(This thread is a continuation of the events in The Good Times Are Killing Me. Thanks!)

Later that day?

Just because it was a neutral and fairly public location did not mean he did not come armed. The only visible weapon he boasted was a sh?ng biāo hooked on his belt at his right hip. Four loops of thin electrum chain shifted with every purposeful stride he took inside. The one time he would have preferred there to be a crowd, there wasn't one.

Everyone came prepared. Daggers hidden and sucked in breaths. Robert was sucking on a cigarette like he wanted it to kill him. He stopped outside on the porch and frowned, flicking the filter over his shoulder before he stepped inside the inn. It was time that the two of them talked. The distant smell of smoke held onto him, gripping his thin black blazer.

He came dressed in dark jeans and a thin white shirt. Black runes stretched up his throat from the v neck collar, down to wrap his arms from under short sleeves. Shadows across his torso suggested more, hidden only by the layer of fabric. Lingering by the alley door, he looked to the front entrance when it opened to admit Robert and the corners of his lips thinned.

Inside there wasn't Cris, but he twisted to look around himself, as if checking the corners of the inn would tell him what he needed to know. Then he went to the solitary bar, fixing a whiskey. Three fingers deep, without the rocks. He normally didn't go for the nicer brands, which was either a mistake or a sign he wanted something that still hit hard but was smooth.

Lirssa had been right, then, in telling him his statue game was strong. Robert moved to the bar and he did too, clearing his throat with more exertion than necessary to catch the Demon's attention. Of course Melanie punching the door might steal it away. It usually did.

In this case, it was the gentle suggestion of a throat clearing that dominated him more than the loud opening of a door. Not that it was to be ignored. There was a flinch, he looked at it, expecting something violent. Expecting something like a flood of Nephilim and swords. That was just a memory though and as soon as the fantasy disappeared behind reality, he looked at Cris, "Something to drink?" They both knew he would say no.

The observation of pleasantries was a surprise. He squinted at Robert. "No, thank you. I hadn't thought to stall our discussion any further."

"That sounds about right." Robert took another swallow of his drink. There was his palm, opening to the seat opposite of where he stood behind the bar as an invitation for Cris. It was that or a booth, which the man had seemed to favor.

He looked to the stool, but then as Robert presumed, switched his gaze to the booth and nodded there instead. He headed there first, a brief detour of his gaze to Melanie. He offered her a nod too on the way.

The whiskey on rocks collected, the insistence on the booth not a surprise. He breathed in, feeling the distant impression of the last cigarette he'd smoked. He thought it must have still been smoldering, somewhere on the rocks outside. Cris was allowed the lead, he took a booth seat, setting down his glass. Folded forearms were atop of the table, hazel gaze pointedly on Cris. It felt like Versailles, the war and peace room with the lions and suns decorating it.

He'd chosen a booth meant for more private discussions. Though he hadn't the abilities to close their airspace off like Shae or Helena did, he grasped a handful of the thick curtain scrunched on his side of the booth and threw it closed. "Before I'm to discuss this with you---is this your true form that I see before me now?"

The question was something of a surprise to him. First, he wanted to ask Cris if it mattered, but that would make the conversation begin to chase its own tail. Instead he nodded, lifting his drink for a swallow, "This is me."

"Secondly, I would like to know what evidence you have that this man is held in such a tightly guarded facility."

"One of the fallen angels told me." To Robert, they were called the originals. Cris would know what he meant. His gaze was dull, not surprised and then he motioned with a flare of his fingertips, "The real confirmation of that would come from you."

Blinking. Several slivers of his tension shaved away. "Well, I suppose I should be flattered that my word is held in higher regard than a Fallen's. I only ask because---the harm of even one mundane is a punishable offense to my people. He would, and should have, been arrested by the Clave and imprisoned after the first incident. The reason that he was not has led me to believe he has help. Do you know the other man in the videos, whose voice we heard?"

"I wouldn't say you were higher, only that you could be confirmation." Robert didn't want to say that demons lied. They did. It was like telling a child not to lie to an ant. As far as the originals were concerned, they were so far away removed from Robert and his kind that he served as entertainment and food for them. The others that spoke, "I have some files on them, but it isn't much. Nephilim don't really keep much in the way of public records."

"That you know of. Anything would be better than what I have to work with. He may in fact be kept in such a facility, but it may not be Clave sanctioned. Had they gotten their hands on him, with viable evidence, as it seems there was plenty of, he would have been stripped of his Marks and his family name stricken from any historical archives. The only facility even close to what you've described is located in Alicante itself, maintained by the Clave, and thus completely impenetrable to your kind."

He spread his hands on the table. "What I'm saying is---there is very little chance that he will be alive, if he was taken there."
"Any reason you wouldn't? Are familial ties important?" In some organizations being the right son to the right person meant the difference between prison and freedom. Robert folded his hands, imprisoning his glass between them when he did so, "If he is dead then it's done, it's over and I will go. If it isn't," his hands unfolded, flat on the table top, "I don't know why else I would be told to try to find him, except that it would mean finding you."

"Familial ties are important, yes. No one wishes to incarcerate their own family, unless they were in some way deranged. Even if you know very little of Nephilim, you must know: Sed lex dura lex. Not one of our kind is above the Law, no matter how much we cling to them."

He didn't try to work out what it may have meant, should Tim already be dead. There was nothing he could give, nor wanted to give, Robert. As far as he knew, there was no reason why they should have met in the first place.

"Do you report to your order? Is it normal for someone to go... unknown, unmonitored, in their career?" Robert said career like it was salty and bitter. He looked away, the frown not hidden. All his eyes could see was the curtain of the booth pulled shut.

He pursed his lips. "Career" was wrong, but he didn't correct Robert. "No, it is highly unusual. Especially when one is an active Shadowhunter."

"That's not very promising." The last of his whiskey was gone now. His hazel eyes drifted over the rim of his glass, "And you would be able to find out if he was dead?"

"Theoretically. Yes. I am not going to promise you anything, because my assumption that he's still alive is very weak. The only way he would have survived would be if he had help." Then, as a thought hit him, his frown pulled in deep and dark. "The murder of Graham's brother. Where did that happen again?"

"Here," Robert indicated towards the front of the inn, "About twenty yards outside this door. There was a neighboring shop at the time that isn't here anymore." In Rhy'Din, sometimes things burned down, or blew up. It was said once that this wasn't even the original inn, that it was third time the structure had been rebuilt.

"He may be here...." He was entirely too hopeful of that. "Rhy'Din is outside the Clave's jurisdiction. Our Law does not exactly apply here. I am not bound to do one thing or another here, and there are several more places to hide. There are several more things that could help him do so. He wouldn't be the first Nephilim to have broken into this plane, and he, unfortunately, won't be the last.

"At the very least, perhaps the other one is here."

"They would have been here... seven years. Is it likely they could go unnoticed that long?" His fingertips pressed on the rim of his glass, pressing on it and making it turn in a clockwise motion.

"Murder runs rampant here as it does at home," he meant their shared plane. "The lives of mundanes are worth little more than an insect's. They're fodder for those beings that have stronger supernatural abilities. So, if he were to continue on his killing spree, his deeds may have simply slipped under the town's radar. Or, they may be laying low here, after Michael."

"I didn't find much after Michael." He admitted, "There were some possible leads, but nothing that I could hold onto. Like you said, there was a lot of murder and violence here. It made it difficult to sift through the information. I can provide you all those... possible, other deaths that could not be confirmed." Not by him, anyway.

"As I said, any information that you think may be helpful. Or, anything that you discover between this conversation and when we speak again." He spread his hands over his face, then crossed his arms once again. Hands balled into fists and tucked behind his elbows. "I will help you."

Robert reached into his back pocket, pulling out his business card and sliding it on the table over to Cris, "Then you may have to contact me a little more directly, next time." Robert swallowed, feeling a tension lift off his shoulders. Somewhere in the world demons were snarling about the outcome of a bet. He was still alive and he had managed to be persuasive enough that the worst of his fears wasn't realized. "We'll keep the lines of communication open about this."

He did not take the card just yet. "Before we settle upon this---cooperation, we will set some things straighter, yes?"

"I suppose." He wasn't going to agree to a vague demand, but the words 'settle things' made him feel like Cris was going to draw on what had been. He wondered how much of it could be easily explained, or understood. "What needs to be set?"

"I will be open with you about matters of this issue as long as you are equally as open with me. That means, you will save your illusionary tactics for your outside investigations. You have my attention. You need not vie for it through deed, or individual."

"I did not doubt I would have your attention," Robert's eyebrows lifted up, "But I might have needed more from you than your attention-- I had to prepare for that." It was, perhaps, an admission that was too honest for civil conversation. Cris wanted it, needed to have it set so to speak, "If your word is your bond, I have what I want."

"What more might you have needed?" He moved one hand. "For curiosity's sake."

"I might have had to force you, if I could." Robert shrugged his shoulders and then opened up one hand, "I needed to know what you would do in a fight. I knew from the dogs you would show up, probably on a motorcycle, maybe just with that lady you were with. I was prepared to plan accordingly based on what I learned about you."

The silence that descended on the booth was thin and circumspect. He met Robert's gaze over the stretch of the table. Not five feet of wood that he could cross in an instant, and he abruptly thought about it, and about putting an end to this truce immediately. "Well," he said finally, hushed to fit the privacy of their booth. "You haven't any need for that any longer. Yes?" Brow rose.

"Yes." Robert rubbed his lips the way he usually did when he wanted a cigarette and smiled, a slight tightness in his lips. It was difficult, the lion and the jackal looking at each over over the body of a gazelle they were interested in. Both were content on the prey, but could just as easily be redirected to one another if they weren't careful.

"You are dealing with me now. If you've concerns, you come to me. Questions, to me. Information, to me. As easily as I can investigate this matter for you, I can also alert the Clave to your presence here, and believe you me, they will not take your side.

"Likewise, if you do hold your end of this agreement, I will do the same. There is no reason why we can't remain civil. We hunt identical quarry."

The distant threat was met with a nod, though Robert didn't think Cris would be calling the Clave. The interaction he had from them, from what his detective has told him, was distant and strained at best. Still, a phone call was a phone call, "Agreed." He would have smiled, then, if the moment didn't seem to forbid it so much.

He nodded, and likewise did not smile. But that was the norm. "I've rented a mail cubby here that I use on occasion. You mentioned that you were able to obtain copies of the evidence you have now." He jotted down the address on one of the receipts, next to the parabatai rune that had already started to eat through the paper and slid it to Robert. "You may send them here. I will check it often."

"If I hit a wall, I'll let you know." It went into the inside jacket pocket, the home that it had been pulled from. His hands flattened on the face of the table, "I should get going. I need to make some phone calls."

A low, thin exhale. And a nod. "As do I."

His hand caught the curtain to the booth and drew it open before he stepped out. The air between him and Cris had felt hot and claustrophobic. It was a relief to step out of it and back onto the main, open area of the inn. His hand pushed back through his dark, unsettled hair.

He stayed where he was, with his attention turned toward the window. In the shelter of his arm, he picked at a split on his thumb that started to feel tender.



(Thank you, Brohkun!)

Early, June 8

Cris came home later than he?d planned but earlier than usual. The loft was dark, shadows like great palms covered the pale wood floor, the empty walls and furniture. Sparsely decorated, meant to be left at a moment?s notice and yet they?d stayed for months.

An overhead light illuminated the kitchen island, the small stove and single occupied burner. A thick mug waited nearby, a painted bumblebee flitting across its shiny side. He stood with his back to the sink, arms crossed tightly, the envelopes fanned on the counter behind him. Lightning shaped wrinkles at their edges betrayed just how tight his grip had been. He was on the kettle at the first sign of keening, filling the mug and jostling the metal ball infuser in inside. As he let it steep, he considered the envelopes behind him. One thicker than the other two. One smaller. He killed the heat and brought them into the light.

The first one he slit open held only a single disc in its bubble wrapped protection. The label designated it to be a copy of the video Robert had shown them all at Kultura. Without a device to play it back readily available, he set it aside as something to tackle later. He slit the second thickest envelope and shook the contents free.

Paperclips bound small stacks of papers together. A light, slanted hand had titled each packet with the names of the respective Shadowhunters, and a small photograph, he presumed, for identification. Leafing quickly through, he recognized family names at a glance. Kingsmill, Safar, Rosales. Timothy?s packet was one of the thickest of the seven. He separated it and stuffed the others back into the envelope so that their collective dead gazes could not make him regret his decision.

Timothy?s photo was blurred and smudged, caught in movement as the man turned to shoot a look back over his shoulder at something escaping the lens? range. The reach of a black Mark followed the twist of his throat, pulled up from the collar of a black coat. He had not expected the other man to look so close to his own age. Harried and tense as all were who saw the World for what it really was, but his face otherwise unlined. His light hair was the color of driftwood, the details too foggy to make out the color of his eyes, and his jaw was dark with at least a week?s negligence of shaving habits. Cris took a sip of tea and scanned the compiled information.

Hailing from Avernaches in France?s Lower Normandy, but took frequent trips both to England and Idris. Two siblings, both younger, the female of which had been killed in the Mortal War. Most of his activity spread itself over Europe, but after the War, he hopped the Atlantic Ocean. He favored small blades. Dual wielding, close quarters, quick and vicious kills.

Frowning around another sip of tea, he skipped to the end. A working knowledge of the man?s past would only serve to foster a connection he did not want to have. He did not wish to understand Timothy, nor save him. Knowledge of expected battle habits would suit his purpose well enough.

True to Robert?s claim, once Timothy had inexplicably relocated to Rhy?Din, any useful information was incoherent or seemed to vanish altogether. What he could read of the notes, they were a mixture of English and a foreign demonic language, detailed possible sightings, times and locations. The word parabatai had been written in thick letters and underlined, circled in red. He did not know if that meant Robert?s investigator had the same thought he did, or if the parabatai?s name was included somewhere further back in the packet.

He flipped one page, then another. The years in the margins scrolled back by two or three at a time. He thought nothing of it until he saw under the header July 2006 a name scrawled that he knew as well as his own. An arrow attached it to a series of scribbles in the last half of the page. Became involved with a Brooklyn based female Warlock. (Photos attached.) Illness? Necessity? Job? ?Illness? had been boxed in with another arrow leading into the right margin and two more circled words. Demon pox.

Cris set the mug down more firmly than he?d meant to and tore into the third, fattest envelope. Photographs slid out in a stream across the dormant stove. Timothy splashed in front of him, caught in motion, in the middle of a crowd, turning down darkened alleys. Several photos were grouped together like stop-motion films, belying a rapid shutter speed and intense documentation. He spread them, brushing the irrelevant shots aside. Some fell from the island, fluttering to the ground. Unseen, a rabbit loped across the floor to sit on the foreign picture.

He found what he was looking for moments later. A group of only six shots, taken from around a corner. The photos depicted a New York alley, complete with a network of cardboard boxes and an open dumpster that partially blocked the pair of bodies standing together. The oncoming twilight in the strip of sky overhead further shadowed them, but there was a naked lightbulb over the steel door leading back into the building on their left. It cast a wan yellow halo, catching in Timothy?s light hair and picking out the oil spill black waves of his counterpart.

The graceful shape of her hips flared the tails of her taupe trenchcoat over slender legs, bare from mid thigh to sleek, black stilettos. Her hands were in her pockets. She depicted an air of complete indifference, a stark contrast to Timothy?s consternation. Photo three, he?d thrown his arms into the air. Four, he?d begun to turn away. Five, she did too. Six. She?d taken her first step into the light and though she was frozen in time and would never take that second step, he gazed unblinking at her image, waiting for her to. Fingertips skimmed her glossy surface as if he could feel the thin canvas of her coat.

Her skin was as unearthly pale and smooth as a pearl. Dark brows thin, her pale gaze smokey and rimmed in black. The slant of her painted mouth supercilious and amused.

On the back of the photo were three short sentences: Timothy Reaux, Bianca Slate. Alley behind Terra Sotto. 20:37, 07/2006.

?The Angel have mercy on me??

Later

Agitation kept every muscle tight even after he'd dismounted the motorcycle and left it Marked across the street from Kultura. His desire for neutral ground had just about vanished. More than that, he hoped meeting on the demon's home turf would garner some good faith and do well to smudge out a portion of their hostility.

He brought the folders with him, carried them tight against his left side, beneath his arm. To avoid involving too many bodies and ears, he'd suggested they meet in the same place Robert had shown his videos. Around and out back. If the demon was not there, he'd wait.

He'd been at the porch, smoking a cigarette as he did. There was a glance at the time. Cris wasn't late. The small change in the rules of engagement intrigued him enough. The cigarette end glowed, he stepped off the front porch and walked around the side of the building. It would have been wrong to say that he didn't still carry hesitation in him. There was a history there which told him not to relax. It was a tide that was hard to fight.

The area was relatively empty without the screen or chairs, except for a small eight by eight patio and two old metal chairs with their light blue paint rusting at the edges. There was an ashtray, half buried under the tomb marker cigarette butts.

"Cris." He had thought the man would spot him or sense him before he spoke, but the greeting was a means of being polite. Unnecessary second comment followed, "I trust you got all three envelopes? They were sealed." Sometimes people liked to trifle with things they shouldn't.

Robert wouldn't be wrong. There was always a palpable shift to the atmosphere around one when it was invaded by another presence. Emotions simmered under the surface, usually, detected even by the most insensitive people. He swept his gaze over the grassy yard as he entered it, then aimed another look over his shoulder. One that produced a demon. "Robert." He held the envelopes up as evidence.

"Good." The cigarette's end glowed, smoke slipped out from his lips. He grabbed the top of the back of one of the heavy metal lawn chairs and drew it back. Small flicks of paint splintered to the ground. It must not have surprised him, he didn't seem to notice. He tapped the ash of his cigarette, his free hand pinched his nose between his eyes as if to ward off a headache. Then he looked at Cris, "What is it?"

Putting the videos and informational packets aside, he shook open the envelope containing all the photographs. "Before our next move, I'd like to speak with this investigator of yours as well and ask him just how he was able to procure these images." The top thirteen counted out. He fanned them across the table like cards and took the seat opposite Robert. Timothy and Bianca's faces were the most repeated. But there were also shots of Marion and Salome snuck in.

"That's going to be difficult," Robert said with a frown. His thumbnail grazed his lip before he looked back up at Cris' eyes, "No offense, but he's not in the business of risking his life." His investigator was low tier in terms of power and social influence. That had been his weakness for a long time until he realized that being unnoticeable made it easier to notice other people. Still, he leaned forward at the shots that Cris had shown particular interest in. They weren't the ones he had expected that he might. His fingertip nudged the photos off of each other so that they didn't overlap, "I'll talk to him. He might be willing to meet you at Baton Rouge or Las Vegas." The veritable no man's land where the ceasefires were actively respected.

"He has information that I need." But, he supposed, that did not stop Robert thinking that once he had it, he would do away with the demon completely. A fair assumption, he had to give Robert that. "A secure telephone connection will suffice, then."

"He'd do a telephone call," there was a series of nods from him, "I can almost promise you he would." He reached into the pocket of his dark brown jacket, drawing out his cellphone. His thumb was gliding through the contact. Hazel eyes stopped and shot over the top of his phone to look at Cris, "Are you ready to speak with him now?"

Brows rose. He lifted his gaze from the photographs reflecting sunlight and fingerprints. "I hadn't prepared to do so, but if you're willing, I don't see why not."

"He might not speak with you again, you realize." Robert took another draw of his cigarette. His attention was on Cris. Given the word he was going to call.

"Would you like to do the talking for me, then?"

"You're the one with the questions." Robert smiled then looked down at the photos, "or you can come back tomorrow and I'll dial him up then."

He gestured for Robert to make the call. "Then, by all means."

The screen glowed, it went to his ear. He tapped the ash of his cigarette and then spoke, "Hey, you have a minute?" There was some conversation on the other line before Robert spoke, "I have someone I need you to talk to, just this once, as a favor. Yes, a favor. No. No. Maybe." Then he paused and swallowed, "Cris." There was a shout on the line that Robert met with, "I called you from my phone, it's fine. Don't worry about it. I won't ask you again, promise. Just give him a few minutes. What the hell can he do to you over the phone? Exactly. Talk to him... thank you." Then he held it out to Cris.

There was something loud that vibrated the speaker and then went dead. Robert pulled the ear from his phone, snorted and then shoved it back in his pocket, "We'll see, then."

"A delightful thing, for a demon. It's very rare that one is faced with such a boost to one's ego."

"He'll be boasting it in a few months, once he's done thinking he's gonna get killed. He's a little... neurotic. But he's good." Sometimes neurotic people were best for those sorts of jobs.

"Will the oily sensation dissipate, or is it something I must shower to rid myself of?"

"Three or four times, I'm afraid." It caused him to crack a smile though, as much as he didn't want to.

"Lovely." He put a hand through his hair. "As stimulating as that conversation was, that isn't why I contacted you. Though I haven't any true leads yet, I've spoken to my own contact about this and she's looking into what she has." Leaning forward, he shuffled aside a couple photographs and turned a third to better face Robert. This one was of three people. Timothy's face clearly visible, with a female's back to the camera. A second woman stood beside the first, a hair taller, half of her face in profile. "I know both of these women."

"That's not too surprising," Robert said, leaning forward, "Your community is a small one. It's like the people that went to West Point." He buried the end of that third cigarette in the tray and then lifted up the photograph, "Why don't you just call them up? Why have Gus look into this?"

"One of them is dead. The other one, I contacted. She's a close personal friend of mine. Their names are Bianca Slate and Salome Martin." He sat back. "According to Salome, Timothy contacted Bianca on the premise that she would help him overcome a case of astriola. At the time, the precursors to the Mortal War were already well on their way. Fraternizing with demons in any way would have been viewed criminal activity by the Clave, and Downworlders weren't exactly safe from them either."

Robert wanted to say he was sorry to hear that there was loss, except he wasn't. Not really. No more or less sorry than Cris would have been if he had wailed at him at all the demons who had been killed. The picture was studied and then set down, "Astriola? Ohh..." It was impossible for him not to grin. It was a disease born of the utmost hypocrisy.

"Do not look so smug. It happens, but it does not happen often." He'd seen all the photos enough to memorize them, but still he looked. "They did what they could for him, while they had time. To cover their tracks, he was sent to this plane."

"It can't be helped." Robert's smile weakened but didn't go away. To think that his... attacker... had been someone influenced by that? What a mixed individual. How did he go to work during the day and sleep with demons at night? There was a more serious look to his face, though, at having finally gotten some new information, "So Timothy is *here*?"

"If he has not perished or succumbed to his illness and been killed off, then yes. That would make sense, and falls in line with Michael's murder." He shuffled once again through the photographs until he came up with one that showcased Marion's features. Cris tapped this one next. "Not a part of your original group, obviously, but I was correct in my assumption that Timothy had a parabatai."

"Of what significance is that? This one would be here, somewhere?" The face was familiar, but for various reasons Robert's recollection beyond fifty years was not so great. There were times that things felt, inexplicably, familiar. Other times that which he should have known was a stranger to him. His eyes went from the photo to Cris, "And what else can I do for our purpose?"

"Focus your efforts on this man. He would be around my age now. This one, I recognize as well. I find it strange that I've either known or met all parties involved in your little debacle." He gathered the photos in a stack and slid them back into the envelope. "The bond of two parabatai is stronger than most. Marion followed Timothy to the Warlocks. Given the chance, and I'm certain he had it, he would have followed Timothy here, as well."

"Without you being part of it?" Robert arched a brow and then shrugged, "But you are a part of it, it looks like they just weren't sharing with you." Or he was a liar beyond the abilities of any liar he'd ever known. Robert eyed the image of Marion closely before giving it up for Cris to collect, "And the women?"

"They were a part of it years ago, it's been unfortunately dropped upon me now. There's a difference." He set the envelopes aside. "Forget the women. Both Nephilim left their hands some time ago. Salome is not even sure she's anything concrete to use for our benefit, but she is looking into it."

"Are you the only one in your order that actually believed in what you did?" Robert wasn't even meaning to sting Cris when he said it. Then the order to forget the women caused Robert's head to tilt to the side. "Hmmm. I see."

"No. Merely, the demons I pit myself against do not live long enough to form opinions about it." Frowning, he looked to Robert. "Bianca was killed two years ago. Salome is doing what she can. Any threats made upon her to work more quickly or produce different outcomes will be met with extreme prejudice."

"Isn't it you who should be doing the threats?" He pointed with a nod at the envelope, "Isn't all of that evidence enough that they are deserving of it?"

"Unless I can discern the exact date Timothy was infected, I'm loath to believe the disease was the cause of his assault upon you and yours. That, simply put, is a Shadowhunter's duty. As a demon who shares their place, you best learn that, and learn that well." He glanced aside at the envelopes. "The Warlocks in question were, merely, looking to collect payment for services rendered."

"I've no interest in it, I assure you. Just the one." A single finger held up. They made watery promises to each other that bordered along the lines of vague lies of omission. "Then Marion is of my interest."

"Right." Returning his gaze to Robert. "If my assumption is correct, you find Marion, you will find Timothy. As far as I know, his own crime is attempting to harbor his parabatai. I'm waiting for Salome's call. If she finds anything, our efforts will not need to be so fervent. If not, I'm certain she'll provide solutions on how to possibly track him."

"I'm only interested in Timothy, but..." and with the 'but' came a steady gaze onto Cris, "I'll do what I need to to Marion to get what I want." It was a heavy handed hint, certainly.

"Hopefully, it will not come to that. Timothy has done the wrong, not Marion." Though Cris couldn't deny the convenience his death would bring.

"We'll see if Gus can come through." He cleared his throat and stood up, catching the lip of the ash tray and drawing it with him. He crossed the lawn where crickets jumped and chirped, dumping it in the trash can before returning to set it on the table.

"You will contact me if anything changes?" Watching the arc of dead cigarettes fall.

"That's the agreement, isn't it?" The scrap of the glass ash tray on the metal lawn table. His attention never ventured far from Cris' area.

"That is the agreement." He rose and tucked the chair he'd used under the table. "And I will do the same once I hear from Salome."

"Sounds easy enough." He could have had another cigarette, honestly. His mind worked in circles and then paused. Cris was... somehow likeable. More than he wanted to like. It wasn't an intense or strong feeling, but the fact that something existed other than a contemptuous glow was bothersome.

Do not tell him that and spoil the mood. He had not been violently ill in two years, and he was rather glad for that fact. Envelopes tucked once more against his side, as he turned to leave, he fixed Robert with one last look. "At the same time you're investigating Marion, I think it would be wise to allocate some thought to the notion we may be too late. A mere Shadowhunter can't rival the medical aid of the Silent City. If his disease was not held off, there was a very good chance that Timothy may be beyond communication. Transformed, he is not even the Nephilim who attacked you. His destruction as a demon would be out of mere self preservation alone."

"It was never about what he was... but what he did. I am indifferent to the changes or what he may or may not be." Robert did not seemed shocked, or angry at the prospect. Timothy might already be dead for all he knew and that might have to be the conclusion he would need to accept.

"That isn't what I meant. But I suppose you could take his life for your own peace of mind. That would certainly be more merciful than any other fate he may suffer." One step toward the walkway leading to the street, and he paused one last time. "Did you really do all this without Disa's knowledge?"

Robert's eyebrows lifted up. The question was a curious one, but he nodded when he was asked, "It gets messy when you let people get involved." Somewhere in the back of his mind, Remmy was on his lap spilling her words of wisdom. Robert frowned, toed a rock and turned, "She knows it all, now, as she should have all along."

Gaze followed the motion of Robert's foot. "She's upset with you for that, isn't she?"

Hazel eyes landed on Cris. There was a nod and then he looked away, thoughtfully, "Understandably so."

"Was she not your assistant? Such negative emotions would imply she was more than that to you."

"With the museum. She wanted to help me, in many ways she did... and I was trying to keep her uninvolved. I did not know if I would survive this, much less endanger her with it." Robert sighed and kicked another rock, sending it dancing in a straight line ahead.

His mouth formed a line. "I suppose you're right. Things do tend to become messy when there are too many hands in it. I feel a bit of that may have been residual in my interactions with her. I was told who she was to you. My intentions weren't simply for stimulating conversation."

"She is many things, and she knows the risks and has decided to keep being all of it to me." The open hand in the air, sprawling out and then dropping back by his side.

"My issue was not with her." A tighter hold on the envelopes, he finally turned to head back out to the street. "I'm sure I'll be contacting you soon."

"I hope so." It might have been the first time he was hoping for that call, though he expected to hear Gus tomorrow whining to him about what had happened today. Robert broken away to re-enter the museum via the kitchen door which was on the wall that faced where they had been.



(Thank you, Brohkun!)

June 16th

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?

?

?

"This is is Cris. I?ll call you back shortly."

"I know I told you I didn?t have anything laying around to help you, and before you get your hopes up, I was right, I don?t have anything---but I had this wild hope that I did.? Sigh ?Pathetic. I know. I wish I could have sent you something. I found some of the equipment we used, but there wasn?t any residue left behind. I have---the knife Marion pulled on Bianca. It?s standard Shadowhunter issue, one of those things the Iron Sisters churn out like butter. Ownership has been all dried up, but I?ll send it to you anyway, just in case.

?I sent you to the same coordinates we sent Tim and Marion through too, so maybe you could start there. Ask questions, flash pictures. He might have wanted to start looking for Warlocks, or people like us that could help him out with his problem. If you have any good scryers, they might be able to pick out the angel in your blood and use it to track him down. Also start keeping an eye out for nasty murders committed by demons. You know, just in case.

?I?m sorry I can?t help you more than that. But I really have nothing here anymore. Bright side, your parents got in contact with me. They?re sending a package through that I?ll ferry over.

?Happy birthday, Cris. God, you?re so old now. All grown up. Do me proud!?

August 3rd, 10:06 PM
Just north of the western bridge

Twilight gave way to night, the bruises coloring an otherwise clear sky blending together and turning black. They pulled their blanket of stars with them as the moons rose and the town's night crowd roused itself around him. Rhy'Din's largest river cut the city in two. Foot- and bike-paths lined the banks on either side, nothing but common sense keeping anyone from falling in. The paths were not empty, but there were gaps of time between the faces he saw. Couples walking together, sipping multi-colored slushies. A young man walking nine dogs, their leashes all attached to a belt around his waist. Cyclists heading home or heading out. He took up a corner of an iron park bench, the streetlamp at his left casting a wide and hazy yellow pool, taunting moths with its weak flickering. There was a phone on his thigh and a burning cigarette in his right hand drooping toward the cobblestones below.

It wasn't long before he was joined by a figure cutting a path down that cobblestone way, summoned by text message to his chosen rendezvous. The evening was warm, but that didn't stop her from wearing clothing that covered most of her skin. Pants of a dark grey hugged her legs beneath laced boots, her top a t-shirt with writing printed on, the message obscured by a ratty leather coat that did nothing for her figure. Black hair in a bun and no Fox in sight. Shae's greeting came only after she occupied the other half of the wrought iron seating. "Evening Cris."

Her may have done nothing for her figure, but it did not do nothing at all. Leather and slim held his attention longer than the half moment it took to recognize her. He busied his half smile with a short pull from the cigarette in his hand. "Good evening, Shae," on a tumble of smoke.

Given the topic he had texted her about, Shae hadn't expected to see anything resembling a smile out of the man that evening, so she'd take that half-hearted curve and run with it. "I wonder if I should feel guilty for encouraging you back into the habit of smoking. I know I'm a terrible influence, but you've been stressed to hell lately, it seems, and you portion out your liquor with more discipline than some priests I know. What's been happening with Robert?"

He told himself a great deal of his composure was subconscious and buried deeply in the comfort of a well known habit rather than anything having to do with the cigarette itself. But that was the second smile he found himself wearing in as many minutes. He was very likely wrong, but just as likely not to admit it. "You shouldn't. Lest you planned on pinning me down and force feeding them to me." He ashed the cigarette with a practiced flick of his thumb against the filter. "He's told me that Marion is in town."

A relaxed posture suddenly shifted forward in response to this particular news. Gold eyes cut across his features and then seemed to go distant, recalling. "Marion as in Timothy's associate? The one who brought him to Salome and Bianca regarding the Astriola?" The names were slow in coming, hesitant in a request for confirmation. "Any notion of what he's doing here? Who he's seeing?"

"Associate, yes. Timothy found them first, but essentially, you're correct. According to Salome's story, he followed Timothy here. I presume, to help him, though I do not know what a lone Nephilim would be able to do against such a disease." He too shifted in his seat, but it was to sink an inch lower into it. "He had nothing more substantial for me. But knowing that he's still here aids in the planning of my next step."

Confirmation, the digestion of clarified details. "He...Robert? Robert found Marion in town? Alright." Legs crossed as she settled back again, one arm stretching out along the back of the bench. "What's your next move at this point?"

"Finding him." Another drag. This one longer, and slower. It put shadows under his cheekbones. "I wanted to speak to you about the spells you used on the resurrected dogs. How do they work?"

"I wasn't able to track the origin of the dogs, if you recall. Only able to detect the residue of necromancy upon the flesh you gave me. I focused on the blood on that tree bark. That...that was a divination spell. It's meant to determine how the blood was shed, and by who." Her eyes flickered to his cigarette and she was tempted to fetch one of her own.

"The only method of tracking I have at my own disposal would require a possession of Marion's or Timothy's, and unfortunately, we're fresh out of those. I do recall that when Salome needed to cast a broader net, she would not use a possession. Instead, she'd use an item that spoke to a certain trait of the individual she was attempting to find." He turned his gaze to her where it had been resting on the river. "Is that something you can do, or would you be able to get close?"

Slow inhale, longer exhale. The witch took the time to weigh her words. "That's difficult. And often inaccurate. Any tracking spell moves easier with something to act as an anchor. When I don't know the person, it becomes that much harder. Divination isn't my strongest skill, I'll admit. But." Pause. "If you can get me a picture of him, I will have a chance. Tell me as much as you know about him, get me a picture...yes. I can attempt to scry the man. It will allow me to view his actions for maybe a quarter of an hour, if we're lucky. From that point, well, it may get easier."

"Any blood you would use for this would lead you to the one who donated it, yes? Not the one we're looking for. I wondered if a sample could be given and split apart to its basic components so that you may focus on that bit of it that came from the Angel. His blood is in all of us."

"That...hmm." The tip of her tongue poked at the inside corner of her lips. "I hadn't considered that. Yes, normally if you gave me your blood it would just lead back to you. If you distilled the essence of the Angel, that would just point to the Angel...but. You're kin. Distant, but kin." Faint laugh. Once, then again more confident. "Cris I don't need the blood broken down, just the blood. I can find you every Nephilim in this city." One finger raised to point at him. "You're all the material I should need."

Heartened that he'd had an idea that held substance, he raised his brows in anticipation, the vague frown lingering at the corners of his mouth easing away. "I realize that we're not the only species of Nephilim existence recognizes, but there are very few of us here in town, that I know of. If you can do that, you could potentially discover whether or not Timothy has gone through some sort of transformation. How confident are you in this method of yours?"

Shae took one more moment to review her idea based on his suggestions. "Confident enough to give it a try. If it fails we can always resort to the original method. A picture and a prayer, as it were. There are more conventional methods of finding the man. If he's in the city, he's not beyond my ability to find him. The difference will be time. If that falls through...out of curiosity, have you ever summoned this Angel?"

He let her responses sink in, beat each other around in his mind as he took the last long drag from his cigarette. As he exhaled, he stubbed its embers out on the Marked heel of the boot propped on his right knee. "No," without hesitation to her only enquiry. A sliver of finality was attached to it. "No, that will be entirely out of the question."

"A very hands off ancestor, or one you don't want around for...Clave reasons? I'm not intending to try anything of the sort, I'm just, well, intrigued by this absenteeism from your common link." And by how firmly he had shut the question down.

"It isn't done." Fist formed a loose, scar-pocked coil around the dead filter. He'd dispose of it later. "Not for something as trivial as this, not outside of our own plane of existence." Half shake of his head. "It is not impossible. It has been done. But it will not be done this time."

"What qualifies as non-trivial, if it isn't the potential of a complete betrayal of what you're meant to stand for?" What in the world was that baseline like? "Further, if you want me to attempt this tonight I'll need about an hour to prepare."

He'd smoked one down already, but he wanted another one. His gaze turned and rested upon her quietly. Then he shook his head. "Not tonight. But soon. I've someone else I'd like to speak to about this. If she's willing, she may be able to work with you and lend her own aid in makings sure we succeed the first time." There was a hole where response to her question would have fit, but he did not fill it. Instead, he put his boot down to join the other, and rose from his seat.

If the sylph was disappointed by the absence of an answer, her demeanor didn't show it. "Fine with me. Let me know when you've spoken with her and I'll make the time to coordinate my efforts with hers." He was rising, she waited until he had completed the motion before she spoke again. "Was there anything more you wanted to speak with me on?"

"Nothing quite so weighty." He tucked the spent filter into his back pocket. "Where will you go now?'

One skyward glance. "I think I'll take a walk. While the sky is clear and the temperature is nice."

"Would you mind company?"

Consideration that required a sizing up of Cris from head to toe. "How do you feel about rooftops?"

He lifted one brow. "It depends on the means of travel to get there."

"Fire escape in WestEnd, to make it simple." Now she was shifting to her feet. The woman had attested to taking many walks in order to explore the city, but if pressed, few locals would have taken notice of her in the streets. Her walks hadn't been there, exactly.

"That sounds brilliant." Elbows drew in against the subtle shift of wind, cool but not unpleasantly so. Unlike her, he'd come only in a thin t shirt and jeans. It did not seem like he owned anything else. His nod was meant to indicate her coat. "It suits you."

The roll of shoulder and the step of boots towards the bridge, a progress arrested as she caught his nod and his words. One brow lifted. She looked down at the men's leather coat that had seen better days and then back up at him with a lopsided grin. "Thanks."

Slight smile. He fell in step at her side, letting his mind wander to thoughts and memories of another gold eyed woman he did not tend to dwell on. "You're welcome."

When the first box arrived at the museum he had switched into a work shirt for the occasion. The museum was temperature controlled but only so much could be done for doors that were opening and closing as much at they were. Usually, though, he was outside smoking a cigarette, signing for things on the clipboard, his dark hair messy in the air. Disa would be back that night and perhaps with something new about Marion if the system didn't tell him first. He was close.

At times, he found himself not wanting to think about Marion, or the nearing conclusion of his hunt for him. He wasn't sure if that was because he was worried about how it might end or if it might become his own ending. Or failure. How did anyone ever explain proudly to another person that a decade could pass and they would still be a failure. His lips drew the filter in, he crushed the menthol bead and signed the next arrival as the slip of mint slid into his lungs.

After the first eight pieces of armor had arrived there was a lull. The museum grew quiet and he checked his phone for any news from Disa. She said she would be around that night and it wasn't time for him to worry about her, it wasn't late. Perhaps it was a good sign. Then there was a prickling sensation at the back of his neck, one he had begun to recognize without turning around. Mahishasuri had a presence that couldn't be ignored.

The interaction left him changed, subtly, the grip-mark on his shoulder the biggest announcement of it. Sometimes he still thought he felt the demon whispering in his ear. His mind swam.

Then there was Cris. It was unpleasant most of the time to see him. He had a way of speaking down to Robert, which he understood to be part of his demon-hating background. Still, he found it difficult to share information or do him any favors when the interactions were disagreeable. It usually spurred him to say less or, when Cris' response was acidic, say nothing at all. At Least they were honest, he supposed.

It was after Cris left that he felt his phone vibrate with the warning that information on Marion had been found. Her system had forwarded it to him just as she thought it would. Now the sun was gone and the museum felt stranger to him. His thumb slid over the face of the keys and pressed, dialing her number. He should have just waited for her arrival but he felt impatient.

While she was waiting for the hits, she did some work for the armor. She made several posters and sent them off for printing. They?d be delivered later to Kultura. A few hours before dark, she started feeling odd, like something was happening. Disa didn?t realize her phone was dying, so she emailed Robert. She thought he might check it, but his phone was really only good for text and calling. Checking the computer, it would send him the hits. She left the computer running incase there were more.

She still couldn?t shake the feeling something was going on, so she rushed back. The air was different all around the place, she could sense the demon, he?d been there. It was like the night of the movie, she sensed the same thing. Instead of going through the front, she ran around the back and looked in the door. There was no sign of Robert.

?Think, Disa.? She went back around front and opened the door. ?Robert, where you are you?? She said loud enough. Disa had a knife in her pocket, and she left her hands in her pockets incase there was something she had to do. ?ROBERT are you home?? She stood in the main entrance waiting for him to come out.

Someone else was here, she felt that too. She needed to get a hold of that talent. ?Robert?? It was just about dark now.

He'd been here. Disa was especially acute at knowing those sorts of things. There were heavy, wooden thuds which ended up being his boots counting his steps until he reached the bottom. Her tone was raised and worried, he thought it was a warning so he had hurried down in a thunderous way, "Disa?"

A turn of his head and he spotted her, then cleared the distance. He smiled nicely, mostly because it seemed like the best way to start things, "Hey.?

She stared at him for a moment. The smile took her by surprise. "Are you alone, Robert?" He'd see her drawing out the switch blade. "I felt there was something wrong. Who has been here? What's going on?" She knew something was going on, but more so that he was safe. Looking him up and down, seeing if he was okay before she continued, "Is that demon here? I felt something, it was the same as the night of the movie. The one with the head.. " Through the other room, she saw some of the armor unpacked. Things could hide, so she stayed where she was until reassured he was safe, that they were safe.

"Just now, yes." He twisted to look behind himself to see if there was some intruder she was talking about. His eyebrows knit at the blade and then when she said that she thought something was wrong, his smile diminished slightly. Something was wrong. Maybe?

"He was here," he said, stepping back but motioning to her with one hand to come further inside the museum with him, towards the stairs, "He had a bit of a chat with me."

The door was closed and locked. Closing in on him, she put the blade away. "What do you mean he had a bit of a chat with you?" Was the demon sensing any shift or change in Robert? They had shared blood and over the months they'd been together, she felt things stronger, especially when it came to Robert. "What .. are you okay?" She'd go where he was leading, if that's what he was doing.

It was when they reached his bedroom that he turned on the light at the desk. His hands started at her shoulders then streamed down the outside of her arms, stopping at her elbows to give her a squeeze before he spoke, "He said he wanted to help me... I'm not sure if that's true, but I'm not in a position to argue with him. I just... don't want it to surprise you."

"Robert, he is not helping you without reason. I don't believe that. Don't you already have enough help?" The squeeze helped take the edge off of what she was feeling. "I'm sorry. You didn't ask my opinion about the matter." She followed him into the room where his desk was. She was going to have to rethink about staying here if the demon kept showing up. She felt sick to her stomach when he did, it was a strange feeling she couldn't shake.

"I know," he leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, "I care what you think, but there's not much I can do about it. Whatever he gets out of this... I'm not sure. But I feel like a pawn." His hands drifted from her elbows down to her wrists, "I think when this is over with that I need to leave Rhy'Din. You said that we would need to do that, for you, to get your answers. I... would like to go with you, when you go.?

"And if he tries to use you like a pawn, then what?" She asked. It helped that Robert said he cared about her opinion. "I know there are ways to keep demons from the door, since this is where I live too, I am going to make sure he cannot just come here when he wants. I hope you have no issue with that. If he needs you, then he can meet you off the property." Raising her hand to touch his shoulder. "You mean leave Rhydin for good?"

Nodding as he mentioned that she had to leave to get answers. "I hadn't planned on leaving without you Robert."

"Then I keep my head low and mouth shut. I don't... have another demon of his caliber on my side. I don't have a lot of options other than to be as uninteresting to him as possible. And this Cris situation? He's interested." When she spoke about him not being able to come to the museum as he liked, Robert sucked in a breath and tilted his head, "I don't know... that might piss him off."

When she said leave Rhy'Din for good he shrugged his shoulders, "For a little while, I figure that once I have things sorted with Tim and we leave that the demon won't have a need for me anymore. He'll focus on someone else in the area." It seemed likely that it would be Cris.

It took her a moment, but she kissed him back. Robert would have to forgive her, she was kind of freaked out that the demon was here and using Robert. Instead of kissing his cheek, she lightly pressed her lips to his. "I'm glad you're safe." Closing her eyes when he said it might piss the demon off. "Alright Robert." Stepping back.

She wasn't going to press it because this was Robert's fight and need. The fact the demon could show up anytime he wanted and Robert didn't have a problem with it, was probably the first time she felt a small ripple in their relationship. "It could be." She turned to see her bag at the end of the bed, the one she lived out of.

He was not happy about it, either. But he wasn't sure what the best option was. Barring the demon from being there would assert a sorely needed privacy, but it might also insight wrath. He imagined the demon wasn't used to being told no.

"I don't... know if my idea is the best, Disa. I just know it hasn't gotten me killed, so far." It was, perhaps, the first time he sounded like he wasn't certain about it. When she looked at her bag he turned, following her gaze. His hand caught the side of her face, his thumb smoothing over her cheek, "Everything all right?"

"I don't know what to say, Robert. If I answer honestly, then it makes me the bad one." She said turning her head back toward him. "You know better what is best for you." She was concerned for them, but Robert had to do what he had to do, Disa wouldn't step in his way. Putting her hand on his, squeezing before stepping back. "I told you I won't stand in your way doing what you need to do." He hadn't asked how she knew about the demon or how it affected her. She wasn't going to mention it either or give anything away. "I'm tired." Maybe that was good enough.

She had always seemed to know. In the past, it had something to do with her technological edge on things. When she stepped back from him there was a flicker of hurt, then the instantaneous need to cover it up with a glance away, his hands settling on his hips, "You haven't been in the way... I just wanted you to know..." He shrugged, not knowing really what the purpose of his confession had been other than to let her know that he had some uncertainty in the situation. Instead, he cleared his throat and looked at her, "If you were me, what would you do?"

She stepped away and crouched down by her bag, she was checking something. "I don't know what I would do if I were you, Robert. I've never had a need as you, the desire to do what you've done. I can imagine that you're coming to the end and facing many things." Closing the bag and standing back up she sat on the end of the bed near where he was standing.

"Thank you for telling me." She thought about it for a moment. "If I felt like a pawn, I would stop that, but I am not you. I would not allow another to do that to me, I couldn't." It happened to her before, and she ended it by moving and protecting herself. "You're a smart man, Robert, and like you said it had been working for you for a long time. You're probably safe continuing to do what you've been doing. I wish I could make it end for you. I wish I could be more helpful." She did. Disa wanted Robert to be safe, wanted him to be happy.

August 19th, part 2
Marketplace Clocktower with Shae, Crispin, and Lirssa

He laid the flat of the knife on his palm, then turned it and gouged a fissure through his lifeline. The initial split of his flesh felt cold, then warmth rushed as blood pooled and he made a fist, letting it leak through the small drain of his curled fingers and splat into the bowl below.

The connection with Fox was curious and unique. She had no idea what it would be like, though perhaps similar to when she powered a ring, but this was decidedly different. Not like connecting with a human, but infinitely more complex than she imagined connecting with a fox would be like. There was something more, something greater, and Lirssa took care in the connection she made. The wellspring was there, ready to flood if need be, but for now Lirssa remained as weir to the flow.

Shae kept an eye on the bowl as it began to fill from the curl of his fist. "That should be enough." Perhaps a half an inch of the vital liquid now rested at the base. "Here. Let's test Lirssa's connection through Fox." Holding out her hands for his injured one.

Flat of the knife wiped clean on the outside of his thumb, he set his hand into Shaes'. There was a thin Mark spread along his inner wrist, across blue veins and the uneven planes of shifting tendons and lean muscle. Crimson colored the wrinkles of his palm like demonic lightning.

With Fox as a conduit, Shae drew forth from Lirssa's well of offered energy. The canid concentrated to regulate the new addition to their dynamic, feeding it towards the witch. As such, her normal healing hex found greater effect. Crispin would feel warmth grow in the hand she cradled, concentrated around the site of his injury. Flesh began to knit as if the passage of seconds were the passage of days, and then weeks. Until the only evidence of the trauma to flesh was in the red that was just drying and staining his skin from the wipe of the knife. "Quite effective." Shae praised as she examined the outcome. "I daresay that's the most successful result I've ever managed as a product of that particular skill." Fox snorted softly. 'Amun Re would be delighted that there's hope for you yet as a cleric.'

Healing magic was not something he subjected himself to often. He had the means to take care of his own injuries stowed away in his boot and he was perfectly capable of using it. But for scientific purposes, he held his hand steady, stretched the newly healed skin once the spell was finished.

In the Void, Lirssa 'heard' Fox. It took a moment to comprehend that. She heard him. She did not dare to speak back, there were greater deeds needing attention than her blossoming curiosity.

"I'm satisfied that this arrangement should work." Turning her attention to the motionless figure on the floor. 'Is she alright?' Queried in Fox's direction. 'I think she'd speak up if she weren't.' Came his reply. "Now then. Cris. Put a bit of that on your upper lids." Gesturing to the bowl as she took the knife off his hands. A minute or so more was given to study the photos. "Am I to be looking for Marion or Timothy?"

The way Fox's words were said, and the shadow of words she heard, she inferred the conversation. "I am fine, Fox." She reassured.

"Marion. There's very little chance Timothy is still Nephilim." His own blood on his eyes? He touched his index fingers into the cooling blood and colored his eyelids with it. "He's the dark haired one."

'Hey now, I think she can hear me. Hello pretty one!' Brush tail thumped against the floor cheerfully. "Focus please." 'Right, sorry, sorry. She's so serious when she's working.' Shae centered her attention on the dark haired man, Marion. The tip of the knife was touched to his figure in the picture, leaving a small red mark there. Finished with them for the moment, the knife was set aside on the mirror frame. The picture was then balanced carefully against the handle so she could see it. "Alright. Keep your hand on my shoulder and you should see what I see. I'm going to be scrying him first. If we see him, I'll attempt to discern his location if the picture we see doesn't have enough information."

It would be, considering everything, quite rude not to say hello back, so Lirssa 'whispered' "Hello, Fox." And felt more than spoke her understanding of the need for such seriousness, particularly when working with new tools such as a new power source. It rather comforted her that the situation is taken with such seriousness.

He smudged his palm against his jeans, then touch-groped for Shae's shoulder based on where he heard her voice. The blood on his eyelids was sticky enough that it felt like he would be unable to close them again if he tried to look around.

There was nothing at first for Cris to see, for Shae was still preparing. "I'm going to begin the casting. This may be prolonged, so please have patience." She announced to the room in general to let those not viewing her motions know where she was in the process, to let Lirssa prepare herself as needed for the draw to come. Shae lifted the bowl and set to work. For this particular purpose, Shae was bringing to bear one of the stronger spells she knew: a greater scrying.

The bowl was tipped on its side to let half of the collected blood spill out across the surface of the mirror. The remainder was kept in reserve. In a greater scrying such components weren't strictly needed, but they lessened the burden and would hopefully improve the success. Crispin's blood seeped outward across the surface, covering every inch of the glass before sinking into the mirror. Meanwhile, Shae spoke softly in a language that vibrated on the air with arcane intent. Some seconds later the energy funneled forth from Lirssa would be drawn on in steady consumption. Filtered into the scrying as the spell hunted the man known as Marion. Sight would come to Crispin's closed eyes. The city from above, blurred zooming here and there. Until...

Like fog, pictures rolled in across the backs of his bloodied eyelids. Green leaves, a rock. Cobblestones that laid together in a bridge over a river. Lit windows and streetlights. Cirrus clouds overhead. His hand firmed up around the shape of Shae's shoulder and his brows pulled in tightly. From above, the milling foot traffic looked like a colony of ants. Black as a mass, but the closer he came, the more detail came through. Different colored hair, skin, features. Some had wings, some had more than four limbs. Their journey took them to the darker, dirtier, seedier edges of town.

Graffiti, grime, and black garbage smeared the walls and the ground. Garbage lay strewn about and blew in the wind. They passed stumbling drunks and budding fist fights until they came to a door. They came to a door. They came to a door. It was as if every forward step he attempted to take would not come to fruition. And he was left looking at a gunmetal grey door under a naked lightbulb. Roaches skittered outside the halo of light.

A frown touched Shae's face, but not a surprised one. "This feels like a ward. Are your people versed in defenses that can redirect scrying? Do you recognize this sort of warding?"

"We are," he said quietly. "Wards, at least, guarding objects and ourselves from penetration and manipulation. I feel---that this one has something to do with the location rather than Marion. Where are we?"

"That I won't know without a bit more effort. Do you recognize the area? It's some distant corner of the city: an outskirt or slum. That much I can tell." Her eyes were trained on the mirror that reflected the sky to any that looked upon it, but she was seeing the blood that had sunk within, and did not focus on the darkening reflection. "Are your wards subject to brute force circumvention. If so, would they alert the holder of the ward of a breach? I was searching for your Marion. He's in this building, if we aren't being redirected."

"I don't. I don't tend to go this far into WestEnd or this close to the docks without reason." He exhaled. "But that means he's here. Alive. I already knew this, but---" He shook his head. "They're meant to be disassembled, else the target will be destroyed."

Soft hum from Shae. "If that is so I will not be able to probe further without him becoming aware of our observation. I can maintain this for several hours yet, if you wish to linger in the hopes that he might extract himself come the later hours of night. If you don't recognize the building, I should be able to discern the location since he is on this plane. Would you like me to attempt it?"

"It would help if we were not facing an alley but a front entrance." He'd taken a breath to respond, but the picture before them changed. The door pulled open and a thickly set man took his leave, but turned his head like he expected to be followed. The pull of his throat sketched the coat of muscle beneath ruddy flesh. The Mark there matched one that rode Cris' own throat. "....wait."

She had not yet made a move to alter the connection and so the vision remained before his eyes. "Is that him?" Confusion tinting her tone. "Someone else you know?"

"The photographs you have are old. He should be my age now."

When the Shadowhunter turned, swept his dark gaze up one end of the alley and down the other, the resemblance to the the young man in the photograph was faint, but it was there. He'd put on weight, and he'd cut his dark hair until only a half inch of stubble covered his head. A goatee framed a tight lipped frown. The man that followed him outside was small and well groomed. His three piece suit was pinstriped. Two maroon squares of a perfectly folded kerchief bloomed from his breast pocket. He looked amused by the Shadowhunter's agitation.

"I do not know that one."

"Ah yes, I see the resemblance now." Murmured once the man had turned. Marion. Shae put the name to the current face. If she needed to find him again in the future the process would be less complex. "Who knows what sort of contacts he may have had to develop if he's been wrapped up in this mess with this Timothy fellow."

Their lips moved, and he could only hear part of their speech, like a radio being tuned. Where is, you have, so long. The suited man smiled and reached into his coat pocket at the same time that Marion reached into his. A hefty roll of bills was traded in exchange for four glass vials, a putrid eggplant liquid sloshing inside.

Shae was quiet for the exchange, and the scrying would continue to follow Marion until Crispin interjected with a request for something different. When the conversation between the observed figured continued, they could be heard at last.

"This was less than requested," remarked the suited man.

"That was all I could come up with on short notice," Marion spoke. He had the voice of a man forced to grow old too quickly, gravelly and tight with irritation. The same lilting accent that colored Crispin's own speech came through in Marion's, telling the story of a shared homeland.

The suited man tsk'd. "For that? I should take one of those back."

Marion recoiled and pointed a thick finger at the other man. It was missing its third knuckle. "I'll get you the rest. He needs this now."

"Some sort of medicine. Or drug to control Timothy?" The suggestion was murmured quietly. Shae didn't recognize the liquid by color alone.

"Treatment," he murmured. Cris was busy watching Marion's face. There were veins bulging in his temples, and one right beneath his eye.

"See to it that you do. The price for this batch will be doubled. You'll receive your targets tomorrow morning."

Marion inhaled and exhaled. It looked like his fist was going to crush the vials.

Crispin's stomach dropped. "He does not want to be doing this...."

"Targets?" Surely Cris knew how that sounded. "Is his loyalty to Timothy so great?"

"The bond between parabatai is unparalleled. Marion could kill this man without effort. But he is the only connection to a possible cure."

The man sneered and went back inside. Marion cussed in a language that sounded like Romanian and turned away. The image lurched to follow him.

"A possible cure? I thought you said there was no cure?" Brows drew together as she dealt with the change in perspective.

Marion had a quick, martial gait. One that didn't mince movement. He kept his fists tucked in and his head down. He bumped shoulders with those he passed and chose narrow, little traveled streets.

"There isn't, not at this stage, I believe. But in this town, people have been known to come back to life. I could be wrong."

With his eyes closed and focused on the vision before them, he wouldn't see the smile that found its way onto her lips. "Hope is a powerful thing."

"In several cases, it is a fruitless thing."

Marion's path took them from WestEnd toward one of the roads leaving town. Then, abruptly, he whirled around.

Smoking his cigarette outside on the porch, the ash of it grew longer but he wasn't ready to give it a tap. His eyes stayed off on the road, wondering if the last truck delivering pieces of armor was going to come. There had been a storm that kept that one from arriving. They said the winds had been so great that trees over two hundred years old had given up the ground and fell over, some of their bodies laying like fallen giants on the road. Some of the roads were washed out and an entire car went into the mouth of a sink hole.

It was hard to imagine those sorts of storms when things seemed so quiet, nearly boring, off the museum porch. When he looked along the railing he could see that the white paint was starting to draw up and would need to be sanded and repainted before it got too cold. He sucked on his cigarette and on the exhale he felt Mahi's cold presence sink into him before the porch grunted under his weight. He was sitting beside him now, on his left as his eyes had gone right to look at the railing.

"Robert."

They both know he didn't have to say his name. That he was already turning his head to look at him. It made the saying of his name feel like it meant something else. As if he were being labeled or that it was the precursor to a serious statement.

"Yes?"

"Your time is near," his large corpse hand patted him on the back like he was a good dog. The weight of the hand and the pat made it feel like a false heart's rhythme that was being laid over his own.

"My time?"

The water buffalo head laughed exactly like one might image a water buffalo head to laugh. It chortled, swatted at the air with one of its ears and then continued, "Timothy, you'll be having your hands on Timothy soon. Isn't it exciting?"

He tapped the ash of his cigarette, which gave him a good excuse to look away, "Yes. As soon as we can find him."

"Oh, it's going to be soon. And if it isn't? I'll leave a little trail of breadcrumbs for you to follow."

"Breadcrumbs?"

"Don't lose focus."

There was another pat-slap to his back. As soon as he appeared, he was gone. It made him wonder then, suddenly, what Mahi was doing when he wasn't there. If he haunted many others the way he was haunting him. Also, he knew how much it would upset Disa to know he had been there again. They'd just talked about how his coming and going the way he did made her uncomfortable. He didn't like the distant look of her when the conversation happened.

Soon. If it was really soon, if the ending was on the horizon, he needed to equip himself a little more. Pulling out his cellphone, he sent word to Disa. Part of that word included the want to buy a few things. There was no saying what he should expect of Marion and Tim. There were the good and bad scenerios. He imagined Disa wearing his old bar t-shirt, fadded with the logo and words "The Black Ram" on it. Jared, Chris, Nate and Sybil. As he had told Remmy once, they were still alive because they were carried in him. If they were watching, he imagined that they were holding their breath.

Tuesday night....

It was too Angel forsaken hot, but that did not stop him from wearing his usual. Slim fitting black jeans tucked into his boots and a thin white shirt. Short sleeves and a V collar gave him some reprieve, but not enough. The falling night was beginning to disguise his Marks.

Cris stood at the near the caf? where he?d met Robert the previous afternoon, with his phone in his hand. The message he'd sent to the demon was not yet ten minutes old. He kept an eye out for the demon among all the early week foot traffic.

He'd changed into something a little less 'nice' for the occasion. A long sleeved plain black shirt and some grey canvas pants that looked like they could take a beating. Black sneakers that looked like they were made to climb a fence. Tucked behind the belt was a knife and another strapped to his calf. Not that this sort of job would call for it.

It was better to expect odd things to happen.

It was another fifteen before he showed up, his eyes looking sharp and wide as if he were an owl gauging what was about him.

The approach was what caught his attention. He'd remained out of the way for a reason. Quiet and in stasis while he waited. When he caught sight of Robert, he silenced his phone and tucked it away. He could not resist a throat to sole inspection of the other man, with one dark brow arching high. "Sneakers?"

"Mmm. Pays for me to be quick." Deceptions and speed was what he needed more than anything else.

"You are a demon," he said with skepticism, as if he did not quite believe it.

Robert?s eyebrows knit and his voice lowered to a hush, speaking as if there was someone to overhear him, "We should spread out, he might not go down this path."

"I had not planned on laying in wait for him, but to bring you along, backtracking to the establishment where I first saw him. If he is there, we speak to him. If not, we wait. Perhaps ask questions. I've taken the trip twice already to be sure."

"If you're sure... then let's go." There was a nod from him to agree with it, though he was already of the mind that there wasn't any talking left to do. He was more inclined to simply leap into it. Perhaps the man could be persuaded.

A fifteen minute journey on foot led to a part of town that was more decrepit husks and abandoned businesses than civilization. Cris paused near the middle of a crossroads between a street that ran along the town?s border and one that continued on into the dark.

"This was where I lost contact with him," he said about the intersection. When he turned to head back into Rhy'Din proper it was with the same assurance of one taking a familiar road. He had not lied about retracing the Nephilim's steps. "I'm considering what to do about Marion."

One step behind Cris as he lead their stride, "What would you do with Marion?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "At first, I meant to kill him, as you will Timothy."

"Isn't that how your code works? Isn't he at the point that he should be executed? What, then, is there to rethink?" Eyes fixed on Cris.

He frowned, recalling the road that led out of town, the one he presumed Marion had taken. From there, there were too many possibilities on where they could be. "Perhaps nothing. My goal was to aid in your dealing with Timothy, and that is still my intention. Marion is merely a variable we must consider. Come. Let us move on." Head tipped to indicate his intended path.

"I suppose. Marion hasn't been killing people... he seemed at times to try to prevent it." That was what separated him from Tim, wasn't it? Unless Cris knew that he had done some wrong in his pursuits.

A soft grunt of agreement. "He will fight to defend Timothy."

"To the death? He must know that those are the stakes."

"Beyond, if he had the ability. The bond of two parabatai is one of unfathomable loyalty and devotion. Regardless of what one or the other has done."

"Then it isn't likely that you have much say in how the matter will go down. He'll go for blood.? Whether Cris wanted to do something or not with the man.

There was tension in his jaw that spread down his neck and shoulders. Through arms to the fists trying to form. "Most likely." He paused a half moment at another intersection before turning right.

In the back of his mind, Robert recounted what Marion had looked like. He'd seen so many pictures of him that it now seemed strange to think he would recognize someone he'd never met in person before. His hand went to his side like a reminder of something. There wasn't anything to say to that.

Robert twisted to follow the sound of an oncoming car when it was there. ?Maybe that's the stuff he's giving Marion?"

The world jarred and he was shoved into the shadowy embankment with underbrush. It wasn't a smooth transition and he fought the urge to cringe.

Cris would have done it so much more gently had he felt there was time. Instead, he pressed his back to the wall and listened to the march of incoming footsteps. With each footfall, he felt a surge of adrenaline flood his veins. His palms dampened and turned to ice. He wished he would have worn gear and armed himself better than he had.

Instead of turning around their corner the footfalls approached the building and followed the opposite alley wall. The one with the back door. There was one solid, metallic thud. Followed by another moments later and then the sound of the door banging open.

Robert?s side was starting to tingle. It felt itchy the same way a scar did when it was only a year old. He kept himself still. He could have hidden them both, perhaps. That was taxing, though, and he didn't want to strain himself so early in the game.

People were beginning to arrive to this get together. He was wondering how Cris would be able to separate that one sheep from the herd.

Cris whirled on the wall and scratched out another hasty window at the same time the roar of, "LUDWIG!"/ broke the silence.

The scene before them solidified through the window in the bricks. A steel scaffolding obscured some of his vision, but not all of it. There was enough to show all the men at the table had stood and formed a protective arc before the seated businessman. The hulking not-demon remained by the man's side. The packers had abandoned their bags for guns. All eyes were trained on the bulky, crew-cut man filling the doorway. His fists boulders, balled at his sides. His clothes matched the black goatee framing a snarl. Marion marched into the room only to be met by the two packers with the muzzles of their guns shoved into his chest.

Robert squinted at the new window. When the sound of the shout rang through the air like a bullet he flinched as if the words had struck him. Their numbers were growing, he wondered how much he and Cris could think they could manage before giving up.

He whispered, knowing they couldn't be heard through the wall and that all eyes were screwed upon Marion as he entered, "I can possess anything that's dead if we need it, I'll just need you to protect me while I do."

The mouths of the men gathered moved, but from this distance, through the walls, Cris could hear nothing. He counted the men he could see for the fourth time. Two armed packers. Two tablemates, Ludwig in his suit, and the thick set bodyguard. Marion shoved against the muzzles of the packers' guns. Ludwig motioned for his table mates to stand down as they too began to pull weaponry from beneath the table. "Whatever it takes to keep Marion alive, see that it is done." However skilled a Shadowhunter was, he could not survive a gunshot to the head.

Suddenly, the bodyguard broke away from Ludwig and headed for the table that held the packers' goods.

Robert frowned, "He's not making it easy for us."

Marion had a game face, though. The others were backing down and the tension in the group seemed to begrudgingly ease. He tilted his head to get a better look at the shiny, pristine bottles lined up.

"He must be getting his next dose for Tim..."

"He doesn?t know we're here."

Instead of putting the doses into an easily portable container, the bodyguard dropped the vials to the ground, one by one, shattering them. A dark wet ooze pooled at the guard?s feet. Marion's bellow of rage echoed throughout the warehouse.

Cris rose without a word and bolted around the building's corner when Marion grabbed the shirt of one gun men and hauled him sideways into the other. Shots rang and ricocheted, zinging around the warehouse?s interior and kicking up sparks in the dusty air. For the moment, Robert was left on his own to decide his own personal course of action.

Robert felt as if all the action were a movie that was far away from him. He could feel a cold sweat in his palms. This was the first time he'd worked on something so openly, so directly. He unsheathed the knife at his calf and sucked in a breath.

The energy he was using to cover up Cris' tattoos was small. To make himself invisible, though? It was more taxing but worth it. He trotted up, not long behind Cris and took the moment in the doorway to see where the arms and hands were flying. Marion looked like four guys were giving his curled up form the business end of their shoes.

Cris didn?t know why it was happening. The only possible explanation was that Marion needed to continue to play weak and cowardly to prevent destruction of any more doses, but with the bodyguard already on the second batch and with a pile of viscous purple liquid eating through the floor, he did not understand why Marion simply did not fight back.

Cris paused long enough in his sprint to replace the stele with two throwing daggers. With the hurl of his arm, one of the four's heads snapped back, the knife buried in his throat. On the ground, Marion took the opportunity to grab an incoming foot and twist. Another man went down.

Ludwig rose and commanded the execution of them all.

He looked like a wartime judge presiding over a chaotic courtroom. Robert saw him looking stately and turned, catching someone in between the ribs with his knife as they went towards Cris. With a twist to widen the hole, he took his focus off of being invisible. The cat was out of the bag, anyway.

With the break in the onslaught of shoes, Marion was recovering and climbing back up to his feet. He was shaky, his eyes read of the uncertainty he felt when he looked at Cris, but he wasn't in a place to overthink it. Whoever Cris was, he was keeping him from crumpling under the ground. His fist met the cheek of one of their assailants and then he pushed away, fighting through the limbs and chaos to the table.

"Watch out!" Robert?s voice shot over the warehouse. Two men were trying to flank Cris as he did the foot twist. Robert was still five yards off. He threw up an image of a melting, screaming face at the back of Cris' head, which shocked the two men enough that they leaned backward and blinked. Cris was a fighter, buying him a couple seconds would be all he'd need.

Ludwig did not seem to want Marion dead as much as Marion did not want to fight. Else, the guns would have already gone off. Cris' goal was to provide Marion an opening of his own to finish the job while he moved on. The thick guard had abandoned his task of destroying the vials and headed for Robert, the one lagging behind the rest.

The demon's call forced Cris into an emergency somersault that ended in a sharp whirl as he landed in a crouch. He had only brought three throwing knives with him, having not planned for there to be an altercation, and his last two found themselves gouged in the left eyes of both of his pursuers.

"The guard, take out the guard!"

The meat head was onto him. Robert twisted and caught sight of him heading over. He made two swipes with his knife, which the man's body bowed away from. Then he caught Robert's wrist with the third attempt and twisted his arm until he dropped the knife.

"Picked the wrong men to mess with," the man grunted at him. Robert tried to twist his hand out of the vice grip and when he couldn't, he went to his other talents. Searing noise, the sort that made hearts want to stop and a breath catch. He echoed cries and screams in the man's mind as loudly as he could.

The meat head was adamant. His grip tightened and he growled, twisting his arm until he went down on one knee.

Marion was shoving bottles into his pockets. The glass of them made the same clinking sounds that lost quarters and disappointment do.

Cris cursed under his breath with a decision before him and absolutely no time to make it. He could waste precious seconds to detour and save Robert from an obnoxiously pitiful death at the hands of a being who had not yet even shown his full strength, or he could aid Marion. The plan required him to live, to show them where his damnable parabatai was being held.

He regretted every step he took, his choice burning a hole straight through his core as mid-step, he slid the toe of his boot beneath the sleek metal length of one of the henchmen's fallen guns and kicked. The weapon sailed through the air toward the only other Nephilim in the room. "Marion!" he called, and the other man's hoarding of the remaining vials paused. There was no time to explain. "Shoot him, he will kill you!"

Instead of joining his racial comrade, Cris took the last weapon he carried in his boot; a silver dagger with a thin and dangerously sharp blade. Amethyst chips decorated the hilt and with his palm behind the pommel, he buried it deeply within the bodyguard's tailbone, taking full advantage of his preoccupation with easy prey.

The bodyguard twisted at the strike. It was all Robert needed to be able to shove his blade up in the air, catching him in the vulnerable spot under his jaw where the throat joined. His blade went up, through the flesh of his tongue, the roof of his mouth and to the brain.

It was an enormous amount of flesh to suddenly lose its command center. Robert thought the guard might collapse onto him but instead he fell to the side, seeming like a gigantic tree that had just been hacked down. At that point Robert kneeled by the body, working out his blade and then gripping the head of the man. "Expergisicimini." It took all he had, a flower of red was starting to blossom through the side of his black shirt though it wasn't immediately apparent. Black was good for hiding blood.

The large body guard's eyes reopened. Robert nodded, slapped the side of his face and then indicated to Marion, "Keep Cris, keep Marion and keep me safe. And bring him to us. You understand?"

A stiff nod followed. Slowly the hulking figure rose to his feet.

He pulled the dagger free, wet with blood to the hilt, and he turned his head to where Marion had fit the shotgun against his shoulder. Ludwig held a pistol and did not get halfway through warning the Nephilim that he was making the worst decision of his miserable life. Seven shots fired in rapid, murderous succession, each impact like a seizure through Ludwig?s muscles.. With the businessman's throat a geyser of blood and tissue, he slumped to the ground.

Marion pumped the shotgun and turned to aim it at Cris, Robert, and the swaying bodyguard.

They were a grisly trio to be sure. All covered in some manner of blood, whether it was their own or someone else's. The night seemed deeper than black when in contrast to the street light.

Robert reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone, checking with the pick-up taxi service. There was one not but a block away. By the time they reached that blinding street light the familiar yellow with black and white checkered paint patterned car was waiting for them. The man got out of the taxi and waved at them.

Cris was not as visibly armed as Marion, but with as much attention as the cabby paid to the shotgun resting on Marion's shoulder, it must not have been the first time he'd seen a group like theirs. Marion gave the address of an intersection that Cris only knew was toward the southernmost tip of the city and piled into the back of the cab first with the shotgun resting across his lap. He pointed the muzzle at Cris and Robert as they squished their way in afterward.

The ride had passed in relative silence, with only two more questions fielded by Marion. Who are you? and How do you fit in all this?, both aimed at Robert.

Whatever illusion, or glamour he had coated himself with was impressive to keep Marion ignorant, if not oblivious, to all but the wound in his side. Robert answered him with the truth, giving his name and a vapid claim about being there to help Cris, but they lacked all the meat of what he really was. There just wasn't time, or purpose, in going into it.

They arrived at an intersection one block from the city limits. Behind the border of civilization lay nothing but forests and open skies. Trees stood clumped together in black masses that blotted out the stars before them. Robert paid the taxi driver with a wad of bloody money and was the first out of the vehicle, then both Nephilim. A single dirt road wound off before them into the distance. Marion motioned for them to follow and he began to lead them down its snaking trail. They took it for what seemed like half a mile before he turned east, off the path and into an army of trees.

Cris was the first to break the silence, "How long have you been this close to town?"

"Four months."

"And that is how long you've been in Ludwig's employ?"

"No, that---that's been going on longer. Closer to seven. He was the only lead I had."

"There's Warlocks in town. You know that, yes?"

"Downworlders," Marion scoffed. "At this point, I'm better off working with Hellscum than any of them."

Grass and twigs crunched underfoot. "I agree," Cris added.

Warlocks. The Downworlders. It all sounded elitist and far away. Like discussing watches during a war. Details and preferences that left a hollow impact in his chest. There was only the short agreement of "Yea" periodically interjected so that his overall wordlessness on the matter would not ring so obvious.

Was it all what Cris thought, or was it bait? It was difficult to tell though he was reassured by the fact that his species was not being revealed and then dealt with on the spot. That 'secret' between him and Cris kept the haze of uncertainty from blocking the view of what was going on.

Curiously, Robert asked, "Could I see one of those glass bottles?"

The request was met with strained hesitation. When Marion produced one of the bottles for Robert's inspection, he did not let it go but instead held it by the cork and lip firmly, shifting the shotgun like he meant to swing it around and use it. Cris moved out of the way for his own comfort.

Inside the vial was a viscous liquid. Dark, and it had a purple sheen in the right lighting, but in the darkness around them that did not make a difference.

Robert frowned at the glass, wishing he could have taken it but knowing that blood, and the chance that he could be killed, was the price Marion was willing to pay to get that medicine. If it was medicine. Cris had never mentioned a cure being real and he suspected that if it was, fewer Nephilim would succumb to the issue.

The further they ventured into the woods, the heavier the silence fell around them, trapping the sounds of their breath and pulses under its dark canopy. The Nephilims' bearing showed itself in the ease they employed to overcome each natural roadblock.

And the deeper they went, the more at ease Robert felt. It was easy to break away, to hide, in the woods. Beyond that, he thought that they were getting closer. The blood at his side was starting to dry as his body worked on stitching itself back together. Without trying to uphold any illusions or possessions, he was starting to regain himself.

"How did you find yourself here?" Marion asked.

It took a moment for Cris to realize who he meant to answer. "If my information is correct, the same way you did. Warlocks."

Marion grunted. The silence this time was tense with unspoken words, but whatever he'd planned to unleash never came for it was then, roughly thirty minutes later, that they came upon the yawning stone mouth of a cave. Bats screeched and flapped unseen above them. Leaves rustled and crunched under the feet of vermin scurrying from hunters. Deep in the cave?s innards an orange light flickered.

"Wait here." Marion ordered, shrugging the shotgun free of its perch. He gave Cris and Robert one last moment of deliberation, then ducked into the cave.

Robert hadn't expected a cave until their journey showed no signs of a building. Perhaps he expected something like a modern day cell to be built. It wasn't until he was at the mouth of the cave that he could feel it. The sensation crawled up his arms and he realized that it was the uneasy sense of being around his own kind. Rather, not-quite his own kind.

No different than a man with the stench of sickness about him.

He hesitated, wanting to follow Marion inward, not sure if this was a trick or ambush except for what he felt. When Marion disappeared Robert spoke quietly and with the utmost certainty, "Tim is here."

Robert's claim released a wave of unease. It splashed in the hollow of Cris? chest and began to spread. "I do not know what he's doing," he said, mirroring Robert's tone. "But there are more than likely wards put in place. It would be in our best interest to observe a bit more patience until he removes them."

Patience. His jaw tensed and he paced, keeping his hand glued to his side though it wasn't hurting, not nearly as much as it had been. Still, he felt agitated. Was it the wards? Was it the sensation of having a mutated demon-creature nearby? He could feel the want to rush down there, though Cris was right. He wondered if Marion had something that attracted demons, something that would make them want to be in that cave; if whatever that was had somehow started to affect him.

Minutes. He'd been counting. Close to seven but not quite. When Marion reappeared in the mouth of the cave, he kicked at something unseen on the ground, then brushed his hand along the cave's wall.

"Five minutes," he said, pumping the shotgun. Then he stepped aside to let them pass.

The larger Nephilim went down with a thud and Cris threw his own body weight against Marion's, the length of the gun pressing down hard on the other man's throat.

Robert straddled Tim instantly. He was awkward and gangly, like trying to pin two mangy dogs at once. Did he know him, did he remember? For one moment Timothy let out a garbled cry from the change going on in his body, the mutation and the disorientation. Then he locked his eyes upon Robert. He was so bewildered, like seeing a strange creature for the first time though a Nephilim would have known man and demons. The guttural disharmony of his voice subsided and he could utter one word with perfect human clarity, "You..."

It felt like recognition. It felt like a whistle screaming so loudly his eardrums might burst with the vibration.

It all happened so quickly.

Marion clawed, bucked and kicked. His hands caught in Cris' shirt and he yanked down as he had tried to do with Robert. As he knocked his balance off, the meat of his other fist buried itself into Cris' cheekbone and rolled to the left, already regaining his center, finding a way up to his feet to start again.

Robert grabbed the dagger with both hands and plunged it into Timothy?s throat, at the dip above where the collarbones came together.

"All the same," Marion howled. "All the same, all the ffffff---fucking same. That bitch Bianca. Her pathetic tumor of a Warlock attached to her hip." Marion reached down and grabbed the length of the shotgun, jerking to try and wrench it from Cris' grasp, but Cris did not let go.

Fighting to their feet, Marion swung around and put Cris's spine sharply against the bars until they rattled in their homes and all he heard was clanging iron. Both breathing hard, flecks of blood came from Marion's teeth as he panted in Cris's face. "And then there's you. I should've known not to trust you."

There was a moment when time slowed, where they stood staring each other in the face. The next was when Robert's knife came down and buried in Timothy's throat. Marion choked, all the rage bled from his face, a deathly pallor filling in the spots between crimson smears. He stumbled, then wide-eyed, turned his head to Robert sitting on top of what used to be Timothy.

Tim's spine arched up, making a semi-circle in an attempt to buck him off. Both of Robert's hands held onto the hilt of the dagger as if it were a handle on Tim. It was. He tried to throw him and then collapsed on his back on the ground. Now he could feel Tim start to claw at him but it felt strangely distant.

Somewhere around him was a battle of a gun. He could hear the metal of it shuffle and struggle then the fleshy, solid thunks of knuckles and bone. Robert didn't break eye contact with Tim, Cris would have to handle his own and hopefully was doing it well enough that he wouldn't get shot for it. He thought if he looked away from Tim the man...creature... might wink out of existence. That this might become a dream? it felt like it already was.

"You took everything," Robert said it aloud, not having admitted that. Not having thought about it in such precise terms. The whole world had seemed to stop for him, then. That day where the body parts of Sybil, Jared, Chris and Nate flew. Where there was blood and things just... somehow, didn't make sense. Shouldn't the equation have felt more simple than it did? Demon verses Nephilim. The battle was one that wasn't ambiguous... Yet it was, even now. Cris was wrestling with Marion, a Nephilim. He was starting to split Tim, a demon, in two.

Tim's back arched again and he felt his hand, a partly demonic, slippery but painful thing, grab ahold of his shoulder at the curve where his joint was when he tried to reach for his neck. Tim gripped him so tightly, more than his own body could manage. His fingernails pushed backward, lifting off the bed of his fingertips and falling backwards and to the ground like bloody snowflakes. Surprisingly soundless. Robert thought that a symbol should have clashed for each one as it hit the ground.

The blade pushed down. It stopped at the sternum but he leaned forward, using that leverage and a back and forth sawing motion to work it down, further. It was as if he intended to flay him open like creatures on a dissection table.

Cris used that moment of distraction to his advantage. If he did not think of Marion as a Nephilim, but as an enemy, it felt better. It felt right to drive his knee upward into Marion's groin. Once, twice. It felt right to shove him backward and rip the gun free of his lax hands. Right to drive the butt of it into his chest, the muzzle into his already broken face. Right to force himself from the iron bars.

Marion collapsed two feet away, breathless and struggling to regain himself. Cris had never before witnessed the severing of a bond between two parabatai, but the agony he saw on Marion's face had more to do with what was going on with Timothy than anything Cris had inflicted upon him.

Cris spun the gun around and docked it tightly against his shoulder. Left hand pumped the bullet into its chamber and held steady as a guide, and he looked down the length of the weapon to the prone Nephilim at his feet. His index finger slid around the trigger.

"You.... YOU!" Tim's voice started to scratch the ceiling. The pink flesh in his arms bulged and began to split more in places, bubbling up a dark green-black body that had the hardness and shine of a cockroach shell. Robert thought he bucked so hard that his brain might splatter on the ceiling if it ever made contact. It felt like it would like the ceiling had bent in closer to them.

The blade worked. He swore in latin, in all the words he knew. In any prayer that had meaning, in any memory that gave him strength. The serrated edges sawed slowly as the tension built. They struggled with each other but Robert didn't take his focus away from it. He could feel Mahis' handprint over his shoulder and neck burn. Then, there was no more pressure. The last of the bone had been fought through and the blade ripped through the remaining flesh of his torso to the pelvic bone so much more easily by comparison.

There was a mix of shell, flesh and blood. Like roadkill and then something pungent and earthy-fresh like a fistful of herbs that shouldn't have been wadded together. Robert leaned forward and drove his fingers in between the separation of Tim's sternum. Once his fingers curled past the blood, the sinew, holding the two split pieces like the lid of a box, he felt Tim's hands weakly grasp both his wrists.

They stared one another in the eye. Then he leaned back, opening him up.

"I tried to warn you off them," Marion continued, rolling his weight to one elbow, "but I should've known. I should have---"

The sound of dozens of eggshells breaking at once filled the space. Wet tearing of skin and muscle. Ligaments and tendons forced apart. The air around them suddenly smelled like hot metal and garbage.

Marion's chest heaved. He watched in horror as Robert sawed and spread. "Don't," Cris warned, but Marion clawed his way up, anyway, holding a hand to his chest, over his heart where Cris knew his parabatai rune was.

There was only fifteen feet between them, and Marion was without a weapon. Cris saw the moment he made his decision. There was resignation in his face, a quiet peace that only came with knowing that one was about to die.

He took one step forward, and Cris squeezed the trigger. The shotgun went off and Marion spun backward, falling to the ground. But this time, he did not get up.

Everything was fragile, soft and wet. He didn't have to punch or do anything more than put his hand inside and gently lean forward. The way a child might press a flower. Organs oozed between his fingertips as if they had no independent integrity. Timothy?s body shuddered and finally quit clawing at him.

Robert sat back on his knees and realized his own body was shaking from the strain. He felt dizzy and exhausted, like he might just stumble to his feet only to fall down. His eyes shut and he tucked his chin down to his chest. It was over, wasn't it?

Cris dropped the gun and it clattered on the cell floor. Rushing for Marion?s prone body, he fell to his knees beside him. His hands went to Marion's shoulders and he turned the other man over. A wave of blood poured from his mouth onto Cris' palm. His half lidded, black eyes caught Cris' at first, but then turned as far as they could in Timothy and Robert's direction. Marion's left hand twitched, then slumped to rest, knuckles against Cris' knee.

When he turned to reach for his boot, where he'd stashed his own stele, the grip on his leg was as solid as the iron bars he'd been thrown against. He looked back to find Marion's eyes on his own, and when Cris shook his head, there was a small twitch at the corner of Marion's mouth.

?Marion---?

The other man?s eyes closed. Moments later, he could no longer feel the chug of Marion's pulse against the heel of his hand. Cris' own felt cold as he touched the other man's eyelids and gently closed them.

Silence enveloped the cell. He pressed his mouth together in a tight line as he beheld Marion's now peaceful, bloodstained face, with his cheek resting against Cris' hand. ".....Ave---atque vale." He shoved a fist across his bruised cheekbone, feeling an itchy trickle of moisture there, presuming the skin had split from the blow he'd taken. His hand came away clean, only damp.

Forty-seven seconds passed. He had not taken his eyes off of the dead Nephilim he held, even when he addressed the demon behind him. "Do you have what you need?" Voice quiet, scraped from the very depths of his aching throat.

"What I need?"

It had been nothing short of a need for so long. The sort that made everything inside him hollow and ache for years and years. He thought that Tim's death, when he felt that heart flatten and spread between his fingers, that fulfillment would rush into him. No, there was still the same empty space that was waiting for all his friends to come back to. He wanted Jared to tell him to get fucked, for Sybil to hiss at him for being a people watcher and for Chris and Nate to banter about things that were so very everyday, so very human, that nothing at all seemed strange. He wanted them all to be sitting at a card table, calling bluffs, grinning and trying to convince the winner of the card game that they hadn't won anything at all. Everyone being a sore loser was a silently understood part of playing.

There was only the empty cave inside the half-demon's chest, pried open and empty of all the squirming it had once had. Robert wanted to say more to Cris but he heard a clapping and wondered if it was all in his own mind. Where was it coming from? The other side of the bars.

Mahishasuri's water buffalo head was partly bowed to view them with large wet, black eyes that made him think of an eight ball. Ungainly corpse hands came together in a slow clap which rang of an indistinguishable emotion. At first it hit Robert as being sarcasm, that the demon thought his work had been sloppy or somehow humorous. When the sound of it quit echoing off the walls he realized that it had been a slow and grinning nod of approval.

Then he was gone and his shoulder ached like it had been punched. He looked at Cris but did not expect to see him register the demon at all. Sometimes he wondered how much of that creature was real or if it was some strange construct his mind had done to get him to this point. He hadn't thought about what he said, just that the words came out of his mouth and he heard them like a stranger had said them.

"Yes, I do."

Silence. It had fallen like a lead curtain and he let it. The last time he'd held a body close to him was eight years ago, and he did not feel a fraction of the loss and sorrow he'd felt then, but he did not particularly like the rapidly cooling weight of the corpse resting against him either.

For all that he moved or looked elsewhere, Mahis' appearance must have been in Robert's own mind, the Great Demon's message for him and him only. Cris laid his hand on the damp wound in Marion's chest that he'd put there himself with a shotgun round, feeling the blood thicken in his lifeline.

"What?"

"You asked me if I had what I needed..." They were in the daze after the act. He looked at Cris and it seemed for a moment that he might cry. Why was that? Why did it feel like he might crumple and shed tears as if it were he that was dying? He swallowed the feeling down and looked away from him, wanting to see Mahishasuri, wanting his guidance and for him to tell him what to do next.

But the demon with the buffalo head was gone. He didn't know that it was possible to feel abandoned by something you were afraid of. There was only him and Cris left in the belly of the cavern. Robert fought to get back to his feet like a newborn foal. His body shook with exhaustion, from the ripped and broken feeling that a ghost of adrenaline left him with. Clearing his throat, he gathered his adult face with the present, examining the bodies and then looking at Cris.

"We... need to get back."

To themselves? To Rhy'Din and to drinks and civilized conversation? Whatever soul-raw place this was, he was certain that neither of them could linger longer without losing some piece of himself in it.

He certainly was not putting any emphasis on the redness of his eyes or the way the clammy pallor of his face had nothing to do with sweat. Cris sniffed and swallowed only once. "You go. I will take care of the dead. Lest you've the need of a trophy to boast your victory."

"Take care of the dead?" He thought the cave might just close its mouth around them. Robert blinked at him, wishing he had a better sense of direction. He started towards the threshold. His back was to Cris. He slumped against the cell's doorway, the side of his head leaned against one of the bars.

He did not repeat it, merely looked over his shoulder as he heard Robert's footfalls shuffling away. This time he did not rush to aid the demon. He had made his choice.

"Bury them or burn them?" He twisted to look over his shoulder at Cris. Demons didn't take care of the dead. There wasn't anything left to pay homage to once the heart stopped.

"That is no concern of yours. The traces of our involvement in their demise will be taken care of. Trust in that."

"You think it's a good idea to be left alone with them?"

He turned back to Marion, finally taking his hand away from the other man's slack cheek. Back of his hand shoved beneath his nose, he started to rise. "Your concern is flattering. But if you're not convinced of their deaths, mutilate their corpses some more. I'll wait."

"I'm not worried about them." It was something buried between them. Cris has chose to help him in battle. Robert wasn't wanting to leave him with the ghosts that ate souls. The sort of bodies that never left someone's heart. "Tell me what to do with them."

There was another pair of hands to help move bodies. Unblinking and glassy.

"Robert," tightly. In truth, he did not know where to start. There was blood everywhere, and as much as he wanted to do this alone, the thought of going near Timothy turned his guts. His hands curled into tight fists. He raised one toward his mouth, then came back to himself.

"If you must do something, build me a pyre."



(Gigantic THANK YOU, to Brohkun for this scene!!!!)