psychic thump with far more force than she'd intended.

Eyes wide, Jasper shut his mouth. His shoulders slumped.

"C'mon." She gentled her tone. "Let's get back to the rest of the pack. We need to warn them hunters are in the area. Then we need to figure out how we're gonna save that little boy. Okay?"

Jasper perked up. "Okay."

# Chapter Three

Wary of being tailed by the hunters, Victoria traveled south for several blocks and then doubled back. Heading north, she located a drainage canal and left paved surfaces behind. Walking single file, they followed a southeast route across rough terrain and woodsy growth. Even on two feet, their movements were swift and silent, well adapted to the natural environment.

Jasper remained uncharacteristically somber. After a half hour, the silence apparently became more than he could handle. The boy cleared his throat.

Suppressing a smile, she mustered a stern tone. "Yes?"

"Victory?" He pitched her nickname high, turning it into a question.

"What is it, Jasper?" Ducking to avoid the bare branches of a bush, she cast a curious glance over her shoulder. "We're almost there."

He produced a sound in his throat, a cross between a cough and a huff. "I know _that. "_

She glanced heavenward. As much as she adored Jasper's bold, brash nature, there were moments when he drove her up the wall. _Of course he does. Far be it for me to tell a teenage boy anything._

Freya laughed. _Victoria, be nice._

_I'm always nice._

_Except when you're not._

"I smell coyotes," Jasper continued. "Are there shifters here?"

"There's a band in the area." Victoria scented the smaller canines also.

"Won't they be pissed that we're violating their territory?"

"Maybe. Probably. Who knows what coyotes think?"

Veering away from the creek, she trudged up the embankment. Generally, coyotes weren't a threat to their much larger cousins, but an entire band might just take on a lone she-wolf and a juvenile male if their den was threatened. She didn't want to risk straying too close to their home.

Once they reached the top of the hill, they hopped a chain link fence and landed back on paved city streets. Aging apartment buildings, decaying commercial complexes, and houses with weed-choked yards composed the area.

Jasper rotated in a slow circle, surveying their surroundings. From the distant, confused look on his face, he had no clue where they were.

She took the lead. "This way."

Once they joined up with the other members of their pack, the threat the coyotes presented lessened greatly. Unless the band was huge, they were no match for even her small werewolf pack. She hoped they were smart enough to continue hiding. She and her people had been in town for a day, and they didn't want any trouble. They planned to move on immediately.

Departure grew even more urgent since hunters had found them.

Freya's brightness touched her mind. _The little boy needs your help, Victoria._

_I haven't forgotten Michael, My Lady. Can you tell me where he is?_

_Perhaps._

Images flickered through Victoria's mind. A cold, cavernous place that might have been a basement. Or a dungeon? Cages suspended upon thick chains hung from the ceiling. Sour dankness flooded her nostrils. The steady _drip drip drip_ of water feeding stagnant puddles echoed through the emptiness. Most disturbing, the mewled cries of frightened children calling for help.

Terrible dread coalesced in Victoria's gut. _There's more than one child?_

_I believe so._

_Who is the child thief?_

In response, Victoria received another nightmarishly surreal vision. A sinister figure that stood upright on ungulate legs and had many attributes of a beast. Flared horns. Black fur. Cloven hooves.

She huffed. _I'm hunting a giant goat?_

The stream of pictures stopped. _I don't know what it's called. I'm sorry._

_Michael's still alive?_

_For now. You must hurry, Victoria._

"I'm hurrying."

Glancing over his shoulder, Jasper shot her a curious look. "Are you talking to Freya?"

Victoria bobbed her head once. Unfazed, he shushed. Her people knew her well. Her occasional, inexplicable outbursts were par for the course.

They entered a poor residential neighborhood adjacent to an industrial district. A rubber recycling facility loomed over the surrounding area like the silhouette of a silent giant. Stacks of black tires rose higher than the ten-foot chain link fence that surrounded the complex. The dense column of black smoke indicated the presence of an active incinerator. Thick smog of tarry residue, pesticides, and other gasified toxins hung over the area. To their sensitive noses, the air smelled and tasted like death.

"It stinks." Gagging, Jasper covered his nose and mouth and jaywalked across the busy street.

Victoria followed without protest. Gathering her resolve, she broached the matter utmost on her mind. _Goddess, why didn't you warn me Jake Barrett would be here today?_

She waited, but no answer was forthcoming.

_Goddess?_ At last, she sighed and shelved the matter. Freya wasn't obligated to provide explanations. Victoria's independent streak made blind obedience difficult. She'd been a priestess since she'd turned fourteen, but still she struggled with the obligation to maintain an unquestioning faith in her goddess.

As they cut across a gas station parking lot, Victoria's phone rang. She dug the device from her pocket. The pack had taken to using cheap prepaid mobiles so they couldn't be traced. "Hello?"

"We're gettin' antsy." Rand Scott's lazy Southern drawl filled her ear. "Where the hell are y'all?"

"Turn around, worry wart."

A few hundred feet away, Rand Scott, Victoria's second-in-command, spun on his prosthesis leg. Over seven feet in height and at a weight in excess of three hundred pounds, the enormous Beta wolf boasted a build like a grizzly. He bristled from head to toe with fiery ginger hair, including a thistle of facial growth that obscured his lips. His thick eyebrows formed a solid unibrow. Years before, his leg had been severed in a motorcycle accident.

"Aww, hell!" Rand bellowed.

Laughing, she waved and ended the call.

Still holding his phone, Rand's hand dropped. His ruddy face skewed into a fierce scowl, but his light eyes gleamed with mirth. Allegedly, he was the runt of the litter. To hear him tell it, all four of his brothers were bigger and meaner. One was even the Alpha of a prominent pack. Yet for all his attempts to project a fearsome demeanor, the man had the disposition of a Labrador retriever.

"Sorry we're late," she said, walking toward him.

"About damn time," Rand grumbled. The molasses quality of his voice removed all the bite from his words.

Jasper shot past Victoria, sprinting ahead. "We ran into hunters! We barely made it out alive. You won't believe..."

Victoria muffled a snarl of irritation and continued at a sedate pace. She should have warned the teenager to let her break the news, but thoughts of the hunters and the missing boy had distracted her.

Rand's head cocked inquisitively. "True story? You ran into hunters? Or is the boy just screwin' with us?"

She shielded her eyes and peered up at Rand. "True story. Let's have everyone gather round so I can tell the tale once instead of several times. We're pressed for time. I'm gonna need everyone's help."

Jasper's shout attracted the pack's attention. They gathered in the center of the convenience store parking lot that served as their temporary base of operations. With funds being so tight, the seven of them were living out of their two vehicles. Victoria performed a headcount and confirmed everyone was present and accounted for.

Aside from herself and Rand, five others composed their group. Paul and Sylvie Thornton were a mated couple in their sixties. Sixteen-year-old Morena was a year and three months older than Jasper, but the girl never allowed him to forget it. Finally, pregnant gray wolf Sophia, the only non-shifter in their ranks.

They assembled between the parked cars. Rand assumed a position to Victoria's right, standing with his arms crossed over his chest. She wasn't sure whether he did so deliberately, but she appreciated the display of solidarity. Aside from Rand, she didn't face any potential challengers for her position as Alpha from within the pack.

Sylvie and Paul also stood. The Native American woman had a tall, strong stature and kept her gray hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. She acted as their Skald, the keeper of tradition, and was a devout follower of Freya. Her husband was a battle-scarred warrior who had lost a hand and a leg in conflicts past.

Morena sat beside Jasper on the lowered tailgate of Paul's truck. The teenagers dangled their long legs, feet swinging frantically back and forth. Sophia also occupied the bed of the pickup. The gray wolf lay with her head resting on her front paws. She had lost her mate in the same massacre that had slaughtered most of the Storm pack. Werewolves often took regular humans or wolves as their mates, and the pups she carried in her belly were the product of such a union. They had the potential to grow into normal wolves or shifters. Each one carried the shape changer genes which could be passed on to future generations. They were the future of the pack.

Victoria told the whole story. She began with the appearance of the restless ghost-mother and went on to share the plight of the missing boy. Then she recounted their confrontation with the hunters and the escape that followed. The others listened intently. Even the rambunctious teenagers held their questions until she finished.

When she got to the exciting part with the shooting, Jasper smirked and gloated while Morena gasped and clutched his arm. The pair sat close, thighs touching. _Too close._ Victoria frowned. They'd have to be chaperoned closely to ensure their relationship progressed no further. At their age, infatuation was easily mistaken for true love. Casual sex could result in the pair forming an unbreakable mate bond. In her estimate, they were too immature to enter into such an immense commitment

Rand waited until she finished her explanation, then asked, "Any idea how Jake found us so quick?"

Victoria noted how easily Rand used their enemy's first name. Not Barrett. Not the Hunter King. _Jake_. He harbored no fear of the vaunted hunter, and she longed to get him alone to question his attitude.

Of course, Rand had worked with the hunters hundreds of times. In Phoenix, vampire incursions were frequent and vicious. For over thirty years, wolves and hunters had been staunch allies. The two disparate groups often worked together to defend their mutual and overlapping territories.

"We discarded our cell phones. Changed the plates on the cars. Stopped using credit," Paul said, frowning. "What did we miss?"

Victoria cleared her throat. "I'm not sure we missed anything. When he first saw me, he looked surprised. I don't think he knew we were here."

" _Es obvio, ¿no?_ Freya sold us out." Morena sat with her back rigid, her legs no longer swinging. Her dark eyes glittered, and her chin jutted. Whether her words were true or not, the girl's accusatory tone was completely unacceptable.

Jasper recoiled from her as if struck.

Victoria opened her mouth to deliver a sharp reprimand, but Sylvie beat her to it. "Morena, bite your tongue! How dare you speak such blasphemy."

Their communion surged with the disapproval of the adult wolves. Rand and Paul contributed their full strength to the consensus, but they left the decision to the Alpha. With minimal effort, Victoria nurtured the discordant note until it reached a crescendo. A nudge sent it crashing over Morena.

Before the will of her elders, the teenager's defiance crumpled. Her gaze dropped to the ground, and her shoulders slumped. Her voice quavered as she apologized. "I'm sorry. I'm scared. I just want to go home, but there's no home to go to anymore."

Victoria traded a sorrowful glance with Sylvie. Morena had lost her parents and her older brother in the Phoenix massacre.

They'd all lost someone.

Sylvie approached Morena and placed her arm over the girl's shoulder. "Shhh, it's okay, sweetie. I know you're upset but you can't lash out like that, especially against our goddess."

Red with embarrassment, Jasper scooted off the tailgate and edged toward Paul. All three of the pack's males suddenly seemed to find the sky interesting. Victoria wasn't much more comfortable. Morena's outburst mirrored her private doubts all too closely.

"We should talk about splitting up again," Victoria said. "It would be in everyone's best interests."

Heads jerked her way, expressions ranging from shock to outrage.

Rand stomped his good foot. "No. No fucking way. I promised your father I'd look out for you."

"Listen, please." Victoria held up staying hands, and at the same time, exerted her will over the pack bond to soothe volatile tempers and ease fears. "We all know Jake Barrett is only after me. If we approach one of the other packs, I'm sure they'd accept refugees. Rand, your brother is Alpha of–"

Rand growled deep in his chest. "Don't mention that bastard to me! _Ever_."

Fuming, Victoria shut her mouth. Stupid, stubborn male egos would be the end of them all. "Fine. There are other packs. The children would be safe. Sophia could have her puppies in a proper den..."

Cradling the back of Morena's head, Sylvie glared at her. "Our answer now is the same as it was last week, Victoria Svana Storm. We won't be leaving you, and you won't be leaving us. We're family."

United in their resolve, the pack put their foot down, a force to be reckoned with. They were solidly loyal to her. Bashful pleasure bubbled up inside of her. Despite everything, a smile tugged at the corners of Victoria's mouth. She might be Alpha, but her father had always said a wise leader bowed to the will of his people.

She schooled her voice to a let's-get-going tone and clapped her hands together. "Well, since that's settled, let's figure out how we're going to locate Michael. It'll be faster if we split up. I want to check out the library to see if there's anything in the local newspaper about his disappearance. Showing up and asking at the police station would attract too much suspicion. Everyone else should stay together."

A warm blast of approval radiated from the others. Thankfully, her people were a practical lot. They returned to business as usual.

Sylvie patted Morena on the back and then tilted away. "We should all stay together. Our strength is in our numbers." She clenched her arms across her chest.

As quick as a whip, Morena leapt onto the lowered tailgate and Jasper returned to his spot beside her.

Paul itched at the gray scruff on his jaw with his good hand. "Victoria's making the best compromise she can between protecting the pack and trying to save this boy."

"I don't object to saving the boy, but we have our own children to look after." Sylvie sent a pointed glance toward Morena and Jasper. "We have another month or so before Sophia births her cubs. She and her pups will need a den to hole up in for the first month. It will be another two months before they are able to travel."

"I haven't forgotten," Victoria said softly. "I will find a safe place for the pups. I promise."

"I vote with Victory." Absently, the burly redhead reached down and scratched the top of Sophia's head.

Sophia opened her mouth wide and whined with pleasure. Then the gray wolf rolled onto her back for belly rubs.

Victoria scowled. "This isn't a democracy."

"It's a Victorocracy!" Morena piped up with a bright, false smile. Dark blues streaked her aura, blending into stormy gray clouds.

Jasper dug his elbow into her side. "That's stupid!"

Morena punched him in the arm. "Is not! _Eres estúpido_!"

"Is so!" Jasper took a playful swing at the girl.

Laughing, the pair tumbled across the truck bed, wrestling for dominance. Morena and Jasper shared the lowest status within the pack: Omega, the least dominant wolves. Their youth kept them from establishing a respectable rank in the pack. A perpetual state of rivalry existed between them.

Watching the teens, Victoria rolled her eyes and smothered a smile. She did her best to appear disapproving, but her amusement spread and touched the others. Soon, every adult grinned while the oblivious teens squabbled.

"Look, I understand the situation is dire." Victoria met the gazes of each individual in turn, but she addressed them as a whole. "The hunters have us far outnumbered and outgunned. If the pack is to survive, we have to avoid any more confrontations, even though it goes against our nature. We are descended from the great wolf-god Fenrir. We are Vikings."

"Aye, we are." Rand flashed a fierce smile that showed off all his teeth. He pumped his fist in a punching gesture, reinforcing the message. His bolstered morale blended seamlessly with hers.

"We are also Blackfoot," Sylvie said, making a gesture inclusive of both she and her husband.

Paul rumbled deep in his throat. "First and foremost, we're wolves. Sylvie, my love, we are an honorable people. At the behest of our goddess, this spirit has sought our help to save her son. If we abandon a helpless child, we are no better than cowards."

Sylvie stared into her mate's eyes. Her face flushed, then a reluctant smile curved her lips. "You are right, my love. We must save the child."

Suspicion edged Victoria's thoughts. Sylvie was seldom swayed from her views. She wondered if the Skald had played devil's advocate on purpose. Whatever the case, the weight on her shoulders lifted, and she breathed easier. Of course, she could have issued a command, but handing down orders did not suit her. She preferred to have her pack's cooperation and consent.

"Can I come along?" Jasper squirmed, giving the impression he might burst at any second.

Morena elbowed him in the side. "No fair. I want to go!"

Jasper slapped her arm away. "I called it first!"

"I'm older," Morena shot back.

Victoria frowned. "No, it's too dangerous. Both of you are staying here."

"That's not fair!" Denied the opportunity to prove himself, Jasper succumbed to anger and disappointment. His volatile emotions roiled through the empathic connection.

Rand rumbled with deep laughter. "I'll go with you."

"That works." Victoria agreed with an eager gleam in her blue eyes. If she had to have a wingman, she preferred Rand. Even with a prosthetic leg, the brawny redhead fought better than both of the teen werewolves put together.

"Good, we're agreed." Victoria addressed the entire pack. "Rand and I will start with the library and then proceed from there. Everyone else needs to stick together and maintain a low profile. Stay close to the vehicles. If things go south, be ready to leave at a moment's notice. If we get separated, we'll meet up in Santa Fe."

# Chapter Four

In the downtown area, Albuquerque's Main Library offered convenient hours and access to public computers. Hunched over a keyboard, Victoria searched the Internet for information on the missing children.

Rand peered over her shoulder. The huge redhead occupied a wheeled office chair that squeaked and groaned beneath his weight.

"Will you stop breathing down the back of my neck?" She moused over the most promising result and clicked on the hyperlink. A painfully slow data load began.

"I'm not."

"You are."

He chuckled. "What's got you madder than a wet hen?"

"I'm not." Victoria shot a glare at him.

Rand's mouth stretched into a crocodile smile.

The news site finally loaded, so she returned her attention to the screen. She read the article and summarized for her companion. "This was published in the Friday morning edition. June Fraiser was murdered sometime Thursday night. It says her six-year-old son, Michael, is believed to have been abducted by the same person who killed his mother."

"Does it say anything we don't already know?"

Only the tightness choking Rand's characteristically lazy drawl hinted at inner turmoil. She recognized his restrained anger. His reaction closely mirrored her own emotions.

Squinting, she continued reading with furious intent. The tension between her and Rand built to an intense pitch rather like the droning buzz of a mosquito. He remained silent and waited for her to finish without making further interruptions.

Huffing, she sat back in her chair. Dread filled her gut, her worst suspicions confirmed. "More than one child has been abducted."

A growl rumbled in the Beta wolf's throat. "How many?"

"Four over the course of two weeks. Michael was the most recent." She committed the abducted children's names to memory and printed the article.

"Have they found any..." Rand's voice crunched like crushed glass.

"Not yet. We may be able to save them." Victoria offered a silent prayer to Freya. She opened a new tab in the web browser and performed another search of an online directory. The results yielded a home address for the murdered woman. She sent a second job to the printer.

"I'll grab those." Rand rose from his chair.

"Thanks." Victoria hastily closed out the web client and logged out.

They joined up again in the main lobby and left the library just after 3:00 p.m. A glance passed between them, and silent communication flowed across the pack bond. His question. Her affirmation.

Furry brows arched, Rand nodded.

Concordance resonated between them like a single perfect note. By mutual consent, they climbed into the pickup and headed to the crime scene.

The second-story walkway overlooked the complex's courtyard which was made of red pavers. Thorny bushes and weeds crowded lava rock-filled planters. The buildings showed signs of considerable disrepair–peeling paint and drooping siding. Potholes pockmarked the parking lot, and graffiti covered the surrounding walls. The tenement was located less than a mile from where she had encountered the murdered woman's spirit.

"Two-twenty-two. This is it." Rand stopped, eyeing the trio of tarnished brass twos that hung off-center above the mail slot.

"Yeah, this is it." She knocked on the red door.

"Forty-eight hours is a long time for a little boy to be alone with a killer." Following a short delay, he tried knocking also.

"Yes, it is." Victoria shuddered.

Rand had just voiced her darkest fears. Her blood ran cold at the thought of a terrified child in the hands of a monster. Freya's vision haunted her, especially the frightened cries of youngsters.

"Looks like no one's home." He reached out and twisted the door knob which didn't open. "It's locked. Should we force the door?"

Victoria chewed her lower lip while she considered. She had been raised in the suburbs as part of a middle-class family. Her worst criminal offense to date was speeding. She had no idea how to pick a lock and had certainly never trespassed on a murder scene before. Of course, she and Rand were both strong enough to bust the door down, but she was uncomfortable doing so.

She bent and lifted the welcome mat. "Maybe there's a hidden key."

Rand snorted. "We should be so lucky."

"I've got nothing." She lowered the mat into position. She balanced on the tips of her toes and tried to reach the top of the doorframe, but it proved just out of her reach.

He snickered. "Don't strain yourself, little buddy."

"Watch it, Rand." She bared her teeth in a warning snarl. She had never lived down the fact that she had reached her full height of less than five feet at the age of twelve.

"Damn, Victory, no need to be so fucking sensitive about your height. No one minds you being an itty-bitty–"

Victoria jammed her elbow into his side. "Shut up."

"Ouch. Fuck!" Holding a protective arm over his ribcage, Rand flashed a shit-eating grin. He ran his free hand along the top of the doorframe.

"One more smart remark about my height, and I'll ram that peg leg up your ass."

"Hey, now. No need for violence." His face lit with the delight of discovery. "Ah-ha!"

Her brow shot up. "Really?"

Rand held up a brass key. "Oh yes. Really."

"Dumb luck." She smothered a grin. She enjoyed Rand's company. Although he had forty-six years to her twenty-four, she felt closer to him than Morena and Jasper. Life, and particularly recent experiences, had aged her beyond her years.

He inserted the key into the lock before he hesitated. "Not sure it's right to enter a police crime scene. I hope we don't mess nothin' up."

"Don't worry. It's not an active forensic investigation scene or there would be an officer posted. After the police are done, they leave it to the property owners to clean up."

Rand shot her a perplexed glance. "How do you know that?"

Her voice flatlined. "I dated a cop for a year."

He winced. "Oh, yeah. Sorry."

"It's okay." She shrugged. If Rand knew she was lying, he kept his mouth shut for a change. She was grateful for his rare discretion.

Daniel had worked as a Sheriff of Maricopa County, Arizona. He'd been gone just over two weeks, and his death still didn't feel real to her. Every morning she woke and opened her eyes, expecting to be in her own bed, to roll over and see his dark head resting on the pillow beside her. Her heart ached as though it had been cut from her breast. The deaths of her parents and so many others compounded her pain until she had emotionally shut down. The pack needed her to remain strong, so she chose numbness over grief and focused on survival.

Rand shoved the door open and entered the apartment first. He cocked his head, nostrils flaring and nose twitching. "Yeah, someone sure as hell died in here."

Following on his heels, she gagged when the revolting scent of decay assailed her sensitive nose. A wave of nausea swept over her. "Hit the lights."

"Yeah, gimme a sec." His hand slapped the wall a couple times before he found the light switch beside the door, and a dim table lamp came on. The illumination sent dozens of cockroaches skittering along the floor and walls.

Victoria's expression twisted into a grimace. She followed Rand inside and closed the door behind them. The small apartment had a galley-style kitchen, one bedroom off the living area, and one bathroom. The dried out husk of a Christmas tree stood sandwiched between an old television and a bloodstained couch. There was no mantle, so two felt stockings dangled from the kitchen counter. One still had a dollar-store tag attached.

"June must have died here." She bent to touch a couch cushion. She skimmed the gummy surface and her fingers came away dry. She spotted a curious bloodstain on the carpet and knelt to inspect it. The basic shape suggested a cloven hoof. A trail of similar marks led toward the bedroom.

"Whatcha lookin' at?"

"Are these footprints?" She pointed to the stains.

Rand's brow pinched. "Sure as hell looks like it."

Victoria's lips compressed, and she lowered her face to floor level. She inhaled deeply, and a pungent scent filled her nostrils. "I smell goat. I think."

Rand pressed his face to the ground and closed his eyes, huffing deep breaths while he learned the smell. He looked up and frowned. "I'd say bighorn sheep."

She snickered. "You like sheep, don't you, Rand?"

"Hey!" Rand's head reared back, and he took a lazy-pawed swipe at her which she easily dodged. Laughter rolled from the big redhead.

She stood and followed the trail toward the bedroom. "What sort of goat-scented monster murders mothers and steals children?"

"Beats the hell out of me," Rand said, scratching his beard. "Satyr, maybe?"

"This isn't Greece." She leaned into the apartment's single bathroom. She switched on the light and gave the room a cursory inspection: one sink, a toilet, and a bathtub-shower combo.

"How should I know?" Rand rolled his massive shoulders. "I've fought vampires and the occasional demon. Saw a kachina spirit once outside of Flagstaff, but it wasn't harming anyone, so we let it be."

"Smart man." As she returned to the hallway, she caught him giving her a peculiar look. The corner of his mouth curled upward, so his eye pulled into a squint. She stopped. "What is it?"

"Running into Jake Barrett has got you in a snit," he said with uncanny astuteness.

She winced and bristled, feeling unaccountably defensive. "The man and his hunters murdered my parents and most of our pack. Of course I'm unsettled. I shouldn't have to remind you."

Following Daniel's death, Victoria had taken his corpse to the Barrett residence. Sawyer greeted her with guarded curiosity until he saw the condition of his brother's body. Without waiting for an explanation, he grabbed a shotgun and attacked her. She barely escaped with her life. The incident had set the hunters and wolves, allies of thirty years, on the brink of war.

The next day, Victoria's parents and most of the adults of her pack had met with Jake Barrett at a private airstrip outside Phoenix. Her father had ignored her objections and forbidden her to attend. He ordered her to escort the pack's young, infirm, and vulnerable members to safety. Rand accompanied Victoria as her second-in-command.

None of her pack mates who attended that fateful meeting ever returned. All were dead, including her mother and father. No one except maybe Jake Barrett knew exactly what happened. The news stations carried a story about the explosion of a fuel truck at the airstrip. Allegedly, the resulting fire killed dozens, including human hunters. Following her Alpha's orders, Victoria took the people under her protection and ran.

"Uh-huh." The look Rand gave her said he didn't buy her excuses even for a second.

No matter what, her guilt and grief weren't topics for casual conversation. Jaw jutting, Victoria shook her head. "Don't want to talk about it."

"All right." Rand turned toward the final doorway to the one room they hadn't inspected yet. "This must be the bedroom."

Victoria entered ahead of him and turned on the lights. The small room contained a double bed and a five-drawer dresser. A toddler bed and a toy chest stood against one of the walls. Lego blocks and Matchbox cars littered the floor. The space hardly seemed big enough for one person to occupy, let alone two.

"I thought you said the boy is six," Rand said, scowling at the toddler bed.

"That's what the spirit and the newspaper said. I guess it's what she could afford." Victoria pitied the dead woman and missing child more than ever. The boy had lost everything. She hoped they could save him.

"Where the hell is the boy's father in all this?"

"The article said she was a single mother. No mention of a father."

Rand walked past the beds and examined the room's only window which had been broken inward. The vinyl mini blinds lay in a mangled heap on the floor. Glass fragments littered the carpet. "This is where it entered. I only smell the one creature."

She bent and picked up a small red fire truck off the spotted carpeting. She inspected the toy and then tucked it into the front pocket of her jeans. The threadbare comforter on the bed contained a lumpy polyester fill. She committed the boy's scent to memory and then wadded the blanket into a ball.

"Catch," she said, tossing it toward Rand.

"So there's no one left to miss the poor kid?" Rand caught the blanket out of the air and held the blue fabric to his nose. After a few seconds, he returned the blanket to the bed.

"No, probably not." She shook her head in sorrow. If they failed to save the boy, she would feel responsible for his death, the same way she already felt for so many others.

Rand stilled, and his gaze settled on her. "Cut yourself some slack, kid," he said in a gruff tone. "Everything isn't your fault."

Her stomach dropped. She stared at him.

"Isn't it, though? Daniel is dead because of me." She had known dating a hunter was reckless and off-limits, but that hadn't stopped her. "Dad knew Jake Barrett would blame me for his son's death. It's why he kept me from attending the meeting with the hunters."

"Ah, so you get to claim credit for the massacre at the airfield 'n starting the fighting too, I suppose?" Rand's brow arched. "Something of a royal screw up, aren't you?"

Tears stung her eyes, and a hot flush of temper set her teeth on edge. "Mocking it doesn't make it any less true."

"Course not," he drawled. "But it might help you see the only person blaming you for what happened is you. The pack doesn't hold you culpable for any of it."

Her anger dissipated and left her flushed with embarrassment. His reassurance served to undermine her self-confidence. She was a failure as Alpha. She lacked the necessary experience and wisdom to serve as a good pack leader. The role had been thrust upon her years before she should have been ready.

"Rand." Uncertainty threaded her voice, vibrating with the strength of her curiosity. She had a question she wanted—no, _needed_ —to ask but did not know how to phrase it.

"Just spit it out."

She sighed. _Fine._

"Why haven't you challenged me for Alpha yet? We both know, in a fight, you'd win. You're older, more experienced, better suited to leadership."

Rand laid a hand on her shoulder. Victoria tilted her head to gaze into his face. She fully expected her question to finally provoke the ritual challenge.

He scowled. "I was loyal to your father and mother. My Alphas. So I'm loyal to you, Victoria Storm. If your father had wanted me to be leader, he'd have put me in charge."

"Alpha isn't a hereditary title, Rand. It has to be earned."

"Let me guess. You don't feel you've earned it?"

She shook her head.

His nostrils flared as he exhaled. "There has been a Storm leading this pack for five hundred years. You're a good leader, just a little bit inexperienced. You need to stop being so hard on yourself."

Victoria opened her mouth, although she had no idea what she intended to say. Before she formulated words, her cell phone rang. She sighed, extracted the mobile from her pocket, and checked the number.

Sylvie.

"Victoria," Sylvie said in a voice filled with panic. "It's Jasper. He's gone."

An awful sense of foreboding filled her, but she strove to remain cool. "Jasper was upset when we told him he couldn't come with us. He's probably just sneaking around after me and Rand."

Beside her, Rand snorted. "That boy needs his backside tanned."

Victoria waved a silencing hand at him. "Don't worry, okay? We're through here. We'll come back and track him down."

"Okay." Sylvie's tone calmed. "Please hurry."

"We will." Victoria put the phone away and looked to the redhead.

Rand rolled his eyes. "Well, fuck. I guess we'd better get after that little shit."

"Rand, don't be too hard on him, okay? He's just a kid."

"It's time for him to grow up and start being a man." He accompanied her outside and closed the door of the apartment behind them. "Do you have a plan for finding Michael?"

"Not yet." A sense of urgency coalesced in her gut. The need to act grew imperative, but she had no idea what to do. "C'mon, let's go."

Together, they returned to the parking lot where they'd left the truck. Rand approached the driver's side of the pickup and unlocked the door.

"Smells like a storm," he said.

As if to echo his words, thunder rumbled miles in the distance. The clouds formed a thick gray blanket. Orange hues tinted the horizon, and a brisk breeze blew easterly.

Victoria tilted her head back, scenting the moist air. "It blew up suddenly. I didn't know it was supposed to rain."

"It wasn't. Not according to the weather report I read this morning anyway."

She traded an ominous glance with Rand, and their shared concern remained unspoken. Picking up a scent trail that was already a couple days old was difficult in an urban area. Rain would destroy any chance they might have had of doing it the old fashioned way.

They drove for a couple minutes. A light drizzle started, just enough to turn the dust on the windshield to mud. Rand turned on the wipers. The rain wasn't heavy, but it was enough to obliterate any trace of a scent trail Jasper might've left. His disappearance ate at her. She hated her inability to act, and each passing minute stretched like an hour. The teenager hadn't been gone for long, so she doubted he'd gotten far. Most likely, he'd return to the pack once he'd blown off steam.

The consolation offered cold comfort.

# Chapter Five

Fretting over Jasper's safety, Victoria chewed her lower lip and stared out the window at the passing scenery. In many ways, Albuquerque was like Phoenix. Certainly, the landscaping and architecture of the high desert city reminded her of home. Small discrepancies such as unfamiliar local businesses and vegetation really stood out. Those differences served to sharpen the knowledge that she could never go home again. Even if they managed to make peace with the hunters, she couldn't return to the place full of so many painful memories.

From that first date with Daniel, she'd known becoming involved with a hunter was wrong, but she hadn't been able to resist him. When he asked her out, she'd gone in defiance of good sense while questioning his motives and her own the whole time. She didn't hide that she was dating a hunter from her parents or pack. However, they'd kept their relationship a secret from Jake Barrett and the rest of his family.

The first time Daniel broached the issue had been a rainy Sunday morning in April. He lay sprawled across her queen-sized mattress with the headboard and a stack of pillows propped behind his torso. His dark eyes followed her every move as she dressed in medical scrubs. She had an upcoming shift in the emergency room of Good Samaritan Hospital where she worked as a nurse.

"Call in sick. Play hooky with me." Daniel wore a wicked smile and a sheet tangled around his hips. His tanned skin contrasted sharply with the white cotton. He lacked tan lines, even in the middle of winter, a fact she teased him mercilessly about.

"I can't. People are counting on me." She frowned to hide her amusement. In the few months they'd been together, she'd learned that indulging his antics only made his behavior worsen. She certainly didn't want him to know just how much the offer to climb beneath the covers with him tempted her.

"What time are you off?"

She perched on the edge of the bed and pulled on her shoes. "I'm working three consecutive twelve-hour shifts in the ER. Then, I have plans with friends Thursday and pack business on Friday. I'm visiting my parents Saturday."

While she tied the laces, he rolled onto his side. His hand snaked across the mattress and caressed the curve of her backside through her blue scrubs. "I don't want to have to wait a week to see you again."

Victoria didn't like it either, but she put on a cool smile and evaded his grasp. Glancing back, she said, "You'll live. Besides, it keeps the sex interesting."

Daniel's brow furrowed, and he sat upright. Anger honed his features and sharpened his scent. "We've got more than sex going for us."

Startled, she stood and turned to face him. "Sure, we have fun together. I couldn't ask for a better hunting partner."

They worked together well as a team. To avoid other hunters, their expeditions often took them to remote, isolated areas outside the city. They preferred to stalk and destroy vampires. Undead were unusually common in the Phoenix area. They'd also taken on the odd ghost, and what might have been a chupacabra... Or a member of her pack playing pranks. They'd never figured _that_ one out.

Daniel surged off the mattress. His wide stance and the position of his shoulders reminded her of a wrestler. His aura shimmered with vibrant red-toned swirls. "You just don't want to admit that we're good together."

"Whoa, hold up there, lover." Her hands rose to his abdomen, and she smoothed her palms across his sides. "We're good together. That's not the issue at all. And you know it."

Beneath her touch, he stilled. His heartbeat slowed, and his respiration steadied. An elusive empathetic resonance buzzed in the air between them, strong enough so she felt his restrained anger. The connection wasn't as intimate as the pack bond, but it held tantalizing promise.

Resolve hardened in his eyes. He placed a finger under her chin and raised her face so only inches separated them. Their breath mingled, and the moment became as intimate as a kiss.

Her breath hitched. Mentally, she crossed her fingers and prayed he wouldn't do this now. She wasn't ready to have the big commitment talk yet. They hadn't been dating long enough for her to even be sure how she felt about him. For every reason they should be together, a dozen real world considerations existed to keep them apart.

"Daniel–"

He held her gaze. "I'm going to tell my father about us."

Upon hearing him say it aloud, her alarm spiked. His intentions were as she suspected and as she feared. She liked things as they were between them. She didn't want everything to change. Her grip on his sides tightened. "No."

"Victoria, we need to discuss this." His jaw twitched near the corner of his mouth. The set of his shoulders, as well as every nuance of his body's posture, bespoke staunch determination. The man was a force to be reckoned with when he set his mind to something.

Exhaling, she let go of him and took a step backward. "I don't have time for this right now. I need to leave or I'm going to be late for work."

"When then?" His jaw tipped in a stubborn jut. "When do you have time?"

"Call me tonight." She shot him a long, unhappy look. He hated being put off, but she expected him to be reasonable. He couldn't upend their entire dynamic and expect her to adjust at a moment's notice. "Please don't go ruining what we've got. I want to enjoy it while it lasts."

Face set in an implacable mask, Daniel stared at her for a long time before he opened his mouth to answer–

"We're almost there."

Rand's voice cut through her reverie, yanking Victoria back to reality.

Choking on painful emotions, she twisted to face the redhead. "Let's hope Jasper is back."

"Yeah." His reply carried a distinct note of doubt.

Striving to escape her dark musings, she slanted a look toward her companion. Humming along in off-key concert with a tune on the radio, Rand appeared unperturbed. Curiosity ate at her. She had questions about his attitude toward Jake Barrett and dying. She didn't know how to phrase them without insulting him.

"What's eating at you, kid?" Rand asked in a gruff voice. He never took his eyes off the road.

An automatic denial formed, but she hesitated to offer an outright lie. Lacking a tactful approach, she blurted out, "You didn't seem worried earlier."

"I'm not the worrying sort." He shot her a speculative sideways glance without bothering to disguise his curiosity. "What about?"

"Jake Barrett."

"Oh." He snorted. "Yeah, well. I worry for the rest of the pack, but not about Jake killin' me."

Her eyebrows knit. "You think he won't?"

"Nah, that's not it." Rand's chuckle reverberated in his chest like a rusty engine. "I don't worry about dying. All the dumb ass shit I've pulled. Never figured to live as long as I have."

Her alarm spiked. "You're not even fifty."

"Fifty is old." He flashed a teasing grin. "I want to die fighting. Hopefully while I still can."

Victoria scowled. "You think Barrett would be a worthy adversary and an honorable death?"

"Not think. _Know_. I've accompanied the man on countless hunts."

The pickup rolled to a halt at a red light. Tense silence endured while they waited for the signal to change. The whole time, Victoria bit her tongue against the desire to call Rand an idiot.

His attitude didn't surprise her. Her people followed the old ways. Enemies had driven Loki's wolf shifter children from their Old World homeland centuries before. They fled to North America. However, they worshipped the ancient gods and clung to their Viking heritage. The only good and honorable death came as a courageous end in glorious combat. The victims of murder, sickness, and accidents were all doomed to the gloomy underworld. Certain exceptions were made for women who were deemed worthy and a place was created for them in Freya's hall.

She not only accepted the doctrine, but embraced it. In addition to being Freya's priestess, she was a Valkyrie who transported the souls of the chosen to Odin's Valhalla. So she wondered if her reaction was entirely selfish. She depended on Rand's strength and his experience. Losing him would make the already difficult job of pack leader even harder.

The light turned green, and the truck lurched into motion again. The light drizzle continued to fall. Water beads danced on the side windows and then stretched into long streaks across the glass.

"Relax, kid. I'm not going anywhere," Rand said at last. "I don't intend to commit _Hari Kari_."

"Don't even think about it." She adopted a fierce glare and menaced him with her fist, playing it for laughs. She didn't want him to figure out how much the prospect of losing him scared her.

"I won't." Chuckling, Rand turned the pickup into the parking lot of the convenience store and pulled into a space. He shut off the engine.

A cool smattering of rain pelted Victoria when she climbed out of the cab. Inclement weather was unpleasant, but not a big deal. As wolves, they were capable of enduring much worse. The SUV was parked a few spaces over. Sophia appeared in the rolled up window of the vehicle. She rested her paws on the sills, pressed her nose to the glass, and peered out.

Side by side, Rand and Victoria walked around the rear of the truck to greet Sylvie. The older woman hurried toward them. Worry lines etched her face, and muddy swirls marred her tranquil aura.

"Thank the goddess you're back," Sylvie said. "Jasper's not answering his cell phone. I'm afraid something awful has happened."

"Don't panic. I haven't felt anything through the pack bond." Victoria adopted a soothing tone and projected confidence. Her gaze strayed past Sylvie to Morena. The teenager lurked next to the SUV's quarter panel, staring intently at a spot on the ground.

"How long's he been gone?" Rand scratched at his beard. His knowing gaze also settled on Morena.

Sylvie worried her lower lip. "He must've taken off right after the two of you left for the library. I was hoping he followed you."

"Without a car? Not a chance." Rand shook his head.

"Where's Paul?" Victoria asked, needing to know the locations of every member of her small pack. The bond wasn't the equivalent of mystical GPS. Unless Jasper experienced severe emotional distress or injury, she couldn't use it to track him.

"He's looking around the neighborhood for Jasper," Sylvie answered. "In case he just wandered off to blow off some steam."

Victoria stepped past Sylvie and approached Morena. The teenager slumped against the SUV's quarter panel. Her gaze fixated on the ground. At her Alpha's approach, the girl visibly shrank in upon herself, arms crossed in a self-hug. She stank of guilt and fear.

Victoria stopped in front of her. "Morie, did Jasper tell you where he was going? If you know, you need to tell us. It's too dangerous for him to be out there alone. No one's going to be angry with you. "

The teen produced an indecipherable whimper. She trembled from head to toe.

Victoria settled her hands on the teen's shoulders and steadied her. "Morena?"

Morie's head rolled to the side. Tears streaked her cheek. "I told him not to go. I told him it was stupid. But he said he needed to prove he's an adult or no one would ever take him seriously."

A cold rush of fear swept through Victoria. Swallowing panic, she caught the girl's eyes. "Where is he?"

With a snotty inhalation, Morena scrubbed at her eyes. " _Lo siento._ He made me promise not to tell."

"Tell me. _Now_." Biting back a growl, Victoria asserted her will through the pack bond and assumed command of Morena's wolf. The girl cowered before her.

The Omega sank to a crouch, conveying her submission to her Alpha. "Jasper had it all figured out. He said Jake Barrett was surprised when he saw you. If he was surprised, then it must mean he wasn't expecting to see you, which means he's in town for some other reason."

Sylvie and Rand both shifted restlessly.

Victoria sucked in a sharp breath. An awful suspicion filled her, so scary she prayed she was wrong. Striving to keep her voice steady, she asked, "What other reason?"

Morena sniffled and scrubbed at her face with her sleeve. "He said Freya sent you to that exact spot to talk to the ghost mom of the missing kid. Since the hunters were there too, they must be after whatever grabbed the boy."

"Hell." Victoria glanced up at Rand and Sylvie. Both of her pack mates looked gob smacked. From the _oh-shit_ expression on their faces, they arrived at the same conclusion.

Sylvie said, "That's smart."

"Yeah, it is," Rand rumbled. "Makes sense."

"Why didn't we think of it?" Victoria released her hold on Morena's shoulders, relinquished her tight control over her wolf. She straightened to her full height.

The burly redhead scowled. "We're id–"

Victoria waved her hand. "Don't say it."

Rand flashed a toothy smile. "Sure thing, boss."

"Smart ass." Her wolf roiled beneath her skin, threatening to burst through at any moment. With an effort, Victoria unclenched her jaws.

Sylvie stepped closer to Morena and placed an arm around her shoulders. "You did the right thing by telling us, sweetie."

"I'm sorry. I should have said something sooner, but I didn't want to be the reason he gets in trouble," Morena whispered, clinging to Sylvie.

"He's not in trouble, sweetie."

Alarm threatened the foundations of her composure. Victoria backed up until she collided with Rand. Biting her tongue, she addressed her anger to Freya. _When I get hold of that stupid boy, I'm going to make him regret having been born._

_Victoria, he is a child. You must be patient._

Rand's huge hand dropped onto her shoulder. His strong fingers dug into her skin hard enough to hurt, communicating the fear he refused to voice. "If he's shadowing hunters, we'd better find him before he gets his damn head blown off."

Victoria latched onto Rand's arm and dragged him to the edge of the parking lot. She didn't want Morena to overhear them. "I agree with you about finding Jasper. First, we need to find a new place to park the vehicles. We were only supposed to be here for an hour or so while I carried out Freya's mission. Sooner or later the police are going to notice we're loitering. Once there's radio chatter, the hunters will know exactly where we are."

Rand's eyes narrowed, and he spoke in a hushed voice. "You're right. We don't want to draw any unwanted attention to ourselves. Jake Barrett has all kinds of government contacts."

"We need to find Paul," she said. _Damn it all to hell._ Victoria hated the prospect of moving before they'd located Jasper. If the teen returned to the convenience store, he'd have no idea where they'd gone. As Alpha, she had to consider the greater good. She couldn't endanger everyone for the sake of one stubborn, reckless boy.

"He's here." Rand's head turned, his gaze fixated upon a point over her shoulder. "Looks like one thing's going our way today."

Victoria swiveled and breathed a sigh of relief upon sighting Paul's approach. The older man's limp was more prominent than usual. He looked tired but none the worse for wear. She noticed he clutched a piece of crumpled yellow paper in his hand.

Rand got out in front of Victoria and beat her to Paul's side. Grinning, the redhead extended his arm. "Let me help you, old man."

"Get yer damn hands off me. What the hell is wrong with you?" Waving his fist, Paul menaced the Beta wolf. "What's going on?"

Chuckling, Rand fell back. In the space of a heartbeat, his grin vanished, replaced by a fierce scowl. "We think Jasper's trailing the hunters in hopes of finding out more about the missing boy."

Paul's brow shot up over wide eyes. "That's dumber than some of the shit you've pulled, Rand."

"Yeah, well. What can I say?" Rand spread his hands wide in a gesture of assumed innocence. "I set a high standard. The kid's really gotta aspire to follow in my footsteps."

"All right, both of you, that's enough." Victoria smothered a reluctant smile.

"Aye, boss." Despite his cavalier sense of humor, Rand had a solid head on his shoulders. His jocularity ceased, and he fell into sync with her.

"There's something you need to know." Paul waved the piece of paper he carried so it produced a stiff crackling.

# Chapter Six

"There's more than one missing child." Arm extended, Paul proffered the flyer.

Victoria stared at the weathered paper and then reluctantly accepted it. She quickly scanned it. She recognized the girl's name from the newspaper article. Margaret Anne Wazzle, age 10. The missing child notice included the black and white photocopy of an adolescent girl and cited a few grim facts. The bodies of the parents were found in their bedroom. The murderer was suspected of having abducted the girl from her home.

As she read, an awful sinking sensation swept through her. She had no idea how to go about finding the abducted children or the child thief. The crisis associated with Jasper's disappearance had temporarily diverted her attention. Now the emergencies were closing in from all sides.

Composing her thoughts, she offered up a prayer. _Goddess, if I'm to find these children, I need more to go on._

A hesitation ensued before Freya responded. _I would tell you exactly where to find them if I knew. However, there is a shroud preventing me from knowing their location._

"Before you showed me the glimpse of a vision, but it was too brief," Victoria said, desperation edging her voice. "Can you show me again? Please? Maybe there's something I missed."

At her outburst, Rand and Paul exchanged a knowing glance. Neither man commented. Her pack mates were accustomed to her seemingly one-sided conversations with the goddess.

Freya hesitated. _I held back. Some of it is horrific. I have shielded you on purpose._

Freya's obvious reluctance aroused Victoria's suspicions. Her already pessimistic expectations plummeted further, leaving her cold inside. Bracing for the worst, she asked, _Goddess, is Margaret still alive?_

Sorrow colored Freya's golden voice. _I'm sorry, Victoria. The girl is already lost._

Victoria ground her teeth so hard her jaws hurt. _Show me._

_It is sordid._

_Goddess, please. I have to know what sort of monster I'm up against._

_It is what you want?_

"It's what I want." Unsure what to expect, Victoria braced by stiffening her legs. Seconds later, a vision slammed her. Her five senses overloaded under the deluge of information. Overwhelmed, she dropped to her knees and pitched forward, reflexively extending her arms. Her palms smacked the rough pavement, and she gulped air. A cold drizzle pelted her head and back, and her soaked clothing hung heavily on her slender frame. She lost awareness of her own body.

The pillow beneath Margaret's cheek was wet from the tears she'd shed. Her heart ached for the shattered furry body they'd found in the gutter in front of the house. Her beloved cat, Carmen, hit by a driver who hadn't bothered to stop. She suffered the agony of grief. But the awful, suffocating guilt was even worse.

Her mother's voice played over and over in her mind. "It's your fault the damn cat's dead, Margaret. If I told you once, I told you a million times not to let that animal run past you. It serves you right she's dead! Maybe you'll finally learn."

Her mother was right, she was an awful person. She hated herself for being so irresponsible. If she'd been paying attention, then Carmen wouldn't have run past her into the street. The car wouldn't have hit Carmen and she'd still be alive. She _hated_ herself.

It was all her fault.

_Everything._

Torn apart by the force of her sobs, she cried herself into exhaustion and eventually fell asleep.

She woke to her mother's shriek and her father's deep shout. Their cries shattered the hush of the slumbering house. A terrible growl resounded, and then the screams ended abruptly. Adrenaline coursed through her body. Her throbbing heart pushed against her throat with every beat, threatening to choke her. Terrified, she pulled the thick down comforter over her head and shrank beneath the covers. Shivering, she curled into a fetal ball and closed her eyes, wishing herself invisible.

Heavy footsteps clomped in the hallway outside her bedroom. She shook so her teeth clattered, and she clenched her jaws to stop the betraying sound. A floorboard creaked in the hallway outside her bedroom door, and the intruder stopped moving.

She bit her lower lip so hard that salty blood flooded her mouth. Tears stinging her eyes, she held her breath and clutched the blanket in both hands. _Please, please, please... Go away, go away, go away..._

With the crack of shattering wood, the door to her room burst inward. Huffing, the monster thudded toward her bed. She screamed as the blankets were ripped away, her only protection stolen, leaving her vulnerable and exposed. Lying on her back, she stared up wide-eyed at the enormous beast standing over her. Darkness obfuscated its appearance except for a pair of malevolent glowing red eyes.

The monster seized her legs and dragged her from her bed. She kicked and screamed to no avail. A heavy, leathery hand clubbed her upside the head. Pain exploded throughout her skull, the world spun, and she sagged in its bruising grip.

The beast grabbed her, shoved the mouth of a large burlap sack over her head, and stuffed her into the bag. Her weight settled at an uncomfortable angle so she lay on her bent neck. She hurt from head to toe. The thick, scratchy material itched, and the hot interior stank of urine, vomit, and terror.

She struggled weakly for a while, but physical exertion made it harder to breathe. After a time, she gave up and grew still. She lay in a limp heap listening to the ominous stomping of the monster's steps as it carried her down the stairs and from the house. Tears streamed from her eyes. Snot clogged her nose and throat. The humiliating wetness of her nightgown told her she'd peed herself.

In the distance, cars honked and engines revved. Another awful smell grew more potent, competing with the others. The burnt, tarry odor was familiar. She walked past the tire recycling facility every day on her way to school, and she despised the place. The black smoke always made her cough worse and left her short of breath. Her mother blamed her daughter's asthma on the factory.

Her abductor upended the sack by grasping the bottom. He shook it until she slithered out. Shrieking, she fell several feet to a concrete floor. The side of her skull slammed against a sharp surface and her mind swam with wavy lines of consciousness. Her whole body hurt. She lacked the strength to move.

The monster loomed above her, a dark and shadowy form.

"You must be punished for your sins." The lyrical voice dissolved into maniacal laughter. He carried her toward a steel drum filled to the brim with opaque fluid. He stood so much taller than her that her feet dangled far off the floor. She couldn't gain any traction.

"Mommy! Mommy! Please! Help me!" Shrieking, she flailed her limbs. His strength far eclipsed hers. She couldn't escape his grasp. The surface of the vat loomed before her face. The bitter scent of ink assailed her airways, and she choked on the stench. As her scream ended, he forced her face into the liquid. Darkness eclipsed her vision. Horrible pain burned in her eyes.

Reflexively, she inhaled. Fluid filled her mouth and throat, crushing her lungs. Terrified beyond reason, she sobbed and thrashed with all the strength in her frail body. Taunting, gleeful laughter filled her mind. The monster drank her sorrow and fed on her fear.

Her life force shrank.

Darkness.

Margaret simply stopped. Fighting. Breathing. Living. Being.

"Breathe, kid!" Rand's shout assailed Victoria's eardrums. He shook her like a rag doll in the grip of a great dog. His anger crashed through the pack bond like a rampaging bull, decimating everything in his path.

His open hand struck her cheek. Shocked, she opened her eyes. Rand's face loomed over her, contorted with panic, and his voice boomed over her. Still, the terrifying press of suffocation threatened to crush her. She gasped, fighting to draw a breath. Her heart thundered, and her lungs ached. Rand drew back his arm, and then his open palm smacked her cheek again. Her head whipped to the side, and Victoria gulped air into her starved lungs.

Expression thunderstruck, Rand lowered his hand. "What the hell happened?"

Victoria struggled to formulate words. The Beta wolf's steady presence helped fortify her composure. She grabbed hold of his arms to steady herself. At her core, horrified revulsion crystalized into fierce resolve. As a she-wolf, the brutal assault against a youngster was the worst possible sin imaginable. _Goddess, I'm going to find this son of a bitch and disembowel him with my teeth._

_Good._ Freya's approval burned through Victoria. The goddess shared her primal loathing of a beast that preyed on helpless children.

"You okay, kid?" Rand prompted her.

She licked her lips and said, "I'm fine."

Rand rocked on his heels. "Sure don't look fine to me."

Victoria patted his forearms, offering reassurance. "Seriously, I'm fine. " Belatedly, she realized the others were huddled around her. Glancing at each, she studied the worried faces of her pack mates. Not just Paul and Rand, but Morena and Sophia crowded close to her also. They weren't a large pack, but their members were tough. Their strength bolstered hers.

She was so incredibly grateful for each and every one of them.

"Did the goddess reveal the location of the missing boy?" Sylvie asked with thinly veiled impatience.

"I have it," Victoria said. "I know what area to search for the stolen children."

"Good." Paul stood beside Sylvie, staunchly supporting his mate. "Where do we look?"

"Not we. Me," Victoria said. "We're going to have to divide up to cover as much ground as possible. I need Rand to go after Jasper. Sylvie, Paul, I want you to move the vehicles to a safer place."

Dissent rippled through the pack bond. Mouths opened in protest. Eyes gleamed with rebellion. Through their communion, she sensed that the others disliked her plan down to the last wolf. Only Morena was too full of shame to object.

Victoria braced, fully expecting a challenge to her leadership. Her self-doubt didn't help her confidence any. Aside from being the daughter of the deceased Alphas, she possessed no qualifications as a leader. She had less life experience than Rand, Sylvie, or Paul. So who was she to tell them what to do?

Exhaling, Rand released her and took a step back. "I'll take the truck 'n go after the brat. If I find him, you can rest easy that I'll haul his sorry ass home."

Before he finished speaking, Sylvie and Paul stifled their disagreement and lent their support. Solidarity crystalized within the pack; unity of purpose to the attainment of shared goals.

Victoria breathed a sigh of relief. She didn't have the strength to fight her own people _and_ deal with the myriad external threats. "Thank you, Rand."

He grunted and tipped his head in acknowledgement. The ghost of a smirk hovered on his lips, gone before fully manifested.

"How far should we move the vehicles? And to where?" Paul asked. "Are you sure you don't want us to wait?"

"It's not safe." Victoria shook her head, recalling how close of a call she'd had earlier in downtown Albuquerque. Jake wasn't in shoot-first-ask-later mode, but he wasn't the only hunter. There were others, including Daniel's younger brothers. The maddened expression of rage on Sawyer's face haunted her memory.

Following a terse debate, Sylvie and Paul agreed to take the SUV and get on the highway, heading toward Santa Fe. Once beyond city limits, they'd find a safe place to stop and hole up with Morena and Sophia until the pack managed to reunite. Rand would follow in the pickup as soon as he located Jasper.

"How're you supposed to join us?" Morena asked, finally breaking her silence. The teenager stared at Victoria with wide, worried eyes.

"Don't worry. I'll catch up." Victoria mustered a smile for the girl. "If I have to, I'll summon Bifröst." Technically, she wasn't supposed to use the rainbow bridge for matters unrelated to her duties as a Valkyrie. Given the circumstances, she hoped Freya would make an exception.

_You know I will. Why don't you just ask?_

Victoria smothered a smile. _It's easier to apologize than to ask permission._

The goddess sighed. _Someday your propensity for questioning authority will get you into trouble, Victoria._

"Have you thought about what you're going to do when you find this creature?" Rand asked, eyeing her with plain trepidation. "No offense, kid, but you're not exactly built for monster slaying."

"Gee, thanks." She scrunched her nose. "Both of you. Stop giving me a hard time."

Rand's brow arched in fleeting confusion before realization dawned on his face. Then he grumbled. "You should listen to your goddess."

Laughter was Freya's only reply.

"Let's get moving," Rand grumbled. "Time's a wastin'."

Rand pulled the pickup truck alongside the shoulder of the road and stopped in front of the tire recycling facility. He twisted around to face Victoria and glared from beneath bushy red eyebrows knit into a fearsome scowl. "Be careful. If you need help, call me."

"Will do, Auntie Rand." Snickering, Victoria opened the passenger side door and slid from the truck. The light drizzle continued to fall, but her clothing was already soaked through. More rain hardly mattered. She closed the truck's door and watched while he drove away.

Once the taillights faded from view, she followed the chain link fence, walking the perimeter of the enclosed yard. Her hopes of picking up a scent trail proved futile. Aside from the rain, the stench of burned rubber pervaded the area.

She completed her circuit, having found no breaks in the fence or easy ways around the barrier. A thick chain and heavy padlock secured the front gate. Looking up, she considered the ten-foot climb which included a roll of barbed wire at the top.

With her wolf's strength, Victoria could jump it without much difficulty. However, she questioned whether a massive creature like the child thief would be capable of leaping so high. She suspected the entire structure would topple beneath his massive weight. And how would he make the climb while hauling along a sack containing a ten-year-old child?

There were other places she could look–commercial shopping complexes, industrial areas, and tenements. Even the gully wash she and Jasper had cut through would offer isolated places for the beast to make its lair. A search on foot would take forever. She had to find some way to narrow the area down.

As if in answer to her dilemma, a coyote's cry cut through the night. The speaker was a young female who had complaints about a padlock on a grocery store dumpster.

Victoria turned toward the sound which came from the direction of the creek. She judged the coyote to be less than a half mile distant. Perfect. Just the help she was looking for. She hoped they were friendly and not fiercely territorial. A band of coyote shifters stood a reasonable chance of taking down a lone she-wolf.

She had to gamble.

Tilting back her head, Victoria raised her voice in a nimble, polite howl of greeting. She supplied her name, rank, and pack, and then allowed the pure vocalization to fade. She cocked her head and waited.

Following a brief hesitation, a male coyote replied, cautiously welcoming. _I'm Alpha of the Albuquerque City Slickers._ His introduction ended on a high note of inquiry. _What do you want, wolf?_

The tip of her tongue darted across her dry lips as she swiftly weighed her words. Before she'd introduced herself, she hadn't stopped to consider that the band could be in cahoots with the child thief. A stupid mistake and one she couldn't retract. Following a brief internal debate, she decided to follow her initial instincts.

Summoning her power, Victoria infused her song with her own personal magic. She shared the heart-breaking visions of the kidnapped children and the few details she had of the monster. Her howl embodied loathing and loss, imperative and immediacy.

The coyote Alpha's howl cut her off mid-refrain. _Are you going to kill the bastard?_

Based on the proximity, he was moving closer to her.

Annoyed at the interruption, she swallowed her pride over the insult to her honor. Practicality demanded it. Besides, no one expected coyotes to respect social niceties. With equal brusqueness, Victoria viciously roared, _Yes._

He waited until the curl on her snarl faded before he released a short series of yips. _Talk to the mutt in the alley behind the grocery store._

Victoria scowled. "Asshole," she muttered. "I've got no more idea where the grocery store is than I do–"

Across the street, a man stepped into the open, emerging from some overgrown bushes. His tattered clothing included a long coat that hung to mid-calf. The garment concealed his build. He was bigger than her, though that was true of almost everyone.

"I'm Silver," he said. "Only my friends are allowed to call me asshole."

# Chapter Seven

"Hate your name," Victoria said in lieu of a greeting.

Long silvery hair hung in a tangled mess about the coyote shifter's face and shoulders, obscuring his features. His smoky baritone smirked. "Yeah, well, you're the trespasser in my territory."

Even at a hundred feet, Victoria's nose confirmed he wasn't as unwashed as one would've assumed at a glance. Grunge seemed to be his personal style rather than the artifact of poverty. She bared her teeth and beckoned him with a crooked finger. "You want to challenge me or tell me where to find the damn monster?"

"Go about a mile that way." With a graceful sweep of his long arm, he pointed with one finger. "There's a stray dog that lives in the alley behind the grocery store. He can take you to the beast."

"Why don't you show me?" Appraising him, Victoria stepped into the street. To his credit, Silver held his ground. "Better yet, how about helping me kill it?"

"Not my problem, especially not with hunters in the area," he said with a curl of aggression in his voice. "Besides, a wolf doesn't need mere coyotes, does she? You have your pack..."

"It's murdering children."

He stiffened, and his scent soured with anger. "Not my problem."

"Coward." Victoria hissed, exhaling between clenched teeth. Her hair and clothing were drenched, she hadn't eaten in two days, and the lives of children were endangered. She didn't have time for this bullshit.

"I like living."

Disgusted, she turned away from him. In a deliberately scornful tone, she tossed over her shoulder, "Thanks for the help."

"Hey! We aren't through." Silver's volume spiked. His steps splashed through puddles on the pavement as he followed her.

"We're through." She kept walking, hiking in the direction he'd indicated. With any luck, he hadn't lied. The bright spot in the whole awful situation was the moment when the rain finally ceased. Although, it wasn't as if her soaked clothing could get any wetter.

Swift footsteps trailed her. "I can't risk the lives of my people for a bunch of human kids."

"Whatever." She picked up her pace, dropping into a swift run.

Up ahead, she spied a strip mall that had a small food retailer as the anchor store. The market wasn't far from where she'd met June Fraiser's spirit. Ghosts tended to either haunt the scenes of their deaths or an area with powerful emotional significance.

"Rumor has it, Jake Barrett's in town," Silver called out from behind her.

"I know." She dropped to a walk. "We think he's here after the child thief."

"Funny." He scoffed, ratcheting the noise to a full throated laugh. "We figured he was hunting wolves."

Pointedly ignoring him, Victoria looked around. A couple lonely vehicles occupied the otherwise deserted parking lot. Tall lamps cast long streaks of light that stretched across the glistening wet pavement. All the businesses were already closed, and their employees had gone home.

She spun toward Silver. "Is this the right place?"

He rocked back. "Yeah, this is it. You'll find the mutt in the alley around back. He lives behind the dumpsters."

"Thanks for the info." She arched her brow and stared. The unruly tresses concealing his face prevented her from capturing his gaze. When Silver skulked away, a hollow pang of disappointment filled her belly. At the same time, her reaction puzzled her. She wasn't naive. Coyotes had reputations as resilient survivors, not foolhardy heroes.

Following the paved sidewalk, she rounded the corner and entered the alley behind the stores. Posted signs designated the area for deliveries. An eight-foot brick wall lined with steel dumpsters ran the length of the business complex. Despite the recent rainfall, the area smelled like motor oil and rotting garbage.

When she entered the backstreet, a rumbling growl emerged from between two trash bins. Victoria swung toward the sound. Her posture flowed to a predatory stance, prepared and close to the ground. By scent, she identified the source of the sound as another canine.

A big dog emerged from the shadows, menacing her with a constant rumble and bared teeth. His ruff bristled, and he walked stiff-legged. He had the black and tan markings of a Rottweiler, but the shape of his head and body suggested he was a Shepherd mix.

"Hey, boy," Victoria said, adopting a soothing tone. She dropped to a crouch to appear less threatening. The animal was big but posed no real threat to her.

With his ears flattened against his skull, the dog postured and barked furiously at her. He advanced even closer, growling deep in his throat.

"It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you." She extended her hand and stared into his eyes, exerting her influence as Alpha to calm his fear.

Gradually, the dog's anxiety decreased and then ceased altogether. His ears rose to high points, and his stubby tail quivered. He sniffed suspiciously at her proffered fingers and blew moist, hot breath across her skin. When he identified her scent as that of a far more dangerous predator, a tremor traveled the length of his body.

He adopted a submissive posture, so his head sank lower than hers. His tail stump wagged furiously. Whimpering, he crept closer to lick her fingers. Rudimentary empathy flickered between them. Wolves weren't so different from dogs that she couldn't feel his loneliness and hunger.

"There's a good boy. Are you all alone?" Victoria checked his neck and found no collar. She ran her palms over the dog's sides, tracing the indentation of his ribs beneath his mangy coat.

The Rottweiler whined, asking for food.

Victoria's stomach rumbled in sympathy. "You're hungry, aren't you? Poor baby. I'm so sorry I don't have anything for you. It's been a while since I've eaten too. If I survive this, I promise I'll find you something to eat that's not trash."

Cradling the dog's head between her hands, Victoria captured his gaze. She bolstered the delicate empathic connection between them. The magic required caution and precision. She couldn't afford to risk accidentally making a stray mutt a member of her werewolf pack. It could happen if she wasn't careful. The teenagers wouldn't mind, but Sylvie would have fits.

"I'm looking for someone, a monster that hurts children." She whispered, projecting a strong visualization of the child thief across the psychic link. What she lacked in detail, she made up for with other sensory specifics, including the clomping of the beast's footsteps.

Shaking, the dog moaned and pressed closer to her. He returned impressions rather than words. Fear and refusal. His thoughts contained images of a bad place that stank of the sorrow and the terror of children. _Stay away._

"No, I'm going to kill it. Once I'm through with this thing, it won't be able to hurt anyone ever again." She projected cool confidence. Mastery. "Take me to it."

The dog's resistance collapsed. Head held low, he skulked along the alleyway, pausing to glance over his shoulder. The message was clear: _follow._

She stood and trailed the dog. He led her along a circuitous journey through back alleys and side streets to a strip mall a few blocks south of the grocery store. When he halted in front of a business, Victoria also stopped.

"Is this it, boy?" she asked.

The dog answered with a short bark, warning her against danger. She received the strong impression of affirmation, but also fear and concern.

"Thank you." She patted his head, projecting approval. She sensed how badly the dog wanted to leave. She said, "It's okay. You can go now."

The big dog stood rooted in place, tremors wracking his body. Victoria sensed his internal conflict–fear warring with loyalty. His instincts for self-preservation were at odds with his desire to follow and protect her.

A cynical smirk twisted her lips. "I'll take one of you over five coyotes any day." Reaching out, she asserted her will on the dog and commanded him. "Go."

Whimpering, he turned and retreated toward the street.

Examining the store front, Victoria made a mental note of the address. She tilted her head back to read the name of the restaurant: Karp Sum Chinese. The decal of crossed chopsticks over a fortune cookie was etched into the front window. An Out of Business sign hung in the front door.

She tested the front door and found it locked. For a second, she contemplated ripping it off its hinges. A child's life was at stake, so the element of surprise gave her an advantage. She chose stealth over brute force.

Circling around to the rear took her into another alleyway lined with trash bins. She located the back door and was surprised to find it standing ajar. A thin sliver of light shone through the crack.

Before she entered the building, Victoria took out her cell phone, set the device to silent, and returned it to her pocket. Turning sideways, she slid through the narrow opening. Within, she picked up the same musky, ungulate odor she'd smelled at Michael's apartment.

Her stomach growled.

Sighing, Victoria rolled her eyes. She entered a back room filled with crates and boxes stacked atop pallets. Shelves full of assorted containers bore a coating of thick dust. Exposed duct work and pipes covered the ceiling and walls.

Silently, she padded forward, using the stacked pallets as cover. Her nocturnal vision adjusted to the dimness. Her eyes cast a golden glow, illuminating her path. Her hands shifted to claws tipped in wicked nails, and her teeth elongated to sharp canines.

The soft sob of a child drew her onward. She hid behind a large steel drum. The pungent goat-scent permeated the entire area along with the stench of urine and feces. The fetid aroma overwhelmed her sensitive nose. Still, she caught the unmistakable underlying scent.

Human children.

She peered over the edge of the open drum. The container was filled to the rim with black fluid. Curious, she dipped a finger into the liquid and lifted it to her nose for a quick sniff. When she identified it as ink, her face contorted into a grimace of distaste.

Victoria extended her thoughts to Freya. _Goddess, what is this sick bastard?_

_It is an abomination, Priestess._

Four wrought iron cages hung on chains suspended from the ceiling. Three contained small children: two boys and a girl. At a glance, they were between the ages of three and six. Shock hit her in the gut, leaving her winded and paralyzed for precious seconds. A wave of nausea assailed her. The thought that she'd almost refused to come to their rescue appalled her.

The heavy clomp of hooves on concrete alerted her to the monster's location on the far side of the room. A bipedal creature stepped into view. It stood over ten feet in height. A pair of curved horns flared from its skull. Red-rimmed eyes were deep set within its elongated face. It had a broad nose, a small mouth that formed a nasty grin, a bearded chin, and elven ears.

Male genitalia dangled between hairy legs that belonged on an ungulate. Cloven hooves created a distinctive clomp on the concrete. Thanks to Margaret's nightmare, that sound was indelibly burned into Victoria's imagination. As long as she lived, she'd remember the poor girl's absolute terror as the beast approached her bedroom door.

Wiry black fur covered his entire body. A thick mane grew on his head and shoulders, thinning across his sides and arms, only to thicken again upon his thighs. He had a five-fingered hand tipped in razor-sharp nails. A whip-like tail grew from his tailbone, and the beast stood hunched over due to the curvature of his spine.

Hostility vibrated throughout her, and she primed for violence. She hesitated out of fear for the youngsters. She doubted her ability to take on the immense beast in a one-on-one fight and win. The creature outweighed her by hundreds of pounds. If she died here, the knowledge of the goat man's location died with her. She needed help and regretted her decision to send Rand away.

An unexpected wave of fear and panic knocked Victoria off-balance. Gasping, she fell backward. She immediately identified Jasper as the source of the distress. She swallowed an instinctive snarl, instead producing a strangled gurgle in the back of her throat. Her wolf surged to the surface, threatening to burst through her skin.

A second later, Rand's fury roared across the pack bond. Adrenaline surging, Victoria crouched behind the barrel and struggled to regain control. Through an act of willpower, she managed to impose a degree of composure. Scrambling, she headed for the rear entrance, intending to call her pack mates once she reached safety.

Sides heaving, she stepped into the alleyway. A blinding burst of pain slammed her, and she stumbled. _Rand is hurt._ Her shoulder struck the side of the building and kept her from falling. She dug her phone from her pocket, but her hands shook so hard she fumbled. It took her two tries to clear the screen saver. Before Victoria had a chance to dial, the phone's screen lit up with an incoming call from an unknown number.

She answered automatically. "Hello?"

Only silence and the crackle of white noise emerged from the speaker. She started to speak again, when a man's rough voice asked, "Victoria?"

She froze, and her blood ran cold.

_Jake Barrett._

# Chapter Eight

Her grip on the cell phone tightened, knuckles turning white. Twisting, she scanned the area around her but saw no sign of hunters. Surprisingly, she caught a glimpse of the Rottweiler peering at her from the far end of the alley. The dog had defied her command and followed her.

"I know this is your number." Jake's tone conveyed strength and authority.

He sounded so damn much like Victoria's own father that it hurt to hear. She struggled to wrap her dry mouth and tight throat around words. "Is Rand still alive, Barrett?"

"Rand knocked around a couple of my men. Didn't kill anyone. I know him well enough to know he could've." His intonation remained perfectly cool and reasonable. "He took a shotgun blast to the chest. Unfortunately, he took off in a pickup before I got there."

Victoria released a held breath, dissipating awful internal pressure. It went without saying the hunters hadn't been using silver slugs or Rand wouldn't have survived a direct hit. Let alone escaped.

"Why would he attack your men?" Victoria asked even though she instantly supplied her own answer. _Jasper._ Rand must've been defending the teenager.

"That's the crux," Jake said. "I've got your boy."

Fear impaled her heart. Victoria sank to a crouch, kneeling on the wet pavement while her wolf fought to drag her through a full shift. Thunder filled her ears, and she thought the storm had returned until she realized the sound was a growl rumbling deep in her chest.

They spoke simultaneously.

"Barrett, where is Jasper? So help me, if you've hurt him—"

"The boy is unharmed. As long as you do what I say, he'll be fine."

Her grip threatened to crush the phone. Fumbling thanks to her claws, she wedged the phone between her shoulder and jaw. "So, the mighty Hunter King has sunk to taking children hostage?"

Jake's voice thickened with irritation, the first crack thus far in his impenetrable veneer. "I didn't go after the boy. We caught him shadowing us."

"What do you think Daniel would think of you right now?" The snarl never wholly left her throat, so the demand reverberated.

"Don't you dare speak my son's name, _bitch_." His control cracked, betraying smoldering fury.

"I'll tell you, he wouldn't think very highly of you." She ignored his warning. Taunting the man wasn't the smartest thing. Her fear for Jasper drove her to recklessness.

Grinding teeth, a noise like stone on stone, crossed the phone line. He exhaled, and her imagination supplied the image of broad flared nostrils breathing fire. When he spoke, his tone was smooth once again. "My son is dead. Someone has to be held accountable. I expect you to surrender yourself. Once you have, I'll let the boy go."

Fuck. The man terrified her. No matter what Jake Barrett did to her, it couldn't be worse than the suffocating guilt she lived with every day. The weight of her own culpability in Daniel's death crushed her, a feeling verging on self-hatred. Too many people on both sides had already died because of her failure. She would do anything to protect the final surviving members of her pack, including sacrifice herself. Perhaps it was fitting that Jake Barrett should be her judge, jury, and executioner.

"Fine. I'll surrender to you," she said. "I want your word that Jasper and my pack go free without any further retaliation."

"Agreed." A hesitation ensued.

She thought her ready agreement had surprised him. She stepped into the silence before he could continue. "We have another problem."

Jake's volume shot up a couple telling notches. "We do, do we?"

"The monster you're hunting is here."

His voice hardened with suspicion. "What makes you think I'm after anyone other than you?"

The bones in Victoria's hands crunched as she forced her claws to retract. She gnashed her teeth in irritation. "On the street you were surprised to see me."

"Maybe I was surprised you made it so easy."

"Maybe," she shot back. "Maybe you're not interested in killing the murdering bastard. Oh, he's got three little children in cages. No reason that should concern–"

"It's not smart to keep needling me, Victoria."

Victoria's phone lit up with an incoming call from Sylvie. "I've got another call I have to take."

"Don't you dare–"

With a smirk of satisfaction, she put him on hold and accepted the other call. "Hello?"

"Rand's been shot," Sylvie said without preamble. "He got away, but the hunters have Jasper."

"I know." Victoria composed her voice to offer reassurance. "I've got Jake Barrett on the other line."

Sylvie fell into stunned silence. A full thirty seconds passed before she said, "You put Jake Barrett _on_ _hold_?"

"What's he gonna do? Kill me twice?"

"No. He may take his frustration out on you before he does."

Victoria flinched. Sylvie's stinging reminder punctured her bravado and deflated her ego. Her head dipped in shame. The Skald had the right of it. She'd foolishly allowed wrath and pride to get the better of her. She exhaled. "I'm sorry. You're right. Let's make this quick. Is Rand going to be all right?"

"Yes, he's badly hurt, but he'll recover. It'll be hours before he's recovered enough to be of use to you."

"Where are you now?"

"A few miles north of that tire recycling facility."

"I thought you and Paul were supposed to have left town," Victoria said, her tone heavy with irony. "What happened?"

Sylvie's voice lilted. "We stopped for gas."

Despite the direness of the situation, Victoria laughed. "Take everyone and head to Santa Fe. This time, _please_ , do what I ask."

"What about you and Jasper?"

"I'll take care of it."

Sylvie hesitated. "How?"

"Sylvie, please, trust me," Victoria pleaded. She didn't have time to argue or explain. Her newfound leadership style entailed indulging her people's questions. She ran her pack as a democracy with an elected president rather than the autocratic dictatorship of a larger war band.

"Of course, sweetie. Call soon so we don't have to worry."

"Thank you," Victoria said in heartfelt relief and gratitude.

"No, thank you."

They said their goodbyes and concluded the call. Victoria switched back to Jake. The first sound she heard was the rasp of his breath on the line. His impatience and frustration coalesced as a palpable force.

"Let's stop playing games, Barrett," she said. "Are you hunting the child thief or not? I know where it is. It's got three young children in cages. If you're not going to help me kill it, then say so."

Silence ensued. Victoria imagined those thick gray Barrett eyebrows knit into a scowl of consternation. She smirked. The man had devoted his life to hunting and destroying the monsters that preyed on innocents. There was no way he would walk away from this fight.

"Yeah," Jake rumbled. "A friend of mine brought the matter to my attention. It's why I'm here. We've been looking for it for a few days without any solid leads."

"It's enshrouded in some sort of magic," Victoria said. "That makes it difficult to locate." Her supposition was conjecture, but the facts thus far supported the conclusion.

"How'd you manage to locate it then?"

"Deductive reasoning and a keen nose."

He snorted softly. "How did you get pulled into all this?"

"My goddess sent me."

"Of course she did."

The amusement in his voice irritated the crap out of her. Unaccountably, tears welled in her eyes, and her voice cracked. "The first little girl the beast took, her name was Margaret. It murdered her parents, shoved her into a filthy sack, and drowned her in a drum of ink."

Jake growled. The sound was indistinguishable from a wolf's, and if she hadn't known better, she'd have assumed him to be one of her people.

Her anger burned so hot her wolf was about to burst through her self-control. "It murdered her for what?" she asked. "The poor girl was innocent."

"Have you seen it?" He bit the words short.

Victoria drew a deep breath and described the goat-creature to him, going into great detail. His knowledge of the occult was far superior to hers. Her father had once called Jake Barrett a walking, talking encyclopedia of the arcane and obscure.

He cut her off mid-description. "Sounds like a krampus."

"A what? Never heard of it." She shook her head even though he couldn't see her. Her mind was so deep inside the conversation her awareness of the external world faded.

"It's an Old World devil," Jake said, adopting a brisk manner, devoid of animosity or any hint of the bad blood between them. The man possessed an amazing ability to compartmentalize. "Originally from Germany and Austria, but its kind has spread throughout Europe. It's a child thief. It steals children who have been naughty and then punishes them. It feeds on guilt. I've never heard of one in North America before."

"Do you mean 'devil' literally or is that a figure of speech?" Victoria adjusted her stance, flexing her knees to stop them from cramping.

"It's complicated."

She scowled. His evasion sounded like a total... hedge. They'd attained a degree of concordance though, a certain unity of purpose she was loath to disrupt. Besides, what ultimately mattered wasn't what it was, but rather how to destroy it.

"Does it have any weaknesses?"

"Not like your people do to silver."

She winced at the pointed reminder. "How do I kill it?"

"Tell me where you are," Jake said. "I'll kill it."

His vicious conviction sent chills coursing along her spine. She absolutely believed that he'd do as he said. The man had a reputation as a ruthless killer who possessed powerful magic. He demolished any and all obstacles in his path. He never failed.

She gave him the address.

"Wait until I get there," Jake said in an unmistakably autocratic tone.

Her brow drew together. Under the best of circumstance, Victoria disliked being told what to do. Being ordered about by her enemy didn't sit well. "I'll think about it–"

Loud barking erupted from the far side of the alley. Startled, Victoria looked toward the sound and lowered the phone. The Rottweiler stood at the end of the building. His posture bristled with aggression.

"What's wrong, boy?"

"What's happening?" Jake asked.

She took a breath and caught the musky scent of goat. Her panic spiked as cloven hooves clattered on the pavement behind her. Snarling, she twisted and looked up in time to see a huge fist launching straight at her.

The krampus walloped her face. The bones in her nose crunched like crushed potato chips, detonating pain inside her skull. The blow knocked her over, and the phone went flying. She crashed to the ground and landed in a heap on the pavement.

Head swimming, she rolled and attempted to stand. The whole world tilted at a crazy angle, and she followed it sideways. Hooves clomped toward her. Vision blurred, she stumbled, walking on the side of her feet.

The Rottweiler's furious barking rushed closer. He growled. A heavy thud, and then the dog released a high-pitched, piteous yelp. He made no further sounds.

"No." Victoria's heart wrenched for the poor dog. A sorrowful moan tore from her throat. Why hadn't he obeyed her?

Clomping again, moving closer. Scrambling, she shook her head. Her sight cleared enough for her to make out the beast's enormous form which loomed over her. A growl rumbled in her throat. She swung but missed, so her fist whizzed through empty air.

The krampus swooped in closer. His fist slammed into the side of her head.

The world went black.

# Chapter Nine

The throbbing in her head obliterated her ability to think. The pain became an excruciating pressure inside her skull that built and built. She moved with care, fearful the smallest movement would upset a delicate balance and burst her eyeballs. Groaning, Victoria pried open one eyelid to discover her body folded into a pretzel–her head bent forward, her knees jammed against her chest.

Cold iron bars crushed her on all sides. The confining cage was the right size to hold a child. She had no room to stand or maneuver. Thanks to her accelerated regeneration, her broken nose had already returned to its normal shape. The persistent headache told her not much time had passed. She healed fast.

As she raised her head, the bony fingers of a cramp dug into her neck. A soft moan tore from her throat. Ignoring the pain, she struggled to rearrange her limbs. Eventually, she achieved a more comfortable position on her knees. She checked her pockets and confirmed her cell phone had been lost in the alley.

Victoria occupied the last cage, formerly empty, in the row of four. About ten feet away, she spotted a workbench laden with sharp implements: knives, pokers, and even a pitch fork. Another steel drum full of ink stood beside the table. She didn't see the krampus.

To one side, a boy with a tear-streaked face watched her. The child stank of urine and feces. Her stomach heaved. She tried to keep all hints of anger from her face, lest she scare him. The boy's eyes were bloodshot, and chunks of dried snot clung to his skin. Even in his unkempt state, he looked like his mother.

"Are you Michael?" Victoria kept her voice soft.

Eyes widening, he stared at her and nodded. "How did you know?"

"Your mother is watching over you." Victoria wedged her fingers into the front pocket of her blue jeans and fished out the fire truck she had taken from the apartment. Twisting her arm, she pushed her hand through the bars and stretched far enough to offer Michael the toy.

After a moment's hesitation, he reached out his hand and took it from her. "The monster is going to kill me next," he said, staring at the truck. "It's already killed two other kids."

In the other two occupied cages, a male and a female watched them with wide, fearful eyes. The little girl looked about five years old. She pointed toward the drums full of black ink and spoke in a trembling voice. "The monster made them drown."

Victoria gagged on rage, hot fury blinding her reason. The children's fear evoked the protective instincts of her she-wolf. Her humanity dangled on a fragile thread. She clung to her self-control with stubborn determination and resisted the reflex to transform into a wolf. The last thing she wanted was to frighten the youngsters more.

Extending his slender arm between the bars, Michael turned his hand over, allowing the toy to fall from his grasp. He looked up to meet her puzzled gaze. "I stole it," he said with tears in his eyes. "I knew stealing was wrong, but I wanted a new toy. My mom's dead 'cause I'm bad. I deserve to be punished. The monster said so..."

Victoria's chest hurt from the effort of holding back a furious growl. Tears stung her eyes. Panting, she managed a semblance of calm. "It's a liar. Listen to me, Michael. It's a liar. You haven't done anything bad enough to deserve _this_."

"I'm scared." Lips trembling, he stared at her. Tears spilled down his cheeks.

"It's not going to hurt you. I'm going to kill it. I promise." She gripped the bars of the cage and tested their strength. The iron held, but her struggle sent her prison to rocking crazily on its chain.

Attracted by the sound of their voices, the krampus returned on clomping hooves. Tail lashing, he paused, and his attention centered upon Victoria's swinging cage. His red-rimmed eyes narrowed in clear annoyance. He had a dark aura, black at the center, tinted with dark red about the edges. With mincing steps, he approached her enclosure.

"You cannot escape," the krampus said in a lovely, flute-like voice. "The bars are enchanted."

Victoria scented doubt and desire emanating from him. She locked gazes with him and sneered. "It's easy to act brave while I'm behind these bars. The truth is you're a coward. A child thief who preys on innocents. Come here and see if you can handle someone who's not afraid of you, goat boy."

His eyes narrowed, and his tone grew angry. "Coward, I am not. It is my appointed task to punish wicked children. I am Krampus, the Yuletide Lord. The son of the Goddess Hel, descended of Loki the Trickster."

The krampus reached for her cage and caught the bars on either side. His hands were leathery, the backs covered in thick fur. His pointed nails clinked on the metal. He lowered his head so they faced each other. "My belly aches."

So did hers. A great, yawning emptiness. She craved goat with a ravenous hunger that made her mouth water. The closer he came, the more the beast smelled like prey.

"You eat guilt?" Victoria asked, seeking affirmation of what Jake Barrett had told her. The concept of a monster that fed on emotions struck her as preposterous. Easier said than believed... She stifled an inane giggle.

...thought the skeptical werewolf.

"Sin. Shame. Misery." His giggle embodied pure wickedness. He whispered to her in that honeyed falsetto. "My desire is for sweet children, my usual feast. Your guilt, so delicious, calls to me."

"You want me? Come and get me." Victoria beckoned with a provocative come-hither smile that disguised her disgust. She summoned her magic, allowing it to spill across her skin and spread, a sparking golden glow. As Freya's priestess, she understood passion. The krampus craved guilt, so she offered hers readily. She wallowed in the suffocating mire, offering up her shame and pain over Daniel's death as a sumptuous meal.

The krampus's pupils dilated. His mouth gaped, and he paused. "Do not know what you are. Stench like wet dog."

His hesitation worried her. She needed him to open the cage. Stifling panic, she focused on the awful self-recrimination she harbored in her heart. "Does it matter what I am?" she asked in a sultry voice. "Can't you sense how the guilt eats at me?"

"Yesss..." he hissed. A thick ruby-red tongue slid past his lips and flicked against the iron bars. Arousal turned his scent pungent. "I shall suck your soul, drain you dry. You shall sustain me for a long, long time."

With clumsy eagerness, he fumbled with the lock of her cage. It took him three tries to work the elaborate mechanism. The doors swung on concealed hinges and parted wide to either side. At last, she understood how her captor had gotten her into the confined space in the first place.

"I'm so tempting. Irresistible," she teased. Muscles rippled beneath her skin, her wolf straining to burst free of the confines of her human skin.

" Yesss..." His rough hands closed on her forearms. Sulfuric breath filled her nostrils, and she gagged, tasting bile in the back of her throat. In counterpoint to her nausea, her stomach growled. An immense aching emptiness in her sides.

His beaked nose thrust into her face, and she resisted the urge to bite off the bulbous tip. With an effort, Victoria stayed passive while he dragged her from the kennel. The children's whimpers and sobs were hardest to ignore. She had to make sure she was safely clear of the young ones before she acted.

"Show me how your lover died." With her dangling from his grasp, the krampus straightened to his full height.

Shocked, she gasped. "How the hell do you know–"

"I know all about your sins," he said, cackling.

Their eyes locked, and a crude psychic tendril invaded her mind, burrowing deep, seeking her guilt. Caught off-guard, Victoria reeled under the unexpected assault. The beast before her vanished, and Daniel took his place. Reality fractured, blurred at the edges, and reformed.

Early December. She and Daniel had cleared out a nest of vampires from an abandoned gas station in the desert outside Phoenix. The building was little more than four walls supporting a rickety roof. All the windows were shattered. Broken fragments of glass littered the dirty floors. Looters had long ago taken anything worth having.

Daniel insisted on making a final sweep of the area. The prospect of spending more time with him pleased her, so she humored him.

"It's high noon. All of the vamps are gonna be in the ground. What exactly are you expecting to find?" Wielding a machete, Victoria assumed the lead. Broken glass crunched beneath her athletic shoes as she inspected rows of toppled shelving.

"You can never be too careful." Daniel offered her a cheeky grin. Then he changed the subject. "I have two weeks of vacation coming up over Christmas and the New Year..."

She stopped and swiveled to face him. His edgy stance and the charged streaks of aggression in his aura hinted that he was up to something. Her tension fed on his. "Do you have big plans?"

His even teeth slashed in a confident smile. "Cabo San Lucas, baby. Two weeks of sun and sand."

Her heart skipped. It took all her self-control not to squeal or jump up and down in excitement. She arched her brow. "You can have sun and sand in Arizona."

He grinned. "And surf."

She huffed. He had her there.

His chocolate brown eyes pinned her with determined intensity, stealing her breath. "Come with me."

Unaccountably, she flushed and immediately felt ridiculous. They'd been lovers for almost a year. The man shouldn't be capable of reducing her to a stammering school girl. He might be a renowned hunter, but she was the daughter of Alpha wolves.

"I can't." She replied more brusquely than she liked and turned away to conceal her turmoil. More than anything, she wanted to cast off her responsibilities and run away with him. But she had obligations...

"Victoria." Daniel caught her wrist.

Behind her, a whip-like crack split the air. Daniel gurgled.

Jolted, Victoria spun. Her horrified mind registered the expression of absolute shock on Daniel's face. A serpentine length of muscle covered in barbs coiled about his throat, the hooks digging into his soft flesh. Blood flowed in a steady stream from his torn jugular.

He used both hands to pry the thing from his throat, and the bleeding sped. Bright red. Frantic, she reached for him, summoning her healing magic, but it was too little and too late to do any good.

In a matter of seconds, Daniel died in her arms. Wicked laughter danced around her, and she registered the macabre visage of a vampire. With a distant shock, she realized the barbed tentacle of flesh that had killed her lover was the thing's _tongue_.

A twisted alien thought filled her mind. _His death is your fault._

"Yes." Victoria blinked back tears. She vividly recalled that monster's fucking tongue and how desperately she wished for a do-over. Given the opportunity, she would rip it out by the root.

The devil in her mind giggled. _You failed to protect him._

Her wolf rumbled in anger. Victoria closed her eyes and then opened them again. The world around her flickered, and the krampus's beastly visage returned.

"Show me his death again." A thick ruby tongue snaked from the corner of his mouth and approached her face with a sinuous motion. The tip slapped against her cheek and licked toward her mouth. A trail of hot saliva trickled down her face.

A furious growl rumbled deep in her throat. She jerked her head to the side and allowed her wolf its freedom. The transformation burst over her with excruciating swiftness. Stretching her skin taut, the bones of her face distended and pushed into an elongated muzzle.

Snapping jaws, glistening canines.

In a blink, she caught the krampus's tongue between her teeth and bit clean through the offending appendage. Hot blood filled her mouth, and she swallowed the chunk of flesh whole. The meal hit her empty stomach as welcome warmth. Her sides clenched. She craved more.

Howling in agony, the krampus thrust her away. His bleeding tongue whipped back into his mouth, and his hand flew to cover the injury. She clung, digging her claws deep into his muscular arms and leaving bloody rents. Her jaws closed on his shoulder. He tasted like goat too. Salivating, she ripped another chunk of meat free and swallowed it whole. The arm meat was too sinewy, but she didn't mind. Goodness hit her stomach. Her first decent meal in a week.

She could acquire a taste for goat meat.

Backing away, he dragged her across the room. Victoria continued her transformation into a wolf, acquiring both height and weight. Bones broke and reformed. Her entire body underwent painful contortions as her torso and limbs lengthened and thickened. Her clothing stretched and then split. Her feet tore through her shoes. The remnants of fabric fell away, leaving her covered in snow-white fur.

In their cages, the children shrieked and sobbed in terror. She regretted frightening them further, but it couldn't be helped. She halted the change midway. Her bipedal form resembled the classic movie wolfman. The shape allowed her to use her wolf's strength and natural weaponry. She also retained the use of her hands and rudimentary speech.

The krampus stared at her in open astonishment. "What are you?"

Victoria smiled, displaying all her glistening white teeth. Saliva dripped from the tips. "The big bad wolf, come to gobble you up, Billy Goat Gruff."

A girl's scream rent the air. Her instincts to protect the youngsters kicked in, and she reflexively turned toward the sound. The fight had brought them perilously close to the cages, putting the children in peril. Bracing, she tugged on the devil and attempted to drag him away from the cages. He outweighed her by a lot, so she only moved him a few feet.

Bellowing, the krampus snarled and raked her, sharp nails gouging her arm. Despite her transformation, he was several feet taller than her. Taking advantage of the difference, he yanked her off her feet. He swung her around and slammed her into the closest wall.

Her side took the brunt of the brutal impact. Ribs snapped. The searing pain weakened her grip enough to allow the krampus to rip free. Grasping her leg, he hefted her overhead and spun her before letting go. Her shoulders and upper back collided with a wall of shelves. Victoria crashed to the floor amidst falling boxes and containers and lay in a stunned heap. A fog of pain enveloped her head.

A hoof rang on concrete. It struck once. Twice.

Victoria twisted and looked up just as the krampus lowered his head, preparing to charge. Those wicked-looking horns aimed straight at her. A startled _oh-shit_ yelp escaped her. Adrenaline surging, she ignored her body's pained protest and rolled upright. Crouched on all fours, she readied to dodge.

His breath heaved with the power of a train engine, and the krampus charged straight at her. His hooves clattered like thunder, reverberating in the small room. Victoria waited until the last possible second and then stepped aside with a deft twist.

As she darted past, Victoria delivered a quick bite to his hindquarters. She aimed for his hamstrings, hoping to cripple him. She missed the vital tendons. Instead, her mouth closed on his hock and ripped a hunk free. Her mouth filled with raw flesh and hot blood. The thigh meat was tastier than his arms, rich but gamey. She swallowed the mouthful in a single gulp and went back for another bite, only to discover he'd already passed her. Her jaws closed on empty air.

Running at full speed, the krampus slammed into the same wall she had struck a minute before. The remaining intact shelves came crashing down. Remarkably, he remained upright, although the collision clearly disoriented him.

A burst of excited snarls and barks escaped her throat. Victoria leapt straight up and landed upon the devil's trunk. Her snapping jaws drove toward his throat. While he rose, she secured a bite hold and sank her teeth into the heavily-muscled flesh about his jugular. She pressed her body against his chest. Determined to hang on, she wrapped her limbs about his barrel torso and dug into his back with her claws.

The krampus roared and charged into another set of shelves. More debris rained about them. Clinging close, she nimbly avoided another blow. His failure to dislodge her added fervor to his escape attempts. They ran and twisted, colliding with pallets and knocking over a drum. Black fluid spilled everywhere, coating the floor. The moans and sobs of the imprisoned children edged her awareness. The entire time, her jaws remained locked on his throat, constricting his air supply. Inevitably, strangulation would weaken him enough so she could deal the death blow.

Panting for breath, the krampus ground to a halt and collapsed onto his knees. Victoria's feet finally touched the ground again. In a final act of desperation, he turned his great strength against her. His wickedly sharp nails raked her back. Her head swam with pain, and red clouded her vision.

The krampus sought softer flesh and positioned his hands just below her ribcage. He dug in with his nails, attempting to disembowel her. In self-defense, Victoria loosened her hold on his chest and blocked him with her elbows. She braced in anticipation of the crippling pain of a gut injury. Her jaws remained locked on his throat. She hung on with pit bull determination.

She'd sooner die than let go.

# Chapter Ten

"They're over here!" a man's voice shouted. Heavy footsteps pounded, announcing their approach.

The hunters had arrived.

A distant note of hope edged her awareness, but it was far too soon to relax. Locked in a contest of pure strength versus strength, Victoria wrestled with the krampus,. She strained to gain the upper hand, but the beast was stronger than her. The exertion wrung a pained groan from the she-wolf. Her muscles burned, and her injuries ached.

When Jake Barrett and Skinner entered the area, relief flooded her. She'd never been so damn happy to see an enemy in her entire life.

"Victoria, let go on my mark," Jake ordered with the authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed. Hefting a heavy chain, the hunter attacked the krampus from the rear. He dropped the length over the beast's head.

At the same moment, Victoria opened her jaws and dropped to the floor. She landed flat on her back. Momentarily freed, the krampus swallowed a huge draught of fresh air. He lurched, and one of his hooves struck her elbow. A painful jolt shot through the joint.

The hunter secured another loop of chain about the beast's throat. Strangled again, the krampus bucked, trying to throw Jake from his back.

Growling, Victoria rolled away to avoid being trampled. Over the krampus's head, she shot Jake a nasty glare. "You're late."

The Hunter King's grimace bore a powerful resemblance to a grin. The muscles in his arms and shoulders bulged as he hauled back on the chains. The dagger tattoo on his forearm glowed red hot, pulsating as though impatient to taste blood.

She couldn't understand why he hadn't drawn it.

"You started without me," Jake said.

"I got bored." Victoria circled the krampus, watching for an opening. The chain pricked her curiosity. She wondered why they were trying to capture it. Why hadn't they just killed it?

Taking up the slack in the chain, Jake tossed one end to Skinner. Working together, the men tightened the noose taut about the krampus's throat. Bellowing his rage, the krampus surged to his feet with renewed resistance.

"Over the pipes!" Jake tossed his length of chain into the air and over the exposed piping mounted to the ceiling. As soon as the ligature dropped, he grabbed the end and applied his entire weight as an anchor.

"Got it!" Skinner heaved his end of the chain toward the ceiling, but his throw fell short. His side of the restraint went slack.

Head lowered, the krampus swung toward Skinner. His horn caught the human in the shoulder. The pointed end punched clean through, and the tip appeared out the hunter's back. A terrible shout tore from him, and he grabbed the horn at the base with both hands.

Jake hauled the chain in an attempt to control the beast. For a second, the additional leverage allowed him to restrain the krampus on his own. Then the chain links slid on the pipe, and the loose end rose.

The krampus reared to his full height, hefting the injured hunter on his horn. A shake of his massive head sent Skinner careening through the air. The thrown man smacked into the far wall and slid to the floor.

"Skinner!" Jake circled, attempting to reach his friend's side, but the krampus stood between them. At long last, the Hunter King drew his magical dagger. The tattoo weapon vanished from his forearm and appeared in his hand.

Unwilling to be left out of the fight, Victoria flanked the krampus's other side, seeking an opening. With that weapon in Jake's hand, she preferred not to get too close. The damn thing sent shivers down her spine. Legend said the weapon couldn't be sheathed until Jake had taken a life.

She'd asked Daniel about it once. He'd laughed. _ "I asked the same thing when I was six. All dad did was smile."_

Twisting and shoving, the beast shrugged off the chain about his neck. Lowering his head, the krampus brandished his horns and stomped his hooves. He menaced another charge. Hot breath flew from flared nostrils. Blood soaked the wiry black hair of his massive chest and hock where she'd bitten. Despite the injuries, the creature presented a formidable threat.

She wanted to kill the krampus so bad she could taste it.

Roaring, she rushed toward him. The krampus swung toward her voice. She took three running steps and leapt straight at the beast's head. With both hands, she caught hold of his horns and used her strength to force his head down.

Snorting, the krampus jerked away from her. His back hit the wall, and for once the close quarters worked to her advantage. While the beast thrashed from side to side, she held on for all she was worth. One of his horns was slick with blood, making it difficult to keep a good grip. A steady snarl reverberated in her throat, escaping in bursts as she panted for breath.

Jake rushed in, his burning dagger held aloft.

"Kill it." Victoria grated from the side of her mouth. She pulled on his horns to straighten his neck and strove to hold him steady.

"With pleasure." Jake brought the knife overhead in a wide arc. The molten blade struck the back of the devil's neck and cleaved through the spine. The blow severed the backbone, exposing muscle and bone, but failed to decapitate the beast. Blood poured from the wound. The sound of sizzling accompanied the odor of burnt flesh.

Caught in his death throes, the krampus wailed and lurched to the side. Victoria kept him upright. The scent of fresh meat flooded her nostrils, tempting her wolf. Her mouth watered, and hunger clawed at her sides. Through an act of will, she quashed the impulse to fall on the dying beast and gorge.

Jake grunted and yanked his blade free of the beast's back. When he swung the knife again, an arc of blood sprayed from the blade. The weapon hit straight on the mark and sliced clean through the krampus's neck. The body dropped to the floor, leaving Victoria holding the head by the horns. A fountain of blood flowed from the body, forming a puddle. The dark red fluid saturated the white fur of her feet.

Tilting her head, Victoria looked down into the krampus's face. Red-rimmed eyes bright with malice stared up at her and then dimmed to black coals. Her mouth curled into a sneer of disgust. She opened her hands and drop-kicked the head, sending it flying across the room.

Abruptly, her awareness of her injuries hit her like a freight train. Panting, she dropped to a crouch and sat on her heels. Oh, how she hurt. Even with her accelerated healing, it promised to be hours before she felt one-hundred percent again.

Gritting her teeth, she initiated the painful change from her half-wolf form to human. Her face and hands returned to normal first, then the rest of her followed. Her fur retracted into her flesh. Bones snapped and knit. Transformation sped her healing, repairing some but not all the damage.

Fully human, she knelt naked in the pool of krampus blood. She looked up and found Jake Barrett standing over her, the burning dagger poised. As their gazes met, his hand clenched about the hilt. Muscles rippled beneath his scarred skin and traveled the length of his arm. In that moment, she fully expected the blade to descend and take her head.

Daniel had inherited his brown eyes from his father. Jake's had crow's feet at the corners, and his soul was infinitely more cynical. His face set in a stoic mask, but his discipline had cracks. She read the hesitation, the temptation, as he wrestled with the instinct to kill her.

"You're not afraid of death," Jake said.

"No, why should I be? My soul belongs to Freya." Victoria's first death had been the result of combat, in service to her goddess, who had returned her to life to serve as Valkyrie.

A tug pulled on the corner of his mouth. Those ferocious eyes burned. "You should be afraid of me."

"Oh, I am." The man terrified her, but she refused to be cowed. She tilted her head to the side, exposing her throat. Her tone turned taunting and provocative. "Kill me and you'll never have your answers about how Daniel died."

Suffering distorted Jake's face, and his mouth contorted into a grimace. "Our deal stands. On your honor."

"On my honor." Victoria agreed without hesitation. "When Jasper and my pack go free, I'll surrender my life to you."

"I asked for answers," he said sourly. A severe expression replaced his agony, and he gave a curt nod. The burning dagger vanished from his hand. The tattoo appeared on his arm. "Agreed."

His choice of words gave her the faintest hope. Maybe he'd actually allow her to explain about Daniel's death. At the same time, she rejected the possibility. Listening and granting clemency were two separate things. How could she ask Jake Barrett to show her mercy when she couldn't forgive herself?

Victoria straightened and stepped out of the puddle. Her bare feet left bloody tracks on the concrete. Her nudity caused her no shame or embarrassment. Few shifters were shy.

Jake averted his eyes. Without a word, he removed his shirt and tossed it to her. "Here."

Swallowing a snicker, Victoria caught the garment out of the air and pulled it over her head. The cloth was damp with perspiration and smelled like Jake Barrett. The hem hung past her knees, but it was better than nothing.

Across the room, Skinner moaned.

Victoria and Jake turned in unison toward the injured man. The fallen hunter struggled to sit upright. Sweat glistened on his brown skin, and blood stained the front of his torn shirt.

Jake rushed to his friend, dropped to one knee, and placed a hand on Skinner's uninjured shoulder. "You're injured."

Grunting, Skinner persisted. "No shit, Sherlock."

"This ain't the time. Stay down." Leaning over, Jake made his point by pinning the injured man.

Skinner offered brief, fierce resistance. Then he collapsed, cursing up a storm.

Across the room, Victoria hesitated, torn between offering to help and keeping a safe distance. As a nurse and a healer, her instincts called her to tend to the injured. Common sense kept her silent. The hunter was her enemy. She owed him nothing.

Instead, she hurried to the imprisoned children. Michael and the girl were bravely quiet. Piteous sobs wracked the smallest of the three, a little boy who appeared to be about three. If these were the same abducted children mentioned in the newspaper article, then the girl's name was Crystal. The youngest boy should be Vincent.

"Is it dead?" Michael asked.

"Yes, it's dead," Victoria assured him. "Give me a sec, and I'll get you out of there." She stopped, staring up. Ceiling-mounted chains supported the cages, placing the locks well out of her reach. A burst of annoyance washed over her, and she swallowed a word inappropriate for young ears.

"Stand on a barrel," Michael said.

Victoria's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "Good idea." She grabbed the empty steel drum that had been tipped over during the fight and dragged it toward the enclosures. Once she stood it on end, it served as an excellent makeshift ladder.

She positioned it before Michael's cage first. Victoria fumbled with the locking mechanism which involved interlocking tumblers and finger placement. After a few minutes, she got the correct combination. The lock snapped open, and she pulled the doors wide.

With a cry, Michael flew into her open arms. She hugged the small boy close and stroked the back of his head. He stank of filth and fear, but she didn't care. "Shh, it's okay, Michael. Your mother loves you. She sent me to save you."

"My mother is dead," Michael said. "I saw the monster kill her."

"Her spirit is watching over you." Victoria lowered him to the ground. "No matter what happens, always remember that, okay?"

The child nodded. "I know."

"Hang tight, buddy. I'm going to get the other kids free, okay?"

Michael dipped his chin. "I'll be okay."

Victoria's heart ached for him. The poor boy had no living family to return home to. He would probably wind up as a ward of the state and faced placement in foster care. She wished there were something more she could do for him, but it was out of her hands. She already had more people depending on her than she could protect.

"What's your name, sweetie?" Victoria freed the little girl next and lowered her gently to the ground. The child's glassy eyes worried her.

The girl's stare remained blank for a long moment, then she blinked and said, "Crystal."

"Crystal, stay with Michael. You're going to be okay."

Unbidden, Michael approached and took Crystal's hand in his own, freeing Victoria to deal with the final cage. Opening the doors, she pulled out a boy no older than three. "Vincent, let me help you out of there."

The little one sobbed and clung to her but never spoke a word. Cradling the toddler against her chest, Victoria jumped down from the barrel. She landed squarely on both feet.

Movement caught her peripheral vision. Victoria turned and found Jake standing close–too close for comfort. Clutching the boy tighter, she took a quick step backward. The hunter possessed uncanny stealth, another trait he shared with his son. Few people were able to sneak up on her.

The man's features remained set in an unreadable mask. He studied the boy in her arms and then his gaze swept over the other two children. Michael and Crystal held hands, clinging to each other. Jake's clenched hands betrayed his inner turmoil, alluding to a tightly constrained anger.

Victoria perceived sympathy and horror in his familiar brown eyes. For about the hundredth time, she reminded herself that he was the enemy, no longer her ally. She moved closer to the children and hovered protectively over them. Stepping forward, she laid her hand upon Michael's shoulder.

Jake's gaze strayed to the cages, and his horror intensified. Upon seeing the conditions the children had been kept in, he swore, "Son of a—"

"Language!" Her blue eyes narrowed, and she shot him a warning look over the top of the toddler's head. Her breath hissed between her teeth.

"Beach," Jake finished lamely. Despite his reputation as a merciless killer, the hunter had a sense of decency.

She smiled. Daniel's compassion and humanity were one of the things she'd loved best... _Shit._ She squeezed her eyes closed against a sudden onslaught of sorrow. She really needed to get a fucking grip and stop comparing Jake Barrett to his dead son.

"We need to get the children out of here," Victoria said, casting a glance toward the krampus's decapitated body. Where had that head gone?

"I agree." Jake spread his arms, herding Michael and Crystal before him. "Take them outside and tell them to wait. Then come back in. Skinner's hurt pretty bad. I've stopped the bleeding and stabilized him for the moment, but he needs a healer."

Victoria's expression hardened. "Why the hell would I heal him?"

Jake's jaw worked. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "It'll go easier on you if you cooperate. Skinner is my best man, and I owe him. One way or another, you're going to help him."

Victoria's heart palpitated. Shit. His lack of intonation scared her worse than any amount of shouting could have. How did the man manage to pack so much threat into such a monotone statement? At the same time, she found his choice of words interesting. Why was Skinner his best man, and not his second son, Sawyer?

She stared at her enemy. She actually preferred to help over allowing a man to die, though it wasn't like he was offering her many options. She shrugged. "Fine, I'll do what I can."

"You do that."

Victoria offered Michael her hand and addressed the children, "I want you all to close your eyes. I'll lead you outside."

Michael's gaze darted toward the decapitated corpse they had to pass on their way out. His throat worked as he swallowed. His scent was thick with fear, but he held fast to his courage. He accepted Victoria's hand and clung to Crystal.

"Okay," Michael said. "Let's go."

Victoria's heart swelled with fierce pride at his courage. The children closed their eyes. They continued to hold hands while she escorted them into the alley. A black SUV, presumably Jake's, was parked just outside the rear entrance. She located her mobile phone on the ground, stooped to pick it up, and started to slip it into a pocket. Only to realize she wasn't wearing jeans. Sighing, she settled for holding it.

"I need for you to wait here. I have to go back inside because a man is hurt." Bending, Victoria passed the toddler to Crystal. The girl sat on the ground with her back against the wall and hugged the boy.

The kids stared at her with fearful round eyes. Michael said, "Don't leave us alone."

Victoria sighed and searched for the right words. If Jake was right about Skinner's condition, she didn't have much time. Yet, she was loath to rush off and leave the children unprotected.

An anxiety-ridden bark interrupted whatever she'd been about to say. Startled, Victoria scanned the alley. Blessed relief filled her when she spotted the Rottweiler crouched between two trash bins. She'd thought the krampus had killed him. She whistled softly and patted her knee, issuing a summons.

The Rottweiler whimpered. He rose and trotted forward, his head and tail lowered in a show of submission. The children regarded the animal with open curiosity and no fear. Victoria extended her hand, and the dog pushed his muzzle into her palm, licking her fingers.

She caressed the dog's soft ears and leaned forward to whisper to him. "You're to stay with these children and protect them. Do you understand?"

The dog's stubby tail wagged. Lifting her hand, Victoria urged the youngsters closer so they could touch him. "Michael, this is my friend. Go ahead and pet him."

Michael hesitated, staring suspiciously at the dog. The other two children huddled behind him. His shaking hand rose slightly. "What's his name?"

"He doesn't have one. He doesn't have an owner." A situation she desperately hoped was about to change. The dog and the boy both needed someone.

"I've always wanted a dog." Michael was the first to approach, extending a nervous hand to stroke the Rottweiler's head. The dog's stubby tail wagged furiously, and the boy's confidence soared.

"See, he likes you," Victoria murmured.

Within seconds, a smile blossomed on Michael's face. "I'm going to call him Rascal."

Her throat closed, and her heart ached. Her voice emerged as a dry rasp. "That's a good name."

The other two children followed his lead, and soon enough all three kids were crowded around the dog. She waited for a couple moments while they became acquainted.

"I have to go inside," she said again. "But Rascal is going to watch over you. Will that be okay?"

Michael looked up and squared his shoulders. "We'll be okay."

She took a couple of steps, then hesitated. "I'll be right inside if you need me."

The boy looked at her. "Go on," he said, putting his forehead against the dog's. "I've got this."

Grinning, she turned back and almost walked straight into the mountain that was Jake Barrett. Eyes flashing, she pulled up. "Stop doing that!"

He chuckled. "Pay more attention. Where did the mutt come from?"

"The 'mutt' helped me find this place. Without him, we couldn't have rescued the children." Victoria's tone slipped toward testy. She disliked the implied slur against the dog.

A grunt served as Jake's reply.

Her impatience ratcheted another notch higher. Didn't the man have even the remotest sense of urgency? It was his injured friend, not hers, who awaited their return.

He cleared his throat. "I got to thinking. The little ones shouldn't have to sit on wet pavement in the cold. They can wait in my car."

"Oh." She huffed. His thoughtfulness took the wind right out of her sails. Under the pretext of helping Crystal and the toddler to rise, Victoria averted her gaze. Jake opened the rear door, and they placed the two children into the back seat.

"Michael, come on." Victoria beckoned to the boy.

Michael's arms tightened about the dog's neck. "Not without Rascal."

A pleased smile tugged at her lips. She did her best to hide her smirk and failed in a spectacular way. She looked to Jake, one eyebrow arched in a silent question. Michael also turned his attention to the hunter.

"Damn mutt probably has fleas." Grumbling, Jake assisted Michael and the dog into the backseat and closed the door. He circled to the back and opened the tailgate. When he returned, he had on a fresh shirt.

She experienced a twinge of envy and wished she'd had the sense to bring a change of clothing. Typically, she had a go-bag for the occasions when she would have to shift. But in the excitement, the duffle had gotten left in the back of the pickup truck.

Jake addressed Victoria. "Let's get back inside."

She nodded and led the way.

# Chapter Eleven

Skinner lay on his back atop a wooden pallet that got him off the wet concrete floor. A wadded leather jacket pillowed his head, and the discarded remains of a small first aid kit littered the area.

At a glance, Skinner appeared to be unconscious. Probably in shock. Victoria knelt beside him to confirm, checking his vitals. His breathing was shallow and his complexion pallid due to blood loss . His heart labored in his chest, each beat a valiant struggle for life.

"You did a decent patch job," she said, inspecting the injury. Gauze bandages swathed the hunter's shoulder.

"I've had a lot of practice," Jake said grimly. He knelt beside his friend. His tone reminded her that the hunters didn't have healers. They relied on traditional medicine. Their dangerous chosen profession made them no strangers to injury and death.

She nodded absently and peeled away the wrappings. Her hands were steady even though she inwardly balked at the filthy conditions. The busy work settled her anxiety and provided a convenient, albeit short-lived, reprieve. She faced a dilemma. As a rule, her people did _not_ use their gifts to benefit outsiders.

Composing her thoughts, she opened herself in prayer. She reached for a spiritual connection with her goddess. _My Lady? I need you. I have a big problem._

Freya's warmth touched her. _I've been watching._

_Any advice?_ Victoria removed the last of the bindings.

_Do you want advice or approval, Priestess?_

"Either," Victoria muttered. "Both."

Across from her, Jake Barrett frowned. Those penetrating eyes locked on her face, and the man gave the impression of uncanny awareness. As if he could hear their entire conversation.

Spooked, Victoria shuddered and dismissed the possibility. Her overactive imagination always got the better of her. Mouth open, Victoria lowered her face closer to Skinner's shoulder and inhaled his scent. Her wolf surfaced. Golden light spilled from her eyes, but her transformation progressed no further.

Bracing, she summoned her healing magic. A soft halo emanated from her palms. The moment her fingers touched his bare skin, Skinner's life pattern lit up. She perceived the lacerations to flesh and muscle, internal bleeding, and shattered bones. He had lost an enormous amount of blood, and his body was in shock.

"He's dying." Her mouth turned down at the corners. "I'm not sure I can save him."

"I once saw your mother heal a man who'd been all but cut in half," Jake said. "She brought your father back from the dead."

Victoria cut him off. "I'm not my mother. My skills as a healer are minimal. I can mend cuts and bruises—"

"You help him!" Jake's eyes narrowed, and his fists rose even as his volume dropped to a dangerous low. He left the _or else_ hanging, but the implied threat was clear.

Distressed, Victoria reached again for Freya. _Goddess? Please? Do I have your permission to do this?_

_You didn't seek my permission when you attempted to heal Daniel._

Taken aback, Victoria blinked. Her mouth opened. No sound emerged. Freya hadn't brought up Victoria's failed attempts to heal Daniel before he'd died. Not once in the last couple of weeks, not even a hint of disapproval or reprimand. Belatedly, she realized she should have sought permission. Bittersweet acknowledgement prevented her from apologizing.

She'd do so all over again in a heartbeat.

Freya sighed. _Do what you must. Know this: I cannot heal him for you._

_I understand. Thank you, Goddess._ Unshed tears stung her eyes. She lowered her face to hide her sorrow. The light flowing from her hands intensified, __ illuminating the man's injury. She extended her power and joined her soul to Skinner's. Concentrating, she drew his life pattern into synchronization with her own. Her steady heartbeat stabilized his erratic pulse.

Even unconscious, the stubborn human fought her. He resisted her efforts to impose spiritual and physical harmony between them. Skinner gasped, and his entire body convulsed while he fought to shake off her touch. She employed her superior strength to hold him down so his struggles would not worsen the wound. Without the direct support of Freya or her pack, there was no margin for error.

Damn it, she hated asking for help, but she had no other options. Scowling, Victoria extended an open hand toward Jake. "You know how this works. I'm already drained from the fight with the krampus, and my pack isn't here to help me."

"Fuck that." Jake held back. Distrust tainted his scent. Negative sentiment streaked his aura.

"He's your friend," Victoria said. "Do you want him to live?"

The Hunter King was a storm about to rage. A fierce, brief battle waged across his countenance. In the end, loyalty won over hatred. He spat out a curse and grabbed hold of her hand, enveloping it within his callused grip.

The moment they touched, Victoria reached for his power, seeking to forge a temporary bond between them. Under normal circumstances, she would have refused to even attempt it. The man was human and her enemy. This situation, however, was desperate. Besides, she doubted the connection could survive so much animosity for long.

The force of his personality knocked her off kilter. Victoria gasped and almost dropped the fragile spell bridging their souls. For a human, Jake Barrett possessed a staggering amount of personal power. It was widely known the hunter commanded powerful magic, but he craftily concealed the true extent. Through some arcane art, not just hundreds, but thousands of men were mystically bound to him. Superficially, their connection resembled the pack bond in underlying structure. She'd have loved to explore it further. Even if she had that ability, there was no time.

Tuning out the others, she concentrated on the Hunter King. At the center of his soul, she encountered a core of pure pain, agonizing sorrow for the death of his son... and so much anger. She hurt for him and with him, and yet she wanted nothing more than to rip his beating heart from his breast. He had killed her parents and many members of her pack.

A good man, but also a vengeful man.

She must never forget. Tears stung her eyes, and her throat closed. Through an act of will, Victoria shoved her personal feelings down deep and sealed them behind a wall. Instead of turning from Jake Barrett's hatred, she embraced it. She summoned and channeled the dark emotions, transforming them into healing energy.

Victoria mapped out the major severed blood vessels and halted the internal bleeding. She repaired the most vital veins and arteries first. Then she strengthened the bone in his shattered shoulder blade. Her technique was crude. If he lived, he would still require medical attention.

Too quickly, she depleted her reserves, leaving her weakened. Jake's true potential remained almost untapped, and that frightened her worse than ever before. The Hunter King wasn't a mere mortal, and she wasn't sure she wanted to know more about him.

Gasping, Victoria let go of Jake's hand and severed the bond uniting them. She maintained her connection to Skinner long enough to verify he would live. For magical healing, her work qualified as battle field triage. She had done what was necessary to keep the man alive until he could receive proper treatment.

She removed her hands from Skinner's chest and allowed the magic to dissipate. "He'll live, for now. You need to get him to a doctor," she said, looking at Jake. "I couldn't fix everything."

The man's expression was unreadable. He stared at her with hard eyes and nodded. "Those children need to be taken to safety too. We'll take them in and then we'll go get your boy."

Balking, Victoria shot to her feet. "No. No way. I'm not walking into an area full of your men and getting shot on sight."

Clenched jaws and gleaming eyes signaled the return of his anger. "My men will obey me."

She snorted. "But your son won't, will he? I'll bet my canines that Sawyer isn't here now because he'd as soon kill me as look at me. You want me alive to answer your questions, but he just wants me dead."

The last time she had come face to face with Sawyer, he had opened fire on a street crowded with innocent people. The time before that, he had lobbed a hand grenade at her. She didn't expect his next reception to be any warmer. In her heart, she preferred to avoid him at all costs. Not because she feared him. She simply didn't want to be the one to murder Daniel's brother.

Jake's nostrils flared. "Sawyer is convinced you murdered Daniel in cold blood. Me..."

Her heart leapt at the unexpected ray of hope. If Jake Barrett was willing to listen, then perhaps she could explain Daniel's death. Maybe peace could be restored, maybe no one else needed to die.

"But you?" Victoria imposed blankness on her face, desperate not to reveal too much. She couldn't afford to show her cards. Not while Jasper remained a hostage to the hunters.

"I have my doubts."

Victoria exhaled. Oh yeah, dangerous, seductive hope. She dared not let down her guard around this man. "What will happen to the children?"

"For tonight, I'll take them to one of my people. We'll get them cleaned up and fed. You don't need to worry. We'll keep them safe until we can take them home."

"How do you intend to reunite them with their parents?" Much like her, young Michael had no one to go home to.

"I have friends in law enforcement," Jake said. "We'll keep this out of the press. If the children have families, I'll see to it they're reunited. If not, they won't wind up in the system. There are families willing to take in orphans."

She frowned. "They'd be raised by hunters."

His teeth flashed in a fierce grin. "Better than being raised by wolves."

Victoria's frown morphed to a glare. "So you say."

"At least they'd have adults around them who will understand the nature of their trauma," Jake said. "Adults who know monsters are real. These kids are gonna suffer from nightmares for the rest of their lives."

The man had the right of it.

She preferred to let the matter drop. "Okay."

"I'll drop Skinner at the hospital and get the children to safety," Jake said. "I'll meet you back here with the boy. Don't do anything stupid, like calling your pack."

"I won't," Victoria had already considered and rejected the idea of calling for help. Rand and the others would refuse to give her up without a fight. Another confrontation with the hunters would likely get the rest of her people killed.

With any luck, the others were well on the way to Santa Fe. Still, she worried about them. They hadn't responded to her distress while she battled the krampus. They were either too far away or experiencing troubles of their own.

Too weary for further discussion, she helped Jake move Skinner into the front passenger seat of his vehicle. Offering assurances, she buckled the three children into the back seat. Sorrow closed like a hand on her throat. She barely managed to bid them goodbye without crying.

Following Jake, she circled to the front of the vehicle. "When will you be back?"

"I'll be an hour." Jake regarded her with hard eyes.

Victoria didn't look away from the man's relentless stare. Her lips pulled back to reveal her teeth. "So help me, if you've harmed a hair on Jasper's head, I'll drag your soul to hell and pitch you in head first."

"Understood." The corner of his mouth tugged in what might have been a reluctant smile, but he turned away too soon.

While she watched, he climbed into the vehicle to take the children, the stray dog, and his injured friend to safety. Over the steering wheel, their gazes locked in a final unsettling stare before he drove away. Afterward, she blew out a breath she hadn't known was held.

* * *

For an hour, Victoria paced the perimeter of the parking lot. Time ticked past, one excruciating minute after another. The rain resumed, falling in a heavy downpour, and she took shelter against the side of the building beneath an overhang. After a couple minutes, a steady waterfall poured over the eaves.

As she waited, the tempest worsened. Legs of lightning supported the angry thunderclaps as they marched east. Victoria worried her lower lip, struggling to evade the bittersweet press of memories. No matter how hard she tried, the past remained inescapable and ever-present. The harder she tried not to think about Daniel, the more he occupied her thoughts.

Everything reminded her of him, especially storms.

Daniel had loved the spectacular lightning squalls that lit up the Arizona desert during the summer months. In defiance of safety and common sense, he always rushed outside and turned his face toward the sky. Wearing a maddened grin, he stood there until the wind blasted his hair back and water slicked it against his skull.

Despite her fears and reluctance, Daniel had chased her long and hard. Months slipped past, and his persistence gradually wore down her resistance. As summer turned into fall, they spent more and more time together. They retreated to the desert, far from the prying eyes of the people who would have disapproved.

"The thing I love best about Arizona is the sunsets," Victoria mused with a smile. Glorious strips of orange and red streaked the horizon just above the mountains to the west. Higher in the sky, purple clouds formed a wavy weave. A forceful wind blew from the east, and sturdy Saguaro cacti raised their thick arms in defiance. Dark storm clouds roiled in the east–a brooding monsoon moving off the Gulf of Mexico. In August, the remarkable storms arrived regularly in the late afternoon to early evenings.

She and Daniel lay side by side stretched out across the hood of the Chevelle. The heated metal warmed her back, and the muscular bicep of the man beside her served as a solid headrest. Contented, she wallowed in the fragile, fleeting wink of happiness. Perfect moments carried a momentous value that few people understood or properly cherished.

"Look at that!" Daniel jerked upright and flung his arm toward the east where bright lancing bolts arced from the sky to strike the ground below.

Disgruntled at losing her pillow, she sat up. "It's just another thunderstorm."

Miles distant, the vista lit with a lightning flash. Thunder followed in a lazy roll, a deep percussion booming. Victoria scented the air but smelled more wind-borne dust than moisture. She doubted the tempest carried much rain in its wide arms.

"It's more than that." Grinning, Daniel captured her wrist and dragged her hand toward him. He positioned her palm over his heart. "Do you feel that?"

Strong. Throbbing. Passion. Power.

The essence of the man.

She nodded her head, convinced she did indeed understand. He stole her breath much as he'd stolen her heart. To protect herself, she fostered an easy smile and twisted to glance over her shoulder. "We'd better put the top up."

His hand caught the side of her head, fingers spread wide and points positioned behind her ear, pinky tucked beneath her jaw. He captured her gaze. "The thing I love best about Arizona is you."

Her grin faltered. So much raw determination in his chocolate brown eyes. Always one to do things the difficult way, Victoria challenged him. "Only in Arizona?"

"Always. Forever." He leaned in and kissed her. Claimed her.

Their lips parted. She exhaled on his indrawn breath. "I love you too."

Fuck. Victoria ripped her mind from the reverie and took a shaky step. She forced her clenched fists to open. Sucking down a soggy breath, she abandoned the shelter of the eaves and walked into the rain. Droplets struck her face and washed away her tears.

Desperate for a distraction, she checked the time. An hour and a half since Jake had left. She wondered where he was, and her imagination conjured all sorts of awful scenarios for why he hadn't returned yet. Finally, she couldn't take the not knowing anymore. Abandoning her resolution not to contact her pack, she gripped her phone and made the call.

Sylvie answered on the first ring. Her tight voice conveyed distress tempered by relief. "Thank the goddess, Victory. Where have you been? Do you have Jasper? We've been worried sick waiting for you to call."

She smiled at the welcome sound of her friend's voice. "I'm fine. I don't have Jasper yet, but we slayed the monster and saved the kidnapped children. Is Rand okay?"

"Still as ornery as ever." A telltale pause followed, and then Sylvie asked, _" We?"_

"Jake Barrett."

The Skald groaned. "I suppose it's a blessing you're still alive."

"I'm working on getting Jasper back." Victoria infused her voice with confidence she didn't really feel. "Where are you?"

"We're on the northern outskirts of town," Sylvie said. "We couldn't go any farther without losing all the bars on the phone."

"The plan hasn't changed," Victoria said. "Wait there until dawn. If Jasper and I aren't back by sunrise, then head north to Santa Fe." Her voice caught in her throat. "Sylvie..."

Sylvie's voice grew tight. "What is it, Victory?"

"If I'm not back with Jasper, then you're to keep going. Don't allow Rand to come after me, even if you have to club him over the head. As your Alpha, that's an order. Do you understand me?"

The silence bristled with disapproval, but Sylvie gave a clipped reply. "I understand."

"Goddess watch over us," Victoria said, sending a quick prayer to Freya.

Sounding displeased, Sylvie echoed her words. "Goddess watch over you, Victoria Storm."

They ended the call.

She checked the clock on her phone and saw the hunter had been gone almost an hour and forty-five minutes. Her wolf roiled with turmoil _._ Her teeth sank into her lower lip, breaking skin, and she tasted the saltiness of blood on her tongue. Her instincts screamed something was wrong. She felt __ it in her gut.

Using her phone's call log, Victoria located Jake Barrett's number and hit dial. It rang twice before he answered.

"Hold on a second." His heavy breathing indicated physical exertion. In the background, she heard men shouting. And Jasper's voice, full of fear and anger, rose in a yell, but his words were unrecognizable.

"Barrett, what the hell is going on?" Fear crawled along the length of her spine, digging in with bony fingers. Dread pooled in her stomach.

Jake shouted over Victoria's demands. "No, lower your weapons."

"Damn it, Barrett, tell me—" Victoria's hands shook, and she feared her grip would crush the cell phone. She couldn't stand still. In desperation, she raced across the parking lot, running without direction.

The blast of a shotgun deafened her.

Victoria stumbled and stopped. Through the pack bond, she experienced Jasper's death as a blow to the heart, a severed limb, the demise of a soul. Shattered, an agonized howl tore from her throat, and she fell to her knees on the black pavement of the lot. Her cry of loss and sorrow rose above the din of city sounds, soaring into the night.

_Jasper dead. How? Why?_

Her pack experienced the boy's death also. Through their spiritual connection, she sensed her pack mates. She felt their rage and sorrow and heard their mourning howls even though they were miles distant, beyond the range of sound. When a child was lost, they all suffered.

Victoria's howl ended on a gasp. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Sucking air into her starved lungs, she brought the phone to her face.

"Why?" she asked, croaking the question.

"He wasn't supposed to get hurt." Disbelief colored Jake's voice.

Rage. Cruel, vicious rage crashed through her heart, blinding her to all else. She hissed. "You're the same as that krampus, Jake Barrett, a child thief who murders innocents. If it's the last thing I do, I'll make you pay. I swear to my goddess and on my honor as a Valkyrie. I'll have revenge."

Before he replied, she hurled the phone at the side of the building with all her immense strength. The device exploded into a hundred pieces. In that moment, she would have gladly ripped every member of the Barrett family to bloody shreds. She settled for destroying Jake's shirt instead.

Tears streaked her cheeks, but hatred defined her existence. The primal energy fueled her transformation to a wolf, shedding her human form and her humanity. Tilting her muzzle toward the moon, she roared her fury. In her heart, she committed to bloody, awful vengeance.

The voice of her goddess broke through her rage. Freya's silken contralto filled her mind, imposing inner peace. _Abide, Victoria. Jasper gave his life for you. He refused to allow your sacrifice._

Victoria hesitated. Pleading, she asked, _Goddess, why would he kill Jasper? I was going to give myself up. I gave my word. He accepted it._

_Jasper tried to escape, and they murdered him. His soul is lost to us. He has gone to Niflheim, Hel's domain. He is damned._

_Oh, Goddess. Please. No._ Whimpering, the white wolf crouched close to the ground. In the gloomy underworld, Jasper's soul would suffer unspeakable torment. No worse fate could have befallen him.

Freya's golden voice filled her mind, drowning out all else, even thoughts of revenge. _Run, My Priestess. Run. For the sake of your pack, run. They need you. Death awaits you if you confront the hunters now._

_I'll avenge him. If it's the last thing I ever do. I'll avenge Daniel, my parents, my pack. Everyone._ A broken woman, she staggered to her feet and took an unsteady step.

_To exact revenge for this cruelty would break you, Victoria. For the sake of your pack, for those who love you and whom you love, run._

_I pledge my soul to revenge._ Victoria swore to her goddess. _On my honor, and my family's name. I'll have a Valkyrie's vengeance._

Freya's voice grew assertive. _Swear to seek justice, not revenge, and I shall witness your oath._

She balked, desiring to argue. Then she stopped. In that moment, she didn't see any difference between revenge and justice. One way or another, the result was the same. So what did it matter which she swore to?

She chose the right words to receive her goddess's blessing while committing to revenge in her heart. _I swear to seek justice. On my honor, and my family's name._

Blinding light destroyed Victoria's vision. Freya's voice filled her thoughts. _Your pledge is witnessed. Now run. Find your pack and run._

Blinking until her vision restored, she took a faltering step and then another. When she could see again, she broke into a gallop, giving free reign to her wolf. Her goddess commanded her, so she ran.

Revenge remained in her heart. Victoria no longer believed in justice, whether she was sworn to it or not.

* * *

~FIN~

* * *

_Hunger Moon_ , the next book in the Loki's Wolves series is available at your favorite retailer.

Learn more about other books the author has written on the author's website, or click here to sign up for her mailing list.

# THE NORU: BLUE ROSE

### The Noru Series Book 1

**By Lola St. Vil**

As the demon takes her into his arms and away from the flames, he begins to understand, he isn't rescuing her; she's saving him...
**This book is for you...**

## I

# Book I

### Pryor Reese Cane

_The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.—Mark Twain_

## 1

# Important To Humans

When someone knocks on the door of the principal's office, I'm relieved for the interruption. I'm hoping it's the fire department here to announce that there's smoke in the building and everyone needs to evacuate. Or better yet maybe a HAZMAT team here to announce that the school is officially a hot zone and will be shut down for a few years.

Okay, okay, the chances of that are unlikely, but can't a girl get a simple fire drill? I mean anything to end my visit to the principal's office.

"Yes, come in," Principal Walsh says, never once breaking eye contact with me.

It isn't the fireman that enters the room. It isn't a HAZMAT crew. Instead it's someone nearly as bad as the principal: my academic advisor, Mrs. Greenblatt. Everyone calls her "The Face" because when she catches you doing something wrong, she scrunches her face up like she's smelling something rotten, then her left eyebrow moves up as if to say "I know I did not just see you do what you did."

Mrs. Greenblatt is a full-figured lady in her fifties, with sensible shoes and glasses. She can usually be found wearing pastels and pearls. Her hair is always pinned up in a well-managed bun, not a strand out of place.

Unlike other faculty members, she's not mean. Make no mistake about it, she will punish you if she catches you breaking the rules, but she's just as concerned as she is firm. She remembers your name and grade point average even if she's only met you once. And when you start behaving better, she's the first to point it out. Or so I hear. I've yet to make it to the behaving "better" category. I have had my fair share of detention thanks to her. It's not to say I don't like her, I just wish I could get one or two tricks past her.

"Good afternoon, Principal Walsh," she says, smiling sweetly.

"Mrs. Greenblatt, how can I help you?" he asks.

I try to avoid eye contact with her, but I can feel her willing me to turn and face her.

"Here are the records you asked for," she replies.

"Thank you."

"And is that Pryor Cane you have there?" she asks.

_As if she didn't already know._

"Yes, Ms. Cane has taken it upon herself to get into a physical altercation with one of her classmates," he informs her.

She sighs this long dramatic sigh and waits for me to make eye contact. I refuse to look at her. But like a pro, she waits me out. Finally, knowing it's the only way to get this over with, I turn and look at her. She then turns and gives me "The Face."

"I expect this will be the last time we see Ms. Cane here for such an offense. Isn't that right?" she asks me.

I tilt my head and smile my best fake smile.

"I'm sure we can get her to make better decisions in the future. For example, I'm told by her US History teacher that she has yet to hand in her report on the Cold War."

"Um...I...I was planning to hand it in this week," I lie.

"Good. I'll be happy to take a look at what you've done so far in detention tomorrow," she says pleasantly.

"What?" I ask in disbelief.

"That would be a wonderful idea, Mrs. Greenblatt. Thank you." The principal replies in a tone that suggests the matter is closed.

"The Face" smiles and leaves the room. Now I'm left with my high school principal—who is a demon. That being the case, it's only fair that I kill him, right? Okay, he may not be a demon. Alright, alright, I know for certain he's not a demon. But given the fact that he's standing here, torturing me with his lame "I expect you to behave like a lady" speech, I think the rules about not harming humans should be bent; I should be allowed to kill him.

Here's how it would go down: I hold out my hand and his soul would be violently ripped from his body and drawn to me by force. He would then fall lifelessly to the ground. My ability to "Pull" as they call it, has been with me since birth. In addition to Pulling, I can read the level of fear in any being I encounter.

I know. Sounds exciting right? But reading someone's wave of fear is a power I wish I could turn off. As soon as I enter a room I can see wavy lines orbit each being. The lines are onyx colored, and the darker they are the more intense the fear.

But my power doesn't end there. I can alter the wave to increase the level of fear. This is called Binding. I can Bind fear up or down with no more than the blink of an eye. I'll be honest with you, Binding has gotten me into trouble—a lot.

That's why I'm sitting here trying not to Bind his fear up and make him run screaming from the room. I'm trying to take my punishment like a good girl.

"Pryor Cane, your behavior will not be tolerated. You have been given many warnings, and I'm afraid there is only so much we will take from you," he vows.

I should be paying attention to his words, but the quiver of his round belly distracts me. It quakes every time he speaks.

"Principal Walsh, I wasn't the one who started the fight. Why am I the only one in here?"

"Everyone in your science lab said you started it," he barks.

"You ever thought maybe they're lying?"

"Why would everyone lie about you?"

"Because they all want to kiss Harper Kingsley's ass. And she's pissed that I'm not lining up to do the same. That's why she knocked my project over."

"She says she did that by accident and that she apologized."

"She was smirking the whole time. I'm telling you, she did that shit on purpose."

"Ms. Cane, we will not allow that language in here!"

"Sorry." I pause. "But Harper and her minions are out to get me. They don't...like me."

"And why don't they like you?"

"Because I don't worship at the altar of Harper. She's a snobby, plastic cliché and I hate her."

_I know, I know, I sound like every other girl to Principal Walsh, but it's not like that. I mean not really._

"Pryor, you can't behave like this. Why don't you try to fit in? It will make things easier for you."

"I have a better idea," I reply.

I start to Bind his wave. His level of fear begins to increase. Mr. Walsh's eyes begin to widen in terror. His lips start quivering and his hands begin to shake. He stands up, suddenly fearful that something harmful may be in the chair. I stand up too so that we are both eye level. I Bind his levels up another notch. Then suddenly, Mr. Walsh is frozen in place.

That can't be me because Binding doesn't cause time to stop. I look outside the window and see that everyone is frozen: the deliverymen across the street, a couple mid-kiss, and a dog with his leg over the fire hydrant. They are all frozen.

"Hi, Mom," I say before I turn around to face her.

She didn't come alone. She brought my father. Great. Now the two of them stand there looking at me as if I've killed a puppy with my bare hands.

My mother, Emerson Baxter-Cane, stands before me looking radiant as usual. She takes the hood off her head and reveals her flowing raven hair and sparkling purple eyes. Her skin is nearly translucent. She has perfect bone structure and a slim figure. I bet humans would be shocked that Death looks so good.

Yes, my mom is the Angel of Death; meaning she oversees who lives and dies. She doesn't have a long cane with a blade on the end of it. She doesn't wander around howling or anything. But yes, she could kill you with little more than a thought.

She is part of a Council. The Council was formed by Omnis, who created, well...everything. But Omnis wanted a separate group to be in charge of maintaining the balance of good and evil. So, he came up with the Council: Time, Fate, and my mom, Death.

My father, Marcus, has been called among the most gorgeous of angels. He has been appointed the sexiest Guardian alive by angel gossip blogs all over the world. It's so not right.

Okay, okay, to be fair, I guess he is kind of good looking. He has deep brown eyes with gold colored specks. He's over six feet tall and in top shape due to his never ending battles with evil. My parents look no older than twenty-two. Angels hardly ever age. But while they may look like hot young models, trust me, they are very much "parents."

And they are parents who have perfected the "I'm disappointed in you, young lady" head tilt. They both have a way of saying my name that makes me stop dead in my tracks. And they somehow always know when I'm up to something. Seriously, somehow they always know.

"What were you doing to Mr. Walsh?" my mom asks, nodding her now hoodless head in his direction.

"Nothing," I reply, looking away.

"That didn't look like nothing, Pryor. He's terrified. You were Binding him," my dad accuses.

"A little," I admit, avoiding eye contact.

"You could have killed him," she says.

"I wasn't going to hurt Principal Walsh. I just wanted him to shut up. He was going on about conforming to the status quo, and frankly that's unacceptable behavior for an educator. I was doing humanity a favor by rendering him silent."

"Why were you in his office in the first place?" Mom asks.

I don't reply. I just look out the window at the dog, frozen mid pee.

_Man, I wonder if that hurts..._

"Hey, don't zone out on us. Why are you in the principal's office yet again?" she asks.

"I had a fight," I confess.

"Oh, Pryor, honey, this can't keep happening," Mom reminds me.

"You don't understand. They started it," I try to reason.

"That doesn't mean you're off the hook," Dad says.

"I didn't Pull her. I just punched her in the face a few times. She has a plastic surgeon on speed dial. She'll be fine," I assure them.

"That's not the point. You have to stop resorting to violence," my mom says.

"Says the woman who kills for a living," I remark.

"Little girl, watch how you speak to me. I am your mother and I will pluck both your tongue and wings if you don't change your tone. Do you hear me?"

"Yes," I reply reluctantly.

"Yes, what?" she asks.

"Yes, I hear you, Mom."

"You wanted to go to a human school. The new Human Incentive says that angels must live on earth for a portion of their lives. But it doesn't say that you have to go to a human school. You wanted that, not us," she reminds me.

"I don't want to go to school in Daraquin; the city of angels is not the right place for me. Everyone there wanted to be my friend just because my mother is Death and my father is a First Guardian. Everyone there is so phony. I hate them all."

"You hate all of them?" my mom pushes.

"Yeah," I reply after a brief hesitation.

"What about Aaden?"

_Please, please stop talking about Aaden._

"Aaden-Grey is just some guy. He doesn't even matter. He's like...whatever."

"Honey, you two have a thing for each other," my mom reminds me.

"YOU TWO HAVE A WHAT?" my dad says in full heart attack mode.

"Really Mom, right in front of him?" I shout.

"I'm sorry, honey, but he was going to find out," she says gently.

"Emmy, you knew our fourteen-year-old child asked out a boy and you kept it from me?" dad accuses.

"Marcus, he is not just a boy; Aaden is the son of one of your best friends."

"Yeah, he is Rage's son. That also means he's half demon and full of hormones. I don't want our daughter... _dating_."

"We're not dating," I protest.

"Don't run from him because he's half demon, Pryor. That's not fair," my mom says.

"That's not the reason," I reply.

_Dear Omnis, you are the God of angels and all of humanity. Please, just kill me now._

"Why are you trying to push them together?" my father says.

"I'm not. I just know what happens when you try to keep two people apart. That's what happened to us and it just made us closer," she replies.

"So you want Aaden and our firstborn to be together?" he asks, dumbfounded.

"I don't know. Maybe they should be together. They have been around each other since they were babies," Mom replies.

"We are not gonna be together, okay?" I bark at them.

"Why? Did something happen?" my Mom asks.

"No."

"C'mon, honey, talk to us. What happened with you and Aaden?" my mom pushes.

"Nothing."

"There had to be something."

"Nothing—"

"Carrot, what happened?" my Mom asks.

"Please, please stop calling me that," I beg her.

"Okay, I'm sorry. Now, tell us what happened with you and Aaden—"

"I ASKED HIM OUT AND HE SAID NO."

I open the door and storm out. I run though the hallway of frozen students and I hear my dad call after me. I keep going until I hear him call me by my full name.

"Pryor Reese Cane, I said stop," my father orders.

A cold chill races down my body. When my dad takes his First Guardian voice, it scares me. There's a certainty and firmness in his tone that could halt armies. In fact it has done just that, many, many times.

I stand still. He comes over to me and places a hand on my shoulder. I lower my head. I don't like making eye contact when I feel like hell. I just want to crawl into a hole and be left alone. He lifts my head up gently and looks into my grey eyes.

When he looks at me, he sees his firstborn: his precious Pryor or 'Reesie,' as he likes to call me. To him, I'm the little girl who got his mother's flaming red hair and his wife's eyes.

He sees the little girl who killed demons from her crib but was still afraid of the flying monkeys in _The Wizard of Oz._ He sees the little girl who tampered with her uncle Tony's mixtures and ended up with polka-dot wings for a week.

The thing is, I'm not a little girl. I'm a grown-up. Okay, okay, not all the way, but I'm close. I'm fourteen years old and unlike my dad, I don't see anything cute or adorable about me. I'm slender, 5'6, and have fire red hair.

I have tried my whole life to change my hair color but it never works. No matter what hair dye I use, my hair always reverts back to the red. It's like a super freaky curse. It's one of the things that make it hard to blend in.

"Pryor, I want to talk to you," Dad says.

"Okay," I whisper.

"No, I want to talk to the real you. My child. Not the girl you're pretending to be."

"Dad, no. C'mon," I moan.

"You know I don't like talking to you when you have them on," he replies.

I sigh and pop out my grey contacts. Now I stand before him with my natural eyes: my mom's eyes. It wouldn't be so bad if it were a light, misty sort of purple. But no, my eyes are actually violet. I have stared at them in mirrors for years and I still can't believe just how purple they really are. And just like my mom's eyes, they get darker depending on my mood.

So, imagine trying to blend in when you have red hair and purple eyes. It's a freaking nightmare; no one genuinely wants to be my friend. And my thoughts on that are as follows: they can suck it.

Contrary to popular belief, not all teens want to fit in. We all don't want to belong and we all damn sure don't give a damn what others think of us.

I handled the teasing pretty well but then they started attacking me. In the Angel world no one attacked me because they weren't stupid. I mean if you go after the daughter of Death, you better know what you're doing.

However, in the human world, they have no idea what powers I have. To them my wings are invisible. That is unless they know, in which case they will appear.

"I hate that you hide your eyes. Your eyes are as unique and precious as you are, Reesie" my Dad says studying my face.

My parents gave me the middle name "Reese" in honor of their departed friend and teammate who died on their very first mission.

"I don't want to be unique, Dad. I want to be normal. I want to be...nothing special."

"That's never going to happen, honey, you know that," he replies.

"You don't know what it's like to have you and Mom as parents. You can't understand the pressure, Dad."

"I'm a First Guardian: all I know is pressure," he reminds me.

"Yes, but there have been other cycles of Guardians. But being a Noru...there're only five of us in the world," I reply.

Suddenly my dad's face darkens; something I just said disturbs him greatly. In order to become a Guardian, you have to be a human who died trying to help someone you loved. The story of how a human died and became a Guardian is called a Core. And that story is always gruesome and tragic. That is to say it takes a lot to scare or frazzle my dad. So reading the alarm on his face is unsettling.

"Dad, what is it? What's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing...nothing. You need to go back to class," he says.

"Are you sure nothing is wrong?" I ask again.

"Yes, everything is fine," he replies.

_Why is my dad lying to me?_

My parents scold me for what seems like another hundred years. Then they do the worst thing a parent could possibly do: They refuse to sign me out of school. So I suffer through the day. When school is finally over, I race outside and find Randy waiting for me near the football field. Randy Westfield is my best friend and the reason I'm not in the psych ward.

He gets what it's like to be on the outside. And he's okay with not being Mr. Popular. Well, mostly. I think we always meet by the football field because it's the closest he can get to making the football team.

Randy is not the toughest guy around. He's tall and on the scrawny side. He wears glasses and has a mess of dusty blonde hair that refuses to be tamed. He has a few pimples that never go away no matter what medication his dermatologist prescribes him. He stands a few yards away, backpack in hand, shaking his head at me disapprovingly.

"Pryor, Pryor, Pryor. What am I going to do with you?" he jokes.

"My hand slipped and landed on Harper's face—a few dozen times. Guess I'm really clumsy," I reply, teasing.

"It was all anyone could talk about. Frankly, young lady, I'm disappointed," he says seriously.

"You are?" I ask.

"Yeah, you should have texted me. You know I hate to miss your fights. I paid for season tickets and I expected to get front row seats."

"I promise, Randy, next time I will send out an alert."

We start walking down the New York City streets. We're so used to the hustle and bustle of the city, we hardly notice the parade of people whizzing by us.

Randy takes a pill out of his pocket and pops it into his mouth.

"What's this one called?" I ask.

"Pro-Buff."

I burst out laughing, and he pushes me lightly to get me to stop.

"It's guaranteed to work this time," he vows.

"You know they are just scams, Randy."

"No, not this one. It was endorsed by this famous actor guy."

"Okay, what actor guy?" I ask.

"He does all those action hero films overseas."

Randy has been trying to gain weight and bulk up since I met him a year ago. He takes a bunch of these crazy pills, shakes, and vitamins.

They all promise to give him muscle mass and strength. So far all the pills have managed to do is take hair off his arms, turn his lips green and, my favorite, make him cross-eyed.

That happened last month. It lasted about a week. I laughed so hard I was in serious danger of passing out.

"This one is different; it generates cells or something," Randy pushes.

"So you're going to turn into Spiderman?" I tease.

"Maybe. Then I could scale tall buildings and cause havoc in New York."

"If you had super powers, you'd only use them to get laid."

"Well yeah, what do you think I'm scaling walls for?"

We share a laugh just as a group of guys come from around the corner. We know them from school. They look like they are straight out of a bad after-school movie. There's no need to describe them to you individually.

Let's just say there are five of them: Stupid, Brawny, Idiot, Stupid Jr., and Loser. The fact is none of them have had a single thought in their heads that wasn't put there by someone else. They block our way and prevent us from getting by. There's a smile on their collective face that tells me they are determined to be assholes. Randy looks at me, troubled.

"Um...could you guys...excuse us?" Randy says, not making eye contact.

"Why don't you try going around us?" Loser says with malice in his eyes.

Randy takes my hand and we try to go around, only to have them block our path once again.

Randy flashes me a warning. He jokes about it, but he hates when I fight. He's the kind of guy who avoids confrontation as much as he can. Don't get me wrong; he's not a coward. He would never take off and leave me with these 'Vin Diesel' knockoffs. Still, he would rather we cross the street. So we try and they block us yet again.

"This 'bully in the school yard' crap is getting really old," I warn them.

'Brawny' shakes his head and sneers as he talks.

"You know what confuses me?"

"Counting to ten?" I reply.

"What confuses me is why an okay looking girl like you would be caught with this pimple-faced freak," he says.

The others smile, enjoying the look of defeat on Randy's face.

"Randy has pimples so you call him pimple face? Really? That's as far as your imagination can go?" I ask.

"It's fine, Pryor, I don't care," Randy insists.

"You want us to be more creative, then fine. Your friend is a freak who has to jerk himself off because no girl would ever touch him. In fact, I'm pretty sure he's still a virgin."

The group starts to laugh and move in closer. I step up to the leader, AKA "Loser," and look him straight in the eye.

"That's much better. But you guys are not quite there. Say something really awful about Randy. Something that really shows how much of a prick you really are," I challenge him.

The army of rejects is taken by surprise and so is Randy. They can't believe I'm encouraging them to insult my best friend. We have only known each other for a year, but Randy and I clicked from day one. And yet here I am, daring them to talk crap about him.

See, the thing is I need them to say something really offensive so my parents won't be too mad when I beat the hell out of the humans before me. The jackpot would be if they touched me. Then I could break a bone or two. At least that's how I see it.

"You really want to hear what we have to say?" Stupid Jr. asks.

"Fuck this, enough talk. Let's just pound his ass to the ground," Idiot says, truly earning his name.

"Perfect. But to get to him, you have to get past me; so hit me," I reply.

"Don't think we won't, little girl," Brawny says.

"Yeah, maybe we can teach you some respect," Loser says.

"Pryor, no. Let's just turn back. It's no big deal," he says.

"Don't you think it's sad you need a girl to protect you? God you're pathetic," Stupid says.

"I don't need her to protect me," Randy says, coming to the front.

"Look, freak has some balls after all," Brawny says.

"Yeah, I do. So what now?" Randy challenges, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

His fear level rises with every passing moment. His levels are spiking higher than I've ever seen them. Yet, he stands ready to fight.

"Forget it. You're such a pussy; we can't even bother with you," Stupid Jr. replies.

They nod their heads in agreement and start to go past us. I watch Randy's wave of fear decline the further away they get. They are nearly out of earshot when Brawny says to Stupid, "He's such a damn loser. No wonder his mom took off."

Randy moves so quick he reminds me of my uncle Jay, a guardian with the power to move at lightning speed.

Randy bolts after Brawny and tackles him. All of us are taken off guard. Brawny's friends are just as shocked as I am. Soon they snap out of it and pull Randy off of their friend. They throw Randy to the ground and start to beat down on him. It never occurs to them to keep an eye on me: big mistake.

I yank Stupid by his collar and hurl him down the street with little effort. Idiot and Stupid Jr. swing at me from both sides. I duck their blows, plant my feet firmly on the ground, grab them both by the leg, and flip them onto the concrete.

The other two come to help their fallen friends. They tackle me to the floor. I grab Brawny by his neck and press tightly. I can see the shock spread through his face. He is nearly twice my size and knows it's impossible to do what I'm doing.

I don't choke him hard enough to kill him, just hard enough for him to wish he were dead. Then I throw him over to the side like a bag of trash. Loser, the last fool remaining, looks down at me on the ground with venom.

He picks me up from the ground by my throat. My feet dangle helplessly in the air.

Randy runs to help me by pounding on Loser, but it does no good. He thinks he has me, so he leans in and says, "If it weren't daylight outside, my punishment would be more... _personal_."

He looks for fear and panic in my eyes but doesn't find it. Instead I smile at him.

"You're really going to miss them," I say, managing to choke the words out.

"Miss what?" he shouts.

"These," I reply as I reach out with both arms and rip his nipples from his chest.

He drops me instantly and cries out to Omnis. Blood makes its way down the front of his shirt. He holds his chest in pain as his friends come over to help him.

"We can't just leave them there," Randy says, looking back as we make a run for it.

"Nipples are not, in fact, essential to humans. He'll live," I inform him.

Randy looks back at the bloody footballer and says:

"You're right about one thing; he sure will miss them."

It's an hour later and we are at Randy's favorite place in the world: McDonald's. He eats so much junk; I have yet to figure out how he stays so thin. He has downed four burgers and a pile of fries. Now he sips his fountain drink, quietly.

"What is it?" I ask, knowing how rare it is for him to be silent.

"Nothing, just thinking," he says.

"About the plight of the bald eagle or about what just happened?" I joke.

"Well, the eagle _is_ a majestic bird," he jokes.

His smile doesn't last long, however.

"Randy, talk to me."

"You just pulled a guy's nipples off, you tackled like a gang of football guys. How the hell did you do that?" he asks.

"I've got like the whole _Buffy The Vampire Slayer_ series on DVD so..."

"C'mon, Pryor. How are you so powerful and you know, so 'kick-ass'?"

"My dad is nagging me about being able to defend myself. So, he taught me some self-defense stuff."

"It's more than that. What are you hiding?" he insists.

_I'm a Noru: A very powerful hybrid of Guardian Angel and the Angel of Death. Only five of us exist, and we are always in danger of being hunted by evil._

"Randy, I'm not hiding anything. Now, why don't you tell me why you tackled those guys?" I ask.

"They never should have said the stuff about my mom. She only left us because she wants to make her dreams come true. That's what you're supposed to do with dreams: chase them until they come true. And they will. Someday she'll be a famous singer and then she's coming back," Randy says.

We both know his mom most likely will never show up. She took off five years ago to work with some music producer who was interested in her songs. Turns out, it was a scam. Randy's dad asked her to come back to New York, but she telephoned and said that Randy and his dad were holding her back. She hasn't been heard from since.

"Sometimes, I can't remember her face," he admits.

"I know it sucks big hair balls that she's gone but you have me. And I don't know if you realized it or not, but I'm quite a looker," I say in a bad 1940's accent.

Randy looks at me strangely.

"Sorry, I've been watching all these old movies with my mom. She used to do like quality time and junk with her mom and so now, it's my turn to suffer," I tell him.

"Pryor, the whole 'family together' thing mostly sucks, right?"

"Well, my little brother took my favorite sweater and gave it a green crayon makeover."

"Sam is gonna be a hell of an artist," Randy replies.

"My mom totally betrayed me this morning and talked about my love life in front of my dad."

"Someone dared to mention 'he who shall not be named'? Someone actually said the name 'Aaden'?" Randy jokes.

"Ha, ha, it's not funny."

"Seriously, when are you going to tell me more about this guy?"

"There's nothing to tell, Randy," I lie.

For the record, I don't enjoy lying to him. I want to tell Randy everything, and I will one day. But I don't want him to freak out. He might think I'm nuts. Or worse he might start to think of me differently somehow.

"So...having a family is lame, right?" he asks.

"You have a family. You have your dad," I remind him.

"Yeah, he's alright. He likes to give me high fives, and he can't figure out how to work a computer to save his life, but yeah, he's alright."

I leap into his arms and hug him tightly.

"I think I need one," I say to him.

"What, here? No."

"Please, Randy?"

"No, it's embarrassing."

I stick out my lower lip in a dramatic pout.

"Okay, okay, put that weapon away," he says.

He then leans in and starts singing in my ear. His voice is beautiful and makes me feel like I do when I am flying in the air. Randy's voice can make the drama that is high school go away, and that's his special power.

"So, what do you think?" he asks when he's done.

"I think your voice can move angels..."

"Reesie!" Sam yells as I walk through the door. Although he often gets on my nerves, Sam is pretty cute. He's the only four-year-old in the world that could lift our townhouse up over his head. He did just that a few months ago. Thankfully it was late at night and my Uncle Jay was able to use his powers to convince the neighbors they didn't see what they saw.

I hug the rug rat and look down at him. He looks up at me, smiling. That usually means he wants something from me.

"Chess?" I ask.

"3D chess," he says.

His intelligence far surpasses kids his age, which is why it's not a good idea to put him in human school. It would bring about unwanted attention, not to mention the fact that Sam is immortal.

"Okay, set it up, and I'll be right there," I tell him.

"Yes!" he says gleefully as he takes off down the hallway.

I look up and find my parents looking at me with concern.

_Aw crap, how could they find out about the fight, I mean really, I just had it. Did the footballers tell? No, they have too much pride to admit a girl beat them up. Wait, are nipples really important to humans in some way I overlooked? Hmmm...I should have just ripped a toe or two from Loser. Damn it!_

"Reesie, your mom and I need to talk to you," my dad says in a tone way too serious for my liking.

"Wait, before you say anything, I didn't know it was a useful body part; honestly," I vow.

"What are you talking about?" my mom asks, confused.

"Um...nothing. Never mind. So no one called you guys?" I ask casually.

"No," my dad replies.

"Good, so...what's up? Oh wait, I know: I'm grounded. No Internet. No phone and no flying."

"This isn't about this morning," my mom says with deep sadness in her voice.

"Okay, well tell me. What is it?"

My mom comes over, takes my hand and guides me towards the staircase. It's our special spot, ever since I was little. When she had to explain something she knew I would have a hard time with, she would sit down with me at the top of the stairs.

"Mom, what's wrong?" I ask, growing suspicious.

I wish I could read her fear level, but I can't read my family members. However, I only need to look into her eyes to know something very bad is coming.

"Mom?"

"Carrot, I have something to tell you and I want you to know that I did everything I could in order to stop this from happening. It's out of my hands," she replies with a pained voice.

"Stop what?"

"I was at work today and I received the new Bytrin for the week."

You know how there's supposedly a list that Death has of people that are going to die? Well, it's not a list. It's actually an app on iTunes. Or at least it is nowadays. The app is called Bytrin.

Bytrin shows a 3D map of the human world. On that map there are complex patterns that come to life. And every week, a new piece of the pattern reveals itself. Within the patterns are names of the soon to be dead. The Bytrin's patterns are so complex, only Time, Fate and my mom can make them out.

"Mom, stop with the pausing, I can't take it. Whose name did you see on the Bytrin? Who is about to die?"

"Randy."

## 2

# The Gathering

Panic creeps between my toes, up my spine and spreads to my heart. It feels like someone has yanked the only solid ground I had right from under me. Now I'm floating away into the abyss. Anytime I ever felt that way, I always had Aaden. Now I don't have him. All I have is Randy, and I've just been told he's about to be taken away.

"Mom, you can't take Randy. Please, you can't!" I shout as I stand up and latch onto her.

"I tried to reason with the other Council members, but I've looked at the pattern and there's no way around it; Randy has to die."

"No, he doesn't. Please, I need him. He's my friend."

"Honey, I know how much he means to you, and I'm sorry it has to be this way."

"No, it doesn't have to be like this. You have to talk them out of it. Randy can't die, Mom, please."

"Believe me, if there was a way to stop this from happening, I would. You know that," she pleads.

"How can you take him from me? He's my only friend. He's a good guy; he has never hurt anyone," I shout at her.

"You know death isn't always a punishment. It's a part of life, Pryor."

"It's not fair! Randy can't die. You have to do something," I beg.

She goes to take my hand but I pull it away.

"Pryor, please try and understand."

"I understand, Mom. My only friend in the human world is going to get killed by you."

"It's a very complicated pattern, and Randy needs to die."

"No, I'm not gonna let you take him," I reply, running down the stairs.

She runs after me. I make my way into the kitchen where my father is watching over Sam, who is setting up the game.

"Dad, did you know what Mom's going to do?" I ask, devastated.

"She told me. Reesie, your mom spent hours looking at the pattern on the Bytrin. There's no way for Randy to stay alive. I'm sorry."

"No, stop saying that. Randy is not going to die," I shout.

"Can we play now?" Sam asks, looking up at me.

"Dad, please, you can't let her do this," I beg him.

"Pryor, you know we've come to love Randy too," my mom says behind me.

"You love him so much, you're willing to kill him?"

"Pryor, that's not fair. Your mom doesn't have a choice," my dad reminds me.

"Randy has never done anything to anyone. He's just a good human and he doesn't deserve to die," I plead.

"Sometimes to keep the balance of good and evil, good people have to die too," my mother says.

"Don't feed me the company motto, okay? Randy has nothing to do with good and evil. He's just a human with good math grades and bad skin. What could he do to the balance of good and evil?"

"You may not know why but for some reason Randy's life has to end. There are millions of others just as good as Randy who have died. That's just the rule: death is natural and unstoppable."

"Then break the rules," I shout.

"Reesie, you know I can't do that," she says.

"Why not? I read all about the missions you and Dad went on. You and the Guardians broke every rule there was. In fact, all you guys ever did was break the rules," I remind them.

"Pryor, this is different," my mom says.

"No it's not. You broke the rules to be with each other. So you can break the rules to save my friend. He's all I have." My voice cracks.

I really hate that because it means I'm on the verge of tears. Angels can't cry but since both of my parents were once human, some human traits linger with me and the other Norus.

"Carrot, we love you. You and Sam are the most important things to us. If we could do anything, anything at all to stop you from feeling this hurt, we would. You know that," my mom begs.

"You don't get it. Randy is the only reason I didn't lose it when Aaden—please, don't take him from me. Please, I'll be good. I won't fight anymore. I won't talk back, please, please, Mommy."

I grab on to her tightly. She embraces me back and tells me she loves me. I pull back and look into her eyes. She looks over at my dad, pained and deeply saddened. My dad looks back at her with regret.

"I know how much this hurts, believe me," she whispers.

My dad comes over to us and strokes my hair.

"Mom, please don't take Randy."

"I'm so sorry, Pryor; it's out of my hands."

"Liar! If Sam and I were about to die, you would move heaven and earth to stop it. Randy doesn't get that kind of consideration because he's not a Noru or a Guardian. Well he may not have powers but he's my best friend and if he dies, I will never forgive you!"

My parents knock on my door repeatedly, but I don't let them in. Yes, they are both strong enough to blow down my door effortlessly. Yet they don't. I guess they think I need time to be alone. They are wrong. What I need is a way to save Randy.

I spend the next few hours poring over old books trying to figure out a way to stop death from coming for my best friend. I find nothing useful. Exhausted, I plop down on my bed and bury my face in my hands.

That's when I hear footsteps just outside my door. Then I hear multiple voices. I raise my head up, get off the bed and head over to the door. I open it just enough to get a look at the group gathering in the kitchen: the entire Guardian team.

My mom must have called them. Even though my mom doesn't really go on missions with them anymore, all of them are best friends and usually gather when there is a crisis. I guess killing your child's best friend counts as one.

I sneak out into the hallway and stand just outside the kitchen to listen in. It may be a good thing that the other Guardians are here. Maybe they can talk some sense into my mom. If there's anyone she would listen to, it's the angels standing beside her.

During their missions, they became very close. Especially Uncle Rage and my mom. Uncle Rage has dark hair, jet-black wings, and a dangerous smile that reminds me of Aaden.

_Aaden..._

Uncle Rage is Aaden's dad. He's also the First Akon. That means he's the top-ranking demon among demons. He shoots these crazy fireballs that kill on impact. He used to be really bad. He tried to kill my mom a few times but then he fell in love with Aaden's mom, Ameana. She was an angel and he changed his ways to be with her. Unfortunately, Ameana died in battle.

I wish I had met her. She sounds so badass from all the stories I've heard. Another super badass would have to be the gorgeous Japanese and Korean angel standing next to my mom, Miku.

Miku has an alter ego named Redd. Redd came about when Miku lost her twin brother, Rio. She was in such deep rage and despair, evil took over her body and she Turned. Turning is what they call it when an angel becomes a demon. It's rare but it does happen.

Anyway, Redd is a cool, evil, "kill or be killed" chick. She has red wings and black eyes. Although Miku was able to fight off her evil side, the tips of her wings still remain red; we are told it's because she still feels guilty about all the killing she did when she let Redd take over her body.

While Redd is evil and Miku is good, Miku herself has been known to be very wicked. Her power is her voice. When she sings to anyone, they literally start to rip their hearts out. How cool is that?

In fact, Miku caused so much havoc my dad calls her "Pretty deadly." Although she takes pills to suppress her evil side, even now when Auntie Pretty walks into a room, some angels shiver.

The truth is Auntie Pretty is a super sweet Guardian. She knows where to do all the best shopping and she let me rummage through her closet when I was little.

Her husband is my Uncle Jay. Uncle Jay has skin the color of nightfall. He has a big cocky grin that always makes things better. He wears hot shades and sneaks me and Sam out of the house so we can joyride in his car at one hundred and fifty miles an hour. And one time he actually let us drive. I felt like my heart was in the back of my head. The wind was going by so fast, I thought Sam and I would hurl. It was awesome.

Uncle Jay's power is speed. It's called Gliding, as I said before. He can walk from here to the other side of the world in seconds. And even though we aren't all officially related, Miku, Jay, and Rage are my family. That's why I'm hoping they will help my mom see the light.

"C'mon baby girl, stop pacing and be easy," Uncle Jay says to my mom.

"I can't, okay? My daughter is hurting and I can't make it better," she replies.

"Emmy," my dad calls out as he places a calming hand on her shoulder.

"Have you and the rest of the Council gone over the pattern enough? Maybe you guys are missing something," my aunt Pretty says.

"Miku, we have looked over the pattern again and again. Randy needs to die," my mom says.

"You can't keep Pryor from this pain," Uncle Rage tells her.

"How is it I can stop the world but I can't stop my own child from hurting?"

"Come on, yo. You know it's not your fault. You can't just fix everything for them. Carrot is young, but death comes to everyone and she will have to accept that," Uncle Jay says.

"I know you're right, honey, but if something happened to our twins...I don't know that I could just stand by and let it happen," my aunt confesses.

"Yeah, I know I couldn't sit back and watch anything happen to Aaden. I'm sorry this is happening," Uncle Rage tells my parents.

"She came into the kitchen with this desperate look on her face. She reached out to me to make it better and...Jay, she's my kid. How do I protect her?" my dad asks.

"I'm gonna be real with you, you can't protect her—not from this," he replies.

My mom sighs heavily and the sky darkens outside. The more upset she gets, the more the clouds start to roll in.

"Randy means the world to Pryor. How can I just take him from her?"

"Emmy, human teens lose their friends all the time," Uncle Rage says.

"Yes, but their friends aren't usually killed by their moms. Why am I Death? Why not Fate or Time? I'm failing my daughter."

"Baby, you're not failing her," my dad says, pulling her into his arms.

"Marcus, she's so young. How do I make her understand? What do I say that won't break her heart?"

My dad turns to Uncle Rage and addresses him.

"Were you able to find anything that could help?"

"Marcus, I've looked everywhere and it's exactly like we thought: Once the Bytrin has a fixed pattern of who will die, it's done. The being has to die."

"So there's absolutely no way around it?" my aunt asks.

"No. Well, actually there is, but it's not a good path to take," he says.

"Wait, there's something that can be done?" my mom asks.

I have to force myself to stay where I am and not leap into the kitchen and ask one hundred questions.

_Steady Pryor; stay calm and just listen._

"Rage, what do we need to do to stop Randy from dying?" my aunt asks.

"I don't know."

"Then how do you know it's a bad path?" my mom asks.

"Because it starts with setting up a meeting with Oden."

"Oden? I'm a member of the Council, I can't get involved with—"

"Emmy, we know. That's why I said it's a path we can't go down," Uncle Rage says.

_Who's Oden? Why can't we meet with him? How can he help?_

"You're going to have to let her go through this," my aunt tells them.

"Maybe I shouldn't have said anything, Rage. Maybe I should have just let it happen," my mom says.

"No, we're already keeping something from the kids. We don't need to add any more secrets," my aunt says.

_What secret? What are they keeping from me and the other Norus? It must be bad if they have decided to keep it from us. The Guardians and my parents have always told us what was going on. They never want us to be in the dark about what's happening in the Angel world. Yet this time, they are choosing to hide information from us. Why?_

"Have you ever tried to tell her, Marcus?" my aunt asks.

"It's been calm for years. There's no reason to think the new evil is here," my dad replies.

"The Council already told you, the new evil is coming," Uncle Jay says.

"That was a while ago. We haven't heard anything. It's been really quiet. If anything, the demons are too busy fighting among themselves to even appoint a new evil."

"I think you guys should tell Pryor and Sam. They need to know," Uncle Rage says.

"I'm not going to drop another bomb on my daughter," my mom snaps.

Everyone in the room grows silent. The thunder and lighting begin to crackle outside.

"Sorry guys," my mom says.

"It's okay, baby girl. We know this is hard for you," Uncle Jay says.

"We will tell the kids the secret later. Right now, Pryor has enough to worry about. She's about to lose her only human friend and no amount of power is going to take her hurt away," my mom says.

"Hey, have you guys heard about the Alexi?" my aunt asks.

An Alexi is a beautiful silver bird that appears when a female angel is pregnant. It takes the seed out of her body and takes the baby, or Sib, as we call it, to a place in the light called Noni. Alexis are immortal and stunning to behold in the air.

"What about the Alexi?" Uncle Rage asks.

"They've been disappearing," my aunt responds.

"How is that possible? Alexis always know where they are going," my mom asks.

"All I know is at least three of them are missing."

"It may be nothing. They may be injured and need time to heal. Alexis can't be killed, so I don't think there's a reason to worry," my dad says.

I don't have time to listen to the rest of their conversation. I sneak back into my room, put on my sneakers and my leather jacket, and take off into the sky. I'm headed to Randy's house. It's time he knew the truth about my family and me. I wanted to wait, but the fact is I will need his help to save him.

I don't know how Randy will take the news that he's supposed to die. I'm guessing he won't be inviting me in for snacks. But I don't care how hard it is for him, he will have to learn the truth. I will do whatever it takes to save him. And if that means turning his whole life upside down, then that's what I will do.

I have been standing outside of Randy's apartment building for about ten minutes. I could ring his bell and tell him to come down. Or I could text him and have him come outside. Or throw rocks at his window and let him know to come meet me. So why have I not done any of these things? Simple. I don't have a good opening line.

You can't just walk up to someone and say, "Hey, I'm an angel. And um...my mom is the Angel of Death and she's going to kill you...like, soon."

Wait, why can't I say that? It's the truth. Randy's a tough kid underneath it all. He can handle what I have to say. I mean, what's the worst that could happen?

Okay, so this is the plan: I text Randy to come down and meet me. I tell him all about me, he's a little shaken but all in all, he takes the news well. Then I get him to promise to avoid all potentially dangerous activities so Death doesn't come for him. There. Simple.

I text him that I'm waiting for him outside, and a few moments later he appears before me. He's smiling and looks at me suspiciously.

"Hey, what's up? You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, I just need to talk for a sec," I reply.

"Okay, usual place?"

"Yeah."

We head down the block to the abandoned playground. Somehow sitting on rusty swings and kicking dirt with our feet makes it easier to tell each other our secrets. We head towards the swing set where Randy will learn the truth about me. But we never get to the swings because a massive dark Powerball lands right in front of Randy. He goes catapulting lifelessly into the air...

## 3

# Dear Omnis

Randy lands over by the slides a few yards away. I dash over to him but a Powerball hits just inches away from me, causing me to lose my balance and fall to the ground. I look up and find two demons careening down from the sky, ready to attack once again.

I hold out my hand to Pull the demon. Right away, a burst of light emerges from my palm. His life force seeps out of his body, forms a stream of black smoke that is drawn into my hand. The demon dies midair.

I go to Pull the other demon, but then something happens: The demon gets a good look at me and sees something that makes him stop dead in his tracks—my purple eyes.

_Damn it!_

I didn't remember to put my contacts in. Having purple eyes is a dead giveaway. Soon a slew of demons will descend upon us, knowing they have stumbled upon a Noru. Not just a Noru, but the daughter of a Council member.

_Great, why couldn't my mom work at Starbucks?_

I hold out my hand to Pull the demon, but I can't get a lock on his position because he's weaving through the air. I debate going after him but I can't leave Randy alone. I have no choice but to let the other demon go. I'm guessing he's racing to tell the others he's found a Noru out in the open. Soon the place will be overrun with demons.

I run over to Randy and take his head in my lap. He's bleeding from his nose and mouth. His eyes are closed and he is eerily still.

_Please, Omnis, don't let him die. Please._

"Randy, Randy, can you hear me?" I ask desperately.

He doesn't answer but I know he's alive because I can feel a faint pulse when I place my fingers on the side of his neck. I start to pick him up and prepare to fly him to safety. That's when I see them from the corner of my eye: a cluster of demons flying furiously towards us.

They start attacking us from the air even before they can get a good shot. Seeing a Noru out in the open has excited the horde of demons. They are approaching in a feverish frenzy. There is no way I can Pull them all at once. And even if I could, it would mean letting go of Randy, and I am not about to do that.

_Well you better think of something quick!_ I scold myself.

I hoist Randy effortlessly over my shoulder just as the Powerballs start to rain down on us. I dive behind the plastic staircase that leads to the slides. This is a temporary hiding place, as the Powerballs are melting the plastic structure.

A few demons make their way towards us. I Pull as many of them as I can, but soon there are just too many for me to handle. I take out my cell and make a call I never thought I'd have to make.

"Key, it's me. Help!" I beg.

No sooner than I hang up the phone, a Powerball sends me flying into the lamppost across the street. I gasp as my whole body throbs in pain. A dozen or so demons follow me. I Pull them fast and without mercy. They fall from the sky like drunken flies. That's when I spot the other demons descending upon Randy's body.

"Get off him!" I scream as I run towards them.

I take to the sky and Pull them left and right. They are dying quickly but not quick enough. They are about to reach Randy's body, and I won't get to him in time. Randy's going to die and it's all my fault.

The first demon to land on the ground picks Randy up by his collar and hurls him across the park. Randy's body looks like a ragdoll as it goes flying through the air. He's about to hit the brick building across the street head first.

"Randy!" I shout, not knowing what else to do.

There are just too many demons in my way. I can't even get airborne. I can't stop what's about to happen. Just as he's about to hit the brick wall, a gorgeous angel with flowing raven hair and almond-shaped gray eyes snatches Randy from certain death.

"Pry, I got him, let's go!" she shouts.

The demons now turn their attention towards Keyohmi. I signal for her to use her power and "Rip" the demons. She nods and then turns her focus on to the group of demons to her right. Her eyes glow red and soon a beam emerges. It hits the demons head-on, and within seconds they are reduced to drops of blood. The blood sprays into the air and hits the pavement like paint splashing on a canvas. That's why the other Norus and I lovingly call her The Artist.

Meanwhile, I Pull as many demons as I can as I make my way towards them. Between the two of us we are able to take most of the demons out, but more are coming.

"Get on the Port, hurry!" Keyohmi says as she tightens her hold on Randy.

A Port is a small black Frisbee-like thing that takes you from one place to another. It's more useful than flying at the moment, as it stops the demons from following us.

"Let's go!" I yell as I step on the Port.

I turn just in time to see a Powerball head straight for me; a fraction before it makes contact, we disappear.

A Port is programmed to take you where the owner of the Port designated. I have no idea where Keyohmi has programmed it to take us.

"You brought us to the warehouse?" I ask as we appear in a new location.

"I figured you would want to keep this quiet," Key says.

The warehouse is located just outside the city. There is nothing around for miles, making it a perfect place to train when we are on earth.

There are a few rooms towards the back of the warehouse. We use it to Recharge after all-night training sessions. Recharging is an angel's version of sleeping.

"Put him down there," Key says, pointing to the cot in the corner.

I place him and look on anxiously as Key places her hand a few inches above Randy's body. She hovers over every inch of him.

"Is he okay? Can you fix him? Please heal him," I beg.

"He's bleeding internally," she replies.

"Heal him. Please, Key. Please."

"Pry, calm down. And let me focus."

"Okay, okay. Sorry," I reply.

The only way to make sure I don't speak is to place my hand over my mouth. Randy is pale and motionless.

Key's hands start to form a "blanket" of light all around Randy's body. The light engulfs him. I look on, very close to losing it.

I feel my pocket vibrate. I take out my cell and look at the screen. It's my mom texting me. She wants to know where I am and why I'm out at all given that I'm grounded. I can't reply to her right now. The only thing that I care about is getting Randy to wake up.

I put the cell back in my pocket without responding.

It takes two torturous hours but finally Randy's eyes start to flutter. He tosses and turns slowly; moments later my best friend is awake and healed.

"Oh thank you, Omnis, thank you," I cry out as I hug him tightly.

He looks up at the ceiling and then at me.

"Pry, where am I? What happened?"

"What's the last thing you remember?" I ask.

"Sand from the playground hitting my face and then darkness."

"That's all?" I say to him.

"I think I saw...no, it's crazy...I don't know. I opened my eyes and I thought...no, maybe I'm just high."

"Randy, you don't get high," I remind.

"Maybe I walked by the weed spot one time too many times because I could have sworn there were guys with big black wings coming at me," he says, shaking his head.

"Randy, look at me."

He looks at me and doesn't have a reaction. That's because he doesn't expect to see wings attached to me, so he won't see them.

"Randy, you weren't hallucinating. The guys back there had wings. They aren't the only ones; I have them too," I reply carefully.

That's when he _really_ looks at me, and before his eyes, my wings spread out behind me and flap against the air.

Randy leaps over to the corner of the room and hurriedly wraps the blanket from the bed protectively around him. His body is shaking and his eyes are wide in terror.

"Randy, it's okay. It's me. It's just me with—wings," I say, getting closer.

"You have...and the guys back there they have...you're a..." He is too stunned to complete a sentence.

"I'm sorry, Randy, I didn't mean to break it to you like this but—"

"YES! I KNEW IT! I FREAKING KNEW IT! YOU'RE A SUPERHERO! THIS IS SO FREAKING AWESOME!!!"

"Randy, I'm not a superhero. I'm just an angel. Well, not just an angel but—"

"Okay. Start from the top and tell me everything..."

For a guy who almost had his head smashed in, Randy is having the time of his life. He asks a million questions and before I can answer, he starts listing what he thinks my reply will be.

"So what's your superpower?" he asks.

"Well, I—"

"I know—you kick ass right? But I bet it's more than that."

"Randy, there's a lot you need to know but right now—" I begin.

"Can you bend metal like Magneto? Wait, I bet you can control the weather? Make it thunder, Pry!"

"Randy!" I shout impatiently.

He isn't paying attention to me at all. He goes off on a tangent about battles, superpowers, and hero uniforms.

"I think you guys should wear something dark but not too dark. I'm thinking along the lines of red and gold, you know, like Ironman's uniform?" Randy says, talking a mile a minute.

That's when Key comes out from the shadow in the corner where she had been standing. Randy is facing away so he doesn't see her. She taps him on his shoulder. He turns and sees Keyohmi for the first time.

Randy's jaw drops. He is more stunned by Keyohmi than he was by my wings. He looks like a kid who accidently stumbled into a candy mega store.

"Wow..." Randy whispers in complete awe.

I can see why he's so taken aback. Keyohmi is breathtaking. She has thick lustrous black hair that runs down her shoulders. Her bangs swoop down to the right side of her face and fall just above her eye.

Key is Japanese, Korean, and black. She has her mother's exotic shaped eyes and her father, Jay's, full beautiful lips. It's not just her face that makes people marvel at her, it's her forward sense of fashion.

Key is wearing a black leather drop waist baby-doll dress that flares out at the bottom and has see-through paneling on each side. She wears dark violet lipstick to match her perfectly manicured nails. Her Louboutin platform heels add to her allure while giving definition to her already shapely legs. Keyohmi is the very best of Goth glam.

"Hey, I know this is new and everything but you should really try and stay calm. I just healed you; you may want to take it easy," Key tells him.

He nods. She could have told him to jump through the plate glass window and he would have done it. He is completely under her spell. It happens—a lot.

She takes Randy and guides him back to the cot. She tells him she will get him some water. He nods because he has yet to recall how to speak.

"Thanks, Key," I say as she walks by me.

She avoids my eyes and doesn't reply.

_She still hates me for what I did to her; to all of them._

When we are alone I head over to Randy, who is finally calm and ready to listen. I pull out the nearest chair and sit across from him.

"She's so...wow," he whispers as he watches Key leave the room.

"Yeah, she gets that a lot," I reply.

"Who is she? I mean what is she? And what are you?" he asks.

"I'm an angel. More specifically, I'm a Noru."

"A what?"

"Know-Rue."

"I'm lost," he admits.

"Yeah, it's a lot to take in, but before I give a crash course on the Angel world, how are you feeling?"

"Like I'm in the best dream ever," he says with a broad smile.

"You were hurt pretty badly. If Keyohmi didn't come to heal you..."

" _Key-o-me_ , even her name is perfect."

"Okay, lover boy, calm yourself."

"Sorry, I've never seen anyone so beautiful before. I mean how does that happen?" he asks.

"Angels tend to be...well...hot. Most of the time."

"Okay, Pry, tell me everything, right now. I want to know everything there is to know about you...what was it? Yes, Noru."

"There's way too much to cover and we really don't have time. Let's just say this for now: There is an ultimate source of good and his name is Omnis. There is also the ultimate evil; currently that position is vacant since the last ultimate evil was destroyed."

"Who destroyed him?" Randy asks.

"It wasn't a him, it was a her and The Guardians killed her. The Guardians were a team of six teenagers who were once human but died before their time. My dad was the leader."

"Nice," he says, smiling.

"Randy, focus. There are four kinds of angels: Ground Walkers, they are angels who inhabit humans and give them courage to change the world for the better. Then there are Traveler angels, they report the news to the Council. Then there are the two most powerful types of angels: Paras, they are made mostly of soul and the Guardians, as I said before."

"So what are you?" Randy asks.

"I'm a Noru; we are children of Guardians. There are only five of us in existence. There's Aaden; he's the half angel, half demon."

"You mean _that_ Aaden? The guy you wouldn't talk about?"

"Yes, him," I say as I try not to squirm in my chair.

Randy is about to follow up on the "Aaden situation," but he takes one look at me and wisely decides to let the subject drop.

"Aaden is the second most powerful Noru," I add.

"Who's the first?"

"I am."

"Hell yeah," he says, thrilled and proud beyond belief.

I can't help but smile at how much pleasure he's taking in learning I'm the most powerful. This stuff would freak anyone out for weeks, but not Randy. He's always daydreamed about having a more exciting life, and I guess for him, this is as close to it as he has ever gotten.

"Go on, go on," he pushes.

"The Norus are myself, Aaden, and my little brother, Sam. The other two members are Keyohmi and her twin sister."

"THERE'S TWO OF HER?"

"Pull yourself out of your wet dream and stay with me," I warn him.

"Sorry."

"Anyway, we all have powers far beyond most angels. That makes us prime targets for demons and whoever becomes the new ultimate source of evil."

"When is this new evil coming?"

"There's no telling. Whoever this new evil is, it will most certainly come after us because we are such a powerful force of good. That's why we all drank Cole. It's a bluish mixture that makes it impossible for evil to know where we are. That is unless you use your powers, in which case it nullifies the Cole and makes tracking us very easy. That's why we are supposed to keep a very low profile and not let anyone know who or what we are."

"But you said Keyohmi healed me. That means she used her powers, right?"

"Yeah."

"So, are the bad guys coming for her?"

"If they come it won't just be for her but for all of us. And we got away quickly so I'm hoping they weren't able to find us."

"If that's true, Pry, won't you get in trouble for telling me all of this?"

"I don't really have a choice. You need to know this stuff because—"

"Here you go," Key says as she enters with a plastic red cup in hand.

She gives it to him and he blushes as he drinks.

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

"I'm better—now."

_Dear Omnis, leave it to a guy to start flirting just seconds after he almost died._

"Key, really, thank you," I tell her.

"I'm really trying not to be upset with you, Pry. Really I am," she replies.

"I know and I'm sorry I had to call you."

"What's going on? How did demons find you? Have you been using your powers?" she asks.

"I don't think they knew it was me, at first. I think it was just dumb luck."

"Fine, the human is safe, so let's just go home."

"He's not safe, Key, he's going to die."

"I'm what?" Randy says in utter disbelief.

I reach out and put my hand in his. I want to find a way to explain that won't freak him out, but there simply is no way to do that. I take a deep breath and hope I'm doing the right thing by telling him. I explain to him what my mom's job is and what she told me a few hours ago.

"My mom saw your name among the beings that have to die," I announce, not knowing how else to say it.

"You're joking, right Pry?" he asks in a weak voice.

"No, Randy, I'm not."

"But...how...is Mrs. Cane sure it was my name and not someone else's?"

"Yes. And I'm trying to figure out a way to stop it from happening. That's what I was coming to tell you in the park. You have to be very carful and make sure not to put yourself in harm's way," I reply.

"Your mom is Death. She can stop it from happening, right?"

"No, she says it has to happen and there's no changing it."

"I'm sorry, Randy," Key says softly.

"I can't die...I'm not...you're lying. You're all lying!" he shouts hysterically.

"Randy, calm down," I beg as I go to take his hand.

He pulls his hand away and jumps off the bed.

"I want to get out of here, now!" he roars.

"Randy, please—"

"Leave me alone!" he says, heading for the exit.

He runs out of the room and into the open area of the warehouse. Once there, he's overwhelmed by the sheer size of the space and the many cave-like openings. He has no idea which way to go.

***

He runs towards one of the openings, unfortunately it's the cave where we practice flight patterns of attack. There is no floor in that room. Once Randy enters, he will plummet to his death for sure.

"Randy, no!" Key and I shout almost at the same time.

Key gets to him before I do. In his hysteria, he shoves her, hard. This is definitely not Randy's day because Key's boyfriend pops up on a Port just in time to see him shove her.

_Aw crap, Bex's gonna kill Randy._

Even if Bex wasn't a Para and didn't have massive wings, he would frighten most guys because of his sheer size. Bex has broad shoulders, ripping muscles, and large hands. Bex's power is an all-consuming power that ball of light that drains evil. In addition to the expert flying skills.

Bex doesn't need his powers to hurt Randy. His hands alone are enough. He wraps them around Randy's throat. Randy can't breathe much less talk. His feet dangle helplessly in the air. Key and I race up to them.

"Bex, put him down," Key says sternly.

"He attacked you," the Para says, holding Randy's life in his hands.

Bex pays her no attention. Instead he tightens his grip on Randy. Bex has always been protective, even to a fault. He and Key have been going out ever since I can remember. Bex isn't just brawny and hot; he's down right impossible to resist.

He's tall with spiky dark brown hair that somehow always stays in place. He has these dreamy green eyes that pull you in so deep, you may never find your way back. Then there's his smile—it's the only thing that's more powerful than his strength. That smile is most certainly a weapon of its own.

Bex is not a Noru. He's a Para. His mother is in fact the Queen of Paras. He is next in line to be Kon. That means someday he will be the King of Paras. Many angels are uneasy with the fact that Bex is dating a Noru. They fear what will happen if a Noru and a Para end up together. Angels are always uneasy about too much power placed in one family.

"Bex, put him down. He's my friend," I shout.

"I don't care who he is; he attacked Key."

"Do you really think I can't handle one human?" Key asks.

"All I know is you were on the floor," Bex replies.

"I tripped, he didn't knock me down. Now let him go," she insists.

Bex looks up at Randy, who is slowly starting to lose consciousness.

"Bex, put him down!" Key says again.

Bex is thinking it over.

_I don't have time for this; Randy is about to pass out._

"Bex, you drop him. Now," I say firmly.

Bex looks over at me. I stare right back at him, unflinching.

"Is that an order?" he asks.

"That's a polite request. If I have to ask again, then we'll have a situation. Bex, you don't want to have a situation with me," I warn him.

"So you have balls now, huh Pryor? Too bad you didn't have them a year ago," he scolds.

"Para, I will not tell you again," I reply in a cold voice.

He drops Randy. Key and I run to make sure he is okay.

Randy coughs repeatedly. Key helps him to take slow, deep breaths. After a few moments she assures me that he's fine.

"Someone tell me what the hell is going on here," Bex asks.

"Pry needed some help," Key says.

"Why would you help her?" he asks.

"Bex, not now," Key cautions.

"No, now is the perfect time. Pryor doesn't need us. She loves the humans. She loves them so much she decided to be with them indefinitely. So why would she call us for help?" Bex asks, clearly ticked off.

"Bex, I know you're mad at me but—"

"Mad? You make it sound like you stole my favorite toy or cut ahead of me in the lunch line. Pryor, you betrayed us. You abandoned us because you were too scared to be a part of this team. Then you interrupt our date night so we can help you? You're a selfish little brat, and Key was wrong to help you."

"Are we having a family reunion and no one told me? That sucks, I would've brought the potato salad," someone says.

We all turn and find Easton flying on a Port a few yards away. Easton is six feet tall, lean, with piercing blue eyes and a dangerous smile. He wears dark skinny jeans with a plaid shirt and suede jacket. He has on a knitted hat that matches his jacket perfectly and hides some of his sun-kissed blonde hair. His hipster chic look may appear casual but the truth is it costs thousands of dollars to put together.

Easton has a way of disarming girls with his humor and laid-back demeanor. I don't think he's ever been without a joke or a girl in his life. Easton is a Quo. That means he is half angel and half human. Quos don't have wings. Instead he has a special Port just for him that does not need to be programmed. He gets on it and it goes where he wants it.

"East!" I shout as I run to him.

I embrace him tightly and inhale his scent; it's always so intoxicating. He smells like a mix of amber, spice, and warm summer nights. I could lay my head on his chest forever. However, I have to say that's not the most inviting thing about my friend. Easton's best feature is his laugh. It is virtually impossible not to get sucked into his laughter. It surrounds you and makes you feel...safe.

Easton's power is "Mind wipe." He can take away memories from most beings. This comes in handy, as the Council does not want our existence widely known. East can also release a lasso-like energy field that wraps around its victim and drains their powers. We lovingly refer to it as a "Hug."

"The human world looks good on you," Easton teases.

"I missed you," I reply.

"Same here."

"Really, guys? We are giving her a warm welcome after what she did?" Bex retorts.

"I was just saying 'hi,' relax," East replies.

"Whatever, I'm outta here. Key, let's go," he says.

"Am I really dying?" Randy asks Key.

Key looks at him, then over at me. She's conflicted. I know she's still upset with me for what I did, but it's not in her nature to walk away from someone who needs her help.

"Mrs. Cane saw Randy's name; he's going to die," Key explains to East and Bex.

"Humans die all the time," Bex reminds us.

"Really? That's all you can say?" Key asks, in disbelief.

"He's not a human who needs our help. There are no demons chasing him. He's going to die because that's the nature of humanity. Live; die. The human doesn't need us."

"I can't just sit by and let him get killed," I reply.

"Pry, I hate to say it but it doesn't sound like he's going to get killed. It sounds like he's going to die," East replies reluctantly.

"And there's a difference?" Randy asks, stunned.

"Well yeah. If you were going to get killed by evil, we would protect you. But if you get a terminal illness or something, we can't protect you from that," Key says regretfully.

"I can't let him die; I'm his best friend," I shout at them.

"Well, human, if Pryor is your best friend then you have every right to be worried. I've seen what she does to her friends and if I were you, I would run right now," Bex sneers.

I look into Randy's eyes and see the worry creeping in. He's not sure what to make of Bex's comments.

"Pry, what's he talking about?" Randy asks.

"Yes, Pryor, explain to him what you did to us," Bex pushes.

Suddenly all eyes are on me. I clear my throat and put my head down as if it will make the memory go away.

"Pryor, tell me," Randy begs.

"There are usually six beings to a team. But there are only five Noru, as I said before. And Sam is too young to be part of the team. So early on, two beings were added to our group so that it could be the six of us: Bex, who's next in line to be a Kon, meaning he's the future King of Paras, and Easton, who is a very skilled Quo—half human and half angel."

"We spent years training to become a team, and along the way we all became great friends. And even though I am the youngest among us, because my father is a First Guardian and my mom is Death, I was the highest-ranking member; the leader.

"There is a ceremony called the Atu. That's when the whole Angel world gathers to officially announce a new team has been formed. The Atu was something we worked towards for years. It meant we were finally strong enough both mentally and physically to take on evil like our parents before us.

"The day of the Atu came, I was supposed to stand on the mountain range with my team members. There I would pledge before the Council and the Angel world to lead my team against evil. But I didn't show up. It's like Bex said. I abandoned them."

The memory of that day comes flooding back to me. It was the worst moment of my life. Everyone was counting on me and I let them all down. I let down my team, my parents, and myself. I just couldn't summon up the courage to go through with the ceremony.

"Why didn't you show up?" Randy asks.

"Because she was scared; she didn't want to fight evil," Bex retorts.

"So now you guys are a team without a leader?" Randy says.

"No. We're not a team at all. Without Pryor at the helm, the Council would not perform the Atu. So we don't go on missions. We don't help humanity at all," Bex says.

"That's not true. We fight a few demons here and there when it's necessary. We do a lot of charity work. And that helps humans," Key says.

"We were born to fight evil and instead we are relegated to helping old ladies cross the street. Now the angels look at us as if we are a complete waste."

"Fighting isn't the only way we can help humans, Bex. There are other ways," I remind him.

"I don't give a damn about the other ways. We were born and bred to fight and win. We came to being with a purpose and you took that away. I worked my ass off, we all did, and you threw it all away," Bex says hotly.

"How many times do you need me to say that I'm sorry for not showing up? What do I have to do to show you that I really am sorry?" I ask.

"I don't need your sorry. What I needed was for you to do for us what we have always done for you: Show up. And you didn't do that, so screw you," he replies.

Before I can reply, an angel literally crashes through the window. She flips in the air expertly and lands on her feet with poise and grace.

"Swoop, how many times do we have to tell you to stop doing that? Why can't you just use a Port to get here like everyone else?" Key scolds her twin sister.

"And what about me says 'she's like everyone else'?" Swoop replies with a sneaky smile.

Keyohmi is not amused. Kiana and Keyohmi are three minutes apart. But in reality the two are more like worlds apart.

Kiana, or "Swoop" as we call her, is the resident wild child. While Key got her mother's light complexion, Swoop has her father's darker skin tone. She did, however, get her mother's almond-shaped grey eyes and small frame.

From afar you would not notice that Keyohmi and Kiana are sisters. But once you see them side by side, you notice the same features. It's like looking at two identical pictures, but one is light and one is dark: both striking in their own way.

Swoop has the most amazing hair. It can do anything. One day she'll braid it in lovely complex patterns that mystify me. The next, she'll let it all out in a thick Afro of loose curls. Unlike my hair, hers does what she wants it to do.

Although they are very different, what both twins have in common is their love of fashion. However, their styles are very different. Swoop loves to mix and match bold colors, textures, and patterns. She is obsessed with boots, belts, and anything vintage. She always adds an artsy flare to her outfits and makes them her own.

Today she's wearing grey high-heeled suede boots that reach her ankles. Her blue jeans are ripped throughout and her off the shoulder shirt has a faded imprint of a skull with roses in its mouth. She accents her look with necklaces of different lengths and has on light makeup because with her unique beauty, very little is needed. Her regal facial features elevate her from your average pretty girl to a high-class fashion model.

Swoop's powers are impossible speed and agility. Once she takes off, she moves so fast she is literally a blur of colors. She can snap the neck of a dozen demons before they even realize she is in the room. She can twist and turn her body at inhuman angles and moves with feline precision.

"I texted you an hour ago," Key scolds her.

"Chill, Warden, I was busy in the yard bartering for smokes," she jokes.

She comes towards me with her arms out.

"Hey, sweets!" she says, beaming.

We embrace and she tells me she's missed me. She then turns her attention to Randy, who is finally back to his normal color.

"Who brought the nerd candy...yum," she says playfully.

"Um...hi," Randy says, not knowing how to react to Swoop's greeting.

I get Swoop and East up to speed on the past few hours.

"Yes, and Randy needs our help, so Key drops everything to be there for Pryor and the human. You know, like she was there for us," Bex quips.

"C'mon, man, let it go," East says.

"Wait, now you're on her side?" Bex counters.

"There are no sides," I remind him.

"See, that just shows how delusional you are. We were a team and you screwed us. So now you don't get to have us at your beck and call!" he screams.

"You don't want to help me, then fine. Just tell me how to find this Oden guy," I ask.

"Oden?" Easton replies with concern.

"Yeah, I overheard my parents talking about him. They said helping Randy would mean getting in touch with him and they didn't think it was a good idea. Who is he?" I ask impatiently.

"I've heard of him. He's a high-ranking demon, Pry. You can't go to him," East replies.

"East is right. If he's anything like what he's rumored to be, he'll kill you before you get near him," Key says.

"It doesn't matter, I have to try. If he knows a way to save Randy...I have no choice," I reply.

"Pryor, I don't want you dying for me, okay?" Randy says.

"I can handle one demon, Randy."

"Your own father and mother are staying away but you are going to charge ahead on your own? Exactly how stupid are you?" Bex asks.

"Well I can't depend on you to help me, now can I?" I snap.

"We were there for you and you—"

"I KNOW, BEX, I KNOW! I FAILED, OKAY? YOU WANT TO MAKE ME FEEL BAD FOR THAT BUT IT WON'T WORK BECAUSE I ALREADY FEEL LIKE SHIT. YOU GUYS PUT YOUR FAITH AND TRUST IN ME, AND I FAILED YOU ALL. AND WORSE I LOST NOT ONLY MY TEAM BUT MY FRIENDS," I cry out.

Everyone in the room is taken aback by my outburst, especially me. My pulse is racing and my hands are shaking from a mix of guilt and adrenaline. I force myself to calm down and lower my voice.

"I know that I wronged you guys, and I will have to live with that. But I'm trying not to let yet another person I love down. Maybe I don't deserve your help but if anyone deserves angels on his side, it's Randy. Help me save him. Please."

Key places a hand on Bex's shoulder. He shakes his head and looks away. Swoop and East shrug and give me a small smile that signals they are on board. We all turn back to Bex and Key.

"I think we should help," Key says firmly.

"We shouldn't make a decision like this without Silver," he says.

They call Aaden "Silver" because that's the color of his wings. He's the only one in existence that has silver wings. His fireballs are silver too and far more powerful than the other angels'.

Hearing them say Aaden's nickname makes my face flush with anticipation. I feel like I'm going to jump out of my skin if I don't lay eyes on him now, right now. Helping Randy has kept my mind off of Aaden but now standing here with the rest of the group, his absence is very noticeable.

After I didn't show up at the Atu, I ended up asking Aaden out a few days later. I guess I just wanted to convince myself that I was capable of doing something brave. So I asked him out and he said no. I tell myself it's because he doesn't want to be seen with a coward. He doesn't want anyone to see him with the Noru who was too afraid to lead her team.

But there is another reason why Aaden could have said "no." A reason that hurts so much to think about that I am forced to bury it deep inside me. Occasionally, when the words surface and gather in my head, they cause a rippling wave of sadness that knows no end.

_Aaden said no because he doesn't want me..._

Being rejected by Aaden felt like daggers going through me. I remember that day so clearly. We were alone near our favorite spot in Central Park. There had been a slight chill in the air. New York City in the fall was my favorite season. I daydreamed about Aaden and I snuggled together under a tree, laughing, talking, and kissing...

I remember the exact moment I started wanting him as more than just my friend. Before then we were just hanging out and chasing low-level demons together. It drove our parents crazy, but we didn't care. We had the time of our lives.

Then one day we had misjudged a landing and ended up sliding face first off a mountain. We were bloody and howling with laughter. When we finally stopped laughing, I was on the ground and he was on top of me.

I looked up at one of my best friends and suddenly I wanted something I had never wanted before—his lips on mine. The thought scared me because I had never kissed anyone before. I still haven't.

Yet there we were, laying at the base of the mountain, and all I could think about was his lips. And to make matters worse, my face and hands began to tingle once I realized just how close he was to me. Then my cheeks grew crimson and my fingers started trembling. I wanted to lift my head up and make his lips touch mine, but I didn't know how.

_How do you kiss? Who goes left and who goes right? Is that something you decide beforehand? What if I do it wrong? What if he doesn't kiss me back? What if he runs screaming and makes a giant cutout hole in the shape of his body on the mountain side running away from me?_

Ever since that day I've thought about and obsessed over what it would be like if Aaden and I touched. I mean not like friends but like...well, you know...

That day at the park I finally summoned up the courage to ask him out, and he said "no" just like that. Oh, and he also said some lame ass thing about being sorry. I was such a fool. I never thought he would say no. I mean I hoped he would say yes, but I never thought I would get a flat out "no." I took to the air and had my parents transfer me to human school. That was the last time I saw Aaden.

In the past year, from what I have been told, Aaden has changed. He's grown...darker. For one thing he left school and never looked back. I'm surprised that Uncle Rage let his son do that, but he did. Nowadays he doesn't even hang out with the group, from what I hear. He's become more of a loner.

He's so to himself that he's grown a sort of mystique around him. He spends more time around humans than he does angels. He's been known to say awful things about the Council and the Angel world as a whole.

In addition, the more elusive Aaden is, the more girls want to be with him. In fact, getting to spend a night with "Silver" is the Holy Grail for most girls in the Angel world. I guess I can understand it. Aaden is tall, dark, and the very definition of brooding.

He looks very much like his father, Rage. He has dark hair, intense dark eyes, and a body that makes it hard for any girl to stay away. In addition to ferocious silver fireballs, Aaden can "Call." That means mostly anything he sees with his mind's eye, he can summon to him.

He's often seen wearing a black leather jacket, black tee shirt, and boots. He rides motorcycles off of cliffs, and I've been told he now has a number of tattoos. He has always been hot tempered but now I'm told he's outright insolent.

_I miss him..._

" So, um...where is Aaden?" I ask.

"We don't know. Uncle Rage says he's 'doing some thinking,' whatever that means, but he assures us Silver isn't in danger," Key says.

"From what I hear, Silver _is_ the danger. I heard he was in a brawl over a couple of girls with some Quo," Swoop says, delighting in the latest gossip.

"I heard he's having a great time since his dad let him off the leash," Bex adds.

"So, um...he has...a girl? That's nice," I reply, trying to sound casual.

"No, sweets, not 'a girl'—girls. Lots of girls," Swoop says.

"Yeah well, whatever. So, are you guys going to help me find Oden? Or are you guys going to stand there and let me get killed by this Oden bastard?" I ask, only half joking.

"Little girl, Oden is the least of your problems," someone says from the doorway.

We turn and find my mother standing at the entrance of the warehouse. It's one thing to piss off my mom; it's another to piss off Death. I can see out the window; the dark swirls of ominous clouds brewing...

_Dear Omnis, my mom is going to kill me..._

## 4

# Off Course

"Do you have any idea what you put us through tonight?" my mom shouts.

"I'm sorry but—"

"Don't you dare try to excuse your behavior!"

"I had to help Randy."

"And how did you help him? By placing him in the path of demons? By having him nearly fall to his death in the warehouse?" my dad asks.

"That wasn't my fault. The demons came out of nowhere," I argue.

"That's what demons do," my dad snaps.

"Look, I know I broke the rules by telling Randy and by leaving the house when I was grounded, but this was for a good cause," I plead.

"Mommy, what's wrong?" Sam asks from upstairs as he comes out of his room.

"Nothing, baby, go back and Recharge," my mom replies.

"Pryor, did you lift up the house over your head? Dad said not to do that," Sam advises me.

"Sam. Recharge. Now," my dad orders.

He wisely goes back to his room and closes the door.

It has been about half an hour since my mom came into the warehouse and made everyone go home. She was going to have East Mind wipe Randy so that he didn't remember, but after nonstop begging from Randy, she decided to let him keep his memory.

"I know I'm in trouble but I can't just let Randy die. I can't," I beg.

"You think we like this? You think this is fun for us? Watching our child in pain? Pryor, we would fix this if we could," she tells me.

"If that's true then why aren't you going to see Oden?" I challenge.

"What did you say?" my dad asks, his tone firm.

"She overheard us talking about Oden, and she gathered the others so they could go see him," my mom replies.

My dad comes closer to me and speaks in a tone that makes my hands tremble. He rarely uses his First Guardian tone on us but when he does...

"Pryor, you are never to go near Oden. He is vile and he does not need to make contact with you in order to hurt you. He would do anything to get his hands on a Noru. You cannot under any circumstances go see him. Do you understand?"

"But I—"

"DAMN IT, PRYOR, YOU ARE NOT TO GO NEAR HIM; DO YOU HEAR ME?"

The entire house shakes when my dad shouts. His wings flap furiously against the air. I look him in the eyes and nod slowly.

"You may be the leader of the Norus but you do not rule in this house. Do you get that?" he pushes.

"Yes."

"Your mother and I will not have this conversation with you again. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Go to your room and don't even _think_ of leaving this house," he orders.

I run up the stairs but then turn around once I get to the top.

"Can I say something?" I ask.

"You can always speak to us but if I were you, I'd be very careful which words I choose," my mom says sternly.

"Every day since Sam and I were born you and Dad drilled into us how important it was to help others and to protect humans. You risked your lives over and over again because humans were worth fighting for. That's what you taught us. And now you two stand there and tell me to go to my room while a human's life is in danger...I think it's hypocritical and it's wrong. It's just...wrong."

I'm locked in my room. It's not an actual lock, it's a small vial the length of a pencil that's placed at the center of my room. It scans for me every five seconds. It's called The Eye and I freaking hate it. If it scans the area and if I'm not sitting on the bed at the center of the room, it seals off all windows and doors, then notifies the being who programmed it, in this case my dad. It does this in a fraction of a second. It's too fast for me to outmaneuver. I wish I had Swoop's powers right now.

Just because I'm on lockdown doesn't mean I can't help Randy. I text the group and have them searching for any info on where Oden might be and also what his powers are. I need to know how he can help Randy and also what kind of powers we will be going up against. Then I call Randy to make sure he isn't losing it.

"Are you okay? I mean considering," I ask.

"Considering I'm supposed to die? Yeah, I'm great."

"Randy, I told you I wouldn't let that happen."

"I owe you an apology," he says.

"For what?"

"I kind of freaked out in the warehouse."

"Well, yeah, but when you learn your BFF is an angel and you're gonna die, you are allowed to freak out. Go figure."

"I just thought I would handle something like that...better," he confesses.

"So you've been in this situation before?" I tease.

"No, but it's classic hero stuff. They have to save their loved ones. The loved ones put on a brave face throughout their adventure. I didn't do that. I totally freaked. And Keyohmi saw it."

"She knows this is hard for you; it would be for anyone, Randy."

"Hey, did she say anything to you?"

"About what?"

"About me."

"Randy, Key is with Bex. They have been together like forever. I'm sorry."

"How could she go out with that jerk?" Randy says, frustrated.

"Bex is not that bad. In fact he's a pretty great guy. It's just that my abandoning them hit him harder than the others because he helped train me. He really was counting on me."

"If you say so. I still think she could do better..." he says, mostly to himself.

"You're worried about getting a girl even with your life on the line?"

"Well if I have to die, getting a kiss from her wouldn't be a bad way to go."

I smile and shake my head; we grow silent. When I speak next, my tone has gone from lighthearted to concerned. I know he's trying to be okay with the situation, but the truth is, he's terrified.

"Randy, you don't have to come with us when we go looking for Oden. In fact it may be better if you stayed behind," I warn him.

"No, I'm not gonna let you risk everything while I stay home and play video games. I'm coming with you."

"Okay, if that's what you want..." I reply.

We fall silent yet again; this time, it's _his_ tone that changes.

"So...how do you feel about Aaden and the 'lots of girls' comment Swoop made," he asks.

"It's whatever, really."

"C'mon, Pry. It's me," he says.

"Look, if Aaden wants a harem, then fine. He can have a million girls. I don't care," I reply.

"Wow, so angels lie too huh? Cool. I'm gonna write that down."

"Very funny."

"No, I mean it. I'm keeping a record of our adventures, like a true sidekick," he informs me.

_So my bitterness and jealousy will be on record; oh joy..._

I hear a knock on my door. My dad asks if he can come in.

"Randy, I gotta go. Just please stay inside and don't—"

"Run with scissors, or crack my head in the bathtub?" he jokes.

"Just be careful," I reply as I hang up.

My dad enters and sits beside me on the bed.

"I lost my temper and I shouldn't have; I'm sorry," he says.

"Okay," is all I can manage to say.

"You were right, we did raise you to protect humans and care what happens to them."

"But I can't save Randy?"

"No, because Randy's death is part of a bigger picture. He's going to die because he was meant to live a certain amount of years and his time is up. It's not fair. And it hurts, but it is what it is. You don't have to like it. Your mom and I don't like it either. But we don't get everything we want. No one does."

"So that's it, my friend dies and I have to suck it up?"

"Yes, Pryor, that's it. But sweetheart, you're not alone in this. It's okay to be sad and to mourn for him. You love him."

"You make losing people sound so easy, like it's no big deal, Dad."

"I think you know that's not true. It never gets easier to lose people you love; humans or otherwise. Not a day goes by that the Guardians don't mourn our fallen members. We grieve every day. But we have to accept it."

_What if I can't accept it?_

"You and Mom never asked me why I didn't show up to the Atu," I reply, distant.

"No, we never did."

"Why?" I ask.

"I went into your room that day, after you didn't show up, and I saw the journals of our past mission on your bed. You were reading and stopped at page eighty-seven. We knew that's what stopped you from leading your own team. Page eighty-seven would stop many of us."

"Does that make me weak?"

"No, Reesie. It makes you...a girl with a lot of heart."

"I really tried to get past page eighty-seven but I couldn't," I confess.

"I know, but one day, you'll get to the next page and then the next chapter," he assures me.

"How?"

"When you're a leader, no matter what happens you have to keep going. That is your job. You find a way to keep going."

"What helped you do that?" I ask.

"Your mom. In the end, she was all I had..."

"And you fought for her. Randy's all I have, Dad. And I'm sorry, but I'm going to fight for him no matter—"

"They found the Alexi birds," my mom says as she bursts in.

"Where were they?" my dad asks.

"Completely off course," she replies.

"But Alexis don't get lost," my dad reminds her.

He's right. Alexis are immortal birds that have a perfect sense of direction.

"Marcus, I'm telling you the Alexis were found miles from where they should have been," my mom insists.

"That doesn't make sense," my father says to himself.

"It gets worse," she says.

"What do you mean?"

"All the Alexis that went missing were found—dead."

The next few moments everything happens at once. My parents are getting calls from every member of the Guardian team, seemingly all at once.

"Hey, Jay, I heard. Emmy just told me," my dad reports.

"Miku, I'm sure Swoop is fine. She always comes home a little past curfew," my mom assures her.

"No, you're right. We need to meet up and find out who's doing this," my dad confirms.

There's a note of alarm in my parents' voices. They are trying hard to conceal it as they speak to the others. They pace up and down the living room as they try to formulate a theory about the death of the immortal birds.

All of the noise and commotion wakes Sam up. He sticks his head between the bars of the railing and calls out for my mom. She goes up the stairs, picks him up in her arms, and cradles him at her side.

Meanwhile, I text the group and everyone but Swoop responds. Knowing Swoop, she's safe but won't reply until she feels like it. According to the others, their households are frenzied too.

"Does anyone know what's happening?" I ask East over the phone.

"No, but all the angels on my block are taking to the air," he says.

"If you find out anything let me know," I reply.

"I will. And if Swoop calls, tell her to call Key, she's worried."

"Worried or pissed that Swoop won't reply?" I ask.

"Both."

I hung up my cell just as something out the window catches my eye. I go in for a closer look and a scream escapes my mouth before I can stop it. My parents run up to my room just in time to witness the unbelievable sight: one human just jumped off the roof across the street.

The human didn't hesitate or pause in the least. He just walked off the roof and jumped to his death. We look out and a second man is about to do the same. I'm frozen in shock, but my mom places Sam in my arms, smashes through the window, and takes off into the air. My dad immediately follows her. They try to catch the second human before he hits the ground.

My mom reaches the guy just in time. I lean far enough out the window so I can get a good look and I see something even more incredulous. There is another human on a different roof a few yards away, and she too is about to jump.

I tell Sam to stay in the house, then I head out the window. Once in the air, I make my way towards the lady, who has now taken the final step before her fall.

"Hey stop, please don't do it!" I shout.

She doesn't even look at me. She just steps off the roof and tumbles down the side of the building. I cut though the air as fast as I can, the wind whips and whirls around me. I have never flown this fast in my life.

"Gotcha!" I say breathlessly as I snag the lady by the hood of her jacket just before she hits the pavement.

"Pry, can I play too?" Sam shouts as he takes off into the air.

"No, Sam. Go back in the house. I caught the lady so the 'game' is over," I reply.

"What about the others?" he asks.

_What others?_

I place the lady on the ground and fly up to where Sam is hovering. That's when I see them—there are humans on every rooftop of Manhattan. They are jumping to their deaths one by one without making so much as a sound.

Before I can register what's happening, a flash of bright orange light catches my eye. I turn towards the light and watch in horror as a couple standing at the gas station douse themselves with gasoline.

_Oh no, please no..._

Both my parents and I take off towards them but we are too late. They light a match and set themselves on fire. My dad manages to smother the flames but the humans are charred beyond recognition. We look around, and all over the city humans are dying by their own hands.

"I can't freeze them," my mom shouts to us.

"What the hell is going on?" my dad replies.

"We don't know, but it's happening all over the world."

We turn and find the rest of the Council standing cloaked and hooded before us. Time and Fate hover several feet in the air as they address us. To be honest they always did creep me out—the robes, the deep dark voices, and the impossibly bright light emanating from them.

"Who's doing this?" my mother asks the Council.

"I can't make out a face," Fate replies as he looks in his mind's eye.

"It's as if someone is speaking to them," Time replies as he studies the humans around us.

My mom holds out her hands and Pulls a human off the roof. The human, still in a zombie-like state, stares out into nothing as his body is air lifted towards her.

"Who is talking to you?" Time asks, adjusting his complex voice patterns so that the human can process it.

When the human replies his voice is soft and distant.

"All," he says.

"What is 'All'?" Time asks.

Then every single human around us turns and replies in unison.

" 'All' is the start of the end; the darkness that will swallow any remaining light. All does not reason. All does not forgive."

Then, offering no more explanation, the remaining group of humans leap silently to their deaths. Finally after several attempts, the Council is able to freeze humanity. The humans are frozen mid-fall.

"I don't understand; who is this 'All' being?" I ask

"He's the new evil," Fate announces as his eyes glaze over with a milky white haze.

I've heard about Fate getting flashes but I have never seen it in person.

"What does he want?" my dad shouts angrily.

"You know what he wants; he wants to meet her," Fate says, looking at me.

_What?_

My parents look over at me and concern fills their faces. I've never seen them so terrified in my life. My dad quickly comes towards me and places me protectively behind him.

"He will never see her," he vows.

"Marcus, you were told about this before. You knew this new evil was coming," Fate says.

"He is causing this havoc all around the world because he doesn't know where she is. Once he does, he's coming for her. He will kill the other Norus certainly, but his obsession is with Pryor," Time replies.

"Me?" I ask, dumbfounded.

"You didn't tell her?" Fate shouts at my parents.

"We warned you to tell your children—" Time begins.

"Marcus and I talked it over and we decided against telling the kids before it was absolutely necessary," my mother informs them.

"The new evil is not like the others before him. He is far more powerful and you know how he got that way, _Marcus_ ," Time scolds.

"Please, Dad, tell me what's going on. Why is this new evil different than the evil before?" I beg.

My parents exchange a look of concern and my mom signals for my dad to address me. My dad looks at the floor and rubs the back of his neck as if he's in pain or soon will be. Whatever they are about to tell me is causing them great stress and hesitation.

"We have wanted to tell you since we first found out, but..."

"Dad, c'mon, just tell me. Who is this new evil?"

"His name is Malakaro; he's your brother."

## 5

# Little Boy Lost

My father just hurled a Powerball at the center of my chest. That's exactly what it feels like. His words tear through my skin and embed themselves into my flesh like shrapnel. Pieces of the "bomb" gather together and aim straight for my core—my heart.

_My parents are breaking my heart... Why? Why would they hurt me?_

My parents are talking to me. I can't make out what they are saying because the grenade they just threw in the middle of my life has made me all but deaf. Their mouths are moving, but they are on mute. I look into their faces and realize I don't know them at all.

Yes, my mom and dad got on my nerves sometimes but all in all we were happy. I knew they loved Sam and me. I knew that we could trust them. And no matter what happened, they would never hurt us.

_But I am; I am hurt. There's pain coming from a place so deep, I didn't know it ever existed. I have been wrong this whole time. My parents aren't protecting me from pain; they are the cause of it._

Suddenly, I look at the two strangers standing before me and I want nothing more than to get away from them. The thought of being in the same space with them for another second is more than I can take. I need to go. I need to go now.

I bolt down the street without saying a word. My parents weren't expecting that. They thought if anything I would take to the air, but I need to find what they took away from me—solid ground.

I hear them calling out after me desperately but I don't stop. I run so fast the city landscapes are no more than a blur of colors. I have no idea where I'm going and I don't care. I just need to keep running until I make it back to the life I had ten minutes ago. If I just keep running it will stop hurting.

_You can outrun this pain, Pry. Just keep running._

But I can't keep running because the strangers took to the air and now they are blocking my path.

"Reesie, please let us explain," my father begs.

"Stay away from me," I shout.

"Pryor, sweetheart, we love you. We just wanted to save you from—"

"Mom, please get out of my way."

"Pryor, just give us a chance to explain," my dad begs as he walks towards me.

"NO! Please, Dad, let me go; please."

He's about to argue but then he looks into my eyes. He signals that I can go. I take off into the sky.

"How could you let her go, Marcus? She's devastated," my mom shouts at him as she takes off into the sky after me.

He follows her and gently holds her back.

"Emmy, let her go. It's what she needs right now," he tells her.

He holds her tightly and they watch as I fly away...

"The new evil is my brother! I don't even know how to...I mean how do they...ARGH!" I roar as I stomp on the ground.

Randy watches as the pavement cracks beneath my feet. He's still taken aback by how strong I am.

"Pry, I know we hate this school, but let's leave it intact, okay?"

It's been half an hour since I woke Randy and told him what was happening. Thankfully, he had slept through the humans falling from the rooftops. He headed to the football field at school. It's after midnight and no one else is around.

"How could they do this to me? How could they lie to me for fourteen years!"

"Well it's not exactly an easy thing to bring up," he reasons.

"Are you taking their side?"

"No, I'm just saying it's not exactly dinner conversation."

"The whole time they've been preaching about how important it is to be moral and honorable angels; it's all been a lie. Who knows what kind of mess they got into? I mean, what else are they keeping from me?" I ask.

"You had no idea at all?"

"No. I bet they didn't even write it in the Muse."

"What's that?"

"A Muse is a journal that chronicles past missions."

" And not once did they mention it there?" Randy pushes.

"I've never read all of it. I started to but I couldn't get past page eighty-seven."

"What's on page—"

"Never mind that. Randy, what am I going to do? Everything is different now. How am I supposed to hate my own brother? Then again, he killed dozens of humans tonight. How can I overlook that?"

"Do angels go to therapy?" he jokes.

"Randy!"

"I'm sorry; curious human here," he says, putting his arm around me.

"I don't know anything anymore. Is Malakaro my mom's kid or my father's? Which one of them cheated? Are there any more Norus I don't know about?"

"Normally 'sibling I didn't know about' should be at the top of my list of concerns. But I have to say, it's not," Randy confesses.

"I'm sorry. I know you're worried that we won't find Oden, but we will. You're not going to die," I promise him.

"Pryor, that's not what I'm talking about. This new evil sounds...well, _really_ freaking evil. And from what you've told me this psychopath has it in for you."

"Yeah, my day just keeps getting better," I quip.

"You have to go home and talk to your parents."

"I can't even look at them right now."

"Then wear a blindfold because you need answers and they are the only ones who have them."

Randy insists on coming with me, so after a quick stop at his apartment to change, we head back to my house. The closer we get, the more dread I feel.

"How come everyone on the street is acting normal now?" Randy asks.

"I'm sure the Council had their minds wiped. East and others like him who can take away memories, must have been working all night," I reply.

"There are no ambulances or anything."

"Angels are great with cleanup."

"That's so cool," he replies.

"We're here," I say, mostly to myself.

My house looms ahead of me. I've always loved coming home. I've always felt safe and secure there. Now, I would do anything not to have to enter the house. Randy, sensing my hesitation, takes my hand and we head inside.

When we walk in, I find my parents pacing the floor, waiting anxiously for my return. I try to fight the urge to flee. Randy is right; I have questions that only my parents can answer.

"So which one of you cheated?" I ask.

"That's it, Pry, start with something easy," Randy says sarcastically.

"Honey, no one cheated," my mom says as she takes a step towards me.

I take a step back.

"Randy, could you give us a minute?" my mom asks.

"Sure, I'll go say hi to Sam," he replies.

I'm about to protest but Randy signals to me that I should let him go. I watch reluctantly as he disappears upstairs.

"Honey, have a seat," my dad says.

"I don't want to sit. I want answers," I reply.

"Pryor, sit down," my mother says in a tone that tells me they are no longer asking.

I sit on the edge of the sofa, interlock my fingers together and place them nervously on my lap. They sit on either side of me.

"The story of how I ended up with another woman is a long one. And we just don't have time for it. For now, let's just say that on our last mission, I had to do things I didn't want to do in order to stop the Angel world from collapsing," my dad says carefully.

"Meaning you cheated on Mom?"

"No, honey. Your father united with another woman because it was the only way to save all of us. It was hard on me; on us. But it was necessary. And when your father was finally able to get out of the union, we thought that was it," my mother informs me.

"Later we learned that the woman had a child; my child," Dad adds as emotion fills his voice.

"So because he had a different mother, you disregarded him?" I accuse.

"No. I wanted him. He was my son. I was going to go after him and have him come stay with us," Dad replies.

"Why didn't you?"

"He had already killed and was making his way in the Demon world. He could not have been saved."

"Dad, you don't know that. He could have turned out like Uncle Rage. He started out evil but then he changed," I plead.

"Your uncle is a rare case. Demons don't normally change. Rage fell in love with Aaden's mom. That love was able to change him," Dad explains.

"Maybe if Malakaro had your love he would be different now," I argue.

"It's not that simple, Pryor. His mother was vicious and wrathful. She made it her mission to cause chaos. It's no surprise that her son turned out the same," my mom says.

"He's evil because you abandoned him, it's that simple," I tell my dad.

"No, it's not that simple. And if you think it is then you definitely are not ready to lead," he counters.

"So being a leader means that I have to walk away from my own flesh and blood?" I ask.

"Sometimes, yes. I wanted Malakaro. But it was too late to save him. I had to look out for my family: you, Sam, and your mom," Dad insists.

"So you lied to us for all these years?" I push.

"I did what I thought was best. You don't get it now, but maybe someday you will," he says.

"I doubt it," I snap.

"Honey, there are going to be moments when you will have to make tough decisions. And in those moments nothing is black or white. In the end you try and do the best you can. That's exactly what your father and I did: we did our best," Mom says, placing her hand on my shoulder.

"Your best was lying to me and abandoning a kid?" I ask.

"Pryor, do not mistake Malakaro for a lost little boy. He is the new evil for a reason. If you and the others didn't drink Cole, and your location wasn't hidden, he would find you and kill you. Just like he killed all those humans today," Dad cautions.

"That's why the Council is meeting: we need to decide if we will be moving you and the others," Mom says.

"Moving us?"

"You may have to stay in the light," my dad replies.

"What? No, I have to help Randy," I counter.

"Pryor, we are not going into this again with you," Mom says impatiently.

"But I can't just—"

"Pry, they're right. You need to be safe," Randy says from the top of the stairs.

"Before you argue with us, Reesie, nothing is official yet. The Guardians, the Council, the Paras, and most of the angels will be meeting in the light. What happens to you and the others affects everyone. We can't let Malakaro take out our best defenses against evil," Dad says.

"Mr. and Mrs. Cane, if Pry and the others are so powerful, why do they need protecting?" Randy asks, coming down to join us.

"They are powerful now but not nearly as powerful as they will be when they are adults. The new evil will try and stop that from happening," my mom explains.

"How are they going to be protected then?" Randy asks, concerned.

"We have placed an Opt around this house; it's a force field. We also have angels posted all around this area. We called the others and they are coming here just as soon as they find Swoop. We want to make sure you are all together and safe," Mom adds.

"What about Aaden? Is he coming here too?" I ask, trying to stay casual.

"Rage will look after Aaden," Dad informs me.

"He should be here with us," I remind them.

"We told him that but he doesn't want to come," Mom says carefully.

"He's safest among other Norus right now. Why wouldn't he want to come?" I ask.

My mom comes closer to me and pulls a strand of hair away from my face. When she speaks her voice is soft and filled with regret.

"Honey he...he doesn't want to see you."

You ever have one of those days where it seems everything that could go wrong does? And then you think to yourself "If one more thing goes wrong, I'm gonna lose it?" Well here we are and that "one more thing" is Aaden refusing to see me. I bolt up from the sofa. My parents are about to speak but I cut them off by holding out my hand.

"I need to do something and I really need to do it alone. You want to send an army after me then fine. But I'm going out. Randy, stay here and wait for the group," I order.

"Where are you going?" my dad asks.

"I'm going to see a demon about an ass kicking" I reply as I storm out.

I take off into the sky and by the time I get to Rage's house, I am seething. My fists are balled up and I'm biting on my lower lip to keep it from quivering in anger. I bang on Uncle Rage's door repeatedly.

"OPEN THE DOOR!!!" I scream.

I don't hear anything so I pound even harder.

"OPEN THIS DOOR!!!" I order.

Uncle Rage comes out with a stern, dark look on his face and a sizzling, roaring fireball in the palm of his hand.

"Damn it, Pryor, I could have killed you," he says as the fire diminishes in his hand.

"WHY THE HELL IS YOUR SON BEING SUCH A DICK?" I demand.

"Your dad told you Aaden won't come to the house?" he replies.

"Yes; I've heard Aaden doesn't want to see me. Well, he needs to grow some damn balls and tell me to my face why he's acting like an asshole."

"Okay, chick, take it down a few."

"I know that he's mad at me because I bailed on the Atu. And he's not the only one who's pissed at me. Bex can hardly look at me without taking shots. But Aaden is different. I mean we...he...I..ARGH! WHERE IS HE?"

"Wow, you are just like your mother when she was your age—impulsive and rash."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I need to stay calm," I mock.

"No, I like a little fire in a girl," he says shaking his head, amused.

"Tell me where he is. If he's so angry that he can't stand to look at me, he should tell me face-to-face. I know it was wrong to abandon the team but that still doesn't mean he has the right to treat me like crap."

"That's not what he's doing, Pry."

"That's bull. The safest place for him is my house right now, but he won't come because he's mad at me."

"Don't worry about Aaden's safety. I took care of it. He has more than enough security."

"Why won't he see me? How much longer is he going to punish me?"

"Kid, this isn't about you. Aaden is staying away for reasons that have nothing to do with you."

"Then help me, please Uncle Rage. Tell me: Why is Aaden staying away?"

"This past year has been really hard for my son. He's trying to deal with...events that are hard to take in."

"So let me guess: Aaden found one girl in the universe who isn't attracted to him and now his heart's broken?" I reply.

"No, that's not it."

"Okay so...he got some girl pregnant. Great. That makes seven Norus," I snap.

"Pryor, you have to understand—"

"Well I don't; I don't understand any of this. Uncle Rage, everything in my life has changed in the past few hours. I have no idea what to feel about anything."

"Yeah, the rest of us thought you should have been told about your brother. It was a crap deal you got."

"It's not just that. I have a best friend to save and no idea how to get to the being that's supposed to save him. And now I'm supposed to hate a brother I don't even know; a brother that's hell-bent on killing me."

"Are you old enough to drink yet?" he asks.

"I don't want a drink. All I want for the love of Omnis is someone to be straight with me. Please for once can someone just tell me the truth?"

He looks into my eyes and sees the frustration and anger that fills them. He puts his hands in his pockets and lowers his head.

"Uncle Rage, tell me what's going on with Aaden. Please."

"Last year Aaden was taken to Bliss."

"Bliss is a prison for angels; why would Aaden go there?"

"He killed five unarmed humans."

## 6

# Peace No More

The words echo inside my skull on an endless loop, yet I can't bring myself to accept them.

"That's not possible," I argue.

"Yeah, it was a shock for me too," the demon confesses.

"Uncle Rage, Aaden would never do that."

"Yeah, well he did."

"No, I don't believe it. He wasn't that kind of guy," I plead.

"He changed; you of all people know that."

"Just because he started acting aloof doesn't mean—"

"It wasn't just that. Aaden started to pull away from your group. He pulled away from me too. He got moody and sullen. He became...introverted," Rage says.

"Just because he turned into a loner doesn't mean that he would commit murder. That wasn't who he was. There has to be some other explanation. What did Aaden say when you asked him?"

"He was in Bliss for a whole year and he refused to see me."

"What did he do when he got out of prison?" I ask.

"He made it clear he wanted nothing to do with me or the Angel world. It's not just you, Pryor. My son hates everyone."

"Why? What happened?"

"The older he got, the more he learned about his mother's death. He started to blame me because I couldn't save her. It was just a teen rebellion thing. I thought it would blow over," he says, sounding pained.

"Well what happened the night of the murders?" I ask.

"I wasn't there. All I know is that a few Paras flying by heard a crowd of humans screaming and running away. They landed near the commotion, in front of some dive bar, and found Aaden standing over five dead humans. When they asked what happened, Aaden confessed. He said the men hustled him all night, and when he was trying to leave, they came after him. And he killed them."

If Aaden had been human, he could have made a case for self-defense. But the fact of the matter is humans with an armload of weapons can hardly hurt an angel, let alone cause serious injury. So, if Aaden did kill the humans, it wasn't out of fear for his life but out of pure desire.

_Could Aaden really have done that?_

Suddenly there are images of Aaden attacking the humans in my mind. I can "see" their blood splatter on the sidewalk as they crumble to the ground, lifeless. I feel light-headed and weak. It takes more energy than it should to remain standing.

"Pryor, are you okay?" Uncle Rage asks.

"No, I'm not," I admit, shaking my head.

"Here, sit down," he says, helping me sit on the steps.

I hang my head low and look down at my feet. I wait for the spinning in my head to stop. This takes a few moments.

"As I said before, this isn't about you, Pryor. I failed Aaden. I was supposed to keep him from his evil side and I guess I fucked that up," he says.

I don't reply. I just continue to look down.

"Your mom is always on me about not cursing. Sorry, but sometimes there's no other word that can fit better than 'fuck,' as in I fucked up my only son's life," Rage adds.

"Where is he?" I ask.

"I don't know, but he's under watch by the Paras."

"Are they watching him to protect him from the new evil or because the Paras are afraid Aaden's a full-on demon?"

"Both."

All I can do is nod. I'm worn out. It's like I've been flying all day and just need a place to land; a safe place to land...

"I don't know how to...talk and junk. I can't make you feel better. Your parents are good at that. You should talk to them."

"All they do is lie."

"They agonized over whether to tell you kids about your brother."

"They made the wrong decision."

"Maybe, but it's done; suck it up and deal."

"Is that the advice you gave Aaden?" I snap.

His face is clouded over. I thought he'd be mad at me but the demon isn't angry; he's hurting. He blames himself for what's happened with his son.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to say that," I tell him.

"Its fine," he lies.

"How was Malakaro able to stop the Council from freezing the humans?" I ask, attempting to change the subject.

"He's stronger than they thought. He's stronger than we all thought. There's never been an evil with both the power of darkness and light. The birth of Malakaro could signal the end of well...everything."

"So I hear..." I quip.

"I guess I should get back home. Thank you for telling me about Aaden."

"Why? I just added to the 'suck pile,'" he says.

"Yeah, but you gave me something good too."

"What?"

"You gave me something I haven't had all day: certainty. I don't care what you or anyone else says: I'm certain Aaden didn't do what you think he did. And until I hear it from him, I will hold on to that."

"You really are very much like your mom."

"Is that a good thing?"

"Mostly...

"We need to get going, I have to meet the others in the light," he says.

"I thought they never let you up there," I reply.

"No, they never have before. It's serious enough that the Council is willing to have me come to the light. Just about every angel of influence is up there right now."

"That means we're in real trouble," I conclude.

"Yeah. But the Guardians and I will fix it. We've battled evil before and we'll do it again. No matter what happens, we will protect you guys."

"Aren't we supposed to be doing that?" I ask.

"You will when your powers get to their full strength. Right now, none of you is strong enough to take on Malakaro. It would be stupid to try."

I'm about to answer him when I get an emergency text from Swoop.

"I have to go," I inform him as I start to take off.

"What's wrong?"

"Don't know yet; but Uncle Rage, don't worry, Aaden didn't do what they said. I'm sure of it..."

When I get to the warehouse I find everyone waiting for me, including Randy. In addition there's a male angel about our age, whom I have never seen before. He wears jeans and a grey sweatshirt. He jams his hands inside the pockets; he darts his eyes back and forth.

"What's going on? Where is Sam and who is this guy?" I ask.

"Sam is with the sitter. And this guy, well, Swoop thought it would be better to hang out with him than to return our calls," Key says.

"Really, Key? You can't drop the attitude even with everything going on?" Swoop snaps.

"No, I can't. You are so damn selfish. We spent hours looking for you," the older twin replies.

"Well you found me, so chill the hell out," Swoop replies.

"We thought something happened to you. Why didn't you text us back?" Key pushes.

"I'm not a child. So how about you back off?"

"Our parents were worried about you."

"They were so worried they went to a meeting?" Swoop challenges.

"They knew they could count on me to find your spoiled ass," Key replies.

"I said I was sorry. I didn't hear my phone, okay?" Swoop barks in return.

"No, it's not okay. Your sister was worried sick about you. When the hell are you going to grow up?" Bex asks.

"If she spent all night with you and she was thinking about me, I think you have bigger problems," Swoop retorts.

"Watch how you talk to me," Bex warns her.

"Yeah, and what are you gonna do about it, Para?" Swoop pushes.

"Don't you talk to him like that!" Key scolds.

Soon they all start talking at once.

"EVRYONE SHUT THE HELL UP!"

All eyes turn to me. I survey the room and try my best to remain calm.

"I can't tell you how screwed up my day has been," I tell them.

"We heard about your ...new brother. Sorry, Pry. How do you even deal with that?" East asks carefully.

"No idea, but I just found out some really messed up stuff going on with Aaden. I mean, seriously, you won't believe what they think he did."

"Oh, the prison thing?" East says casually.

"What? You guys knew about that?" I ask, shocked.

"You know it's nearly impossible to keep things a secret in the Angel world," East reminds me.

"Why didn't you guys tell me?"

"Why should we?" Bex retorts.

"Bex, I had a right to know what was going on."

"You don't have a right to anything," he shouts.

"Bex, honey, please—" Key begins.

"No, Pryor left us. You walked out on us. No call, no text, nothing! Then she comes out of the blue and wants us to save some guy we don't even know."

"I'm sorry, Bex, I thought we could save Randy just because he needed saving. I didn't know he had to be a friend of yours. Silly me, I thought saving humans is something we do."

"There is no 'we.' You made sure of that when you walked away and never looked back."

"Yes, I know. I messed up your destiny. If you are so anxious to be in battle all the time, then you need to join the Omari. Spend your days hunting and killing angels that have broken the laws."

"They wanted me and I turned them down because I thought I was already part of a team. I should have known better than to count on you," Bex counters.

"Seriously, what the hell is your issue with me? Everyone knows what I did. But you are holding on to it like a dog with a damn bone. Just bury that shit already."

"Whatever, I'm outta here," Bex says, shaking his head angrily.

He makes his way towards the exit. Swoop yells out to him. Normally Bex would not even slow down but the words that come out of her mouth make him stop dead in his tracks.

"Bex, this is Donavan. His father is Keeper of the Pathway. Malakaro has him."

Bex turns around to face us. Randy watches as the entire demeanor of the room changes. We are all on high alert. The entire warehouse is coated with dread and doom.

"Um...guys, what's the Pathway?" Randy asks.

"It's ...um..." I can't finish the sentence.

It's as if saying it out loud will make things even worse. But I know Randy is lost and I need to snap out of it.

"The Pathway is the only way in and out of the light. Evil destroyed it a long time ago. It was rebuilt. And now for added protection, its location changes hourly," I tell him.

"My dad maintains it. He makes sure it runs smoothly and on schedule. But most of all he makes sure to guard it against evil by ensuring that it continuously moves. But for the past few hours, the Pathway has stayed in the same place," Donavan informs us.

"If evil found the Pathway, they could already be in the light," Swoop says.

"And that's bad, right?" Randy asks.

"Yes, Randy. Demon. Pathway. Bad," East says.

"What makes you think Malakaro has him?" I ask Donavan.

"My dad got the same look on his face that the humans did before they jumped off the rooftops. He got on a Port and I haven't seen him since. I called Swoop because we usually hook up to like...you know," he replies.

"Yeah we know. But why are you just now telling us?" Key says.

"I've been looking for help, but everyone is in the light, at the meeting," he reminds us.

"Oh no," I reply, mostly to myself.

"What is it?" Bex asks.

"Nearly _everyone_ is in the light; that's why he did this. Malakaro threw the humans off the roof not as an intro but as incentive to have the angels gather. That way when he attacks there will be the maximum number of angels there to kill."

"We gotta get to them," East says as he jumps on his Port.

"Do you know where the Pathway is now?" I ask the Keeper's son.

"Yeah, my dad tells me where it will be, as a backup. It's in Bangkok. It has been for the past few hours."

"Good, let's go."

We land in a small town just outside of Bangkok called Amphawa, where the many sights and sounds of the floating market greet us. I've been to this part of Asia before with my mom. She loved showing me all the human world has to offer. This is actually one of my favorite places. When I was here, I fell in love with the city's main attraction: the river.

There are merchants sitting inside the canoes along the banks. They sell everything from fresh seafood to fried bananas. I love their large brimmed hats and their makeshift money exchange system. They place the food in small bags, tie it to the end of a stick, and extend it out to the customers waiting on land. The customer gets the food and places the money into the tin buckets, also tied to the end of a stick.

The homes along the riverbank range from well built, three-story units with Asian-style roofs, to dilapidated one-room shacks. The women hang their laundry on modest but sturdy clotheslines, while tending to their toddlers and seeing to daily chores.

My mom and I would watch as the merchants rowed their canoes over to homemakers and offered up the catch of the day with a side of local gossip. Life among the floating market is simple, peaceful, and free of worry.

But I'm not here to visit like last time. So we don't stop and admire or shop like I know the twins would have loved to do. Instead we follow the Keeper's son down a dark, narrow alley spaced between two run-down homes along the river.

The fear that we might be too late forces us to move swiftly. So much so, Randy gets left behind once or twice. I debated taking him along, but he refused to stay behind and we simply didn't have time to argue with him.

Finally we get to a field just off the main street. Donavan points to the small beam of light just ahead. But he didn't need to do that. We knew we were in the right place because of the hordes of demons standing at the base of the cylinder-shaped Pathway.

We hide behind a tree and scan the area.

"What are they doing?" East asks.

"Who cares, let's go after them," Swoops says.

"We can't just run in there. There's hundreds of them and six of us," Key says.

"Um...seven. I'm here too. You know, if you...need me," Randy says, smiling bravely at her.

"Yeah, that's not gonna get annoying," East quips.

"What is that?" I ask Donavan as I move in for a closer look.

The demons place an object on the base of the Pathway. It is a football-sized glass tube with a red and black liquid inside it.

"It's a bomb called Gova. I've seen something like it before. Once the red liquid touches the black, it goes off and shreds anything in sight with a soul," Bex says.

"They're going to activate it and send it up into the Pathway," Key concludes.

"Once the Pathway lights up, it means it's about to transport something into the light. If that happens, we'll only have seconds to stop it," Bex tells us.

"They can't blow anything up unless my dad agrees to it; he's the Keeper. And anything that goes up or down the Pathway does so with his permission. He would never agree to anything like that," Donavan says.

"I don't think they gave him a choice," East says, signaling to the still figure on the ground a few yards away.

"Dad!" Donavan screams and goes out to help his father.

"Donavan, no!" Swoop yells.

But she's too late; our position is blown. The hordes of demons turn their attention towards us. The Powerballs descend upon us with full force.

I take my bracelet off and throw it at Randy. He's surprised when a bubble-like prison springs out from it and encases him. It's called a Holder and I place Randy inside it to prevent him from being attacked. But it also prevents him from helping us in any way. That really upsets him. Yet, I don't have time to explain anything to my friend. I take to the air with the group.

"Whatever happens do not let them get the Gova inside the chute," I order.

Swoop whizzes by with inhuman speed and kills half a dozen demons. She snaps their necks in two and they fall to the earth below. A pair of demons, seeing this, launches dark smoke from the palms of their hands. The smoke forms four ghastly serpent-like shadow creatures that lunge towards her.

"Swoop, look out!" Bex shouts.

Swoop ducks just in time to get out of the way of the massive Powerball Bex had thrown. Thankfully it missed her and hit the serpents; they are killed on impact.

"Cutting it close, huh?" Swoop says.

"Who says I was aiming for them?" Bex jokes.

"Hey, a little help here?" East shouts as a slew of demons chase him with lightning.

Bex tackles them, and along with Swoop's help, they subdue them. Bex turns his attention towards his girlfriend only to find that she does not need any help. Key turns almost two dozen demons into bloody "works of art."

I raise my hand and Pull as many as I can. They are dying fast but lots more are coming towards me. East takes on the new wave of demons. He uses his force field to surround them and drain them of their energy. The demons kneel down to the ground, too weak to remain standing.

I tell the group to cover me as I head for the demons near the base of the Pathway. They hurriedly try to set up more Gova. One of the demons tells the other that they are running out of time.

"We're supposed to send three up there," the demon reminds his partner.

"There's no time. Two is fine," the other demon replies.

They agree, but that's the last thing they do on earth because I Pull the life force from them. However, they already placed the bomb at the center of the Pathway.

"The Pathway is glowing, it's taking the bomb into the light!" Bex yells.

I look around for a way to stop the Pathway from lifting the bomb. But there's no way. The bomb is lifted several feet in the air. It begins its ascent. The entire angel race will perish, including all our parents.

Without thinking, I scan for the other two bombs; I find them not too far from where the dead demons lay. I race towards them and grab hold of them desperately. I shake them and watch as they fuse together. The group calls out and asks what the hell I'm doing. I have just armed two massive weapons.

"Bex, Key, when I give the signal, aim all your power at the Pathway. Then everyone take cover," I shout at them.

I hurl the bombs at the Pathway itself and give them the signal. The impact of both the Norus' powers and the Gova causes a nuclear-sized explosion to erupt. It chases after us like an angry tidal wave. We run for our lives, literally.

The roar of the explosion, right behind us, tells us we won't be able to get enough distance before it catches up with us. The group and I exchange a look of pure fear and terror. Without needing to communicate, we all know the only course of action: duck under anything we can find.

The only thing around us is a run-down house with a series of tattered canoes attached to it. The wave of fire and pressure that has been ruthlessly pursuing us is now seconds away from landing on top of us and killing us all.

I leap into one of the canoes, turn it over so that it is shielding me, and I brace myself. The rest of the group follows my lead. Three seconds later, just as we take cover, the wave hits on top of us and lets out an earth-shattering roar as it engulfs everything around it. The explosion rings out to all of Thailand.

_The floating market is at peace no more..._

We crawl out from under the rubble and debris. There are small fires blazing around the homes, plants, and canoes. All around us the humans are running for their lives, confused and fearing more terror is yet to come.

I am weak with relief when I see that everyone in the group is relatively okay. The Holder that was protecting Randy held up, although it did send him flying several feet in the air. I pick up my Holder; it turns back into a bracelet. Randy is set free.

"Randy, are you okay?" Key asks.

"How. Awesome. Was. That?" he replies, wide-eyed.

"Yup, the human is just fine," East says.

"I can't believe it! That was such a rush! I LOVE THIS!!!!" Randy says, too excited to stand still.

"Randy, you realize you were just thrown several thousand feet in the air by a raging inferno, right?" East asks him.

"A thousand feet huh? Wow, that's pretty...high. I don't know if—" Randy faints immediately.

It takes about fifteen minutes for Randy to wake up. When he does, he finds the group and I looking down at him.

"What happened?" he asks.

"You fainted," Bex says.

"Oh. Was it a manly kind of faint? You know, the kind the hero does after he's overcome overwhelming odds?" Randy asks, filled with hope as he looks towards Key.

"Yes, it's the kind of fainting heroes do—after they discover the pretty dress for the ball they bought has a rip in it," East says.

"Very funny. Anyway, I'm better now, so please help me up," he says.

I give him a hand and he stands on his own, although he looks pale and not quite his natural color.

"What you did was so cool, Pry. You knew you couldn't stop the bomb so you destroyed the path where it was headed; genius," Randy gushes.

The whole team avoids eye contact with me. Randy looks around at them, confused.

"What is it? Why aren't you guys happy? We just stopped the demons from going to the light," Randy says.

"Yes, we did. But I closed the Pathway," I reply softly.

"So?"

"So, no demons can enter, but no angel can exit."

"I don't get it," Randy admits.

"What Pryor wants to say is that the angels who could protect us, like our parents and the Council, are stuck in the light with no way to come back," Swoop replies.

"Wait. Pryor, you mean...?"

"Yes, Randy; we are alone."

## 7

# Flesh & Fools

_"So you feel that The First Noru's actions were not motivated by a desire to save her parents as she would have us believe, but from her subconscious need to punish them for not telling her about her connection to the new evil?" the interviewer asks._

_"Exactly, Robin. Pryor isn't thinking about the bigger picture. She's only fourteen and she can only fixate on her emotions. She destroyed the Pathway because of her unresolved anger at her parents."_

_"So you're saying there was no plot to destroy the Pathway by the new evil?" the interviewer pushes._

_"None at all."_

_"So what happens now, Dr. Monroe?"_

_"Well, now the unruly group is going to have to deal with what their selfish leader has done. I mean, really think about it: The only ones who could have protected the Noru until they came into their full powers are gone. It's very likely Pryor Cane has doomed not only herself but her whole team..."_

_"Thank you, Dr. Monroe. When they come back, they may be doomed but they are always at the forefront of fashion. Next on 'Up!' The top ten outfits worn by the Noru twins this year. And how you can get their look for less."_

"Turn it off," I instruct Randy.

"Sorry, I just can't believe you guys have your own channel," he says as he turns the TV off.

"The 'Up!' Network; all crap, all the time," East replies.

Earlier, we dropped Donavan off at his house. He was so shaken by the loss of his dad, we had to stay with him until the rest of his family arrived. Afterwards, Swoop suggested we stop to find out the latest on the Pathway explosion. We ended up here, at an electronics store, just outside London.

It had only been a few hours since the Pathway blew up, but everyone in the Angel world knows, thanks to blogs, Twitter, and TV. Someone even has footage up on YouTube already.

While the media is mostly uninformative crap, we did learn something: It will take some time before the Pathway can be rebuilt since most of the Paras who had built it were stuck in the light. And the Pathway can't be constructed from above.

"So when I just press '00' on the TV the station comes up?" Randy asks.

"Yeah, you have to know it's there to see it—just like with our wings," Key replies.

"How did they know so quickly?" Randy wonders.

"Well, when you screw up in the Angel world, it takes no time for everyone to find out," I reply as I head out of the store in utter misery.

"Pry, it wasn't your fault. You saved everyone in the light," Randy reminds me as the group follows me out.

"What I did was separate my friends from their parents," I reply.

"East's mom is still on earth," Key says.

"That's right. So if any of you want meatloaf with a side of 'why can't you be more like your sister,' come see me," East adds.

"No thanks. I'm usually full from the bottomless bowl of 'Your sister is perfect' stew that's always being served at my house. It keeps me pretty full most of the time," Swoop says.

"Mom and Dad don't think I'm perfect. And the reason they are always on you is because you need to be more responsible," Key says.

"Again, what's wrong with living in the moment?" Swoop insists.

"Isn't that what people say right before they stumble into an all-night chapel in Las Vegas?" Bex asks East.

"Followed by the inevitable question, first thing in the morning: Who are you again?" East jokes; they share a laugh.

"Face it, Swoop, you could use a little structure," Key says gently.

"Why, so I could be like you and have designated underwear for the dates of the week?" she teases.

"She does that?" East asks Swoop.

"Yup. Monday panties, Tuesday panties..."

"I'm not that neurotic. I can be just as wild as you," Key counters.

"What are you gonna do? Wear Friday panties on Saturday? Shocking," Swoop replies as she places one hand on her chest and the other over her mouth, as if shocked.

"Leave my girl alone, Swoop. She knows how to live in the moment. Just yesterday she had a sneeze that was only planned two weeks in advance," Bex says.

"Oh, okay Bear, keep it up and you'll never get close enough to even look at my calendar," she says, calling her boyfriend by the playful nickname she gave him years ago.

"EXCUSE ME! WILL YOU GUYS STOP JOKING? I DESTORYED THE DAMN PATHWAY!!!" I blurt out.

"We know," East says softly.

"This is bad, guys," I plead.

"We know," Swoop confirms.

"I put us all in even more danger."

"We. Know," Key says.

"Why aren't you guys pissed?" I ask.

"Pry, we hate that it happened but..."

"Key's right. We lost our parents for a few days or maybe even a few weeks. But if you didn't do what you did, we'd lose them forever," Swoop agrees.

"The media acts like I _wanted_ this to happen," I reply.

"The media blows. You did the right thing," East says.

"Yes, but you guys should still be worried," I remind them.

"We are, very much so. But given what you have to do when we get home, we figured we should keep our worries to ourselves for the moment," Key says.

"Oh Omnis! I forgot," I say, mostly to myself.

"What is it?" Randy asks.

"Sam; I have to tell Sam our parents can't come home. Randy, how do I do that without breaking his heart?"

Once back in New York City, we head straight to my house. I try to brace myself. We enter the living room and find Sam rolling around on the floor laughing helplessly with his babysitter. Suddenly the task that felt hard to do before, feels impossible now.

Sam and the sitter make silly faces and try to outdo each other. The babysitter is a grown-up but in a very loose sense of the word. In fact, Sam may be far more mature than his sitter.

"Hi," I call out from the doorway, trying to sound upbeat.

"Pryor!" Sam calls out as soon as he sees me.

He runs up to me, still laughing and gleeful. Tony comes up to us, he's smiling but behind his eyes, there's sadness there. He's heard the news.

"I didn't know Sam's sitter was an angel," Randy whispers to me.

"His name is Tony-tone. He used to be a Seller. That's a human who lived a pretty corrupt life on earth but died doing something selfless. They get to live over and over again until they do enough good to become an angel or enough bad to go into Difi, the house of fire. Most Sellers spend their many lives on earth as less-than-reputable pawnshop owners," I inform him.

"So Tony became an angel?" he asks.

"After many, many, _many_ attempts," East replies.

The plump, kind-faced angel smiles at me. The only thing brighter than his smile is his cabana-inspired shirt with palm trees and coconuts.

"Tony, did you hear about..." I ask.

He nods, mouths the words "I'm sorry," and signals to me that Sam doesn't yet know.

"We played chess and Tony cheated," Sam says.

"Hey, hey, I'm old; old angels get three turns at a time," Tony lies.

Sam keeps laughing. That's when I look at Tony suspiciously.

"You let him have Snap chips before bed, didn't you?" I ask.

"Only half a bag," Tony replies.

"Before you ask, human, Snaps are treats that give angels a burst of power for a few moments," Bex says.

"The Paras have since made kiddie Snaps that don't give powers but simulates an emotion. They come in chips, bubble gum, and all kind of goodies, right Sam?" Key asks.

"Yeah, and they have ice cream now too!" he replies.

"But you're not supposed to have any before bed, are you?" East inquires.

Sam smiles at him and shakes his head "no."

"What flavor did you have?" Swoop asks.

"Silly-Goof."

"Well that explains the look on your face; that's the best one," she replies.

"How much did you _really_ have?" I ask.

"Two bags," Sam says.

He quickly places his hand over his mouth, shocked he had let the truth slip.

"Tony!" I scold.

"I'm sorry. But who can resist that face?" Tony replies.

"Are you mad at me?" Sam asks.

"No, sweetie," I assure him.

"Yay! Pry, where's Mom and Dad?"

I don't answer. I would give anything not to be in this moment. Sam asks once again. I pick him up, take him over to the steps where my mom always takes me. I have him sit on my lap while I search for a way to explain what's happened.

"Mom and Dad are still in the light," I explain carefully.

"When are they coming back?" he asks.

"I don't know. They went up and some bad guys tried to use the Pathway to hurt them. So I destroyed the Pathway. That way Mom and Dad are safe."

"Okay, but when are they coming back?"

"They aren't coming back—for now. As soon as they figure out how to fix the Pathway, they'll be back."

"So tomorrow?"

"It might take a little longer than that," I admit.

"But it's almost story time. Mom has to tell me a story."

"I'll tell you a story, okay?"

"No! I don't want you. I want Mommy!" he cries.

Huge droplets of tears overflow in his eyes and spill over. Sometimes I wish we were like other angels; they can't cry. But for some reason Norus can; although I myself think it's a waste of time and have yet to cry.

Sam jumps from my lap and runs away from me. I stand up and call out after him, but he refuses to stop. He runs upstairs to his room and slams the door.

"Sam!" I call out again as I head upstairs.

I knock on the door but he won't let me in.

"Sam, please, I want to talk to you."

"No; you made Mommy go away."

"I didn't have a choice..."

"I hate you!" he yells.

"Let us try," Key says as she comes up the steps.

I shake my head and allow her to knock. After a few moments, Key convinces Sam to let her come in by promising she'll take him to a Snap shop where he can get anything he wants. I head downstairs and leave Sam to her, knowing how good she is with him.

I walk past the group and head out the door.

I want to take off but I'm not even sure where I would go. So instead I sit on the front steps of my house and look out at the sky. I hear the door open behind me. I don't bother to look up.

"Randy, I need a minute alone, okay?"

"It's not Randy," he says.

I turn and find the last being I expected standing above me.

_This is perfect. Just perfect._

"Bex, I can't do this right now. So if you want to yell at me, put it on your schedule for later. Or better yet just throw a Powerball at me and get it over with."

"The human was right; blowing up the Pathway was genius," he replies.

"What is this, sarcasm?"

"No, it's not."

I look up at him and there is no mocking, sardonic glare on his face. His expression is like his voice, sincere. He sits down beside me.

"My brother hates me," I confide to him.

"Sam will be fine. He has everything he needs; he has you," Bex replies.

"Really? Because a few hours ago, I was the worst thing that could happen to anyone."

"I know I've been...hard on you."

"You've been a complete Tool," I correct him.

"A little."

"I know me leaving the group sucked but—"

"See that's just it: you didn't just leave the group, you left me," Bex replies, unable to look me in the eye.

"What do you mean?"

"Pry, we used to train together long after the others were off Recharging because everyone expected more from us. You have to lead the Norus and I will someday have to lead the Paras. We were in this together. And the night before the Atu was to take place, we talked, do you remember?" he asks.

"Yeah, I was nervous about leading and you helped me get over it."

"I _thought_ I did too but then you didn't show up. I've spent the last year wondering what I could have said the night before to scare you. You didn't show up to the Atu because I failed to help you. Seeing you just reminds me of that."

"Bex, the night before the Atu, everything was fine. Really, you did help me."

"Then why didn't you show up? Please, Pry, what happened?"

"I was reading from the Muse. I got to page eighty-seven and I freaked out. You didn't fail me, Bex. I failed myself."

"What was on page eighty-seven?"

"It doesn't matter. The point is I am the one to blame, not you, so please—"

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I'm free now, right?" Randy asks in the doorway.

"What?" Bex replies.

"Well, not to be insensitive or anything but now that Death is stuck in the light, that means I get to live right?" Randy asks hopefully.

"Randy, I'm sorry but that's not how it works. Death, Time, and Fate still work in the light," I reply.

"Oh, okay..." he says sadly as he heads back into the house.

Bex and I follow him inside. Key comes from upstairs and tells us she was able to get Sam to Recharge. I thank her and ask if he's okay.

"Not now, but in time I think he'll come around," she replies.

"Least he has time," Randy says under his breath.

I return my focus to Randy, who hangs his head and slumps down on the sofa.

"Randy, don't worry. We'll figure out a way to save you," I vow.

"How? We don't even know where to find Oden," he replies.

"Oden, the demon?" Tony asks.

"You know him?" I ask.

"Yeah, horrible demon; great client though. Back when I was a Seller I could always count on him to buy a few poisonous vials, pain elixirs, or PTC. Otherwise referred to as Portable torture chambers."

"Do you know where we can find him?"

"Well, yeah he's always hanging out at—never mind," Tony says.

"Tony. C'mon, spill," Swoop pushes.

"No, no, no. Oden is not a demon you should mess around with. Your parents wouldn't like it. I can't tell you," Tony says firmly.

"Tony, if we don't find him, Randy will die," Key informs him.

We go on to explain Randy's situation. After a while Tony agrees to tell us where Oden's hangout is but only if we promise to call him for help if we should need it. We didn't want to point out to Tony that we are more powerful than him. It would have been rude.

"Okay, okay, but when your parents get back, you didn't hear this from me," Tony insists.

"Promise. Now where can we find Oden?" I push.

"The only bar around that caters to high ranking, degenerate, murderous demons: Flesh & Fools."

Again Randy wants to come along. However this time I'm able to convince him to stay behind and look after Sam when he wakes up. I assured Randy that although Tony is with my little brother, it would help him to have another familiar face around.

There's another reason I need Randy to stay behind: we got way too close to Randy's death the last time we encountered demons. Holders are strong, but the blast nearly ripped it open and had it done so, Randy would have been killed.

The group and I head to the demon hangout located just outside of Chicago. We land in the alley and scan the area. The streets reek of sewage and decay. Rats scurry to and from nearby trash bins, most of which are overflowing.

"Bex, maybe you and Key should consider this your next 'date night destination,'" East teases.

"Thanks, but rat droppings don't really do it for me," Key replies.

"Oh, what does?" East asks flirtatiously.

"East, you are _so_ not ready," she says, shaking her head playfully.

"Something's wrong here," I observe as we head towards the bar.

"I know; I just ruined my shoes," Swoop says in disgust.

"Oh no, the new ones?" Key asks, going over to her sister.

"I mean something bad happened," I explain.

"Pry, I just got rat guts on my new Alexander McQueen boots. Bad doesn't even begin to cover it," Swoop says as she tries to clean her heels with a tissue.

"Just when you think things can't get bad enough: war, famine, disease and now...a muddy shoe," Easts mocks.

Shocked at the level of shoe insensitivity, the twins push East over.

"Hey, watch how you handle the merchandise," East replies as he gathers himself.

"Pryor's right, something's wrong," Bex says as he scans the nearly empty street.

"Alright, alright. What is it?" Swoop asks.

"Well this is a demon hangout, right?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"So where are the demons?" I reply.

The group takes a second look and from the expressions on their faces, they now understand my alarm.

"Maybe they're all inside," Bex suggests.

"Demons don't do well with limits. They wouldn't just stick to the bar. They'd have run off the whole neighborhood," East replies.

"So where are they?" Key asks.

"Let's go in and find out," I say to them.

We turn our attention to the red door entrance of Flesh & Fools. There's a warning carved into the wood.

_"This establishment is not reasonable for loss of limbs."_

"Charming," East says.

We enter the bar carefully, not knowing what to expect. The place looks like it's been trashed. There are broken bar stools throughout the room, shattered glass and demon blood everywhere.

"What the hell happened?" I ask.

"I've never been to a demon bar, maybe this is how they all look," Key says.

"I have and they don't look this bad; something went down," Swoop says.

"Should I ask what you were doing in a demon bar?" I wonder.

"I wouldn't," Bex cautions me.

"Swoop, do demon bars have firework displays?" East asks.

"No."

"Then we better get down on the floor," East says.

"Huh?"

"GET DOWN!" The half angel, half human yells.

We all hit the floor seconds before a raging ball of fire zooms past us.

"It's coming from the back room; cover me," Bex says as he heads towards the direction of the blaze.

"Bex, no! We don't know how many of them are back there," I reason.

A second fireball is launched in our direction.

"Okay, but we can't just sit here," Bex says.

"Swoop, Key, and I will go around to the back door, that way we can attack from both sides," I order.

"How do we even know there's a back door?" East asks.

"There's always a back door in these kind of places: in case a demon needs to escape a vengeful boyfriend, flesh-stripping Powerballs, bookies..." Swoop says.

" _Flesh-stripping Powerballs_? Okay, when this is over, you and I really need to talk," Key says to her twin as we head out to the back door.

We enter a long dark hallway with doors on both sides. Straight ahead, we can hear East and Bex battling. I send Key and Swoop to help the guys while I investigate the rooms. I enter with hands out, ready to Pull any demon that jumps out at me.

There's no need to Pull any of the demons in the room because they are all dead. There are nine of them spread throughout the room. Each with gaping wounds and blank stares.

I check out the other room across the hall and the same thing. Except this room has six dead demons.

I head to the back of the room, where I could have sworn something moved. I lean in closer on the dead demon. He has the word "Kill" tattooed in big letters on the left side of his face. His wings are still and his eyes are turned up towards the ceiling.

_I could've sworn I saw movement..._

"Pry, you good?" Swoop calls out.

"Yeah. I'm good."

I head to he front of the bar where the group has killed all but one of the demons that were attacking us. Bex is holding the remaining demon in a headlock.

"This here is Roman. We kept him alive because he seems like a helpful guy. How about it, Roman, you gonna help us out?" Bex says.

"Suck it," Roman says, filled with venom.

"Roman, you're a second-rate demon surrounded by Noru. The best you can do is stay alive for another...five minutes. These words you're speaking now will be the last ones you ever speak. Are you sure you want to go 'Suck it?' Personally, I'd go with maybe a Shakespeare quote. You know something from Julius Ceaser maybe?" East says.

The demon laughs or at least tries to; the hold Bex has on him makes it hard for the laughter to come out.

"You have no wings; you can weaken us with a force field but you can't kill us. You're not Noru. You're a freaking Quo; you're the team's mascot," Roman informs East.

Without warning, East yanks the demon from Bex and hurls him across the room. Normally Bex would have been able to hold on to Roman but East caught him totally off guard. The demon crashes onto a nearby table but he continues to laugh at the Quo.

Now fully enraged, East places his hands in front of Roman's face and starts to "hug" him. We watch as the laser lasso emerges from East's palm and wraps itself around Roman's head. It starts to drain his energy. While it can't kill the demon, having the lasso around his head can cause him brain damage and render him useless to us.

East is generally easy going, but having the least amount of power is always a sore subject. And although Quos are more accepted now than they were years ago, many beings still consider them a "lesser" race. It's a stupid and narrow-minded way of thinking.

"East, stop it; we need him," Key says.

He pays her no mind. He glares at the demon that is about to lose consciousness.

"It's okay man, let it go," Bex pushes.

"YOU DON'T THINK I CAN KILL YOU?" East challenges furiously.

"You have Preschool powers; I'm not afraid of you," the demon whispers smugly.

"East, get away from him," I order.

He withdraws the lasso and turns his attention to me. The demon, seeing his chance, uses the last bit of strength he has left and crawls out the window. We all go after him. Roman tries to take flight. Luckily Swoop moves like lightning and casts him down to the ground.

"Don't leave now, Roman, it's rude," Swoop informs him.

He groans as he hits the ground, hard. I bend down on the ground beside him. I focus and begin to raise his fear level. He starts to squirm and cry out.

"What happened here?" I ask him.

"No, please, make it stop!" the demon screams.

I'm not sure what he sees in his mind's eye but whatever it is, he's terrified.

"I will stop Binding you, once you talk to me; what happened?" I ask again.

"The new evil has been hunting higher-ranking demons. Taking them out one at a time—please make it stop!" Roman says, too fearful of the visions in his head to go on.

"Why would Malakaro take out his own kind?" Key asks.

"I don't know but all the high-ranking demons are in hiding. They've never seen an evil like this," Roman says as he starts shaking violently from fear.

"Where is Oden hiding? We need to find him," I ask.

"I d-don't k-kn-know," Roman replies.

I Bind him again. His level of fear is now at the point, where had he been human, he would have gone into cardiac arrest.

"NO PLEASE!" he begs.

"Tell me where Oden is hiding!" I shout.

"I don't know."

I go to Bind him even further.

"Wait! Wait! There's a demon I know; he hangs out with Oden a lot. He could tell you where to find him," Roman begs.

"What's his name?"

" 'Kill' or at least that's what we call him. He was in here before Malakaro sent his team."

"Does he have a tattoo on his face?" I ask.

"Yes, that's him," Roman says, averting his eyes to whatever terror looms in his mind's eye.

"He's dead. I saw him in the back room," I tell the group.

"I guess that means we don't need Roman anymore," East says murderously.

I go to Bind him one final time.

"No, no. Kill is alive. He can regenerate."

_Damn it!_

I take off like a rocket inside the bar. I head to the back room and kick down the door. Sure enough the demon with the face tattoo is gone. But he's around here somewhere because I'm reading fear nearby.

I head back into the hallway, just in time to see Kill bolt out the back door. I take off after him. He is airborne within seconds. I'm right on his heels. He turns and throws fireballs at me, one after the other. I manage to dodge them but I can't retaliate. If I kill him, I won't find Oden.

Kill dives towards the ground and lands. I quickly follow but I lose him when he ducks between a row of townhomes. I scan the area in search of the demon but so far, nothing. Then I hear a bloodcurdling scream coming from one of the homes. I run towards the noise.

A woman is sprawled out at the front door; her blood coats the front steps. I bend down and check her pulse; she has none. I run into the house in search of the coward that killed her. There's no sign of him on the first floor.

I run to the second floor and carefully open the door nearest me. Standing across the room is Kill with a fresh ball of flame aimed at his latest victim, who sleeps soundly in her crib.

"It will be the very last thing you do," I warn the demon.

"I doubt that," he says with a smirk.

_Can I get to him before he drops the fireball into her crib?_

"You can risk it, if you're feeling lucky but I wouldn't" he says, as if hearing my thoughts.

He's right. I could make it in time to save the baby but I could be wrong. I don't want to take that risk and Kill knows it.

"Leave the baby alone and I won't chase you," I inform him.

"You have no idea what he has in store for you," Kill replies.

"Who?"

"Malakaro. His evil is different. It's without reason," he says with delight.

"You sound like a real fan. Too bad he tried to murder you."

"We don't have to be friends for me to appreciate his work. Now, be a good angel and introduce yourself to my friend."

I turn around just as a Powerball blasts me from behind. I go flying backwards and slam into the wall. My head hit it so hard, it causes cracks to appear and crawl along the wall like a spider. The pain radiates throughout my head and causes my vision to blur.

"No, don't kill her yet; I want her to watch this," Kill says to his demon friend.

He then goes over to the crib and sets it on fire.

The baby wakes up and starts screaming. But it's not the scream of someone being set on fire, which means the flames haven't gotten to her yet. I try to Bind him but I can't focus long enough to affect his fear level.

The two demons grab hold of me and pin me against the wall. Before I can raise my hand, Kill grabs my palms and sandwiches them between his. He then summons up one of his powers. Fire springs from his palms. Kill has set my hands on fire.

The scorching blaze eats away at my fingers immediately. I shriek so loud, I don't recognize my own voice. I shake my hand violently but all that does is allow the flames to grow.

"There's only one thing that can put out a blaze from me; and trust me you have no chance of getting it," Kill tells me.

I jerk my body around so violently, I feel my shoulder snap out of place. But that pain is nothing compared to the anguish of my melting fingertips. I drop to the floor of the nursery as if it will somehow save me from suffering; it doesn't. The demons stand above me, laughing as the smell of burning flesh assaults my nose.

I writhe in pain and moan as the flames spread to my forearms. I am too weak to stop the blaze from eating me alive. In the background the baby continues to cry out.

_Just focus long enough to save the baby..._

I try, but the blaze isn't only eating away at my body, it's filling my mind with terror and making it too hard to focus on my powers. The house is quickly filling up with smoke and flames; the roof above me will soon cave in on me.

_Pry, the baby...get the baby..._

I can't think anymore, let alone move. Shutting down. Eyes...blur. Smoke. Everywhere. Pain. Everywhere.

_I'm sorry human; I tried to save you..._

Demons lean in to watch me die up close. Just as I'm about to close my eyes for the last time, the baby stops crying.

_Dear Omnis, please say it's the smoke that killed her and not the ruthless flames._

The demons head over to the crib to see what's happening. I force myself to stay awake for a second longer. However, it's all in vain. The only thing I can make out is a third figure has joined the party.

_Kill must have called more demons to come and watch me die._

I can't keep my eyes open long enough to find out. The pain is finally too much for my mind and body. The last thing I see before I close my eyes are silver wings...

## 8

# My Father Is Marcus Cane

I squint and look away as the light streams through the window and hits my face. When

my eyes adjust to the light fully, I look around the room. I'm in the warehouse. One of the rooms has been converted into a makeshift hospital room.

_He saved me... Where is he? Is he here? Did he stick around to make sure I was okay? Or did he just drop me off like a sack of potatoes and take off? Did he come with his harem? Or is there one special girl accompanying him? I hope he's still here..._

"Hey, you're up! How do you feel?" Key says, smiling brightly as she looks down on me.

"Not bad, is Sam okay? Did anyone check on him?" I ask.

"Many times. Bex got him a thousand-piece puzzle and he's completely taken with it. He's with Tony and they are doing just fine. Now, are you sure you're okay? You were burned pretty badly."

"Yeah I'm good, but my arms are tingling," I admit as I try to peek outside the door to see if I spot him.

"Yeah, you weren't burned by normal fire. The only way to put it out was with the blood of the demon who set it," Swoop tells me.

"As you can see, your skin is back on and everything is just like it was before. But it will tingle for a few days and then fully heal, thank you, Omnis," Key replies.

I sit up and realize Key also fixed my shoulder. I thank her as I surreptitiously take another peek behind the door. There is no one there.

"Who you looking for?" Swoop asks with a knowing smile.

"No one," I reply.

"Don't tease Pry, she's had a rough few days," Key says.

"Tease me about what? I wasn't looking for anyone," I lie.

"Well, we bought you some fresh clothes while you were knocked out," Swoop says.

"You know, just in case you wanted to look your best for 'no one,'" Key says slyly.

The twins exchange a look and burst out laughing.

"C'mon, be serious. There's something I need to be caught up on," I remind them.

"Okay, okay. We're sorry. So what do you want to know?" Key asks.

"Duh, she wants to know if Silver's still hot; and the answer is—even more so than before," Swoop replies.

"Really?" I ask.

The twins exchange a knowing glance.

"I mean, whatever," I say dismissively.

"So here's what happened. He came into the house filled with flames, took out one of the two demons. But the second one, Kill, got away. Luckily before he fled, Silver was able to injure him and acquire his blood to put out the flames," Swoop says excitedly.

"And the baby?" I ask.

"He rescued her first. She's safe and sound with relatives," Key replies.

"Good, that's good," I say simply, while trying to suppress my desire to shout "IS AADEN STILL HERE?"

"You should have seen him when he brought you over to us. He carried you over his shoulders with a grave, desperate look on his face. He knew the girl he loved was clinging to life!" Swoop says as she places the back of her hand over her head and sighs dramatically.

"Can you please make your sister stop acting like she's in _Gone With The Wind_?" I ask Key with a smile.

"Yes, Swoop is taking it a little too far, but..."

"But what?" I ask.

This time, the twins are more understated in their meaningful glances; they are not sure they should be saying what they are about to say.

"Keyohmi, tell me: What was Aaden like when he brought me over to you guys?" I push.

In reality, I'm sure Key only took a few seconds before she replied, but in my mind she stood there for hours while my heart was in my throat.

"Silver was...he didn't know if he got to you in time. I could be wrong, but he looked empty."

"I'm sure he was just worried. We're all friends, so he wants me to be okay," I reply, more to myself.

"Pryor, it's not about what he wanted; it's about what he _needed_. And he needed you to be alive. As if his own life depended on it," Swoop insists.

_Dear Omnis, I hope he's still here..._

"Key, thanks so much for healing me," I tell her, ready to change the topic so the girls can't see me blush.

"It's what I do," she says proudly.

"Swoop, where's...Randy?" I ask.

"He would have been by your side but he knew his dad would go nuts if he missed school."

"How long was I knocked out?"

"Nearly four days," Swoop replies.

"Really? I don't feel like—wait! Randy went to school by himself? What if—"

"Bring it down. We all enrolled in human school so we could take turns watching over him," Swoop assures me.

"So the guys are at school with Randy...what about...?" I ask as if I am asking about the weather.

"Aaden?" Swoop asks suggestively.

"Um yeah, him," I reply.

"He's outside. He's been waiting for you to wake up," Swoop adds.

"Okay, send him in."

"Try not to set off the sprinkler system with all that heat you two will be generating," Swoop jokes.

Key playfully grabs her sister and goes to fetch Aaden.

I spring up from the bed and rush over to the makeshift vanity the girls have set up. I'm not as girly as they are; no one is really. But it's times like these that make me really appreciate the twins and their uncanny sense of fashion.

They have set aside only a small assortment of makeup, but they chose all the best brands. In addition, the soft warm color palette the twins picked goes very well with my skin tone. I quickly apply a layer of rose-colored gloss, mascara, and a hint of blush. I beg my hair to behave as I brush it hurriedly and let it fall down my back. Argh, I wish it wasn't so damn red!

I pick up my new outfit, draped on the back of the nearby chair. I hope they didn't go overboard. I could never dress as...loud as they do. I'm more of a "cute jeans and top" kind of girl. Maybe once in a while I might do a wedge, but mostly, I'm boots and flats.

I look over the outfit; I freaking love these girls. It's perfect. It's fitted jeans with a white peasant blouse that hugs my body but not too tight. It's casual, which is good because I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard. Yet it's dressy enough so that he knows I made an effort.

I know it's crazy to be this concerned with my looks given all that's going on. Not to mention the fact that Aaden has been a real jerk. And I certainly don't mean to be _that_ girl but the fact is I really want to look my best for him.

We have not seen each other in a year, and the first time he sees me I'm soaking in flames, passing out, and drooling on his shoulder. I have to make a better second impression. I hear someone enter. I turn around and see Aaden standing in the doorway.

He's taller than I remember. He has washboard abs, a broad chest, and perfect pecs. He was always fit, but now his muscles are so defined they make an imprint on the fabric of his black tee. His hair is the color of nightfall and slightly longer than it was the last time I saw him.

The most startling thing about Aaden is he has his mom's amber eyes. There's something behind them that pulls me in and makes it impossible to look away. How did they manage to get even more intense than they were before? Looking into them I forget, well...everything.

I long for him to get closer, but then again, I can barely handle the current of excitement running though my body having him stand across the room. Everything around me fades into the background. As of right now there is no one in the world but the angel standing before me. I wonder if he feels the same way. I thought I saw him linger a little, as he looked me over...

"Aaden, thanks for—"

"Exactly what the hell is your problem?" he demands from the doorway.

Taken off guard, I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

"I asked you a question: What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"You are supposed to be laying low, not going around setting homes on fire and attracting attention to yourself!" he admonishes.

"I didn't set the fire, Kill did, and why are you talking to me like I'm some lowlife Seller off the street?"

"Listen, 'Buffy,' this demon hunting crap is over."

"Who the hell are you to give me orders? You haven't been here. It's like you turned your back on angels," I remind him.

"You're damn right I did. It may be news to you, but I don't give a rat's ass what happens to the Angel world."

"Then why did you come to save the group?"

"I didn't come to save the group; I came to save...look, you need to stop searching for Oden. Leave it alone," he orders.

"I can't. Oden has info that will save my best friend's life. His name is Randy and—"

"I DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT WHO YOU'RE SAVING OR WHY. YOU NEED TO STOP."

"You can't come in here and order me around. I'm not your second in command; you're mine. Don't get that confused," I bark.

"I'm not gonna warn you again: stay away from the demons," he shouts firmly as he storms out.

Furious, I follow him out of the room.

"You can't just order me around and fly away," I remind him.

"The hell I can't," he snaps.

Just as he's about to take off into the air, the rest of the group appear on Ports.

Before they can even jump off, Aaden charges towards them.

"Who's the asshole that let her go after demons seconds after the new evil appeared?" he asks.

"Hey, Silver, nice to see you too," East replies, confused.

"We didn't have a choice," the Para counters.

"Bullshit, Bex, you should've stopped her," Aaden says hotly.

"I tried to stop her; too bad you weren't here to do the same," Bex shouts back.

"Can you guys stop talking about Pry like she's not in the room?" Randy says.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm...I'm her best friend and you need to watch how you talk to her," Randy says bravely.

Aaden looks Randy over, decides to ignore him, and addresses the group.

"How can any of you be this careless?" he demands.

"Silver, you have no right to come at us like this," Bex begins.

"I have every right; you never should have let this take place."

"ENOUGH!" I order in no uncertain terms.

Bex and Aaden shut up but they don't stop glaring at each other. I address them in a calm but firm voice.

"I will go after whomever I want, whenever I want. Oden has info that will save Randy and I will not rest until I find him."

"What does Oden have that you need so badly?" Aaden asks.

"We don't know yet," I reply.

"So you're off scouring the globe to get something from a demon but you don't even know what it is?" he blasts.

"Aaden, it—"

"You guys were crazy to let her get into this mess. Pryor, this is done. This. Ends. Now."

"You are not my father; my father is Marcus Cane. And even if he was here, he couldn't order my team around."

" Your 'team'? So what, you're putting the band back together?" he says sardonically.

_Argh, I hate him!_

"Well actually, we've got a couple of gigs lined up. You know, a bat mitzvah here, a retirement party there and soon...we'll go on the road."

"East, can you be serious for just _one_ minute?" Aaden snaps.

"If history's any indication...no," East replies.

The twins try to suppress smiles. Aaden looks around the room and shakes his head. When he speaks his tone is sobering and certain.

"Malakaro is working on finding a mixture to counteract the one we took to hide our location. And given the amount of powers that you and the others have been using... it's not a matter of _if_ he finds you, it's a matter of when."

His angry tone slices through me. But I make myself look back at him without flinching. I'm pissed too. He hasn't seen me in a year and the first thing he does is reprimand me? Just because I'm a girl he thinks he can tell me what to do? And Randy's right; how dare he address the group as if I'm not there?

_Argh, I really, really hate him; sexist, pig-headed fascist!_

"Silver, we get what you're saying but we can't just abandon Randy. It's not right," Key says.

"This is your idea of leadership? Taking stupid, foolish risks for just anyone?" he asks me.

"Randy isn't 'just anyone'—you know what, Aaden? If you don't like the way I'm running things, you can take off. I'm sure there's a line of half naked, drunken girls just waiting to receive the 'Silver' package. So why don't you go give it to them?" I reply.

"Whoa," Swoop whispers.

Aaden glares at me so hard, had I been a guy, he would have decked me for sure. Seriously, First Noru or not, he would have beat the hell out of me.

"You know what? I never should've come back here," he says darkly.

I can't let him know just how much his words hurt me so I clear my throat,

straighten my posture, and agree with him.

"You're right; you shouldn't have come back."

He looks around the room, starts to say something but then Swoop interrupts him.

"Hey guys, I think I might know what Oden has that could help Randy."

"What is it?" I ask.

"I had a contact of mine do some digging and Oden has access to Stirr," Swoop replies.

"Stirr? What is that? How can it help?" Randy asks anxiously.

"It's a mixture that can alter contracts," I say to him.

"I'm not exactly sure how Stirr works," East admits.

"Least I'm not the only one," Randy says.

"It blurs the portion of the contract that has the name of a specific being and renders it unreadable. And Death's list is essentially a contract. So while Randy's name would still be on the list..."

"Stirr would cover it over," Key says.

"Yup, Angel Wite-Out," Swoop confirms.

"So Stirr allows you to get out of a contract?" East asks.

"Yes, that's why the Council outlawed it ages ago. And even if they didn't, it's a mixture so complex and dangerous, few dare attempt to make it," Key says.

"Key is right; just trying to procure the ingredients needed to make Stirr has cost many their lives," Aaden says.

"Wow, what's in Stirr?" Randy wonders.

"Demon blood, human cartilage, three-headed serpent tongue, a few slabs of _fresh_ shark belly..."

"Yeah, I am so sorry I asked," Randy says to Key.

"Your friend is sure Oden has access to Stirr?" I ask.

"Yeah, it's the only reason to think Oden would be of help," Swoop says.

"Does he know where Oden is hiding?" Bex asks.

"No, but he has eyes on Kill. He offered to follow him and see if he leads us to Oden."

"What does your friend want in return?" Aaden asks.

"What they all want: me," she teases.

"He's willing to risk his life just to date you?" Bex asks.

"'Just' to date me? Please. I'm amazing," she says, dripping with charm.

"Swoop, thank you so much for helping me; I love you!" Randy says, embracing her tightly.

She hugs him back and blushes at his outpouring of emotion.

"It's a long line," she says, smiling brightly.

"Pryor, don't do this; don't go chasing after Oden," Aaden warns yet again.

"Look I told you—" I don't get to finish my thought, thanks to an incoming text.

_"Carrots & Peas: Now"_

My jaw drops and I look at my cell again to make sure I'm seeing it correctly. How could this be?

"I don't understand," I say to myself out loud.

"Understand what? What's wrong, Pry?" East asks.

The rest of the group looks back at me with concern and confusion.

"This text: Carrots and Peas. It's a code from like forever ago."

"A code for what?" Bex wonders.

"It signals I'm in danger and need to get to the safe house."

"Where is this 'safe house'?" Key says.

"Across the street from my school."

"Who sent you the code?" Aaden asks, now even more alarmed.

"That's just it. The only one who knows about the code is my mom..."

Everyone in the warehouse, including Aaden, heads for the safe house. I didn't ask him to come. And he didn't ask if I wanted him to join us. It's just something we all knew we had to do together. No matter how crazy and pissed we have been with each other as a group, we don't just let one of us go into danger alone. I guess that's why Aaden saved me: part of the code of being a Noru. Why does that make me a little sad?

_Because you were hoping he saved you for reasons far more personal..._

I refuse to think about that right now. I have to stay focused on the text message I received. The Pathway being destroyed not only means that angels can't come down from the light, they also can't communicate. So how was my mother able to send me this text? And if she's really here then why didn't she come find me at the warehouse? She knows there's only a short list of places I'm likely to be.

We land in the alley by the safe house; it's a bakery store that's been closed since I started school. There's a broken side window my mom and dad found. She told me if she ever sent the code I was to go in through there and go down to the basement and wait for her. I tell the others and we start to head for the side window.

"What are you doing out of class? Get back in here!" someone calls out from clear across the street.

We all turn and look over at the school entrance. Standing there with her hands on her hips, impatiently tapping her pen to her clipboard, is "The Face."

"Mrs. Greenblatt, oh crap," Randy says.

"Look, we don't have time for this," Bex warns.

"Your mom could be waiting inside for you, right now," Key reminds me.

"I said come over here; right now," Mrs. Greenblatt calls out firmly.

"Can't we get out of this?" Randy asks.

"I can Mind wipe her, but I need to touch her to do it," East says.

"We could just ignore her," Key suggests.

"Um...Mrs. Greenblatt isn't really the kind of person you can ignore," Randy says.

"He's right. Let's cross the street. I'm sure she'll take us to her office to write us up; East can Mind wipe her there," I tell them.

"Why not do it once we get close enough for East to make contact?" Randy asks.

"There's a glow that comes from my powers—too many people around for that. We need to get her alone," East says.

I sigh deeply and we head over to The Face.

All I really want is to go straight for the basement, so why don't I? Because I'm afraid when I get to the basement there will be no one there. And I can't bear to face that very real possibility.

"All of you are in serious trouble," she says as soon as we are within earshot.

She doesn't give us a chance to explain. She herds us through the crowded hallways. The girls at the school can barely keep their eyes inside their sockets. They are completely taken with Bex, East, and Aaden. There are girls who literally dropped whatever they were holding when the guys walked past them. One girl actually gasped.

The human males in the hallway all have goofy smiles as they behold the twins. Some quickly try and fix their hair, some prepare their best "macho stance," but most just stare with mouths open.

I think the biggest surprise of all is that the group of impossibly hot students is with me. I walked by resident mean girl, Harper, and I swear she nearly swallowed her tongue. That alone is worth the trip to Mrs. Greenblatt's office.

It doesn't matter how many students want to stop and speak to the group; we all know better than to slow down. The Face is walking with speed and purpose; and we don't dare fall behind.

"I'm guessing it's been like this all week?" I ask Key.

"Humans are easily impressed."

"That's because you're impressive," Randy says before he can stop himself.

It isn't what he said but the longing in his voice when he said it. The group looks over at Randy and then at Key's boyfriend.

Bex looks over at Randy curiously. Thankfully before he can say anything, we arrive at Mrs. Greenblatt's door.

We enter her spacious office. It's filled with pastel decorations and way too many motivational kitten posters. She also has wall organizers, bookcases, and suspended writing utensil boxes, all from Martha Stewart's "Pretty things for anal people" collection. All in all it's a cozy enough space, considering.

"Now all of you sit down," she orders.

We are about to object but she raises her eyebrows and we all take a seat. I signal to East to get ready to make contact with her. He stands up again and walks towards her.

"Mrs. Greenblatt, I didn't get a chance to introduce myself the other day," East says with his arm out.

"Well, there will be enough time for that later. Right now we have more pressing issues," she says.

East looks at me and I signal for him to wait a moment. It seems rude somehow to Mind wipe The Face. Still we really don't have a choice.

"Mrs. Greenblatt, I know we skipped school, but—"

"Yes, Pryor, you did. And so did your friends. We will get to that but first things first," she replies.

_Oh no, the book report!_

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Greenblatt. I know I'm in trouble," I admit.

"You certainly are. So tell me, what's your plan?" she says.

"My plan?"

"Yes. How the hell are you going to kill Malakaro?"

## 9

# The Face

Mrs. Greenblatt studies our shocked faces. She waits for us to recover from her question, but I guess we are taking too long for her because she launches into her next question.

"Come now, Pryor, you didn't think your parents would allow you to go to school without being watched over did you?"

"I thought...no, I guess not," I reply, still somewhat confused.

"I have been on the job since you came to this school. A job that you have not made easy by the way."

"Why didn't you tell her who you were?" Bex asks.

"Oh, and on that note, who are you?" East pushes.

"I don't have any wings so I'm obviously Quo, like you," she tells him.

"You didn't say anything this whole time?" Key asks.

"I'm just supposed to watch over you and make sure evil isn't after you. And also keep you and the entire student body on the right educational path," she says in a matter-of-fact tone.

"So you sent Pryor the text?" Swoop says.

"Yes. Your mother gave me the code and said should anything happen, I was to wait until all the Norus gathered. Then I was to ensure your safety until the situation was resolved."

"Why didn't you reach out to us sooner, when the Pathway first exploded?" Bex asks.

"We wanted all the Norus before we gathered," she explains.

"Well you have us; now what?" Aaden asks.

"Well, now Pryor will tell me her plan to get rid of Malakaro," she replies simply.

"I don't really have one—yet," I admit.

"I thought you did given that you have been gallivanting around, chasing demons, setting fires, and putting your friends at risk," she accuses.

"It's my fault. They are trying to find a demon that can help me. They shouldn't get in trouble. They were just trying to help," Randy says desperately.

"That may be but their parents sacrificed a lot to ensure their safety. The Norus will be the greatest weapon against evil someday. That is why the entire Angel world has been working tirelessly to protect them," she replies.

"How exactly are they doing that?" Bex demands.

"There is a board that consists of the most powerful remaining angels on earth. Their mission is to discover what Malakaro is up to and how to stop him. If not, he will destroy all of you before you come to your full powers," The Face informs us.

"So what do we do?" I ask.

"Nothing," she tells us.

"What? No! We can't just sit here and wait for Malakaro to find out where we are," Key says.

"He's already found you; all of you," she says.

We look back at her in hyperalert mode.

"The way you were all using your powers and hopping from country to country, did you think he wouldn't know? The mixture to hide you has lost all its affect. You have all placed a red 'X' on your backs," The Face says with regret.

"So he's coming for us, right now?" I ask.

"Yes and no.." she says.

"Um...okay," East says.

"What you have to understand is this: Malakaro was never meant to be the new evil. He took over by brute force. He killed, tortured, and disemboweled demons for years until the top ranking demons noticed him. He studied under them and when the time was right, killed many of them."

"Sounds like a great guy," East says with an uneasy tone.

"Pryor, the board believes that Malakaro wants two things: to destroy the family that rejected him," she explains.

"It wasn't my dad's fault. He didn't know he even had a son—"

"Pryor, it does not matter what took place before. All that matters is that Malakaro will not stop. And unlike the evils before him, he's driven by something far more dangerous than a dark nature—revenge. He will pull your life apart until there is nothing left."

A chill runs down my spine and makes me feel cold all over. I pull my sweater closed and look away. Key places her hand on my shoulder. Sensing that I needed a moment, Swoop addresses The Face.

"You said there were two things he wanted, what's the second thing?" the younger twin asks.

"What all evil wants: the end of all things."

"He's not strong enough to make that happen, right?" East says.

"Not yet, but he's seeking power. He has been for years. And it's only a matter of time before he finds it. If that happens the only beings who could even stand a chance against him are in this room," she tells us.

"How can that be? Why don't these powerful board members of yours stop him?" Randy asks.

"We can't find him. But when we do, it's the intention of the board to take him out before he can acquire the powers he seeks."

"And if you can't find him, what then?" I ask.

"The board is confident we will find and stop Malakaro. However if we don't...let's just hope we do," The Face says.

"So he won't come after us right now because he's too busy looking for power?" Swoop asks the Face.

"Yes and no, like I said before. He is focusing on finding more power. We don't yet know how he plans to do that. However we do know that he put together a team and their only objective is to hunt and kill as many of you as they can."

"He's assembled a team of demons?" Bex asks.

"They aren't just demons I'm afraid. Malakaro has altered them with a potent mixture that makes it nearly impossible to kill them. They're called Kasters. There's only six of them, but if everything we have heard about them is true, six is quite enough," The Face informs us.

"Of course! The major badass assembles a team to fight against the team of heroes. That makes perfect sense. This kind of thing is done all the time in comic books."

"Hey fanboy, wanna dial it back?" Aaden snaps.

"I just meant that—sorry," Randy replies.

"It's okay. It does seem like some crazy fantasy gone wrong," I admit.

"Well, it's not; it's real. And the Kasters are out looking for you right now," The Face tells us.

"I should go home and go get Sam," I reply as I stand up and head for the door.

"Pryor, you don't have to do that," she says.

I don't pay her any attention. I go to open the door but it locks on its own and the chair I was sitting in moves over to me. Mrs. Greenblatt can move things with her mind.

"Sam is with Tony. He checks in with me every half hour. The best thing you and your team can do is step back and let us take care of Malakaro," she insists.

I reluctantly sit back down. Aaden studies me; he has been doing that this whole time. Something tells me that had I taken off, he would have followed me. I don't understand since all he's done since he's been back is yell at me.

"Fine, can you at least tell us about these Kasters?" I ask.

"As I said before, there are six of them. Wrath can create a vortex that swallows any and all things near him"

"Wow! That's so—bad. Very bad," Randy says as he clears his throat.

"Who else?" Key asks.

"Twisted or "Twist" as he's known by his friends. He's a Kaster who can inflict pain by sending waves to your brain that cause excruciating pain. Few can survive an assault by Twist for more than a minute or two."

"He'd have to catch me to inflict pain, and no one can catch me," Swoop says with a smile.

"What about the three others?" Aaden asks.

"Manic is a Partial," The Face says.

"I didn't think there were any of them left," I admit.

"What's a Partial?" Randy wonders out loud.

"A being that is half animal," I reply.

"What kind of animal?" East asks The Face.

"Manic can transform into a winged beast with poisonous fangs. If he rips into you, it's highly unlikely you will survive."

"You're just full of good news, lady," Aaden says, shaking his head.

"Who are the last two Kasters?" Randy asks, trying to hide his excitement.

"They have a female on the team," The Face replies.

"Well at least your brother isn't sexist," East quips.

I glare at him and he raises his hands up as if to say "I surrenders."

"Who's the Kaster chic?" Swoop asks.

"Her name is Ruin," The Face says.

"Are you sure?" Aaden asks, suddenly alarmed.

"We're certain. Why, do you know her?" The Face inquires.

"Ah...no. I mean, I've heard of her," Aaden says, slightly shifting in his chair.

The group and I exchange curious glances around the room but no one says anything.

"The final Kaster is the leader. His name is Kill."

"We met him a few days ago. He's the one who set the house on fire with the baby in it. I would love to get my hands on him," Key says.

"Same here," I reply.

"Since you met him, he's changed. Malakaro enhanced him, so however violent he was before, expect him to be worse."

"Good to know," Bex replies.

"I am saying all of this because I need you to know just how much danger you are in. That way when you get the urge to wander around after demons, you'll rethink it. This school and your home are the two places that are the most protected. And those are the places you should be—nowhere else."

"We got it; we'll be good little boys and girls," I reply sardonically.

Mrs. Greenblatt turns away from me and addresses the others.

"I need to know that all of you understand my instructions," The Face pushes.

I quickly signal to Randy. He looks over at the object that's caught my eye on Mrs. Greenblatt's desk. He nods slightly.

"Yeah, we got it," Bex says reluctantly.

"Mrs. Greenblatt, only my mom knew the code so when you texted me, I thought..."

"I'm sorry about that. But there's a Para named Nelson Blake. He was an apprentice; he studied under the Para who created the Pathway. He is our best chance at putting the Pathway back together. It shouldn't take more than a few weeks," she assures me.

I know she's trying to help, but a few weeks sounds like a lifetime. And judging from the expression on everyone's faces, they are thinking the same thing.

"Okay, now that we've gotten that out of the way, on to the next. Please put your names on here," she says, smiling brightly as she places a clipboard in front of us.

"What's this?" I ask.

"Sign up sheet; all of you have detention."

"Seriously?" Swoop asks.

"Your education is important. Malakaro will not interrupt it. Not as long as I'm around. All of you will report to school like everyone else," The Face says.

"You know we had to try and help Randy," Key insists.

"Helping your friend isn't an 'official' mission, therefore you were cutting class," she replies.

"Fine, but will you at least ask the board if they can help us find Oden? He has Stirr and we need it," I implore.

"I will indeed broach the subject," she tells us.

"Thank you," I reply, trying hard to conceal irritation.

"Aaden-Grey, I have taken the liberty of enrolling you in this school, like the others. You are expected to attend," she informs him.

"You can expect whatever the hell you want," he says as he heads for the door.

"From what I gather, your friends didn't come to you. You came to them. I believe you did so because they, or at the very least someone on the team, needed you. I assure you, that has not changed. The danger is far from over."

Aaden shakes his head in a mix of anger and frustration. He shoves his hands inside his jean's pockets and looks up at the ceiling. As upset as he is, he makes no further attempt to leave.

"Good; now about that detention..."

Once word gets out that the group is in detention, it suddenly becomes the new school hot spot. There are a number of students trying to get a peek inside the classroom. The ones in the room with us try to communicate with the group without getting caught by the teacher.

With the exception of Bex and Aaden, who remain stoic, the group is very polite to the humans. Especially East and Swoop. They're having the time of their life, judging by the look on their faces.

When detention is finally over, the "prisoners" flood out into the hallways. I signal for the group to follow me before they are bombarded with the student body.

"You got it?" I ask Randy when we are far enough away.

He smiles confidently and tosses a cell phone over to me.

"Is that Face's cell?" Key asks.

"Yup, I had Randy swipe it," I reply.

"Why do you need her cell?" East asks.

"Face is in school all the time. There's no way she could be using a Port every time she has to see the board. That means they probably stay in contact through the phone. So I had Randy take it so he could use his superpower on it," I say.

"You have a power?" Key asks him.

"Um...yeah, kind of," he says bashfully.

"He hacked Face's cell. Whatever activity takes place on her phone will also show up on mine," I tell them.

"You know how to hack a phone?" Bex says suspiciously.

"It's the right of all nerds," he says proudly.

"How did you do it?" Swoop asks with admiration.

"With a few purchases from ebay, you can do just about anything," Randy says.

"Never mind that right now, go put it back on her desk before she notices," I order.

Randy takes off down the hall with The Face's phone.

"So I take it you don't plan to lay low?" Aaden asks.

"I'm not gonna go charging into a den of demons or anything but my dad told me it's never a good idea to rely on one being for information. Especially if that information may lead your team into an attack," I tell him.

"So you're ready to call us a team but you're not ready to tell us about page eighty-seven?" Bex asks.

"What's page eighty-seven?" Key asks.

"It's nothing," I reply.

"Come on, Pryor. Now is not the time to be keeping secrets. Your Dad hurt you when he kept things from you; so why are you doing the same to us?" Bex pushes.

"Maybe she's not ready to talk about it, Bex," Aaden says.

"Pryor, you need to tell us what's going on, if you want to be a team. You need to start sharing what you know," Bex says, ignoring Aaden.

"Bullshit. This isn't about her sharing information. This is about you challenging her at every turn because you're pissed she won't name you Second in Command," Aaden replies.

"Back off, Silver, I'm warning you," Bex says tightly.

"And what are you gonna do if I don't?" Aaden challenges.

"You guys need to stop this; it's stupid and childish," Key reasons.

"As long as we're on the subject, you might want to start giving up some details too. How do you know Ruin?" Bex pushes.

"Who said I know her?" Aaden replies coldly.

"You nearly shit your pants when The Face mentioned her. Who is she to you?" Bex says, getting in Aaden's face.

"You take one more step, Bex, and I _will_ drop you."

"Guys, enough. Let's just cool it for now," East says.

"Silver started this. All I want is information from Pryor," Bex insists.

"You sure that's _all_ you want from her?" Aaden replies hotly.

_Huh???_

What the hell are they talking about? I look over at Key and she doesn't look as stunned as I do. She looks worried and hurt. Before any of us can reply, Randy comes towards us.

"Hey, I put it back. The Face will never know we—" Randy stops midsentence.

He studies the face of the group and realizes he's interrupted a very intense moment.

"Um...everything okay?" he asks awkwardly.

"Everything's fine. The _boys_ wanted to measure their wingspans, so that we would know whose is bigger. But we left the tape measure at home," Swoop says disapprovingly.

Bex and Aaden continue to glare at each other with utter disdain. The air crackles with tension and ego.

"Do you guys _really_ need me to say 'that's enough'?" I ask.

Finally the two step back from each other. I shake my head, seriously wanting to throttle them both.

"You guys used to be friends. What happened?" I ask.

Neither of them replies.

"Fine, don't tell me. But if this keeps going on, I won't ask for an explanation. I will _demand_ one. Now get it together; we have more important things to focus on," I scold.

"Guys, we're on the same team here," East reminds them.

"That's right, we are a team. That's why I'm going to tell you about page eighty-seven and why I didn't show up to the Atu: I was reading my dad's Muse," I begin.

"Muse, that's the journal that chronicles your parents' past missions, right?" Randy asks.

"Yes. I got to page eighty-seven and I couldn't get past it because that's when my dad lost the first member of his team," I admit.

"Oh, I read that part; it was kind of sad," East says.

"No, it's more than that. I've heard about the Guardian missions and how my parents were heroes. But I never thought about the cost of those victories."

"The Guardians were amazing. They saved a lot of lives," Bex says.

"Yeah, they had a lot of victories but there were also a lot of funerals. And the thought that I could be responsible for one of your deaths...you guys are my family. I don't know how I could live with..."

"Awwww, come here, Carrot," Swoop teases as she pulls me close to her.

"I'm serious, Swoop. I don't want anything to happen to you guys."

"The fact is Malakaro isn't giving us a choice. If we don't pull together, he will take us out one by one. We have to start acting like a team because that's what we are."

"Swoop is right and as a team we tell each other things; that is if these things are relevant to danger we're facing. So, Aaden, do you know this demon girl, Ruin?" I ask.

As the First Noru, I'm concerned that a Kaster could have inside info about us. She could share whatever she knows with the others and bring us all down. But then again, I don't see Aaden sharing his secrets with her. I don't see the two of them nestled in bed discussing their inner thoughts.

_Maybe you don't see it because you don't want to..._

I look Aaden in the eye and keep my expression "official." I hide my nervousness behind an overly confident stance.

_Is Ruin just one of the many girls he was seeing before she became a Kaster? His mom ended up falling for a demon; will Aaden follow that same path? Where does she fall on the "Sluts of Silver" tour? Is she just an opening act or the main attraction?_

_OMO! Does he love her? Dear Omnis, he loves this Ruin girl. He's kissed her. They've probably gone all the way. It probably happened as recently as a few days ago..._

_DAMN IT, PRYOR, FOCUS!_

"Aaden, how do you know Ruin?" I ask again, determined to stay calm.

Aaden doesn't answer me. Instead he zeroes in on Bex. While the rest of us have moved on from the tension, the two of them are still deep in it. Aaden addresses Bex in a chilling, matter-of-fact tone.

"You ever come at me like that again, Para, and it will be the very last thing you do..."

## 10

# Hardly Bleeding

By the time we get to my house the tension has shifted from Aaden and Bex to Bex and Key. While we discuss what our next move to find Oden should be, the couple steals concerned glances at each other. As we are about to head upstairs, Key tells her boyfriend she needs to talk to him alone. The two take off down the street.

"She's gonna kill him," Swoop says, shaking her head.

"Yeah, gonna miss that guy," East replies.

"Why did you say that stuff about Bex and me? You know it's not true. Bex could hardly stand the sight of me a few days ago, let alone have a thing for me. You just said that to piss him off," I accuse Aaden.

"If that's the way you want to see it, then fine," he says.

"East and I are gonna take Randy home. You two go to your neutral corners and when the bell rings, you can come out swinging. But please make it a clean fight," Swoop says.

"Do you want me to stay?" Randy asks, looking over at Aaden with disapproval.

"No, it's fine. You should go," I tell him.

Randy takes off with East and Swoop, leaving Aaden and I alone in front of the house.

There's so much I want to know. Where has he been hiding after being in prison? Why has he been pushing everyone away? Why would he let everyone believe he had killed five humans when I know that can't possibly be the truth? And what is his connection to Ruin?

_If you have so many questions, why not just ask him?_

_Because the answers may not be the ones I want to hear..._

"You can take off, I mean if you have somewhere to be; just come back before dark," I offer.

"And what will you do? I mean besides find a way to place yourself in danger?" he says.

"I would place myself in danger a hundred times over if it means keeping Randy safe. He's important to me."

He turns and studies me with growing interest. Once again, the intensity in his eyes pulls me in. I find it nearly impossible to stand still under his gaze. I fold my arms across my chest. I do that to look composed and put together. I also do that because I'm paranoid that he's looking at my chest wondering why it's not bigger.

Unfortunately, my boobs aren't where I need them to be yet. I've been waiting for them to grow for a while now. I study them in the mirror and wonder what I could possibly say to them to jump-start the process.

I thought about buying mixtures to enhance my boobs but my mom wouldn't let me. She insisted that I look fine and that all I need to do is wait for them to grow in. She accuses me of being dramatic and impatient.

However, it's not my fault. You see, my bra size is a 32 B and I'm sure Omnis meant for me to be a 32 C. Try as she might, my mom just doesn't understand the pain of being one cup away from glory. Normally I don't second-guess my body but when it comes to Aaden, I second-guess everything.

_Okay, you know what, screw this. I'm putting my arms down and taking a stand for "B"cups everywhere._

I lower my arms and make myself look into his alluring eyes.

"What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?" I ask.

"You and Randy; are you two...?"

"What? No. We're best friends. Just friends."

"Oh."

"So were you and that Ruin girl...did you guys date?"

"It's...complicated," he admits.

"But you do know her, right?"

"Like I said, it's complicated."

"If you dated her, just say so. We need to know," I push.

"Who's we?"

"The team."

"Oh, so you're asking me as the leader?"

"Yeah."

"So you want to make sure that she doesn't know anything about the Norus that can be used to harm us?"

"Exactly," I reply.

"Ruin and I didn't share that kind of stuff."

"So...what did you two share?"

"Silver!" We hear a small voice shout from above.

We look up and Sam is looking down at us and excitedly pounding on the window. He shouts for us to come upstairs and see him. Aaden looks over at me, uncertain.

"He's missed you," I tell him.

"Yeah, I've missed him too," he replies.

We both head up to see Sam. Once we enter the doorway, the cutest Noru of all greets us. He looks better than he did a few days ago. His eyes light up and unlike last time, his eyes aren't filled with tears. He waves his arms up towards us, indicating he wants to be picked up. I scoop him up into my arms and he begins to talk a mile a minute.

Judging by what Sam has tells us, Tony's strategy for keeping him calm was to make sure he was busy the whole time. Sam fills us in on all the activities and games the two of them have been involved in.

"And, and, guess what, Pry?" he asks.

"What?"

"Joey's mom said he can come over tomorrow and play with me." Sam beams.

Joey and Sam have been pals for a few months, but Sam rarely gets to play with him. My brother sometimes forgets to hide his strength from humans; that's why my parents don't let them play with each other unless they are around.

I look over at Tony, who assures me he will be there to stop Sam from using his powers. I thank Tony for taking such good care of him.

"Silver, do it," Sam begs Aaden.

I knew it was only a matter of time before my brother made this request.

"Are you sure?" Aaden asks.

"Yes! Yes! Do it, please. Please, please," Sam replies.

Aaden and I exchange a look of helpless surrender. Sam's favorite thing in the world is to watch Aaden turn on his "demon eyes." It both scares and excites him. Aaden pretends to be angry and his eyes swirl to a void of black abyss. Sam's eyes widen in terror. Then Aaden quickly changes back to his normal eyes and Sam's fear is replaced with amusement.

"Again! Again!" he shouts.

He makes Aaden do it a few more times. Finally, Tony takes over and tells Sam to get ready for bed.

"Will you be here after I take my bath, Silver?" Sam asks.

"Well, I'm not sure—"

"Don't go away like Mommy and Daddy okay? Stay," he says earnestly.

"Sam, sweetie, I told you Mom and Dad will be back. I promise," I explain as I kneel down so we can be face-to-face.

"Uncle Tony said that, but where are they?" he asks.

"Still in the light. But when they come back they'll read you all the stories you want. And Dad will let you pick up some buildings and play with them," I promise.

"Really, then can I throw the buildings on the floor and go 'RAH!!!'?" He asks, doing his best "muscle man" pose with his hands curled into a fist above his head.

"Yes, you can," I reply.

He beams and goes down the hallway with Tony. But not before he reminds Aaden that he is not to go away.

"After all this time, the eye thing still gets him," Aaden says.

"He's really missed you," I reply, avoiding eye contact.

"Yeah, I didn't mean to stay away so long."

"Why did you?"

"Pryor, there are things I can't get in to..." he says.

"Like why you let everyone think you killed five humans?" I ask.

"You know about that?"

"Yes, and I know it didn't happen that way. I told your dad you didn't hurt those humans. But the question is why would you let everyone think you did?"

"You talked to my dad about it?"

"Yeah, before he went to the meeting in the light. I stood up for you. How could he think you would do that?"

"How do you know I didn't do it?" he asks.

"Because I know you."

"NO, PRYOR, YOU DON'T!" he snaps.

He looks at me; I'm hurt and taken aback by his harsh tone and my face reflects that. He shakes his head in frustration and turns away from me.

"Are you saying that you really did kill five people?" I push.

"I'm saying don't defend me."

"Tell me something: Does this dark brooding thing help you get laid? Is that why you're doing it?" I ask before I can stop myself.

"Really? This is what you want to ask?" he says.

"No, what I want to ask is how the hell you could disappear for a year and not check on me—us—the team," I reply, completely flustered.

"There were things I needed to attend to."

"Yeah, things like Ruin? And I'm guessing what, a hundred other girls?"

"That's really what you think of me?"

"It's not just me, Aaden. Apparently you're the new "It" guy in the Angel world. Every girl wants a piece of Silver to take home with her. So how is it you lure them in exactly? How do you get these girls to fall for you?"

"You need to stop," he warns me.

"I want to know. What do you do to get all the girls to want you?"

"Pryor..." he warns again.

"WHAT DO YOU DO TO THEM?" I demand.

"WHY DO YOU WANT TO KNOW?" he shouts as he leans in and pounds his fist into the wall mere inches away from my face, backing me into the wall.

I'm so upset by his outburst that I don't notice how close our bodies are to each other at first. But now that I realize just how little distance there is between us, it's all I can focus on.

"Do you want a demonstration?" he asks crudely as his fiery gaze travels slowly down my body.

The intensity of his lingering stare and his deep throaty voice causes a dangerous current of longing to zip through me. I swallow hard as he looms over me, mentally peeling off every stich of clothing I have on. Although I am still fully clothed, I feel naked and bare.

"Are we interrupting something?" someone says from the doorway.

We turn and see East and Swoop standing a few yards away. I look back at Aaden and I quickly escape his invisible hold on me.

"No, you weren't interrupting anything. Aaden was just...never mind. How's Randy?" I ask them.

"He's trying to hang in there. But we need to find Oden fast because I don't think Randy can stand the pressure," East says.

"Any word from your friend, Swoop? Has he been able to track Oden yet?" I ask.

"No not yet; I'll go call him," she replies as she heads out of the room, cell phone in hand.

"I'm gonna take off," Aaden says.

"You're supposed to Recharge here; it's the safest place," I remind him.

"According to you there's a pack of females I need to tend to. How can I do that here?" he asks flippantly.

I roll my eyes at his careless attitude. He shrugs his shoulders, completely unconcerned, and walks out.

"Argh, I can't stand him!" I shout.

"Yeah, he's kind of hard to take sometimes," East admits.

"Kind of? Please. East, Aaden's turned into a crude asshole who likes to use his...he's a jerk and I really do hate him."

"Maybe you should go easy on him a little," East suggests.

"Why?"

Before East replies, he pokes his head upstairs to make sure no one can hear him. He then comes close and whispers.

"You know my policy: I never share who I have or have not used my Mind wipe powers on. It's like the doctor-patient confidentiality humans have. But in this case I think you should know."

"Know what? East, did you Mind wipe Aaden?"

"That's just it, Pry, I tried but I couldn't."

"I don't understand," I confess.

"A while back, Aaden came to me to take a memory away. It was weird because no one had seen him in forever. Then all of a sudden, I get a text from him asking to meet up in some abandoned factory in Brooklyn. When I showed up, he begged me to Mind wipe him."

"Did he say why?"

"No, he just told me to take his memory away. He knows how I feel about Mind wiping friends; he knows I hate to do it. But he said he couldn't live with the memories and that I had to help him."

"Yet you couldn't wipe him?"

"No; believe me I tried. I mean, I have never seen Silver look so desperate and so lost before. I thought 'screw it, just this once I will Mind wipe a friend and that will be the end of it.' But when I placed my hand on his forehead and tried to pull the memory out..."

"What happened? You just drew a blank?" I ask.

"Worse. The memory had somehow attached itself to his soul. So in order to get to it, I would have had to rip apart a piece of Silver's soul."

"How does a memory attach to the soul? I didn't know that could happen," I admit.

"It's called being Engaged and it's rare. The event needs to be so vile and torturous that it eats at the very fabric of the being. Human soldiers have a version of it called PTSD. The mind can't remove itself from the past."

"Did you see anything at all when you placed your hand on his forehead?" I ask.

"Normally I will see flashes of the memory as I am wiping it away. I see people, places, and the sounds that accompany the event. But with Silver, all I saw were violent flashes of red and all I heard was screaming; lots of screaming."

"You really couldn't get to the memory?" I ask.

"Not without hurting and possibly killing him."

"So he made you stop?" I reason.

"No, Silver wanted me to keep going. He got really upset when I refused to continue. He said he could take the pain. So whatever the memory is, it's worth risking his life to forget."

"East, what happened to Aaden while he was away?"

"I don't know but whatever it was, it's worse than death..."

The next morning we gather outside the school a few moments before class starts. Swoop tells us her friend has lost track of Kill and our only lead to Oden is gone. This causes Randy to be sullen and quiet. We try to convince him that it's only a matter of time before we locate Oden but that does little to cheer him up. To make matters worse, The Face gets a text message from the board that I am forced to share with the team.

"What is it?" East asks.

"They made a decision about helping us find Oden..." I reply.

"Let me guess, they won't help us," Bex says, shaking his head in frustration.

"Not only that, they forbid us to keep searching for Oden in any way," I inform them.

"Maybe we could change their minds if we met with them in person," Swoop ventures.

"I doubt it. They were very firm. They want us to stop, immediately," I add.

Randy starts to walk away. I take hold of his arm but he pulls away from me.

"Randy, we'll fix this," I promise.

"No, you won't and you know what, it's fine," Randy says.

"We are not going to just sit by and watch you lose your life," I vow.

"What life? I spend hours inside online role-playing games, reading comic books, and making up fake profiles in chat rooms. All just so I could be someone else; anyone else but Randy Westfield, the kid whose mother didn't want him. So, it's fine if I'm dead. I never got the hang of being alive anyway."

"Randy, that's crazy. Your mom took off because she was selfish and couldn't see how amazing you and your dad really are," I plead.

"Don't spin this into something it's not. I'm not worth sticking around for, and I'm not worth saving, so maybe you guys should just stop trying."

"Aw, you are so 'Raj' from The Big Bang Theory right now, I could hug you," Swoop teases.

"There was a marathon on TV last night," East explains.

"I mean it, some people really aren't worth saving," Randy insists.

"You have to stop acting like there's something wrong with you. You have as much right every right to be alive as the rest of us. You are just as important as everyone else," I remind him.

"Then why did my mom take off? Huh? If I'm so important and special, why did she...?"

"I know this is hard, Randy, but I'm here for you. Not just me, all of us," I plead.

"Um...actually, Bex and I wanted to talk to you guys about that," Key says hesitantly.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"We can talk about it later," Bex says.

"Stop stalling, you have something to say, Para, say it," Aaden pushes.

"Why are you always in my face?" Bex accuses Aaden.

Aaden is about to answer when I cut him off with a warning glance. He then decides wisely not to reply to Bex.

"Key, what's going on?" I ask again.

"You guys know how much we love all of you. And Randy, we just met you but I think we could be really good friends someday," Key says reassuringly.

"Thanks," Randy whispers, unable to take his eyes off the older twin.

"C'mon, sis, out with it," Swoop says.

"From here out, Bex and I...we won't be a part of the team."

"What; why not?" I ask.

"It's hard to explain," she says.

"Try," I snap.

"We feel it's not what's best for us right now," she says.

I look over at Bex and he avoids my eyes.

"Guys, we need you," East reminds them.

"Bex, it won't help; trust me," Aaden says.

"What are you talking about?" Bex replies.

"Trying to stay away from—it won't help to stay away."

"Silver, will you stop acting like you know everything?" Key counters.

"Key, I'm not trying to...you two want to preserve your relationship, I get that. But the truth is if two beings aren't supposed to be together..."

"Shut up, Silver! You don't know anything about us. Bex and I love each other. You have no idea what that means because you've never even been in love. And the one girl who was crazy enough to care about you, you ripped her damn heart out and then abandoned her!" Key says angrily.

It feels like Key slapped me hard across the face. There's a mix of anger and embarrassment that surges through me so violently, my hands shake. All eyes are on Aaden and I.

"I'm sorry, Pry. But you know it's true. Silver hurt you and instead of facing you, he goes off and commits murder. He's a miserable being and he won't quit until he's made all of us just as miserable," Key tells me.

"Just ignore Aaden, Key. You know Bex doesn't have a thing for me," I plead.

"It's not that simple."

"Yes it is. Unless you think Pryor's a real threat," East says.

"Do you think I would come between you and Bex?" I ask.

"I think when you love someone you do whatever it takes to secure that love. You don't hang around beings that try to pull you apart, like Silver," Key explains.

"Bex, do you agree with her?" Swoop asks.

"If you guys are in trouble and need us, we'll try our best to be there, but yeah, we're out," Bex replies, making eye contact with me for the first time.

"So that's it? You're both out?" I ask, dumbfounded.

"Yeah, sorry," Bex says as he takes Key's hand.

The two of them start to walk away. I call out after them.

"I'm sorry too but the fact is we don't have the luxury of choosing to be a team or not. Not with Malakaro sending Kasters after us," I reply.

"What are you saying, Pry?" Key asks.

"Bex is not technically a Noru. He does not have to do what I say. But you are and I am not excusing you from this team. You will be a part of it. You will do what I ask, when I ask it of you," I demand.

"And if I don't?" Key asks.

"If you don't, I will press your Deck," I reply firmly.

"Pryor!" Swoop scolds.

"I mean it, Keyohmi. You walk away from this team and I will place my thumb along the markings in the back of your skull and strip your powers away—permanently."

As the school day drones on, we remain quiet for the most part. Normally Randy would have a thousand questions but he senses none of us are in the mood for a Q&A. I never thought I would have to press anyone's Deck and take his or her power. But the fact is I really don't have a choice.

If I were to allow Key to walk away it would weaken us. I can't afford to lose Bex either, but I knew that keeping her on the team was also a way to keep him. Bex would never let Key face danger without him. He's protective and wherever she is, he is sure to be. So, by threatening one, I was able to hold on to both. I did my job as the First Noru. I kept my team together.

_So why do I feel like crap?_

"I am very sorry to report that the board will not allow you to chase Oden," The Face reports.

She has no idea that we learned the news hours earlier. She waits for a reaction but we are all fairly quiet.

"Did you hear what I said?" she asks.

"Yeah, we did," I reply in a whisper.

"Good. Now, back to class, all of you," she instructs.

Without saying another word, we leave The Face's office. As we head down the hallway, I mention to Randy that the reception is spotty. He takes my cell and tries to strengthen the signal.

I turn to address Key but before I can say anything, she storms off in the opposite direction; Bex reluctantly follows.

"He doesn't strike me as the 'do whatever your girl says' type," Randy tells East.

"Maybe his steel wings are in the shop and he only has paper ones on," East says.

"What does that mean?" Randy asks.

"It means Bex needs to grow a set," Aaden replies.

"He's just trying to be supportive and stand by her. I think that's better than taking off and hiding for a year," I reply scathingly.

"Oh so that's what I was doing in prison? Hiding?" he asks.

"I don't know what you were doing in Bliss. All I know is that you bailed on us," I counter.

"You mean I bailed on you," Aaden challenges.

"You really think you were ever that important to me?" I ask.

"Then why do you keep harping on my leaving?"

"You're right. I'll let it go. I'll pretend like you never went away. Better yet, I'll pretend like you never came back!" I swear.

"Pry?" Randy calls out.

"What?" I reply, in a harsher tone than I intended.

"The Face just got a text. The board has new information on Malakaro."

"What is it?" Aaden asks.

"It says here that he's the one behind the Alexi murders," Randy says.

We explain to him that the beautiful immortal birds had been disappearing and many were later found dead.

"Why would Malakaro want to kill Alexis?" Swoop says.

"The board thinks he was torturing them," Randy replies.

"Yes, but why?" East asks.

"What could be the point of killing harmless birds?" Aaden says.

"The Face said Malakaro wants two things: to take everything away from your family and to put an end to all things," Randy reasons.

"So how can torturing birds help him get either of these things?" East wonders.

"Maybe Malakaro just enjoys torturing birds," Randy suggests.

"He wasn't torturing the birds; he was testing them," I announce in a horrified whisper.

"What are you talking about?" Swoop asks.

"Malakaro used the Alexi as guinea pigs because he needed to find out how to kill something that's immortal," Aaden says gravely.

"I knew you guys were powerful but...wow, so which one of you is immortal?" Randy asks.

Aaden looks over at me and we exchange a look of unimaginable fear.

_Sam..._

The next few moments are a complete blur. I take off into the air and head straight for the house. My speed is nearly like that of Bex and Swoop. Aaden and the others take off after me. They call out for me to wait for them so that I don't face evil on my own. But I don't slow down and I certainly don't stop.

_Malakaro has found a way to kill my little brother..._

I fly furiously through the air and ram past anything in my path: birds, skyscrapers, and trees, whatever. I have to get to Sam.

_Please, please, please, Omnis, don't let him be hurt or worse..._

The team is right behind me. They must have called Bex and Key because the two of them aren't too far behind. Moments later I land just outside of my house. I smash the door in and run upstairs.

"Sam! Sam! Sam where are you?" I run to his room and call out his name.

The silence that greets me is torture.

"Tony! Sam! Where are you?" I scream.

I hear the team calling out for me to wait for them as they come charging up the stairs. But I can't wait. I run to the last room of the house: my parents' room.

I find bloody remains of the former Seller turned Angel spread throughout the room. All that's left of Tony-Tone's once bright grin is a contorted, macabre expression of shock. The grief of losing Tony doesn't get a chance to sink in because I have yet to find Sam.

I look around the room and there is no sign of my brother. The thought that Malakaro has him enrages me like nothing I've ever felt. The team enters the bedroom and is rendered silent by the ghastly sight. In the corner of my eyes, I see a spot, a pair of kid-sized "Batman" sneakers peering from the closet. I race over to the closet and pull Sam out.

"There's just one drop of blood on the left side of his mouth, so I know he's not hurt too badly," I tell Key desperately as she kneels before him.

Her face is filled with regret and sorrow. She looks up at me as if to say she's sorry. I kneel down beside my brother and yell at Key.

"FIX HIM!" I order her.

"I can't," she replies.

"No! No! No! You can fix him. He's hardly bleeding. His body is intact. Please, heal him," I beg.

"I can't," she whispers.

"KEY, PLEASE, LOOK AT HIS BODY; HIS BODY IS OKAY!"

"His body is okay but whatever mixture Malakaro created...it took his soul. I'm sorry; Sam's gone."

## II

# Book II

### AADEN 'SILVER' CASE

_" He was beginning to understand that evil is not absolute, and that good is often an occasion more than a condition."_

## 11

# Kenmare

It's the screaming that wakes my ass up. All around us humans can be heard crying out for help in high-pitched tones. The first thing I see when I open my eyes are the body parts of the former Seller, Tony-Tone. Also on the floor is the lifeless corpse of one of the few angels who I actually give a damn about—Sam. The blast sent him flying across the room. A mix of regret, sorrow, and rage invade my body as I look over at him.

Suddenly, I hear someone groan next to me. I turn to see Key and the rest of the team on the floor. Whatever it is that had knocked me down, did the same thing to the team. They gather themselves and look at the damage in the house. The entire outside wall has been ripped off. The house is gutted and nearly everything is in shambles.

"Is everyone okay?" Key asks.

"Yeah, I think so," Swoop tells her sister.

"What the hell just happened?" I demand as I inspect the bloody gash behind my head and pick myself off the floor.

"I don't know, but we have to get the humans because whatever it is, it's terrifying them," East says as he helps Swoop to her feet.

"The explosion could have been caused by Kasters," Bex suggests.

"I don't think they have Powerballs that strong," Swoop says as she wipes blood from her chin.

I look out of the gaping window that was once the side of the house. There's a massive orb of dark light demolishing the streets of New York City.

"Oh no," I whisper as I take a good look at the moving sphere of destruction.

"What is it?" Swoop asks.

"The blast wasn't caused by a Kaster," I reply.

"Then who caused it?" Bex asks.

"Pryor," I inform them.

Without thinking, we all take to the air and go after the dark void. When we get close enough, we are awed by the sheer energy coming from the First Noru. Pryor is emitting so much power she is hovering several feet in the air without using her wings.

Her eyes are submerged in darkness. Her skin is infused with black spider-like veins that run all along her body. Her ability to Pull has expanded from the palm of her hand to her entire being. Her powers radiate off her body and affect everything around it. Trees are falling, homes are crumbling, and the humans are scattering in fear for their lives. Pryor Reese Cane is now death itself.

"Pryor, your powers are out of control, you have to stop!" I shout.

She keeps moving throughout the city with no concern whatsoever about the destruction she is causing. The team tries to pull the humans out of the way of falling debris, but the stronger Pryor gets, the harder it is to keep the humans safe.

The twins try to reason with her by begging her to calm down and focus on controlling her powers. It doesn't work. Pryor is driven by wrath and grief, two forces that never relent once they get a hold of you.

"We have to stop her," East shouts as he saves an elderly man from one of many falling homes.

Pryor's powers continue to expand, causing cars to flip over, fire hydrants to explode, and the very ground to shake.

"If we can't reason with her, we have to contain her," Key says.

Swoop hurls her necklace at Pryor's feet. A Holder quickly forms around her. The bubble-like prison surrounds Pryor and holds her powers. She looks at her new prison and closes her eyes. When she opens them again a beam of darkness shoots from her pupils and causes small fractures to appear along the Holder.

"The Holder is giving out!" Bex says.

"What the...?" East says, dumbfounded.

"Pryor, stop, please! You're going to hurt someone," the twins shout at the same time.

I try to get close but there's just too much power swirling around her.

"Pry, I know it hurts but Sam is gone and this will not bring him back," I plead with her.

"If we don't stop her now, she's gonna hurt the humans," Key yells out to us.

"Too late," East says.

Pryor has broken free of the Holder and now she hovers even higher in the air. Her powers have increased yet again. And now it's not just buildings falling to the ground, it's the humans.

Key runs to examine them. She glides her hands in the air, just above their bodies.

"They're still alive but not for long," she informs us desperately.

"Pryor, please, please, stop," I beg her once again.

It doesn't work. The others have their hands full. I am the only one who is actually close enough to her to try and stop her.

"Silver, you have to stop her!" East says, coming to the same conclusion I have.

_Damn it, Pryor, don't make me do this!_

I beg Pryor yet again but just like before, she is nonresponsive. Meanwhile all around us the humans are falling.

Things go from crap to complete bullshit when I look up and see the Omari: a team of Para Angels whose job it is to track down angels who have broken the law. They wear long white robes and move with speeds that are impressive even for angels. The Omari are hateful rat bastards who kill without remorse or pause.

"Call them off!" I yell at Bex.

"I can't. I'm not their Kon yet," he replies.

"I don't give a damn if you're not their king yet. You're next in line; they will listen to you. Call them off," I order.

"The humans are gonna die if we don't stop her right now," Key says as she studies the human body in her arms.

"Do not let the Omari touch her," I bark at Bex.

"Pryor, try to control it, please," Swoop begs.

The Omari surround Pryor and get ready to attack.

"Stay away from her; we can take care of this," Bex warns them.

"The Noru is killing the humans. We were ordered to stop her," the Omari say in unison.

"Fuck your orders; you touch her and I _will_ kill you," I promise.

"Silver, stay out of the way," one of them cautions.

"She doesn't know what she's doing; she just lost her brother," Key pleads.

"That may be but we can't allow her to continue," one of the Omari replies.

"Enos, you can't do this. She's the First Noru," Bex reminds him.

"Bex, we have orders," he says stubbornly.

"Guys...this woman's gonna die," Key says as she frantically tries to revive her.

"Key, heal her," Swoop shouts.

"Pryor's power is too strong; she's hurting them quicker than I can heal," Key says.

Enos, the bald Omari member with serious eyes, signals for his team to attack. The twins, East, and Bex all beg for them not to hurt their leader. But me, I'm done begging for today.

When the Omari link hands, an orb of light begins to form among them. The more power they apply, the more it grows. They are about to hurl the expanding Powerball at Pryor. While it may not be their intention to kill her, there is no guarantee she'll survive their collective attack.

Thinking quickly, I send a Powerball to four nearby skyscrapers. The blast shatters hundreds of windows and causes a hail of glass to rain down on the Omari, temporarily breaking their connection.

Pryor stands a better chance of surviving an attack from me than she does the Omari. Having no choice, I hurl a Powerball at Pryor and hope it's enough to stop her without hurting her. The silver Powerball hits her in her shoulder and throws her off balance.

"East, hug Pryor, now," I yell.

East sends his force field into the air; it wraps itself around Pryor and begins to weaken her. But she is able to rip the force field apart before it can drain her power completely. Fearing she'll regain her power, the Omari take aim once again.

I consider using my secondary power: my ability to Call; with it I can summon anything I see in my mind's eye. I don't use that power a lot. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. It's been unreliable ever since I've come back from the Center...

_Screw it, gotta try..._

I Call for a Port just as the Omari aim their orb towards Pryor. I'm damn near weak with relief when the Port appears beneath my feet. My relief doesn't last long because the Omari assholes throw the orb at Pryor.

_Fuck!_

I race over to her, grab her hand, and pull her onto the Port just before the orb lands.

While I am able to stop the direct hit, the impact of the orb hitting the ground causes a secondary blast that shreds into our wings, knocks Pryor unconscious, and throws us off the Port. Pryor and I go hurtling through the air uncontrollably. With damaged wings, we are unable to stop our impending deaths.

The rest of the team takes to the sky to help but the Omari block them. Furious, Bex attacks, as does the rest of the team. I keep calling for the Port but it won't reappear. My luck has run out; my secondary power is failing me.

_Omnis, you loathsome son of a bitch, you better not let her die. You owe me!_

Once again I Call on the Port. This time it appears right where I need it to: underneath Pryor, breaking her fall. As I go tumbling past her, I latch on to the rim of the Port and pull myself up. I hold Pryor protectively against me and we disappear among the haze of Powerballs and debris.

When Pryor and I reappear, we are surrounded by lush green rolling hills, open skies, and the sound of waves crashing against the rocks from the water below. We're in the small town of Kenmare, Northern Ireland. I had programmed this Port to take me back here should I ever need to make a quick escape. I lift Pryor off the Port and carry her over to my stone cabin nestled between two emerald banks.

Once inside the two-room cabin, I'm greeted by my second favorite sound—silence. The cabin is sparsely decorated. I never liked having too much furniture. Simple always worked best for me.

I have a brown leather armchair that faces towards the window that gives me an immaculate view of the mountain range. It is here that I have seen the best of Omnis' work. I've seen remarkable sunrises, awe-inspiring birds, and magnificent full moons.

In addition to the armchair, I have stacks and stacks of books that go nearly as high as the ceiling. Books that I've read hundreds of times but find comfort in having around. On the opposite side of the chair I have a small yet comfortable bed. That's where I lay her down.

There are so many thoughts running through my mind, it feels like I'm going to lose it at any moment. What if she never wakes up? What if the Omari are coming after her? What if the humans back there die before help can be given to them? Can Pryor handle that kind of guilt? What will her punishment be?

_Aaden, stop overthinking and do what needs to be done: send out the text. It's the only way you can make sure that you and Pryor aren't found, at least not until we get confirmation that all the humans are alive. If Pryor ended up killing any one of them, even by accident, they could send her to The Center..._

I take out my cell and text the Specialist. A Specialist is a Healer with a concentration in a certain area. In this case, the Specialist is an Opti. An Opti is an expert in the craft of eluding the powers that be. They have mixtures that change your appearance, powerful fusions that make people forget they've seen you ,or if need be, they can make you altogether invisible.

The Opti is the reason I was able to hide from the prying eyes of the Angel world. I was spotted only when I wanted to be. For a while I was under guard by the Paras but thanks to the Opti, I was able to get away. Their mixtures are far more powerful than the one the team took to hide from Malakaro. You can use your powers and still not be found out. But the Council outlaws Opti mixtures, so the team was not allowed to use it.

I wait a while but I don't get a response to my text. I pace nervously around the room and text yet again. I know the chance of getting a reply is slim to none, but I don't care. I need to keep us hidden. I can only do that with the help of an Opti so I send out a third text.

Certain I will go completely nuts if I don't find something to do, I call the twins. They tell me the whole team is gathered together, along with Randy. Key puts me on speaker and I assure them that we are fine. They insist on coming to check on their leader themselves, especially Bex.

"Look, I know you guys want to be here but from now on chances are you'll be followed. And we can't lead them to Pryor, not until we know if any of the humans died from today's event. Now what happened after we left?" I ask.

"There's a massive cleanup job the Paras have had to do. East and a few others have been called to Mind wipe the entire city. The board is pissed that we attacked the Omari," Key says.

"Screw that, they were about to hurt Pryor," I reply.

"We know, but an angel attacking another angel is against the rules. You know that," East adds.

"Yeah whatever, they can blow me. Key, can't you heal the humans now that Pry's powers aren't in the way?" I ask.

"Silver, I've healed as many as I could but there's a lot more and I need help."

"Why don't you get help from the Paras?" I push.

"A lot of the healers are stuck in the light. The Paras are gathering the ones that remain but it could take a while," East says.

"Are the Omari after us?" I ask.

"They are waiting to see what happens with the humans. If any one of the three hundred and fourteen humans who were injured today die..." Bex's voice trails off.

He doesn't finish his sentence; he doesn't have to. I know all too well what the future could hold for Pryor, First Noru or not. The team thinks if Pryor is responsible for the death of a human she could go to prison or even be killed. They are wrong. It could be even worse...

I promise them that I will look after Pryor while they try and smooth things over with the Paras, The Face, and well, basically everyone. In light of the death of the youngest Noru, they are hoping everyone will be more understanding.

_However, if a human should sustain fatal injuries..._

There's a knock on the door. I peek out the window, ready to attack if I need to. The being on the other side of the door is the Opti. I rush over nervously and let the Opti inside. She has long raven hair with heart-shaped crimson lips and deep brown eyes. I greet her with a slightly unsteady voice.

"Hello, Diana."

"Silver," she replies, amused by my choice of words.

"I didn't think you'd ever come," I confess.

"I didn't think you'd ever ask."

"This could be a grave mistake," I reply.

"It could be," she confirms.

"I need your help."

"Yes, you do," she replies simply.

"Will you come inside?" I ask.

"Not until you say it," she insists.

"Say what?" I reply.

She leans her head to the side slightly and raises her eyebrow.

"Say it," she orders.

"Will you come inside...Ruin."

## 12

# Who Are You?

**(Mature content. Younger readers please skip to Ruin)**

The moment Diana enters the cabin, I think back to the days when I first met her. I had made it my mission to drink until nothing mattered and to stay away from Pryor. I had to do that or run the risk of being taken back to The Center. And I couldn't go back; I'd sooner die than go back. Yet I wasn't completely free of The Center. They had Paras follow me around from a distance to ensure I wasn't "misbehaving."

As much as I detested them, there was nothing I could do about them following me. All the mixtures that were available weren't strong enough to keep the Paras from tracking my movements. So instead I worked really hard to piss them off.

I would enter a store and leave through the back exit. I'd fly in erratic patterns and land in places that made it difficult for them to get a visual on me. I've taken them to dense forests, cities thick with fog, and overly crowded places crawling with humans. But no matter what I did they always found me.

The night I met Ruin, I was tired of trying to ditch my babysitters. So, I set out to do the two things I had become amazingly good at: drinking and fighting. Actually I had become good at another thing: sleeping around. It turns out girls are turned on by twisted, pissed off, self-destructed half demons.

But it wasn't really about sex. After being at The Center I found it impossible to be alone. When I tried to Recharge, the flashes would come. I didn't even know angels could have nightmares but that's the only way I could describe what was happening to me.

I'd jump out of bed terrified I was back in The Center again. I'd shake for several minutes and my powers would be out of whack. When I turned over and saw someone in bed alongside me, it helped to know that I wasn't alone.

I know it sounds like I used the girls, hell maybe I did. But they used me too. Mostly they slept with me because they wanted to know what it was like to sleep with "Silver." They'd ask about my powers, what it was like to be Rage's son, and a thousand other stupid questions. Ever since The Center, my life became a series of regrettable one-night stands and empty encounters.

The sad part is no amount of drinking I did could take away the two memories I long to forget: The Center and Pryor. The fact is, even if I didn't make the deal I made with The Center, I still couldn't be with Pryor. She'd never accept me knowing what I've become: A worthless screw-up.

Ever since I was born there were mass debates about whether I would be good or evil.

Some angels believe that because my mother was the second in command, that I would inherit her power, soul, and her sense of right and wrong. Other angels focused on the fact that Rage, my dad, was the top-ranking demon and that I was surely going to follow in his footsteps. Yes, my father ended up joining with good and saving humanity, but angels are quick to forget that. It's simple: once a demon, always a demon.

_Well maybe they're right. Maybe I will also be rotten to my very soul. In that case staying away from Pryor really is the best possible thing._

The night I met Ruin, I had just beaten the hell out of some demons and managed to ditch the Para babysitters, at least for the time being. I went to the place I felt the most comfortable: the nearest demon bar.

I was drinking my fourth or maybe fifth bottle of Coy. Angel alcohol really is the best thing Omnis ever allowed to be created. I was inspecting the bloody gash just below my eye, courtesy of my latest brawl, when I heard someone address me from behind.

"You're in my seat," he says in a dark tone.

I don't turn around to find out who's talking because I don't care. I just shook my head and continue to drink the Coy silently.

"Did you hear me you half-angel bastard, get the hell up," the being demands.

I put down my Coy mug and stood up slowly. Then I turned to face the demon that addressed me.

"That's right, get your ass up." I step aside and allow him to take my seat at the bar.

He makes himself comfortable and addresses the rest of the bar.

"You see? That Noru shit is crap. This kid can't take us on. Hell, he'd be nothing without his daddy to protect him," the demon says.

They all began to laugh. He drank the rest of my Coy.

"Hope you don't mind," he says sardonically.

"I think it's only fair," I tell him.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he asks.

"I think everyone should have one last drink before they die," I replied.

"Bullshit, you can't—"

Before the demon could finish his thought, I bashed him in the head with the heavy glass mug he was drinking from. Blood squirted out from the side of his face and he fell to the floor. The other demons inched closer as if they are about to attack. I formed a massive silver Powerball in the palm of my hand.

"Is he worth dying for?" I asked all the demons in the bar.

They stepped back; I got on top of the disrespectful asshole and beat the crap of out him. I was going to leave it at that but he hurled a Powerball at me just as I was getting up. It flew just past me. Pissed, I picked him up with both hands, hurl him into the wall, and forced a mini Powerball down his mouth. He imploded and it rained down demon flesh.

Furious, a demon aimed his Powerball at me. I ducked just in time, and it killed a female demon behind me. The demon, realizing his girl was dead, tackled the demon that threw the Powerball. Soon it was an all-out bar fight. Everyone was out of control; everyone but her.

She stood in the corner, wearing a long black body-hugging dress, with a slit that started from her upper thigh down to the floor. The only thing more shocking than her revealing dress was her calm demeanor. She wasn't fazed by the violence around us. In fact she seemed to welcome it. She had black hair, pouty apple red lips, long eyelashes, and curves that could bring down an empire.

Our eyes locked. She slowly sauntered over to me, without the slightest concern for the deadly Powerballs that were flying around her. When she got closer, she signaled for me to look down at her dress; there's a tiny speck of blood on it. She leaned in and whispered to me in a raspy, primal voice.

"You owe me a new dress," she said simply.

Before I could reply she turned and started to head up the stairs to the rooms above the bar. Intrigued, I followed. I found one of her black six-inch heels on the first step. I went up a few more steps and found the other heel. By the time I got to the landing, I had picked up her dress, bra and her panties.

There were three rooms on the first floor; her room was the one with the door that's slightly ajar. It's her brazen and confident nature that excites me the most. I'm about to make a mistake but I don't care. I walk in and find her standing stark naked in front of the window, facing away from me as she puts her hair up in a high ponytail.

From her demeanor I could tell she was expecting me to be impressed and submit to her. She didn't bother to turn towards me; it's almost as if she was bored with the whole thing. I don't know what she was expecting but it certainly wasn't what happened.

I headed for the nightstand and found what usually came in dive places like these: maps to the nearest Seller shop, mini bottles of Coy, and Tam (liquid condoms). In the past only girls could drink the Tam but it's since been improved and guys can take it as well. I swallowed the small vial of protection and turned my focus back to the girl at the window.

I marched over to her; grab a fistful of her hair and pulled; hard. She gasped and her eyes widen in shock. Her back is now arched and her nipples stand hard atop full breasts.

She flared her arms wildly, trying to gain control.

"Be still," I commanded.

She looked back at me defiantly and continued to move against my wishes. I whipped out my belt. The sound of the leather cutting through the air caused her to shiver slightly. Then she stopped moving altogether.

"Good girl," I replied.

I instructed her to open her legs, lean forward, and place her hands against the window. She paused for a moment and considered defying me. To discourage any disobedience, I brushed the tip of my belt along her inner thigh. She moans softly and does what I say—places her hands against the glass.

"Do not take your hands down for any reason," I ordered.

I knew even before I started that she'll try to control the situation by not giving in to whatever pleasure she was feeling. So I was determined to overload her with sensations that made it impossible for her to keep her hands on the glass.

I make patterns with my index finger along her back and nuzzle between her shoulder blades. When I plant kisses behind her neck and lower back, she inhales sharply, still keeping her hands on the window.

I up the stakes by kneading and shaping her swollen breasts. She leans back into me and moans softly. But that's not enough for me. I wanted her to let go of the glass and lose control to me completely.

I got down on the ground and placed my head between her legs. She gasped as my tongue ventured between the slick folds of her center. When I make contact with her succulent tip, she pants and shouts "yes, yes, yes" as she takes her hands off the glass.

She clutched my hair between her fingers and pressed my mouth firmly against her. She cried out and begged for more. That's when I pulled her down to the floor, latched on to her thighs and yanked her towards my mouth so I could "eat." Once my tongue made contact with her most sensitive spot, I sucked and slurped until she could not keep her hips from lifting off the floor.

I reached up and took her ripe nipples into my mouth. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head and she moaned. I took my clothes off feverishly and she reached out for what she knew would be hard and waiting. She wrapped her hand around it and inserts it inside her.

I thrust into her hard; she tore my back open with her nails. She then flipped us so that she be on top. She straddled and then rode me until the room started to spin. I groaned as her body took me to levels of ecstasy previously unknown to angel or demon kind.

Suddenly, without warning, I felt my hands being restrained by something. I looked up and the sex maven had bound my hands above my head with Samson rope. Like Samson string, the rope version cannot be untied by anyone other than the one whose hands originally tied it. She looks down at me with her untamed hair and a gleam of mischief in her eyes.

"My turn," she declared.

I was utterly unprepared for what she would do next. Her mouth traveled down my body and found detours along the way that caused me to groan loudly and swear to Omnis. By the time her lips wrapped themselves around their destination, I convulsed with pleasure. So much pleasure, in fact, we blacked out.

"Silver, wake up!" I heard her call out.

I popped my eyes open and was assaulted by the harsh light streaming from the window. I put my hand over my eyes to shield me from the glare. Once my eyes adjusted, I saw her quickly gathering our clothes.

"What are you doing—hey, what's your name again?" I asked.

"They're coming for you," she said.

"Who?" I asked, still too weak from last night's activity to sit up in one try.

"The Paras. You know it's their job to watch you since you have gotten out of The Center. And they found you, so unless you want them busting in here you better move it!" she said.

"How do you know about all this?" I asked as I gathered my stuff.

"I heard you went to Bliss but I know a few angels at the prison and they said they hadn't seen you in months. I figured The Center got you. I know what they do there. I know they're vicious dicks who'll stop at nothing to get what they want. I also know they don't like you going to bars, and a demon friend just texted me that Paras are nearby so once again, move your ass!"

I had a million questions for her, but if she were right, this would not be the time to ask them. We got our stuff and were about to take to the sky, when I pulled on her dress. She hurriedly turned towards me.

"Just tell me one thing: What's your name?" I asked.

She opened her mouth but then she hesitated.

"Your name?" I asked again.

"Diana," she replied with a girlish expression that was a stark contrast to the grown-up things we had done the night before.

"Hi, Diana."

When we were a safe distance away, in a nearby alley, she started to mix vials together. That's when she first told me she was also a Specialist. She could make mixtures that would help me evade the Paras, called Lanta. Or even the Omari if it came down to that. She also told me she had heard rumors about The Center long before someone she knew was sent there. I would have asked more info but she seemed reluctant to share. I knew the feeling well.

"So you're just gonna help me, just like that?" I asked.

"You caught me on a good day. Besides, you're almost a decent lay," she lied.

I smiled back at her. She told me to pull up my shirt because the mixture she created had to be poured onto my chest. I do as I'm told. She studied my chest and looked at me suspiciously.

"There's a slight glow under your skin. Is there another mixture on you?" she said.

"Yeah, a little."

"What is it?" she asked.

"Just something to help conceal a few...scars," I replied, not wanting to talk further.

"The Center?" she asked.

"Yeah..."

"If you want to get back at those sick Para bastards, I know a warehouse they use to store equipment. It would really piss them off if something happened to it..."

# Ruin

**(Readers of all ages can read from this point on)**

That night Diana and I hooked up in the hotel room was the beginning. In the following weeks I'd come to learn more about her. For one thing, her demon name was "Ruin" and no one knew her as Diana. That was her former human name. Demons that were born that way are called Naturals. But demons that were once human are known as Transfers.

Diana was unlike any other Transfer demon I had ever met. She thrived on danger and thrills. She was an adrenaline junkie and if it was something that could kill her, she was more than happy to take part in it.

Since she made me the vial of Lanta, we were able to stay off the Paras' radar for weeks. We used that time to do whatever the hell we wanted. We blew up empty buildings that were important to the angel community, we hijacked Para-owned cargo, and we set fire to a sacred Para museum in Paris. No one got hurt, but watching the building go up in flames gave me the greatest satisfaction.

We didn't spare the Demon world either. It would only take a few seconds to enter a bar and find something to her disliking. She'd lure the demon that had offended her in some way, over to her. Her eyes would get a dark glow and the demon would lean in, under her spell, and go in to kiss her.

Before he would even make contact with her lips, she'd inhale deeply and suck the energy right out of him. Sometimes if the demon was a real prick, she'd play with him. She'd loop the smoky grey stream that was his energy between her fingers and walk away; he would follow as he was under her control. And when she was no longer interested, she'd finish inhaling his energy and the demon would drop dead. She was a succubus with flare.

When we weren't pissing off Paras or killing demons, we'd drink Coy, smoke Demon weed (Alka), and have sex. We'd have lots of it and just about everywhere. We'd do it in drop-top convertibles while in the middle of traffic crawling with humans. We'd hook up on the top of Mount Everest and the bottom of the ocean floor while sea life continued to swim around us.

In a barn just outside of Oklahoma, I discovered erogenous zones Diana didn't know she had. In a mattress store in Ontario, Diana showed me there was a direct correlation between the number of pillows on the bed and the desired angle of penetration. And in the Ritz Carlton Hotel elevator, we stumbled into a sex position that was so complicated we laughed the whole time and she ended up leaving an imprint of her right nipple on the ceiling.

We only had three rules between the two of us: No questions. No commitments. No killing humans or angels. For the most part, being with her was fun. Actually, it was more than that. Diana had reached a place I longed to go: the place where you genuinely didn't give a damn about anyone or anything.

There was another thing about her that I craved; Diana was wicked. She made no apologies for it. She destroyed what she wanted and did so for no other reason than it's what she wanted to do.

I, on the other hand, was always having to monitor my thoughts and actions when I was growing up. And I did what was expected of me. I helped even before I was asked. I fought evil and tried to do what was right. But after that night at the bar with the five humans, none of what I did before mattered.

Many times I thought of telling the Paras what really happened that night. I thought of telling the whole world, but that won't change what they did to me at The Center. And telling them the truth about the death of the five humans would only get someone else in trouble. And I may be a lost cause but I'm not a rat. And I would never give out information that would send someone to The Center—especially a member of my own team.

Another aspect of Diana I liked: she didn't care what anyone thought of her. She was a demon and she had no issue taking everything that came with that title. She didn't love or ache to be with anyone. She had no attachment at all and that meant she was free.

I tried to be free of my past, but there were nights when the things that happened at The Center came back to me. I'd flash back to the mixtures designed to literally twist my soul until I begged for mercy. The simulations they'd play out where I'd watch everyone I loved be subjected to inhumane torture just to see how I would react.

Then there was the final test they gave me. It was the test that I failed every time and it would result in even more pain and torture. That test that made me stay at The Center a whole year instead of a week. The test that almost made me hate my love for Pryor.

One night when my nightmares were particularly bad, I bolted right up in full panic mode screaming, "STAY AWAY FROM HER!"

"Silver, you're not at The Center," Diana shouts as she turns me to face her.

It takes a few moments to realize that I'm not bound to a chair. There are no long tubes filled with poison digging into my skin. No one is stripping pieces of my soul away to see where the demon in me starts and the angel begins as I lay on the floor dying.

"I haven't had a nightmare in days. I thought it was over. Damn it!" I scream as I hurl a bottle of Coy at the wall.

The tension creeps up from the soles of my feet to the tips of my hair.

I sit down on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands. Frustrated and feeling like a complete head case, I plow both hands through my hair, lie back, and stare at the ceiling.

"I'm guessing the 'her' is the redhead? The First Noru?" she asked casually as she stood above me.

"What? Oh, yeah."

"Does she know how you feel about her? Does she know about the deal you had to make in order to get out of The Center?"

"No."

"You're not gonna tell her?" she asked.

"What happened to no questions?" I replied.

"Fine, forget it," she said.

I reached over and tugged on her red satin lace-trimmed nightie. She gave in and lay beside me. She then placed her head on my chest.

"Screw The Center and screw the Angel world. You're a demon," she reminded me.

"It's not that easy. I mean, you're lucky; you don't love anyone," I said.

"Yeah...lucky," she said softly as she slid her head away from me.

Looking back, that was a moment I should have picked up on. Dear Omnis, I was so clueless at the time. I had never lied to any girl I had been with, and Diana was no exception. I told her the truth; I couldn't be in a serious relationship. I was too screwed up, and besides any girl would always come second to Pryor; that wasn't fair to whomever I was with.

Normally when I told the girls I was only in it for a night or two, they were okay with the arrangement. They were quick to run and tell everyone we'd spent the night together. When asked, I would never confirm anything. I felt the girls deserved their privacy. If they wanted to shout out a list of their bedroom encounters, that was up to them. But the Angel and Demon worlds would never hear anything about my encounters from me. I always thought that was childish but then again I wasn't much better, so whatever.

Then there were a few girls that wanted relationships. Although I had warned them I wasn't boyfriend material and I was not looking for the same things they were. The fact is, when you sit a girl down and say "I don't want to be with anyone" what she hears is "he doesn't want to be with me." Knowing that, it became my job to spot the girls who wanted something long-term and stay away from them. That way I wouldn't be a jerk off and hurt them.

But Diana was different—she wasn't looking for anything long-term either. Yes, we spent months together, but many times she talked about loving her freedom and not understanding why humans and angels are so hooked on the whole "love" thing.

I convinced myself of this but as the weeks went on, I knew I was in trouble. For one thing, she kept asking about Pryor. She wanted to know how long I'd had feelings for her and why I couldn't just turn my feelings off. We argued a lot more and although the makeup sex was mind blowing, there was definitely tension.

In the end though, we didn't part ways because of emotions. We parted ways because it turns out in the end we were very different...

One morning we had planned an attack. We waited until after hours and had placed bombs inside the Para headquarters in China. Minutes before they were set to go off, I found out a few Paras were actually left in the building.

"We have to go and get them," I told Diana.

"What, no way!" she replied.

"Look, I told you I would destroy property and make the Paras' lives hell, but I'm not killing anyone."

"The Center is run mostly by Paras. They are the enemy here. Why not take out a few of them?" she asked.

"Most Paras are bastards because they think they have some kind of monopoly on goodness. They're arrogant and entitled. And yeah, sometimes I wish I could snap their necks. But they are still angels and I'm not going to stand by and let them get killed."

"You stood by while I killed demons, so what's the difference?"

"The difference is those demons were going to attack us."

"And the Paras didn't attack you?"

"That's different. The Paras who work at The Center don't represent every Para out there," I informed her.

"So why have you been helping me destroy their buildings?" she asked.

"Buildings can be replaced. I'm not taking a life."

"How long do you think you can go on denying your true nature? You're a fucking demon, just get over yourself," she rages.

"Call me whatever you want, but I'm going to save them," I shout as I run back into the building.

I manage to enter the building and warn them in time. The Paras narrowly escape the blow of flames. Once they are safe, I take off and head back to the designated meeting place, just outside Beijing.

It's late and the colorful streets are fairly empty. I walk into the alley and see her silhouette. She's leaned up against the wall, smoking Alka. Alka looks like a human cigarette but it's black and has a neon green glow at the tip. When you exhale, the smoke replays the last few moments before you lit it. The more you smoke, the further back it goes. Smoking is just as stupid for angels and demons as it is for humans. It dulls your senses and weakens your power over time.

"Everyone's safe," I told her.

"My hero," she says, dripping sarcasm.

"I told you I couldn't let the Paras die."

"You're the one who's always talking about what little shits Paras are. Now we have a chance to take a few out and you bail?"

"What is with you and killing people?" I demand.

"Um, well I don't know if you know this or not but I'M A FUCKING DEMON!"

"That doesn't mean you have to be this way," I argue.

"I'm not this way; _we_ are this way. You have the temper of an evil being. You have the powers evil beings have and I don't give a damn how grey your damn wings are, you are evil. Today was your chance to stop running away from who you are and you blew it."

That's when I look at the puff of smoke she's blowing into the air. In it there is a hazy image of her watching the Paras enter the building earlier.

"Did you know there were angels in the building?" I ask.

"Silver, I can't help you if you are not willing to admit who you truly are."

"DID YOU KNOW THEY WERE IN THERE?"

"Yeah, I did; so what. Angels die."

"You can't possibly understand because you don't feel anything for anyone. I'm done," I replied as I turned and walked away.

"Silver, wait. That's not true."

I turn and face her but keep the distance between us.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"There is someone I have feelings for. I tried to help him today because... I love him," she said as she averted her eyes.

"Diana..."

"I'm trying to help you become who you really are."

"The guy who you think I am; I'm not that guy."

"Then who are you?"

"Someone who stayed too long. Good bye, Diana."

## 13

# If I Have To

The sound of thunder jars me back to the present. It has started to rain, hard. It's the kind of rain that can only be brought on by an angel in pain. Or in this case, I'm guessing Pryor's mom, Emmy. Her emotions alter the weather since she is Death and very powerful. And by now she has to know that her son is dead.

"Wow, someone's upset," Diana says as the rain pounds violently on the window.

"One of your teammates killed her son," I reply.

"That was Harm. He got in the house by possessing the boy next door."

"How can you say that so calmly? He was just a kid," I bark at her.

"I wasn't the one who killed him."

"But if it came down to it, you would, right?" I ask.

"Is that why you called me here? To judge me?"

"Whatever. Can you help her? I need you to give her the same mixture you gave me so I could not be tracked."

"You want me to give her Lanta?"

"Yes, and fix her wings," I reply.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Silver? Maybe give you a foot massage, a lap dance or perhaps feed you some grapes?"

"Diana—"

"I never told anyone that I...I stood in that alley and I said things to you that I have never said to anyone. Anyone. And you walked away. Now you want my help?"

"Diana, I know the way we ended—"

"We didn't end. You ended us," she snaps.

"It never would have worked out. We have different views and nothing will change that," I remind her.

"Yes, because you're still running from your nature. How long are you going to keep running?"

"We can't have this discussion right now. Please just take care of Pryor for me."

She goes over to the bed and studies the unconscious First Noru.

"She's not like I thought she'd be," Diana says.

"What does that mean?"

"She's so...ordinary. And her hair, it looks like your bed's on fire."

I was losing patience with Diana but knowing she is the only one who can help, I let that comment go.

"Can you fix her?" I ask.

"First you answer my questions."

I sigh in utter frustration and nod in agreement.

"Did you know that I was...feeling things for you?" she asks.

"I suspected. I should have picked up on it much earlier, but I didn't. I didn't think you were the relationship type," I admit.

"I wasn't."

"Okay, I can say what you want to hear."

"Tell me, Silver, what do I want you to say?"

"That I'm sorry for the way I left things. I am. I should have addressed the issue of us way before you started to feel anything for me."

"Do you know when that was?" she asks.

"I'm guessing a few weeks after we met," I reply.

"When we were rushing out the window and you asked my name, that's when I told you my human name. That's when I fell for you. Day one."

_Now I officially feel like crap._

"Diana, I didn't know."

"Was there ever anything between us?" she asks in a small voice.

"Yeah, of course. You and I, we had great chemistry."

" 'Chemistry'?" she says, laughing.

"I needed someone and you were there. I'm never going to forget that."

"Look, I'm a Kaster now. So helping you wouldn't be the smart thing to do."

"Diana, you can't—"

"But I'm going to do the stupid thing and help her. Ever since I met you I've been doing stupid things. I didn't understand love until us. Now I do. Love is a slow peeling away of sense and self-control. Once that's gone you are left with foolish decisions and desperate acts. To be in love is to be a slave. I'm free of you after this."

"Thank you," I reply.

She takes various mixtures out from her purse. She instructs me to get vials, water, and utensils to stir the mixtures. I follow her directions closely. When everything is finally mixed, she is left with two vials. One of them is silver and the other is bright red.

"I could give her the wrong thing and watch her die," she says.

"You wouldn't do that," I reply.

"Because I'm such a good person?" she mocks.

"Because you know what her death would do to me."

After Diana administers the mixtures to Pryor, she tells me it will take a few hours for them to take effect. Meanwhile, she places what's left of the red mixture on my wings. She tells me it will help them heal from the attack but that it's wise to rest and not fly for a while. I study her movements. She really is a gifted Specialist. Her mixtures are precise and potent. I can already feel my wings beginning to mend.

"I forgot how focused you are when you're working," I tell her.

"I can't make a mistake."

"You already made one. I mean really, Diana, Malakaro? How could you go work for him?"

"Being a Kaster enhances my powers greatly. Why would I turn that down?"

_And here we are, on different sides yet again._

"Hey, you remember when we snuck into Disney World after it closed?" she says.

"I can never look at a tea cup the same way again," I reply, shaking my head in amusement.

She burst out laughing. I'd forgotten her laugh. It was melodic and filled the room. I think in another life things could have worked out for us.

"Diana, you know I never meant to hurt you, right?" I ask.

She looks up at me and there's sadness behind her eyes. It's slight but I swear it's there.

"I waited," she confesses.

"Waited?"

"Yeah, that night I waited for you to come back to the alley. I figured you were blowing off steam."

I don't know what to say to that. No matter what, I'm the jerk in this. Yet I would not have done anything differently. I had to go that night, that much I know. She clears her throat and starts to put her supplies away.

"How's your health now that you are near her?" Diana asks, looking at my chest.

"It's fine," I lie.

"No, it's not. The closer you are to 'flames' over there, the worse it becomes," she says, signaling towards Pryor.

"I'm handling it."

"How?" she pushes.

"I'm making sure that we are just friends and nothing more."

"Silver, the carving was moving back then and she was nowhere near you. Now that you two are together..."

"Pryor and I aren't together."

"Wait, so you two aren't having—"

"No, we're not," I say hurriedly.

"Have you two ever...?"

"No, we haven't and I really don't want to discuss this."

"We can go out to the shed and see if there's any 'chemistry' left between us," she says.

"Thanks, but I just want to stay with her and make sure she's okay."

"Just thought I'd offer," she replies as she heads for the door.

"Silver, everything aside, Malakaro enhanced our powers far beyond what any demons have known before. He's serious about killing her," she warns.

"He's gonna have to go through me."

"He called on Harm to take out the youngest Noru. Harm did his job. And if the time comes, and Malakaro needs me to take one or all of you out...I will."

"I know..."

The first thing Pryor does when she opens her eyes is scan her surroundings in an effort to place where I have taken her.

"Where am I?" she asks.

"Northern Ireland. Do you remember what happened?"

She nods but doesn't speak.

"Pry, I'm sorry about Sam."

She looks away from me and directs her attention towards the ceiling.

"My mom knows about Sam, doesn't she?" she says, referencing the storm outside.

"Yes, but I'm sure your father is helping her cope," I reply.

She doesn't say anything. She just stares off into space.

"We're not really sure what happened with your powers," I admit, not knowing what else to say.

"It's like all our powers: connected to our emotions. I lost control. Did I kill anyone?" she asks in a weak voice.

"The injured humans have been taken to hospitals. I'm sure they will all pull through."

"If one of them dies?" she asks.

"Then the Omari will come for you, but that won't happen. I won't let them punish you. Please don't worry about that," I assure her.

"They can come, I don't care," she says, void of any emotion whatsoever.

"Don't say that. You do care. You're just mourning so—"

"Is Randy okay?" she asks, still not facing me.

"The team is looking after him. And trying to smooth things over with the board."

She looks over at her wings. They are torn in certain spots and she is unable to move them.

"The Powerball from the Omari did that. You know how they get when human lives are in danger. I've been treating your wings with a mixture that should work. It's helped my wings, but yours were more damaged than mine so it may take longer," I tell her.

"What time is it in New York?" she asks.

"Um...about three in the afternoon."

"It's time to give Sam his snack..." she says, mostly to herself.

Before I can reply, she turns on her side and closes her eyes. She would not open them again for another three days.

Normally for an angel, Recharging is a way for them to revitalize themselves. But in the past three days that Pryor has been Recharging she has only gotten weaker. Her skin is pale and her wings are starting to fray. That happens when an angel is malnourished. When their soul is being attacked. It's what humans would call depression.

Pryor is not the only one having a tough time with Sam's death. Her mother is still causing it to rain, though it has now slowed down, the skies are still murky and often crack open with wrathful lightning.

I call Key and ask her what she thinks I should do. Right away she insists on coming over but I am now the First Noru, until Pryor gets better. So, I order her to stay where she is and continue to heal the humans so we can come back home. Key gives me a list of things to get in order to make a mixture called Atcha; it acts as a supplement and helps keep the soul from weakening even more.

I head to the Seller shop nearby that I've been to before. It looks like an ordinary shop with everyday toys displayed in the window. But I know it's a Seller shop because it has a meter attached to the doorframe. A meter looks like a thin thermometer. It can tell the difference between demon and angel. Since Sellers are not allowed to sell to demons, the meter will sound an alarm if a demon enters.

Since I'm half demon it's a fifty-fifty chance the alarm will go off. Sellers are basically the "snake oil salesmen" of the Angel world. They are shady and greedy. So, even if I were full demon, they would sell to me but they would do so secretly. And that takes too damn long.

Fortunately, the alarm doesn't go off. I enter, have a short conversation with the Seller, and get what I need. As I walk out, I decide to test Diana's mixture. I walk back in the shop and ask the Seller if he's ever seen me and he says "no." He has no recollection of having met me just moments before. Diana's mixture works perfectly.

When I get back to the cabin, I follow the instructions Key gave me and create the mixture. I pour the silver and blue mixture into a bowl, put it aside and wake her.

She pops open her eyes, on high alert.

"Hey, I didn't want to wake you but you need to—"

"I need a Port," she says as she leaps up off the bed.

"Why?" I ask.

"I'm going to find The Face and ask her some questions. I'm going to ask her how she and the board could let a demon get to my little brother."

"It wasn't a demon that got to him. It was a Kaster."

"How do you know that?" she asks.

"It's not hard to guess" I reply, not wanting to bring up the subject of Ruin.

"Which Kaster?" she demands.

"Harm. He got inside the body of the boy next door and was able to enter the house."

"I need a Port," she pushes.

"For what? Where are you going?"

"The Face told me that Sam would be safe. I trusted her and she lied to me. I'm going to bash her skull in. Then I'm going to hunt down every Kaster and gut them while they're still alive. And when I'm done, I will have a family reunion with Malakaro. NOW WHERE'S THE DAMN PORT?"

"Pry, I know how you feel, but—"

"You have no idea how I feel. He was my responsibility. My parents trusted me to look after him and instead I...I can't fly with my wings like this. WHERE.IS.THE.PORT?" she blares.

"You can't go back there until we know that no humans died as a result of your powers. If the Omari—"

"I don't care. I'll walk to town if I have to," she declares.

I call after her but she opens the door and takes off. She doesn't even stop to put on her shoes. She just runs out into the storm wearing just jeans and her tee shirt. I run out after her. Within seconds we are both drenched.

The unnaturally cold rain beats down on us with brute force. The wind threatens to rip the trees from the earth. And the sky breaks open and spits out lightning, one bolt after the other. The ground under our feet is muddy and uneven.

"Pryor, you're too weak to go anywhere," I shout out to her.

She looks around for a car or some sort of transportation vehicle and she sees nothing. Determined not to let that stop her, she looks over the side of the mountain.

"Don't do it. Your wings aren't healed. If you fall..."

She pays me no attention at all and starts to climb down the mountain.

_Damn it!_

I go to take flight but then I remember my wings aren't completely healed either. They may not be able to support the both of us. I start climbing down the mountain in hopes I can reach her and can pull her back up without my wings.

Pryor is a few feet below me. The rain has made her hair clump and stick to her face, giving her zero visibility. I tell her to stay where she is as I carefully climb down to get her. But she manages to move the hair from her face and continues down the mountain.

She plants her foot in what must have felt like a steady foothold, only to have it crumble beneath her. She screams as she drops several feet.

"Pryor!" I roar.

Having no other choice, I take to the sky and dive down to get her. Thankfully I catch her in time, but just as I feared, my wings are starting to give out. I quickly fly us back up to the top of the mountain, just as my wings fail completely. We both land in a muddy ditch a few yards from the cabin.

Pryor goes to take off again, but I wrap my arms around her from behind and pull her back towards me. She struggles but she can't break free of my hold.

"LET ME GO!!!" she orders.

"I can't," I reply.

She tries to use her powers, but my hold on her is preventing her from aiming her hand at me. She fights even harder to break free of me. Fully enraged now, she opens her mouth and clamps down on my forearm. Her bite is vicious and breaks through my skin. Blood seeps out, but the rain quickly washes it away. I gasp slightly but never loosen my hold on her.

"LET ME GO, THEY HAVE TO PAY FOR TAKING HIM AWAY!" she cries out.

"They will," I promise her.

"THEY HAVE TO PAY!" she screeches in genuine agony.

"They will," I whisper in her ear.

Her body starts rocking back and forth, but it's not me she's fighting. She's being rocked by a new emotion. It's not just anger anymore; it's despair. I feel a warm liquid drip down to my hand; I look, expecting to see more of my blood. But I'm wrong. It's not blood. For the first time in her life, the most powerful Noru in the world has been brought to tears.

I summon up what energy I have left and pick her up off the ground and carry her back to the cabin. I gently place her on the armchair and place a towel beside her. I then go look for something she can change into. The best I can do is a long sleeve shirt of mine. I stand in front of her and hand her the shirt.

"It's old but it's clean," I promise her.

She doesn't look up at me. She's in a full-blown daze. I look beside her and the towel is untouched. I call out her name. She looks at me, but I'm not sure she really sees me. She's drowning in grief and she doesn't care about drying off. She doesn't care about anything right now.

I kneel down beside her and look into her face. She's stopped crying, which I'm thankful for. She was never a crier. I remember when we were kids and had to take Defensive Flying classes. We were on earth and our instructor made us fly through this impenetrable forest in Japan that the humans called "Suicide Forrest."

There was a set pattern we were supposed to fly. Pryor lost her way and ended up hitting a tree trunk face first. She slid off the tree, leaving most of her face on it. We all rushed to her side and expected her to be crying and moaning in pain. Instead she pressed her lips together to keep from groaning. And all she wanted to know was if she could try again. She was seven at the time.

"Pry, I'm gonna dry you, okay?" I ask.

She remains silent and distant. After I dry her off, I remove her wet clothes and try my best not to stare at her. I've pictured the two of us alone with each other. Even the thought makes my wings expand. But this isn't the way I want it to happen for us. I mean, if it ever happens.

_You know it can't happen and you know why..._

I put my shirt on her and then walk her over to the bed. As I tuck her in, I remember the mixture Key had me make. I take it; I stir it around with a spoon and feed it to her. She pulls away slightly.

"It'll help you get your strength back," I plead.

Slowly she opens her mouth. Once the bowl is empty, I head to the armchair to give her some space.

"Don't go," she whispers.

"You should rest," I reply.

"Stay."

She makes room for me on the bed; I get in with my clothes on and lay beside her.

"Aaden?" she calls out softly in the darkness.

"Yeah?"

"Don't tell anyone I cried, okay?"

"Okay."

While her mother "cried" in the form of rain, Pryor cried in the form of silence. I mourned with her by not speaking. Although there was so much I wanted to say...

## 14

# This Time

Pryor is in and out of consciousness for the next few days. Part of it is because of having been injured. But a part of it is because it's much easier to close your eyes and pretend things are okay than to live in the real world. I'm guessing when she closes her eyes, Sam is alive and all is well. The only trouble is, sooner or later you will have to open your eyes.

When she is awake, she's quiet. I give her updates as I get them from the team. Most of the humans are out of immediate danger, but a few are still clinging to life in ICU. I wondered if giving her updates was wise, but if it were me I would not want to be left in the dark.

The rainstorms haven't let up. There are times when it's stronger than others but it's still raining. Pryor's dad, Marcus, must be having a hard time consoling his wife, Emmy. However, I'm sure the rain will stop eventually because Marcus won't give up until she gets better.

_How long does it take to get over the death of your child?_

I sit up on the bed and look out into the gloomy sky. I silently offer my condolences to Pryor's parents. I then turn to look at their child lying beside me. And the thoughts that I had been trying to push away, now invade my mind.

_Was there something I could have done to prevent Harm from getting to Sam? Would things have been better if I didn't stay away? Did I allow The Center to turn me into a coward? Or did I do the brave thing by staying away?_

I hate when I go down this road in my head. There is simply no way to know if the choices I've made were the right ones. All I know is staying away was the only way I could keep The Center from sending the Omari bastards after me.

I recall all the rat holes, dive bars, and back alleys I frequented after Diana and I parted ways. I didn't fight like before or blow anything up. And except for the occasional one-night stand, I pretty much left the girls alone. I wore a black hoodie, kept my mouth shut, and faded into the background.

I was a pathetic miserable soul and wanted nothing to do with the Angel world. I hated most of them, especially Paras. Yet I was unable to summon up enough hate to really harm them even after all they did to me.

To make matters worse, the only thing I had to look forward to was also the thing I dreaded: the moment when Pryor needed me. On one hand I looked forward to it because it meant that I would be able to lay eyes on her again. On the other hand, Pryor is skilled and powerful. If she needed me, it meant she was in real trouble.

It wasn't just Pryor I was worried about; it was the whole team. Like Pryor, Key and Swoop are skilled but that didn't mean they couldn't get hurt. Take East for example, he's one of the most powerful Quos I know but sometimes he second-guesses himself because he's only half angel. That doubt can sometimes cause him to make mistakes during battle. And then there's Bex...

Bex and I were cool once, a long time ago. But I caught him looking at Pryor after a training session one day. It was just a quick flash but I swear there was longing in his eyes. It irritated me. That was just schoolboy crap though; nothing too serious.

Then I was taken to The Center where my life was essentially taken from me. I later learned The Center was run by Paras, and that made me detest most of them, including Bex. Yet however I may feel about him, Bex is on the team and I wouldn't let him get killed. So no matter how far off the grid I was, I watched the angel channel to ensure everything was okay back home.

I recall the night I heard about Malakaro and whose child he was. I knew Pryor would be distraught and I wanted to be there with her. I forced myself not to go near her. But I paid extra attention to current events. When I heard about the Pathway explosion I was Recharging under a bridge in Oslo, Norway. I headed back to the team immediately.

I knew the Angel world would try and protect the team, but I also knew Pryor. I knew she could be impulsive. Then I learned about this human named Randy who needed Stirr and Pryor was helping him get it from a demon. I sought them out and found them just outside some bar that had been trashed.

As soon as I landed, the team told me Pry had gone after the demon named Kill. We all split up and tried to find her. I fought hard to keep the panic at bay. I had to believe that I had gotten there in time.

Once I saw a house in flames a few blocks away, I knew Kill was behind it. Demons loved setting things on fire. When I got closer, I saw a human laying dead at the front door. I scouted out the scene and saw the demons attacking Pryor.

I was about to intervene when I heard a human baby cry. I knew I needed to see to the baby's safety first. I quietly entered through the window and carried the baby out. When I went back in, Pryor was on fire on the floor. The demons tried to stop me from saving her.

I killed one of them; the other escaped. I then carried Pryor away. It was only when she was safe and sound in the warehouse that I started to think clearly.

Bex and East had gone to watch over Randy. Meanwhile Key had come out of her makeshift hospital room and told us Pryor was better and should wake soon. That's when the tension in the air began to lift. I knew for sure because that's when I was attacked by Swoop. Well, attacked is the wrong word, but she did leap onto my back and wrap her legs and hands around me.

"How dare you stay away so long? Look how hot and amazing I've gotten during your absence," she demanded.

I playfully threw her off of me knowing she's impossibly agile and would land on her feet. Sure enough, Swoop did a few back flips and landed right in front of me. She stood there poised and ready to be marveled over.

The truth is Swoop had turned into a hot chick. Before she was pretty but now she was an absolute babe. That's what most guys would see, but not me. Swoop was like my little sister. I could never think of her in those terms.

"Actually, you're a little on the scrawny side. In fact you're kind of ugly," I replied with a smile.

"I never liked you," she informed me as she beamed and embraced me tightly.

Key told me she was glad that I was safe as she wrapped her arms around me. I've always admired her skills. Watching her kill is truly like watching an artist at work. I never got as close to Key as I did to her sister. I think it was because I knew Bex had feelings for Pry and it didn't feel right that I never mentioned it to her. And even if I did, I'm not sure she'd believe me. And anyway what would be the point?

A few hours later the twins told me that Pryor was awake and wanted to see me. I thought of all the things I wanted to say to her. Unlike most girls, Pryor was never into the pretty flowers and scenic places. She loved anything odd and out of place.

She said odd things on earth were examples of Omnis's humor. And that discovering something odd was like catching Omnis in an unguarded moment of laugher. So she made a list of strange and unusual things she'd like to see. She called it her "Ha-Ha" list.

I wanted to tell her that she was never far from my mind and that I kept up the list in my travels. I added things that I thought she'd get a kick out of seeing. There's the blob fish. Humans consider them ugly because they're a misshaped blob. Yet I knew Pryor would find them intriguing if not adorable. Then there's the tree I found with a car embedded in the trunk. And a river so salty that when the humans go into it, they come out twice the size they went in.

I wanted her to know that I visited every place she ever told me she traveled to with her mom so that I could see what she saw. And most of all I needed her to know that I wanted her. I _always_ wanted her.

Yet when I entered the room and saw her standing there with the new clothes the twins went out and got her, all I could think was how close I came to losing her. The more I thought about it, the more it upset me. And in true "Silver" fashion, I blew it. I lost my temper and yelled at her.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Pryor asks, pulling me out of my flashback.

_Focus, Aaden. She's mourning her brother and she needs you to stay focused on the here and now._

"Oh, I was just gonna take care of the fire, it's dying," I reply as I send a small Powerball into the fireplace. The dying embers are now bright flames.

"You seem pretty far away. What were you thinking about?" she asks.

"Nothing. How are you feeling?"

"Like I want to sleep forever," she shares.

"My dad was like that after my mom died. It took a while for him to snap out of it."

"How long?" she asks.

"Too long."

I go over and apply more of Diana's mixture to her wings. Then I make her drink more of Key's mixture. She tells me it tastes awful but it does help.

"Has it been raining all this time?" she asks.

"Yeah, but it'll stop," I promise her.

"I wish I could talk to my parents—tell them how sorry I am that I didn't protect Sam."

"Pry, they already know. And blaming yourself won't help.

"If you're feeling up to it we can maybe take a walk? The rain has slowed down," I tell her, hoping to improve her mood.

She doesn't reply. Her eyes are already closed. She's gone again.

The next day, I head back to the Seller shop to get more supplies for us. When I get back,

I knock on the door of the cabin before entering.

"Hey, can I come in?" I ask.

"Just a sec," she says.

I'm glad she's awake but what she says will take a few seconds takes like ten minutes. I still don't know what girls do that makes them take so long to get ready, but I have come to accept that as a fact of life. Pryor calls out and tells me to enter. I open the door and find her standing there in a tee shirt and nothing else.

_She is easily the most amazing thing Omnis has ever created. But honestly I felt that way when she had her clothes on..._

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know you were—I'll come back," I tell her as I quickly head for the door.

"No, don't go. When I said come in, I meant it," she says with a soft smile.

"Um...where are your pants?" I ask.

"Well, these few days all I've been doing is going from 'sorrow' and 'rage' to 'more sorrow' and 'more rage.' I want to feel something new. So I thought we could...you know," she says shyly.

"Oh." Is all I can think to say.

"So...you want to?" she asks.

"I'm gonna go so you can put your clothes back on."

"What? Why?" she pushes, sounding hurt and insulted.

"We can't do this."

"Why not?"

"Because you're in mourning for someone you love, someone we both loved."

"I know what I'm mourning. You don't need to remind me. Why can't we just do this? I mean really who cares?"

"Pryor, we can't."

"Why? And don't blame it on grief."

"Okay, you want another reason? How about this: you're not ready."

"You're not in my head or my body. How do you know I'm not ready to...you know," she says.

"For one thing, people who are ready to have sex don't call it 'you know.'"

"So you're turning me down because my vocabulary is too childish for you?" she replies.

"I'm saying—"

"Okay, fine. Let's try it again. Aaden, would you like to fuck?" she replies crudely.

I march up to her and lean in; I can tell by her wide eyes, she's thrown by how near I am to her. She thinks it's about to happen. We are about to have sex. Instead I reach past her shoulder, grab her jeans, and hand them to her.

"Put your pants on," I order firmly.

She rolls her eyes and I look away as she steps back into her jeans.

"You're such an asshole," she snaps.

"Why, because I don't want to take advantage of you?"

"Because I need you right now and you aren't there for me," she barks.

"I am the only one who's here for you. There's no one else around."

"Too bad there isn't. Then maybe I could get some," she says.

"Well, I'm sorry okay, but even if you weren't in mourning I would never fuck you."

"WHY?"

"BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT THE KIND OF GIRL I'D FUCK; YOU'RE THE KIND OF GIRL I'D..."

I don't finish my thought because it's pointless. She doesn't need to know how many times I've thought about being with her. She doesn't need to know that she's my first and last thought every single day. And she certainly doesn't need to know what even the thought of holding her hand does to me.

"The kind of girl you'd what?" she asks.

I can't make eye contact with her. She moves in closer and tries to get me to look her in the face.

"Aaden, help me out here. I thought you and I...we used to be close. And now it's different. What happened?"

"Things that I couldn't control. Now isn't the time to get into all that. Just please trust me when I say that us having sex isn't going make your pain go away," I reply.

"How do you know?"

"I just do. Sex takes all the bad stuff away but only for an hour or maybe even two. Then it all comes back; the black hole that was threatening to swallow you gets even bigger," I admit.

"It's just as well. I'd probably be really bad at it," she confesses as she plops down on the bed.

"Why would you think that?"

"Because I'm not like Key or Swoop. They know stuff. I'd get it all confused and put things places they don't belong," she says, only half joking.

I smile despite myself and sit down beside her.

"That's crap. Whoever gets to be your first is damn lucky."

"I wouldn't even know where to start with him. I'd be clumsy and uncertain," she adds, mostly to herself.

"He would be the same," I reply.

"Why?"

"Because he'd know what to do with other girls but you're not like other girls. The wonder and sparkle in your eyes would pull him in so deep he'd never be able to look away. When he leaned in to brush a stray hair from your face, he'd inhale your scent. And the fragrance would give him a peace he'd never been able to find, even in the light. And if he ever got the chance to lay with you...he'd fumble and his hands would shake like an idiot because he just couldn't believe that kind of grace would be granted to him."

I didn't even realize I had run my hand through her hair while I was talking. I had no idea that I had placed my hand on the nape of her neck. Her eyes had lured me in and distracted me from the fact that we were inches away from kissing and getting closer.

I then did the hardest thing I've ever done in my entire life; I pulled away from Pryor.

"Gonna check for ...demons. Make sure the area is safe," I lie.

I run out without waiting for a reply. I head to the small shed a few yards from the cabin. Once inside, I lock the door and gasp as the pain in my chest pulsates and then spreads throughout my body. The agony is so severe I'm brought to my knees, panting. The pain lasts for only a few minutes, but it's enough to make me wish I were dead.

I crawl over to the tool table and grab a piece from a mirror I had broken awhile back. I aim it at my chest so I can get a good look at the damage: The black mark carved into my stomach had been extended nearly two inches because of my encounter with Pryor a few moments ago. Had I kissed her, the carving would have extended even further. Had we made love like I wanted to, it would have brought me that much closer to The Center. And this time, they would surely kill me...

## 15

# The Last Human

She's the first thing I see when I open my eyes. Something is different about her this morning. There's a smile on her face. I look at her with suspicion and she points towards the window.

"It stopped raining. I think my mom's doing better. Also, I talked to the team. They're waiting to hear about the last human. After that, we can come home."

"How bad is the last human hurt?" I ask.

"He's in intensive care. But I think he'll make it. Please, Omnis, let him make it," she begs.

"I'm sure he will," I reply as I turn my attention towards the sky.

"I can't stay in this cabin and worry all day. I was thinking maybe we could test our wings," she says.

"Are you sure you're up for it?" I wonder.

"What's the matter? Scared if we race I'll beat you like I did when we were kids?"

"I'm sorry, the mixtures must be playing with your memory. I was always a faster flyer than you," I remind her.

"Yes, but I was better at defensive flying. Anyone can fly in a straight line," she teases.

"You really want to challenge me?" I ask.

"Yes, and just so you know, I won't go easy on you simply because you're a boy."

"Wow, really? That's how you want to play it?" I ask.

"The very first Seller shop we see, we go in and loser buys," I tell her.

She doesn't even give me a chance to get out of bed before she takes to the sky. I rush into the air and call her a cheater for taking off before me. She laughs and says we're going to Italy and back.

Once in the air, I can tell her mother really was feeling better. Not only had the rain stopped, the sun was actually bursting through the clouds. Also the winds are calm and no longer raging. This in no way meant that her family was over the loss of Sam. It just meant that Death was able to rein in her emotions.

What's even better is that Pryor's flying has improved greatly. Her wings have healed up well. Her flying is smooth and controlled. But don't think for a second I'm going to let her win. She'd kill me if she thought I wasn't giving it my all in the race and allowed her to be victorious. In fact, her competitive edge is one of the things I love about her.

She cuts through the air with impressive speed. We have always been pretty close in terms of our speed, but she's really far ahead now. Damn her. I pick up the pace and she turns and finds me on her heels. She decides that no matter what happens she is not losing this race. I decide the same thing.

She heads for the United Kingdom and zips through Stonehenge like it was a ride at an amusement park. She then flies to France, where she grabs hold of the Eiffel tower and swings around several times, mocking me.

I'm closing in on her as she goes to Italy. Once there, she starts to straighten out the Leaning Tower of Pisa. But she sees I'm gaining on her and she quickly heads back to Ireland. Whoever gets back to the cabin first gets eternal bragging rights.

Finally, we're neck and neck. She picks up her speed, but it doesn't stop me from getting ahead of her. She tries even harder and now it's a dead heat to see who will make it to the cabin first. Just as we are about to land, she dips down to the valley below. I follow her and she signals to the humans down below.

There's a family stranded in a jeep on the side of the mountain on a narrow makeshift road. The wheels of the car keep turning, but the truck won't move. The man and his wife exchange worried glances. They have two girls about Sam's age in the truck and this isn't the ideal place to get stuck.

Things get worse when an animal howls somewhere in the distance. That causes the girls to start crying. Their mom tries to get them to calm down but it's not working. We land a few yards away behind a large rock formation and approach them.

I speak to the father and Pryor goes over to the mom. It would have taken only seconds to lift the car with my bare hands, but that would bring about questions from the humans. Instead I pretended that getting the car out of the muddy ditch is hard. She starts to make fun of the intense look on my face to keep the girls from crying.

Soon both the father and I were making silly faces while we work so that the kids don't get scared. It works all too well. The girls jump out of the car and right into the mud because it looked like their dad and I were having so much fun.

We got the car out of the ditch, but by then we were all soaked in mud. I can't say who started it for sure but we somehow got caught in a mud fight. It was boys versus girls. The boys never stood a chance.

The family was very kind and wouldn't let us go until we agreed to have dinner with them. So we all get into the truck and head into town. Once there, we clean up and join them at the dinner table.

There are moments when I think it would be easier to be human. For example, this family doesn't have a lot but judging by their interaction with the little girls, they're happy. No one is pushing them to be good or bad. They just expect that they are humans and they have the capacity to be both good and bad at times. In the end I'm not really sure which of us got the worst deal from Omnis; angels or humans.

When dinner is over we thank them and head outside to the cobblestone streets. The night air carries with it a cool breeze that makes the leaves sway. There are only a few humans around: couples. They stroll hand in hand, enjoying the change in the weather.

"I think Natasha had a crush on you," Pryor says.

"Is that the one with the two braids or the ponytail?" I ask.

"Braids," she replies.

"She had a nice laugh. I mean it's been a while since I heard anyone actually giggle," I admit.

"So you're gonna give her your Rah?" Pryor teases.

A Rah is a red liquid encased in a shatterproof crystal that represents an angel's heart.

Giving someone your Rah is the equivalent to marriage. The two angels would place their Rah side by side. The Rahs would then be bound together, then placed somewhere on earth.

If later one angel wanted to end the relationship, they would ask for their Rah back.

Here's the messed up part. If one angel isn't ready to move on from the relationship and doesn't want to let go, the Rahs will not separate.

Okay, so what, right? Well, you can't kiss anyone else while your Rah is bound to another. If you do you are sent flying through the air. I mean you _literally_ cannot kiss anyone else. Your body repels anyone else's kiss except for that of the angel to whom your Rah is bound.

There are some mixtures that can help you get around that by tricking your body into thinking the angel you're with is the angel you married. But the truth is it's a pain in the ass to find. So just make damn sure you give your Rah to the right angel.

"Does that stuff ever really work out?" I ask her.

"Giving your Rah to someone? Yeah, of course."

"Are you thinking of giving it to someone?" I ask, dreading the answer.

"No, not really," she replies softly.

I wanted to tell her right then. I wanted her to know everything that had happened to me and why I wasn't around. I want her to know that no one had my Rah, but if she wanted it right at this moment, she could have it. In truth, my Rah always belonged to her.

"Pry, there's something I've been meaning to say," I begin.

"Me first. I'm so sorry and embarrassed," she replies.

"For what?"

"Hello? I bit you," she reminds me.

"Oh, it's fine. Don't worry about it," I assure her.

"No, seriously, you've been so helpful these past few days. Thank you." She hugs me.

The hug is quick and so relatively painless. Once we're back in the sky there is nothing preventing me from telling her about my past.

_So why are you flying in silence?_

"Aaden, stop it! You're killing me!"

Startled, I open my eyes and find Pryor backed against the wall, with my hands around her neck with her feet dangling in the air. I let go of her immediately and kneel down beside her.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...I'm sorry," I tell her frantically.

She coughs for a few moments and that's when I see the flames dancing around the room. I did it again. I summoned up flames while I Recharged to protect me from the horror I was seeing in my mind's eye. I put out the flames and go check on Pryor.

"What the hell happened?" she asks.

"I'm sorry. Sometimes I can't control my secondary powers. Ever since the—never mind."

"You were screaming while you Recharged. I've never seen anything like it," she says.

"Look, just forget about it."

"What were you seeing that terrified you so much?" she pushes.

"It's nothing."

"No, it's something. Aaden, what's going on with you?"

"I'm fucked up. That's what's going on," I snap.

_Argh! Damn it! I never wanted her to see me like this. Now she thinks I'm a nutcase._

"Aaden, you were trembling," she says.

"It happens sometimes but it goes away."

"Aaden—"

"I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT!"

She doesn't reply. She simply starts picking up the mess from the fire.

I feel like a complete ass now. She was just trying to help. How could I push her away like that?

_Pushing her away is what kept you alive this long..._

"Pry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"It's cool," she lies.

"Some things are hard to talk about and better left alone."

"If that's what you want, then okay," she says as she sorts through the burned books and papers.

"What's this?" she asks, unfolding a piece of paper with her name on it.

"It's nothing. I'll take it," I offer quickly.

She doesn't hand it over. Instead she reads it and looks back at me with wonder.

"You remembered my Ha-Ha list?" she says.

"Yeah, I added some stuff to it. It's silly. Stupid. Whatever. Throw it away," I say.

"No," she says, hiding it behind her back.

I dive across the room and get the drop on her but she manages to wiggle the papers away. In order to get it from her I scoop her up from behind and lift her into the air. She flares out her body wildly as she starts laughing. I can't help but join in. I put her down and then we realize yet again, just how close our bodies are.

_Why is this shit so hard?_

She calls out my name.

"Yeah?" I reply, trying not to give in to my impulses.

"I know something bad happened to you. And when you're ready to talk, I'm ready to listen. Okay?" she says.

I nod as I begin to help her clean up. I'm so grateful that she let the subject drop that I don't even see the trouble ahead.

"Hey, I've been meaning to ask, who made the mixture to heal us?" Pryor inquires.

"Key told me what to get," I reply.

"Yeah, but there were a few mixtures. Key couldn't have made the one to hide us from the Omari. You would need a Specialist for that.

"Aaden, who? Do you know a Specialist?" she pushes.

"Um...yeah. Kind of..."

_Crap._

"Who is it? I'd like to thank them for helping us," she offers.

"No need."

"C'mon, tell me. Who helped us out?" she asks.

"Ruin."

She looks at me with shock and confusion. She marches over to the radio and turns it off. Now the only thing her face is showing is anger.

"Tell me you didn't go to a Kaster for help," she demands.

"I didn't want to, but I had no choice. She's a good Specialist."

"SHE KILLED MY BROTHER!" she bellows.

"That wasn't Diana. It was Harm."

"Diana? So you're on a first name basis with a Kaster?" she accuses.

"Like I said, it's complicated."

"No, it's not. You put us all at risk. What if she went back and told the other Kasters where we are?" Pryor shouts.

"She wouldn't do that."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know her," I reply, trying to keep my voice calm and even.

"How could you do something so stupid?"

"If you really think I could put your life in danger after everything I did to save you then you don't know me," I snap.

"Well, finally we agree on something, Aaden. I don't know you. You let me lay here knowing full well we could be under attack at any given moment."

"For the last time, Pryor, Diana isn't going to attack us."

"Oh and why is that? Because she's in love with you?" she says sarcastically.

I don't reply or look her in the eye. She studies me as I put the records away.

"Wait a minute, Ruin is in love with you?" she asks.

"I told you it's—"

"I swear to Omnis if you say it's complicated I will rip your damn wings off!" she threatens.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?" I demand.

"Answers Aaden! I want answers."

"Fine. Diana and I were together once. It wasn't a formal thing but yes we hung out. I hadn't seen her for a while. Yes, she is dangerous. Yes, she would attack if push came to shove. But I chose to call her because she's the best Specialist there is and we needed her. If she were going to alert the other Kasters, she would have done so already. She may attack down the line, but as of right now we are safe, so please calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down like I'm a child. You put my team at risk," she accuses.

"I did what I thought was best at the time. You were knocked out, that made me the leader. And I made the decision I made. Period."

"If this is the kind of decision maker you'd be, then I hope nothing happens to me because you'd be the death of the Noru."

"Well, then I guess it's a good thing that I don't give a damn about leading."

"Argh! I can't believe you could be this reckless!" she says.

"Please, just stop acting like this is about the team. Yeah, you're unhappy that I called a Kaster for help. But what's eating you alive is that I called on an ex."

"I DON'T GIVE A DAMN WHAT YOU DO."

"Then why are you shouting?"

She is rendered silent. She looks away and shakes her head in what I'm guessing is frustration.

"Pryor, my calling Diana really upset you. Not just because she's a Kaster or because you're the leader and want to protect the team. There's another reason; a personal reason. Tell me."

_Seriously, did you just ask her that? What if she says it's all business and she doesn't give a crap about your love life? What if you've been lying to yourself this whole time and this chick could care less? Worse, what if she does care? What if she actually has feelings for you? What then? How exactly would that scene play out?_

_"Hey, Pry, I'm glad you want to be with me. I want you too. Now move away from me before my chest implodes."_

_Crap. Crap. Crap._

"My concern is for my team. I can't have you compromise them in any way," she says with a firm resolution in her voice that leaves no room for doubt.

"So this argument is solely about Noru business?" I ask.

"What else would it be about?" she reasons.

"Nothing," I reply.

_I'm such a delusional jerk! How could I think she would...that she and I could ever...If Pry is going to be with a guy, it's going to be someone who isn't a screwup. A guy who can Recharge at night and not wake up screaming. She wants a guy who didn't set the house on fire because of a bad dream._

"I don't think it's a good idea for you and Ruin to be speaking; for the good of the team," she says.

"Yeah, okay, whatever," I reply.

The tension in the air is palpable. I would give anything to know what she's thinking. But then again her thoughts might crush me. Thankfully at that moment my cell rings. It's the team. I put the phone on speaker so both Pry and I can hear.

They have good and bad news they inform us.

"Let's start with the good news," Pry says.

From the look on her face, she too was grateful for the interruption.

"The last human injured has just made it out of the ICU. It will take a few weeks but he's going to be just fine. So you can relax. All the humans survived," East says.

"Yes!" she shouts as she leaps into my arms.

Having her in my arms feels more right than anything I ever felt. I don't want to let her go.

"East, that's great. So what's the bad news?" Pryor asks as she pulls away from me.

"Even though all the humans are alive, the board feels that Pryor was reckless and could pose more danger if she loses control again. I'm sorry, but they are going to have a hearing to determine if you get to keep them," East replies.

"If I get to keep what?"

"Your powers."

## 16

# Bad Move

The flight back to New York City is a pretty quiet one. We both have a lot on our minds. In addition to the heated exchange that took place between Pryor and me, I'm consumed by my anger with the board.

_I mean really, how asinine is it to consider taking away Pryor's powers with Malakaro out there? The stupidity of angels with influence never ceases to amaze me. Honestly, it's like they look for ways to make things worse. I'm so sick of their games._

When Pryor and I land, we head straight for The Face's office. After the team greets their leader, we all sit down to hear what I'm sure will be grade 'A' bullshit.

"First let me say that I'm truly sorry for what happened with Sam. He was a very talented Noru," The Face says sincerely.

"He was a kid. And he died because I left him with your angels. You said they could protect him," Pryor snaps.

"The Kasters have proven to be far more powerful than at first we realized," Face says sadly.

"That's all good and well but it won't bring my brother back. And now you want to take my powers away," the First Noru says, clearly pissed.

"I don't agree with the board. While I do not condone your behavior, I certainly understand how grief can be the catalyst for violence."

"But they're still considering taking Pry's powers away?" Swoop asks.

"Yes. They will be gathering to discuss the issue tomorrow morning."

"Can we at least speak on her behalf?" Key asks.

"I'm sorry. It's a closed meeting," The Face replies.

"This is so messed up!" Randy says.

"There has to be something we can do," I plead.

"I'm sorry. It looks like your team will just have to wait and see how things play out," The Face says with a grave expression.

"We're just supposed to sit here and wait to see if our leader loses her powers?" Bex says.

"What about Malakaro? Taking Pryor's powers away will make her a sitting duck," Randy argues.

"The human is right. This is a really bad move to make," I add.

"Mr. Case, language," she scolds.

"Seriously, lady?" I bark.

"I find no joy in this matter. Again, I would not like to see Pryor's powers taken from her. However, humans were hurt and I have no say in the matter. We just have to wait until the morning."

We told her she could skip school and go home or even fly to the other side of the world, but she declined. Instead she opts to go to class. It's around third period when I head down the hallway and see Bex standing over by the lockers talking to her.

I know she'll kill me, but I move in closer to hear what's being said. I know it's a scummy thing to do, it's just I really freaking want her. I want her in my arms and in my life. And just watching her talk to another guy is driving me nuts.

"You really don't have to go to class if you don't want to," Bex offers.

"It's okay. This way I can pretend to be human. That way my only problem is exams and guys," she says.

"I never got to say how sorry I am for what happened with Sam."

"I know. You don't need to say anything," she assures him.

"Were you going stir crazy at the cabin with Silver? Did he get on your last nerves or did you get on his?" Bex inquires.

_Nosy bastard._

"Well...we didn't really talk all that much. I Recharged a lot so..." she replies.

"Oh, yeah. That makes sense. Anyway, I thought you might like to have this," Bex says as he takes a small black velvet pouch from his back pocket and places it in the palm of her hand.

"You didn't have to get me anything," she says.

"It's nothing. Just something that may help when you're feeling down or whatever," he says awkwardly.

She opens the pouch and a crystal pendant falls out. It's carved in the shape of the Alexi bird and has blue stones for eyes. I'm sure it's made of real gems. Damn him.

"It's gorgeous," she says as she studies it.

"Alexis are beyond persistent. They simply don't give up. You remind me of them. You share the same spirit. I want you to remember how strong you are when things look bleak," Bex tells her.

_Yeah, it's official: I really hate this guy._

However, I can't lie. The pendant really is very striking. Pryor closes her hand around it and hugs him. I look away.

Later when school is over, I try and get some time with her. But that's made impossible by the twins. Swoop insists that Pry go shopping with them to take her mind off the meeting in the morning. When I ask how buying clothes can possibly help the situation, all three of them look at me as if I have snakes crawling out of my eyes.

I wait until nightfall to try and talk to Pryor, but everyone's home, making it difficult to get her alone. When I go to knock on her door, I overhear her and Key talking inside.

"Key, it's okay," Pryor says.

"No, it's not. I let Silver get to me. I know he can be a prick when he wants to be. I'm sure he was just saying that thing about Bex and you to piss Bex off. I never should have threatened to leave the team. It was stupid. I don't want to leave. I love you guys," Key replies.

"Even Silver?" Pryor asks.

"Yeah, but don't tell him," she says.

"So what happened? Why did you get so...crazy about a comment that you knew was a lie?" Pryor asks the oldest twin.

"Pry, Bex and I have been together for so long, I can't see my life without him. And when I think about losing him...he's my anchor. He always keeps me grounded. And that's hard to do with everything that's going on. I know Bex acts all tough but he's the first to make a silly face or crash land somewhere crazy if that's what it takes to cheer me up. I love him," she explains.

"Keyohmi, remember when you thought your future was in hair styling and you created a mixture that was supposed to give Bex an instant perfect haircut?" Pryor asks.

"Yeah," she says, already laughing at what Pryor's about to say.

"And what happened, Key?"

"The mixture gave him a rattail haircut—made out of a real rat," she says, unable to stop herself from laughing.

"Yes! And not only did he pretend to love it, he wore the rat on his head for a month until the mixture wore off. That's real love," Pryor says.

The two continue to share a laugh. I decide it's a bad time to talk to Pryor and head downstairs to the kitchen to see if there is any Coy in the house. As soon as I enter, I find the human sitting at the table.

"So...you're Aaden," he says, putting on his best menacing face.

"You're just now catching up?" I ask Randy.

"No, I just wanted to watch you. I've heard a lot about you," he says.

"Well I've heard nothing about you and I'm good with that," I admit.

"Here's the deal, Silver, platinum, aluminum, or whatever your name is—Pryor is not just my friend. She's my _best_ friend. Now she may have a thing for 'dark and handsome' but I won't allow you to hurt her," he warns me.

I walk over and stand right in his face. I am towering over him. Randy isn't even the size of one of my wings. He looks up at me and swallows hard. I can see his lips quiver slightly.

"If I hurt her, what the hell would you do about it?" I counter.

"You hurt Pryor and I'll rip your damn face off," he says.

I look down at him. What he's lacking in size, he makes up for in sincerity.

"Fair enough, human," I reply as I back off.

I can see why Pryor wants to save this guy. Randy doesn't have any strength to speak of but stepping up to me on behalf of his best friend shows character. That always counts with me.

"Guys, get up here!" Pryor shouts down to us.

Randy and I exchange a look of concern and run up the stairs to Pryor's room. The rest of the team is already gathered.

"What's wrong?" East asks.

"The Face just called me. They are letting me keep my powers," Pryor says in disbelief.

"What? But they haven't even had the meeting yet," Swoop says.

"They didn't need to. A Kaster killed one of the board members tonight. He was a very powerful Para. They figured if a Para couldn't fight a Kaster, we'd have no chance at all. Especially if they took my powers away."

"The geniuses just now figured that out?" I rant.

"Guys, I get to keep my powers," Pryor says, smiling for the first time since we've been back.

"Actually, it's more than that. Check this out," Swoop says, handing Pryor the cell phone.

"What is it?' I ask.

"According to the text The Face just received, the board member was attacked near the Taj Mahal, in India. The Kaster might still be there. I think we should check it out," Pry informs us.

"Let's go!" Swoop says.

Then Pryor looks over at Randy and her face fills with concern.

"Randy, we haven't forgotten you. We'll get Oden. I just want Harm to pay for what he did to Sam. I really—"

"Pry, making Harm answer for what he did to your little brother is top priority for all of us. Oden can wait," Randy assures her.

"Thank you," she says, embracing him.

"So we're all going on a mission to kill Harm?" East says.

"Yes," Key replies.

"And you know we will get in trouble for this, right?" East asks.

We all say, "Yes."

"Okay, just checking, let's go!" East says, leading the charge.

We land in India a short while later. The air is thick with heat and the clay colored earth surrounds us. The Taj Mahal is one of the places I've always wanted to go. Although hunting down Kasters wasn't part of my plan.

The white marble museum has an extensive collection of calligraphy on the outside panels and impressive dome-shaped ceilings. In the center of the courtyard, there's a reflecting pool lined with a series of well-manicured shrubs. There are columns throughout the massive structure that make it feel as if Omnis himself lives inside.

"You guys see anything yet?" Pryor asks.

"Nope," Swoop says.

"Maybe we missed them," East suggests.

"We have to keep looking. This is the only lead we have on Harm. I have to find him. I have to," Pryor vows.

"We have to. We're a team, remember?" Bex says.

She doesn't reply, instead she just keeps surveying the area.

"Is she going to be okay?" East asks.

"This is personal for her. She's not going to stop until she finds Harm," Key tells us.

"Yeah, but she needs to let us help her," East adds.

"We will. We just need to keep a close eye on her and make sure she doesn't do anything crazy," Bex adds.

"Have you ever met Pryor's mother?" Swoop asks.

"Crazy is a family trait," Key agrees.

"Damn it!" Pryor shouts from several feet away.

"What is it?" I ask.

"The Face got another text. They want her to inform us of the news in the morning."

"Pryor, what news?" Randy says.

She looks over at him sadly.

"What?" the human pushes.

"There was a fight with some demons over territory. Oden got hit with a Powerball. He's dead."

"Wait, what does that mean?" Randy asks.

"It means we have no way to take you off of Death's list now," she replies.

The human hangs his head in despair. Pryor is about to walk over to Randy and reassure him but she never makes it there.

## 17

# Fight Or Flight

"Get down!" Key yells.

Having been trained to anticipate attacks, we don't think or hesitate. We all drop to the floor. Randy, on the other hand, has no idea what to do. So instead of getting to the ground with the rest of us, he looks to see what Key is talking about. The fireball heads straight for him. He stands there, frozen in the face of certain death. Bex, being the closest to the human, tackles him to the ground. Fireballs invade the entrance of the Taj Mahal.

Our attackers hide in the surrounding trees and bushes, making it difficult to get a clear view of them. Pryor instructs us to place Randy in a Holder and split up. Swoop quickly takes off her bracelet and throws it at Randy. The bubble-like prison immediately forms around the human.

"Aaden, Bex, aim for the trees. We need to draw them out," our leader orders.

Bex and I set the trees on fire. The demons have no choice but to come out of hiding and take to the sky. There are dozens of them, but they didn't come alone. All the Kasters, including Ruin, accompany them.

_Damn it!_

Our team takes off into the sky. Kill orders the demons to fire another round of fireballs at us. We manage to dodge them with skillful flight maneuvers. Pissed, Kill orders Twist to attack us. The crew cut scum does as his leader says. He sends out a surge of electric currents aimed right at Swoop's head.

"Look out!" I warn her.

It's too late. Swoop doesn't get out of the way in time. The current hits her in the face. Her whole body seizes up; she's writhing in pain. I throw a fireball aimed at Twist. He sees it coming and disconnects from Swoop in order to dodge the flames. Swoop has lost consciousness and is falling out of the sky.

I call out desperately to Bex, who is the closest to her. He dives to catch her but Kill tackles him and the two slam into one of the pillars of the Taj Mahal. Meanwhile, Swoop is still falling and I can't get to her in time. Right before she hits the ground, East appears on his Port and catches her.

Terrified that her sister could be dead, Key dives down towards the ground, but she's intercepted by three demons. She "paints" the sky with them in one quick wave of her hand. She lands and runs to East, who is trying to revive Swoop.

"Is she okay?" Key asks him.

Before East can answer, Bex calls out her name. She looks up and sees that Kill has managed to get the upper hand on her boyfriend. And now Bex is only a few inches away from having a fireball shoved into his chest.

"Key, go! I've got this," East assures her.

She takes to the air to rescue Bex. I'm on my way to help them when a hole opens up in the sky and starts to suck me into its center. The force that's pulling me in is so strong, when I fight to go the opposite direction, it feels like my skin is being ripped off. I struggle but it's no use. I'm being sucked into the void no matter what I do.

Just beyond me is the creator of the vortex: Wrath. He has a scar across the entire length of his face and wears a sadistic grin. He commands the void with his hands and looks on as it pulls me in. He's so busy controlling his creation he doesn't see Pryor behind him.

She places both hands on either side of his head. Right away he drops his hands and the vortex starts to close. He tries to shake her off of him, but the longer she has him between her fingers the weaker his life force gets.

He flips her over, punches her in her stomach, and grabs her throat. She focuses her powers on draining the life out of Wrath. She blocks out the pain of his blows and slowly the vortex closes. I am free.

Wrath makes one final attempt to save his own life by plunging them both towards the ground. They crash into the entryway of the Taj Mahal. His efforts pay off. Pry's hold on him is gone and now the two face off. I try to fly over to her, but the effects of the vortex have left me weak and flying takes a lot more effort than it should. Fearing I won't get there in time to help her with Wrath, I call out to Bex, who has managed to break free of Kill with Key's help. The couple quickly head over to Pryor.

Just as I land, I see Ruin make her way towards East and Swoop. I run after her, but she gets to them first. She surprises East from behind and takes his face into her hands. She inhales the air around him, causing a stream of grey smoke to escape from East's mouth. Ruin is sucking the life from between his lips.

I've seen her do it before but now her connection to her victims is stronger, allowing her to kill them faster. I send a Powerball towards her, aiming so that it won't make contact with her but will get close enough to get her attention. It works. The Powerball hits the pillars and the blast sends Ruin away from her victim. I check on East, who is slowly waking from the trance Ruin's powers placed him in.

"That's not nice, Silver," she says, licking her bloody lip.

"I won't do this with you. You need to walk away from this," I tell her.

"Sorry; it's my job and well, I'm very career oriented," she says with a smile.

"I don't want to hurt you, Diana."

"Shame to give up something you're so good at," she replies.

"Leave. Now," I tell her.

"I hope this isn't a private conversation because I have a few things to say," someone announces.

I turn and find a fireball headed for my chest courtesy of Kill. Thankfully Swoop intercepts by pushing me out of the way at top speed. Kill fires again and manages to hit what's left of the building. The damaged structure is about to cave in.

We all scatter and run away from the falling monument, but the moment we are out of danger, East sends a shattering cry into the air. We look over and see a winged beast the size of a bull, with red eyes, flaring nostrils, and jagged teeth dripping with red saliva. The beast has latched on to East's arm with his fangs and is now dragging him through the courtyard.

I take off to help him, but Swoop swiftly kicks me in the head and knocks me to the ground. Shocked, I look up at her. I see a swirl of darkness in her eyes.

_Harm._

He has possessed her and is using her as a weapon.

"Swoop, you have to fight Harm. He's controlling you and we have to go help East," I tell her.

Swoop leaps into the air, wraps her legs around my neck, and hangs upside down off of me. She stretches her hand all the way down to the floor and manages to use her legs to flip me to the ground.

I hit the ground so hard the earth beneath me shakes. Swoop stares down at me and I can see Harm's maniacal gaze looking back at me. I quickly get up and look around for something to contain Swoop.

"What is she doing?" Pryor shouts as she helps Key thin the herd of demons.

"It's not her, it's Harm. He's possessing her," I shout back.

"Where's East?" Bex asks as he flies down to us.

"Manic turned into a beast and dragged him off. You and Pry go after him," I say.

"No! You two take care of East. I'll deal with Harm," Pryor says.

Bex and I exchange worried glances. Key is looking concerned as well.

"Pryor—"

"Go, now! I'll take care of Swoop and Harm," she orders.

We take off in the direction I last saw the animal. I don't like leaving Pryor to take care of Harm. Normally she handles herself just fine, but this isn't a normal situation. Harm killed her brother and that is going to make Pryor emotional. And emotions can get in the way of battle. It leaves you compromised. From the grave look on his face, I can tell Bex is thinking the same thing.

"Let's just find East and get back as soon as possible," I tell him.

He nods in agreement. It's the first time we've been on the same page since I got back. We track the beast's paw-like prints to a clearing in the wooded area just off to the side of the mausoleum. But the dense grouping of trees makes it hard to navigate.

"Let's split up; whoever finds them call out," Key says.

Bex goes right, Key goes left, and I walk straight ahead. The wind rustles through the trees and darkness begins to fall. The longer we are away from Pryor, the more worried I am. Yet I know we can't leave East out here with Manic. There's no telling what he's already done to my friend.

I hear Key call out. I rush to her side and get there the same time as Bex. We find the beast standing over East's still body, about to devour it with his fangs. Both Bex and I blast him at the same time. It doesn't stop Maniac; in fact it makes him even angrier. He roars into the night air and charges at us. We dive out of the way just in time. But the beast readies itself for another attack. I signal to Key to go help East while Bex and I deal with the overgrown rat.

The beast seems to be immune to our powers, so Bex and I quickly come up with a different plan of attack. I set the surrounding trees on fire, causing a smoke screen to limit the animal's sight. We tackle him from both sides and attempt to stop him with brute force.

Bex climbs onto the beast's back and pounds on its skull repeatedly. The animal rages and sends him flying across the forest. It starts to go after Bex, but I tackle it. We wrestle wildly and it steps on my leg and breaks it.

"Fuck!" I cry out as I feel the bone in my leg separate.

Bex rips a branch from the nearest tree. He takes the jagged end and plunges it into the back of the beast. It howls in pain but it keeps attacking. I take the makeshift weapon from Bex and jab it into the beast's neck. It howls again, this time in pure agony.

The animal flees deeper into the forest. We're about to go chase it when Swoop and Randy appear in the clearing. Thankfully, her eyes are back to normal.

"Guys, Pry's lost it, we gotta go," she says.

We help Key with East and then head back to what was once the Taj Mahal.

"Swoop, how could you leave her?" I ask as we make our way back.

"You don't get it. We didn't leave her. She pushed us out," Swoop replies.

"Wait, what do you mean?" Bex asks.

Swoop starts to explain on our way to Pryor.

"When Harm was controlling me, she didn't beat him into leaving my body. She just talked to him."

"What did she say?" Key asks in disbelief.

"She told him it took no balls to kill a baby and that if he wanted to prove he could actually grow a set, he needs come out and fight," Randy tells us.

"Harm left Swoop's body just like that?" I ask.

"She wounded his ego and the other Kasters heard it too. He had something to prove," Swoop replies.

"I still don't get it. Why didn't you stay and help her fight?" Bex asks.

"I told you guys, she pushed us out. In fact, Harm and Pryor pushed everyone out."

We get there and find both Pryor and Harm in the center of the rubble, looking back at each other with murderous expressions. On one side of the demolished courtyard are the Kasters and what's left of the demons they brought with them. We stand on the opposing side, ready to attack.

"We have to go get her," East whispers between clenched teeth.

"You're hurt, East. You can't help her," Swoop says.

"We can't just let her take on a Kaster alone," Key replies.

"Screw this, I'm going to get her out of there," I reply as I limp towards the center.

"You can't go get her. None of us can; look," Bex says.

We look down at the floor and there is a trail of silver blood from Pryor. It's mixed with ink colored blood from Harm.

_No, no, no..._

When both angel and demon blood is mixed and forms a line, it's called the "fight or flight" line. It serves as an impenetrable barrier. No one can get inside it. The two beings inside the line have to battle until one of them dies or they both agree to a truce and fly away. We explain that to Randy, who had tried to get to Pryor earlier and was met with a force field.

"Harm made a 'fight or flight' line?" Bex asks.

"No, Pryor did. She challenged him. After he left my body, she cut open the palm of her hand and made the first line. Then Harm followed her lead," Swoop informs us.

We shout for Pryor to reconsider, but she doesn't even turn towards us. She's made up her mind. She's facing off with Harm.

"This is crazy. So we're just going to watch her do this?" Randy says.

We look back at him and from our expression he learns an awful truth: There is absolutely no way to undo what Pryor has done. Harm stands before her, six foot four inches of mean. He has oily, stringy hair that dangles by his shoulders and bulging muscles that add to his giant-like physique.

When we first got here there was a loud cheering coming from the Kasters, but now as the fight is about to start, silence falls over the area. We see Manic back in demon form with a rag pressed against his neck to stop the bleeding from where we struck him. He snarls at us from across the courtyard. I glare back at him, more than ready to take him on even with my broken leg.

However, Manic doesn't come after me. Like everyone else, he's captivated by the two opponents inside the "fight or flight" line. I look away from Manic and on to Diana. She looks back at me, but her expression is unreadable. She's not exactly happy that this is happening, but she wouldn't mourn the loss of Pryor either.

Harm charges at Pryor. She's small but fairly quick and manages to move out of the way. Harm charges again, and again she is able to escape the path of destruction. The Kasters call out for Harm to kill her and make it painful. Our team hurls threats and curses back at the Kasters. Bex and I are too focused on what's going on to speak.

When Pryor manages to evade Harm a third time, he whips out a metal link chain. It's about a foot long and glows bright blue once it hits the air.

_Oh no..._

"What is that?" Randy asks.

"It's an Impossible Chain," Key says, filled with dread.

"That's bad, isn't it?" Randy asks, also dreading the response.

"An Impossible Chain has limitless reach although it's only a foot long. This one is glowing because it's laced with a mixture that was outlawed by Omnis: Atorva. It eats away flesh," Bex says gravely.

We call out to Pryor but it's like she doesn't hear us. From the look on her face she is picturing the horror she walked in on when she found Sam laying dead. She's too wrapped up in her emotions to stay clearheaded.

_She could lose this battle..._

Harm holds the chain out and whips it towards Pryor. It extends and wraps itself around her waist. She cries out as the chain eats through her clothes, and then her flesh. It's as if a rope laced with acid is binding her.

Harm yanks on the chain and brings Pryor down to the ground. I bang on the invisible barrier, but it doesn't break. Bex and the rest of the team pound on it too, but the "fight or flight" line remains intact. Harm looms over her while letting out a cold, twisted laugh.

"Pryor, damn it, get up!" I scream at her.

She starts to stir a little. Harm could have let the chain eat through her until she died, but he was too sadistic to let her off that easy. He takes the chain from around her waist and placed it around her neck. He yanks on it yet again and hurls her to the other side of the barrier.

We call out to her to get up before Harm gets to her again, but she barely has enough energy to unwrap the chain from her neck, let alone use her power. Every time she touches the chain it burns through her fingers and eats away at her flesh. She tries to Pull Harm but she's in too much pain; she can't focus her powers enough to kill him.

"Pry, you have to use the pain like you did the night you found Sam," Key suggests.

It's too late. Harm has come for her yet again. He picks her up in the air and lets her dangle like a carcass in a butcher shop. She squirms and flares her arms out wildly.

"He's gonna break her neck," Randy screams.

"Get the fuck off of her," I rage, pounding so hard on the barrier my right shoulder snaps out of its socket.

Harm doesn't break her neck because he's having too much fun with her. Instead he flips her down to the ground and proceeds to bash her face in.

"HARM, I SWEAR TO OMNIS I'M GONNA KILL YOU. I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU!" I vow as I smash my left hand against the glass.

Bex and Swoop look around for something to strike the barrier with but nothing works. Tears spill from Randy's eyes as he watches his best friend getting pummeled to death. Enraged, Key peels the skin of any nearby demons and reduces them to spots on the ground. The Kasters, overjoyed that Harm has won, fight us back with glee.

Harm looks down at Pryor's bloody, swollen face and smiles. She looks back at him; only one of her eyes can open fully. It's hard to tell if her nose and lips are still on her face. There's so much blood, it's hard to make anything out. Harm gets inches away from what's left of Pryor's face and yells for everyone to hear.

"Not as tough as you thought you were, huh bitch?" he spits.

She remains still; it's possible she will never move again...

"Do you know what the little crybaby wanted as I was taking his pathetic life away? He wanted you. He begged for his big sis. I wish I killed him in front of you," Harm says.

Pryor mumbles something. Harm can't make it out, so he comes closer so he can hear her pain and anguish.

"What did you say?" he says, reveling in his triumph.

Without warning, she marshals what's left of her strength, reaches into Harm's face, and scoops out his right eye. He jerks around in pain, drops the chain he was holding, and places his hand over the oozing hole that once held his eye.

Pryor rolls away from Harm and manages to get the chain off her neck. She grabs the chain and holds it by its safety handle. The blood on her face is seeping into her eyes, making it difficult to see clearly. She can't make out where Harm is, so we yell out for her to go a few feet to the left. She finds Harm doubled over on the floor.

Harm's pain quickly turns to rage as he goes to attack Pryor. However, this time the chain is in her hand. She wraps it around his left wing and yanks with all her might. The chain starts to eat away at the flesh between his shoulder blades and the base of his wing. He shakes in pain and calls her every name he can think of.

No matter what, though, she refuses to let go of the chain. Harm fights as hard as he can, but the mixture is eating away at the bone that connects his wing to his back. Pryor could have Pulled the life out of him, but that was not the kind of death she wanted for her brother's murderer.

"I know you can't see well, so I'm going to show you what I'm taking from you up close," Pryor vows as she plants her foot firmly in the middle of his back and yanks one final time on the chain.

"Aghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!" Harm bellows as his wing is ripped from his body.

Harm's blood springs into the air like a geyser. He falls back in anguish and shakes uncontrollably. The blood from his back forms a pool all around him. He's alive, but barely.

"I told you I'd let you get a closer look," Pryor says as she shows the Kaster his severed wing.

Harm is shaking only slightly now. He's stopped crying out and now it's only a low moan that escapes his lips. Pryor holds his face in between her blood-soaked hands. Harm's eyes are starting to glaze over. Death is coming for the Kaster.

"Hey, wake the fuck up! I'm not done," she orders.

Harm opens his eyes slightly and his head slopes over to one side. Blood spills out from his nose and mouth. She places the chain on the tip of Harm's disgraced wing. It eats through the feather and flesh, revealing the tip of a long bone that makes the curves at the end. Pryor pulls it out savagely and plunges it into Harm's skull. The Kaster dies with eyes wide open.

She's exhausted and badly hurt, but it doesn't stop her from making an announcement to the Kasters that are now fleeing the area.

"KASTERS, IF YOU COME AFTER US AGAIN, DEATH WILL BE CERTAIN AND UGLY."

Like any great leader, she waits until the enemy is no longer in sight, before she sinks to the ground and gives in to her many wounds.

## 18

# The Alago

### ––––––––

The Angel world heard about our victory moments after it happened. It was the first piece of good news angels have had since Malakaro made his presence known. Our victory helped them feel encouraged in the midst of all the evil that had surfaced recently. Angels all over were toasting our names in bars, singing our praises on social media and gossip blogs were tripping over themselves to interview us.

From New York, The Face had arranged for us to have the entire fifth floor of the hospital to ourselves. She made sure no one was allowed to see us. The angel media hovered just outside our windows for days.

All of us were able to get help for our injuries, but Pryor and East were hurt far worse than the rest of us. It took six days and three different Healers to fix her. Harm had shattered her nose, collarbone, ribs, and nearly most of her right side. And the venom in Manic's teeth poisoned East. Luckily Key got to him and was able to slow down the poison. We were in India for nearly a week before Key approved us to fly.

Randy was torn between horror at what happened and absolute joy. On one hand, he was so scared he had lost Pryor, he scolded her for hours for drawing the Fight or Flight line. One the other hand, he thought she was really badass for what she did.

"Randy, I'm sorry about Oden. But I promise we won't let anything happen to you," she assured him.

"Pry, are you kidding? You killed a super demon with the bone from his own wing! I will never doubt you. Ever," he said as he jokingly bowed down at her feet.

Randy wasn't the only one who was happy. Although the team was injured, everyone was in great spirits. It was the first time we truly had to work as a team and it went very well. We were able to put everything aside and work as a team. Better still, we showed the Kasters why it was a bad idea to take us on. And although repairing the bridge was proving more difficult than anyone thought it'd be, at least the Guardian children can handle themselves until their parents returned.

When we get back to New York, The Face is waiting to scold us for a number of infractions. Frankly, I've learned to zone her out. Looking at the group, they've learned to do the same thing. The fact is we did manage to get rid of a Kaster, and even The Face has to admit we did a good job. Or more importantly, Pryor did.

Yet, I could swear under that stern expression, The Face is relieved to see that we are all still alive. But I could be wrong because once again, she sends us to detention. It doesn't matter that we fought Kasters and were victorious. What mattered was that we missed a week of school.

The next day, as we head home after the first day of detention, Randy announces that he's in charge of lights for the big event.

"What event?" Pryor asks.

"The 'Have a Heart' dance," he says.

"I don't think we're going to that," Key says.

"Like hell. I'm there," Swoop says.

"Make that two," East confirms.

"Really, a dance?" Bex says disapprovingly.

"C'mon, Bear. It'll be fun. And The Face said we should blend in. What better way to do that than to go to a dance with other humans? Please?" Key says as she snuggles up to her boyfriend.

"Well count me out," Pryor says.

"We're raising money for the American Heart Association. All the proceeds go to help fund heart disease research. Are you really going to opt out? I mean, is that the angel thing to do?" East says, teasing her.

"East is right. That doesn't sound very angel-like at all," Randy adds.

"Oh no..." Pryor says, rolling her eyes.

"We're putting on this laser light show display at the dance. I designed it. But if you won't support a friend..." Randy says with a melodramatic sigh.

"Okay, okay, take the 'guilt blade' out from my back already," Pryor says.

In the end, everyone decides they'll go and support the chosen charity. Well, everyone but me. I promised I would buy a ticket so they could get the cash, but I wasn't into dances. Pryor looks at me and before I can gauge her expression, she looks away.

A few days later, while in class, The Face calls out all our names on the loudspeaker and instructs us to be in her office promptly. It's been ten minutes since we gathered in front of her and she has yet to say a word. She just stares off into space pensively while fiddling with her collar.

"Mrs. Greenblatt, you wanted to see us?" Key reminds her gently.

"What? Oh yes, yes, I did," she says, looking out at us.

She turns towards Pryor and a quick flash of regret appears on her face. Before any of us can comment, the look disappears as quickly as it came. She clears her throat, straightens up her already perfect posture, and speaks with a forced "official" tone.

"Fate left me with a Pandora box for your team," The Face says.

"What's that?" Randy asks his best friend.

"It's a box that reveals secrets, but on a timetable predetermined by the being that created it. Pandora boxes usually hold bad news, hence the name," Pryor replies.

"How does it work?"

"There is a specific time and date the box is set to open; only the creator of the box knows exactly when that time will be. And when it does, a secret is revealed. In this case, I was told that while the box belongs to your team, I was to guard it and reveal information when prompted," The Face says.

"Why didn't Fate just tell us what we needed to know when he was here on Earth?" Pryor asks.

"As you know, Fate does not know everything. The pattern of life is simply too vast. Only glimpses into what is to come," The Face reminds her.

"When did fate give you the Pandora box?" Swoop asks.

"The day Pryor enrolled in school here; it just opened up this morning."

"You knew there was bad news coming and you didn't tell her?" Bex snaps.

"A Pandora box doesn't always hold bad news.." she replies.

"So this one has good news?" Pryor asks.

"No, it doesn't," she admits.

"Naturally," East quips.

"So what is it? What was the message in the box?"

"First I should explain something," she begins.

We all look over at each other, certain of one thing: whatever she is about to say will suck in so many ways.

"We found out what Malakaro is after: it's a force whose existence would destroy Omnis," The Face says with an expression even more serious than usual.

"What are you talking about? There is no force stronger than Omnis, right?" Randy says.

"No. Not _one_ force. But there is a combined force that can obliterate Omnis and life as we know it. When Malakaro and the Alago join forces...it all ends."

"The Alago, who or what is that?" Key asks.

"Mrs. Greenblatt, please start from the top and don't leave out anything," Randy says.

"As I'm sure you've been told, Randy, Paras are among the most powerful of angels. But in addition, many of them are scientists, creating most of the mixtures that we use and enjoy today. The most celebrated in the field S&D, that's Science and Discovery, is a Para by the name of Pinter Gable," she informs him.

"Pinter's a legend. He invented The Holder, to keep beings trapped. The Triplex to hide things in plain sight, and—"

"—Coy; Angel alcohol. He invented that. And that's why I'm grateful," Swoop reminds Bex.

"I bet you are," East teases.

"Yes, we've all heard of Pinter," Key says.

"He died from injuries he sustained in a lab accident, just as he was about to create his ten thousandth mixture," Pryor confirms.

"That's what most angels believe, but the truth is a little different," The Face confesses.

"Of course it is. All the 'powers that be' do is withhold the truth," I snap.

"There was a good reason for not revealing the real story of Pinter," she replies.

"Yeah, I'm sure," I reply sarcastically.

"I can appreciate the difficulty you and the team are facing, but your tone needs to change, Mr. Case," she challenges.

"Mrs. Greenblatt, he's sorry. Can you just continue?" Pryor says.

The Face looks over at me and presses her lips tightly in disapproval. Thankfully though, she continues her story.

"Pinter did finish his ten thousandth creation. In fact it's the reason he died," The Face informs us.

"What are you talking about?" I ask.

"Pinter was always more of a scientist than he was an angel. He had an insatiable curiosity and was absolutely obsessed with two things: one of them being the study of evil. And the other being a woman he loved, known to us only as the Blue Rose," The Face says.

"In what way was he obsessed with evil?" Swoop wonders.

"He thought if he could get inside the mind of evil, he could study and understand it. That understanding would lead to conquering evil once and for all," she replies.

"How did he plan to do that?" Randy asks.

"Pinter decided to study humans because unlike angels and demons, humans are not born good or bad. That means if they are evil it's because they choose to welcome darkness. The fact that a human made that choice fascinated Pinter. It helped to further convince him that humans were the perfect specimens to study. So Pinter devised an ingenious method to gather evil and research it."

"How was he able to do that?" Key inquires.

"He sought out dying dictators, mass murderers, and child abusers. They were the worst humanity had to offer and could give him the most insight into darkness."

"What did he do once he found them?" Swoop asks.

"He distilled their essence into a mixture he created called Rye. He started to combine Rye with other powerful elements. He did this because he wanted to create an evil that was more powerful than Omnis. He thought he would drink the Rye mixture and then he would be able to understand evil because it would be inside him."

"How did this Rye mixture work?" Randy asks.

"Once it's administered, the being takes on the dark sprit of the original human it was distilled from. In other words, if Pinter drank the Rye of a murderer, he would suddenly have an inexplicable need to kill."

"He really didn't see how dangerous his experiment was?" Pryor asks.

"As I said before, he was obsessed. In fact, Pinter was not happy with the darkness that came from just one vial of Rye. It was not strong enough," The Face says, shaking her head in dismay.

"An overachieving mad scientist. Perfect," Bex spits.

"In many ways, yes. He combined the Rye vials together. It worked; the Rye had enough power to take on Omnis. However, when Pinter drank it, it nearly killed him. The mixtures became unstable and his experiments failed."

"That's good, right?" Randy asks.

"Yes, but Pinter was a very determined Para. After many failed attempts to ingest Rye, Pinter finally realized his mistake. It wasn't the mixture that was unstable but rather it was too strong for one being alone. He learned that there is no _one_ force to rival Omnis; evil needed a partner. Pinter referred to this 'perfect partner' as the Alago."

"I so don't like where this is going," Bex says.

"Yeah, same here," Pryor confirms.

"Okay, so what happened?" I push.

"Pinter desperately sought out beings who were daring and curious enough to drink the Rye and become the Alago: the perfect partner to evil. When Omnis found out, he was furious. But Pinter insisted he was doing it for the greater good and that the Rye would someday put an end to evil everywhere."

"Omnis wasn't buying it," I guess out loud.

"No, he sent the Omari to destroy all the vials of Rye Pinter had created and to capture the scientist. But when they got there, Pinter had fled, taking five of the strongest Rye vials with him."

"Did the Omari catch up with them?" Swoop asks.

"Knowing the Omari, yeah they did," I reply.

"Aaden is correct. The Omari always find the being they are hunting. But in this case they found him too late. He had already added Nor to the five vials of Rye," The Face says.

"He added Nor to it? Are you freaking kidding me?" I shout.

"What's Nor?" Randy asks as he studies our troubled faces.

"Nor is another creation by Pinter. It makes objects indestructible," The Face says.

"So what did Omnis do?" I ask.

"Omnis was certain that Pinter had lost touch with what it meant to be an angel. And that he had let his curiosity overrule him. He knew that if given enough time, Pinter would find a being to share the Rye with and thereby create two evil forces that would become anti-Omnis."

"Omnis couldn't find a way to destroy the five vials of Rye?" Randy asks.

"You have to understand. Pinter was celebrated and looked up to among Paras. Even if Omnis could have destroyed the Rye vials, it would have been a sign of disrespect. So instead, Omnis had the five vials hidden around the human world where they would be most difficult to find."

"Yes, but if Pinter was as determined as you say, he would have looked for the Rye vials regardless," Key says.

"Exactly. You see, Omnis took care of the first problem by hiding the five vials, but just to make sure Pinter's experiment never took off, he added a meter to the Rye vials before he had them hidden."

"What does a meter do?" the human asks.

"It can identify you," Swoop says.

"So even if Pinter found the five Rye mixtures, the only being that could drink the other half would be the being that Omnis designated when he inserted the meter inside the vials. Or it would not work," The Face informs us.

"So Omnis couldn't destroy the vials but he found a way to alter it so that only a certain being could drink it and become the Alago?" Bex asks.

"Not just that being but anyone in that being's bloodline," she corrects him.

"I don't understand. Why would Omnis pick any being at all if that being could bring about his demise?" Key asks.

"Omnis could not take away from the Rye mixture because Nor protected its original contents. But he could add elements to it. So he added a meter so that the only being that could drink the other half of the mixture was a being Pinter would never sacrifice. Someone Pinter loved."

"The Blue Rose can drink the Rye mixture," Pryor guesses.

"Exactly," The Face confirms.

"So Omnis made it so that only Blue Rose could be the Alago. Clever bastard," I reply begrudgingly.

"Blue Rose or any one of her descendants" The Face tells us.

"Pinter just went along with this?" Randy asks.

"He didn't know about it until the vials were all hidden. When he found out that only the woman he loves could be sacrificed to achieve his lifelong dream, he killed himself by leaping off Tamara Falls Mountain. It was only later that we learned of his contract with the Guardians," The Face announces.

"Pinter turned to the Guardians?" Pryor asks.

"Not the team your parents were a part of, but a much earlier team, before their time. Pinter trusted Guardians. He loved that they were once humans who died painful deaths before their time. He felt that gave them more understanding than angels who were born with wings, like Paras. And since Rye was his creation, he was able to dictate what should happen in his absence. So he drew up a binding contract with three conditions to protect his dream and his love."

"What was in the contract?" Bex probes.

"Pinter was worried that if anyone knew who the Blue Rose was, they would hunt her and her family for generations. So before he died he placed a marking on the woman he loved. That marking is of course that of an actual blue rose. The first condition was the marking only appears to First Guardians and their heirs."

"So Pryor is the only one who can see the blue rose marking the Blue Rose descendant?" I ask.

"Since Pryor's father, who is the current First Guardian, is in the light, yes Pryor is the only one who can identify the heir of the Blue Rose. Sam would have been able to as well if he..."

She doesn't finish her thought. She sees Pryor wince slightly and knows it's better to let the statement go unsaid.

"But Malakaro can tell who the Blue Rose descendant is too since he's also Marcus's child, right?" Bex says.

"Yes. That brings us to the second condition in the contract Pinter had with the Guardians. No matter how twisted his reasoning was, Pinter truly was trying to help good win out over evil. So he admitted to having added a meter of his own to the Rye."

"Okay, so what exactly is the second condition in the contract?" I ask.

"Only a First Guardian or their heirs can drink the first half of the Rye mixture. He reasoned a First Guardian would have noble intentions. He never conceived of—"

"My brother," Pryor realizes.

"Yes, Malakaro can do what the other evils before him couldn't. He can find the five Rye vials because he's heir to a First Guardian," Pryor says with growing alarm.

"That's crazy. What do we do? How do we stop him?" Key says, in full panic.

"Where are the Rye vials?" We need to get to them first!" Bex says, jumping up from his seat.

"I agree with the Para, we need to go, now!" I add as we all head for the door.

"Stopping Malakaro from getting the five vials is going to be next to impossible. He's already stronger than you. Each vial he finds, he will ingest half of it and gain more power," The Face says.

"Well, what are we supposed to do? We can't just stand here and wait for the end to come," Pryor barks.

"That brings us to the third condition: Only the First Guardian or their heir can kill the Blue Rose descendant. Pinter knew that a Guardian would only kill the Blue Rose descendant as a last resort," The Face says.

"Wait! I got it. Pinter trusted the Guardians and had a contract with them and it has three rules: Only a Guardian can drink the first half of the mixture, only a Guardian can see the Blue Rose sign on the heir, and only a Guardian can kill the Blue Rose descendant if it came down to that," Randy says, proud of himself.

We all turn to look at him, baffled by his need to repeat what The Face just said.

"Hey, humans need time to process, okay?" he says defensively.

"What happens once Malakaro and Alago meet?" Pryor asks.

"The existence of the two together will bring about the end. Omnis dies as does all of civilization."

"Okay, so we find the Blue Rose descendant and convince her or him not to drink the mixture and become the Alago, right?" Pryor says.

"No, Ms. Cane. According to the message Fate left in the box, you are to find the heir and kill them before Malakaro gets to the five Rye vials."

"What? But the Blue Rose descendant could be some innocent angel who didn't do anything wrong," East protests.

"Yes but they will once they drink the mixture," The Face promises.

"We're not killing an innocent angel," Key informs her.

"She's right. We can just find this Blue Rose descendant and tell them not to drink the mixture. That could work," Swoop says.

"If it did work, then there would be no need for Fate to warn you to kill them. For whatever reason, the Blue Rose descendant will drink the Rye and become the Alago. And when that happens, Omnis himself won't be able to save us," The Face replies gravely.

"You really want us to kill a fellow angel?" Key asks.

"We don't even know if the Blue Rose was an angel. The woman Pinter loved could have been Quo. It was common to hide an affair with a half angel, half human in those days," The Face reminds us.

"So we could be off to kill a Quo. Is that supposed to make us feel better?" East asks, clearly on edge.

"As a fellow Quo, I can understand your anger. But the fact is we have no idea what race the Blue Rose was. Pinter never revealed that to anyone. There was never a need for anyone to look for her until now," The Face says.

"Pryor, you have to say something. We can't just go off and kill someone who didn't do anything wrong," Key pleads.

"Correction, hasn't done anything wrong yet," The Face replies.

Pryor looks out at us, she's in deep thought. It feels like the whole world has stopped and is awaiting her answer. She exchanges a look of concern with me. Then she addresses Mrs. Greenblatt.

"Our job is to protect humans at all cost. If the Blue Rose descendant partnering up with Malakaro causes the end of all human life then we have to stop it."

"Pryor!" the twins shout in unison.

"I'm sorry, guys, but we don't have a choice. Whoever this angel or Quo heir is...we will find them and kill them. "

## 19

# Think Of Me

Pryor tried to forget that she would have to kill an innocent angel or Quo by focusing on the dance. Even though she wasn't going, it was the perfect distraction. The girls on the team have fashion fever. While all their attention is on shopping and celebrating our first win as a team, I have other things on my mind.

In the past few days the nightmares have been getting worse. I hardly Recharge anymore and it's wearing on me. There's also the matter of finding myself in a place worse than hell every time I close my eyes. That's why I need to speak to East.

I find him a few blocks away from school, doing what he normally does: charming a group of girls. Some of them are angels and some are human. As I walk up to him, the girls are fixed on me. The female angel's wings start to flap uncontrollably. The humans around wonder where the sudden gust of wind is coming from.

"You're Silver," one of the female angels says as she stands up.

"Yeah, hey," I reply, not sure what else to say.

"I'm Mandy," she says.

"Ah...okay. Hey, East, can I talk to you for a sec?" I ask.

"Be right back, ladies," East says as we take off down the street.

"Bye, Silver!" the girl whose name I already forgot yells out.

Once East and I are alone, I address him.

"Hey, can you wipe my mind again?"

"Oh c'mon, Silver, you know it nearly killed you last time," East replies.

"We have to try again," I insist.

"Look, I know that whatever happened to you was really hardcore. But I can't do it anyway."

"You don't know that for sure," I plead.

"Well, I'm not willing to risk your life trying."

"It's my life, East, not yours. _I_ decide if the risk is worth taking," I remind him.

"You're right; it's your life, Silver. But it's my power and I'm not using it on you."

"What are you so afraid of?" I bark at him impatiently.

"For one thing, your father is a high-ranking demon and I really don't want to piss him off by killing his only son. Another thing: I don't want Pryor to go all 'Kill Bill' on me if I accidentally end the life of the guy she—look, aside from everything else, I don't want to hurt my friend," he explains.

Completely frustrated and exhausted, I place my hands behind my neck and let the weight pull my head down. I sigh heavily then lean against the wall of the building behind me.

"Listen, have you tried just talking about it?" East says.

I glare at him. He holds out his hand as if to say, "I surrender."

"Okay, just hear me out," he says.

"Fine," I reply.

"Maybe talking about it will help you move on."

"East, that's easy for you to say. You have the best power in the world. You can make people forget the awful crap that happens to them," I reply.

"Yeah, but the things that happen to me I'm stuck with. Don't you get that? I know how much it sucks to want to remove a memory from your head. I can't Mind wipe myself," he reminds me.

"Oh, and what happened that's so bad that you want to forget it?" I ask sardonically.

"You know what, screw you and your tone. You're not the only one with problems. You don't think I want to erase most of the stuff that goes on in my family?" he asks.

"I know you and your sister don't get along, but—"

"My sister? You think she's my biggest problem? I have a father who doesn't hate me or love me because he doesn't even _see_ me," East snaps.

"I know things aren't that great at home," I reply.

"It's gotten worse. It's like I did something to him that I don't know about. And whatever I did, it's something he will make me pay for until the end of time."

"C'mon, man. You didn't do anything. Your dad's an asshole, plain and simple."

"Your dad wasn't. Every training session, and every parent teacher conference, he attended. And when it was held in the light and we weren't allowed to come, he'd wait at the Pathway for you. He cares about you. We care about you."

"I'm just trying to deal with this, okay?" I reply.

"No, you're not trying to deal. You're trying to forget. There's a difference. Talk about it to someone."

"I DON'T NEED TO TELL ANYONE WHAT HAPPENED!" I shout.

"No, but maybe we need to hear it," he counters.

"Forget I came to you," I say as I start to walk away.

"Silver!" East shouts.

I turn and look back at him. He speaks in a pained voice.

"Everyone's broken; some are just better at hiding the cracks..."

An hour later, after getting back to the house, I hear someone knock on my door. I run to open it, hoping East changed his mind and he was going to help me. However, the being behind the door isn't East; it's Pryor.

"Can I come in?" she asks.

"Yeah, sure," I reply as I step out of the way and let her enter.

"I'm frustrated and lost," she admits right off.

"I know Sam being gone hurts—"

"That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about you. Aaden, you really helped me in Ireland. And I want to help you in return, but it's impossible when you're not showing me the whole picture," she says, unable to hide the strain in her voice.

"You don't have to help me in return. I didn't do it so that you could repay me," I tell her.

"I know you didn't, but I still want to—never mind. I know you have your reasons and they might be good ones but at the end of the day...it just puts a lot of space between us. Is that what you want?" she asks, sounding hurt.

"No, it's not what I want."

"Then what do you want?" she asks.

_You. Always. You._

"I'm not sure how to answer that," I say out loud.

"Ruin knows more about your life than I do. I guess it's different because she used to be your girl and I'm just your friend, but still...it's really hard."

"I'm not trying to make it hard, I swear.."

"Yeah, okay," she says simply as she looks out the window.

She's disappointed; I can tell by the way she avoids my eyes. I want to take her in my arms and tell her everything that's happened.

_Then tell her, you idiot._

No, I can't. It's better for her if she doesn't know about the The Center and what they did to me.

_Bullshit, Aaden. You don't want to tell her about what they did to you because then you'd have to tell her what you had to do to make them stop. You'd have to admit what you gave up so you could be free again. And once she knows, she'll never look at you the same way again..._

"You deserve all the pieces, Pry, you really do," I reply lamely.

She doesn't reply. That's her way of saying it's not enough. She needs information and she's tired of the excuses. I'd feel the same way if I were her.

"I didn't kill the humans," I confess for the first time.

"Of course you didn't. But what happened that night?" she asks, now facing me.

"You have to promise not to tell anyone. Promise."

"I would never betray your confidence, you know that.."

"Yeah, I do," I reply, looking into her warm eyes.

"So...what happened?"

"It was a little over a year ago and I had just gotten in this stupid argument with my dad. He was worried because I was skipping school and shit. But I didn't care about any of it. I had just learned how my mom died. I always thought it was on a mission but I didn't know it had to do with the Paras. Anyway, I was angry at...everyone. So I tried my best to be a pain in the ass and I was good at it.

"I would go to bars, drink, and try to find a way to stop missing her. I mean I never even met my mom so how is it I missed her so much? I found a little relief in drinking Coy, so I did. That's what I was doing that night, sitting at this bar drinking Coy. I had finally had enough and left out the back exit. That's when I heard something in the alley.

"I went to see what was happing, thinking it was just some drunken humans getting into a fight over something stupid. I was wrong, they weren't arguing over a thing, they were arguing over a person. Some girl lay on the ground, passed out. I couldn't make out her face; it was too dark.

"One guy was on top of her with his pants down and the others were arguing over who'd get to be on top of her next. I ran over and threw the guy off of her. They all came at me. I broke a few arms and threw some punches; nothing permanent.

"Then I went to tend to the girl. I used the light from my cell to inspect her face and make sure those bastards hadn't hit her. That's when I realized I knew her. I shook her over and over again. I was confused because she was an angel yet she had no wings. "After a few moments she started to wake up. She was so out of it, it took her a while to realize it was me.

"It turns out she was taking this new drug that hit the market called Wednesday. It's more powerful than other drugs. So powerful in fact, it takes away your powers and your wings as a temporary side effect. She asked me what happened and I told her.

"Did they do anything to me." she asked.

"I didn't need to answer the question. She looked down at the stain on her skirt and knew the answer. The crazy thing is, had she not taken the drug, her body would have defended itself. Entering inside her could have killed the human since her soul is powerful. But the drug weakened her system and made it just as fragile as a human's body. Once she understood what took place, she lost it. She killed the humans so fast; there was no stopping her.

"Then we saw the Paras flying overhead. We knew that no matter how wrong the humans had been, she'd be the one they'd punish. So I told her to go and I would take care of it. She wanted to stay and face the Paras, but I said 'no.' She had already been through so much; I didn't think it was fair she get in trouble on top of that. Besides, if the Paras knew, soon everyone would too. And she'd already been violated enough. So, she reluctantly flew away and then Paras came..."

"Aaden..." Pryor says as she studies my face.

"Don't give me that look," I reply.

"What look?" she asks.

"The one that says you're proud of me."

"Why not? I am."

"I had to take the blame. The truth is if I had passed on the few glasses of Coy, I would have been in the alley sooner and I could have stopped it. Better yet, if I wasn't so wrapped in my own crap, I could have seen what was going on with her and helped her. She was my friend. I should have seen it."

"You can't always tell. Who is this girl? Some angel you see in passing, I bet. How were you supposed to know?" Pryor asks.

"She's not someone I see in passing."

"How well do you know this girl?" Pryor inquires.

"Well..."

"Aaden—"

"Please don't ask me who she is. It's not fair to her that others find out," I beg.

"I'm not going to judge her."

"I know, but I promised her, Pry."

"Okay, fine, but you have to tell the Paras what really happened. Even if you don't say who it is you were protecting."

"They won't believe me."

"Aaden, you can't keep taking the blame for something you didn't do."

"It's done and over with, okay?"

"No, it's not okay. Everyone in the Angel world thinks that you're a killer," she reminds me.

"I don't care what they think."

"This is crazy! You have to tell them the truth."

"No, I don't. The fact is if I weren't half demon, they wouldn't have jumped to the conclusions they did. Being part demon is not a crime, and I'm tired of having to defend myself. It's bullshit."

"Fine, you won't defend yourself, then I will," she says as she heads for the door.

I take off after her and block her exit.

"Where are you going?" I ask.

"I'm gonna tell the Paras they are wrong about you."

"You can't do that," I tell her.

"Why the hell not?"

"They won't believe you. And if by chance they do, then they will go after the girl and I won't let that happen."

"Protecting this girl's name shouldn't mean sacrificing yours," she pleads.

"I told you, I don't give a damn about what they think of me," I snap.

"Well I do. They can't do this to you. I'm going to make things right, so get out of my way," she demands.

I move aside; she places her hand on the doorknob and opens it.

"Pry, you said you were missing pieces. So I gave you a piece of me. Please don't betray that. I have no one else to give myself to."

She sighs heavily, slowly closes the door and turns to face me.

"Thank you," I say.

She nods slightly and leans back against the door. I can see in her eyes just how concerned she is about me. It matters to her that I've been wrongly accused. She believed I was innocent even before I told her the whole story. Her misplaced faith in me makes me love her even more than I did before.

Love?

_Yeah, I love this girl. And even though a few moments after doing what I'm about to do, I'll be in agony, I'm going to do it anyway. She's worth it._

"I lied before, when I said I didn't know what I wanted. I know exactly what I want. I just don't know if it's what you—fuck it," I say as I lean forward to kiss her.

She pulls away. I step back, fearing I have misjudged the entire situation.

_Shit!_

"I'm sorry, I thought..." I begin.

_Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!_

"I really thought that you wanted to..."

_Argh!_

I turn away from her and mentally bang my head against the wall for being so damn stupid.

"I do want to kiss you. I'm just not sure how," she says hesitantly.

I turn to her and watch as silver angel blood gathers on her cheeks. She's blushing.

"Pryor, am I your first kiss?" I ask carefully.

She bites her lower lip, looks off to the side and shrugs.

"Oh," is all I can think to say.

"This is so embarrassing. I better go," she says as she lowers her head and goes for the door.

"No, wait."

She stops and turns back towards me, but her head is still down. I lean in and whisper softly in her ear.

"When you're kissing the right person, there's no way to do it wrong."

She looks at me. She's so damn beautiful.

"You don't have to if you're not ready," I assure her.

"I'm ready. What do I do?" she asks.

"Whatever you want."

She gets up on her toes so that we are close in height. She leans in and places her lips on mine. Making contact with any part of her body excites me to the point of complete delirium. I know in a few moments I will suffer unbelievable pain for kissing her, but I don't care.

Having our lips pressed against each other sends thousand-watt lightning-like surges of pleasure over my body. I feel the same things I did when I dove off my first mountain: carefree, blissful, and filled with wonder.

Yet for all the emotions that are zipping through me, we really are just pressing our lips together. Never has doing so little made me feel so much. If I died having only pressed my lips against hers, I'd consider it a good death.

But Pryor has never been one to settle. The same furious fire that rages within her when she is in battle shows itself here. She wants more. She parts her lips and seeks to explore my mouth by her tongue. Her touch is so enthralling it ignites my powers. The flames dance wildly in the palm of my hand causing her to have to pull away.

"My powers have never done that before," I confess, already craving more of her touch.

"Mine too," she says, signaling for me to look across the room at the windowsill.

All the plants in the room are dead.

"You killed the plants?" I ask.

"Yeah, I guess I had my palm out," she says with a nervous laugh.

I join her and then take her hand in mine. Strange, but I feel the same surge I felt kissing her even though it's just hand holding.

"Um...maybe we should stop here," she says.

"You're right. For the sake of plants everywhere," I reply.

She grins brightly and we interlock both of our hands together.

"So...was your first kiss okay?" I ask.

"Better that I ever thought kissing you could be."

"You've thought about us being together like this?"

"Only every minute of every day," she says, pretending to be casual.

I smile despite myself.

"Listen, I have to go," she says.

"Oh, yeah. Sure," I reply as I reluctantly let go of her hand.

She opens the door but then turns back to look at me.

"I know the dance is lame, but it's for a good cause. Do you want to go with me?" she says.

"Hell yeah."

As she closes the door behind her, she flashes me a smile. Then I have a thought that makes me damn near lightheaded.

_Pryor Cane may love me too..._

The agony that came after I kissed Pryor came later than I thought it would. But when it showed up, it made up for its lateness with its sheer strength. The cracks on my chest had moved another six inches. I was suffering so much on the floor of my room, my body shut down and I passed out for several hours.

When I wake up, I'm bruised all over. I take a long scalding hot shower. And even as I inspect the scars on my chest, I know I would take the punishment that comes with kissing Pryor all over again. This was the best day of my life by far.

My good mood is shaken when I step out of the shower and remember I have nothing to wear for this stupid dance. Normally I would never agree to that but really I don't care where we go. I don't even care that I could be in the same pain later since we'll probably kiss again.

I get to kiss her again...

_Thank you, Omnis._

I text East and he sends me the address of a shop he goes to. I warn him it better not have suits and crap. He promises I'll find something I like. I head outside and make my way towards the store.

Once inside the store, I'm sorry to say they did have a bunch of ties and junk. But they also have a few things that aren't stupid. As I sort through the shirts on the rack, a woman in her late sixties with a kind expression and a black fedora, comes by me and proceeds to look as well.

"I think this would be a nice color for you," she says, holding up a royal blue shirt.

"Oh, I'll try it. Thanks," I reply, although I have no intention on buying what she picked out.

"I'm actually not sure what I'm looking for," I admit.

"I know what you're looking for: a reminder," she says.

"A what?"

"When human children have something they need to remember, a red string is placed on the tip of their finger. Silver, think of me as your red string," she says.

She continues to sort through the racks. Every time she blinks, the item she looks at changes color. It appears she can manipulate objects with her mind. I stare at the Quo woman and demand to know who sent her.

"I'm here because The Center felt they needed to remind you to stay away from the First Noru," she says.

A wave of terror passes through me. My hands start to shake and standing becomes a task I will not be able to perform for long. Despite that, I keep my voice calm and controlled. I refuse to let the twisted witch know how much her presence affects me.

"I didn't do anything wrong," I tell her.

"I think we both know that's not true."

"Pryor and I aren't together. We're just on the same team, that's all," I insist.

"Well, we'll see won't we? The moment the carving on your chest reaches just above where a human heart would be..."

"Yeah, I know: if it gets that far, I go back to The Center," I spit venomously.

"We feel that going back may have lost its sting, Mr. Case. So, together with the Paras, we have been forced to add an incentive to ensure you behave."

"What the hell do you mean?" I demand.

"I mean if you allow the marking on your chest to reach the final point, we'll not only take you to The Center, we'll take Pryor too."

## III

# Book III

### Pryor Reese Caine

## 20

# Beyond Reason

"Pryor Reese Cane, get your ass back here and give us details!" Swoop demands.

She hurls a pillow at me as I run out of her bedroom. I laugh as the twins chase me down the hallway of the house.

"You better tell us!" Key demands as she latches on to me.

I try to get away, but Swoop twirls and flips in the air and lands right in front of me, blocking the entrance to my room.

"Okay, okay," I reply.

"Start at the top," Key instructs.

I tell them about the best thing that's ever happened to me: The moment Aaden and I kissed. It happened a few hours ago, yet I can still feel his perfect lips on mine. I tell the twins everything. Well, almost everything. I skip the part about Wednesday and the girl. I don't want to betray Aaden's trust.

I've gone over the story Aaden told me a million times since I was with him. I wonder who the girl is and why she hasn't come forward. I know it must be hard for her, but I could never let someone take the blame for me.

"Pryor, don't you dare zone out on us!" Swoop warns me.

"Was the kiss short and passionate or slow and lingering?" Swoop asks.

"It was slow and lingering," I admit, unable to stop smiling.

"Were your eyes closed or open?" Key says.

"Closed."

They cheer and jump up and down like crazy human kids on a sugar high.

"Hey, hey, keep it down. Some of us are busy cheating on our history papers thanks to Wikipedia," East says as he enters the living room.

"Pryor and Aaden kissed!" Swoop says.

"What?" someone asks behind us.

We turn and find Bex standing at the entrance.

"Pryor and Aaden have a thing going," Key says gleefully.

"You think that's wise?" he asks.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"He's your second in command," Bex replies.

"Yeah, Bex, I know who he is," I counter.

"What's the problem? You and I date and we're on the same team," Key adds.

"Okay, whatever. I gotta go do some stuff," Bex says as he heads out the door.

"You just got back," Key calls out.

"I know. I just forgot to run an errand. Be back soon."

He reaches over and kisses her fervently, then leaves the house.

"So this thing with you and Aaden, how serious is it? And will there be a horde of girls that are heartbroken by the news? If so, I think I could help," East offers.

"It's super serious. She got him to agree to come to the dance tonight." Swoop beams.

"Wow, that is serious," East replies.

"Wait you guys, let's not jump to any conclusions. We kissed and it was nice. And now...we'll see what happens," I say in my very best "grown-up" voice.

"He's going to give you his Rah!" Key says.

"What? No, we're not even there yet. We just started," I remind them.

They don't pay any attention to me. Instead they go off into my room to raid my closet and figure out how to dress me so that I can entice my soon-to-be boyfriend. I act like I'm cool and collected, but the thought that Aaden and I are about to be a couple thrills me beyond reason.

_Aaden Case and Pryor Cane._

I like it. Who am I kidding; I love it...

The girls are dressed in their designer best. Key wears a body hugging black velvet minidress with heels and blood red lipstick. Swoop wears a brown pleated leather miniskirt with a patterned tank top. She accents the look with silver bracelets and chocolate boots. I have on an olive green spaghetti strap A-line dress that flares out at the bottom. It complements my hair perfectly.

East, Bex, and Randy have been ready for an hour now. They threaten us with bodily harm if we don't finish getting ready and come downstairs. I texted Aaden and he said he'd meet me at the dance. I was kind of disappointed at first because I wanted to make an entrance with him. But now I'm over it. All that matters is that tonight, we'll be together.

I had time to brief Randy on the kiss and he wants to have a heart-to-heart with Aaden. That way he can threaten his life if he hurts me. I love how sweet and crazy my best friend can be.

"Okay, you ladies have five seconds or I'm coming up there!" Bex warns.

"We're coming, we're coming!" Swoop says.

We rush down the stairs and the guys look us over. I can tell by the way Bex is looking at Key, he approves of her outfit. In fact all the guys are happy with our choices.

_I really wish Aaden were here. Oh well, he can see it at the dance. And then maybe he can see something else..._

I recall my earlier conversation with the girls.

_"Do not go too fast. Guys like to chase. Make him work for it. Don't just spread your...wings for him," Key cautions._

_"She's righ,t but maybe show him a boob," Swoop offers._

_"I would never do anything like that," I replied._

_The twins look at me in total disbelief, and then we all start laughing like lunatics._

We hear the music long before we pull up to the school. The beat penetrates the night air and surrounds us. The turnout is far more than what I thought it would be. But then again, I've never gone to these things before. Everyone is dressed in trendy designer outfits and the latest hairstyles. The crowd is high energy and in full party mode.

We enter the dance and are taken aback by the length the decorating committee went to make over the gym. There are red and white balloons wrapped around every column in intricate patterns. The tables aligned against the walls are covered in white cloth and have a ton of heart-themed treats.

There's a "red carpet" set up on the opposite end of the gym. Students walk down the aisle and when they get to the end, they pose for pictures with a large hand-painted heart cutout with complex designs. The only thing more impressive than the decorations is the dazzling light display.

"Randy, the lights are gorgeous!" I tell him.

He beams back at me. Then Swoop tells us she has to go and that she'll be back in an hour or so. We look at her curiously and watch as she heads to the DJ table. I guess the school already knows how good she is because the moment she gets to the table they start to cheer loudly.

I have never seen anyone more in their element than Swoop standing over a turntable. Key would bond with her dad over cars, but for Swoop it was always music that helped her and Uncle Jay get close.

"I'm gonna go call Aaden, see how long before he gets here," I yell at Randy over the music.

He points towards the window at the figure getting off the motorcycle. I don't have a heart but if I did, I swear it would skip a beat. I wave to him excitedly. I don't think he sees me.

"Be right back," I tell Randy as I race outside.

Aaden stands by his bike looking reluctant to come in. I forget he's never been to a human school before. I smile and go out to get him.

"Okay, I know you're new to the whole 'human social events' thing, but in order to go to a dance you actually have to walk through the building where the dance is being held," I tease as I walk towards him.

As I get closer, I make out the expression on his face: crestfallen and brooding.

He doesn't need to say a word. I can tell by his body language. A language I've studied for years. I speak my revelation out loud.

"You're not coming in, are you?" I ask.

He lowers his head.

"Aaden, if you hate dances that much then we can do something else," I offer.

"It's not about the dance," he replies, finally making eye contact.

"So, what is this about?" I reply.

"I shouldn't have kissed you."

I can't bring myself to speak. So I just nod slowly while my stomach ties itself into a thousand knots.

"I mean it was probably a bad idea for us to kiss," he says.

I don't reply. Still can't find words to string together and form any kind of coherent sentence. I'd like to flee and be as far from this place as I can, but my knees are so weak I can hardly stand, let alone run.

Even if I could run, I would not. I'm the First Noru. I'm a leader, not a character in a young adult romance novel. I'm the child of Death and the First Guardian. I will not run off and cry; hell no.

I have to take in what Aaden is saying the same way I had to take in Harm's bone-breaking blows. And yes, standing here is far more difficult than fighting a Kaster, but I will be damned if I run away.

"So this is as far as it goes for you and me?" I ask calmly.

"Yes."

"Okay," I reply as I start to walk back into the school.

"Pryor, wait," he calls out.

I stop walking and turn to face him. I remain composed even though it feels like my insides are being pureed. And the lump in my throat has expanded to the size of a tennis ball.

"I want to explain why I think you and I would be a bad idea. Our parents were involved with angels on the same team and it got really complicated," he says.

"Okay," I reply simply as I head back inside.

"Pry, I'm sorry."

"No worries," I say without turning back.

I disappear behind the school walls. I stand far enough away that he can't see me. But close enough to watch as he gets on his motorcycle and rides away. He doesn't look back. Given everything that's happened, for some reason that's what hurts the most: he never looked back...

_Pryor Reese Cane, you can't lean on the lockers forever. You have to go back in to the gym and move on with your life. So what if he doesn't want you. It was just a kiss. It wasn't even that good. Okay, it was amazing, but so what?_

_Don't let him ruin your night. Just go in there and dance. The world is not over because the guy you're in love with regrets kissing you. Everywhere all over the world girls wake up to realize the guy they want is a jerkoff. If all of them stood in this hallway like you, what would happen then?_

_What is the big deal about Aaden anyway? He's just some angel with bad issues and a good body. You can find that anywhere. And you don't like "dark and complicated" and that's all Aaden is—a big bag of complications. Screw him. Seriously. Screw. Him._

I want to be the girl that can shake this kind of thing off like it doesn't matter. But I don't know how to be that girl. How do I pick up the pieces of my heart like it was no big deal that he hurled it on the floor? How do I go on with the rest of my life when I can't even get myself to walk back into the damn gym?

What happened? What did I do wrong? Was it something I said or did? Where did I mess up? Did he kiss me just because he had never done it before or did it actually mean something to him? How could he be so taken with me one minute and the next, want me out of his life? What the hell happened? Why would he do this to me? Is it because I don't have a lot of experience?

Stop it, Pry! Stop asking questions that you will never get the answers to. The fact is he doesn't want you and the reasons are unimportant. So stop turning the situation over in your head in a million ways. No matter which way you look at it, Aaden is strong and willful. If he wanted to fight to be with you, he would. That "things get complicated" bullshit is just an excuse.

Do not spend another minute thinking about him. He's not worth it. There's a lot going on and the last thing you need is to be with someone who is too weak to deal with a real angel. Just leave him alone. Let him go have acrobatic monkey sex with his legions of fangirls. Who gives a fuck?

_I do..._

I sink down to the glossy waxed hallway floor, place my knees up to my chest and lower my head. The only thing I have going for me is that I am not crying. It's a small victory, but it's the only thing I can hold on to.

"Pry?" someone calls.

I look up and Bex is walking towards me. I quickly stand up and pull myself together. Concern spreads over his face when he gets a good look at me.

"Hey, are you and Key having a good time?" I ask, trying to sound light and carefree.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"Nothing."

"Where's Silver?"

"I don't know. He came by and then took off," I reply, hoping to Omnis he doesn't ask me to explain further.

"I thought you two were..."

"He said it could get complicated with us being on the same team and everything..."

"That guy is unbelievable!" Bex snaps.

"It's fine, really. I'm good with it," I reply.

_Please, please let the subject drop._

"He's such a selfish bastard. I should've broken his damn neck. He comes back here after being gone with no explanation. He's an arrogant self-serving son of—"

"Bex, please. I can't do this right now, okay?" I snap.

"Sorry, I just think you should be with someone who knows how special you are. Someone who would fight the whole damn world if it meant being able to spend an extra minute with you," he rages.

I look at him, surprised by his heated reaction. Judging from the expression on his face, he's taken aback by it too.

"Sorry, I just...I think you deserve better," he says, gaining his composure back.

Our eyes lock. He's about to say something, but then we hear a voice call out from around the corner.

"Bex, where are you?" Key asks.

"I should go," he says.

I nod in agreement and he starts to walk towards the sound of Key's voice.

"Bex?" I call out before he turns the corner.

He turns and looks back at me.

"About the pendant you gave me..." I begin.

"Yeah, what about it?"

_Does the pendant mean you have feelings for me? If so, how long have you had them? Why didn't you ever say anything? And if you do have feelings for me, what does that mean for you and Key?_

"Pryor, what about the pendant?" he asks.

"I just wanted to say...thank you. It's really beautiful."

He smiles back at me but there's sadness in his eyes. Before I can say anything, he disappears down the hallway to find his girl.

I take the compact out of my purse and study my face in the circular mirror. The girl who looks back at me feels like a stranger. She's sadder than I've ever seen her. Yet she's strong; strong enough to avenge her brother.

"That's gotta count for something, right?" I ask myself in the mirror out loud.

I shake my head, feeling very much like a pathetic loser. I then place my compact away and head towards the back exit. It's time to give up on this dance.

I'm walking down the steps that look out onto the football field, when I hear Randy call out for me to wait for him. I turn and find him running towards me.

"Where you going?" he asks.

"Home."

"Bex said you needed to talk, what's up?"

I tell him what happened tonight.

"You want me to beat him up? I could you know. I've been taking this new limeade flavored sports shake. Man, I'm a freaking beast!" he says proudly.

I smile despite myself, but it quickly turns into a frown. Randy pulls me close and hugs me. It's only then that I realize just how much I needed that. We just stand there for several minutes holding each other. Then we sit on the steps and look out onto the football field.

"How could I be so stupid? Aaden is the guy with a thousand secrets. How could I think for one second I could trust him?" I ask.

"It's not your fault. Girls fall for guys like that all the time," he says.

"I thought he liked me. I mean when we kissed I felt something I haven't felt since my mom and dad were on earth. I felt safe. Then he comes over here and...why did he do this to me? Why did he make me think he cared about me when he doesn't? Seriously, what was there to gain?"

"I think he's scared because you happen to be one hot, badass chick. He's just not ready to deal with you," Randy suggests.

"Seriously, Randy, no bullshit. Is there something wrong with me?"

"Pryor, you put your life on the line for the ones you love. You're a hero."

"No, Randy, I'm not," I counter.

"You are to me."

"Having powers doesn't really make you a hero, Randy."

"You were my hero even before I knew who you really were. Every day you rescue me from complete and utter loneliness. You go to comic conventions just because you know I hate going alone. You let me pretend my mom is actually coming back even though we both know she's not."

"Randy..."

"It's okay. I kept waiting for her to return so I could be part of a family. But I have you and my dad, so I'm already part of a family."

I place my head on his shoulder while my heart continues to break. Being with Randy doesn't stop the hurt but at least I'm not facing it alone.

"Hey, I just had a thought: What if the Blue Rose woman was a demon. And it turns out that Aaden is actually the Blue Rose descendant? That way you could kill him and it would fall under 'official Noru business'!" He laughs at the thought and I join in.

# Epilogue

It's Saturday morning and I know staying in the house with Aaden will drive me nuts. So I try to get dressed as quickly as I can to avoid seeing him. Yet when I walk into the kitchen, I can't help but peek around the corner towards the direction of his room to try and catch a glimpse of him.

_Oh my Omnis, I'm so pathetic, someone please shoot me already._

"He's gone," East says.

"What? Who?" I ask innocently as I walk back to the table and sip one of Sam's flavored mixture drinks.

"Silver," East replies.

"Oh, I wasn't looking for...I mean—where did he go?" I ask.

"I don't know. He told me to tell you that if it has to do with team business, contact him and he'd come, but other than that...he'd be off doing his own thing."

"Well as long as he's here for the team, it's whatever," I reply, feeling anger surge within me.

I rush out of the house only to have Key race after me and hand me a small package. She says it came from The Face and that it was delivered while I was still Recharging. I thank her and take off. I'm too pissed at Aaden to stay in the house. I head straight for Randy's apartment.

"Can you believe him?" I shout.

"Pryor, you're going to make a hole in the floor and that makes it kind of hard to get our security deposit back," Randy says.

"Argh, how dare he. So what, I'm not allowed to talk to him unless it's about Noru business? Argh, that smug son of a bitch!"

"Maybe he just doesn't want it to be awkward for you two," Randy suggests.

"No, he's rubbing it in my face. Who does he think he is? Better yet, who does he think _I_ am? Does he think I would stalk him like some common fangirl groupie? Argh! The nerve of him!" I roar.

That's when I hear a snap-like sound. I look down and realize I had taken Randy's bat when I was ranting. And now it's in two pieces in my hand.

"Sorry," I reply as I place the wooden bat on the floor.

"It's okay, but maybe you should take a seat and meditate or something," Randy suggests.

I fall back onto his bed with a great big sigh. Then something falls out of my pocket. Randy picks it up.

"What's this?" he asks.

"I don't know. The Face sent it to me this morning," I reply as I open the ring-sized box.

I pull out a sealed, small vial filled with dark blue liquid.

"What is it?" Randy asks.

"It's called a Kurrent. It's a mixture that creates a 3-D image of the being that purchased it and replays a message from them."

"Wow, angel voicemail. Cool."

"It is also programmed to know who it's speaking to."

"Who is the message from?"

"According to this note from The Face, my mom."

"So, open the vial," he pushes.

"Seeing my mom and knowing it's not really her..."

"Pry, it's a message your mom wanted you to hear. I'll stay with you if it helps," he offers.

"I guess I'd have to sooner or later, right?" I say as I pour the mixture onto the floor.

Instantly a 3D version of my mom starts to form. I'd forgotten how pretty she looks. Her warm purple, eyes stare back at me. She walks up to me, takes my hand, and looks into my eyes.

_"Hello, Carrot. I'm making this Kurrent in case something happens to us. I was supposed to make the recording with your father but he couldn't bring himself to imagine a world where he wouldn't be there to protect you and Sam. You know us girls are much stronger than the guys. So it's up to us to deal with what cruelties life may bring._

_"There's so much I want to tell you, but it would take an entire lifetime to say it all. I don't know what will happen to cause you to have to play this recording, but whatever happened to us I want you to know that your father and I love you. And we love Sam. And while you may grieve for our absence, you are not allowed to give up. You are our child and you will make it through whatever lies ahead._

_"I know you know how to fight and how to defend yourself. But what your training hasn't prepared you for is this: if you win all the battles that lie ahead yet allow the evil you witness to change you, to make you hard and cynical, you have in fact lost._

_"Sweetheart, no matter what happens, it is imperative to hold on to your kindness, compassion and yes, your humanity. That is what you fight for. That is what you die for. Do not let anyone take away your willingness to love and be loved. That's an order. I'm your mom so you have to listen to me._

_"Do you hear that? That's Sam and your dad shouting for me to hurry up. We're taking Sam to his first official day of flight training. Your dad could hardly Recharge last night, he was so excited. I better go._

_"Just remember three things: You are loved. Protect your humanity. And your team is your family so protect them like you would Sam. Oh and one last thing: Aaden's fighting a lot of demons right now. The kind you and I can't see. He's very much like your dad was when I first met him: he will require... patience._

_"Okay, I'm coming! I have to go, but remember: You. Are. Loved."_

The mixture reverts back to its original liquid form and leaps back into the vial. I turn away from Randy and look out the window.

"I'm sorry, Pry. Maybe it was a bad idea to listen to the recording after all," Randy says.

"No, it wasn't. I just didn't think I'd hear Sam's voice in the background. It threw me."

He comes over and gently rubs my back. I try to smile back but don't quite make it.

"I wish you could have heard your dad too."

"Actually I do hear my dad," I reply.

"What do you mean?"

"I hear him in my head saying, "Pryor, even angels need reminding."

"I don't get it."

"Whenever they were on missions, my dad made sure that if at all possible the team got a chance to have fun and blow off some steam. He'd say even angels need to be reminded of the grace of Omnis. And you know what? I know just how to do that. Let's go!"

Before Randy and I take off, I text the team and tell them the plan. Everyone responds and agrees to come along. Well, everyone but Aaden. Our plans aren't "team business" so I guess he won't be coming.

We arrive in Paradise Plitvice Lake, near Southeast Europe. Here, Omnis placed the most beautiful waterfall in the human world. Over a dozen rivers converge and cascade down throughout the picturesque terrain. The clear turquoise waters, lush planet life, and vast mountain range always leave me in awe.

"This is incredible," Randy says as he looks around.

"Yeah, Sam and I used to vacation here with my parents," I reply.

"Death takes vacations?"

"So do Time and Fate. Just never at the same time. My mom gets the summer months because it coincides with our school vacations."

Bex, East, and Swoop fly past us and head for the highest peak they can find. They quickly strip down to their swimwear and get ready.

"What are they doing?" Randy asks.

"Another reason to come here is because the mountains are just high enough for the team to Soul Dive."

"What's that? I wanna do it too," he says.

"No Randy, you don't," Key warns.

"How do you know, Key? I might have an adventurous side. A dangerous side," he says, trying way too hard to impress her.

"Randy, Soul Diving is a game where two angels leap off the tallest mountaintop at the same time without using their wings. Whoever opens up their wings first, loses. It's what the humans would call a game of chicken," I explain.

"Oh, that doesn't sound too bad," he lies.

"Really?" Key asks.

"Well, what happens if one of them doesn't pull up in time?" he says.

"There are Ports at the base of all the mountains. They take you straight to Difi," I reply.

"What's Difi?" he asks.

"Hell."

"Oh..." he says quietly.

Key and I exchange a look of bemusement. Key comes over to him in her bathing suit and takes his arm in hers.

"I know if you had wings, you'd Soul Dive and not even think twice about it. But since you don't, I thought we'd hit the waterfall in the lower terrain while Bex and the others are diving. What do you say?" Key asks kindly.

I think Randy lost his power of speech in that moment. All he could do was nod and give her a goofy grin. He then rushes and takes his shirt off, leaving only his Star Wars shorts. The two of them jump into the water and cry out excitedly as they splash around and swim. A few mountains over, I watch as the rest of the team Soul Dive and carry on like happy maniacs.

I strip my clothes off and reveal the bathing suit underneath, but I don't go in the water. I sit on top of one of the cliffs and look out at my team. Well, most of my team. Aaden isn't here.

_Aaden isn't here..._

I allow myself to go back to the night we kissed for what I hope will be the last time. I can feel his hand on the side of my face as if it's happening right now. His soft lips felt like summer breezing through my wings. And when I parted his lips with mine, it sent a rush of pleasure to parts of my soul I didn't know existed until that very moment.

It's not just the kiss I miss; it's him. I know it makes me a complete loser for missing a guy who doesn't give a damn about me, but I do. I miss the way his eyes glaze over when The Face is talking. I miss the intensity in his voice and the confidence of his walk.

Most of all, I miss the way he says my name. It always sends a tingle whirling through me and makes me feel like I've had a double shot of Coy. And no matter how many times I've witnessed it, it still amazes me how he can be so aggressive in battle and yet so gentle in his touch.

"Moping is not allowed today!" Randy says behind me.

I look just in time to see him and Key coming for me. They pick me up and scold me for staying out of the water.

"I don't want to swim, I'm fine here," I promise.

"Well, too bad," Randy says.

He signals to Key and the two of them conspire and hurl me off the cliff. I scream in delight all the way down. When I hit the water, I gasp at how cold it is and they all laugh at me. Soon East and the others join us in the water. It's the most fun I've had in awhile.

Things go from entertaining to outright hilarious when the force of the waterfall knocks Randy's shorts off. He's horrified but still laughing as he tries to find his shorts in the water. Swoop and Key make inappropriate and silly comments. The guys join in and I'm laughing so hard my sides hurt.

Finally Randy emerges from the water with his shorts in hand. He says it's not funny as he puts his shorts back on, but we catch him laughing at himself yet again. We point out the stray flower petals, leaves, and seaweed that have latched on to his body.

"Did I get it all?" he asks as he turns his back to us.

"Yeah, man, you're fine," Bex says.

"You still have one behind your thigh," I call out from a few yards away.

"Pryor is just messing with you," Swoop laughs.

"Oh really?" Randy says as he playfully leaps towards me and sends me flying backwards into the water.

We have a "splash" war for a few moments then head out of the water. I then swear to Randy I wasn't messing with him. He doesn't believe me so I make him turn around so I can take it off for him. I bend down and swipe the small stray debris from the back of Randy's thigh.

"Damn, it's stuck," I tell him.

"Oh no, is it some kind of jellyfish? Is it sucking my blood or something?" Randy says, starting to panic.

I get all the way down to the ground so I can take a closer look.

"Pryor, c'mon, tell me! Is it a jellyfish?"

"No," I reply.

"Then what the hell is it, Pry?"

"It's a rose; a blue rose."

~FIN~

Book Name, Series Name Book 2, is available at your favorite retailer.

Learn more on the author's website, or click here to sign up for her mailing list.

* * *

The Noru 2: The Last Akon is available now at your favorite retailer.

Learn more on the author's website, or click here to sign up for her mailing list.

# ELSKER

### Elsker Saga Book 1

**S.T. Bende**

Kristia Tostenson prefers Earl Grey to Grey Goose and book clubs to nightclubs. But when she transfers from her one-stoplight Oregon town to Cardiff University in Wales, she falls in love with Ull Myhr. Her new boyfriend isn't exactly what she was expecting. His cashmere sweaters and old world charm mask a warrior who's spent an eternity fighting for his very existence. Ull is an honest-to-goodness Norse god — an immortal assassin fated to die at Ragnarok, the battle destined to destroy Asgard and Earth. On top of being marked for death, Asgardian law prohibits Ull from tying his fate to a mortal. No matter what she feels for Ull, Kristia knows she's the one thing he can never have.

With Ragnarok on the horizon and a lunatic haunting her dreams, Kristia has to find a way to convince Ull that breaking the rules is the only way to survive; that defying the order he's sworn to uphold is their only chance to be together. And when someone starts asking the wrong questions, Kristia realizes the crazy visions she's had all her life might be the key to saving their realms... even if they end up costing her her life.

# The Prophecy of Ragnarok

With the death of Balder, the powers of darkness will burst from their tethers. Jotunheim shall crack open; a terrible frost shall suffocate all things good. The great beast will attack, the wicked ship sail, and the light of Asgard will dim evermore. Fire shall consume the earth and Darkness shall swallow the sky. No one, God or Mortal, can survive the travesty of Ragnarok.

_—Prophecy of The Norns_

# Chapter 1

_I moved faster than a salmon down a chute in bear season. It was my only option. If the giant wolf biting at my heels didn't kill me, then the tree-trunk of a snake twining between my feet was going to finish the job. I pumped my legs harder, exerting every modicum of strength I had left, and in the process, I stepped on the snake's head. It hissed, a guttural reverberation bouncing around the darkness. I pushed harder. My chest burned, but I'd managed to put a little space between my attackers and me. The wolf growled angrily, but I didn't look back. I couldn't spare the movement._

_Since it was pitch black, I couldn't see what I was running towards, and I certainly didn't see the fissures beginning to form in the dirt beneath my Nikes. My size six sneaker slid into one and I could hear the crack of my ankle breaking before I hit the damp earth. The chasm was getting bigger and soon my whole leg slipped through. My fingernails clung to the soil as it separated from itself, and I felt the chill creep over the ground as the terrible frost settled like a blanket onto everything it could reach. I started to shake – it would be death by freezing, then. But I knew chilled human wouldn't be the worst thing the wolf and snake had eaten that day_.

"Earth to Kristia! Hello? Are you even listening?" I rubbed my eyes and focused on the frowning face of my best friend since kindergarten. A sprightly brunette, Ardis was everything I wasn't – adventurous, perky, self-confident. And at the moment, highly irritated.

"Sorry." I shook off the remnants of last night's bad dream. Ardis Behrman didn't often grace our hometown of Nehalem, Oregon. Three hundred residents and a solitary stoplight didn't hold much excitement for a girl studying acting at NYU. I treasured any conversation we had that didn't require text or Skype.

"Vision?" She cocked her head.

"Hardly. Just tired. Nightmare last night."

"The weird one about the animals hunting you down?" Ardis wrinkled her nose.

"That's the one." My favorite grandmother's dark stories from the North were never far from my subconscious. I never understood how any woman in her right mind could lovingly recount the end of the mythological Norse world to an eight-year-old girl. Mormor always had a wicked sense of humor, so I liked to think her intentions were good. Or maybe she suffered from a touch of the crazy. The fact that, at eighteen, I still had vivid nightmares about Ragnarok; well, that spoke more about my own sensitivities than anything else. They were just stories.

"That dream's just creepy, Kristia."

"Tell me about it."

"So." Ardis rested her hands on the table. The metallic blue sparkles on her nails caught the light of the coffee shop where we'd had countless heart-to-hearts. "What's new in Nehalem?"

I stopped just short of rolling my eyes. "Good one Ardis." Nothing changed around here but the weather, and even that was freakishly consistent.

"And the University of the Pacific Northwest?"

"You mean High School, Part Deux?"

"C'mon, it can't be that bad."

"You do realize you're the only member of our graduating class who doesn't go there, right? The only one who isn't going to end up married to someone they've known since kindergarten. And spend eternity working in the boring log mill or tourist traps." It would be the latter for me. My parents' antique shop was popular with the summer crowd and I was expected to begin fulltime work when I graduated. Not exactly the stuff of dreams.

"If you're that bored, don't just sit around waiting for something to happen to you – go out and grab it."

"It's not that easy," I mumbled. Ardis was one of those people to whom good things came naturally. She didn't understand that life didn't just fall into place for the rest of us.

I glanced up as our waitress set two steaming mugs on our table with a little too much force. I raised my eyebrows. "Is everything all right today, Susan?" My voice strained with the effort of false nicety. In our twelve years of school together, Susan had always treated me like a social pariah. Clearly nothing had changed since graduation. I may not have been well bred, but I _was_ well raised. I pasted on my best fake smile, though after enduring a lifetime of whispers and stares I had a very low tolerance for rudeness. It was my absolute pet peeve.

I held Susan's glare with my own pleasant look until she scurried back to the kitchen, obviously uncomfortable. Well, I was used to that.

"Sorry, what were you saying? You don't think it's easy to change your life? You only think that because you've never tried." Ardis sipped impatiently at her latte, the unofficial beverage of our rain-drenched town. "Look, Kristia, you're my best friend and I think you rock. But is sitting around Nehalem for the rest of your life really going to make you happy? Really?" Score one, Behrman.

The minute she said it I was transported from the rainy-small-town coffee shop to a dreary house on the edge of Nehalem.

_Rain fell outside the thin windows, and the air was damp with the faint scent of mildew. A cleaning caddy sat at my feet – judging from the smell of the bleach, I must have just scrubbed the toilets – and I sorted laundry while the television droned in the background. When the boredom consumed me, I crossed to a coffee table where I idly fingered my one indulgence in an otherwise uneventful life: my subscription to Travel Magazine. The cover boasted an Irish castle sitting in a brilliant green field of clovers_.

My heart tugged – in my vision I was thirty years old, and I'd never even been on an airplane. I forced myself back to the coffee shop, where Ardis was watching me closely.

"What did you see?"

"Absolutely nothing." I shook my head. I was resolute. My life was not going to turn out that way. It was one vision that could never come true. I drew a breath. I was eighteen years old. Time to choose the path I wanted my life to take. There was a whole world out there – what was keeping me from living in it? From living, period? "I have three years of college left. I'm not spending it here. Not anymore."

"Awesome," Ardis nodded her approval. "So what are you gonna do?"

"I'm..." I was at a loss. I hadn't thought that far ahead. "Well..." Then it came to me. "Got it! UPN has study abroad. The deadline isn't for another two weeks. I'll spend sophomore year somewhere totally different – somewhere people don't know anything about me."

"Bravo." Ardis clapped loudly, to Susan's chagrin. She glared at us from behind the counter. "So where do you want to go?"

I had to think. Now that I'd made the decision to leave the country, where should I go? I thought about the book on my nightstand – a Jane Austen classic. Those ladies seemed to be enjoying themselves, in their own angsty way. They certainly had a good time romping through the English Countryside. There was my answer. Once I'd made up my mind, I pictured something altogether different.

_I was on a big, fancy jet, flying towards Europe. A flight attendant handed me a coke with a lemon wedge, and I stared out the window at the endless, green meadows passing beneath. The businessman to my left read the_ Wall Street Journal, _and the one across the aisle buried his nose in the_ London Times.

Oh, criminy. What had I gotten into now?

"So where are you going?" Like always, Ardis glossed right over my little mind trip. Bless her heart.

"England. No, Wales." A few miles closer to home might make it seem a little less scary. I dropped my head in my hands. Darned hallucinations. I hadn't had one in months, and I'd just had two in as many minutes. It was with no small amount of pleasure that I took the visions back.

The three hundred townsfolk of Nehalem whispered about my "handicap" when they thought I wasn't listening – actually, it was a mental problem. It was generally accepted that I was two trees short of a forest. Thanks to some glitch in my brain, I saw random flashes of the future against my will. I'd been in two minor car accidents, failed four midterm exams, and had to avoid competitive sports entirely, all because I saw stuff at lousy times. This wouldn't have been so much of a disability if I could have seen the winning lotto numbers, or even just the location of the radar-cops who hid along the 101. But to date, my premonitions had yielded zero useful tidbits. I saw the mundane, ranging from my mom doing a load of laundry to Ardis painting her toes fire-engine red. I was the world's most useless psychic.

"Wales it is then." Ardis nodded her head firmly. "Now we just have to make sure you actually get on that plane."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, let me think, Miss Art History major – because that's not the perfect degree to take over the family antique shop or anything." Ardis jabbed me with a sparkly fingernail.

"It just so happens that I like art." I did.

"True or false? You come home every weekend to study instead of staying on campus and actually having a good time."

"I have a good time at home!" My protest fell on deaf ears.

"True or false? You've literally never been more than ninety miles from the spot you were born."

"Well that's just because–"

"Buzz, time's up!" Ardis giggled. "Kristia Homebody Tostenson, you win one personal escort to the airport to make sure you actually do something exciting for once in your life!"

"Fine," I nudged her with my boot. "But you're going to miss me when I'm gone."

"You know it."

Four months and one very bumpy plane ride later, I was seriously questioning this whole big-adventure plan. I was thousands of miles from home, hurtling through the air in a bouncing box. How exactly was this a good idea?

"Fasten your seatbelts, and return your seats and tray tables to their full and upright positions as we begin our descent into London, Heathrow. Weather is a pleasant fifty-five degrees with a light rain." Thank heavens. The turbulent flight was almost over. "Seat up, Miss," tusked the flight attendant, and I adjusted my chair guiltily.

"Sorry Ma'am," I murmured to her retreating back, small-town manners a compulsive response. I leaned over to peer at the approaching countryside. Green pastures dotted with tiny sheep stretched as far as I could see, with farmhouses lining the landscape at sporadic intervals. The green was a stark contrast to the gray of the sky. I was staring down the barrel of a very soggy year.

This suited me just fine. I liked rain. The summer sun did not favor the pale. Besides, cold weather gave me an excuse to sit in my favorite reading chair with my beverage of choice – Earl Grey, one milk, two sugars. As we bounced through the sky, I tried to focus on what kinds of tea they'd have at Cardiff University in Wales, my home for the next nine months. Lots of fancy ones, I was sure. If I survived this flight, I'd get a whole year in Europe and a shot at a fresh start. Nobody knew me at Cardiff – for the first time _ever_ , I wouldn't be Crazy Kristia, the poor, weird girl who saw things. Maybe for once, I could just be another coed. It was my fervent wish to blend into the scenery.

I took a deep breath to soothe my sudden panic as the flight attendants opened the doors and my fellow passengers rose to exit the airplane. The great unknown suddenly seemed very scary.

I stood across the street from the Heathrow bus queue and glanced at the paper in my hand. According to the very detailed notes I'd written back at my desk in Nehalem, I had thirty-three hours until I boarded a train bound for Cardiff via Paddington Station. Thirty-three hours to see the British Museum, Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, and Shakespeare's Globe. To eat bangers and mash, whatever those were. To mind the gap. I jumped back onto the curb as a truck careened past, honking its horn – to avoid getting killed by the traffic driving on the other side of the road.

Oops. My cheeks flushed as I looked down, now seeing the bold letters painted on the street, directing me to LOOK RIGHT. Oh well, at least I wasn't the first tourist to make that mistake. I crossed the street with care and boarded the bus headed into town, practically pressing my nose to the window until the bus stopped three blocks from my hotel.

With thirty-two hours to go, I dropped my one suitcase in the modest hotel room and ran a brush through the tangled mess formerly known as my hair. I tied a charcoal scarf around my neck and raced downstairs into the brisk fall air. Outside, I breathed in the unfamiliar scent of exhaust fumes. It was the first new smell I could remember in a long time, and I fell instantly in love.

The buildings were so tall, the sidewalks so busy. Vendors pushed their carts, and big, black taxicabs paused to pick up passengers. The men had serious faces, and the women were so glamorous, sashaying in their stylish heels, with big handbags swinging at their sides. People rushed past the storefronts without seeing the take-out restaurants, Internet cafes, and coffee shops. The caffeine trade was thriving here, too. This tiny bit of familiarity was comforting.

With thirty-one hours and forty-five minutes to go, I climbed onto the double-decker bus touting FULL CITY TOUR in block letters. My scarf caught on the door, and I tugged until I set it free.

"Welcome, love. Ticket?" the bus driver asked. I fumbled in my purse until my fingers grasped the paper I'd printed out back home. "Excellent. Have a nice one, love." I climbed the spiral staircase to the top of the bus and sat in the open-top. The air was just cool enough that I was glad I'd worn my heavier coat. Although I tried to listen to the tour guide, I was too excited to focus. I was riding on a double-decker bus. In London. This was surreal.

My plan was to ride around the city so I could tell Ardis I'd seen it all, but when we pulled up to the British Museum, the art called to me. I all but ran down the spiral staircase, thanking the driver as I jumped out of the bus. I caught myself just before I fell face first onto the street.

"Cheers, love," called the bemused driver. I dusted myself off and waved over my shoulder.

"Cheers," I muttered amicably as I checked for damage. All limbs intact. No blood. I wasn't always that lucky. I walked as carefully as my excitement allowed and stopped inside the museum. This place held more art and artifacts than I ever could have imagined. Where to begin?

Thankfully, intuition took over. With determined steps, I strode to the Upper Level, taking in the sea of sculptures as I made my way along the corridors. Upstairs, my eye was drawn to something small and silver. It glinted in the overhead lights, a sparkling contrast to the worn pieces surrounding it. Without breaking my stride, I made a ninety-degree turn and walked toward the small case filled with coins and old jewelry. I squinted at the tiny pieces, focusing on each in turn until I came to the simplest one. The silver charm looked like it could have been worn on a necklace. It had the likeness of an eagle in the center, with curving waves making a circle along its borders. The symbol of Odin, Father of the Norse Gods – I recognized it from my grandmother's stories.

I tugged fondly at the silver hammer I wore at my neck – a replica of Mjölnir, the hammer of Odin's son, Thor. It was my most treasured hand-me-down from Mormor. She'd worn it every day and passed it to me when I graduated from high school. Right before she died. Mormor's charm was about the same size as the one in the case, and it was exactly the same shade of silver. The card beside the charm said it was found in Scandinavia and was probably made in the Viking Age.

As I stared at the case, I felt the familiar sensation that needled me day and night back in Nehalem. My gut tugged, confirming my suspicion – I was being watched. If the prickling at the back of my neck hadn't tipped me off to the stranger's presence, the positively massive shadow darkening the case would have done the trick. It only took me a second to pivot on the heel of my favorite black riding boot, but a second was plenty of time for my heart to leap soundly into my throat.

My eye-level hit at his chest where a dark sweater barely concealed the muscles of a well-defined torso. His thumbs rested casually in his pockets, and his arms strained against the sweater. I looked up, and up some more, until I finally reached his face. He stood a whole head above even the tallest visitor in the museum, and I was ashamed to admit, my jaw opened just a little as I took in his features.

A shock of tousled, blond hair rested atop an exquisitely-sculpted face. He had eyes as blue as a cloudless sky, cheekbones as chiseled as pictures I'd seen of the Alps, and lips the pale pink of my grandmother's roses. His jaw was square and strong with a hint of stubble, and his nose looked like it was lifted off a Roman statue. It was more beauty than any one person should have.

Heaven almighty, was this guy for real?

Although Mormor had done her darndest to raise a lady, right then I was entertaining some very unladylike thoughts. I struggled to mind myself, determined to do her proud. She wouldn't have fallen apart at this gooey feeling of familiarity. In my hormone-addled state, I could swear I knew this guy from somewhere.

Yeah, right. If I'd met him before, I would certainly remember it. I could pretty much guarantee that nothing this attractive had ever come through Oregon.

I waited a whole half-minute so I wouldn't be obvious, disproving Ardis' accusation that patience wasn't my strong suit; then I snuck a quick glance. The stranger stared back at me with a look so intense I wondered if he was trying to read my thoughts. Not that I could have formed any right then. I forced myself to inhale. It would be just like me to meet the man of my dreams and pass out cold before he could ask for my number.

He offered a wry smile, so brilliant even in its offhandedness that I had to remind myself to breathe again. The old Kristia, the one Nehalem had written off as the Village Crazy, would have slunk out of the museum before she could embarrass herself in front of such a hunk. But this was the new me – the me who'd moved five thousand miles from home to experience adventure for the first time ever. I was determined to see how far this newfound spirit would take me. I lifted my chin and gave him my most winning smile. What did I have to lose? My hand raised in what I hoped was a casual wave, and I managed to squeak out my greeting. "Hi."

The stranger opened his perfect, pale lips as if he were about to speak, then closed them. His eyes dropped to the hollow of my neck, where my necklace rested calmly despite my violent pulse. I touched the old-fashioned hammer self-consciously, feeling its familiar coolness. His eyes dimmed with sadness, then anger. He glared at my necklace, his gaze terrifying in its ferocity. I took a step back.

_Suddenly, I was in a forest, sprawled across the dusty earth. Pain overwhelmed me, and I had trouble focusing. Two men fought in the distance. One, dark-haired and wiry, waved his hand. Sparks shot from his open palm. They struck the broad–shouldered, blond Adonis standing ten feet away, knocking him to the ground. He stood and shook himself, charging at Sparky. His blond hair was a blur as he leaped on his opponent, fists flying in a frightening display of aggression. He was beating the thinner man senseless; any normal person would be dead by now. But the wiry man just laughed, the crazy sound filling the forest with its cruelty_.

Oh criminy, another vision. My strangest one yet.

When I came to, I eyed the handsome stranger. It was obvious he was the blond from my hallucination. I knew I should be afraid of him, but I just felt confused. If he'd noticed my quirky outtake, it hadn't done anything to lighten his mood. He turned on one designer heel and faced the exit, his body practically shaking with rage.

"I'm sorry, have I done something to offend you?" I probably should have kept quiet, but this whole interaction was beyond weird. Though I was ready with an apology for whatever wrong I'd committed, the stranger just squared his shoulders and stormed down the hallway.

"Whatever," I muttered to his back. If he wanted to be ill-mannered that was fine by me – the last thing I needed was some uncouth, European guy ruining my museum day. Even if he was beyond gorgeous.

I shook my head. Who cared what some half-baked Viking thought of me? I brushed off the feeling of being the last pumpkin left in the patch and deliberately turned for the stairs. I'd never have admitted, even to myself, that I was keeping an eye out for the stranger. I admired the original Magna Carta and snuck a glance at T.S. Elliot's poems to his godchildren – the ones that became the musical _Cats_. I don't know how long I wandered, ogling things I thought I'd only ever see in books, but when my stomach rumbled I knew it was time to go.

With a glance over my shoulder, I stepped back into the brisk London day. The smell of car exhaust snapped me out of my fog. With twenty-eight hours to go, I headed to the busy shop across the way to order my very first fish and chips. I tried not to give the ill-mannered stranger another thought, but he was very hard to forget.

# Chapter 2

_"Kristia," a keening voice **** beckoned. I sat up from my sleep, then whipped my head from side to side to place the voice. I'd appreciated the fact that my hotel room came with blackout shades when I fell asleep. But I felt differently now._

_A long finger crooked at me from the darkness. I couldn't make out the face in the shadows, and I wasn't sure I wanted to._

_"Who are you?" My voice shook, though I was going for a threatening vibe. My acting abilities couldn't have hit the broad side of a barn in full daylight._

_"Kristia," the voice repeated, now from behind me._

_"What do you want?" I jumped out of bed and inched towards the door. Any bravado was totally manufactured._

_"Kristia." Now the voice was in front of the door, and the long finger motioned again. Every instinct I had screamed for me to run, but I was frozen in place. I was trapped in a dark room with a lunatic, and my legs wouldn't move. Fabulous._

_"Leave me alone," I challenged, since running like a shrieking banshee wasn't going to be an option._

_The owner of the finger stepped from the shadows into the only sliver of light in the room. He was unnaturally tall, wiry and pale, with dark hair combed back from a handsome face, and bright eyes that glowed in the dim light. Slightly pointed ears and an angular jaw offset high cheekbones. He had a charmingly roguish look that made me want to jump into his arms at the same time that voice in my head was screaming GET OUT!_

_"Who are you?" I asked again. The man tilted his head._

_"The real question, Kristia, is who are you?" To my dismay, he halved the distance between us. I fought to step back, but my legs were still locked in place._

_"How do you know my name?" And more importantly, how could I get out of this room? My gaze darted between the window and the door. One path led to a three-story fall, the other was blocked by a freakishly-good-looking weirdo._

_"I know all about you." The oddball tilted his head the other way and squinted his glowing eyes until they were slits. "Starting with your little gift." He tapped his head with the same bony finger, and I froze. "Who are you, really? What are you trying to do to my plan?" His voice was a hiss. His eyes glowed brighter, and actual flames shot from their depths._

_Thankfully, I seized control over my petrified legs. As the fire landed at my feet, I hopped back in an inept dance, made all the more awkward by my clumsiness. Flames fanned out and quickly rose to block the man from my view. I heard a maniacal cackle that chilled me to the bone and I closed my eyes in panic. It would be death by fire this time. I wasn't sure I didn't prefer freezing_.

When I opened my eyes again, I was grasping at my bed sheets, my gaze shifting in the darkness until I found my bearings. I was in my hotel room in London, and it was not on fire. There wasn't anyone else in the room. With great effort, I slowed my breathing. I was pretty sure what just happened had been a dream, not one of my visions. My future didn't hold a giant elf-man... did it?

I walked purposefully to the window and ripped open the blackout shades, letting moonlight stream into the room. I didn't get much sleep that night.

The next day, I got off the train at Cardiff Central Railway Station and made the short journey to what would be my home for the next year. I stood on the steps of the Student Houses, holding tight to the handle of my powder blue suitcase as I tried to capture this moment in my memory. A year of adventure stood in front of me – exciting subjects to study, sophisticated students and professors to learn with, and brand new sights to see. Nobody here knew me from Eve. For the first time in my life, my future was a blank page. It was perfect. And beyond scary.

With a deep breath, I stepped across the short cobblestone walkway and into a cheerful courtyard. Lined with silvery-green trees and raised lavender beds, the stone-laid square was anchored by a central fountain. A smiling girl sat at a folding table, distributing keys and welcome packets.

This was it.

"Name?" The friendly-looking redhead asked in a clipped British accent. Her grey Cardiff t-shirt matched the cobblestones.

"Kristia Tostenson." I smiled to cover my nerves. I'd felt a lot braver when this whole trip was just a pipe dream in a coffee shop back home.

"Oh, Kristia! It's so nice to meet you!" She shook my hand before handing me a packet from the stack on her table. "I'm Emma, we're going to be flatmates." She grinned as she reached for another stack and handed over a manila envelope. From the jingling sound, I guessed my keys were inside. "Go ahead and let yourself in – we're on the first floor, just over there," she pointed. "Victoria's already home. I'll be there once everybody's checked in."

"Okay. See you inside." I shifted the envelope to my other hand, glad to have met a friendly face already. _Please don't have a vision and ruin this. Please, please, please._ My handicap could ruin my first day faster than Ardis' granny could shoot a squirrel off a fencepost. I just wanted to fit in for once.

"We were thinking of going for curries tonight," Emma called as I headed towards the flat. "Do you want to come?"

"Um, yes. That sounds great. Thanks." I fumbled with the envelope as I pulled my suitcase across the courtyard to Unit 4. My hand gripped the knob on the burgundy door – it was a pretty contrast to the dark gray of the stone façade. I walked into the small living area where a couch, dining table, and four chairs sat opposite an armoire holding a television. Two reading chairs framed a small table with a short lamp. The kitchen was off the living room, and I could see three small bedrooms and a shared bath branching off from the tiny hallway. It was small, but it was clean and comfortable.

A tall girl wearing tight fitting jeans and a stylish top came out of the bathroom, towel-drying short chestnut hair. "Oh hello," she said in a clipped British accent, more upper crust than Emma's comfortable tenor. "I'm Victoria."

"I'm Kristia." I smiled shyly.

"Oh right, the American." She nodded, motioning for me to follow her down the hall. "This room is left, it has a nice flowerbox outside the window." Pointing across the hall, she said, "I'm in there, and Emma's taken that one."

I looked into the empty room. It looked identical to the other two without the clothes and makeup. I stepped through the door, tugging my suitcase with me. The room was simple. The twin bed hugged the wall to my right, opposite an armoire that would be both dresser and closet. The desk and chair were basic.

A box outside the window held purple posies. That could be a problem – I had what Ardis affectionately called a black thumb. Poor posies.

I didn't have much to unpack, and I quickly took to task. The framed photo of Ardis and me at the Oregon Coast took the place of honor on the desk. Victoria was still drying her hair, so I grabbed the Mythology course book I'd purchased in advance and headed to the living room.

I was well into the stories of the Norse myths that Mormor told me as a child when Emma came through the door laughing. She seemed like a happy person. Victoria was harder to read, but I had hopes for her.

"Let me just pop in the shower, and we can go," Emma called over her shoulder, shedding articles of clothing on her way to the bathroom. Victoria poked her head out of her room.

"Are you ready for dinner?" She asked me. I glanced at her skinny jeans and beaded tank top, reading behind her words.

"Uh, almost. I just have to change my... um, my shirt," I guessed, jumping up so quickly I dropped my book on my toe. Dagnabbit, that stung. By the time I made it to my room, Victoria was spraying perfume on her wrists. I sensed my clothing selection would be widely different from hers. If her current outfit was any indication, Victoria was very trendy. My wardrobe was classic but functional. Slim jeans and slacks, fitted sweaters, tall boots. Proper cold-weather wear, courtesy of a lifetime in the Pacific Northwest and a grandmother who preached modesty. I rummaged through the armoire for one of my newer sweaters and changed my sneakers to a pair of brown riding boots. As I ran a brush through my wavy, dark-blonde hair, Victoria appeared with a patterned scarf.

"This will go with your eyes," she said simply.

"Thanks," I mumbled, unsure what to make of my new roommate.

"Oh, Victoria," Emma emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered and running a brush through her hair. "Stop 'helping' her." Her fingers made quotes in the air. "You have all semester to give us makeovers." She rolled her eyes good-naturedly and waved us into her room. "Victoria's a fashion student. As her flatmate, you are officially her pet project, whether you want to be or not. Just accept it. I have."

"Oh, tush Emma. If I needed help with matters of mathematics, I would come to you. You know that. I can't help that my specialty is more... practical than yours." Victoria picked up a pair of earrings lying on Emma's dresser and held them up to her ears.

"Pardon me, but mathematics is highly practical. People use it every day. When was the last time you did math, huh? Actually don't answer that. I don't want to know." Emma earned a 'harrumph' from our well-dressed flatmate, who moved to the armoire. Victoria returned, bearing a flowing top and skinny jeans. Defiance in her eyes, Emma pulled out another top and started to put it on. After a moment, she ruefully held out her hand. The gleam in Victoria's eyes as she handed over her choice made me think this was not the first time they'd played this game, nor would it be the last.

"She's always right about clothes, you know," Emma muttered begrudgingly as she dressed in Victoria's chosen outfit. While I considered the pros and cons of having a live-in stylist, I decided this would be a good thing. If I wanted to blend in, Nehalem's fashions weren't going to do me any favors.

When our outfits had been approved, we locked up the flat and walked to Victoria's little car. Emma appointed herself tour guide. "So the first thing you need to know about Cardiff – the corner market up... here," she gestured, "has the best biscuits. You Americans call them cookies. They bake them fresh every morning, but the packaged ones they sell on the side have chocolate _and_ caramel. Delicious."

"Cookies are biscuits, and these are the best. Got it."

"The laundromat just behind us is less crowded than the one in our building–"

"The cutest boys are always there," Victoria finished.

"Good information." I was warming to my more reserved roommate.

"Two blocks this way is the place we get our hair cut – it's the best salon for the least money. You want to see Robyn. She's great." Emma was one of those enthusiastic people who managed the fine line between cheerful and annoying.

Victoria was eager to point out her favorite places too – designer clothing shops that were well beyond my spending limit. Emma winked as she teased our flatmate, "And for the rest of us, the good people of H&M have opened a shop at the north end of town. I think you have them in America?"

I nodded in response.

"Great clothes, but mostly, I pick up the trendy things there, unlike Victoria here who picks up her odds and ends at Harrods each season." Victoria rolled her eyes at us and I grinned at my new cohort.

My tour continued on the short drive, and by the time we parked, I felt like I might actually have my bearings. But when we walked into the restaurant, I was overwhelmed by savory smells that were completely foreign. There hadn't been a lot of new experiences in my life, and I wasn't too sure about this one. The hostess led us to our table where a basket of flat bread was waiting. I poked at it suspiciously. Bread was supposed to be fluffy.

I pointed to Emma as our waitress took our order. "I'll have what she's having." Trying to make sense of the exotic dishes listed as entrees was hopeless. "What are you having?"

"Chicken curry with rice. You'll like it." Her smile was reassuring, but I felt no relief whatsoever until the dish was in front of me and I took a tentative bite. I didn't love it, but I didn't hate it either. It was richer and spicier than I'd been expecting, but still good.

"What about your classes," I asked Victoria, bravely tearing off a piece of the curious bread. "What are you taking this semester?"

"It's not about what I'm _taking_ ," Victoria emphasized. "I'm doing an internship for a very important fashion house. If I do well, they might let me stay on until I graduate; hopefully even hire me after. And then I'll be on my way to designing my own line. That," she sighed, "is everything I've ever worked for."

"Gosh, that would be incredible." I nibbled at the bread cautiously. It tasted bready enough so I dipped it in the curry.

Emma rolled her eyes. "But until then, Victoria can live quite comfortably working for her family's party-planning business. They're one of the top companies in Wales, and Victoria goes home every other weekend to help out. If we're lucky, she'll take us. Her family has an _amazing_ country house. And her mum's roasts are super."

"That's true; my mum is a fabulous cook. So is my sister. The whole family loves to cook, really. Well, my dad grills. I bake – I'm not much for the regular kind of cooking. Just the sweet stuff."

"Tell me about it. Dinners in our flat are nothing to get excited about." Emma admitted.

"I can cook," I volunteered. "I'm actually pretty good at it."

"Thank God," Victoria breathed. "You cook. I'll make desserts."

Emma laughed. "Guess that leaves me to clean up."

Well, that was settled easily enough.

"So you spend a lot of time with your family?" I asked Victoria. I'd barely seen my own parents growing up; the idea seemed foreign.

"Victoria's family does everything together," Emma explained. "It's kind of weird." Victoria rolled her eyes and Emma laughed. "I can't hate her too much, even though she's a beast of a fashion critic."

"Of course, it's still nice to get back to Uni." I liked her word for University. "Everyone needs their space, even fabulous, future fashion designers."

"Future being the key word. When are you going to give my wardrobe a break?"

"Hey, enjoy me now while you can still afford me. That goes for you too, K," Victoria winked, and I couldn't help but smile.

We finished our meal and paid the bill. We were walking the short distance to Victoria's car when I saw _him_. At least, I thought it was him. I stared at the window of the pub across the street, nearly positive I was looking at the blond from the British Museum. He sat in profile, laughing at the animated gestures of a brown-haired guy sitting across from him. He looked relaxed and happy, nothing like the cranky Viking I'd met the day before. The darker-haired guy had one arm slung around a ridiculously hot, blonde girl. Viking's side of the booth was empty. I wondered where his date was.

"Coming Kristia?" Emma and Victoria were shivering at the car.

"Sorry," I hustled to join them, "I thought I saw somebody I knew."

"Who was it?" Victoria started the car and cranked the heater up to full blast.

"Just some guy I saw in London. But it probably wasn't him. What are the odds, right?"

"Stranger things have happened." Emma shrugged. "Now how about some hot cocoa?"

Back in our flat, we said our goodnights and headed to our rooms. I lay in bed listening to the occasional car pass outside my window, too wound-up to sleep. My first day was under my belt, I was making friends, and I hadn't had an unwanted vision since yesterday. This year might just be okay. My mind drifted to the blond stranger, and my stomach flipped. Was he really here in Cardiff? What was he doing in the pub? Obviously, he was having dinner, but what did that mean? Did he go to school here? Would I see him again?

I forced myself to stop asking questions. The guy hated me on sight. He obviously had issues. And Cardiff was a huge school – we'd probably never run into each other. There was no point in barking up that tree.

Eventually, I fell asleep, and it didn't take long for my recurring nightmare to begin. It was different this time. The sun was low in the sky, and the wolf and the snake were moving across a field. I was mercifully absent. As the earth was covered in frost. As the light began to dim, a lone figure stood in a field of English lavender. He faced the onslaught without a hint of fear: my devastatingly handsome, ill-behaved, blond stranger.

# Chapter 3

My mood was jubilant when I slid into a seat near the middle of the lecture hall on Tuesday morning. It was my first day of school, and I'd always enjoyed listening to a good professor talk about the subject they'd dedicated their life to. Plus, there was nothing more satisfying than typing perfectly-outlined lecture notes – roman numerals, proper headings, the whole kit and caboodle. Today would be a good day.

I untied my scarf as the uncomfortable prickling sensation tickled the back of my neck. My hair bounced against my shoulders while I turned left and right, but nobody was looking at me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw _him_ standing in the doorway of the hall, staring right at me. It was the boorish Viking. The guy I figured I'd never see again, and whose stare was making me wish I'd been right. His eyes never left mine as they morphed from furious to confused to sad. Sad was an improvement over the fury I'd seen in London, but his reaction was still weird. I hadn't done anything to this guy, and here he was again, making me feel like I'd kicked his puppy with a steel-toed boot.

Well, two could play at that game. I met his eyes with my own determined look. I'd come to this school for a fresh start, and I wasn't about to let some guy intimidate me.

Students streamed by to take their seats, pausing to stare at the stranger's unnatural beauty. The girls snuck glances at the soft jeans and fitted sweater that failed to conceal his impressive musculature. My unladylike thoughts fluttered against my will.

The boys' looks were more resigned, tinged with barely-concealed envy. But the stranger stood still, staring at me, heartbreaking sorrow lining his features. I self-consciously tugged at the hammer of my necklace. The gesture caught his eye, and as he looked down at my neck, his features hardened in anger, nearly settling into the fury I'd seen in the museum. He stormed to take a seat in the back of the hall, never breaking his glare. I glared back until he looked away. _Take that, Viking_. I thought I'd put on a pretty good show, but when I turned back to my computer my hands were shaking.

Thankfully, Professor Carnicke took the podium and the hall fell silent as she began her lecture. "Mythology." She wrote on the board as she spoke in a clear voice. "The study of folklores." Professor Carnicke was a graceful woman in her thirties, with shoulder-length hair the color of wet sand. She stood at the front of the room with the poise of a dancer. "Early cultures used myths to make sense of a confusing world, to explain the origin of mankind, and to create a sense of history and belonging. We will be focusing on three primary mythological studies: the Norse, the Greek, and the Eastern. We begin with the Norse.

"The Norse mythology begins with a trio of prophets. The Three Sisters were the primary Norns – seers, if you will – tasked with predicting the fates of gods and mortals. Urd, Verandi and Skuld lived at the Well of Fate and gave water to the Life Tree, Yggdrasill. They supervised a team of lesser Norns who traveled the realms predicting the fates of humans, elves, and non-titled gods. It was the Three Sisters who predicted the fall of Asgard at the epic battle of Ragnarok.

"Ragnarok was Asgard's final battle. Dark elves, fire giants, and jotuns attacked together and most of the gods were slain, so mankind could prosper. This myth resonates as a common theme in many creation stories."

Despite the rugged stranger glaring in my direction, the lecture was off to a fine start. On the one hand, Professor Carnicke was one of the good teachers who spoke really passionately about what she taught. The kind I took detailed notes from. On the other hand, I didn't need to turn around to know that a very large man was boring angry beams into the back of my head from the last row of the lecture hall. The ninety-minute class seemed to go on forever as I concentrated on the feel of the keyboard under my fingers and the clarity of the professor's voice. I didn't raise my head from my computer screen until I heard Professor Carnicke close her textbook. She walked towards her briefcase and put the book inside.

"That's all for today, ladies and gentlemen. Read ahead fifty pages, and be prepared to discuss the tragedy of Ragnarok when next we meet." The room began to buzz as students made plans for lunch. I glanced at my computer. The screen was filled with well-organized notes, but I was annoyed that I couldn't recall a word Professor Carnicke had spoken. My mind had been too full of images of an angry, blond Apollo to process much else.

I packed up my bag, tied my scarf around my neck, and stood to leave. He'd gone before I made it to the back of the room. Shaking my head, I walked into the chilly, Welsh air. The stranger was nowhere to be seen. His anger made no sense. But then, I had no idea how guys operated. I was lost as a goose in a snowstorm in every possible way.

I made my way toward the Student Union to meet Emma.

"You must be talking about Ull Myhr. Tall, blond, super fit. Unbelievably gorgeous," Emma drew out each syllable, nearly salivating over the words. I was telling her about my morning, over a cup of tea.

"That's the one." Ull Myhr. What a name. I'd never met a boy named Ull in Nehalem. Then again, I'd only met about thirty boys close to my age in Nehalem, three of whom were named Mike. Emma sipped at her tea absentmindedly. "You know, I had a course with him last semester. It turned out to be my favorite subject."

"Oh? What subject?"

"Don't recall," she giggled. "He's kind of hard not to notice. But he's a senior, so he's out of here at the end of this year. Pity. He's one of Cardiff's high points, as far as I'm concerned. And I'm not alone."

"Right." My attempt at nonchalance fell completely flat.

"Not like it matters though," Emma shook her head, "He doesn't exactly mingle with the underclassmen. I've only ever seen him really talking to two people – a guy and a girl who are just as hot as he is – but I don't know their names. I've heard they all live together off campus, but that's all I know about Ull Myhr. He's half man, half myth around here. But I wouldn't mind finding out a _lot_ more, if you know what I mean." Her giggles made me smile.

"Does he seem, uh, angry, to you?" Or terrifying? Beyond irritating?

"No." Emma was surprised. "If anything he looks almost... amused. It's like this whole university experience is funny to him."

Well, maybe I could chalk his general jerkiness up to a bad week. He obviously wasn't himself.

"Do you want me to make chicken parmesan for dinner tonight?" I changed the subject.

"Ooh, yes. Please. Supper has been so much more enjoyable since you moved in with us. Thanks for taking on so much of the cooking. Victoria's dinners were okay, but we all know baking is her culinary strong suit. And I once burned noodles. Honest."

"I don't mind, really. My grandma and I always cooked together. It makes me feel at home."

"Well, I don't want you to feel like we're taking advantage of you. You're just better at it than we are."

"Not at all. I don't have to clean up, and Victoria makes dessert every night. Hey, we might want to talk about that by the way. I'm going to leave this place considerably larger if she keeps making bread pudding." I patted my stomach.

"No way!" Emma laughed. "I'm not giving up nightly goodies for the sake of your figure. Americans are too obsessed with appearances, anyway. Oh and speaking of appearances, James Percy from across the courtyard asked me about you. He thinks you're really cute."

"Who?"

"James Percy, the tall guy, super polite, with dark hair. Glasses?" Emma's eyes were big. "You haven't noticed him, either? Jeez Kristia, are you even looking at boys?"

Oh, I was looking. Just not at the nice ones who were asking about me.

"Anyway, I told him to just come over and talk to you. He's right cute; you'll definitely like him." She was obviously pleased with her role as matchmaker.

"Um, super. Thanks, Em." My cheeks were hot. Back home, I was pretty much invisible to guys. If I'd somehow caught this James guy's attention, did that mean Ull Myhr was going to stop glaring long enough to see me that way too? Not that I wanted him to – a cranky Viking was the last thing I needed to deal with right now.

Ull was definitely seeing me, all right. In Mythology a few days later, he sat in the back of the room again, staring at me from the last row. His eyes were less angry today, more resigned. I dodged his gaze as I set up my laptop, resisting the urge to turn around and stick out my tongue. If he was going to give me the evil eye during every class, this was going to be a long semester.

Before the lecture started, an unfamiliar, sandy-haired boy slid into the seat next to me. "You're Kristia, right?" The boy stuck out a hand and offered a friendly smile from thin lips. "I'm Henry. Henry Webster. I live upstairs in the Student Houses."

"Oh, right. Kristia Tostenson. Nice to meet you." We shook hands and I looked over the top of Henry's neatly-combed hair to see Ull's eyes narrow infinitesimally. That was interesting.

"Emma and I have Statistics together. She told me she had a new roommate."

"That's me." I typed the date and sat back in my chair. "So you're a math major like Emma?"

"Hardly." Henry actually looked down his nose. He was a good-looking guy and something told me he knew it. "I study business. I'm planning to go into finance."

"Ahh, got it." I glanced up again. Ull's focused stare had zeroed in on Henry.

"And what do you study, Kristia?" Henry booted up his own laptop.

"History of Art," I shifted my gaze back to Henry, trying not to laugh at the "v" forming between Ull's eyes. "But I'm mostly taking general ed. courses while I'm here. I'm an exchange student from the US."

"Very well." Henry clicked at his keyboard. He stuck out his tongue when he typed – it was cute. "Has Emma taken you to Naan Palace yet? It's one of our favorites after study group."

"The Indian restaurant?" What was it with these people and their curries? Didn't England have good old-fashioned Chinese food? Or pizza? "We went my first night here."

"Fabulous, isn't it? Let's all three go sometime. Too bad she's not in this class; she's a great study partner."

I giggled. Henry definitely saw Emma as more than a study partner. A glance at Ull showed he had misinterpreted my laughter. His eyes were thin slits now, his hands balled into fists. I forced my features into a coy smile and put my hand on Henry's arm, watching Ull's jaw set. Very interesting indeed. "That sounds fun, Henry. Let's grab dinner sometime." Maybe my voice was a teensy bit loud, but Henry didn't seem to notice. He prattled away, making plans while I snuck another look. Ull glared at me, the muscles of his jaw tensing as he clenched his teeth. I shot him a grin and turned to my computer.

When Professor Carnicke dismissed the class ninety minutes later, my gaze wandered toward Ull's seat. It was empty; he had escaped before the lecture was over. Well that was good – I didn't want to waste any more energy avoiding his mean looks. Did I?

The following Tuesday, I sat in Mythology class, third row, taking my standard copious notes. Henry was absent and I hadn't met any of the other students in class yet, so I had most of the row to myself. All around me, pens scribbled and keyboards clicked as Professor Carnicke waxed poetic about the Norse Gods.

It was easy to get wrapped up in the dramatic stories, the romance, the anguish, when the professor was so into her subject. After only a week, this had become my favorite class – it certainly wasn't because of the bizarre Ull Myhr who sat in the back making me feel an inexplicable combination of emotions. I genuinely liked both the professor and her subject matter. Like I'd written in my last e-mail to Ardis, I was getting college credit for going to story time. It was a pretty good deal.

"That's it for today folks," came Professor Carnicke's dismissal. "Read through the next seventy pages in your text and start working on an outline for your term papers. I will be available for questions during my office hours this afternoon." I bent my head to rummage through my bag as the room began to empty. When I looked up, I spotted the tousled, blond hair of the student who was occupying far too many of my thoughts. He was looking at me curiously – the anger finally gone. Well color me pink; that was a nice change. I ducked my head and jumped from my seat, rushing to leave the lecture hall. Once in the hallway, I leaned against the wall and exhaled. When I was sure I could walk, I headed to the quad to find an unusually clear sky. I relished the feel of the sun on my face. A girl could almost take off her sweater without getting goose bumps. Almost.

I sat under a tree and took out my Mythology book, planning to read ahead for the next lecture. As I turned the page, a deep voice broke my concentration. "May I join you?"

I looked up to see _him_. Ull Myhr, who never spoke to anyone, was speaking to me.

"Join me?" I looked around. "Are you serious?"

Ull chuckled, looking pointedly to the ground next to me. "May I?"

"Don't you want to glare at me for a while first? Make me feel like I stole your Granny's favorite baking sheet?"

He sighed. "Please?" It was the first nice thing he'd said to me.

"Uh... um... fine. Have a seat," I gestured feebly, shock keeping me from standing like etiquette would have dictated. His grin made my stomach flip as he sat next to me, leaning against the tree. I was instantly and immeasurably self-conscious.

"I am sorry, I should introduce myself. I am Ull Myhr. Fourth Year, majoring in Classics. I did my first two years at the University of Oslo, Norway. And you are?"

By some miracle I found my voice again. "Um... uh." I had actually forgotten my own name. "I'm, uh, Kristia. Kristia Tostenson. Sophomore, History of Art, visiting student from the U.S. – Oregon." I forced a welcoming smile on my face, but it faltered quickly. "Sorry, I'm not trying to be difficult, but this is just weird. Is there something you want?"

Ull looked surprised. "Why is this weird?"

"Um, because you've spent the last week glowering at me? And avoiding me? Why do you suddenly want to talk to me?"

"Kristia, I am sorry if I gave you the impression that I have ill feelings towards you." Ull's sincerity threw me off balance. "Nothing could be further from the truth. I do not even know you."

"I know!" I threw my hands up in frustration. "That's why I'm so confused."

Ull laughed, a hearty laugh that bounced through the trees. It was a wonderful sound. "Well I am sorry I have not been friendlier. This week has been unusually difficult for me. But it is no excuse to have made you uncomfortable." He stuck out his hand. "Can we start over?"

"Do you _want_ to start over?"

"I would not have asked if I did not."

"Oh. Okay then." I eyed his hand warily before I shook it. The instant our palms touched, an electric pulse charged my skin. It raced up my arm and into my chest, spiking my already overworked heartbeat. Every nerve ending in my body sprang to life, leaving me with the feeling of pins and needles from tip to toe. It took ten slow breaths to calm my heart.

Ull assessed my reaction with guarded eyes. Then he gently pulled his hand back. "Since we are starting fresh, may I ask you something else?"

"What?" I didn't mean to sound so suspicious.

"Well, my pen gave out mid-lecture. Would you be willing to e-mail me your notes? You type so earnestly, yours must be worth reviewing."

Okay, now this conversation made sense. He wanted my notes. I should have been offended he was using me, but he was just so good looking, I couldn't muster up the appropriate level of indignation.

"Oh. I guess." I handed him a pen and he jotted down his e-mail address. Our hands brushed as he handed me the scrap of paper, sending another jolt to my poor heart. I pulled back quickly. No point in hyperventilating again before I could tell Emma about this small miracle. The legend himself had given me his e-mail address. He wanted to talk to me again! What had changed since we met in London? Though I didn't want to destroy any good will building between us, I desperately wanted to ask him about London – he may have been having a bad week at Cardiff, but that didn't explain why he'd been so rude at the British Museum. And I was positive this was the same man – there was no way there were two god-like creatures walking around Britain. If there were, Ardis would have signed up for study abroad years ago.

Study abroad! I kicked myself. I'd totally forgotten the meeting with my advisor. I jumped up so quickly I had to grab onto a tree for support. "Sorry, I have to go. I have an appointment. I'll send my notes this afternoon."

"Of course." Ull stood gracefully, his light jacket straining against defined shoulders. "I would imagine an Oregon girl could use a good cup of coffee. What is your favorite? Soy Latte?"

I shook my head. "Earl Grey. Weird, I know. My dad says he's not sure I'm really from Oregon."

Ull smiled. "Well, I owe you a cup of tea then. It is the least I can do for imposing on your notes."

"And for spending a week glaring at me?"

"I thought we agreed to a fresh start." Blinding teeth peeked from upturned lips. "No fair bringing up my past indiscretions."

"Touché." I caught myself grinning back. This day had taken an unexpected turn.

"I hope a drink will wipe the slate clean. Where will you be at eight o'clock this evening?"

I managed to remember the name of my residence hall. Ull seemed to know it offhand. I scurried off to my meeting, only tripping once on the short walk to the administration building. I could have sworn I heard a low chuckle as I steadied myself, but when I glanced over my shoulder, Ull Myhr was gone.

# Chapter 4

I spent the rest **** of the day cleaning. I swept and mopped with manic fervor, then moved on to vacuuming the throw rugs and wiping down every cabinet. When there wasn't a speck of dust left in the flat, I hand-washed all the dishes, then scrubbed the windows with Windex and newspaper until they sparkled, like Mormor had taught me.

By then, I'd run out of things to clean, so I spent an hour obsessing over my outfit, reassuring myself I'd have done the same thing if any other boy was dropping by. This wasn't about Ull – he'd been so foul all week, I obviously didn't care what he thought of me. I'd just been raised to look my best for company; that was all.

After I'd put on my softest sweater with my favorite pair of skinny jeans and knee-high boots, I bumbled around the living room with even less grace than usual. When the bell rang at eight on the dot I ran, opening the door to reveal the silhouette of a six-foot-five-inch Nordic Adonis. Ull's blue eyes crinkled in the corners and his smile was radiant, a stark contrast to the angry man I'd gotten used to. He wore dark jeans and an ivory sweater that clung to his chest, and his accent was soft when he spoke.

" _Hei hei_ , Kristia. Nice to see you."

"Um... uh..." Oh, come on Tostenson. Find some words. "Uh..." Now! "Yes, it is. I mean, nice to see you too." I could do better than this. I _would_ do better. "Thanks for stopping by. You could have just sent an e-card or something." I held the door open inviting him to our small sitting area, and he filled the space.

"I come bearing Earl Grey." He solemnly offered a steaming travel cup. "In thanks for some _extremely_ detailed notes."

I blushed. "Right. I've got a little of the compulsive thing. Professor Carnicke is just so enthusiastic; I can't tell what the important parts are, so I type it all. And Ragnarok breaks my heart – the gods destined to fall so mortals can live in peace. Just awful." I shuddered involuntarily, thinking of Ull's mysterious presence in my recurring Ragnarok nightmare. I wondered what our professor would have made of that.

"Indeed," Ull murmured absently, and I blushed again. I was boring him. His other dates must be much more interesting. Not that this was a date. I did _not_ want to get involved with someone this moody. No, this was a business deal: tea for notes. And maybe the start of a friendship? Probably not. I usually stuck with friends who were a lot easier to read.

"So Kristia," he began as he sat on our couch, dwarfing it under his lofty form. "What do you think of Cardiff so far? What else are you taking?"

He wanted to make small talk? I could handle that. I'd spent way too many afternoons with prattling old ladies at my grandma's Bridge Club – I was an expert at small talk. I sat in the chair across from him and dutifully described my archaeology class, all the while looking for a polite way to bring up what was really on my mind.

Since there was no gracious way to do it, I jumped in with both feet. I tilted my face up to stare into his amazing eyes and found I couldn't quite open my mouth. Come on Tostenson. I'd gotten on my first airplane and traveled thousands of miles from home. I'd even stood up to Ull when I'd wanted to crawl under a desk and cry. I could do this.

"Actually," I smiled brightly. "I saw you last week. In London."

Ull froze.

"It's a shame we didn't get a chance to talk then," I tried to look morose as I studied him carefully. "It would have been nice to have a friend coming into school."

A rueful smile spread across Ull's features and he avoided my question.

"You were in London? How did you end up there?"

"My flight from Oregon landed there, so I spent a day sightseeing."

"That must have been enjoyable."

"It was." He still hadn't answered me. I stared, waiting. He didn't blink. "So what were you doing in London, anyway?"

He shook his head. "Sorry. You must be thinking of someone else. I was not in London last week."

Oh sure, there were two, hugely frustrating, Nordic supermodels walking around London. "Liar," I muttered under my breath.

"What was that?" Ull looked amused again.

"Oh, nothing," I coughed to cover up my indiscretion. "Throat tickle." Mormor would have been mortified at my behavior. She'd never have called someone out to their face. "It's just, I've never met anyone quite like you before, and here I meet two of you in a week." I looked him dead in the eye, but he still didn't blink.

"I do not know what to tell you, Kristia," he said gently. We stared at each other for a long minute, each willing the other to back down. Ull won.

"Well, I must've been mistaken." I smiled the too-big smile I got when I lied. I'd get the truth out of him eventually. No sense running him off before I could finish my tea.

"Tell me about yourself, Kristia. What brought you to Wales?"

Where to begin? Nothing I'd done in Nehalem could possibly be of interest, but I had to say something. I briefly told him about my hometown, my studies at UPN, and summed up my journey by saying, "I wanted an adventure before I settled back into to the life I've always known."

"I think a life you have always known, a simple life, sounds wonderful," Ull sounded almost wistful.

"It is, in a lot of ways." I wondered why I was opening up to someone who had spent so much energy antagonizing me. "But just once, I wanted to do something different. So here I am."

"How do you like it so far?"

"Aside from seniors taking advantage of my undiagnosed OCD, it's been a pretty good week."

Ull laughed, a musical sound that stopped my heart. It was beautiful, and I wanted to hear it again. "I suppose I am taking advantage. One cup of Earl Grey just doesn't seem a fair trade for such _highly_ detailed notes." He was teasing me. Ull was in my flat, teasing me. Boys did that when they liked a girl, right? I couldn't figure this guy out. Ull paused, seeming to make a decision. "Will you let me show you around town this Friday? My classes get out at three, and I can be here at four. The grand tour of Cardiff for your notes. Fair trade?"

This could not be happening. He'd spent a week being unbelievably ornery, and now he wanted to take me out?

"I don't know." I kept my face guarded. "Which Ull is going to pick me up on Friday? The nice one from tonight, or the mean one from last week? Because no offense, but I'd really rather not be alone with the mean one."

"Touché." Ull had the decency to look abashed. "You will not let me get away with much, will you, Miss Tostenson?"

"I hope not." I wasn't sure who I was trying to be firm with.

"Well, the nice Ull would like to go out with you. What do you say?"

I wasn't entirely sure. On the one hand Ull Myhr, unquestionably the most desirable student at Cardiff and hands down the most interesting guy I'd met here, was asking me on a date. On the other, the boorish Viking who'd spent a week pushing my last nerve was asking for time alone with me. My voice wavered. "I guess that could be fun."

"Try not to sound too excited."

"Sorry. I'm just not sure what to make of you yet."

"Fair enough." Ull stood, stretching his impossibly long legs. "But you are willing to give me a chance?" I nodded. "Then I shall be here at four." He reached down to pick up his cup. Taking another sip, he eyed me speculatively. His look was so intense it gave me goose bumps, and I was glad my sweater covered my arms. He took my hand in his and bent to kiss it with perfect, pale lips. A pulse shot through my fingers and up my arm, making my heart race. Nobody had ever kissed me like that before.

I stood frozen to the spot as he rose. Piercing blue eyes bored into mine as he whispered, "I will see you Friday night." He strode from the room and let himself out the front door – good idea, since I couldn't move. My feet were firmly rooted to the same patch of floor, and it was only after I was absolutely sure he had made his way beyond the earshot of our flat that I let out a small squeal. The nerves let themselves out of my body in bursts, and I jumped up and down.

It was this lovely vision that greeted Emma and Victoria when they came home, bringing their animated chatter to an abrupt halt. Victoria raised one elegant eyebrow in question, and my words came in gasps. "Ull. Myhr. Asked. Me. Out!"

Two more bodies joined in my happy dance, and we jumped around the sitting area like the schoolgirls that we were, until we fell laughing onto the various seats. It was Victoria who sat up first, asking solemnly, "What are you going to wear?"

Within an hour, we'd ransacked our collective closets and come up with what we hoped was suitable attire for a date with the most eligible and most confusing bachelor on campus. It hadn't been easy. None of us knew much about Ull, and since we'd never seen him go out with anyone, we had no idea what he liked. Emma offered her favorite dress, a summery eyelet with a pastel sash, but Victoria nixed it with authority. "Too innocent."

"Well, we don't want him to think she's easy!" Emma's retort was in line with my way of thinking, but Victoria shook her head knowingly.

"We don't want him to think she's too _anything_. Trust me ladies, a first date outfit must be ambiguous. It can't say too much. It should be sexy, but not overt – classy, but not boring. Sweet, but not too innocent." She rolled her eyes at our obvious naïveté. "You have to leave him guessing, wanting to learn more. That way, he'll have to take you out again." Emma and I had to throw in the towel. Victoria clearly knew way more than we did about this sort of thing.

Without us to sidetrack her vision, Victoria quickly paired a lace – not eyelet – A-line dress, tight in the bodice and flaring to just above the knee, with simple flats for walking. A scarf completed the look, and we added a tailored coat in case the evening was chilly. I had to admit, it looked pretty sharp. I hoped it was worthy of Cardiff's most desirable catch. And he was certainly that, even if his mood swings were considerably off-putting.

I really hoped Cranky Ull stayed home. This was already scary enough.

When Friday came, I was literally bouncing with nerves. I still wasn't positive this was a good idea. My dating experience wasn't extensive, but the handful of guys I'd been out with in Nehalem had all wanted something. Some wanted to find out what was wrong with Crazy Kristia; some had heard rumors and wanted me to tell their futures – like I had any control over what I saw. The rest just wanted to try to get on base.

Ull seemed like someone who had everything – looks, money, brains. He didn't know about my mental problem, so it wasn't like he wanted to exploit that. And there was no shortage of girls around here who would have been more than happy to give him an all-access pass. There was nothing he could possibly want out of me – except maybe my fabulous notes – that he couldn't go out and get for himself. Maybe, just maybe, he really did like _me_ , not my quirky gift, or the way I filled out my jeans – my best asset, according to a highly inappropriate comment Ardis overhead at a football game and was kind enough to repeat to me. Starting fresh and winning people over just by being myself... wasn't that what I'd been looking for when I came to Wales?

"Just relax," Emma soothed as she dusted gold eye shadow onto my lids. "He asked you out. I don't think he's ever asked anyone out here. He must be into you."

"I doubt that," I mumbled. "He probably just feels guilty for borrowing my notes." Either way, I'd been so anxious that I hadn't been able to eat all day.

"Tush," came Victoria's pert reply. She peeked from around the back of my head, where she was wielding a large-barreled curling iron through my thick mane. "Men don't do anything they don't want to do. He clearly wants to spend this evening with you. And why wouldn't he? By the time we're done with you, you'll be the most beautiful girl on campus." Her eyes set in steely determination as she curled and sprayed, creating the perfectly tousled waves I'd seen in her latest fashion magazine. When she was finished, Emma slicked gloss on my lips and handed me the tube.

"Reapply every hour, as needed. Or whenever you're done snogging!" She giggled, and I ducked my head. If only I could be so lucky!

I stood in front of the full-length mirror under the critical gazes of my flatmates. Victoria ran her fingers along the base of my hair, lifting it for good measure before administering one final spritz of hairspray. "Absolutely beautiful," she assessed.

"Stunning." Emma nodded her assent. "He won't know what hit him."

As I looked at the stranger in the mirror, even I had to admit the girls did good work. I was definitely looking, if not feeling, my best. My stomach churned in anticipation. Victoria and Emma let themselves out, heading to the ice cream shop around the corner to give me some privacy when my date arrived.

"We'll see you when you get home... if you make it home!" Victoria trilled over her shoulder as she closed the door behind her. "I wouldn't come home." I heard her mutter as she walked away.

"Me neither," came Emma's muffled reply through the door.

# Chapter 5

At four o'clock on the dot, I heard an authoritative knock. With a deep breath, I picked up my purse. My intuition told me this was a very important moment. I waited for the inevitable blackout to embarrass me, but it didn't come. For once my brain was functioning on all cylinders – I was vision free. Even a blind squirrel finds an acorn now and then.

When I opened the door, Ull's glorious figure stood on the other side. His thick, blond hair was in disarray from the Welsh wind. His perfectly-shined boots were the same black as his tight-fitting sweater, and defined forearms peeked out from pushed-up sleeves. The dark wash of his jeans highlighted the long, muscular shape of his legs. He raked a hand through his hair, brushing a piece away from his eyes, and lit up the entire flat with his radiant smile. My heart ached; no man could be so beautiful.

I smiled shyly. "Hi."

" _Hei hei_ ," Ull murmured. He reached out and took my hand. Then he raised my fingers to his lips, grazing the tips with a feather-like kiss. My skin burst into flames, waves of heat radiating toward my heart in slow pulses. The sensation was unnerving. I let out a nervous giggle as Ull guided me over the threshold and into the late afternoon sun with one hand on the small of my back. "Are you ready for the grand tour of Cardiff?"

I nodded, not quite able to speak. We walked to the street where a shiny, black Range Rover waited, bearing the license plate NORSE1. _Of course._ Ull held my hand as I climbed into the passenger seat. My stomach flipped as his gaze slowly took in my bare legs and the hem of my skirt. His eyes darted to the low cut of my neckline. My stomach fluttered as I caught him staring.

He was totally checking me out. I made a mental note to thank Emma and Victoria for their hard work on my appearance.

"Kristia," he said after he crossed to the driver's side and climbed in. "You look delightful this evening. Absolutely angelic." He clicked his seatbelt. "Are you sure you want to spend time with a rogue like me?" Beneath his smile was a serious undertone.

"Rogue, huh? I guess that explains the staring." I looked pointedly at my chest and giggled as the tops of Ull's ears turned pink. His grimace was the last dark look I saw that night. He seemed to have made a decision, though I couldn't guess at what it was.

He glanced at my dress with a wry chuckle. "So I guess ice skating is out."

I panicked, trying to remember if he'd mentioned wanting to do something sporty.

"We can go back – I can change; it's–" His laughter stopped me.

"I was teasing you, Kristia. We can skate another time. I would much rather you wear that dress." His smolder left a warm tingling in the lower half of my stomach. He reached out to hold my hand and the tingling burst into flames. Desperately hoping he couldn't hear my pulse, I took slow, deep breaths. We were two minutes into this date. I didn't want to give him any reason to go back to avoiding me.

"Right. Another time," I said lightly. Another date with Ull. I had to start the deep breathing all over again. Two and a half minutes into this and I was two for two on hyperventilation. I'd have to start pacing myself. After all, I still wasn't completely convinced that Nice Ull was the real thing. And there was no point in going all ga-ga over someone who might not even exist.

Ull drove toward the center of town, at ease in the driver's seat. I tried to focus on his words as he pointed out Cardiff's considerable highlights, but quickly got lost in the commanding tenor of his voice. I forced myself to really look at the sights, and by the time Ull pulled up in front of Cardiff Castle, I was finally able to hear him. He didn't move to get out of the car, so I re-crossed my ankles and stared at the ancient fortress from the passenger's seat.

"Cardiff has the highest concentration of castles in the world. This one dates back two thousand years, though of course, it has undergone many revisions. You just missed the Medieval Mêlée. People dress in costumes; they hold sword-fighting contests on the green, serve turkey legs, and play silly games. I went as a jester this year."

I tried to picture Ull Myhr dressed as a clown, but came up short.

"It is nice to walk the castle wall," he went on. "You can see the niches in the stone where guards used to keep their fires on cold nights. We can do that another time – too late today. The castle closes at six." As fascinating as the wall sounded, the only thing I took from this was that Ull wanted to go out again. Score one, Tostenson.

Ull eased into traffic, and his excitement grew as he pointed out Millennium Stadium. His eyes shone as he described some of his favorite matches – he was both a football and rugby regular, and he glanced wistfully at the stadium when he spoke. It was weird to imagine him doing something so ordinary as watching sports. Maybe he did have a normal side.

Ull glanced at the clock and drove purposefully toward our next destination. The sun was low in the sky as he gestured towards the docks that had made Cardiff a major port for coal transport in the 19th Century, and pointed in the direction of the Arcade, a collection of shops varying from couture to cafes. Naturally, Starbucks was well represented here, too.

My head started to spin from the light pressure of Ull's hand on mine, so I resumed my deep breathing to keep myself in check. If this kept up, I was going to have to take up yoga. Yogis were good deep breathers, weren't they?

Finally, Ull turned off the main road and parked in a small lot. Without a word, he got out of the car and retrieved something from the trunk. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to get out too – were we going for a walk or was he just checking on something back there? But it felt weird to ask, so after a minute, I unbuckled my seatbelt and swung open my door. It reverberated as it hit an obstruction.

"Ouch!" Ull dropped whatever he was carrying and grabbed his arm.

"Sorry, sorry! I didn't realize you were there!" Oh my God. I'd nailed him with my door. And from the way he was rubbing his arm, I'd nailed him _really hard_. This was beyond mortifying.

"It seems I did not open your door fast enough," Ull joked as he stooped to pick up the blanket and basket I'd knocked out of his arms.

"My door? Oh." He'd wanted to open my car door. Like in a movie. How had I made it eighteen years and not realized guys actually did that? "Oh Ull." I grabbed his red forearm. "I really got you."

"All in the line of duty." He took my hand. "This way, my lady."

We stopped at the top of the small knoll. The garden easily stretched the length of two football fields, pink, yellow, and purple flowers layering the ground with their thick carpet. Trees swathed in fuchsia petals swayed softly, and a lush covering of grass wove in and out of the flowers. In the distance, a white-columned memorial evoked images of Ancient Greece. It was spectacular.

"Where are we?"

"Alexandra Gardens. Named for Alexandra of Denmark, who became the longest running Welsh Princess." Ull glanced at me from under thick lashes. "This is one of my favorite places in Cardiff."

Ull led me down the knoll and laid the blanket on a grassy spot beneath one of the fuchsia trees. He opened the picnic basket and I wanted to ask him a million questions. He beat me to it as he handed me a bottle of sparkling water.

"Are you enjoying the city so far?" He opened an assortment of tapas for my perusal and helped himself to an olive before leaning back on one elbow.

"Yes." I looked down to give myself time to think of something to say. His beautiful form stretched across the blanket had emptied my mind of all coherent thought. He was overwhelming, in the best possible way – tall, blond, muscular, attentive. The combination made it difficult to form words. "Cardiff is so much cleaner than I'd imagined." Cleaner? I struggled to recover. "I mean, London was beautiful too, but everything was so grey – grime on the buildings, you know? That was neat, and all, because it was London. But everything here is... uh... _white_." I gestured to the memorial, pristine in its place of honor. "Even the sidewalks seem white. I guess I just expected everything to be dirty because it's so big, but Cardiff's even cleaner than Nehalem was – and with only three hundred people, it doesn't get very dirty. Well, it gets dirty because it's in the forest. You know, with dirt. And stuff. But not because of litter or anything."

_Oh my God. That was all out loud. All of it._ I shoved a slice of bread in my mouth to end my prattling.

It was a testament to Ull's chivalry that he moved on without comment. "Tell me about Nehalem. What do you miss the most?" He leaned forward on his elbow, seemingly wanting to know.

"Oh gosh." I wasn't sure where to begin. When I was positive I wasn't going to start in on another babble, I told him about my own favorite place. "Well, there's this quiet spot off the main river. If you didn't know it was there, you might never find it. My best friend Ardis and I spent a lot of time there and after she left for college in New York, I used to go by myself to read. Being there made it seem like she wasn't so far away."

"What about your parents?"

"What about them?" I countered before I could catch myself.

Ull had enough sense to keep quiet.

"My grandmother raised me – Mormor was my mom's mom. My parents traveled a lot for their antique business. They were always on the lookout for new treasures for the shop." I tried to keep my voice neutral. "They didn't want a kid around to slow them down. So they passed me off to Mormor – she knew me way better than they ever did anyway. She taught me to tie my shoes, to bake cookies, to write thank you notes. Everything I know." I stared at my folded hands. "She's gone now; she passed away right after I started college."

"You miss her." It wasn't a question.

"Terribly."

Ull offered me a container with turkey, cheese, and crackers. As I made my little sandwich, he kept up his stream of questions.

"What are your favorite books?"

"Um..." I chewed, appreciating the change of subject. "I like Shakespeare."

"Romeo and Juliet?" Ull chuckled.

"Much Ado About Nothing." I blushed. "I always saw myself as an un-bitter Beatrice."

"How so?"

"She's so disillusioned with love, and doesn't think she can count on anyone – that part's not me at all. But she's really independent, and she's always looking out for her impetuous cousin. It's sort of like Ardis and me. She'd always get herself into these situations because of her heart, and I would come along and clean up after her."

"Sounds tough."

"Not really. Ardis got into the scrapes; I just had to help her out of them." I'd been busy as a stump-tailed horse in fly time, the way Ardis found trouble. "My part was much easier."

"Always a little outside of life, Miss Tostenson?"

"I guess." I felt my cheeks grow warm. It was easier to watch Ardis go through heartbreaks than to get hurt myself. But Ull didn't need to know that.

"I know the feeling." Ull's response was wry. "Favorite movies?" He continued before I could ask what he meant.

"Um... Much Ado, again. Kenneth Branagh's pretty fantastic."

"Agreed."

Ull continued as the sun set. He asked about my favorite foods, the music I listened to, and what I hoped to do after graduation. He listened patiently as I told him my dream of working as a junior curator in a museum, and leaned in as I talked about my favorite works of art. He seemed genuinely interested in the minor details of my life, and I told him a bit about the oddities of a small-town upbringing. Naturally, I omitted talk of my little mental tic – every dog had a few fleas, and mine were bound to show themselves soon enough.

By the time the sun dipped at the horizon, our picnic was mostly gone, and Ull offered me a container of brownies. He held up his sparkling water and clinked his bottle to mine.

" _Skål_ ," he said. "Cheers. To new beginnings." He winked at me with a smile so dazzling, I couldn't help but stare.

The way his pale lips curved up, with just a hint of a smirk behind the smile... could they really be as soft as they looked? What would they feel like against my cheek? My mouth? My neck? I shivered involuntarily.

"Are you cold?"

I shook my head. "Everything is wonderful. I'm just... I'm a little overwhelmed. You're –" I stumbled over the words, ducking behind my hair. "You're kind of great when you're being nice."

"Be careful, Kristia Tostenson." Ull brushed my hair behind my ear, trailing one finger along the curve of my neck. His touch was soft; the barely-there sensation of a light breeze that sent a chill down my spine. I resumed my deep, calming breaths in earnest. "You could choose much better company than me," he continued. There was a warning behind his easy smile.

"I'm not sure I could," I whispered into my water. Ull stared, deep in thought.

"I am afraid, neither could I," he confessed. My heart soared – maybe he really _did_ like me. We watched the horizon in silence as the sky turned from blue to orange to purple. As dusk settled over the garden, Ull packed up the remnants of our picnic and held out a hand to help me up. "To the next stop on our Grand Circle Tour."

When Ull pulled up to the posh nightclub, a new kind of panic swept over me. I wasn't graceful sitting still and dancing was definitely not my forte. But as he seemed to be with everything else, Ull was a natural, leading me around the club as if I'd been dancing all my life. This required that he hold me very close, and the contact was almost too much for my overworked brain. Although I'd spent the better part of the night feeling like I had a live wire tapped directly into my spine, I now felt so light-headed that thought I might float away. This combination meant I nearly fell on several occasions. If he noticed, Ull was gentlemanly enough not to say anything.

We left the nightclub much too soon, Ull's fingers twined through mine. Our hands fit together, his long fingers cradling my smallish ones. The familiar gesture made me smile, and I scooted closer as we walked, letting my shoulder brush against his arm. It was so easy to be next to him. I felt a twinge of sadness thinking our date must be nearing its end. But when Ull helped me into his car, he treated me to another dazzling smile.

"Would you care to join me for a drink at my local?"

"Maybe. What's a local?"

"Ah, Americans," Ull chuckled. "Your local is your favorite pub. Mine happens to be around the corner from your flat. Shall we go together?"

"Yes, please."

Minutes later, we sat in the dimly-lit, wood-paneled room in the quiet pub. We were tucked away in a corner booth opposite the roaring fire. Ull had slid into the seat next to me rather than across from me. His arm rested around my shoulders, so I had no choice but to lean into him in the small space. It was another familiar gesture that felt so easy, so right, it was like he'd been in my life for years instead of days. Were all first dates like this – full of anticipation, longing, and the satisfaction of feeling like you fit perfectly together? They hadn't been, in my experience, but then there wasn't a whole lot that was typical about me.

As we sipped our drinks – tea for me, an Irish Coffee for Ull – I finally got to ask him about himself. He spoke unreservedly about his home, winter days spent skiing and snowshoeing with friends, and summer afternoons swimming in the ocean and grilling out at night.

"What about your family? Do you have brothers and sisters?" He'd been so busy with his interrogation I'd stored up what felt like a thousand questions.

"Not so much," he smiled lightly, though I felt his arm tense around me. "I do have a rather sizeable extended family though, makes up for it."

"Are they in Norway?"

"Yes. They all live in the same village actually, but it is pretty remote. Not a lot of contact with the rest of the world."

"How do they feel about you being so far from home?" An innocent enough subject, but Ull's knuckles whitened around his mug before he released his hand.

"They support me as much as they can in my choices, but they do not particularly understand why I would want a life outside of... outside of our village."

At that moment, my mental problem reared its ugly head. Clearly, the night was going too well.

_I sat in a meadow, underneath what looked like a willow tree. A warm breeze blew its leaves and I looked up at the strange tinkling sound – the leaves were actually made of silver. At the bottom of the knoll, two swans paddled across a pristine pond. A majestic castle rose as if from the clouds, pink and orange in the setting sun. But it wasn't the setting that took my breath away – it was the striking blond man sitting next to me, looking at me like I was the only woman in the world. It was Ull._

It was the first vision I'd ever wanted to stay in. I brought myself back against my will.

"Must be a really nice village." I hoped he hadn't noticed me slip away. Mormor always told me my little spells were too short for anyone to pay them any mind, but I was fairly positive she'd only said that so I wouldn't be any more self-conscious than I already was.

Ardis had said pretty much the same thing when I asked her. "I dunno, about ten seconds? They're not a big deal, Kristia, seriously. You just kind of get quiet, like you're thinking about something serious. Then you're back to normal again." But she'd had to say that – your best friend probably wouldn't tell you if you were zoning out like a weirdo for minutes at a time. Still, I hoped there was a grain of truth to Mormor and Ardis' kindness. Maybe Ull wouldn't pick up on my mind trips.

"My village is nice. And my family rarely leaves it. But me." He shrugged, mercifully oblivious to my mental jaunt. "I just wanted something different, I suppose."

"And what do you want, Ull?" I glanced up, relieved I'd stayed under the radar. A slow smile spread across his face.

"I do not think anyone has ever asked me that." He thought for a long moment. "I just want to be free to do the things I love – ski, skate, play hockey. Travel. I spent a winter skiing in the Alps, and it was paradise. It was the only time I have ever felt untouchable – flying down hills, completely cut off from everything but the mountain. No emotions, no expectations. No pressure."

When he looked at me there was gratitude in his eyes. "You have no idea how wonderful it is to open up to you. I am not able to talk with many people."

"That's your choice – girls try to talk to you all the time."

Ull laughed. "Let me rephrase. I am not comfortable talking with many people. But you, Kristia..." His look made my breath hitch. "You are easy to be with. You do not let me get away with anything. I can be myself with you."

We sat in peaceful silence, and I listened to the sound of Ull's breathing. I inhaled the woodsy smell coming from his neck, a musky combination of pine and earth. For the first time in my life, I felt like I might actually be where I was meant to be. I wasn't sure if I should be excited or terrified.

But I didn't get to make up my mind. Even pubs have closing times, and with a cheery wave our waitress informed us that time had come. "Well, Miss Tostenson," Ull said with a wink. "I suppose I had better get you home."

"I had a great night," I said honestly. Stupid closing time.

"I did too." He looked into my eyes like he was searching for something. With a sigh, he started the too-short drive back to my flat. He walked me to my door, took my hands gently between both of his, and bent, kissing each hand in turn.

"Thank you Kristia, for the most enjoyable evening I have ever had." My heart thudded with such fervor, I was sure it would give me away. His eyes looked almost wistful as he raised one finger to touch my cheek. I wanted to stand right there forever.

His hand lingered at my neck, and with a whispered " _God natt_ ," he walked back to his car and drove off into the cool night. I shivered, pulled my arms around my chest, and let myself into the apartment. I had a feeling my life was about to change in a big way.

"Two dates in one weekend. You don't waste time. Where did you say he's taking you tonight?" It was Sunday afternoon, and Victoria was examining the contents of my armoire with a critical eye.

"The castle."

"Lucky wench." Emma padded in and curled up on my bed. "Another date with Ull."

"I thought the castle closed at six."

"It does. But I guess there's some dinner thing they do after?"

"The Welsh Banquet." Emma's eyes were big. "That's fancy. Step it up, Vic."

"Which of these is your sexiest dress?" Victoria stared at her options, obviously dissatisfied.

"Um, the teal one. On the right with the dresses–" I started.

"Between the green dress and the black dress. You color coded your closet?" Emma snickered.

"This is your sexiest dress? This comes practically to your knees." Victoria's irritation was growing.

"I lived with my grandmother, okay?"

"It's kind of low cut," Emma offered helpfully. "Throw on a push up bra and those four–inch, nude patent heels of Victoria's..."

"My thoughts exactly." Victoria nodded. "Emma, I'm proud of you. You've been listening to me."

"Like I had any choice." Emma stuck out her tongue.

"We'll need major hair. I'm thinking Brigitte Bardot. And a cat eye." Victoria's mind was racing.

"Ooh, can we try that navy eyeliner I got last week?" Emma bounced to her knees.

"With the nude lipstick I picked up yesterday?" I pointed to the Clinique bag on my dresser. I may have gone out and bought all new makeup when Ull called to ask me out again. Seemed prudent.

"Yes and yes." Victoria clapped her hands together. "Let's get to work, ladies."

"Are you sure you will be all right on the stairs?" Ull stood in the grand hall of Cardiff Castle, glancing at the four-inch, shiny death-traps Victoria called shoes. Since Ull's eyes practically bugged out of his face when he picked me up, I had no intention of changing into the emergency flats I'd stuck in my purse. Victoria had scored another hit.

"Probably not. Walk behind me in case I fall?"

"It would be my pleasure."

"On our right, the coats of arms," continued the tour guide. He'd been talking for a good five minutes and I couldn't remember a single word. That was because Ull had started stroking the small of my back when our tour began, and it took all my concentration just to stay upright.

"The castle is gorgeous." I admired the stonework as we made our way toward the stairs. There I shifted focus to my feet, staring at each step until I'd reached the top. "Made it."

"And I was so hoping I would get to catch you." Ull came up next to me and skimmed my hand with the pads of his fingers.

"Well, the night is young and these shoes are high. You may still get your chance."

"Tease." Ull kissed my palm.

"Um." I swayed on the heels and he chuckled.

"Come, Miss Tostenson. We are losing the group."

"Right."

We walked the long corridor framed with paintings. All of the history in these walls was kind of overwhelming. The castle was two thousand years old. The oldest thing we had back in Nehalem was probably the Homestead. Cardiff Castle had about eighteen hundred years on that farm.

"This place is huge," I whispered when we'd caught up to the tour. "I can't imagine living here. How could you ever get comfortable?"

"You get used to it," Ull shrugged. "Find little corners to make your own."

"How on earth could anyone get used to all of this?"

"When you are stuck in it every day it gets old. Trust me."

"Right." Like Ull was an authority on royal dwellings. "Living in a castle sounds _sooo_ terrible."

"Depends on the day."

"What does that mean?"

"Just that these walls did more than keep people out – they kept people in, too."

I thought about my vision from Friday night – of Ull and me in a meadow by a castle. Huh.

"Where did you say your family lived, exactly?" I probed.

But Ull bristled. I'd hit a nerve. "Come Kristia, we have lost our group again." He gently pulled me down the hall.

"You may have noticed the Animal Wall in front of the Castle. Though William Burges designed the Wall in 1866, it was not constructed until 1890 – nine years after Burges's death." The guide lifted an eyebrow as we caught up. "Please do try to stay with the tour," he admonished before turning down another corridor. The rest of the group followed closely.

"Sorry." I ducked my head.

Ull raised a corner of his mouth in a smile. "Why, Kristia, you are blushing."

"And?" I lifted my chin, and took a step back so I stood against the wall.

"It is sweet." Ull paused and lifted a finger to my cheek. My knees buckled and he grabbed my arm to steady me. The touch sent shockwaves straight to my head, leaving me with the unnerving sensation of being underwater. I lost my bearings again and Ull wrapped both hands around my waist to stop my fall.

"Sorry," I mouthed. "Must be the shoes." I couldn't stop staring at his eyes. They almost looked nervous.

"Must be." He ran his finger along my jaw, stopping to grasp my chin between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes focused on my mouth and my heartbeat accelerated. He ran his thumb lightly over my lips. They parted under his touch. A wave of heat shot from my lower lip straight to my abdomen, creating a slow burn that wasn't altogether uncomfortable. I watched as his eyes slowly moved down then back up, lingering at the neckline of my dress. Victoria had been right about the push-up bra.

"Must be," I repeated.

Ull drew his eyes away from my cleavage and took a step closer. He leaned one forearm against the wall, leaving me enveloped between the cold stone and his warm chest. I was suddenly very dizzy.

"Kristia," he spoke in a whisper.

"Yes?" I whispered back. Ull was looking at me with an intensity I wasn't prepared for. He stepped in, closing the last inch between us.

"Look at me." He spoke again, lifting my chin so my lips were tilted towards his. If his body hadn't been pressed against mine, I would have collapsed in a heap that instant. Instead, I took a shaky breath as Ull dropped his head. He ran his nose along my jaw line, pausing when he reached my ear. He breathed in, the cool air sending a shiver down my neck. With painstaking slowness he drew his nose across my cheek until our lips were almost touching. Now when I looked into his eyes I saw something entirely different. He was strong. Confident. And very much in control.

I let out a small sigh and immediately he covered my mouth with his. It wasn't a gentle kiss – it was commanding, almost forceful. I melted against him as he claimed my lips, moved down my jaw to consume my neck. My insides throbbed. In that moment, I would have done absolutely anything he asked me to.

"Kristia," he whispered again.

"Mmm." It was the best I could muster by way of response.

"I think we need to stop."

_In God's name, why?_

"Will you be joining the rest of my tour, or shall I leave the two of you here?" The guide stood at the end of the corridor, literally tapping his foot. _Oops_.

Ull placed his hands around my waist to right me. I smoothed my hair and straightened my dress, my cheeks burning the whole time.

"Great timing," I muttered. Just when things were getting good.

"Do not worry Kristia." Ull winked. "We have all the time in the world."

I sure hoped so.

"Kristia, oh my sweet Kristia." The keening voice was back. I was shaken from a very pleasant dream. None too willingly, I might add. Thanks to my flat's flimsy curtains, I could see the Elf Man clearly this time. I immediately longed for the cover of darkness. Creepy Elf sat in a chair next to my bed, gently stroking my hair. I sat up, incensed, gathered my blankets, and held them up to my chin.

"Get your hands off of me! Who let you in here, anyway?" I demanded, feeling a pittance of the pluck I was trying to put off. I ducked as his hand reached out again. "For crying out loud, stop touching me!"

"Let me in? Oh, poor _human_. I can go anywhere I please. Nobody _lets_ me in." He hissed through a row of perfect, white teeth. I'd never met anyone who could be both sinister and sexy at the same time. It was disorienting.

"Why are you here?"

"To gloat."

"Excuse me?"

"You no longer threaten me. He will leave. You are not what I feared." His smile stretched from ear to ear.

"What are you talking about?" I inched farther from him on the bed, trying to get some distance. At the same time, I wanted to reach out for him. I wasn't usually this indecisive.

"Nothing of consequence, sweet Kristia," he seethed. He snapped his fingers and without warning I was on my back, staring up at his glowing face. "But if he comes for you again, if you try to join our world, you will join me instead."

"If who comes for me again? What are you even talking about?" My words fell on deaf, pointy ears. With another snap of his fingers, he was gone. I looked wildly around the room, but there was no trace of Elf Man. This time, I was only half sure it hadn't been real.

I tried desperately to go back to my happy place, to the enjoyable dream I'd been having before I was interrupted. I failed. And I didn't get much sleep that night, either.

"Oh my gosh! Tell me! What exactly happened at dinner? Don't leave anything out!" It was Monday afternoon and my Archaeology study group had just gotten out. Since I'd gotten home too late to debrief the night before, I stopped by Emma's class with a vanilla latte. Though judging by her pitch, a double shot was the last thing she needed.

"Shh." I sipped my Earl Grey. "What if he hears you?"

"Ull's not in Statistics," Emma sighed. I glanced over her shoulder and saw Henry approaching, textbooks in hand. He gazed at my flatmate with an adoring look, but Emma continued talking, oblivious. "The only guys we get in there are total dwee–"

"Hi Henry," I interrupted loudly. "How was class?"

"Good, good." Henry smiled at Emma as he walked up the path. "What do you think Emma, should we hold study group tomorrow afternoon or tomorrow evening?"

"Evening," Emma voted. "I've got heaps of problems to work through before I could even begin to analyze today's notes."

"Excellent. I'll send the e-mail. See you then."

"See you." Emma waved cheerfully and turned back to me. "So. After dinner. You. Ull. Did you go back to his place?"

"Emma! No! It was our second date!"

"Victoria would have closed the deal in one."

"She would do no such thing," I argued.

"For a guy like Ull? Are you kidding? Anyone would. What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," I sighed. "Okay, something I guess." A lot of somethings. What _was_ wrong with me?

"So, what happened?"

"We ate dinner. That hall is amazing by the way. All wood-paneled and hand-painted and everything."

"Serious?" Emma took another drink of her latte. "I've never been in it. It's not part of the regular tour. It's just for banquets and events."

"Oh."

"Enough about the room. Did he kiss you?"

"Yes." Thinking about it made me dizzy all over again.

"And?" Emma bounced on her toes.

"It was amazing. Everything you'd think a kiss from Ull Myhr would feel like. I literally forgot where I was. And then the tour guide came back all annoyed, and Ull said something like 'we have all the time in the world' and–"

"Oh my gosh!"

"I know, right? So after dinner, I figured we'd pick up from there and... we did. Sort of."

"What do you mean 'sort of'?"

"We drove out to this other castle that was built for one of the Marquesses that lived at the first castle."

"Castell Coch," Emma sighed. "So pretty."

"It really is."

"But it closes super early. How'd you get in there?"

"We didn't go in, we just parked on the road and walked into the park."

"But the guards?"

"I wondered the same thing," I shrugged. "But you've met Ull. People don't generally tell him no. Plus the guard was a girl, so that helped."

"Okay, so your date flirted his way into the Castell Coch grounds after hours. What did you do?" Emma tugged at my arm.

"We... well..." I blushed.

"Yes?" she grinned.

"We totally kissed again. It was fantastic. He backed me up against this tree and he just..." What should I say? That he'd grabbed me by the hair and pulled my head back so he could ravage my neck? That I'd had an uncharacteristic moment of indiscretion and let his mouth wander just south of my collar bone? That I had been strongly considering asking him to move an inch lower when another guard found us and made us leave?

"And he just what?" Emma was beside herself.

"And he just... kissed me. I can't describe it." I couldn't. Not without turning five shades of red.

"Oh, Kristia," Emma sighed.

"I know. But another guard told us we had to leave, so we got in Ull's car. And he was really sweet and held my hand on the drive home and walked me to the door and everything. But then he just kissed me on the cheek and said good night and that was it. He didn't try to come in. I didn't ask him to." I wasn't a total slut.

"Well." Emma chewed her lip. "Maybe he had an early morning. Or maybe he's a gentleman and he didn't want to steal your virtue."

"He didn't have to steal my virtue." I blushed. "But another couple of kisses would have been okay."

"I'm sure that's coming. When are you going to see him again?"

"I don't know." I shook my head. "He didn't ask me out again."

"He will." Emma finished her drink and tossed it in the trash.

"I hope so." I heard a muffled ringing and dug around in my backpack until I found my phone. I checked the screen. "It's him!"

"You still have a flip phone? Good Lord Kristia, join the twenty-first century." Emma shook her head.

"Hello?" I stuck out my tongue at my iPhone-toting flatmate and answered Ull's call.

" _Hei hei_ Kristia."

"Hi Ull," I breathed. Emma did a poor job of hiding her laughter.

"I like your sweater. That color looks nice with your hair."

I spun around and saw him across the quad. He sat on a bench, his ankle resting on a knee. One hand held his phone while the other arm stretched lightly along the back of the bench. He was the epitome of relaxed. A slow smile spread across his face as he stood and pushed a button to end the call. As he walked towards me, my insides turned soft.

"I cannot believe you got to kiss that." Emma followed my stare.

"Shh." I elbowed her in the side. "He might hear you!"

"So?" She rubbed her ribs.

"Kristia." Ull pulled me into a hug once he'd crossed the quad. "What a nice surprise."

"Hi." I tried not to throw myself at him in a desperate attempt to relive the best moment of my life. _All the time in the world, all the time in the world._ "Ull, this is my roommate Emma."

"We had a class together last year. You probably don't remember me–" Emma babbled.

"Emma. How nice to see you again. You study math, correct?"

"Yes. Yes, I do." Emma flipped her hair and stared adoringly. At least I wasn't the only one who forgot their sense around Ull.

"Emma, may I steal your flatmate for a few minutes?"

"Of course." she giggled again. "See you at home, K."

"See you." I waved. I turned to Ull. "Fancy seeing you here."

"My class just let out." Ull jutted his chin towards the humanities building. "But I did not think you had classes on Mondays."

"I don't. Archaeology study group."

"How was that?"

"Fun. I've never taken anything like it, so some of the material is a little over my head. But I'm enjoying it. Professor Copp is a great teacher."

"I've heard good things about her. I think Gunnar took one of her classes."

"Gunnar?" I sipped my tea. Great name.

"My best friend."

"Ah. How'd you guys meet?" I wanted to know everything about Ull.

"We met in primary school. My mom had just married Thor and I was the new kid. Gunnar was the first to be nice to me."

"Your stepdad's named Thor? Like God of Thunder Thor? Who names their kid that?" I shook my head.

"Uh, right." Ull became very interested in his shoe. "Crazy parents, you know."

Immediately I felt dumb. Thor had nothing on Ull in the tough name department. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking. That's probably a really popular name where you're from."

"Yes, very popular," Ull spoke quickly. "There are lots of men named Thor, does not mean they have any relation to _the_ Thor. They are just normal men. Not gods at all."

"O-kay." That was a weird reaction. Either something was up or he really did have an early morning. I shifted my tea to my other hand. "So how long did you say you've known Gunnar?"

"About eight hundred years."

"Excuse me?" I paused mid sip.

"You know," Ull tugged at his sweater. "I mean it feels like eight hundred years. Because we live together, and we get on each other's nerves and all."

What was going on? "Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes. Feeling fine. Just tired – you kept me out late." Ull treated me to a rakish grin, and I forgot all about this strange conversation. The only thing I could think about was the way his lips curved up in a smile. And what I wanted those lips to be doing right now.

"I think you could use a cup of coffee. My treat," I offered.

"Thank you Kristia, but I have to meet a professor in five minutes." Ull checked his watch. "May I call you this evening?"

"Any time." I hoped I didn't sound too desperate.

"Excellent." He bent to kiss my cheek. My knees buckled and he caught me. "We can make plans for this weekend."

"I can't wait." I watched his denim-clad backside make its way across the quad, and I hugged myself. The weekend couldn't come fast enough.

# Chapter 6

The evening came and went, and I didn't hear from Ull. He didn't show up to Mythology on Tuesday either. At first I was worried. I tried calling him, but his voicemail was turned off – and I didn't have his home number. I didn't know where he lived, so I couldn't stop by to make sure he was okay. Not that I would have; he didn't need to know how obsessed I'd become.

But a few days passed, and I started to think Ull might not be sick at all – what if he was avoiding me? He knew how to reach me if he wanted to see me again. And my phone was silent. Ugh, I was so naïve. Ull told me what I wanted to hear to get what he wanted. He'd been a jerk for a whole week, and when he'd needed to borrow my notes, he suddenly got all nice. Then he made out with me in a couple of castles and just disappeared. How did I not see this coming?

The unavoidable truth hit me in full force on Thursday morning. Ull got to know me and he just wasn't that into me. I might not have known a whole lot about dating, but I did know he'd have called by now if he wanted to. There was no way around it. I'd opened myself up to a guy I barely knew, and he didn't like me back. Humiliation washed over me in waves.

The problem was that Ull wasn't the kind of guy you could just stop thinking about. Spending time with Nice Ull had been pretty fantastic. And now that I knew how great he could be, how was I going to go back to just ignoring him around campus?

I was going to have to cancel my pity party if I didn't want to flunk out of Cardiff. My first class of the day was Mythology, and it started in less than an hour. "Of course," I moaned, indulging in one last moment of misery.

Mythology. He would be there. I briefly contemplated staying in bed, but the semester was long and I couldn't avoid him forever. It wasn't like I'd fallen in love or anything. Besides, Mormor hadn't raised me to get all wrapped up in a guy. With a groan, I rolled out of bed and took extra care getting ready.

I used almost all of the products in my new Clinique bag, from tinted moisturizer to lash curling mascara. With great care, I utilized the big _and_ the small barreled curling irons and teased my hair into the style from the back cover of Victoria's fashion magazine. There was no point in looking as pathetic as I felt.

It took tremendous effort not to drag my feet as I walked to class, and I slunk into the lecture hall and hid behind my perfectly curled hair. I permitted myself a glance towards his usual seat, but it was empty again. With a sigh, I headed to my row. Henry was waiting.

"Kristia." He nodded.

"Henry." I nodded back, not having the energy to fake a good mood. Thankfully, he was an easy seatmate.

"You look nice today. Going somewhere after class?"

"Nope. Unless you want to get a cup of tea." I booted up my laptop.

"Rough morning?" Henry typed the date.

"You have no idea."

"Well then, tea's on me." He patted my forearm, a brotherly gesture.

"Thanks, Henry."

"Don't mention it. Hey, do you think you could e-mail me your notes from Tuesday? I accidentally deleted part of the lecture on Jotunheim."

"Sure." I tried not to think about the last guy I'd shared my notes with. Look where that had landed me.

"Good morning, class," Professor Carnicke took the podium, her sandy hair swinging behind her. "Let's begin. On Tuesday, we talked about Jotunheim. Asgard had enemies in almost every realm. These enemies worked together to defeat the gods at Ragnarok, but each realm also launched regular attacks on Asgard.

"The gods were divine – giants, dwarves, and dark elves wanted to see them fall. So Odin developed an intricate series of defenses to preserve his world. Today we're going to discuss the Warriors of Asgard and how they relate to Odin's bloodline. As heirs to the realm, Thor, Sif and their descendants played a vital role in Norse myths."

"Try to pay attention today, Henry," I whispered. "I don't want to have to tell Emma you mooched notes off me all semester."

"Hardee har har."

"Okay. Odin established several lines to defend against Ragnarok. The Valkyries of Valhalla trained the front line. This all-female army rode winged horses to collect fallen, human soldiers from the battlefield. They brought them back to Asgard, and taught them to fight for Odin.

"But Odin knew the Valkyries were not enough. While they trained soldiers for Ragnarok, someone had to handle the day-to-day attacks on the realm. The Warriors of Asgard were Odin's preemptive line. They traveled throughout the realms, eliminating threats as they arose. When Odin got word of a Fire Giant uprising, he dispatched his Warriors to Muspelheim. When the Dark Elves found a way to breach Asgard, the Warriors were sent to Svartalfheim to dispose of the conspirators. Odin was unsympathetic and unforgiving – any threat to Asgard was a capital offense, and the Warriors had orders to kill anyone involved."

"Sounds kind of harsh," I whispered to Henry.

"Not really." He shrugged. "If your death was prophesied, wouldn't you kill first, and ask questions later?"

Maybe.

"Odin's son, Thor, had a special connection to the Warriors. The God of Thunder used his hammer, Mjölnir, and his belt, Megingjörd, to literally crush his enemies. And he worked closely with the Warriors to train them for battle. That's how he came to meet a warrior named Sif, who also happened to be the Goddess of Beauty. He married her and adopted her son, Ullr." She wrote the name on the board.

Ullr. Just one letter off from Ull. Even when I wasn't thinking about him he managed to creep into my day. Jerk.

"You okay?" Henry shot me a look.

"Sure. Why?"

"You're typing _really_ loud. You're going to break your keyboard."

Oops.

"Little is known about Ullr, though based on the number of sites throughout Scandinavia bearing his name, he must have played a vital role in early Norse cultures. It is believed his father was a warrior who died in battle. And on becoming Thor's stepson, Ullr became a titled god – God of Winter."

What had she just said? I scanned my notes, reading back Professor Carnicke's words. _Thor's stepson, Ullr_... _God of Winter._ A deity with a stepdad named Thor going by the name of Ullr... or Ull.

It couldn't be possible. Could it?

I wasn't going to get an answer any time soon. Ull never did show up to class, and I didn't see him around campus the rest of the day, either. Usually, I caught a glimpse of him getting tea between classes, or heading through the east door of the library in the early afternoon. I didn't know his schedule or anything, but he stood out; it was hard not to notice him.

I did a good job of going through the motions the rest of the week without thinking too much about whether I'd kissed a real life god. I went to classes, smiled at Emma's jokes, even went out for ice cream with my flatmates. By Friday afternoon, I still hadn't seen Ull around campus, and my curiosity got the best of me.

Since pride goeth before the fall of the world's most useless psychic, I decided to swallow what little I had left and call him. The least he could do was tell me that he wasn't into me. I braced myself as I dialed his mobile. One ring, two. I could hang up now and spare myself any more embarrassment. Three rings, four. Oh, right. Stupid caller ID would out me even if I hung up now. Five rings. Then a click, as the call was forwarded to Ull's voicemail.

So he'd turned it on. My palms got all sweaty at the velvety sound of his voice. The outgoing message said he'd gone out of town for a while, and would check his messages periodically. Was the idea of a third date so awful that he'd run away?

The short beep caught me off guard. "Uh, hi Ull. I just wanted to say, um... hi, since you know, I haven't heard from you... about getting together this weekend." Oh, good heavens. Of course he knew that. "I mean, I'm sure you're busy, and I understand if you, uh, don't want to call." _Stop. Talking. NOW._ "But you weren't in class, and, well, I, uh, just wanted to make sure you're okay. I mean, I'm sure you're okay. You probably just, um... yeah. Talk to you later." I banged my head against the wall. Thankfully, I'd stopped babbling before I could tell him I really wanted to make out again. I had some dignity.

Adding insult to the injury that was my day, my Ragnarok nightmare came back that night.

_As I stood in a field of English lavender, Ull suddenly appeared at my side. He didn't acknowledge me. His eyes were focused on the horizon, waiting for attack. I was so surprised to see him that I forgot all about the snake and the wolf, who were bent on killing us._

_"What, now you decide to show up? Where have you been for the last week? You couldn't pick up the phone to let me know you were okay?"_

_Ull's eyes flickered towards mine without a hint of remorse. "I was protecting you."_

_"From what?" I glared at him while the snake wove a path through the purple field._

_"From this. All of this," Ull gestured around the field, his eyes coming to rest on the enormous wolf circling us. "You have no idea what you are getting into."_

_That was all he had to say. Everything turned red. I was so full of anger – anger at Ull for dumping me, anger at myself for caring. Anger that I was letting some guy take my focus off my amazing European adventure._

_"Well thanks a lot Viking, but you know what? I've got this covered." My rage boiled over and I grabbed a sharp stick that was sitting on the ground, clenching it in my fists and looking for something to kill. The snake came first, standing on its tail and bearing its fangs as it prepared to strike. But I was faster, slamming the stick into its body and impaling the creature that'd killed me hundreds of times before. It froze mid-strike, shock on its reptilian features before it fell limp at my feet. Ull took a step back, obviously caught off guard._

_"Not so helpless after all, am I, Mr. Perfect?" My hand twitched as the wolf circled slowly, intent on avenging its friend. It was no match for my pent up anger. The rage built again and I charged for the animal, staking its eye and making it cry out. It ran into the darkness, yelping all the way. For the first time ever, I had won. And I'd done it on my own_.

When I woke, I felt better – stronger. I still wished things had worked out differently with Ull, but I was done hoping for a call that wasn't going to come from a guy I barely even knew, who may or may not even be human. I'd come all this way for an adventure. Was I really going to waste my time mooning over some tacky guy who couldn't be bothered to pick up the phone? I didn't think so.

The next week dragged by. Ull never came back to class. Well, fine. Who needed a tortured Viking anyway? Without Ull around, I was able to relax, smiling through conversations with my new friends and even going for tea again with Henry after Mythology. He only asked me about Emma three times. I made a note to put in a good word for him.

When Friday rolled around, Victoria and Emma came home bubbling with big disco plans. A group of their friends was getting together at a local club, and the girls were determined to drag me along.

"Oh, I don't know," I demurred. "I really wanted to watch that marathon of Sports Wives tonight." I gestured to the pizza box in front of me, flanked by two packs of those caramel-chocolate McVities "biscuits" Emma had gotten me hooked on.

"No can do, missy. We know you were down about Ull, though you've been doing a fab job of _keeping calm and carrying on_ , as we say." Victoria winked at me.

"I'm not upset about Ull. Seriously," I added when Victoria frowned. "That's last week's news. I really, really want to watch Sports Wives and eat these ridiculously good cookies."

"Sorry, K. Emma promised James that you'd come out with us tonight, and he is determined to make a go of it with you."

"Who?"

"James. From across the courtyard. Kristia, we _talked_ about him." Emma tapped her foot.

"Oh, right. Where did you say you're going?" I eyed my cookies with longing.

"Dancing."

"Uh, no." I shook my head. "Not the best activity for me." I lifted my fuzzy slippers. "Two left feet. See?"

"Forget it, Kristia. You're going." Emma was firm. Victoria squared her shoulders.

"Oh, fine. But only if I can wear something of yours."

Victoria's eyes lit up. "I was hoping you'd say that!" She ran off, her eyes glossy as she dove straight into her armoire.

I regretted my words as we walked the short distance from the parking garage to the club. Victoria had outfitted me in a teensy dress and stiletto boots. What was she thinking putting me in three-inch heels to dance? Even so, it was nice to be out with the girls.

They were making me laugh with racy stories about their early years at Cardiff, and I was actually excited to meet the guy they were so insistent on setting me up with. But when we walked up to the very same nightclub I'd been to with Ull, my stomach dropped. My pining may have been over, but it didn't mean the rejection didn't still sting.

I told myself I only had to smile for a few hours, and then I could crawl into bed. Those biscuits would even still be waiting for me. Head held high and mindful of my step, I followed my giggling girlfriends into the club.

# Chapter 7

Before I took two **** wobbly steps into the nightclub, I knew I'd made a mistake. Coming here with Ull had been amazing – dancing in his arms, breathing in that smell that seemed too good to be real. The only things I smelled now were stale beer and sweaty frat-boys.

An over-eager James was waiting inside the club. He wasn't bad looking, if you were into the whole Clark Kent thing. He was tall and dark, with retro glasses that were either extremely dorky or hipster cool – Victoria could have said for sure.

"Come on, love." He tugged at me the minute I'd taken off my coat. "Let's dance!"

I tried; honestly I did. But my mind was on my last dance partner, the way he'd easily led me around the floor as if from another era. Dancing with James wasn't nearly so nice. The caramel McVities waiting for me at home were the only company I wanted.

"Sorry," I mumbled as I backed away. "My shoes, um... hurt." That wasn't exactly a lie. At the bar, I ordered a tonic water and slumped on the stool. I had a headache from the flashing lights, and runny eyes from a nearby cigarette. My flatmates were at the far end of the room, dancing their hearts out. They wouldn't miss me if I slipped out for a while. I put my drink down and turned to leave.

I hadn't made it far when a belligerent frat-boy type moved into my path. He sloshed his drink, narrowly avoiding my boots. I tried to step around him, but he slid an unwanted arm around my waist. His grip was too tight – he was stronger than he looked.

"Hey baby. Wanna dance?" It was a command, and the group behind him shouted their encouragement. I immediately regretted not checking in with my friends. If I had, maybe someone would have offered to walk me home.

"No thanks." I tried to twist out of the guy's hold, but he grabbed my arm.

"You're not going anywhere." The group closed in around me, pushing me towards the back exit. I looked frantically for Emma and Victoria. Why didn't anybody notice this was happening? Of course, with the flashing lights, we probably seemed like a group of friends dancing. I thought about kicking the one holding me – drunk as he was, I could confuse him, at best. But even if I knocked him down, I'd never get through the whole gang. It didn't matter; I had to do something. I squared my hips, preparing to fight.

"Leave me alone," I yelled, hoping that someone would hear me over the din. The boys laughed harder. As I psyched myself up to kick the one leeched on my arm, a large figure stepped from the shadows. His brow was furrowed and his eyes burned with fury. He towered over the crowd as he squared his shoulders. A lock of blond hair fell over one livid eye, and the growl that came from his throat sent a wave of alarm through the circle. I felt immediate relief. Nobody was going to mess with Ull.

"Is there a problem?" The words were a threat, and some of the fringe members stepped back involuntarily, blending into the crowd.

"Yes!" I cried, just as the boy holding my arm slurred, "Naw, man. We were just going outside." He slung a drunken arm over my shoulder, defying me to disagree.

My towering savior shook his head. "I heard the lady tell you to leave her alone." He took one menacing step into the center of the group, sending all but my attacker scattering. The boy was drunk, but not drunk enough to pick a fight with my enraged hero, and he backed away, waving his hands in surrender.

"Hey man, I didn't mean anything by it." He whipped his head back and forth looking for a way out. Ull grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off the ground with one arm. I'd never seen anyone do that in real life. The boy dangled helplessly mid-air. He winced, anticipating the blow.

Ull leaned down to hiss into his ear. "I know exactly what you meant."

"C'mon man, she wanted it." Wrong thing to say. Ull's eyes blazed and his arm started to shake. "Can't. Breathe." The boy choked on the words. Ull's mouth twisted into a half smile and suddenly he and the boy were gone. They literally vanished into thin air. One minute they'd been standing two feet from me, and the next – poof. They were nowhere to be seen.

"Ull?" I pivoted a full circle. He wasn't there.

"Did you see that?" I turned to the couple next to me but they shook their heads. Had I imagined the whole thing? Was I even crazier than usual?

"Kristia," I heard Ull's voice before I saw him. He was coming through the back door. He crossed to me and pulled me into a hug. "Thank goodness you are all right. That cretin will not bother you again."

Okay, what was going on?

"Where did you go?" My question was muffled by Ull's chest. He was holding me really tight.

"I took the jerk outside, gave him a stern talking to."

"Right," I tried to pull away, but Ull was too strong. "Let go, Ull." He did, reluctantly. "I mean where did you go? You just disappeared like some magic trick."

"I walked outside, Kristia." Ull shook his head.

"No you didn't. You had that guy by the neck, and then he said I wanted it and you just –" I twirled my finger. "Poof. Gone."

"It has been a long night. Wait here," Ull commanded, and while I didn't appreciate taking orders, I didn't think to disobey. He had a brief talk with the barman, no doubt making sure the perps couldn't cause any more harm, and came back with our coats on his arm. I didn't ask how he had known which jacket was mine.

"Come Kristia, I am taking you home." He strode across the dance floor, still shaking, as I hastily told my roommates I would meet them at our flat. Outside, it was so cold the trout must have been tap dancing, and Ull's long legs took strides so big, I had to run to keep up. He stopped under a streetlight and his breath came out in small puffs. His body was tense, but his eyes were so soft, the grey-blue of the sky after a storm. I both adored and hated him all at once.

"Are you all right, Kristia?" He seemed genuinely concerned.

"I'm fine, thanks. How did you..." My sentence trailed off.

He drew another ragged breath. "Right place, right time, I guess," he said halfheartedly. He obviously wasn't telling the whole truth. I scanned his face and he shrugged.

"That's not what I mean. Are you going to tell me about that whole disappearing act in the club?" Or explain how he and his stepdad had the same names as the gods I'd taken a quiz on this week?

"Not tonight."

"Then goodnight, Ull."

"Wait." He seemed at a loss. "I suppose we should talk."

"I don't know if I want to talk to you. You didn't call me, remember?" I sounded a lot more bitter than I meant to.

"Right. That. You deserve an explanation." Ull had the grace to look ashamed, but it only fueled my anger.

"For what? Making out with me in the middle of a castle – no, two castles – and just leaving me hanging? For lying to me about having ' _the most enjoyable evening you have ever had_ ' and then not bothering to call when you said you would?" My exaggeration of his soft accent was terrible.

But I was building steam. "It's been two weeks and I've heard nothing from you. Nothing! I actually believed you when you said Nice Ull was the real you. Was that some kind of a joke? Because clearly, you're the same jerk who spent a week giving me nasty looks for absolutely no reason."

"I would hardly say I am a jerk, Kristia."

"Really? Then what would you call making out with someone all night and then dropping off the face of the earth? You made me feel this big." I pinched my fingers together and held them just under his nose. "And where do you get off acting like that? What kind of scumbag just drops the cow once he gets a taste of the milk? Huh?"

"Would you be the cow in that scenario?"

"Don't mess with me right now, buddy," I threatened. "I called you. Because that's what nice people do when the person they like goes missing. They pick up the phone and call. I thought something awful had happened to you. I was so stupid! Was this whole thing just some ploy to see how far you could get with me?" The corner of Ull's mouth turned up in a smirk. It was infuriating. "Oh, so this is funny to you?" I winced at the shrillness in my voice. It wasn't dignified, but he had it coming.

"Nobody here has ever spoken to me like this." Now the smirk was a full-fledged smile.

"Well somebody needs to. You think because you're so superior, you can just parade around and do whatever you want? Do the rest of us even matter to you?" I was shaking, my hands balled into tight fists.

"Are you finished?"

"Hardly," I muttered, glaring into Ull's endless blue, traitor eyes.

"I did just save you," Ull reminded me.

"I had things under control." My voice was testy.

"Oh, did you?"

"I was getting there."

"Right. Well, while you were getting there, I took care of the problem. The least you can do is let me explain." I thought about what I'd have been doing right now if Ull hadn't come along in the nightclub. Guilt stepped lightly on Anger's toes.

"You know what Ull?" I sighed, too exhausted to fight anymore. "I've had a long night. I just want to go home."

"Do you want to hear my explanation?"

"Do you think it'll make any difference?"

"Maybe."

I shook my head. "Maybe's not good enough." I turned and walked toward campus.

"Where do you think you are going?"

"I told you. Home." Heavy footsteps followed me.

"This conversation is not over." Ull sounded strained.

"Yes, it is. I get it. You weren't that into me. You're lousy at dumping girls. Case closed."

"Kristia," Ull grabbed my hand, forcing me to stop. "Please. It is not what you think."

I pulled my hand back and folded my arms. "It doesn't matter, Ull. I just want to go home." As I started my brisk walk, Ull matched my pace.

"Fine. You may go home."

"Gee, thanks." Could he be any more arrogant?

"But this conversation is not over," He marched confidently beside me.

"Where exactly do you think you're going?"

"With you."

"You are not coming home with me." I didn't care how good he looked in that coat; I was a woman of substance.

"I am making sure you get home safely, whether you like it or not. We can talk tomorrow." The smugness in his voice got under my skin.

"I seriously doubt that," I muttered, picking up my pace in an effort to get away from him. At that moment, Ull was the last person I wanted to be around.

"Uh, Kristia." Emma's voice trilled through my bedroom door at an ungodly hour for a Sunday morning. "You have to get out here."

Reluctantly, I grabbed my favorite slippers and tied my ballet sweater around the thin camisole I'd worn to bed. Shuffling towards the hall, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. "This better be good, Em."

"Oh, it is," Victoria grinned from the couch where she sipped at a cup of coffee. She gestured to an enormous bouquet on the table. White roses filled the room with their heady scent, and hydrangeas and foxgloves filled out the arrangement. "They're for you," Victoria finished.

"Who..." But my insides fluttered when I opened the card. ' _I am sorry. Call me. Ull. '_ I crumpled the card and chucked it into the trash bin. Letting out a word that would have earned Mormor's disapproval, I stomped back to my room. If Ull thought some stupid flowers would make me fall all over him, he had another thing coming.

"Wait! Who are they from?" Emma pleaded.

"Who do you think?" I could almost hear Victoria roll her eyes as I slammed my door. Ull was getting on my last nerve.

By the time my next Mythology class rolled around, I'd successfully avoided five of Ull's calls and one personal appearance at my flat, no thanks to the lousy acting skills of sweet Emma, who was highly unconvincing in declaring I wasn't home. I slipped into class at the last possible minute, but Ull was still waiting inside the door.

"Kristia," he greeted me with his impossibly arrogant grin.

"Ull," I acknowledged before making a beeline for the front row. He wouldn't be able to bother me under the professor's nose.

"Kristia," Ull sighed. "We can do this all year. I have nothing but time." He took the seat next to me as I focused on setting up my computer. "But trust me, you want to hear what I have to say."

"I highly doubt that," I muttered with all the civility I could manage. Use me once, shame on you. I wasn't interested in going down that road again. Thankfully, Professor Carnicke chose that moment to launch into her lecture, and for ninety blissful minutes, decorum required Ull's silence. As soon as she closed her book, I jumped up, stuffing my laptop into my bag and tripping over my feet in my rush to leave the room.

"Careful, Miss Tostenson," of course Ull was right there to catch me. I snatched my arm away.

"Listen," I countered angrily. "You aren't into me. I get it. Stop following me around! Just let me be."

"You do not mean that."

"I really do! It's embarrassing enough to have to see you every day, the last thing I want to do is listen to why you don't want to go out with me again. You don't owe me anything. Honest. Please, just leave me alone."

"Kristia, it really is not like that."

"I don't care what it's like. I have to go." I raced out of the classroom and didn't stop until I reached the Student Houses. I threw myself onto the couch and dropped my head into my hands. No wonder I'd always stayed away from guys. My life suddenly felt way too complicated.

"Uh, Kristia?" Victoria knocked on my door the next evening.

"Come in." I raised my head from the literature text I was studying. Molière was always good for a laugh, and right now I really needed one. "What's going on?"

"Well, I don't mean to bother you, but I just tried to leave the flat, and I was stopped by these." She held up a handful of white orchids. "And there are heaps more where they came from." Her glee was poorly disguised.

"You think this is funny, don't you?"

"You have to admit, most girls would be over the moon if Ull Myhr was sending them flowers."

"Stalking them, more like it."

"Whatever." Victoria shrugged. "I brought the rest into the living room. I'm not one to tell you what to do–" I snorted at her blatant lie. "In matters of the heart," Victoria continued indignantly. "But if the lad is that determined to talk to you, I'd wager he has something pretty important to say."

I rolled my eyes and made my way down the hall. "What the..." Every surface of the living area was covered in vases of white flowers. The scent was simultaneously heavenly and cloying. I picked my way through the arrangements until I found the biggest one. I opened the attached card with a resigned groan.

_'Kristia,'_ it read. _'Please hear me out. I left because my life is complicated, and I do not know if it is fair to involve you. I want to tell you everything, but if you really want nothing more to do with me, tell me in class tomorrow and I will leave you alone. Ull.'_

Oh, criminy. What was I supposed to do now?

The next morning, I hovered outside the classroom with two minutes to spare, still unsure. On the one hand, he'd dropped me once. I wasn't so stupid as to head blindly down that path again, and he was giving me an out – say the word and he'd leave me alone for good. On the other hand, I really had enjoyed our dates. And no guy had ever worked so hard to win my attention.

Heck, until recently, no guy had ever brought me flowers – and here Ull was spending the gross national debt on white blooms. A small part of me still held onto the hope that Ull might be the first guy ever who liked me just for me. While a bigger part of me was screaming ' _don't be a fool! Run!'_

I shook my head. I had no idea what I was going to do.

I kept my head high as I walked into the room. A quick scan revealed Ull in the third row, seeming relaxed as he leaned back in his seat. But a closer look showed he was gripping his pen and his shoulders were squared. He was waiting for me. And he was nervous. I made up my mind, easing my way into his row and carefully sitting two seats away. Ull turned with a tight smile, cocking his head to one side.

"What does this mean?"

"It means I'm still mad you didn't call. And it means I still don't trust you. But I'm willing to hear you out." I kept my hands balled in my lap. "Also, thank you for the flowers."

Ull's face lit up. "I am so glad." He exhaled and the tension visibly left his shoulders. "I will pick you up at eight o'clock tonight. We can talk then."

"Tonight? What's wrong with now?"

Ull tilted his head towards the podium where Professor Carnicke was opening her book. "Would not want to be rude, would we?" He gave me an infuriating wink and turned his attention to the lecture.

At eight o'clock, a firm knock interrupted my reading. I picked my way through the flower shop that our living room had become and opened the door.

"Oh good, you kept my peace offerings." Ull treated me to a rakish grin.

"Just a few of them," I muttered. "Come on in."

"Oh, no. You must come with me."

"Why?" I challenged. Ull sighed.

"Are you going to fight me at every turn?"

"Probably."

"Please come." He looked so adorable standing on my stoop, his scarf casually thrown across the grey sweater under his coat. I gave in quicker than I meant to.

"Fine." I grabbed my coat from the closet by the door and shoved my keys and wallet into the pocket. "Where are we off to?" I closed the door behind me and followed Ull into the brisk night, waiting for his promised explanation.

But he didn't say anything. Instead, he put his hand on the small of my back and guided me away from campus. I shivered, and noticed that Ull wore his jacket open, at ease in the chill. As we rounded the corner, Ull dropped his hand to clasp mine. It was so warm, so strong, and for a moment, I forgot to be mad at him. We walked in silence as he led me down the main road. After two right turns, I found myself standing in a quiet garden. Ull had brought me to a church.

# Chapter 8

"Have you been here before?" Ull's voice was soft. I looked around the courtyard, covered in flowers, with vines trailing up the sides of the charming chapel.

"No," I answered. The square was beautiful, but I'd been promised answers.

"I come here a lot. Sometimes I just walk the garden." Ull sat on a stone bench, somehow even more beautiful in the moonlight. An eternity passed before he started talking.

"This is a Norse Seaman's Church," Ull spoke quietly. "It wasn't built until the mid-twentieth century, but it blends with the town's older buildings." I wrapped my arms around my chest. I wasn't in the mood for another history lesson.

"It's very peaceful." It was all I could think of to say.

"Yes," he said calmly. We stared at the bounty of ivory roses growing in the eastern corner of the garden, and the ivy stretching up the white walls of the chapel. "When I am here I can forget..." His body tensed, his brow furrowed, and his eyes grew dark. I sighed – Angry Ull.

"Uh, you lost me." But no clarification was forthcoming. I was uncomfortable waiting. It wasn't exactly evening stroll weather.

"So are you going to give me this alleged explanation or not? Taking me to a church doesn't exactly cut it." I glanced impatiently at Ull's tense frame. I didn't know what to make of him. While I waited for a response, he kept staring at the sky.

"Seriously Ull? You dragged me out here in the cold for nothing? That's it – I'm done." I turned to walk away. This was the worst fairytale ending ever.

"Kristia." He hung his head, staring at his hands. I stopped but didn't turn. "Please come sit with me."

"Why?"

"Please."

Curious and desperate for his companionship, I sat. A shiver ran through me as a gust of wind blew through the garden. I pulled my coat tighter around me. Ull took off his scarf and wrapped it around my neck. The gesture would have been sweet two weeks ago.

"I owe you an explanation."

"We already established that."

"Kristia, let me talk!" He looked up with pleading eyes. They bored into mine, as if he could see through my pretense and right into my broken heart. He took a deep breath, his broad shoulders rising and falling with effort. He unclasped his hands, then clasped them again until his knuckles turned white. "Kristia, I had a very nice time on our dates. Those days with you were the best I have had in–" He stared at the ground. "In a long time."

"Right. Then why did you just take off?" The words were out before I could stop them.

Ull thought. "Come with me." He stood. I followed. But I hesitated when he opened the church door.

"Are we supposed to be in there?" Rule followers did not break into churches at night.

Ull laughed. "The pastor is a friend." He ushered me into the warm chapel. Row after row of chocolate-colored pews were stunning in their simplicity. The wood of the benches shone with fresh polish and the little altar at the front of the aisle held a pulpit with a carved crest – a hammer, a cross, and a figure I didn't recognize. The room was small for a church, and very plainly decorated. Only the woodwork and the crest stood out. It was enchanting.

Ull left me sitting in a pew and came back with a plate of heart shaped waffles with jam, and two cups of tea. I must have looked suspicious because he laughed. "Honest, I am a regular here. It is okay with the pastor. I told him we are in the chapel. He says ' _hei hei_ ' and ' _god natt'_. Hello and good night."

The waffles did look good, and the tea warmed my hands as I took a sip. So long as I wasn't breaking, entering, _and_ stealing food from a church, this night could still end well. A begrudging bite of the waffles proved me right. "These are really good," I mumbled around a mouthful of the savory sweet.

"Finest Norwegian waffles I have had," Ull agreed, spreading jam on a heart. "Now where was I?" He sat back, staring at the carved hammer above him. Seeming to reach a decision, he began.

"Kristia, I promised to tell you everything. But it is a lot to take in, and it will take time. I would like to give you an overview tonight, and if I do not scare you off, I will explain the rest this weekend. Does that sound fair?"

Anything was better than the big bag of nothing I knew right now. "Yes, it sounds fair. Now explain." Patience was never a virtue of mine.

"All right. I left town for a few days – I needed to spend some time with my family."

"Are they okay? Is someone ill?" Of course I had the poise to be worried about his family, but I was relieved at the possibility his absence really had nothing to do with me.

"They are well, thank you. I needed to ask them a question. You see I have a certain... role that is expected of me. There is little room for flexibility in my family. I call them The Firm." He laughed bitterly, and I wondered at this odd noise, such a stark contrast to the musical laughter I'd heard before. "Do not get me wrong, I love them very much and we all want what is best for one another. But there are certain realities that none of us can escape. And one of those realities is a very... dark future."

If I was right about what Ull really was, his future was as dark as it could get. "How do you mean?"

Ull thought for a moment. "How can I explain it? My family is very strong – some of the most influential individuals in our land. But there are those who envy us and want to see us fall."

"Is this about politics?" I was determined to coax the truth out of him.

"Well, sort of. We do have substantial power. With power comes a life of duty, and in our case, a terrible demise. We cannot hold our... positions forever. And when we fall, most of us will not survive."

I struggled to keep my face neutral. My theory would account for Ull's strange behavior – his disappearance in the club, the way he talked about his family, his stepdad's weird name. But the idea was so bizarre, I needed to hear him say it.

"Go on," I whispered.

"I do not mean to frighten you, but you have to understand what would happen if we dated. We might get sick of each other and break up next week. Or we might be perfectly suited and end up married. And if you were to become a part of my family–" He broke off. "You would suffer the same fate as the rest of us. I cannot let you die on my account." His head dropped into his hands. I could tell he wasn't upset about his own fate. He was upset that he might jeopardize mine. "So I stayed away. I did not call. It was the kindest thing to do."

I completely forgot about coaxing out a confession. My mind fixated on the _we might end up married_ part. Guys our age didn't talk about marriage. Ever. And since I wasn't ready for that kind of talk, I jumped on the other end of his speech. "You seriously think leaving me hanging like that was kind?"

"Compared to getting involved with you, yes. I have a lot of what you Americans call baggage."

"Maybe." I shrugged. "But it would have been nice to know if you'd really had a good time, or if you were just saying that to get something out of me."

"Kristia." Ull smiled. "I would never knowingly hurt you. I like you far too much."

"Hold on. So you do like me?"

Ull chuckled. "Yes. I like you."

"Oh." I looked at my fingernails. "Well, sometimes I like you too. When you're not annoying me, or smothering me, or disappearing on me, or generally driving me nuts."

"That is fair." He sighed. "But it should not matter. It is not right to bring you into my life. If we end up together, you will meet the same fate that I do."

"It's not polite to speak in nonsense."

"Maybe, but there is a lot about me that you do not know."

"I'm listening." Boy howdy, was I listening.

Ull's tousled, blond mane flopped adorably as he tilted his head. "I have not scared you off?"

I shrugged. "It takes a lot to scare me. Irritating me seems to come more naturally to you."

"Oh, Kristia." Ull lifted my hair off my neck and rested his fingers on my collarbone. I shivered. "Will you join me in the country this weekend? There is a lot I need to tell you, and it would be easier for me to get through it without interruption."

"Um... I don't think that's the best idea for us. Couldn't we just go out for dinner or something?"

"We could. But it would be best if we had more time to talk. There is much you need to know."

"Okay, two dinners then?"

"Kristia." Ull rubbed at his temples.

"Listen. You know as well as I do we haven't exactly gotten off to the greatest start. Spending a whole weekend together seems like asking for disaster, don't you think?"

"Maybe." Ull winked. "Or it might be just what we need to get on track."

_Instantly, I was in an English Garden. The cobblestones at my feet formed a smallish courtyard, and candles marked a path through the ivory roses and lavender beds to a small grassy area beneath an ancient yew dale. Twinkling lights filled the dale, and Ull stood at its base with a small jewelry box in his hand, a nervous smile on his perfect face_.

Mormor didn't raise no dummy. This was one vision I wanted to see for myself. Besides, I had to know if there was any truth to my ridiculous theory.

My heart pounded so fiercely that I thought it might break free from my ribcage. I pulled myself back to the present and stood without hesitation, putting my hand in Ull's. "You win. What do I pack?"

# Chapter 9

"Where exactly are we going?" I asked as Ull loaded my suitcase into the back of the black Range Rover.

He winked. "A place that is very special to me. Someplace I hope you will feel right at home."

I was grateful Ull had at least told me what to pack – comfortable clothes for weather much like this, and a pair of rain boots for walks. And he'd promised to have me home in time for class on Tuesday morning – I never signed up for Monday classes; Ardis taught me that trick freshman year.

"I am glad you came." Ull helped me into the front seat with a kiss on my cheek. My heart fluttered, and I tried to remember that this was the same guy who had nearly annoyed me to death yesterday, and ignored me to death last week. I couldn't get over the shock I felt at each touch or the way my vision swam in and out of focus any time I looked at him. His endless supply of fitted sweaters didn't help either. If this kept up, I was going to suffer a stroke at a tragically young age.

An hour later, Ull steered the car off the main road, heading toward a collection of row houses sheathed in ivy. We followed a winding river through the main part of town, passing a small cobbled sign that read "Welcome to Bibury." We continued past two separate fields of sheep and drove through a small drive framed by trees until we came to a cottage.

Ull parked and got out of the car. I kept my tush firmly planted in the passenger's seat until Ull came around and opened my door for me. I didn't want to knock him out. As a rule, I tried not to repeat my more mortifying mistakes.

He held out a hand as I stepped down, pausing next to a small fountain in the center of the drive. The cobblestone cottage had an aged roof and an unsteady-looking chimney. Soft lights from the windows welcomed us, and the smell of lavender mixed with moss filled the country air.

"It's beautiful," I breathed. It was from the pages of a fairy tale. I thought of my favorite childhood story, Cinderella, then snuck a glance at my sometimes Prince Charming. "Um, Ull? Everything all right?"

He rubbed his brow and let out a low chuckle. "I am happy you like it. I was afraid you might find it too..." he searched for the right word. "Quaint. It has been in my family for a long time." It seemed like he wanted to say more. "Come inside, Kristia. There is someone I want you to meet."

Ull opened the azure door and ushered me into the house. A kindly, white-haired woman in a ruffled apron flitted from the kitchen with open arms. "Ull!" A smile lit her face as she set her eyes on him. "Welcome home! Ýdalir has missed you!" Ull greeted her with a warm hug, coming back to me with a smile to match the woman's. "Ahh, I see. So this is what has kept you so busy these past few weeks. Well, let me look at you, dear."

I stepped forward shyly, feeling the woman's happy eyes on me. " _Ja, ja. Vaer så god_." Mormor had taught me enough Norwegian to figure out I had met the woman's approval. Ull laughed.

"Kristia, may I present Olaug. For all intents and purposes, my grandmother. She lives nearby and is good enough to take care of this cottage when I am away. We have her to thank for the lovely fire – is that apple wood? And for what I am sure will be a delicious supper."

I held out a hand, but Olaug laughed and pulled me in for a hug. "My dear, none of that. Come you two, sit! Eat! Everything is on the table in the garden. Ull, I do hate to be rude, but I must get home – the boys are visiting for the weekend. Please come for Sunday brunch so you can meet everyone, Kristia." With a hug for each of us, she was off into the night, humming a tune that sounded vaguely familiar.

Ull smiled and closed the front door. He took my coat from my shoulders and hung it on one of the hooks below the mirror in the entry. "Well," he questioned. "Dinner or tour?"

"Tour please." I couldn't wait to see the rest of the cottage. "So what is this place?"

"This," Ull began, taking my hand and lacing his fingers through mine, as comfortably as if he'd been doing it all his life, "is my country home, Ýdalir."

He had a country home. And it had an even crazier name than he did.

"I don't get to come here much at the moment, school being as it is this time in the term, but this is the place I feel happiest. I have much that makes me anxious, but I forget all of that when I am here." He led us down a small hallway to a study. "This is where I keep my favorite books and reading chair." He gestured to a well-worn leather loveseat and matching ottoman nestled in the corner.

"Over here," he led me to another room, containing a queen-sized four-poster bed, dresser, and writing desk, "is the guest room you will be staying in." Oh, thank God there was a guest room. I shouldn't have been surprised that Ull was the consummate gentleman, but it was still a relief to have my own room. I was already out of my element, no need to make life even scarier than it already was.

"Back here is the master suite," Ull finished simply.

Master wasn't a grand enough word. The room was huge – considering the relatively small size of the cottage – with an antique-looking, king-sized sleigh bed, padded bench, and built in closets that I suspected held a tiny sampling of Ull's exquisite wardrobe. Ull waited patiently as I made my way around the room, lightly touching everything to make sure it was real. I stopped when I reached the door to the bath. The jetted tub was as generously proportioned as the master suite. What the cottage offered in country charm, this bathroom offered in modern opulence.

"This is your room?"

Ull laughed. "Ah, the best is yet to come."

I seriously doubted that. But he opened the bedroom's French doors to reveal a charming garden, up-lighting illuminating the aged yew dale that had watched the house's activity for at least a hundred years. Pale roses and fragrant lavender surrounded the grassy courtyard from my earlier vision, and in the center a cobblestone patio held a table set with silver candlesticks and glowing tapers. Twinkle lights from another nearby tree added a degree of whimsy.

Ull held out a chair, offering me the seat. He sat opposite me and opened the baking dish to reveal a hearty meal of roast, potatoes, and carrots. We ate until we were full, Ull asking about my childhood and listening with interest as I droned about the annual field trip to the lumber yard, my time spent hiking in the forests with Ardis, and how Bryan Ash beat me in the third-grade spelling bee.

He listened as if my life had been as fascinating as his must be, and I found myself revealing more and more as the evening went on. It was only when I realized that dusk was falling that I had the good sense to stop babbling. But Ull didn't seem to mind my chatter. After a generous helping of Olaug's homemade apple pie, he led me on a stroll through the garden.

We leaned with our forearms on the low, stone fence that made up the back wall, and watched the sheep grazing in the pasture behind the house. I snuck a glance at Ull, and was surprised to see that he was tense. "You all right?"

He sighed. "Kristia, I have something to tell you. And I do not know if you will like it."

Well that killed the mood. "Okay." I steeled myself for the worst.

Ull took a deep breath. "Kristia, I want to share my world with you."

What did _that_ mean? "Come again?"

Ull smiled. "I know, kind of out of left field, right?"

"Maybe." I tugged at the wrists of my sweater nervously. "I don't understand."

"You and I together... is a very complicated situation. And you need to know something about me before I can properly court you."

"Okay," I said as he turned to me. I'd never heard anyone say 'court' outside of a Jane Austen novel.

"Kristia." He drew small circles on my palms with his thumbs. I forced myself to stay standing. "Have you noticed anything different about me?"

I held my breath. If my hunch was right, Ull was about as different as anyone could possibly be. I'd been stewing on this for a week. It was the only explanation I could come up for Ull's behavior in the nightclub, the link to his stepdad, Ull's bizarre name... If it was true, and I was almost positive it was, it was so out there nobody would ever believe me. I knew I couldn't just ask Ull about it. A secret this big wasn't the kind of thing you wanted to pry out of someone. Ull had to want to tell me for himself.

"You're a pretty different guy," I evaded. "Though you do seem to have an above-average relationship with your florist."

"I am different. I am not exactly like you. I am not from here." Ull clasped his hands. He was really anxious.

"I know," I said softly.

"No, you do not. I told you I was from Norway, but that is not exactly true."

"Where are you from, Ull?" I already knew the answer. But I needed to hear it from him.

"Asgard," he whispered.

"Asgard," I repeated. I'd pretty much accepted it, but Ull's confirmation fell like a bomb. "The Asgard, Asgard."

"Yes." Ull stood still, waiting.

I exhaled. "Sif is your mom, isn't she? The Goddess of Beauty that Professor Carnicke talked about. And Thor is your stepdad."

"Yes."

"And that makes you..."

"Ull. God of Winter. Warrior and protector of Asgard." He lifted his chin an inch higher. But his eyes betrayed his fear. He had to be wondering how I was going to react. For the briefest of moments I contemplated the impossible.

"It's okay, Ull. I figured as much." I reached over to touch his arm.

"What?"

"I figured."

"How could you possibly figure a thing like that? It should seem preposterous to a human."

"I didn't say it doesn't seem preposterous. I just said I figured it out. Yesterday, when you were talking about your family and the dark future. And in the nightclub, when you actually disappeared into thin air. I started to wonder about it that day in the quad when you let your dad's name slip. And you skipped town the day Professor Carnicke talked about you. Though I wasn't positive it was you at the time. Ull, you sit by me in Mythology class. _Mythology_. Not the best plan for a deity trying to fly under the radar." I shivered as I said what he was. Despite my nonchalance, I was freaking out on the inside. Ull was an actual god. What did that even mean?

"You are okay with what I am?" He gripped my hands tightly.

"It makes me a little nervous," I admitted. "Most of my dates haven't ended with the guy telling me he's divine."

"You must have questions." Ull still looked so tense.

I squeezed his hands back. "Do you want to talk about it? Your Excellency?"

"Kristia–" Ull's brow furrowed and his mouth turned down.

"I'm kidding. Geez. Okay, yes, I have questions. About a million of them. Here's an easy one. Why are you here? I thought gods lived in Asgard."

"They do. We do." He took a deep breath. "It is complicated."

"I'm here all weekend."

Ull nodded. "Very well. I lived in Asgard for many years. And I was destined to rule it in my grandfather's place. Doing so would have set into motion a chain of events ending in my death. So I came to Midgard."

"Midgard?"

"Our name for your realm. Earth. I traveled back and forth a lot, visited many of your countries, but duty always called me back to Asgard. A few years back, my friends and I decided to take one more trip, this time to Wales." Ull touched my cheek. "It would seem I was drawn to this realm to be with you."

There was nothing to do but blush.

"You are not afraid of what I am?"

There would never be a better time to tell him I wasn't exactly normal either, with my mental tic and all. But I was too chicken. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want you to know what you will be getting into, if you choose to date me. I have been around for a very long time. But I never felt at home, until I met you. I realize that I have more baggage than almost any other man you could choose, and I promise to tell you about all of it so you can decide whether this is the life you want. Still... selfish as it is, I want to share my world with you. And I hope that, in time, you will decide you feel the same way."

This could not be happening. There was no way that this god-like creature – correction, this god – was declaring himself to me. I couldn't begin to process what it would mean to be with him.

"This is a lot to take in."

"I know." He hadn't let go of my hands.

"You really could have told me this over dinner in Cardiff. You didn't have to bring me all this way just to tell me you're a..." I stumbled over the word.

"A god."

"Right. That."

"And risk you running screaming from a restaurant?"

"Fair point." I held his gaze. "Well for what it's worth, I'm kind of into you too. Your Holiness."

"You have no idea how happy that makes me." His eyes crinkled, and he released his grip. In one swift motion, he wrapped an arm around my lower back and lifted me off the ground so my face was even with his. His other arm hung at his side.

With cool breath, he exhaled slowly, the sweet smell making me lean in. His eyes smoldered, and his lips brushed against mine as he whispered, "Thank you for not running away." He closed the small gap between us and kissed me with a force that knocked what air I had left from my chest.

I was completely unconcerned with my inability to breathe. I curled my fingers through Ull's thick hair, pulling him even closer. His arm tightened around my back, crushing my chest to his. My breaths came in sharp gasps as I registered the pounding of his heart against my torso; his pulse was much too slow to match my frenetic one. Kissing in general wasn't something I had heaps of experience with, but kissing like _this_... it was completely foreign to me. Inexperience aside, it was a pretty safe bet most guys didn't leave a girl feeling like she'd just been sucker punched and doused in happy dust every time his lips came within smooching distance. Ull was intense; determined; different in every conceivable way. His kisses were literally out of this world.

The stubble of his chin brushed against my lower lip as his mouth moved against mine, the follicles scraping roughly against my oversensitive skin. The sensation was overwhelming, and I pulled my head away with a gasp. Ull didn't release his one-armed hold, so I stayed inches from his face, feet dangling off the ground. My eyes were wide as he looked at me through thick lashes.

"So how does this work, you being a god and me being, well, me?" I asked once I'd caught my breath.

Ull set me gently on my feet. My knees buckled, and he helped me to the stone bench. He sat next to me, seemingly at a loss.

Ull's eyes cleared as he gave what seemed to be the best answer he could. "It means my life is a little more complicated than most. And in all likelihood, my future will have a dark ending. But no matter what happens, I want to experience it with you. I have developed a deep fondness for you, Kristia Tostenson. What I am does not change that."

My cheeks were warm. "How long will you stay here? On Earth, I mean."

"As long as I can. My two closest friends are here too, Gunnar and Inga. We came to Midgard together and have been traveling between the realms on and off, for as long as our posts will allow. We live as students so we can study at your universities. You have no idea how valuable the Environmental Studies programs have been for someone whose primary responsibility is to ensure adequate rainfall. Global warming is wreaking havoc on my job security."

"Right." I wondered if Ull knew what a poor job he was doing at blending in. "But now you're studying Classics?"

"We go for different degrees every time we enroll," Ull explained. "Keeps things interesting." I wondered how many degrees a god could wrack up. It wasn't like Ull had to worry about how long it would take to graduate. Or to pay off student loans.

"How does Olaug fit into the picture? Does she know about you?"

Ull laughed, his mood lighter now that the weight of his identity was lifted. "Do you think I would be able to live as a human without someone keeping tabs on me for The Firm? Olaug is of Asgard as well. For all intents and purposes, she is my grandmother, but she also keeps me informed of the goings on back home. She lets me know when I must personally attend to my duties there. I could not have enjoyed all of these years in your realm without her."

I could have listened to Ull talk forever, but I was exhausted. I stifled a yawn as Ull gave a knowing glance. "I am sorry Kristia, I forget myself. You must sleep."

"You, uh, mustn't sleep?" I asked, echoing the formality of his words. I should have guessed that he was more than mortal. His language gave him away – nobody in their twenties in _this_ century was so proper.

"Well, yes I must sleep sometimes. I just need far less than you do to function. Immortal bodies are exceptionally efficient." He didn't say anything else on the subject, just walked me to my room and took my face in his hands. " _God natt_ , Kristia Tostenson," he murmured. I eyed him warily, both hopeful and anxious to repeat _that kiss_ – the one that had nearly been the end of me. But he bent to kiss me chastely with the softest lips imaginable.

My disappointment must have been obvious because he chuckled. "Soon enough." He touched my cheek before he leaned to whisper into my ear. I caught a hint of the faintly woodsy smell that was so delicious, I leaned in involuntarily. "I hope you have beautiful dreams," he murmured. With that, he walked down the hall, filling the frame of his bedroom door. With one more glance over his broad shoulder, he was gone and I was left standing with the embarrassing realization that my mouth was a little bit open. Beautiful dreams... I was pretty sure I was in one.

While I lay in bed that night, the rosy mist started to clear from my mind. The realities of my day settled in, much more heavily than I expected. Ull was amazing; I'd already known that. But he was also celestial – an actual god. And while that kind of made him even more incredible, and definitely more exciting than the boys I'd known in Nehalem, it brought serious complications.

My brain, slowly lazing through its blissful fog, was beginning to grasp that this man was not meant for me. I couldn't think of any myth in which a human and a god had a successful go at a relationship. And I wasn't naïve enough to think I'd be the human to change the game.

It wasn't an ideal situation. I was falling for a man – correction, a god – who was totally and completely perfect, at the same time I was totally and completely human. That pairing was more than unnatural – it was a ticking bomb. When – and it was a matter of when, not if – _when_ Ull realized how wrong we were for each other, he would dump me faster than he could skip to the next coed or goddess or fairy princess or whoever else was lined up to date him. And then what would I do?

A worry shared is a worry halved, and there was only one person I knew with the relationship-savvy to handle this. I did the mental math. It was early evening in New York. Ardis would definitely pick up. I dialed my mobile with shaking fingers.

"Hey, Girl!" Ardis answered on the first ring. "What are you doing calling me? I know, I know, you don't have FaceTime. You have got to set up your Skype. This is going to cost you a fortune!"

I didn't care. Just hearing her voice made me feel better.

"Ardis," I said quietly. I didn't want Ull to hear me. "I'm so glad you answered."

"Did you get my e-mail about those shoes? Can you believe I got a pair of Louboutins at Odds & Ends?" The discount retailer had been one of our favorite haunts on our rare trips to Portland, and Ardis was still a frequent shopper of the chain in New York. "I mean, seriously – I was so destined to have those shoes."

It was refreshing to think about something as trivial as shoes, so I asked about Ardis' shopping trip just to give my mind a break. But I knew I'd have to bite the bullet eventually, or my phone bill would be sky high.

"Ardis," I began tentatively. "I have guy problems."

"Already? You go girl! In Wales less than a month and already you're rockin' it. Wait." Her tone turned accusing. "You haven't mentioned any guys in your letters. Spill. What's his name?"

"I just started seeing this guy. His name is Ull–"

"Ull? Wow, Kristia. I have to say; you know how to pick 'em. Seriously, his name is Ull?"

"It's not exactly like I've met a whole lot of Ardises," I pointed out. "But yeah, I thought the same thing."

"Fair enough," she conceded. "So what's going on?"

"Well, we just started dating. But I'm sort of at his country house for the weekend, and–"

Ardis' laughter rang clear across the miles. "You brazen hussy! You're spending the weekend? Who are you over there?"

"No, it's not like that. He's in his room, I'm in mine."

"Too bad." Ardis sounded disappointed. "So is that what's wrong? Not enough hanky panky?"

"Ardis!" But I hesitated. I couldn't tell Ardis the whole story. I was fairly certain Ull's... divinity – I couldn't even think the word without twitching – that his divinity wasn't something I should talk about. If I was vague, I could tell Ardis the most important parts, and I knew she would have the words to reassure me. She always did. I dove in. "This whole relationship is happening really fast. And it's all new to me – you know I don't have a lot of experience with this stuff."

"Tell me about it," came Ardis' dry reply.

"But I really, really like him. And he likes me back. It's crazy. He says he wants to be with me." I whispered the last part in awe.

"Then what's the problem?" Ardis was confused. So was I. Saying the words out loud made it sound so simple.

"The problem is... he's too good for me. He's smart, rich, and unbelievably gorgeous. He's got this totally adorable grandmother that he just dotes on. His family is really powerful, and way more important than me, and they live really far away and would never think in a million years I could possibly be good enough for Ull. I mean we come from totally different worlds." That was an understatement. Asgard and Earth were as different as a bobcat and a bunny. "In the end, he's going to have to realize that there are girls out there who are better suited for him, his equal, prettier, smarter, maybe from where he's from... I don't even know where we would live if we were together, or how his family could possibly accept me, or how I could ask him to have such a boring life with me instead of the fantastic life he has by himself... but I just... really like him." My voice trailed off.

"Shhh," Ardis soothed, all bravado gone. "Kristia, sweetie, it's going to be okay. I promise. So, let me recap. You like Ull. And he likes you. And you think you want to be together. But you're afraid you're not good enough for him. Does that sum it up?"

"Yes," I said thickly into the phone.

"Sweetheart. First of all, you have got to stop thinking so little of yourself. You are an awesome woman. This Ull guy is lucky to have you, not the other way around! Don't you ever forget it." That seemed unlikely, but Ardis pushed on like the good friend she was. "Second, there isn't going to be a problem with his family. No decent parents alive would dare to disapprove of you. Not only because you are a fantastic, kind, warm-hearted girl, but also because their son has chosen you. It's parental suicide to disapprove of the girlfriend, trust me." It was true. Ardis and her womanly charms had come between more than a few sons and their mothers. "And third, none of that matters. If you guys are really that into each other, then the rest is just details. You, the biggest prude I've ever met, are spending the weekend at this guy's house. He's clearly gotten to you."

"His country house." Nobody wants to be misleading. "If we were on campus I'd go back to my flat."

"Exactly, Grandma. If you're so comfortable with him that you're already taking a trip together, he's pretty special. Everything will work out. It will. I'm not saying it will be easy, but if you guys are really that committed to each other, it would take a lot more than the stuff you're afraid of to keep you apart. So relax."

My world had righted itself once again. Ardis always knew what to say. "Thank you Ardis. You're the best friend I've ever had." My eyes felt dewy. "I miss you."

"Aw, I miss you too, girl! I can't wait to come visit you this summer. I've never been to Europe!"

"Well we _are_ from Nehalem. We're not exactly world travelers."

"Not yet!" Ever the optimist. "Oops. I have to go – my date's here. But e-mail me when you get back to school and tell me how the weekend went. Try to have some _fun_." She emphasized the last word and I imagined her wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. The knot in my chest felt considerably looser as we got off the phone. Ardis' words always hit home. I liked Ull – a lot. And he liked me. The rest was just stuff to be handled together. But exactly how much 'stuff' came along with dating a Norse god?

# Chapter 10

By morning, my overworked brain was moving like a herd of turtles. Ardis had helped me through my hysteria, but I was still coming up with every possible reason this relationship was doomed. I was too beat to indulge in a freak-out. Mormor always said there was no point in borrowing trouble. Besides, Ull kept me too busy to worry by showing me around Bibury.

"I think I need new rainboots." I padded into the library in a fresh pair of socks. My first pair got soaked in the downpour that ended our walk.

"You think?" Ull held up a blanket and patted the couch next to him. I settled into the spot.

"Nice fire." I was impressed. He'd set it up _and_ made two cups of tea in the time it had taken me to change.

"I am God of Winter. I should be good for something."

"Glad to know you're not slacking just because you're on vacation."

"Oh Kristia, I am never on vacation. Odin can summon me at any time. Though I do consider it my duty to protect you from the elements raging outside." He pulled my legs across his lap, and gently massaged my thigh. My breath caught as I fought the impulse to pull him down on the couch. Something told me the God of Self Restraint wouldn't appreciate my hormones as much as I hoped he would.

"Well protect away, Your Holiness." My wisecrack was drowned by a clap of thunder. "Is that your family calling?"

"Funny, Kristia."

"I thought so." Laughing was easier than thinking about how absurd our situation actually was. The cutest guy on campus moonlighted as a fierce Asgardian warrior. Not exactly the hobby I'd imagined my first serious boyfriend would have.

"Can I ask you more questions?" I rested my head on his shoulder and watched the rain pelt the window.

"Ask away."

"You're a lot older than me, aren't you?"

Ull shifted beneath me. His silence spoke volumes.

"That's a yes."

"Does that make you uncomfortable, Kristia?"

"Does it make _you_ uncomfortable?" The best defense was always an offense.

"It does," he admitted. "You have been alive less than two decades. I have been alive... considerably longer. It is hard not to feel untoward when I think about my intentions for you."

"Untoward?" I covered my mouth.

"Stop laughing." The tops of his ears turned pink.

"I'm sorry. It's just sometimes the way you talk is so..." _Old? Antiquated? Out of date?_ "Proper," I finished. "My grandmother would have found you charming."

"Your grandmother would have found me inappropriate. It is not right for a man my age to want to do the kinds of things I plan to do to an eighteen-year-old."

Now it was my turn to blush.

"Does it bother you that I'm younger than you?" I bit my lip.

"It is not going to stop me from pursuing you, if that is what you are asking."

"Fair enough. Can I ask something else?" My fingers traced the lines of his chest as I settled my head back on his shoulder.

"Shoot."

"How did you end up God of Winter?" It seemed like a softball question. But when Ull froze, I realized I'd touched on a nerve. I made myself very interested in my fingernails. "Sorry, that was personal. It's none of my business."

"No, I want to tell you. I just want you to know the man I am now, not the killer I used to be." It was my turn to freeze, but I pushed the feeling down, desperate to know everything.

"I don't understand."

Ull's shoulders dropped. "I am not a particularly upstanding man, Kristia."

"I don't believe that."

"You should. I have done heinous things – things you could not imagine. I have killed thousands – not that they did not deserve it. I tortured uncooperative hostiles in the name of interrogation. And pursuing you like this when I know what my fate holds... I have no right to be with you."

"Ull, believe me. I'm not perfect either." In fact, I was all kinds of crazy, but this conversation wasn't about me and my mental problem.

"You are kind to me." Ull lifted a finger to my cheek.

"So how did you come to be this terrible guy?" My eyebrow shot up. "You seem more the puppy-dog type at the moment."

Ull blinked. "I was born to be a warrior. My mother is the most accomplished warrior goddess of all time. Not only does she hold the most kills of any female, but her accuracy is unmatched." Well butter my flapjacks, my boyfriend's mom was a trained killer. "My father died in battle before I reached school age. When my mother remarried, we moved in with Thor."

"Scary stepdad?" I turned my palms to lace my fingers through Ull's.

"At times. But he was also a tremendous resource. Before I became God of Winter, I was part of the Elite Team – Asgard's top assassins."

"How was that?"

"It was... tolerable... until a target begged for his life. Said he had children waiting at home. That was the turning point. I set the target free and asked Odin for a new post."

"What did he say?"

"He was displeased. But I became God of Winter and have served there since. I took a short break once." His face darkened. "But I came back."

"And now you're here."

Ull winked at me, and my insides suddenly felt sloshy. "I like living in your realm."

"Why?" I'd take Asgard over Nehalem in a heartbeat.

"Because I can be myself here. My pull to this realm has always been a mystery. Perhaps, all along, I was waiting for you to show up." He touched my chin and held my gaze for an endless moment. The air between us filled with the delicious build of anticipation. My hands ached to stroke the stubble along his jaw line, but I kept myself still as Ull brought his face down with agonizing slowness. He rubbed his nose along my throat, inhaling so a light chill settled along my neck. When he reached the spot just below my earlobe, he pressed his lips lightly against the delicate skin. A thick fog clouded my head and my body responded unthinkingly. My palms gripped his biceps as I pulled myself on top of him. I threw my legs on either side of his lap and turned away from his kiss so our foreheads were touching. As I moved to press against him, Ull gently pushed me away.

"We don't have to stop." My breath was uneven.

"We do. My mother raised me well."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning we are only just dating. So we do have to stop."

"Seriously?" I did _not_ see that one coming.

"Mortals," Ull chuckled. "So impatient. Do you really think you know enough about me to decide whether you want to be with me?"

"I want to be with you. Honest." It wasn't just the hormones talking. I really liked him.

"You say that now." He chuckled again. "Shall we continue our discussion? I am sure you have more questions."

"Okay, fine." I waited for the blood to move back up to my brain. Apparently I didn't wait long enough, because I blurted out, "Why were you so mean to me in the British Museum?"

"I do not know what you are talking about."

"Come on, Ull. Give me some credit." I stared at him until he looked away.

"Because I knew who you were."

"You knew I was Kristia Tostenson?"

"No. I knew you were meant to be my wife." I pulled back, but Ull quickly wrapped both arms around me. "No, please. Just listen."

I slowly resumed blinking.

"Remember the first day of class, when Professor Carnicke talked about the Norns?"

"The prophets," I whispered.

"Correct. Well, you and I shared the same Norn. Her name was Elsker – the name means Love in Norwegian. She prophesied I would be a Warrior, live alone, and give my life for my people. When you were born, my future changed. Elsker said if I wanted to take a partner, I could find you at Cardiff in eighteen years."

"And... marry me."

"Eventually, yes."

"That doesn't explain why you were so mean to me. If anything, I'd think you'd be nice to the person who was supposed to spare you from what sounds like a really depressing life."

"I was not finished."

"Oh. Sorry, Your Excellency."

"Kristia," Ull growled.

"Okay, okay. Finish."

"I was mean to you because, despite Elsker's prophecy, there is an absolute ban on Asgardian-Mortal relationships. The Norns are forbidden from mingling the fates of gods and mortals. Elsker broke the rule. I would never have turned her in, but we have this... questionable figure in Asgard. Loki. He found out what Elsker did, and she was banished for her betrayal. I never got to talk to her again."

"That's terrible."

"I was mean to you because I knew that even though we were meant to be together, we never could be. Odin would never allow our relationship. Besides, I am fated to die with the rest of my family, so it is not like we could have any sort of a happy ever after. It hurt to be so close to you and to know I could not have you."

"Oh, Ull." I rested my head on his shoulder. "I had no idea."

"How could you? I did not explain."

"I know, but... I'm still sorry."

"No, I am sorry. I hurt you. But honestly, it was never my intention to do anything but protect you."

"I see that now." I squeezed his arm. "Can I ask another question?"

"Go ahead."

"What really happened during the time you were away?" He'd obviously kept a lot from me.

Ull laughed sharply at being called out. "I was telling the truth when I told you I had gone to see my family, to see whether I could be with you without endangering your life. Getting a straight answer from them was complicated."

"How do you mean?"

"Listen Kristia, I do not feel right asking you to join me in a life that I do not completely want to be a part of myself. My death is inevitable. Our enemies want to kill every Asgardian – we have certainly killed enough of their kind. It is terrible to know that you will lose the people you love – and that you will die yourself. Losing my father was hard enough; the thought of losing my friends and my mother is incomprehensible. And to lose you – it would be more than I could handle." Ull's eyes filled with pain and it struck me how sensitive he actually was.

I'd been so wrong about him. He didn't keep everyone at arm's length because he was uppity – he did it so he wouldn't get hurt. What an isolating existence.

"It has been one thing to know my death is marked, but to ask you to voluntarily give your life – I am not worth that price."

I was starting to think there were a dozen reasons he was wrong, but I bit my tongue.

"Unfortunately for you, I can be selfish. I wanted to be with you. But like I said, no god has ever been allowed to marry a mortal. Thor certainly was not going to sign off on it – he fancies another warrior for my wife, and he would never understand that I allowed myself to fall in love."

"Super." This wasn't sounding so good.

"But my mother knows how I feel about you, and she sent me to my friend Inga's father. Jens is Odin's chief advisor, and my mother thought he might be able to help us."

"I'm liking your mom." Ull smiled, and my stomach fluttered.

"I ran into Balder on my way. He serves as our judge. I asked him whether it would be wrong to invite you to join me in this existence."

"Ull," I interrupted, but he shook his head.

"I have much guilt in that, Kristia. If Balder had said it was wrong, then I would have left you alone, difficult as it would have been. But Balder was generous."

"Okay, now I'm liking this Balder guy too." Not only because I felt bad for the poor fellow whose parents had burdened him with the name of Balder.

"By the time I saw Jens, my mind was mostly made up. I would court you and see whether you would share my life with me. But no human had ever been to Asgard, and to my knowledge, no god had ever taken up permanent residence on Earth. I needed Jens to help me with some of the... eh, technical issues."

_Suddenly, I was in an unfamiliar world. I instinctively knew it was Asgard, somewhere in the past. Two robed men walked angrily down a long hallway. Columns supported the roof, the open-aired walls overlooking a pristine village._

_"It is an abomination," the taller of the men snapped. He wore an eye patch and his long white hair streamed behind his hurried pace._

_"Odin," the other man placated. He rushed to keep up. "This was bound to happen sooner or later. They are not that different from us."_

_"They are nothing like us!" Odin thundered in fury. "Asking me to admit a human to Asgard?" He practically spit the words. "It is unheard of, Jens. No human is fit to enter here. The Fates are fools to cast our lot for the betterment of Midgard."_

_Jens' robe quivered. He darted his eyes around the hallway as if someone might be watching. "You must not speak ill of the Fates. And you should not speak ill of Earth. You know the prophecy."_

_"Yes. Asgard shall fall to save Midgard – Earth, as you so lovingly call it. Perhaps you want to move there like your daughter?"_

_Jens fell silent._

_Odin inhaled. His shoulders rose with effort. "I am sorry. I should not speak against Inga. And I should not speak against the Fates. But I will never, as long as I exist, agree Asgardian lives should be lost so Midgard can prosper. When Ragnarok comes it will be a travesty – the loss of a superior race of beings for the survival of mortals should never have been prophesied so lightly."_

Oh, super. Now my visions were checking into the past too. Was there no end to the depths of my lunacy?

Ull's voice pulled me back. He didn't seem to realize I'd been somewhere else. "I would rather not go into detail, but suffice to say Odin is not mankind's biggest fan."

"I see."

"I cannot bring you back to Asgard as my mate, but that does not preclude our being together. I can stay here as yours. Another warrior once fell in love with a human. He chose to live as a mortal rather than be without her." So that was what Odin was so angry about in my apparition.

"Oh, crimeny. But you're not saying that you would–" Ull stopped my words with a finger to my lips.

"Now before you get upset, hear me out. It makes sense for me to join your world. I like living here. You will not have to give up anything to be with me. We can live a long and happy human life together, ideally passing on before Asgard's enemies ever attack. There is no downside."

"No downside?" If he'd put it any differently, I could have kept my temper.

"I had just returned from Asgard the night you were attacked. You needed me, for your own protection, if not my selfish desire. And I need you. So here we are." Ull seemed unaccountably pleased with himself.

My fuming wasn't internal for long.

"So here we are? Are you insane?" How could he think this was a good idea? "You want to give up your immortality to be with me? Absolutely not. Forget it." There was more wrong with this than a bull in a henhouse.

"Shh," Ull soothed. If he'd thought his decision would make me happy, he obviously didn't know the first thing about me. "Darling, this is not your choice to make."

"Everything is not all about you, you know. This affects me too!"

"I know it does. And for the record, my life has never been about me."

"What's that supposed to mean? Are you trying to make me feel sorry for you? Because it's not going to work."

"Not much works on you, does it?"

"Nope."

"Well, I am not trying to make you feel anything. Being of Asgard requires a life of duty and service – it is just the way things are."

"So?" The sympathy card wasn't going to get him far.

"So, every choice I have ever made, everything I have ever done, right down to who I associate with, has been affected by what I am. Being with you... this is the first decision of my existence based solely on what I want. I am not giving up anything I do not want to. I need to be with you. Whether I am a god or a human is inconsequential so long as you are by my side. The rest will work itself out in time."

"I'm not going to be the reason you have to give up who you were born to be!" Leave it to me to bring down an actual god. This was all kinds of wrong.

"Please do not be upset. Everything will be all right. I have been alone as a god for a very long time. I would much rather be a human with you than ghost along without you." He held me while I buried my head in his shoulder, outraged by the unfairness of our situation. Ull might have thought he had made his decision, but I would find another way out of this. He was not going to abandon the most basic part of him. I wouldn't let him.

My Ragnarok nightmare returned that night, so vivid I couldn't be sure this one wasn't actually a vision.

_This time, I saw the battlefield as a spectator; no giant wolf or snake could reach me from whatever vantage point I'd claimed. The field was carpeted with lavender, the air filled with its subtle scent. Ull stood dead center, facing the inevitable attack. In the distance, the tree-trunk snake and the oversized predator stalked toward their prey. Their slanted eyes were filled with hatred._

_I wanted to scream at Ull to save himself, but he was as hungry for this fight as the creatures were hungry for Asgardian blood. There wasn't a trace of emotion as he dropped to a hunting crouch, tensed for the battle he was fated to lose. The monsters were fifty yards away now, picking up speed as they locked Ull in their sights. The wolf bowed his head and charged, trampling the flowers beneath his feet as he thundered towards the man who owned my heart. With twenty yards between them, Ull poised to spring at Death, determination across his brow. So this was it – I had to watch while my beloved ran headfirst to meet his end._

_Then I saw the scene from a fresh perspective. A strong, confident woman stood with Ull, poised to launch her own attack. I knew instinctively she could protect him. Her fists were clenched as she crouched to strike and she wore the long, white robes of an Asgardian warrior. She was no more concerned for her fate than Ull was for his, and she sprinted furiously towards the attackers, leaping at the open jaws to wrestle the wolf to the ground._

As I focused in on her face, I sat up with alarm, grasping at my bed sheets in the darkness. The warrior with Ull had been me.

# Chapter 11

After the weekend we'd had, going back to Cardiff was almost surreal. Of course, I was sworn to secrecy about Ull's heritage, so quick thought was required when Victoria and Emma pounced.

"Kristia," Emma teased as I walked in on Monday evening. "You left with Ull, _days_ ago." She overemphasized the word. "What on earth have you been doing all this time?"

Victoria jumped up on the couch, tucking her long legs beneath her. "Yes, do tell. What, where, how many times..." My face must have been a fine compliment to the burgundy door.

"No, no. Nothing like that. Nothing inappropriate went on. Ull is old-fashioned." Very old-fashioned. Nobody did old-fashioned like the Vikings.

"Right." Victoria raised one perfectly-groomed eyebrow at Emma.

Emma winked back. "I'm sure you had a glorious time studying together and discussing the British Economy. Where exactly did you say he took you?"

"To his family home in the Cotswolds." I jumped at the opportunity and dove into a detailed description of the garden at Ýdalir, Bibury's duck pond, and Olaug's amazing food. "But the house was the most impressive thing."

"More impressive than Ull's arms?" Emma teased.

"OK, the second most impressive thing."

"More than Ull's chest?" Victoria was quick to reply.

"OK, the house was the most impressive thing, not counting Ull himself." This stumped them momentarily, and I rushed along. "It's an amazing cottage that belongs in a fairytale. It has this long driveway, a little fountain in the middle, and the sweetest little chimney that puffs smoke like a cartoon. The garden backs up to this pasture with actual sheep, and the sitting room has big couches to watch the rain. It's like a little slice of heaven." Or a slice of Asgard, though from what Ull told me they were pretty much the same.

"It does sound... impressive," Emma begrudgingly admitted. "But you really don't have anything juicier to share? Come on, K! Spill, are you two, like, dating?"

Dating. It seemed so ordinary a word – it didn't exactly cover Ull's pledge to share his world with me, or my secret plot to circumvent Asgard's ban on humans. But dating would have to do.

"Yes. We're dating." I flushed.

"You go, girl. A month into the semester and you've snagged the most eligible bachelor on campus." Victoria sighed with satisfaction. "I told you your outfit was perfect."

Emma laughed. "Leave it to Victoria to make it all about clothes!"

Once my roommates were asleep, I closed my door and booted up my laptop. I'd left Ýdalir with more questions than answers, thanks to the discovery that my boyfriend was a god – an Asgardian assassin no less. I knew he'd given me all the information he was willing to share for now, so I felt only a little guilty turning to the Internet for answers.

The Google did not disappoint. I typed in "Norse gods" and came up with a slew of websites relaying the stories Mormor told me as a child. There was Sif, the Warrior Goddess of Beauty. And Thor, all-powerful with his mighty Mjölnir. Odin was there in his eye patch and even Balder was represented, bearing a masculine resemblance to our own Lady Justice. Each god had a story to tell, and for an hour, I lost myself in their journeys. How different this studying was, knowing these myths were about real people.

Next, I entered "Ull Myhr" and came up with nothing, so I dropped the Myhr and got a whole range of pages. I found everything from some ski festival in Breckenridge honoring the snow god, to a runic drawing of a man on old-fashioned skis – or were they skates? – crossing a river. There were academic papers detailing Ull's parentage, and even a blurb about his rumored assassination by Danes after taking over for Odin. According to the Internet everything Ull had told me about himself was true. But I'd known that much. What I didn't know was how he fared at Ragnarok.

I switched gears, searching for Ragnarok. Everything I found was pretty consistent with what Mormor and Professor Carnicke had preached. The realms would turn on Asgard, with serpents and wolves and every imaginable beast attacking the gods and destroying the earth. Nearly all the gods would die horrible deaths, with an unnamed handful either surviving or being reborn.

Well that was no help. I wanted names. I wanted to see that Ull was going to live. I clicked the next link, then the next, but nothing could tell me who might survive. Ull wasn't even mentioned in the Ragnarok articles. For the first time in my life, the Internet had failed to provide me with the information I needed.

I closed the computer and lay my cheek against its casing. None of this made any sense. According to the Internet, my highly accredited University course, and every story I'd ever been told, Ragnarok already happened. The Earth was reborn from the aftermath, and descendents of the survivors repopulated the planet. So why was Ull talking like the mythological Norse apocalypse was some looming threat, a to-be-determined gala of destruction? Wasn't it in the past? Obviously, I didn't know everything about the End of the World. And neither did the Internet. Problem was, I didn't have anyone else to ask. Ull was the only god I knew, and I wasn't about to question him on what I knew was a very sensitive issue. I crawled into bed and hoped some rest would slow the fears gnawing at my brain.

* * *

My night was quiet, but my sleep was fitful. Usually, my dreams were filled with visions of Ragnarok or creepy Elf Man or other scary things, but tonight I was replaying my last night at Ýdalir. Ull walked me to my door and declined my romantic overture, just like he had in real life. But in my dream, I tilted my head and stuck out my lower lip.

"Ull," my pout was seriously unladylike, "It's just one more kiss. What's the big deal?"

"Kristia, I cannot," Ull demurred. "You have to understand."

"Oh, I understand all right." I took a step closer, inhaling his woodsy scent. "I understand that you kissed me so thoroughly you're afraid if you do it again, you'll lose control and do something crazy. Is that right?" I trailed a finger through his thick hair, down his jaw, and along the line of his torso and rested my palm flat against his abs.

"That is right," Ull breathed softly. His eyes burned with longing.

"Good," I whispered into his ear. "I want you to do something crazy." I took a step closer, and he wrapped an arm around my waist. "Please, Ull. Just another minute. Then I swear, I'll leave you alone."

He lowered his face to mine, kissing me with such determination I lost all sense of time and space. "Do not ever leave me alone," he growled, and backed me into the guest room.

Against my will, I was sucked out of my dream, back to the tiny room where I lay tangled in my sheets. I was positive my face was so bright I could have made a living as a landing beacon. And I was equally certain my grandmother would have died all over again if she had any idea what I was capable of.

When Ull showed up to walk me to class the next morning, I had a hard time looking him in the eye. I wasn't sure what had come over me the night before, and I wondered when I'd work up the nerve to do something like that in real life.

Today wouldn't be the day. My consummate gentleman came to my door holding a single ivory rose.

"Good morning, Kristia." He handed me the stem.

"Morning." I smiled. "This is beautiful. Thanks." I ducked inside to put it in water. It brought some cheer to our tiny kitchen.

"Anything for you." He took my umbrella as I closed the door behind me. We started walking toward campus. "Speaking of which, I went ahead and ordered you a pair of Hunters. Size six, right?"

"My feet? Yes, six. What are Hunters?"

"Wellies," he clarified. I stared blankly. "Rainboots."

"Oh. Oh! Wow, thank you. That was really nice."

"It was time."

"Ha ha." I glanced at my feet. He wasn't wrong. This pair had seen better days.

"Did you get any of the Mythology reading done last night?"

I blushed. I'd read about mythology all right, but not the text Professor Carnicke had assigned. "Um, no. I was sort of hoping having a Norse god for a tutor would give me an edge."

"So you expect me to be your tutor now?"

"Among other things."

"Oh, Miss Tostenson. What am I going to do with you?" Ull took my hand and we walked to class.

"Sit with me, for starters." I slid into the third row and waved at my usual seatmate. "Henry, this is Ull Myhr. Ull, this is my friend Henry Webster."

"Cheers, Ull. Nice to meet you." Henry stuck out his hand.

"Henry." Ull's nod was curt.

"Relax," I whispered as I got out my laptop. "We're just friends."

"I know," Ull spoke a little too quickly.

"Seriously Ull, you're threatened by _him_?"

"I am nothing of the sort." Ull got out his notebook and clicked the top of his pen. He threw an arm around me with feigned nonchalance, clenching his jaw at Henry's oblivious smile.

How cute.

After class we headed to the Student Union for tea. Ull's mobile rang insistently as I poured milk in my drink. "Sorry darling," he murmured, brushing my forehead with his lips. "It is Olaug. I must take this. Meet you outside." He grabbed his cup and strode to the door, speaking in Norwegian. It was really hot when he did that – even though I could never keep up with the words.

I took my time adding the sugar and headed outside. When I got to Ull, he'd closed his mobile and was staring at the clouds.

"How is everything?"

"Hmm?" He turned to me. "Oh. Fine." In girl-speak, "fine" never meant "fine." But I wasn't fluent in Norse-god.

"'Fine' – Sunday supper might be chicken instead of roast, 'fine', or 'fine' – Ýdalir is infested with rodents and I need an Asgardian assassin here pronto to wipe them out, 'fine'?"

"Do not worry yourself, darling," Ull kissed the top of my head casually as we walked to the library. "Olaug was only giving me a status report. The Norns do not see any threats to Asgard until summer, though they are vague on _which_ summer will spark the trouble."

I had pretty much accepted that a lot of Ull's behavior was cryptic, that many things he did would be mysterious at best, unnerving at worst. I tried to be okay with this. Dating a god wasn't easy, but the way I felt about Ull was worth the uncertainty about our future. He handed me my tea, and we walked to the library, deep in our own thoughts. Ull broke the silence once we'd settled into the coveted leather chairs next to the fireplace.

"Would you like to double-date with my roommates this weekend?"

"Gunnar and Inga? Um, sure. That sounds nice." I knew it was a ploy to distract me, but it worked. I was pretty easily distracted these days. Gunnar and Inga were gods – what would we talk about? Would they be as easy to be around as Ull? Why were they here? Was it just to support their friend? That obsessive part of my brain normally devoted to school took over, and I forgot all about Ull's conversation with Olaug. He smiled as he leaned back in his chair, immersing himself in his textbook while my mind went into overdrive.

# Chapter 12

I'd never had a harder time dressing than I did the night of our double date with Gunnar and Inga. Victoria was ready to kill me by the time she finally shooed me out the door.

"No, Kristia. Listen to me! You cannot wear that blouse. It says 'I am trying too hard. I want you to like me.' You must wear this dress. It says, 'I am easygoing and fun. No high maintenance here. Oh, but oops – I'm also really cute and quite clever.'"

"The dress says all that?" Emma was dumbfounded.

"It does." Victoria nodded sagely.

"Fine." I snatched the dress from her hands and pulled off my blouse, not caring what I wore anymore. I'd tried on at least fifteen different outfits, and none of them felt good enough to wear to meet Ull's friends. This was another situation on which the etiquette police were silent.

"Do you have your conversation points ready?" With the aid of the Internet, Emma had helped me brainstorm a list of appropriate topics to discuss when meeting one's boyfriend's friends. She'd even diagrammed them onto a spreadsheet. I'd been studying it all day.

"Yes." I ticked them off from memory. "What are your classes? How did you choose Cardiff? Where are you from?" Okay, obviously that one wasn't going to make the cut. _How is the weather in Asgard this time of year, if I may ask?_ "What sports do you like? Have you ever been to Oregon? Seriously Emma, I don't know about that last one. I'm pretty sure they've never been anywhere near Nehalem."

"True." She nodded. "But it will give them the chance to ask you about your home, and if you haven't been contributing to the conversation, then you'll be able to sparkle." She winked. "You're going to do fine, Kristia."

Fine as a fish in a bear's claw. The thought of meeting Ull's friends had me wound so tight, I jumped at the knock on the door.

"Yes, fine. Bye!" Victoria all but pushed me out the door and into the surprised arms of my date.

I smiled nervously. "Let's do this."

As Ull drove me to the pub where we were meeting his friends, he explained that Gunnar and Inga were his only confidantes here. His circle of human companions was limited to me.

"Despite my choice to live in your realm, I keep your kind at arm's length – I generally try to follow Asgardian law. Gunnar and Inga were the only ones I was able to confide in here, until I met you."

My nerves melted a little bit – I was secretly pleased to be the first mortal he'd ever welcomed into his life. Ull was very guarded, and it was a big deal to be let in.

"So if our futures can't mix, then by dating you, am I making you a criminal?"

"Pretty much." He grinned.

"What do your friends think about that?" I grinned back. Kristia Tostenson, outlaw. Ardis would have been so proud. Mormor might have felt a little differently.

"They are oddly supportive."

"Tell me about them." In a matter of minutes, I'd be face to face with two more Norse gods. As my nerves had removed all memory of Emma's carefully crafted conversation points, I needed something to talk about besides the weather. Or heaven forbid, the cleanliness of Cardiff. I was _not_ going down that road again.

"Well, Gunnar is my oldest friend. He has come with me to most of the universities I have attended in Europe, and a few in the States. He is a tremendous athlete and an even better fighter." By now, we'd reached the restaurant and were walking to our table. "And here he is. Gunnar!" I recognized him from my first night at Cardiff. Gunnar was tall and muscular like Ull, with chocolate-brown hair that stood in spikes around a tanned face. He had twinkling, green eyes that made him seem mischievous, and a dimple that popped in his left cheek when he smiled. I liked him immediately.

He stood when we reached the table and met Ull with a hearty clap on the back.

"So this is the lass who's tamed our bachelor!" Gunnar reached out to grab me in a warm hug. "It's nice to finally meet you!"

"Here, here." Inga rose and reached across the table to shake my hand in welcome. She was willowy and slim, with long white-blonde hair that swayed as she moved. Her cheekbones were prominent and her enormous blue eyes managed to sparkle, even in the dim lighting. She was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen in real life – maybe even as beautiful as those girls in the fancy bra advertisements. "It's nice to meet you Kristia." She sat back down with inhuman grace. It was like watching water dance.

"Nice to meet you too." If that was what a goddess looked like, why on Earth was Ull dating me? It was hard not to feel inferior.

"It's so nice to finally get to go on a double date. Ull here has made himself quite the third wheel for way too long."

"You said it, doll." Gunnar nodded.

Ull glared at Inga, who shot him an angelic face.

_At her words, I was in a tastefully-decorated living room. The silver-framed photos on the mantel held pictures of Inga, Gunnar, and Ull in various states of amusement – laughing on top of a ski slope, straddling mountain bikes in a forest. Inga was coming out of a doorway I could only assume was a kitchen, carrying a square plate of delicious smelling pastries. She offered me one before curling up on the couch, tucking her long legs beneath her as she sat_.

My insecurities faded a little as I pulled myself out of my vision. Despite her celestial beauty, Inga and I were going to be good friends.

"Oh, Inga. You have always been so patient to put up with me." Ull rolled his eyes good-naturedly as he picked up his menu.

"I have, haven't I?" Inga winked at me. The discussion moved on to what to eat, then fell easily into the banter of old friends. When Gunnar and Inga rose to visit their respective powder rooms, I turned to Ull.

"Sorry, I know this is tacky, but I have to ask. If that's what goddesses look like what are you doing dating a human?"

"Kristia." His cool breath blew on my ear. "You are the loveliest creature I have ever laid eyes on. From the moment I saw you, nothing could have kept me from your side." His finger slid from my ear down my neck, tickling it with a feather-light touch that made my eyes roll closed. He grazed my jaw with his teeth, sending shivers up and down my back. "To think I nearly missed out on this because I was stubborn."

"You stubborn?" I teased. "Never."

"Watch it." Ull nipped at my ear and I let out a soft sigh.

_Yes, sir_.

Gunnar's deliberate cough brought me back to reality. He and Inga slid into the booth. "Sorry to interrupt, but the food's here." Gunnar graciously steered the conversation towards our classes, asking Inga about a term paper she was working on.

"It's nearly finished," her melodic voice paused, "I just need to talk to my professor about a formatting question."

"Is it Professor Krups?" Gunnar grimaced.

"That's right, you had him last term." Inga tilted her head, her blonde hair shaking softly around her shoulders. "How could I forget?"

"Great Odin, Inga. How could you forget?" Ull rolled his eyes.

"Just about drove me mad," Gunnar muttered. Turning to me he explained, "He marked me down half a grade on my final paper for using the wrong font. The wrong font. Who cares about a bloody font?"

"Professor Krups." Inga nodded knowingly. "I had the same thing happen on my first paper, so I want to make sure I've got all my I's dotted and my T's crossed."

"I'm sorry, who is this professor?"

Ull turned to me. "I have not had the privilege of studying under Professor Krups. But I have heard an earful from these two over the past year, and apparently he is a stickler for the little things."

"Just jealous because he couldn't have come up with anything so original," Gunnar grumbled to Inga's amusement.

"Still sore, babe?"

"A font," was all he replied. It was reassuring to hear gods complain about grades and teachers. Maybe this was going to be easier than I'd thought.

Though I wanted desperately to ask Ull's friends about their life outside Cardiff, talk moved to plans for the winter holiday. We only got two weeks of vacation, and Gunnar and Inga were going skiing. I'd planned to stay in town to get a head start on my reading, but Ull proposed a different idea as we drove home.

"I was wondering if you might join me at Ýdalir for Christmas. I was planning to leave after St. Lucia's Day – are you familiar with the holiday?"

"Of course." Mormor had celebrated it every year. "The Scandinavian celebration of light."

"And strength." Ull paused, no doubt thinking of the young saint. Her spirit had been so strong she overcame death.

"And strength," I agreed.

"Well, the mass at our church is beautiful. Inga is going to be this year's Lucia of course. We could head to Bibury after the service, spend the holiday in the country. What do you say?"

"Um, yes. Absolutely, yes." Two weeks alone with Ull sounded very nice. Maybe I could even channel my bolder dream-self to make a move on him. I giggled. My life was so different than it had been a few months ago.

"What is it?" Ull asked of my laugh.

"I'm just happy. For someone who spent pretty much her whole life looking for a place to belong, this is pretty great. I mean... I didn't have any siblings, I was always too shy to make a lot of friends, and as much as I like Nehalem, I didn't exactly fit in." Nothing prohibits assimilation like the whole hamlet thinking you're a loon. "I spent eighteen years feeling like I was watching my life play out without ever really living it. But then I met you, and everything just clicked into place. It's like I'm finally home." I brought my hand to my mouth, embarrassed by my honesty. When we slowed for a stoplight Ull pulled it away.

"Kristia, darling, in all my years, this is the first time I have felt I was where I was meant to be. I am so very _lucky_ that I met you." Blushing fiercely, I was the first to break eye contact. We drove the rest of the way home in silence, our intertwined fingers linking us together.

_"Hello Poppett." Oh, jumping Jezebel. I'd know that voice anywhere, though I'd only heard it twice._

_"Goodbye, Elf Man." I didn't bother opening my eyes. My previous dream had been very enjoyable, and I wasn't terribly pleased this new one interrupted it. "Kindly see yourself out of my head please." No point in being rude, even to an imaginary creature._

_"As you wish." The hissing voice was followed by a snap. I settled comfortably into my blankets, glad I hadn't wasted any energy opening my eyes. The cold wind on my face gave me pause. Unless my window was open... oh, criminy. The dream wasn't over. I wasn't in my bedroom anymore. Based on the big tree to my right, I was pretty sure my bed was now in the garden at Ýdalir. I sat up._

_"Fine, I'll play. But make it snappy Elfie, I'm really tired." My brain was obviously more messed up than I thought._

_"Oh, I can be very fast." The keening sound was to my right, and when I turned he was against me, wrapping a rope around my neck and pulling it taut. The rough fibers cut into my throat. I tried to breathe in, but the movement was painful and pointless._

_"I warned you I would come for you if you tried to join him." The pointy-eared monster sneered. "I can't have you spoiling my plan." A kick to my stomach evicted what little breath I had left, and my lungs collapsed. I clawed at the rope but the crazed man was too strong. His cackling echoed through the fog that crept across my brain. I was slipping under – it would be death by strangulation this time._

_I swatted feebly at the rope, and as I did, my finger caught on Mormor's necklace. I made a weak fist around it, something comforting to hold in my final moment. Suddenly, my hand was hot, and a bright light forced my eyelids closed. I sensed, rather than saw, that the radiance came from my hand – the silver hammer was exploding with luminosity. Beams shot directly into my attacker._

_He pulled back to save himself, dropping the rope as he did so. I gulped in cold air, filling my lungs over and over. He let out a sickening screech as he stumbled backwards, the light piercing his chest with a flood of arrows. He grabbed at the beams to pull them out, but I sensed he was losing the battle_.

I couldn't know for sure, because in the next moment I was back in my room, covered in sweat and clinging to the necklace that had saved my life. When I opened my hand, the hammer was glowing.

I didn't see the Elf Man again while I was at Cardiff. I did, however, decide I needed to see Ull again. Right away. Something really strange was happening, and I didn't want to deal with the visions on my own anymore. Ull had been forthcoming with me, and I had no reason not to trust him with my secret.

"Kristia. Are you all right?" I thought I'd waited until a decent hour to call, but I guessed normal college students weren't up at 7:00 a.m. on the weekend.

"Um, yes. No. I don't know. Can you come over?"

"Of course. I will be right there."

"You don't have to rush or anything..." I trailed off. _Please, please rush._ I needed to get this off my chest.

"I am on my way."

Twenty minutes later, Ull knocked. "I would have been here sooner, but I figured you could use breakfast."

"Earl grey." I took the cup gratefully.

"And chocolate croissants." Ull carried the bag to the coffee table and sat in the corner of the couch. I grabbed a thick blanket and curled up next to him.

"You are up early for a Sunday." Ull wasn't very good at hiding his anxiety. Well that was okay – neither was I.

"Do you remember when you told me about our Norn, Elsker?" I clutched my tea. This was scary for me. I'd never actually come out and admitted what I could do to anyone. Mormor had just always known, and she'd told Ardis for me when we were little. The rest of Nehalem could only guess at the weirdness in my head – I certainly wouldn't spell it out for them.

"I remember."

"And do you remember when you said the Norns could see things – like visions of the future and stuff?"

"Yes." Ull obviously had no idea where I was heading.

"Um, well. You don't think it's weird that they can do that? Have visions? See things?"

"No." Ull looked surprised. "Why would that be weird?"

"Because it's not normal – at least, it's not normal here."

Ull shrugged. "Things are different in Asgard, I suppose. We all have our gifts there – roles we were born to fill. I was born to be a warrior – the titled god thing just sort of happened. Norns are born with visions that will allow them to foresee the future. It is a useful gift." He paused. "It is all very structured, but it is the Asgardian way. I suppose that sounds odd to a human."

"Not really." I sipped at my tea to buy myself one more minute. Ull waited patiently, but I could see his foot jiggling under the blanket. Well, I was nervous too. "I mean, I don't think it's weird they can see things because..." I dropped my head and stared at my hands. "Because I can see things too."

# Chapter 13

"Pardon?" Ull gently lifted my chin with one finger, forcing me to look into his eyes.

"I can see things." I cringed. "The future. Sometimes the past. Apparently some deranged Elf Man who wants me dead. I see things all the time – it's like my brain just shuts down and goes into this different world, and sometimes the world looks a whole lot like your world. Last night, this insane elf dragged me to Ýdalir and tried to kill me, but my necklace shot light at him. He just disappeared, and I don't know what happened to him.

"Another time, I was standing in this field with you, and I was ready to fight these awful monsters that were coming to kill us. Wait," I added hurriedly when I saw the alarmed expression on Ull's face. "I don't just see bad stuff. Sometimes I see good things too – like this really pretty meadow and a pond with swans and a willow tree with silver leaves." Ull forced a neutral expression, but only after I caught a glimpse of fear. I covered my face. "Do you think I'm crazy?"

I expected him to say something right away, but the room was deafening in its silence. I peeked from between my fingers – Ull was sitting still as a statue, staring into the distance with that forced look of calm. "Oh my God. You're going to dump me." I knew I shouldn't have told him.

Ull shook himself. "Kristia, please. I am not going to dump you." He gently tugged my hands away from my face and pulled me into his chest. "To answer your question, no. I do not think you are crazy. I think you have a very special gift – in Asgard, sight like yours would qualify you to become a Norn."

"I don't want to be a Norn. I just want to be normal. I hate my visions – they've kept me outside of everything my whole life, and I just want them to stop."

"But they make you who you are. And who knows, maybe you were given this gift for a purpose."

"Yeah, right. So I could _never_ fit in, anywhere?"

"You fit with me." Ull stroked my back gently. "I want you to tell me when you see these things. I do not like knowing that someone is frightening you, even if it is only in dreams. I am not entirely sure what to make of that..."

"You could write me off as a fruitcake."

"I happen to like fruitcake." Ull kissed the top of my head. I tilted my face up hopefully and he laughed. "Kristia, be good."

"Fine," I harrumphed. "You're really not going to dump me because you think I'm crazy?"

"Who said I do not think you are crazy?" Ull ducked as I swatted at him. "No, darling, I am not going anywhere. I am afraid you are stuck with me for as long as you want me."

"Good. Forever, then." I snuggled in closer, practically wilting in relief.

"Forever."

With each flip of my "Water Fowl Of The Week" desk calendar, I grew closer to Inga. I could go to her with just about anything, and she never judged me. Since I couldn't exactly share Ull's secret with my human friends, Inga was the only one I could talk to about dating a god. She didn't completely understand – she'd fallen in love with Gunnar as a goddess in her own right – but she was a good listener. And at least she knew the whole truth.

One afternoon, I showed up at Inga's house with full hands. Ull planted a light kiss on my cheek before he and Gunnar darted out to the driving range to blow off some midterm-exam steam. As they ran out, I stared at their matching red and blue argyle golf pants.

"Don't ask." Inga swept in, gracefully taking my contraband. "They say the pants are patriotic."

"I think they're kind of cute."

"Young love is blind. Hello, mortal." Her grin was infectious.

"Hello, goddess," I teased back.

"Earl Grey and a Latte?" She nodded to the cups.

"Correct." I dug in my bag and pulled out a grease-spotted package. "And this..." Inga's eyes lit up at the sinful smell.

"Cupcakes!" Her squeal filled the room like a hundred bells. I could never get used to the ethereal sound. "Puff Pastries is my favorite bakery!"

"I know. I figured we could use reinforcements." Our boy-free afternoon involved a marathon of terrible reality shows. So long as we were rotting our minds, we might as well throw in our teeth for good measure.

"Thanks!" Inga traveled to the kitchen so quickly, her gold tunic flew behind her thin frame. She returned in the same movement, with the cupcakes arranged on a square plate. Her trip had taken less than two seconds.

"Inga? What was that?"

"Oh. Are we still supposed to be acting human in front of you? Sorry." Inga sat with deliberate slowness.

I had to laugh. "So you guys are fast?"

"Well I'm faster than most. Especially for a non-titled goddess. The Titleds get extra abilities."

"You don't have a title?" I hoped it wasn't tacky to ask.

"Nope. Oversight on Odin's part, I like to say."

"Why's that?"

"Because, Kristia. _Obviously_ I'm supposed to have a title."

"And what title would that be?"

"Domestic Goddess."

"Naturally." I had to smile.

We settled into the deep couch, sipping our drinks and eyeing the cakes. When I spotted a framed photo on the mantel, I realized I didn't know how my new friends had gotten together. "When did you know Gunnar was _the one_?"

"No beating around the bush today. Forever on the brain?" I reddened – if she only knew. "Well," Inga sipped at her latte, "I knew a lot earlier than he did, I think. We were best friends in school. He was the only one who was any sort of a challenge at fencing. 'Course, I still beat him." She smiled at the memory. "As we grew up, I fell for his naughty sense of humor. And it didn't hurt that he became one of Asgard's best warriors. So when that giant carried me off–" she waved a hand. "Oh honey, don't look so freaked out. Happens all the time. So when the giant showed up, Gunnar came to my rescue. I think that's when it clicked for him, and it wasn't long before I was off the market." Her expression was angelic.

"What about Ull?"

"Well he's lovely, of course, but far too sensitive for me."

"No, I mean when did you meet Ull?"

"Oh," she laughed. "Sorry! He joined our class when his mom married Thor. Poor guy. It had to be hard to move in with the scariest god. And our classmates were tough on Ull because he was so different. He was bigger than the rest of us, and shy. Gunnar took Ull's side, picked him for partners on school projects. Of course, Ull's temper saved Gunnar from more fights than he wants to remember. So... our pair became a threesome, and we've been that way since."

"Ull has a temper?"

"Oh, yes." Inga nodded seriously. "It's mostly under control now but in a fight he's the last one you want to be pitted against."

I mulled that one over. "Thor is scary?"

"At first. He's actually pretty nice if you get to know him. When we were kids, we'd just see the giant hammer and run." She eyed my necklace. "That's Mjölnir at your neck, isn't it?"

I nodded. "It was my grandmother's. She always told me stories about the gods – myths, I thought back then. I can't believe they turned out to be true."

"You wouldn't believe the stories that are actually true."

"Speaking of that... I hope this isn't inappropriate, but can I ask you something? It's about Ragnarok."

"Okay." Inga sounded guarded. "But you know Ull doesn't want me scaring you off."

"Trust me, I've had more than enough reasons to be scared off." Not the least of which was the deranged Elf Man. "If I was going anywhere, I'd have left by now."

"Well, all right then. Go ahead."

I took a sip of tea. "Well, it's just... why do all my textbooks and the Internet say that Ragnarok happened, like, forever ago, when you guys talk about it like it's still hanging over your heads?"

"Ull talked to you about Ragnarok?" Inga looked surprised.

"Not exactly. But he alludes to these people wanting his family dead and this dark future and all. I'm assuming he means Ragnarok."

"Well, you assume right. And Ragnarok hasn't happened yet. It's coming, and most likely sooner than later."

"But the Internet says–"

"Oh, Kristia. Do you believe everything you read on the Internet?"

"No." _Kind of._

"We wrote those stories ourselves. Somebody, probably a jotun or a dark elf or some other troll, spilled to the humans about this battle that was going to destroy the realms. Naturally, the humans overreacted. We had to come along and clean up the whole mess, which we did by rewriting the stories to look like the battle had already happened and the existing humans were offspring of the survivors." Inga bit into a cupcake. "Mortals are so dramatic. They'd have killed each other off in their panic, if we hadn't stopped them. They gobbled up our little 'myths' – anything to tell themselves they were safe."

"So Ragnarok hasn't happened yet?"

"Nope."

"And that means..."

"It means it's still going to happen. But we don't know when, and it's not worth worrying about. Now, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"Good. Back to your necklace." Inga reached out to touch it. When her fingers brushed the cold silver, she recoiled as if she'd been shocked. Reaching out again, she held the charm gently. A look of reverence crossed her face.

"Kristia," she breathed. "You said this was your grandmother's. Do you know where she got it?"

This was getting weird. "Um... she said one of her relatives got it from a woman in her village named..." I searched my memory. "Ellie? Ellie Norna, I think."

"Elsker! That sneaky Norn!" Inga laughed, a beautiful tinkling sound. "She's the same rogue Norn who told Ull he'd meet you at Cardiff. She's been plotting to get you together for longer than I thought. Kristia, your necklace is elfin made! It was a treasure of Asgard that disappeared years and years ago. Boy, I'll bet Ull had a _look_ on his face when he saw it. The love of his life he never wanted to meet, wearing stolen Asgardian property!" Her laughter rang throughout the flat. "Ull really didn't tell you about this?" She rolled her eyes. "He is so determined to protect you from everything."

I shook my head, alarmed. "I swear I didn't steal it. My grandmother gave it to me!"

This only made Inga laugh harder. "Try telling that to Odin!" This couldn't be happening. I could feel the anxiety working its way up. "No, no, Kristia. He won't be mad at you. I'm sure Elsker had her reasons. It's just that Odin's spent hundreds of years wondering where that charm got off to. Its mate is in a museum in London – a silver charm with his mark, about the size of your hammer. Odin will probably think it's cute when Ull turns up with the missing Mjölnir around his human girlfriend's neck." She collapsed in a fit of laughter.

I wasn't so sure Odin would be amused with the stolen necklace or the human girlfriend, but it was more than I wanted to worry about right then. "Why did you and Gunnar come to Earth?" When in doubt, deflect.

"Because Ull asked us to." It was that simple. "There's very little we wouldn't do for each other. And speaking of Ull," Inga tucked her legs under her as she leaned back into the cushions, "Are you at all anxious about dating a god? We're not exactly light on the baggage – Ull especially. You're the first girl he's ever let himself get close to you know. Goddess _or_ mortal."

"Well..." It wasn't like I could talk to Ardis or Emma about this. Inga was the only girl on Earth I could actually be honest with. "It's overwhelming sometimes. I mean, Ull is perfect. He's so smart, so thoughtful – he actually stopped traffic in Bibury to let an old lady cross the street. He dotes on Olaug; he's ridiculously hot, and he's got this antiquated sense of decency. I mean he has _never_ , _ever_ done anything remotely inappropriate with me. Ever. He's just..." What more could I say? "I'm kind of afraid I'm not good enough for him."

"Oh Kristia, stop that. You are plenty good enough for Ull. You're smart enough to earn a spot at Wales' top university. You're a wonderful friend to me – and I've never had a human friend. And you're strong in your own way; you've taken all of this in stride and never once complained."

"But he deserves so much more. I'm no goddess."

Inga's eyes crinkled. "True. But you've done something no goddess could. You softened Ull's heart."

I looked up tentatively.

"Listen, I've known Ull for a long time. He's the headstrong, overbearing brother I never knew I wanted. And for as long as I've known him, Ull's biggest fear has been losing the people he loves. It's why he closed his heart the day we learned Asgard was fated to fall."

"What are you talking about?"

"When a class reaches a certain age, Odin comes to talk about Ragnarok." Fire sparked across Inga's eyes. "Odin tells a room full of children they are all destined to die for the greater good of humankind. It's devastating news, but most of us figure Ragnarok is too far in the future to worry about. Not Ull – he never got past knowing he was marked and he refused to get close to anyone but Gunnar and I. He didn't want to develop relationships he knew would end. I think it came from losing his birth father at such a young age. So Gunnar and I went on to fall in love and get married. And Ull never dated anyone. Ever. He had lots of chances, but he wouldn't let anyone in."

"That's awful." My heart broke for the boy who'd been too young to learn his fate. I was more grateful than ever for Inga, Gunnar, and Olaug – without them, Ull would have spent his life completely alone.

"But now he has you," Inga said simply. "And you complement our trio perfectly. It's almost as if you were born to be one of us. Well," she paused, "maybe you were."

"Um, yeah. I was born to be a god."

"It's not impossible, Kristia," Inga said with disdain before her hands flew to her face.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, no. Ull would kill me. I'm not supposed to talk to you about this."

"Inga, my immortal boyfriend is threatening to give up his godliness to live a human life with me, ending any chance he could have of defending himself at Ragnarok. If you know of another way, you have to tell me."

"Oh.... shoot. Okay. But you cannot tell Ull I'm the one who told you."

I held up my hand. "Girl Scout's Honor."

Inga took a deep breath before blurting out, "Ull doesn't have to become a human for you to be together. You can become a god."

A piece of cupcake lodged in my throat, and I coughed trying to free it. I'd pictured as much in my most recent Ragnarok nightmare, but I thought it was just a dream. "That's not possible. Odin would never let a human become a god. Ull said he already asked your dad."

Inga shook her head vehemently. "Ull didn't tell you the whole story. Dad also told him a god once defected to be with a mortal, so Dad and Odin put together a test for a human to become a god. There was no way Odin was going to lose another warrior before Ragnarok, even if it meant letting a human into Asgard."

I held my breath as she continued.

"The test is simple. First, a god must choose a human for his wife. Second, Balder must judge the human worthy of the title Protector of Asgard. Third, the human must relinquish her mortality. The formula's been in place for centuries, but nobody knows about it. I figure Dad only told me because he knew your boyfriend would be too stubborn to invite you." She shook her head at my expression. "Oh come on, do you really think Odin would let Ull go so easily? He'd much rather let you in than lose his best warrior. You watch – before this plays out you'll be one of us." My head spun as she finished. "Kristia Tostenson, you are, plainly, the only human in the history of mankind who has a shot at becoming a god!"

* * *

I wish I could say I handled the news in stride. I spent the better part of that night staring at my ceiling, actively seeking its imperfections to avoid thinking about what I'd learned. When I'd discovered every crack and dimple, I moved on to scouring the walls, then counted the leaves of the tree outside my window. By the time I'd reached three hundred, seventy-four, I was no closer to sleep and had to accept the futility of my exercise. I gave my mind over to the obsession it had avoided all day and waited for the panic attack to come.

My stomach churned like a blade at a cheese factory while I replayed Inga's words in my head. A shot at becoming a god. How was that even possible? I slowly worked through the ramifications. _Superhuman abilities, Ull's equal in every way._ That sounded pretty nice. _A life marked for death, unimaginable responsibilities._ Not so good.

I'd never really thought about my death, what with my being eighteen and healthy. And I wasn't so keen on the idea of dying at the hands of some bloodthirsty monster or being hauled off by a giant like Inga. _Divine status, the power to control the elements._ My limited imagination had barely let me play dress-up with Ardis when we were kids; I'd certainly never seen myself becoming immortal. _Prejudiced Asgardians, knowing I would always be inferior._ That was a hard one.

I already had something of a complex – I wasn't the prettiest, the smartest, or the most coordinated among humans. How would I fare as a god? _Ageless beauty, strength and grace._ Well, that would certainly help with the inferiority complex. _Leaving my family behind, losing my mortality_. My throat swelled. Was I really willing to give up my parents and Ardis? And my mortality... was I really ready to end my life at eighteen?

True, it hadn't been much of a life before Ull came into it. But I didn't know the first thing about being an immortal. How could I possibly commit to it for an eternity? _An eternity with Ull._ My mind stopped. An eternity with Ull. That was all I wanted. Unending time with the man I loved. Whatever the costs, whatever the losses, would any of it matter as long as we were together?

My decision was made before I realized I had committed. I doubted it had ever been in question. Whatever the fallout, if he asked me to spend my life with him, I would be at Ull's side. As a god.

Once I'd made up my mind, it was surprisingly easy to avoid thinking about giving up my mortality. I kept my decision to myself, and thankfully Inga didn't bring it up. It wasn't like I didn't have plenty to distract me; dating an immortal assassin kept me plenty occupied.

"Anyone want a hot chocolate?" I offered. The semester was nearly over. These days, Ull, and I spent our evenings cramming for exams in my living room.

"Got anything stronger?" Emma looked up from the reading chair. Her Statistics book was on her lap, littered with sticky notes and highlighter marks.

"Not going so great?" I shook my head sympathetically as I rose from the table and pushed in my chair.

"Not even close," Emma complained. "I cannot remember this formula to save my life."

"Maybe Henry could help. I'm sure he'd be happy to come up with a pneumonic or whatever it is you math people use when you're stuck." I started to cross to the kitchen, but Ull grabbed my elbow as I passed. He slid his fingers down my arm slowly, raising my hand to his mouth and pressing my palm against his lips. My skin seared under the contact. It was an innocent enough gesture, but his eyes held mine as he pulled away. And the look behind them was definitely _not_ innocent.

"Do you want a hot chocolate?" I squeaked.

"I want whatever you are offering." Ull raised an eyebrow as he let go of my hand.

Emma let out a low whistle. "You two need a room?"

"No," I blurted, rushing to the kitchen in a fog of mortification.

"Need some help?" Ull stretched his long legs as he stood. He crossed from the table to the kitchen, where I was pulling out Victoria's milk frother.

"Sure. Want to get out the milk and chocolate syrup?"

"I am on it." Ull opened the fridge while I took the marshmallows out of the cupboard. "You ready for exams?"

"Yes and no." I poured the milk into the container and set it to heat. "Literature should be easy enough. Archaeology might be a little more complicated."

"And Mythology?" Ull took three mugs from the cupboard and set them on the counter. Then he stood directly behind me and put his fists on the counter, boxing me in between his arms. "You feeling comfortable with that material?"

"Um ..." My hands shook as I took the lid off the frother and filled the cups.

"Careful," Ull murmured. He used a towel to wipe the drops I'd spilled, his chest pushing against my back as he leaned over.

"Thanks," I whispered. Stirring the chocolate required an unusual amount of concentration. And when Ull ran his fingers over the backs of my hands, I nearly dropped the bag of marshmallows.

"Let me carry those." Ull winked as he left the kitchen, three steaming cups in hand. "Here you go Emma."

"You add anything to it?" She looked up hopefully.

"Three more days," Ull handed her the cup. "Then you are home free."

"Ugh. I hate exams." Emma cradled her cup and buried her head in her textbook. "Stupid Statistics."

"And for you, Miss Tostenson." Ull held up a mug and set it on the table. "Are you coming?"

I walked out of the kitchen on legs that were roughly the consistency of jello.

"Do you want me to quiz you?" Ull offered.

"Okay." I pulled out my chair and sat down. Ull opened his notebook.

"What is the primary function of the Norns?" He asked.

"To predict the fates of gods and mortals, and prophesize the events that shape the formation of the realms," I recited by rote.

"Seems lacking, but that is what the book says. Next question." Ull glanced down. "Who are the Valkyries?"

"Goddesses who travel on winged horses, collect fallen soldiers from battle, and bring them to Odin's hall at Valhalla, where they train to protect Asgard at Ragnarok."

"Correct. And how are the soldiers divided amongst the gods?" Ull questioned.

"Half to Odin, half to Freya."

"You paid attention." Ull nodded his approval.

"Kind of had to." I nudged him with my toe. His eyebrow shot up. "You know what I mean," I hissed.

"Oh, I do." He reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.

"Wish _I_ had someone to quiz _me_ on this boring math stuff. You guys make Mythology sound so exciting." Emma piped up from her chair.

"It can be _very_ exciting." Ull gave me a sideways glance, and I ducked my head. I took a sip of hot chocolate to distract myself. "You have a little something," Ull pointed to my mouth.

_Oops._

"Let me." He reached over and slowly brushed the foam from my upper lip with the pad of his thumb. My eyes rolled back in my head, and I let out an involuntary whimper.

"Oh, honestly." Victoria's voice came from the front door. "Just take her back to your place, and have your way with her, already."

Ull pulled his hand back so quickly my head snapped forward.

"Victoria! I didn't hear you come in." I straightened my notebook.

"Well of course you didn't." She rolled her eyes.

"How was your exam?" Emma asked from her chair.

"Aced it. Now, I just have French and Costume Design, and it'll be winter vacation for _moi_." Victoria hung her coat in the closet and sat on the couch. "Do you all have tests tomorrow?"

"We do," Ull gestured between us. "And speaking of, I should be heading out. Do you feel ready for the morning?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," I shrugged. "I'll walk you to the door."

"Bye Ull," Emma trilled from her chair. "Thanks for the hot cocoa!"

" _God natt_ Emma. Victoria." Ull nodded. I followed him to the front door, and pulled his coat from the closet. "Thank you," he murmured as I handed it to him.

"No problem. You could stay longer if you want to," I added hopefully.

"I know I could. But then you would not rest. And what kind of boyfriend would I be if I kept you up late the night before an exam?"

"A really, really good one?" I suggested. This energy between us was going to be the end of me. If I didn't get a solid chunk of alone time with Ull, and soon, I might actually explode.

"Behave." Ull lifted my chin with one finger. He brushed his lips against my cheek before resting his forehead against mine. "I shall see you in the morning. I will be the one bearing bagels and Earl Grey."

"My hero," I sighed.

" _God natt_ , sweetheart."

"Night," I whispered. I stood with my hands pressed against the doorframe as Ull walked into the courtyard. He glanced over his shoulder as he rounded the corner, and the look in his eyes gave me goosebumps in a way the cold English night never could. Thank God it was nearly winter break. Two weeks together at Ýdalir was exactly what I needed.

St. Lucia's Day dawned clear and crisp. Exams were over, and the mood in Unit 4 was jolly as I helped Victoria and Emma pack their suitcases.

"Happy Christmas!" Emma sang out, jubilant at the freedom vacation brought.

"Yes, Happy Christmas," Victoria echoed slyly. "Have a wonderful time with your man. Don't do anything I wouldn't do..."

"So pretty much do anything you want!" Emma ribbed. Victoria threw a pillow at her. "What? You know it's true."

Shrugging, Victoria conceded. "It's true. Enjoy your holiday."

"It's really not like that. I swear." But my protest fell on deaf ears.

"Yes, I'm sure you've been spending months with that spectacular specimen and all you're doing is studying." Victoria snickered. Emma chuckled, amused by my blush.

If only. I was really hoping that two weeks together would weaken Ull's resolve to be a pillar of propriety. Did that make me easy? I giggled, knowing I was probably the last person that term could ever apply to. Ardis always said that I was pure as the driven snow – a label I hated. But who could look at any of the boys from Nehalem without remembering them pulling wings off flies and eating worms? I'd had dates to prom and homecoming of course, but it went without saying, my romantic history was pretty limited.

"Trust me, if anything exciting happens, you'll be the first to know. Now go home. Have a great holiday." The girls hooted and hollered all the way to Victoria's car.

With my friends safely off to see their families, I was left at loose ends. I triple checked the contents of my suitcase against my packing list and was going back a fourth time when Ull appeared at the door. I rushed to it, eagerly bringing my bag with me. He pulled me close, then leaned back to give me a look that made me flush.

"Is this outfit appropriate to watch my Norse-god boyfriend's Norse-goddess friend play Saint Lucia at the Norse church?" I twirled, to Ull's amused smile.

"You look beautiful, Kristia." He leaned in to smell my hair. "Just like always." I blushed again and Ull escorted me to his car.

At the church, we saw twinkling, white lights strung around the roses in the garden and garlands hanging over each entrance. We walked through the courtyard, pausing at the stone bench where Ull had first opened up to me. So much had happened since then, it was hard to remember the time when I'd thought Ull was gone from my life forever. I grimaced – hard, but not impossible. I pushed the memory away and focused on the man standing in front of me. As always, looking at Ull took my breath away. He pulled me to his chest, holding me tightly before gently guiding me into the warm building.

Inside, the atmosphere was festive. Our tiny church was absolutely filled with St. Lucia's day revelers, and we hurried to fill the last two seats in the pew where Gunnar waited.

"That's my girl," came Gunnar's proud whisper. A hush fell over the group as Inga led a procession of young girls up the aisle. They were dressed in simple white robes with garlands on top of their heads, and they held lit candles in their hands. Inga's robe was tied with a crimson sash, and her evergreen crown held a wreath of candles – actual lit candles. I would have set the church on fire in ten seconds flat if I donned a flaming headdress, but Inga walked so gracefully I wanted to cry. She was so beautiful, her pale hair shining in the candlelight. I snuck a look at Gunnar, who beamed with pride. Inga winked sweetly at her husband, gliding up the aisle trailed by little angels. At the front, the girls sang a song in Norwegian as Inga smiled seraphically throughout. The pastor gave a blessing, a handful of women in their bunads gave readings, and Inga glided back up the aisle, trailed by her choir of cherubs.

Ull squeezed my shoulders lightly as the last notes resonated through the room. I leaned into his tall frame and inhaled his delicious scent. The worshippers stood, chatting familiarly, and we followed suit.

"Join me outside?" Ull raised an eyebrow.

"Sure." I put my hand in his and followed him through the crowd, out the side door of the church and into the courtyard. The night air cut through my heavy coat, and I shivered. Ull wrapped his scarf around my neck and guided me to a bench in the corner. It was backed almost against the ivy, positioned at just the right angle to block the evening breeze.

"Is that better?" He asked as he lowered himself onto the bench beside me.

"Much." I nestled underneath his arm, letting him fold me into his embrace. We sat in silence, watching the moonlight bounce off the silvery-grey stones of the courtyard. Somewhere nearby a flower was in bloom, lending its sweet fragrance to the night air. The subtle scent smelled familiar. It was too cold for roses. Did night jasmine bloom in England?

"I am glad you came tonight," Ull said. "It is nice to have you at my side for these things."

"These things?"

"Family things," he clarified. "We celebrate St. Lucia's as a family, and it means a lot to me to have you with Gunnar and Inga and me."

"There's no place I'd rather be," I said honestly. "I love spending time with you guys."

Ull paused, stroking my shoulder with his thumb. He cupped my cheek in one hand, tilting my face upward so he could look into my eyes. The warmth resonating from his smile filled me with a feeling of absolute peace. There was no doubt I was exactly where I belonged.

"I am in love with you, Kristia Tostenson," Ull whispered. "I think I always have been. And I know I always will be."

_I am in love with you_...

He actually said the words. My breath caught. Tears welled in my eyes as his gaze bored right through me. I felt completely exposed, but it wasn't a bad feeling – it was comforting. Ull Myhr was in love with _me_. He knew everything about me, knew my crazy mental tic, my obsessive compulsion with note taking, my inability to get through a day without trying to get him to make out with me... and he loved me anyway. The sexiest man I'd ever met; a living, breathing, Norse deity; was in love with me.

It was unreal.

Ull didn't break eye contact as he rested his forehead against mine. I let out a small sigh, my breath coming in a white puff in the icy air. "I love you too, Ull."

"I know." The corners of his eyes crinkled and he wrapped his arms tightly around me, drawing me into his warmth. "And I am going to spend the rest of my existence making sure you understand the depths of my devotion to you."

"Oh, Ull." My head nuzzled his chest as I inhaled his delicious woodsy scent. "You have no idea–"

"There you are! We've been looking everywhere for you, mate." Gunnar's voice boomed across the courtyard. "Inga's ready to cut the _kransekake_. You coming?"

"In a minute," Ull growled.

"Oops. Did I interrupt something out here?" Gunnar shot us a salacious grin. "Sorry Kristia. But Inga waits for no man. Get your butts inside. _Straks_."

"Fine," Ull grumbled. He lifted me to my feet and guided me by the small of the back into the church. "This is not over," he whispered as he followed the whistling Gunnar.

"I should hope not," I whispered back.

We slipped into the warm hall to rejoin the party. Inga stood laughing with a group of twenty-something women, as Gunnar sidled up to put his hands around her waist. He stole a kiss, and she turned to beam up at him. The women "aw-ed" at the sweet gesture, and Gunnar ducked his head. The moment was small, but it was one I'd never forget.

Thousands of miles from home, I had found a community every bit as tightly-knit as Nehalem. I had found friends who accepted me, in spite of astronomical differences. I had a wonderful guy who, for some unfathomable reason, adored me beyond the bounds of logic. Standing very still, I relished the peace emanating from my center, the deep happiness I'd only known since meeting Ull Myhr. Nestled under his arm, I'd found my happy place.

# Chapter 14

It was dark when we pulled up the tree-lined driveway of Ýdalir, crunching tires on gravel the only sound I could hear. Ull stepped out of the Range Rover, yawning in an uncharacteristic display of exhaustion. He'd been more tired than usual over the past few weeks, probably from worrying about the end-of-the-cosmos battle he was loathe to talk about. I knew he didn't want to scare me, but my fate was so tied to his that anxiety was unavoidable. I couldn't imagine a world without him, and I wished he would open up. If nothing else, I could be a shoulder to... well, talk on. The idea of Ull crying was ridiculous.

Ull carried our suitcases into the house, depositing mine in the guest room. I'd been hoping for some impropriety, but I knew better than to expect anything of the sort. I should have been grateful. Compared to a goddess, I was sure to be a disappointment, so the less experienced he was the better I'd look. On the other hand, Ull, in all his physical perfection, had waited an eternity to be with anyone. I seriously doubted I'd prove worth waiting for.

My thoughts were interrupted by his husky voice inviting me to join him on the terrace. I hurriedly ran a brush through my hair and raced through the living room. I didn't want to waste another minute away from him. Outside, I skidded to a stop while my vision adjusted to the night. "Ull?"

I found him standing beneath the yew dale. He smiled expectantly, holding out one hand in welcome. I locked my eyes on his before staring at the ground. It was so familiar. A circle of candles framed the grass where he waited. They marked a path along the cobblestone walkway, rounding the English roses, leading to where I stood. Thousands of twinkling lights hung from the trees, and more candles stood in hurricane glasses along the stone wall.

It was all so carefully arranged. The lights in the trees winked down at me like the stars overhead. Looking up, I remembered another night, dancing under the stars at my high school's homecoming dance. It had been freezing cold. My date was one of the three Mikes in our class, and he'd been a little too handsy. I'd feigned a need for the powder room and found Ardis hiding in there too. We'd run away from our dud dates, sitting on the football field in our fancy dresses and complaining about how dismal our dating prospects were in such a tiny town. Would we ever meet anyone worthy of our wonderfulness?

I looked to the row of flickering candles in glasses along the wall. My mind moved to another memory, a bonfire on the beach after exams my freshman year at UPN. My platonic lab partner with questionable breath sat next to me on a thick driftwood log, squirming anxiously until he turned to plant an unwanted kiss squarely on my lips. Thankfully I'd had a rare moment of grace, reaching to pick up a rock at just the right moment so the poor guy dove headfirst into the sand. Would my Prince Charming ever show up?

My eyes scanned the garden again, taking in the twinkling lights, the candles framing the tree, and the man standing in the middle of it all, his hand stretched out waiting for me to join him. How had my life gone from pawsy, high school boys in a one-light town to this? I took a tentative step toward Ull and looked around again. The yard was well decorated, even for Ýdalir. Could this be what I thought it was?

Everything clicked into slow motion as I realized what was happening. I made my way forward, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, sure I was going to trip over myself. I was hyper-aware of the cool, English night, the whoosh of a nearby owl taking flight, the sound of the small stones beneath my feet. I zeroed in on the glow from Ull's brilliant eyes.

I made my way to my future, pausing breathlessly before the standing form of my real-life Nordic hero. He reached out to take both of my hands in his, the brilliant white smile never leaving his face. He squeezed my fingers. I breathed in and out, trying to commit every detail of this moment to memory.

"Kristia Tostenson," Ull began in his deep voice, making my knees weak. "You have changed my life beyond measure. In all my years, I never knew I could feel so peaceful, so at home. I have searched the realms for a place to belong, never seeing it was you I should have been searching for. I am home wherever you are. Where your heart is, mine is at peace. You are my everything."

He dropped to one knee and drew in an uneven breath. The corner of his mouth twitched in a nervous half-smile, and he rubbed his palms together. My heart thudded, and I stopped breathing when Ull reached behind his back to retrieve a small, dark box. His hand shook as he opened it, revealing a circle of diamonds that were exquisite in their simplicity. "Kristia." His voice caught. "I pledge to love you for the rest of my existence. I will protect you and provide you with the happiest home you have ever known. Please do me the honor of becoming my wife. Will you have me as your husband?"

I was too overwhelmed to answer. This was a destiny I never imagined in Nehalem. Ull had chosen _me_ , a human from a one-stoplight town. It was beyond belief. I knew what I was going to have to do if I wanted to be a part of his life – become a god, leave my life behind. I was going to have to give up everything I'd ever known. But I'd made my mind up weeks ago. When faced with the decision of whether to choose Ull or choose everything else, there was no contest. I would always choose Ull.

When I finally found my voice it was strong. "Yes. I want to be by your side. Always." He wrapped me in a tremendous embrace and swept me off my feet, spinning me until we fell.

Ull propped himself up on an elbow and brushed a strand of hair from my face. He lowered his body so it hovered over mine and pressed his lips to mine. A hesitant kiss at first, as if he were seeking permission. A slow burn built, and his kiss became less tentative, more urgent. His hand trailed down my ribs, and I grabbed at his hair, pulling him closer. I was overwhelmed by the sensation of his touch, the heat of his lips, and the indescribable charge between us.

I wrapped my leg around his hip, pulling him on top of me. He groaned – it must have been too much. He broke our embrace by rolling onto his back. We lay side by side, staring up at the tree.

"I hope you want a short engagement, my love. What do you think about a summer wedding?"

"That sounds good to me." I rolled to my side so I could look at him.

"Do you think your parents could come out then?"

I shook my head. "We're not really that kind of family. I'll invite them, but I doubt they'd want to come."

"Kristia. I do not understand their... ambivalence." Ull's brow furrowed. "You deserve so much more."

"It's okay. Honest. Mormor helped me make peace with it years ago – some people just aren't wired right, you know?" I shrugged. "Besides, Ardis will come. She was planning to visit Europe for the summer anyway, since I hadn't decided whether to go back to UPN or make a full transfer to Cardiff. But now that I have a reason to stay here..."

"Stay," Ull urged. "Stay with me. Stay at my side forever."

"It's the only place I want to be," I admitted. "I'll put in my paperwork when the term starts. And... we'll get married this summer!" It would be the perfect time – and in just five months. I hated waiting for anything. There was no way I had the patience to be engaged for longer than that.

"Wait." Ull stood and walked behind the tree. He came back with a silver ice bucket holding a bottle and two glasses. Uncorking the champagne, he filled the glasses and handed me one. I sniffed at it.

"I can't drink this. I'm underage." I was not about to abandon a lifetime of following the rules just because I was engaged.

"Kristia, we are in the UK. The drinking age here is eighteen. But it is up to you – I have sparkling water in the house if you prefer." My eyes lit up. I hadn't realized the law was different. In that case, I couldn't think of a better excuse for champagne than my engagement to Ull. I raised my glass. " _Skål_." Ull smiled.

"Cheers," I said back, taking a sip. The bubbles tickled my throat.

"You really want to marry me?" Ull seemed uncertain.

"Oh, yes," I breathed. "I do. You're the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me. I had no idea life could be like... well, like this." I gestured around the yard.

"This is only the beginning. Wait until you see where we spend our honeymoon."

"I thought the bride got to make that decision."

"No, darling. The groom makes that decision. The bride makes all the other decisions." I had to laugh. "So tell me, Miss Tostenson, how have you pictured your wedding day?"

"Truthfully? I never gave it much thought."

"Neither did I." Ull chuckled. "Guess that leaves us with a blank slate."

"Well, if I had to come up with something, I'd want it to be small. I'd wear my grandmother's dress and carry ivory roses–"

"Why ivory roses?" Ull interrupted.

I felt my cheeks grow warm. "Because they're in your garden."

He smiled. "I like that."

"And I'd want us to dance under the stars. I've never had a romantic dance under the stars before." Just a couple of really uncomfortable ones.

Ull took the glass from my hand and set it beside the dale. He wrapped an arm around my waist and led me in a slow dance. I tried to follow, but ended up smashing his foot.

"Sorry," I mumbled.

"We can work up to steps." Ull pulled me closer, and I rested my head on his chest. I could hear his heart beating against my cheek as we swayed back and forth in the moonlight. The cool air caressed my arms as Ull guided me around the outdoor ballroom he'd created. My goose bumps weren't entirely due to the temperature. As the dance ended, he lifted my chin with one finger and kissed me on the lips. " _Jeg elsker deg_ , Kristia. Thank you for making me the happiest god alive."

"I love you too, Ull," I whispered. This was the greatest day of my entire life.

Back in my room, I could barely hold my hand steady to dial the international code through my mobile phone. I kept staring at the sparkling ring on my left hand. But the day would not be complete without this phone call, and I willed myself to dial. When the familiar voice answered, I let out the quietest squeal my excitement would allow. "Ardis, I'm getting married!"

The scream that met my ear wasn't nearly so soft, and I had to pull the phone away to protect what was left of my hearing. "Oh my god, oh my god, when? Where? To Ull? See, I told you it would work out! His parents love you!"

"Well..." I bit my lip. His parents had slipped my mind. "They haven't met me yet. But I think they'll be okay." Would they? I tried not to think about it. Tonight was for celebrating.

"Oh my god. You're getting married! So things are going good," Ardis teased.

"Things are great! We're at his country house–"

"Again? Get on with your bad self!" I didn't have the heart to crush her inflated opinion of me, so I didn't mention our sleeping arrangements. "How did he ask? What does the ring look like? Oh Kristia, I can't believe this is happening!"

"I can't believe it either. I always thought you'd be the first one to get married."

"Are you kidding me? There are way too many guys out there for me to pick just one. Yet." Her giggles filled me with happiness.

"Oh, Ardis, I miss you!"

"I miss you too! Now tell me how he proposed!"

I settled back into the overstuffed pillows, recounting almost every detail of my perfect evening.

"Is he seriously as hot as you say he is? Or are you exaggerating? C'mon, he can't really be that sexy. He's in England." I had to laugh at Ardis' reasoning. She was my best friend in the world. Gosh how I missed her.

I could not wait to introduce her to Ull.

A few days later, I woke up in a cold sweat. My nightmare had been so real, I couldn't be sure this one wasn't a vision. I reminded myself that my visions had never been particularly useful, so this must have been a dream. Ull had gotten a phone call and escaped to his study so I wouldn't hear.

_"Ja," he answered anxiously._

_"Ull, it is happening. The Norns have foreseen Balder's death. It will happen before the snow melts from the mountains – it will be this spring." Olaug's voice crackled through the mobile phone in Norwegian, but somehow I understood all the words. Ull collapsed onto his leather chair._

_"It cannot be so soon. It cannot happen in Kristia's lifetime."_

_"I am sorry Ull. Ragnarok is beginning. The giants and dark elves have begun to move together, someone is already organizing the attack. All that is left is for Balder to die – it will give our enemies the opening they need to start this fight. It will happen within five months."_

_"Ragnarok." Ull dropped the phone and closed his eyes, silent tears falling._

I woke up in a panic.

# Chapter 15

I should have told **** Ull about my dream the minute I woke up, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

" _God morgen_ ," Ull greeted me in the kitchen. He stood at the stove wearing a thick sweater and wielding a spatula. "Have a seat." He kissed me softly and gestured to the stool at the island.

"Pancakes today? Yum." I was famished.

"You will need your energy. We are taking a hike."

"Where to today?"

"I want to show you my favorite plants in Bibury. And the willows off the Coln are a good couple of miles from here." He was so relaxed. It didn't seem right to kill the mood by telling him we were all going to die within months. That kind of news could wait until lunchtime.

Of course, I didn't manage to tell him then, either. This wasn't the sort of thing that should be shared over food. I could tell him right before tea time. And I wouldn't think about it until then.

But three hours later, we sat with steaming mugs, and I still hadn't shared my dream. _Coward._

"I win," I gloated. I took a sip of tea as I captured Ull's last checker.

"Again," Ull muttered. My betrothed was surprisingly bad at board games. Petty as it was, I was pleased to find one thing I could do better than him.

A low buzzing broke his focus, and he eyed the ringing mobile. I was immobilized by sudden terror. "I apologize, darling." He kissed my clammy forehead. "I will only be a minute." And he darted into the study speaking hurriedly in Norwegian. It was hot when he did that, but for once I was too horrified to notice. " _Ja_?" I heard him say. Oh, no, no, no. Criminy, no. I was too late to warn him.

I crept towards the study, not wanting him to know I was eavesdropping. I heard him collapse into the leather chair. "It cannot be so soon," he whispered. "It cannot happen in Kristia's lifetime." I clapped both hands over my mouth. Ull was silent for a long time, and when he finally spoke his voice was filled with dread. "Ragnarok."

I walked to the kitchen, adrenaline pulsing. Why hadn't I said something sooner? I should have warned him this call was coming. And what was happening to my normally hapless visions? Where were the toenail painting and the laundry folding? That scene played out exactly the way it had in my dream. Oh my God, Ragnarok was coming. And my visions were giving me a front row seat.

I waited for Ull to come out of his study, but he stayed put. I puttered around the kitchen, appreciating that Olaug left the fridge and pantry well stocked in her absence. Guilt made me hungry. I put the pitcher of waffle batter on the counter, and was looking for Ull's favorite jam in the pantry when I heard him collapse on the couch. My heart sank. He'd asked me to tell him about my visions, and I'd been too chicken. Would he want to know that I knew? Or should I let him tell me in his own time?

"Who was that?" My voice was so high he should have seen right through me.

"Uh, it was Gunnar." His eyes darted back and forth, thick worry lines between his brows giving him away. "He wanted to say Happy Christmas."

"Is that all?"

Ull balled his fists and tried to look calm. "That's all." He was trying so hard to protect me. I couldn't let him suffer anything else on his own.

"Ull, I know. I know it was Olaug and that Balder's going to die. I know Ragnarok is coming." I wiped my palms on my pants.

"Were you eavesdropping? Wait, even if you were, how would you know that? Olaug used Norwegian. Do you speak Norwegian now too?"

I grimaced. "No more than yesterday. I just... ugh, I'm a huge coward. I'm sorry, I should have told you this morning. But you were so happy, and we were having such a nice time, I didn't want to bring you down. I'll be more honest about what I see, I swear I will. I just couldn't upset you. I'm so sorry–"

"Kristia, slow down. What are you talking about?"

"I had a dream last night. Or a vision, I guess. It's hard to tell what's what anymore. Olaug called, she told you Ragnarok was starting. Real soon." With all I'd learned in the past few months, I should have known that it would come true in my lifetime – the stories Mormor told me, the nightmares I'd had ever since. The battle that would end our worlds. Oh my God, this was really happening. I rubbed at my temples.

Ull shook his head. "I tried never to speak of Ragnarok – I did not want you to worry."

"Not worry? Ull, we met in Mythology Class. Professor Carnicke talked about Ragnarok the first day of school. You told me you had a dark future. And you told me you're a god. Between what I already knew and what I picked up from a quick Google search, I know _all_ about Ragnarok." I crossed to the couch and knelt beside him. "It's the digital age – not Viking times."

"I apologize Kristia. I only wanted to protect you."

"You're going to have to start trusting me sometime."

"I know." Ull rubbed his forehead.

"And Ull." I lifted his chin until he met my eyes. "You don't have to die. You know that, right?" Granted, the Internet was more than clear on what was going to happen to most of the gods and the earth come Ragnarok, but Inga swore that was all hearsay – fabrications by Asgardians to protect insecure humans. I was choosing to believe Inga. "You don't have to let some silly prophecy run your life. You can do that for yourself."

"Even gods cannot escape the fates." Ull shook his head sadly. "In theory the future can change. But the Norns have prophesied our fall at Ragnarok for as long as I have been alive. Nothing has ever altered it. And I doubt anything can."

He looked so hopeless. I sat next to my morose idol on the couch, wishing more than anything that there was something I could do. "Ull," I laid my head on his shoulder, "you do have some control here. You can fight. You don't have to resign yourself to this awful future because some Norns said so. I don't understand how you can just accept their word as law."

"You wouldn't." His eyes filled with a hundred lifetimes of sorrow. "Because it is so different for mortals. But for us, their predictions become truths. I wish it were otherwise."

He really believed all this prophecy stuff. "Oh Ull." There was nothing else to say. Ull rested his head on mine.

"I thought we had more time. I thought we could live out our human lives, grow old, pass on, long before any of this came to be." He was despondent. "I cannot protect you after all. I am so sorry, Kristia." Oh, crumbs on a cracker. Ull was crying. His silent tears fell onto my cheek, and I pressed my hand to the chest of the deity whose greatest fear was coming true. I couldn't let him face this. There was one thing I could do. Ull would not lose one more person he loved.

"Listen, I know something else too. I know you aren't going to become a human. Not for me." His body was crumpled in defeat. Shaking my head, I voiced my decision. The decision I'd made weeks ago, that same night Inga had told me it was an option. "Listen to me. I want to be like you. I want to be Goddess of Winter. I want to fight for your family – and for you."

Ull's sharp breath was equaled in severity only by the anger in his eyes. I shouldn't have known about this option. "Absolutely not. Ragnarok is not a joke, Kristia, and it is coming. I will not let you die for me."

"I won't die." I wasn't being stubborn; I really believed my words. "None of us will. Ull, I know I can do this. If I'm with you, then Ragnarok will end without the loss of a single Asgardian life."

Ull's patronizing look made it clear he was unconvinced. "Darling. You do not know what you are talking about. The Three Sisters have predicted our fall at Ragnarok since the beginning of time. Very little escapes their visions."

"Maybe. But they never saw me coming. Elsker never got to tell them about me, remember? So maybe their prophecy would have changed if they'd known what I can do."

"I do not follow."

"You said yourself, my visions are a gift. That I'd qualify to be a Norn if I'd been born like you. So if I can see things, predict what your enemies are going to do... and if they don't even know I exist because of this prophecy..." He still wasn't following. "Ull. Use me! Make me a goddess and let me use my visions to help. I'll be like an undercover agent. Your enemies won't be expecting me since no human has ever become a god. Nobody but Jens and Odin even knew it was an option." The fury in Ull's eyes blazed as he realized it was Inga who had told me too much about his world.

The choices he'd never wanted me to have lay in front of him, and he had no control over my decision. The path to joining his realm was clear. And immediate. Under Odin's test to become a god, only Balder could judge my worthiness, and he would have to do that before someone killed him. Surely Ull knew all of this, and he was beyond angry that I did too.

"You do not know what you are saying. Kristia, if you become a goddess then at Ragnarok, our fates are entwined. You will meet the same end that I will, whatever it may be." I couldn't comprehend the lifetime of sorrow that this prophecy had caused him. No wonder, in his eons of existence, he'd never gotten married. He believed it would be a death sentence for his bride.

"Maybe. But I know a few things you don't."

"Oh really? What exactly do you know?" I could tell Ull wasn't taking me very seriously. My thinly stretched nerves threatened to snap.

"Listen, I know you're going to keep Asgard safe, okay? That you'll imprison whoever is controlling these giants and elves and whatever else is trying to kill us. That you're going to use magic to trap the perp in some silvery bubble so he can't hurt us again." I'd seen as much last week. At the time, I thought it was another dream, but recent events made it clear I had to start taking my dreams a lot more seriously.

"How could you possibly know about the Asgardian prison cell? Or about my magic?"

"Wait, you can actually do magic?"

"Do not change the subject."

"Fine. I saw it in another vision. I didn't tell you because I thought it was a dream. Happy?"

"Not even a little. This is getting too dangerous for you. If our enemies find out everything you know about us... and them..." Ull shook his head. "Kristia, I do not want you to change for me. I cannot allow you to tie your fate to mine."

"Oh, please. Like my fate could ever _not_ be tied to yours. If you are going to... fall," I choked on the word, "then I want to be with you. You are my life and nothing – epic battle, death, homicidal giants – nothing could keep me away from you. I love you," I finished, hoping he understood how true my words were.

"And you would choose..." His eyes studied the floor.

"I would choose to die an Asgardian by your side rather than change a single thing about you. I love you exactly as you are, and I always will."

"Kristia, I cannot allow this."

"I'm sorry, Ull. It's not your choice to make. I'll go to Odin by myself – you know I will. Inga will take me. And you know he'll let me into Asgard if it means keeping you in his army." Ull's eyes burned. He was furious, whether at Inga or me I wasn't sure.

"You would go behind my back?" His voice was so cold I almost checked the windows for frost.

"If it's the only way to save you, then yes." I defied him.

"How could you do this to me?"

"I'm not doing anything to you. I'm doing this for you."

"I do not want this."

"Tough. It's happening. You made this decision the day you asked to borrow my notes." We stared eye to eye, glaring at each other. I was not going to back down.

Ull's shoulders dropped. "Why are you doing this, Kristia? Why do you insist on doing the exact opposite of everything I ask of you?"

My mouth twitched. "Nobody's ever told you no before, have they?"

"Not in this realm."

"Well get used to it."

Ull gave me a shaky look. "Are you certain? Do you have to do this?"

"Absolutely," I declared without hesitation.

"I do not agree with this."

"I do not agree with letting you march off to your death. Guess we're even." We stared at each other. Ull was the first to blink.

"Then we have work to do." He stood in resignation, pulling me to him and kissing the top of my head. "I do not agree with this," he reiterated.

"Do you want me to marry you?"

"Of course I do."

"Then get used to making decisions that work for both of us – not just you."

"This decision does not work for me."

"Fine, then get used to doing things that make your wife happy."

He looked like he wanted to stomp his foot, but I knew I had gotten my way. He led me to the table and sat me on his knee. Opening his laptop, he began the call he had spent his lifetime hoping he'd never have to make. " _God ettermiddag_ , Olaug," he said despondently to her image on the screen. "Kristia wants in. Will you arrange for a meeting with Odin and Balder?"

" _Veldig bra_! _Ja_. __ I would be honored." Olaug knew what this meant. "Kristia, I do hope Odin gives his consent. You would make a fine goddess." She signed off. I sat for a moment as I processed what I might become.

I smiled bravely. "Do you think he'll say yes?"

"I should say absolutely not. He has never allowed it before – it goes against everything he stands for. But with my luck," Ull said wryly, "it is not out of the question."

"Good. Ull, you have to trust me. Everything is going to work out." Ull looked unsteady as he faced a reality he'd feared for an eternity. I cupped his perfect face between my hands. Without thinking, I leaned in and kissed him soundly. He started to pull back, but I held his jaw between my palms, forcing our lips to keep contact. He gave in, wrapping both arms tightly around my waist and crushing my torso to his. I lost myself as his arms held me firmly in place and his lips reminded me of how much was at stake. I released my hold on his face and tangled my fingers in his hair, feeling the strands wrap around my engagement ring. His lips were so warm. His breathing grew heavy and he was the first to pull away.

"Kristia, what are you doing to me?" He groaned. "You cannot kiss me like that to get your way."

"I just did." I smiled lazily. "Now listen. I want to be a god. I can do this. I am going to be just fine. Really."

I wasn't sure which of us I was trying to convince.

I thought the matter was settled, but as we were cleaning up after dinner, Ull brought it up one final time.

"Kristia, are you absolutely certain you want to tie your fate with mine? I cannot escape Ragnarok, but you may still be able to live a happy life with someone else if we somehow save your realm." The words had to hurt him.

"Oh, quit trying to get rid of me." I dried my hands on a dishtowel. "I'm not living in any world that you're not a part of, so stop trying to save me from a fate I don't want to be saved from. Whatever happens, we fight together. And if it comes to it, we die together. But you," I growled, "are not facing _anything_ without me. _Ever_."

Ull's eyes broke my heart, but he pulled me to him, breathing deeply into my hair. I inhaled the invigorating scent of pine that followed him wherever he went and rubbed the knotted muscles of his back beneath my palms. "I don't know how to convince you, Ull, but I know, deep down, that Ragnarok will not be the end of your family. You have to trust me." He looked at me questioningly, then kissed my forehead and poured two cups of tea.

"Kristia Tostenson, you are something else."

I remembered a conversation we'd had in the fall. "Remember when you told me about Elsker? How she told you where to find me?"

"Yes?"

"Well, why did you? Come find me, I mean? According to Inga, you've been following the rules your whole life. Why stop now?"

"Ah." Ull raised his eyebrows. We wandered to the garden with steaming mugs. "That is a good question. I am not entirely sure I know the answer myself. Most likely, I was so lonely I could not take it anymore. I have always done what Asgard asks of me. A warrior lives a terribly isolating existence. Perhaps I just got greedy; felt like I deserved my own happiness." He shrugged. "Things are different for Asgardians than they are for humans. Our lives are laid out for us on the day we are born. The Norns foretell our futures and, with very few exceptions, things play out exactly as they say, all in accordance with the law. I was born to be a warrior first, titled god second, to serve my realm over myself. Duty above all – it is our way."

"That sounds stifling." I couldn't imagine having my life mapped out for me.

"It is. And like I said, I was terribly lonely. When Elsker told me there was someone out there for me, she threw me a lifeline. It was my chance to have what I had always wanted, to not be alone anymore – even if it did openly defy the law. It took me a while to warm to the idea, but eventually I did. It saved me."

"I'm glad you came around."

"I am too.

"Ull?" Knowing this was shaky ground, I trod lightly. "Do you really believe someone else controls your destiny?"

"The Three Sisters – yes. Why?"

"Do you ever get sick of that? Of not feeling in charge of your own life?"

"You have no idea." His voice was dark. "But that is how things are. We each have our posts – some of us are warriors, some control the elements, and some lay out the future. It is our way." He kept saying that. The Asgardian way. "You know, that is part of why I seemed so angry when we first met. I was jealous."

"Jealous?" The God of Winter was jealous of Nehalem's resident nutso?

"Yes. Your life is yours to live – you picked up and moved from Oregon to Wales just because you wanted to."

"You moved from Asgard to Bibury."

"But it is not the same. I must do what is asked of me for the rest of my existence. Even here I am at Odin's beck and call. And you," he stroked my cheek softly, "Your destiny is totally in your hands. Of course I was jealous."

An idea was mulling around in my head, an inkling of why Elsker had sent Ull to me instead of to another Asgardian. Maybe she was sick of these Fate ladies controlling everything and she wanted me to show Ull he had the power to make his own destiny. Being human, I had a totally different perspective than any Asgardian. And maybe Elsker wanted me to do what no Asgardian girl could do – show Ull he could buck the system and take charge of his own life.

" _Jeg elsker deg_ , Kristia," Ull said, taking hold of my hand.

"I love you too." I lowered my head to his chest, thinking of all he had shouldered. I wished more than anything that I could put his mind at ease. I knew everything was going to work out – I just had no idea how.

# Chapter 16

The next day, Ull was in a considerably lighter mood. "Sweetheart," he kissed my head over breakfast, "We will put up a good fight come Ragnarok. But I do not want to think about it anymore. I just want to enjoy our time in the country while we have it."

"Really? Just like that? Aren't you still upset?" I certainly wouldn't have been able to shut off my worry switch.

"I am fine, darling. Let us not talk about it again."

"Fair enough. What do you want to talk about?"

Ull raised an eyebrow. "How about our wedding?"

"Right. Um, who exactly is coming from your side?"

"Probably just my parents and grandfather. Odin does not like to have too many of us away from Asgard at once."

Now it was my turn to worry. First, I was beyond nervous about meeting Ull's parents. Ull's mom had golden hair – not hair the color of gold, but hair actually _made_ of gold. And Thor was, well, a big deal. The most influential person I'd ever spent time with was the Mayor of Nehalem, and he _had_ to be nice to me because he was Ardis' uncle. The rulers of the celestial realm didn't have that obligation.

"Do you think they'll like me? I can't be what they imagined for a daughter-in-law."

"Of course they will like you. Why would you ask?"

"Just wondering." _Wondering if they'll like me enough to make me a god. Wondering if I'll be any good at being divine. Wondering what it'll feel like to be changed. That's all_.

"Darling, you have nothing to worry about on that front." Yeah, right.

I put my worries aside on Christmas morning. When I woke up, I pulled open the curtains to find a thick dusting of snow outside. It coated the grounds in a fresh powder, making the entire countryside look new. I threw my gray ballet sweater on top of the blue pajama pants and tank top I'd worn to bed. The sweater was as close as I would ever get to the graceful dance. I padded in blue, fuzzy slippers toward the smell of apple pastries.

Ull was taking Olaug's tarts out of the oven. I snuck up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist. He turned with a huge smile and bent to kiss me, his lips hot on mine. Breathing evaded me as my fingers curled into fists against the muscles of his back. He lifted me, drawing me even closer. My need for air won out, and I pulled back gasping.

"Am I ever going to get used to this?"

"I hope not." He smiled. "Happy Christmas, darling."

"Mmm..." I snuggled closer, still in his arms. "It is happy." I breathed in his deliciously woodsy scent and tilted my head up. Ull's chiseled jaw was calling to me, and I stretched on my tiptoes to kiss it.

"I have a gift for you." He untangled himself and reached for a small wrapped box on the counter.

"You mean the diamond engagement ring wasn't my Christmas present?"

Ull laughed, the jovial laugh I loved best. "No, love." He handed me a cup of tea and pointed to the living room. Overnight, he'd transformed it into a pacific-northwestern paradise. Real evergreen garlands hung across the mantel and above the French doors. A six-foot tree stood in the corner, decorated with white lights and red, felt ornaments. Each side of the French doors hosted an evergreen wreath and a fire burned in the fireplace, filling the small space with its warmth.

"Do you like it?" Ull squeezed my hand.

"It's perfect. It smells like home." It did. The evergreens took me thousands of miles back to the forests of Oregon, and the aroma coming from the oven reminded me of the apple pies Mormor used to bake with our Christmas supper.

"That was my goal. Happy Christmas, my love." He held the wrapped box out for me.

"Oh! Wait, I have something for you too." I ran to my room and rummaged through my drawer until I came up with my gift. I'd agonized over what to buy Ull, and I was really excited to give it to him. Racing back to the living room, I skidded to a stop in my slippered feet. "Here." I thrust my present into Ull's hands.

He laughed at my enthusiasm and pulled me down so we both sat on the soft rug in front of the fireplace.

"You first," I said. I couldn't wait. He smiled as I bounced on my knees.

"Hmm." He tugged at the bow with excruciating slowness. "It seems to be stuck." He was teasing me and I couldn't take it.

"Oh just open it already!" I lunged for the present intending to rip the wrapping right off, but Ull was too quick. He pulled it out of my reach, and I nearly fell right into his lap. "Hey," I mumbled as I righted myself. "That's not fair." If my grace didn't step it up once I became a goddess, I was going to be majorly disappointed.

"Sorry, darling, I'll try not to tease you anymore."

"Oh, yeah. Like that'll happen anytime soon."

"True." But he did open the present a little less slowly, shooting teasing glances at me all the while. When he finally got the wrapping paper off, he reached into the box. "A rugby ball. Thank you, darling."

"No, _look_ at the ball."

He did, and recognition dawned. "Is this–"

"I got the whole National team to sign it!"

"How did you get this?"

"Inga and I waited outside the locker room after a game. She had to point out which guys were the players because I had no clue, and we just asked them all to sign."

"Kristia, this is really thoughtful. I love it." He turned the ball over in his hands. "Wow. Thank you." He reached over to hug me. "Nobody has ever done anything like this for me before."

"You deserve it," I said simply. "You're their number one fan."

Ull shook his head. "You are something else, Kristia Tostenson. Now you open yours."

I tugged at the white bow and it slipped off the box. I lifted the lid and inhaled sharply. "Ull," I whispered. "This is too much." Snowflake-shaped, diamond earrings rested on a velvety cushion. I lifted them gently; the light catching and shooting beams across the room. "They're so beautiful."

"They were my mother's." He smiled. "My father gave them to her on their wedding day, and she gave them to me after he died. She told me to give them to the woman I wanted to marry." He took them from my hands and undid their clasps. I put them in my ears very carefully, watching the walls where they cast their reflections from the fire.

"Thank you," I whispered, tears welling. "I can't believe you would give these to me."

"Why, Kristia? You are my family now."

"But they mean so much to you."

"You mean more." I scooted over to him and he wrapped an arm around my shoulders. "You know," he said with a twinkling eye, "I think I could get used to spending Christmas in the country with you."

"Me too," I murmured. This was shaping up to be the best holiday ever.

The best holiday ever came to a screeching halt two days later. Ull and I were sitting in the garden watching the squirrels chase each other across the low stone fence when Olaug came walking up the back path. She was supposed to be enjoying the holidays with her family, so her presence could only mean one thing.

"It is time," came her cheery greeting. "Odin and Balder are ready to meet with you."

"Now?" This was mortifying. I was wearing jeans and one of Ull's sweaters, hardly the ensemble I'd imagined for meeting my future grandfather-in-law, the ruler of Asgard. Why hadn't I put on something nicer today?

"Now." Olaug smiled. She ushered us inside. I shot Ull a panicky glance as he squeezed my hand.

"You do not have to do this, Kristia." It came out as a plea.

"Yes. I do." I took a deep breath, shook my hair loose from its bun and smoothed the front of my too-big sweater. It was now or never.

Olaug headed to the library, where she pulled a book from the shelf. The wall folded out to reveal a staircase leading down, lit by wall sconces and carpeted in the softest of fabrics. These waters were too deep for me. I shot Ull an accusatory glare. "You didn't tell me you have a secret hideout!"

Ull shrugged. "It never came up." He gestured, and Olaug led the way down the staircase, kicking off what I had no doubt would be a very stressful afternoon.

We walked down to a secret chamber somewhere beneath Ýdalir. Bows, arrows, and a suit of armor filled a dark wooden case, kept safe behind glass doors. Another held a sword and shield, each so massive they could only have been intended for Ull's hands. And still another held skates, snowshoes, skis, and other cold-weather amusements. Dark leather couches were off to one side, and a large table sat beneath a huge screen. A small network of scanners and laptops was in another corner, while a full kitchen nestled behind us.

"So how does this work? How do I show I'm good enough to join you?" My choice was made, but I was completely unprepared. I had no idea how to sell Ull's grandfather on letting me into Asgard. Especially considering, one, Odin didn't like humans, and two, my very existence was threatening to take away one of his best fighters. Tactically, the latter gave me an advantage. Odin would rather take me than lose Ull. But what if Balder said I wasn't good enough? Then what would we do?

Olaug caught my desperate look. "Just be yourself. They are going to love you." Before I knew what was happening, the big screen was filled with the enormous vision of Odin. Long white hair flowed seamlessly into golden robes, and an eye patch covered a battle wound I could only guess at. The remaining eye, crystal blue, pierced through the screen to meet mine with authority. His weathered face was fixed in a gaze that was neither friendly nor openly hostile. My muscles were immobilized.

"Kristia Tostenson," Odin's voice boomed – the sound of thunder. "You wish to join the ranks of Asgard." So there would be no small talk. No nice to meet you; I'm Ull's grandpa. We were jumping right in. But I wasn't moving – Odin had a terrifying presence.

Ull stepped to my side quickly, his hand firmly grasping my own. "This is my love, Grandfather, the woman I have chosen to marry." He held up my hand to show Odin the symbol of his pledge, and Odin glanced at the ring. "You do not have to grant her admission to Asgard, Grandfather. In fact, I would prefer you did not. But if you decline, I will join her in Midgard. I mean no disrespect, and I do not wish to upset you. But I am to spend my life with Kristia, wherever that may be." It was a statement, not a threat, and Odin's displeasure was obvious. I cringed as he looked back at me.

"You are a human, Miss Tostenson. It is unnatural for you to mix with us. Why would you think you are worthy to join Asgard?" Odin wasn't trying to be mean – he genuinely didn't see how I could think so highly of myself. At the moment, neither could I.

"Your highness – your excellence – uh. Sir," I floundered. There was no rule of etiquette that covered this meeting. Even my grandmother would have been at a loss.

Ull squeezed my hand and whispered, "Sir is fine. He is still just my grandfather."

Sir, then. I took a deep breath. The fresh air slowed my heart rate a little, so I took another. Four breaths later, I was composed enough to speak. "Sir, I love your grandson. More than I love my own life. I know what the next few months will hold and I don't care. If Ull is meant to die at Ragnarok, then I'll go down fighting at his side. I don't want to take anything away from him. It would kill me if he left Asgard to live as a human. That's why I want to join you. Fight with you. And if it comes to it, I want to die with you."

Odin's gaze softened the slightest bit, and I hoped my words had made an impact. How could he argue with my willingness to die for his people? He had to see things my way. Odin opened his mouth, and a flicker of hope ran through my chest. But when his eyes fell to my throat I clutched my necklace.

"Miss Tostenson, what is that at your neck?" Mjölnir. The misappropriated elfin-made treasure of Asgard. Oh God, no. No, no, no.

"It's not what you think." I tripped over my own words. "My grandmother gave it to me; I had no idea it was yours. I swear. One of her relatives got it from a woman in their village, Ms. Norna, and I promise, none of us ever knew it was stolen. You can have it back. Here." I started to rip it off but Odin held up a hand to stop me.

"Ms. Norna?" He paused, deep in thought. I could see him working something through in his mind. A smile tugged at his lips, but he changed courses again, keeping me on my toes. "You would die defending Asgard, Miss Tostenson?"

"Yes, sir. I will do whatever it takes to stay with Ull."

Odin thought, processing my declaration while my nerves multiplied. A full minute ticked by. When his words finally came his voice was emotionless. "Miss Tostenson, it is time for Balder to render his judgment."

Another man came into the screen. Tall, thin, his face lined with laughter and eyes crinkled in a smile, Balder looked so kind I felt instantly at ease. I stood, feeling ridiculous, for what felt like hours. Finally, Balder opened his mouth to give his verdict. Ull squeezed my fingers.

"Asgard should be lucky to welcome you, Kristia. Ull," Balder winked, "You have chosen wisely."

I released the breath I hadn't realized I was holding, and Ull hugged me tightly. "Are you sure?" He whispered into my ear.

"Yes," I whispered back.

"Do you, Kristia Tostenson, accept this invitation to Asgard? Do you willingly relinquish your human life and accept the responsibilities that come as protector and defender of our realm?"

"I do."

"Then there is but one more approval that must be granted." I looked at Ull, but he didn't seem to understand what was happening any more than I did. The test had three prongs: A god must choose a human, Balder must judge her worthy, and she must accept the invitation. We'd done all that. What more was there? "Thor, will you grant your approval? After all, it is by Mjölnir that the magic shall be cast, raising this mortal to Asgard."

Ull's stepfather came into the frame, his enormous stature dwarfing the other two gods. His fiery red hair was unkempt, and he bore the scars of a seasoned warrior. When he spoke, his voice was rough. "My son. Is this the woman you have chosen for your wife?"

"Yes, father," Ull beamed.

"Why have you not chosen Skadi? She is the best of your generation's warriors." Oh Lord, there was another woman.

"Father," Ull was obviously fighting to stay calm, "I have never wished to marry Skadi. You know this."

"But she is your equal in every way."

"No she is not. She is a god. And she is a warrior. But that is all we have in common. She is nothing like me. I will not marry Skadi. I have chosen Kristia. And if you do not approve, then I apologize for disappointing you. But my decision is final."

Thor's eyes flickered to me, and I held his gaze. He stared for a long time before looking back to Ull. "This is not natural, son. Gods are not meant to merge their fates with mortals. You know this." There was no judgment; he was stating a fact.

"I know the law." Ull's tone was flat. "But as I love Kristia, I cannot live without her. It is unimportant to me whether I live as an Asgardian."

"You would give up your immortality? For a human?" Again, Thor bore no malice, but his opinion of my value was clear. It stung.

"Unthinkingly. She is my life."

Thor looked at Ull, then at me, and back again. He shook his head from side to side. "I am sorry, son. I cannot consent to this union. Skadi is the perfect match for you. A partnership with her would strengthen the Asgardian race, breeding stronger warriors and–"

"I am not marrying Skadi," Ull exploded. Thor's eyes darkened.

"And I cannot approve of this union. Mjölnir was not made to provide a means for a human enter Asgard." The two gods glared at each other, Ull's anger radiating in hot waves. After an endless moment, Ull took a breath. When he spoke his voice was composed.

"I am sorry to earn your disapproval. I hoped that you would welcome Kristia to your home as you once welcomed my mother and me. I understand that will not be possible." No, no, no. Panic overtook me as I realized what was happening. Ull gave what I'm sure he thought was a reassuring nod before turning his attention to the hushed discussion on the screen.

"Thor," Odin spoke under his breath, "Ull is one of my best warriors. Balder has deemed the girl worthy. Even I can see the sense of approving this request, and we all know my feelings on this."

Thor shook his head. "I am sorry, Father. I do not agree. This cannot be the best thing for our people."

Odin looked like he wanted to say more, but Balder shook his head. Odin closed his mouth and addressed his son. "Thor, I cannot force your consent. And I cannot perform the transformation without Mjölnir. I do not agree with your choice, but unless you change your mind, my hands are tied." Odin turned to Ull and me. His regret was clear. "I am sorry, Kristia your request is denied." My heart sunk. Denied? That wasn't an option.

That meant Ull would become a human, completely defenseless at Ragnarok. It meant that Ull and I wouldn't be able to fight for his family–I wouldn't be able to fight for him, and our fates were completely out of our control. It meant he would have to give up who he was to be with me. This couldn't be happening.

"I understand, Grandfather. Will you still perform our marriage ceremony? It would not feel right for anyone else to do it." Ull's reply came with a grace I did not feel. How was he so calm?

Odin glanced at Thor before answering kindly. "It will be my honor. Olaug, I will be in touch with instructions for the matrimony." His eyes softened. "Ull, Kristia, be good to one another. Ull has been alone far too long." With that, the screen went dark and we were left staring at the blackness.

# Chapter 17

Ull and I sat on the leather couch, staring at his armor long after Olaug had let herself out. Neither of us could process Thor's decision. I fought against emotion, doing everything I could to not let my despair overwhelm my desire to comfort Ull. He had essentially been kicked out of his family and was about to lose his immortality.

His father had condemned his decision, choosing to lose Ull rather than accept me. Thor's decision needled my fear that I wasn't good enough for his son, but this wasn't about me – it was about saving Ull's immortality. We had to find a way out of this. Thor was right about one thing – I wasn't worth that price.

It was clear Ull wasn't going to be the first to speak, so I sat up. "Ull." Squeezing his arm yielded no response. His gaze never moved from his armor. I wondered if he was thinking about all the battles he'd fought for Asgard, all he'd sacrificed. It wasn't right that he had given so much just to be kicked out. My resolve strengthened. "Ull, Thor is right. You can't give up who you are to be with me."

Ull's head snapped in my direction. "Kristia, do not speak like that. You are the most important thing to me."

"And you are the most important thing to me. But your dad knows what he's talking about. If Asgard has any chance of winning at Ragnarok, it needs to have the strongest warriors possible. If this Skadi girl is such a good fighter, maybe she would make the best partner for you." My voice broke over the words, but I forced myself to go on. "Look, I need to know you are alive and happy, even if we aren't together. I couldn't live with myself if you turned your back on who you are because of me."

"Kristia." Ull's eyes mirrored my pain.

"Will you let me tell your dad what I can do? If my visions can help Asgard, maybe he'll change his mind about me."

"Absolutely not. You have no idea the danger you would be putting yourself into. I will not allow it."

"Well I won't let you abandon your family. You have to fight. Even if it means we can't be together."

Ull slammed his fist into the couch. He let out an agonized sound before dropping his head to his hands. "This is not right. I should not have dragged you into this. I never should have let you seek entry to Asgard."

I rested my fingertips lightly on his bicep. "It was my fault – I'm the one who thought we could have it all. I thought I could have you, and you could still have your immortality. Instead, I've just made a mess of everything. Listen Ull, I... I." My voice broke. This was too hard. "I... can't accept this." I slipped his ring off my finger, fighting the tears. "I can't come between you and your family. I won't be the reason you lose them."

"What are you saying?"

"I can't marry you, Ull. I'm so sorry." I caught just a glimpse of Ull's stunned expression as I put his ring in his palm and raced up the stairs to the main part of the house. Collapsing onto my bed, I gave myself over to waves of grief. My tears flowed freely now, carrying all of the happiness of the past few months. I'd let myself believe this could all work out. I'd even seen myself fighting at Ull's side. How was this happening? The sobbing left a dull ache in my stomach, so I breathed until the numbness came. It was easier than the pain.

After a short eternity, there was a knock at the door. In my haste, I'd forgotten to close it. Through burning eyes, I saw Ull stride purposefully to sit beside me. He propped himself against the pillows to lean against the headboard, lifting me easily into his arms. He took a tissue from the box beside the bed, and dabbed at my bloodshot eyes.

"Kristia Tostenson, you do not get to give gifts back to me."

"Ull," I began. But he stopped me.

"No. You do not get to interrupt either. Now, if you do not want to marry me because you do not like me, or because you have reached the very wise conclusion that a life with me would be far too complicated for you, then I accept that. But if you are giving this back to me," he held up his ring, "out of some misguided effort to protect me... well, then I will not allow it."

"You're not the boss of me," I muttered through my tears. Ull smiled, pleased I hadn't lost all humor.

"Which is it? Is my life too much for you, or are you trying to protect me?"

"Um..." His eyes were endless. Of course I wanted to marry him. How could he ever think otherwise? Oh, right. I'd thrown his ring at him and run out of the room. "Trying to protect you," I mumbled.

"Sweetheart. I need you to listen very carefully." Ull looked at me like I was a disobedient two-year-old. "It was always my intention to leave Asgard. Even before I met you, I was running away. It is not necessarily the life I would have chosen. Meeting you only solidified my decision. From the moment I saw you, I knew I would give up everything if it meant we could be together. So I am not giving up anything _for_ you." I choked back a sob as he brushed the tear from my cheek.

"But what I get is so much greater than anything I might lose. Yes, I will miss some of the perks. But what I feel with you is so much more. I have never felt this peace. Never." He lifted my chin, so I had to look at him. "So, Kristia Tostenson, if I may be so forward as to try to be the boss of you. Do not ever take this off your finger again. Am I understood?" He slid his ring back onto my finger, and my tears started anew. We lay together as I cried myself out, Ull's strong arms wrapped tightly around me.

"What are we going to do?" I whispered when the worst of the tears were over.

"Well," Ull drew small circles on my back with his thumb, "We shall live as all humans do. We plan our wedding. We take our honeymoon. We live as husband and wife, have adventures, share love. When we are very old, we sit on the bench in our garden, with our tea. If Ragnarok comes before then, it comes. There is no sense worrying about it. But I cannot imagine a more beautiful way to spend my life."

"I can't believe your father doesn't approve of me." Years of small town whispers were brought to a head by the scariest god ever.

"It is not that he disapproves of you – you must listen to Thor very carefully. He says exactly what he means. What he said was that Skadi would make a more suitable partner to strengthen the Asgardian race. He does not know you, and he was not judging you. Really," he confirmed as I opened my mouth to protest. I sure felt judged. "Darling, he does not understand the value you could bring to the realm. He does not know anything about you, your heart, your loyalty, your stubbornness." He tweaked my nose.

"My visions?" I'd seen myself fighting next to Ull as a goddess. Had Thor's verdict changed my future?

"No." Ull's brow furrowed. "I will not let him use your visions. I cannot lose you. Kristia, it is not important to me to keep my immortality. Please understand that."

"Well it's not right to turn your back on your family when they need you the most. And it's important to me to protect your world. And mine. Just how are we supposed to convince Thor if you won't let me tell him what I can do?"

"I am not sure that we can." Ull's blow was soft. "But let us not think of it any more tonight." Outside the window, darkness had fallen on Ýdalir.

Glancing at the ring on my finger, I whispered into Ull's chest. "Are you sure you want to marry me? Even if you have to give up your family?"

"You are my family. Marrying you is the one thing I am absolutely sure of. The rest will fall into place." He kept saying that.

"Easy as that, huh?"

"Easy as that." He kissed the top of my head as I fell into an exhausted sleep.

After the week I'd had, Cardiff felt like something from another lifetime. How was I supposed to focus on school when I needed to plan a wedding, make Thor like me, sell Odin on making me a goddess, save Ull's immortality and fight to save the cosmos? Going to class and writing papers seemed like an insanely frivolous waste of time given the enormity of my to-do list.

"Kristia, what is that?" Victoria pointed at my left hand the minute I walked into our flat after winter break.

"What, this little thing?" I waggled my fingers, and Emma ran up to grab my wrist. Their frenzy began; they were worse than hungry hounds at a pheasant hunt.

"Oh my God!" Emma's cheer trilled through the tiny space. "You did it! You got Ull Myhr to propose."

"We definitely chose the right outfits for your trip." Good old Victoria. It was nice to have one thing in my life stay the same.

"Ooh, now we get to buy wedding magazines! We have to scout venues, choose flowers, colors, the cake–"

"Don't go crazy Em," I interrupted. "We're going to have a little ceremony at the Seaman's Church after graduation. No magazines required. Honest."

But she ignored me. The next night, our tiny flat was overrun with thick bridal magazines. None of them were mine.

"Of course she'll wear the satin mermaid gown." Victoria pointed to a glossy page. "The feathers clipped just so on her fascinator." It took me an hour to figure out that a fascinator was a hat.

"Oh, Victoria! She's so going to wear the lace ball gown, the one with the extra crinoline underneath so it has more oomph. And a long veil," Emma countered disdainfully.

"Uh, guys? I'm wearing my grandmother's dress. It's coming in the mail, um, pretty soon I hope." Nobody was listening to me.

Well, it beat thinking about the god thing. And it _was_ kind of fun to look at all the shiny brides.

The next weekend, I knocked on Ull's door. He and Gunnar had gone to a rugby match at Millennium Stadium and Inga and I had a date to watch the Sports Wives marathon. As I'd predicted, Inga had become one of my closest friends, and I knew she'd be happy as a hog in a mud hole about the package I'd brought her.

"Olaug's Apple Tarts!" Inga ripped the bag from my hands and flitted to the kitchen, returning with an artfully arranged platter and two steaming mugs.

"How'd you get these?" She bit into a pastry.

"I found them on my porch. She must have dropped them by on her way to London this morning."

"The little sneak. Bless her heart." Inga gave me a pointed look.

"What?" I mumbled around a full mouth of apple-y goodness.

"You haven't shown me your ring."

"Oh my gosh, Inga!" I held out my hand. It was the first time we'd been together since Ull proposed. "Can you believe we're going to be married?"

"It's about bloody time. Ull has been alone for so long." Everyone kept saying that. "What are you going to do about... well, you know..." The god thing.

"What did Ull tell you?"

"Not a whole lot. He's really private, even after all this time. He did tell us you wanted to join up, but there was some kind of issue with Thor."

"Yeah. I'm not sure what to do about that."

"I am." Inga laughed, bell-like sounds filling the flat. "Ull's private, but I have ways of getting information. When Ull said you wanted to be one of us, I went to my dad."

"Of course you did." Inga was a woman of action and Jens seemed unable to say no to his only daughter. "What did he tell you?"

"Odin is _not_ happy with Thor. Losing Ull this close to Ragnarok – it's one of the worst things that could happen. Ull really is unmatched as a warrior, you know." She beamed. "And if you were to fight under his tutelage, Odin knows you would be a tremendous asset to Asgard too." I tried not to think about studying combat under Ull.

"So what's Odin's plan?"

"Well," she bit her lip, "he's not sure. You can't join us without the magic of Mjölnir, and Odin can't force it against Thor's will. The only way you can become one of us is if you can change Thor's mind. You have to make him want you to be a goddess."

I threw my hands up. "How am I supposed to do that? He hates me."

"No, he doesn't." Inga shook her head. "Kristia, I know Ull went over this with you. Thor doesn't think or do anything that isn't founded entirely on reason. If he believes that you will be a detriment to the realm, he'll never agree to change you. But if you can show him you're an asset, especially now... well, then he might change his mind."

I saw where this was going. But I was trying to follow Ull's edict. "Isn't losing Ull enough reason to change me?"

"It should be, but it's not. Thor thinks Ull will come around, that he'll realize he shouldn't turn his back on Asgard for a girl."

"He shouldn't." I felt sick about that.

"Oh, stop it. Thor shouldn't make him choose. That's what's wrong here." Inga sputtered.

"So I have to convince Thor I can help? That's the only way I'm getting into Asgard?"

"Pretty much. Got any hidden talents?"

Boy did I. "Well. Yes. But Ull doesn't want me to tell Thor about it."

"What is it?"

"I can see the future."

Inga choked on a piece of pastry. "Excuse me?"

"I can see the future. I can't control it or anything, and I hardly ever see anything important."

"And you failed to mention this because..."

"It's kind of embarrassing." I shrugged. "It makes me seem crazy."

"Ull knows about this?" Inga put her plate on the table.

"Yes."

"And he won't let you tell Thor about it? That's the kind of thing that would make him reconsider, for sure."

"I know it is. Ull thinks it's too dangerous. Apparently, people who see things are hot commodities to bad guys."

"He's right about that." Inga picked up her teacup. "Who else knows about this around here?"

"Here? Nobody. Just Ull. I didn't tell Olaug."

"Huh." Inga stared out the window. When she looked back, her eyes were shining. "You're going to tell Thor anyway, aren't you?"

"I'm thinking about it. I don't want to go against Ull, but if there's no other way to change Thor's mind, I kind of have to tell him. Don't I?"

"Yes. You do." Inga picked up the remote and muted the bickering Sports Wives. "Now tell me everything about your ability. We need to come up with a plan."

# Chapter 18

At the end of January, I returned from a weekend at Ýdalir to a big box on my doorstep. I carried it inside and lifted out its contents. My grandmother's wedding dress was so beautiful. It would hardly need to be altered to fit me. A note of parental congratulations rested at the bottom of the box, along with another envelope – this one with my name written in Mormor's handwriting. A faded sticky note on top of the envelope said, "Give to Kristia on her wedding day." Wedding day, my foot.

I ripped open the envelope and started to read.

' _Dearest Kristia_ ,' it began. ' _If you are reading this letter, I did not make it to your wedding. I know you will make a beautiful bride. I wish I could offer you pearls of marital wisdom, but the truth is I just got lucky with your grandfather. I have every confidence that your choice in husband will be just as remarkable._

_Kristia, a few months ago a woman named Elsie joined my bridge club. She only stayed in town for a bit, and just before she left she asked me to give you a note. She may have been a few pies short of picnic, but since I never saw her again, I'll never know for sure._

_Her message is in this envelope. She asked that I not read it, and I honored her request. Something about her made me feel that she really did have your best interests at heart. I hope I wasn't wrong._

_I love you very much, and I wish I could have been there to see you as a bride. Keep your chin up and your shoulders back, and enjoy every minute of your big day._

_Jeg elsker deg,_

_Mormor'_

* * *

My curiosity piqued, I reached into the envelope and pulled out a folded piece of paper. On the outside it read:

_'If Kristia is to marry a man named Ull, please give her this message on or before her wedding day.'_ Well, that was weird.

The message continued on the inside: _'Kristia, If your betrothed is named Ull Myhr, then my Ull has found you. Thank Odin! Your union is the key to saving Asgard and Midgard from destruction at Ragnarok. On the day you were born, I recognized your gift – you are a powerful seer. As a human this was probably inconvenient, but as a goddess your gift will allow you to travel through the realms undetected, to see present and future events. You will foresee the battle plans of Asgard's enemies, and tell Odin how to fight them at Ragnarok. You are to be Asgard's greatest protector._

_Since I was never able to tell the Three Sisters about you, they still believe Ragnarok will mark the end of the gods. And as part of my punishment, I am forbidden from seeking out any Asgardian. But if you should ever need me, hold your grandmother's necklace and say my name. I will find you._

_I wish you and Ull lifetimes of peace and joy._

_Elsker'_

* * *

So I was right. My fingers clutched the two pieces of paper, one from the grandmother I'd loved with all of my heart, and one from a stranger who risked everything to help me find my destiny. I sat for so long, it grew dark outside. I pulled my sweater tight around me. Twenty years of crazy visions made sense now. I played my life back in rewind, thinking of all the things I'd seen that had come to fruition. I'd always thought I was nuttier than a fruitcake in a pecan factory, but now I saw my ability with different eyes. It was the key to convincing Thor I was an asset; my ticket into Asgard. But it wouldn't come cheap – spying on Asgard's enemies could cost me everything.

It was a price I was willing to pay.

"She said what?" I could hear Ull's teeth grinding together through the phone.

"I told you not to freak out. She said what I've been trying to tell you all along – I'm _meant_ to be a goddess. My visions are _meant_ to help Asgard. I'm supposed to use them to spy on our enemies. And if I do, there won't even be a Ragnarok. I was right."

"No. Absolutely not, no. I cannot allow anything happen to you."

"You aren't allowing anything. This is what's meant to be. This is my destiny."

"I absolutely cannot agree to this. I do not care what you believe your destiny to be. Your destiny is not to run headfirst into what is obviously a trap. You could be killed, Kristia. And I could not go on if I lost you."

"You don't think I can handle this, do you? You don't think I'm strong enough." It was impossible to keep the indignation out of my voice.

"It does not matter how strong you are. You are to be my wife, and I will not have the woman I love put herself at risk. Ever."

"You have to believe in me," I pleaded. "I can do this. I know I can."

"You do not know what you are asking," Ull growled. "There are monsters out there that you cannot begin to imagine. You think the trolls from Mythology class sounded scary? Try facing down a battalion of irate fire giants. They burn anything in their path on sight; their uprisings rarely leave a single survivor; and only a handful of Asgard's assassins have ever made it out of Muspelheim alive. And that is just one race. The dark elves have the power to remove your soul. The jotuns can freeze your heart. You have had no combat training – none. Do you really think you are ready to face the demons of our underworlds?"

"Fine. Maybe I'm not ready to go to all those awful places. I didn't say I knew _how_ I was going to help Asgard. But I know I _can_ help Asgard. I _want_ to help Asgard. And whether you sign off on it or not, I am _going_ to help Asgard. Now you can fight me all you want on this. But I have a piece of paper from a renegade Norn that says it's my duty to protect you and your family. And by gum, I am going to do everything in my power to make that happen."

"Why can you not just do as I ask? I am trying to protect you, Kristia!" Ull sounded like he might be shaking.

"Because it's not about me anymore. Elsker put this all together before I was even born. You were always supposed to find me so you could change me. We were meant to be together so we could save our realms."

"Be that as it may, I cannot allow you to do this. You are not to put yourself at risk. I do not know how I would live without you."

It was hard to argue with him when he said things like that. I tried another angle. "Okay, but think about this. Ragnarok is coming, whether I'm a goddess or not. And if I'm human, according to that prophecy, we're all going to die. So I'm a goner in that scenario. At least if we try Elsker's way, we have a chance at a future together."

Rather than admit I had a point, Ull spent a full minute muttering about how this entire situation was too dangerous and how dare Elsker risk his woman's life for the sake of Asgard. It was kind of cute. But it made me realize I'd have to talk to Thor without him. If I was trying save the entire cosmos, I didn't need father _and_ son working against me.

I was grateful to see the number flashing on my mobile. I'd been planning strategy with Inga for the last hour, and it would be a relief to talk to Ardis for a while.

"Inga? Can I call you back later? Ardis is on the other line."

"Sure. Talk soon." Inga hung up and I clicked over.

"Ardis," my relief was audible, "How are you?"

"I'm great!" Her voice was ecstatic. "I got the lead in the musical! I'm going to be Sandy!"

"Wow, that's great – congratulations!" I wracked my brain to try to remember the play Sandy was in. My theatre knowledge was limited. "So you're doing..."

"Grease!" Ardis laughed, a happy sound that lifted me from my mood.

"Sorry, I knew that. I think."

"You did. We only watched it, like, a dozen times when we were little. Remember? We used to sneak the movie into my room, because my parents didn't like the language. It wasn't even that bad!"

"I do remember that. Sorry, I've had a lot on my mind."

"Spill."

"First, let's talk about you. When do your start rehearsals?"

"Next week! The great news is that the show's going to be at the end of the semester, after awards season so critics can come to see us! I might get an agent from it!"

"Oh my gosh, that's incredible."

"I know, right? The bad news is that it's at the end of the semester, so I won't be able to fly out the day after school ends, like we'd planned. I'll make it in time for the wedding though, don't worry." She barely stopped to breathe. "The last performance is two nights before your big day, so I'll catch the first flight out, and with the time change, I should be there a day early. I wouldn't miss that for anything!"

"Oh, Ardis! What would I do without you?"

"Oh, you'd probably be in Nehalem working in your parents' shop and pining away for some half-hunky lumberjack," she laughed.

"That is a disturbingly accurate picture of what could have been. Thanks for the reminder."

"Meh, what are friends for?" I could almost see her shrug, and suddenly I missed her so much my stomach ached. "Now what's going on across the pond?"

"Nothing. Everything. I'm still trying to figure out how to make Ull's parents like me."

"You've got to be kidding. They seriously don't like you?"

"Nope. Not even a little. Well," I amended, "his mom is okay with me. But his dad is definitely not. So I have this... meeting with Ull's dad. Sort of a last ditch effort. My friend Inga is going to help me sell him on why I'll make a good wife for his son."

"Wait, why doesn't his dad think you'll be a good wife?" True friend that she was, Ardis was indignant.

"Turns out he'd sort of planned on Ull marrying this other girl, Skadi, and he still thinks she's a better fit for him than me."

"Seriously? Skadi? What kind of a name is that? I'll bet she's 200 pounds and has messed up teeth."

"Ardis!"

"Well, it's probably true."

"Probably." I grinned, hoping fervently that Skadi was the first ugly goddess in the history of mythology. "But it doesn't matter either way. Ull told him he wouldn't marry Skadi – that he was marrying me, and that was that."

"I like this Ull more every time we talk. He sounds like a real man."

"You have no idea," I muttered. "Problem is, his dad pretty much disowned him for saying that." I wanted to tell Ardis as much as I could without violating Asgard's secrecy. "If Ull marries me, he can never go home again. He won't have his family, and he won't be able to be there for them if they ever need him."

"Kristia. You know that's not true. There is no way this guy's mom is going to lose her son like that. She'll make Ull's dad come around."

"I don't think she can. His dad is super stubborn. The only way he'd change his mind is if I can convince him that I'm as good as Skadi."

"Well that should be easy enough. First of all, your name isn't Skadi. So there's a point in your favor."

I giggled.

"What? Just keeping it real. Second," Ardis picked up steam, "Ull chose _you_. He knows his heart. His dad doesn't, and he can't force him to feel something. Especially for someone named Skadi. You know, I bet she has really bad skin, too."

"I love you Ardis."

"I know. And third, you are so way better for Ull than this Skadi chick. You're smart. You're incredibly kind. You'd do anything to help the people you love. You have fabulous judgment. And you have me rooting for you. You can't lose."

"That simple, huh?"

"That simple." Ardis paused. "I am sorry he's giving you a hard time though. That has to hurt your feelings."

"It's nothing I can't handle."

"Don't worry, Kristia. He'll come around."

"Yeah, maybe. Now tell me all about your play."

"Well, the guy playing Danny is super cute – and he's straight!" With that Ardis was off, giving me a much-needed break from thinking about the task ahead of me.

"He's coming – hurry!" Olaug, Inga and I scrambled into place as Olaug put down the phone that linked to Asgard. It was time. Thor was going to show up on the screen any minute, and this was my only chance to convince him to change me. If this failed, we were out of options. Ull would become a human, the gods would lose at Ragnarok, and Earth and Asgard would disappear forever.

Oh, and we'd all die.

We stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the secret room under Ýdalir, Olaug and Inga flanking my sides for support, our hands clasped together. As we stared at the screen we heard a muted thud followed by heavy footsteps. The sound came from the chamber Olaug told me led to the Bifrost, the passage between Asgard and Earth. We weren't expecting a visitor – we'd been very careful to keep this meeting secret from everyone, especially Ull. Certainly none of us were expecting the enormous man with fiery red hair coming out of the chamber.

"This seemed like something that should be discussed face to face." Thor's gruff voice thundered in the suddenly small space.

You could have pushed me over with a feather. Thor was a hundred times scarier in person. He stood at least a foot over me, sinewy muscles straining against his clothes and an enormous hammer clutched in his left hand. His face was weather worn and his ruddy skin bore the scars of countless battles. But none of that bothered me. I knew what was riding on this meeting, and I couldn't afford to be scared. I narrowed my eyes in determination. I was going to get through to him, no matter how much I wanted to turn and run up the stairs.

Olaug broke our silence. "I am sorry Thor, I did not know to expect you in person. What a treat for Ýdalir to have you. Would you care for a beverage?"

"I would love a cup of tea, thank you Olaug. Hello Inga." He nodded to my friend.

"Hello Thor. Thank you for hearing us today."

"I will hear you. It is all I can promise." His hand tensed reflexively around Mjölnir.

"Sit, please." Olaug motioned for us to gather around the table as she brought Thor his tea. It was an uneasy gathering. Thor dwarfed his chair, but still managed to sit with the agility of a jungle cat poised to attack. I willed my voice to work.

Thankfully, Thor spoke for both of us. "Miss Tostenson, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am sorry for this state of affairs. It pleases me that my son has chosen a companion, but under the circumstances, you can see why I am not in a position to celebrate your union. Losing Ull at this time is a travesty to Asgard, not a cause for revelry."

I wanted to yell, _Then change your mind!_ But I didn't want to sound petulant. Inga gave me a nod. "Thank you for coming, sir. I know this is not a good time for you to be away."

"No, it is not."

"I wouldn't have asked this of you if I didn't truly believe that I could help."

"Miss Tostenson, you are a human. Weak, fickle, and frail by your very nature. How could you possibly help the gods?"

"I can't, not as a human. But I can if you make me one of you."

"I thought I made myself clear on that topic. You are not fit to join Asgard."

"Yes. I am." Thor's brow tensed; he was not used to objections. "I am more fit than you know. Sir," I added as his eyes flashed.

He stood to leave. "I have no time for insolence. Olaug, see that my energies are not wasted again."

"Wait!" I ran in front of the enormous man. He frowned as I blocked his path. "I can save your realm."

Thor's snort bordered on derision. "Miss Tostenson, what can you do that all the forces of Asgard cannot?"

"I can see your enemies' battle plans. I can discover their strategies and report to you. Or I could, any way, if you would make me a god."

"I do not understand."

"Here," I fumbled in my pocket until I pulled out Elsker's note, "This explains everything." My lungs hurt for lack of air until Thor read the note all the way through. The crease on his brow deepened as he read it a second time. He folded the note and handed it back to me.

"This means nothing. Elsker is a traitor." Thor turned and moved towards the Bifrost.

"What are you talking about?" I jumped in front of him again.

"She mingled Ull's fate with a mortal. She was cast out with cause. Now, if you will excuse me." He tried to move around me but I blocked his path. His eyes turned black and he gripped his hammer. It was time to pull out the only card I had left.

"Elsker." I gripped my grandmother's necklace as I said her name. "Elsker, Elsker, Elsker."

"Oh, my." Olaug stepped back as the old woman appeared next to her. Elsker stood four and a half feet tall, tops. Her white hair was pulled up in a bun, and her wrinkled skin had a soft glow.

"Elsker?" I stepped toward her. There were a million things I wanted to say, but only one mattered right now. "I need your help."

"I should say you do." She marched to Thor with surprising dexterity for a woman who looked so frail. "What exactly do you think you are doing, Thor? Shame on you."

"Shame on me?" Thor stepped back out of the Bifrost. "Shame on you! You meddled with my son's future. Cast his fate with some _human_? You deserve your banishment."

"You always were a pigheaded prude. Even as a child. Oh, I remember you well." Elsker stood inches from Thor with her hands on her hips. "You are lucky I was not your Norn."

"We agree on that at least."

"What are you doing, Thor?" Elsker asked again. "My prophesy for Kristia is true. Her visions will save us. But you have to change her."

"I would never go against the Three Sisters. They gave you one rule, Elsker. One rule. And you could not follow it." Thor's eyes blazed.

"You are right. I found The Seer. Would you have turned a blind eye?"

"The Seer? That is not possible." Thor's gaze shifted to me and back to Elsker.

"It is, and I found her. Read the note more carefully." Elsker folded her arms.

"What's going on?" I whispered to Olaug.

"The Seer was one of the first prophecies proclaimed by the Three Sisters, but the identity of The Seer has never been revealed. So much time passed, most of us began to doubt The Seer's existence." I wasn't entirely comfortable with the way Olaug was looking at me.

"What's so special about this Seer?"

"He or she will be able to see everything – past, present and future. Absolute knowledge of the nine realms at all times. It will be an unconquerable power. Odin thought he was The Seer. He gave his eye to Mimir in exchange for knowledge. But Odin was not the chosen one – his sight is vast, but he can only see the present."

"And they think that I'm... that I can..." I was the product of an ancient prophecy?

"We do not think, Kristia." Elsker stopped glaring at Thor long enough to look at me. "We know. Even Thor must know, if he can get over himself long enough to admit he is wrong. Touch her necklace Thor. Go on. Touch it."

"I will do no such thing."

"Why should he touch my necklace?" I whispered to Olaug.

"Because if it's the necklace from the prophecy, to anyone else, it is just a necklace. But when The Seer puts it on, that necklace channels Mjölnir's magic. They were forged from the same piece of metal."

"Touch it, Thor." Elsker was brave. I'd never be able to order Thor around like that.

"Fine. But only to prove what a liar you are." Irritated, Thor marched away from the Bifrost and held his hand to my neck. "May I?"

"Sure," I whispered.

Thor held the charm between two fingers. Nothing happened. He turned to Elsker, still touching the silver. "See you old woman? It is as worthless as your word."

As he spoke a faint beam of light came from the necklace.

"What?" Thor spun around. The necklace shot nine beams in quick succession, each stronger than before. The last beam was so bright I shielded my eyes. When I lowered my arm, the light had dimmed. Inga's hand was over her mouth and Thor was staring at me.

"Great Odin," Inga mouthed. "You're The Seer?"

Olaug bowed her head, then looked at me with awe. My legs shook. Whatever this meant, it was a very big deal to the gods.

"It cannot be. The Seer is human?"

"I have been trying to tell you this for eighteen years." Elsker was impossibly smug.

"And you brought The Seer to my son?"

"Yes. They are the perfect fit. It would take an extraordinary heart to warm Ull's. And it would take an extraordinary warrior to protect The Seer."

"You might want to sit down Thor," Olaug offered.

Thor lowered himself onto the leather chair.

"You too, ladies." Olaug gestured and we sat on the couch while she retreated to the little kitchen and returned with a fresh pot of tea and five cups. Inga and I distributed them quietly.

"What happens now, Elsker?" Thor lifted his cup.

"First of all, you lift my banishment, you nitwit. And apologize." She was a sassy one. I liked her a lot.

"I am sorry Elsker. Odin was wrong to cast you from the realm. I will make sure this is rectified." Thor sounded sincere.

"Thank you." Elsker gave one nod. "Now, agree to change Kristia. The Seer isn't going to be very effective as a human, is she?"

Thor looked at Mjölnir for a long time before he spoke again. "You will use your gift to protect Asgard, Kristia?"

"Yes, sir."

"You will be good to my son?" His words were gentler and something almost like tenderness crept into his eyes.

"Yes sir, I will."

"He has seen much pain in his life. I expect you shall treat him with kindness."

"Of course. Ull is the best thing that has ever happened to me."

He paused again, closing his eyes as he fought against his impulses. Everything he knew was being challenged and I knew this decision cost him. "Then Miss Tostenson." He extended his free hand. "Welcome to Asgard." I winced at the firm handshake. "Ahh, so fragile." He patted my arm. "Well, not for long."

"Thank you, sir," I gasped. I looked at Inga, my eyes wide.

"I shall speak to Odin about our conversation. Of course Kristia's conversion will be known in Asgard, but I think it best if we keep the details of her gift a secret."

"Agreed, Thor. As far as we are concerned, the fewer who know of this the safer Kristia will be. Odin shall be fully briefed, and Ull and Gunnar of course, but no one else." Olaug picked up a notepad and began writing.

"Excellent. And I will ensure you are granted entry to Asgard, with full apologies from my father." Thor stood and rested a hand on Elsker's shoulder. "I cannot believe you found The Seer."

"I cannot believe you ever doubted her." Elsker shook her head.

"I apologize, Kristia." Thor turned and entered the Bifrost. "I am needed in Asgard. You will train her, Olaug? Prepare her for life as a goddess?"

"I shall do my best."

Thor nodded once. "Very well. Inga, Kristia." he nodded to each of us in turn. "I shall see you at the wedding."

"Thank you," I called feebly as he disappeared into the chamber. Good gravy. What had I gotten myself into now?

The moment he was gone, I turned to Elsker. "You're amazing! I can't believe you stood up to Thor like that!"

"I had to. He was being inordinately stubborn." We smiled at each other.

"It's nice to meet you. Er, see you again I guess. I don't remember meeting you the first time."

"You were a cherubic baby." Elsker touched my cheek. "I am so happy Ull went looking for you."

"Oh, no. Ull." We'd gone behind his back and convinced Thor to change me. I wasn't sure what scared me more – fulfilling some ancient prophecy as an all knowing visionary or owning up to Ull about what I'd done. "Um, Elsker? Do you think you could stick around for a couple of hours? Help me soften the blow for Ull? He wasn't very happy with the idea of Thor changing me. He's really not going to like knowing I'm... I'm..."

"The Seer," Elsker said gently. "It is a tremendous honor. And a tremendous responsibility. Are you all right?"

"I think so."

"I will help you." Elsker rubbed my arm.

"We all will." Olaug nodded her assent.

"I'll tell Ull," Inga laughed. "Serves him right."

"And of course I will stay." Elsker patted my hand. "I have waited a long time to see you and Ull together."

"Well, you won't have to wait much longer." Olaug cocked an ear toward the stairs. "He is here."

# Chapter 19

" _Hei ladies."_ Gunnar's voice was both a greeting and a warning. "We're back, early!"

"Wait here," I whispered to Elsker. No need to freak Ull out with the excommunicated Norn the second he walked in the door.

" _Hei hei_ ," Ull's hearty voice bellowed. As far as he was concerned, Gunnar and Inga had joined us for a weekend at Ýdalir to get away from school. He had no idea Olaug helped us plan a secret meeting with Thor, or that Gunnar had taken him fishing to keep Ull out of the house all day. He certainly had no idea Inga and I had been plotting for weeks to get me into Asgard. Just how angry was he going to be?

"In here," Inga called as we rushed up the stairs and into the living room. "We were just, uh..."

"In the garden! We were in the garden!" I finished hurriedly. "Boy, it's a nice day." Time had not improved my acting skills. Inga elbowed me as she rolled her eyes.

"Sure is. Gunnar and I had a great afternoon fishing." I could hear Ull hang his coat on the hook under the mirror, before he carried a cooler into the living room. "Supper is here!" He swaggered with bravado, making me smile despite my nerves.

"I caught the biggest one," Gunnar boasted.

"No, I caught the biggest one," Ull countered.

"Yes, but yours got away, didn't it?" Gunnar patted his shoulder in mock sympathy. "Sorry mate, doesn't count."

"It counts," Ull muttered.

I kissed his cheek. "It counts to me."

Ull looked grateful. "Way bigger than Gunnar's fish."

"Aw, that's why it got away, mate." Gunnar smiled.

"Stop bickering boys, tea is in the garden," Olaug called from outside. She had busied herself bringing tea and cakes to the backyard sitting area and we gratefully followed the sound of her voice. As we gathered around the table Olaug nodded. She wanted me to tell him. Right now. Was she crazy? Inga caught my terrified look but she nodded too.

"What did you girls get up to this afternoon?" Ull asked through a mouth full of scone. Olaug raised an eyebrow. There wouldn't be a better opening. Why did Ull have to choose this moment to be perceptive?

"Funny you should ask that. Um, well, we sort of had a visitor." Do it, Tostenson. Tell him.

"How nice – who was it?" Ull picked up his teacup. It was so fragile in his enormous hand. I hoped it survived my news. It would be a shame to break Olaug's set.

"Uh, well, it was, uh... your dad."

Very deliberately, Ull set his cup down. The china was saved. "Thor was here?"

"Yes. Here. At Ýdalir," I continued unnecessarily.

"Why?"

"Well, see, Inga and I sort of thought that maybe there would be a way to convince him that I should get to be one of you, so we asked him to come and–"

"Inga," Ull thundered. "How could you? Kristia has been through enough!" Ull stood so forcefully that his chair fell to the ground. He started pacing in the small space, crossing from the table to the yew dale and back again in clipped strides. His body started to shake, and the veins in his forearms throbbed as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

"Ull." I wanted to defend my friend, but he held up a hand to silence me.

"Of all the deceitful, underhanded things you could have done." His voice grew louder with each word. " _Inga Jensson Andersson, how could you do this to her_?"

"I didn't do anything to her Ull. I did it for her." Inga jumped up, hands on her hips. "This is what she wants. You are what she wants." She poked Ull in the chest and he shook with rage.

" _She does not know what she wants_!" Ull thundered.

"Enough!" I couldn't take it anymore. "Stop yelling at her! Inga did this because I asked her to. This is my fault. I want you to be able to protect your family, and I want to be able to protect you. Thor agreed to make me a goddess because I want him to. I can do this Ull – you just have to believe in me!"

"Kristia, how could you ever think I do not believe in you? You are the strongest woman I have ever met. Frustratingly, irritatingly strong in every possible way. You are the only woman who has ever been brave enough to challenge me. Well, except for this one." He glared at Inga. He knelt down so his eyes were level with mine. "But what you want to do is incredibly dangerous. Why would you think this was a good idea?"

"Because she is The Seer." Elsker stepped out of the house. "And she knows it is going to work."

"Kristia is The Seer?" Gunnar clapped his hand to his forehead. "Did not see that one coming. Did you see that, doll?"

Inga shook her head.

"Elsker." Ull stood. "How did – where – what are you doing here?"

"Kristia needed me." Elsker crossed to Ull. She stretched up to touch his cheek. "Oh my sweet boy, you are just going to have to trust her. She will be fine."

"Elsker," Ull enveloped the tiny woman in a hug, "I thought I would never see you again."

"You cannot get rid of me that easily," she tutted. "Now did you hear me? Your fiancé is the one the Three Sisters prophesied."

Ull looked at me, then Elsker, then back to me again. "No."

"Yes," Elsker confirmed.

Ull took my hands and spoke very deliberately. His voice held a reverence. "Kristia? Do you know what this means?"

"I think so."

"Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

"It's kind of out of my hands at this point." I shrugged.

"No it is not. I can take you somewhere until this is all over. Alfheim or–"

"Ull. I am not turning my back on your family. I told you. I want to help."

"And Thor agreed to change you?" Ull tilted his head.

"When Elsker told him I was... what I am... he sort of had to say yes."

"Ull, this is the best possible solution," Inga soothed. "You get to marry Kristia. She gets to be one of us. Thor gets to keep his son. Asgard gets its strongest warrior. Everyone wins."

"Everyone but Kristia." Ull's words came through a clenched jaw.

"What do you mean?"

"Kristia does not win. She has to give up her life to be with me."

"This is what I want," I interrupted.

"You do not know what you want. You are young, Kristia. You do not understand what you are giving up."

"I understand what I'm getting. An eternity with you."

"But you lose so much. You will give up your mortality. Miss out on time with your friends. And you are the one from the prophecy? Every enemy of Asgard will hunt you. They will want your gift. You will require constant protection. You cannot have a normal life."

"I don't want a normal life, Ull. I want you."

"Now, maybe. But what happens in a decade or two? In a century? Are you honestly able to say that you know what you will want for the rest of time?"

"Yes." My hands were planted firmly on my hips.

"You are so stubborn, Kristia!" Ull looked like he wanted to explode.

"And you are so bossy! Aren't you listening? I know I will want you forever. That's the only thing that matters to me. The rest..." I parroted his words. "The rest will work itself out."

"But your friends–"

"I will see them sometimes, just like you would see your friends if you became human. That's enough for me. Ull, you have to trust me. This is the best thing for us, I promise."

"I do not agree with you."

"I know. But you love me. You want me to be happy. And you know I won't be happy if you turn your back on everyone when they need you. This is the only way we can help your family and stay together. I can't marry you if I'm taking anything away from you, and I can't let you give up your immortality. I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was planning to talk with Thor, Ull, I really am. I shouldn't have gone behind your back. But this is the only way for us."

"I do not feel right putting you in danger."

"You're not doing anything. This is my choice. And it's going to be all right."

"You do not know that," Ull whispered.

"I actually do." I tapped my head. "Great Seer, remember?"

"Ull, you forget yourself," Olaug said quietly. "As the prophecy stands, if you do not fight – if Asgard does not put forth its absolute best army – then we all die. Kristia included. Remember the foretelling; our enemies will burn the Earth and swallow the sky. Earth and Asgard will both fall. This is the only way to keep her alive."

Ull's shoulders dropped – he was beaten. He, of all of us, lived by that prophecy. It governed almost every decision he'd ever made. Conceding defeat, he glared at Inga and Gunnar. "We are not done talking about this." He turned to Elsker. "And you are on my list for dragging her into this."

"I did not drag her into anything," Elsker countered. "The Three Sisters set her fate centuries ago. I simply located her."

"You have to agree, this is the best thing," Inga pushed.

Ull sighed with weariness that hinted at his real age. "If I agree to this, will you promise to inform me of your visions? Every vision you have. Immediately. No more of this behind-my-back nonsense. If I am going to let you go through with this, you must be honest with me about every single thing you do. Promise you will give me every opportunity to protect you."

"You want total access to my head?"

"Essentially."

"I don't know. Some of the visions are pretty silly." Not to mention I didn't want to lose all semblance of privacy.

"I do not care," he growled. "That is my compromise. Otherwise, the deal is off."

"Fine," I grumbled. "I'll tell you about all of my stupid, insignificant visions as soon as I have them. Happy?"

"Not particularly. But seeing as you are so insistent on defying my wishes, this seems like the only way I can have any control over your safety."

"Well if that's settled, I believe you owe me a thank you." Inga was smug.

"I will thank you when Ragnarok is over and Kristia is safe. Until then, you are on my list too." He looked at Gunnar. "Gunnar, you were in on this? How could you do this to me?"

"Would you cross Inga?" Gunnar shrugged.

"Kristia, are you certain?"

"Absolutely."

Ull sat in defeat and took my hand across the table. "Are you going to defy me for the rest of my existence?"

"Yep."

"You are a brave girl, Kristia Tostenson."

I drew a thin breath. "Brave for you"

"You will prepare her?" Ull turned to Olaug.

"Of course. She will be an exceptional partner for you, Ull. I will see to that."

"She already is." Ull spoke quietly and my cheeks grew warm. "I really have no say in this, do I?"

Gunnar, Inga, Olaug, Elsker and I shook our heads. Inga flashed a victorious smile as she clasped Ull's hand, still firmly clenching my own. "Well now that that's all taken care of... I believe we have a wedding to plan!"

"We?" I looked at Ull.

"Of course. We've been waiting lifetimes for this you know – Ull Myhr, a married man."

"Well–"

"So naturally, we have to make this the absolute best celebration ever. And who better to see to it than yours truly? I'm seeing a seven-tiered cake, gilded chairs, a full marquee with up-lighting..."

Ull raised an eyebrow. "Are you ready to spend an eternity with this lot, darling?"

I didn't know the first thing about what my future would look like. I had no idea what becoming an immortal would entail, and I didn't know anything about being married to a god. But I did know the answer to Ull's question. I leaned across the table and planted a soft kiss on his perfectly pale lips.

"I'm ready."

_Endre_ , Book Two in the Elsker Saga, is available at your favorite retailer.

* * *

Learn more about other books the author has written on the her website, or go click here to sign up for her mailing list.

# BLOOD DEBT

### Touched Series, Book 1

**Nancy Straight**

* * *

Her whole life, it had just been the two of them. Before her mother's last breath, she gave Camille the information she had craved her entire life: the identity of her father. Daring to contact him, Camille was welcomed by an entire family she never knew existed. But nothing comes without a price, as she discovers when her family claims a legendary heritage tracing back to a Centaur touched by Zeus.

As she learns the secrets of her Centaur bloodline, she is drawn into a forbidden love with Drake. Her family acknowledges her life may be the blood debt required to pay for her mother's transgressions. The same person who once held her mother captive, and forced her into decades of hiding, now controls Camille. Her only chance is to seek a piece of her mother's past that will win her freedom and the life she desperately desires.

# Chapter 1

_(Camille Benning – Oceanside, CA)_

I stared at the phone. I had his number. I had his name. Twenty-two years...after twenty-two stinking years of fantasizing about who he was, what he was like, where he was — you'd think I would have dialed by now. The thing is — nobody, anywhere, could live up to my expectations. I'd always envisioned this successful, educated, lead-singer, movie-star, rich kind of father. It was great to think that he was this wonderful, benevolent man, who one day would swoop in and introduce himself, then whisk me away in a limo. Yeah, that never happened.

I can't think of a time when I wasn't dying to meet him. When I would ask my Mom, she would always tell me, "Your father was a wonderful man. We had a few magical days together, and he left me with the most amazing gift to remember him by." Sure, that's what a ten-year-old wants to hear. She would never tell me his name, where he lived, or anything about him other than he didn't live in California.

It didn't matter how hard I pleaded, I think she preferred that he be a mystery. Who would have guessed all those times I said I would trade anything to meet him, I never thought I'd trade my rock, my anchor... my mom. Ten minutes before she took her last breath, she grabbed my hand and choked out, "Your father...lives in Charleston, South Carolina. His name is William Strayer. He deserves to know you. Tell him...tell him I said, 'Goodbye.'"

A few breaths later, she slipped away as death carried her to her final peace. I cried for weeks. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't process losing my mom and getting the information I'd been begging her for my whole life in the span of ten minutes. All those wagers I'd tried to make with God, to find out who he was — I'd told God I would trade anything — I never meant my mom. I'm not crazy enough to think that God had stolen my mom just so I could find out who my father was, but I had several weeks of erratic thoughts.

I googled him. He was easy to find. He'd been in the same house, in the same job, for better than thirty years. Everything I found out about him on the internet pointed to an average guy, with an average life. He wasn't a rock star. He wasn't famous. _He_ wasn't dead.

I took one final breath, steadying myself. I had my phone in one hand and the slip of paper with all his information on my lap. I dialed the number, wondering what I was going to say to him. Before I could press "send," I chickened out and went back to Mom's bedroom to go through more of her things. Peggy, my mom's closest and only friend, had offered to come over to help me, but I was twenty-two. I shouldn't need help with this. Even if Peggy was her best friend, I knew Mom wouldn't want her going through her things. My mom had always been a private person.

Mom knew it was coming. She'd been sick for a long time. Her closet, that normally looked crammed with outfits from the last several decades, wasn't as packed as the last time I'd seen it. Mom must have gone through some of her things before she died because the walk-in closet could actually be walked into.

Tucked in the far back corner, on a shelf, was a treasure box of sorts: a wooden box with the key inserted into the lock. Whatever was inside, Mom wanted me to see it. I found yellowing movie ticket stubs for a title I'd never heard of, an airline ticket from twenty-eight years ago, a crumpled up photograph of my mom holding two babies, and a tourist shot glass from the Crazy Horse Monument in South Dakota. It seemed an odd set of treasures for her to have hidden away. I looked at the old plane ticket: it was for an Angela Chiron — no one I knew. I gently closed the wooden box after I'd returned her "treasures" to their resting place. As I stared at sequined sweaters, stretch pants, dress slacks and dresses, I found myself wanting to make that phone call far more than I wanted to go through my mom's life.

William. Did he even know I existed? He probably had a family of his own. What would they think of me? It had always been just my mom and me. She didn't have any family, at least other than me. Her parents died when she was young, and she'd been an only child. I think her final gift to me – my father's identity — was her way of not leaving me so alone in the world.

I went back to the living room, sat on the sofa, and put my feet up on the coffee table, almost begging Mom to walk into the room and tell me to get my feet off of it. A lonely tear rolled down my cheek. No one would be walking through the doorway to tell me to put my feet down. I hated the idea of being alone.

I took one more deep breath, picked up the slip of paper, and dialed his number again. This time my shaking finger pushed, "Send."

A woman's voice answered the phone, "Hello."

I stammered, terrified of this call, not sure what to say to the woman. "Uh...hi...is William there?"

"Who's calling?"

"Camille."

"Camille, is this a sales call?"

"Uh, no. Definitely, no. Is William home?"

"Just a minute."

I could only assume that had been William's wife. I wanted to hang up. I saw my hand shaking and prayed that I wouldn't have full-blown convulsions. I had practiced this phone call several times, but realized I should have written things down. My fear began crippling me, and I drew a blank. What would I say? "I'm your love child from twenty-three years ago and wanted to say hi." Not the best approach.

I heard a gruff voice come on the line, "Hello, this is Will."

My voice didn't work. My mouth opened but nothing came out.

"Hello, is anybody there?"

I cleared my throat, closed my eyes and answered, "Uh, yes. Hi, William. I'm Camille."

A friendly voice responded, "Okay. Camille who?"

"Right. I'm Angela Benning's daughter."

"Angela Benning? I'm still not making the connection. Are you sure you have the right William?"

"William Strayer from Charleston, South Carolina?"

"Yes."

"You are the only one I found in information. Have you ever been to San Diego?"

"Well, yes. I travel there, but I don't know an Angela Benning."

"Not even one you knew twenty-three years ago?" Silence answered me back. I wasn't sure if he had hung up the phone, if the connection had been dropped, or if he was too stunned to answer. "William, are you still there?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm still here. I did know an Angela in San Diego. She was a bartender in a hotel."

"That's right."

"Camille, how old are you?"

I did have the right person, and at least I didn't have to draw the connection out for him with big purple crayons. "I'm twenty-two."

"Twenty-two?"

"Yeah, my birthday was last month."

More silence... I could feel him doing the math in his head. This was a bad idea. I braced myself for him to deny he was my father, that I was some leech after him for money. His voice spoke softly, "Camille, I don't know what to say. Your mother is an incredible woman."

"Was." I corrected, "She _was_ an incredible woman."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know. What happened?" Sincerity was wrapped in his voice.

"She died of breast cancer a few weeks ago. Right before she died, she told me how I could contact you."

"So, you're my... I mean she wouldn't have...if you weren't mine."

I could almost hear the wheels turning in his head. "Right. I don't need anything. I just...I guess I wanted to talk to you."

"Camille, you have to believe me, if I had known I would have...I didn't know I had a daughter."

"That's okay, William. I knew I had a father – I mean from a biological perspective, but Mom would never tell me anything about you, well, not until the night she died."

His voice sounded heavy, "Call me Will. Everyone does. So, she didn't want you to contact me?"

"I guess not, well...she never told me anything about you. I never knew your name until the night she passed."

"You said that was a few weeks ago?"

"Yeah, she went into the hospital the week after my birthday."

I heard hopefulness in his voice that I didn't expect when he said, "When can I meet you?"

This was a question I wasn't really prepared for. All those practice conversations had more to do with introducing myself and convincing him that I was his daughter. I thought I had prepared for every possible response. I never considered that he would want to meet me. "Uh, maybe the next time you come to California?"

"Camille, I've got a lot going on for the next month. Getting out to the west coast would be hard. Would you consider flying to South Carolina?"

My heart started doing cartwheels. Not only did I have a real father — he wanted to see me! Trying not to gush at his suggestion, "Um, maybe. I've got a bunch of stuff I've got to take care of. You know, estate stuff for Mom, and a job."

"I could arrange for a lawyer to take care of that for you. Camille, I don't want to put this off. I...I could make arrangements now. You could be on the red eye tonight."

"Will, you don't know anything about me. I've got a job. I can't just get on a plane."

"You're my blood, Camille. Angela was a magical woman, I...I had no idea. If you can't come to me, I'll juggle some things around. I have to meet you."

Huh, that's the same thing Mom had said about him: that he was "magical." I had googled him a few weeks ago. I knew he was somehow involved with finance and investments and ran a firm in Charleston. Since my job was working at a department store as a cashier, reality was that it would be much easier for me to leave my job for a few days. As I looked around the apartment, there was too much of her here. Not that it was a bad thing, but given the last several months, it might be nice to have a change of scenery, for a few days.

I took a deep breath, "Okay, I can call into work and have someone cover my shifts. But I don't have the cash for a plane ticket or motel or anything."

"I'll take care of it. How soon could you be on a plane?"

"I guess tonight. Do you need to talk to your wife or anything?"

"Gretchen will be happy to have you as a guest. She's always wanted a daughter as much as I have." I felt a warm glow in my chest. The emptiness of losing my mom would stay with me forever, but I wasn't alone. I had a father. We exchanged email addresses so we could coordinate the flight. I wondered if this was some sort of a dream. I had run a background investigation on him within days of finding out who he was. All I really knew about him was he paid his taxes, he owned several properties, he had never been arrested, and he hadn't had a traffic ticket or an accident in the last seven years.

I called my best friend in the world to let him know what had just happened. He was so excited for me that he was at my door within twenty minutes. Daniel was like the brother I never had. We looked enough alike that sometimes people assumed I was his sister. He had dark hair, kind of that in between length – it was short, but shaggy. His eyelashes were gorgeous. For a long time I teased him, calling him "Maybelline Eyes," and he had this way of looking at girls that made them all melt – well, all but me. Daniel was on the surf team in high school and even got a scholarship to surf in college, so there was never a shortage of beach babes looking to hang out with him. We'd never been more than friends, and I knew we both liked it that way. We each had a ready-made date for all the big social events, weddings, engagement parties, holiday parties, etc – but none of the romantic attachments that came with it.

Daniel gathered me in a large bear hug and swung me around. "You talked to him? He wants to meet you?"

"I did! He wasn't freaked out about it or anything. He's flying me to South Carolina, tonight, to meet him."

Daniel's enthusiasm diminished in front of me, "Tonight? Why the rush?"

I slapped his shoulder, "I'm his daughter. He wants to meet me."

"Did he say why he never bothered to come see you?"

"I think my mom hid us from each other. He didn't even know that I existed until I called."

"Just like that, he wants you on a plane? What about a DNA test?"

"He didn't ask for any proof. He said he remembered her." I left out the part where he said she was magical – Daniel knew that's what my mom had said about him.

"That must have been some phone call. Are you sure he's all right?"

"I'm not stupid. I did a background check."

"That just means he's never been caught."

I punched Daniel's arm a second time, and he feigned pain. "I'm just saying you don't even know the guy. He could be a serial killer for all you know. There's probably a reason your mom never let the two of you meet."

"She told me who he was right before she died. She must have wanted me to find him."

"Maybe. How about I go with you?"

"Um, I don't know. I think this is something I have to do on my own, but keep your cell phone on you in case I need you."

He frowned with his eyebrows furrowed, "I don't like it. Something doesn't feel right."

"Stop worrying. I'll be back on Sunday. If it gets weird, I'll come back sooner."

"If I don't get a call every day, I'm getting on a plane."

"Right, to fly to South Carolina and do what? I'll be fine. He sounded nice."

"You've wanted to meet this guy forever. Don't get your hopes up. Angela was a smart lady. She must have kept you two apart for a reason."

"Maybe she just didn't want the hassle of sharing custody." This was the lie I'd told myself when I was little. My mom never had boyfriends. She always told me her life was full, and she didn't have room for one more person in it.

"Maybe, but maybe he's a douche, and she didn't want you to get hurt."

My heart sank. I didn't have the strength to argue with him. I knew he was right. I knew Mom hid his identity from me, but I didn't care why. Everyone needed family, no matter how weird they might be. I was willing to take a chance: one crazy father was better than nobody.

For the next fifteen hours, through two airports and the whole time I was in the air, Daniel's words continued to echo in my mind, _"She must have kept you two apart for a reason."_ Why would she have kept us apart? Was she ashamed of him? What did he do that made her not want him in her life? She'd never, for as long as I could remember, had a boyfriend – had he done something to her?

# Chapter 2

_(Camille Benning – Charleston, SC)_

The wheels touched down at the Charleston Airport. Although I wasn't a world traveler, I recognized that it was a very small airport, two whole luggage carousels in baggage claim. I had been to San Diego's airport lots of times; it was like a maze of endless signs and was seriously intimidating even for the locals. Charleston's was small and felt welcoming. I had found pictures of Will on the internet. I knew he was near fifty, with graying hair, distinguished face, brown eyes, and a nose that was slightly larger than his face required. Not unattractive, but I doubt he'd ever been a huge heart-throb. The pictures I found of him were all with suit jackets and ties, so I scanned the baggage claim area for a middle-aged man in a suit. It was 10:30 a.m. on a Wednesday. I saw a few people who had the right attire, but none looked like the picture I'd downloaded of him. I kept checking my phone for a message from him, but nothing.

I felt the nervousness gripping me, wondering if this was a mistake. Daniel's words continued in my head; I tried to shake his warning away and knew I needed to come up with a plan. How would I get to Will's house? I checked my phone again, nothing new. This was a dumb idea. I saw my bag approaching on the carousel. As I reached down to pick it up, a guy my age in a polo shirt, khakis and dress shoes loped through the large double-doors from outside. He was carrying a piece of paper with clear block letters that read, "Camille Benning."

It definitely wasn't Will. I rolled my bag over to the guy and said, "Hi. I'm Camille Benning."

I saw his eyes widen momentarily and felt him look me up and down as a huge toothy smile flashed my way. "Hi, Camille, I'm Brent. Welcome to Charleston!" His brown eyes looked glad to see me, and his cheeks dimpled when he smiled. His dark brown hair was cropped short, and it looked like he was either a sun worshipper or he'd never worked a day in his life – golden bronze skin was hard to come by with a full-time job.

"Uh, thanks." I wasn't expecting a car service. Will was definitely losing cool points by not bothering to meet me at the airport.

"Can I help you with your bag?"

I shook my head, "That's okay, I've got it."

He responded with a startled look, "I must have said that wrong. I'll take your bag for you." He reached for it, but my knuckles didn't budge from the handle.

My voice stern, "No, thanks. I've got it." Years of caution from Mom about strangers, about not looking weak, I wasn't about to let this clown think that I wasn't capable of rolling my own bag. If he kept this up, there was no way I was going to give him a tip.

With a snicker in his voice, "Headstrong just like Dad; he'll be thrilled." I raised my eyebrow, not understanding his comment. He must have seen my confusion because he clarified, "I'm sorry, I assumed Dad mentioned that I would be picking you up. I'm your brother, Brent."

Brother? Holy crap! A father, stepmother, and a brother – all in less than a day. I felt a smile erupting as some of the loneliness I'd felt the last month offered to evaporate. "Oh, uh, no. We didn't talk that long yesterday."

"That figures. Well, the car is this way." Brent led the way through the double doors while I rolled my own suitcase.

Here I was excited to be flying across the country to meet a father I had just found out about. In the back of my mind I assumed he had a family, but I never expected for him to send his son to pick me up. When I ran the background check on him, it didn't say anything about a son. That's something that should definitely show up if you blow forty bucks to dig into someone's past.

As we stepped through the double doors to the outside, the heat nearly took my breath away. It was like stepping into an oven. "Wow, is it always this hot?"

Brent chuckled, "This isn't bad. Wait another couple hours: that's when it starts to get uncomfortable." It felt like a hundred degrees and a hundred percent humidity. I knew July would be hot, but I didn't think I would be slow roasting. We stepped out to the curb where Brent motioned me to a beautiful BMW sedan. It was snowy white with tan interior. A guy waited in the driver's seat and a second in the front passenger seat.

As Brent put my bag in the trunk, I stole a glance at the two men waiting in the car. Neither looked old enough to be Will, either.

Brent stepped back to the passenger side and opened my door for me, holding it while I sat down and then closed it for me — very gentlemanly. He walked around to the other side of the car and sat next to me in the backseat. The two guys in the front seat turned around. They each shared the same big toothy smile and bore a striking resemblance to Brent. As Brent reached for his seat belt he said, "Camille, these are your brothers Bart and Ben."

"Uh, nice to meet you both."

Bart began driving, so it was Ben's turn. "We're glad you're here. I know you flew all night. Did you want to go back to the house and crash or stop for a bite first?"

Until he mentioned food, I hadn't realized I was hungry. "I don't want to be any trouble. Whatever you were going to do was fine."

Bart let out a hearty laugh, "We were told to take care of you for a few hours until Dad can get home from work. There're great restaurants here. Do you like seafood?"

Bart had said the magic word. I loved seafood. "Yeah, if you guys are hungry, I could eat."

Ben turned around in his seat because I was sitting directly behind him. "So, you live in San Diego? Have you lived there your whole life?"

"Yeah. Well, near there. I live in Oceanside; it's a little north of San Diego."

"So, do you surf?"

"Not well. But I've been on a board a few times."

"If you want to go surfing while you're here, you can borrow one of mine."

"Thanks."

"How long are you staying?"

"'Til Sunday."

"Wow, that's a quick trip. So are you on summer break from school?"

"No, I, um...I never went to college." It never bothered me before that I couldn't afford college, mainly because I never had any real desire to go. But looking at these three in this car, I, for the first time, felt a little intimidated about my choice.

Ben casually asked, "So, what do you do?"

Wondering if Ben was purposely trying to make me feel uncomfortable, I said confidently, "I'm a cashier."

I could tell Ben sensed that he'd sort of rattled me, and he smoothly tried to make up for it. "I was a cashier all through high school at a grocery store — that was a great job. I'm jealous."

Ben got an "A" for effort, but it was obvious that a mere cashier was not in the same league with these three. I decided I'd try to get the focus off of me. "So, how old are you three?"

Brent answered, "I'm twenty-four, Ben's twenty-five, Bart's twenty-six, Bruce is twenty-seven and Beau's twenty-eight. Bruce and Beau couldn't fit in the car without cramming you in like a sardine. I just texted them to meet us at the Harbor Club."

I looked squarely at Brent. I didn't know any family with five kids, "Five boys?"

Brent nodded enthusiastically. He was notably cautious with his next question, "Um, how old are you, Camille?"

"I'm twenty-two."

No one responded right away, and just before the pause got seriously uncomfortable, Brent's excitement returned, "Well, great, you're legal. We could all go hit a club or something while you're here."

The image of me walking into a bar with five very tall, handsome guys had its merits. "Maybe. Are there good clubs here?"

"Probably not as sophisticated as San Diego, but there're some decent places to dance downtown."

Brent was still pressing me for more info, "So, do you have any brothers or sisters, I mean...other than us?"

I shook my head that I didn't. "It was always just Mom and me."

Brent's jovial tone came down a few octaves when he said, "Oh, yeah, I'm sorry about that. Dad said she passed away recently."

I was beyond tearing up every time someone told me they were sorry for my loss, but the sincerity in his voice and eyes struck me tenderly. I didn't want to break into full-fledged tears, so I asked, "So what does your mom do?"

Ben and Bart exchanged looks, but Brent didn't miss a beat, "She's a housewife."

Five boys, all had been born a year apart, and a mom who didn't work outside the house. What were they, Mormon? I only had a few friends growing up whose moms stayed home: they were all wealthy. Judging from the car and the way these three were dressed, maybe my assumption was correct.

"So, when did your parents split up?"

I felt that same tension from before. This time Ben turned around to answer, "Our parents are still together."

The reality of the situation hit me — like a Mack truck. Will, my father, met my mother twenty-three years ago. They had some sort of wild fling, with me as the result. Will was married when he met my mom, and he was still married to the same woman — Brent, Ben and Bart's mother. My stomach cinched tight. No wonder my mom would never tell me who my father was. I could feel the color drain from my face.

Ben, still peering at me over the seat, must have seen my stupor. "It's okay, Camille. Dad called us all together last night and told us. Mom knows."

"And she's okay with me being here?"

Bart, from behind the wheel piped in, "I'm sure she had some words with Dad after we went to bed, but she told us all we were taking the rest of the week off to welcome you to the family."

"Seriously?" All three heads nodded in unison. "So, you all just called your bosses and took the week off?"

Brent leaned in and said, "Yeah, we all work for the same guy. He understood."

Bart said, _after they went to bed._ Did they all still live at home? Who still lives with their parents when they're adults and have the money to live anywhere? Were they a part of some cult? Something felt fishy. I texted Daniel discreetly from the back seat: "Arrived OK. Going 2 lunch w/ 5 brothers. Haven't met Dad yet. Will call soon." If this was some sort of a trick, I wanted Daniel to know where to tell the police to start looking.

Bart pulled the car in front of a restaurant and handed the keys to a valet. I had nearly forgotten we were going to get lunch, and after the last couple minutes, I wasn't sure I could hold any food down. As we stepped out of the car, I was again blasted by the heat. Luckily, it was exactly five steps from the curb to the restaurant's door, and we were again in the cool.

I had always been a little on the tall side for a girl, I was 5'10" – I looked at my newly found brothers: Brent was the tallest of the three and had to be at least 6'3". Ben and Bart were both a couple inches taller than I was. As we walked to the hostess standing behind her podium, I could see the family resemblance with two more tall, slender men waiting right in front of us. Aside from the height and dark hair, I didn't look much like them. Of the two who were waiting with the hostess, the one closest took a couple steps toward me and grabbed me in a strong bear hug, "Hey, little sister! We're glad you're here! I'm Beau."

My mind was working again, and I realized the next brother to take me in a hug was Bruce even before he introduced himself. He gave me a quick hug, sweet, but not bone-crushing like Beau, "Nice to meet you, Camille. I'm Bruce."

"It's nice to meet you both, too." I'd never been shy my whole life, but at this moment, I wasn't feeling like a social butterfly. Luckily, each of my newly discovered brothers was genuinely welcoming and completely over-the-moon charming. As I looked at them, their handsome looks were obvious, the same perfect toothy smiles, warm brown eyes, dark brown hair, and dimples. Conversation had steered clear of me; I'd been worried I'd have a repeat of the awkward conversation in the car with the two new brothers, but Beau and Bruce were more interested in talking about plans for my time here, rather than how I came to be.

After a lunch of appetizers oozing butter, fresh seafood and starches, over an hour of great conversation, I came to a single conclusion: If I never met my father, I wouldn't feel slighted. I'd never dreamed that I would have a sibling, let alone five who were beyond cool, each seeming really excited to have a little sister. Not one of them seemed to care that I was only a half-sister. I'd never been a pessimist, so I refused to give in to the feeling that this was all a little too good to be true. Rather than question whether these guys were really glad to see me or if they were just the world's best actors, I decided I'd just relax and enjoy it.

Bart looked at his watch as a sneaky grin emerged, "It's barely noon. We could buzz over to the club and take the boat out for a couple hours." His suggestion had been made to the group, but he quickly turned and added, "I'm sorry, Camille, I guess I should be asking you. I know these guys are up for it."

The energy these five had was euphoric. I couldn't think of anything I wouldn't want to do so long as they were around. "Sure, okay."

As we were walking out of the restaurant, it occurred to me we had never paid. Having spent plenty of time as a waitress, I put on the brakes and said, "Wait, what about the check?"

Bart shook his head, "We're here a lot. They'll just put it on our membership."

I still felt a little nervous as we approached the hostess, until she called out to Beau, "Mr. Strayer, I trust everything was to your liking?" Beau, the oldest of the group, was leading the way to the door.

Beau shot her a big smile, "Perfect, like always, Janice. Tell Peter he outdid himself today with the Shrimp Pasta."

Janice wasn't wearing a nametag and didn't seem the least bit concerned that we didn't sign a piece of paper. She had star-struck eyes as we filed past her. I was just a few steps away when Brent stopped, looked at Janice and said, "Oh, wait. This is our little sister, Camille. She's visiting from California. Could you let the staff know she should be added to the membership and has full privileges."

"Yes, Mr. Strayer. I'll take care of it right away. Welcome to Charleston, Miss Strayer."

I felt my heart flutter a little, not because she had called me by the wrong last name, but because Brent took the time to tell her that I belonged. I wasn't some visitor — I was their little sister. I had been in this magical place less than two hours — I had found five brothers who I didn't know I had and was developing a real kinship to them already. I had never been overly emotional, so the wetness in my eyes trying to get out felt completely out of place.

Everyone was standing inside the door when Bart explained to me, "No sense standing in the heat; they're bringing the cars around for us."

As if his words could make beautiful German automobiles appear out of thin air, two identical BMW sedans pulled up in front of the restaurant. I'm sure my mouth was gaping open when I commented to no one in particular, "You have matching Beamers?"

Brent, standing next to me said, "Yeah, that was Dad's idea. He didn't want any of us to feel slighted, so we all got the same car. I tried to talk him into a Camaro, but that was a big no go." I did the math in my head. I knew there was no way to get that model for under $50,000, and Will had bought five of them for his sons. Who does that? My mind flashed to my earlier idea that my family was a part of some religious cult.

We drove just a few short blocks and left the cars with another valet. I looked at the inconspicuous sign indicating that this was the Yacht Club. When Bart suggested we go out on the boat, I was expecting... well, a boat. As we walked past the club to the pier behind it, Beau was again in the lead and made his way to the furthest slip. The largest yacht in the harbor was directly in front of us and displayed the name, "Easy Money." Holy moly, this wasn't some little cabin cruiser or something to buzz around the harbor on; we could take this thing to the Bahamas. I was careful not to suggest it. The little time that I'd spent with the five led me to believe we'd be at Nassau by dinner time if I weren't careful.

Although much more comfortable around them after lunch, I reminded myself that something didn't feel right about them. There was a reason a person had instincts, and I refused to ignore mine. I couldn't put my finger on it, but something felt wrong. I sent another text to Daniel, "Going 4 a ride on the yacht w/ 5 brothers, will call U later." As I put my phone in my purse, the pessimistic part of me wondered how far I could swim if I had to.

# Chapter 3

_(Zandra Chiron – San Diego, CA)_

A granddaughter. How had Angela hidden from me all this time, and how had she found a way to give birth and hide her children as well? Where had they been? I had searched the planet, the far off mountains of Tibet, the vast Sahara desert, the rain forests of South America, and every disgusting third world city in between. Every time I heard a whisper of where she might be, I searched. No stone was left unturned. She couldn't possibly have hidden in plain sight all those years. She had been protected by a magic more powerful than my own – but whose?

Angela had been dead to me, for years — since the day she ran away. She abandoned her family, left us to pay her debt. I knew she still breathed, somewhere, but none of my powers could find her; that could only mean that she was protected by another. Who in our society would be willing to cross me?

That putz she lured in may have been a pure-blood, and the bastard daughter they conceived may be in my lineage, but something was wrong. Had she been born without a twin? Were things changing or had Angela tapped into a new source of magic? Was our bloodline finally diluted? William Strayer was not worthy of Angela. He knew it. He had no idea what he was up against if he intended to keep this granddaughter from me. She and her brother were the last in my line.

When Angela's body died, I could feel her enter the spirit world. Even in death she refused to answer my calls. Angela paid as much attention to me in death as she had in life; that would change soon. Camille was my heir; she would be exactly the leverage I needed. We'll see how long Angela can ignore my calls when her precious daughter is living the life that Angela herself escaped.

Isaac, her father, indulged Angela too much as a child, coddling her, constantly accusing me of abuse. They deserved each other; let her join him in the pasture. Until his death I had always wondered if he had hidden her from me. Once he passed into the spirit world and I still could not locate Angela, I knew that he hadn't betrayed me after all. I never believed Isaac's denial until his death proved his words true.

With that knowledge I was at a loss as to who could have protected her. I wondered if my worthless brother Zethus was involved. He swore the arrow didn't exist. All these years I wondered if it was his arrow that cloaked Angela from me, but if that were true, Camille would still be under its protection. Once Angela passed, I felt Camille, I knew she existed. I had zeroed in on Southern California, and in a few more days, I would have found her apartment. I was close. I knew I was close. But why can't I feel her brother?

I listened to her phone call with William Strayer – she was already in Charleston by now. He would let his guard down. He wasn't a protector. The fool didn't stand a chance against me. It was only a matter of time. I needed to be patient, as patient as I had been the last twenty-eight years — I needed only be patient for a few more days.

# Chapter 4

_(Camille Benning – Charleston, SC)_

As I looked around the yacht, I had to wonder: was Will a billionaire or something? My mom wasn't wealthy. I could remember growing up and for weeks eating nothing but Ramen Noodles, macaroni and cheese, and hot dogs. I could feel a twinge of jealousy in me, not begrudging that they had so much, but disappointed that I came from almost nothing. I wouldn't have traded a day with my mom for all the nice cars and beautiful boats in the world, but I had to wonder why my mom never contacted Will to tell him about me. He could have surely helped enough so that we could have had better food. I couldn't think of any good reason for us to struggle the way we had. Now that she was gone, I'd never be able to ask her why.

We climbed onto the yacht, and an employee from the club untied the ropes and handed them up to Brent. "Mr. Strayer, good to see you again."

"Hi, Josh, any chance you wanna ride along today?"

Josh blushed at the offer, "Thank you, Mr. Strayer, but I'm working today."

"Oh, come on. I'll go in and clear it with your boss. It'll be fun."

"Mr. Strayer, thanks, but I'll have to decline. Besides, you'll need me here to tie her off when you return." Josh gave a kind of salute with his hand, and turned to walk away. We powered out into the harbor, headed for blue water, with Beau at the helm. As stifling hot as it had been when we got out of the car, the breeze out on the open water was wonderful.

I'd gone to school with kids like my brothers – at least from the wealth perspective. But there was something about these five: they were almost magnetic. Aside from their obvious good looks, their demeanor was welcoming, their words to others were thoughtful, and each looked others in the eye when they spoke. In a word, they were "genuine," not at all like the pompous stuffed shirts I'd become accustomed to tuning out.

Everyone seemed to be having a good time, telling stories of stunts they'd pulled when they were younger. Each seemed to tell a story that was more brazen than the last – laughter erupted in all directions with each new story. I tuned out for a while, wondering if any of this could seriously be real. I found myself wishing for a way to let my mom know that I was going to be okay. I'd miss her for the rest of my life – but something I never thought possible, until that moment, I was no longer alone. Beau was the sweetest, his eyes were kind; whenever someone spoke, he looked them square in the eye, giving them his full attention. Bruce seemed to be the comic with an easy smile that reached all the way to his eyes. Bart was the quietest of the five, happy to be Bruce's audience. Ben wore glasses and had an intelligent look about him, but barely spoke more than Bart. Brent was by far the most outspoken; he was the youngest and seemed to be comfortable being the center of attention.

When I tuned back in I heard Bruce saying "... then Dad said, 'I'm sorry, Your Honor, I'm sure my son was temporarily insane. He gets it from his mother's side of the family.' Of course, Mom was right there beside him, and she glared at him pretty good. Remember that time when he melted down her best silver to make doubloons for a scavenger hunt at Halloween? Yeah, she glared at him just like that! Then he said to the judge, 'I can assure you, he will not display such poor judgment in the foreseeable future.' I was staring up at the judge, praying it would just be a fine or maybe Dad could buy a fire truck or something for the town and all would be forgiven, you know? The next thing I heard was, 'Mr. Strayer, I understand sons can be a handful, but there are to be no concerts without the proper permits. Even with proper permits, they are not to host, encourage, or sponsor wet t-shirt contests in the courthouse square. Am I clear?'"

Beau jumped in, "You know why you got busted, right? The judge's daughter was one of the girls you sprayed down, and I heard pictures of her got posted on Facebook."

All five brothers were laughing at Bruce's story. I had missed the first part and wasn't sure about asking Bruce to repeat the beginning. It was obvious that these five were no angels. After I don't know how many stories, Beau asked, "So, tell us about California. Do you have a boyfriend?"

I smiled and shook my head, "No, no one special."

He dramatically wiped his forehead, "Well, that's a relief. We were all worried we were going to have to fly out and give him the big brother talk."

I was confused, "Big brother talk?"

"You know the one, 'If you hurt her, I'll hunt you down.' That type of brother talk."

"Well, you can rest easy. No need to hop on a plane anytime soon. I dated a guy for a while, but we broke up a few months ago. No big deal."

Brent looked shocked when he confirmed, "You broke up with a guy?"

"Yeah, it wasn't some epic romance or anything."

Brent asked again, "You dated him and then broke up?"

Surprised by his sudden interest, I could only answer, "Well, yeah."

"What happened to him?"

I laughed, mostly because Brent had a way of looking so serious. "Happened to him? Nothing, it was mutual. We just weren't cut out for each other."

Beau must have noticed the strange reaction in Brent because he said, "Geeze Brent, it isn't a big deal. _People_ date." I couldn't help but notice Beau's emphasis on the word _people_ , and he gave Brent a look that told them all to leave it alone. I got a weird feeling that there was more to the question that Brent wanted to ask, but after Beau shut him down, he never circled back to the topic.

We spent another hour together before we pulled back into the slip. Josh was waiting on the dock as Brent tossed him the rope, and he had us tied off before Bart had cut the engine. We'd only been out for a couple hours, but the rocking of the water, maybe the sea air, the heat or the sun beating down had me worn out. Josh offered me a hand onto the pier and asked, "Did you have a good time, Miss?"

"I did, thanks for asking." Josh was handsome in a geeky way. He was about my height, just slightly shorter, light green eyes, and deep tanned skin — no doubt his golden bronze skin was the result of working outside all day.

Brent, of the five, was the closest to my age and was the brother who had talked the most to me since my arrival. Brent stepped off the boat behind me as Josh asked, "Miss, which Mr. Strayer was your escort today?"

Josh winked at Brent, logically making the assumption that if he trailed me getting on and off the yacht that I must have been his date. Brent didn't miss a beat, "Josh, I should have introduced you earlier. This is our little sister, Camille. She's visiting this week from California."

Josh gave a slight bow, "Miss Strayer, it's a pleasure to meet you."

I held out my hand, "If I can call you Josh, the least you can do is call me Camille, or better yet, Cami."

"Sorry, Miss Strayer, house rules." A part of me thought I should correct being called, "Strayer," but my new family was obviously well-engrained in the community. I was, after all, the illegitimate little sister: no sense giving people anything to gossip about. I gave Josh an awkward smile and followed Brent down the pier.

As we climbed into the car for the trip to the house, I felt the softness of the leather seats, the cool air blowing on me after being out on the ocean in the heat of the day. I had flown all night and was more tired than I realized. The excitement should have kept me from dozing off, but I must have completely passed out in the car.

I awoke in a brightly colored bedroom, a sunny yellow color on the walls, darkness clouding the windows. I had been sleeping in the softest bed I'd ever felt, wrapped by a four-poster mahogany frame. The room was meticulously decorated, from the beautifully framed prints on the wall to the fresh flowers on the dresser. I looked at my watch and couldn't believe the time: it was 10 p.m.

"Camille?" A low, gentle voice asked.

I looked off to my left to see someone sitting on the other side of the room, on what I was sure was an antique loveseat. I sat up quickly, realizing that today hadn't been some amazing dream. I was really in South Carolina and had spent the day with my five brothers. The room was dimly lit with two lonely lamps illuminating the room. I couldn't be sure who was sitting across the room, as I wiped the sleep from my eyes. Everyone had been so welcoming that I wasn't creeped out by someone sitting there in the dark. I answered, "I guess I was more tired than I realized."

"I'm glad you're here. I trust the boys were tolerable today?"

It was my father, right here in the flesh. I knew from the way he asked the question. My heart began racing, pumping so fast I thought it might beat right out of my chest. I sat up a little straighter, realizing this was really the day I had waited for my whole life. Trying to keep my enthusiasm under control, "They were great. You didn't mention them when we talked yesterday."

We had coordinated every aspect of the trip by email and phone. I'd talked to him several times, but he never once brought up that he had sons, that they would be picking me up, or entertaining me. As I watched him sitting on the love seat, questions flooded into my mind: Why didn't you tell me about them? What's your wife think about me staying in your house? Why did you have an affair with my mom? Why did she never tell me about you?

# Chapter 5

_(Camille Benning – Charleston, SC)_

William looked at a loss, and I knew I couldn't toss all my questions at him at once. He started off apologetically, "I should have prepared you. I was...your call was...unexpected. I'm sure I neglected to tell you lots of things. They can be a little overwhelming at first, but they're good boys."

I nodded my silent agreement. All those years of badgering my mom for a brother or sister, I had five brothers the entire time and didn't have a clue. Rather than dwelling on the past, I opted to stay firmly planted in the present. "I can't believe I'm here. I've always wondered who you were."

"You must have many questions for me. Ask me anything."

I never knew I even had a father, well, logically I knew he existed. How do you tell someone you don't have the words to even ask the right questions? It was all a little overwhelming. I asked a question that I already knew the answer to, "So, what do you do?"

"By way of profession? I am a financial advisor. Nothing exciting, but it pays the bills."

I caught myself looking around at the room, "You must be good at it."

He nodded, "My clients are all very happy with the services I provide." When I didn't say anything right away, he broke the quiet with, "Your mother. I'm so very sorry, Camille. It is difficult to lose a parent, and I'm sorry you went through her death alone. If I had known, I would have been there for you."

I stiffened a little, "For me. Not for her?"

"If she had wanted me to be there — yes, for her, too."

"She never told me about you, not until just before... you know...right before she died."

"That makes two of us. I wish I would have known about you, Camille. I don't want to be insensitive, but I have so many things I'd like to know about you."

"Ask away. What do ya wanna know?"

A huge smile enveloped his face, "Everything, Camille. I want to know everything about you."

"Hmmm, well, I work as a cashier in a department store. This is my first trip to a state outside of California, but I've been to Mexico. Today was the first time I had ever been on a yacht and an airplane, and I'm still a little surprised that I was on both in the same day." I stopped, trying to gauge what he was looking for.

"Hobbies?"

"Nothing major. I love California because one day you can be at Big Bear skiing, the next you can be at the beach surfing, and the next you can gamble at Tahoe. I'm usually on the go, but I don't have one big interest that I'm tied to."

"Boyfriend?"

I snickered a little, only because this was the same thing Brent had asked me just a few hours ago. "No. No one special."

"So your mother did tell you?"

I turned my head slightly, "What do you mean?"

"I was worried you might be unaware of your heritage. I didn't know your mother well, but she had abandoned her herd. When I happened on her, she wanted nothing to do with our kind."

What the heck was he talking about? Herd? Mom had never abandoned anyone or anything in her life. We had a stray dog for years that was mean as a snake, but she wouldn't turn her back on it. She kept feeding the vicious thing even when I begged her to let it starve. "Her _herd_? What do you mean _our_ _kind_?"

Will took on a nervous look, like he'd said something he desperately wanted to take back. "Camille, what did your mother tell you about me? About your family?"

"Nothing... I mean, she wouldn't tell me anything about you... not 'til the night... you know. What do you mean she abandoned her family? Her parents died when she was very young."

"Your mother was Angela Chiron. She left her family long ago."

With more resolve than I felt, "Her name was Angela Benning and her parents died when she was still a teenager." Even as I said the words, I remembered the old plane ticket I'd found in my mother's closet, carefully tucked away from prying eyes, but purposely left for me to find after her death. The name on the ticket had been Angela Chiron. I'd dismissed it at the time, but now... who had she abandoned? Did she have other kids?

Will abruptly changed the subject, "What about school?"

I answered his question, even though I wanted to know what he meant by _she left her family_. "I graduated high school, but never had the money to get into college. Maybe someday." The fact that I'd opted to skip college had never been a sensitive subject for me. After high school I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, and Mom had never pushed me.

Will must have thought more of a degree than I did because he immediately volunteered, "Camille, what's mine is yours. If you want an education, money isn't a problem."

I turned my head, not sure how to say it without sounding like a jerk, "I'm not asking you for anything."

His features were warm and his voice thoughtful, "You needn't ask. It's your birthright. I have been blessed with good fortune, and yesterday I found out I was also blessed with a daughter. I'd like a chance to be your father."

"I've only been your daughter for," I looked at my watch, six p.m. on the west coast, "less than twenty-four hours. Maybe offering to pay my way through college is something we can hold off on for a few days?"

Will nodded. I got the feeling that he was just as nervous as and maybe even more excited than I was. He asked, "Are you hungry? We could find something in the kitchen if you are."

I hadn't eaten since lunch. I could only imagine what the kitchen looked like. As we stepped out of my room, I saw this was one doorway in a hall filled with doorways on either side. I didn't want to gawk, but it looked like six rooms lined the hall. The floor was a highly polished wood that felt cool on my feet. Remembering the heat of the day, it felt good to be barefoot on the floor. I was kicking myself for falling asleep on the way back. I had no idea what the house looked like from the outside, where it was or how I got to my room.

We found my brothers all huddled around a television. Brent looked over his shoulder and gave a hearty, "Camille! We were wondering if you were down for the count or what? Glad you got up. Dad thought we'd drugged you or something."

"I don't even remember the ride here. Are you sure you didn't drug me?"

"High on life, little sister, high on life."

Brent and the others turned their attention back to the television as my father motioned me toward the kitchen. I've been to Lowe's, Home Depot, I've even caught myself looking at some majestic kitchens on the "Do-it-Yourself" channel, but I was not prepared for this: granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, enough cabinets to stock a convenience store, and two sinks. My father's idea of a quick snack and mine weren't the same.

I thought we'd be rummaging around the refrigerator for sliced meat to make a sandwich when he pulled a casserole dish out of the oven that was still warm, poured me a glass of wine, and motioned for me to have a seat at the table.

In awe, I could only ask, "Where'd all this come from?"

"Gretchen makes the best manicotti in the world. When you were still sleeping, she made a second dish for you and kept it warm. I promise you've never tasted anything like it."

He was right. I had had some incredible Italian food in my life, but nothing held a candle to this. Conversation was easy. It turned out my father's parents had lived in this very house. They gave it to him when he started his family. In addition to being a financial wizard of sorts, he was an avid hiker and loved to sail. I was grateful to have some one-on-one time with him, to learn more about him. It seemed odd that my brothers were keeping their distance, and I still hadn't met his wife. No one so much as peeked through a doorway.

After I had eaten enough to feed three heavy-weight boxers, I stood up to rinse my plate. My father asked, "Are you still tired? Or do you have enough energy to keep me company a little longer? We could sit in the den. It's where I spend most of my time."

Another amazing room. An overstuffed leather sofa and matching overstuffed formal chairs greeted us as we walked in. I took a seat in the chair closest to the door, and he sat on the sofa. Bookshelves lined every wall with old leather-bound books tightly lining each shelf. We were both quiet: I don't think either of us knew where to start. What do you say to someone you've fanaticized about your entire life?

My father broke the silence, "Is there anything special you'd like to do while you're here?"

I shook my head, "So far this trip has seriously exceeded my expectations. I just wanna get to know everybody."

"That's great, well, unless you had really low expectations for the trip."

Grinning, "It's just nice to know I have ..." it was tough to say the word, because it had been theoretical to me, until today, "family."

"It warms my heart to hear you say that, Camille. I always wanted a daughter. It's a little surreal to have you here. I wouldn't have thought it possible."

The basics of Sex-Ed were obviously lost on Will if he didn't think it was possible. I kept my thoughts to myself. No sense being a smart aleck just because he was surprised to know that I existed. "So, how did you meet my mom?"

"She was working at the hotel bar where I was staying. It is uncommon to find... well, female...you know... I was surprised to see her working there."

The more Will stammered, the more weirded out I felt. It was as if he were desperately trying not to tell me something. Will looked away from me and began his explanation while his attention was focused on the wall to my left. "The relationship I had with your mother was not one I am proud of." He turned and looked directly into my eyes as he spoke, "I was prepared to give her anything in the world. All your mother wanted from me was my absence. I pursued her, but she didn't want anything to do with me. I called her a few times in the months that followed, but each time she refused to see or to talk to me. On subsequent business trips, she refused to take my calls or to meet me. At the time, I didn't understand why. Seeing you here gives me a new appreciation for why she shut me out."

"But you were married and you were pursuing my mom?"

He nodded again, "I was. I could never explain the feelings I had for your mother. I would have given anything in the world to her."

I couldn't help but restate the obvious, "But you were married."

"Yes, I was. The truth is, I told your mother I was married with a family, and she was furious with me. She rejected me. She told me to go home to my wife."

"So that's it. You met her, you hooked up, then you told her about Gretchen? I can't imagine why she would have rejected you."

He smiled proudly when he told me, "You have your mother's spirit. I didn't plan to meet your mother. I certainly didn't expect to feel so strongly for a woman I hardly knew. I've always been an honest person. The truth, no matter how terrible, is always better than a lie. I told your mother the truth; she told me to go home."

"And that's it?"

"Until your call yesterday, yes. I've thought about your mother over the years, but any letter I sent was always returned to me with 'Delivery Refused' written on the envelope."

"That sounds like Mom. So, how did Gretchen take it, when you told her about me?"

"I have been married to Gretchen for twenty-nine years. I shared with her that I met your mother the very night I returned from San Diego. I confessed everything. She was as stunned as I that I had met Angela Chiron and had... how did you say it? Hooked up? That I had hooked up with her. But I kept your mother's secret, as did Gretchen. Neither of us told a soul."

"What secret?"

"Your mother... she was a well-known figure in our community. She disappeared when she was seventeen. Many suspected foul play. When I left your mother, she asked that I not tell anyone where I found her."

"So, she was hiding from someone?"

"Angela never came right out and said it, but she was adamant that I not tell anyone that I had seen her. I told Gretchen, but I knew she would not divulge her whereabouts."

"Did Gretchen kick you out?"

"No. She told me I needed to figure out what my future was and live that life."

"Really? You told her you were unfaithful and she wasn't mad?"

"She wasn't pleased with me, but Gretchen is a wonderful woman. Our relationship has been one of comfortable companionship for nearly three decades. I never set out to hurt her, and I would never lie to her about anything."

"So what was my mother to you? A fling?"

"Not by my choice. As I said, when I met your mother, I felt very strongly for her. She didn't feel the same for me."

"So, how well did you know Mom?"

"I only spent a few days with her, but you could say she made a lasting impression."

Before I got here I was prepared to love this man unconditionally, but the more he spoke, the less I liked him. He'd had a wife and five young sons, he'd been unfaithful, and didn't seem the slightest bit ashamed of his behavior. I didn't know this man in front of me, but I knew my mother: she would never have been able to cope with the guilt of breaking up a family.

He must have sensed my disapproval because I could see the desperation on his face as he tried to explain. "I wanted to be with your mother, but she wouldn't hear of it. Eventually, I stopped calling her. I made peace with her decision. It doesn't mean that I didn't...that I wouldn't..." Will trailed off, not finishing his sentence.

I decided to ask the obvious question, since I hadn't yet seen his wife. "So, you're sure Gretchen's okay with me being here?"

"Camille, I love Gretchen deeply. She feels the same for me. Because you are a part of me, you are our family. Yes, she's more than okay that you're here."

"This sounds...I don't know, odd."

"It's odd that a father wants to make up for lost time with a daughter he never knew?"

"It's odd that your wife is okay with it when you consider how I came to be your daughter."

"Gretchen is an amazing woman. I think once you meet her, you'll agree."

Something had always bothered me. Will might be the only man on the planet who could give me an answer. No matter how calloused it sounded, I needed to ask, "Will, my mom never...had a boyfriend, or a husband, or any guy in her life. I don't remember her even once going on a date." I stopped for a second, wondering if I could bring myself to ask the real question. "Why you?"

"You are very much my daughter. I can see it in your eyes. I can hear it in your question. I wish I could give you an answer you'd be happy with. I wish I knew the answer. Maybe she was lonely, maybe the stars were aligned perfectly that night, maybe it was her way of having a family of her own that she didn't have to share with anyone else. I can only speculate. I can't tell you what I don't know."

I still wasn't sure how I felt about my father. I wished that my mother had told me about him, anything. He was as much a stranger to me as I was to him, and I couldn't imagine what kind of wife would welcome me into her home. I didn't know what to think about my mother running away from her family.

"So, what should I call you?"

Will grinned as his chest swelled, "What would you like to call me?"

"I don't know. Is it okay if I just stick with 'Will'?"

I could see the disappointment on his face as he nodded. "You can call me Will if that makes you more comfortable, but I hope that someday you'll come to think of me as your father. I would love for you to call me Dad."

I looked at the floor, as if the carpet were suddenly interesting. "Uh...I'll probably have to work up to that."

"I understand." He changed the subject when he noticed my uneasiness. "So, the boys told me they took you out on the boat this afternoon. Did you enjoy it?"

"I did."

"I'm sure they'll have lots of adventures for you this week. Don't let them wear you out. I'm covering the office single-handedly this week, and I'd like to be able to spend time with you in the evenings."

As if Gretchen knew we'd been talking about her, we heard a light tap at the door. Gretchen, the one person I was apprehensive to meet, stepped inside and walked over to my chair. I stood up, still uneasy from the "Dad or Will" conversation and offered my hand as a greeting. Gretchen motioned it away and gave me a welcoming hug, "We're all so glad you're here, Camille." When she released me from her embrace, she took both my hands in hers.

"Thanks." I stammered, "It's a real pleasure to meet you."

"I've already warned the boys to give you a day to get past the jetlag before they start gallivanting all over town showing off their little sister. If you need me to send them to the office so you can get some rest tomorrow, just say the word. If given the opportunity, they'll wear you out." Her eyes twinkled when she spoke. I took her in. Gretchen had short curly red hair – kind of poufy, a wide smile that lit up the room, and the most delicate hands I'd ever felt.

"I had a great time today." I looked at Will, "So they all work for you?"

Will wore a smile that matched Gretchen's, "Yes, they have exceptional financial instincts. Each one has brought in significant profits for their clients, and each has built his own portfolio. Say, you're not interested in finances are you?"

Gretchen answered for me, "William Strayer! You will not try to pressure her into joining you at the office!" Gretchen turned her attention toward me, "Don't let him do that. He convinced each boy to go to work with him in an effort to keep them close. I don't think any one of them wanted to grow up to be a financial advisor, but Will got his hooks in them."

Will's voice raised, in a playful way, "Hooks? You're just jealous because I see them more than you do."

"Maybe, but you're not going to do it to Camille, too." She looked at me, "Camille, you can always go to work with your father, or you can shop all day with me. Which would you prefer?"

"Wow, Will, that's not much of a choice." I got the feeling that they were planning on me staying longer than the five days I had scheduled. That odd feeling I'd had earlier rose to the surface again. Five adult sons still lived at home with their parents, all worked for their father – my father, they all drove the same kind of cars, even Gretchen said he'd pressured them into it. I looked around the room for crucifix on the walls, bibles, religious art hanging – all I found were books and tastefully decorated walls.

Will shook his head, as if exasperated, "Women. Gretchen spends it as fast as I make it."

"William, you know that I'm the reason you are so successful. You can't think that you could do any of this without me?"

I got a strange vibe, like Gretchen was completely serious. The banter between them was fun, but there seemed to be a hint of truth in what Gretchen had just said. Or at least they were both acting like there was truth in her claim. Gretchen was the financial mastermind?

Will stood up and gathered Gretchen in his arms when he sweetly answered, "I couldn't do anything without you. You know I'd be a wreck on my own." His sweetness disappeared when the sarcasm oozed from him, "And I think it's nice that your shopping is single-handedly getting the economy back on its feet." Will's face showed the love he felt for his wife.

I could feel the air of seriousness taking hold. Gretchen turned to me, "Camille, I am happy to have you in my home. I can feel your apprehension around me. Do not fear me. William and I came to terms with his infidelity long ago. At the time, and for many years after, I was displeased with him. But, having you here and having your energy in our family, I forgive him all over again." I couldn't place Gretchen's accent, and I was so overwhelmed with her words that I didn't care where it was from.

"Uh, thanks." I was rendered speechless. There were so many things I should have said at that moment, but I couldn't make my voice work.

Gretchen didn't seem to be someone to mince words. She asked, "How long will you stay with us?"

"My return flight is Sunday."

Gretchen turned to Will, half ignoring me, "William, it looks as though you've got four days. You had better turn on the charm. I don't want Camille to leave us. She should stay here. We're family."

I knew she wasn't talking to me, but I felt like I had to say something, "Gretchen, that's really nice of you. But I have a life and friends in California. I really just wanted to meet Will and get to know him. I'm not ready to uproot and move here."

She turned to me with soft eyes and a thoughtful voice, "Exactly my reason for telling him to step it up a notch. I know you have people who depend on you, but with us, you have a family who loves you and wants you here. We can protect you."

"Protect me? Protect me from what?"

William didn't let Gretchen answer, "Muggers, robbers, thieves... lots of shady characters all over the place." He gave her a look, at first I wasn't sure what to make of it – it looked like... fear.

Gretchen gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze and walked back out the way she had come in. Will stood, too, not in an effort to trail her out of the room, but in a gentlemanly way as she walked out the door. He took two steps in my direction after the door closed behind her, smiled at me and said, "She's a force of nature."

"I wouldn't have believed it, if I hadn't heard it myself. She really is okay with my being here. But I don't need protecting."

Will knelt down beside my chair, looking directly into my eyes, "I'm not perfect, but I'll never lie to you. She wants you here as much as the boys and I do." Will cradled my face in his hand and caressed my cheek with his thumb. "Camille, you're a part of us. There are things in your mother's past that we need to tidy up before you return."

"But you hardly knew her?"

"We'll talk about it tomorrow. I don't have all the facts, and I don't want to... it wouldn't be fair to you for me to ...we just need to contact your mother's family. I'd better turn in. Goodnight, Camille."

"Talk about what tomorrow?"

"Camille, I don't have all the facts. I promise I'll fill you in on everything as soon as I can."

I wanted to argue with him. I didn't like the idea that he felt I needed protecting. I wasn't some frail flower, but Will had said something that bothered me — something about my mother's family and that she had run away from them at seventeen. Had she been abused? Was he trying to shelter me from them, or was I right to begin with — that William was a part of some manipulative cult my mother had escaped?

# Chapter 6

_(Camille Benning – Charleston, SC)_

I went to my room and had a strange feeling I couldn't shake. Instead of staring at the ceiling after having taken a six hour nap, I thought I'd check in with Daniel. He picked up on the first ring.

"It took you long enough! I've been waiting for you to call for hours!"

"Awww, that's so sweet. Are you worried about me?"

"No, what's there to worry about? You only flew all the way across the country to meet some guy your mom had sex with once and hadn't talked to again your whole life. Then those texts you sent? What the hell?"

"Geeze, cluck or something – you're acting like an old mother hen."

His voice softened when he said, "I was worried, okay? So, how is he, anyway? Is he strange or something?"

"No...I mean, I only talked to him for a little while. He seems okay. I also happen to have five half brothers."

"You texted me that much. What're they like?"

"They're like you, but handsome. I wish you could meet them. They took me out on the ocean today."

"You're hysterical. A yacht, huh? Caviar, too?"

"Gross! No, we just went for a bite to eat, then out on the water."

"Cami, be careful. You just met them and they wanted to take you out on the ocean. Did it ever cross your mind they could toss you in the ocean and no one would ever know?"

I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at the phone – I'm not sure why since there was no way he could see the expression I gave his picture staring back at me on the screen. I would never admit that that was why I sent him the text earlier. "Been watching too many serial killer shows again, Daniel? Why don't you switch back to the Disney Channel?"

"I'm serious, Cami, something isn't right. I can feel it. You shouldn't be there by yourself, and you shouldn't go anywhere without telling someone where you're at first."

He was right, but if I agreed with him, that would just make him double concerned. "Daniel, I'm not on spring break bar hopping in another country! I'm meeting relatives I didn't know I had."

His voice lost any hint of humor it may have had, "Angela kept you from them for a reason, Cami. Be smart."

I didn't want to admit that he was right, so I didn't. "All right. If it'll keep you from having a meltdown, I'll text you whenever I go somewhere."

"I'm serious, Cami."

After I hung up with Daniel, I had a tough time finding sleep. If he could just meet them, he could tell me that everything would be fine. We'd been friends for as long as I knew what a friend was. Daniel thought like me, acted like me, most of the time we finished each other's sentences. I wanted to believe my family was every bit as awesome as they appeared on the surface, but I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something just wasn't right. Daniel was thousands of miles away, and he was feeling the same thing.

The next morning I showered and dressed, tiptoeing down the hallway. I'm not sure why; I was still on west coast time, so it was after nine a.m. on the east coast. The house was quiet. It reminded me of a library rather than a home filled with eight people.

As I peered into the kitchen, I found Brent sitting at the table looking at some papers. When he saw me enter, I saw his face light up, "Hey, I was just getting ready to write you a note. Glad you're up!"

"Are you going somewhere?"

"We're supposed to go pick up your 'Welcome to the family present' from Mom and Dad, but I was going to go for a swim before it got too hot."

"I don't need a present. Don't let me hold you up."

"Get used to it. Dad likes to make money; Mom likes to spend it. You wanna join me for a swim?"

"That's a consistent theme. Will was giving Gretchen crap last night about her spending habits." I thought about his offer. I loved swimming but had packed a little too quickly, "I didn't bring a swim suit."

"Hmm, well, let's shelf swimming for now and go pick up your gift."

"Brent, that's okay. I'd really rather just hang out."

"You don't even know what it is."

"Seriously, I'd rather not."

"Uh...sure, I'll text Dad real quick and let him know there's been a change of plans."

Brent put his phone down and looked back my way hopefully. My question was out before I even realized how rude it was, "So, when money's no object, how do you keep yourself entertained?"

"Entertained? You mean, what do I find fulfilling?"

I didn't want him to think that I thought he was shallow and hoped my question hadn't offended him. "Yeah, are you a workaholic, a big time philanthropist, or what?"

"I work, but it's not that hard. Dad could do it all himself if he wanted to. I think he just keeps the five of us in the office for comic relief. I've never met a charity I didn't like, but I don't think that qualifies me as a philanthropist. I'm pretty simple."

"Girlfriend?"

"Uh...no. No girlfriends."

"Now or ever?"

Brent looked like I had struck a nerve, "Ever."

"Oh, sorry." From his reaction I figured he must bat for the other team, "Boyfriend?"

This question made him laugh, "No, Camille, I'm not gay. I'm definitely heterosexual."

That didn't make any sense. Brent was handsome — seriously handsome. He could give up his day job and be a model if he wanted to. He was really tall, deeply tanned, dark, with shaggy but perfectly trimmed hair, a smile that even Colgate would be envious of, and a cool personality. "You're a rich, good-looking guy. Girls probably throw themselves at you."

"Not exactly. Don't get me wrong. I've run across a few that I thought were pretty incredible, but dating isn't necessarily something...I mean, it's not...you know."

"It's not what?" I could see Brent had touched on something he desperately didn't want to talk about.

"I've just not found Miss Right."

"How are you going to find Miss Right, if you aren't checking out Miss Right-Now?"

"It's just not a good idea."

"Uh, okay. If you want me to set you up or something, I have tons of single friends in California."

Brent's face looked like he was actually contemplating my suggestion. "That would be beyond awesome, but I wouldn't feel right about it. Enough about my love life, what about you?"

"I told you yesterday, I had a boyfriend I broke up with a couple months ago. End of story."

"Your mother didn't mind?"

"Didn't mind what?"

"Did she introduce you two?"

"Well, no. That would be weird."

"But, your mother was...I mean...you're the same. She wouldn't let you just date anyone."

"Brent, what are you talking about? My mom didn't have a say in any of my boyfriends."

"Boyfriends? You've dated more than one?" I could tell from Brent's expression that he was surprised, but I wasn't sure what he was so offended by. Maybe dating meant something different here?

Gretchen stepped through the door at that moment, her voice full of volume, "Brent, I thought you were taking Camille to pick up her gift?" She leaned down and kissed his cheek and gave my shoulder a comforting squeeze.

"Camille and I were just getting to know each other a little better. I texted Dad. He's going to have it delivered."

"Your brothers are outside clearing the grove for this weekend. Why don't you go give them a hand before it gets too hot?"

I could see the relief on Brent's face. He wasn't at all comfortable with our conversation. "Sure, Mom. See you later, Camille." Brent exited without another word. It was a strange conversation. I'd always been relatively attractive, not a supermodel, but why would he be surprised that I'd had boyfriends? He seemed surprised that anyone was interested in dating me. Talk about a bruise to the ego.

"I can help, too, Gretchen." As much fun as I'd had with them yesterday, I couldn't wait to listen in on more of their stories.

I stood up and was two steps away when Gretchen said, "You and I need to spend some time together. I think there are some things your mother would want you to know."

I felt a twinge of nervousness. It hadn't been that long since my mother's death, and I didn't want to talk about her, not with anyone, but especially with Gretchen.

Gretchen sensed my apprehension, "I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable. I can see your mother's memories are still tender. There are some things she didn't share with you that I think are important you know."

"You knew my mother?" I could feel my eyelids flex as my eyes widened.

"No, Camille. I never met your mother, but I'm certain that she was wonderful."

"Gretchen, I...I appreciate it, but...I'm not ready to talk about her."

"How would you like to talk _to her_?"

I froze. I felt a rush of heat shoot through my body. My heart skipped. "She died, Gretchen. I was there when it happened."

"Her body died, yes. But her spirit lives on. She's with you now. She's talking to you right this second, but you aren't listening." I froze. I didn't know what kind of game Gretchen was playing, but I didn't like it. They _were_ a cult! I was right from the beginning. Gretchen thought she could talk to ghosts. How was I going to get out of here? No way was I getting sucked in.

# Chapter 7

_(Camille Benning – Charleston, SC)_

Gretchen broke eye contact with me and looked over my shoulder. She sounded like she was angry when she said, "You should have told her before you passed. Do you know how hard it must be for her to hear this from me?" Gretchen paused for a second carrying on her imaginary conversation. "I will do my best, but shame on you for not telling her yourself!" Gretchen's eyes focused back on mine. "Camille, I need for you to hear me out. What I'm about to tell you will be difficult to hear, but it's important that you know."

Last night I hadn't been sure how to feel about Will, but I'd liked Gretchen right away. First impressions aren't always infallible. She was nuts, certifiable and likely the ring-leader of this cult – it was always the leaders that were crazy. I needed to decide if I wanted to humor her until Will got home or if I wanted to go outside and call a cab now. I wanted to like Gretchen, but so much had happened in the last month, I couldn't afford to get attached to someone who believed she could talk to spirits – not just any spirit, but my mother's. It would hurt too much. The only people I'd ever met who'd made those claims were charlatans, thieves and the mentally ill.

"I'm not a charlatan, or mentally ill, and seriously, Camille, what do you have that I'd like to steal?"

For the second time in as many minutes, I could feel my eyes bulging. Did I say that out loud? Oh, my gosh, I'm losing it! "How?...What'd you just say?"

The warm smile reappeared, "Yes, Camille. Sometimes I have to _tune in_ to retrieve information. I'll not make a habit of it. I'll ask that you give me the same courtesy."

"The same courtesy? What are you talking about? I can't read minds."

"I'm afraid you can. No one has ever taught you how. Your mother is an interesting spirit. She wanted you to have a normal human experience. She thought that if she taught you how to use your gifts you would use them as a crutch."

"Use what as a crutch?"

"In school, knowing what others were selecting for answers on tests would have precluded you from learning the material for yourself. At least, that's what she believed." Gretchen's voice dropped the humor, "For the record, I disagree. You should have understood who you were...are."

"You're telling me she's right here and you're communicating with her right now? You're a medium?"

"I've been called many things. I am the Matriarch of this family, and I have pure Centaur blood flowing through my veins. As do you."

Centaur? The half-people, half-horse things? No freakin' way! Mentally ill and delusional. I wonder if Will knew she was a loon. He'd have to know, right?

"Camille, I am not a loon. Before being disrespectful, I suggest you remember I can read your thoughts as easily as I can hear your words. Centaurs are a noble race. We were not half-equestrian as many legends have adopted. Humans were unable to explain the speed of our men and could only describe us in terms of a warrior being carried by a horse. Early paintings showed our kind as a cross between a person and a horse. I can assure you, none of us have hooves."

I started feeling a little woozy. She really could read minds. Centaurs were a different race? I looked just like everyone else. How could I be a Centaur?

"Your mother and father were both full-blooded Centaurs, Camille. No human blood is mixed in your lineage. The same is true for your brothers."

"So, what's a Centaur if it isn't a half-person, half-horse?"

"As I said, the speed with which our men have always run was difficult for humans to understand. They began drawing pictograms millennia ago of men with horse bodies to show our speed. The men of our kind have always been fierce warriors. The women are physically strong, but our real strength lies in our minds. Each bloodline carries different skills: some are psychic, some clairvoyant, others can move objects, and some are able to predict the future with uncanny accuracy. There are other talents, too – it depends which bloodline is predominate."

"But I can't do any of those things."

"Yes, you can. You just don't know how. We are not common humans. We have an obligation to keep our race going, to ensure our traits are not lost. You, too, have the same obligation I do. You, too, have the same skills I do. In fact, as a Chiron, you probably have all the skills. Your mother chose not to share with you her talents or develop yours."

"What? My mother couldn't do any of those things."

"I don't know why your mother chose to hide who she was from you or why she kept her secrets from you. This is a critical time in your life, and without your mother to guide you, you could easily make poor decisions. For this reason, I would like for you to extend your trip. There is much for me to teach you, and I cannot do it in just a few days."

I felt like she was waiting for me to say something, but I was still in process mode, so she continued her explanation.

"It is only women of our kind who possess these skills. Men help promulgate the race, but it is the women who are revered. When Will told me he had met your mother, I was floored. We all thought she was dead. She was the last Chiron female heir; her brother never married. Everyone believed the Chiron bloodline would be extinct after this generation."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your mother permitted a union with your father, out of wedlock. She must have done it out of an obligation to all Centaurs, to keep her bloodline alive. But she taught you nothing. You know nothing of our ways or how you fit."

"She allowed a union? That sounds a little antiquated. It takes two to tango."

"I am not belittling your mother. I am merely trying to share with you our beliefs. We are a warrior race, so rather than the 50/50 ratio of male to female that humans have, it is 80/20."

"Why are so many more men born than women?"

"No one knows for sure, but my theory is that from an evolutionary perspective, a significant number of the Centaur male population should have been lost in battle — maybe something like 4 of 5. Because we have known peace for so long, the males significantly outnumber the females."

I couldn't believe I was buying in to her delusion, "Maybe Mom didn't know she was a...Centaur?"

"Your mother was the daughter of Zandra. I can assure you Zandra brought your mother up to know our ways. Your mother chose to leave her family and abandon our race."

"My grandparents are dead. My mom told me she'd been on her own since she was seventeen."

Gretchen nodded, "She was indeed on her own from a young age, but I can assure you, your grandmother is very much alive."

I felt my blood pumping again with enough force that I could actually hear my pulse. "Where?"

"Zandra lives in Florida. Your grandfather, Isaac, passed away a few years ago. Neither had seen their daughter in more than a quarter century. They did not know where she was. Zandra only knew of her passing when she sensed your mother's spirit moving on to the spirit world." Gretchen's face took on a strange look when she added, "She was unaware of you."

"Was unaware? Does that mean you've talked to her?"

Gretchen patted my hand, "Yes, I spoke with Zandra late last night. Given the circumstances, she agrees that you should stay with my family. However, she is very anxious to meet you."

She looked over my shoulder again. She spoke in a harsh tone, but not to me. "She is more than capable of handling the truth. Zandra is of no threat to her while she is under my roof. My family will protect her. No blood debt will be paid."

I heard the words echo in my mind, _"Blood debt? What's going on?"_

Gretchen let out a heavy sigh, "It seems your mother had been betrothed to a very powerful Centaur. When she refused to marry him, her family was required to pay a debt of blood, her blood. Your mother ran away and broke contact with her family. Your mother is worried that you may be sought to pay her debt."

"Are you kidding me? There's a price on my head for just being her daughter?"

"It is an old tradition. You are Will's daughter, too. He will try to make amends to the family, monetarily. But, now that people are aware of you, I insist that you extend your stay, at least until you better understand our society. We'll make arrangements to have your things shipped here."

"You're serious. You just spoke with my mom?" I wanted to believe it. I wanted my mother to be right here with me. I couldn't believe the words when I heard them come from me, "Can she hear me?"

Gretchen looked over my shoulder again, then back to me and nodded. "She can hear anything you say to her."

I didn't need any more encouragement, and for some strange reason, I believed Gretchen. "I miss you, Mom. I don't know what to believe." I felt strange talking to her in front of Gretchen. I wondered if this was some sort of trick. In my gut I knew Gretchen had really read my mind; she knew exactly what I was thinking. "Why didn't you tell me any of this?"

Gretchen looked over my shoulder for the answer, then back to me. "She had to make a choice before she died. She didn't want you to know this life, but she feared for your safety if she was no longer able to protect you. Most of all, she says she felt utter loneliness before you came into the world and did not want you to be alone the way she had been."

That sounded like something my mom would say. I caught myself looking in the same direction Gretchen had looked. I asked her, "Will I be able to hear you? Someday?"

Gretchen's voice was barely more than a whisper, "She doesn't belong here, Camille. She will begin to weaken soon. I will work with you so that you may realize your gifts, but know that she won't be able to stay with us for very long. You will need to work hard to learn how to use your skills."

I had kept William's name and phone number for weeks before I finally built up the courage to call him. It was the loneliness that finally made me dial his number. My whole life had revolved around Mom, and it was hard to comprehend that Gretchen was going to give her back to me in some small way, even if just for a short while. I wasn't sure about the things she said about Centaurs, or the idea that it was a different race that I belonged to, but I hoped that I really would be able to hear my mother's voice again.

I looked her square in the eye, nodded and asked, "How do we start?"

# Chapter 8

_(Camille Benning – Charleston, SC)_

Gretchen spent the next several hours trying to help me hear my mother. At 5 o'clock I was frustrated; nothing she had tried worked. I convinced Brent to take me to the store for a soda. While I was standing at the display case, a friendly voice greeted me from behind. "Miss Strayer, good to see you again."

I wasn't used to being addressed with this last name, but the voice was familiar. I turned around and saw the guy who had helped tie off the yacht yesterday. "Hi Josh, good to see you, and it's Cami."

He smirked, "Cami, right. I was expecting to see you and your brothers at the club today. Change of plans?"

"That's the biggest understatement I've ever heard."

Josh gave me a questioning look, but thankfully didn't ask me to explain what I'd said. "So should we expect you tomorrow?"

"I'm not sure. I actually spent most of today with Gretchen."

"Gretchen? Mrs. Strayer?"

I could tell I probably just unleashed a scandal. I had been introduced as their little sister, but I didn't call Gretchen, "Mom." I wasn't sure what to say to keep the rumors from flying rampant. "Right...Mrs. Strayer and I spent the day together. The only brother I saw all day was Brent. In fact, he's waiting for me out in the car. I'd better go." I reached into the cabinet, pulled out two sodas, and paid for them.

"All right, well, maybe I'll see ya tomorrow." His voice sounded hopeful — he seemed sweet. When I'd seen him yesterday, I thought he looked a little geeky; today I saw him out of his yacht club uniform, and I was convinced. He stood in front of me with his iPhone in his hand, a blue tooth device on his ear, and a stylus pointed at the screen. I'd always kind of gone for the nerdy guys, but I wasn't interested. Too many other things were going on in my previously simple life to get wrapped up with a guy right now.

I hurried out to the car. When I flung open the door to escape the heat, I heard Brent, "Okay, we'll be back in a few minutes. Yeah, right home." He hung up the phone. "Geeze, I thought I was going to have to go in after you. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, I ran into Josh inside. I might have let it slip that we don't share the same mother. I wasn't thinking."

"Well, we don't share the same mother. Why would that be a problem?"

"I just thought...I mean, everyone seems to know your family. How are you going to explain me?"

"We don't have to explain anything. It is what it is. We're just glad you're here."

I shook my head. I kept expecting someone to act normal, and at every turn, each member of my family seemed to be more kind and understanding than the one I had talked to before them. Growing up in California, perception and impressions of others were seriously important. It seemed like everyone I knew cared what others would think. None of my friends in Cali were even close in terms of wealth and clout to the Strayers, yet they didn't seem to care one little bit that others knew that I was an illegitimate half-sister. So far no one had made that distinction except me. Gretchen had spent the entire day trying to develop psychic skills that I wasn't even sure I possessed, all the while carrying on strange conversations with my invisible mom. It was a little surreal.

I looked over and Brent seemed to be waiting for me to say something, so I asked, "So, what's the plan for tonight?"

"Dinner, dancing, maybe some star-gazing."

"Really? That sounds like a date."

"Date? No, just family. But I already told you, I've never even been on a date, so I hope it doesn't feel like one of those."

"'One of those?' You're too young to be a confirmed bachelor. I never got a legit answer. Why no ex-girlfriends?"

"It's my understanding you have to have a girlfriend for there to be an ex-girlfriend."

"Well, yeah. So why no girls?"

Brent looked at me as if I were the densest person he'd ever talked to, "Easy. It's forbidden."

"By whom? Gretchen and Will?"

"It's the way of our people, Camille. By the time I'm thirty, I will be either married, or betrothed, or I will have to marry a human. If I were willing to settle, I could date. But Centaur women get to choose, and none will choose a man who has shared a bond with another."

"Centaur women choose? Like going shopping? I'd like a six foot-tall, wealthy, smart, funny, garbage-taking-out, chick-flick-watching, football-hating man. Something like that?"

"If that's your list, it'll be pretty easy to find one – well, maybe not the football-hating, but everything else on your list is pretty easy to come by. You could have a husband by this weekend."

I laughed, "So how does she pick you? Do you send in a resume or something?"

"Eligible bachelors are obvious. It's common for courtship to begin at another's wedding. In fact, this Saturday will be your first opportunity to choose."

"This Saturday?"

"Mom didn't tell you? Bruce is marrying Hannah from the Hinman herd."

"Uh, no, she didn't mention it. So Bruce is pretty excited?"

"Excited is an understatement. Hannah's perfect. He was in the running with about fifty others." We pulled into the driveway to see that all the cars were lined up in a row. Brent pulled his white sedan in line with the others; everyone was home. I did a quick count and realized there were six white sedans instead of the normal five – Gretchen must normally keep hers in the garage, because I hadn't noticed it when we left for the store.

As we stepped out of Brent's car, Will came up with a key in his hand. "It's about time!"

I was confused since we'd been gone less than twenty minutes. Brent answered, "Geeze Dad, it's not like we caught a movie; we just went to get a soda."

Will ignored Brent's defense and said, "Never let it be said that I treat any of my children differently. The dealership just delivered it." Will handed me the key to a brand new, Snowy White BMW sedan, identical to the other five parked right beside it.

I was embarrassed to hear myself squeal like a little girl. This couldn't be happening. I had a father and a stepmother who were two of the most amazing people I'd ever met, five brothers who were about as cool as Batman, and a brand new car. I wasn't sure about the whole Centaur thing, but this was better than winning the lottery.

I believed Gretchen, that she really was talking to my mother. I had been on the fence about whether I whole-heartedly believed until Gretchen told me about my second grade play. I had completely dismantled the stage props while I was dancing around like a butterfly. The only way she could have known about it was to hear about it from either my mother or me. In that moment, I knew she was on the level, at least about being able to communicate with my mom. I hadn't thought about that play since I was seven. The only logical explanation was that my mother's spirit had shared the event with her.

Just two days ago I had felt consumed by my grief for my mother. That grief was replaced with a new hopefulness that I'd soon be able to talk to her again, _and_ I had a brand new car. I hoped that I wasn't somehow caught in a dream world, or if I were, I wished never to wake up.

I stammered, "Will, I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll stay here. Say that you want to be a part of our family."

I noticed it wasn't just Will standing in front of me with anticipation. Beau, Bruce, Bart, Ben, Brent and Gretchen were all waiting for me to answer. The joy that I felt in that moment rivaled other momentous occasions in my life, like hitting my first home run when I played softball in high school, seeing a dolphin for the first time in the ocean, and one of my most cherished memories – tasting my very first mint chocolate chip ice cream shake. True, none of these memories could top being accepted into such a tight-knit family, but each of those memories was one that I loved. Without any apprehension, I answered, "I'm in."

Will scooped me up in a tight hug, "Camille, you've just made me the happiest father in the world." While in his embrace, he whispered in my ear, "I'll take care of everything. Don't worry about your grandmother."

I could feel my muscles stiffen. Gretchen must have told him about our conversation about the blood debt. Even though he told me not to worry, the fact that he was whispering to me, out of earshot of everyone else – definitely made me worry. Could someone really want to kill me because my mom had broken off an engagement? I had no reason to doubt Gretchen, but it was all a little hard to swallow.

Things began moving even faster once I had committed to stay. Gretchen took me shopping. In her words, "Your closet is lonely; let's get it some friends."

I noticed that Will and Gretchen were the only people in the house who went anywhere alone. It wasn't anything overt, but it seemed odd that of the eight adults in the house, six of us always went on errands in pairs or better. Having been an only child until this week, by Saturday I was actually craving some alone time. Conversation revolved around Bruce's wedding, although I hadn't seen Hannah, nor had she called. It seemed a little strange. The few friends of mine who had gotten married were all over each other in the days before the wedding, working out seating details, vows, synchronizing last minute schedules. Saturday morning had come and gone and still no sign of the bride.

By mid-afternoon Saturday, Bruce was in exceptionally high spirits. I didn't detect even a hint of nervousness. The backyard had been transformed into a beautiful outdoor cathedral with seating for easily two hundred people.

The brother who I had spent the least amount of time with was the eldest, Beau. I caught Beau straightening seating and smoothing ribbons that had been rearranged by the breeze. Outdoor misting fans were going full throttle, so the grove where the ceremony was to take place was at least ten degrees cooler than the regular air temperature. "Hi, Beau, do you need any help?"

Beau flinched, "Sorry, I didn't realize you were out here, Camille. No, just doing a last minute check before the guests start to arrive. Shouldn't you be inside getting ready?"

"Naw, it's a couple hours before the big event. I just need to get dressed and I'm ready."

"I'm surprised Mom hasn't had you primping and polishing since your eyes opened this morning."

"Why would she? It's not like I'm getting married. I'm not in the ceremony. Nobody knows who I am, and you guys know what I look like."

"But there'll be fifty eligible bachelors here today, maybe more. I've heard news spread pretty fast that you were here. It'll be your first chance to...you know...find someone."

"Oh c'mon Beau. Who would care that I'm here?"

"Uh, let's see, the Hinmans, the Dixons, the Newtons, the Carltons, the Ivys, just to name a few. Each of those families has an older son who is nearing the end of betrothal age. No one expected for us to have a ready-made sister of age. You'll be pretty popular this evening."

"You're not serious."

"I'm completely serious. I'm in the same boat. Betrothal age for Centaurs is 18-30, so if I'm not picked in the next two years, I'll end up settling for a human."

"Beau, you're great. There are lots of women who would be happy to have you."

"Thanks, Camille. Don't get me wrong. At this point I'm thinking the settling factor could be an improvement over perpetually waiting. It just sucks that I won't be able to carry on our bloodline. At least Bruce will be able to."

"Maybe because I didn't grow up knowing any of this, it's a little hard to take it seriously. I think you love who you love; race shouldn't be a factor."

"That's very 'human' of you, but this is more than just about race. There is magic in our blood, Camille. To let it dilute unnecessarily is akin to wasting the magic. Dad would never let you consider a non-Centaur as a suitor."

"Will doesn't have a say in my decision. When I find the right guy, it won't matter who or what he is. I'm not racing a clock either. It'll happen when it happens."

Beau laughed out loud, a loud throaty snicker, "Camille, you have a lot to learn." Beau shook his head and went back to straightening the wedding decorations.

Brent came up behind me, "What's so funny?"

Beau looked at his younger brother, "Oh nothing. Camille just tells good jokes."

A little miffed that Beau would so easily dismiss my feelings, "Beau seems to think that Will can select a husband for me. I told him that wasn't going to happen, and who I fell in love with and married had nothing to do with Centaur roots or anything else."

Brent took my forearm, squeezing it a little harder than necessary but enough that he had my attention, "Don't say that, Camille."

"Say what? That I don't agree with the courtship ritual that Bruce is going through? Have you noticed Hannah hasn't even talked to him the last couple of days? How can he be marrying a woman he hardly knows?"

Brent looked at me skeptically, "What? That's what's bothering you?"

"Well, a little, yeah. How does he know he'll even like her?"

"It is a great honor to be selected by a Centaur woman. Of course, he'll like her. He'll love her, honor her and cherish her."

"What if they aren't compatible?"

Brent narrowed his eyes, "What have you seen, Camille? Did you receive a vision about them?"

"Whoa, no! No visions. I just think it's odd that they would decide to marry without knowing each other."

"No more odd than dating and unions out of wedlock. Why do people give themselves to others when they know that person isn't going to be with them for the rest of their lives?"

"That's part of finding out who the right person is."

"Then our way should be much preferred. Everyone knows the woman makes her choice. If she can't decide, her family will select the most appropriate match. And who knows her better than her family?"

"You're saying that if I don't pick a husband in the next eight years, Will's going to choose for me?"

"Eight years? Ha! I've never known a woman Centaur to wait until she's thirty to choose. Most choose when they're late teens or early twenties. If you haven't selected someone in the next year or two, yes, Dad will definitely choose for you."

I felt anger welling up within me, not because Brent had made me angry with his words, but because this whole idea was acceptable to them. I could feel my face flush bright red as I readied to set Brent straight when a kind voice came from behind me.

# Chapter 9

_(Camille Benning – Charleston, SC)_

"Miss Strayer, I came early hoping I'd be able to introduce myself." I was getting used to being called "Miss Strayer" and wasn't surprised with myself for turning in the direction of the voice. Before me stood an athletic man. He had light blonde hair, grey eyes, and he stood eye-to-eye with Brent, so he had to be at least 6' 3." It looked like he was wearing a nervous smile. "I'm Chris Carlton. It's an honor to meet you."

I stood dumfounded at this Adonis of a man. I held out my hand in an effort to shake his. He took my palm in his hand, then bowed down to kiss my hand. It was a gesture I'd only seen done in old time movies. Every time I'd seen someone do that, I wanted to gag, so I was beyond surprised when the gesture created instant butterflies in my stomach. Chris held my hand in both of his as he straightened up, "Are you enjoying South Carolina?"

His eyes were mesmerizing, absolutely stunning. I stammered a little, "I'm...I like it here, but I'm still not used to the heat."

"Would you like me to walk you to the house so you can cool off a bit before the ceremony?" He spoke with absolutely perfect English, no accent of any kind. This was odd because everyone other than the Centaurs I had met seemed to speak with the southern drawl I'd expected in this area of the country.

I caught Brent out of the corner of my eye, grinning from one ear to the other, and I couldn't help but shoot him a glare. I turned my attention to Chris, "Uh, sure."

We were out of ear-shot from Brent when Chris said, "So, am I the first?"

"The first what?"

"The first to make your acquaintance?"

"Yes, up until now I've just been getting to know my family. I haven't met anyone since I've been here."

We approached the front door, and he nearly shouted, "Excellent! I live on Daniel Island, and I'm finishing up my residency as a family practitioner."

He couldn't possibly be giving me his "husband" resume, could he? Was Chris for real? "That's thoughtful of you to tell me about yourself, but I'm still a little new to the...you know." I didn't know how to say I wasn't interested without coming right out and saying it. "Never mind, would you like to come in and cool off, too?" Chris stepped in front of me and reached for the door knob so he could open the door for me. Two points for the tall sexy gentleman with great manners.

As the door opened, Gretchen was in the hallway with a huge smirk that matched the one Brent was wearing in the back yard. Dammit! I needed to keep my thoughts to myself. Gretchen didn't miss a beat. She held out her hand and said, "Hello, Chris, we're so happy you could come today. I spoke with your mother earlier. Glad to hear things are going so well with your practice." Gretchen directed her attention to me, "Camille, did Chris tell you he was a doctor?"

Flushed with embarrassment still, "Yes, he mentioned it."

Chris was gushing with pride when he said, "I'll be joining my family's practice in town very soon."

The embarrassment should have been overwhelming. The idea that a woman could simply pick a suitor and good-looking, educated men would be thrilled to be chosen seemed bizarre. But as I looked at Gretchen and Chris, sure enough — this was exactly what was going on.

Tradition or not, Chris was attractive, had a good job, and seemed to be giving me vibes that he was interested. It wouldn't hurt to get to know him – though I wasn't at all interested in trading in my single status. I motioned for him to step into the family room where the couches were plush, and it seemed a nice place to chat, hopefully away from prying ears. "So, what do you like to do when you aren't working?"

Chris cocked his head to the side momentarily, "I don't understand the question."

"For fun. What do you like to do with your free time?"

"I volunteer at a clinic downtown a few hours per week. Each year I volunteer for two weeks for an organization called Doctors without Borders. I read in my spare time."

Wonderful, a workaholic. "So, no hobbies, like golf or tennis?"

"I've done both. If you enjoy golf and tennis, I'd be happy to take you sometime."

"No. I mean, I don't like either. I just wondered if there was something you enjoyed doing outside of your profession."

"I would be willing to give anything a whirl you felt would be a good use of my time."

That was by far the creepiest answer he could have given me — like a Stepford Wife in reverse. I really took him in for the first time since his arrival: his posture, his eye contact, his non-verbal language all looked — almost desperate. After replaying the conversation with Brent earlier, one question came to mind. "Chris, how old are you?"

Chris gave me a forced smile, as if his answer were one of shame, "Twenty-nine."

There it was: he was trying hard to make a good impression. If what Brent told me was the truth, and I had no reason to doubt that it was, I was his last chance.

Chris held the unnatural smile when he asked, "You are new to our kind, is that right?"

"That's a great way to put it. Uh, yes...I've only been here a few days."

"My mother told me that your mother never told you about your ancestry. Is that true?"

"Yes."

Chris let out a long breath, "This must all be a bit much to take in."

"That's a colossal understatement, Chris."

"Look, if I were in your shoes, I wouldn't be in a hurry to find a husband. You have to make peace with who you are before you can decide whom you want as your partner. I won't pressure you. But don't interpret my lack of pressure as lack of interest. I am my parent's only son. I... I would love for you to consider me."

"Uh...thanks, I think."

I thought his sales pitch was over and I could relax, until he said, "The truth is, I think you're beautiful. I've known your brothers since I was a kid and would love to be a part of your family. I believe your family would be equally pleased if you joined mine. But it would be a mistake to try to convince you I am the best choice for you before you are ready to accept who you are."

"I know who I am."

"Do you?"

"Yes, and it has nothing to do with being a...Centaur." I caught myself – it was the first time I had acknowledged it, out loud, outside my family.

"That's where you're mistaken, Camille. It has everything to do with being one of us."

"What if I just want to be normal?"

"Normal isn't an option when you're extraordinary." Chris put his hand on mine and gave it a gentle squeeze, "You are extraordinary, Camille. Choose wisely."

Chris stood up, bowed his head slightly in my direction, and left me reeling on the chair as he left. A handsome, thoughtful, intelligent, eligible, doctor — no less, just told me I was extraordinary and wanted me to choose him. Five days ago if the same thing had happened, I would have followed him around like a love sick puppy — but it wasn't five days ago. It wasn't left to fate anymore. Finding a husband had never been on the top of my priorities. Sure, growing up, I had always wondered why my mom never found a husband when my friends' mothers rarely seemed to settle on one. Meeting Chris just made me want to ask Gretchen more questions.

I could hear Gretchen's voice in the hallway, "Yes, she's here. Let me see if she has a minute." I was still teetering with reality when she appeared in the doorway. "Camille, you've only got an hour before the ceremony. Do you have time to meet someone before you get ready?"

"I guess so. Who is it?"

She turned away and used her hand to motion someone from the foyer down to the family room. When he appeared in the doorway, I stood to greet him. Gretchen said, "Gus, this is our daughter, Camille."

The fact that Gretchen had used the words, "our daughter," did not go unnoticed by me. The words startled me a little, more than I had expected them to. I was a little unsteady as I looked up at the man towering over Gretchen. I held out my hand, and he took mine in his hand and shook it vigorously. Gretchen excused herself, and I stood with Gus for an uncomfortable moment.

"I know you don't have much time. I just wanted to meet you. I'm Gus Hinman."

My years of etiquette were lost on this hulk of a man as I stared at his six-foot-five frame, dark hair, dark eyes and brutish body. He reminded me of a cage fighter I had known back home. "It's nice to meet you, Gus. I'm Camille."

"I passed Chris on the way out. I can see this may be my only opportunity with you today, and I just wanted to say hi."

I suddenly felt like I had some sort of "USDA Prime Cut" sticker pasted to me. "Well, I'm glad you...stopped...I mean..." Remembering my manners, "Would you like to sit down?"

"I don't want to make you late, but I would like a chance to talk to you later. I play for the Panthers and came back to town for my sister's wedding to your brother. I live a few hours from here in Charlotte but am home during the off-season."

"You're in the NFL?" I could see from his eyes that this was a great source of pride for him, and I'd be lying if I didn't confess I was a little impressed myself.

"Yeah, receiver. I'm not in the area much this time of year, but will be here all week if you've got some free time."

"Uh, sure, okay."

Gretchen popped back in the doorway, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but Camille needs to get ready or she'll be late." Gretchen ushered Gus to the doorway as I bounded up the steps to my room. As I reached for the door knob, I glanced out the window. Everyone arriving, including the two handsome guys I'd just talked to, were seriously dressed to impress. The first pangs of fear grabbed me when I realized I didn't have anything to wear, at least nothing that wouldn't clue everyone in as to how much I really didn't belong here.

As I stared at the few changes of clothes I'd brought with me and the items I'd bought shopping with Gretchen, I decided on a denim skirt, flats and a nice blouse I'd tucked in my bag. My nerves took hold. I'd never been one to want to stand out. My lack of a wardrobe would definitely make me stick out like a sore thumb. I couldn't not attend; I took a seat on the bed, chastising myself for not thinking of this on one of the shopping trips with Gretchen or even earlier this morning. I heard a quiet knock on my door.

Great. Now what? It's bad enough someone must have tweeted that there was a single female Centaur at the wedding tonight. I couldn't imagine what would happen next. Frustrated, I called, "Come in."

Gretchen stepped inside my room, "Camille, I hope you don't mind, but I thought you might be looking for something different to wear. I bought this a few months ago — I didn't know why at the time." She smiled warmly at me, "I believe I bought it for you."

The hair stood at attention on my arms, "You bought it a few months ago?" I looked at the silver and sequined gown she held in her arms, not knowing what to say.

Gretchen sat on my bed beside me, "Many of our kind have premonitions, visions. We can see something significant but aren't able to put it into context at the time. I was out shopping and found this dress. It wasn't my size and it wasn't my taste, but something told me I needed to purchase it. I believe I must have bought it for you. Do you like it?"

It was one of the most beautiful dresses I'd ever seen. Having grown up near Hollywood, I had seen my share of fabulous designer gowns but had never seen one like this one. It was strapless, made of brushed silk, with a thin line of sequins sewn across the bodice, and a sheer fabric flowing from the waist to the floor.

There were no words to describe my feelings for her in that second. How had she been shopping and found a dress for me before she knew me? I knew I had to be a source of pain that she kept masked from me – the illegitimate daughter of her husband. I felt my eyes welling up, wishing I could say to her all the things that my heart felt in that moment.

She must have felt my thoughts because she laid the dress to her other side and grabbed me in a hearty embrace. "You may not be my biological daughter, but you are the daughter I've always wanted." That was it. The misting I was trying to keep under control let loose as tears streamed down my cheeks. I tried to casually wipe them free, but more followed.

In that moment I wished to be a part of the family, not just a sister or a long lost daughter, but a full-fledged member of the Strayer family. Guilt crept into me. My own mother created such a deep hole in my heart when she died; I worried that I'd never find anything or anyone to fill the gap. Less than a month later, I sat in a mansion wishing I had grown up here. The guilt started growing larger as I wondered if this love that I was developing for my new found family somehow minimized my feelings for the center of my universe who had just died.

I released Gretchen, hoping she would ignore the tears, but she didn't. "Loving us doesn't diminish the love that you will always have for your mother. That's the wonderful thing about family: the bigger it is, the larger your heart grows."

I stiffened at her words. I kept forgetting that she could read my mind.

Gretchen's smile never wavered, but she answered my unspoken question, "Only if you do not shield your thoughts – we'll work on that tomorrow."

My body went from stiff to rigid. I felt my eyes widen and my voice refused to cooperate. Gretchen's expression took on a more serious look, "Tomorrow we will continue working on your skills. It won't come as such a surprise when your skills are sharper and you are able to do the same. But for tonight, try not to think about it. You have many young men who anxiously wish to meet you."

I wiped the last couple rogue tears away from my cheeks. As Gretchen stood up, she leaned over and pressed her lips to my forehead. I knew she meant it as a maternal symbol, but as she stood, I felt her body go rigid, a look shot across her face – panic. She was facing a wall so I couldn't imagine what she would have seen to make her eyes so wide, her voice so urgent, "Camille, dress quickly. Don't go outside alone. I need to find your father." She rushed out of my room.

Don't go outside alone. Had she seen something? Did she know something bad was about to happen? I did as I was told, but I felt my stomach cinching itself up into a tight knot.

# Chapter 10

_(Camille Benning – Charleston, SC)_

After I had checked myself in the mirror, I could hardly believe the image staring back. I routinely had bad hair days, and the humidity of Charleston wreaked havoc on me. But in this moment, my dark hair somehow looked perfect. Since I was a little girl, I'd always had long auburn hair, naturally curly, which translated to naturally frizzy and wildly-out-of-control most summers. I happened to be wearing one of the most elegant gowns I'd ever seen and felt almost like a fairy princess. I smirked when I said out loud, "Or maybe a Centaur princess."

A voice called from the other side of my door, "Honey, are you ready?"

I recognized the hesitant voice waiting in the hall, "Hi, Will, you can come in."

The door opened and Will looked a little tentative. His apprehension melted away. He stretched his arms out to me, taking long strides in my direction, and took both my hands in his. "Camille, you are truly a vision. Have I told you today how happy I am that you're here?"

Will stepped over to my bed and sat down, patting the space beside him. I took a seat next to him, a little self-conscious of my "princess" comment, wondering if he'd heard me.

Will took a deep breath and let it out loudly. "Gretchen has filled you in on some aspects of our kind that are less than ideal, yes?"

"What? That I'm supposed to pick a husband the same way someone would pick a new puppy at the pound?"

A nervous chuckle released from Will, "No, actually that was something I thought you might find appealing, but it's related." He cleared his throat, "Your mother had been betrothed to Kyle Richardson of Florida. He was not...pleased when your mother broke off the engagement."

"Okay." This much I knew, but he had my attention.

"Our kind, once a woman chooses, she cannot change her mind, at least not without paying a debt to the man she's rejected. There is good reason for this: as men so clearly outnumber the women, if a woman chooses to break off her engagement, it is rare that another woman would consider that man a potential suitor. He is in essence 'black-balled,' and if he is an only child his bloodline is unlikely to continue."

"So when my mom broke off her engagement, Kyle Richardson wasn't able to marry anyone?"

"Actually, he is one of the very few that I have ever heard of to be betrothed a second time to a Centaur woman. The fact that he was given a second chance for his bloodline does not diminish his right to exact a blood debt."

What she'd said had bothered me, but I wanted to hear it from Will. "Gretchen said that he wanted me dead. Is that true?"

"As he is the one that the debt is owed to, he sets the price. Given our circumstances and that so much time has passed, he does not wish for your death."

The pain in my stomach didn't diminish as I waited for Will to get to the bad news. "She said you would pay him, and he'd be fine. I get the feeling that that isn't the case."

"Mr. Richardson has traveled here tonight. He wishes to meet you."

"Meet me? But why?"

"I explained to Mr. Richardson the situation — that I was unaware of you until just this week. You were indeed part of my family. Given your mother's debt, I felt it was my responsibility to pay to ensure there would be no bad blood between our families."

"So, how much am I going to owe you?"

Will shook his head. "You'll owe me nothing, Camille. You're my daughter. If he will accept money as payment, then there's nothing to worry about."

"If?"

"It's complicated, Camille. For right now, he just wants to meet you."

"So he'll be here tonight? I have to meet with him?"

"Yes. I promise, I will be with you the whole time. Nothing will happen to you tonight. But you must talk to him."

I noticed that Will told me everything would be fine "tonight," but he made no mention of tomorrow or the day after. "Uh...okay. I feel like I'm missing something?"

"He didn't mention it on the phone, but you know Gretchen sees things. Gretchen shared with me that Mr. Richardson has a son who is of age. He may be unwilling to set a price with an actual dollar value."

"Are you saying I have to marry some guy I don't know because my mother refused to marry his father? You aren't saying that, are you?"

"Camille, the possibility is remote. Gretchen senses that his intentions are pure and that it is better to deal with this immediately rather than delay the meeting. Given the wedding tonight, it's unlikely he'll create any kind of scene."

Our conversation had been calm, but I could feel my blood beginning to boil. I shouldn't have lashed out at Will, but I was furious that this was even possible. "I'm not marrying some guy I don't know. That isn't going to happen!"

"I will never force you to do anything you do not choose. However, since Mr. Richardson has travelled here tonight, I need to insist that you meet with him."

My mouth opened but nothing came out. I started arguing that this was one of the most absurd things I'd ever heard of, but reality was, meeting a man with Will wouldn't be bad. It's not like I was being told I had to marry his son. It was harmless, for now.

As I tried to convince myself that everything would be fine, I realized that knot in my stomach still hadn't eased. Will reached over and took my hand in his. "Camille, I promise no harm will come to you. Do you trust me?"

How do you trust someone you hardly know? I looked in his eyes and nearly melted when I saw love staring back at me through his deep brown eyes. No matter how much I disliked the situation, I did trust him. He may not have been a rock star, he wasn't fixing world hunger, but he was exactly the type of father I had dreamed of. I realized I didn't need a lifetime to know that I loved him unconditionally and trusted him emphatically. He was my father. I was safe with him, and regardless of what a big wheel he was financially, he had given me the one thing I had craved my whole life — a family who loved me back. I reluctantly nodded that I did trust him.

Will took me in an embrace. When he let me go, he took my hands in his again. "I have one last request before we head downstairs." I gave him a quizzical look as I couldn't imagine anything more concerning than what we'd just talked about. "In front of the guests, I need for you to address me as your father." He paused, then added, "Especially, Mr. Richardson. I understand if you aren't comfortable with it, and privately you may address me any way you wish, but tonight, please call me 'Dad.'"

My whole life I had known the word. It had always been in my vocabulary. Never having called anyone that name, my eyes gave him my answer. I could feel the glossiness and used all my willpower to keep them from leaking. I could feel the enormous smile begging to be released along with the tears. I held it all in and simply replied, "Okay."

When we stepped off the front porch together, jitters threatened to envelop me as I looked at all the people I didn't know. Will must have sensed how nervous I was when he confessed, "Having found you is a dream come true for me." It was exactly what I needed to hear. His love for me gave me the strength I needed to face all the strangers on the grounds.

I had been walking on air, floating three feet above the ground. I was going to my brother's wedding with my dad tonight — just a short week ago, an event and a circumstance I would have never dreamed possible. The air I was floating on suddenly got too thin, and I felt my foot miss the bottom step. I instinctively knew I was getting ready to do a face plant on the pavement in front of at least two hundred people I'd never met. My arms flailed out to the sides as if I were a bird about to take flight.

# Chapter 11

_(Camille Benning – Charleston, SC)_

In that single second my mind was able to think clearly about three things: I was going to look like a complete idiot in front of everyone, the impending scab on my face would be both painful and embarrassing, and I was sure I would ruin this amazing dress. It's laughable how quickly my mind had all three complete thoughts as my eyes squinted and my arms flapped in mid-air.

Instead of the rough cement of the sidewalk, I felt two strong, calloused hands. One cradled my face while the other hooked under my abdomen. Those two hands lifted me up from my swan dive and placed me gently on my feet on the sidewalk. Initially I thought Will had caught me, but when I looked up, I saw those hands were attached to a stranger.

I should have been embarrassed with my clumsiness, maybe a little awkward that such a hunk of a man had just saved me from making a complete spectacle of myself in front of hundreds of people – but I didn't. Instead, my eyes took him in. I was wearing shoes with at least a three inch heel, and he still towered over me. His eyes were ice blue – almost turquoise. His dark blonde hair was short, and although impossible to see his frame through his tux, his body took on a "V" shape with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. A great smile spread wide on his face. I waited for some smart-alecky remark about my gracefulness, but he turned to Will and said, "I hope she's all right."

Amazed that I wasn't a bloody mess, "How did you catch me? Where'd you come from?"

His warm smile grew into a Cheshire cat grin, "I, uh, saw her falling. Thought she wouldn't want to spend her brother's wedding in the emergency room."

When Will and I stepped off the porch, no one had been anywhere near us. I knew because I was focused on all the people off in the distance. So unless this guy was the invisible man, he had literally materialized out of nowhere. It was strange, but he was looking at Will, not me. "Well, thanks. I'm Camille." I held out my hand in an effort to shake his.

This handsome stranger looked at my hand, then to Will with a frightened look on his face. Will was standing at my side and casually slid his hand over the top of mine, gently pushing it down from where it hung in mid-air. "Drake, we're so glad you could come tonight and celebrate with us. How is your father?"

Drake angled his body so that I was no longer in his direct line of sight. He answered Will, "His construction business is doing well. He sends his regrets that he couldn't be here." I didn't know what to think. This Drake guy had caught me in mid-air but refused to accept my hand or allow me to thank him properly. Instead he pretended as if I weren't there. After the welcoming I'd received from Gus and Chris earlier, this guy's response to me had me dumbfounded.

Will was all smiles when he said, "I'll make sure to catch up with him soon. Thank you, Drake, for your quick action." Will's eyes darted in my direction, making it clear that he was appreciative of Drake for not letting me swan dive into the cement. Will placed his hand on the small of my back and guided me forward, away from Drake. Once we were several strides away, he leaned down and whispered to me, "I should have warned you. Betrothed men will not address you directly and under no circumstances will they physically come in contact with you."

"But he caught me in mid-air. I was just trying to say thanks."

"It's okay. He's not offended. He knows you aren't familiar with our customs. I am sorry I wasn't paying closer attention. I didn't realize you'd lost your footing until Drake had already caught you."

"I didn't even see him near us until he caught me."

Will smiled and nodded, "Centaur men are very fast."

"Like Superman fast?"

"Pshaw...Superman was a comic strip character... But I guess that's pretty accurate. Most Centaurs can sprint short distances at the speed of sound."

My mouth opened and my eyes widened. He couldn't be serious. "The speed of sound?"

"Well, I could say 'faster than a speeding bullet,' but depending on the caliber and weapon the bullet is shot from, some bullets travel several times faster than the speed of sound."

"You're serious?"

"Camille, I know this is all new to you. I rather hoped we would have been able to slowly immerse you into our ways, but now I wonder if we shouldn't have assembled a handbook of some kind." Will's smile never wavered, but there must have been something else he desperately wanted me to know. Just as he opened his mouth, he stopped and his posture abruptly changed – his hand still resting on the small of my back was now rigid.

"William, it's so nice to see you again." A tall, thin man, somewhere in his late forties or early fifties was walking directly toward us. He stopped directly in front of Will with what I could only describe as a forced smile. "I'm happy that one of your sons is finally taking his place in the kingdom. I genuinely hope your other four are not forced to settle for a human."

William ignored the snide comment and graciously said, "We're very happy for Bruce, too."

"One is enough for your bloodline, so you have my heartfelt congratulations."

"Thank you." Will was looking around the yard and out to the grove. I recognized the look: he was planning a getaway from this guy.

"I heard the bride's father required a handsome dowry be paid. I hope that's an ugly rumor?"

"Kyle, the negotiations of the heart are not for any of us to speculate on."

"The heart, or the wallet?" Kyle gave a hearty laugh and slapped Will on the back.

I looked at Will, wondering if he had really bribed the bride's father. If it were a lie, he would be screaming right now, defending the honor of the bride and her father. At least I thought so. I didn't know him all that well, but he didn't strike me as someone who would let a verbal assault go unanswered.

The man's eyes roved in my direction. I felt the weight of his stare; I wasn't frightened, but definitely uncomfortable. "So this is Camille Chiron. It is lovely to meet you. You look just like your mother."

I looked at Will, silently asking if I was supposed to shake his hand or not. I didn't want to look like a complete idiot and was desperately hoping for some sort of an indication on what I should or shouldn't do. I wanted to correct him. I'd been Camille Benning my whole life. This week I'd gotten used to being called Camille Strayer, but no one had ever called me Camille Chiron. Still unsure of what was and wasn't acceptable, I simply replied, "Thank you. Did you know her very well?"

"Better than most. We were betrothed." He didn't drop his stare as it went from uncomfortable to excruciating. Then a light bulb went off: this was the man my mother owed her blood debt to.

Will ended the conversation abruptly, "Kyle, I was hoping we could have our discussion after the nuptials." I felt my own nervousness straighten my back and widen my eyes as reality set in that this man believed I owed him my life.

The weight of his stare was nearly painful. The look on his face did not match his words, "I wouldn't dream of delaying such an important event. Of course we can talk after."

He didn't flinch, move, or break eye contact with me. I felt Will's hand urging me forward. I could imagine why my mother had rejected him. Although every person I saw looked like they'd stepped off of a magazine cover, there was something about Mr. Richardson that didn't feel right: a weakness of some kind, as if a part of him were missing. I couldn't put my finger on it, but there was definitely something amiss when I compared him to all others in attendance. I couldn't see what would have ever gained her interest in him to begin with. As I looked at the guests, young and old, there was definitely a common thread — attractiveness. They weren't attractive in a Venice Beach kind of way, but in a Hollywood Movie Star kind of way. Tall, muscular, full heads of hair, charismatic smiles, and thoughtful words greeted me with each new introduction. I wondered silently what was so different about Kyle Richardson.

As we took our seats waiting for the ceremony to begin, I could feel eyes watching me. I worried that Kyle Richardson was staring me down, but when I turned my head, I was just in time to see Drake, the man who had caught me in mid-air, turn away. He sat next to a beautiful lady. Her long blonde hair flowed nearly to her waist; she had high cheek bones, a light complexion and perfect posture. She looked like the poster child for beauty. As I continued looking their way, she turned her gaze toward me and gave me a slight grin in silent greeting and raised her fingers in a casual hello. Wow, I could see why Drake wouldn't want to rock the boat with her. I shared a half-grin with her and moved my gaze to where Bruce stood up front with the minister.

The ceremony was remarkably short. It mirrored every other wedding I'd ever attended until the very last announcement was made, "The two joined here today are now one in our kingdom's eyes. Welcome them into our home. Should one perish before the other, remember Hylonome's sacrifice when Cyllarus was lost in battle against the Lapiths. Neither will now breathe without the other."

Not having a clue who Hylonome or Cyllarus were, I made a mental note to do some research. Will's words echoed in my mind from the other night – that he and Gretchen had been on the outs when he met my mother – everything I'd heard since then sounded like that wasn't really an option. I'd give it some time then ask Gretchen a little more. As thrilled as I was to finally have someone to call "Dad," I still wasn't convinced he was for real. Sure a living, breathing person, you bet – but I had a nagging feeling that something still didn't feel right. This final statement of the wedding vows seemed ominous, unwavering. I wondered if I was taking this vow too literally.

I didn't have long to consider the vows or what my father had done twenty-three years before – because within minutes a full-blown party erupted. The men who had introduced themselves to me in the house, Chris and Gus, and a slew of others after the ceremony each took his turn with me on the dance floor. Although a lot of fun, it wasn't the best venue to get to know potential husbands or even potential boyfriends.

The dance floor had been assembled in a wooded area with lights beautifully strung from the trees. I staggered off the makeshift dance floor after my sixth partner had cut in, introduced himself, told me about his lineage. I decided to find one of my obviously absent brothers, thinking it might be more fun to dance with one of them over a desperate Centaur looking for a wife.

I felt a hand wrap itself around my forearm and pull. The shock of being pulled forward made me stumble as I ended up eye-to-eye with my mother's jilted ex-fiancé. My mouth gaped open, and my eyes were wide. He hissed, "Well, aren't you the little Homecoming Queen?"

# Chapter 12

_(Camille Benning – Charleston, SC)_

My eyes narrowed, and I didn't try to camouflage the venom in my voice, "Get your hand off me before I remove it."

Although his grip loosened, he didn't release my arm. "Show some respect, you wretched little ..." He didn't finish his sentence as Will was suddenly standing beside us, eyes blazing. He kept his words to himself but stared at Kyle – as if the two men were both considering their next move. When, after a full minute, no words were spoken, you could nearly cut the air with a knife and fork. Finally, Will's eyes fell to Kyle's hand, still wrapped around my forearm.

Kyle's voice was full of hate, "She may belong to you, Will, but remember that I choose her fate."

Will's response was strong and commanding, "Kyle, I told you I would be willing to meet with you and discuss the debt owed to you. You choose nothing."

Kyle's grip tightened on my arm again, and I couldn't imagine what was going though his mind, "I'm sure we'll come up with something that is mutually beneficial."

These two would have continued to talk about me like I wasn't actually there if I'd let them. I wrenched my arm away from Kyle's hand, put my back to Will and glared at Kyle while I spit out, "I owe you nothing. My mother made a choice more than two decades ago that you weren't good enough for her. Get over it already."

I could still feel the burn on my forearm from his grip as Kyle returned my glare. In a calm, hateful voice he said, "You don't know what you're talking about."

My adrenaline was coursing through my blood when I nearly shouted, "I know that if you had been half the man you pretend to be, you'd be my father. Instead you're trying to intimidate me and my father – it's not going to happen, Slick."

The words were no sooner out of my mouth when I felt my feet lifted off the ground and wind against my face. I saw nothing but a blur of trees and bushes for five full seconds until I was gently put back on the ground. The sensation had been so foreign my senses couldn't give me a good explanation of what had just happened. My feet were firmly back on the ground, my body upright, and two warm hands were on each of my shoulders. I looked up into the eyes of the person who had flown with me at ground level. It was the third time I'd seen those light blue eyes tonight: Drake stared down into mine. His hands on my shoulders were warm; he was close enough that I drank in his cologne. I recognized the scent immediately — Calvin Klein's Eternity, the same fragrance I bought for Daniel. It was my favorite.

His eyes held me for longer than they should have: he must have realized when his gaze quickly dropped to the ground. Still furious at Kyle, I didn't have much time to process what had just happened. "What did you do that for? Better yet, what did you just do? Where are we?"

"Camille...I'm sorry...I was listening."

"And?"

"You aren't accustomed to our ways. Your words might as well have been a sword. Kyle could have struck you down. I just moved you out of his way."

"You moved me? How? Can you fly?"

He shook his head and chuckled, "No, I can't fly. I ran, but it feels a little like flight, doesn't it?"

"Where are we?"

Drake abruptly let go of my shoulders. He must have remembered the no touching policy. "A mile to the west of your home."

"A mile?" I couldn't shield the disbelief from my voice, "So you just snapped your fingers and we're suddenly a mile away?"

Drake shook his head, "I didn't snap my fingers. I just told you, I picked you up and ran."

I couldn't believe he had done that, and I wasn't pleased that he had scooped me up while I was trying to make a point with Kyle Richardson. "Why would you do that? I was in the middle of a conversation."

"I'm not sure. I was...I was worried what he might do to you."

"I can take care of myself."

Drake shook his head, "Not against a Centaur. We're all warriors. I had to get you away from him."

"But why?"

"Centaurs are unpredictable when they're angry. I couldn't let him lash out at you. I didn't know if your father would be fast enough to stop Mr. Richardson."

I knew Drake had the best of intentions. He believed I needed his protection and gave it to me willingly, twice. I hadn't asked for his help either time. I didn't even know I needed his help the second time. I couldn't help but acknowledge that his fast action definitely kept me from being a bloody mess earlier, and maybe even a second time at the hand of Kyle Richardson. "Well, thanks." I stretched up on my tip toes and gave him a kiss on his cheek.

Drake took a step back from me and placed his palm over the side of his face, cradling it as if I'd just slapped him. His eyes looked like blue saucers as I made a mental note that it's not okay to shake hands _or_ kiss a betrothed Centaur's cheek as a "thank you." He didn't need to say it; I could see how badly I'd offended him written all over his face.

Before he had the chance to chastise me for yet another "Camille misstep," another blur to my right appeared: Brent with a worried look on his face. "Good save, Drake. But you'd better get back. You don't want Bianca to find out you swooped in and saved Camille, twice. I've got her." Drake nodded and took another step away from me. He glanced at me again; it looked like he wanted to say something but changed his mind at the last second. I watched him lower his head and disappear into the night.

"Okay, Brent, what the hell is going on?"

"I think that's pretty obvious. Dad was trying to work a deal with Kyle Richardson to come to terms on your blood debt, and you pretty much sliced the guy wide open and started shoving big fat salt pellets into his wounds. Good job, Camille." His words were harsh but his tone was amused.

"So is Will ..., I mean, is Dad...pissed?"

"Shocked is probably a better description. I doubt you'll be included in any of their discussions anymore."

"Level with me, Brent. Is what my mom did that big of a deal?"

Brent's humor drained in that instant. "Yes. Choosing a partner is sacred. You don't get to choose and then change your mind. I think Mr. Richardson is a certifiable jackass, but your mom broke one of the seven tenants. It is fully within his right to collect a blood debt."

"I keep hearing that, but humor me: what, exactly, is a blood debt?"

Brent motioned to a rock planted on the ground. I sat down while he squatted in the grass beside me. "A blood debt happens when someone in our society has been so incredibly wronged it affects their bloodline. In human terms it is closest to premeditated murder. If I had wronged another Centaur and owed a blood debt, it would literally be a death sentence for me. Lucky for you, there are so few female Centaurs in the world that no one would collect it against a woman. But your mom really did wrong Mr. Richardson. It was within his right to take the life of someone in her family." If I had to pay a blood debt for my mom, could one of my brothers be forced to pay it? I shuddered at the thought.

"But, that was over twenty years ago. Why now?"

"I wish I knew, Camille. When Dad pulled us all together and told us the whole story, no one could believe that he hadn't exacted his revenge when it all happened. Maybe he didn't because your mom went into hiding or something. It doesn't make sense. Reality is that Dad will do everything he can, but, ultimately, it's up to Mr. Richardson."

"But you just said he can't kill me."

Brent shook his head, "It's a negotiation. I think Dad would promise him nearly anything not to lose you. If Mr. Richardson intended to carry out a death sentence, other herds would step in to protect you. It would mean war."

"Isn't there a statute of limitations or something? The person who owes the debt isn't even alive anymore." I caught myself speaking callously of my mother and felt a rush of her envelop me. Gretchen told me that my mother was still with me and that I could communicate with her. I turned away from Brent when I felt my mother's presence. I yelled into the darkness, "Mom, you'd better have a plan because there is no stinkin' way I'm going to owe that man a thing!"

I could smell my mother's perfume. I felt warmth encompass me and saw the slightest outline of her face appear in front of me. She seemed to be saying something, but I couldn't understand. It didn't matter how hard I concentrated, I couldn't make her image sharpen, and I wondered if maybe it was my imagination.

Brent started to say something, but I held my finger to my lips to quiet him. I concentrated on the outline of her face, hoping to bring her better into focus. I could see her figure desperately trying to tell me something, but still no sound. I shook my head at her, "I can't hear you."

Her outline began to diminish. I could still see her in the same spot but no longer with the vibrant colors from just seconds before. Brent held out his elbow, offering to escort me back. Since it was obvious that my psychic sensor was still malfunctioning, I decided to pump Brent for more information. We began a leisurely stroll back when he advised, "If you choose someone right away, Mr. Richardson won't have a chance to force his son on you."

Still reeling from having seen my mother's ghost or spirit or whatever it was, I didn't give Brent's suggestion much weight. I was in my own little world when I realized he'd stopped walking and was staring at me. "Camille, did you hear me?"

Embarrassed at being lost in thought, I uttered, "Uh, what? No, I'm sorry, I wasn't listening."

"I said, if you choose someone soon, he won't have a chance to make you marry his son. He would have to accept a cash payment."

"Brent, I'm not ready to marry anyone, and I don't care who says I have to. I'm for sure not picking someone I've never met who came out of the same gene pool as Kyle Richardson. For that matter, I'm not picking anyone. Maybe I want to be like my mom and just live on my own."

We began walking again, and Brent's strides remained constant. He didn't seem deterred in the slightest that I had no intention of choosing someone quickly. After about ten minutes of walking at a normal pace, I could see the lights of the party coming back into view. Brent's arm tensed and Bruce appeared out of thin air – I had to work on getting used to Centaur speed. Bruce was seriously nervous, "Camille, Mr. Richardson thinks you took off with the guy you're going to take as your husband. He's flaming mad. If you pick someone right now, Dad's pretty sure he'll leave and not return."

"Have you all lost your minds? I can't just throw a dart at a wall and pick some guy to be married to!"

"I get that it isn't ideal, but if you don't pick someone, you might get stuck with his son. What's worse? Choosing a great guy you don't know that well but who will treat you like a queen, or being forced to marry into the Richardson herd? C'mon, Camille, you met a bunch of guys tonight. Pick one, and I'll go get him and bring him here. Then the two of you can give your announcement directly in front of Mr. Richardson."

"That'll never work."

Bruce must have believed that I was somehow considering his stupid idea. "I'll go get whatever guy you tell me to. The two of you can come back to the party as if you'd been planning this all day. You can have a super-long engagement if you want to."

"What if during this super-long engagement I decide that I don't like him, that he's not the right guy for me?"

Brent and Bruce both froze. Both looked at each other, nearly dumbfounded with my question. Finally Bruce answered, "You aren't serious?"

"It's called dating. You're supposed to test drive a few guys to make sure you pick the right model. Believe it or not – it's a pretty normal concept. Try one on, if he isn't right, you trade him in on a new model."

Bruce looked at me and said, "Camille, I can't tell if you have a warped sense of humor or if you're being serious."

"I didn't ask to be whisked away from the conversation I was having with Kyle. That Drake guy just swooped in and took off with me. Did it ever occur to anyone that what I was saying was important? I didn't ask to be rescued, and I'll be damned if I'm going to marry a guy who I can put up with just to keep Kyle from forcing his son on me. When I find the right guy, it'll be natural, it'll be for love — it won't be selection by the lesser of two evils."

Another blur appeared out of nowhere. "There you guys are! Holy crap, do you know they're tearing the place apart?" Beau had now joined us as well.

Shocked, I asked, "Who's tearing the place apart?"

"Kyle Richardson thinks Dad's hiding you. He's already done a room-to-room search of the house and guest quarters. They're searching the woods now."

I felt my resolve growing ever stronger. "I guess I'd better pick up the pace. I'll go back and I tell him he's nutso again."

Bruce was nearly pleading with his eyes when he said, "Camille...don't." We continued forward. I could feel Brent, Bruce and Beau getting more apprehensive with each stride.

As we approached the clearing to the back yard, I saw Hannah pacing under the canopy of trees. Bruce watched her with nothing but love in his eyes. The selfish part of me realized I'd tarnished her wedding whether that had been my intention or not. Trying to be more sensitive and realizing this was absolutely not the right time to throw a tantrum no matter how justified I felt, I said, "Bruce, I'm so sorry. I hope Hannah isn't mad."

Bruce stopped me in my tracks, put both hands on my shoulders and pulled me into a hug, "She's upset, but not with you. None of this is your fault. We handle this as a family. She's as much a part of our family now as you are, and she won't stand for Richardson's games any more than the rest of us."

"You should go to her. Tell her I'm really sorry...and Bruce?" His dark eyes looked fully into mine, "Thanks for coming to look for me. It means a lot."

He bobbed his head slightly, acknowledging me without making me feel like some girl who needed protecting. Brent slipped his arm around me, and Beau walked a few strides ahead of us. As the three of us came fully into view, I noticed that Bruce and Hannah were walking behind us, still in her wedding dress and he in his tux. Two blurs arrived on either side of Brent and me, Ben to my left and Bart to Brent's right. The emotion of the moment was not lost on me. My five brothers and my new sister-in-law surrounded me as we walked the last few steps to the driveway.

The music quieted and a hush fell over the guests. Gretchen and Will stood on the porch while Kyle Richardson stood to their side. They watched as the seven of us made our last few steps in their direction. Just before we were at an arm's distance from Mr. Richardson, I saw a silvery shimmering light come into focus, standing at his side. Gretchen's eyes watched the shimmering figure, and she glanced my way to see if I could see it, too. I nodded to her my silent answer. I could feel the strength from the figure, the warmth that emanated from it. It was Mom.

I could see her, really see her, not just her outline as she stood tall beside Mr. Richardson. Whatever she had tried to tell me in the woods was no longer a priority for her. She wasn't trying to say anything to me; she simply stood next to Mr. Richardson. She had always been protective of me, so I expected her to be glaring at him – she wasn't. She seemed to be looking at him in an affectionate way. Why would she be looking at him like that? I was thrilled to see her; maybe she had just positioned herself there to give me strength, to let me know she was there for me.

# Chapter 13

_(Camille Benning – Charleston, SC)_

I wasn't sure what to expect. I felt like Beau was going to march right up to him and start swinging. He didn't. Beau stopped short just feet before the shimmering light. The men all seemed oblivious to it, but Hannah, Gretchen and I could see Mom.

Mr. Richardson spat out his words, fury seething through his pores, "I don't want my son to meet you, not yet. However, I refuse to let my bloodline perish, as your mother nearly extinguished it twenty-eight years ago. My son, Gage, is twenty-four. If he is not betrothed by his twenty-ninth birthday, I will summon you, and you will marry him. You will not take a husband before his twenty-ninth birthday. If he should become married before that date, no debt will be owed to my family. If it is you he marries, your debt will be repaid by your wedding vows. Do you understand my terms?"

In my mind I was silently cheering — five years. I wouldn't have to go through this whole ritual of finding a husband for five years! This was the best possible situation for me. No pressure, no reason for men to introduce themselves to me. I was ready to scream out "Yes!", but I didn't want to make a big mistake. "Mr. Richardson, I'm too new to this life to make this decision without counsel. I need to speak to my father, privately." I saw Will's posture straighten as his chest stretched.

"Of course, Camille, your family should counsel you on my offer."

I stepped through the door and into the front hallway. Will followed me and closed the door behind us. I very nearly squealed, "This is great, right?"

A pleased grin spread across his face, "Yes, this is excellent news. I think he offered the fairest deal he could under the circumstances. I've heard that his son, Gage, is a good man. Without a formal promise to you, other Centaur women may still consider him. If one of them chooses him for her husband before his twenty-ninth birthday, you owe their herd nothing."

I opened the door, not even waiting to be fully out of the house, "Mr. Richardson, I accept your offer."

His words were slow as his eyes nearly burrowed into mine, "You understand the gravity of your words?"

"I do."

"You will not commit yourself to another for the next five years?"

"I won't."

"Do you understand the consequences should you not honor your promise to me this evening?"

"I do."

Mr. Richardson stepped directly in front of me, his hands tight behind his back. I didn't know what it was about him, but he gave me one final threat, "If you dishonor our agreement, I will not hesitate to take my payment."

My eyes narrowed. I didn't need this added reminder. "Mr. Richardson, I am fully aware of the consequences. If at any time in the next five years you threaten my life or the life of someone in my family without justification, I won't hesitate to take yours. Just so we're clear."

There was a collective gasp in all directions. No one expected me to make the threat, but I wanted this man to know my mother had not raised a daughter to be weak, to be submissive, or to be manipulated by anyone. It wasn't an empty threat, and I would not hesitate to make good on it. I had not grown up with the luxury of a family – other than my mom. I grew up where if someone threatened your life, you'd better check their hands for a weapon. In a matter of days I knew there wasn't anything I wouldn't do for my new family, including not allowing this reject of a man to bully them. I put my back to him and walked away, allowing my threat to hang in the air, daring him to test me moments after I had made it.

A little louder than was necessary, but definitely spoken for my benefit, I heard, "William, thank you for allowing me to join in Bruce and Hannah's celebration this evening. It has been my pleasure to be a part of such an enchanting evening."

Brent was the first one to catch up to me. He whispered, "Geeze, remind me never to cross you. I thought Dad was going to have a heart attack back there. I bet your lessons from Mom tomorrow include not threatening the life of Herd Leaders."

"It wasn't a threat, Brent. That was my promise to him."

"Threatening to kill someone isn't something to be done lightly."

"Brent, you ever seen someone murdered right in front of you?"

"Uh... no."

"I didn't grow up here. I grew up in the real world: watching drive-bys, robberies and gang retaliation. I saw one guy killed over forty bucks. It can make you a little jaded. I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean to follow through. Gretchen can give me any lesson she wants. If Kyle threatens you or anyone else in my family – it'll be the last thing he ever does."

"Camille, this is the real world, too. We may put a higher price tag on life than the people you grew up with. It doesn't mean our dangers are any less real or our warnings can be ignored."

"Maybe you're right, but I bet he doesn't try anything that could be construed as threatening. Think of my exchange with him as modern warfare – a pre-emptive strike."

Brent shook his head at me. He seemed unwilling to agree with me, but at least he decided not to argue the point further. Within minutes the party was again in full swing: Kyle Richardson was noticeably absent. As soon as the music returned, the makeshift dance floor was crowded, voices were again chattering loudly, and everyone was having a good time. For as massive as he was, Gus had great rhythm and was by far my favorite dance partner. I couldn't help but wonder how cool it would be to go to all the NFL games. He asked, "So, any chance you'd want to catch a movie this weekend?"

I gushed, "Um, okay. We can do that?" I still wasn't sure what was and wasn't okay.

He beamed back at me, "You bet. You choose someone in your family to escort us."

I thought of the choices. Although I was closest to Brent – he was not in favor of dating for the sake of dating. Maybe Beau? "Give me your number, and I'll send you a text with the _who_ and _when_. You're sure no one will think it's a big deal?"

"There's a line-up of other Centaurs waiting to dance with you. You're welcome to tell every one of them that we have plans for next Friday." Gus' smile was all encompassing, and I couldn't help but smile at his jab against the others.

To be fair, I did dance with every other available Centaur. I don't know how many turns I had taken on the dance floor, but enough that I needed to rest. I made my way to a table where Brent was sitting. I desperately wanted to ask him if a movie was okay, but decided to wait and ask Beau when no one else was around.

I had just barely arrived at the table when Drake and his beautiful fiancé, Bianca, came to the same table and sat with us. I was a little nervous given his reaction to me in the woods, but he wasn't glaring at me or anything. The music was still going full tilt. I had seen the two of them dancing on the floor and knew they had to be near exhaustion as well. Brent and Drake seemed to be pretty good friends, immediately engaging in conversation about some sporting event. I lacked the energy to pretend to have interest in their conversation; Bianca's interest mirrored mine.

Bianca looked over at me with a thoughtful smile, "Is it true that you are a long lost Centauride?"

I hadn't heard of this word before. "Centauride? – I'm sure I should already know, but what is it?"

Bianca smiled sweetly, "A female Centaur."

It still felt odd that everyone so openly spoke about creatures I'd considered nothing more than myths until a week ago. "That's what everyone keeps telling me."

"So, it's true. You really had no idea?"

"My mom died recently. I didn't know about my ..." What was the right word? "ancestry."

"You're lucky to be a Strayer. They are one of the strongest herds."

"Really?"

She smiled sweetly, "I've watched all the eligible Centaurs vying for your attention tonight. It's hard to choose which herd to join. Trust me, I was where you are recently. I just picked Drake a month ago."

"The choosing process still seems so foreign to me, but I guess there isn't a rush."

"I imagine you had people breaking down your door when news spread of your arrival."

"The front door's still intact, but I did meet a bunch of men today." I leaned in and did my best to keep my voice low, "Is it true there's no dating, or was Brent pulling my leg?"

Conspiratorially she answered, "Yeah, you window shop for a while, and you can go on a chaperoned date, but even those are frowned on."

"Why?"

"Because if you go on a couple dates with a guy and then decide he's not the right one, it almost looks like a rejection. If a Centaur is rejected by a Centauride, other Centaurides might not think to give him a chance. Why take someone else's reject when there are so many to choose from."

"And once you choose, then there's no changing your mind?"

"No, it's a final decision."

"How long did it take you to decide?"

Her eyes darted to Drake, I'm sure to see if he was still engrossed in conversation with Brent. "It was the hardest decision of my life. I agonized over it for weeks."

"Weeks? That doesn't seem like a long time." I realized we were whispering, and this was obviously not a conversation she wanted to share with her future husband. I motioned for her to step away from the table, and she quickly followed my lead. Both Brent and Drake stood up when they realized Bianca and I were going for a walk. I shot them both a look and motioned for them to stay at the table. They did.

We strolled across the grounds and were well beyond everyone's earshot before she spoke again. "From the time I was sixteen I had men anxiously hoping I'd choose them. I went to college first. My mom told me she picked my dad at sixteen, and although she loved him and didn't regret her decision, she knew that the things that were important at sixteen were different at twenty-two."

"So you're twenty-two?"

"Yes. These last few months almost killed me. I knew I couldn't put it off any longer. My father had already made it pretty clear that he was going to arrange a marriage. I was terrified of who he might pick. He started bringing Centaur men home for dinner; all of them seemed to look at me like I was a piece of meat. I couldn't take the chance, so I made my decision last month."

"Drake? He's really handsome. That was probably an easy choice." I remembered his calloused hands catching me in mid-air right before I nearly fell off the porch and his quick reaction when I'd ticked off Kyle Richardson. Drake seemed like a great catch: smoking hot, kind, super-fast, and definitely protective. "I could see why you picked him."

Bianca looked around to make sure we were still alone. "He wasn't actually my first choice. Don't get me wrong, I know he'll make a wonderful husband, but I had planned to choose another until my mother disapproved."

"Really? I thought all Centaur men were nearly perfect?"

I could tell Bianca was apprehensive talking about her first choice. "My mother hated the family of the man I wanted to choose, so she wouldn't hear of it. She said it would be a terrible fate, and she would never give me her blessing."

# Chapter 14

_(Camille Benning – Charleston, SC)_

"Don't parents mellow out after a while? I mean, after the wedding she would have been fine with it."

Bianca shook her head, "She's our family's matriarch. I couldn't go against her wishes. Falling out of her favor would have impacted my abilities."

"Abilities? You aren't just automatically psychic and stuff?"

"Oh sure, I can read other's thoughts, but some in my family have telekinetic powers. Those have to be given to the daughter from the mother."

"Wait, like moving objects with your mind?"

"Yeah! My mom's amazing. She's one of the strongest I've ever seen! She can lift a semi-truck while carrying on a conversation." I could tell this was still a sensitive subject with Bianca, and I was more than surprised that she would openly share it with me. After she collected her thoughts again, she said, "I couldn't disappoint her."

I'd never been a fan of idle gossip, but Bianca had piqued my interest, "So, the guy you wanted to marry – did he know?"

She didn't want to talk about it. Her eyes fell from mine when all she said was, "He knew."

"He was an okay guy? It was just his family that your mom didn't approve of?"

She forced a smile at me. I knew there was more to this story that no way would she tell a stranger. "He was... is an incredible guy. It's not his fault what his parents or grandparents did, but Mom was convinced that an apple doesn't fall far from the tree. She absolutely hates his grandfather and told me she would never give me her blessing."

"So how did you pick Drake?"

"I'd known him forever. He's sweet and kind. I knew we would mesh okay." I couldn't help but notice that Bianca still wouldn't look at me, and I knew she needed a subject change.

"I wonder if my mom was telekinetic?"

Bianca answered, "She was a Chiron, so I'm sure she was."

Bianca said, "Chiron," with reverence, as if it was a big deal. I didn't want to press her about it, but knew I needed to find out more about my mother's family. "So do you think, since my mom's dead, I won't ever be able to do telekinetic stuff?"

"You can still talk to your mom, right?"

My cheeks flushed. I was defective, and Bianca would be the first person outside my family to know. "I can see her, sometimes, but I can't hear her."

"Really? You know, she's right here with us now."

"How can you tell?"

Bianca giggled at me, "Duh, I can see her."

"Does she want to say anything to me?"

Bianca looked past my shoulder and nodded, "She said she's proud of you. You handled yourself with strength and courage, but there is something she needs to tell you about Mr. Richardson." Bianca paused for a second, looking back at me, "She doesn't want me to know. She's still very strong." Bianca furrowed her eyebrows as if sizing up my invisible mother. "Once someone passes over, their strength seems to diminish by the day until after a while they just leave entirely. Your mom must have been seriously strong while she was alive because she doesn't seem to be weakening."

I chuckled, "I don't know, I never saw her lift a semi-truck in the air, but she was tough – she didn't take crap from anyone." I wasn't sure why I felt such a kinship to Bianca, but I confessed, "I miss her. So if she died before she could teach me all the stuff I'm supposed to know, does that mean I'll never be like everyone else?"

"I bet the two of you find a way. You just need to practice communicating with her."

I was seriously excited that both Gretchen and Bianca believed it was only a matter of time before I'd work out the kinks. Bianca was looking off into the distance, and I wondered if there was something more she wasn't telling me. "So this guy you didn't choose, that you wanted to – why was he on your short list?"

Her face took on a sad look, one foreign to the happy expressions I'd seen up until now. "We went to college together. Centaurs aren't allowed to date, at least not unsupervised. But we pushed the envelope and met each other at movies, football games, the library, none were ever technically a date because we never went together – we just happened to keep meeting each other. He was who I saw in my future."

"If you can tell the future, and you see him there, doesn't that mean you'll end up with him?"

"I wish. I can't see the future. But when I dreamed of the future, he was the one I was tied to."

"But you picked Drake anyway?" This didn't make sense.

"Don't get me wrong, Drake's great. My family approves, and I care about him."

"But you wanted someone else. Does he know?" I felt bad for Drake. This whole concept seemed ludicrous.

"Drake knows." She dropped my stare and seemed ashamed of what she shared next, "They were best friends. We all grew up together."

I felt my eyes widen, "Best friends?"

"Past tense. They haven't spoken since my parents made the announcement."

"I'm sorry." It was all I could say. This Centaur selection process seemed dumb; I looked back at the table and wondered how Drake felt about the whole thing. He may have found a woman to carry on his bloodline, but he'd lost his closest friend in the process. Maybe because I hadn't grown up knowing what I was or because I didn't feel particularly tied to my ancestry, I couldn't imagine the pain the three of them must have gone through. "So do you still talk to him? The other guy?"

"No, it's too painful. He knew it was a possibility. We all knew how my mother felt about his grandfather. We'd hoped that she could let the past be, but it was too much a part of her."

"What'd his grandfather do to your mom?"

"He tried to buy her."

"Buy her?"

"His bloodline was in jeopardy. My family's one of the few Centaur lines that isn't wealthy. He was desperate and made a plea to my grandparents for my mom. When they declined, he went to the bank and bought the note on their farm. He evicted them and humiliated them in front of everyone. My mom's never forgiven him for it."

"Holy crap, that's terrible."

"Centaurs can be ruthless, especially Centaurs who are approaching the end of eligibility. Choose wisely, Camille. My mom isn't the only one that something like this happened to."

"From what I can tell, I don't think money is much of an issue, but thanks for the warning anyway."

"There are lots of other ways families can be manipulated." Bianca whispered, "Like trading."

The hair on the back of my neck suddenly stood on end, "What're you talking about?"

She looked in all directions again. "You didn't hear this from me, but...you've got four eligible brothers, right?" I nodded, not know where this was going. "If your parents get desperate for one of their sons to be married, they could trade you to another family in exchange for a wife for one of their sons."

"What? No way!"

"It happens all the time, Camille. If you don't choose someone quickly, your family will choose for you."

I didn't want to bring up the arrangement I'd made with Kyle Richardson. She and Drake weren't anywhere around when it happened, and it wasn't something I wanted others to know about. With that agreement, there was no way I could be auctioned off to the highest bidder, but the idea that this was done to others turned my stomach. I wondered why the family had been so welcoming: it couldn't be for that. I felt a pit forming in my stomach. I didn't want to believe her.

Bianca must have sensed that she had struck a chord because she said, "A friend of mine, Grace, told me about you."

I was still reeling from the fact that maybe my family wasn't as genuine as they had appeared. When I looked back at her, I didn't have the strength for anything more. I was worried I might fold in on myself.

"Grace can see the future. She always tells me that as far as actually seeing someone's future, free will has a lot to do with it. Knowledge of the future has a way of impeding fate, so she rarely tells me anything good." Her wide smile reappeared, her eyes sparkled, "But she did tell me: you and I are going to be best friends. None of the choices either of us makes in this lifetime will drive a wedge between us."

Just like that, I had a new BFF. I had called my best friend in California, Daniel, several times during the week. He was excited that things were going so well and was a little shocked when I told him about the new car and about intending to stay a little while longer – I couldn't wait for the night to be over so I could call and tell him about Bianca.

After Bianca left, I went into the house and sat in my bedroom. I thought about what she'd said — the telekinetic powers. I tried to think of a time my mom did that in front of me and laughed out loud when I remembered – her purse! My mom's purse was always stuffed full, so full, it was impossible for me to find anything in it. Yet she never even looked in the enormous bag: she just reached in and it seemed like whatever she wanted jumped into her fingers. I remembered one time when I had looked in her purse for the car keys for five minutes before dropping it onto the table in frustration. She walked over to the table, put her hand in the bag, didn't even look at the gaping mess, and said, "Here they are," then tossed the keys to me.

I shook my head at the memory. Still chuckling to myself, I looked above the mantle and saw a beautifully framed picture of a white Arabian horse cantering up a rolling hill. Another memory unfolded. The terror from the memory washed over me. I was a little girl, maybe five. We had moved into a second floor apartment that had a high security garage at ground level. My mom had just unloaded the last box. The garage had one of those heavy steel doors, and she said, "Cami, get away from the door. It'll squish you like a bug."

For the first few seconds I did as I was told, but just as the door reached the halfway mark, I saw my stuffed white horse forgotten inside, laying on a box. That white horse had been my constant companion as a child. I didn't want it to be locked inside, so I dashed under the closing door to save it while her back was turned. I had tripped on the return trip out of the garage, and my legs were in the garage door's path. It wasn't one of the new doors that instantly pops back up if something is in the way; all five hundred pounds trapped me and pressed hard on my legs as I screamed.

I could feel the gears trying to turn in an effort to use the door as a guillotine on my legs. She didn't come to me, she didn't scream for help, she stood several feet away and looked at the door, willing it to let me free. As her concentration increased, I felt the pressure of the heavy door subside. Her voice sounded strained when she yelled, "Now, Cami, pull your legs free, now." I did and a second later the steel door crashed to the cement and locked itself into the eyelets securing it in place. When I was free, she wiped the hot tears from my cheeks, lifted me into her arms and carried me upstairs.

As a child, the fear of nearly losing my legs paled in comparison to the shame of disobeying her. Once the tears subsided, I confessed, "I'm sorry, Momma, my horse is scared of the dark."

"It's okay, Cami. Sometimes I'm scared of the dark, too."

"You made the door let me go."

"Shhh, don't tell anyone. It's a secret."

Never once did we talk about it again. I could remember having fuzzy dreams of the incident, but this was the first time the whole event replayed in my mind. Something about the painting of the white horse and the conversation with Bianca made me remember. I wasn't sure if my mom's spirit was still anywhere near me, but I talked to her anyway.

"You moved the door. When I was little – when we moved up to Orange County, you kept the door from crushing my legs." Nothing, I didn't smell her perfume, I didn't see her, but I continued anyway, "You have to teach me how. I know you didn't want this life for me, but you have to help me." Still nothing. I wanted so badly to see her, or know that she was with me. The words were out before I could stop them, "I can't lose you again. Show me how to talk to you."

# Chapter 15

_(Camille Benning – Charleston, SC)_

I walked downstairs to find Brent with a bowl of oatmeal, reading the Sunday funnies. He asked me, "So'd you have fun last night?"

"I guess so. That stuff with Kyle Richardson was a little over the top, right?"

"Which part? The part where you told him you'd marry his son if he couldn't find anyone better, or the part where you threatened to kill him in front of everyone?"

"Yeah, both were a little crazy."

"Camille, you can't go around threatening people, especially Herd Leaders."

"It looks like I can. I did."

Brent rolled his eyes, "Okay, you can't do it without getting in trouble."

"Like what, someone'll take my birthday away?"

"There are worse things than joining the Richardson Herd." I remembered Bianca's warning last night and felt an iciness taking hold toward Brent.

"All right, I'll bite. What are some of the things they can do to me?"

"Send your mother's spirit to the pasture for starters."

"What? Why? They can't do that!"

Brent placed his hand over mine, all the humor drained from him, "Yes, they can. Spirits aren't supposed to stay in our world. If one starts to create problems for living Centaurs, a Herd Leader can have them banished."

"But, I haven't even talked to her yet!"

"Then don't threaten Herd Leaders. If I were you, I'd call Mr. Richardson and apologize. New or not, he won't stand for you threatening him in front of everybody."

I gritted my teeth, "I told you, it wasn't a threat — that was my promise to him."

"Camille, you aren't back in 'the hood.' There are repercussions for your actions here."

" _The hood_? I grew up in Oceanside, you jackass."

Brent let go of my hand, "I know this is hard for you. I'm just trying to help."

"You want to help me? Find Gage Richardson a wife so I'm not stuck with him, and get it out of your head that I'll ever be like everyone else."

"I already know you aren't like anyone else. My issue is the more waves you create, the harder this'll be for everyone."

"The harder what will be?"

Brent looked over his shoulder, after verifying that no prying ears were present, "Centaurides are super powerful. You know why Dad has such a successful business? Because Mom knows what the stock market is going to do. All five of us work with Dad, but no one recommends anything to our clients unless Mom says so."

"How is that powerful?"

"That's how all Centaur women are. The matriarch is in charge of everything." Brent looked over his shoulder again, still satisfied that we were alone, "There's no way Dad met your mom the way he said he did. Mom would have destroyed him."

"I'm not following you, Brent."

"Something more went on, and we aren't going to find out what it is until you can figure out how to communicate with your mom."

"People have affairs, Brent."

"Not Centaurs, not ever." His voice had a finality to it. There was something more that I hadn't been told. Brent asked me, "Can you hear her at all?" I shook my head that I couldn't. "Has Dad said anything to you about the Lost Herd?"

"The what?"

"Never mind. I just wondered."

"No one's told me much of anything. What's the Lost Herd?"

"It's probably nothing...I'm not sure." We heard footsteps coming down the steps and Brent visibly tensed.

Will came around the corner wearing plaid pajama pants, fluffy sheepskin slippers and a white t-shirt. His face was unshaven, and he went straight for the coffee pot. "You two're up early today."

Before I could answer, Brent answered for us, "We're just leaving."

Will looked at his watch, "Where to?"

"On the boat with Bianca and Drake."

Will looked disappointed, "A little more notice and I would have tagged along."

"Sorry Dad. Camille and Bianca hit it off last night. Thought they'd like to go catch some sun. We'll be back in a few hours."

"Sounds good. Keep the radio on."

Brent hadn't mentioned going out on the boat, although it sounded like a great idea. I felt much more at ease asking Bianca questions than I did Gretchen, especially after what she told me last night. From what Brent started talking about, I wanted to find out what else he could tell me, too.

# Chapter 16

_(Drake Nash – Charleston, SC — Sunday Morning)_

I heard my phone ringing and groped for my nightstand, trying to make the ringing stop. We'd stayed out pretty late, and I had worked the last thirteen days in a row. Today was my only day off for a while, and I planned to spend it in bed. When I picked up my phone, I saw Brent's smiling face staring back at me from the screen on my Droid, waiting for me to answer. I wanted to push "ignore."

It might be important. I could hear the gravel in my own voice, "This better be good, Brent."

"Good Morning, Drake. Sleep well?"

"Why are you calling so early?"

"Bianca and Camille decided they wanted to make a trip out on the water today. You up for it?"

My blood froze. For a second it felt like it had turned to ice and my heart forgot how to push it through my veins. "Uh, I guess so. When?"

"Camille and I are in the car now. We can pick you up in five minutes."

"Stop for coffee. Make it ten." I pushed "end." My palms were already sweating. I said to no one but myself – _this is a seriously bad idea_.

When my dad told me that Bianca had chosen me, I didn't think I could ever ask for anything more in my life. She was smart, educated, funny, beautiful, and she came from an honorable family. She had her pick of any eligible Centaur out there and had chosen me. I didn't even know I was in the running. My best friend growing up had been in love with her since he was twelve, so in love that he took risks, chances he wasn't supposed to take. None of our kind is allowed to date before betrothal, but he said he didn't care. It was Bianca or no one for him. When she chose me, I didn't know what to say to him. He called as soon as he heard, to tell me congratulations and wish me the best – but that was the last time I talked to him. He hadn't called in over a month, and I assumed our friendship was now officially over.

Bianca was the real deal. I could get a new best friend if it meant that my bloodline was secure. My parents were so proud you'd have thought I single-handedly brought peace to the Middle East. Last night was one of the first times Bianca and I had been together since her parents made the announcement. When I picked her up for Bruce and Hannah's wedding, she was stunning. It was the first unsupervised conversation we'd had since the announcement was made. I had expected her father to accompany us, but her parents followed us in their car. During the car ride to the wedding, she mentioned that she wanted a longer-than-normal engagement. I was so star struck at the time, I think I would have agreed to wait until my deathbed if she had asked me to.

One year. I thought a year would be a piece of cake. When I escorted her to the wedding, I knew that the most beautiful woman at the wedding wasn't wearing white; she was holding my bicep, walking in lock step with me. We were milling around making small talk when she said, "I'm anxious to meet Camille Strayer. I hear she's new to our kind. Tonight will be her first introduction to Centaur society."

I wanted to appear interested, but I couldn't have cared less. "Who's she?"

"Apparently Will Strayer had a Centaur mistress. Camille is his daughter. I hope we get to meet her."

My interest was piqued. "A Centaur mistress? Really?"

"Everyone's talking about it. She just arrived this week and, from what I heard, knew nothing about us."

No sooner had Bianca's words escaped than I saw Will escorting Camille from the house. She looked nervous, pre-occupied, as they stood on the porch and looked out into the crowd. My eyes locked on her, her blood called to me, _screamed_ to me. She took her first step down the stairs and something in the distance caught her attention. I saw her take her second step and something wasn't right, her footing looked wrong. I knew she would tumble if no one did anything. Will wasn't paying attention. I could see Brent and Beau were much closer than I was, but neither was watching. I let Bianca's hand go and sprinted to her, stretching both my hands out to catch her before she could miss the last step. She landed squarely in my arms, and I froze.

She would have gone face first onto the ground had I not caught her in mid-air. Her body was light. I supported her with my right hand on her face and my left on her stomach. Time felt as if it had slowed down. I placed her carefully on her feet. In that single second it seemed as though we were the only two in the universe. As she stood there looking at me, I saw the most beautiful, milk-chocolate eyes staring at me. When she thanked me, it was hard to breath. I muttered something in reply, and she held her hand out to thank me. I was horrified. I knew our customs didn't allow for the two of us to touch, and in that second I knew why. Bianca had chosen me. I was betrothed, promised, and I felt an irrational desire for Camille. I couldn't explain it. I wanted to grab her in my arms and never let her go. Somehow my mind found the strength to override my heart's urges.

When I returned to Bianca, I expected her to be furious with me. Not only had I touched another woman, I had touched her in front of two hundred others. Bianca surprised me with a sweet smile and a gentle caress on my cheek. "Thanks so much for catching her. That was such a kind thing to do." I was floored — she wasn't upset in the least. Bianca caught me watching Camille several times through the ceremony. Never once did she show the slightest concern that I was so obviously captivated with the newcomer.

After the ceremony, Bianca prodded me to pay attention to a conversation between William Strayer and Kyle Richardson. The conversation had been strained initially, then Camille said something hateful to Gage's dad. Without thinking it through, I sprinted to her, gathered her in my arms, and ran as fast as my legs would take us. I stopped a mile away, set Camille on her feet, but didn't back away from her. As I stood looking in those milk-chocolate eyes, I felt my world starting to unravel. I tried to tell myself that I would have done the same thing for any woman about to be attacked by a Centaur.

Seconds later, Brent arrived and reminded me of Bianca waiting at the reception. I knew I had screwed up; there would be repercussions. I had touched a Centauride, twice, in front of my fiancé. Without another word, I ran back the way I had come, trying to think of a plausible excuse for my actions. Any other Centauride in the world would have threatened our engagement, or at the very least chastised me, but Bianca seemed both thrilled and approving of my stepping in to help Camille.

Yesterday it had been easier to hide my interest in Camille where there were so many others. But today, on the boat, with Bianca, Camille, and Brent, it would be impossible to conceal. I needed to find a reason not to go, to keep away from Camille, to keep from losing Bianca.

I heard the doorbell ring and knew I was out of time. I'd just let Brent know something had come up. I eased my front door open, fully prepared to tell Brent I couldn't go when I looked down into those same captivating, milk-chocolate eyes.

She wore a wide smile, "Hi, Drake. Brent's on the phone, so I thought I'd let you know we're here. I'm so glad you're going with us today."

My heart leapt trying to escape from my chest, and all excuses I'd found to stay at my apartment evaporated. She stood there in a swimsuit covered by a see-through wrap that left nothing to the imagination. She seemed oblivious to the way she looked, standing an arm's length away. In that moment I didn't care about my bloodline, my engagement to Bianca, my parents, or anything I valued as a Centaur – I was filled with blind lust. My arms ached to pull her to me. I froze, unwilling to say or do anything – I didn't trust myself.

Camille waved her hand in front of my face with an enormous smile. "Hello? Are you feeling okay?"

I could feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead. I was sure my heart had forgotten how to beat. When I hadn't responded quickly enough for her, she placed her palm on my cheek, and whispered, "Drake, do you need to lie down?"

Explosions went off in my head, and electric pulses raced through my body. I stepped away from her, nearly tripping over a pair of shoes patiently waiting by the door. I wasn't at all in control of my motor functions but knew I couldn't possibly trust myself to be near her.

"You know, I think you guys might need to go without me today." I could feel my face flushing bright red.

"Are you sick? Do you need to go to the doctor?"

"I'm sure it's nothing. You have fun today." I closed the door gently while she still stood there. I backed up against the wall and slid to the floor, trying to get a handle on myself. After just a few seconds, I realized I could breathe again, my pulse was slowing, and I squatted there with my back to the wall for support while my body came under control again. What in the hell just happened?

"Drake, we aren't leaving you," Brent's voice called through the closed door. "I'm giving you to the count of three, and I'm coming in."

I shook my head, knowing I could create a decent explanation for my absence to Brent. I opened the door and was fully in control. "Sorry, man, I can't go today."

"Camille said you looked sick. You don't look sick to me." Brent furrowed his brows, his instincts telling him there was more going on than what his eyes saw.

I made an effort to sound normal, "I'm fine. I just have a lot to do today."

"Hello-o-o-o, Bianca's coming. Tell me you don't want to see _her_ on a deck chair! Grab your shorts; let's go."

I should have punched him for his comment about my fiancé, but she wasn't the one my eyes were interested in seeing, and I couldn't bear for him to know that I didn't trust myself around Camille. "Yeah, I don't know how her father would feel about us out to sea without an escort."

"What are you, dense? Camille and I will be there. You have an escort. Let's go."

"I've got a ton of work to do around here today. Maybe next time."

Brent knew something was up. He turned his head to the side, considering possibilities. "Drake, is there something you aren't telling me?"

"No, I'm just not a Strayer. I can't go for a sail whenever the mood strikes me."

"Look, you know the rules as well as I do. I can't take your fiancé out on the boat without you. Camille doesn't have any friends, and Bianca was nice to her last night. Do this for me. None of us want Camille to go back to California. If she and Bianca hit it off, she'll be less likely to leave. I promise you can hang out in one of the state rooms and do whatever work you need to. Just come along."

I wasn't accustomed to deceit, but when Brent said it was possible Camille might go back to the west coast, I felt my heart lurch again. Even if she were never to be mine, I knew I would go through withdrawals with her so far away. That was all the coaxing I needed. "Give me two minutes."

Within an hour we had picked up Bianca, made it to the Yacht Club, and were out on blue water. Brent wasn't kidding; Camille and Bianca were fast friends. Although Brent and I had never been extremely tight, he was fun to be around, and it was great to hang out with another guy since I'd lost my closest friend following the news of my engagement to his covert girlfriend. The ladies were tanning on the deck while we talked about the upcoming Clemson / Game Cocks seasons.

"Hey, Drake," Bianca called, "why don't you two come and join us?"

We were on the upper deck, and I waved down my acknowledgement, then said to Brent, "I guess duty calls."

"Maybe for you." Brent said with a smirk.

"You're going down there with me."

"Who's going to drive the boat, Dumb Ass."

I looked in all directions. We were easily five miles from shore with not another boat of any kind within sight. There was no way I was going down there by myself. "Just anchor it and come on." Brent cut the engines, dropped anchor, and turned up the music as the waves rocked the boat gently in the breeze.

The four of us made small talk for about thirty minutes. Then Bianca said, "So Camille, how are you holding up? This is all new for you."

Camille answered, "I love it here. I'm a little in awe of everything. A week ago I thought I was all alone in the world. I'm still a little surprised every morning that I wake up to find out I really do have a family, I'm living on the east coast, and...the other stuff."

"The other stuff, you mean – being a magical, mythical being?" Bianca, Brent and I couldn't help but laugh, and Camille looked flustered. I felt bad for her. This was a pretty astronomical shock, but she seemed to be taking it all in stride.

"Yeah, something like that." Camille readjusted on her deck chair. When she did, she stretched her long tanned legs out, pointed her toes, and rested her head on her palms, soaking up every bit of the sun's rays. In my mind I started fantasizing all sorts of things that were grossly inappropriate, and forced myself to look adoringly at Bianca. Although Bianca was absolutely beautiful with her pale blue eyes and blonde hair — my eyes continued to wander to Camille. I was ashamed of myself. I was acting like a hormone-filled teenager – not the way an engaged Centaur should behave.

"Hey, Brent," Bianca asked, "Do you have any video games on this thing?"

"There's an Xbox Kinect in one of the staterooms."

"Oh, I love those. I need to get out of the sun for a little while. Could we go play?"

Brent looked at me as if it were my responsibility to object. I agreed. "We should all go."

"Don't be silly! You stay up here and keep Camille company. She's got the complexion of a Mayan Goddess. It's good for her to keep working on her tan – she's still got a man to find."

Brent stammered, "Bianca, I don't think it's such a great idea for us to be alone in a stateroom."

"Oh, do you have feelings for me, Brent?" she asked sarcastically.

"No! I mean...it wouldn't be appropriate. I mean, I don't think Drake would..." Brent was stammering and looked like he needed a life preserver.

Bianca's angelic voice asked, "Drake, you don't mind if Brent and I play the Xbox for a little while, do you?"

"Uh, no, that's okay with me." I should have objected. I should have insisted we all go below deck together, but I didn't.

She squealed and leapt from her deck chair, "Great! Okay, here, keep Camille company," she motioned for me to take the seat she had just vacated. Before I even had a chance to protest, she was through the cabin door with Brent reluctantly following her down the stairs.

I was so nervous I thought I was going to get sea sick. I couldn't think of anything clever to say, and I couldn't keep my eyes off of Camille. She must have sensed my vibes because she didn't seem comfortable making eye contact with me either. I knew I needed to say something before she realized how I ached for her.

"So, do you miss California?"

"I do, but not as bad as I thought I would. Gretchen and Will are pretty amazing. It's a little like every day's a vacation."

"I know it isn't any of my business, but are you a full-blooded Centaur?" I knew from what Bianca had told me that she was, but I had to keep myself distracted. It was possible for a Centaur and human to marry and have a family, but those children were shunned from our community. Will would have never had Camille at Bruce's wedding if she weren't pureblood.

"Yeah," she answered with a chuckle, "but I think I'm a defective one."

"Defective?"

"I'm told I'm supposed to be able to communicate with spirits. I can see my mom sometimes, but I can't hear her. I'm supposed to be able to see the future, but I can't even tell if that cloud over there is going to produce rain. I definitely can't read minds either. Too bad I didn't come with a receipt; Will might want to return me."

"I doubt that. I think all that just takes practice."

"I hope so."

"It's all still new. Bianca told me you only found out about everything a week ago."

"Not even a week ago. I called Will Tuesday night and was on a plane a few hours later."

Her eyes were so kind and full of life. I envied her for not having grown up like the rest of us. From the time I was a toddler, I knew what I was, knew that I had to hide my strength and speed from humans, deny who I was. I longed to touch her skin, feel the warmth of her flesh; I shook off my irrational desires and tried to stay on subject. "But you didn't know you were a Centaur?"

"Uh, no. I thought I'd found my long lost father. I wasn't expecting any of this."

"Why didn't your mom tell you, I mean, before..." I stopped in mid-sentence when I saw Camille was still sensitive about her mother's death. Her eyes clouded right there in front of me, and she pursed her lips together. I'd struck a bad chord I didn't mean to and wanted to comfort her. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I'm not always such a head case. I just miss her." Camille was in so much pain. I tried to reason that if I only had a single parent and lost her, then was tossed into all the complexities of our society, I didn't think I would handle it as well as she was handling it.

In a happier voice, Camille said, "Let me try to read your mind."

"Uh, no. That's okay. I keep mine blocked all the time." Panic swept me. I was able to keep my mind blocked, but I worried about my defenses if I got too close to her. I couldn't let her know how she'd affected me, or how much I wanted her.

Camille laughed, "Even better, so I can practice without worry of seeing some gross guy stuff."

I froze, "Uh, Camille, I don't think that's such a great idea." She ignored me and looked into my eyes; mine refused to look away. I blocked my thoughts with more force than I'd ever used in my life.

She looked a little frustrated with herself, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Camille confessed, "Huh, nothing. Let me try this." She swung her legs over the side of the deck chair so we were seated facing each other. Camille put her hands on either side of my temples; our lips were mere inches apart. I heard the splashing of the waves, a seagull echoing a warning overhead, and breeze whipping the flag at the ship's stern. I continued blocking my thoughts, refusing to let my wall crumble.

Camille repositioned her hands from my temples, sliding them down, cradling my face in her palms. Her gentle touch threw me off guard. In that moment I didn't care if she read every thought in my head. My mind's wall disintegrated in front of both of us. Her eyes widened when she saw a glimpse of my desire for her. I knew I could control my impulses no matter how strong they were to take her in my arms and hold her body to mine. I had just filled her mind with images of the two of us, where I wanted to be and what I wanted to be doing with her: walking in a tall meadow, the sun bearing down; on a snowcapped mountain, the only heat from our intertwined bodies; swimming in the crystal clear waters of the Caribbean near a deserted cove. I savored each of these fantasies and shamelessly shared them with her, each more erotic than the previous.

What I wasn't expecting was her reaction to what was going through my mind. I expected her to slap me, to leap away and scream, to call me hundreds of names that I deserved – I never expected that her mouth would close the gap with mine in an instant.

Her eyes closed, and I felt her soft lips press hard on to mine. My arms did the unthinkable and pulled her seated body off her deck chair and fully onto me. My veins, that last night felt like ice was coursing through them when I saw her, now had molten lava pumping through my body, and I had no recourse but to melt into her. Nothing else in the world mattered beyond the feel of her skin against me, the heat that generated between us, and her mouth on mine. We sat wrapped in each other for a short time before we both came to our senses and released.

As I felt her body go tense, I sputtered out, "I'm so sorry, Camille, I didn't mean for...I'm so sorry."

She shook her head, "I wasn't expecting...the images." I could see the turmoil on her face. "Drake," she realized she was still wrapped around me and stood up, distancing herself from me, "we can't."

With a heavy heart, threatening to slowly break in this moment, "I know." I hung my head, unable to look into her brown eyes.

"I mean, we can't let that happen again, ever."

"I know."

"You're engaged to Bianca."

"I know."

"If she ever finds out..."

I looked up, purposely not making contact with her eyes, "She won't. I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."

Camille took the towel off of her deck chair, wrapped herself up in it and sat down. I knew I shouldn't, but I felt a longing for Camille. The towel could have been made of kryptonite, and it wouldn't have diminished my hunger. She stammered, "I should apologize to you. You told me not to try...you know...to read your mind." Her face flushed a deep crimson, and I wondered if she had been reacting to my desire or if she had a yearning of her own.

I knelt down beside her and rested my head on her knees, "I'm an idiot. I knew I shouldn't have come." She didn't make a sound, and I didn't have the courage to look at her. "I swear I didn't plan this."

I felt Camille's fingers running through my hair. Her words were quiet, "I think we should steer clear of each other."

"Yeah," I wrapped my arms around her shins, still not able to let go, "I promise, Camille, I'll never do something like that again. I'll take it to the grave."

"Is Bianca going to, you know – know?"

"Only if you think about it. Do you know how to block your thoughts?" She shook her head that she didn't. Dammit! No matter how strongly I felt for Camille -I couldn't risk my family's bloodline. Camille looked horrified; hopefully her fear of being exposed would keep us both safe. Being this close to her was wrong; I had to let her go. I forced a smile, hoping she couldn't see through it to the emptiness I felt as I moved away from her. I said, "Just don't think about the kiss. If your mind starts to wander, think about a movie or something."

"Okay — think about something else, got it. Gretchen told me only the women Centaurs could read thoughts. You can't read my mind, right?"

I couldn't help but smirk at her, "Technically, you should only be able to read the thoughts I'm not protecting. You caught me a little off guard when you touched me."

"Obviously," she answered.

I couldn't help but laugh at her. I was mortified with my actions, and I knew she shared the same guilt. I could see it. I decided to change the subject before we had any kind of relapse, "I know this is all new to you. Did you find someone you liked last night?" She gave me the strangest look, and I felt the heat rising up again within me. "I mean at Bruce's wedding, you met a bunch of Centaur men. Any of them contenders? You seemed to have hit it off with Gus."

"Ha, that's the one good thing I have to look forward to. I don't have to choose anyone for five years."

Her statement surprised me, and I looked up at her, "What do you mean?"

"It's a really long story, but I'm not going to choose anyone until I'm twenty-seven."

"Your father's okay with that?"

"Sure, why wouldn't he be?"

"I've just never heard of a Centauride waiting so long."

"Good things come to those who wait."

I nodded. I was a lucky man to be chosen by Bianca. I'd find a way to keep Camille out of my thoughts, too. I took Camille's hand, telling myself to savor the few more seconds I had with her before this fantasy was over and my reality kicked back in. "Let's go find Brent and Bianca."

As we walked toward the doorway to go to the lower deck, a large wave rocked the boat hard and Camille fell into me. Steadying her, my arms found her one more time. When I didn't let go, I thought she'd chastise me, but she pulled me into the wall just to the left of the double doors, so no one could see us through the glass. I didn't release her, I couldn't. I could feel my hands shaking. She belonged in them.

Her eyes were wide, her voice accusatory, "Never again, right?"

I couldn't deny the lust I felt for her. My hands refused to release her. My body leaned into hers as I whispered, "Not after this one." This time, it was _me_ who closed the distance between us. I knew it was wrong. I knew if we were caught, we'd be screwed, and the shame we'd bring on our families would be unbearable, but I lost myself in Camille anyway. All the things I knew I should care about didn't matter when she was in my arms. I told myself this would absolutely be the last time my arms were able to hold her, and I wanted to drink her in, to consume her, to cherish this memory for the rest of eternity. I didn't hold back. In that moment, I shared every ravenous thought of her. When my eyes opened, I looked down into hers. I could see how she felt. She was torn exactly the same way I was. Our time was over. I confessed, "We always want what is exactly out of our reach."

I let her go and walked through the double doors. I found Brent and Bianca playing Xbox just as they had intended. It was an adventure game where they were jumping, ducking, leaning and — a bi-product of all the activity – laughing. The lightheartedness in the state room was a far cry from the heartbreak up on the deck. Camille never did come in to watch the video games. I was thankful for the separation. I knew it would take some effort before I could be in the same room with her and not have an overwhelming urge to hold her.

# Chapter 17

_(Camille Benning – Charleston, SC — Sunday Afternoon)_

My whole day had been a nightmare. I'd never, ever, had feelings for a friend's boyfriend, let alone fiancé. I'd analyzed the whole situation at least a thousand times – I didn't know how it happened, but I vowed it would never happen again. I wanted to confess, tell her everything, beg her to forgive me, but the selfish part of me wouldn't let me tell her. I was sure the truth would land me on a plane bound for the west coast by the afternoon.

Bianca had been so good to me, my first real friend since I got here, and I'd kissed her fiancé. I was so ashamed of myself. I didn't even try to tell myself that it had anything to do with her feelings for another guy – because it didn't. I couldn't look her in the eye the rest of the day. When Drake went to join Brent and Bianca in the state room, I couldn't follow. The guilt was overwhelming. I wanted to crawl into a corner and hide. I considered taking the dingy back to shore just so I didn't have to face them, to face her. My stomach was tied up in knots, and I was miserable. I could hear my mom's words from my childhood, "Never lie, cheat, or steal, Camille – any other mistake you make can be forgiven, but lying, cheating, or stealing are actions done with malice, with forethought. You invite evil into your heart if you do any of them." Mom was a bartender and a waitress most of my life, so she always had advice for me when I needed it, and in that moment when I needed her words of wisdom, these were the ones that replayed in my head.

When the three came back up on the deck, I couldn't tell Bianca what'd happened. I knew Drake hadn't said anything because she was laughing and carrying on. It was a good thing I'd watched _Titanic_ two hundred times over the last ten years. I knew every scene, the entire dialogue for the whole movie. I played it over and over in my head, so Bianca couldn't see what I'd done.

By the time we pulled up in front of Bianca's house, I was sick of the movie and had started going over lyrics to songs in my head. As miserable as I felt, I couldn't bring myself to tell her. I'd never purposely lied to anyone in my life. I knew I'd need to tell her, but I was so distraught I couldn't tell her today. Thankfully, Brent dropped her off first. I pretended to be asleep in the car because I knew I couldn't bear to look her in the eye. I continued with song lyrics in my head until she was safely inside her house. Drake had walked her to the door. He didn't seem to be affected at all – no guilt. What a scum bag.

When he got back to the car, I "woke up" from my pretend nap, but refused to make eye contact with him or speak. The shame began to morph into anger. I felt like I was going to come apart at the seams, and he acted like nothing had happened.

Brent was oblivious to my inner turmoil when he asked Drake, "You and Bianca want to catch a movie later?"

I didn't give Drake a chance to answer, "Brent, I'd rather hang out with Gretchen and Will tonight."

Brent glanced over his shoulder. "Uh, okay. I didn't know you were awake. We can hang out with Mom and Dad today and catch a late showing tonight."

I didn't even glance at Drake in the front passenger seat, "No thanks. Too much sun."

To his credit, Drake agreed. "Yeah, I've got a pretty tough week coming up. I doubt we'll be able to do anything."

I could see Brent looking between Drake and me. He knew something was up but couldn't put his finger on it and shrugged. "Okay. Maybe next weekend?"

I cringed at the thought, but Drake again answered, "Maybe. Oh wait...I'm going to a pre-season game in Charlotte next weekend." I was thankful he seemed to want to keep just as much distance from me as I did him. Maybe he felt just as guilty as I did and was just better at hiding it.

When Brent and I walked in the door, we heard voices in the family room, but I didn't have the strength to put on a happy face. I went to my room, shut the door and crawled into bed. It was only a little after 4 p.m., but I couldn't face anyone. It was a fitful sleep; images of Drake kept seeping into my subconscious. Every time I saw those light blue eyes in my head, I startled myself awake – refusing to replay any of the images I'd seen on the yacht today. At midnight, I knew I needed to talk to someone. I picked up the phone and scrolled to Daniel.

He picked up right away, dispensing with the customary, "Hello," and said, "So, tell me about your latest adventure."

"I miss you."

"Oh come on, tired of the private jets and yachts already?"

"Shut up. What're you doing?"

"Beach day. Bonfire in Carlsbad, met a girl."

"You always meet a girl. In two days you'll figure out she's not perfect and you'll meet another girl."

"Naw, I'd give this one a week."

"Wow, she must be special. You're such a man-whore."

"Man-whore? I just love women. So really, what happened today? That mouth freshener girl, did you two do anything today?"

"Mouth freshener girl?"

"Binaca, right?"

"Her name's Bianca, you bonehead!" Daniel sucked at remembering people's names. One time he introduced one of his girlfriends to me as "Anita" when in fact her name was "Benita." She corrected him several times before she decided he wasn't worth her time. Daniel was a great guy but was never big on details.

"Oh, there's such a big difference. Did you two get together?"

"Yeah, Brent took us all out on the boat today. But, I'd much rather hear about your day."

Daniel's tone was accusatory, "What happened, Camille?"

"Nothing happened. Can't I just be homesick and want to know what's going on with you?"

"No. I know you too well. It's midnight there. You didn't call me all day: something happened. Spill it."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

"I can't. I just seriously screwed something up and wanted to hear a friendly voice."

"I hate it when you hide shit. What happened, Camille?"

I took a deep breath. This was why I had called him. I needed to get it off my chest. I had to tell someone before I imploded from the guilt. Daniel was part psychic, at least that's what I'd always told him. He always knew when he wasn't getting the whole story and would drag it out of me, give me advice, and then tell me everything would be fine. "Okay, so there's this guy, who I don't like, that I kind of kissed."

"Why would you kiss a guy you don't like?"

"I don't know. Why do you wear socks to bed?"

"Because I don't like my feet to be cold when I sleep. I'll ask again: why would you kiss a guy you don't like? Do you like him, but you don't want to admit it?"

"I don't know him well enough to like him or not like him. But I know I don't like him."

"Camille, can you hear yourself?"

"Would you shut up and listen?"

"Alright, alright, so you kissed this guy, who you don't like, and it bothered you so badly that you had to call and tell me you don't like him."

"Something like that."

"If you're looking for relationship advice, I say: don't kiss him again."

"You're such a genius. Why didn't I think of that?"

"That's what I'm here for, baby. To help you weed through the complexities of your psyche. This one was a real stumper. I'll put it on your bill."

"So, he's kind of Bianca's fiancé."

"Kind of or he is?"

I took a deep breath, "He is."

"My vote hasn't changed. I still don't think you should kiss him again."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious. Do I tell her?"

"Hmmm, who initiated, you or him?"

"Does it matter?"

"If you initiated, then you have to decide if telling the truth is worth giving up the first friend you made out there. If he initiated it, then he's a snake. He's probably done it before, and he'll more than likely do it again – so tell her."

"I think, maybe, I initiated it. I don't know...it all happened so fast."

"Whoa, Cami, you kissed this guy knowing he was Binaca's fiancé?"

"Her name's Bianca, and I didn't mean to."

"You know, I saw that on the news last week. People walking down the street, minding their own business, and BAM their lips turn elastic and wrap themselves around a friend's man. Happens all the time. It's a side-effect from the 'Stupid Pill.' Must have refilled your prescription before you lef' town."

"You're not helping, Daniel."

"Cami, look. You feel bad for a reason. Own up to it with Bianca and it'll make you feel better."

"There's more at stake than me. If I tell her, she'll break off her engagement. Drake says it won't happen again."

"Sounds like you already made up your mind."

"I feel horrible. I needed to tell someone."

"I'm not a priest, so no absolution. I think if it were you, you'd wanna know. If it was just a kiss and nothin' more, she probably won't break it off with him. But if you don't tell her and it is something more, you take responsibility for everything that happens next."

"Nothing else is going to happen."

"Judge and jury, right?"

"What?"

"If you don't say anything, and this guy really is a slime ball, you're acting like the judge and jury by not saying anything — basically forgiving him on Bianca's behalf. You need to decide if you want to be the judge and jury or if you want to be the cop and report it for her to decide."

"And if it backfires and blows up in my face?"

"Then she wasn't that great of a friend to begin with. You can always come back to Cali."

"Thanks, Daniel. Call me and tell me about Day 2 with Miss Wonderful tomorrow."

"Who?"

"Uh...the girl you met today?"

"Oh yeah. Get some sleep. You'll feel better tomorrow. Le' me know if I need to pick you up at the airport."

# Chapter 18

_(Camille Benning – Charleston, SC)_

Monday morning was bright and sunny. I had a text from Gus, the Centaur I met at Bruce's wedding, asking if we were still on for Friday night. With everything that had happened yesterday, it had slipped my mind. I needed to talk to Beau.

Since I went to bed Sunday afternoon before dinner, I was well past rested and starving. Daniel was right in a lot of ways, but since I couldn't share any of the Centaur stuff with him, at least without him thinking I was on a new designer hallucinogen, I decided I would be judge and jury. I believed Drake that our encounter was a one-time thing. We'd already agreed to give each other a lot of space. As long as we weren't anywhere near each other, it definitely wouldn't happen again. Something about his reaction yesterday told me this wasn't something he routinely did. I could keep my friendship intact with Bianca, but I'd only see her when there was no possibility of being near Drake.

I would put the incident out of my mind, lock it away, and not think of it again.

When I got down to the kitchen, I was freshly showered, had a healthy glow from the sun yesterday, and was ready for whatever the day had in store for me. Gretchen was seated at the kitchen table with a laptop open. As soon as I walked in, she stood up. "We were worried about you. Is everything okay?"

"I'm fine. I was just spent from being out in the sun all day."

"I checked on you a few times. You're a heavy sleeper."

"Not always, but like I said – yesterday wore me out."

"Fair enough. Well, it's just you and me. Everyone went back to work this morning. What do you want to do today?" She walked over to the oven and pulled out a warm plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. Gretchen was a true domestic goddess.

"It's okay, Gretchen. You don't have to entertain me or anything. I can find something to do."

"With everyone else gone from the house, now might be a good time to practice some of your Centauride skills." I could sense that she was eager to help me but didn't want to be pushy.

"I'm game. How do we start?"

"Let's try communicating with your mother's spirit. Every Centauride is different. You have five senses; normally one is stronger than the others. For me, my sense of smell is far superior to hearing, sight, touch, or taste. Do you know which of your senses is the strongest?"

"No, not really."

"Have you been able to see your mother's spirit or have you heard her voice?"

"I saw her a little, but it was like watching a grainy television. I could smell her perfume a couple times, though."

"Okay, let's assume your sense of smell is your dominant sense. When you think of your mother, did she have a favorite flower, a favorite meal, a hobby of some kind that has a scent that reminds you of her?"

"All those things. Lavender was her favorite flower, Italian dishes with lots of basil and oregano, and she loved NASCAR, so — exhaust fumes."

"Exhaust fumes remind you of your mother?"

"Yeah, and burning rubber, too."

"If we need to set an old tire on fire we can, but let's try some of the more pleasant scents first."

Gretchen went to work on a lasagna dish, the whole time giving me ideas for how I could try to contact my mom. I got to thinking about the question Brent had asked me about the missing herd. Gretchen stopped in her tracks half way to the oven when she turned to me and asked, "Missing Herd? Are you thinking about the Lost Herd?"

Crap, I forgot Gretchen could read my thoughts. "Uh, yeah, what's the Lost Herd?"

Gretchen placed the pan in the oven and said, "Sit down."

I took a seat at the table but felt strange as Gretchen seemed very uncomfortable. She must have been digging in my thoughts because she uttered, "I see Brent has been doing some speculating of his own." She made a sour face, and I was worried my thoughts might have just gotten him in hot water.

"He didn't mean to. I mean...I don't want him to get in trouble."

"I'll speak with Brent later. He obviously piqued your interest. It is nothing you should speak of, to anyone. Do you understand?"

Her voice was so firm I was worried I'd just really screwed up.

"You didn't do anything wrong, Camille. But asking questions about the Lost Herd is dangerous. No one speaks of it. Many your age have never even heard of it. I'm sure Will should be telling you this – but...I'll fill you in with what I know. It isn't much. Long ago, there was a fierce Centaur warrior named Rupert, so fierce in fact that he instigated conflict with every Centaur he came in contact with. He was hard on his young; many of his sons were killed by his own hand. Other Centaur warriors tried to intervene and help his sons; each mysteriously disappeared or died very young from seemingly natural causes. There is a blood debt to be paid if any Centaur kills another outside of battle. Many speculated, but none would openly accuse Rupert of taking out his wrath on others. By all accounts, Rupert was more beast than human, and before his thirtieth birthday he had been outcast from the community. The Centaur elders banned him and his descendants from ever returning to Centurion."

"Centurion?"

"It's a city in South Africa. A large community of Centaurs live there, and the elder of each family visits Centurion each year."

"The elders? Who are they?"

"Each herd's eldest male member is an elder and is represented at Centurion."

"So who is our elder?"

"Camille, your father is going to have to answer your ancestry questions. I fear that if I share anything more I'll only put my sons at risk."

"But I don't understand. What's the Lost Herd, and how would my brothers be at risk?"

"The Lost Herd are the descendants of Rupert. Rupert was found guilty of crimes in absentia – he owed many blood debts that were never paid."

It didn't escape me that she didn't share why she thought I would be putting my brothers at risk, but rather than press her for information I knew she didn't want to share, I asked, "Brent seemed to think that I was part of that herd. Why would he think that?"

Gretchen chewed her lower lip. She was trying to answer me, without answering me. "You are unique, Camille. Full-blooded Centaurs can only be born between two married Centaurs. If your mother had been human, no one would give it a second thought: you would be a half-breed.

In our society half-breeds are slightly more desirable than humans but are still not considered Centaur. Most Centaurs forced to marry humans eventually leave our society altogether, and their children are unaware of their ancestry. You are a full-blooded Centaur, born of two Centaur parents who were not married. Until I met you, I would have thought it impossible."

"So, I'm what?"

"We don't know. News of your arrival spread more rapidly than even I anticipated. Men are very anxious to meet you, but their mothers will be cautious. I've asked a friend to look into your future. She can't see it, or when she does, the outcomes are fluid. It's as though your future is not mapped, as though the heavens forgot to write your destiny. It changes from day to day, almost as if your possibilities are endless."

"That's the way everyone's futures are. Bianca told me, free will trumps fate."

"Free will allows people to choose portions of their destiny, but yours won't solidify enough for me to counsel you on any decision. The only thing I do know is your mother has something she must talk to you about. She won't allow me or anyone else to relay the information. You have to practice communicating with her because whatever she needs to tell you – you need to know."

"Do you think she knows why I'm not like everyone else?"

"I hope so, Camille. Promise me you'll not bring up questions to others about the Lost Herd." Her request wasn't a request at all. I liked Gretchen, and I trusted her. I hated that she couldn't just come right out and answer me, but I believed her when she told me I shouldn't ask others about the Lost Herd.

"So no Centaur has ever been born if their parents weren't married?"

"No."

"Not ever?"

Gretchen looked across the table at me. She shook her head. I had come to a quick conclusion, "Maybe Will isn't my father?"

A vase full of flowers flew across the room and landed hard against the leg of the table. Gretchen and I both leaped up in our chairs, avoiding the shards of glass that sprayed in all directions. Gretchen was pissed, "How dare you!"

At first I thought she was screaming at me, as if I'd somehow hurled the vase at her. "You did this to her. You were selfish, and now you're acting like a child!" Gretchen was furious. I couldn't see my mother, but something told me she was in the kitchen. Gretchen started shaking as she fired back, "Maybe you should have asked him while you were alive! What did you expect her to think? What did you expect everyone to think?"

I didn't want to be caught in the crossfire between the two, and only hearing Gretchen's half of the conversation was more confusing than helpful. I reached down and started picking up flowers from the mangled mess on the floor. Gretchen gathered the dustpan from the pantry and squatted down to help me. She didn't seem as angry as before, and this time she addressed me, "Camille, your mother wants you to talk to your father about his bloodline."

We continued trying the remainder of the morning and all afternoon for me to contact my mother. Other than nearly taking a glass vase full of flowers to the shin, I didn't have any contact with her. I can say that the lasagna Gretchen made was absolutely wonderful, and in truth the scent was better than any I'd ever smelled in my past. We tried looking at a picture of my mom. I listened to a full play list of my mom's favorite songs. Her favorite Saturday pastime was being on the beach, so we spent time outside with some sand. None of my senses did anything but stir happy memories of my mother – none made her materialize right in front of me. By the time Will and my brothers arrived, I was exhausted. Gretchen had made a second pan of lasagna, but I knew I wouldn't be able to keep up my end of any conversation. I wanted to talk to Will, but from Gretchen's reaction, I knew I needed to talk to him privately.

I found myself back in my room desperately wanting to talk to Daniel. It was still too early for him to be off work. I picked up my phone and saw I'd missed several calls from Bianca today. The guilt I'd been able to shelve all day reemerged when I saw my phone's call log. I was still so ashamed of what happened yesterday that I couldn't bring myself to call her back. Maybe I really would lose my newest friend to my action on the boat. If I couldn't bring myself to talk to her, eventually she'd stop calling me.

I thought back to the time on the boat with Drake and what I'd told Daniel last night. I _did_ initiate the contact, but I never would have if he hadn't shoved all the images of the two of us into my head. Then it hit me – Drake's was the first mind I had read. I hated the idea of revisiting what had happened, but when I put my hands on his face, I wasn't just getting words or emotions, I got images – visions of us together. It was only a few seconds, but when I saw what was on his mind, I couldn't keep my hands to myself – as if I were being magnetically pulled to him. I knew it wasn't rational, it wasn't even something I wanted — it was just a physical reaction. Based on what happened, touch might be my strongest sense.

For thirty minutes I tried to push images of Drake from my head, and thankfully a soft knock on my door finally allowed me to do just that.

# Chapter 19

_(Camille Benning – Charleston, SC)_

It was Brent's voice on the other side of the door, "You okay, Camille?"

"Come on in, I'm just getting some rest."

"You've been doing a lot of resting. Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Gretchen and I were working on stuff today, and I needed a break."

"Do you want to do anything tonight?"

"Like what?"

"That sounded like a yes."

"That sounded like a 'what did you have in mind?'"

"You've been stressed since Bruce's wedding. Let's go blow off some steam."

"Doing what?"

"I'll think of something. Let's get out of here." I was thrilled to see his idea of blowing off steam and mine were one and the same. He pulled up outside Frankie's Fun Park and made a straight line to the Go Karts. This was exactly what I needed.

We took several trips around the track. A guy in a blue Go Kart with shoulder-length hair, wearing a skater t-shirt and a big grin, kept purposely rubbing the side of his Kart against mine at every opportunity. I could tell he was flirting, but it was harmless and kind of cute. Brent was on the other side of the track, but I felt his eyes watching us. A few more turns and I saw the white flag indicating our time was almost up. I took a couple sharp corners and felt my side wheels lift off the track. When I pulled into the pits, the guy from the blue Go Kart caught up to me and said, "What are you, Mario Andretti's daughter?"

"Not unless Andretti doubles as a financial manager."

"Nice moves back there." He held out his hand, "I'm Jack."

"Hi Jack, I'm Camille." Brent emerged from his car and was at my side in seconds. I could see Jack got the wrong idea and thought Brent and I were a couple. I didn't see any reason to contradict the conclusion he'd drawn. With everything else going on in my life, I wasn't looking for a boyfriend – Centaur or human.

I didn't introduce Brent, but Jack opted for a quick getaway, "It was nice to meet you. Maybe I'll see you around." Jack turned around and was gone in a flash.

I pretended to be upset with Brent, "Well, that was a little rude, don't ya think?"

"Guys like that are a dime a dozen. You're a Centauride – you're out of his league."

"I don't know — he was cute." I fished in my pocket and pulled out a coin, "Here's a nickel – I'll take six."

"You drive me crazy, you know it?"

"Oh stop it. It's not like I've never been on a date before, and besides, it was just flirting."

"Camille, you can't date."

"No. I can't marry anyone. There's a big difference. I'm not in the market for a husband. I can date whoever the heck I want."

"Not a human."

"Hello, I've already dated humans. I've never dated a Centaur, but it can't be _that_ different."

"Humans? So you weren't kidding? You've dated more than one person?" Brent was not at all impressed.

"Well, not at the same time, but, yeah. Believe it or not, it's pretty common. If you wouldn't have appeared out of thin air, I might have had a date with that guy."

"Well, don't let me cramp your style. Why don't I take you over to the college? You can date the whole football team."

"Cool, do you think I could get better seats that way?" I thought we were joking around, until I noticed Brent was fully pissed off. Most people would have stopped right there, but once I knew how angry he was, I couldn't help but keep pushing his button. "Did I hear on the radio that there's a hockey team here? I bet if I were dating the whole team, I could ride the bus to the away games."

"You aren't funny!"

"Oh, come on, I'm hysterical. You should see yourself right now. It looks like that little vein on the side of your head is getting ready to rupture."

"Don't kid about stuff like that. You can't date humans."

"Brent, I'm an adult. I can date anyone I want. I just can't commit to anyone until Gage Richardson finds someone else to marry him."

"Isn't the whole purpose of dating to find a husband?"

"Uh, no. Dating is about going out and having fun with someone who likes doing the same things you do. Once you get to the point that you can't live without that person – that's when marriage discussions begin."

"You don't have to date. You've got me. We like doing the same things, and you don't have to worry about me having romantic feelings for you."

"That's not dating, that's hanging out with my brother, and no offense, but if that's what I have to look forward to for the next five years, I need to find a fast moving car and a tree. Liking someone in a romantic way isn't a bad thing."

"It is when you can't act on it."

"Wouldn't it be better to do it the normal way? Find a girl you like, regardless of who her grandparents were? Go out and have fun."

"I can't."

"You won't. Do you see her, over there, in the green capris?" There was a gorgeous brunette who was sitting at a table, reading a book and sipping on an Icee, off by herself, oblivious to the action all around her. "Go talk to her. She won't bite you. You might even find that she's fun to hang out with."

"Have you heard anything I've said?"

"Yeah, and I think it's a crock of crap. Love can't be dictated or treated like a business deal. It's in your heart. If you don't follow your heart, how are you ever going to be happy?"

"I'd be so happy to know that I was responsible for our bloodline coming to an end."

"Bruce already took one for the team. You four are free to do whatever you want."

"You're right, and I want to do things the traditional way."

"Okay, but don't look down your nose at me for not buying into the whole bloodline thing."

Brent wasn't as angry as he had been, but I guessed he knew he wasn't going to win this argument, so he stopped trying. As we were walking toward the gate, the girl in the green capris looked up from her book and smiled at Brent; he lost his stride and nearly tripped. I jabbed him in the rib with my elbow and offered to get her number for him.

His only response to me was a glare. Had it come from anyone else, it would have shrunk me two inches on the spot.

Brent didn't want to go anywhere else. We got into the car; he turned up the stereo and headed straight back to the house. I tried to read his mind, not certain that I wanted to know what he was thinking, but I kept coming up empty. I got the feeling that he was going to say something important, but we were in the driveway, and he still hadn't said a word. I wondered if I touched him, like I did Drake, maybe I could read his mind, too. I lost my nerve – I wasn't sure what he'd think of me purposely trying to read his mind. Tomorrow I'd have to ask Gretchen about etiquette when it came to listening to other's thoughts.

As he shut off the car, I broke the silence, "I asked Gretchen about the Lost Herd today."

"You what?!"

"You didn't tell me I wasn't supposed to."

Brent let out a heavy sigh, "What'd she say?"

"She told me I wasn't supposed to ask and some stuff about a Centaur named Rupert that killed his own kids."

"Rupert? She said his name was Rupert?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I need to show you something."

# Chapter 20

_(Camille Benning – Charleston, SC)_

We were standing in Brent's room. His was masculine, no flowers or vases on any of the surfaces, but one thing caught my attention. He, too, had a fireplace in his room, and above the mantle hung an identical print to the one in my room: the same white mare set on rolling hills. It felt like it was significant, but this wasn't what he'd brought me in to see. A large tapestry hung on the wall with a family tree embroidered on it. The trunk of the tree showed two names, Rupert and Genève, with hundreds of branches. I noticed one near the top left bore William and Gretchen Strayer's names and each of their sons branched out from them.

"That could just be a coincidence."

"Oh yeah? Mom hides it every time we have guests at the house. It's like she doesn't want anyone to see it or something. Here look at this." Brent rolled the tapestry up. When it was rolled to the top, little ties hung down to secure it in place. It looked like an enormous scroll, and a print of a dog asleep hung on the wall underneath the tapestry.

"That doesn't prove anything."

"The Lost Herd didn't become human the way all the other Centaurs did."

"Are you nuts?"

"What's so nuts about it? It explains a lot."

"Gretchen told me Centaurs were never really part horse. They were just super fast, so people drew our ancestors as part horse."

"You believed her?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I already told you."

"Because I was born? Did it ever occur to you that maybe most Centaur men don't have affairs? The ones that do are probably smart enough to wear condoms."

We both heard footsteps outside his door and froze. It didn't seem like we were doing anything covert, but Brent got nervous and motioned for us to stay silent. We heard the footsteps walking further down the hall, and Brent pointed to the door, covertly trying to sneak out of his own room. He, more so than any other person I'd ever met, needed to find a girl – he was a borderline freak.

Monday night was a night with the whole family, even Bruce and Hannah. I was surprised to see Brent pull out board games, and everyone decided on Cranium. I'd never played, but it was fun, and we played three rounds before I started to see yawns around the table.

I'd left my phone out in Brent's car and went out to retrieve it. As I locked the door to the car, Hannah surprised me by clearing her throat; she'd been just a few feet away. "Oh, geeze, I didn't realize you were right there. How's married life treating you?"

"Good so far, two days down, another fifty or so years to go." When she smiled she had this way about her, like she carried a few rays of sunshine with her just in case she needed them.

"So where are you and Bruce living?"

"A house just a few miles down the road. You should stop by and visit tomorrow."

"Uh, okay. Sounds good."

"Camille, it's none of my business, but – I...you know... never mind."

"Is everything okay?"

"I'm not sure. I keep getting strange visions about you. Be careful, okay?"

"Strange visions, like what?"

"They're different every time I try to see your future."

"Ha, that's the same thing Gretchen told me. I've always been a free spirit. Gretchen says it's like the heavens forgot to write my destiny."

Hannah gave me a nervous smile, "Yeah, I can't describe it. Maybe it's because this life is so new to you or something. I woke up this morning and had a vision of you in a garden crying. I'd never seen the garden before. It looked a little like the one at Middleton Plantation, but it wasn't one I'd ever been to before."

"Why was I crying?"

She chewed her lower lip as if deciding whether she could tell me. "I'm not sure. It seemed like someone important had died or something. Like I said, it was just a quick flash. Once I see a vision, I can usually recall it and try to make it more vivid, but...when I did that with this one, it changed. I can't describe it, but I feel like something bad might happen to you. Just be careful, okay?"

"Thanks, Hannah. Do you know who died?"

"That's the thing, I don't know. There was this big guy standing there watching you. It was just weird."

Goosebumps formed on my arm. I felt tingles all over and wanted to press her for more information. Some of the Centaur nonsense seemed like a bunch of old traditions just for the sake of having traditions, but Hannah's warning gave me pause. I wondered who it could have been who died. If it had been someone in my family, she'd be warning them, not me, right?

As I reached for the front door, my phone rang. It was Daniel. Hannah waved and went back to the house without me as I answered the phone, "Hi, Daniel."

"Hey, Hot Lips. You didn't call me for a ride from the airport. Everything must have turned out okay."

Brent stepped out on the porch where I was talking to Daniel. "I didn't talk to her today."

"Uh huh. Bad news doesn't get better with age. Stop avoiding her."

"I'm not avoiding her." Brent gave me a strange look. I wished there was an international hand signal for GO BACK INTO THE HOUSE!

"Lying to both of us isn't the best choice either."

"I'm not lying to her. I haven't talked to her!"

"Did you try calling her?"

"I haven't had a minute to myself all day. I will."

"Call her now, Cami."

"This isn't something I can say over the phone."

"Why not? You told me over the phone."

I lowered my voice, "It wasn't your fiancé." I saw Brent listening to my half of the conversation. It wouldn't take long for him to piece it together. "Look, I gotta go. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

"Don't chicken out, Cami." I hung up before he could get anything else out. Great, if Brent puts this together, I'll never hear the end of it. I put my head down and walked straight through the door, up the stairs, and to my room, so I could avoid Brent. As I lay there looking at the ceiling, I thought about what Hannah had said. The more I thought about it, the less plausible it became. I didn't know anyone with a big garden. Even if I did, the only person I ever thought I couldn't live without was already dead. Maybe that was it. Maybe it would be like Brent told me and someone would send my mother's spirit away. Losing her for good after I was so close to having her again would destroy me.

My phone rang again. I looked at the screen and saw it was Bianca calling. I took a deep breath, ready to answer, but chickened out at the last second. I pushed ignore, then plugged it in to the charger and turned the ringer off.

"Mom, if you can hear me, I need to know what I'm doing wrong. Gretchen said you were right there the whole time today. Why can't I see you? Did I do something wrong? Are you mad at me for finding Will? I need to know if this Centaur stuff is for real." I didn't move. I tried using all my senses just like Gretchen told me to, but nothing. "I need some answers. My whole life I never asked you for anything. I'm asking you for this now." My voice broke; I could barely hear my own words when I whispered, "Please just let me see you." I looked in every corner of the room and saw nothing. "Dammit, Mom. Hannah said I'm going to lose someone," I felt tears threatening to erupt. I choked them back, "If it's you, before I find you...then...it's game over. I can't lose you twice. Help me."

Absolute silence was all I heard. The scent of the fresh flowers from the dresser was all I could smell. I saw nothing. I cried myself to sleep as my mind replayed Hannah's warning. Somehow, someway, I would find a way – no matter how long it took.

I woke up Tuesday morning to sunshine peeking through my window. I took a deep breath and smelled warm cinnamon rolls: they coaxed me out of bed and to another full day of wasted trying. I may not have been able to communicate with my mom, but I found that I totally liked Gretchen. She had the patience of a saint, and every time she'd see me start to get frustrated, she'd find a way to lighten the mood.

When my brothers arrived home Tuesday night, I steered clear of Brent. I just didn't want a repeat of last night. Beau offered to take me for a walk. We were outside and several hundred feet away from the house before he said anything.

"So, I get the feeling you aren't very happy here."

"I'm fine."

"You know, I'd believe you if you had any acting ability at all. Didn't you grow up in California? Don't they teach acting classes there in school?"

I couldn't help but smile at his attempt at humor. "I'm just frustrated with myself."

"Anything I can do?"

"Yeah, tell me what I'm doing wrong. Gretchen's tried everything under the sun, and I still can't talk to my mom's spirit."

"Maybe you're trying too hard."

"Maybe I'm not really a Centauride."

Beau looked me straight in the eye. "Camille, it takes some time. You can't snap your fingers and expect twenty-two years of repressing your gifts to suddenly disappear. They won't materialize out of thin air."

"That's the thing, Beau. I don't know that I ever repressed anything. I've never had any special powers. I wouldn't care that I didn't have them if every woman around me couldn't easily do the one thing I can't."

"Awww, that's not true. There's lots of Centauride things you can't do." Beau mock punched me in the shoulder, "Even if you stay broken forever, we'll always claim you."

"If you're trying to cheer me up, newsflash: You suck at it!"

"I'm not used to these little sister pep talks. Maybe I need more practice, too." Beau took me in a tight bear hug and whispered, "Things'll work out for ya'. Hang in there. It's only been a couple days."

My left eye leaked at his encouraging words. I wiped it away hard. "Yeah, you're right. I think I'm going to turn in early, see if maybe I have better luck tomorrow."

Beau nodded, "If you ever need someone to vent to, I'm always here for you, Cami." It struck me tenderly; Beau was the first person in my family to call me "Cami." Camille always felt so formal. I'd used it more and more as I'd gotten older, but still preferred "Cami."

I found myself staring at my ceiling for the third night in a row. Both Daniel and Bianca had called today, but I didn't call either of them back. I couldn't call Bianca because I still didn't have a clue about how to tell her or even if I should tell her about what happened on the boat. I couldn't call Daniel because he would be furious with me for not calling Bianca. Tomorrow would be better. It had to be.

# Chapter 21

_(Bianca – Charleston, SC — Wednesday morning)_

My plan had worked, better than I could have ever hoped. Although I had chosen Drake, I knew fate had chosen another for him. Grace told me of their intertwined futures. She cautioned me not to interfere, to let them find each other. I just needed to make sure Camille and Drake were given enough opportunities alone together to realize the same destiny. I genuinely liked Camille, and my words to her the night of Bruce and Hannah's wedding were absolutely true. No matter what choices she or I made in life, we would remain best friends. If I could just get her to meet with me, I could do a little more nudging in Drake's direction. I looked at my phone. I was getting close to being a stalker. I'd left her seven voice messages and not one was returned.

I made up my mind that if she wouldn't pick up the phone today, I'd go see her. I hated pretending that I didn't know they were destined for one another. When I was forced to make my decision and I couldn't have the man I loved, I did the next best thing. I chose his closest friend, knowing if anyone were to back out on a wedding, Drake would be the most likely. Truthfully, I was a little surprised that he accepted my parents' offer to begin with. It was sheer luck that Camille appeared out of thin air, and more fortunate still when Grace called me in a panic Saturday morning to tell me not to let Camille and Drake meet at the wedding. In Grace's words, "If the two touch, their fates will be sealed. The two are destined for each other." Little did Grace know that I had no desire to settle down with Drake and only too happily would arrange for the two of them to meet.

Drake was handsome and everything, but I really only chose him because of his friendship with the love of my life. I didn't know Camille that well, but Grace was adamant that the two of us would become the closest of friends. Saturday night, I'd shared with Camille that Drake hadn't been my first choice. After I'd told her, I began to wonder if I may have shared too much – she was the only person in the world that I had shared the truth with.

Even without Camille in the picture, I knew I could string Drake along for years if I had to, to come up with a way to make the destiny that I wanted work. Drake would never pressure me, nor would he feel it necessary to begin our relationship before our marriage.

The ache I felt for Gage was too much. I couldn't put it off any longer. I needed to hear his voice. I hadn't heard it in a month. He answered my call in a gruff voice, "You shouldn't be calling me, Bianca."

"Hello, Sweetheart, do you miss me?"

"Don't call me Sweetheart. You're engaged, Bianca, remember? Why are you calling me, anyway?"

"It's just one old friend calling another."

"It's cheating, that's what it is. I'm not having any part of it."

"I just wanted to hear your voice. It seems like forever."

There was a really long pause, then he finally whispered, "Why?" I could hear it in his voice; his feelings for me were as strong as ever.

"Why, what?"

"Don't play dumb. Why Drake? He was my best friend. You couldn't have picked some schmuck? You had to choose Drake?"

"I had to choose, and I'd been forbidden from you. I didn't want someone who I could ever have feelings for. We're going to work this out, I promise. It's still you."

"I can't do that to him, Bianca." His words stung. The month since news spread of my engagement to Drake had to have been hard on him, but no harder than it had been on me.

I tried to reassure him, "It'll work out, I promise."

His words were clear, concise, and full of pain, "You can't call me anymore, Bianca. It's over. We're over."

"It's not over. I won't let it be over."

"You've already chosen. If you reject him now, his bloodline's finished. No one will ever have him and you'll owe him a blood debt. You can't do that to him, Bianca. This thing between you and me — we're done."

"Let me worry about that. Just don't go strutting around where another Centauride can see you. If another chose you, my heart would break."

"Yeah, that's not going to happen. It's always been you, Bianca. My whole life, all I ever wanted was you." He hung up. It felt like he had reached into my chest, pulled out my heart and squeezed it like Play Doh. He was right. I should never have chosen Drake. I should have stood my ground against my mother's wishes, but it was too late to undo what I'd already done.

I wanted to buy time, figure out a way to be with Gage. I had refused to consider what would happen to Drake once I announced I'd changed my mind. I knew Drake well enough to know that if I backed out, he wouldn't demand a blood debt because of his friendship with my real first choice. But if I could just get Camille to convince Drake to break our engagement, everything would work out perfectly. My mother would give me her blessing no matter whom I chose, to avoid the embarrassment of a jilted daughter.

My next call was to Camille. Thankfully, she picked up right away, "Hello?"

"Hi Cami, what're we doing today?"

"Bianca?"

"Well, duh. How many other people call you for a girl's day out?"

"Yeah, I'm not really up for anything today. Maybe tomorrow?" Her voice was strained with distress.

"How about I come over to your house and help you practice?"

"No! I mean...I've been working with Gretchen, and I'm a little spent."

I smiled to myself. Camille was too much of a rookie to know I could tap into her thoughts when she wasn't blocking. I cringed when I thought that Gretchen might know what had happened Sunday between Camille and Drake on the boat. I'd been thrilled that things went as well as they did on the deck between the two of them, but I should have warned her about "broadcasting" her thoughts.

She and Drake just needed a little more prodding. "Oh, come on. If you don't practice, you'll never be proficient. I'll be over in an hour." I hung up the phone before she had a chance to argue.

* * *

*****

When Camille ushered me into her family room, I could see she was a nervous wreck. She avoided my eyes like a guilty child. I pretended not to know why. "Camille, I get the sense that you're upset about something. Are you okay?"

"Call me Cami. All my friends do. I'm fine, just worn out from working with Gretchen this morning." She was lying to me. I wasn't offended because I knew why – she was so worried I'd find out she had feelings for Drake. I was nearly bursting to tell her that nothing could make me happier. I knew I couldn't share with her what Grace had told me, but I could let her in on my plan.

"Can I share something with you, Cami?"

Still disturbed, she answered, "Uh...sure."

"Promise you won't tell anyone?"

"Sure. Cross my heart." Cami made an invisible cross over her heart. That was cute; I hadn't seen anyone do that since I was a kid.

"You broadcast your thoughts really loudly. Has anyone taught you how to block them?"

I saw her eyes turn into saucers, "Uh...no. No one has told me how not to broadcast."

"Would it be okay if we worked on that for a few minutes?"

"Uh sure. Will you be able to read my thoughts while you're teaching me to block them?" I kept seeing images of Drake flicker in her mind only to be replaced by images from _Titanic_. She was trying hard to keep the Drake images to herself, intentionally thinking about something else. I could see the anguish on her face. I would have to let her in on my plan sooner rather than later. Her guilt over her feelings for Drake was tearing her up, and if she didn't get this under control, she'd kill my whole plan in the process.

"Imagine a brick wall. Can you see it?" Cami closed her eyes, and I saw it through her mind. "Good, do you see all the different colored bricks you used, the thick mortar closing in all the gaps between the bricks?" She nodded again that she could see this image. "Perfect, now keep that image of the brick wall in front of your thoughts." I waited a minute or so and saw the fortress Cami had built in her mind, thick and tall, keeping her thoughts carefully stored behind it. "Okay, Brent told me about your new Beamer. Imagine that sedan, what it looks like, how the leather feels, the new car scent, but keep all of it behind the wall." It was working. I couldn't see anything but her wall.

We tried several other things: mashed potatoes and gravy with a thick cut of beef, the sun on her face as she lay out by the ocean. Each of these images, I knew, was dear to her, and she was able to keep each of them from me. I hated to do it to her, but I needed to be sure she could keep her defenses up. "Now think of sitting on the deck of the yacht Sunday with Drake." Her brick wall crumbled, and I saw the image she'd been trying to hide from me. I pretended not to know it was there and instructed, "Rebuild the wall, Cami. You can do it. Envision the bricks, all the different colors, its height, its depth, the mortar. Can you see it again?"

I could see her brick wall a second time, but it wasn't as sturdy as it had been a few minutes ago. I could feel Gretchen in the house. I knew she wasn't paying attention to what we were doing, but I also knew her curiosity would get the better of her soon, so we needed to practice elsewhere. "Come on, let's try this outside for a while." Cami was horrified. She was pretty sure I'd seen the image in her mind and was worried what I would do. I could feel her fear, not the fear of physical harm but of losing her only friend. I tried to reassure her, "It's okay, Cami. Remember when I told you there is no decision either of us will make that will ever come between us? I meant it. Let's go."

Reluctantly, Cami stepped out into the sunshine. We walked to the far corner of the property where a lonely wooden gazebo stood off by itself. It was flanked by wildflowers that seemed to grow in every direction, inviting us to share their breeze. The setting was a perfect place to continue practicing her brick wall. After an hour she was nearly exhausted, but she was able to maintain it no matter what I said to her.

I leaned against the wall, not sure how to begin. "You know how I said telling someone too much of their future had a way of interfering with fate?"

"Sure."

"I know how you feel about Drake." Camille wouldn't look at me, so I kept talking. "Cami, I'm not mad. Drake's a great guy. I think I know how both of us can get exactly what we want." She eyed me cautiously, and if the tables were turned, I would probably have the same skepticism. "If you can get Drake to break our engagement, my mother would be mortified — so mortified that she would let me choose the man I have wanted all along."

"Drake wouldn't do that to you. He promised me, never again, Bianca. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to kiss him. I would take it back if I could."

"You aren't listening to me, Cami. If you can convince him to break the engagement, you can choose him."

"I can't."

"You could try."

"No, you don't understand. I can't choose anyone for five years."

"What are you talking about? You can choose anyone you want, whenever you want – that's every Centauride's prerogative."

"Not after the night of Bruce and Hannah's wedding. I owe a blood debt to Kyle Richardson. He isn't going to force me to marry his son, at least not right away, but if his son hasn't been chosen by a Centauride by his twenty-ninth birthday, I have to choose him."

"Gage Richardson? You're Gage Richardson's backup?"

"Yeah, I never thought of myself as a 'Plan B,' but I guess that's fair. So my convincing Drake to break the engagement with you wouldn't guarantee that I could choose him. Besides I hardly know him, so even if I could — I don't know that I would. I don't even like him."

"You don't like Drake?"

"No!" I couldn't tell if she said it more to convince herself or me. "Bianca, I swear, I don't know how it happened on Sunday. I... it wasn't something... he just..." She couldn't finish her thought, and I couldn't finish it for her.

I didn't want to put her on the defense, so I asked gently, "What don't you like about Drake?"

"I hardly know him. He's _your_ fiancé."

I realized I rolled my eyes at her, but I couldn't help it. "Cami, I told you Saturday, I only chose Drake because I couldn't choose the Centaur I wanted."

Cami told me in a not so empathetic way, "Then you must not have loved him, either. If you did, nothing would have stopped you."

"You have no idea how much pressure was put on me. I had to make a decision, and I know I made the wrong one. Drake's handsome, he's strong, he's honest, and if you give him a chance, you might decide that you do like him."

"Yeah, right. I want a guy who goes around putting the moves on other women? No, thanks. If I wanted someone like that, I'd still be dating my last boyfriend. If you don't want to marry him, call it off – but leave me out of it."

This was the point when I wanted to strangle Cami. "Right, I know you still have this idea that you're human and can go roll in the hay with any guy who catches your fancy, but that isn't your reality anymore. I can't just break the engagement with him, either."

Cami stood up straighter, looked me square in the eye and blasted, "I don't care who my parents are or what the traditions are. Other than potentially getting stuck with Gage Richardson, I'll see who I want, when I want, and nobody is going to force me to be or not to be with anyone."

I tried to diffuse her frustration, "Cami, I'm not forcing Drake on you. I'm asking you to give him a chance."

Her stance softened a little, "What's the point? Even if I did like him, or better yet, even if I fell madly in love with him – then what? I think the whole idea of choosing is stupid, but I couldn't choose him even if I wanted to. Remember, Gage Richardson?"

"Gage is who I chose, but my mother wouldn't give me her blessing. Do you see how perfect this is? If you can get Drake to break the engagement, I can choose Gage, I'll get my mom's blessing, and you would be free to choose Drake."

"Have you listened to anything I said? I'm not choosing anyone. If he breaks his engagement with you and I don't choose him, then his bloodline is lost. That's not going to be on me. I'm not signing on for any of this."

I wanted to smack her at that moment. I wanted to tell her I knew she was destined for him, that Grace could see the future and had seen the two of them together, but doing so could screw up everything. "Maybe if you got to know Drake a little better? No pressure. Just give him a chance."

"Bianca, you want me to spend time with your fiancé, to see if he's the guy that I want to marry? Do you know how idiotic that sounds?"

"Don't you see? This is perfect. We couldn't have planned it better if we tried!"

"I don't think this is such a great idea. I think this whole process is stupid. Unless I'm forced to marry Gage, I may stay single my whole life. My mom did. It worked okay for her."

This was going to be harder than I thought. Now was a perfect time for a late lunch. I picked up my cell phone and called Gage back. When he answered, he didn't sound all that happy with me; he started with, "I've already told you to stop calling me."

"Oh, stop it. A friend and I are going to go to Andolini's for pizza. We're leaving now."

"I hope you two have fun."

"I know Andolini's is your favorite."

"So."

Cami eyed me suspiciously; she could only hear my half of the conversation. I turned to make my conversation as private as possible, "I miss you. You don't have to talk to us. I just want to see you. Please?" I heard his sigh, "Gage, it's just pizza."

"All right, but this is it. This is the last time, Bianca."

Cami was watching me when I hung up. I smiled and dialed Drake. He worked crazy hours and told me he usually threw himself into his work and would forget to stop to eat lunch. "Have you had lunch yet?"

"Uh, no, not yet."

"Do you want to meet for lunch at Andolini's?"

"Do we have an escort?"

"All taken care of. Can you meet us there in thirty minutes?"

"Sure, okay."

When I hung up, Cami's tone was accusatory, "What're you up to?"

"There is no better way to get to know someone than to have pizza with them. Let's go. We need to get there before either one of them does."

"You just invited your fiancé and your boyfriend to lunch with us? Aren't you the least bit worried?"

"You just said you needed to get to know Drake better. I'm making that happen."

"No, I didn't. I said this whole thing is dumb."

"Cami, I know you have feelings for him. Don't you want to find out what those feelings are?"

"He's your fiancé!"

"Not if you can convince him to dump me. Let's go." The car ride over was hard. While Cami drove, I tried to tell her Drake was exactly the right guy for her. She just kept telling me that she wasn't husband hunting or something like that. I still felt if I could just get the two of them to know each other a little better – convincing them would be easy.

# Chapter 22

_(Camille Benning – Charleston, SC — Wednesday noon)_

We found a table in the furthest corner of the place. Music was going, the place was full, and the aroma of marinara, basil and bread baking filled the air. I felt utterly terrified. Still new to the Centaur world, I asked Bianca, "Are you sure it's okay for us to meet Gage and Drake?"

"We just can't go anywhere alone with a guy. Look around you: there are at least a hundred people here." Bianca ordered the pizza at the counter, then came back to take a seat.

Drake was the first to arrive. His jeans were covered in a white powder. Drake had told Will that his dad's construction business was going well; maybe he worked with his father, too. His bright blue eyes were wide when he realized I was their escort. I did my best not to make eye contact with him, but my eyes refused to cooperate, and I stole more glances than I'd like to admit as he approached our table.

Bianca, still maintaining the façade that she was here to spend time with her fiancé, welcomed him with, "Hello, Darling, I'm so glad you could break away and meet us."

Drake mumbled something, but my heart was racing so fast I didn't hear him. This was an awful idea, one of the worst I'd ever been a part of. My stomach was slowly knotting itself. I wanted to blend into the wall, disappear into the background, or better yet — go outside and wait in the car.

Without warning, Bianca stood up and excused herself. She told us she was going to the ladies room, but I knew she wanted to leave us alone. It was strained silence initially before Drake murmured, "About Sunday, I...I...we shouldn't...you two are...I'm sorry." When he looked at me, I could see the sorrow in his eyes. I couldn't be angry with him no matter how hard I tried.

He couldn't get a coherent sentence out, and I wasn't confident I'd be able to either. Instead, I simply told him, "She knows."

Alarm spread across his face, "She knows? What's she know?"

"She knows we kissed on the yacht."

His alarm turned to panic, "What'd she say?"

"Ha! You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Drake looked toward the ladies room, willing her to emerge. "Is she going to break off the engagement?" I didn't say a word, and Drake reached across the table, putting his hand on my wrist, "Seriously, Camille, is she dumping me?"

Before I could answer, I saw a tall, slender, light complexioned man come through the front door. He had dark hair, and a nicely trimmed goatee and mustache; his eyes scanned the room looking in all directions. I couldn't be sure, but if I were a betting person, it was probably Gage. Drake saw that I was watching the door, and when he saw the man who had just arrived, he confirmed my suspicion, "I guess I got my answer: there's Gage. Dammit!...I'm screwed. I am so screwed."

I didn't see Bianca come out of the restroom, but within a few seconds she had met Gage at the door. The two stepped to the side and took a seat in a small booth on the opposite side of the room. When it was clear that Drake and I had been given some privacy, I thought it best to clue him in. "Okay, you're screwed, but so are Gage, Bianca and I."

His elbows were on the table, and his hands propped up his head as if it weighed thirty pounds. "How do you figure?"

"Bianca wants you to break your engagement off with her. She wants it to be a fairly elaborate break up, enough so her mother is embarrassed enough to overlook the fact that she dislikes Gage's grandfather. Then she thinks her mother will let her choose Gage."

"And then what? I break the engagement, and then I'm forced to marry a human. The Nash bloodline comes to an abrupt end. I'd be lucky if my parents ever speak to me again."

"Yeah, I didn't say it was a great plan."

Drake's eyes narrowed, "You're leaving something out. How are Gage, Bianca and you screwed in this scenario?"

"Bianca is in love with Gage." I watched to see if he flinched with this little news flash – he didn't, so he must have already known. "She won't break off the engagement with you because her mother doesn't approve of him. If Gage isn't chosen by a Centauride before his twenty-ninth birthday, I have to marry him as payment of my mother's blood debt to Gage's dad. So yes – if you marry Bianca, you do it knowing she's in love with another guy. If you marry her, I'll more than likely get jammed into marrying the man my best friend is in love with. Clear enough picture for you?"

"Wait, when did you agree to marry Gage?"

"Saturday night, but I don't know if there was much of a choice. I've never met Gage, but his dad said if he didn't get married by the time he was twenty-nine, I would have to marry him."

"But if Bianca marries Gage, you're in the clear. You can choose anyone you want, right?"

"Yes." I could feel my face growing warmer. I _wanted_ to shout, "But I don't want to choose anyone!" No matter how badly I wanted to shout it out, I said nothing. My "yes" hung in the air, and I saw that Drake had jumped to the same conclusion that Bianca had.

The full weight of his eyes was unleashed, and his stare stopped my breathing. I felt Drake's hand under the table as his fingertips gently wound around mine. His light touch caressing my knuckles instantly brought a flashback of Sunday afternoon in my mind. At first I thought it was me reliving those few forbidden minutes, but I realized it was his memory of it that was pushed to me through his touch.

"Drake, don't."

He whispered conspiratorially, "Tell me you haven't thought about me, and I'll stop." I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. His fingertips continued lightly caressing my knuckles. My heart was still racing; I pulled my hand away from him and put them both on top of the table.

Feigning a resolve I didn't feel, "I haven't thought of you."

"Not at all?" He didn't look wounded — more like he didn't believe me.

I straightened my back, and shook my head. "Not on purpose." Holy crap, I'm an idiot.

Drake leaned way over the table. He was only inches away from me, his voice low, "That's too bad. Every time I shut my eyes, I see you stretched out on the deck chair."

My resolve started to seep from my voice when I reminded him, "You do realize you're still engaged to Bianca, right?"

"From what you said — not for long."

"I'm not going to be a rebound. Whatever you decide is between you two. Leave me out of it."

"Rebound? I'm not in love with her, Camille."

"Then you shouldn't be marrying her."

"Not to state the obvious, but I think that plan will be off the table soon."

"Look, I don't know what happened on Sunday or why, but I'm not looking for anyone right now."

"I know what happened on Sunday. You felt the same sparks I did. You acted without thinking first – probably for the first time in your life. You've been beating yourself up about it ever since."

"You haven't?"

"Sure, until a couple minutes ago. Things happen for a reason, Camille." Drake reached across the table and took both my hands in his. His hands were calloused and weathered, strong, yet his thumbs caressed the top of my hands as light as a feather. I could feel my frozen sensibility thawing "As much as you hate that you lost control for a few amazing seconds, maybe it was supposed to happen."

We sat there watching each other. I'd noticed his eyes before; it was impossible not to: the light blue pierced me, my resolve ebbing away. I had always had a thing for guys with long hair: Drake's was short, definitely too short for my liking. I'd do nearly anything in the world for a big smile with dimples: Drake wasn't even giving me a grin. It creeped me out when men stared at me, but Drake wouldn't drop my gaze. With all this, I should have heard warning bells, an internal siren telling me to hightail it out of there, but I didn't. I knew that my face mirrored the same irrational longing that he had for me.

I remembered my conversation with Daniel from Sunday night, my confession of everything and his warning that no man only cheats once. "So what happens if you're sitting next to another woman and you get the urge to kiss her? Losing control is okay as long as it's supposed to happen?"

Drake was still holding my hands, still caressing the top of them with his thumbs. He pulled both of them across the table toward him, closed his eyes, as his soft lips grazed my knuckles. When his eyes opened, he still held my hands to his lips. I waited for him to deny it, to tell me that he'd never be unfaithful, that he was a decent guy. Instead, he pushed an image of the two of us to me without words.

We were again on the yacht, no one with us. I was wrapped in a towel staring out into the ocean. Drake came up behind me, circled his arms around me and pressed his body to mine. His lips swept my neck, our skin only separated by the towel covering me. His strong arms glistened in the sun, and I heard him whisper in my ear, "I want you, Camille." I pulled my hands away from him, and the fantasy evaporated instantly.

I tried to shoot him a fiery response, but I couldn't do it. The best I could do was, "That wasn't an answer."

"Anyone can tell you what you want to hear. I thought you'd rather see how I felt."

"It still wasn't an answer."

Drake shook his head and confessed, "You're the only person I've ever lost control with. You're the only person who I've dreamt about while I was awake. I can't get you out of my head, and if I could, I wouldn't want you out."

So he wasn't a poet, but my willpower wasn't as strong as it had been. His back was to the approaching Bianca and Gage. I knew she had let Gage in on her little plan, too — they were both all smiles. Gage, Drake, and Bianca seemed nearly giddy with the idea. I still wasn't convinced. When the two sat down to join us, I moved to the seat to the right of Drake. We ate our pizza chatting about everything but Bianca's plan.

I couldn't get the image Drake had pushed to me out of my head. It was as if it was on a continuous loop in my mind, and I had trouble keeping up with the conversation. I figured out that Drake was purposely touching his knee to mine. Every time our knees touched, the fantasy he shared with me went a little further. When the "Fantasy Drake" whispered in my ear, "You're beautiful, Camille. Tell me you want me, too," I abruptly pulled my knee away from him. The three talked about football, the beach, Bruce's wedding, and I don't know how many subjects I couldn't pay attention to. Every few minutes Drake would touch his knee to mine, and I'd be back on the yacht, alone in his arms. I figured with all the talking going on at the table, eventually someone would bring up Bianca's plan — not a word.

I felt Drake's hand under the table. He discreetly wove his fingers with mine, and just as before, lightly caressed my hand with his thumb. This time the image he pushed had changed. It was evening, the stars were out, not a single cloud blocked the night's sky. The grass was cool and wet; we lay on a blanket overlooking a pond. A single candle's light glowed beside us, a bottle of wine chilled off to our side. "Fantasy Drake" combed his fingers through my hair, his lips skimmed my neck, his breath was warm in my ear as he whispered, "Give me a chance, Camille." I let his hand go, and once again I found myself back to reality, seated at Andolini's with Bianca, Gage and Drake. I was embarrassed, wondering if the other two could see what he'd been doing, but they were still chatting about nothing I was interested in. My eyes met Drake's in disbelief. He returned a shy grin before turning his attention back to Gage, who was still talking about a baseball game.

As the waitress cleared the table, Drake leaned over and quietly whispered directly into my ear, "Can you meet me tonight?"

I caught myself starting to feel the same excitement that it looked like the others were feeling. I should have said no. I should have told him I needed to think about it, but the desire I felt for him wouldn't let me. "Where?"

"The pond, just to the south of your parent's estate. Meet me at ten."

I nodded my silent consent, wondering if his image had been pushed to me to ensure I'd say yes. Despite the logical part of my brain screaming that I needed to get to know him better, the illogical, hormone-infested part began pumping adrenaline steadily through my body. I needed the gentle kick under the table from Bianca to remind me to block my thoughts! When lunch was over, it was clear that Bianca and Gage were ready to rekindle the romance that neither wanted to give up on a month ago. I was sure public displays while dating were way over the line, but Bianca left with Gage, and Drake followed me to my car.

I sat in my car's driver's seat. Drake stood outside my door and motioned for me to roll the window down. As the window rolled into the door, I saw Drake look from left to right through the parking lot. He was satisfied that no eyes were watching, at least none he was concerned with. He reached his left hand through the window and gently pulled my face toward his. I thought his lips would seek mine out, but instead he moved his lips to my ear. In a heavy whisper, "Don't be late tonight. If I don't see you soon, I may combust." His lips kissed my ear lobe gently before he pulled away. Tingles ripped through my whole body as I watched him walk to his car.

I hated it when my girlfriends got overly infatuated with guys they hardly knew. I didn't believe in, nor was I ever someone who wanted to hear about love-at-first-sight: the whole idea was a crock of crap. There was something different about Drake, seriously different from anyone I'd dated, or for that matter – ever met before. The way he could push a fantasy to my consciousness and it be so vivid made my toes curl. I couldn't imagine what would happen with the two of us alone, experimenting with this particular skill. I shook my head at myself as I looked in the rear view mirror; I knew I couldn't wait to find out.

I was still new to the area. I was on a street that was vaguely familiar, but I wasn't a hundred percent sure I would find Will and Gretchen's house immediately. Normally Brent drove when we went anywhere. When Bianca and I left for the restaurant, she had been navigating. I felt like I was in the general vicinity of the estate, but I was equally certain I had taken the long way back. I told myself it didn't matter: the long way back would give me a chance to think through everything – in reality it just got me more excited for tonight.

# Chapter 23

_(Camille Benning – Charleston, SC)_

I turned a corner and saw a classic Bentley along the side of the road. It looked like a 1970-something, beautifully polished, all black, with flared fenders. As I approached, I saw a metal jack hooked to the rear of the car, the trunk propped open, and an older woman waving for help. The woman was standing behind the car, her hair white and flowing with what little breeze the day offered. I slowed down and saw the sweat drenching her long floral print dress. This wasn't a well-traveled road; if I didn't help her, she'd have a heat stroke soon.

I pulled up behind her car, leaving a couple of car lengths between us. Her relief spread wide on her face as she started walking toward me. "Car trouble?" I called through the window.

She gave me an exhausted smile, "My tire is flat." I reached in my purse to fish out my cell phone when I realized I hadn't brought it with me. It was still at the house. It felt like an oven outside, so I considered driving her to Will and Gretchen's house so she could call someone to change her tire. Just as I was about to offer, it hit me – I'd only seen Centaurs at their house. What would they think of me coming back with a sweaty old woman?

Helping the lady would help me get my mind off my meeting with Drake tonight. I knew how to change a tire, and I didn't want for this lady to be in the heat any longer than necessary. It had been months since I'd done something kind for a stranger. The last time I'd helped pay for someone's groceries when they were short at the cash register.

I walked past the old woman to the passenger side of the vehicle. As I looked at her tires, both were fully inflated. I started to walk toward the other side of the car when a man who had been crouching low to the ground leaped at me from near the front fender and put a white cloth over my nose and mouth. Before my mind registered what was happening, everything around me went dark.

I came to and knew I was in the car's trunk. I silently swore at myself for stopping to help. I knew better. When I didn't have my phone with me, I should have offered to go to my house and call someone for her. What the hell was I thinking? Newer cars had glow-in-the-dark trunk releases installed; that hadn't been a consideration thirty years ago when this one was new. I could hear the rhythm of the road: thump thump, thump thump, thump thump. It felt like I would suffocate. Sweat dripped off me; the air was hot and heavy. My head throbbed. I felt all around it to see if he'd given me a concussion after he knocked me out. Satisfied that I didn't have a head injury and the splitting headache had to be a hangover from whatever substance was on the cloth he put on my face, I started kicking at the back seat to try to get air. It was futile. I couldn't make the seat cave in, and if the driver heard me, he ignored my pleas for help.

After I don't know how many kicks, I remembered a television show where someone was locked in the trunk, and they'd messed with the wires and somehow shut off the car. I started pawing in the darkness looking for wires, a fuse panel, anything. I turned my body over to the other corner, still nearly suffocating from the heat and did the same panic search for something that would stop the car. My search was fruitless, and I felt myself losing consciousness. My last words were, "Mom, help me." The darkness swallowed me a second time, and I believed the trunk had run out of air. I told myself I'd see her soon.

I awoke again, still in the darkness. The car was driving slower; I could hear gravel under the tires. I assumed we were nearly to our destination, and I searched for a tire iron or anything I could use as a weapon. The car's trunk was empty except for me. I cursed myself again for stopping to help the stranger. I'd seen enough television shows to know abductions rarely turn out well if the victim isn't found in the first twelve hours. I didn't know how long I'd been in the trunk but vowed silently not to be a victim. I wouldn't go down without a fight. It didn't matter that I was a giant sweat ball who desperately needed air – I'd be ready to spring as soon as the car stopped and the trunk opened.

I felt my mind clouding again. I tried counting silently in my head – anything to keep my mind occupied so I wouldn't lose consciousness again. I got to 326 when the car came to an abrupt stop. I slammed up against the car's wheel well but refused to release a whimper. I heard the car shut off, two doors open and close, then footsteps walking away on the gravel. They were leaving me in the trunk! I knew I couldn't hang on much longer. I started screaming with what was left of my energy, hoping a passerby might hear me. "HELP!! LET ME OUT!! HELP ME!! HELP!! LET ME OUT!! HELP ME!!" More silence was all that answered. I continued screaming for help until my voice refused and my body went limp.

I felt air on my face and looked up into the darkening sky. The same man who had ambushed me stood looking down at me. I couldn't focus on his face; my body was too busy sucking in the fresh air. He held out his hand to me; I refused to take it. I lay there in the trunk, immobile from fear, unwilling to move. When I didn't accept his hand to climb out, his gruff voice said, "You don't want out? Fine, sleep in there tonight!" He reached for the trunk's lid and every muscle in my body flexed; my arms and legs flailed trying to get out before the coffin closed on me.

My reaction pleased him; an evil grin emerged on his face as he held out his hand to me a second time. I looked at his hand but instead wrapped both of mine around the lip of the trunk while I swung my leg out onto the ground.

I stood propped up against the car, taking in my surroundings. It was a fortress that stood in stark contrast to the environment around it. It was in a swamp – literally: tall grass, Cypress trees with their knees protruding from the water, and Spanish Moss everywhere. It was dusk, and the life all around us seemed to be waking up. Even in the diminishing light I could see bright blossoms from nearly every plant that lined the flowerbeds around the house. It looked like a welcoming plantation house, a large two story front porch with eight pillars across the front, and big windows to catch the marsh breezes. It looked like something from _Gone with the Wind_ , until I put my back to it and saw the swamp and foreboding trees that surrounded it. I saw a one lane bridge with enormous metal gates deterring visitors further down the lane.

I looked for a second route onto the estate, but in the diminishing light, I didn't find one. There was a beautiful garden suitable for an English castle to the rear of the house – I immediately thought of Hannah's warning to me a few nights ago. A woman's voice brought me back to the present when she said, "There's no use looking for a way out. You'll be here for a while." It was the same old woman who had flagged me down for help earlier.

I glared at her, "Who are you?"

"Zandra Chiron. I'm your grandmother."

My eyes widened. Gretchen had mentioned her in a conversation with Will. I hadn't been paying attention. "You kidnapped me?"

"Your father was being difficult. He told me you would be escorted at all times, yet my driver and I found you without an escort. No Centauride of age should be left unguarded. You're lucky we found you."

I answered her but moved my glare to her driver, "He put me in the trunk! I could have died!"

"Watch your tone, Camille. Aragon did what he thought was best."

"Putting me in the trunk and driving me... where the hell am I?!"

"I'll not warn you again. Watch your tone. You will not be the pampered princess at my estate. You are here for your protection and education. Aragon will show you to your room." Without an apology, a thoughtful word or a kindness of any measure, she turned and walked away. I could see a vague resemblance to my mother, but she was so vile to me that I didn't want to see any part of my mother in her features.

The chauffeur pointed toward the house. As we stepped into the foyer, I demanded, "Where's the phone? I need to call my father!" Aragon neither responded nor acknowledged that I'd even spoken. I hated myself for it, but I stamped my foot like a child and screeched, "Where's the phone?!"

He put a firm grip on my shoulder and physically moved me to the stairs. I didn't know where this man was from, but judging from his size, he had to be part Samoan or maybe a retired Sumo Wrestler. When I still refused to give up my ground, he picked me up like a sack of potatoes and carried me up the steps. When we reached the upstairs landing, he glared at me, as if daring me to continue to be difficult. I wasn't.

Aragon pointed to the last room on the right and followed me into it. I didn't have any luggage, so I wasn't certain what his purpose was. The room was dimly lit; the paint on the wall was old and peeling near the ceiling's edge. I spotted a long forgotten spider web on the window. It looked like no one had been in this room for a very long time. Rather than continuing to stare at Aragon, I explored the room. It was the size of a large studio apartment, with four windows that had to be at least seven feet tall spaced evenly along the east wall overlooking the front of the property. There was a sitting area with sofa and winged chairs just inside the room. A bathroom was attached to the room that was not accessible from the hallway; a closet was full of dusty clothes that looked to be long forgotten. I dug through the drawers in the closet and found an old pair of shorts and a t-shirt that seemed not to have absorbed the dust I saw everywhere else. As I stepped out of the closet, I announced, "I need a shower."

The chauffeur didn't flinch. He stood with his back to the door, a menacing look on his face but no response. As I looked in the bathroom, it, too, needed a good cleaning. Did she think I was going to be Cinderella? I dug around and found some soap and some shampoo whose contents had long since separated. "Great. Hey, Aragon, where can I get some shampoo and conditioner?"

I peeked through the doorway when I still didn't get a response from him. "Hello-o-o-o, you're going to have to talk to me eventually. Where can I find something to wash all the sweat off of me?"

Miffed at his lack of response, I walked toward him and reached around him for the door handle. A single hand shoved me backward. "What the hell? I get that you aren't talking to me, but I need something to get cleaned up with!" I started to wonder, maybe he was mute? No, he had spoken when he offered to let me spend the night in the trunk.

I heard a tap on the door. Aragon opened it, and a petite woman walked in with a serving tray piled high with sandwiches, chips, and OHMYSWEETGOODNESS — cold water! As she set the tray down on a coffee table beside the couch, she didn't make eye contact with me. I immediately reached for the water and emptied the glass in seconds. As I was pouring more water into the glass from a pitcher off the tray, a second knock at the door echoed, and Aragon let in a middle-aged man who had a basket of toiletries, a pair of satin pajamas, and a change of clothes. Both the woman with the food and the man left without saying a word or even making eye contact with me. I was grateful and thanked them both, though neither acknowledged me.

As I towel dried my hair, I sat in the bathroom, wondering: What had I done to deserve this? Just hours ago my mind raced with the possibilities of the future. I had silently hoped to slow down the "Drake Freight Train," but I had never anticipated completely derailing it. Having satisfied my physical need for water, food and hygiene, I let my mind wander back to our lunch today. I thought of the fantasies he kept sharing with me through his touch. It had been a foreign experience and one that still gave me butterflies thinking about it.

Drake would think I stood him up tonight. I still wasn't convinced that Bianca's plan had merit, and I hated the idea of being responsible for whether someone's bloodline continued — especially when I didn't know anything about him or his family. Sure he was handsome, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't attracted to him, but this whole Centaur relationship thing seemed to be for keeps. No matter how great he was, I wasn't ready to commit myself to him or anyone.

I wondered how long it was before people realized I'd been taken? I hadn't locked my car, and it had been abandoned close to Will's house. Hopefully someone was looking for me by now.

I needed to push thoughts of Drake out of my mind and focus on the problem at hand. How was I going to get out of here? Where was here?

# Chapter 24

_(Camille Benning – Florida — Thursday morning)_

The next morning, sun peeked in around the window shades. I woke up and looked at the door. Aragon still stood in the same place he had been when I fell asleep. I decided I'd try a different approach: using my brightest smile and sweetest voice, I called, "Good morning, Aragon."

Still nothing. I went to the bathroom, threw my hair in a quick braid, and changed quickly into the clothes I'd been given last night: underwear, Capri pants, a white t-shirt, and flops — all were precisely my size. As I approached the door to the hallway, Aragon opened it for me. The house looked interesting, but I needed to see how far Aragon would let me go. I was surprised when he trailed me wordlessly into the garden.

Zandra joined me shortly after I arrived. She stood a few feet away from me but addressed Aragon, "You may go find your relief. I'll expect you back promptly at 9 p.m." Aragon nodded and walked away. Zandra turned her attention toward me.

"I trust you're well rested?" Her words were friendly enough, but the tone she used was less than heartwarming.

"Uh... yes. I was just admiring your estate..." Crap, I didn't know what to call her. These were the first words spoken to me since my arrival, and they took me by surprise. "It's very...big."

She furrowed her eyebrows at me, obviously stunned with my impressive vocabulary. Her response was curt, "Right. While you're here, you will have a guard at all times. Do not speak to any of them. They're here for your safety, not your entertainment. You'll be guarded around the clock."

"Is that necessary? Am I in danger?"

"Danger? Danger from yourself. They won't let you make a stupid mistake like your mother. There's no phone, no television and no internet. No visitors will be allowed until I can trust you. Do you understand?"

I didn't answer – she must have taken my silence as consent. She started to walk away when I blurted out – "What about my father? How will he know I'm okay?"

"You are my responsibility now. He has been notified."

A little more abrasive than I meant for it to be, I told her, "I need to call a friend of mine in California. He'll be worried if he doesn't hear from me."

"Camille, you've had far too many distractions in your life. I intend to simplify it for you, teach you things your mother neglected. I do not have the patience or the desire to cater to your every whim."

She put her back to me and made a straight line for the house. When she did, Aragon's replacement arrived: another large man unwilling to make eye contact with me. The mosquitoes were the size of small birds, so I didn't stay outside long. When I got into the house, Zandra was nowhere to be seen. The guard pointed to the staircase, and he followed me to my room.

When I returned, a plate of pastries, a thermos of coffee, and a pitcher of juice were waiting for me on the coffee table in the sitting area of the bedroom. It looked like more than enough food for the two of us, and I motioned for the new guard to take a seat beside me. He wouldn't make eye contact with me. I gave a heavy sigh, "I won't be able to eat it all myself; you could at least eat with me."

I watched him closely: his eyes didn't even dart in my direction, and, if anything, his posture became more rigid as he stood against the door. He pretended not to have heard a word.

The pastries were all of my favorites: warm cinnamon rolls, donuts with colorful sprinkles on them, and onion bagels with cream cheese. It seemed odd that anyone would know that this combination would be such a welcomed surprise. After I had filled myself with breakfast, I wondered how I would occupy my time. I decided to go for another stroll outside. I reached around the new guard for the door handle, but he merely held his position in front of it.

I looked at him, frustrated, wondering how in the heck I was going to figure out how to get out of this place if I was confined to this room. "I just need some air. I want to go for a walk." He didn't budge. "Are you deaf? I said I'm going outside to get some air."

Still as a statue, he didn't so much as blink in my direction. When I didn't let go of the door handle, and yanked on it a second time, the man put one hand on my wrist and inflicted more pain than I thought possible with just his thumb and middle finger. I remembered a stupid self-defense class I had taken in middle school that had taught about pressure points on the body. This man should have been teaching _that_ class.

I can't say that he did any real damage to anything other than my ego, but if he could subdue me that quickly with two fingers, I doubted I would stand a chance trying to force myself through a door he was protecting. My earlier inspection of the windows on the wall of my room showed they'd been painted shut for decades.

I took another look around. If this was where I was staying, the dust was going to have to go. I began in the bathroom; just as I had finished the last of the scrubbing and the whole place sparkled, I heard a soft knock at the door.

The guard opened it and the same petite woman from last night stepped inside with another tray of food. I didn't need to get close to know exactly what it was: potato soup with spicy Italian sausage. It couldn't have been better timed, and it was another favorite meal. I was too pleased with the aroma for my mind to realize how impossible it was for me to again have one of my most prized meals.

During lunch, a box of cleaning supplies had been delivered to the room. The guard hadn't spoken a word all morning, so I wasn't sure how anyone would have known I was doing my Cinderella impression, but I was thankful for the items. By dinner time, my bedroom was spotless. I half expected a tray of food to be delivered again, but the knock on my door was from a man who had brought a change of clothes for me. Clothes may not have been the best description; a black evening gown with shoes that were appropriate for a movie release or a charity ball had been delivered. I showered and dressed quickly, my mind racing with the possibilities. When I emerged from the bathroom, the guard opened the door to the hallway and ushered me down to the dining room.

A meal that could have served twenty people waited for me. I took a seat in the middle of the long table and waited to see who would join me. It was a full five minutes as the food began to cool before I realized there was only one place setting and no one else was coming. The dinner was wonderful, but I could feel the first real pangs of loneliness. After I had eaten, the guard took me to a library where I was allowed to select a book to read. It was a tough decision; all the books were old, really old. Some were written in different languages; several were handwritten. I searched for a romance of some kind and finally settled on _Wives and Daughters_ written by Elizabeth Gaskell. Once I'd made my choice, I was escorted back to my room.

Aragon arrived at promptly 9 p.m., just as he had been instructed to earlier. I didn't try to speak to him, and he didn't acknowledge that he even saw me as he assumed his post inside my room, directly in front of my door. I hated his watchful eyes; I could feel them on me all night long, but he never stepped closer to me than the one step just inside my bedroom.

_Day 2_

I awoke to bright sunlight again. I ducked into the closet, turned on the light, pulled some clothes on that had been delivered the previous night, and dressed quickly. The closet was roughly nine feet by five feet; I knew this closet and my bathroom were the only places that I would have some sense of privacy. I used my time in the closet to feel around for any secret passageways. One of the baseboards was loose. It looked like something was jammed behind it into the plaster, but I didn't want to disassemble the closet my second morning here.

Zandra's home may have been a pseudo prison, but was surprisingly pleasant to explore – at least as much as I was permitted to see. The walls were adorned with equestrian paintings, statues of horses, centaurs, and ornate wooden finishing. The floors were wood accented with lush rugs in every room. As I walked outside to the gardens, I really took them in for the first time. I was not expecting the meticulously manicured plants, the stone walkways that shimmered in the sun, and the life-sized, marble Centaurs sprinkled throughout. When Zandra found me meandering through the expanse, my education began.

Zandra came up to me, patted her shirt down with her palms as if to brush away any stray pollen that may have landed on her. We were stopped in front of a statue of Zeus. I had seen images of him many times, so when she asked me, "Camille, quickly, who is this?"

I answered without hesitation, "Zeus."

"And do you recognize the woman beside him?"

I knew it was his wife, but for the life of me I couldn't remember her name. I shook my head, and she answered, "She was Hera." I hadn't studied Greek mythology, ever. I think the only reason I recognized Zeus was because of Saturday morning cartoons as a kid.

"Hera was very beautiful. Zeus was proud of her beauty and loved having a handsome wife. But occasionally someone would admire Hera too fondly, and Zeus would take out his vengeance. Have you heard the story of Ixion?"

I shook my head that I hadn't, so she continued. "Ixion was a god Zeus thought was a close friend. Zeus suspected that Ixion had romantic feelings for Hera, but he wanted to be certain of Ixion's intentions with Hera before he passed judgment on this friend. Zeus sent a cloud, Nephele, disguised as Hera to learn Ixion's trustworthiness. The cloud bore a child for Ixion, who was named Kentaros."

"A cloud, like a cloud in the sky?"

"This was Zeus. His power was limitless, so making a cloud take the form of Hera was not difficult for him. When Kentaros was born, he was shunned by the gods as well as humans and was forced to live out his days, utterly alone. Eventually, Kentaros moved to the beautiful pastures of Thessaly and bred himself with the mares that lived in the pasture. Kentaros is the father of all Centaurs."

"But, I thought that Centaurs that were half horse were all just a myth?"

"No, we are all children of Kentaros."

I knew using Will's first name diminished his position in front of Zandra, so I purposely included "Dad" in my response. "Dad told me we were descended from warriors. Gretchen said that humans described the warriors' speed as fast as horses, so they began drawing our race as both man and horse."

"Camille, you don't really believe that, do you? Where does the magic in your veins come from?"

I answered cautiously, hoping not to infuriate her and not wanting to let on that I had my doubts about magic in my blood, "From my mom and dad."

"Exactly. They were both descendents of Kentaros and his mares. Most of the herds from that original pasture are still represented, their magic unabated, their blood pulsating with that of a god."

"Our ancestors really were half horse?" The notion still sounded absurd to me, but she continued.

"My given name is Zandra Chiron. Have you heard of Chiron?"

"No."

She furrowed her brow at me. "Chiron was the noblest of Centaurs. Had there been royalty among Centaurs, he would have surely worn a crown. He was unlike many of the other Centaurs born on that pasture. Most Centaurs were fierce warriors, more prone to battle than civility. Chiron was different: he was gentle and kind. He was a musician, a physician, and even a teacher of gods. One of his prized pupils was Zeus' son, Hercules."

"So Chiron was a teacher?"

"As I said, he was a Centaur of many talents. During a class where Hercules was paying more attention to his lessons than to his weapons, he inadvertently shot Chiron with an arrow that had been dipped in the blood of the Lernaean Hydra."

"A Hydra, that's the snake that you cut off its head and two more grow in its place, right?"

"It is similar to a snake, but it was a sea creature. Its blood was poisonous and brought instant death to humans. Chiron was an immortal since Zeus himself had shared his immortal nectar with him, so the blood-tipped arrow only brought suffering and pain to Chiron."

"But you just said Chiron was a physician. If he was an immortal and a doctor, why didn't he just cure himself?"

"He tried unsuccessfully for years to cure himself. He begged the other gods to kill him to end his suffering, but none would kill him, and he couldn't be comforted."

I looked around, a little worried because Zandra seemed to take all of this as reality, and a small part of me wondered if a suffering immortal Centaur was around the corner. "So what happened?"

"Prometheus was a Titan who stole fire from Zeus and gave it to man. Fire was a substance for use by the gods and was not intended to provide warmth to the lowly humans. As punishment for giving fire to mankind, Prometheus was chained to a rock in Tartarus. Each day as the sun came up, an enormous vulture would come to the rock and gnaw his liver. Each night the liver would grow back."

"That's awful!"

"For him, immortality was a fate worse than death – an eternity of physical anguish. Hercules, despite his accidental poisoning of Chiron, was good. He watched day after day the suffering that Prometheus was subjected to and asked Zeus to release him from his punishment." She saw my interest and asked me, "Camille, have you not heard this before? Did you learn nothing in school?"

Ashamed that I'd never heard these stories, I was intrigued and hoped silently that she would continue. "I don't remember any of this."

"And your mother never shared any of these stories?"

"No, never."

She kept her contempt masked, but I could see it was there. "Zeus believed in harsh punishments but was persuaded by the young Hercules to show mercy. He agreed to let Prometheus free of his punishment if another would take his place. Hercules wanted to offer himself up in place of Prometheus, but Chiron wouldn't allow it. Chiron gave up his immortality and released Prometheus from the rock in Tartarus."

"But how was he allowed to give up his immortality in Tartarus, if Prometheus couldn't?"

"Prometheus knew he was being punished and chose to hold on to his immortality. He believed eventually he would be forgiven by Zeus and his punishment would be over."

"But Chiron took his place before Prometheus was forgiven?"

"Yes, but Chiron's liver was never eaten by the giant vulture. Zeus was so moved by Chiron's selflessness that he placed Chiron in the stars. You know him as Sagittarius."

"So you're a direct descendent of a constellation?"

"No, I am a direct descendant of Chiron who was so loved by Zeus that he was permitted an eternal place in the heavens to look down on and to guide his children. In that moment Zeus forgave Ixion for his desires for Hera and forgave Kentaros for being born. Zeus bestowed many gifts on the Centaurs. The men he allowed to keep their warrior instincts and speed. The women Centaurs, he gave the gifts of communicating with the spirits so that they could always receive guidance from Chiron, the gift of seeing the future so they might guide their husbands, and telekinesis so that no object would ever stand in their way. For all Centaurs, he gave the gift of mortality and allowed us to take human form."

"Dying was a gift?"

"Mortality is one of the greatest gifts ever bestowed. After a long and fruitful life, we are able to rest." She looked at peace as she finished her story. In a slightly more brusque tone she said, "That's enough for today. Tomorrow we'll talk about why Chiron's bow is always pointed toward Scorpius."

Zandra stood to walk away. "Wait, that's it?" She nodded, and took two steps before I yelled, "Look, I've been here for two nights. I need to call my father."

"I have no use for telephones. If you want to speak to him so badly, project your thoughts."

My teeth were clenched, "I don't know how."

Her mouth curled up in an evil twist, "Then you obviously need the education I am offering you."

Zandra walked out of the garden, leaving only my guard and me. Forgetting that he couldn't speak to me, I asked, "So have you heard all of that before?" He neither spoke nor acknowledged that I'd uttered a syllable. "I'm, Camille. What's your name?" Again, not even an acknowledgement that I'd spoken. I could feel my eyebrows furrow, "What's next on today's agenda?" I got my answer — more silence.

# Chapter 25

_(Daniel – Oceanside, CA — Thursday afternoon)_

Three days had passed since I heard from her. The call Sunday night had me concerned. It wasn't like Cami. She always put her friends before everyone else. As stoked as she was about meeting Bianca Saturday night, I couldn't imagine what would have possessed her to put the moves on Bianca's fiancé Sunday. Something wasn't right. I dialed again. "Damn voicemail," I said to no one in particular. No fricken way I'm leaving another voicemail.

Something was wrong. I could feel it. No way would she not return one of my calls in three days. I got on the internet and found William Strayer. I scratched his number on the back of a receipt and called him.

A lady answered the phone, "Hello."

"Hi, this is Daniel. I'm a friend of Cami's. Could I talk to her?"

"Uh... Camille isn't here right now. Could I take a message?"

"When will she be back?"

"She's visiting her grandmother in Florida. I'm afraid I don't know when she'll return."

"Since when does Cami have a grandmother?"

"I'll give her your message when she returns." Her voice had finality to it, but I didn't want her to hang up.

"Wait! Can you give me her grandmother's phone number?"

"She doesn't have a phone."

"She doesn't have a phone?"

"No, she lives a life of seclusion."

"Well, what's her grandmother's address?"

"I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?"

"Daniel. Daniel Gaskins. I'm a friend of Cami's from California. I just need to talk to her."

"That's out of the question." I heard her hang up. If it would have been possible to reach through the phone line and slap her, I would have. Fine, she won't give me the address over the phone; maybe she'll be more willing to give it to me while I'm standing at her door.

Six hours later I was on an eastbound plane. I shook my head at myself. This was stupid. Cami was an adult, and if she didn't want to talk to me, she didn't have to. I had been pretty hard on her, but that's how we were with each other. If she thought I'd done something stupid, she'd be the first person to tell me. If I believed she was just avoiding me, I never would have boarded the plane. Something was wrong. I could feel it. She needed me.

As I transferred planes in Atlanta, I turned on my phone to see if Cami had called me back. I was surprised to hear a voicemail from my father: "Daniel, I need you to call me as soon as you get this."

He never called to visit, usually only picking up the phone when someone died. I dialed his number while I walked to my next gate. "Hey, Dad, you wanted me to call you?"

"Daniel, where are you?"

"Why, what's wrong?"

"You aren't in Charleston, are you?"

"Uh, no. Why would I be in Charleston?" I got a strange sensation. I hadn't told anyone but the lady at the ticket counter in the airport where I was going. What the heck was going on?

"Well, where are you? I phoned your boss, and he said you took a vacation."

During the summer, I worked as a lifeguard on the beach in Carlsbad. My boss looked at me like I was crazy for wanting to take some vacation days. My job was every single guy's dream, but finding a replacement for me was a piece of cake, so he told me to have a great time. I didn't want to own up to flying to the east coast to check on Cami, "You assumed I'd take a vacation to Charleston?"

"No. No, it's not important. I just want to know where you are."

"Uh, Dad, why did you call me in the first place?

"I received a call from Camille's stepmother... it doesn't matter. So where are you?"

"Cami's stepmother called? What'd she say?" I wanted to add: How would Cami's stepmother have your name and number?

"Daniel, I've told you. Camille is off limits."

"We're just friends, Dad. I've never looked at her sideways. Something's wrong, I can feel it. She needs me."

"Leave it alone, Daniel. You don't know what you're getting yourself into."

I'd made it to my gate, and the plane was already boarding. I was sure he could hear the intercom paging flights in the background. "I gotta go, Dad."

"Daniel! I don't' know where you are, but you'd better get back here now."

I hung up the phone. Maybe he'd think we got disconnected or something. How in the heck did Gretchen know I was on my way there? Better yet, how did she know how to get in touch with my dad? Something was definitely wrong, and Gretchen was trying to cover it up. I handed my boarding pass to the ticket agent and knew a team of wild horses couldn't stop me from getting on that plane.

After a short forty-five minute flight, the plane touched down just after midnight. The right thing would have been to get a hotel then give her new family a visit in the morning. But I was never known for making the best choices. I got in a rental car, plugged the address into the navigation, and decided they were going to have a visitor tonight whether they liked it or not.

My phone buzzed again; my dad was calling me. I hit "Ignore." I'd only driven fifteen minutes before the navigation told me I'd arrived at my destination. In front of me stood a very large, very secluded estate, with enormous centaur statues flanking the driveway. It looked like every light in the house was on. "Huh, that's odd." I looked at my watch: almost 1 a.m. As I pulled up the driveway, I noticed a man with his arms crossed standing just in front of the steps. It looked like he was waiting for somebody.

I stopped the car and walked up to him, stuck out my hand and flashed my friendliest southern California smile, "Hi, I'm Daniel. I'm looking for Cami."

"I know exactly who you are. Did your father not tell you to return home?"

I could feel my eyebrows raise when I answered, "He did, but I was already halfway here. Where can I find Camille?"

"You can't find her. Go back where you came from."

"Look, I don't know what your game is. She came here for a couple days. I haven't heard from her since Monday night. That was three days ago. I just want to know that she's all right, and then I'll be on my way."

"Gretchen already told you, she's staying with her grandmother in Florida."

"Fine, give me the address."

He leaned in, nose to nose. I knew he was trying to intimidate me. Truthfully, he had me by several inches and at least fifty pounds. I didn't know why he was being so hostile, "You have no business with my daughter. Return to your family before you put mine in danger."

"In danger? I just want to know that she's okay."

"You're not welcome here. Let your father explain why. On your way – now!" He flicked his hand like he was dismissing someone beneath him. I was way past pissed. I don't know what possessed me to do it, but I took a half a step in his direction, and my fist connected hard with his jaw. I'm not sure what I expected to accomplish. I hadn't punched anyone since Billie Kennedy on the playground in third grade. This didn't look like it was going to turn out any better than that time.

William Strayer looked at me. I saw his pupils change from normal to huge – it was the first time I'd felt unfettered fear in my whole life. My punching him in the face stunt didn't make him flinch but seemed to pour acid in his voice. "Out of respect for your father, and only him, I'll give you this single warning. You've been told Camille is off limits. If I see you near her again, I'll kill you myself. Stay away from Camille. Stay away from my family. Keep to your own kind."

"My own kind?"

He turned his back on me and went inside the house. I was furious. I let my emotions get the better of me when I started pounding on the door, the windows, yelling at the top of my lungs, "Cami! Cami, can you hear me?! Where are you?! I just need to know that you're okay!" I don't know how many choruses I yelled, but my throat was going raw, and I was hoping the jackass would call the cops soon.

To my surprise, a younger version of William Strayer stepped outside onto the porch. "Hey, Daniel. Let's go for a ride, okay?"

"I'm not going anywhere with you! I wannna' see Cami, now!"

"Hey, Slugger, she's not here. You're about a heartbeat away from being stomped to death by my dad. We don't have to go anywhere, we can just sit in your car, but you need to get off the porch before he removes you from it."

"I'm not leaving until I see her."

His voice was kind, and for some reason, I believed him when he told me, "Daniel, my name's Beau. I'm her brother and I promise you, if she were here, you could see her. C'mon, just step down and I'll tell you what I know."

We got in my rental and Beau sat down in the passenger seat. "Look, I'm not sure what's going on either. All I know, I got home from work Wednesday night, and Mom and Dad were freaked. Her grandmother took her to Florida. Her car was abandoned a few blocks from here."

"But, that doesn't make any sense."

"Not to me either. I know Mom and Dad won't talk about it with us, but they were fighting like crazy last night."

"Didn't your mom want Cami here?"

"Are you kidding me? Mom loves Camille. We all do. She was yelling at Dad, telling him he needed to go get her. Something bad was going on there."

"But he didn't go?"

"He went this morning, but her grandmother put a sp...I mean, the estate was locked down. Camille's grandmother won't let Dad set foot on the place."

"How do you know she's okay?"

"That's the thing, we don't."

"So call the cops!"

"Dad already tried that, and they threatened to put him in jail."

"So, no one can talk to Cami because there's no phone? No one can get there because the gate's locked? If she's in trouble, we have to do something."

"Dad says he's got a friend who is working to get her out, but Dad was essentially escorted to the state line earlier today and sent home."

"Give me the address. I'll go."

Beau looked down at the floor board, "Yeah, you need to talk to your dad first."

"My dad? What does he have to do with this?"

"Look, I can't go into any detail, but...there's no easy way to say this...Camille's special."

"You think I don't know that?"

"I mean, there are things her mom never told her about her family."

"Angela told Cami that she didn't have any family. I knew her mom really well. She wouldn't have lied to Cami without a reason. Sounds like Angela knew something like this could happen."

"We all want her back as badly as you do, but if you try to go there, I don't know what her grandmother would do to you or her. It'll be better for Camille if you don't try to find her. Let my parents handle it."

"What's her grandmother's name? I just need to know she's okay."

"She's Zandra Chiron. Zandra won't hurt her. I may not know much else, but I know that."

I liked Beau. Cami had told me about him, and I trusted him. It didn't mean I would follow his advice, but I believed him.

# Chapter 26

_(Camille Benning – Florida — Friday)_

I had four assigned guards who rotated their shifts. I was never left alone – even while asleep, watchful eyes were there. Each remained under strict orders not to speak with me, not to answer any questions I asked, and above all, not to let me out of their sight.

My first week was the toughest. Each time I attempted to go to an area of the house that I was forbidden from, I found myself in some sort of physical pain as a deterrent. One guard used pressure points; he was by far the most humane of the four. The other _day_ guard was quick to grab me by the nape of my neck and shove me in the direction of his choosing. Although none ever left a mark, it was clear that each one took his job very seriously and had no intention of letting me go farther than I was allowed.

That first week I fought them at every turn. I refused to dress in the elaborate outfits to go sit in a formal dining room by myself for dinner. After several days, the only conclusion I could draw was that if I didn't dress for dinner and make my way downstairs when directed – I wouldn't eat. A couple mornings I had tried to sleep late; Aragon tipped the entire mattress up so that my body spilled out onto the floor. In protest, I grabbed a blanket and a pillow and curled up on the floor. I was not willing to go to the garden for another lesson from Zandra – Aragon carried me in my pajamas to the garden and set me down on a bench.

By the afternoon of my seventh day, I knew no one was coming to rescue me — I had to plot my own escape. The frosted window in my bathroom was small, but I was sure I could squeeze through it. It had been nailed shut, but that didn't stop me. I kept a butter knife from a breakfast tray and used it to pry the nails loose. The sound of the running water masked the complaints from the nails as I pried them free. I opened the window only to see there was no ledge to step onto. The bathtub was full and I was fully clothed. I needed a rope or bed sheets or something. When I emerged from the bathroom, the guard made eye contact with me but quickly looked away. I walked over to the side of the bed and grabbed my book, "You might as well get comfortable," I motioned to the chairs, "I'll be in there a while."

A change of sheets was lying on the corner of the bed; I was able to grab one without the guard realizing. I tucked it close to me and balanced the book so it would obscure that I was carrying the sheet if the guard happened to look my way. The guard didn't flinch. Once back in the bathroom, I ripped the sheet into thirds, then knotted it every foot for added strength. I secured one end to the claw foot on the bottom of the ancient bathtub and threw the rest of it out the window.

I scraped both of my hips pulling myself through the window, but I didn't care. It was my first taste of freedom in almost a week – I could feel my heart racing. The height of the window scared the crap out of me, but the sheet allowed me to get ten feet closer to the ground. I dropped and rolled onto the lush grass. I knew I'd never make it on foot, so I crept around the house toward the garage. I sneaked around each corner, careful not to let anyone see me. I made it all the way to the garage door; when it swung open, I heard, "Out for an afternoon stroll?"

Zandra stood just inside the garage with a very large man I'd never met before. Not wasting one bit of the adrenaline coursing through my body, "You can't keep me here!" I spat out, refusing to be any more of a victim than I'd already been.

"Can't I? Camille, I am your guardian. You don't get to simply decide to leave."

"I just did."

"Ahhh, I see." She gracefully crossed her arms in front of her and quietly responded, "It would be a shame for you to leave before I believe you're ready. It might even be considered disrespectful. If I were to be disrespected by you, in this community, you can be assured a debt would be owed."

A debt? What kind of a debt would I owe her? Smearing her reputation couldn't result in a blood debt, could it? "You kidnapped me! You've kept me here against my will. I just want to go back to my family."

"I _am_ your family, you ungrateful nag. You decide: do you want one of your half brothers to pay your debt for leaving my estate without permission, for stealing one of my cars, for tarnishing my good name? I can see now you do not possess the strength your mother had. She would never have allowed another to pay her debt. I still believe that if Kyle Richardson had demanded a blood debt when he was wronged, she would have returned to pay it herself."

My stomach cinched tight. I couldn't stand the thought of Brent, Bart, Bruce, Ben or Beau being penalized for my actions. I wanted to leave this place, but not at their expense. I put my head down and took myself back to my room without another word. I hated it here, I hated this woman, but I would never fall into her trap. I'd become a model prisoner and pray for an early release.

I found myself wishing I had never called Will. I wished I had stayed hidden in California, working my job as a cashier, living in a shoebox of an apartment, free to go to the ocean or the mountains – whenever I chose. My father's home had been more like a fairy tale, something dreamt up by Disney himself: a family who loved me, an ancestry I never knew, and endless possibilities for life. Meeting Will, Gretchen, and my brothers seemed like a blessing – truly a life that I had always craved. But reality was I had known their joy for a week. I kept watch on the front gate, hoping Will would come driving through to take me back to his house. He never did. Did he even know where I was?

Shortly after my attempted escape, I found myself prying at that loose baseboard in the closet. The thing jammed into the plaster was a diary; written in flowing calligraphy across the front was the name _Angela Chiron_. The diary's cover was made of leather and was locked with a key. Sure that my mother would want me to read whatever she had written, I used a wire hanger to pry the lock open. The first entry was written in smooth flowing handwriting: I recognized it instantly as my mother's.

_Entry One Sep 21 – My engagement was just announced – Kyle Richardson. I didn't care who she chose. Living with the devil himself would be better than my mother. She's got it in her head that I won't go through with it. She has no idea how deep my hatred is for her and this prison. Father came to my room last night and gave me this diary. He said it would be better for me to write my words down than to say them to my mother. Just once, I wish he would stand up to her. Just once I'd like for him to tell her to go to hell where she belongs._

The next several entries were of little value, so I flipped a few pages and found:

_Entry Twelve Oct 2 – I met Kyle today. Truthfully, I had expected a monster. It didn't take long for him to decide mother was completely unstable. He wanted to return home to try to convince his father to speed up our wedding date. He told me if it was within his power, he'd marry me today and get me out of here. I'm sure he felt sorry for me – the wounds on my neck were scabbed and bloody again from her tirade this morning. I knew I looked a fright. Trying to cover my neck with a scarf didn't do any good as the blood seeped through the bright yellow material. He said he'd be back every day until we were married._

This entry threw me for a loop. I wondered if she was some sort of a vampire? Why would my mother's neck be scabbed and bloody? Zandra was so wrapped up in Greek Mythology but had never mentioned vampires, werewolves or any creatures from the night. My imagination began running wild.

_Entry Thirteen Oct 3 – Angelo was at it again today. He's as evil as mother. I overheard that he'd attacked a woman in town. I sat all day looking out my window, hoping the authorities would come take him away – no one ever came. Kyle stopped by again today. He's so kind. When no one was looking, he gave me some medicine for the wounds on my neck. Less than a month, and I'll be able to leave this place with him – and never look back._

The guard knocked on my closet door and about made me jump out of my skin. "Just a second, I'm getting dressed!" I answered before he could open the door and catch me with the diary. I tucked the book behind the drawers, inside the dresser, and pushed the baseboard where I'd found it, back securely against the wall.

I found a long forgotten crayon that lay dusty in a corner. On the inside of the closet, near the floor, I made a series of tick marks – one for each day I'd spent in this place. I didn't know how long I would be kept here, and knew I needed some method to keep track of the time. I didn't know why my mother ran away or why she had given up everything that was her birthright, but hopefully the diary would reveal truths to me that I couldn't find anywhere else.

I couldn't be sure, but from their strength, I believed the guards to be Centaurs. The servants didn't talk to me either; I wasn't even sure if they spoke English, but I wasn't as frightened of them, so I assumed they were human.

Each morning, no matter the weather, Zandra and I met in her gardens. She taught me about Greek Mythology with the same reverence my high school Civics teacher taught me about Democracy. The first few weeks were all her telling me stories, but eventually she waited to tell me a new story until after I had repeated the story to her from the day before. There were never conversations; she didn't spend time with me anywhere but the gardens and only for an hour each morning.

There was no telephone, no television, and no internet – there were plenty of servants, but the only person who would speak to me was Zandra. I had read enough about Stockholm's syndrome to know I would eventually feel some sort of a bond with her, just because she was the only one to show me even the smallest sliver of kindness by speaking to me. The solitude of Zandra's home was deafening. The only part of the day I looked forward to was my garden time with my captor and the few moments I could steal in my closet reading my mother's thoughts in her diary.

The lesson on my twentieth day was by far the most helpful of anything she'd taught me. While we sat in the sun, I silently wished for a notebook, doing my best to commit her words to memory. The mythology she had been teaching me was interesting, but this day's lesson was centered on Centaurs and specifically Centaurides' skills.

She began, "There were seven mares on the pasture of Thessaly when Kentaros arrived, each one part of the world's oldest breeds. The centaurs born of these mares each had very distinct markings and temperaments. Many centaurs born of Kentaros and the respective mare took on a family name closely tied to the mare's breed.

An Andalusian mare bore Centaur children, and they took the name Andalcio. Their women were able to move objects with their minds.

A Schwieken mare bore Centaur children that kept the breed's name as their family name; these Centaurides could read people's thoughts.

A white Arabian mare's descendants became Owens; they communicated with spirits.

A Barb mare took the family name Barber; her children could see the future.

A Fjord mare also kept her breed's name as the surname for her bloodline. Her daughters could communicate telepathically with others.

Centaurs born of a Tahki mare took the family name Tak. Their power was unique, the ability to plant ideas in another's consciousness. They could make others believe an incident had occurred, and were known for their deceit and ruthlessness. The Tak bloodline offended Zeus, so he eventually cast them out; Zeus barred them from ever returning to Thessaly. He also forbade all other Centaurs from fraternizing with the Taks. Their bloodline did not survive.

The Chiron family descended from a black Arabian mare, and when Zeus bestowed his gifts on all the female Centaurides in all the bloodlines, he looked most favorably on Chiron's descendants. We were given all the collective powers bestowed on each bloodline – except, of course, the Taks'."

"But I've met Centaurides who have more than one skill."

Zandra nodded and smiled. "Inbreeding would be catastrophic for our race. We would have long ago perished. A Centauride typically possesses the skills of the two dominant bloodlines that run through her body."

"So if someone is a Centaur, their last name can only be one of the six from the original herd?"

"No. Over the years, many opted to take on names other than their family names. This was done so that the family names would not become too obvious to the humans."

"How many Centaurs are there in the world?"

"Pure-blooded Centaurs? One in ten thousand, possibly more. Half-breeds that have Centaur blood but are unaware they are something more than human – five in one thousand.

I asked my next question cautiously. This had been one of the few times she openly answered my questions. "How does one Centaur know another?"

"Centaurides can feel each other in their minds: it is a familiarity with a stranger, a kinship. Centaurs sense other Centaurs through their warrior sense. I'm told it is a tingling in their chest, a silent warning, useful in battle, I assume."

"Zandra, I don't have any skills." Truthfully, I could read minds through touch, but I'd only successfully done that with one person. I could read the images from Drake's mind, but that was a far cry from simply reading another's thoughts. "What's wrong with me?" I had opened myself up and expected her to give me a kind response, encourage me in some small way.

I shouldn't have been surprised when she responded, "You were born out of wedlock. You are an amalgamation." The hatred in her words cut me deeply when she added, "You should not exist. My daughter did this to you: she allowed you into the world and she taught you nothing. Her responsibility is now shouldered by me, and _you_ are not worthy to carry my name."

I had been here for so long. I'd had almost no contact with anyone but Zandra, and this was the first time she had openly told me she was ashamed of me — that I didn't belong. I had fooled myself into believing that this elaborate kidnapping had somehow been done for my protection, that she wanted me to join the Centaur kingdom as a full-fledged Centauride – eventually she would see her daughter in me. There were no words to describe the utter despair that enveloped me. Choking back the tears, I pleaded, "Let me go home. I won't tell anyone we're related. I'll never breathe a word to anyone." I knew I was a pathetic mess as I saw her angry words grow into a look full of disdain. I pleaded, "I won't ever tell a soul. Just let me go home."

"It is too late for that. Because of the idiocy of your father, others know of you. You must learn your heritage so that you may embrace it. We must call to the magic in your blood; I can feel it in you. I can also feel your denial of who you are."

A man walked up and leaned down to kiss Zandra's cheek. I had to look at him twice; his face was masculine, but he looked eerily like my mother. He had the same brown eyes, bushier eyebrows, dark curly hair, and the same pointy nose. The biggest difference was I rarely saw my mother without a welcoming smile, and this man seemed to have a permanent scowl. "Good morning, Mother. You're looking well." I was so used to everyone on the property ignoring me, except Zandra, that I was shocked to see him make eye contact with me.

Zandra's voice softened as she answered, "Angelo, I'm so glad to see you've returned from your trip. I have a surprise for you."

He took me in with the same disgusted look Zandra had just bestowed on me, "Word reached me, Mother. I came to see for myself. Are you certain she isn't a half-breed? I wouldn't have put it past Angela." He had her eyes, their eyes – this was my Uncle Angelo. I had just read the entry about his attack on a woman in my mother's diary. His presence made me want to shrink into a corner. He looked so much like my mother in his features, but where she exuded happiness, love and joy — this man gave off hateful, menacing vibes. Even without reading her diary, instinctively I would never wish to be alone with him.

Zandra shook her head and continued talking as if I weren't there. "No, she clearly is the spawn of Angela and William Strayer."

"Where's her brother?"

"I'm sure he's tucked away somewhere. I've looked through her thoughts many times; she has no recollection of him. Shame. I've dispatched a team to tear Angela's past apart. He'll turn up."

Zandra's words still stung, and I was too frightened to ask what they were talking about. A brother? Why did they think I had a brother? This question had escaped me before I caught the thought in my head and hid it behind my mind's brick wall.

Zandra did the same thing Gretchen had done to me. I didn't have to ask the question out loud. She was only too happy to answer my thoughts. "Every Chiron Centauride who gives birth, since Kantaros walked the earth, has always given birth to a set of fraternal twins. You have a brother somewhere in the world. We need to find him."

My eyes widened, and I felt dizzy. "A brother? I don't have a brother. I mean, I've got five half brothers, William's sons." She had to be wrong. There had to be some kind of mistake.

Angelo shot me a glare. "Of course, you've got a brother. Did you not listen to your grandmother? Things haven't changed since the beginning of time. You are a worthless excuse for a Centauride, but that doesn't surprise me. Your mother was pathetic, too. The Chiron bloodline is dominate; we were favored by Zeus."

He wanted me to challenge him; I could feel it. His words were hurtful. I couldn't argue his slanderous comments about me. Even I was embarrassed that I was unable to do what every other Centauride could do without effort, but I wouldn't allow him to attack my mother, "My mother was not pathetic. She was wonderful. She worked hard her whole life, and she treated everyone with kindness and respect."

"Ha! And she's dead. Were you not listening? I am Angela's twin. I felt her leave this world. I feel her spirit lurking here now." Angelo stopped looking at me and shouted out, "Angela, keep hiding in the corners! Spend your death the same way you spent your life! Camille is part of our family. Mother will not be as soft on her as she was on you!"

One of the marble statutes began to weave. I saw it sway twice right before it toppled over. Angelo was fast and jumped free of the statue before it could fall on him. He shouted, "You've got to do better than that, Angela! I'm not surprised to see you are as weak in death as you were in life. Go to the pastures; leave Camille in our care. We'll see that she pays your debts!"

I looked in all directions. I needed her to tell me how she escaped. I needed to be away from this place. Why couldn't I see her?

Zandra answered me, "You can't see her because you choose not to see her. Imagine her disappointment in you. I can see her. I can see you fell short in her eyes, and you continue to do so by refusing to use the gifts you were born with. You need only open your mind to find your twin."

Without thinking I blurted out, "Angelo, if you had this connection with my mom, how did you never find her?"

Angelo's teeth were mashed together; his lips were thin angry lines and his eyes blazed when he answered, "She was cloaked by magic. When her spirit left her body, I felt it go. I knew she had died."

I was intrigued. Not only had my mother escaped, she was able to completely hide from everyone, even Angelo who should have had Centaur GPS connection to her. "But your twin connection did not work before her death?"

Zandra must have read my thoughts because she turned her attention to my uncle, "Come, Angelo, we have much to catch up on."

The two of them left me in the garden. My heart hurt: I felt like I didn't belong, that I was inadequate, that I would never have the life I wanted. Angelo said I'd pay for her debts. What did that mean? To think I was excited when today's lesson began, and in this moment I couldn't imagine a fate worse than the one I was living.

I thought back to times as a teenager. Mom always knew when I was up to something I shouldn't be. I remembered I'd stayed at a party all night on the beach. I'd arranged with a friend to cover for me; if my mom checked on me, I was staying at her house. When the sun rose and I knew it was time to go home, my mother's car was waiting for me in the beach's parking lot. I didn't know how long she had sat waiting for me. Most parents would have flown off the handle. She didn't. All she said was, "I'm disappointed in you, Camille." I think I would have taken any punishment in the world if it meant I wouldn't have heard those words.

Another time when I'd "borrowed" a sweater from her after she'd told me I couldn't, I sneaked into her room and jammed it deep into my book bag. I tried to get to the front door when she stopped me. She took it out of my book bag before I left for school that morning and scolded me for lying to her. All my friends noticed it, too. I was the only one who could never get away with anything. I'd never put it together before.

She really was a Centauride. I was her daughter and if what Angelo told me was true – I had a twin brother somewhere in the world that I'd never known. I thought back to Mom's treasure box in her closet, the photograph of two babies. Was Zandra right? Maybe as a Centauride and as a daughter, I was a disappointment to my mother.

Thankfully, Angelo departed the same day he came. He was like Zandra, evil to the core, with no thought for anyone but himself. I felt horrible for my circumstance. I wanted to run away. I wanted to talk to someone. I needed human contact.

I read the whole diary in short bursts; there weren't that many entries. From what I'd read, she really didn't care for Zandra and was thrilled with the idea of marrying Kyle Richardson and getting the heck away. I wish there had been something that talked about how she made her escape. A secret passageway? Maybe her father finally came through for her? But I didn't find any clues in it, other than to know Zandra had always been a vile person, and her brother Angelo was mean to her his whole life.

_Entry Eighteen Oct 15 – Kyle stopped by again today. I can't wait to get married and get away from this place. Dad refuses to stop Angelo's constant threats. I can't believe we are related, let alone twins. Angelo warned Kyle I'd run the first chance I got, and that Kyle needed to talk to mother about keeping me under control. When Kyle told Angelo that he wasn't worried, Angelo offered to show him how to slice my Achilles' tendon, to keep me from running. Kyle pretended he thought that Angelo was joking, but he stayed with me all day and offered to camp out in the backyard if I wanted him to. Two more weeks and this hell is over._

By my forty-second tick mark on my closet wall, I began to wonder if I'd ever be permitted to leave or speak to another human being. I was thankful Bianca had taught me how to protect my thoughts so the hatred I felt for Zandra was masked from her view. I did broadcast the loneliness I felt growing each day, hoping it would ebb away at Zandra's resolve to keep me a prisoner. Those lonely thoughts gave way to the longing for relationships that might never be. I felt myself thinking often of Will, Gretchen, and my brothers, how all of them had willingly accepted me into their home, their lives and their hearts. The fun-loving brothers I'd only known for a mere week had been abruptly stolen like a prized toy. The knowledge that somewhere in the world I had a brother that I'd shared my mother's womb with was crippling because I didn't know if he was dead or alive. The father who was full of love, who I'd been denied my whole life, was robbed from me. I thought of Daniel all the time. I knew he would be worried sick by now. The solitude proved unbearable, and the guards witnessed me in emotional turmoil nearly every evening, but none offered even one word of comfort. They looked on as my hopelessness threatened to envelope me.

As I stared at that forty-second tick mark, I made up my mind, no matter what Zandra chose to do to me, it couldn't be worse than the utter hopelessness of being denied human contact – or Centaur contact. When she joined me in the garden, she waited for me to repeat the lesson from yesterday — I rebelled the only way I knew how, "Zandra, when can I see Dad again?"

"Your father is very busy. He'll see you when he chooses to make time for you." She was lying. I couldn't read her mind or her thoughts, but I could feel the truth. She was keeping me from him.

"Does he know where I am?"

"Of course, he knows where you are."

"Then why hasn't he come to see me?"

"I'm afraid I don't know."

"Bullshit!" The look on her face was worth every penny in my bank account, and I would have gladly handed it over. I'd rattled her.

"I think we'll skip the lesson today. I'll see you tomorrow." She stood and walked away. I felt that initial panic that I had wasted what little human contact I was afforded by my belligerence. The panic gave way to seething anger; I made myself a silent promise that I would not relent. I watched as an alligator that had been sunning along the water's edge dove into the water – even that beast with prehistoric ancestors had more freedom than I did. I wouldn't give up, and I refused to politely sit through one more of her lessons.

I was done. Nothing in the world was worth this isolation. When I heard the door to the house close, I knew my human contact was over for the day. I was wearing blue jeans, a sweatshirt, and my favorite sneakers – perfect traveling clothes. I stood up and started walking toward the large iron gate. I could hear my guard's footsteps behind me. I had gone thirty feet when I heard his voice for the first time in six weeks, "Stop!"

I ignored him and picked up my pace.

His voice was loud and menacing, "Camille, I said _stop_!"

I didn't even glance over my shoulder. I had spoken to him on several occasions and was ignored. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead I let loose into a sprint for the gate. Two vice grips for hands grabbed my shoulders, throwing me violently to the ground when I was less than twenty feet from the gate. I hadn't expected the impact. I lay on the ground weighing my options. I could easily make it into the swamp with a hope that this man couldn't swim and the alligators I watched every day would not attack me. I sat up from the ground, brushed the gravel off of my face, and glared in his direction.

His face was angry when he demanded, "Go back to the house."

"You go back to the house. I'm going home."

"This is your home, Camille."

"No, this is her home. I'm leaving." I stood up, brushed the last of the gravel from me and looked at the gate. I could reach it and be over it in less than thirty seconds. The problem was, I knew the guard was even faster. Where's a man-eating alligator when you need one? I took a step toward the water, deciding this would be my best shot at freedom. When I did, the guard heaved his whole body at me. The weight of his frame knocked the wind out of me and covered me in gravel a second time.

The guard anticipated what I was about to do. He was done talking to me. His palm gripped my neck at the base of my skull, and he forcibly escorted me all the way to the front door.

The anger inside me welled up with such fervor that I was sure it would spill over and poison those around me. I knew I needed to hold the anger, but I also needed to get it back to a slow boil. I did what I knew would bring the anger under control, but in doing so would make my heart ache all over again.

I closed my eyes and imagined the day on the yacht with Drake: how his skin felt as I held his face in my hands. I saw the surprised look on his face when images of the two of us flooded from his mind. I remembered how overcome I was by the images, so much so that I kissed him without warning. I sat in my room for what felt like hours, reliving those precious few moments with him, trying to remember what we had said to one another.

Drake was my island oasis. I could feel the molten anger subsiding. It didn't go away – but I felt I had it under control again. Thoughts of Drake had somehow become my escape. I thought of my easy friendship with Bianca and wondered if she'd been able to convince Drake to break their engagement after I'd been taken away. I wondered what they knew of my disappearance. Did they think I'd hopped a plane to California? I tried not to think of Daniel, but knew he was probably a nervous wreck; we'd been friends since I knew what a friend was. Even when I'd gone away to summer camp, I had never gone longer than a week without talking to him.

The morning of tick mark forty-three, I again met Zandra in the garden and asked her the same question as the day before. She refused to answer and gingerly walked away for a second time. It was in that moment that I realized she was manipulating me in one of the most sadistic of manners. She withheld what little human contact was afforded to me. I was stronger than she gave me credit for, sharper still for noticing it, and then it hit me – I wasn't alone. My mother's spirit was undoubtedly here with me. I just needed to figure out how to communicate with her. By Zandra's own admission, this was a gift bestowed upon me by Zeus himself; no amount of manipulation would inhibit this gift.

# Chapter 27

_(Camille Benning – Florida — Six weeks following her abduction)_

I looked at my guard; it wasn't the same one who had tackled me yesterday. "I know you're forbidden from talking to me. I don't need you to say a word, but I do need you to help me. My guess is you don't like her any more than I do. Blink your eyes once for yes, twice for no. Do you understand?" The guard's eyes darted from left to right to ensure no prying eyes could see. He blinked once. My heart did a cartwheel in my chest.

"Does my father know where I am?" His eyes blinked once, again. "Has he tried to see me?" Again, one single blink. "Do you know how long she plans to keep me?" This time he blinked twice. "Will you help me get out of here?" He blinked twice again. What little hope I had felt when the guard blinked his answers disappeared in front of my eyes.

I heard my mother's voice for the first time since her hospital room, " _Listen to his thoughts_." I looked in all directions to see if she had miraculously appeared, but I couldn't see her. I smelled her perfume, and a warm glow overtook me — she was with me. I concentrated with everything I had on this guard standing in front of me. I looked at the lines around his eyes, the way the red vessels showed through the white, and the light caramel brown of his eyes. My concentration did not waiver. I was sure he had to feel me tugging at his thoughts. It was as if a thin membrane separated them from me.

The guard did nothing to impede me. I looked in all directions to see if Zandra was anywhere close. I visualized the membrane separating his thoughts from me, and with near surgical precision, I cut a big gaping hole in it. I saw the guard's knees weaken for a moment; he recovered quickly and looked away. I asked him my question with my thoughts, " _Can you hear me?_ "

No reaction. " _Can you hear me in your head?_ " Again, nothing. He had to have known I was there, but he couldn't hear my thoughts, so I whispered, "What's your name?"

His answer came to me loudly, through his thoughts, " _I am_ Phineas."

"Phineas, I can hear you." His eyes glistened and a smirk appeared on his face. I was thrilled to have someone who would talk to me. I talked aloud and he through his thoughts. He must have been suspicious that Zandra was closer than either he or I could see because he instructed, " _Keep your voice low. I am a close friend to your father. I told him of your tantrum yesterday. He was pleased."_

"I wouldn't call it a tantrum, more of an assertion of independence."

" _Call it what you want, she was furious when Aragon told her you tried to escape. Have you seen your future?_ "

"Uh, no. How do I do that?"

" _I don't know how, but all Chiron Centauride's can see the future; very few can see their own. Zandra saw your future and locked you away to keep it from happening. Gretchen is not as powerful as Zandra but believes you are at a crossroads. You are capable of several destinies._ "

"So Zandra is trying to change my future by keeping me locked up here? She can do that? Change someone's destiny?"

" _She can influence it, but she cannot preclude one that has been selected._ "

"What'd she see?"

" _I don't know, but whatever it was, it really shook her up. Your father hoped that she would use this time to teach you the things your mother didn't, to bestow her maternal gifts on you._ "

"The only thing I need from that woman is an exit. So how do I get out of here?"

" _Your father is still working on that. Because you aren't married, it is within her rights to remain your guardian. Your father wants to know if you have spoken with your mother's spirit."_

"Funny that you should ask. She spoke to me for the first time a few minutes ago, telling me to delve into your head."

_"She may be able to help you, more than I can. If I am caught aiding you, Zandra will seek retribution on my family. I've already put them at great risk_."

I was so pleased to be talking with someone, I didn't think of the implications for him. "Thanks, Phineas. Let my father know I'm okay."

" _I will."_

"Why hasn't he come to see me?"

_"She's put a spell on the gate, so none of your blood relatives can enter. William said you need to ask your mother about the night they met. He said you needed to know something about that night_."

"I will. Tell him not to worry." When I stood up, Phineas followed me, just as he had during his shifts since the first day I came to Zandra's home. He neither made eye contact nor shared another thought with me. Unsure of whether Zandra would be able to know if he were communicating with me, I silently closed the hole I had opened in the membrane of his thoughts. It was quiet again, but bearable. At least now I knew I wasn't alone – I had an ally.

That evening, I sat by myself, the same as I had done every evening, to a lonely dinner in an empty formal dining room. My evening guard had relieved Phineas, and I was feeling sorry for myself again. It was Aragon, who was extremely loyal to her; he was the one who stood guard in my bedroom nearly every night. I hated the idea of being watched while I slept, and I especially hated that he was the one watching me. Zandra walked into the room and saw the food I had pushed around on my plate. She looked at me with her usual disapproving glance, then announced, "I have a gift for you."

I was startled by her voice initially. This was the first time she had talked to me outside of the garden. My heart leaped at the idea that I might be leaving soon. She withdrew a wooden box from inside a linen bag. When she opened it, purple velvet lined the interior and a shimmering necklace lay waiting. "This was your mother's. I sense you are eager to leave my estate. I wanted you to have it."

I nodded enthusiastically, pleased that all our lessons and this dreadful prison were soon going to be a part of my past. Zandra motioned for me to stand, and I held my hair away from my neck, allowing her to clasp the exquisite necklace to me. It was made of platinum and unbelievably large sapphires. I had never experienced wearing jewelry made of platinum before and had no real appreciation for how heavy it would be. When Zandra secured the clasps, I felt a short burst of energy encircling my neck. She said, "This necklace's weight is meant to remind you of your obligations to this bloodline, to your family."

Zandra had given me a gift that belonged to my mother, acknowledging for the first time that I belonged. I was her flesh. I was thrilled, and without thinking, I blurted out, "When can I see my father?"

An electric shock so powerful shot through my body from the necklace, it brought me to my knees. I knelt on the floor crumpled from the energy, wondering what had just happened. Zandra's wicked voice calmly responded, "You will not see him until your wedding night, Camille. Each time I feel your belligerence or you initiate a quarrel with me, you will be reminded of your place in my home. Do you understand?"

I nodded my head in horror. A second ago, I had felt like a princess. What I realized was that in addition to my 24 hour guard watching my every move, my grandmother had given me the Centaur equivalent of an electrified shock collar to curb my outbursts. She smiled widely, in an effort to project her dominance, "Your mother wore that same necklace. She, too, was headstrong and threatened to run away at the first opportunity. I mistakenly removed it from her before she could marry the Centaur I selected for her. I will not make the same mistake a second time."

"Zandra, I can't be married. I can't choose. Mr. Richardson had me swear an oath that if his son was still not chosen by the time he was twenty-nine, I would choose him."

Her smile widened, giving me goose bumps. "You won't have to wait five years, Camille. I have already chosen Gage Richardson for you. You will be married in a month."

I shouted at her, "But I don't even know him!" Another electric charge rocked my body. My body shook in a mixture of adrenaline and desperation. I gritted my teeth, knowing that I would bring on the brutality of the device with another outburst, but I didn't care. "He is about to be chosen by another Centauride." The electric charges seemed to grow in intensity and length with each zap, as I braced myself when the third shock hit me.

Zandra shook her finger at me, as if correcting a small child caught in a cookie jar. "I'm afraid that won't happen. I've already spoken with my dear friend, Kyle. After your mother's stunt, he and I have developed a healthy respect for one another. You and Gage will be married in one month. Preparations are already underway."

I put my hands to the torturous device in an effort to move it away from the delicate skin around my neck, "I won't marry him." The fourth shock hit me so hard that I felt the flesh around my neck scorch, my fingers went numb, and I couldn't help but scream out in pain.

Zandra seemed to be enjoying the brutality of her present, "Have we learned our lesson yet? I can assure you, you have no alternatives."

I didn't think I could make my voice work without releasing sobs instead of words. The smell of burned flesh was thick in the air, and I knew she would continue to batter me until I relented or went up in flames. She stood in front of me, "Do not try to remove my endowment. It is your legacy. It can be removed by me or by your husband. I will only warn you this one time: should you try to remove it, the pain will be unbearable and the scarring a permanent reminder of your insolence. Attempting to leave my estate has similar results. You will learn your place. You will be obedient to me for the remainder of your stay, and you will not run away from your obligations. Goodnight, Camille. "

With her final threat, the tears that I had held for the last forty-three days of loneliness, and the last fifteen minutes of brutality, let loose. She had won. I was a sobbing mess, and as the salt from my tears streamed down my face, several down my neck and into the now open wounds, the sting was a horrific reminder of how utterly horrible my existence had become. I finally understood my mother's diary entry: it hadn't been some vampire. My own grandmother had put this device on my mother. From her description in the diary, it could do far more than scorch my skin.

Sleep didn't find me that night. The pain of the raw, charred skin on my neck didn't permit me to find any sort of position that would dull the pain. I asked the guard if he could get me some Neosporin, but he looked forward, with no acknowledgement to my request. I watched the sun pour in through the window, praying that my nightmare would be over soon. Why was she so set on me marrying Gage Richardson? She had set up a similar arrangement with his father and my mother — but my mother was able to escape. Waves of sadness washed over me as I imagined my mom growing up here with this lunatic. No wonder she told me her family was dead. No wonder we never traveled outside of California. I was furious with myself for not having run away to a remote jungle to escape this crazy woman when I had the chance. But at this point, running away was no longer an option.

In one short month, I would be married, married to a man whose heart would forever belong to Bianca. She told me no decision I ever made would drive a wedge into our friendship. Marrying the man that she loved might qualify as a wedge. Three heavy knocks hit my bedroom door with such force that the wall shook. I stared at the door, not willing to utter a syllable.

"Camille, could you come out here?" It was a man's voice. I didn't recognize it, but someone was talking to me. It was someone besides Zandra.

# Chapter 28

_(Camille Benning – Florida)_

At this point I would relish any visitor that was not my captor. I stood up gingerly from my bed, carefully put a sweatshirt on over my nightshirt and grabbed a pair of jeans. My guard didn't flinch. I turned the doorknob cautiously to be sure it wasn't some sort of a trick.

I recognized him from the pizza place the day Bianca hatched her "brilliant" plan. It was the man who would become my warden in a month. His voice was confident and his expression told me he was pleased to see me, "I thought I'd stop by to acquaint myself with my fiancé." He looked handsome. He wore a black t-shirt, a size too small for his biceps, his jeans were well worn but clean, his goatee and mustache were nicely trimmed, and he gave me a willing smile.

"Hi, Gage." I found the strength to mumble, "Nice to see you again."

"I thought we could get to know each other. Maybe go for a drive or something." He gave a startled look at the guard who had spent the night standing at attention. I could tell Gage didn't know what to make of him, so he added, "We could take your escort along." He had recovered quickly from his surprise, as if every single Centauride just happened to have a guard posted on her 24 hours per day.

I shook my head, "I'm not permitted to leave the estate."

"Even with an escort?"

I shook my head a little more vigorously. When I did, the necklace rubbed one of the sores on my neck, and I winced. Gage saw me wince, but I'm sure he didn't know why. "How about a walk in the garden?" he offered.

I looked at the guard to see if he would object. He continued focusing his attention onto the opposite wall. "Okay."

Gage seemed nice. He complimented the gardens that I also once thought were beautiful, the statues of the Greek gods that lined each section. The guards hadn't changed over like they normally would have. I began to wonder if something had happened to Phineas. He should have been here by now. Could Zandra have found out that he shared information with me? He said she would go after his family. If she was somehow listening to us yesterday, what would she have heard?

"Camille, did you hear me?" Gage was staring at me.

"I'm sorry, my mind was wandering. What'd you say?"

"I asked if you had chosen the gardens for our ceremony?"

"Uh, Zandra hasn't told me where."

It was obvious that Gage was trying to be charming, "If I get a vote, I'd like it to be next to the statue of Zeus."

My spirit was nearly broken, "I'll ask her if she minds."

"Camille, is there something wrong?"

I couldn't answer him. His question was wrong, on so many levels. When he realized I had no intention of answering him, he said, "Camille, you're supposed to be excited. We'll be united in a few short weeks. You don't seem the least bit interested."

I had cried my eyes out last night until nothing was left. I knew there was no escape, and I would be forced into exactly the life my mom never wanted and had carefully sheltered me from, hiding me away for twenty-two years. All her sacrifices for me had been made in vain. Gage grasped both my hands in his, "Do you not want to marry me?" There was a hopefulness in his voice, and I was too emotionally drained to try to figure out if it was hopefulness that I did or did not want to marry him. It didn't matter what I wanted. It wasn't my choice. I had no options.

"I...just had a rough night last night. I'm sorry if...I don't seem into it."

My lack of enthusiasm didn't diminish his, "I think Dad and Zandra are enthused enough for both of us. The invitations will be going out tomorrow." My only response was a solitary tear dripping down my cheek. I tried to wipe it away quickly before he could see, but Gage was far too perceptive.

"Talk to me, Camille. There is something bothering you." If I hadn't been subjected to the last two months, the kindness in Gage's voice wouldn't have had such an effect on me. But the absence of any human contact, other than Zandra, combined with the emptiness of emotions and the horrible night last night left me broken. It left me needing comfort. I leaned fully into Gage, sobbing silently against his chest as he gently wrapped his arms around me. He told me it'd be okay, and I got the impression he had no idea why he was comforting me, but he held me anyway.

When my emotional meltdown had subsided, I looked up at him with blurry eyes and tear-stained cheeks. I could see he was at a loss, unsure what to say. Finally I took my eyes off of him and found a very interesting patch of grass to concentrate on while he still held me in his arms. The words were out before I realized they had come from me. "What about, Bianca?"

Gage let go of me as if my skin burned him. He took a step away from me and said slowly, "I don't want you to mention Bianca to me, ever."

I was confused, "But she loves you. Why would you agree to marry me?"

His voice was harsh and his eyes angry, "Bianca is engaged to another Centaur. Never speak of her to me."

"But, Bianca is my friend...I don't..." the necklace must have decided my question constituted disobedience because the wounds that had been caked over with scabs overnight were just reopened by the new zap of electricity. I fell to the ground on my hands and knees and screamed like a Banshee. Gage stood, dumbfounded.

The necklace of horrors was hidden from view under my sweatshirt. The freshly opened wounds seeped blood through the sweatshirt as Gage's eyes watched helplessly. I saw him look at the guard, who paid no attention whatsoever to me writhing in pain. Gage knelt down beside me and saw the streaks of blood from the freshly opened wounds. He instantly tried to remove the necklace from me, but that only resulted in a second zap to us both and a shriller scream from me.

The guard seemed to have no problems talking to Gage, "The necklace is enchanted. It requires her obedience to Zandra and to you. You will be permitted to remove it from her after you are married," he added sadistically, "if you choose to." The guard's voice held no sympathy for me. His comment, "If you choose to," wasn't lost on me either. I'm sure if I had been betrothed to this guard, he would never remove it.

Gage's voice was full of volume when he yelled at the guard, "Are you insane? She's bleeding!"

"She is fully aware of the power of the enchantment. As your fiancé, she should have listened to your warning. The necklace does for you what you are too kind to do to her. She will not run away. She will not change her mind. She will be an obedient wife."

I could see the horror on Gage's face. He commanded, "Guard, leave us."

"I'm under orders from Zandra. You two are not to be left alone. I serve as her guard and her escort while you are on the premises."

Zandra appeared from around the hedge closest to the house. I knew she had witnessed what had happened or at least pieced it together. She flashed Gage a warm smile and held out her hand to him, "Gage, so glad you could stop by this morning. I'm afraid Camille has lessons in the garden every morning. You'll have to come back later to acquaint yourselves with each other."

"Miss Zandra. I believe Camille needs a doctor." I could see he struggled momentarily for the right words. "Her necklace has rubbed her neck raw."

Zandra's warm smile broadened when she said, "The necklace teaches her lessons more effectively than either you or I could teach her. She is not in need of a physician. Camille is in need of better manners. I believe she'll find them soon, don't you agree?"

Gage reached down, took my hand in his and politely asked Zandra, "It's really a beautiful day, and we've hardly had time to acquaint ourselves. Would it be all right if we spent some time getting to know each other now?"

Zandra eyed him suspiciously. "Very well. Do not leave the gardens." The polite tone she used with Gage disappeared when she addressed me, "Camille, we will continue our lessons tomorrow morning. I suggest you use this time to fine tune your manners."

Gage showed no fear, but an overt respect for her authority, "Uh, Miss Zandra, would it be possible for her escort to give us some privacy? I understand that we need to stay in clear view, but I'd like to get to know Camille a little better. Could he watch us from the garden's entrance?"

Zandra agreed and motioned for Aragon to move the fifty feet toward the elaborate entrance, in between two marble centaurs. Gage still held my hand but motioned for me to sit down. "What has she done to you?"

"She's been teaching me about Greek mythology, mainly."

"What's the story with the necklace of horrors?"

"She didn't like some of the things I had to say, and I tried to escape. The next thing I knew I was going through some twisted version of electric shock therapy."

"I'm going to have to leave for a few hours, but I'll be back, I promise. Is there anything I can get you?"

"Could I...I mean could you... I'd really like to see...Never mind."

"Who? Your dad?"

"I can't say her name."

Quietly, he nodded that he understood. "I'm saying this for the necklace's benefit more than yours, okay?" He waited for me to nod, then said, "You may say anything you want to me. An opinion or a question is not disobedience. You should not be punished for being inquisitive. It pleases me that you have a strong spirit."

"Thanks." I was so embarrassed of the position I was in, it was hard to look him in the eye.

"So, now that is out of the way. Why did you choose me for your husband?"

"Zandra chose you. She didn't tell me why other than she really wanted my mom to marry your dad. Mom ran away before the ceremony. I just found out that we were engaged last night."

"Last night? But she and Dad have been talking for over a month. You had no idea?"

I shook my head, still nervous about talking out loud. Gage breathed a huge sigh of relief. I wasn't sure why, and he didn't explain. "Is there anything I can bring you when I return?"

"A cell phone. I haven't talked to anyone in like forever."

Gage nodded. He stood and took both my hands in his as I remained seated. "I'll do my best to smuggle it in, although mine was confiscated when I arrived this morning. I was told that the marriage was your idea. You're saying that isn't true?"

I started to answer but stopped myself before I could say the word. Telling him the truth might be construed as disobedience to Zandra. I shook my head in response.

He bent down and kissed my hands. It sent shivers through my body. I'd had more human contact with him in the short time he spent with me than I'd had the whole time I'd been here. It felt good to be with someone who wasn't trying to manipulate me, someone who didn't believe kindness to be a character flaw.

"I'll be back soon," he promised.

As I watched him walk away, I wondered if he'd really be allowed back. Zandra could change the enchantment on the gate to ban him as well. I wasn't sure if I could make it another month living like this. I looked back at the guard and wondered where Phineas was.

# Chapter 29

_(Camille Benning – Florida)_

I was surprised to see Gage back before dinner. He wasn't alone. Bianca and Drake were both with him as he stepped through the massive entryway. Bianca ran to me, threw her arms around me, and squealed, "Camille, I've been so worried about you!"

I was so excited to see the friendly faces that I couldn't make a coherent sentence. Drake stepped through the entryway and brought in suitcases. I looked questioningly but couldn't peel myself away from Bianca. I could feel his eyes on me; they were heavy and I couldn't read his expression. My mind jumped to our lunch at Andolini's, the last time all four of us had been together. The excitement of that day seemed so long ago. I wasn't sure I was even the same person anymore. I felt weak, frightened, broken – a far cry from the euphoria from my last day of freedom.

Zandra walked down the staircase, suspicious of the people who had arrived without an invitation. "Gage, so lovely to see you again. I see you've brought friends."

"I spoke with my father this morning and told him how well Camille and I had hit it off. I knew Camille and Bianca were good friends, but as you know, Bianca is betrothed to Drake Nash. It would not be appropriate for me to travel with another Centaur's fiancé. My father recommended that I bring Bianca and Drake for a stay with you until we are wed."

"Your father suggested this?"

"Yes, Miss Zandra. He knows Camille is new to the Centaur way and thought having the three of us to keep her company may make her transition into our society less ...problematic."

Zandra's expression was stern, but she did not argue. "If it is at your father's request, I can hardly deny you." She looked at my guard, "Aragon, take their luggage upstairs. There are several open bedrooms in Camille's wing. Notify the staff that Camille will have company for dinner this evening." Without another word, she turned and walked away. The guard looked perplexed. I had not been left unguarded since the day I set foot here.

Aragon looked at the suitcases, then at me, then back to the suitcases. Gage could see the guard's internal struggle as clearly as I could. "Aragon, Camille will be safe with us. She won't bolt out the door. If Miss Zandra wants you to take our luggage upstairs, I wouldn't neglect her direction." He made a motion with his hands around his own neck, emulating the necklace I wore. The guard agreed and took the suitcases.

As soon as the guard was headed up the stairs, Bianca whispered, "Gage told us. Don't worry, we'll find a way to get you out of here."

"I can't believe you're all here. How long are you staying?"

She answered conspiratorially, "As long as it takes. Drake works for his dad, so it was easy for him to take the time off. Gage told his dad what he'd seen, and Kyle said to do whatever it took to keep you safe."

We knew watchful eyes were on us. Bianca, Drake and Gage were full of excitement, funny stories, and a real love of life. It was therapeutic just to be in their presence, and I was more grateful than I could have ever expressed to any of them, to have them near me after so much loneliness. After we had eaten dinner and spent several hours together, Bianca announced, "Okay, I'm exhausted. Drake, will you walk me to my room?"

"I'd be happy to. Good night, Gage. Good night, Camille. I think I'll turn in, too. See you both in the morning." The two walked arm-in-arm up the stairs, leaving only Gage, me and my guard in the sitting room. Gage walked across the room, sat down beside me on the sofa and whispered, "There is nothing you could do or no action you could take that would be disobedient to me." He pressed his lips to my forehead. When he stood up, he moved his hand to my cheek and looked lovingly in my eyes, "I need a word with Miss Zandra. Will you accompany me?"

Reeling from our tender exchange, I wasn't sure how to react. Was he testing my necklace to see if I would refuse? I didn't. We found her in an art studio, working on a beautiful oil-painted landscape. Gage cleared his throat, "Miss Zandra, good evening."

"Hello, Gage, Camille. How are you two getting along?"

"Very well, thank you."

She looked at her watch; it was after 11:30p.m. "You're up rather late this evening."

"We were both going to turn in. I had another request that I hoped you'd consider."

Zandra set her paint pallet down and looked at him. She seemed to have all the patience in the world for his requests. "Camille tells me that her guard is posted in her room while she sleeps. Although I'm sure it is for her protection, she hasn't been sleeping well. As her fiancé, I'm none too thrilled that another man is permitted in her room while she sleeps."

"You are correct, Gage. The guards are for her protection. It is not negotiable."

"I was afraid you might say that. Well, thank you for your consideration. I need to phone father tonight and let him know that we arrived safely. I'll escort Camille to her room then step outside the gate to retrieve my cell."

He had just threatened her. I didn't have a clue what sort of power Gage's dad had over Zandra, but her eyes widened and she stammered, "You know, as her fiancé, I'm sure you have her best interests at heart. If it pleases you, her guard will remain outside her room while she sleeps. We do have a phone in the house that you may use. There is no reason for you to have to brave the mosquitoes and the bats walking to your car; her guard will show you where it is."

"How very kind of you, Miss Zandra! I'm so pleased. I will definitely relay to my father how accommodating you have been." Gage held out his elbow for me to hold as he escorted me to my room. When we were outside my bedroom door, he pressed his lips to my forehead a second time and said, "I'll see you in the morning, Camille. I had a lovely evening and look forward to tomorrow. Sleep well." Gage turned his attention to the guard, "Please alert me if you are concerned for Camille's safety. Do not enter her room without me. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Mr. Richardson. Have a good evening."

Gage's smirk was undeniable. I had no idea what he was up to, but I was pleased that he seemed to have far more influence in this house than I did. I turned in for the night, and although I hadn't mentioned to Gage that I hated the idea of being watched while I slept, I was thrilled that he somehow knew it to be true. I crawled into bed and was excited for the first time in a long time; there was a ray of hope for my future.

I heard a ruckus out in the hallway about an hour later. I was sure I had heard Gage's voice, something about a bat in his room. I saw a blur by my door but was half asleep and paid it almost no attention, at least until I realized I wasn't alone. The illumination from the windows brightened the room. I felt a gentle hand caress my cheek, and heard a low whisper. "Camille, it's me. I had to see you." I knew who was kneeling beside my bed when those beautiful ice blue eyes came into focus.

# Chapter 30

_(Camille Benning – Florida)_

"How did you..."

Drake held his finger to his lips. "Gage created a diversion to get the guard away from your door."

"But, I thought you and Bianca ..."

Drake shook his head at me before I could even get the words out. "I brought you something." He took some salve from his pocket and motioned for me to sit up. He continued kneeling beside my bed, his fingers gently putting the cooling ointment on the wounds around my neck. His touch was light; if I hadn't felt the relief I wouldn't have known he was touching me. I had become so accustomed to the burning sensation on my neck that the cool from the ointment was indescribable. As my body concluded it was Drake's touch it felt, a new fire began to spread from his touch.

Once he had used his healing hands on my neck, he brought the full force of his stare on me. "I've missed you, Camille." My senses went into overload: I could feel my hands trembling, my heart picking up speed, alone in a room with someone who not only wanted me, but was eager for my touch as well.

I reached my palm to his jaw. He closed his eyes, as if savoring the feeling. I felt the stubble on his cheek, the warmth of his skin, and felt my island oasis here in the flesh. Drake put his hand over mine, opened his eyes, and his stare held me motionless as I tried to find the words. He was the first to recover, "I've thought of you every day." The hopefulness in his eyes wouldn't let me go.

I knew I couldn't take the heartache. I couldn't profess feelings for someone I knew I could never have. Doing so would be the thing that actually broke my spirit – it would leave me a ghost of a person. I tried to speak but nothing would come out. I tried to look away, but my eyes refused. Instead I sat there, my hand remaining on his cheek, memorizing the feel of his skin, drinking in his scent, knowing this was the final farewell.

"I can't read your mind, Camille. I won't make you read mine." Before I could protest, his lips were on mine and his arms pulled me tightly to his chest. My rapidly beating heart tried to lunge from my chest, and I couldn't breathe. His breath was hot. I felt my whole body aching for his touch. His lips found their way to my ear as he whispered, "Run away with me. Tonight, right now. We'll leave and never look back."

I hadn't uttered a word since he arrived, and I knew he was waiting for me to say something. My only answer, "Drake, we can't."

He wasn't deterred, "Yes, we can. Gage set it up perfectly. He's willing to take the heat. All we have to do is leave. Come with me, Camille."

"I can't. The necklace won't let me leave."

"Gage said he took care of it. He gave you permission to do anything you want tonight." As he said the words, Drake's hands found my flesh and began softly caressing the small of my back, sending goose bumps all over my body. Until he said it, I had been so wrapped up in Drake that it didn't occur to me that kissing another man had to be some sort of crime for the necklace, yet nothing had happened. A small ray of hope emerged, and I thought for half a second that I might actually be able to run away.

"That was only part of it. I can't leave."

"I can take it off." I knew he wouldn't be able to, but the thought of running away, being free, overwhelmed the self-preservation side of my consciousness. As Drake's fingers touched the clasps of the necklace, a powerful electric charge rocked us both and sent Drake flying into the wall and me back onto the floor. I could tell each electric charge continued to get stronger and shock me for longer periods of time. I didn't scream out like before. I knew the "warnings" I had been given initially had been painful, but they were just that – warnings. This latest singed the barely healing skin around my neck, cut off my air and opened the scabbed wounds all over again. I wasn't sure how many more warnings I would be afforded. The device could prove fatal if I didn't follow its rules.

Drake ran back to me as soon as he had his bearings. "I'm so sorry! Are you okay? Camille, talk to me!"

"Keep your voice down. I'm fine," I whispered. We both listened for the footsteps outside my door. I didn't hear any and was able to take a breath.

Fresh blood trickled down my neck as I watched the revulsion on his face. "Does she know what that does to you?" He asked horrified at the results.

"Of course, she knows. She put it on my mother when she was supposed to marry Gage's dad. She already told me it stays on my neck until I'm married."

Drake held me tighter, his body pressed hard into mine, "Camille, I can't lose you. Not to Gage, not to anyone." I stood up, clinging to Drake, absorbing his warmth, pulling all the comfort from him that I knew I'd need to survive another day. He said more to himself than to me, "We'll figure something out. I promise."

It was an empty promise. Zeus himself wouldn't be able to deliver on this one. Drake spent the night holding me. I felt stronger in his arms and reveled in the dream that we could run away. But my reality kept reminding me — that dream was never to be.

As the dawn arrived, I wasn't sure how we were going to get Drake out of my room. He must have noticed my increasing nervousness. Without releasing me from his hold, his lips found their way to the skin not scorched from my torturous device on my neck and my ear. He whispered, "I'll be waiting for you in your closet tonight. Gage will keep you downstairs long enough for me to get into position."

"You're going to hide in my closet?"

"Unless you have a better idea. Gage can't come up with a distraction every night; it would cause too much suspicion."

"So, Gage, he doesn't mind?"

"Are you nuts? Gage knows how I feel about you. So does Bianca."

I could hear my heart pounding in my chest, scared that I might ruin the moment, but more fearful of not knowing the answer, "How _do_ you feel about me?"

Drake gave me the strangest look. Sarcasm oozed from his voice when he said, "I'm fascinated by your threshold for pain. How do you think I feel about you?" His lips found mine in an aggressive and needy way. His hands clung to my flesh as if it would be the last time he would hold me for a lifetime. I didn't know what would happen the rest of the day, and in that moment, the earth could have stopped spinning and I wouldn't have given it a second thought.

I heard a light tapping on my door, "Darling, it's Gage. Ready for breakfast?"

I looked wide eyed at Drake, and whispered, "Darling? Are you sure he's okay with this?"

Drake rolled his eyes. "It's an act, Love. He needs to be convincing or your lunatic grandmother will ban him until your wedding night, which means I'd have to go, too. Go spend the day with your fiancé. I'll be waiting for you tonight."

I called toward the door, "Gage, I just need five minutes to freshen up."

"All right. I'm starving. Hurry up."

Drake and I were both on our feet. The pangs of adrenaline started to grip me when I realized I'd be able to see Drake again tonight. I had just spit the last of my toothpaste into the sink and rinsed when Drake came up behind me. I looked at the reflection of us in the mirror. His arms wrapped around me as he seemed to be transfixed by the couple in the mirror, too.

His lips were at my ear, while his eyes were glued to the mirror. He confessed, "I started to believe I'd never hold you again."

I couldn't respond. I felt my welled-up desire for him begging to be released. I turned my body so that I faced him, slipped my hands up under the back of his shirt and rested my head on his chest. I felt his hands stroke my hair as he waited for me to say something. His lips kissed the top of my head as I confessed, "I never stopped thinking of you. I don't want to wake up without you next to me. I don't want fantasies anymore. I want you."

Drake placed his hands gently on either side of my head and pulled my face away from his chest, so I was forced to look in his eyes. "I need you, Camille." His lips were on mine: they weren't gentle. Our bodies were tight against each other and our breaths were erratic. I lost myself in him again until I heard a tap at the door that brought me back to reality.

"Drake, I gotta go. Gage is waiting." I didn't want our moment to end, but knew I couldn't take a chance on the guard coming in. "Get in the closet. I'll see you tonight."

Drake looked like he was in pain, "I can't let you go, Camille."

"You have to or we'll get busted and there won't be a tonight. Go!"

His lips found mine one last time before he dashed toward the closet. As soon as I'd seen the closet door closed, I opened the door to an awaiting Gage. Gage took my hand and walked me down the hallway with my guard in tow. As we hit the top step, he commented, "You look absolutely radiant this morning, Darling. Having the guard outside your room must have done wonders for you." I looked at him as he wore an enormous smirk.

"It did. Thank you for speaking with Zandra on my behalf. I'll need to give her my thanks as well."

Zandra was waiting at the bottom of the steps and had heard our conversation. "Ah, it's good to see you two getting along so well."

Charm oozed from Gage when he said, "Who could not fall under the spell of such a beautiful creature?"

She smiled sweetly at Gage and asked me, "You slept well, Camille?"

I wanted to laugh but instead put on my most thankful expression and answered, "Yes, Grandmother, I did. Thank you for allowing me some privacy." It was the first time I had referred to her as "Grandmother," and I watched her reaction as I spoke.

She was pleased. "I'm glad you slept well, Camille. Are you ready for your lesson this morning?"

"Yes, Grandmother."

Gage interrupted, "Miss Zandra. I was hoping we might be able to tour your estate this morning, that is, if you don't mind."

"With an escort?"

"I was hoping you might consider escorting us."

Zandra looked surprised, "Me?"

"It would give us both a chance to get to know you better. Camille was telling me how much she will miss the beauty of your estate." Okay, that was a little on the thick side, but Zandra seemed to physically soften in Gage's presence. I had come to think of her estate as a prison and had no desire to ever set eyes on it again once I was paroled.

"I believe we could skip your lesson one more day, Camille. I'd love to show the two of you around." Gage continued to play his role as my doting fiancé, perfectly. He opened doors for me, held my hand, smiled as Zandra told us about nearly every blade of grass. Thirty minutes into our tour, Bianca and Drake strolled hand-in-hand onto the expansive grounds and found us near a fountain depicting Aphrodite. As the five of us walked together, Drake purposely brushed his arm against mine then caught my eye for a fraction of a second. I nearly jumped out of my skin. He was like the forbidden fruit, daring me to take a bite.

Several hours later as our tour drew to an end, Bianca spoke up as we approached the front door to Zandra's mansion. "Miss Zandra, thank you so much for giving us such a wonderful tour. Drake and I have some wedding plans to finalize. Do you have an escort you could provide us while we drive into town?" I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

"Don't be silly, child. I'm sure Gage would love an opportunity to escort you two."

Gage shook his head, "Miss Zandra, if you don't mind, I'd like to spend the afternoon with Camille. I thought a dip in the pool might be fun." I cringed when I thought of chlorine on my neck but found a way to force an adoring smile at Gage.

Zandra had transformed before my very eyes. No longer the hateful captor that I had loathed for weeks, she was now the accommodating host. "Very well then. I'll have Camille's guard escort you two into town. Gage, I'll change and join the two of you by the pool. I would very much like to know how your family is doing." The rest of the afternoon was a tremendous bore, but Gage really turned on the charm, and by dinner time Zandra was treating me as though I were her long lost granddaughter rather than a blemish on her otherwise noteworthy family tree.

Bianca and Drake returned early that evening. Zandra, having immensely enjoyed her time with Gage and me, politely asked them, "Did you two take care of all your arrangements?"

"We did. Thank you for the use of an escort, Miss Zandra," Drake answered sweetly. "Bianca and I are excited to start our life together. I think we're both regretting that we put the wedding off for so long. Watching Gage and Camille together makes me jealous that we'll have to wait so long."

Zandra raised her eyebrows. "Really? Well, you can always move the date forward."

"You know, we might just do that." Drake leaned over and kissed Bianca's cheek, "I don't believe I can wait much longer for you." Bianca giggled, and I wanted to barf. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and I had trouble hiding my instant jealousy. Drake gave her another tender kiss on the cheek, while I dug my fingers into my knees.

Gage realized that I was at a low boil and leaned over to me, whispering only loud enough for me to hear, "It's only an act, Darling." Gage's comment did little to soften my impending implosion.

"Bianca, I think I'll turn in early tonight," Drake announced with an adoring look at her.

Bianca took Drake's hand in hers, "I'm a little worn out myself. Would you walk me to my room?"

The two excused themselves, which left Gage and me alone with Zandra, again. Having them out of the room did wonders for my self-control. Gage and I spent another hour with Zandra, Gage the perfect guest, and I, quiet but attentive. An hour after Bianca and Drake had gone upstairs, Gage looked my way, "Darling, you look exhausted. Are you tired?"

I hadn't been paying attention to their conversation, but realized this was Gage's "get-out-of-jail-free" card for me. I yawned, "It's been a full day. I think I'll turn in, too."

"I need you well rested for our adventures tomorrow. Miss Zandra, will you keep me company or am I on my own this evening?" Zandra had always struck me as a wicked person, but super perceptive. I had to wonder if she'd see through all of Gage's fake charm. So far she seemed to be soaking it up like a sponge, but I made a mental note to tell him he needed to tone it down a little.

"I'm an old woman, Gage. You get your rest. I'm sure Camille will be ready for an adventure with you tomorrow." She looked at me with a warmer expression than I had seen her wear in the last two months, "Camille, I had a lovely day with you today."

Her thoughtful comment nearly rendered me speechless; I was able to choke out, "I did, too, Grandmother. I look forward to our lesson tomorrow." If Beau could see me now, he'd never again question my acting abilities.

She gave me a thoughtful smile. I was worried I may have put it on too thick, but she seemed genuinely pleased with me. "We may suspend your lessons for a while. Gage is an excellent influence on you, and I'm sure you'll want to spend the day together. The weather should be exceptional. Get your rest."

"Thank you, Grandmother. Goodnight."

Gage held out his arm for me, and my guard followed in tow. We were halfway up the steps when Gage turned to the guard, "I need just a minute with my fiancé." We stood in full view of the guard, but he was unable to hear Gage's whisper. "There is nothing you could do or no action you could take that would be disobedient to me. Sleep well, Camille." Gage pressed his lips to my forehead. I knew this was his way of reminding the necklace that my time with Drake was done with his blessing. Gage held my door for me as I slipped into the dark room. He shut the door behind me. From the shadows under the door, I could see that the guard had taken his position in the hallway directly outside my room.

# Chapter 31

_(Camille Benning – Florida)_

I took a deep breath and walked the few steps to my closet. I had no sooner put my hand on the door knob than it swung wide with Drake on the inside. He took me in his arms and swung me around like a child. When my feet touched the ground, I was fully wrapped in Drake's arms. Careful not to alert the guard, Drake exhaled the words, "I missed you so much, I thought I'd burst today, Love."

My mouth opened on his, and I felt like I was spinning again.

When we stopped to breathe, Drake's excitement shone on his face, "I bought you a gift today."

"A gift? Why?"

"It might have been more of a gift for me." He wore a mischievous grin, and I felt my heart doing its sprint just like it had last night. He reached behind him and pulled out a cardboard box, "I saw it today and have been dying to see what you'd look like in it." He motioned for me to go into the bathroom, and I could only imagine what I would find in the box.

As I stood in front of the mirror wearing the ivory satin nightgown, my nerves began taking control of my body, and I wasn't sure I had the courage to go out half-dressed. The length was only to mid-thigh, the front was cut low: I looked like a mannequin at Victoria's Secret. I saw my shorts and a t-shirt that I normally slept in lying beside the sink. I nearly switched into them when I caught my reflection in the mirror. If my shorts and t-shirt were enough to make his heart speed up, his arms wrench tight around me, and his throat murmur those deep sexy sounds — I couldn't wait to see his response to this ensemble. After the last six weeks, I wanted to be wanted. I wanted to see Drake's eyes pop out of his head. I wanted to hear the groan of desire I knew would come from deep within him.

Drake made me feel beautiful, sexy even, but walking out to his waiting eyes – I wasn't sure I could. I found a bathrobe hanging on the back of the door and wrapped it around myself before I stepped back into the bedroom.

Drake's hands found me in the dark as his voice exhaled, "Did you wrap yourself up in that robe like a present for me? Are you trying to torture me?" He stood in front of me wearing only a pair of shorts. His shirtless body called to me. The moonlight through the window shimmered off his muscular shoulders and tight abs. The sight of him, even in the moonlight, took my breath away.

I wanted to feel his skin on mine. I buried my face in his chest as my arms wrapped around him. He smelled wonderful, he felt incredible – his muscular frame and warm skin invited me to lose the robe. I loosened the tie and let the robe fall to the floor. Drake took a couple steps back, taking me in. He leaned in toward me, scooped me up in his arms, and carried me to the bed, his lips pressed lightly to mine. I didn't know how far he intended to go, and I wasn't sure I possessed the willpower to put any brakes on.

Drake lay me gently on the bed and slid in behind me. His hand stroked my arm, from the top of my shoulder to the tip of my fingers, up and down, countless times. His touch generated goose bumps all over my body while he kissed the back of my neck just under my hairline all the way to my shoulders. His caresses were tender, and without words I could feel the turmoil in his touch. I could hear his breathing was heavy, and I felt like he had poured an accelerant on me — I was on fire. When I thought I could take no more, he exhaled a warm breath by my ear, "Remember that day at Andolini's? — I told you I would combust? That was me being sweet." I did remember his words just before I drove away, and his admission made me smile. Drake added, "I'm not being sweet. I seriously feel like I'm going to combust."

"Oh sure, _you're_ going to combust?"

His breath was haggard, his voice strained, "I had intended to be a perfect gentleman, but intentions sometimes go by the wayside."

"You _will_ be a perfect gentleman. I'll go switch this getup for some sweatpants if I have to. We both know my fiancé is across the hall." I tried to be funny, but missed my mark by a long shot.

His lips froze in position on my shoulder. I knew my words struck a nerve. "We need to figure out how to get that damn necklace off you. I want to disappear with you, Camille."

"I'm all ears if you have an idea."

"If you could, would you run away with me?"

I didn't have to think of my response. "Faster than an Olympic sprinter."

Drake hugged me hard from behind. It felt like his arms were a vice, and I was so tight against him, I could feel his muscles flex behind me. I had found my heaven right here on earth in Drake's arms. I was surprised when he blurted out, "Break your engagement with Gage."

"You know I can't. I'm not the one who set it up to begin with."

"It's still your choice. Choose me."

"Drake, you hardly know me."

"What do I need to know that I don't already know?"

"Lots of things." I struggled, before my mouth started spewing random things about me. "I like to sleep in the middle of the afternoon. I like to snow ski on the bunny slope, and I'm terrified I'm going to fall off the lift chairs. I hate baseball, not dislike — hate. I miss Starbucks White Mocha Latte. I can't ride a bicycle. You don't know anything about me."

"You think because I didn't know that, I don't know you well enough to marry you?"

"I think if life were fair, I could choose to go back to my old life: no mind reading, no knowledge of the future, no magical powers. I'd be free to go to the movies, lay on the beach, laugh at YouTube videos, and do everything I used to love."

His voice was pleading, "We can do that, Camille."

"That's the thing, Drake. Why does it have to be all or nothing? I'm being forced to marry a guy I hardly know, who is in love with someone else. You're asking me to break the engagement I never wanted, so I can choose to marry you. I'm twenty-two. There are too many things I haven't done yet."

"So we'll do those things together."

"What if I want to do them myself?" I could see my words stung him. I tried to lessen the hurt by explaining, "Maybe it would be different if I had grown up knowing what I was or at least what was expected of me. But I didn't. I grew up my way. I couldn't care less if my family's bloodline doesn't go on. I don't need someone else to be happy; I just need not to be a prisoner."

Drake eased himself away from me. He didn't look at me when he answered, "But you couldn't be happy with me?"

I shook my head. "Maybe you. Or maybe a high school history teacher, or maybe a commercial fisherman. Life can't be scripted, Drake." It felt good to say to Drake what had been boiling under my skin since I found out about all these crazy traditions. "I'm willing to make a deal with you."

I knew I'd hurt him, but it was only fair he know the real me. "If we get out of this mess, we'll date... my way. No escorts, no supervision, none of the crap everyone's been trying to shove on me. We'll go to the movies. If we have a good time and we both want to, we'll go on a second date, then a third. If – and that's a big if – years later we both get to the point that we can't live without each other, then we talk about forever. Deal?"

"I don't need years to know you're the one I want, Camille."

"That sucks, Drake, because I do. I want time. I want to..." I squeezed his arms that had gone slack around me, "savor you. Get to know you. I want something more than just a physical attraction. I don't want you to miss me while we're apart. I want your whole body to ache, to go through withdrawals for me. When we get to that, if we ever get there, that's when we'll know we're right for each other."

"If that's your measure, my body aches right now, and it has since the first day I saw you at Bruce's wedding."

"Have you heard anything I've said? I don't know anything about you. I'm all for running off with you and disappearing for a while, but I'm not ready to marry anyone. Unless I'm forced into it with Gage, it's not going to happen."

"Camille, we'll find a way to get you out of this betrothal." He waited a long minute before he continued, "I'll go along with you. We'll do things your way. But I don't need years, or months, or weeks – if I could get you to see through my eyes, to feel through my heart, you'd understand why I think the process you just laid out is ludicrous. I know my heart. When you decide that I really am the one, trust me, I'll never let you regret it. We'll stay like this forever, fused as one."

His words were like a drug, and I, an addict, desperately in need of a fix. I rolled over so that we faced each other; my hand swept his face. I studied him, worried that he, like everyone else in my life I cared about, would soon be taken away from me. I traced his lips with my finger, touched his face with my palm, and ran my fingers into his hair. Drake was beyond attractive: his ice blue eyes held me in a trance. I said nothing. I wanted to take him in, memorize everything about him.

I didn't want to end our moment, but the self-preservation side of me took over. I knew if we kept this up, he was right: I would fall in love with him. It wouldn't be a crush or blind lust; it would be the rip-out-your-heart, falling-off-a-cliff love that comes once in a lifetime. I would be devastated on my wedding night to Gage, a hollow shell of a person losing someone forever whom I could never have. "What are we doing?" My question caught him off guard.

Drake smiled at me as he whispered, "We're acquainting ourselves with each other, Love." His voice was happy, content, but it turned amused when he added, "Unless you have a better activity in mind for this evening."

I could feel the hopelessness of the situation seeping in. Making plans to date was ridiculous when any hope for a future other than the one forced on us wasn't possible. "I'm marrying Gage in a few weeks, and you're marrying Bianca. There's nothing either of us can do to stop it."

"Break your engagement with Gage."

"This stupid necklace would take my head completely off if I said that out loud."

Quietly, he said, "Camille, we need help. There has to be some way to get it off."

"How? We're out of options, Drake. All we're doing now is making the heartbreak worse — putting off our own goodbye."

He turned my face to him so I was forced to look in his eyes, "I can't give you up. Even if it's just a few nights together, I want them." I looked away, knowing his words cut clear through to my soul. "It's better than a lifetime of regret for ignoring what little time together we were afforded. I'll take what I can get, Camille."

"So, this is it? I lie here with you, praying that we'll have one more night tomorrow, and the next after that. We're going to run out of tomorrows. We can't wish the dawn away."

"For now, live in the moment, Love." This time his voice was heavy with the same desperation I was feeling. He tried to comfort me by pulling me closer, and I tried to be comforted by drawing him in. The feeling wouldn't go away. Our nights were numbered, and our time together nearly over after it had just begun.

I wasn't sure if he was trying to convince me or himself. "Gage is one of the most cunning men I know. He may have a plan he hasn't shared with me yet. Don't give up on us; we'll find a way." Drake drifted off to sleep before I did; he spoke to me while he was sleeping. I don't know how many times I heard it before I drifted off with him, but I fell asleep to the sound of Drake's whispers, their own soft lullaby: "Choose me, Love, choose me."

The next morning was much the same as our first, with Gage knocking on my door. He didn't come in, nor did he allow the guard entry to my room. I hid Drake in the closet, although I could hardly tear myself away from him. I would have welcomed an eternity in Zandra's prison if it meant that I could spend every night with Drake. I stole one final kiss as I closed the closet door.

Gage and I were already seated for breakfast when Zandra joined us. I didn't wait to be spoken to. My night with Drake gave me strength for another day with my captor, "Good morning, Grandmother. I hope you slept well."

"I did, Camille. Thank you for asking." She turned her attention to Gage, "Is there something you'd like to tell me, Gage?" It was such a strange sensation. She was warm to me, but when she spoke to Gage, her voice had turned to ice.

Gage realized something was wrong. His charm began to waiver as he shakily responded, "I can't think of anything pressing to tell you. I spoke to father last night. He sends his best."

"Hmmph," was her reply. She was frustrated with something and announced, "I think we all need to go to the garden this morning." She motioned for us to stand up; Gage and I did without hesitation. I desperately wanted to read his thoughts to find out what caused the change in Zandra, but I didn't want to do it in front of her. I had only successfully done it once before, and I hadn't seen Phineas since. I worried I had done it wrong, and maybe our conversation had been discovered by Zandra.

We took a seat on the bench together as Zandra pulled up a chair. "Have either of you heard the teaching of Aphrodite and her gift to Unice?"

I shook my head that I hadn't and sat up straighter. I hadn't taken a shock from the stupid necklace in a day and a half and wasn't about to start today with one. I had a strange feeling that unlike the other stories she had told me, I needed to pay close attention to this one.

# Chapter 32

_(Camille Benning – Florida)_

"Unice was a Centauride. She was exquisite: long flowing blonde hair, bright blue eyes, a kind smile and a soft heart. She roamed the pastures of Thessaly with the other Centaurs. Unice had the voice of an angel and often sang as she galloped along the countryside. Her voice would entice strangers, beckoning them forward in search of the angel on earth who sang to the heavens. One day a human, a man, happened upon her pasture. Her body was obscured by a large boulder, so he only saw the human half of her beauty and heard the magic of her voice. The man's name was Winfield. He was so taken with her that he sat perfectly still, content to listen to the beautiful songs she sang."

"Winfield came to the meadow for weeks. Anytime he tried to come closer than his perch, she would disappear behind the rocks. When the weeks turned into months, Winfield confessed that he was deeply in love with Unice. Unice was sure when he found out what she was, the lust he felt for her would disappear. She stepped out from behind the rocks she had hidden behind and showed her whole body to Winfield."

Winfield cried out to her, begged her not to leave, and professed his love for her. The two spent their days and nights together, deeply in love but unable to be together. Unice wept one evening and Aphrodite saw her tears and felt her heartbreak. Aphrodite took pity on the couple that was so deeply in love and changed Unice to a human. Unice was the first Centaur to be changed from a Centauride to a human, years before Zeus gave his gift to the Centaurs."

Zandra looked squarely at Gage, "Has your father ever shared that story with you?"

He nodded, "Yes, he has, many times."

"Do you know why the story of Unice and Winfield is so important to your family?"

"It's just a legend, Miss Zandra. It is a fable for lovers who think their challenges are insurmountable, that love can conquer all."

"No!!" Zandra screamed. "It is not a fable. It is your heritage, Gage."

Gage said nothing. Zandra was furious with him when she continued, "Imagine my elation when I find out my granddaughter, one of the few living Centaurides in Chiron's bloodline is going to marry a Centaur in the Winfield bloodline?"

"That's right, Miss Zandra. I believe my father is pleased with our betrothal for the same reason."

I was interested in the story, partly because the story tied to a living breathing person. I directed my question to Zandra, rather than Gage, "So is Gage a pure-blooded Centaur?"

Gage looked embarrassed by my question. I'd meant no offense, but after all her lessons over the last six weeks; I didn't know what to make of the story. Zandra answered, "Winfield was human. Aphrodite's magic transformed Unice to a woman, but the bloodline remains Centaur, and it retains Aphrodite's magic."

I smiled at Gage, who I worried might have been offended with my question on his ancestors, and ribbed him good naturedly, "So you have _love_ magic. Am I under your spell?"

Through clenched teeth, Gage answered, "As much as I am under yours, Darling." He wasn't offended. He was trying to maintain his composure, hiding the humor behind a stoic expression.

Zandra interrupted our private joke, "So, tell me, Gage. Why is it that this morning I saw a woman, other than my granddaughter, slip from your room when she believed no one was near?"

Alarm spread on Gage's face; he stayed silent. Zandra turned her attention on me, "Did you know that Bianca spent the night with Gage?"

I should have denied it. I should have played dumb waiting for Gage to think of a reasonable excuse. I knew I needed to choose my words wisely, as I was acutely aware that the necklace was unforgiving. I kept my voice even and strong, "Grandmother, I was aware. They spent the night together with my blessing." Gage's expression moved from alarm to shock. I think he believed my honesty would enrage the necklace.

Zandra screeched, "What?! You allowed this?" I could feel the necklace pulsing with energy. It had to have reacted to her fury, but I didn't receive a shock. I strained the muscles in my neck in anticipation of the electric charge, but nothing happened.

In a gentle tone, careful to be absent of any hostility, I answered, "Bianca is my dear friend. She tried to choose Gage, but her mother wouldn't permit it. Gage has accepted your invitation to be my husband, but until we are bound by marriage, he has my blessing to see Bianca."

She turned her rage on Gage, "It is you! You are the one who interferes with Camille's destiny. I have put the necklace of obedience around my granddaughter's neck, and it was you whose fate was fallible. It is your unwillingness to commit that leaves her destiny undecided!"

"Miss Zandra, I will honor my commitment to Camille. I am ashamed that you so easily read my desires for Bianca and misinterpreted them as intentions by Camille. Camille will make a good wife, and she does not deserve to wear this necklace of obedience you have put on her."

Zandra eyed him suspiciously. "You mean to tell me, you have hoped for another woman while staying at my estate, then brought that woman here? That is why I keep seeing a man other than you in Camille's future?" Gage was definitely braver than I was. I checked my mind's brick wall – it was intact. There was nothing to contradict Gage's confession or augment it with one of my own.

Zandra glared at both of us. She stomped out of the garden and slammed the door to the house. I asked tentatively, "Now what?"

"Now, we wait. Why would you tell her it was with your blessing?"

"It was the truth. The necklace didn't zap me."

"You knew we were getting together?"

"I assumed you and Bianca had the same arrangement as Drake and I did. You choreographed the perfect arrangement for both of us. Thanks, by the way."

Gage chuckled at me, "Well, our midnight rendezvous may be over for a while."

"Did you mean what you said to Zandra?"

"What part?"

"That you'll honor your commitment to me. You're still going through with it?"

"We don't have recourse, do we?"

"Ten minutes ago I would have said that we didn't, but given her reaction, I wonder if there isn't a shred of decency in her."

Gage looked surprised by my statement, "How do you mean?"

"She didn't seem pleased about her decision to put this stupid necklace on me. If we can get her to take it off, I'll leave. Not just the estate, I'll leave the country if I have to."

"Zandra would find you."

"She never found my mother." I wondered if Gage knew our parents had once been betrothed. "My mom ran away on her wedding night and was never found."

"I knew that much, but I think that had more to do with my dad protecting your mom than anything else. He really loved her. He's told me about Angela my whole life. Even my mom doesn't mind him telling the stories."

# Chapter 33

_(Camille Benning – Florida)_

I felt my eye muscles flex, "No way!"

"Yeah. She told Dad her greatest wish was to be free of Centaurs. She said she wanted to be human. He thought her wish, left ungranted while it was within his power to honor it, could destroy Aphrodite's magic. Dad set her free then put a protective spell over her. You should have seen him the night that he found out she'd had a child with another Centaur after he gave up his most powerful magic to protect her – he was pissed!"

"Was that the night of Bruce's wedding, when I met him?"

"Yeah, I think so. You have to understand, he seriously loved your mom. But your mom was so freaked from growing up with Zandra that he couldn't force her to marry him. It just wasn't in him. The night of the wedding, he told her he'd protect her from Zandra — gave her a plane ticket, an apartment, cash, a new identity and sent her away."

"I don't believe it."

"He wouldn't have any reason to lie to me about it. It's the only explanation for why Zandra never found her. Dad has Aphrodite's magic. Protecting someone he loved with her magic was the only thing that ensured her safety."

"So that story Zandra just told us is true?"

"My dad thinks it is. I mean, don't get me wrong. I know he has powerful magic, but he wasn't willing to use it against your mom. It seems like it would have been a lot easier on both of them if he had used it to make your mother fall in love with him. Whether it came from Aphrodite or the Wicked Witch of the West isn't all that important. He knew where she was her whole life. You, on the other hand, were a real surprise. He didn't know anything about you."

"Why would he agree to let you marry me? You'd think it would open old wounds or something."

"I think he thought I'd be more charming or something, who knows. Dad and Zandra do have one common goal; they definitely want us to marry. I don't think there's anything either of them wouldn't do to make it happen." He took a breath, then explained, "Zandra is by far the most powerful Centauride. Her power comes from her lineage. Dad is in the same boat. He loaned a chunk of his magic to your mother, but since your mother's death...sorry, Aphrodite's magic has returned to him. They have this crazy idea that if we marry, our children will be kind of a Centaur Super-Race. We have the only two ancestors who were touched directly by the gods."

"So how do you feel about it?"

"About marrying you?" I nodded. "When Bianca chose Drake, I didn't care about much of anything. But when word spread that you had come to your father's house, I thought my dad might try to work something out with your dad. Let's face it; it's not hard to look at you." Gage's smile was shy. He had been so larger-than-life since I met him that it took me aback. "I thought maybe you and I could start out as friends and maybe grow into something more — eventually I'd get over Bianca. When I showed up the other morning, and you were wearing the same stupid necklace Dad had told me about, that had been worn by Angela, I knew I couldn't force you to marry me any more than he could your mother. I told my father about the necklace, and he wasn't happy. I told him I thought if I could bring Bianca and Drake back with me – history wouldn't repeat itself."

"Does he know how you feel about Bianca?"

"Sure he does. But he knows engagements are almost never broken. The fact that we were both betrothed, it wouldn't have occurred to him or anyone else."

"I'm ready to disappear, deep, deep undercover and never see another Centaur for the rest of my life!"

"We aren't all bad. In fact, I know one who would follow you to the end of the earth."

"Drake?"

"Well, yeah. He's been infatuated with you since the night of your brother's wedding. When his engagement to Bianca was announced, he didn't show even a hint of excitement. He spent like thirty seconds with you that night, and he was ready to sacrifice his bloodline."

"You weren't even there that night. How would you know?"

"Bianca told me, and I see it on Drake's face. You should have seen him the other night when I told him how we were going to smuggle him into your room. You'd have thought he just won the lottery."

"You could have clued me in a little ahead of time."

"Right, the next time I try to sneak my fiancé's lover into her bedroom, I'll make sure to send word ahead of time."

"So, what do you think Zandra's going to do to us?"

"I don't know, but knowing her, it'll be something dramatic. She might send me away. Are you going to be okay here without me for a few weeks?"

"As long as I know I'm getting out of here, I'll be fine."

"Good, sorry Bianca got us busted. I told her to use her microwaves or whatever power she has to make sure the coast was clear."

I patted Gage's hand, "I'm sure her thoughts were elsewhere."

We didn't have to wait long. I had no sooner gotten my words out than Zandra emerged from the house. In as kind and thoughtful a voice as I had heard from her, she said, "There's no reason to send you back to your father's, Gage."

"Miss Zandra, I deeply apologize for my indiscretion. It won't happen again."

That wicked smile that had been reserved for me reappeared, "I know it won't. The problem has been dealt with. There will be no more distractions."

Horror gripped me when I saw the crimson on her hands. "Grandmother, what's on your hands?"

In that same sweet voice she had just used with Gage, she answered, "Camille, that is the blood of your enemy. Her heart no longer beats." She turned to Gage, "As a gesture of my goodwill, I also stopped the heart of the man who lusted after your betrothed. _Your_ competition is also no longer a concern."

"Nooooooooo!" was the only response I could get out. I grabbed hold of Gage, trying to steady myself. He pushed my hand away and ran into Zandra's mansion. I was behind him, but he topped the stairs before I took the first one. My guard was in chase and grabbed my arms, holding me in place on the third step from the bottom.

# Chapter 34

_(Camille Benning – Florida)_

It was Phineas. I hadn't seen him in several days, and in the back of my mind I knew I should have been concerned. He did the unthinkable and whispered aloud to me, "Be quiet child, before the necklace does her dirty work." He stood behind me with my arms cinched behind my back as the tears rolled down my cheeks. I heard Gage scream out as if someone had completely squeezed the life out of him. I heard furniture being thrown into walls, glass break, and then stillness.

Several minutes went by, and my sobs were nearly uncontrollable. Zandra had stepped into the hallway and eyed me suspiciously. I stood slack with Phineas still holding me in position. I saw Gage emerge from the upstairs hallway. He walked toward me with heavy steps, a defeated man. He took the steps slowly, his head hung low. He paused in front of me and gently brushed his fingertips to my cheek. I saw blood on his hands and on his clothing, tears streaking his face, "I promise I'll be back for you on our wedding night... I can't stay."

Gage continued his march down the steps as Phineas allowed me to fall to the floor. He addressed Zandra with authority, squeezing the emotion completely out of his voice, "I'll notify their families. This is a debt I hope you are forced to pay before the sun sets tomorrow."

"No Chancellor or Magistrate will find me guilty – you may want me to hold my tongue. I'm sure your family would be none too thrilled with the circumstances of their deaths. I will be here the night you return to marry Camille and meet your destiny."

Gage gave me one final sorrowful look before he walked out the door and shut it behind him. Zandra turned her attention to me. "I understand she was your friend, but I did it for your own good. No Centauride should ever share; it goes against nature." I didn't respond. I couldn't. I was in shock. She continued, "Her fiancé had feelings for you. Were you aware? I could see it through his deceit. I couldn't allow for him to interfere with your destiny either. I'll give you the remainder of the day to mourn." I hadn't collected myself fully when she said, "It was done out of love, Camille."

My body shut down: I felt it go slack as everything went black.

As I awoke, I saw that it was dark outside, and for the slightest fraction of a moment, I reached out for Drake. When I came up empty, the events flooded over me again. My eyes were swollen shut: I must have been sobbing in my sleep. My throat was on fire, and I felt like I would be sick. I pried myself out of bed, splashed cold water on my face, hoping it would help my eyes enough so that I could open them.

Drake was gone. We knew we'd never be able to have more than a few precious weeks together, but being robbed of what little time we should have had together felt cruel, even more cruel than the betrothals. So much no longer mattered. Drake was no more than a shooting star in my life; I didn't realize how much of an impact he'd had on me until he was stolen away. In that moment, I knew I had lost the love of my life. I knew why Kyle Richardson had hidden my mother from Zandra all those years ago. I would have wished for any fate for Drake other than death, even if his fate never allowed me to see him again. That's what love is. I was in love with him and didn't know it until he was gone. I would never have the chance to tell him. My heart ached, and I wondered if I'd ever be able to escape the pain.

Bianca had been the truest of friends, an ally. I hated love-triangles – but she was the first person I'd ever known to advocate for a love-square. She was deeply in love with Gage and willing to take nearly any risk to be with him. I couldn't fault her for her crazy plan – love makes you do things you wouldn't dream of — even befriending the woman who is supposed to marry the love of your life. There would never be another Bianca.

I saw the two feet standing on the other side of my door: still a prison, but now, one of indescribable horrors. When I lay down on the bed, I realized it still smelled of Drake. If I closed my eyes and lay very still, I could imagine him with me. I let my mind wander. I had been so focused on my own circumstances that I didn't know anything about him: not his family, his interests, hobbies, political persuasion , what his job was other than he worked for his father. The only thing I knew was every time I closed my eyes, I could see his ice blue eyes staring back at me.

I stayed in my room. There was no need to leave. I had taken every lesson that I would allow Zandra to teach me. I didn't need food, and I could get water from the bathroom sink. From time to time I would see a guard open the door – I guess checking to see if I was swinging from the rafters. I never once acknowledged one of them, and none ever uttered a word to me. I found the small tube of salve that Drake had gently put on my neck to help the healing. I would be rid of this stupid necklace very soon, and when I was, I wanted no reminder that I ever wore it, that this time ever existed.

By the third day with no food and only water for sustenance, I felt lethargic. I had difficulty determining what was a dream and what was reality. I had decided that when Gage came to take me from this house of horrors, I would ask him to let me go back to California — back to the uncomplicated life I had led before I met my father or any of the others. I knew he wouldn't be over Bianca and may even hold me responsible for her death. I was pretty sure he would be happier with me out of his life than he would with me in it.

The door opened slowly. It was Zandra. I turned away from her and looked out the window. I'm sure she said something to me, but I was too weak to waste the energy to listen. Whatever she had said, the lack of a response from me must have been some sort of an answer she was seeking because moments later I was again alone.

_Daniel_

I stood outside the gate, a state policeman on my flank, leaning up against the steel gate, wondering what kind of a prison Cami was in. It took several hours to convince someone even to accompany me out to Zandra Chiron's property. After we got there, I was expecting the police to help me. I got the distinct feeling they were humoring me.

When the policeman had spoken to her through the intercom, I'd expected him to be polite, but firm. I was thoroughly pissed off when I heard him say, "Good evening Miss Zandra. This is Officer Westcott from the Florida State Police. If it wouldn't be too much trouble, could I have a word with you?"

I expected the massive gates to swing free, maybe I'd see Cami goofing around, and I could give her hell for not calling or texting me or her family. I didn't. The place was large, completely surrounded by a swamp that acted like a moat, and the gates didn't budge. An elderly voice answered back through the intercom, "Officer Westcott, so nice of you to drop by. I'll be down at the gate in a few minutes."

I turned to him and said, "We need to get in there."

Officer Westcott shook his head, "We don't have a search warrant, and Miss Zandra is well regarded in the community. You can ask her permission to speak with her granddaughter, but don't go off half-cocked."

"Half-cocked? My best friend is being held prisoner in there."

"So you say. Maybe she ran away from you."

"She didn't run away; she was taken!"

"By a little old lady? You ever met Miss Zandra?"

This guy was about as helpful as a mall cop. I could see a golf cart driving toward us. The lady on it had to be Zandra Chiron. She had long silver-white hair, wore a large brimmed straw hat, and gave us both a warm smile. "Hello, Officer Westcott, so nice to see you again. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Officer Westcott tipped his hat, "Good evening, ma'am. We're sure sorry to bother you this evening, but this young man is worried about your granddaughter, Camille. He asked us to come out here. We obliged to make sure there wouldn't be any trouble."

"Trouble? Trouble from me? Certainly not."

"Oh, no, we didn't think you would be any trouble at all, Miss Zandra. We wanted to make sure he wasn't a nuisance to you."

"How very thoughtful of you." She gave him a thin smile, almost daring me to say something to get me handcuffed and escorted away.

I straightened my posture, returned her smile and asked, "Mrs. Chiron, I'm Daniel Gaskins. I was wondering if I might see Cami for a few minutes."

She lowered her chin and raised her eyelids. The look was thoughtful, sincere, and to anyone who'd grown up around actors – it looked rehearsed. "I'm sorry, Daniel. Camille is under the weather. I'll be happy to tell her you stopped by."

"Mrs. Chiron, I'm sorry to hear that. I've flown here from California because I hadn't heard from her. Is there any chance I could see her?"

More firmly than her first refusal, but still an Oscar-worthy performance, "I'm afraid not. I will tell her that you inquired about her."

"Could I stop..."

I was interrupted by Officer Westcott's hand on my shoulder as he said, "She's not feeling well, son. Time to get going."

I yanked my shoulder away from him and on reflex shared my best glare, "I'm not leaving until I see her."

Mrs. Chiron, still with the sweet voice, "Officer Westcott, you know how I feel about trespassers on my property. I'm an old woman and fear he may return when you aren't here to protect me. Is there anything you can do?"

I couldn't believe my ears. Was she trying to get me thrown in jail? I just wanted to know that Cami was fine. "Listen, I just want to see her. Just for a second. Once I see her, I'll go."

"I've already told you, Mr. Gaskins, she isn't well enough for visitors."

Officer Westcott interjected, "Miss Zandra, thank you for your time this evening. I hope we weren't too much trouble. Daniel, let's go."

Although it sounded like a request, his big beefy hand cinched tight around my arm as he led me back to his squad car. I couldn't believe this was happening. I could see the house off in the distance. If Cami was in there, I didn't understand why I couldn't see her.

Maybe what Dad had told me was true, it wasn't just his family – all full-blooded Centaurs would see me as nothing more than human. I would never be worthy to be in her life – not even as just her friend. I had given up hope of anything more years ago when he first told me about his family and why I was different from other humans. I was thirteen and had my very first crush – Cami. She was really tough, not just for a girl, but like, "bite steel and spit nails" tough. She never picked fights, but she was always the first person to step in and shut someone down if they were picking on someone else around school.

At thirteen I thought she was beautiful – my dad picked up on it right away. He told me she was different, that she wouldn't want to be my friend in another couple years – that she'd outgrow me. He discouraged our friendship, but never outright forbade it. I'd seen her date one loser after another. As her friend, it bothered me, but whenever my dad heard about it – he would get pissed off. Yet now that she was with the rest of her family and no one would let me see her, he didn't seem to care at all. None of it made sense to me.

I wished I understood the whole Centaur thing. My dad told me enough to pique my interest, but fell short on actually answering questions. Dad and Cami's mom were not at all friendly; there was always this weird tension between them, and any time there was a school function where both had to attend, I could count on them to be at opposite ends of the auditorium.

I was lost in thought when I felt the squad car come to a halt in front of the Jacksonville Airport. "My return flight isn't until tomorrow." My overnight bag was in the back seat of the car. I hadn't even checked into a hotel before I went to ask for the police's help.

"Son, my advice to you is, you get in there, get on a plane, and get out of here — tonight. Miss Zandra's an influential lady. She knows judges, lawyers, politicians – you name it. She isn't someone you want to cross."

"I just want to see Cami. I don't know what the big deal is."

"The big deal is, you asked nicely and she said, 'no'. You get caught over that way again, you won't get the option to go home – and the last place you want to be is in a jail, here, with her as the complaining witness."

I couldn't be mad at the guy. He may have strong-armed me into the car, but I could hear his sincerity, and he was right. My dad had told me not to come, Beau had told me not to come, and Cami still wasn't returning any of my calls. Maybe Dad was right after all: maybe she really had outgrown me.

(Camille)

I remained in that "almost" dream state for another full day. By then I had visibly lost weight that I didn't need to lose. My cheeks were sunken into my face, and any hint of color from the sun had bleached itself off my skin from the dark room. Large purple circles hung thick under my eyes. I had eaten crackers and fruit that were left for me just inside my bedroom door – not because I wanted them but because I couldn't be dead when Gage came back. I needed to live. I didn't think his spirit could take one more loss – no matter how painful my presence might be for him.

I caught myself talking to Mom lots of times, "You never should have given me Will's name... Why can't I see you?... Are you here?" I never once got a response or even saw her outline.

I knew I was a little over a week away from the wedding. Although pleased with the idea I would soon find my escape, I didn't welcome the celebration that came so close to the tragedy. Phineas stepped into my room at close to 3 a.m. and saw that I lay there awake. "Camille, you will be able to leave soon. Tomorrow morning I will bring you breakfast. I want you to eat it, do you understand?" I nodded that I did, but I wasn't sure my feet were planted in reality or if I were dreaming the conversation. "Have you contacted your mother?" I stared at him blankly, not fully processing his question. Phineas put his hands on both of my shoulders, "Camille, your father wants you to contact your mother's spirit. She needs to tell you something."

The physical contact was the first I had had since he kept me from collapsing down the steps. It awakened something inside me. I remembered: Phineas had told me to contact my mother, then Gage and the others came. How long ago had that been? Two weeks and I still couldn't speak to her, or at least she never spoke back. Then it hit me, I would be able to talk to Drake, to tell him how sorry I was, to tell him I loved him. For the first time since Gage left, I felt a glimmer of excitement again. I was weak, too weak from allowing myself nearly to starve to death. When Phineas brought me food the next morning, I wasn't hungry, but I found the strength to eat – not much because my stomach wasn't able to hold much, but enough to jump start my body again. He came back at lunch time with more food, and I ate a second time. I could feel my mental faculties slowly returning. I still had difficulty concentrating, but I tried talking to my mother all the time. I told her about everything; something told me she was with me, but I couldn't see her and I couldn't hear her.

"Mom, do you remember when you forced me to ride a bicycle? You thought it would be fun to ride by the ocean? I begged you not to make me do it. I pleaded with you to let me sit on the beach. You wouldn't take no for an answer. You worked double shifts for weeks so you could buy us matching bikes. I still remember looking at it in the store: the pink tassels, the big white banana seat. It was so beautiful at the bike shop. I wanted you to be proud of me, but I was terrified when you took them both out of your van in Carlsbad. I knew everyone was watching me, and I was scared. Do you remember what you told me?"

I waited, hoping she'd answer me, hoping I could hear her just for a second. "You said bravery is measured by how hard you try, not by whether you actually succeed. We went home from the beach that day with my skin gone on both knees, both elbows and my cheek. I never did learn how to ride it, but you still told me I was the bravest person you'd ever known."

I looked for her face, begging her to show me the same grainy image of herself that she'd shown me at Bruce's wedding. I confessed, "I don't know how to be brave unless you're with me. I need you to show me how to be brave again."

When my mother didn't show herself, I believed it was because my heart longed to see Drake. She knew me better than anyone on the planet, and she must have known that it was Drake I needed to see. Her loss had broken my heart, but his death was my fault. Zandra had killed him because she knew _he_ was who I wanted.

I needed to tell him how sorry I was. I'm sure Phineas could hear me through the door, but I didn't care. I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the place where he'd lain. I smoothed my hand over the pillow that had cradled his face. "Drake, I don't know if you can hear me. I hope you can. I was just scared, okay? When I found you, you were everything I'd ever dreamed of. No one's supposed to get everything they want. No one is supposed to be perfect. It seems like every time I feel a sliver of happiness, a machete comes from out of nowhere to remove whatever I love most."

I felt hot tears dripping down my cheeks, my vision clouded, my throat was tight. "If I'd broken the engagement like you asked me to, maybe you'd still be here. Or maybe I'd be with you right now. You told me my plan was ridiculous, you didn't need to know me better – the truth is, I didn't need to know you better, either. You were the one."

I took my palms and wiped the moisture from my cheeks, drying my hands on my jeans. "I know I don't deserve a do-over. I should have seen you for what you were when I had the chance. I'm so sorry." My voice lost its volume. I whispered, "I love you, Drake. I always will. There'll never be another." I buried myself in the pillow he used, trying to drink up whatever scent was left.

I slept, wishing for dreams of Drake, wishing to touch his skin, to feel the stubble on his face one more time. I wished I had known how I felt about him while he was still alive. I tried to communicate with my mom's and Drake's spirits all the time. I kept thinking of it like a television station that was just outside the range of my digital receiver. Nothing worked. I never heard, saw, or felt either of them.

My guard detail of four had dwindled to two. I wasn't sure when it happened, but sometime during the time that I'd nearly starved myself to death, the other guards were gone. Aragon kept his post in the hallway during his shifts at night. Phineas began standing his watch inside my room during the day. He knew I was close to a mental breakdown and did everything he could to keep me from losing it.

Phineas openly spoke to me, trying to nurse me back to health. Although he seemed to be more comfortable stationed at my door, he occasionally took a seat in one of the chairs in my room. He was a constant reminder that I was coming back; I would be _me_ again soon. I still wore the hideous necklace: not so long ago I had thought it beautiful. I no longer felt that way. I hadn't felt even a flicker of energy from it since Zandra's last visit to my room, but I didn't tempt fate either.

"Have you contacted your mother's spirit?" It was always the first question Phineas asked me. Although I missed her, I was secretly expending most of my energy desperately trying to contact Drake. If spirits chose to stay earthbound, maybe he had chosen not to stay with me. I couldn't blame him. What little time we had spent together wouldn't have obligated him to me. I tried to speak with both as often as I could get my brain to focus, but even though I gathered strength, I had no luck whatsoever.

Friday at noon a seamstress brought a beautiful dress to my room. She put it over me and pinned it for the last of the alterations before tomorrow's wedding. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror: I had lost too much weight. The last couple days with Phineas had done me good, but I still looked sickly compared to the person I'd been just weeks ago. My hair had lost its luster, my skin looked dull, and my bones were nearly visible under my skin.

Phineas and I were having our usual dinner chatter when there was a soft tap at my door. Phineas immediately came to attention and in three large strides had opened it. Phineas excused himself and allowed a woman to step through the door and into my world.

# Chapter 35

_(Camille Benning – Florida)_

She had kind eyes, ice blue, exactly the same shade as Drake's. Her hair was shoulder-length, smooth and straight. She wore expensive cologne; I couldn't place the scent but knew I'd tested it at Dillard's. "Hello, Camille. I'm Hallenjah Nash. Is it okay if I speak with you?"

My heart stopped. This was one of Drake's relatives. She looked almost too young to be his mother, but I could see so much of Drake in her, I didn't know who else she could be. Would she, too, blame me for his death? I answered, "Of course."

"I am Drake's mother. I was hoping to speak with you about my son."

"I can see the resemblance. He had your eyes. I'm sorry for your loss."

"I can see that you are. Maybe you can help me find him?"

I gave her a questioning look but didn't know how to phrase it. Hadn't Gage told her what had happened? She continued, "You see, obviously, I am a Centauride — just like you. If my son were dead, he would have answered my calls to the spirit world. He has not."

My mind was strong, but I didn't understand what she was telling me. I confessed, "I've tried to speak with him as well, but I'm afraid I'm not very proficient."

"Your proficiency has nothing to do with it. He is not in the spirit world. I fear he is hidden somewhere in this fortress. I felt his presence when I stepped on the grounds. He is here: he is _alive_."

I yelled for the first time in weeks, "Phineas!!!" The door bolted open as if he were ready to do battle. "This is Mrs. Nash. She says Drake is still alive. Where is he?"

Phineas hesitated for only a second. He stepped inside my bedroom and closed the door. "I don't know for certain, but two of your guards were reassigned to the guest quarters, the day that... when Gage left the estate. I haven't spoken to the guards, and the estate staff are not permitted entry."

"You didn't think that was odd?"

"Truthfully, I was too worried about you. I was pleased that I was left assigned to you. It didn't occur to me to be curious."

I couldn't be angry with him. If it weren't for Phineas, I wouldn't have had the strength to even speak to Drake's mom. "How do we get into the guest quarters?"

Phineas answered sternly, "You don't! You stay put. I will try to get into the structure this evening."

"I want to see them."

"Camille, I don't know if they're there. If they are, I don't know their condition."

Hallenjah responded, "He's alive."

I threw my arms around Drake's mother. This was the first time I had felt joy in weeks. I felt her body stiffen at my unexpected show of emotion. Once she'd regained her footing, she returned my embrace. I asked her, "Why would Zandra pretend they were dead?"

"Why, indeed. I was hoping you could shed some light for me on that one."

I didn't know how much Gage had told her, and the last thing I wanted was to dime anyone out, so I only shared, "She's nutso, that's why."

"That is one explanation. Do you know my son spoke of you to me?"

Drake, talked about me? To his mother? What had he told her? When had he talked to her? "No ...I wasn't aware. I mean, I met him... before...you know."

"You spent the day with him on your father's yacht. It must have been some afternoon." Her tone wasn't accusatory, but she was politely making me aware that my infatuation with Drake likely had a hand in why Zandra faked his death. "Do you know that after he spent the afternoon with you, he asked his father and me if we would support him breaking his engagement to Bianca?"

"Uh, no. I wasn't aware of that either." I took a deep breath, almost scared to hear, but knowing I couldn't not know, "What'd you tell him?"

"We told him Bianca was a lovely Centauride who would make an excellent wife." She watched my eyes, and she seemed perceptive enough that she probably saw the glossiness I wasn't willing to let free. "I also told him to follow his heart, that if he was happy, we were happy. He was so nervous at the time that I believed he wished to break his engagement with Bianca to pursue a human. That was until Gage filled in the missing pieces for us when he delivered the news of Drake's death."

"And you came to meet me?"

"I came to find my son. Zandra knows I am here. She will also be aware that I can feel his presence. It is only a matter of time before she owns up to not murdering them and sets them free, or makes good on her fabrication and slays them."

A rush of emotions shook my body. "Phineas, take Mrs. Nash to the gate. Get her out of here."

"Camille, I can't leave you."

"I'm going to find Drake and Bianca. You get her to safety and catch up with me after."

"I can't let you do that."

I stood my ground. I didn't feel weak. I felt energy surge through my entire body, my necklace buzzed to life and I could feel the energy once again pulsate through the device. "I'll be fine. Get her out of here before Zandra catches her here."

Phineas shook his head, "If anything happens to you, I won't be able to face your father again. I'm here for your protection."

"Dammit Phineas! I don't need your protection right now. I need to get Drake out of here. Take care of his mom. I'll find them and get them to the gate."

"Zandra is on the estate. How do you plan to find them? She will know you've left your room. She will sense your excitement."

I shook my head. "If she senses my excitement, she'll interpret it that I am excited for the wedding. My thoughts have been blocked from her since my arrival."

Hallenjah nodded, "It's true, Phineas. None of her thoughts have escaped since I've been here. She has blocked all of them from me. If I cannot read her thoughts, neither can Zandra."

Phineas reluctantly agreed and motioned for Mrs. Nash to follow him.

Before she left, Hallenjah said, "Wait! Why do you wear a necklace of obedience?"

I nearly spat out the words, "Zandra thought it would be an exceptional engagement present."

"Come here for a minute." Hallenjah put her hands on either side of the necklace. I cringed, anticipating the electric shock that rocked me when Gage and Drake had done the same thing. She spoke loudly, "As matriarch of the Nash herd, I absorb your magic. This Centauride has proven her obedience; she is free of your enchantment." I felt the same pulse of electricity run through it that I felt while Zandra was near, but no painful shock followed. A few seconds passed, and the pulse faded away completely. I reached up and touched the clasps: it came off easily.

"I'm free, I can take it off!"

"If you intend to convince Zandra that you haven't spoken with me, you may want to keep it on."

I did as I was told and left the necklace in place while I bolted from the room. After not leaving it for weeks, I had become immune to the stale air inside. Phineas and Hallenjah followed me down the steps. When we reached the outside, we went in opposite directions. I passed the garden where I sat on the bench so many mornings with Zandra. As I ran toward the structure at the far end of the property, I soaked up the last of the day's rays. I forgot just how incredible the sunlight felt on my skin. The air was thick with the smell of the swamp, lush and green. I heard the sounds of the swamp and tried to concentrate on them to calm my nerves.

I saw the guard standing in front of the guest house's door. I stood just outside his view, allowing the foliage to camouflage my approach. I was able to stay away from his view and went around the back. I found a window opened, allowing breeze from the swamp to enter. The open window had steel bars on it. They had been installed recently, likely in a rush. A pile of more metal bars lay haphazardly below another window a little further to my right. That window was closed. I could see it had been nailed shut. A forgotten tool pouch was buried under the stack of metal bars on the ground.

I found a crow bar in the tool pouch and wedged it under one of the bars on the window. The screw securing the bar in place complained, but I didn't relent. I kept angling and re-angling the crowbar until I heard the screw fly free from the structure. I went to work on a second bar. As I had disengaged the second, I heard a squeal of excitement from inside the house. I looked up to the window and saw Bianca. I put my finger to my lips in the international signal for, "Be Quiet." She nodded. The next time I glanced up at the window, I saw two sets of eyes staring down at me. I let out a harsh whisper, "Block your thoughts!"

Both nodded, neither uttered a word.

In five minutes I had removed five screws, which were enough for Bianca and Drake to slip through the opening. Bianca was on the ground in seconds. Drake's frame was much bulkier than Bianca's, and he was halfway through the bars when Phineas joined us. I could see the desperation in Drake's eyes when he saw Phineas. He slid free of the final bar on the window, then charged Phineas.

My whisper was louder than it had been just seconds before, "Stop! He's helping me."

Drake stopped his assault. Phineas grinned, eyeing the metal bars hanging loosely on the window's frame, "Clever. What now?"

# Chapter 36

_(Camille Benning – Florida)_

Bianca had given me a quick hug. I was thrilled to see her, but it wasn't her embrace that I'd longed for. The reunion I'd never hoped for, never thought possible — happened. The thrill of seeing him in front of me rendered me speechless. Drake scooped me up into his arms. I didn't care about anything else in the world. He was alive. I could hear Phineas filling Bianca in. I was so wrapped up with Drake that I didn't think he was listening, either. He whispered, "I never thought I'd see you again. Not until after you belonged to Gage. Not until there was no chance for us. I need you, Camille. Don't marry him. I swear I'll wait for you for as long as it takes, but don't marry him."

"I won't." I couldn't get anything else out because Drake's lips were on mine. There was nothing discreet about us, and I didn't care if the entire world saw us. I pulled my lips from his and said, "Leave with me, now."

Drake's eyes drifted to the necklace I still wore. His hand reached for it in a silent reminder to me that I couldn't go. I couldn't contain my smile. "Your mom was here." I reached up to the clasps of the necklace and took it off.

Drake's eyes grew to the size of quarters. "You took it off!"

"Your mom fixed it. It turns out any Matriarch can remove it. I thought I was going to have to marry Gage to get it off."

I was still cradled in his arms, his voice heavy, "You were going to go through with it? You would have married Gage?"

"I didn't know you were alive until your mom told me a little while ago. As far as being bound to Gage, I didn't think I had much of a choice. If I had refused to marry him, I would have stayed a prisoner here. I'd already planned to go back to California, to my old life. I figured Gage would let me divorce him." Some of my darker desires included convincing Gage to return to Zandra's estate to exact revenge for the killing of Bianca and Drake. Now that I knew the truth, I didn't think I'd share that one with anyone.

"There's no divorce for Centaurs, Camille. It can't be done. A couple united can be parted by death, but the surviving Centaur cannot marry again. They cannot be bound a second time." Drake finally eased me onto my feet but kept his arms wrapped around me.

"Anything is possible. I was born of two Centaurs that weren't married. That isn't possible either."

"Camille, you don't understand. You're the only one. There are no others."

"What do you mean there are no others?"

"You're the only Centaur child to be born out of wedlock. Gage would never have agreed to a divorce. He would have been shunned by his family. He would have lost his livelihood. He would have been disgraced." Drake still held me in his arms, the warmth I never thought I'd feel again encircling me.

"Well then, it's a good thing Bianca isn't dead. He can marry her." I was all smiles and wasn't sure gravity still worked because I felt like I was floating. I brought myself back to earth when something that had bothered me for a long time came to mind, "But wait — Gretchen said she gave Will permission to be with my mom if he wanted."

Drake eyed me curiously, "Your father shouldn't have been able to...you know...with your mother. Gretchen may have given him permission because she didn't know what to make of it. I've heard of no bloodlines from the pastures of Thessaly that can break a bond."

"So maybe he was from a different pasture."

Drake stopped, arguing with himself more than with me, "There couldn't be. It's not possible."

"What's not possible?"

"Something I need to talk to my parents about when we return."

Phineas cleared his throat. He wore a grin that stretched from the side of the house to the window. "What are you two waiting for? Let's go." Phineas led us straight to the garage, where we all piled into a sleek black Mercedes. I saw a rack of fresh vegetables setting by the door to go into the house. "Give me a second." I grabbed eight tomatoes out of the pile and went to the Bentley. I shoved each of them into the car's gas tank, one right after the other, replaced the gas cap, and jumped back into the sedan.

Bianca asked, "What was that for?"

"They'll be able to go thirty miles before the engine seizes. They'll be stranded, and it'll give us a better head start. Drive Phineas!"

We raced down the driveway, Phineas pressed a button, and the foreboding gates opened wide for us. We were free. As we sped down the two lane road, it felt like we had wings instead of wheels. Bianca told me they'd been held in the guest house the whole time. It didn't occur to me that the guard staff had changed — the staff of four rotating their watch over me had changed to two — but I was so out of it from the grief of losing them both, I hadn't noticed.

The sun was just setting over the horizon when we pulled into Will and Gretchen's driveway. It was a marvelous homecoming. Everyone but Beau stood outside awaiting our arrival. Gage arrived within minutes and grabbed hold of Bianca, the same reunion Drake and I had shared just hours before. No one said a word, as they had pushed all pretense aside, holding each other tenderly, ready to finally begin their life together, regardless of who had been betrothed to whom. I expected William to say something about rules, commitments, bloodlines or something, but he didn't – he looked relieved.

Drake pulled me close to his side and addressed my father. "Camille has had a horrific ordeal. She's not ready to make her choice, but when she is, she'll choose me." Drake looked down at me as if he were waiting for me to argue what we both already knew. "As her unofficial fiancé, I will protect her to the death, and I will not leave her side."

Will nodded, "Gretchen agrees with you; it's only a matter of time."

My eyes darted to Gretchen. She bowed her head slowly, and I blurted out, "I thought if you told someone their future, you jinxed it or something?"

Gretchen stepped closer to Drake and me, in a tone that left nothing to interpretation, "Camille, your destiny has been fluid. I've seen so many different outcomes for you in the last two months, I'm still not certain. What I do know: If you choose a Centaur, Drake is the Centaur you'll choose — when you're ready. Your heart has already made the choice. You just need to give your mind time to accept your heart's decision."

Drake was standing behind me when Gretchen said he was my future. I felt his arms wrap around me as he lovingly kissed the top of my head. Drake whispered, "There's no rush, Camille. Take your time, but know that I won't allow anyone to separate us."

I crossed both arms over Drake's arms that were wrapped around me and leaned back fully into his warm embrace. It felt like things were going to be okay, even if I only got to savor that feeling for a couple minutes. I didn't miss Gretchen's words, "If you choose a Centaur." I'd said from the beginning that I wasn't sure I wanted anything to do with being a Centaur – but that was before I knew how I felt about Drake.

Drake spoke to my father, "It's only a matter of time before Zandra catches up to us."

Will nodded, "Get some rest. I can forbid her entry into my home. You'll be safe here. Welcome to our family, Drake. Thank you for bringing Camille home."

We climbed the steps to my room. So much had happened; I hardly knew where to begin. With all the weird rules and strange traditions, I half expected someone to jump in front of us and send us to separate rooms. No one did. While we walked into my room, Drake said, "You know she'll be here soon."

"Uniting the bloodlines is no more than a pipe dream for her now. Gage and Bianca are going to make it official – he's off the market. Once he's chosen, officially, by Bianca, my blood debt is paid."

"Gage has a brother, Camille."

"What?"

"I can't believe he never told you. Brandon is eighteen, and if Gage is out of the picture, Zandra could do the whole thing over again. Gage's dad and your grandmother are serious about uniting their two bloodlines."

"What's the big deal?"

"I think they're trying to find immortality."

"Immortality?"

"Chiron was an immortal who willingly gave up his immortality. Unice was made a human before Chiron, and had immortal blood in her veins, as well. I think Kyle and Zandra are trying to make Centaurs immortal again or at least their bloodlines. They aren't going to give up just because Gage and Bianca are together; in fact, Bianca is probably in as much danger as we are."

"Does she know?"

"The three of us talked about it while we were all at Zandra's estate. They know to go into hiding. They can use Aphrodite's magic to hide if they need to. We already know that works."

I thought of what Gage told me, how his dad was really in love with my mom, how he hid her and protected her. Gage could do the same thing for Bianca, and I might never see them again. "I need to talk to Bianca."

"They've already left."

"Do you know where they went?"

"I have an idea, but nothing specific."

"How do we get in contact with them?"

"That's the point, Camille. We don't."

"Gage won't break contact with his family, will he?" Growing up with just Mom and me, it was hard to imagine willingly giving her up, let alone a whole family.

"He's not sure how far his dad'll go. He's not taking any more chances with Bianca."

"Maybe Mr. Richardson isn't so bad. Maybe it's just he and Zandra together that are the problem."

"She's power mad, Camille. She'll hunt us down with or without Gage's dad."

"She's an old woman, Drake. I doubt she'd stand a chance against us."

"You are still unfamiliar with our ways. Don't confuse age with power or strength. The only reason you and your mother were safe for all those years was Aphrodite's magic protected you both. That protection is no longer there. Zandra is a Centauride scorned: she will seek her revenge."

"So what are you saying? We need to go into hiding?"

"We need more than a good hiding spot. We need magic of our own."

I could see Drake was just as exhausted as I was. We slipped into my bed, his arms wound around my body, and I felt tingles all over my skin. I didn't want to talk about Zandra, going into hiding, or finding our own magic. I only wanted to feel Drake's body against mine, savor the rhythm of his heart beating against me and listen to his breathing. We melted into each other and drifted off together. It felt like I'd only just blinked my eyes when an arm shook me.

"Camille," Will's voice was an urgent whisper, "wake up. Quickly, wake up."

I wiped the sleep from my eyes, squinting into the darkness. I felt the warmth of Drake's body against mine as his muscles flexed beside me. "What's wrong, Will?"

"Camille, Zandra is on her way. It's worse than we thought. You need to get up. We need to get you out of here."

"I thought you said we'd be safe here?"

"You've got an hour, two at best and her forces will be upon us. You'll be safe inside my walls, but I can't offer you protection outside the house, and you couldn't stay inside forever."

"Where will we go?"

"I've chartered a plane. You'll need to get to the Monck's Corner Airport where a plane is waiting. Go now, Sweetheart. It's your only chance."

Drake tugged me hard. He didn't need to hear anything else. "Camille, I'm not losing you again, let's go."

I turned to Drake, "But where? Won't she find us wherever we go?"

"I've got an idea." Drake turned to Will and asked, "How big of a plane is it?"

"It's a jet, son. Go. Everything you need is waiting on the plane." Will pulled me into a tight embrace. "Be careful. If you need us, we're a phone call away. I'll stay here long enough to throw her off of your trail. Don't go near San Diego."

Drake nearly pulled me out of Will's arms. "I'm sorry, Love, we need to go." I started to struggle against him when he murmured, "I can't lose you again." That was all it took. I knew if I lost him a second time, I wouldn't survive – I couldn't fault him for feeling the same. "I'm going to give my parents a call. We need to go in five minutes."

I looked around the room. There wasn't much of me here. As I packed clothes, I saw my cell phone by the night stand, exactly where I'd left it several months before. Neither Will nor Gretchen bothered to unplug it while I was gone. My voicemail box was full. I saw the call log. Daniel had called every day for the last two months. I needed to call him and let him know I was okay. But what would I tell him?

Drake peeked in through my bedroom door, "Ready, love?"

"I guess so, but I need to know where we're going."

"Ireland, at least that's where we'll start."

"Ireland?"

"Ireland's our first stop. Our history is unreliable; too many fables are mixed in with truths, so I'm not a hundred percent certain where we'll end up. Do you have a passport?"

"Well, yeah, but not here. It's at my apartment in California." Spring break of my senior year was in Cabo San Lucas. I had only that single stamp in my passport, although I had fantasies of traveling the world. Not in my darkest nightmares could I have imagined a deranged grandmother coming into my life then chasing me around the planet.

"Looks like we'll need to make a detour."

"A detour, for a passport? Drake, did anything happen to you that I should know about while you were captive in Zandra's guest house? A big knock on the head or something?"

Drake stepped through the door, was in front of me in four strides and looked into my eyes, "Yes. Something did happen. I fell hopelessly in love with a woman with a death sentence on her head. Now grab your backpack. Let's go."

"I think this is great and everything, but what kind of magic are we looking for? I mean, is it bigger than a breadbox? Are we going to need a crane?"

"I'll tell you everything once we're in the air."

We didn't go to the airport I'd flown into. We went up to a sleepy runway in Moncks Corner. I hated the idea of leaving my beautiful sedan in the lonely little parking lot. The car had fewer than three hundred miles on it, and it seemed like a huge waste of money considering how much I'd been able to use it.

As I shut the trunk, I looked at the small control tower in front of us. It was only two stories, with open-ended hangers spread out along the outskirts of the runway. It looked like maybe twenty small planes called this airport their home.

"So which one of these are we taking?"

"None of those. Your father sent a jet. It should be here somewhere."

We walked the fifty feet from the parking lot to the airport's terminal – I use that term loosely. I didn't know airports existed that didn't have TSA. No x-ray inspection, no displays announcing arrival and departure flights: this looked closer to a car rental agency than a real airport. A man looked over a counter with a headset on. "You Mr. and Mrs. Nash?"

I froze, but Drake didn't miss a beat, "Yes. We're here for a pickup."

"Your pilot just radioed in, should be on the ground in about five minutes. He's already filed his flight plan and says he doesn't need fuel. Once he's on the ground, you can go out to the tarmac. You're all set."

We saw a sleek, black jet making its approach to the airport. When it touched down, it looked seriously out of place with the privately owned Cessnas and crop dusters that hid under the open bay canopies. After it landed, we stepped out onto the runway. The aircraft's engines were whining quietly as we walked out toward it. The hatch opened, and a set of stairs materialized from its fuselage. Drake led me by the hand to the stairs as a man wearing a headset, loud surfer shorts, and Oakley's yelled down to us, "Drake and Camille Nash?"

Drake answered, "That's us."

"Come on up. Sorry we're late." Once we were inside the cabin, the man said, "We were fixing the passenger manifest. For today's flight to New York, you're "Fred and Wilma Rubble."

I smirked at the man, "A little obvious, don't you think?"

"Naw, obvious would have been Fred and Wilma Flintstone. When we fly international, our manifest will have to match your passports."

"My passport's in California."

"Already taken care of." I cocked my head to the side, wondering how they'd had a chance to get my passport. Before I could ask, the man lifted the stairs behind us and closed the door. It was remarkably quiet inside and not like the commercial airplanes I'd been on. "I'm Chip. The bar is there, under the television. There should be some snacks in the cabinet under it. If you're really hungry, there are some frozen meals in the freezer. There's a bedroom in the back. Help yourself to anything you want."

"You're the pilot and the steward?"

"Co-pilot, and this is more self-service, if you know what I mean." The engines began throttling up and Chip smiled, "Sounds like that's my cue. The pilot must be ready to go. We shouldn't be stopping along the way. FAA says I have to give you a safety briefing. If we lose cabin pressure during the flight, there are oxygen masks in the storage compartment over your seats. If we have an emergency landing, you can open either of the two doors by pressing and pulling the handle up. If the captain and I become incapacitated during the flight, pucker up and kiss your asses goodbye."

My eye muscles flexed and Chip laughed, "Just making sure you were paying attention. Sit back, relax, watch a movie or do whatever you like. If you need anything, just hit the intercom on one of the seats."

"Thanks, Chip. How long a flight will it be?"

"We're going up to New York. We'll get a full tank of fuel there and head to Dublin straight away. Mr. Strayer had us stop in North Carolina to pick something up for you. It's in that envelope on the seat."

# Chapter 37

_(Camille Benning – Charleston, SC)_

Drake opened the envelope. Inside were two passports, two credit cards and a stack of Euros. I opened the passport and saw myself staring back. It said my name was "Angela Chiron." I looked at the other and it was "Gage Chiron."

"He couldn't have chosen less conspicuous names?"

Drake smiled, "He's helping us out a great deal. Nash is a well-known bloodline from the original pasture, but it doesn't carry the same weight as the Chiron name."

We felt the plane lift up off the ground, and I watched us climb higher and higher, "The original pasture?"

"Right, we're going back to Thessaly."

"Thessaly? You're serious?"

"Of course, I'm serious."

"Thessaly is in Ireland?"

"I think so. So much myth is rolled up with legend, we may find out it's somewhere else."

"So we're flying halfway around the world, and we aren't even sure we are flying to the right country?"

Drake gathered my hands in his and brought them to his lips, "Think of it as a honeymoon."

"A honeymoon? Just because the pilots think we're Mr. and Mrs., I'm still single. If it were our honeymoon, you would not be getting away with taking me to Ireland in search of a pasture where ancient Centaurs used to breed."

"It was more than a breeding ground, Camille. It was where our race was born. It's sacred, and it has a magic all its own."

"So we're going to do what, dig up some soil or something?"

"It won't be that easy. We need to find your great uncle Zethus."

"My great uncle? I've never heard of him."

"He's Zandra's brother. The stories I've heard say that he lives at Thessaly. He's as much a direct descendant of Chiron as Zandra – but he was favored by the gods and has something that we need."

"What?"

It wouldn't have been possible for the pilot or co-pilot to hear us, but Drake whispered anyway, "Hercules' arrow."

"You're not serious!"

"I am serious. We need the arrow. Having it will be enough of a deterrent. The tip still has the blood of a Hydra."

No one could be more surprised than me that after everything she'd put me through, I didn't want her dead, "But that'll kill her."

"We aren't going to shoot it through her heart. If we can get the arrow from Zethus, the tip of the arrow pricking her skin will drain her of her magic. She'll live out her life, but we won't have to look over our shoulders."

"Are Zethus and Zandra close?"

"I don't know, but I don't have any other ideas, Love."

Once we had started the second leg of our trip, New York to Dublin, I stood up and held my hand out to Drake, "Come with me." I led him to the rear of the aircraft and found the bedroom that Chip had pointed out. I didn't want to think about her chasing us, where her brother's loyalties might lie, if we could find the pasture, or even if the arrow existed.

I was exhausted and hoped this flight would take three days. I was sure I could spend that long in bed — longer, knowing Drake was not only alive but with me. Drake snuggled in close, and it only took minutes for his breathing to slow down. All those conversations I'd had with his spirit, or so I thought, I'd confessed everything. I swore if there was any chance ever to tell him how I felt, I wouldn't hold anything back. "Drake?"

His eyes were closed, his lips turned up in a content grin. He looked like he was seconds from drifting off to sleep, "Hmmm?"

"I love you." I'd never said those words to anyone but Mom, and I knew I'd never feel them for anyone else.

Drake's eyes snapped open and his grin morphed into a wide smile. He leaned toward me on one shoulder as his free hand caressed my arm and his lips crushed onto mine. When he pulled his lips away, his ice blue eyes were staring directly into mine. "Say it again, Camille."

I couldn't help beaming back at him, "I said, I love you, Drake."

He wrapped both his arms around me, pressing himself into me and whispered in my ear, "For how long?"

I cocked my head to the side, "What do you mean: for how long?"

"How long do you promise to love me?"

"Always, Drake."

Before I could blink an eye, Drake had pulled me up to a sitting position on the bed. My legs were draped over the side of the bed and he was kneeling in front of me. "Camille, I promise to protect you. I promise to always put your needs before mine. I promise I'll never let you go to bed angry, and you'll never wake up alone. I promise to love you the rest of my life, and when this life is over, I'll spend my eternity in the pasture with you."

I was speechless. Luckily, Drake didn't wait for any kind of a response from me. He pulled me into his chest, "I've never wanted anything more than you to love me back." He crushed his mouth onto mine again. I didn't have to say the words. He knew I'd made my choice.

We both gave ourselves over to the exhaustion. Hours later I awoke from the deepest sleep I'd had in months. My hands traced the chiseled lines of his chest, his arms stayed wrapped around me. I knew Zandra wouldn't fade into the background. Before I came to South Carolina, I'd never given much thought to my future; I caught myself now thinking of the possibilities. Somewhere between awake and asleep I smelled my mother's perfume. My eyes snapped open. I saw her sitting on the edge of the bed; she was so beautiful — her skin almost glowed. She held her finger to her lips, silencing me, pointing at the sleeping Drake beside me. "Be careful, Camille. Centaurs are not what they seem. Most are like Rupert, more beast than man."

"You mean Drake?" I shook my head at the absurdity. "But, I love him."

"I know, Camille. But do you love him enough to save him?"

"Save him from what?"

"No one is safe with you right now. The Lost Herd seeks you. I had to give up Kyle for the same reason, it was the only chance he had at life. They still found me."

I'd never gotten a straight answer from Gretchen and I wasn't able to ask my father. Mom might be the only one I could ask right now. "Brent says we're part of the Lost Herd. Are we?"

"Trust yourself, Camille. Know that you and you alone can find what you seek. If you love Drake, do not put him in danger. Do not allow him in your life."

"Mom, I can't...I can't give him up." I looked at him sleeping peacefully beside me, muttering more to myself, "I almost didn't make it without him."

"I know it's hard, Camille. But if you love him, you'll send him away. Take the fight to your enemies and give them nothing to hold over you. Drake is your only weakness. They will exploit him and you will fail."

"But you never fought your enemies: you went into hiding. Gage told me all about it."

"You're right, if I had it to do over again, I would have fought. I did not see what would happen to you. You, too, will have a son and daughter one day. You need to make the choice now, before it's made for you. The Lost Herd will find you. When they do, you and your descendants will never be free."

I could see pain welling up through her eyes. "Your father..." Her lips moved but her words were muted. I saw her figure fading into the background.

"Mom! I can't hear you! Mom!" I reached out to where she had been sitting and felt nothing but air. Everything seemed to be in slow motion. "Mom, don't leave!" The sound of my own voice startled me. I awoke to the dark bedroom, trying to figure out if she had been there or if I'd just dreamed her. I took in a large whiff hoping to catch even a faint hint of her perfume – but I smelled nothing. She wasn't there.

I struggled to go back to my dream, but I didn't have any luck. All I found was a dreamless sleep. I awoke hours later to Drake's arms still around me. I didn't want to flinch because it still felt a little euphoric to be there with him. My mind began to wander. Did I really have a twin brother somewhere in the world? Mom said I'd have a son and daughter; Zandra must have been telling the truth about twins. What would Zandra do if she saw me again? How would we know Bianca and Gage were okay? Did my mom really appear in a dream or was it my imagination? Why couldn't I see or hear my mom? What did I have to fear from the Lost Herd? What did Drake mean when he said we needed to find our own magic? Could I share any of this with Daniel?

All these questions were sailing through my mind when I heard Drake murmuring in his sleep: the lullaby that broke down my defenses at Zandra's, "Choose me, Camille. Choose me." I snuggled in closer to him, pushing the questions to the back of my mind. I'd worry about all of that later. For now, I would live in the present – savor the love of a man I thought I'd lost forever. Mom's warning was probably just a dream; after everything we'd gone through, my mind wanted to believe that real happiness was finally mine.

~FIN~

The second book in the Touched series, _Centaur Legacy,_ is available at your favorite retailer.

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