He followed directions with the ease of one accustomed to taking orders. Immediate understanding, little hesitation, and a wealth of trust that where she was leading him would not be detrimental to him.

They passed locales he knew and several more he did not. He rarely found himself out of doors during daylight hours anymore. The night was easy to live and hide in. The scent of seawater hit him strong, with an undercurrent of salty fish and liquor. Coasting, he eased his grip on the handlebars. Anything he could have said, he held onto, waiting until they arrived.

The merchant quarter gave way to the shadier parts of the wharf, broken down boats sitting, cockeyed, against the docks while broken traps and rusty shipping tanks distorted any semblance of care or organization. It was this way for awhile until the decrepit stains bled out, leaving instead damp cement and empty buildings lining their way as they rumbled along, shaking loose brick and flaking wood alike.

Her right index finger extended outward, pointing to a decently sized warehouse further off, placed away from the smattering of clustered structures. It didn?t look as if it could contain a constructed monster the size of which Alex had previously explained, or everything else The Project would require, but looks were always deceiving. One massive door faced out onto a large concrete landing that banked the water, a long wooden dock stretching out from its side. In the direction in which Alex had directed him, though, was a smaller door, tucked back and alongside of the building. Sucking up what time she had left on the bike, her arms crossed a bit further over his stomach.

On their home stretch, he began easing up on speed. A terrible lack of traffic and the skeletons of old sea faring vessels and docks put a healthy sense of discretion in him. They would announce themselves in seconds with the damnable bike. He would have to Mark it, or at least send for an engine from home. No matter how little he liked vampires, their motorcycles were things of legend.

He coasted to a halt a mere seventy feet from the building and killed the motor immediately. The echo of it rang in his ears and still thundered in his palms and throughout his legs. Anchored to the bike by her arms, he kicked down the stand and merely observed. ?Can pilots see through a glamour?? repeating a question he should have forgotten about.

Good for them, no one was home. Or at least that?s what she had been told. But she trusted her contact, to an extent. So long as Andrew hadn?t gotten to him? but he hated the bastard just as much so, she had little to fear of that. There had been rhyme and reason to her asking of Cris to come and see Eden with her today.

Her grip loosened but didn?t entirely free him, hands resting loose and low on his hips where thighs hinged out in the other direction. ?That depends. What?s the glamour?? Thank god she had started to pick up on some of his lingo. And he hers, evidently.

There were barely perceptible seams where she rested her hands, a strip not even an inch wide sewn into his gear of a different material than the thick, sturdy, and unforgiving leather. She?d find them at every joint where range of motion was essential for survival, hidden well. The Nephilim?s seamstresses were all masters.

?Mine,? he answered. ?I?m not wearing it now. It works much the same as the iratze you watched me put on my side. Depending upon how skilled one is at the runic arts, one can be invisible to nearly all natural and supernatural perception. I would rate myself at a seven of ten. It?s not my best area of expertise. But enough. Should you or your pilots not have that high a level of detection.? He turned his head. ?I can?t erase my presence entirely, however.?

She didn?t say anything right away, just looked off into the distance at the warehouse, same as him, and thought over what he was asking and explaining. ?I don?t know,? she finally said. ?We?ve never dealt with people like you before. It would probably depend on how good a pilot is.? Which, without her saying it, meant that at least she would likely be able to see him. As proud as she was, she didn?t like to boast.

?But there shouldn?t be anyone here.? Reluctant as she was to dismount, she knew they would just sit there until she did. Pressure to his hips, she swung a leg back over the bike, leaving the warmth of both seat and his back in favor of the chilled sea air seeping between seams. Pulling together her jacket, she drew the maw of the zipper up until all of the teeth met.

He felt the absence of her weight against him before the cold, but even then, the sea air had two layers of leather to fight through. When she did, he rekindled the chug of the engine only to reverse and fit the bike and helmet in what looked like a crawlspace about to collapse between one building and the ruination of another. There was a Mark already etched into the chrome that he followed again with the stele he pulled from its boot.

?Come,? waving her over, then motioned to the bike. ?Can you see this?? To an ordinary mundane, it would appear only as it had been before he?d parked the vehicle there. But she was no ordinary mundane.

No, she wasn?t. Stepping over toward him and the bike, she tilted her head in characteristic study, eyes squinting at their corners. ?I didn?t know you could do that to objects,? she said, righting her head. She felt the tangle of hair over the one shoulder, ran a hand up and through it to work out the kinks. ?I don?t think anyone else will see it though.?

He kept the stele tucked away in his palm until he had the confirmation he needed. Other hand held open one side of his coat and the characteristic crackle of breaking skin, the scent of smoke, and a slight tightness around his mouth gave away that he was dragging the tip of the stele along his own body this time. ?If you were not my friend, I would be terrified of your ability to do that. As it is, it simply unnerves me.? Rolling his shoulder. ?Marks are not only for my kind, they?re for our tools, as well. The rune of Angelic Strength purifies any weapon it touches of demonic taint and prevents demons harmed with it to regenerate. I lock my apartment with the strongest security rune I know. My boots have two Soundless and Swift runes each.? He tucked the stele away. ?We use what we?ve been given.?

Now it was her turn to lead.

She looked to him, at his face surprisingly, and gave him a small half-quirk from one side of her mouth, but she didn?t say anything. The snapping sound and and distinct smell she wished she didn?t know drew her gaze downward, at the skin she couldn?t see him Marking. She looked away, back to the building, but not because she was disturbed. ?It?s what we all should do.?

?Come on.? Once he was finished, she started for the warehouse. A few glances around were the precautionary requirement, as was the slipping out of her phone, thumb swiping across the screen. Nearing the building by a couple of feet, she tucked it back into a pocket. ?It should still be empty.? Flipping open a small keypad located to the left of the door, she punched in a dozen numbers. Snapping it back shut, she grabbed the doorknob, shouldered the door. It swung open without a sound, spilling hazy light into an otherwise bland entrance way. A grated stairwell sank into the ground in front of them, zigzagging back and forth, creating distorted patterns via the yellowish lights embedded against the walls. She held the door open for him.

How many times had she said that by now? He didn?t tell her, but that unnerved him more; her constant repetition, reassurance, that the warehouse was empty and on lock-down. She had left this project and was now being forced into it. At times, he hated his pessimism. But at others, like this one, it made him take another look around. Two extra ones behind his back. Left hand found his pocket, he kept his right hand loose, near the hilt of the dagger on his leg.

This could be educational, or it could be a mistake.

He followed and pushed back the apprehension he felt upon seeing the descent into Hell she opened before him. Not allowing himself to think about it, he went in.

It was as simple as walking through that hollow in the wall to expose the monstrous beauty of Eden Tempest. Where the previous room had been large enough, this second area was bigger by far. The floor was sunken further down by hundreds of feet, to prevent what would have been the vaulting of the ceiling and a telltale sign from outside that something enormous rested within. Standing in the center of the room was the Jaeger, her dark blue metal almost black in the dim lighting, the glass of her helm dark from within. But immobile and inactive, she remained stoic, regal, her four arms down by her sides, weapons retracted. The ferocity she contained wasn't lost by her inaction. This was a creature built for battle, designed to win wars.

If Cris happened to look at Alex, not that anyone in their right mind would when confronted by the awesome presence of the Jaeger, he would have seen her approach the railing and lean both forearms on it, hands loosely clasped, and head tilted up. The look in her eyes was easy to read; admiration, pride, love. Few other things ever got that look from her, and Eden was the only constant receiver.

He wasn't all entirely sure what he was supposed to feel when the chamber bloomed out around them and he laid eyes upon the monstrous hulk of gleaming metal. Alex looked up and he looked down. He'd felt very little either way about heights, and there was something mesmerizing about how far down he could not see.

It was difficult to imagine Eden mobile. He didn't think he'd like to see the world where it had to be. He'd known since birth that there were things. Greater things, grand things, several things outside of his control. He wasn't the fool that thought he was at the top of a food chain. His kind's very existence hinged upon the principle that he was not. But still. He liked the idea that the Rift she was speaking of had yet to fully open.

He joined her at the railing, but did not lean as she did. Instead, he rested his hands against it, bar gripped tightly in scarred fists as he dragged his gaze up the length of the Jaeger before him. The higher he looked, the more stern his frown became. It was no wonder that something that gigantic needed two minds to control it.

"I don't know what to say."

"Then don't say anything." Not snide, not cruel. Just said. Quiet, even though the room itself threatened to swallow up the words. It could do that -- if one were to fall from even that height, their cries just might have died out before they hit the bottom. "I know it's probably not so impressive since you've never seen her move, what she can do. But that's her. Eden Tempest. That's my girl." It took actual effort for her to remove her gaze from the Jaeger, but the desire to see Cris's face won out in the end. Even frowning, it made her grin. "You look like I've just shown you a rat's nest."

?Careful,? murmured. ?Give me permission to hold my silence, and you?ll never hear me speak again.? Fists turned against the railing, warm where the heat of his hands sunk into the metal. Her observation pulled at the corners of his mouth where they threatened to plunge further toward his chin. ?It?d be most unwise for me to underestimate such a machine. I think of it more like a nest of demons. Threatening were one stupid enough to get close.?

"I bet I could get you to talk," she mused, offhanded. "Or maybe you wouldn't need to. I'm not sure." Turning her attention back for the metallic monster, it was easy to let admiration sit on her features. "She's saved a lot of people. I can't even remember how many fights we've been through." Which was odd. At one time, she had.

?The tools you?d employ would most likely concern me.? Grip eased against the railing. ?How did you come to care about this machine so much??

She let out a small laugh but didn't take her eyes from Eden, nor did she retort. "I went into the army with the sole purpose of becoming a pilot. I had seen so much destruction done by the Kaiju, had suffered it." Well, that had degraded fast. She took a moment to wet her lips. "I knew I could do something different so when The Eden Project was announced, I tested for it. Connor did, too, and it worked. We became the leading force against the Kaiju. She works because of us, and we have our lives because of her." Her shoulders moved in a shrug. "There's so much more but it's impossible to explain."

He took it in, with a glance back over his shoulder at the thick tunnel they?d come through. ?You don?t need to. I presume it?s because Eden is the vehicle through which you accomplished your ambition. Without it, you?re the same as you were before you discovered the ability that you have, and I don?t think you want to be the same. I think you want to be you, because you know you?ve the capability to be something extraordinary.? He turned back to the Jaeger. ?I?ve no possession like that.?

She looked at him and just observed for a few seconds. Not many people talked like he did, and even less talked to her like that. Which really was to say that no one did but him. She continuously found that she liked it. "It's that, yeah, and something more. But I think that has to do with the Drift." She glanced back behind them too, then once again to him. "You don't strike me as the kind that would." A buzzing sound in her pocket announced that they still had service. Straightening up, she dug it out, the screen already aglow.

?I?ve---people,? he said after a time, trying himself to explain and understand his own position. ?Possessions come and go. The life that I was born for dictates it. Weapons break, gear rips. Homes may be destroyed. It?s the people that you find along the way that are worth holding onto.

?When I was a child, I found it very hard to connect with anyone and so when I was able to, I think that?s why I hold onto them so hard. I know that I shouldn?t, for I know the possible outcomes that life can take. But I?d be nothing without them.? He let her look at her phone without the invasion of his own glance.

"You, awkward as a child?" Her eyes slid up to him and she'd be damned if she didn't at least try not to grin. "Never." Sarcasm was delightful in these harmless doses.

"Those same people are lucky to have you, Cris." Looking back down to her phone, tapping the pad of her thumb across the glass, text went scrolling, then the screen went dark. "We should get going," she said, tucking the phone back into a pocket. "People are on their way back."

He naturally didn?t think so highly of himself that he believed anyone lucky to know him. They knew who he wanted them to know. There was only one alive now that had known him at his worst, had seen and survived it. And he wanted to keep it that way.

He said nothing to her first, nothing to her second even, but her warning lit a fire under him. Fists opened from the railing. He took one last look, then turned his back on the Jaeger. ?How much time do we have??

"Plenty," she assured him, but turned and made through the stout hallway all the same. Down the short flight of steps, she was retracing their path through the initial room without need of memory. "Sorry to cut the visit short," she said once she was yanking the heavy metal door open, holding it for him to go through first.

She was a head shorter, but his pace was brisk. He kept up with her, comforted by the swiftness they employed to get out. He?d be able to breathe easier once there was a great distance between them and the facility. ?Don?t be. It borders on stupid to linger.?

"I wanted to show you the inside." A devilish little grin. Leave it to the pilot to know how to break into her own Jaeger. Following him through the door, the stairs were mounted two by two. They seemed endless.

It was chilly. More than it should have been. Alex blamed it on the motorcycle, of the air slicing through layers despite their purpose to such situations. It drew her tighter against him, eyes narrowed against the onslaught of razor-like wind. Directions were given here and there. Much like before, yet different. Something felt off.

A glance off to the side was enough to cast peripheral behind them. Two motorcycles, pitch black. Their riders, obviously male, dipped in leather and helmets of the same color.

Swallowing against a dry throat, she brought her mouth close to his ear. "Cris." A squeeze around his abdomen. If he looked at her first, either directly or in the mirror, she'd be looking into onto of those reflective ovals, too, at the twin riders tailing them.

He was uncomfortable, and he did not know why. The place she?d ?bitten? hadn?t quite felt the same afterward, like the unknown pressure was still there, daring him to guess. Even with her at his back, he felt that it was exposed, the nape of his neck with all of its white scars from faded runes vulnerable. She leaned up, whispered her word and he did just what he didn?t want to do.

He looked.

?The Angel?s goddamned sake...? he spat, tightly. But it wasn?t the surprise of one caught off guard, it was the frustration of one who knew that something was out of place and who did nothing about it. He was a better rider than he was a driver, but ?good? was a bit of an overstatement of his skill. Already, the adrenaline of the impending unknown turned his palms to ice and slicked them. He hissed another word, one syllable long, one of his favorite mundane words, and leaned into a hard right turn.

She trusted him. She trusted herself. She trusted the bike -- a person quickly learned how to judge a piece of machinery after having driven a Jaeger into battle. What she didn't trust was her instincts. They seemed hobbled, fried. Whatever those people before had done to her, it hadn't gone away. It had evolved. It was more vicious a disabler now than a simple bloody nose.

Pressing herself tight, joining their weights as much as possible, she leaned into the turn while still managing a glance over her shoulder. The twin riders kept pace, and then some. The turn did nothing to shake their streamline and, none too slow, they advanced on them. She swore she saw something gleam against the sunlight in one of both of their hands, but it could have been the wind-born tears scratching her eyes.

He wished he could leave behind the sickening feeling that whatever was going to happen, neither of them were going to get out of it completely unscathed. He was an echo of who he had been, still, and a mounting terror fought against what he knew he had to do, and what he had to be. It all lived behind his eyes, in the way they gleamed, pale green eyes in his scowl, the harsh, dark line of his mouth.

A wide left turn, followed by a snake?s path through vendor?s carts speckling the street they found themselves on. The roar of the engine drowned out shrieks of surprise and delight. Milling shoppers sucked themselves back, out of the way.

He wished he had a gun. He wished Leena was here. He wished this wasn?t happening.

?Who the *** are these idiots??

He didn't have a gun. Alex wasn't her. And this most certainly was happening.

She had never been very good at making wishes come true.

"No ****ing clue," she shouted back, trying to be heard above the explosion of noise while also desperately careful not to shatter his eardrums. Her thighs had squeezed him between them, as much as to keep her seat as anything else, arms laced like steel bands around his torso. Miraculously, the way she did it wouldn't hinder his command of the bike. Another benefit of The Project.

A crack rang off, too close to their left to be comfortable. Another peek and her dread was real -- guns. "****."

Light splashed before her eyes, mixed with red. Her head was pounding, her back was wet and on fire. Blinking, the gunshots sounded too far off in the distance. She demanded of herself what should have been inevitable. Drawing to her knees, finding her feet, she stood. Between her and the crash site of Driver One sat a prize, the only thing she could see. A blazing black star. She went for it like a moth to flame; fast and blind and reckless.

The driver swerved, and he lunged forward. Momentum made his first footfall a stumble. He caught the street and rushed onward. Every shot fired made him duck, lurch, scramble in an uneven line. Bullets gouged holes in stone, tore chunks from bricks, and zinged off the bike he was sprinting toward for cover.

He only had two choices and neither one was more beneficial than the other.

He could run. Duck behind the bike or a corner of the nearest building to buy himself extra moments to think of an actual plan. But the glaring problem was that he was not the only target. He did not know who these riders were, or what they wanted. Only that they were willing to shoot to achieve it. If they were not solely after him, it would not matter if he got outside of their range or not. They would kill him, and he knew it, if they hit her again.

Ten feet from his own bike, he chose what he thought to be the lesser of two evils by pulling one of the four knives he had strapped to his right leg and palmed it into a tight grip. When his left boot came down, he whirled in place. Fire streaked its way across his cheek, from his mouth and over his ear, an angry, red line in the wake of a bullet that felt like a punch. Deja vu was a sickening visitor in his core. He had just done this, placed all of his hopes on the whiplash throw of his arm and the rocket of a silver dagger through the air toward the gun and, possibly, half of the fist holding it.

He needed a much more level playing field than this.

She was always, in some way, handicapped when situations such as these presented themselves before the two. They were too frequent, yes, but there was nothing to be done about it, only the attempt to improve them and their lot while in them. That was what the pistol was going to be used for; leveling the playing field. Even without Drifting, they sometimes thought alike.

Cris did what she expected -- she never pegged him as the type to run. As she stooped to pick up the gun, hissing as the buried bullet bit angrily at her insides, she didn?t see the way that the silver blade cut through the air, or how it sparked against the side of the pistol, or how it drew fresh red from the back of the hand wielding it. She didn?t see, either, the expression on the face behind the tinted face shield. Neither of them did.

As Alex straightened, there was the clattering of a gun. Not hers, though. That piece of black metal was firm between five fingers, albeit slick. Was that blood on the handle? Possibly, but not hers. Or was it? Bright carmine colored the back of her fist, disappeared up under her sleeve. She swallowed hard as the new pain registered, blossoming somewhere along her right shoulder. Tightening her grip, she turned, swung up the gun.

It was difficult to do much of anything other than what you already were when you were both driving a motorcycle and firing a gun at the same time. It was even more difficult to pick something up -- or someone. Cris had just made it that much easier.

Alex lost the air in her lungs as a strong arm slammed into her abdomen. Not as a strike, though, but in a scoop. The next thing she knew, the pavement was moving beneath her feet, a hard body pulling her against it, trying to make room to make it through another thin alleyway.

Well, ****.

Blood, grime, dirt had never bothered him. It was the world he?d been born into, to not expect it was to live a lie, or to want to. He paid little mind to the sticky red working its way into the cracks of calluses and wrinkles of his fingers. Her head was heavy, neck boneless in her unconsciousness and the way it swayed, stretched the line of her neck and pulled at the swollen, busted line of her jaw gripped his core in its clutches. Eyes closed, a low catch in his throat was the marriage between a grunt and a juvenile moan of protest. Tight and breathless and disgusted with himself more than the broken picture she presented.

He stood with her and there wasn?t time to take care of how she fell against him or where the leaking bullet wound was. There was a dark opening some feet away that he presumed led to a dead end door of one of the buildings on their right. He did not want to be closed in, nor did he want to be this close to the wreckage. But he didn?t have the time to find somewhere safe enough to suit them.

Striding with as much speed as he dared, with three looks cast backward down the alley, forward toward its exit, he ducked into the narrow alcove between buildings that ended in a steel door. A wrought iron fire escape climbed like strict black ivy toward the roof, but he stayed on the ground, kneeling to deposit her as upright as he could manage in the closest corner while he dealt with the locked door.

Her head lolled first back and then to the side, neck stretched into precarious position, the corner cradling it like a sympathetic friend. Blood would paint the bricks behind her a brighter vermilion than they had ever dreamed to be. A few seconds more and thick, sticky red spread beneath her nose and beside her mouth.

Off in the distance, motors roared. Two, three? More than one.

He didn?t look. He didn?t have time to fill his gaze with how closely she resembled a pile of birch wood kindling. Hand on the security door was slick when he gripped the handle. Twisted, pushed. Shoved. His shoulder hit steel with a metallic thud, but it didn?t budge in its frame.

The close quarters of the alley muffled the sound of the wind, the sounds of the streets they?d cut down. His own breathing, however, was too loud inside of his head. He felt his heartbeat in his face and his fingertips. Mouth set to a line, he dug into his boot to produce a thin, cylindrical device that he drove against the door without hesitation. The rune was sloppy, slanting a bit to the right but when the lock clunked and the door popped inward, he put his foot in the space it made to hold it there.

The challenge was in lifting her. She was just out of reach to require a gentle tug out of the corner and he didn?t want to. He would hate the individual who had to do that to him. He?d briefly hated Leena for making him walk after their first encounter with men like these. He put one arm under hers and around her back, lifting in attempts to minimize the drag of her feet when he shouldered his way inside. They?d left a smear of red on the door and the wall that he hastily rectified with a second Mark gouged into bricks. One last look thrown down the alley, he pulled the door closed behind them.

The corridor he?d entered was forged entirely of cement and metal. The floor shone in weak fluorescent lights. Miles of pipeline stretched overhead and the sound of running water killed all white noise. He put his head against the door, closed his eyes, and allowed himself one moment of relief.

There was nothing left but silence between them, a moment of kind reprieve. But for once, her condition would be helpful. The meek moan would be smothered, at first, by the constant rush of captive water above their heads, the din of mindless noise, but the slight movement of her head was a less likely thing to miss. It moved from side to front, slow and with another waking noise, until it rested against him. A fist clenched, dangling somewhere. The other had refused to acknowledge her command to move.

?Alex,? he exhaled her name in the musty air, his hand with the stele moving to take the side of her head and tip it back. Her cheek was gritty on his palm, bits of dirt in broken skin and too much blood. Head wounds liked to weep. ?Alex, wake up.? She nearly already was. But perhaps it would annoy her into answering.

Another groan was his initial answer, followed by a cringe on the face that was now turned up to him. There was a hand against her face, cold but not colder than her own skin. It shouldn?t have been, not with how much liquid warmth had escaped out past shredded flesh. Her color was pale beneath the wealth of freckles, making them stand out even in the dingy light. ?Cris,? another moan, one of protest. They were growing stronger with the potency of registered pain. Her brow gathered, eyes fought to open. They were unsteady in their own sockets. A pitiful sound struggled in her throat.

Another sigh emptied his lungs. It sounded something like Angel and his arm around her back tightened. ?I know. I know, I know it hurts. Were you shot anywhere else? What of your legs, can you move?? It was dark, but not enough to drown all vision. He cut a swift look to the thick door at his back, trying desperately not to imagine the sound of engines.

How could something feel so good and yet so utterly destructive? Alex now knew. The tightening of his arm brought out an involuntary cry, but it kicked her into action. Her left arm drew up, fist clenching the leather at the back of his shoulder and holding on for dear life. It pulled her open mouth to the front of that same appendage, the tail end of her cry muffled as she crushed herself against it. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill.

Once the crest of pain had passed, she nodded, still clinging to his shoulder. ?The back, and right shoulder,? between clenched teeth that turned for his neck. ?Everything else hurts, but I can walk.?

In the hallway of only metal and stone, her voice echoed. Bounced off the walls, rattled the pipes, and he put his hand against the back of her head as if to aid her in the desire to smother any cry of weakness. ?All right,? he said tightly. ?We need to move. I?ve put a glamour upon the entrance to this building but if we were seen entering, I?m certain they?ll find their own way in. I don?t have a much skill with bullet wounds. Have you anyone you can see for them??

Have you anyone you can see for them? It was like a trick question, another way of causing injury without scoring blood. Did she have anyone? Yes and no. Connor was always there for her when she was injured, albeit they also always had the project?s medics on hand to do the actual dirty work. She didn?t trust them anymore. Plus, they couldn?t risk Connor being found. Bashir had gone through things, been injured in the line of work. Surely he had seen his fair share of bullet wounds, but was he really the right one to go to for this? She didn?t know. Then there was the person standing there with her now, witnessing her submission to agony through a quaking body. The sound of pain laced with rebellion shook close to his throat. ?Get me home. Call Dirk.? He was her last option. She hoped it was the right one.

By home, he sincerely hoped she meant somewhere other than the apartment that every living being and their exhale knew the location of. A testament to how different their worlds were when he ran his own mind down the list of possibilities and settled on Canaan. He?d helped her before and as opposed to this man that he did not know, not that he knew Cane any better, he trusted Warlocks with his life on numerous occasions.

But she?d made her request. ?Your phone. Which pocket??

Home meant her warehouse. It?d be an absolute nightmare if he brought her back to the apartment. The apartment in which Connor was currently staying, had been for months. She was still paying the rent for and, on occasion, bringing him supplies. The last thing she needed right about then would be to see Cris?s look of disapproval. Please, dear god, not the apartment.

It was funny, the way compatible minds worked, or at least hers. While the Warlock hadn?t even crossed her mind, it did once Cris?s skirted past his name and image. ?Cane,? she said, ?Call Cane.? Gripping his shoulder tighter as another wave hit her, this one targeting her head,her eyelids mashed together and blood smeared stubbled flesh and leather alike as she crushed gritted teeth against them. ?Front right, in the jacket. Jesus ****ing--? A sickening quiver raked out from her spine and into her limbs.

He didn?t exactly have the time to be irritated about that fact that she?d sieved it from his thoughts. ?Hold onto me.? There was a tension in his voice that wasn?t liable to leave any time soon. He swapped the stele to his other hand and parted the space between their bodies as quickly as he could with the other. Blood slicked is knuckles, cold on his skin, her clothes warm where they?d been stuck to her. He palmed the inner lining of her coat until he found a cell phone tucked away in a pocket that was almost too small.

?It will be fine. He?s the means to track us, though haven?t ever discerned his ability with Portals. We might have to make a short trip.? Red smeared along the buttons as he scrolled through her contacts. C, C, C, C---by the Angel. The cold blue light lit the lines of strain around his eyes, and frown.

She hadn?t meant to go into his head. In fact, if she had any control over it, she never would. Too many secrets there, too savage of disappointment. He didn?t have to tell her twice; she held onto him with whatever amount of strength she had left. At one point, her head lolled again, slumping against the crook of his neck. Lids fluttered, eyes rolled. When she regained control of her consciousness, there was a shiver, violent. ?It?s cold.?

Exhale heavy with relief, he gripped the dead phone his hand two moments longer than he needed to and threw a look up one side of the corridor and down the other. ?Alex,? he said firmly, taking a better hold of the wrinkles in her coat. He snuck the phone into its pocket through the non-existent space between their bodies. ?Alex, do you hear me? Canaan is on his way here. We need to move, we need to meet him outside. Can you walk with me??

She had been through Hell before; instead of getting a t-shirt, she wore the scars. But the one thing she hadn't experienced before was being shot. After today, she knew she never wanted to experience it ever again.

His voice was distant, the warmth that his body should have been giving her too far detached. She felt both light and heavy, like the blood staining her clothes had emptied her veins but weakened her bones, leaving not enough for strength. She fluctuated between stiff and lax in their embrace, consciousness a fickle thing. "Cris, I--..." Her head rolled, forehead jammed beneath his jaw. "You need me to walk." The fingers at his shoulder gripped, bleached white. Her teeth chattered. "Don't let me go." Mutilated thought had become motivation. That motivation died with her body's betrayal. A single step, her knees buckled, weight sagging for the floor.

It was hard, and he knew it. But it was something for her to focus on. The monotonous task of picking one foot up and putting it down before the other, the strength it took to maintain balance. The end justified the torturous means. ?I know,? he said. He?d said it at least thirty times. He shifted only enough to free his own walking space, his hold on her still firm and immobile. Steel in his arms and strength in the fists he made in her clothes when he hauled her back up, back against him. ?I?m not leaving you. Try for me, yes? Try for me, one step at a time. It?s not far.? Tension pulled his tone thin and hardened it. Stones scraped against each other, terse, like the continuous looks he threw back over their shoulders. That door, by the Angel, had better not burst open on the way.

He kept asking her, in the one way that would keep her snapping back from that darkness. It was seductive and blissfully numbing, the promise of nothing that heavily outweighed the persistence of pain. But he kept asking. For ****'s sake, why did he keep asking?

But it was enough. Silent beside his coaxing, forcing back all pitiful noise, they miraculously found the next door, wherever it lead. She hardly saw it, just one shade of gray indenting another. "Cris." Her head once more found his shoulder, body turning, clothing cold as it pressed between them. There was so much blood. "Cris. Cris, I'm... I?m sorry, I--" The apology went unfinished. Her task was complete, his request fulfilled. She finally did exactly what she had asked him not to do, and let go.

The blackness wasn't nearly as sweet as promised.