Sayuri 1 - Crash and Burn

"This is the last time you just waltz in here late for work, Eric!"

Eric Waverly closed his eyes as his boss ripped into him, knowing that this was it. He'd pushed Mr. Breeland too far this time. The last week's bad luck had finally culminated in this latest, greatest calamity and now, with only a hundred bucks in his checking account and nothing in savings, he was out of a job. Desperation clawed at his throat. He had to keep trying to reason with the surly old man.
"Sir, please—"

"Yesterday it was some little old lady who's purse got stolen," Breeland continued, spittle flying as he growled. "The day before that, two guys roughing up some skank teenager down on Twelfth. I'm tired of your excuses!"

There really had been a purse-snatcher yesterday, and a woman walking with a cane screaming about the kid who'd rushed off with her purse. Eric had strained his shoulder taking the thief down so he could give the bag back. And there really had been a girl screaming for help while two losers had been in the process of making it very obvious she'd picked the wrong route to wherever she was going; Twelfth Street was a bad neighborhood in the city of Pattou, Arizona. But what was he supposed to do, let her get beaten up or mugged or raped? Maybe killed?

Opening his eyes, he tried again. "Look, Mr. Breeland, I can explain. There was an accident on Fifth, a kid on a bike got grazed by a car. No one was stopping. I had to—"

"Was the kid walking around?" Mr. Breeland demanded, folding his thick-muscled arms across his massive chest. Eric's hands clenched. "Because if he was walking, the little punk was fine! And I don't pay you to babysit little dodos playing in the street!"

Yeah, the kid had been walking, but he'd been bleeding, too. Scraped up. Eric had parked in front of the drugstore on Fifth Street and sat with the kid, calling his mother and doing a basic first-aid checkup to make sure he didn’t have a concussion or any broken bones.

The kid—whose name had been Josh—had been freaked out at first by a grown man talking to him, but the presence of Eric's dog Wendy had helped calm him down. Eric would've taken the kid to a hospital anyway, but Josh had told him that a) he wasn’t going anywhere with a stranger, and b) they didn’t have insurance and his mom couldn’t afford the hospital bills. He certainly couldn’t afford to pay for them, so he'd waited with Josh until the mom showed up to take him to the free clinic downtown to treat his minor injuries. Eric had dropped Wendy off like he did every day and high-tailed it to work—two hours late.
"Mr. Breeland—"

"You're fired, Eric," the old man growled. Eric's eyes squeezed shut and his fingers convulsed into knotted fists again; his short nails bit into his palms. "Get out."

Even though it was pathetic, even though it infuriated him, he tried begging. "Sir, I need this job." It was his last chance. His rent was due at the end of the month. He'd cleaned out the last of his college savings after…after the funeral. He didn’t have anything left for an emergency. Panic twisted in his stomach as he considered that without his wages for the next week, he'd be more than a hundred-and-fifty short on the rent. And if he didn’t pay on time, he'd get hit with a bigger fine every day. "Please, Mr. Breeland—"

"Forget it, Eric. You're fired. Get out of my face."

The old man turned away, but Eric's hand snaked out without his permission and grabbed his boss's greasy sleeve. "Mr. Breeland, please! I'll…I'll work overtime, no extra pay! I'll do double-shifts, I'll clean the whole restaurant, I'll wash the dishes after closing-shift, I—"
Mr. Breeland shook him off. "Too late, kid. You had your shot. Now beat it!"

His stomach twisting into icy knots, his hands clutched into shaking fists to keep from punching the wall—or his ex-boss—Eric swallowed, turned to the door, and walked out of Breeland's Diner into the back alley where the restaurant tossed its garbage. This was where most of the diner's employees came in, because the alley was wide enough for one car to drive carefully from Cumberland Avenue into the grassy, fenced-off lot behind the diner, where most of the employees parked, saving them having to walk several blocks from wherever they could find a parking space. Eric's rust-splotched blue Chevy truck waited for him in that lot.

To his surprise, a golden retriever lay in the bed of the truck, her chin propped up on the tailgate. Then again, that was how he'd found Wendy in the first place. That day a little more than two years ago when he'd gotten the call at work about his parents, he'd found her lounging in his truck-bed. She'd looked pretty healthy for a stray, so he'd assumed she belonged to someone. For four months after that, she'd showed up every day after he got off-shift and waited for him in his truck, greeting him like she belonged to him. It had been kind of nice, actually. No one else had been so happy to see him since his parents had died.

Eventually, he'd decided to keep the dog. Impractical since money was so tight, but…he just hadn’t wanted to be alone in his rat-hole apartment anymore. He'd needed someone there. Anyone. Even if it was just a dog. And when he'd taken her to the vet, they'd discovered she had no microchip and so no traceable registration, since she didn’t have a collar or tags, and she was ridiculously healthy, considering she was a stray. No worms, no fleas, nothing. So he'd kept her.

But Eric knew he'd dropped Wendy off at Mrs. Ramirez's house before getting to work today. What was she doing back early?

Then he noticed Mrs. Ramirez standing next to his truck, a worried look on her weathered face. Mrs. Ramirez had agreed to watch Wendy while Eric was at work—he didn’t want to leave her in his apartment all day because of his psychotic neighbors—because her daughter Marisa liked to play with the dog and Mrs. Ramirez watched other people's pets all the time to make money while her husband was out of state looking for work. What was she doing here?
If she'd been out here long, maybe she'd heard Breeland bellowing at him. Well, he knew she was bound to be sympathetic. Whenever he was a little short on cash, Mrs. Ramirez always made a point to invite him over for dinner so he could save money on food, and she always made extra so he could take the rest home. When he got sick, she always made him chicken soup. Once when someone had broken into his apartment and he hadn’t been able to sleep there until the locks got fixed, she'd offered him her living room couch for a few days. At least with her around he wouldn’t starve while he tried to find a new job and a new place.

"Eric," Mrs. Ramirez said gently when he approached. Her wrinkled hands came up and tugged at the collar of his white, button-down shirt. "Your collar is crooked, miho."

A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. "Thanks, Mrs. Ramirez. What's going on? What are you doing out here? Everything okay?" He glanced at the fire-escape that ran the length of one of the nearby apartment buildings. Mrs. Ramirez lived on the fourth floor of a red-brick building only a few dozen yards from the lot. Eric noticed Marisa Ramirez, a shy and skinny eight-year-old, watching them from the fire-escape landing.

Mrs. Ramirez sighed. "I'm very sorry, Eric, but we cannot take the dog anymore." He frowned, confused. Her accent thickened as she grew more agitated. "Eric, I'm very sorry, but we are moving away in a couple days. I wanted you to know. It is very sudden, I know. I am sorry."

He swallowed. "M-moving?" He shook his head, running a hand over the short, sharp bristles on his scalp. He really needed to shave his head again, he thought inanely. He stared at Mrs. Ramirez. "You're moving?"

"My husband," she explained softly. "He get a very good job in California. He write to me last night and tell me. We pack today and tomorrow, then we will move. His company is sending a van for us. I am sorry, Eric."

Eric cleared his throat. Somewhere far away, icy panic clawed up and down his spine, but in the immediate moment, he offered the older Hispanic woman a smile. "Times are hard," he said softly. "I'm glad things are working out for you guys."

But they were not working out for him. Not at all. He'd lost his job and now he'd lost his one means of extra support…what was he supposed to do?

She smiled and cupped his cheek. She had to stand on tiptoe to kiss the other one. When she did, Eric smelled the spices she used for her homemade taco seasoning. "You are a good boy, Eric. I will be praying for you always. Promise me you will be careful. This city is unkind to good boys. But you are stronger than that unkindness, yes?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said with another forced smile. He hugged Mrs. Ramirez, whose five-two frame was tiny compared to his towering six feet and two inches, and kissed her on the cheek. "Thanks for looking out for me."

"Of course. Of course. You are a good boy. Goodbye, Eric."

He waited until Mrs. Ramirez had left the lot and gone back up the fire-escape, until she and Marisa were inside and had shut and locked the window, before he kicked the front tire of his truck with savage fury. A brief throb of pain surged through his foot. Ignoring it, he kicked the tire again and again and again, muffled snarls and profanity smothered to grunts behind his clenched teeth. Temper boiled up in his blood like poison. No job, no friend to help out, and soon to have no freaking apartment! It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t right that he lost his job for being a decent guy, it wasn't right!

His fist dented the thin, weak metal when he punched the door of the truck. His scraped knuckles split open again. Blood welled up and spilled across his caramel-colored skin. He clenched his fist and pain spasmed through his knuckles. Closing his eyes, he turned and slammed his body against the driver's side door before sinking to the ground with a sigh. A clunk sounded when he dropped his head against the door.

A low, canine whine broke the quiet a few moments later. Eric cracked on eye to see Wendy sitting next to him, big brown eyes the same color as his own looking woeful. When she realized he was looking at her, she whined again. Her head inched forward until she dropped her chin on his shoulder. She heaved a huge sigh.

"Yeah," Eric muttered. "Everything sucks today, doesn't it?" Wendy made a dog noise. Eric decided she was agreeing with him and rubbed his hand over her silky head. "Let's get out of here, huh? It's a long drive home. We're having ramen for dinner again."

The drive took longer than anticipated, since a five-car pileup occurred on the access road he normally used to hit the freeway. Wendy, curled up on the passenger seat next to him, lifted her head to stare at the massive accident. Eric sighed.

"You know, back when I had money for college, I was going to be a doctor," he told the dog, even though he knew she couldn’t understand him. Talking to Wendy when he drove helped him relax on the road. "Had two years of med school under my belt." He'd had to drop out after his parents got sick, and after a year of taking care of them, their funeral…his finances had been shot, because his parents hadn’t trusted banks or insurance companies. "So I can tell you, that's a bad accident up there, Wendy-bird. Let's take the frontage road, what d'you say?"

Wendy made another dog sound, but her tail wagged, so he took that as a yes and made the right turn onto the access ramp for the frontage road.

The frontage road was a long stretch of asphalt that ran about the length of half the city of Pattou, Arizona. On either side of it sat several miles of Sonoran dessert, empty of hardly any buildings or signs except the speed limit and a couple billboards. The desert was cordoned off by barbed wire to keep cows, herds of javelinas, and other wild animals off the road. It didn’t work on anything smaller than a large dog, though. People hit coyotes on the frontage road all the time. Driving along through that empty desert made Eric wish his car radio worked. Or that he had an iPod or something. He hated silence.

Tension ratcheted through his shoulders as he considered what had happened in the last hour—he'd lost his job, he'd lost his one support in Pattou. He was going to get evicted in about a month, possibly arrested for proving delinquent on his rent. He wanted to bang his head on the steering wheel. Instead he tapped his fingers to a beat from a B.o.B. song he liked, a habit he'd picked up from his mom as a kid. She'd always sung a song when she was frustrated.
"We're gonna be okay, Wendy," he told the retriever, wishing he believed it. He had no idea what they were going to do. There were maybe ten bags of ramen left in the cupboard, half a box of Lucky Charms, half a pack of hotdogs, some lunchmeat. Eric sighed. "We're gonna be fine," he reiterated. "We're gonna be—"

And then a ball of fiery something at least three times the size of his truck hurtled out of the sky and slammed into the earth with enough force to send a cloud of rock chunks and dust spewing into the air. The shockwave slammed into the rusted Chevy. The steering wheel jerked in Eric's hands, the tires twisted. The truck fishtailed. Gripping the wheel, Eric fought to get his truck under control while Wendy barked frantically, scrambling to tuck herself under the dashboard on the passenger side.

His brain squawked a reminder not to hit the breaks or he'd roll the truck and probably kill them both. The world spun by in dizzying smears of umber, green, dust-gray, and washed-out blue as the truck swerved and twisted in circles until it skidded to a halt in the middle of the road.

Eric's shaking hands gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. He stared, wide-eyed, at the haze of dust and grit hovering above the desert floor beyond the barbed wire strung along the frontage road. The breath caught in his throat before squeezing its way into his tight lungs. Wendy climbed back onto the seat and butted her head against his shoulder before frantically licking his face.

"I'm fine," Eric mumbled, pushing at the dog. She whined, pressing close. He slid an arm around her. Her warm, furry body helped calm the chill frosting over him as adrenaline slowly began to fade. "I'm okay. You okay?"

Wendy licked his face again in answer. She was fine. Just freaked out. He wiped at the icy sweat sheening his face and stared out the windshield at the desert.

"What was that?"

Garnet 0 - The Black Knight on the Chessboard

Except for the night of Homecoming and the day I shattered Jack's soul-contract, I used to only see the Twilight Chessboard in my dreams. Now I could see it whenever I closed my eyes and let the scent of honey and the knife-sharp touch of magic brush through my mind. When the walls around the magical nexus in my chest fell, the Great War Game of the Fea Fayre superimposed itself behind my eyelids.

 

Everything had changed since Homecoming. Now the pieces of the Game were scattered, some of them missing. The playing cards had different faces. There were different colors displayed. The board itself was all-new.

 

But two thing was still the same: there were still three sides to the board, and I hated this place.

 

I smelled the sickly honey scent of the Borderland Mist, the soupy, gray fog that surrounded the Chessboard itself and kept it separate from the rest of Faerie. A dull, bronze light emanated from the giant, razor-sharp playing cards ringing the board and the strange pieces assembled on its checkered surface. It made the whole place look like some kind of hellish Wonderland, and I was Alice, confused and irritated as crap.

 

“Why am I even here?” I muttered to no one, crossing my arms against the dry, cool wind. That wind always blew here.

 

I hadn't come to the Chessboard on purpose. Part of my “learn-to-use-your-magic-properly” regiment included meditation, and the lowering and re-raising of my nexus walls so that I didn't have to turn into a homicidal maniac in order to do anything remotely magical. But every time I practiced, I ended up right back here: my not-so-happy place.

 

“Looks like you've got something to learn, Black Queen.”

 

Oh, crap. I knew that voice. That voice was liquid gold spiked with tequila and happy crack. It was a sound like angels singing. It raised goosebumps on my arms and made the hair at the nape of my neck prickle with static nerves.

 

It was also incredibly annoying and gave me the heebie-jeebies.

 

“I don't like cryptic comments, Darren,” I told my unwelcome visitor, clenching my teeth against the weird tingle in my extremities when he walked up beside me.

 

Darren Moss, known at Pillar Preparatory Academy as the Black Knight (yeah, I know) was drop-dead gorgeous. Chris Pine, Hugh Jackman, even the current Mr. Universe—none of them could hold a candle to Darren, thanks to his use of magical plastic surgery. Darren was only pretty thanks to blood magic. Sexy he might have been, but creepy cut down his sex appeal by like, nine-tenths.

 

“Have you been studying the Chessboard?” Darren asked. He moved as if he were going to put his arm around me, but I must have twitched because he shifted away from me instead. I didn't like touching Darren. It was like snuggling with a giant maggot slathered in honey. At the same time, I liked it a little too much. He had that effect on people thanks to his magic.

 

I scanned the Chessboard. Each square was maybe the size of a big-screen television, and unlike before, when each square was either solid ivory, red, or black, now the white tiles were spattered with blood, so they were all sickeningly, vibrantly red. There was only one white piece on this board. Before Homecoming, there had been pieces to represent all three sides. Now there was only Gavin Whitmoor's White King, and his sister Lily's fallen White Queen, slowly crumbling to bone dust, and then me and Geneva Carson, the Red Queen.

 

“What am I looking for?” I muttered to Darren, nervous despite myself. “There's so many Red pieces, I can't see anything. And why aren't all our Black pieces on the board?”

 

Darren shrugged, an elegant rippling of muscle. The fact that I even noticed made me want to put a fork in my eye. He said, “We're all there. We just don't have that many.”

 

“The entire White Court, except for Gavin's people, belongs to us.” That had been confusing as heck, but incredibly useful since it meant that everyone bonded to the White Queen couldn't hit me anymore. Raise your hand if you're all for not getting beat up on a daily basis!

“Technically, yes, they do.” The look he flashed me was reminiscent of one he'd probably give to his mentally deficient, inbred cousin. “But wars have been lost on technicalities before, Black Queen. Just because they're bonded to you doesn't mean they're yours. Take Zachary Moonsword for example. He doesn't care about you at all. If you can't even control one of your Knaves, why should anyone else worry about you?”

 

Meaning it didn't matter that I had the incredibly toothy Knave of Diamonds, the hulking bruiser who was the Knave of Spades, two flesh-eating Faerie boys (including the former Knave of Hearts), a werecat who owned a demonically-possessed Ford F850, a warlock immune to witchcraft, two witches, a motorcycle-riding werebunny, and a member of the bloodthirsty Wild Hunt in my inner circle.

 

I was missing the scrawny, certifiably-crazy Knave of Clubs, which apparently meant I was at the bottom of the food chain.

 

I stared at Darren. “Seriously?”

 

He grinned, and my stomach filled with butterflies. If he made me barf, I was puking on his stupid Prada shoes.

 

“You're a Queen of Faerie, Alyssa. You’re a demon Queen. You've fought and won a battle on the Twilight Chessboard. You've made it to the center of the Maze of Mist.” He laughed and shook his head ruefully. “Did you honestly think things were going to get easier after all that?”

 

“Um, yeah.” Seeing as that's what they were supposed to do. After taking care of Lily (check) and Geneva (sort of check), I was under the impression that my life was supposed to go back to normal. Well, as normal as could be when my boyfriend was an immortal cannibal from a completely separate species and a whole bunch of Faeries were camped out in my living room. Never mind the homicidal witch living half-in my closet.

 

Darren was laughing at me again. His laugh was like velvet, and usually gave me happy shivers against my will, but not when he was laughing at me. “You poor, delusional simpleton,” the Black Knight said, reaching out to pat me on the head.

 

“Touch me and I'll rip off your arm and beat you with it,” I warned him, raking my hands through my short-chopped hair. Could I get hives from stress? Could I get zombie plague from stress? I wasn't sure. The only way to know was if I started craving brains, but by then I'd be so entrenched in the zombie mayhem I probably wouldn't even find that unusual.

 

“Usually girls ask me to touch them,” Darren said, breaking me from my zombie thoughts, and he grinned at me as if inviting me to share in a dirty joke.

 

Part of me wished he would touch me, and part of me wished someone would come and snap me out of this. I could get to the Great War Game of the Fea Fayre on my own, but I couldn't get away. Magic never worked the way I wanted it to. Case in point—I couldn't use my bond with Darren as his Queen to switch off his sex vibe. In fact, being the Black Queen and being bonded to Darren's Sluagh and human servants actually made it worse!

 

“If you touched me, I'd probably gag.”

 

“Are you still upset that I bought this face with dead kittens?” He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Because I have to tell you, it was totally worth it. I got laid way more often afterwards.”

 

“Nope. That's not it at all. I just hate pretty people. I have a complex," I added, nodding for emphasis.

 

Sarcasm was one of my cures for wanting to punch the gorgeous warlock. In the week after Homecoming, Darren had taken to talking about himself and sex a lot around me. He'd actually told me that it was because he was trying to wear me down and get me in bed. He wanted to make it with me, not because he was attracted to me, but because I was the Black Queen. His words, right to my face. Can you believe that?

 

Unfortunately for him, I didn't believe in having sex as a teenager (no chemical imbalances in my brain for me, thanks) or before marriage (I refused to commit without paperwork), not to mention I had a boyfriend, so he was out of luck. So he kept trying to get me to give in, and I kept trying to keep from strangling him with one of my dad's adorkable neckties.

 

“After what you did to Lily's face, that doesn't surprise me,” Darren said, just when a sudden pressure bore down on my shoulders. Someone was shaking me. “By the way,” the warlock added. “You need to learn how to see, Alyssa. There are only two colors, but there are three sides. Think about that.”

And then Lilith Whitmoor was shaking me out of my magical daydream, snapping me back to reality. She'd already murdered my best friend; what did the face-slapping mutant she-witch want with me now? My soul?

Darkness There, and Nothing - CH.1 - Let Go of the Truth…This Is Just a Game

Chapter One
Let Go of the Truth…This Is Just a Game

 .


.

.

Thor studied his wan reflection in the looking glass of his bedchamber, wondering what he was doing. Was he really going to go back to see Loki again? He'd been to visit his younger brother in the dungeons every day for the last fortnight—ever since Loki's startling accusation that blood of someone, perhaps those Midgardians killed during the Chitauri invasion, was on Thor's hands as well as the pseudo-Æsir's—but Loki had said not a word since then. Thor had by turns pleaded, threatened, and cajoled, all to no avail. His brother would say nothing, do nothing, while Thor was present in the dungeon corridor outside his cell. The moment Loki heard Thor coming, he would stop whatever he was doing and sit, silent and immobile, in a chair staring into the fire.

With a sigh, the son of Odin's blood leaned back on the bench where he sat until his head touched the cold stone wall. He closed his eyes wearily. Only the distant roar of the sea and the chirp of crickets singing farewell to the day broke the silence of his bedroom. It gave Thor the quiet he needed to think. What could he do this evening that he hadn't done over the last two weeks? What could coax Loki into explaining himself?

A soft knock at his door pulled Thor from his musings. Smoothing a hand over his hair, he called, "Enter." At his entreaty, Odin's youngest son stepped into the room. Immediately upon seeing Balder, some of Thor's tension eased.

"Good evening, Brother," Balder said softly, his deep voice rumbling through the room.

It still surprised Thor how his littlest brother had grown up. He stilled remembered when it had been little Balder running on his short child's legs in a hopeless effort to chase down Thor, Loki, Víðarr, and Tyr in an effort to join in on the revelries of the older princes. Now Balder was a man—tall, fair-haired, broad-shouldered, having already been blooded in battle, with the strength and bearing of one of Asgardian's warrior princes.

"Good evening."

"Are you going to see Loki today?" Balder asked when Thor said nothing more. "Has he spoken again?" Thor shook his head, and Balder sighed. "Mother is certain you can do something with him where the rest of us have failed. What do you think?"

A small pain was beginning to throb behind the older Asgardian's left eye. Pressing his fingers to his forehead, Thor replied, "I know not what can be done with him, if anything. I don't even know if his words to me before have any bearing on his treachery, or if he seeks to play with my mind. I simply do not know. If Mother can get nothing from him…" Thor shrugged almost helplessly. "I don't know."

Balder nodded, rubbing his chin. His glacier-blue eyes darkened with worry. "Well, I know one thing—do not let Tyr near him again, or there may be bloodshed."

Thor arched an eyebrow. "He's in prison. And Tyr is not so foolish as to let Loki goad him into breaking into his cell in order to—"

"Loki is not the one goading Tyr," Balder interrupted. Thor's brow furrowed. "Tyr is attempting to get information from our brother by taunting him into a fit of temper. He will catch Loki drawing…whatever it is he is constantly drawing, or writing whatever he is constantly writing, and demand to know what it is. He will deliberately provoke him, yet Loki has yet to respond overtly. I sense trouble brewing if Tyr is allowed to continue his jibes."

"Have you spoken to Father about this?"

The younger prince nodded. "You know how he is. He does not wish to hear anything about Loki. Because of his guilt, you know…and his disappointment. For now, I think Father will let Mother deal with the problem of our wayward brother. And you know Tyr never listens to Mother."

The sigh that came from Thor then seemed to hold all the weight he felt down to his very bones. Things had been so simple that long ago day when Odin had been ready to hand the throne of Asgard to his eldest son—the son who, Thor could admit now, hadn't been ready for kingship then. When had the world become so tangled? Was it merely Loki's discovery of his true parentage? Or was it more?

Perhaps today would be the day his brother gave him some answers. Trying to hold onto that slim, flickering hope, Thor rose to his feet, bade his youngest brother goodbye, and went to visit Loki.

.

Loki was drawing again. Thor had made sure to keep as silent as possible when drawing night his brother's cell this time, and Loki was distracted enough by his task that he didn't seem to notice Thor's stealthy approach through the shadows of the corridor. The prince took a moment to observe Loki from the safety of those shadows.

Every move his brother made was fraught with an electric, frenetic energy. His emerald eyes burned as they darted over the paper. His face was nearly bloodless, and a bright crimson drop stood out against Loki's mouth again. The hand holding the charcoal sketching stick practically flew across the page as if on demonic wings. Loki's breath came in half-choked little gasps.

Suddenly, as before, he stopped. He stared at the drawing as if searching for something, some miniscule detail on which hung the very fate of the cosmos. Wrinkles formed between his thin, dark brows as they knitted together. The pale lips moved soundlessly. It took Thor a long moment to realize his brother was mouthing the word "no" over and over again; that and another word he couldn't quite make out from the shape of Loki's mouth.

A look of helpless confusion flitted across his brother's wan face, followed swiftly by anger edged with what might have been despair. Loki dropped his face into the cup of one hand. He crushed the charcoal stick in his other; it broke in half with a muffled snap. The pieces clattered to the table top and rolled slowly over the smooth surface before slipping off and falling to the floor. Loki's empty fingers convulsed into a fist so tight his hand visibly shook. He pressed it hard against the table until Thor heard the wood creak.

At last Loki lifted his head to stare once more with broken eyes at the drawing. "Memory fades so swiftly," Loki breathed. "Why can I not remember something so simple? Something so vital? By Surtur's blade…why can I not remember?"

He clamped his lips together. Squeezed his eyes shut. His face contorted as if in pain. With a muffled, wordless cry he snatched up the picture and crumpled it into a ball. He surged to his feet—unsteadily, Thor noticed. Stalking to the sullen fire, Loki made as if to cast the drawing into the flames…but then he hesitated. With trembling fingers he unfolded the crumpled drawing; gazed down at it with a blank face, though his eyes were alive, alight with something like desperation.

Loki took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, with a shudder. He shook his head. "No," Loki said softly. "No. It isn't right. It will not…serve." With those opaque words, the pseudo-Æsir balled the paper up again, but he moved as if it were the hardest thing he had ever done. And instead of hurling the paper into the flames, he held out his hand, palm up, and let the drawing slip from his grasp to land in the fire.

While the paper crackled and burned, Loki leaned his forearm against the fireplace mantel. Swallowed audibly. Then he leaned his forehead against his arm. His shoulders slumped. He raised a fist and thumped it once against the marble mantel.

Thor could bear it no longer. As before, the prince stepped into the light. "Loki."

His brother didn't turn around, which Thor had half-expected, half-dreaded. He hadn't expected Loki to mutter, "Why have you come back here, Thor? What do you want of me?"

"Are you…all right?" He couldn't forget the haunted—and haunting—look on his little brother's face.

But to his incredulous irritation, Loki turned to him with that smirk twisting his features. He laughed openly at Thor. "Am I all right? Brother, I'm in prison. I mean no offense, of course, but that's a stupid question."

Fury washed through the prince. "Forgive my foolishness. Of course civilities are wasted on common criminals."

That smirk carved deeper across Loki's face. The once-anguished eyes twinkled with mocking amusement. Had Thor only imagined the sorrow in Loki's face before he'd burned the drawing? Surely not…but there was no trace of any deep emotion in the other prince now as he chuckled and replied, "Your arsenal of droll comebacks hasn't improved while I've been imprisoned, Brother. Is that why you've come today? To attempt to sharpen your rapier wit?"

In that moment Thor came to a decision. He'd avoided confronting Loki flat out about the drawings themselves, instead asking about the things he'd said the last time they'd spoken. He hadn't wished to see that look of vicious pain on his little brother's face again. But he would not stand here and be mocked for his trouble, either. If Loki wished to contest with him, Thor would strike at his heart.

"Were you not satisfied with this latest drawing, little brother?" Thor asked casually, striding toward the ensorcelled glass that separated him from his foster brother. "Did it not please you?"

The effect on Loki was immediate: what little color that had come back into his face while verbally sparring with Thor drained away, his eyes snapped wide, tension gripped his entire body, and his lips parted slightly as if he'd been stunned. Then he seemed to recover himself. Pressing his lips together, he glared at Thor. His gaze was like a cerulean glass knife.

"That is none of your concern."

"Oh?" Thor shrugged. "It was a simple question, Loki." When his little brother said nothing, Thor narrowed his eyes. "I'll get answers out of you eventually, little brother. You cannot put me off forever."

Loki scoffed. "Oh, can't I? Don't you have better things to do? Primping in front of the mirror for your little mortal, for example? I hear the Bifröst will be fully repaired in but a few months' time. Surely you want to look your best for her. Perhaps you should go and polish those feathers you call a helmet."

"Leave Jane out of this," Thor snapped. "You berate me for involving others in a conflict between us, then attempt to use her against me—"

"Hypocrite," Loki snarled softly. "So you're allowed to attempt to use my weaknesses against me, eh, Brother? But when I hit back with the same tactic, you cry foul?"

Through gritted teeth, the golden-haired prince said, "There is a vast difference between asking you a difficult question and threatening the woman I love. You will not harm Jane, Loki. So much as attempt it, and brother or no, I will kill you. Do you understand?"

Eyes like sunlight through sea-green glass flickered. "A difference? No, there really isn't. Not in the end," Loki murmured, and once again Thor had the impression of trying to catch something precious but elusive in his grasp. Then his brother shook off whatever melancholy had softened his demeanor and smirked at Thor. "Besides, I never threatened her. I once said that I might pay her a visit, but that was merely to goad you into doing what I wanted. Even you should have been able to see that, despite your thick skull. And I wasn't threatening her just now, either. Merely proving a point—and proving it quite easily. I can put you off for eternity if need be. You may as well give up whatever futile quest you've come here on and leave me in relative peace."

"It was a simple question, Loki. Were you displeased with the drawing? Forgetting a detail, perhaps?" As Thor spoke, Loki's lips pressed tighter and tighter together. The cocky smirk had vanished like a ghost. "Something you can't remember interfering?"

Voice hoarse and strained, the pseudo-Asgardian hissed, "You were listening. Spying on me!"

Thor's shrug was completely unapologetic. "My only recourse," he said, "when you refuse to tell me what I wish to know."

Loki's face went blank. In a carefully neutral tone, the disguised Frost Giant said, "Very well. I was not satisfied with the drawing. It is difficult to draw something so detailed from memory. Mistakes are often made. Satisfied?" The last word was spat as if it were poison.

"What were you drawing?"

Loki's expression hardened. "Getting a bit greedy, aren't we?" Thor merely shrugged…and waited. He kept his eyes trained on Loki as his brother glared at him with that same icy hatred Thor had seen before, the loathing that frosted Thor's blood and squeezed his heart like King Laufey's own bitter-cold fist. Finally Loki said, "There is nothing in all the Nine Realms that you could offer that would compel me to tell you."

After a carefully measured pause, Thor asked, "What about your freedom?"

His brother laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. Only bitterness like wormwood. "My freedom is not in your power to give. Nor," he added sharply, "is it within the purview of the All-Father. Not my true freedom. No one can give me that." His voice dropped low, almost musing. "The fetters that bind me are stronger than any that Odin could devise."

"Why do you always throw your drawings into the fire?" Thor asked. He wanted to demand Loki explain himself, explain his words of fetters and guilt and innocent blood. Explain why nothing was worth his giving Thor the information he wanted. Instead he focused on the subject that seemed to draw Loki out of himself the most. "Why not keep them? Surely you do not despise your failures so much that they must be destroyed. I remember your skill with pencil and brush from when we were young. Even with small mistakes, the work would be well-done."

A sneer twisted Loki's face. "Because I know you want to see them, so I make sure you cannot. I delight in vexing you, Brother."

Thor scoffed. "You're acting like a child."

"Do not speak to me of children!" Loki roared suddenly. The fury blazing like viridian fire in his brother's eyes, electric-blue lightning crackling at the back of his gaze, the hatred searing in his voice, nearly made Thor step back. Taking a shaking step toward Thor, Loki shouted, "How dare you?"

"If you don't want me to call you a child," his older brother replied scathingly, using acid to mask his sudden unease, "don't act like one." Why, Thor wondered, had the juvenile insult enraged the pseudo-Æsir so much? Here was another of those mercurial shifts in temper Loki had begun to display. What about the comment had enraged him this time? Was it simply that he was so proud, looked down on his elder foster brother so much, that he took grave insult if Thor said anything negative about him? It made no sense…

And Loki didn't reply to Thor's latest retort, either; only spun on his heel in a whirl of loose black material to glare at the fire as it slowly began to die. Silence stretched taut and heavy between the brothers. Finally Thor sighed. "Brother…I do not wish to fight with you. Why must you make this a battle?"

It took a few moments for Loki to respond. When he did, Thor was surprised by his words. "Do you know what it is to fight every moment of every day of your life? To see battles looming when others tell you there's nothing there, that you are merely imagining things? And then you have to fight them, knowing that nothing you do will ever end that conflict?" Loki shook his head, never taking his eyes from the flames. "When you live on a battlefield, you do not willingly remove even a single piece of your armor."

Thor took another step toward the enchanted glass barrier. He could feel the magic of it as soft prickles along his skin that made the golden hairs on his arms stand up, as a dull ache in his teeth. Ignoring it, he took yet another step. He took a breath.

"I have never harmed you, Loki, save in these recent battles. Why do you think I seek to hurt you?"

"You've already dealt the fatal blow, Thor. Ever since you defeated me back on Midgard, I have been bleeding to death from it. I suppose it's too much trouble to mourn my death a second time," Loki added bitterly. "You've already held my funeral once. Why waste time with a second? What do you think Odin and Frigga will do when I die of this wound, hmmm? Throw my corpse to the pigs?"

Bile rose in Thor's throat; he swallowed it back. In a carefully neutral voice, he said, "If you died, Brother, our mother and father would surely mourn, as they did before. Mother was inconsolable after you fell from the Bifröst. She wept for days. And if you were wounded, the healers would tend you faithfully…if you allowed it."

Loki's laugh was almost poisonous as it rattled in his chest. "Tend me? This is not a wound that can be tended, Brother. You have carved out my heart the way the deaths on my conscience have carved into my bones. As a heartless monster I now stand before the crown prince of Asgard, vainly trying to remember what it was to possess a heart capable of breaking. You have killed me as surely as I killed Laufey. Yet I forgive you for that."

Noting his younger brother's emphasis, Thor asked, "If you forgive any injury I've done you, then what is it you despise me for, Loki? Whatever wrong I have done you, I am sorry. But it was not wrong of me to stop you from conquering Midgard."

"Well, whatever helps you sleep at night, Brother," Loki snarled. "Are you blind? You come here and ask your questions, and in the same breath deny the answers. Why should I tell you anything? It will not cleanse your conscience, or mine."

"You cannot blame me for the deaths of the Midgardians who were killed in the invasion," Thor snapped, losing patience. "Nor can you blame me for the guilt you supposedly feel over their blood."

His brother turned to sneer over his shoulder. "Right on the first point, but not the second. I don't blame you for their deaths…but you are the reason their deaths were in vain. If you and your pathetic band of 'heroes' hadn't attempted to thwart me—"

"You blame me because the invasion failed?" Thor demanded, incredulously.

"Yes."

"And because it failed, those who died, died in vain?"

"Yes," Loki hissed.

"And your guilt stems from that and that alone?" Thor asked. When Loki hesitated, Thor's heart gave an odd lurch in his chest. A knot of confusion, anger, and concern twisted sharply in the pit of his belly. Thor shook his head in bewilderment. "Loki…what is it, exactly, that you condemn me for?"

Jade fire smoldered in his brother's eyes. "Their deaths."

Thor remembered that Loki always chose his words with care, even when in a fury. Their deaths. He had already said he didn't blame Thor for the deaths of the Midgardians, just the futility of them. So…"Who, Loki?" Thor asked softly. "Whose deaths?"

As if emerging from a dream, Loki blinked. His eyes darkened from that strange cerulean back to vivid jade as they focused on Thor again. Loki shook his head. "No. No, you'll not pull that confession from my lips. You don't deserve to hear their names."

Stunned, Thor gazed at his brother with wide eyes. Didn't deserve…? Someone Loki actually cared for? For a moment, Thor wondered if Loki meant a woman. But no, he'd said their names. But then, who could he mean? Thor shook his head. "How can I answer your accusation if you do not tell me their names?"

"Their names would mean nothing to you. Do not seek to try and refute my claim, Thor, for I know well where the blame for their deaths lies. Yes, with me, and I will carry that guilt for the rest of eternity, even unto and beyond death. It lies with that monster, Thanos, and his lieutenant. But most of all, it lies with you, Thor Odinson, and damn your soul to the bowels of Nifelheim!" Ashen, eyes glistening like wet emeralds with what might have been the gloss of savagely enraged tears, Loki cried, "If not for you, they would yet be alive! Damn you!"

Then it seemed as if all the life drained from Loki's body. He fell to his knees on the floor, then sank down until only the wall kept him upright. He dropped his head against the cool stone. Closed his eyes. His breath came in great, heaving, shuddering gasps. His fingers knotted into fists so tight the knuckles burned white against the flesh. Thor watched Loki unclench his hands finger by finger; the pseudo-Æsir ran his hands over his face and sighed.

At last Loki merely sat there, his hands clasped atop his head, elbows bracketing his face, eyes tightly closed. He did not move an inch. Did not make a sound. He only sat like that, and Thor could almost see the walls of ice that had so recently come down building up around him again.

Moved by instinct, Thor said softly, "Loki…I don't understand. Please, explain it to me."

Loki simply sighed. "Why should I bother? You won't listen."

"I will."

"You won't believe."

"I…" Thor hesitated, then pressed on. "I will try." When his brother said nothing, Thor added, "Loki, we used to trust each other. We used to protect each other. Love each other. When did that change? It has not changed for me. You're my brother."

A small laugh. "I'm adopted, in case you've forgotten."

Thor scowled. "Do I look as if I give a damn?" To his surprise, Loki chuckled. "Loki, if I have earned my brother's enmity, I deserve to at least to know why. Tell me!"

Loki sighed again, then opened his eyes. Dropping his arms to rest on his updrawn knees, he stared at the floor. His brow furrowed in thought. Was he considering Thor's offer? The Asgardian prince didn't wish to get his hopes up…but then Loki looked up at him. It felt as if someone had jabbed a needle of ice straight into Thor's heart. Slowly, Loki nodded.

"Yes…I suppose you deserve at least that. But it's late, Brother. So I will give you one reason, and you may come to collect the rest on the morrow." Loki closed his eyes again. "I suppose the guards have told you that I do not simply draw, but that I also write?"

Nonplussed by the abrupt change in topic, Thor nodded. "They did."

"Did they tell you what I was writing?"

"They claimed not to know."

A ghost of a smile curled Loki's mouth. "I would imagine so. I'm careful enough. But I shall tell you, since you wish to know what sins have condemned you. I write letters, Thor. Letters to the dead. And I burn them because I was told once that if one wished to send a message to someone who has passed, the best way is to burn it, and the wind in the chimney will take the pieces up into the heavens." Loki's voice was soft, musing, with a weight of sadness that seemed to drag at his brother like iron shackles. "I know not whether it actually works. I can only pray so."

Thor swallowed, afraid of breaking the spell that seemed to have fallen over his little brother, but at last he spoke softly. "I think, if the Creator is merciful, such tactics work well enough. But what has that to do with me?"

"Do you know who I'm writing to?"

"The dead," Thor replied, frowning. "You've said that."

Loki shook his head slowly. "Such a thick skull. It's a wonder you've lived this long. Which dead, Thor? All the dead? A handful? One in particular?" The other prince could only shake his head helplessly. A faint crease formed between Loki's brows. "I write to the ones whose deaths I lay at your feet. They are the ones I draw. But I said I would give you but one reason today, and so I shall. I will give you a name. And you can think upon that name, turn it over in your mind, feel it settle around your heart as the guilt seeps into your soul."

There was a long silence. Thor could count his heartbeats, loud as war-drums in his ears. He watched as Loki's forehead wrinkled as if with some great strain. His eyes, closed and relaxed until now, squeezed tight. His fists were so tight, Thor's hands ached in sympathy. There would be bloody crescents in his little brother's palms later.

Finally Loki opened his eyes. To Thor's utter shock, his eyes were damp with tears. A single teardrop spilled from the corner of Loki's eye and roll down his pale cheek to drip off the end of his chin. He seemed paler than ever. Pale as death. His voice, husky with emotion, trembled.

"Her name was Thea. Now leave me in peace."





　

Pokemon Ivory - Chapter 1

Chapter One

The First Proving Ground
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Two years and four months earlier...
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Crap, crap, crap!


Ivory bolted between two thick hawthorn trees, but the furious shrilling from behind her didn't stop. Something large and angry hurtled through the tall grass, intent on its prey. She already knew how intent from the deep scratches bleeding into the back of her torn t-shirt. At least it hadn't bitten her. But that hadn't been for lack of trying. Only a quick swipe with the club she usually carried to and from school had saved her from the rabid Liepard's poisonous bite.

Not that I'll be safe for long, she thought as a stitch knifed her side. Especially since I dropped the thing like an idiot. Ow! Crap! Home, she had to get home! People in town had rifles. They could shoot the stupid thing! Before it bites me!

Perspiration streamed down her forehead, plastering her hair to her face. More sweat dripped from the ends of her bangs into her eyes, blinding her. Heart screaming in her chest, adrenaline pumping, Ivory fought the burning pain in her side and tried to keep running. A thorny ebony branch sliced across her face. Narrowly missed her eyes. And behind her, the maddened Liepard raced after her, intent on ripping her to pieces.

They're not supposed to get this big, she thought desperately, leaping over a fallen log. That thing's the size of a freaking Rhyhorn almost! Ivory glanced behind her, trying to spot the Pokémon that had been slavering after her. She could still hear it crushing foliage as it chased after her.

Not looking was a bad idea. Right as she was turning back around, a tree banch caught her in the face and slammed her to the forest floor. The air exploded from her lungs. She nearly forgot how to draw breath. Her head thumped against the mossy ground and she saw blinding stars. Ow. What? For a minute she could only stare up at the forest canopy, blinking stupidly. Then she heard the furious growling and snarling.

The Liepard! Ivory tried to roll over and pain exploded in her head. She tasted copper and spit blood onto the loam. When she touched her fingers to her nose, they came away coated in red.

The Liepard growled again, and she rolled onto her hands and knees. Pushing to her feet, she stumbled dizzily and smacked against a tree, unable to stand. Gray eyes locked with the glassy emerald gaze of the Liepard. There was nothing but insane hatred in those glass green eyes. The leopard Pokémon stalked toward her, its hungry gaze never leaving her face. It's long, pink tongue licked at its froth-speckled lips.

If it bites me, she thought, if it so much as nips me, I'm going to die. There was no hospital or Pokémon Center near enough for her to get the rabies booster. Unlike with Pokémon, humans could only get the shot after they'd been bitten, but it had to be within twenty-four hours. Otherwise... Otherwise I die. And no one in town has a car. I can't let it bite me. I can't let it touch me at all.

Ivory watched the rabid Pokémon's hindquarters coil and bunch. Watched it ready itself to spring at her. Her fingers bit into the rough bark of the tree trunk as she eyed the Liepard with a racing heart. Fear was an icy poison sliding coldly through her veins, freezing her in place. She could smell the thick musk of the angry cat monster. It would spring any minute. In just a second, it would be on her, ripping at her face and throat with razor sharp claws the size of kitchen knives. Struggling to gnaw at her throat with its needle-sharp, vicious teeth. Hungry for the hot blood of a fresh kill. And the only thing that stood even somewhat between it and its all-too-vulnerable prey was an oak tree.

Tomorrow is my birthday, Ivory thought, nearly choking on her pulse. I'll be old enough to be a Pokémon Trainer. I'll finally be old enough to leave home. This isn't how it's supposed to happen. And on the tail end of that thought came a sudden surge of fury. No. No, that's not how it's supposed to happen. That stupid Liepard isn't going to do spit to me. I won't let it!

Ignoring the throbbing in her skull and the sweat and blood trickling into her eye and mouth, she reached up and grabbed one of the oak branches. The wood was somewhat rotted. Gritting her teeth against the pain, Ivory wrapped both hands around the branch and yanked as hard as she could. It ripped away from the tree with the wet cracking of wet-rotted wood.

The Liepard stared at her, obviously puzzled. This little hairless thing was prey. It wasn't supposed to be doing... whatever it was doing. It should be trying to hide, quivering in terror as the huge cat stalked toward it, intent on the kill. Adrenaline lacing its hot blood, adding flavor. Fear in every beat of its terrified heart. And when the Liepard sank its teeth into the back of the creature's neck and snapped the spine, it would scream once and die. Instead there was anger in the thing's eyes. Anger, and determination.

The Liepard spread its paws and screamed, the shrill and furious screech of a hunting cat.

"Shut up," Ivory snapped, clutching her branch tighter. Part of her was clamoring that she turn and run. But if she turned her back on the Liepard, it would pounce, and she would die. Terrifying. Unacceptable. So instead, she tightened her grip on the oak branch until splinters bit into her fingers and her knuckles bleached white. And she waited for the thing to leap at her.

When it only stared at her, snarling its hunting cry with fury in its eyes, she yelled, "Come on! Stupid thing! Just do it already! I'm not scared of you!"

Big lie, the girl thought with a faint kiss of hysteria. Big, big lie.

With a sudden scream of fury, the Liepard launched itself in the air. Before Ivory could even swing her club, a huge, dark shape leapt between her and the rabid creature. The big cat's hunting shriek cut off abruptly. Ivory stared up at the looming, sinuous thing in front of her with wide eyes. Dark jade scales glittered in the weak autumn sunlight filtering through the canopy. Golden banding accentuated the slender shape of the thick, scaly body. And when the thing's gold-crested head turned to look down on her, she found herself trapped in the oldest, wisest crimson eyes she had ever seen. Gossamer-thin viridian lashes blinked once, but those eyes never looked away.

Serperior, Ivory realized. Final evolution of Snivy.

"Excellent work, Serperior," a cool, brisk voice said, and those blood-red eyes finally broke eye contact. Ivory shook herself and realized she still held the branch, now stained by tiny streams of red from her bleeding hands. She dropped the club and fell back against the tree trunk. "Very effective. If you're going to eat it, though, you should probably take it somewhere our young friend won't see you. She's had enough of a fright for one day, I think."

The Serperior shifted its slender, pale jade head to look once more at Ivory. Then it turned and leaned down to lift up the dead Liepard carcass.

"Oh, it's rabid!"

"Stop, Serperior!" Now the woman came into view. Tall, with light brown hair in a tight braid down her back, a thick scar slashing across one sightless, milky blue eye, Professor Sakura Juniper stepped forward and looked down at the carcass. Ivory noted with almost clinical detachment that the cat's head had been rotated almost a full one-hundred-eighty degrees; probably thanks to the Serperior's vine whip attack. The jewel-like serpent Pokémon peered down at the Liepard as well.

"Rabid, eh?" Professor Juniper added. She didn't seem to notice the blood splashed across her blue jeans, or the ragged tears in her tank top and field lab coat. "Well, that makes you twice as stupid. And twice as brave. You're lucky my Serperior and I were doing some field research, or you'd have been cat's meat."

At the words "cat's meat," Ivory fell flat on her butt on the ground and closed her eyes. The sudden absence of adrenaline made her eyes sting, but she refused, at a day short of sixteen years old, to cry like a baby in front of the legendary Professor Juniper, one of the only female Pokémon Professors in the world. She would not cry in front of a woman who, at eighteen, had killed a man-eating, child-searing Charizard with just a pistol, a severely burned Oddish and a level-five baby Squirtle. But Ivory's trapped sobs made her shoulders heave.

Professor Juniper asked, "Hiccups?" The sarcasm was a gentle nudge.

"N-no, ma'am." Then Ivory clamped her teeth together so that their chattering wouldn't make her bite her tongue. The scarred Professor glanced at the girl before plopping down next to her and slinging a muscular arm over her shoulder. Ivory noticed a shiny patch of skin on the inside of the older woman's arm that looked a bit like melted wax - an acid-burn scar.

"Well, welcome to the wonderful world of Pokémon, my dear! I'm Professor Juniper, though you probably knew that already." The Pokémon Professor's carefree tone of voice helped push back some of the fear still clawing at Ivory, and she nodded. "I'm the Pokémon Professor, obviously. Pokémon have mysterious powers. They come in many shapes and live in many different places. We humans live happily with many Pokémon! Living and working together, we complement each other, blah-blah-blah and all that bullcrap they feed you in school. Also, Pokémon are dangerous, most of them are highly toxic, they eat each other and screw to make babies just like people, they will kill you if you're not careful, and some of them will not only kill you, they will crack open your bones to suck the marrow." For some reason, the totally off-hand way Juniper said all this not only dispersed the rest of the post-trauma panic, it actually made Ivory laugh. "Anyway, that's enough from me... what's your story, kid?"

"Um... I was walking home from school and that Liepard attacked me." She pressed a hand to her forehead. The cut from where she'd run into the tree branch had clotted with congealed blood, and the pain in her head was swiftly fading. Now she just wanted to go home. But she didn't think she could manage walking just yet.

Juniper arched the eyebrow over her blind eye. The thick, purple scar bisected the slender brow and carved deep into what would have been a supermodel-exquisite cheekbone. The regard of that strange, sightless eyeball gave Ivory the distinctly uncomfortable impression that the milky eye could see right through her skull. Could see how terrified she'd been that the Liepard would rip her to pieces. See how desperate she was for a chance to become a Pokémon Trainer - and better, to be a Pokémon Master. But all the Professor said was, "That's it?"

"Well, yeah." Ivory picked up a fallen acorn and popped the cap and stem off to fiddle with. "I mean," she added, staring intently at the acorn, unable to meet either the blind eye or the opposite, sparkling green one. "What else do you wanna know?"

"I'll take your name."

"Oh." Duh. Feeling like an idiot, the sixteen-year-old extended her free hand to shake. The Professor pumped it once before letting it go. "I'm Ivory. Ivory Nox. I live in Nuvema Town." Professor Juniper lived in Nuvema, didn't she? Ivory couldn't remember ever seeing this battle-scarred woman in person before - although Ivory's mother had all of the Pokémon Professor's interviews and documentaries on DVD - but somehow she was sure there was a Professor (or maybe it was Doctor) Juniper in her little town.

"Ivory Nox of Nuvema Town. Lemme guess: you're friends with the somewhat difficult but always honest Cheren Gozen, he of the coke-bottle four eyes and the massive brain, as well as the flighty but dedicated, not to mention sweet-tempered Bianca Noire, right?"

At the thought of Cheren and Bianca, Ivory grinned and nodded. Wait till they heard about this: being chased by a rabid Liepard intent on disemboweling her, being rescued by one of the most beautiful Pokémon she'd ever seen in her life, and then sitting down to talk to Professor Sakura Juniper herself. It had been scary as the Devil's own personal nightmare, but with the famous - and reportedly lethal - Professor Juniper seated beside her, the fear and panic were (almost) a distant memory. But Ivory said only, "Yes, ma'am."

"Don't call me 'ma'am.'" But the Professor was smiling warmly now. "Anyway, I think you three have potential, so I'm going to give you a very, very unique opportunity, Pop-Tart. You're sixteen tomorrow - I keep track of the kids coming of age in the nearby towns - so you're old enough to have your own Pokémon starting tomorrow. You're going to fight your way to Victory Road, aren't you? And you plan on being League Champion, don't you?"

Ivory nodded, hands clenched into fists. Yes. Yes, that was exactly the plan. She would fight her way through the Gyms to Victory Road, and she would kick butt, and then she and her Pokémon would be Champions. She would be a Pokémon Master.

"Excellent." The approval in Professor Juniper's voice was warm as spring sunshine. Her unscarred green eye shone with something that might have been delight. "The moment you choose the Pokemon that will accompany you on your journey, your story will truly begin. During your journey, you will meet many Pokemon and people with different personalities and points of view. Most of them will be hapless morons, of course, but don't let it get you down.

"I really hope you find what is important to you in all of these travels. Befriend new people and Pokemon and grow as a person! Things will be tough - really tough. If you think you can't handle that, don't even bother trying to get to the first Gym. Only Trainers who can handle the tough stuff should bother to try. But you're tough... aren't you? A teenage kid ready to fight a rabid Liepard with a stick. You can handle it. Come on."

Juniper got to her feet and hauled Ivory to her feet. "I don't think you've got a concussion, but I'll walk you home anyway. C'mon, Serperior. Let's find some obnoxious Watchogs to fight on the way."

Chapter 1 - Little Red and the Big Bad

that is

A Short Tale of a Lost Maiden, a Pack of Wolves, Some Instructions, and a Beast in the Subway

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Every word is a part of a picture. Every sentence is (or can be) a picture. The reader uses their imagination to put those pictures together, and the pictures weave together to form the intricate tapestry that is a story.

There are many kinds of stories in the world: comedies, love stories, adventures, tragedies. Stories of laughter and love, warriors and sorrow. Each story has a beginning, a middle, and an ending (though what story can ever be said to ever truly end? Tellers of tales throughout the long centuries would dare anyone to find such a story). The magic of the story begins with those oft spoken words, "Once upon a time..."

And then there are the best kinds of stories to be had, the ones that have a little bit of everything.

Faerie tales.

In faerie tales, there is a man. He may be a proud prince or he may be a humble soldier. He may possess magic from a genie's lamp or the condescension of a good faerie creature met in the dark woods and treated with kindness. Perhaps he slays the dragon. Perhaps he saves the beautiful princess in her tower. Perhaps the prince loses his kingdom to an evil wizard. Perhaps the humble soldier inherits a kingdom from a dying king.

Then there is the woman. She may be a beautiful princess or she may be a simple peasant maid. She may have a voice like angels singing or be trapped beneath an ancient and terrible curse from a wicked faerie. Maybe she heals a beast in the forest. Maybe she breaks the enchantment on a sleeping prince. Maybe the princess runs into the labyrinth to escape the monsters that so mercilessly hunt her. Maybe the simple peasant maid marries the prince and lives happily ever after.

And in faerie tales there is evil. Pure, dark, and vicious. An insidious poison that hounds the maiden's footsteps or haunts the prince on his quest. There is evil in the world, as well - always has been, always will be. Evil needs no excuses. It needs no promptings. It only needs to catch the scent of prey, to feel the adrenaline pumping and taste the fear on the air...

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Once upon a time, under the burning fluorescent lights of the nearly empty New York City subway, a pack of human wolves loped after their chosen prey. Bared teeth gleamed like moonlight on knife blades. And they could smell with their beasts' noses the delicious musk of a woman's fear.

She didn't want to run. Her legs burned and her lungs screamed. A stitch ripped through her side. But she didn't know how long it would take for them to overtake her if she didn't run. And if she were overtaken, they would most likely kill her for what she'd done to (and for) one of their own. If they didn't kill her, she would wish that they had.

So she ran. Her long, brown hair streamed out behind her in ridiculous ringlets. She'd been on her way home from the salon. She'd gone there simply to make herself look nice for no reason. No reason at all. Just because she could. Because her twenty-ninth birthday was approaching, would come in a little more than two weeks. Because she was happy and had the time and her sisters said she ought to (and for once, she'd agreed with them). She'd spent the day pampering herself because she wanted to.

It had brought the wolves down on her like a killing plague. So now she ran. The glass and stone on the concrete walkways cut her bare feet. She hadn't bothered holding onto her brand new high heels. They were just shoes - she could buy more. She did, however, clutch at her purse. The large leather satchel held some of her few most treasured items. It slowed her down, but she didn't care.

Slowing down would nearly get her and the strange one killed. She would care about that.

She glanced over her shoulder. Desperately tried to gauge how far behind her enemies were. Tried to catch a glimpse of the red jackets like blood against the dingy gray of the subway tunnels. Suddenly she tripped over a homeless man lying across the pavement. She hit the ground - and the corpse - hard. It ended up saving her life. A bullet slammed deep into the grubby tiles on the subway walls. She shrieked and glanced into the homeless man's face. Rheumy eyes stared back at her. She choked on the cloying, too-sweet stench of alcohol and death.

Sucking in the air she'd wasted in screaming, she jumped up and kept going. Kept running. Kept choking on her own terror and tears. Kept praying the monsters behind her wouldn't try to shoot at her again. It wasn't as if she could hide anywhere. There was nowhere to go.

Her right knee throbbed with every step. She'd whacked it good on the pavement. The flesh of her face burned where the men chasing her had cut her with their knives. The blood dripped into her eyes and mouth. Just the thought of those fear-bright knives made a sob catch in her raw throat.

She shivered as icy blasts of air gelled her fear-sweat to her body. She'd dropped her heavy, black leather jacket some ways back. Like her heels, it had slowed her down. Now she was so very cold in the freezing December air. Cold and sick and chilled with the fear. Her throat burned as she heaved in great lungfuls of air.

She didn't look over her shoulder again. She didn't have to. They caught a pretty good fistful of her hair and yanked. She jerked out of their hold. Lost some hair in the process. They caught it again. Gave it a good, hard haul. Against her will, she was yanked off of her feet. She smashed into the ground. But the fist in her face, braced by four brass rings, shot her straight up into the air again, and into outer space. Too dazed to scream, she floundered and gasped for air. Steel-toed boots connected with her flesh and passed through to bruise her bones. Then the knife flicked out. Burned like pain under the fluorescents. A dark shadow knelt above her and touched ice-cold steel to her cheek. She mumbled something under her breath, but with all the sneering and jeering from the wolves in human form, they didn't hear it.

It sounded an awful lot like, "Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where you are going."

Then the blade sank into her skin. Blood flowed.

And she began to scream.

.

Nuada had no intention of interfering. He was quite otherwise engaged.

Even as he subconsciously made that decision, he flicked the spill of star-blond hair out of his face with a toss of his head and continued to spin and strike with the silvery twin war axes in his hands. Sweat trickled down his scarred back as he moved with savage, primal grace, a pale jungle cat preparing for battle. Perspiration gleamed on his forehead, in the lines of his defined muscles, across his scarred chest. The muscles coiled and bunched beneath the flesh of his forearms as he struggled to become as proficient with these rather unwieldy weapons as he was with the knife, sword, and lance. The axe was not a favored weapon, but as a warrior, he needed to become equally adept at using any and all blades, not just those he favored.

His friend, the only one who had followed him into exile - a rather large silver cave troll nicknamed Mr. Wink - watched as the prince worked himself to the point of exhaustion. How long had the prince been training? Five hours? Six? Longer? He could see the fatigue in the Elf's relentless movements. See that he strained to move as if he were whole and healthy, though it was plain to Wink that the prince was not. When was the last time Nuada had actually slept?

The troll knew that nothing he could say would force Nuada to take it easy, rest a little. No. Honor, the way of the warrior, chivalry, valor, physical prowess; that was what mattered to the Elf prince. That, and his vindictive vendetta against the race of Man. His desire to find the final piece of the Golden Crown - the prince's proper inheritance - and use it and the other two pieces to awaken the Golden Army.

Once awakened, Wink knew Nuada would command the Army to slaughter all of the humans who dared stand against him and the other faerie kingdoms. He would drive the humans out of the fey forests and out of their cities of poisonous concrete and burning steel. Thrust them back to their primitive caves, where they would huddle in fear of the living darkness. Then he would raze those noxious cities to the ground. Nothing would stand in the Elf warrior's way - not even the demands of his own healing body. Instead the prince would attempt to sweat out the iron sickness and the last vestiges of poison.

Their power meant fae royalty didn't have to worry about the iron that infected human cities. Usually. And when it did become too much for the magic running through immortal blood, there were troll potions to combat the effects. But even then, the humans' lead and iron could still be a problem. Especially when a virulent faerie poison also sludged through royal veins. Yet the Elf prince pressed on, training. Making ready for the coming war, and the slaughter of the ravenous humans.

Nuada knew what Wink was thinking. He allowed his lips to quirk into a brief, humorless smile for a moment before returning his focus to the training at hand. Wink knew him quite well. Yes, he had a vendetta against the humans. They were hollow, wicked, vicious... little better than animals. So no, he would not help the woman.

The Crown Prince of Elfland was cynical, jaded, angry, and brooding. He had only three loves in his life - three motivating loves, at least - and those were for his beloved twin sister, Nuala; his father, the One-Armed King of Elfland, who still commanded the prince's loyalty from the far-off court of Bethmoora; and Nuada's love for his people. He trained night and day, giving himself only time to eat, sleep, and bathe, in preparation for the war that he knew was going to come one day. Nothing stayed or slowed him - not pain, not exhaustion, not illness. The feral-eyed warrior would not allow it.

He despised humans; hated the entire breed. They were greedy, selfish vermin that deserved to be butchered like the empty, hollow meat they were. One day, as the Crown Prince, as his father's son, as the Prince of the Elves of Bethmoora, he would raise the Golden Army and use them to massacre the humans, and exact vengeance for their broken vows and the brutal rapine they had committed against the world.

And so he had no intention of helping a foolish mortal woman who ought to have known better than to wander the subway at night alone like an idiot sheep. She deserved the mugging she would receive. What was a few gaudy, valueless trinkets lost to human predators? Instead, Nuada focused on pushing through the fatigue and last vestiges of weakness from a bout with iron sickness. Gods curse this disgusting mortal city and the poisons that saturated the place. Even he could be brought low by such things for a time. Especially when first made ill by whatever coward had sicced the dipsa serpent on him only a few moons ago.

Then he caught the hideous scent of evil male desire.

It was thick, musky, seminal. It disgusted him. Choked him. His nostrils stung with it, as did his eyes. It was the stench of perverted arousal, cruelty, and the sickly scent of wolf skins. Of predators. He had to swallow quickly as bile rose in his throat. For a moment the prince recalled emerald eyes glazed with shock and pain. Golden blood soaking into hair like spun garnets. Agonized screams. Grief sharp as a lance in his belly. Desperation.

Nuada shook off the millennia-old memory, but could not shield himself from the foul reek in the air.

"My prince?" His friend, Wink, questioned softly. He had seen the horrified, sickened look on the Elf prince's face. "What do you sense?"

"A woman... mortal. And wolves." His voice was oddly distant, musing, as if he were commenting on the weather. But Wink had seen the revulsion in feral eyes like molten bronze. Seen the ghost of memory in those eyes. "They hunted her. They have caught her. They mean to rape her. Because..."

He could taste the faintest traces of their thoughts, that pack of wolves. They had hunted this woman for vengeance. Because she had taken one of their own away from them to someplace safe. They had dogged her footsteps in secret for weeks, searching for the opportune moment to strike. And they struck this night, sought to dishonor the woman with their vile lust, because she wore a red dress and had curled her long brown hair. That was all. Those were their reasons. They would rape a woman because of...

Before Mr. Wink had finished processing the prince's words, Nuada was striding from his subterranean home, motioning for Wink to remain. Over his shoulder, the Elf called, "Stay here, my friend. I want to make sure my... home away from home... is well guarded. Don't wait up for me."

And he began to run, to race, like a silver wind through the the pillars of the New York Underground.

If there is one thing I despise more than humans, Nuada thought, the embers of long-banked fury fueled by old grief smoldering to life, it is a coward. And a rapist is the worst sort of coward. No woman, mortal or otherwise, is to be raped when I am there to stop it.

.

It was like a hammer. They beat her body. Pounded against her. Inside her. She was drowning in the burning pain and the blood. She could taste both running down her throat, choking her like poison. Her legs had long since been rendered numb by blows. She no longer had the energy to fight. Too many blades of flesh had sliced through her hold on reality. She was floating, or drowning - she couldn't decide which. Strangely, she smelled forests, and tasted the musk of wolf fur on her lips. Concrete burned cold as ice through her ripped dress, bit into her battered shoulders. Her face was a sheet of fire. Distantly, she felt something tear inside her. Felt the hot blood come. Vaguely registered the pain.

Not again, her mind - and her memories - screamed at her over and over again. Not again, please not again, not again... But the pain and the icy cold and the crushing weight above her smothered the plea. Snarled at her, Yes, again. Again and again. Yes.

Then the hammer blows inside and around her were still, and she was granted blessed respite. She drew a gurgling breath, and barely managed to keep from choking on the blood in her mouth. She spat it on the ground and blinked as the darkness above her moved away, allowing the dim fluorescent light to kiss her eyes. She groaned as the feeling began to return to her legs. Cried out in shock and agony when a foot connected solidly with the side of her face. Fire erupted under her cheek. Added fuel to the burning.

"Don't think we're finished, honey," the rough, bestial voice growled. "We just got us an interruption, that's all." And he kicked her again, in the ribs. Something cracked, and she rolled and hunched in on herself. Couldn't catch her breath even to whimper.

"You will not touch her again."

The voice that spoke was ice cold and clear as fresh spring water in the mountains. It made her teeth ache to hear it - or that might have been the throbbing in her skull from the beating she'd so recently received. She blinked past the haze of pain, and beyond the dark mountain of her attacker standing in front of her, out of the eye that wasn't swollen shut, she saw boots. She couldn't focus beyond the boots. Black leather laced up the sides, supple, but scuffed and worn, as if they were old and had seen much use. It was amazing, what things she noticed as her limbs jerked helplessly and her head throbbed, as blood seeped from her body.

For a strange, bizarre moment when the entire world became one surreal dream, she thought she saw a cat standing in those boots, a large pale cat the color of fresh cream with golden eyes like the blood of ancient trees. A lion intent on the kill. Then it shifted to look like an ivory hound with firegold eyes and teeth bared in challenge. But then she blinked again, trying to focus on the soft, white fur of either beast, and the strange phantom-creature disappeared as her vision blurred.

Shuddering, she tried to prop herself up on her skinned elbow, or at least a forearm, but that was rendered nigh impossible by the shooting pain that lanced from her shoulder to her wrist.

"She your woman?"

The voice that demanded this information was gruff, accented with a touch of Brooklyn's tang. It made its victim shiver at the sound of it. She curled up, trying to remain inconspicuous enough that they forgot about her. If they forgot about her, she could get up and run.

Maybe.

The mysterious speaker made a sharp sound of disgust. "Women are not property."

She had to look again, even though something deep inside screamed at her not to do it. The voice was so cold and deadly it seemed to freeze her marrow; to crystallize her blood. She raised a trembling hand to brush her damp-sticky hair from her bleeding face and saw a man, his flesh so shockingly pale in the dim subway light it was tinted with blue under the fluorescents. Silver hair that slowly morphed to pale gold hung past muscular shoulders. Firegold eyes shot with crimson were set in shadowed sockets, and his lips were dark as night. An intricate scar slashed across his race. She quaked at the sight of him, though she didn't know why. A strange sense of familiarity shivered through her. An odd sense of familiarity, and a very healthy dose of fear. And just a glimmer of hope?

If the men who had tortured her were a pack of wolves, this man was a beast out of a faerie tale. He carried in each hand a silver-bladed axe on a gold-etched black handle. The blades gleamed like pain. The beams of fluorescents hit the cruel edges, giving off intangible sparks of starlight that burned her good eye with their brilliance. Strange, savage death kissed every line of those weapons.

They would do well to run, she thought absently. More lucidly, she prayed, Heavenly Father... help me. Please...

"Look, eśe - dis ain't none of your business. The puta and us, we got ourselves an understanding-"

With a look full of loathing and dark fury, the pale warrior snarled, "Be quiet."

Years later, she would try to describe, to her children, to her brother, to the people who would adopt her into their strange family, what had happened that night. Her brother would never understand, but her children and her family - as yet to be gained - would understand what she meant when she said that one moment, the blond man had been standing there, aloof and isolated from the group of brutal human predators, and the next, he was crouched over the man who had so recently taken his turn with her, an axe blade buried in the human wolf's back. A fine spray of crimson blood arced across her savior's nearly-white chest.

She tried to gasp, but her throat, squeezed until bruises circled her pale neck like a necklace of shadows, was swollen nearly shut. Trying to draw such a deep breath made her nearly choke. Despite her pain, her bruises, her blood staining the concrete, something told her that the pack, despite the Beast's presence, was still dangerous. She had to get up.

In the time it took her to make that decision, the blond warrior had struck down four of the nine men who had set upon her. He leapt to decapitate a fifth, when a sixth one, cowering on the ground and feigning death, suddenly struck out with something that glinted star pain bright in the light of the overhead fluorescents. The steel knife bit into the man's calf, right above the ankle. She tried to gasp and choked again. Had the cut severed her rescuer's Achilles tendon? The pale man fell to one knee with a cry that was more rage than pain, and the blade descended again, sinking into the meat of one shoulder. Blond hair flew as his head jerked back and his spine bowed, his body instinctively flinching away from the weapon.

The brunette woman he had fought to rescue glanced around frantically as she scrambled to at least sit on her butt and not be prostrate on her back. Every movement sent burning needles of sensation down her previously numbed legs. She ignored the feeling, casting around for her purse until she found it lying a couple feet away. In it she kept rocks, a habit from her college days that had never gone away. With hands that shook, she pulled out a good-sized stone and hurled it. Her arm screamed at her as she did, protesting the abuse it had suffered, and her aim fell short. She'd been aiming for the man with the knife, trying to hit his temple.

She got him in the back.

The stone projectile had the desired effect, however. The man with the blade whirled to look at her, his face purple with rage, contorting viciously. She tried to move back, but her arms, which she had to use to move herself, to hold herself up, buckled at the elbows, unable to take her weight. She fell onto the ground once more. Her head cracked the pavement. The man had enough time to take a single menacing step toward her before something silver arced across his throat. He took another step, stumbled, and his head fell from his shoulders. The man whom the blond rescuer had been attempting to butcher when the knife blade had interrupted him lay dead as well.

Six wolves down, three to go. She was feeling pretty good about those odds until she heard the gunshot. It echoed through her skull. She couldn't hide her wince, couldn't muffle her scream. The white-skinned man stumbled. Staggered. Her eyes registered the gunshot wound, black against the moon-pale flesh. Dark amber blood streamed from the wound.

Crimson-washed bronze eyes sunk within darkness like rings of smudged kohl met a frightened blue gaze shadowed by bruises. Rage, regret, relief, staggering pain and almost brutal exhaustion - they warred amongst themselves behind his eyes. She felt something akin to a sob hiccup in the back of her throat. Her own regret burned. She swallowed it, swallowed her panic, trying to wet her throat. It was swollen and hot saliva would wet it enough for her to speak, at least a little.

She climbed unsteadily to her feet, body shuddering. Hot blood streaked her skin, soaked her stockings. She stumbled towards her rescuer even as she raised a trembling arm to point at one of the men approaching him from behind. The pale warrior whipped around and the axe blades sank down between neck and shoulders on either side, rending flesh from clavicle to bottom ribs.

Seven dead. Only two left. At least, that's how it seemed. But a sharp cold zing through her chest warned her. There was danger approaching. They had to get away. Her instincts screamed, and her panic surged. She had to get them both out of there, right now. Something horrible would happen if they remained. Even as she was fighting panic, she was forming a plan - half a crazed idea, rather, but it was all she could think of.

He glanced at her, and something in his eyes told her to run if she could. But she couldn't. She couldn't leave him. His injuries were horrible. He could very well die here, alone in the subway, because he had tried to protect her from the scum of New York City. The idea made her heart burn like a candle flame. It gave her the power to croak, "Behind you!" He turned, and the spiked hafts of the axes plunged into the rapist's belly. The human wolf gagged and died, scarlet bubbling between slack lips. She shuddered and grabbed her rescuer's arm.

"Be gone from here," he snapped. There was something hateful in his expression, but she didn't care. His pants were soaked in blood, his and the wolves'. He limped badly from the wound at his ankle. His right leg wouldn't support his weight. She saw the leader of the pack, her attackers' alpha male, raise the gun. Blue eyes widened. Her hero turned, raised the axes as he shifted to stand between her and the lead wolf. The warrior stumbled as he put weight on his bad leg in his haste to attack.

The gun fired twice.

Blood poured from the new hole in his left shoulder. His arm hung like a useless lump of meat at his side. A hole allowed the light of the subway to shine through the meat of one bicep. She had to fight not to be sick. Had to think clearly. Had to time all of this just right. If she got it wrong, even a little, they would both die. She needed to hear footsteps. She knew they would come. The footsteps of the approaching enemy, but their assailant didn't know that.

She laid a hand on the man who stood beside her. He flinched at the contact and twitched away from her touch, but she knew he would act exactly the way he needed to in order to save them both. When she heard shoes clanging on concrete, on metal stairways, she screamed as loud as her tortured throat would allow, "Officer, Officer! Help us!" She tried to wave, as if she could see someone.

The gunman jerked and half turned to look in the direction she was waving. A silver axe flew through the air and embedded itself in the monster's skull. He fell to the ground, and she turned to the man who had thrown the axe with such deadly accuracy.

"We have to get out of here," she whispered. Clutching her purse in one hand, she grabbed his uninjured arm with the other and ducked beneath to take his weight, making it easier to lead him. He tripped and stumbled. She nearly fell with him. "Ow! Okay, okay..." She sucked in a breath and tried to think. Her body was numbing itself, compartmentalizing the pain of her injuries, allowing her brain to numb her to what had happened so she could think. It was an old trick from her youth. But even with the trick, fire burned inside her and sticky blood cooled on her skin. Everything hurt, especially her right knee, her slashed and bleeding face, and the ripped places inside of her.

Heavenly Father, give me the strength, she begged silently. She pulled the pale man's arm and settled it more firmly over her shoulder, trying to more easily support some of his weight. He tensed, but allowed himself to lean on her a little. His pain was almost tangible. Help me save us both. I can't do this without You. Help me, please.

A warmth stole through her chest, and she closed her eyes. Everything would be all right. Everything would work out the way God wanted it to. She could do this. She could. And if she couldn't, well... she'd figure it out when she got that far.

The pale man weighed much less than she'd expected, but he stiffened as soon as she tried to get them both to their feet. Tightening her grip on his wrist, she pushed herself upright, supporting him as well as he staggered to his feet with a groan stifled behind clenched teeth.

"Okay... okay, come on. There has to be a safe place here somewhere. Yeah. Come on."

"How are you doing this?" He demanded gruffly from between clenched teeth. "A moment ago, you could barely move."

"It's a lot easier to push myself past suicidal limits if others are depending on me. And I had time to gather my strength and get a second surge of adrenaline. Self-producing caffeine shots are great. Come on, we need to hide out until they leave. Let's go."

"I do not want your help."

"Um... no offense, my lord," she muttered, remembering to whom she was fairly certain she spoke, "but I so don't care. Shut up and walk if you can. Come on, come on..." Her voice was breathy with fatigue, with pain. She didn't sound impatient, only exhausted. "We gotta go. Is there somewhere we can go?" She saw him open his mouth to speak and knew she needed to press her advantage, now, before he got enough energy to really make a good argument. So she hissed, "Look, I'm not gonna leave you here. If you know somewhere we can hide until they forget about us, I suggest you tell me so we can get there before more of them show up. You're in no shape to fight. There's steel and Teflon in those bullets - poisonous to your kind."

She was hazarding a guess. She'd seen the delicately pointed tip of one ear peeping through the strands of silvery blond hair and the fact that the sclera of this man's eyes was nearly burgundy, not white. If she was wrong, this would all be for nothing. He'd think she was mad as a hatter. But she could tell by the way he tried to flinch away from her that she'd been right on target.

"You-"

"I have the Sight. And I work with children on a daily basis. You pick up a few things. Now seriously - let's go!"

She put the last bit of volume her voice would allow into that last word. He glared at her for what seemed like a thousand years before giving her an almost imperceptible nod. She tightened her grip on his wrist to ground herself, tensed her shoulders to more easily support his weight, and began to move. So did he. They were silent, the better to hear their enemies. Footsteps stomped on concrete, and they moved faster. Pain lanced her body, stealing her breath away. She bit her lip to stifle her moans. He, her rescuer who moved like a jungle cat, was in worse shape than she could have imagined anyone surviving. She owed him. She had to help him.

"You are bleeding," the blond man beside her hissed. His teeth were still tightly clenched. She snorted.

"So are you. Stop talking. Begging my lord's pardon," she added as an afterthought.

"Why are you doing this?" He demanded. His voice dripped with venom, with fury. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Refused to answer. She needed what little breath she had. He pressed, "Answer me. And it's, 'Your Highness.'"

"Oh. My apologies, Your Highness," she said, and kept moving without answering. For a long time, there was no speech between them, save for the tersely muttered directions her rescuer bit out from between gritted teeth. Her vision was beginning to fade in and out, things becoming flickering and white and sparkling. She blinked and bit her tongue to pull herself back from the brink of fainting. She had to do something, or she would fall at his feet. Her fingertips were cold and numb. Her legs were full of red hot spikes. She was gasping now, near the end of her strength, but she knew she couldn't afford to collapse. What if her companion needed her help?

"What is your name?" The pale-skinned man demanded, though his voice was laced with pain. She glanced at him.

"Your Highness, why are you talking?"

"Because I no longer hear the sounds of pursuit. So tell me, human, what is your name?"

She sighed, and tried to keep the world from spinning out of control around her. Taking in a deep breath through her nose and out through her mouth to reduce some of the vicious pain threatening to crush her, she finally admitted, "It's Dylan, Your Highness."

"Dylan? I thought that was a man's name among... most people."

The rape-victim glanced up at him, shivering and still managing to sport an incredulous expression on her face. Was he seriously asking about whether she had a guy's name while she bled from vaginal tearing and he slowly bled to death from multiple gunshot wounds? Seriously? Or was he trying to make small talk? Because that was actually sort of what it sounded like. But why? Why couldn't he just shut up and concentrate on not dying like a normal person? She shook her head slowly from side to side in exasperation.

"My father wanted boys," she found herself saying.

"I take it he had all daughters," her rescuer replied dryly.

"Until the last batch, yeah. My sisters' names are Petra, Pauline, and Mary, Victoria and Francesca, Simone and Gardenia. Triplets and three sets of twins. I have a twin brother, John; we're the third set. Since you don't like me, why are you asking?" She wasn't cracking jokes now. She could tell by the revulsion in his golden eyes that he positively loathed her.

"The sound of silence irritates me," he replied, his voice wicked ice cold, like starlight in the subzero depths of space. She fought a shiver. "I would prefer even your irritating voice to the sound of my own thoughts at this moment. You have not the slightest idea what those... animals were thinking."

"I'm sure I've some notion," she said with a sharpness she hadn't intended. But the unmitigated gall he must possess to claim-

"Do you know what the barrel of a human's gun would do to a woman's body? Or a glass bottle? A knife blade?" He hissed, his voice seething like the molten bronze of his sanguine gaze. "Do you? Because I do."

She bit her lip and shook her head as tears burned her eyes. She'd read in a book once about a group of men who had raped a woman until they were exhausted, spent, and because their bodies could do no more, they had continued to ravage her body with the hilts of their swords. The woman had died slowly, agonizingly. The idea turned her blood to ice. And she knew that those men, bearing the inked mark of the Rojos, would have done much much worse to her.

"You are more fortunate than you can possibly imagine, that I decided to save you."

"Regretting the fact that you did?" Dylan asked, only half-joking. He glanced at her, then away, and she knew the answer instantly. She sighed, but didn't comment. If she was right, her rescuer had every reason to gripe about the fact that she'd "imposed" on him, as it were. Dylan knew many of the fey didn't like humans, or at least cared little about hurting or manipulating them for a moment's amusement. She even admitted that some mortals deserved the Fair Folk's hatred. How was this Elf to know that she was not one of those dark-hearted humans who relished the pain and torment of other beings? Many of the fey didn't believe such humans even existed anymore.

"If it makes you feel any better... I'm truly grateful," she replied softly. "Thank you, Your Highness."

Dylan felt the Elf stiffen even more. Start to pull away. In retaliation, petty though she knew it to be, she tightened her grip on his wrist, pulled a little. She wasn't going to let anything happen to this idiot just because he was trying his hardest to piss her off and make her leave him behind. She had no doubts that that was exactly what he was trying to do. Well, she wouldn't have any of it. He needed help. She wasn't a monster, no matter what he thought; she wasn't going to just leave him to die.

"Where are we going?" She asked wearily after several tense moments.

"A safe place," he mumbled absently, glancing around. They needed to hurry. He smelled the tang of ozone, which meant a subway train was coming, though not for some miles yet. They had perhaps ten minutes. But he also caught the irritating stench of humans. Male. Aroused, angry. On the prowl. Hunting for something... or someone. Also no more than ten or eleven minutes away, but moving quickly, quicker than Nuada and Dylan could in their current, injured state. Dylan, being human, was slower, weaker. His only chance of escape without further risk of injury would be to leave her. He contemplated the idea for a moment. After all, she was only a pathetic human. He owed no human anything but a swift, merciless death.

"How you holding up?" She asked breathlessly, and tripped over her own dragging feet. They both started to go down, but she caught them, steadied them. Her breath hissed through her teeth as she fought the waves of nausea and searing pain. "I am... so, so sorry, Highness. My fault. Gosh. Move, feet," she snapped down at the ground, as if ordering the appendages around would make them obey her. "Did I jar anything? Any fresh bleeding?"

"No," he replied slowly. "No."

A debt of honor was being incurred here, and it greatly displeased him. Infuriated him. He loathed humans, despised them for their spineless, heartless, gutless behavior. For everything they had done to the world. Yet here was a mortal woman who had remained behind, severely injured and afraid, to make sure he survived the fight he had engaged in to save her. Even now, when it was obvious to an imbecile that she needed medical attention, she refused to leave him, because he was injured. Either she was a simpleton, a madwoman, or not altogether human. Those were the only possible explanations.

He heard footsteps, closer this time. Smelled the wolf pack in men's clothing approaching them. Far enough away that they could not yet see or be seen, but close enough that they were nearly out of time. Gritting his teeth in anticipation of the pain, he made a decision and with a snake-quick strike, lifted Dylan into his arms and over his good shoulder in what the humans called a fireman's carry.

"What are you doing?" She yelped. "Stop! You're in no condition... what are you doing?"

Her voice had dropped to a whisper as he approached the gap between the concrete walkways and the subway rails. Even as they watched, a rat sizzled and fried as it touched the third rail that coursed with electricity.

"Watch the middle bar," she squeaked.

She squeaked because her body was reminding her in painful ways that it currently didn't like her, but she had no choice but to ignore it. She felt muscles bunch, coil, ripple, and then her rescuer sprung, leaping so that when they landed, it was on the far side of the tracks, well clear of the electrified rail. The impact of their landing sent rockets of pain shooting through Dylan's pelvis and face, and she bit her lip to stifle a scream. Fresh blood exploded from the knife slices bisecting her ruined mouth.

Nuada did not ask her if she were all right. He knew she was not, and he did not care to hear her lie to him (or to whine) about her status. He did not ask if she were bleeding still. He could smell the copper fear stench of her blood, feel it dribbling down the arm that was pressed against the backs of her thighs by virtue of holding her clasped tightly over his shoulder. Feel it smeared across his shoulder and back from the cuts on her face. He shuddered in disgust.

"Are we almost there?" The human woman whispered. He turned his head until he could look at the slashing ruin of her face.

"Yes," he managed to say calmly. She was watching him with wide, fearful eyes like cobalt pools of ice shrouded in mist. As if he were the answer to all her prayers. Her salvation. It had been... centuries since anyone looked at him like that. The last person had been Nuala, as a child, when their mother...

Nuada's chest ached with the struggle to draw breath. His skull throbbed from loss of blood. The last embers of iron-fever would be rekindled by the poisonous metals in his body and the pain would only continue to get worse. His body, already weakened by poison and illness and exhausted from hours of training, wouldn't last much longer. But he could carry her as far as the entrance. That burst of effort had shaved three minutes at least off their journey. If he continued to be able to maintain this pace, then they would be safe in moments.

He heard a click, and turned slightly to look behind him. Dylan tried to focus on the concrete that rose above and away from them, but everything was blurred. Nuada saw the men, saw their grins, saw the gleam of the light upon the steel barrel of the gun, and spun as the weapon fired. A bullet, burning with pain and toxic lead, ripped into his side. His breath shot out of him, and he hit his knees on the ground. He tasted toxic metal, scented it, and realized a train was coming.

Dylan whispered, "No. No. It isn't fair. Put me down and get out of here. Please, you have to-"

"You killed our friends, eśe," the first thug, the one to the left of the gunman, called out. Dylan fell silent. Tears made her cheeks shine under the dirt and blood on her face. Burned in the slashing cuts. "All for the puta. You're gonna die. No weapons now, man."

Bronze eyes met silvery blue. Both burned as they urged the other to abandon them and run. Nuada got to his feet. The mortal in his arms cursed under her breath, calling him ten kinds of idiot. The Elven warrior didn't care. He had engaged in a battle to save her life. Human or not, abandoning her now would be dishonorable and cowardly. He had made his decision. Like a true prince, he would abide by it.

He tried to sprint. He was as slow as a human now. The gun clicked. He picked up speed, or tried. Dizziness slammed him hard. He stumbled. The entrance to his sanctuary was less than sixty seconds away.

The gun fired, twice.

A bullet bit deep into his good arm. Dylan landed on the ground in a heap as his muscles lost the ability to hold her. She cried out when the ground hit her. Agony shot through her back, her legs, her pelvis. Her skull screamed at her. Another bullet found the back of Nuada's right thigh. He stumbled and fell hard to the floor on hands and knees. The moment he was on the ground, she was on her knees. She had a stone in one trembling hand.

Heavenly Father, please, don't let me miss, she prayed silently.

She threw it, hard. It hit the gunman's hand, and he dropped the gun. It went off, and he screamed as blood began gushing from his foot. In his gyrations, he kicked the gun onto the tracks, which rumbled with the weight of the approaching train. Dylan whispered a prayer of gratitude even as she hauled her rescuer to his one good foot.

"Tell me where," she commanded breathlessly. "We have to go. Tell me where!"

"Straight," he gasped. Pain made him dizzy. Blood loss made him cold. He wanted to rest, just for a moment, but... but in rest lay death. "Fifteen feet."

They staggered forward. Dylan looked around wildly. Bright light washed over them, and the subway train shrieked at them. She gasped and cried, "Now what?"

Nuada touched the wall of concrete and gasped out, "Guardian, let us pass. Slay our enemies."

Dylan's vision twisted, doubled, and she knew somehow she was going to die. Blood or train, that's what she wondered. Would the train make her into a pancake? Or would she turn into a puddle of blood? That was the question, wasn't it? The crimson liquid dripped onto the cement. Her stockings were soaked with it. Everything sparkled around her and her skull buzzed. The speeding train bore down on them, screaming that they were going to die. She tasted death on her tongue. She blinked at the wall as a gaping darkness yawned before her. Her own eyes or the whispered words of her rescuer?

The faerie warrior lurched forward, dragging her with him, and she fell... through the wall. The subway train whizzed by them like a herd of carnivorous horses. Nuada sagged against the wall. Safety. Blessed safety at last.

He turned to Dylan, who dropped to the floor in a graceless heap. She sank into oblivion as the world went black around her. Just before unconsciousness closed up her senses, she smelled the sweet scent of lilies and roses, and inexplicably thought, Grandma?