The wench sat arrogantly in the seat she had stolen. A heavily jeweled gown that should have made movement impossible hindered her not at all as she languidly gestured across the room. Arrayed around her were her minions, lounging as if they too belonged in that hallowed place, predator eyes watching, watching. The court was absolutely silent. The reason for this lay on the floor. Bleeding and broken, the body of the king lay silent on the floor. None were allowed near it, and all dreaded what might happen next.

Would happen next. For she was the Queen of the wolves, and they had certain… rites to observe. Even as people began to stir, to make their quiet ways to the exits, the wolves shed their human skins and began to feed. The only sounds were the ripping and wet tearing of flesh. Under it all, muffled by the sounds of eating, were the weak screams of the still-alive king. The Reign of Wolves had begun.

Those in the hall were finally allowed to escape, making for the doors with speed proportional to their valor. A few lagged behind, gazing at the wolves and their queen with hatred or speculation or a mingling of both. The queen of the wolves was seeking a suitor for her new throne, and while the king had been much loved by his inner circle, he was most irrevocably gone. Now the wise were contemplating their new ruler, already plotting what position they would hold in the new court and the downfall of any who might be in the way. Already, the court was failing. It was only a matter of time, Ander supposed, before they too became the wolves that She was accustomed to ruling. Only a matter of time. He steepled his fingers in front of his chest, waiting, outwardly patient as the crowd filed out. He had a clear view of the king as he waited for the last of them to leave.

He kept his eyes carefully schooled, betraying none of his anger. His posture and gaze were only as respectful as was required, not a bit more as he stared at the remains of his king and beloved friend. He waited until the last of the ambitious had filed out before turning on his heel and making his slow way to the exit. It was his only show of anger that he did not bow.

"Wait." The queen's voice was smooth, but not in an oily way. Seductive. His back turned to her, Ander smiled. He continued walking. "I command you to wait!" Her voice climbed lightly up the scale, ending on a sharp note that made Ander wince. A wolf should know better. He stopped, turning slowly enough that he could feel the slow scrape of dirt through his thin-soled shoes, slowly enough that he was able to steady his expression to new heights of the bored indifference he most certainly did not feel.

He looked up at the queen with bland eyes. The hall was small enough that even a the back of it he could see that one fine drop of blood still perched on her pale cheek. One of her wolves gazed adoringly at that cheek. "What is it that you need?" He sighed internally as the queen somehow managed to take offense. This was why humans were the ones to rule them all; Wolves were too impulsive, just as dragons were too long-sighted. This rein boded poorly for them all. A human ruler was a stabilizer for all of the different factors moving in the Court of Nirron. Even now he could feel the unease pricking across his skin, ruffling hard-won control. The queen stared down at him, and it was her impatience, her… lust the throne spread like a blanket across the castle. Even now her influence was throwing the precious balance off.

She leaned closer, dress creaking with the effort. The top of it dug sharply into her barely-contained chest. She meant it to be attractive. Ander found it only discomforting. "I wish to speak with you. No, I command it," she corrected. "You will come sit at my feet and speak with me." She smiled.

"Court is over. The time of orders has passed. You may not command me outside it. Even you cannot change that much in one day, Hrodwulf Iole."

She snarled at his use of her old title, but when she spoke again her voice remained warm, seductive. "I could force you. I prevented you from stepping in to save the weak one, held you immobile in your weak human form. I can force you to come to me, to do my bidding. But I would have you willingly." She smiled, and it was not a nice smile.

"I don't believe you did, Iole. I believe you may have some powerful artifact on your side, but that does not make you powerful, nor any more fit to rule the Court of Nirron. I will notify you when Redan stirs from her rest. Until then—" He gave a curt bow and left the room. He could feel her pale violet eyes boring into his back, and knew he had perhaps made the wrong enemy this time. Once in the hall, he was surrounded by those who cared enough to think he might be dead. He smiled at them all, but it held none of its usual warmth.

"Iole will bring disaster to a court that has lasted for a thousand years. We must remove her." Ander looked sharply at the speaker, one of the fey from the far north. Her fine, pale blue fur was bristling, appearing out of place on her otherwise human form.

"On any other day, Livia, such words would be disastrous for you and all who heard you. We would all be dishonored or killed for even listening to such a thing without striking you down." He glared at her, trying to make her understand with the sheer weight of his gaze. But she and everyone else were waiting to hear the rest of his words. "But, indeed, Hrodwulf Iole must not be allowed to hold the Throne of Balance. Even now her influence spreads across the court like an ill wind. Without a human to steady it, the Court will fall apart." Everyone was quiet, in their own way contemplating regicide and the alternative—war unending, as had always been before. Ander would have preferred that people react, do something, but it was the result of his own unique heritage.

If he could find any human suitable it would simply be a matter of investing them with the powers of that which he carried. Most believed that it was the throne itself that held the power over court, and indeed it was a powerful tool. But it was Ander himself who bore the Investiture, the power to control all who put themselves under the throne. "I must leave court," he said, beginning to move down the hall and away from the body of his friend—later, when I am clear of this place, I will grieve later—and toward the courtyard. There would be no time to gather his things, not even the most precious of them, but the thought did not cripple him as it may have a dragon. He was a wyrm, and treasures were luxury, not necessity.

The crowd stayed behind, not wanting to go with him, suddenly not wanting to be anywhere near the Investiture Wyrm. They probably believed that he was going to his rest, returning to wherever he slept while his sister woke and advised the next ruler. They took turns, sleeping and waking, and each time they woke their lives from before were a distant dream. Thus they had survived the long ages for the thousand years of the court's life—perhaps longer. Neither he nor his sister truly knew how old they were.

If things had happened as they should, Ander would be on his way to his rest. His sister Redan would be waking, feeling the call of some new soul destined to rule. But Ander did not feel the weight of sleep that meant his time was done. Redan did not stir from her little death. Something had gone horribly wrong. The proper order of things had been disturbed, and Ander didn't know how to set it right again. All he could do was take himself far away from this place so that Iole could not be sealed to the throne. He could no more stand against this than fly. It was not only Iole who had staged this coup; there were those in every race who grew impatient with human rulers, feeling that their own race would do better. One of them must be providing the power to do this.

The courtyard loomed ahead. The gates were sealed, but Ander had expected that. He had not expected the array of draconic guards waiting in the courtyard, metallic claws marring the earth. The lead hissed, her red scales dull in the half-light. Ander sighed, wanting nothing more than to thrash Shonan for her arrogance. But Shonan was Ryu. For better or worse, where she led, the Bright dragons followed. He could not fight all the dragons here. Reaching for his true form, finding it still sealed, he wasn't entirely certain he could take Shonan herself. The thought shook him.

There was only one thing for it, then. He sighed. He had not moved through the earth in human form in this lifetime, but he knew it could be done. The instincts were still there. He reached down, and the earth opened her arms to him.

It was not so much a feeling of sinking as one of falling. Overhead he could feel Shonan tearing at the earth, but she would never reach him that way. It was almost physical pain not to take his true form here, with the earth's heart blood singing in his veins, but it remained sealed even in this holy place. He traveled miles in the space of a few breaths, but they were the breaths of the earth itself, slow and steady. Dusk had given way to dawn it what seemed like seconds, and Ander had moved farther than any dragon could fly.

The terrain was rolling hills here, not rocky like the land around the palace. It was no place he had ever been. Silence and the early light of morning pressed down on him, and suddenly he was tired, so tired he couldn't stand. He sat awkwardly before his legs could crumple under him. He had fought the binding with all he had, but by the time he knew it was there it was too late.

How long had it been there? It had been days before Iole's coup since he had taken true form. The bindings could have been placed on him any time in the span, and he would never have noticed. He blamed himself. The bodyguards had died protecting their king. He was supposed to be the last line of defense. He had failed in that, as he now failed to bring justice on Iole's head. He was honest enough to realize that the best he could do was take himself and his powers far away from Iole's mysterious influence. But it galled.

He sighed. The grass prickled through his house clothes; Ander hadn't dressed for a short walk, let alone a trek through the wilderness. He thought back to the Iole's costume and let out a bemused sound; he'd never seen the huntress wear clothing like that. Perhaps she considered it just another sort of camouflage. He fell to a tired sort of staring, taking in the green-gold hills, dotted with dark volcanic stone, as if he were waiting for something to happen. He was tired, but it was bone-deep weariness from the events of the day, not the need to rest so his sister could start her work. He felt no pull to be anywhere, as he would if the next ruler were waiting for his call. Perhaps Iole had sealed that along with his true form, hoping that he'd come whimpering back to her.

But why allow him any of his powers, if she could deny that? No, it didn't make sense. Before, when the ruler had been assassinated, the dragon (in that case, it had been his sister) had immediately fallen into the earth. Ander had arrived scant days later with a new leader, and all had progressed as if the Queen had simply died of old age. What made this time so different?

 
He shook his head and shifted in the grass, pulling his thin coat off to protect his face from the prickly grass. The sky was blue through the scarred branches of the oak, but not the clear, almost painful blue of the court. He wanted to be home, arguing with the king over some matter of philosophy. He swallowed around the lump in his throat. Truth be told, he wanted Sleep to take him so his sister would deal with this mess, but it didn't appear that whatever governed their lives wasn't going to make it that easy.

 
It felt like he'd just drifted off to sleep when the sound of muffled sniffling brought him awake. The sun was well on its way to setting now; he'd managed to sleep the day around, which was more an testament to his exhaustion than to his ability to sleep when he was troubled. His back was stiff, his skin prickly, and it seemed to take forever to blink his eyes clear to see who was crying.

 
Two rabbit children were hiding their faces against the trunk of the tree he'd taken shelter under. The choice could not have been co-incidental; rabbits had an uncanny knack for detecting both strength and generosity, and they were utterly ruthless in playing on the latter. These two were particularly pathetic, stifling their sniffles on each other's shoulders, which meant they undoubtedly wanted something from him. Ander sighed. He'd never been able to deny the little things, even though he knew they were far from helpless; four of them had claimed his protection at court, where (luckily) it was little more than a formality. But out here it would be a weighty task, and Ander didn't even have the resources to fend for himself. If they were seeking a protector, he would have to turn them down.

 
Once he pushed himself up on his elbows, however, they pounced. Without any of the usual show of weakness, they clung to him, shivering in the particularly frantic way only rabbit children seemed capable of. "Please, please! Help our protector, our master, Bad Men came and took her away!" The female sobbed. Her thin ears were tight against her scalp; not the courtly white, but a nut-brown like her hair. Her overlarge eyes filled and overflowed, making Ander's insides clench helplessly. "We are so alone now, and they're going to kill her, we just know it!"

 
The younger and more timid male nodded his head emphatically, too-long hair spilling into his eyes. Ander shifted, arms out, and hesitantly patted them on the shoulders. He knew offering any consolation would only encourage them, he knew he was in no shape to rescue anyone two rabbits considered powerful enough to be their Protector—but he just couldn't help himself.

 
Their crying stilled quickly. The shivering took longer, but it was still far sooner than he expected when the eldest picked up her head, indulged in a sniffle, and—with remarkable steel—stared up at him. "You are going to help, aren't you? You must. She's such a good and wonderful person, always a perfect protector even though we've only known her a few weeks. And they jumped on her and knocked her out, but Jekob couldn't help because she told him—"

 
The younger one gave her a sharp jab in her ribs, gave Ander a significant look, and stared back at his elder. The meaning was clear; we can't trust him with that. Ander extracted himself while they glared at each other, so unlike the timid, wilting things he'd known at court.

The younger one seemed to take this as a sign that he was trying to leave, and cried out in protest. "Please don't do! You're powerful, you can save her!"

Ander sighed, brushing the grass off his pants. He stooped to retrieve his jacket. "I don't know what I can do. Much of my power has been sealed, and there many problems I have to deal with." He looked down. Groaned. Gods, he should have known better than to try and argue this point. "An entire kingdom is at stake, may hinge on what I do!" He tried anyway, but those eyes stabbed at him. It wasn't fair that there were four of them; two accusing eyes were bad enough, but two rabbit children were too much even for his will. He sighed, admitting defeat in his posture, and the twin looks of adoration made his face warm. "All right. We'll sneak up and take a look, and if it doesn't look like I can deal with it we'll try to find a town to help." Inwardly he didn't have much hope. With his true form sealed, he was only a passable mage; even bandits would probably be too much for him.

His feet scraped the pale sand, drawing great streaks out of the earth. He didn’t care; there was no man left alive in the temple with the courage to follow him. He shuddered violently, almost falling to his knees with the force of the revulsion that coursed through him. He’d seen to that.

The walls of the cave he’d found jutted at all angles about him. It was more a ravine, a jagged tear in the earth, granite walls looming until all but the most filtered morning light was lost. It was darkness that he sought, an escape from the light that burned with the knowledge of what he had done. Fleeing had never been so hard. He wanted to stay, to offer himself up for the crimes the cursed weapon had inspired, but Ulan had known that he only would have killed more. The spear would never have stood for his surrender, and it still thirsted for blood when he staggered out into the dawn.

He had thought to use the spear, to force it to serve him. He’d made it play at being a weapon of defense, of the light. And he had been strong enough, for a while. He had commanded the spear. But it had always been strongest at night; and as he killed the evil things that plagued the land, his nightmares grew… until he woke that night, grabbed the spear, and drove it into the chest of the man standing guard at his door. The sentries had followed, and then he made his way through the temple barracks… and then, out into the places where the innocents slept. No one could stand against him.

Ulen was not a religious man. The church had always been simply a way to fight the things that prowled. But he had greatly respected those of the cloth. He had loved his temple and those who devoted service to it. Now it was a tomb. With the light had come a tiny bit of strength, and using that strength, he had fled.

He reached the end of the ravine. The crack in the earth cut sharply down, becoming a crevasse that he couldn’t see the bottom of. Fist clenched around the spear, he took a rock and pitched it in. Sharp echoes traveled up to him where it hit the sides, but he didn’t hear it strike bottom. He tore his attention from the dark, cool mouth and looked up at the faint light. Perhaps some God still guided him, in a twisted way; saving others from his fate. Lips tight, tensed against the will of the spear, he flung it in.

It fought him, of course. From the moment it knew his intent, it had fought; but in the day, at least, he was still its master. He forced his fingers open, allowing the weapon tumble into the dark that folded welcomingly around it. Briefly, he wavered at the edge. He wanted to die, wanted to erase what he could of his crimes. But could he? If he died, what would keep the spear from calling some poor soul to its aid? The weapon and he had a connection, weak though it may be. While he lived, it could not forge another. Surely that was worth living for? He resolved that he would pay a dearer penance than death for his weakness. He would stand guard, keep any other from reaching the spear and its craving for blood. Until the end of his days.

And in that moment, with that resolution, the spear had its revenge. Before thought could become word or action, the spear had already wreaked its terrible magic. Three days later, when Ulen tried to take his own life, he could not die. Rocks cut, blood ran, bones broke with shattering pain—but he did not die. Four days later, when he tried to leave the ravine, he was struck with pain so terrible he could not go further. He was a prisoner, bound by an internal oath made in grief and weakness. And, as years passed and he did not age, he began to realize that the end of his days may never come.

Basil sighed, leaning back into the tree until the rough bark left impressions on her skin. She’d never been in a forest like this before. There were clusters or dry oak trees in her home, dotting the gold plains she had loved, but they were nothing like this. Thick leaves made a carpet, swaying leaves a canopy; it was the grandest hall in the world, cast in shades of dark green. She spun around, wrapping her arms around the tree. It was not the ward she would have chosen, but she would love and protect this adopted mother of hers with all her strength.

She sniffed the bark, learning about the tree she embraced. It was old, perhaps three hundred years; trees reckoned years much the same way people do, they just didn’t keep track of them the same way. It had seen fire only once. It had felt the bite of pests very little. There had been floods, and fungus, and even now mistletoe or some other parasitic plant itched in its branches. But overall it was a healthy tree.

So little fire. It was strange, having come from the plains. But she supposed that this forest had other ways of cleansing itself, and there were so few of the cone trees for whom fire could be a boon. And it was wet here. Very wet, she thought, wrinkling her nose. How on earth did the farmers get anything done with it raining all the time? Pushing the thought away, she went back to examining the trees. This was her first walk through the forest she was to guard, and it was important that she get to know it. As she walked, she began to sing. It was a simple song, one of the first a Walker learned, a song of life and change.

There were only so many ways that a commonly born sensitive might learn control. There was no end of companies willing to take on the expense of training in return for the things that a sensitive could do: finding the best veins of ore, determining the best places to build, even finding the best place for an ambush. The value of a sensitive was in knowing the land, but most of the available jobs involved exploiting that talent.

But it was not a talent that could go untrained. Many who tried to simply ignore it went mad from the wash of information that could catch you in an unguarded moment. And even a trained sensitive couldn’t live in the cities, where the earth was in such pain; for a city girl like Basil, it would have been nearly impossible to acquire the skills that would have allowed her to live on her own in the country.

So she had joined the temples. It wasn’t a calling so much as it was the best available option. And so far, she’d had no cause to regret her choice. She wrinkled her nose again as she scented something foul. There was something bad in this forest, she’d been warned, something nasty that couldn’t be pinned. Perhaps one of the more reclusive evils lurked here, like a cockatrice or some other nasty beast. But it was more likely that it was the aura of an evil weapon she sensed, the weapon that had possessed a warrior of the faith and slaughtered half the temple she now occupied so many years ago. There were quite a few left who still remembered. The sensitive had been killed, but his notes made no mention of a presence in the woods. The one to come after him had made note of it, but never ventured far enough in to tell; the woods around it were certain to be woefully tended. She snorted to herself. It was poor faith to scoff her fellow devotees, but the last sensitive had been awful; lazy and cowardly, he had eventually choked alone on his stew, too superior to eat with the priests and warriors who peopled the outpost temple.

She sighed. The deeper she got into the woods, the more she could see that she had her work cut out for her. A strong life aura was all that stood between civilized lands and the monster-riddled outbeoynd; without the untouched forests and plains that ringed civilization, they would be free to invade. She spared a thought and a prayer for the priests in the southeast, who had only desert between them and outbeyond. Occasionally monsters would brave the frail life force of that stretch, hungry for the souls it could sense beyond the fragile barrier. There were always many deaths in the southeast. She continued deeper, still singing the simple round, lost in her thoughts.

He started the forty foot climb again, bracing himself for the pain he knew would come. There was a carved line about halfway up, followed by a series of fainter lines. That was the edge of his imprisonment, the exact point where the pain that kept him chained here began. Staring up at it, he had the nagging urge to just go sleep, but he shook it off. He wouldn’t sleep until he could dream of green things instead of this dry, lifeless canyon. Strong muscles bared to the sun, he started up. The path was old, well-worn. And the moment he reached the mark, as with every time before, agony lanced through his body.

As a warrior, he had grown accustomed to pain. But this was no simple wound to be numbed with time or desperation. This was a soul-deep ache that he could never grow accustomed to. And as he moved further from the source of his pain, unbelievably, indescribably, the pain grew.

But he kept climbing. Even if he lay in the grass above, keening in agony, he would taste fresh air again. He dug his fingers into the rock a bare ten feet from the top. So little space between him and wild spring grass… perhaps flowers… trees. The thought drove him another few feet, and he groped for inspiration. Clean air got him another foot. Fodder for dreams a few more precious feet. And soon he was a bare measure from the lip, and he could see long grasses waving over the edge. He could hear the wind. No, not the wind. Singing.

The words were in some ancient language, but he didn’t need to know what they meant for them to cut deeply. It was a temple song, one he had often heard while he practiced in the morning, serving God in his own way. He lowered his head, listening, the quivering of his muscles momentarily forgotten. And then the pain was gone.

The pain that had plagued him for untold years, the agony that had chained him here in this cursed, lifeless canyon, prisoner of his own guilt, simply… vanished. The song wove in and around him, loosing the chains around his heart. He gasped, nerveless fingers sliding from the stone. The sudden absence was more of a shock than its constant, searing presence. Too late, he realized he was falling; all he could manage was a hoarse cry before he landed on one of the outcroppings that stole the canyon’s light.

While clambering over a tumble of boulders-and what strange creature had discarded them here, in the middle of the forest?-Basil realized that she was singing for someone. She frowned, even as she put more force behind her voice. This was, of course, why she’d started singing in the first place, so any of the trees she passed needed healing. But someone? She paused on top of a boulder, staring down into a jagged ravine. The placement of this whole formation seemed odd to her, snaking through the forest and ending abruptly on either side. Some ancient creature, perhaps?

She was distracted from the problem of the song until a startled cry followed closely by a thud drove both problems clear out of her mind. She rushed forward, feet gripping the granite as she peered over the edge. There was a young man, lying on another of the outcroppings that overhung what appeared to be some kind of canyon. He lay motionless, sprawled on his back, bare chest rising and falling steadily. She wrinkled her nose. How on earth had he gotten so far wearing nothing but a pair of loose pants? Overlooking his indecent dress, she clambered down the wall and hopped over to his side. City girl she may well be, but she could still climb.

She approached him cautiously, as was wise for a woman alone in the woods. He appeared unconscious and unarmed, but he could still be dangerous. She sighed at her own lack of caution even as she edged closer. Blood spotted the stone behind his head, oozing in a trail to pool against his shoulder. She knelt down next to him, wishing the talent that could reveal the health of rocks and trees could do the same for flesh. At a loss for anything better to do, she patted his cheek gently, thinking to wake him and help him back to the temple.

His eyes snapped open at the contact, shockingly blue and so full of emotion she jerked her hand back. He scrambled back from where she knelt, almost throwing them both off balance. "Hey!" she exclaimed, grabbing at the stone to steady herself. "Hey, calm down. You fell." She held a hand out once she felt steady again, trying to calm him with the gesture, but he flinched away as though he thought she might burn him. Shaven and clean, wearing faded pants that had to be sleeping clothes for the middle of summer… who was he? "Calm down," she asserted, even though he hadn’t moved. "You hit your head. You shouldn’t move around like that. I just want to help you," she said softly, edging away from the edge a little more. He just stared. Thoughts she couldn’t read chased across his open face. "Can you answer me?" she asked, getting worried. Was he hurt so badly it had shattered his sense?

But he nodded sharply, eyes wide. His mouth worked, and a look of utter frustration crossed his features. "Fine," he managed. His voice was rusty, and he cleared his throat. "I’ll be fine. Had worse. I’ve had worse." He coughed, doubling over. Basil scooted a bit closer, offering the water pouch slung over her shoulder. Up close, she could see that the wound on the back of his head wasn’t as bad as the blood had implied.

He looked from the water to her and back again, taking it reverently before drinking long and deep. She was convinced by now that he was indeed mad; it was simply a matter of whether or not she could get him back to the temple safely. He was certainly no stranger to fighting, that was clear. Yet he didn’t seem relatively harmless, intimidated by her instead of the other way ‘round. And she couldn’t just leave him here.

He broke from the skin, a little water dribbling before he got it stopped up again. He handed it back, smiling almost sheepishly. It was mostly empty. "Thank you." He paused. "Can we-" He stared up at the sky, gathering words. For a few seconds he seemed lost in the blue. "Can we walk a little? Can you sing for me?" He looked back down and his eyes were begging, as if this would be a favor far greater than it seemed.

Ulen wiped the water from his chin, resisting the urge to lick his fingers. He supposed he already seemed strange enough, without acting like he hadn’t seen water in weeks. He certainly didn’t want to scare the girl away.

He was certain that this was nothing more than a temporary release; the spear would seek him out again the moment her magic ended. All he hoped was that he could see a little of the forest, the sun, and maybe, maybe convince her to come see him again.

But it had been so long since he’d tried to use words. It had never occurred to him that he might actually forget how. What else have I forgotten? he wondered, even as he tried to shape his assurance. "I feel fine. It’s just a cut," he said, fingering the back of his head. Actually, it wasn’t anything now, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. Actually, he felt more than fine. For a few precious moments, he was free.

The woman nodded, watching him warily. Well that she should. She probably took him for a madman, half-naked and alone in the woods. And acting more than a little mad, he admitted ruefully. He was almost surprised at the clarity of his thoughts. He felt fully awake for the first time in years.

Slowly, so as not to alarm her, Ulen pushed himself to his feet and offered her his hand. "Please?" he prompted when she didn’t answer. She nodded, reaching up to take his hand. There was suspicion in her eyes, wariness, as though she expected him to want more than he’d asked for.

Basil was indeed suspicious.

She was a suspicious woman by nature, but this was enough to make anyone wonder. She could still feel the power spiraling out of her, trying to heal some wound that wasn’t physical. She could stop it, of course, but she wasn’t willing to do that quite yet. There was more here than was obvious.

"Why are you out here?" she asked, letting him lead her eagerly away from the rocks.

He paused, thinking. Getting ready to lie, she was certain.

"I don’t remember." Lie. She pursed her lips.

"How about a name?" she pressed, putting a little edge in her voice.

"Can you give me that?"

He frowned, obviously worried by her tone. Well, that was fine. She simply stared at him, waiting for an answer. Let him think she was thinking of staking off and taking her magic with her. It might make him more forthcoming.

He opened his mouth. "And don’t bother to lie to me. If you want my help, you’ll have to tell me eventually," she said, guessing.

"Ulen," he offered after what seemed an unnecessary wait. Basil rolled her eyes. "There, that wasn’t so hard, now was it?" He was clearly relieved at her reaction, straightening up. She hadn’t even noticing him cringing away. Was she supposed to recognize the name?

It wasn’t raining. In retrospect, a lot of things would have been better if it was. I wouldn’t have gone for a walk, for instance. But the sky was clear, the night relatively warm. I wasn’t really expecting any trouble in a suburb on a Wednesday, but my expectations have a habit of being wrong.

The truth is, I’ve always had expectations that were less than reasonable. So when I heard the footsteps coming up fast behind at my side, I told myself it was just a jogger. A jogger, at two a.m., wearing heavy boots. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when the shoulder crashed into mine, slamming me into the sidewalk. I heard a soft sound that still, for some reason, made my teeth clench. The man laying on top of me jerked once, a jaw-clenched moan escaping his lips next to my ear. Then there was silence.

I writhed out from under him, expecting to have to fight my attacker—or attackers. He lay on his side where I had pushed him, trying to curl around some hurt but lacking the strength to do so. For a moment, I thought that somewhere I had hurt him. Then the street lamps glinted off of the spike jutting out of his chest. For a moment I thought it was glass, but then I saw the water trailing down its sides in the cool air. It was ice. A long, cruel spear made of ice.

Breathing fast, I looked around for whoever might have done it. There was no one else on the street—unless they were hiding behind a fence, or a tree, or one of the trashcans lining the street… Shivering on the grass of a suburban street corner, I hunched low as if it would somehow hide me, sitting in the light of a street lamp. But no one stepped from the shadows; no one broke the painful silence. Heartbeats measured themselves out in the darkness, and nothing interrupted the silence but a lone dog. The man pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, swaying. I scrambled to my own feet, ready to run. His hand was wet where it clutched his chest. When he hunched in pain, the light shone off of the other half of the spine, peeking through a ragged hole in the back of his jacket. Had it really gone through him? His hand clutched the spine close to his chest and he jerked it out, flinging it to the side. It snapped in several pieces with a grating crack. With his head hung, dark hair obscuring his face, he reached for me. I found myself frozen as he wrapped an arm around me, leaning heavily. I heard his lips work, form some unfamiliar word, then I was having to catch him as he slid halfway to the ground.

We actually manage to pick of a fair amount of first aid knowledge during our lives, from TV and the classes we take in school. Ask someone what to do for a gunshot would and they’ll tell you apply pressure, don’t move them, call for help, keep it clean—basic stuff, right? Now ask that same person what to do, only they’re staring at a terrible wound inflicted by an ice spike, and are now holding the person whose blood is swiftly soaking through their sweatshirt. Probably not so coherent. Certainly not so articulate.

Still, I did the best I could. He was too heavy for me so I lowered him to the ground. His neck lolled on his shoulders, so he was pretty out of it. Still, he managed to fight me when my hands went for his shirt, trying to lift it, do... something. Hadn’t anyone heard… something? It occurred to me to scream, then, and I filled my lungs to do so, but the hand tightened painfully on my wrist when I did. I looked down, startled, and his eyes were open, staring at me, aware, and he was saying something but I didn’t understand it, his eyes were so dark, and he said it again and I realized it was English. And the moment passed, leaving me slightly out of breath. "I’ll be fine," he repeated. But there was a tightness to his voice the belied the words, and blood was spreading across his pale t-shirt in a dark stain. Even under the streetlight color was washed out by the night, making the blood look black.

I tugged my arm out of his grip and he let go easily, arm falling limply at his side. Then I lifted his shirt. I dropped it again, feeling faint. I had no problem with blood or gore, but this… this was pain. Shaking my head, I stripped off my sweatshirt and pressed it to the wound. He grunted, and I almost let off, but at the last minute stopped myself. It would hurt, but he wouldn’t bleed to death.

I called for help then, and this seemed to upset him more than the sweatshirt, but I didn’t stop until I saw the porch light go on in the house I was in front of. The door unlocked in several places, and it seemed to take forever before a man emerged, pulling a jacket over himself. His breath was heavy on the air, and I was just wearing a short sleeved shirt, but it didn’t occur to me to be cold. Or scared, for that matter.

The man took one look at us under the streetlamp and ran back inside. It was the smartest thing to do, really, but at the time I wasn’t thinking of ambulances and it just seemed like he was abandoning me. The man under my hands moaned, and his hands came up to clench my arms. His body shifted under me, and with a start I realized he was trying to sit up. "What are you doing?" My voice was high, childlike and shaking. It startled me. "You have to stay still." The quaver was worse this time. I swallowed. This was not the time.

The man simply grunted and tried to push me away. "Let me go—don’t touch me. I have to go!" the last few words came out strangled as I pushed him back down. "No... hospitals... let me go..." of course I wasn’t about to do that. There was so much blood. Where did he think he was going?

Of course, the words weren’t near so coherent when I said them. "No.. you can’t... how-" I broke off, frustrated at my inability to speak. The night was quiet as he suddenly went still. I was suddenly aware of everything—of the dark, tall houses, the wide street, the smell of asphalt and blood and something fouler, the distant sirens it seemed I could already hear, so close to the hospital.

Then he went still under my hands—really still, like stone, and I thought for an instant he’d died. But then cool sensations were spreading up my arms, crawling up through my fingers, and the night was all fading as quickly as it had reared up. And my weight shifted forward as the man shrank. Only he wasn’t shrinking, he was melting into the concrete that rippled around him like water with a faint sigh. As his body disappeared and the poured stone framed his face, it occurred to me that he was actually handsome. And naggingly familiar... but then I had other things to think about as my hands followed him underneath the oddly behaving cement, and I realized that I was sinking with him. I gave a very undignified yelp, but then the coolness stole up over across my chest, through me to the tips of my hair, and a lot of things didn’t seem to matter—like breathing. I froze, and while a corner of my mind threw a nasty fit, the rest of me welcomed the embrace of the earth.

My heartbeat seemed somehow muted here. It occurred to me that it was far too slow, that I should need to breathe, but that part wasn’t in control right now. In fact, none of me seemed to be, and it certainly wasn’t my idea to wrap my arms around the stranger, pressing my body along his cool length. Still, I felt less vulnerable this way, and as we... fell? floated? Through the earth, I began to relax. He was as still as the stone we passed through and hardly more soft, yet—again—there was something familiar in all of this strangeness.

 
"Well, shit." There were people moving around me, and voices, and in the middle of it all a total lack of fear. It was as if the emotion had been wrung from my body, and it took a moment to recognize its absence. It occurred to me that I couldn't move, that there were voices and sounds that were totally foreign, but it all seemed so distant. Only the earth I could feel under my back and between my fingers seemed real. "Kelly, get her up. Move her to the guest room and make sure it's secure; we'll see to Aaron. Though why he had to bring her now... god, Ingram is not going to like this." Footsteps came next to my head, cloth shifted and I could feel someone's breath on my face. "You're still heavy with earth, little one," another voice said, much lighter than the one before. "No one will be able to lift you that way." Then his breath passed down my body, a faint stirring of air that made my skin tingle even under my clothes. And my body felt lighter, more my own.

I opened my eyes to a smiling face. That was my first impression of Kelly, and I have found it to be a good one. His grin widened when our eyes met. "Well, look who's awake." I looked away from him to the room. It was a basement, walls and floor bare and dry. The floor itself was bare earth where I lay. "Where's that man who... who was hurt?" I tried to sit up but he stopped me, arm going around my back as the other scooped up my legs. "None of that, now. He's all right, probably still in the earth, gathering his strength. He's a fast healer," he soothed, standing. "Your arrival is going to cause a bit of a stir, and you'll probably want to be away from the fireworks."

"Fireworks?"

"M-hmm. In a literal sense, if Zane gets involved. Which you and I are going to avoid by the simple expedient of not being there."

"What? Please…" I frowned. Away from the earth, rising into the real world that I desperately wanted to avoid, I struggled to get a question out. What should I ask first? What on earth should I ask? But I just felt tired, too tired for even fear to grant much strength. And this smiling stranger was so comforting. Then he leaned in close. I don’t remember what happened them, only a warm breath on my face, but I know now that the little bastard put me to sleep so he wouldn’t have to deal with me.

I say bastard with the greatest fondness, of course.

I woke again to sunlight. It felt like the middle of the day, and I was groggy and out of sorts. There were too many blankets, even for that time of year, and I was sweltering. I threw them off, cross. "You shouldn’t do that. Between Aaron and Kelly, your body is all confused. It takes some time for the mortals to adjust, even the Unawakened," someone whispered. I turned my head swiftly, feeling very much out of my element. The speaker was a young man sitting in an office chair, knees pulled up to his chest. He was Japanese, shaggy hair in need of a cut. I opened my mouth to ask who he was but he shushed me, and it was only then that I realized his pose of tense silence was because he was listening to an argument through the walls.

It was quite an argument, punctuated by loud thumps and quite a few curse words. One of the voices was familiar, and I realized after listening to a particularly creative stream of curse words that it was the same voice I’d heard earlier. I was trying to remember exactly what it had said when loud bang shook the house.

I say bang, but that doesn’t really encompass the volume. It rattled the windows, shook the pictures on the walls. It was followed by another bang, one I recognized as the more familiar slamming of doors. Then it was quiet, in that icy way when someone walks out on an argument. My watcher let out a slow breath, face pinched. "Ingram’s not going to be happy," he whispered, resigned. Before I could ask about his tone, he looked at me, expression calm. "I know you’re wondering what’s going on." I nodded, not wanting to interrupt. If I was finally going to learn what was going on…

Someone knocked on the door, entered without waiting. It was the man who had carried me before, Kelly, and he looked like he was hiding from someone. "Don’t mind me," he said with forced cheerfulness, leaning back against the door. "This is just the last place in the house that Ingram will look," he explained to the teen. "And I thought you might like some help." The teen snorted.

"Shall we start with introductions? I’m Hideki," He said, pointing to himself. "This is Kelly. The curse words you heard before belong to Zane—and the explosions, which I’ll explain in a minute." Kelly gave him an exasperated look, and he hurried on. "The one who saved you is Aaron—he should be about soon—and the one making the house feel like an icebox is Ingram." Something in the way he said that name troubled me, but I didn’t really ponder it, because the next thing he said was, "And we’re all dragons." Kelly made a strangled noise, but Hideki continued, oblivious to my glazed expression. "We each have an elemental affinity that gives us some control over that element: air, fire, water, earth—or metal and wood, depending on where you’re from."

Kelly sighed. "Don’t you think we should, you know, ease her into this a little?" he said, coming away from the door.

"I don’t think that’s really necessary," Hideki said, frowning. His vocabulary was strong for someone who couldn’t be more than sixteen. He looked back at me. "You’re following this, aren’t you?" I nodded. I was indeed following his words—though I’d already forgotten most of the names. It was belief I was a little slow on.

Kelly sighed. "Look, here’s how it works." He pulled out a coin and sat on the edge of the bed, holding it out on his open palm. I thought he wanted me to taking it, and I was halfway there when something started to happen on his palm. The air stirred a little. The coin shivered. Wobbling like it was floating, it rose steadily off of his palm. I jerked my hand back. I could see and feel the little whispers of air, as if a tiny tornado was raging in the palm of his hand, holding up the coin. Then it was gone, and the coin fell the inches it had raised. He closed his fingers around it to keep it from bouncing out of his palm. "We’re all dragons, yes. Restricted to human bodies when our previous incarnations started taking human form centuries ago. We’re interbred, weak blooded, but every once in a while the blood is strong enough that the dragon’s soul can take up residence. We get powers, some memories. Most of us have to work for one or both."

I just stared at his hand. The ice, the ground… now the coin, right here were I couldn’t dismiss it as a trick of my own exhausted mind. For some reason I didn’t really feel the need to question it much more than that at the time. It just didn’t make sense that this would all be some sort of elaborate hoax. What could they gain from trying to fool me with such a strange story? And there was something working on me from the inside, telling me that this was all true.

"So where do I fit in to all of this?"

They exchanged a cautious glance over my head, obviously deciding how much to tell me. It made me want to bite. But before they could tell me a whole lot more, someone else knocked on the door. Kelly shot Hideki a look; Hideki scooted closer to me. It occurred to me then that they were both using me as some sort of protection. How on earth could I protect them? More, why did I feel like I could?

The man from before—Aaron, I reminded myself—stepped into the room, surveying it cautiously before coming in. "What happened downstairs? Looks like Zane really cut loose. Did they have an argument again?" He saw me then, eyes flashing a little with something I couldn’t pin. "I’m glad to see you’re all right. It was my fault; I forced their hand by being there." He seemed fine now; the bloodstained clothes were gone, though it was hard to tell with all that black. "You’re Elise, right?"

I nodded. What else could I do? I’d just seen this guy bleeding to death on the street, and now he was up and walking. "How long was I out?" I wondered out loud.

"Not long," Kelly said from behind Aaron. With four people in it, it was getting a little cozy. Aaron settled on the bed, leaving Kelly to take the floor with a sigh.

"I was healing in the earth," He explained. "How much have they told you?"

I sighed. "Just enough to confuse me, really. That you’re all dragons—or you were. I was waiting for them to tell me more. Like why I’m here, and why someone shot an ice stake at you."

"They were shooting at you," he said. Hideki leaned forward quickly, but Aaron forestalled him. "You have the ability to unite us, make us stronger against those who want to take our territory. They obviously didn’t want us to have your help. They watch you, we watch you… it was a standoff until last night."

"You tried to make contact, didn’t you?" Kelly asked. Aaron didn’t answer. "Dammit, Aaron, and I thought I was the impulsive one!" He waved his hands in the air, which would have been a little threatening if he wasn’t on the floor. His ire evaporated quickly, though. "Well, it was bound to happen. Just a good thing you were there and not one of us. I still haven’t gotten the hang of element transportation." He shook his head. "Still, the timing couldn’t have been more off. Ingram is refusing to see her at all; he wants to kick her out of the house. He wants to withdraw our protection completely; that’s what they were arguing about."

Hideki cleared his throat conspicuously, which brought all their attention back to me. That wasn’t necessarily a good thing. "Protection? Am I in serious danger here? That ice thing was aimed at me?" When each question met with uncomfortable looks, I got more upset. After all, I already knew the answers. Well, there was one I didn’t know yet. "What have you dragged me into!?"

I still feel bad for that. I did almost as soon as it left my mouth. It was their expressions that did it; they all looked so hurt, and my words were the cause. "What do I have to do with all of this? I don’t have any powers."

Aaron looked at Hideki. "You didn’t tell her?"

"Tell me what?"

Hideki huffed. "We didn’t get to that yet. Kelly had to show off," he said crossly.

"It wasn’t showing off, it was demonstrating," Kelly protested.

"Tell me what?" I asked louder. Hideki leaned forward a little.

"What you said, about having no powers? Not exactly true. See, you aren’t awakened, true. But you still have some powers." He tipped his head back, thinking. Aaron picked it up.

"It’s like this. There are all those elemental dragons we told you about? They’re all what’s called four toed dragons. But there’s a five toe, an imperial dragon, associated with all the elements and none. They have power over the elemental dragons. You’re one of them—or at least, you have the potential to be. That means you have the power to help us."

I blinked. Believing in dragons was one thing… but believing that I was one too?

Hideki saw my disbelief. "Remember what I told you about the blood being strong enough to let the dragon out? Well, it’s not like the dragon takes over or anything. It’s more like… he’s riding piggyback, and the purer your blood, the better the connection," he said. "Right now you stand right on the edge. You might awaken, you might not. You might only touch a tiny sliver of your potential. But you won’t know until you try."

Aaron seized the conversation back. "I’ll be honest with you. Thin as your blood is, you might never awaken. But you’ll be able to touch what you need to make all of us safe from the people who tried to hurt you. Without a five toe, we can’t stake a permanent claim on this area. All we need you to do is stand for the ceremony. Then they won’t even be able to get in. You’ll be able to learn how to protect yourself in a safe place."

It was beginning to make sense. That worried me. "Come on," Kelly said, standing up. "You’re probably hungry, and Ingram won’t be back for a while. Why don’t you come downstairs?"

"Are you sure that’s such a good idea?" Hideki asked, dropping his feet to the floor. The others ignored him. He tried again. "I mean, what if Ingram comes back? We should just bring her food up here."

Kelly shrugged. "She’ll have to meet him eventually."

I slung my feet out of bed, tugging at my clothes a little uncomfortably. There were a few spots of blood on my pants where my sweatshirt hadn’t covered them, and I marveled again that he didn’t seem to be hurt at all. I made for the door. "When you two are done bickering, you can show me where the restroom is," I said irritably. If they didn’t stop talking about me like I wasn’t there, I was ready to break some heads. As I closed the door behind me, I heard Aaron’s quiet voice. "Well, you wanted a five toe." There was a little shuffling, then they all emerged from the room. Aaron took my arm; the other two looked a little sheepish. "Sorry," Hideki said, glancing from side to side. "I guess we haven’t been very good about all this, have we?"

I didn’t feel the need to answer that. Aaron looked over his shoulder. "I’ll show her the bathroom; why don’t you two see what you can scare up for lunch?" he led me down the hall. The house was pretty big, and furnished nicely, but it didn’t feel very welcoming. It was a far cry from the sunny warmth of the bedroom. "Bathroom’s here," Aaron said, pointing me toward the door. "Think you can find your way downstairs?" I nodded and made for the door.

Once inside I leaned against the door. This was not normal, but it felt familiar. That was more worrying than anything else. I washed my face, scrubbed my hands, pulled my hair back into a neater ponytail. Staring at myself in the mirror, I didn’t feel at all up to facing these people. It was all too strange, and while something in me wanted to accept what they said as truth… it was too much, too fast.

Still. Whatever was going on, I couldn’t hide forever. I was as neat as I could make myself, and my stomach as much as anything else drove me back into the hall. Aaron was still there, waiting. "There is more that you should know. I’m not certain the others would want me telling you, but it’s not fair to keep you ignorant. Ingram, the man we spoke of before—he has a strong hold on power here in the house. Hideki and Zane are terrified of him, and Kelly and I came too late to break his hold. It isn’t only the other dragons you should worry about."

"So that’s why they didn’t want me to meet him," I said softly, trying to assimilate all the information. So, I didn’t have only a shadowy enemy who shot ice stakes out of the dark to worry about. I swallowed. "Why are they afraid of him?"

He shook his head. "Don’t worry about it. He knows you’re our hope as well as we do. He’ll just try to bully you, and Kelly and I, at least, aren’t cowed by him." He waved a hand downstairs. "I’m sure you’re hungry. Let’s get you something to eat." I followed him downstairs, more questions than answers. The others were clustered around the table, arguing over a bowl. Hideki seemed to think I would like something, but Kelly was unconvinced. Aaron watched in amusement for a moment before he cleared his throat, calling an end to the conversation.

"You like cereal, don’t you, Elise?" he asked, tone a little plaintive. Kelly cuffed him affectionately.

"Sure," I said, unable to quite believe that they had really been arguing about that, even though it appeared they had. Hideki grinned and poured the milk, pushing over a bowl of sugary corn. Kelly threw up his hands in disgust. "You’ll love this stuff," Hideki assured me. I poked it suspiciously with the spoon as the sugar sloughed off the cereal and turned the milk to sludge. "Eh... yeah." I frowned, took a bite. Despite the truly disturbing amount of sugar—or perhaps because of it—it was actually pretty good. I said as much, then tucked to with a will. How long had it been since I ate? Too long. I even drank the milk, sludge that it was, and accepted when Hideki offered me a second bowl.

I listened to Kelly and Aaron talk as I ate, trying to ignore Hideki staring at me like I was the most wonderful thing he’d ever seen. They were trying to figure out how to deal with Ingram and me. Talking about me as though I weren’t there was obviously getting to be a bad habit of theirs. Time to stop it. Finished with my second bowl, I set it down loudly. "What’s so bad about this Ingram, anyway?" I asked calmly. They talked about him as if he were some sort of Hitler. "And if he’s so bad, why do you guys stick to him?"

Both the others looked to Aaron to explain, who sighed in exasperation. "We need him to hold this territory. The only reason we haven’t totally lost our hold is we have a full circle. If we left Ingram, we wouldn’t stand a chance. And most of the territory around here is staked out. We might be stuck without a node... which would be bad. We’d eventually lose touch with our dragons, maybe permanently." He ran his hand thorugh his hair, exasperated. "Look, I’m sorry we’re bombarding you with so much information here. But we don’t have time to go slow." He walked over to the window, and it took a minute for me to realize they’d all neatly evaded the first question. I was really starting to get worried. "Look, if you guys want my help, you’re going to have to tell me what’s so dangerous about Ingram." Kelly and Aaron looked at each other, holding some sort of silent argument. I waited impatiently, looking around the large first story, with its combined dining room and living room. It was then that I noticed the state of the dinign room.

It looked like some kind of bomb had gone off. The dining room table was a heap of melted iron and glass, the floor charred down to the concrete foundations, the paintings oozing off the walls. None of the others were looking at it or really saying anything. Was this the noise I’d heard earlier? I shivered. Had a person rally done this? But even as I considered, I could feel... something, and energy, a crawling sense that someone had been here, angry and afraid. Afraid for me.

I got to my feet, crossed the room to the table. Even the cement was charred, ashy where too much heat had touched it. The smell of ash and smoke was faint, but there was something else—the taste of fire. I reached out and touched the glass. It was still warm, even a little hot. The destruction, aside from the ruin of the pictures, seemed to be confined to the table itself. I could even see a strange mark in the melted glass that looked like someone had planted a fist there. The glass had foamed around it. None of that should be possible. But least possible was the crawling sensation of power, like standing too close to power lines. What the hell was going on? Suddenly nervous, I walked out of the room. Realized then that I was breathing fast, that my heart was pounding. I sat down.

"Elise, are you all right?" It was Hideki. I just shook my head. That was a bad idea, and I ducked it between my legs as a wave of dizziness overcame me. A cool hand rested on my neck, and I felt better. My heart slowed, breathing eased, and I could feel that shivery power, different this time.

"Hideki!" Aaron’s voice was sharp.

"She wasn’t feeling good," Hideki protested as I sat dazed, humming with strangeness. It faded slowly, leaving me feeling exposed. Something in me was open, just a tiny bit. It was like an itch in my head.

"What was that?" I asked. I didn’t really want to know—not yet—but I didn’t want them arguing over me. I raised my head cautiously, finding that the dizziness, at least, had passed.

Aaron glared at Hideki. "I sent some of my power to you," he said. "you weren’t feeling good," he said defensively when Aaron glared at him again. "I thought it would help."

God, there was nothing I could say to those eyes. "I’m all right now. I just feel a little... funny." I scratched the back of my neck, where the itch seemed to reside. Aaron watched me and shot a sharp look at Kelly. "What? What did I do?" I asked, lowering my hand.

"Nothing, just..." he trailed off as the others went still, too. "Wonderful timing," he muttered, taking a step back. Hideki grabbed me by the wrist and drew me away from the window. The itch picked up to a tingle, and I could feel and edge of... wrong. It was frustrating, not even being able to describe these feelings to myself. The light coming through the window suddenly intensified, like a camera flash. The feeling of wrong spiked as a figure appeared on the floor.

I was on my knees beside him before I even knew I’d gone down. It shook me enough to make me back up, even as the other three pushed in.

"Shit. Looks like their wind got to him."

"What the hell was he thinking, going it alone? We need a source of fire."

"We can’t put him in the fire. His blood’s too thin; he’d burn up. Besides, where are we going to find a source of pure fire?"

"Let me think! And Christ, get the bleeding stopped, Hideki!"

"It wouldn’t do any good. We have to get him in the fire, its his only chance."

It all washed over me as I stared at the man on the floor. He had a ragged hole in his stomach, and I knew without having to look that the carpet would be visible. Horrible understanding surged in me. He was dying. Barely breathing, heart spilling his blood over the expensive carpet while it labored to feed his failing body. And something else was spilling out with that blood; power, energy, the taste of fire. This, then, was Zane.

It was like it was happening to someone else. I reached out and grabbed his hand, already getting cold. Someone—Kelly—tried to gently draw me away. "Let us take care of this, Elise. You shouldn’t have to see this. There’s nothing you can do."

Wrong. All my uncertainly was leaking out of me with Zane’s blood, with his power. "That’s not true." My voice was a raspy whisper. "That’s not true," I repeated, more loudly, grasping for the knowledge that made me so certain. I could almost reach it. Fumbling in more ways than one, I reached for Hideki’s hand grabbed it and pressed it to the skin above the wound. I wouldn’t let myself look at it. "Do... what you did before," I said, trying desperately to figure out why this felt right.

"It doesn’t work that way," Kelly said, his hands still tugging at my shoulders. "We can’t share power, the ley lines are too different."

"Just try," I said, eyes going unfocused. I could feel Hideki’s energy trying to heal Zane as it had touched me. There was a block there, something that Hideki couldn’t touch. I could feel the barrier.

I pushed. Hideki’s hand shivered under mine. I pulled back, thinking. There were strange, distracting thoughts floating through my head, a nameless frustration for something I couldn’t touch. Something in me was reaching for Hideki’s power even as I tried to force it into Zane.

"Try through me," I said, reaching down to reverse our hands. Hideki stopped shivering, but I started, feeling the full rush of his power. I blinked rapidly, tried again to feed the healing into Zane. The barrier was thinner, giving just a little. His breathing picked up, but it wasn’t enough. He was still dying. I blinked to clear my triple vision, clouding with the ceiling and another angle on Zane’s body. "God." Something missing, something... "Fire!" I held my free hand out, not taking my eyes off Zane, not daring to. Someone pressed a metal square into my hand—a Zippo, already lit. The barrier weakened a little more, but his heart was still slowing, fluttering like an unprimed pump...

Not enough. Biting my lip, I wrapped my fingers over the flame. I hissed as I felt the heat eat at my skin, but then there was a rush of power, and even as my eyes closed I could feel his heartbeat steady, the flesh begin to knit under our hands. Systems that had been faltering were bolstered by the flow of chi, more precious than blood. His breathing strengthened, chest rising and falling under my hands as the passage of so much power left me giddy.

And it was over. The torrent of power became a trickle, and cut off entirely, leaving Hideki and I leaning against each other. He was panting as though he’d just run a race. I felt… alive. Worn out, but like you might feel after doing something incredible. Or someone, but it felt more… innocent than that. Pure. Connected. I wrapped my arm around Hideki’s back, toying with his hair with one hand. He leaned into me, sighing. Aaron knelt and checked Zane over, giving me a strange look before bending to pick him up.

"Wait," I cautioned. "His back was badly damaged, and I don't think the bone has set up well yet. Give it a few minutes." The words seemed alien, but then so did the whole situation. Who was I to argue with knowledge that had just saved a life? Hideki snuggled closer and I reached out the grab Zane's hand, squeezing it lightly. "Hey." He needed to wake up. The healing had happened too fast; his head hadn't caught up yet, still locked in the business of dying. I reached out further, running my hand over his forehead. "Zane. Wake up." I tried to keep my voice gentle.

His eyes snapped open. "Don't move," I cautioned, not wanting to risk him sitting up quite yet. "You're fine. You're not hurt anymore." His eyes slid slowly into focus, his breathing picked up a little, healthier than the slow drags of air he'd been taking. "We healed you." We healed him. I healed him. I had to take a deep breath myself.

He looked at me. It wasn't as much of a shock as it had been, but I realized that he and I, Hideki too, would always be able to tell a little of how we were feeling. It was a strange thought. Even now I knew that Hideki was tired from the effort of healing his friend, and Zane was reeling from the phantom pain of wounds that no longer existed. "How do you feel?" A useless question, but I needed to hear it from his lips. It would break the shock of the healing.

"Tired," he said. Cautiously, as though expecting to break, he reached for Hideki's arm, squeezed it. "Hey. Thanks." But his eyes were on me, carrying those messages again. I squirmed, starting to feel uncomfortable. God, these people were all strangers. Was it right that I felt so comfortable with them, despite what had just happened? A man had materialized in the living room, dying from a terrible wound. I had saved his life. It sounded so ridiculous. Gently I pulled back from Hideki, supporting him with my arms. I looked around, found Kelly. "Help me get him to the couch." He nodded, lifting the boy with that odd strength of his, and depsited him gently on the couch.

I shivered, even though the room was warm. There was blood drying drying on my hand, smearing on Hideki’s shirt. I jerked it back, scrubbed it on the knee of my pants. Hideki squeezed my arm reassuringly. I swallowed. Now that the whole thing was over, now that the rush of power and srnage thoughts was dying away…

I didn’t know where the downstairs bathroom was. I barely made it to the sink before I was forcibly reacquainted with the sugary mess I’d eaten less than half an hour ago. There is little I hate more than the act of throwing up. Something is inherently wrong in the process.. But my aversion wasn’t enough to stop the violent reaction. It seemed to take forever for my body to finish. Teeth chattering, I fumbled for the tap, only to feel a warm hand close over my own. It started the water running and pulled my hair back as I leaned over the sink to rinse my mouth out. "Feeling a little better?" Meaning did I feel like I was going to throw up again. I was still shivering, a little dismayed at my body’s violent reaction despite the events of the last day. "Better," I managed between my teeth.

Aaron coaxed me to another well-furnished room. This one was a little less formal than the others. A family room, perhaps? How big was this place anyway? It didn’t really matter, as he wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and pushed a trashcan across the room. The blanket wasn’t very big but it eased the shivering. At least I couldn’t smell the blood. The thought was almost enough to send me back to the trashcan. I throttled down the impulse.

"I need to go home," I croaked, hating this well-manicured room. Shower. Clean clothes. My own things, my own home. I’d always been territorial. Now I knew why.

"I’m not sure that’s—"

"I need to go home," I repeated, not wanting to hear that answer. "Clothes. A shower. My clothes had the blood of two people on them. Two people who should be dead. God, I had to change.

"There are some things we need to talk about first," he said, a little uncomfortable.

I jerked my hands. "Not until I’ve showered and eaten something other than sugar cereal." My gorge rose again at the thought of food. Gritting my teeth, I ordered it to shut the hell up.

Aaron sighed. I could almost hear him mustering his logical arguments. Let it never be said that I’m above emotional appeal when I’m out of my element. "Please, Aaron. I need this." He looked at me, really looked at me. His gaze was unexpectedly intense. I couldn’t hold it for long, unable to provide the answers he was looking for.

"All right, but I’m coming with you." I was secretly relieved at that. Someone was out to kill me, after all. Besides, I didn’t have my car. The thought had a giddy edge to it.

"Can we go now?" I needed to feel safe, sane. Everything would make so much more sense, I was sure of it.

I stepped out of the shower, toweling off hurriedly. I never liked showers, and now that my stomach had calmed down I was starving. There was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and some mandarin oranges with my name on them. As well as a man with all the answers who could pass through the earth to get away. Luckily for me, we were on the second story.

I pulled on the clothes I’d grabbed from the pile of laundry, struggling with the wet mass of waist-length hair I always had to deal with after washing. (Did I mention I hate showers?) I wrapped my hair in a towel and caught sight of myself in the mirror.

Black jeans, black shirt with an obscure comic book character. Tight and severe and not altogether flattering. No one ever accused me of being a snazzy dresser. Bags under my eyes but that was nothing new, legacy of a three am bedtime I didn’t always make.

I huffed, gathering myself up. All right. So things had gotten a little weird. But I could handle it. I read fantasy novels, played video games. The rules and stakes were different but the dance was the same: accept the strangeness and move on, or get washed out of the story. I was needed, wanted. It felt good. But I needed to know exactly what that meant, because someone also wanted me dead.

My stomach growled, reminding me that the sugar cereal had been rejected long ago. I dug around in the flotsam of receipts, ren faire costume bits and scraps of paper on my dresser before coming up with my pocket watch. I flipped it open, stared at the hands for a few seconds before remembering how to read them. 4:30, and I definitely needed food.

I shed the hair towel on the floor and walked up the short hallway to the kitchen. Aaron had settled in one of the kitchen chairs rather than chance the pile of pillows in the living room that may or may not have been a chair. I didn’t blame him. It was freakishly comfortable if you managed to situate yourself right, but if you sat in that thing the wrong way it might eat you. Or fall over. But the first sounded much more dramatic.

He looked as uncomfortable in the mostly undecorated kitchen as he could get, legs sprawled under the little table that was (for once) clear of everything but its own cracking varnish. I swallowed when I saw him sitting there, calm evaporating just a little. He was reading the book I’d left on the table last night, a girl’s "boylove" manga. It had a purple cover. It would have been embarrassing if he hadn’t been reading it; as it was it helped the whole intimidation factor, got me past him and into the tiny kitchen.

Lunch didn’t take long to make. Cheese, lunchmeat, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, canned fruit—you can be healthy without eating tofu. The mess barely fit on the little plate I’d balanced it on. "Would you like something?" I asked, almost an afterthought. I wasn’t used to company, not in that shoebox.

He shook his head, folded the manga carefully over his knee as if to keep his place. I snorted a little, wondering if he usually read things like "Golden Rain." Which sent my mind down dark, inappropriate fangirl paths. That many handsome men, alone in a big house… I shook myself. None of my business. None of my business.

I stared at him over my lunch. He stared back. It’s a rare person wo can meet another’s gaze without blinking. They say if you look into the same person’s eyes for three minutes, they’ll start to fall in love with out. I never had the attention span to test that.

"So. Who exactly wants to kill me again?" I asked, turning my attention back to my food. Might as well start with the big one.

He grimaced. Obviously not his choice of first questions. "We don’t actually have a name. Not yet." He fidigeted with the page corners. "We haven’t even seen her. Jus the four-toes that serve her. The only reason we know she exists is the powers the four-toes can manifest. Like ice, lava, things we can’t manage yet."

“Aaaal right,” I said, drawing it out. I took another bite of cheese, mulling it over. “So I can help you guys keep your territory from this person, and that’s why they want me dead?” He nodded hesitantly, not really wanting to acknowledge my words. Well, that was fine. Neither of us had much choice on that one. I hadn’t asked for this mess, but I was in it up to my neck now. And I’d never been one to mince words. “All right,” I said between bites. Damn I was hungry. “So I assume there’s some kind of process involved here, making sure you don’t get chased off. So what? Is it some kind of ceremony?”

 No one should be that grateful for a topic change. “It’s simple. A very old ritual. It was Hideki who remembered.” I waited for him to explain more. He was looking out the window, dim light managing to break through the inadequate mini blinds. 

 “And?” I prompted. He jumped a little, looking back at me. His eyes were somehow deeper than they had been. That look faded. 

 “What did you say?”

 “What’s the ritual?” I repeated, feeling a little irked. This was important, right?

 He flushed. “Sorry. Lost myself for a minute there.” In anyone else, I would have assumed it was a simple saying. “Um. We have this mirror—its actually been passed down in Zane’s family line. It’s supposed to help us ground ourselves, but we need a five-toe. Eh… we all bleed on it—just a little,” he amended, as if this should have bothered me. I shrugged. When didn’t weird old rituals involve some form of bloodletting? “And that’s about it. We still have to have a full circle though, and it gives you some power over us, even unawakened. Ingram is going to give you a hell of a time.”

 I pursed my lips. “You know what? I want to meet this guy. You keep telling me I don’t want to, that I want to avoid him. But I can’t avoid him forever, right?” I slapped my ahdns on either side of my decimated plate, pushing myself to my feet. “Let’s get back, make nice with him, and get this ritual done.” I had plans next weekend, after all.

 It started raining on the drive back. I could have brought my own car, I guess, but it was actually only a couple of blocks. A weird coincidence that made me feel even more creeped until Aaron explained that the node was between house and apartment. Anyone with dragon blood would be more comfortable here. So I shrugged it off. I was getting good at that. 

 We were about a block from the house when I felt a surge of panic. It took me one long, white-knuckled minute to realize it was muted, distant. Not my own. Hideki. I must have said something out loud, because we were going faster. We got to the house and the car barely stopped when I ran for the door. Don’t know what I expected to do, but he was that worried. I swung the door open, heard Aaron give a frustrated curse.
 The living room was trashed. Some kind of tropical storm had decided to make residence in the general vicinity of the coffee table, scattering furniture. The carpet was soggy. I knew because it squelched under my feet as I made my way to where Hideki was hovering over Zane, who’d been thrown from the couch. He was soaked in cold water, shivering and pale. “What happened?” Though I didn’t really have to ask. Wind, water… that’s the nice thing about arguments between elementals. They tend to be pretty obvious.

She stood under the old, dead tree, breath heavy. It had stood here—God only knew how long it stood here, at the edge of the world, weathering everything nature could throw at it. It had outlasted all its mates out here on the bluff; cracked stone was all the legacy of trees hundreds of years gone. By all estimations, this tree stood longer than any of them.

But it was dead now, or mostly dead, and even though it was still standing it had to be cut down. They were going to build here, right on the edge of the cliff; the contractors assured them it was deep, strong bedrock, all the way through. That meant that this tree, impossibly tall against these northern winds, had to be cut down. It was old, tired, dangerous; they said.

She knew, somehow, that the ancient tree would never fall. That the end of the world would come and it would still be here, watching out its time. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to trust that knowledge. So she was here. She wouldn’t give this task to the contractors; if anyone were going to kill this tree, it would be her.

The axe waited on the porch of the old house. That, at least, would not stand forever; the people who had built it hadn’t had the luxury of geologists and contractors, and they had built on the portion of the bluff that was slowly sliding into the sea. In a few months, maybe a year, it would be unsafe; a season later it would collapse, slide into the water, unless they tore it down. She’d tried to talk her landlord, a small widow with entirely too much energy, into building further back. But as long as Vera couldn’t buy the property, the landlord had to think of future tenants.

Vera understood this. She wished she could buy the land, with its wonderful view and unbelievable smells. There was nothing quite like it in the world, not on the Oregon coast or any other. It was the small that had drawn her to it in the first place, spurred her to pick up carving on her off time so she could afford to life in the tourist town that surrounded the forest. It was a finger of the forest that lined the Oregon coast, no different than any other, really; but there was a peace, a sense of belonging about this town that no other could match.

She shook her head, drawing her eyes away from the swaying of the tree’s few remaining leaves. She had a lot of work ahead of her; the tree, she was certain, would be hard and true, despite the contractor’s fears, and it would take a while to chop through the thick trunk. Walking back up to the house, she wrapped her fingers around the wooden axe haft, testing its weight. The whole thing had a feeling of importance and ceremony, as if she were somehow doing more than cutting down a tree. It was the same reason she’s asked to cut the tree herself, the same reason she was using an axe instead of the chainsaw she kept for maintaining the property. She didn’t entirely understand it.

The tree seemed to be waiting. Impatiently, as if wanting this to be over with it. All right. She examined the trunk, trying to figure out where she’d start. There, just below the burl. She swung. The trunk shivered with the impact, force carrying through her hands. She cursed, rubbed one hand on her pants. Licking her lips, she tried again. This time the axe bit deep; she had to wrench it free of the bark, showering herself in wood chips. Again. A few leaves drifted down; one landed on her head, clinging to her bangs so she had to brush it away.

It kept on like that, one small mishap with every swing. It was like the tree was actively fighting her. At the same time, there was an excitement building in the air, as though she would find some treasure when she was finished. She shook her head, trying to clear it of the strange impressions. It was a tree. An old tree, a nice tree, but a tree. She carved wood for a living. Staring critically at her progress, she thought that maybe this wood would serve better in the fireplace. If the new house even had a fireplace. She hadn’t seen the plans. Sighing, she went back to work again.

The sky was getting dark, even though it was hours to sunset; the clouds that she alternately loved and hated were making their way back in after an afternoon’s reprieve. Sweat dripped into her eyes. The tree was still holding firm, despite the fact that it really wasn’t that big, despite the fact that she usually would have been through the trunk twice by now. Frustrated, she swung the axe hard, meaning to lodge it in the trunk and take a moment’s break.

The axe head broke free of the shaft, sending her staggering. She fell, skidding on her palms. The axe handle clattered to the ground next to her. Cursing, she pushed herself to her feet, nursing scraped hands. Perfect. She turned around, glaring at the tree, which she was sure had somehow managed to orchestrate this. Hell with the axe; it was time for the chainsaw.

But first she had to get the axe head. It was buried pretty deep, as though she’d finally punched through the armor and reached something more closely resembling normal tree. She grabbed the head and worked it back and forth. It wiggled freely. Frowning, she pulled again. It came free in her hands, too easily. There was some sort of air pocket in the tree. Maybe it was rotten, hollowed out by age. She looked down at the axe head, staring at the nicks and dents that hadn’t marred the blade before she started. It was wet. Frowning, she ran her thumb along the side. It was awfully viscous for tree sap… and dark…

She dropped the axe head, not noticing when it struck the stone close to her foot. The tree was bleeding. Not sap, not even the thick pitch that pine trees had. It was blood, bright red and pulsing in time with a heart that couldn’t be there. She stepped forward, touching the wet bark. Her mouth gaped in shock. Was it… god. Maybe rust in the ground? Iron? Had she killed a squirrel with her careless strike? But there were no squirrels. And the blood was flowing from the tree, pulsing with life.

It shook. She jumped back, scrambling, groping for the dropped axe haft that she clutched in trembling fingers. This couldn’t be happening. Someone screamed. It was muffled. At first she thought it was the tree, but it shook again and she realized it was someone <I>in</I> the tree. Someone was in the tree. They screamed again. There were no words that she could recognize, but the meaning was clear. They wanted out.

She rushed forward, not quite sure what to do. The whole tree seemed to be shivering now, weakening as she watched. She grabbed one of the lower branches, one she’d swung on a few times. It pulled out of the tree with a dull sound, for all the world as though it had been just waiting to go. More blood flowed, insane amounts, spilling over the ground and pooling around her boots. The smell was incredible, awful. She gagged, but the cries were more intense. God, with this much blood they must be dying. Could a body hold this much blood?

She jumped for another branch. It broke free with frightening ease, showering her in decayed wood. Drops of blood sprayed her face. The tree trunk shuddered once, twice, rocked by impact from inside. With a wet tear, the hole she’d started burst, revealing a white, gleaming arm. She moved to help, stripping away bark and wood that came away in layers now, getting under her fingernails. A shoulder, as impossibly white as the arm. The beginnings of a male chest. She worked furiously, too caught up in the passion of the moment to stop and think about what was happening.

A face, gasping for air. She didn’t stop to look. Another shoulder, another arm, then he was free, tumbling forward to land on her in a heap. Her shirt soaked up blood. He fumbled and tried to push away, face hidden by long white hair that baffled them both. Eventually he untangled himself, back to her house, head hanging as he struggled to stay on his hands and knees.

The tree continued to crumble. With a final crack, the greater portion broke off and tipped over the cliff, smashing to bits on the rocks before falling in the ocean. She didn’t see this, of course. The blood was soaking into the ground, seeping out of her shirt. She shivered.

Things were quiet. After the crack of disintegrating wood, the soft, think sound of blood, the silence was too much. It was the silence that drove her to her feet. Something should be happening, it told her. And it had something to do with the man. He’d collapsed on his side some time when she wasn’t looking, and he was shivering too, but it was from the cold. It was cold, she realized, looking up at the almost-dark sky. Feeling strange and not quite herself, she knelt down beside him. She opened her mouth, but no words seemed right. Questions bubbled up and fell away, inadequate to the strangeness of the situation. She looked over her shoulder at the crumbled ruin of the tree, back to the man. His eyes were open, and he was staring at it too. They were bright, his eyes, a bright brown that burned with passion that even Vera couldn’t miss.

And then there were the words, the only words that seemed right. "Let’s get inside. It’s cold." And he looked up at her, still drowning in the emotion that Vera saw but didn’t understand. And he sat back, shaking, so she could help him to his feet. The lights in the house were all off, and the light obscured the clouds; but Vera had walked this path a hundred times. She knew its hazards.

He wasn’t nearly as heavy as he should have been. She’d been afraid that she wouldn’t be able to shift him at all, despite the muscle she’d built up over the course of her stay on this patch of old, half-dead forest. His legs worked on the ground in a sort of half-hearted rhythm, not so much holding up his weight as pushing them both along. She helped him up the stairs, and it seemed like the greatest effort for him just to lift his feet the few inches that it took to clear each step. At the top he just sagged, defeated, and she had to lift him a few inches to keep his toes from scraping on the doorjamb.

Inside it was a little warmer, but not much; the fire had died, and the little space heater in the bedroom wasn’t up to heating the whole house. Carefully ignoring the strangeness, she lowered the stranger onto the battered couch. He sagged into the deep tired cushions, blending with the tired upholstery as though he belonged there. She grabbed her comforter from the floor where she’d discarded it that morning an draped it over him, then busied herself building up the fire.

The coals hadn’t died entirely, but it was too much work to coax them back up. She tossed in a starter log, one of the pressed paper things soaked in lighter fluid, and stacked wood on top of it until all she could see was the trickle of smoke and the flicker of renewed flame. Then she sat back on her heels, watching the heat build. She was hungry, thirsty, tired; he shoulders ached, her back stung. Se went on with her silent litany. When she was done, she affirmed silently to herself—but at least I’m not cold. Smiling lopsidedly at the odd ritual, she stood, looking behind her.

He was still there, of course. She’d half hoped he would just vanish. More than half hoped. Never mind she’d grown up around this sort of thing, but it had always been play. People who ran occult shops didn’t believe in the occult; they believed in the power of people, in the passion of belief. Everyone needs something to believe in. If they’re lucky, they realize that the best thing is themselves. She smiled again. What would her mother have to say about this? The smile grew. She knew exactly what her mother would say. Her mother would say that she should stop worrying about bleeding trees when there was a naked freezing man laying unconscious on her couch. Only it would be far more colorfully and suggestively phrased.

She stared at his face for a long moment. The lines were clean, smooth and unmarred—almost too perfect. Not effeminate, but lacking the hard edges she was so used to seeing in this fisherman’s town. More like a tourist, she mused. His hair was long, white; he looked as though he hadn’t ever seen the sun. Thinking of the tree, she wondered if he ever had.

None of that. She turned on her heel and made for the bedroom. He wasn’t that much taller than her, and he certainly wasn’t much wider. The loose pants and oversized shirts she wore to bed should fit him… maybe not well, but well enough. She scrounged for a few minutes, looking for any clothing at all that wasn’t dirty. She tended to wear clothes three or four times before she deemed them in need of washing. She was elbow deep in assorted laundry when it occurred to her that she was being far to philosophical about all of this.

She shrugged. And why not? What good did it do her to panic? What good did it do him? And that was the crux of it. As bad as she needed counseling or heavily dosed coffee, he needed help more. And there was nothing that spoke to Vera like a person in need. Her mother, Vera mused, had been much better at giving help and advice. She possessed some vital characteristic that allowed her to separate from the situation, to give enough without giving too much. It was a stopgap that Vera had never quite acquired.

Soup. Cold people needed soup. Or chowder. She considered running out and getting some from Mo’s, but figured it might be a bad idea to leave him alone. It might also be a bad idea to be alone with him, but honestly, what harm could he do right now? Armed with mostly clean pants and introspection, she headed into the living room.

He was still asleep, of course. One didn’t recover from that—whatever that had been—without exhausting themselves. He looked uncomfortable, listing to the side. She considered waking him so she could dress him, but after a few tentative shakes had resulted in more lolling, she gave up and left the clothes on the floor.

She still wasn’t quite certain, even as she warmed over some cream of chicken (there wasn’t any chowder, and she couldn’t stand the thought of tomato soup) what exactly had happened. She knew she was brooding, but couldn’t seem to stop herself. Had he been trapped somehow? Maybe climbing the tree? But every explanation she could come up with was stopped cold by the memory all that blood.

(updated 8-24-04)

She dropped the spoon in the soup. What if he was bleeding? She’d just left him on the couch. Soup forgotten, she rushed into the living room. He was so pale; what if he was pale for a reason? She pressed her hand to his cheek, his neck. His skin was warmer now, heartbeat steady at the base of his throat. Her hands hovered over the edge of the blanket, stopped.

Biting her lip, she shook his shoulder, trying to wake him. He slept on, unaware of her attempts to salvage what was left of his modesty. She gave it up for a lost cause and lifted the blanket. He was fine. Frowning, she turned him to the side, checking his back and checking the couch for any blood. Nothing. Not a bruise, not a scratch, not even a scar, unless you counted the two crescent marks tracing his shoulder blades. Vera stared at them thoughtfully for a moment before lowering him back down and straightening the blanket. Were they some sort of tattoo or ritual scarring?

Her eyes moved to the phone. She should call 911, or the police… where was the handy veterinarian friend she was suppose to have when a beautiful man showed up bleeding at her doorstep? Well, not precisely bleeding, she thought ruefully. But still. She sighed, catching an acrid scent on the air.

Crap. The soup.

She rushed back to the kitchen. Grumbling under her breath, she grabbed the handle and dumped the whole mess in the sink. The tomato mess splashed into the sink, spattering her sweatshirt. For a moment, she saw blood. She yelped and dropped the pan, yelped again when the pan fell with an impossibly loud clang, spraying the remaining soup in a mess across the counter. She leaned against the counter’s edge, shaking, and decided she wasn’t that hungry after all. She cleaned up and made her way to the kitchen table, catching sight of her own scratched knuckles. How had he managed to avoid getting hurt? For that matter, how was he clean when she still had blood under her fingernails?

Hours passed slowly. She made herself a cup of tea and sat nursing it until it went cold and bitter. Several times she reached for the phone, only to hesitate. She’d wait for him to wake, to explain himself. Then she’d call the hospital. Why that order seemed so important, she couldn’t explain. The whole situation was strange, yes, but there had to be some sort of rational explanation. She shifted in her chair, watching him sleep. Please let there be a rational explanation? She drifted off a few times, each time jerking awake with the certainty that he was stirring. Eventually, not even that was enough to disturb her.

Morning found Vera wide awake and pouring over with nervous energy. Nothing she could think of, not even pain, was enough to wake him up. She’d gone to the phone three times now, ready to call and strangeness be damned, but each time she found herself… distracted. Wandered off and fixed breakfast, read a book, just watched him sleep—it was creepy. She wondered what would happen if she rolled him and all this strangeness out her door. Probably she’d just have the strangeness on her porch instead. Growling, she cleaned the dishes, scrubbing at the burnt pot with unnecessary brutality.

She was considering just letting it soak when she heard something from the other room. She wiped the soap off of her hands and walked around the partition. He was still asleep, but he’d moved, shifting to the side and shoving the blanket off his pale shoulders. In the light of day his body was thin, athletic, almost frighteningly perfect. His skin was drum tight and glowed with health despite his paleness. His features were handsome too, but thin, almost childlike in sleep. His hair had folded around his face, reminding her the he’d probably need a hair tie, too. With a strange sort of resignation, she pulled the blanket back up around his shoulders.

His eyes opened. There was no stirring, not a moment between asleep and wakefulness; one moment he was asleep, the next his eyes were wide open and he held her wrist in a firm grip. His face lost its innocence and took on a hard, unreadable expression with those hard, dark eyes staring out from it.

They stared for a moment. He seemed no more interested in speaking than he did in releasing her hand. "How are you feeling?" Vera broke the silence nervously, feeling like she was the one trespassing. No response, only his searching eyes. She blinked, feeling suddenly tired; she shook her head to try and clear it. She looked away, and the grip on her wrist tightened a little. "Look, I’m not going to hurt you." And I hope you feel the same, she thought fervently. "Please let me go?" He did, fingers peeling back mechanically before he slowly lowered his arm. Vera rubbed her wrist; whoever he was, he one hell of a grip. "Do you need anything?" she tried again. Did he even speak English? "Do you want some water?"

He nodded, watching her with those opaque eyes. Well, he understood English at least; whether or not he could speak was a different matter. Feeling just a little grouchy, she went to the kitchen and poured a glass. The pipes rattled a little, making the peeling wallpaper over the sink shiver. Absently promising herself she was going to fix it, she made her way back into the living room.

He was up—and oh god, he was putting on the clothes she’d left by the bed. Ducking back around the partition, she waited for the sounds of movement to stop. Wheeling back around the partition, she almost plowed right into him. He stumbled back a little, recovering with more catlike grace than Vera could exhibit on the best of days. She barely rescued the glass, water sloshing over the side. "Crap." Frowning, she mopped it up with her sock and headed past him into the living room, setting it on the table. "Are you sure you should be up?" She asked, waving at the couch.

"Thank you for your help," he said, and opened the door.

"On, no!" She exclaimed, running around him and slamming the door shut. "I think at the very least you owe me an explanation. I just dragged you out of a tree! A bleeding tree. What the hell is going on?"

He frowned at her. "I don’t think you want to know."

She raised an eyebrow. "Try me."

He sighed. "I don't think I will."

"Look, I drgged you out of that... whatever it was. And you're wearing my sweatpants. You owe me."

"I owe you nothing."

She just glared at him, making it clear that she wasn't going to let this go easily.

"You're not going to believe the truth anyway, so why should I try? Just let me go, chock this up to some sort of drug-induced haze, and move on. You'll be much happier, I assure you."

"Let me be the judge of that." He shook his head. "All right, then give me my clothes back."

"You must be joking."

"No, I'm not All I'm asking is an explanation. If you won't even give me that, then why should I give you my sweatpants?" she said, almost sweetly. Almost. He glared. It was quite a glare. She glared back. "You want pants? You spill."

He growled something under his breath in a language she didn't recognize. She wanted the truth? Fine. "I’m an angel, released from a sleep that was supposed to last until the end of time, thanks to your helpful interference. And I don’t think you really want to be any more involved than that."

She glared, setting herself against the door. "Nice try." His expression didn’t change. "Oh, shit, you’re serious." He just stared at her. She leaned against the door. "So that was…"

"My prison, yes. For one thousand years, give or take." He didn’t seem eager to say anything else.

"So… a prison? Why?" She didn’t think he was dangerous. He certainly hadn’t hurt her. Yet. Another thought occurred to her, a thread of logic against all this nonsense. "And if you’ve been in there all this time, how the hell do you speak English?"

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He just looked at her with those eyes of his, and this time he wasn’t trying to hide it; those eyes were diving into her, draining her, taking her into them… "oh, shit." Her voice was small. Her knees went weak, giving until she slid down the door to hang her head between her knees, breaking contact with those eyes.

He was kneeling in front of her. "Now do you understand? It’s dangerous." His voice held no malice, little emotion at all.

"So, what? You just went into my head and got it—the language, everything—from me?"

"Not really. I can only gather so much, weakened as I am. But I have been here with nothing but my thoughts and the thoughts of others for a very long time."

She shook her head. "All right. Assume what you say is true. What happens now?"

"I walk out that door."

"And?"

"And you go on with your life."

"No, I mean what do you do from there? Do you have a plan? What do angels need anyway? Do you eat? Sleep? Get cold?" His hard expression melted a little, becoming uncertain. "Crap." She pushed herself weakly to her feet, planting a hand squarely on the door. "I can’t just send you out there, in the woods at night. You’ll freeze." She mulled it over. "Look. Let’s at least talk. Maybe I can help."

He looked a little nervous, sitting there on the couch, half-empty glass of water in one hand. More vulnerable. Vera took a long pull of her hard cider and considered him over the rim of the glass. He looked almost… scared, like he was waiting for the house to come down around his ears. She swallowed. If he’d been imprisoned for some reason… "Who imprisoned you?"

He looked at her, startled. "Other angels. The council, for lack of a better human term. That’s part of why I’m eager to be away from you. Their reach is long."

She shivered. He stood up, lips pursed. "Thank you for your concern, but I can't stay here. They may not have realized that the seal is broken--mine is not the only one they have to watch--but it can't be long. Ignorant or no, you would be punished with me."

She glared. "So that's it? The most amazing thing that has ever happened to me and I should jutst let you stagger out into the cold?"

"I tell you, its only a matter of time before they discover me missing. They may be unable to seal me again, but you, you they can punish. And harshly." He made for the door. "I trust I've earned these pants, at least."

She watched him leave, watched the door close behind him. Crap. She wasn't really going to let him go, was she? If what he said wsa true (and that was still a big if) did she realy have a choice? Wrath that could chain someone like tha in a friggin tree was not something she wanted directed her way.

Still. It felt strange to see the magic, the otherworldly that she had craved since she was a child reading fairy tales, and just let it walk away. She stared at the glass on the table, still half full. How bad could angelic wrath be, anyway? She snorted. Seriously, was she really asking herself that? She stood, picked up the glass. Better just to let it go. Better to move on, to count the blessing of this strange, exaustign day. She'd always craved the unknown. All right, she'd seen it. Best not to get greedy. She walked into the kitchen.

She dropped the glass, which promply shattered on the vinyl flooring. This day was bad for her dishes. Of course, if the glowering, very naked angel stanging in front of her stove was any indication, it was about to be a bad day for her, too. He was beautiful, in a painful way, like staring into the sun. He took a step forward. "You are the one who freed Hadrianus." It wasn't a question. His wings seemed to fill the tiny kitchen, and a corner of her brain not engaged in babbling panic worried for her hanging pots.

She nodded. What else could she do? Praying seemed to be out for the moment. Besides, she was agnostic. Had been agnostic. She certainly couldn't claim unsurety now.

He glared at her. She backed away a few steps, despite adamantly ordering her legs not to back down. They knew better, because with a seemingly casual motion he backhanded her. She hit the partition wall hard, that oddly lucid corner of her mind noting that the angel was left-handed. Light footseeps crosse the room, and that large, perfect hand was grabbing her by the collar and dragging her to her feet.

Vera had never been punched. She'd been accidentally hit, run into things, fallen... but none of that could quite match the pain of being smacked by an irate angel. Her whole face burned, and she tasted blood.

"Amadeus." It was another voice. The man--no, angel--from before. "Let her down. You're better than that." His voice held a weary resignation.

"Adrian." The tones in the winged angel's voice were complex, too complex for her to follow as she was lowered none to gently to the floor. She struggled to stay on her feet, and was stabilized by the angel's realtively gentle grip on her arm. "Adrian, you could have been free. Your case was already up for review, and under the new treaties..."

"Up for review when? The new treaties were signed a hunderd years ago."

"I was working on it! The case was actually in a magistrate's hands!" The grip on her arm tightened painfully. "Now you have no grounds for appeal. None! Why on earth did you encourage her?"

"How many times has my case been up for review, Amadeus? With every new treaty. And with every new treaty, I remain a prisoner. They weren't going to free me, right or not. You know that. And I grew tired of hoping."

"You realize I'll have to punish you. And this girl. the council will accept no less. Dammit, Adrian, you'll be foreced to the other side!"

"Better than living in a tree! If the council sees me as evil, I may as well fulfill their expectations!"

"There may be another way." A third voice. Immediately, the angel's hold on her slackened. She took a step away, turning to face the new person. It was a short woman, mercifully clothed and unwinged but as beautiful as the other. And she hadn't used the door, either. The woman looked at me. "I know you don't realize what you've done, but its created quite a mess. And you have no rights by our government. Normally you would be sent to hell with Hadrianus, but... well, Adrian's case is specail. Which makes yours specail as well." She paused.

"Magistrate, I--"

"Quiet, Amadeus, let me think." She drew in a breath, as though preparing to say something important.

The crowd shifted uneasily, white hands gesturing and fluttering like nervous birds. It was disconcerting to see from this far up; everyone swathed in grey, but for those bright, clean, perfect hands.

They were the hands of someone who had never picked up a tool, never sown seeds, never pulled weeds or even harvested fruit until their backs screamed and fingers went numb. But that was, on a certain level, understandable. After all, most had never even considered the notion that they might be taking advantage of the Loesanne, any more than they considered that perhaps the conformity and stagnation they lived by was the cause of their slowly disintegrating society.

From this vantage, it was all very clear to him, although he didn’t think they would listen to him now. Perhaps, if he had come among them clothed as they were, some might have listened. But that would have required a sacrifice that, even now, he was unwilling to make.

The three men with him on the platform tugged on the ropes again, checking that his spread arms were secure for what was to come. The frame, an arch in the shape of a dragon, was one of the few ornamented things in this place. It curled around him, strangely comforting despite the metaphysical implications. How odd. They had been paced in this planet to protect the Haidonne, to duel with the serpent so they would have peace. After generations of fighting, the Loesanne had put the beast down—only to have their goodwill enslaved by the very Haidonne they were supposed to protect. And if any were to discover or remember the truth… if either the Loesanne of the Haidonne were to remember their original roles… this was the punishment.

The man behind him, in an unexpected show of cruelty, grabbed a fist of his feathers and hauled down on his wing. He cried out in pain, powerful muscles straining against the weight as two of the men held his wing down—and another bound it, with straps attached to the ground.

The feeling made him quail inside as having his arms bound never had. And then instinct rose, swift and powerful. It was the legacy of their forgotten heritage, of those who had once been called angels. And it answered him now. A roar split the near-perfect silence of the square, primal and afraid. The crowd fluttered, but he could no longer see them. He wrenched to one side, fanning with his free wing to keep his captors at bay. The thin cord holding his wing down snapped, fluttering free as he flipped it clear of his feathers. His arms strained against his bonds, arms and chest strong from a life of farming and flying. But the chains held, built long ago for prisoners, not the willing slaves the Loesanne were now.

He screamed again, sweat-slicked skin gleaming in the half-light. The crowd began moving now, those too nervous to take the display making for the edges of the courtyard. None would leave, of course. It was expected that everyone be in the Square for the execution of a possessed Loesanne. But they could, and did, close their eyes and ears to the uncomfortable, dangerous passion of his voice.

His wrists slipped in their bonds, chains occasionally clinking as he threw his full weight against one side or another. One of the men got too close and was buffeted by his madly fanning wings. He fell to the ground, unconscious. More were now climbing up to help the executioners, but when they reached the heights they stood behind them, unsure of what to do. Even the man holding the ceremonial sword was totally unacquainted with violence, having only dealt a killing blow to one lone, willing Loesanne.

In any other being, the anger would have cooled. The rage and fear would have been stilled by time’s passage, or simple exhaustion. But that was the gift and curse of angels. Once aroused, their anger would see no rest, would give no ground to body or spirit. He was trapped, unaware of anything but the burning need to be free, to hurt whoever had done this. Righteous anger is a heady brew for any being, but it is an angel’s salvation.

The chain, forged of metals no longer found in this world, groaned. All eyes, even those that had been averted, went to the weakening chain. No one here remembered angelic warriors. But there was something ominous in the sound, in the sudden quieting of the prisoner’s screams. They could all sense their danger, even if they didn’t have the knowledge to understand it. Only once, in the hundreds of years the Loesanne had served the Haidonne, had the wrath of an angel been turned on a human. But here, now, with no other target for his rage, the Loesanne might very well turn on them.
... to be continued. 

This is a pretty dark introspection piece, where my expreienced solar exalted character sees her friend who has been brainwashed/mindbuggered. Not a happy one, but for Brynne, few of them are. Poor Brynne.

Here and now, we will never be again; for I have found, all that glitters in this world is sure to fade… away… again…It was wrong.

Somewhere, it had all gone wrong. The world had tipped, and they were all going to spill into the sky: women half-dressed and screeching false happiness, Men in masks that didn’t conceal cruel smiles, skeletons dancing like string puppets. The mad cacophony surged around them, and it was all wrong. She wanted to scream, to tip back her head and cry out the anguish choking her, an island of knowledge in a sea of blissful ignorance. Didn’t they see? Didn’t they know that the world had stopped? That nothing would ever be right again? They were all dancing with the Black Death, and only she could see him for what he was; they were all dead, but death had not yet arrived to collect.

It was over.

Before now she had been able to deny it. Still, she clung to the hope, like a drowning man, that for once Jube’s pride had not prevailed; that he was not broken, merely bent. But in her heart she despaired, and it was her heart which held sway now. She told herself to be strong, that there was much she could still do tonight, but it was all she could do to move towards the door. It was so much worse than she had imagined. She never should have come. The sight of him, eyes dead, arms maimed, face untouched… she had a new nightmare, now, one she wasn’t certain she could live with. Broken… lost. Images rose to torment her as she struggled through the crowd, faster and faster as one conjured another. He had been so happy in the village. The wheat had fallen to his scythe, the trees had fallen to his blade, but his heart was cleansed. Innocence isn’t something you’re born with, she wanted to scream, staring into the empty eyes of a young woman. It can be reclaimed. And lost again, with all the pain of its first passing.

She almost doubled over, let the crowd trample her. Only Typhoon’s arm over her shoulders reminded her, kept her moving. There would be time. She would mourn when there was something to mourn. When they knew… when they knew… fresh tears sprung up as she pictured his arms, so much worse than any scar received in battle. His cold eyes, lithe body twisted into a parody of its comfortable grace, predator-like. Why? Her heart wailed in a child’s voice. She counted days, like a mantra. A week. Three days. Only that long. What cruel, terrible joke was this? Why… why him? She would gladly hand herself over, this moment, if it meant that Jube and the others could be whole again. They were all so spirit-sore, wounded by the life they had only half-chosen… especially, especially him.

A sense of calm descended, and she realized that her heart had broken. Like a tale, there was only one thing that could ever mend it; his smile, whole again and free of the taint of this place. A mist, cool and soft, settled behind her eyes. The roar of the crowd, so raw a moment before, faded as the faces grew distant. One truth hang before her, undeniable, her only chance. She would hope. She would cling to the small chance that there was still something left to be healed. Because it was all she could do. Without that hope, she would simply stop, and that would doom them all. Even when all hope was lost, she would cling to its ashes. Until she could finish what she must do; see that Ukyo was taken care of, see that the Lover paid for what she had done, see that she could never break another beautiful thing. Then… then perhaps she would follow the lover into the abyss, and spare any future incarnations this pain, even if only in half-remembered dreams.