Unfettered for the scene! ]


It had taken time and effort to get himself here, across the dimensional portal that existed between Rhydin and Earth. Not even a Jinn could teleport across it as easily as he otherwise could but Mus'ad felt it would be worth the effort. Now, he waited in an elevator that played horrible instrumental music while it traveled up and up and up to the penthouse. The man lived in style and the Jinn had to respect it.

With a soft ding, the doors slid open to reveal a door just a few feet in front of it. Stepping out, he took a moment to assess the tiny entryway before lifting a hand to knock with the backs of his knuckles.

The door -- which was a brilliant shade of red -- swung inwards just as the Jinn's knuckles met it. It opened into an empty entryway, revealing a short walk across shining wood floors that opened further into the main living space of the penthouse. Much like Mus'ad's, the room had floor to ceiling windows overlooking a fantastic view of Los Angeles. The room was recessed in the center, the floor dropping down in steps to a series of couches that circled a glass table. There were several other doors within immediate sight, each of them red and closed.

A man stood out on the balcony, visible through the large windows. The wind tugged at his hair and green coat alike. He held a phone to his ear but turned as the door opened. The angle afforded him a straight look down the short hall and to the doorway in which Mus'ad currently stood. He lifted a finger.

There was really no point in getting a penthouse unless it had an amazing view. Otherwise, why climb so high?

Walking through the door, he could feel the subtle hum of the wards that cloaked this place. Much stronger than Owen's, the one that crafted it more confident in his abilities. Or perhaps paranoid enough to warrant them. The place was quiet, though brightly lit, so it was clear that someone was home. Magic alone hadn't opened that door for him. Shutting the front door behind him, the Jinn inclined his head for the finger and clasped his hands behind his back in a gesture of good will. With that, he ambled around the perimeter of the main room, looking at everything to be seen.

It wasn't long before the wild haired man stepped in through a pair of sliding glass doors. He was still holding a phone to his ear and paused, covering the receiver with his free hand.

"Make yourself comfortable. I'll only be a moment," he said. "Drink?"

Brows rose an inch when the doors parted to allow Cavan to enter. Turning to face the other man, he saw the phone was still engaged but Owen's brother was polite enough to acknowledge him. Holding up a hand, he shook his head twice to indicate no drink was necessary. Removing his coat, it revealed a suit but no tie tonight. The pale green shirt was open at his throat, revealing his collarbones and the shallow dip at the base of his throat before it obstructed the view of his chest.

With a few steps, he moved to the recessed area and set his coat over the back of the couch before taking a seat. One knee crossed over the other and both arms spread along the back of the couch in either direction. Making himself comfortable.

Nodding, Cavan turned to give Mus'ad his profile.

"Yes, yes. Of course, Councilor. No, I cannot imagine where my brother has gotten off to. I was not present at the ritual, so I cannot say for certain what caused its disruption," he paused. "Yes, should I hear from Owen I will inform the Council. Of course, goodbye," he hung up, sighed, and tossed the phone onto the couch opposite Mus'ad.

Cavan stepped over and onto the cushion, then sank down to sit cross legged on the right, dark leather. He placed his hands on his knees and fixed Mus'ad with an intense and unblinking stare.

"I'm Cavan Ramsey," he said.

Not a flicker of acknowledgement or recognition passed over the Jinn's face; he kept it politely impassive, green eyes roving over the furniture and decorations, wondering if there was a certain significance to the red doors or if it was merely a color preference. Once Cavan was off the phone, Mus'ad shifted his weight, ready to stand but the other man preferred a more informal greeting.

Still, he placed his hands together in front of his chest and bowed his head over them before letting them fall to rest in his lap, fingers intertwined. "Mus'ad Boustani. Thank you for allowing me entrance to your home, it is quite remarkable."

"Mus'ad," he said the names with an emphasizing pause between the syllables.

"It's alright. A bit modern for my tastes," he said. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Mus'ad?"

Slow and deliberate, holding Cavan's gaze, he reached inside his jacket to produce an envelope sealed with a circle of wax. "I bear a message to be delivered into your hand alone."

"Hm..." the man's face was implacable. He leaned forward, extending an arm. "Who has sent this message, Mus'ad?"

The envelope was handed over into the other man's grasp. "Your brother."

Cavan examined the letter and its seal. "Owen," he said. "So, I take it you come from Rhydin," he broke the seal without hesitation. A black puff of smoke flew up from the broken wax and he leaned his head back as it shot past him and dissipated harmlessly near the ceiling.

His hands spread wide below an enigmatic smile before he settled back against the couch. The little black puff caught his attention, watching it rise until it disappeared before lowering his gaze to Cavan again. "I am merely a messenger."

Cavan's laugh was barely more than an exhalation of air through his nose. He looked up, attempting to align blue eyes with Mus'ad's.

It would be a challenge; green eyes rested upon the envelope, wondering about the contents of the letter before he pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen. "I have fulfilled my objective and delivered the letter to your hand, no other's. I thank you for your time." He pushed to his feet and straightened his coat, buttoning the front of it across his waist.

"Of course," Cavan looked down at the envelope in his hand. "Were I to send a response, do you know a way I could get a message to him?" he didn't stand.

"If you would like to pen something now, I could take it to him. I know how to contact him."

"Would you mind giving me a moment to read the letter?"

"But of course,? With a smile, he resumed his seat and pulled out his phone again, to give a pretense of privacy to the man.

Cavan rose and removed a folded paper from the envelope. He set the envelope down and turned to step out of the depression in the middle of the living room to read the letter as he paced. Evidently, it was short, because he disappeared through one of the red doors nearby and returned with a pen, paper, envelope, wax, and a stamp. He scribbled a short response, folded the paper, and stuck it into the envelope. It was held shut while he snapped off a bit of wax and melted it with an effort of will before stamping it with the same crescent moon Owen had used.

"I don't suppose you'll tell me how you came to know my brother?"

His gaze followed the man while he paced and lingered on the door once he disappeared. It didn't take long for Cavan to return and jot down a response. All the while, Mus'ad relaxed on the couch, even pulled a small flask from an inside pocket to sip on while he waited.

"Perhaps but in return, you must tell me how he came to be sent away." Those were his terms.

"Deal," Cavan passed a hand over the hot wax. It cooled instantly.

"I met him in a public drinking hall." That was the long and short of how he'd met the mage.

"He was convicted of the murder of a member of the Circle's Grand Council."

"Did he commit this murder, in your opinion?"

"What will I get if I answer that question?" he arched a brow.

Mus'ad grinned, settling into the conversation. Examining his nails on one hand, shoulders lifted in an elegant shrug. "What would you like?"

"Tell me of the woman he's been spending his time with."

"He and I are business associates and nothing more. I do not keep track of his personal life."

?And you nothing of his other business associates?" Cavan straightened. "No, I do not think Owen committed the murder. He is capable, of that I have no doubt."

Another lift of his shoulders. "Any person is capable of taking another's life but that is not evidence or grounds for condemnation." The question was left unanswered as he stood and collected his coat.

Cavan stood, picking up the recently sealed envelope. He held it out to Mus'ad. "You might find Owen is more capable than most," he replied. "I appreciate you bringing this to me, Mus'ad. If you would, tell my brother that he can use Adam for these sorts of messages in the future. No offense, but I prefer doing business with people I know."

The envelope was taken and slid into an inside pocket of his jacket, the same one where Owen's had rested previously. A sly smile curved his mouth while he put on his coat. "Do I make you uncomfortable?"

"No," simply. "But you are an unknown quantity, Mus'ad."

His smile only widened. "Indeed." Dark curls bowed over his hands before he blinked out of sight.

Owen awoke from a restless sleep, shaken back to reality by dreams he couldn?t yet make sense of. He lay in his bed, alone, staring at a ceiling that was all washed out in grayscale. His hand flailed blindly beside him until he?d knocked his phone from the nightstand to the floor with a clatter. Groaning, Owen rolled onto his stomach and reached over the edge of the bed to pick it up. He laid there, half his torso hanging off the bed, as he manipulated the phone with one hand to turn it over so he could see the lit-up display.

2:48 AM
The red background cast a similarly colored glow over his face. He had to squint past the sting the light incited in his eyes. A small notification light blinked at a steady rhythm on the top left of the device, just beside a camera lens. He checked and saw several messages, e-mails, and missed phone calls. The numbers were blocked, the e-mails came from unknown senders and they all read the same thing.
Son of the Devil?s right hand?
Owen rolled over and sat up, frowning. He dialed voicemail and held the phone to his ear. A cool, mechanically female voice instructed him the number messages he had waiting for him.

?Mr. Ramsey, my name is Grigore Dumitru, I represent an organization with great interest in you and your talents. I would like to meet with you to discuss the possibility of you signing on with us, I think you?ll find my offer very tempting.?

?Fiu al lui Ales Diavolului. Nu te poți ascunde pentru totdeauna.?

It was the same two messages, over and over. He climbed from bed and pulled some jeans on, then, bare-foot and shirtless, left the bedroom. He was half-way through the living room ? which was a mess of scattered chairs and tables pushed against the far walls, chalk drawings still scribbled along the floor waiting to be fully wiped clean, and strange charms of bone and scrimshaw decorating the walls ? when he noticed the light on in the kitchen and the figure standing, its back to him, in front of the refrigerator. Owen tensed, gathering up a reserve of will in preparation to defend himself. When he saw the shock of violent red hair on the back of the man?s head, that tension increased twofold.

?Hey, little brother,? Owen said.

Cavan turned around, twisting the cap off a bottle of beer.

?Hey Owen. We need to talk.?

?I imagine we do.?

Cavan turned and produced a second bottle of beer from the fridge and, twisting the cap off, he stepped out of the kitchen and offered it over to Owen, who took it. The larger Ramsey brother clinked his bottle against the smaller, and then he dragged a chair from where it had been shoved against the wall and sank into the overstuffed cushion and drank his beer. Owen mirrored his brother, setting his chair across from Cavan?s.

?How are you liking Rhy?Din?? Cavan asked.

Owen thought about that for a moment, studying his brother?s inscrutable expression. He picked at lint on the arm of the chair, tried to keep his mind off the one thing that kept popping back up. Like an itch that came back no matter how many times he scratched it. It was then that he decided he?d get another vial made, but he pushed that thought aside as well and replaced it with a thin smile.


?I was against it at first, but it?s growing on me,? he said.

?Yeah??

?Yeah.?

?I hear you?ve been busy.?

?Gotta make a living.?

?I guess so,? Cavan made a quiet humming sound and sipped. ?You?re making too much noise, though. I?ve had two people come see me from here, because of you.?

?I had to get you a message, Cavan.?

?Why didn?t you use Adam??

?I don?t trust him.?

?You trust a Jinn, though??

?I trust Mus?ad to hold up his end of a deal.?

?What?d you trade him for this message??

?That?s none of your business.?

?And Elijah Cristea??

Owen arched a brow. ?What about him??

?Why did he come to see me.?

?Una thinks you might be trouble for us.?

?Us? Tell me about us.?

?No.?

Cavan grinned wolfishly, all white teeth behind a fiery beard. ?Is she pretty??

?Leave it, Cavan.?

Cavan lifted a hand in a placating gesture. ?Relax. I?m not here to ask about your love life.?

?Why are you here??

?Because you?ve been making noise. And you need to stop. Whatever you?ve got going on, it ends. I?m sending enough money through Adam to keep you clothed and fed at the start of next week, and you?ll receive a sum monthly. Keep your head down.?

?Okay, dad.?

?Don?t get shitty with me, Owen. The Circle knows you aren?t in the Void, they know you aren?t where you?re supposed to be. They?re asking questions, I?m under a lot of scrutiny.?

?I?m sure it?s real tough for you in that high rise,? Owen gave his brother a pointed look and leaned aside to set his beer down on the floor.

?What high rise?? Cavan asked, attempting an expression of bewildered innocence.

?I saw the penthouse. You didn?t have an apartment that nice before I left.?

?Oh, I got a promotion.?

?To??

?Senior Council.?

?No one?s spot is up.?

?Magister Illyrio Marquez?s.?

Owen abruptly stood. Cavan remained seated, his expression turned cold. His head tipped back, looking at his brother as he loomed over him.

?That seems awfully convenient,? Owen said.

?Indeed. I thought the same.?

?What have you done, Cavan??

?What?s necessary,? Cavan tipped his head further back, draining his bottle of beer. He set the glass down by his feet and stood slowly, smoothing out his coat.

?Stay out of trouble, Owen. Keep quiet. Don?t send anyone else to Rhy?Din. If you must speak to me, send a message through Adam. You may not trust him, but I do. And unless you want to be found, I suggest you do as you?re told.?

?If I?m caught, so are you.?

?Your thinking is too simple, Owen.?

?Who killed Illyrio??

?It doesn?t matter.?

Cavan made to step around Owen, but the smaller man thrust an arm out to stop him. His hand slapped into Cavan?s chest, sending him stumbling back toward his chair.

?I?m leaving, Owen. And you?re going to let me.?

?Not until I get some fucking answers, Cavan,? Owen said, gesturing at the chair behind Cavan. He released a tiny fraction of the reserved will he?d been holding on to and the overstuffed chair came scooting forward the remaining few inches between it and Cavan, connecting with the man?s calves and upsetting his balance. He was forced to fall back into the chair.

?Talk.?

Cavan sighed.

Owen woke up sometime later, lying flat on his back in the middle of his dark living room floor. The hair on the back and side of his head was damp, but well on its way to drying, and the side of his face was sticky and filled the air with a cloyingly coppery smell. He blinked through the watery vision that clouded up his gaze. He sat up, looked around, and sighed.

?****.?

Primum Non Nocere for the scene! ]

Killeen?s was sharp and modern, clean lines that carved out striking figures all trimmed in strips of light which made the modern and sleek architecture stand out against the backdrop of night in the city. It was a modestly sized place for how powerfully it dominated the street it stood on. Like all the lights of the Vegas strip had been stolen away and packed into one place. It was the kind of expensive that came with the term mixology, that came with stark white dishes of hors d'oeuvres that were more plate than food, more art piece than sustenance, and with inexplicably complicated names for something as simple as rum and coke. Cavan loved it, and places like it. Places where the ostensibly wealthy or the hopelessly hopeful came to flaunt their money or pretend at having it, a place where excess was normalized and anything short was considered a bad time.

The table he sat at was much like the others around it. A couch low to the ground, the white leather reflecting and glowing in lights that splashed and crisscrossed with an array of interesting color combinations, a never-ending dance of spectrums that moved in time to the loud pulse of some form of electronic music that moved the dancers on the dance floor, which dominated most of the main room. The couch was a semi-circle that was set to curve around a low black table. Cavan sat alone with a drink of something clear in his hand, his suit was sharp and at odds with his wild hair and beard, and he watched the throng of dancers with something akin to hunger in his gaze.

He'd given poor Doctor Nesset very little notice. Killeen?s. 30 minutes. Adam struck him as professional, prudent, and unflappable. It amused him to imagine the doctor might be flustered, even if he didn't expect to see any proof when he arrived.

Flustered was not something Adam felt, but annoyance was. The protocol of courtesy breached, Adam had very little time to dispatch a paying client with cold reassurances that he would remedy the ailment immediately on his return and, yes, he was aware the ailment was a gunshot wound and yes, he knew that they were often fatal, but the bleeding had stopped and the surgery could wait and he really had to go and there was no use arguing about it, especially as the morphine was about to kick in. The poor man got about as far as, "What morphine?" before slipping into a deep and happy sleep, leaving Adam a grand total of 28 minutes to change, cross town, and give Cavan the appropriate number of dirty looks until he understood how inconvenient this was.

He made it with just two minutes to spare, emerging from the dance floor with all the usual cold grace he was known for. A dancer bumped into him, stopped, and gave him a sour look. Adam ignored her and continued on. Roaming lights of a dozen colors were lost in the black fuzz of his sweater and did little better on dark jeans. Even the shoes were out of place in the thick of things: functional, boring running shoes. Only the cane might have been stylish, but he hefted it more like a club than a walking aid. "Cavan," he said flatly, taking a seat with a gruff exhale. "Must you always pick places like this?"

Cavan's smile was sharp and amused at the small indicators of annoyance the doctor fed him. He shrugged, sipping the gin and tonic in hand before leaning forward to place the glass on the table. "I was in desperate need of a drink," he explained. "I've had a long, busy day, Adam. Very busy indeed. Can I get you something?"

"No." Plainly. Adam set the cane between his legs, both hands wrapped around it lightly. The first of the sharp looks came: "What is it you wanted, Cavan?"

"Did I interrupt you at work?" asked with an arched brow. "I suppose I'll let you off because of that, I know I wouldn't want my doctor coming in with liquor on his breath," he settled back against the couch, one leg propped up on the other. "How's Owen?"

Cold eyes, always the cold eyes, as if nothing were behind them. They followed Cavan closely, worked at the edges of him, seeking seams. "Owen? You asked me here to ask about Owen?" Hard to tell if he was annoyed or skeptical. Lips pursed. "In trouble, I believe, though he doesn't know it yet."

"Of course I did, Adam," Cavan said. "That's the nature of your work for me. Seeing to my brother, keeping an eye on him. How is he in trouble?" for all the scrutiny Adam placed him under, Cavan seemed as implacable as he.

The key to a good lie was to be as honest as possible. "He's taken a job from a dangerous woman. I believe he fancies her, like she's a woman from a dime store novel, out to hire a hero detective. He's already come to me with wounds. I believe it will get much worse before it's over."

"This Una Cristea," he said, recalling the name her brother had given him in LA. "Yes, well. That's the reason I'm here, Adam. I need you to do something about him. I need him grounded, put away for a while. His recent actions have caused a bit of stir back home, and he needs to disappear."

A momentary pause. Adam tilted his head and the impression was more avian than human. This had been anticipated, but not expected so soon. Then, all at once, Adam straightened and nodded. "Very well. How long, and am I expected to keep him functional?"

"He's not to be harmed in any lasting way, if it can be avoided," Cavan said. "I need him quiet and compliant for a month, maybe less if I'm able to smooth things over."

Subtle roll of eyes back, considerations being made. The annoyance was gone, replaced by a need to work, to puzzle solve. "I have options. Will I need to continue to be a friend of his after this?"

"Do you think he considers you a friend now, Adam?" he sat forward, feet planting on the floor as his elbows came to rest on his knees. "He sent me a message through a Jinn named Mus'ad, he said he didn't trust you. I don't think you should bother wasting your time in that regard, so if you feel that you would be limited in trying to act under such a pretense, then the answer is no."

Fingers tapped the cane. No emotional response registered otherwise. "I used the term loosely. He comes to me when he needs things. The most expedient and effective of solutions will mean it's unlikely he's to continue it. In some scenarios, he might even attempt to exact revenge." Eyes widened, but not from fear, rather from the simple realization. "I'll make it happen. When?"

"I go home Sunday," he said. "After that."

"Of course. You have work here, I imagine."

"Indeed," Cavan smiled and reached for his drink. "How long is the walk here from your office?"

"Not far. Nothing is very far from anything in this city if you know the way." Adam squinted.

"Then you won't need my help getting back," he stood, knocking the glass back. Ice rattled in the empty vessel when he set it down on the table. "Excellent."

Adam did not voice the name that came to mind just then. "No. I don't imagine I need your help for much, Cavan." He did not stand, simply looking up as the other man made way to leave.

"Good man. I like your self-reliance, it's admirable," Cavan didn't bother offering the man a handshake. He smiled again, in a manner that never reached his eyes, and then turned toward the crowd of moving bodies. "I appreciate you taking the time to see me tonight, Adam. I'll be in touch."

A curt nod dropped his head right onto the cane, and he watched Cavan leave without comment. It wasn't until a few minutes later that Adam stood to leave. Already he heard the phone ringing, calling to him from the distance of his office. Ring, ring, ring...

Una Mia for the scene! ]

Midnight in the night market was the equivalent of high noon in more traditional marketplaces. Vendors shouted from their carts, bodies bustled and crowded the two narrow avenues that comprised the market. Bordering the left side of the market, the ocean swirled in a turbulent tide that broke against the seawall, adding to the din. The sky above was a threatening darkness of low hanging clouds, but they hadn?t yet cracked open.

Una strolled aimlessly as she often did, her steps carrying her from the market?s North end toward the South where she knew the cafe would be filled to capacity. The wind that whipped her hair was indiscriminate, its direction seeming to shift for no reason, carrying scents of spices and fruits from various corners of the market. In Una?s pocket was a single blood orange gathered from her usual stop. Remnants of the second one had already been wiped from the corners of her mouth but still lived on the tips of her fingers in deep aubergine smears. She did not stop before the man who displayed metal trinkets, or the rug weaver as he brushed his silks. Rolling around in her palm were the remaining trio of marbles. Una paused, bending to release them, lost in thought over something Owen had said about essences.

Cavan dressed much like his brother. Sharply tailored suits, polished shoes and a figure that was cut with clean lines that, despite his large and broad shouldered figure, had a slimming effect. The biggest difference was that where Owen's finery was all carefully selected knock-off brands, Cavan preferred the real thing. In a dark suit with a red tie half-undone, he prowled the night market. Though its many vendor stalls and their trinkets were of considerable interest to him, he'd come with a singular purpose.

It was serendipity that brought a marble rolling through the market to be stopped beneath the toe of his shoe. He bent down to pluck it from the ground and rolled it between his fingers with a curious smile, even as he began working away at the tethers of magic which bound the marble to its owner. It was with the same kind of meticulous, withdrawn joy of young boy dissecting a bug. Peeling legs apart, one by one, pinning wings to paper with needles and thumbtacks. Though he was tempted to tear it apart, Cavan settled for finding that strand which would lead him to her.

Una moved, hardly aware that she was doing so, riding the current of bodies down the cobblestones, occasionally funneled into an eddy that spit her out before a new vendor's cart where she let her fingers drift along the wares without any real interest in them. She was just stepping through an entanglement of beaded satin curtains when she stiffened and went utterly still. Her head cocked to the side as if there might be a sound to accompany the sudden sensation of being caught in an undertow, but there was nothing. Only feeling and undefined awareness. Not Mus'ad. Not Owen. But someone just as adept. She reached for her other two golems and found them to be still roaming free through the marketplace. Besnik was not far, either.

After a moment, Una slipped through a part in the curtains and waited on the edge of a curb.

The marble went rolling along the ground once more, urged on with an effort of will. Like a tape measure pulled long and released, it snapped toward its master. He followed.

Una dropped close to the ground, palm extended and waiting to receive the rolling glass blur of her marble as it skipped over the cobbles. The first thing she saw when she glanced up was a brilliant red she could have easily mistaken for Owen. Except that everything else about the approaching figure was unfamiliar.

Cavan's gaze followed the marble as it rolled up into Una's hand. He followed the length of her arm to her shoulder, her neck, her face. He met her eyes with his, cold and blue and showing no hint of the smile that played out on his lips. They were shark eyes, pitiless. "Evening."

Una looked up and was transported once more; different words, same strands of red. Elijah and Mus?ad had warned her, and though she didn't relish the exchange the way her brother did, she allowed the soul gaze without the immediate, visceral reaction she?d had with Owen. In fact, Una erased Owen from her mind entirely, erased the history he shared with the man hovering over her and allowed Cavan to exist on his own. His demeanor was as ominous as a fin cutting through the water, but Una belonged to that same class of predator and had never been afraid to swim among them. Una rose slowly, her eyes still on his, an endless, flat black that absorbed all he had to show her as she dropped the marble back into her coat pocket.

"Cavan Ramsey," she said his name like an invocation. "I was wondering how much you'd resemble your brother."

Cavan's smile stretched wider for the confirmation of his strong suspicions. He inclined his head to her. "Una Cristea," he said. "I wondered the same about you. Are all the Cristeas as beautiful as you and Elijah?"

"You are more forthcoming with your compliments than Owen is." Never mind the difference in the motivation behind them. Una gave Cavan a smile in return, the curve minimal and sphinxlike, and then she stepped from the curb with a tilt of her head to the road before them and began walking. "And your eyes read very differently. It makes me wonder over the old argument of nature versus nurture."

"Oh, I'm sure my brother has whispered many sweet nothings into your ear," Cavan answered, taking a step forward as his hands came together behind his back. Her second comment seemed to amuse him, he tilted his head to the side in a manner much like Owen. "What side of the argument do you fall on?"

Una didn't confirm or deny, but she hummed a low sound that became soft laughter. Her hands slid into her coat pockets, the right finding a solitary marble to roll between thumb and forefinger as they walked. "I fall on the nature side, I suppose. You?"

"Nurture."

She considered that for a while, letting a silence settle between them as they walked. The market was a rich visual tapestry, and Una kept them towards the center of the avenue where the view of its wealth of curiosities was most advantageous. It was a good distraction from the man beside her. "Owen mentioned you were here recently. How long will you stay?"

"A few more days," he explained, glancing idly at the passing curiosities. "I only came to check up on him, to warn him. But he does not seem willing to heed my warnings, and so I come to you, with the hope that you might be able to reason with him where I cannot."

"Oh?" Una gave him more than her profile with a sidelong tilt of her head. "I don't know that he's mentioned these warnings to me."

"No, of course he hasn't," Cavan sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. He stopped walking then, turning to face her. "No doubt he has told you that I have some game planned, that I mean him harm and am an awful brother for having him sent away."

"And are you those things?" Una asked, avoiding confirming or denying his suspicions for the time being. "What you've shown me is enough to suggest you're certainly capable of being just as you've described. Which perhaps brings us back to our opposing viewpoints on nature and nurture.? She gave a light shrug, one hand slipping free of her pocket to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

"If I hadn't sent him here, he'd have been executed," Cavan replied, stating it plain as fact. "Has he told you of the crime he's been charged with?"

"No, but I've never asked him of it in any detail. He is here and not there, and he claims he didn't commit the crime anyhow?not that it would have made any difference to me whether or not he had."

"The evidence stacked against him is compelling, but I don't believe he's guilty. Which is why I arranged to have him sent here, and arranged to have him placed under Adam's care and attention," Cavan pushed up the sleeve of his coat to check his watch. "But instead of lying low, he's running around with you and Mus'ad, getting up to trouble, getting attacked by cultists and pissing off fae. Most of the Circle is not aware of RhyDin's existence, yet. But they are searching for him, and if he continues to make waves like this, they'll find him."

"Do you expect him to lie low for the rest of his life, then?" Una asked, "What would you rather him do, Cavan?"

"Of course not. But he's hardly given me any time to investigate the matter myself. When he went missing, naturally, I feel under intense scrutiny. I couldn't appear too keen to clear his name. It's a delicate situation, something he fails to appreciate."

Una nipped at the lining of her lower lip, a thin line forming between her brows in a pensive expression as she studied Cavan. He was not as lithe as his brother, appeared to enjoy his stature, and she could imagine him using it to his advantage, looming and hovering. "I've never known Owen to listen to reason, or to me in general," she said at last, stepping around him to continue walking. "The only thing I could possibly do is cut him off or cut him out of current events. Neither of those options are in my own interests."

"Surely you can find another mage to employ," he suggested, turning to walk in stride with her. "They are not so uncommon in this city, the way I hear it."

"Would you volunteer for that task?" Una?s expression was difficult to read. After a moment, she smiled, and said, "I'll consider it."

"As curious as I am, you know that I cannot. I can't clear his name if I'm gallivanting through the city on your behalf."

"Gallivanting," she echoed, her smile undiminished. "I see. Any other requests of me?"

"What's your relationship with Owen, exactly?"

Una arched a brow, "I thought we'd already covered that he was my employee for the time being, yes?"

Cavan smirked. "You don't have to tell me, of course. It's none of my business."

She sold her lies as she so often did, with a slightly wide-eyed guilelessness and a layer of half-truth beneath, "There's no other categorization that I could give you."

"Of course not," his smirk smoothed into a smile. "Have you tasted his blood yet?"

"No, though that doesn't mean I wouldn't like to." Una turned away from his smirk before it transitioned, avoiding a natural inclination to make a comparison to his brother's. "What a funny question to ask."

"Why haven't you?"

"To do it and let him live through it would complicate the employee/employer relationship." Una increased her meandering pace to a stride in order to gain a few steps on Cavan and turn, walking backward and giving him a capricious smile as she mused, "I have no such qualms where you're concerned though, Cavan. And you two are blood-related, after all."

"Don't you worry a taste of mine might urge you to further seek out a taste of his?" he arched a curious brow. "I imagine it would be a delicacy, for you."

"It's possible," she said after some thought. "I suppose I'd just have to try very hard to have my fill all in one go." Una let the implication unwind and slowed before turning to keep pace alongside Cavan?s shoulder once more. "Do you think I haven't tasted the blood of a mage before, or do you just have a superlative opinion of your own?"

"Nothing like the Ramsey's, I can assure you," he said quietly. "We come from special stock. Though that old splendor is long gone, our blood remains."

"You know a great deal of your family history, then? Owen implied that there was not much to go on, that your father was gone early on."

"I've learned a great deal in recent months," he explained. "I will tell Owen more when I visit again."

"Why not this visit?"

"Because there are more pressing matters, and I need him to focus. To see the situation he's in, I can't have his head lost in the clouds."

Una wasn't convinced, nor did she bother to hide her skepticism, but she also didn't argue further. That Cavan knew more than he was revealing was enough for now. "As you like."

"I suppose," Cavan began, reaching into his pocket. "Our business is concluded," Cavan palmed a small pocket knife in his right hand, its blade still folded neatly into the base of the hilt. With his left hand, he gestured. He drew a finger through the air in a manner that was almost lazy, tracing the tendrils of power that bound the golem in Una's pocket to the others in her service still rolling about the market. A snap of his fingers ignited a kind of astral fire that coursed along those tethers and slammed into the golems, tearing through the strands of magic that bound them to their master like neural pathways in the brain, one by one they flared. It was though each of the golem's senses had been widened, turned up to their maximum setting, and it left them open to an overwhelming array of sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and physical sensations that could only be transmitted as a kind of crippling pain, a bombardment of the senses meant to overwhelm and overpower.

The blade flicked out, its dull edge slapping against the length of his index finger. "It was a pleasure meeting you."

"I suppose so," Una agreed mildly, her attention drifting off to the side where a woman stood before her cart arranging displays of rings and bracelets. There was something familiar in the way her hands moved, worrying over velvet pouches holding jewels. Una slowed, hardly aware that she was doing so, watching light catch the facets of a garnet stone and that feeling still clinging in the pit of her stomach like a memory at tipping point, ready to wash over her.

Instead there came a deluge of sight and sound: a sea of faces layered on top of one another, a strange panorama of the marketplace that revolved too quickly, like a carousel at breakneck speed. Smells wove in a sickly-sweet bouquet, and the sound of the ocean came as if magnified a hundred times over, like the tide itself was crashing in her mind. Una couldn't see what was before her for the simultaneous layering of visuals. Her breath caught, and then she lost it again and couldn't get it back. Her chest rose and fell as if under a great weight. One step backward turned into three until a solid surface bumping the backs of her thighs stopped her. Between, she thought she saw a flash of red, a strand of hair she knew. So she reached.

She caught hold of Cavan?s coat, but by then the blade in his right hand had already sliced through the flesh of his left. He dropped the knife, discarding it carelessly as he stepped into her. Blood spilled freely from his cut hand, painting his palm as red trickled over the heel and down his wrist. It stained his shirt darker, but he was pressing it into her face, against her lips like he meant to smother her into stillness. Her grip was strong, he knew, and he lamented the damage this ordeal would do to his coat. It was quite expensive.

Una?s instinct, clouded as it was by her own disorientation, was to push away, to create a clear space for her body that didn't exist in her mind. But there seemed to be nothing other than moving bodies for a span of seconds. And then there was something else altogether: the scent of blood unfolded around her and was everywhere, thick enough to choke on when it was pressed against her mouth and nose. Una tore at Cavan's coat, then abandoned it to switch direction suddenly, hands rising in a blur of motion to clamp around his wrist and keep it in place. Her lips parted around the flow of blood from Cavan's wrist because she had no other option. She would tell herself that later. As promised, his blood was exquisite, a thrumming, vibrant electricity igniting her senses and kindling a pleasant, narcotic warmth in her limbs. In the back of Una?s mind the sea of bodies ebbed, a cold darkness replacing them. She felt Besnik tugging at the tether between them and then, one by one, the links to her golems were severed. Una felt the release of each like a snap of a ruler against her wrist. The half-mast droop of her eyelids flew wide as if she'd been doused in ice water.

"Impetu," Cavan muttered, focusing the will of the spell into his bleeding hand. It struck out like a powerful punch, a force of will that shot at her face as heavily as any fist. He made the step away in the same instant, grimacing, and was already calling up the energies required to extricate himself from the scenario.

There wasn't anywhere for Una to go, so Cavan's focused will essentially compacted her back into the wall further, her head wrenching sharply as if an unseen fist had gripped her by the hair and pulled. But her eyes were open now, the thrall he'd had on her severed, and her lip curled as she hurtled toward Cavan, willfully oblivious to the hush that had fallen around them in the market and the growing number of spectators.

It took him a moment to open the portal, only because he had to transfer some of the gathering energy into his hand with another muttered, "impetus," that sent a second current of kinetic energy hurtling toward her. Wary of taking his eyes from Una, he backpedaled and cut his right hand through the air in a quick motion, creating a symbol before him which tore a hole in the fabric of reality at his back. He took another step backwards, almost there. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Una Cristea," he said, a triumphant smile parting his lips.

The second current slowed Una, but it didn't stop her. Cavan's hand moved through the air and she struck with her own, fingers curled as if she meant to shred the flesh from his cheek if he wasn't fast enough through the portal. She answered his triumphant smile and parting words in Romanian so thickly accented that it was nearly unintelligible. No doubt it was a curse.

She struck, drawing blood in a long, angry gash along his cheek that stole that smug expression away. He whirled around as he stepped into the portal, a hand rising to cup his cheek and stem the tide of red that had begun to flow. He stepped through and the portal closed behind him, leaving only a few drops of red on the ground behind.

There was nothing more for Una to do than watch and take a small amount of satisfaction in witnessing that smile overtaken by Cavan's own blood.

Besnik appeared beside her, and Una couldn't have said where he'd come from, but he glowered at the place where Cavan disappeared while Una bent to the ground, pulling a bit of cloth from her pocket to soak up the drops of blood left behind. She folded the cloth and pocketed it again, and when Besnik extended his arm, instead of brushing it aside as was habit, she hooked her own through it as they turned and left the market.

Una Mia for the scene! ]

The door to Owen's apartment was locked, no sound coming from behind it. Una looked over her shoulder at Besnik, whose thoughts on the matter were wrought plainly enough in his stoic impression. Never mind the chatter of his mind.

Aside from the brief crunch of splintering wood as Una forced the door, the heavy silence remained as they entered. Conversation flowed between the two vampires without the necessity of voices, humming along the tether set in place upon Una?s birth. Besnik sought out the source of the fire while Una moved among the thick smoke clogging the air, one bare shoulder brushing up against the wall as a reference point. She'd forgotten her coat but had at least managed pants this time. Una remained in the main living area only long enough to ensure that there was nothing else to contend with beyond the fire and eerie silence, then she moved toward the spare room and the sound of Owen's shallow breaths.

The scent of blood was overwhelming, wrapping her like an embrace that threatened suffocation as it pulled her inevitably deeper into the apartment. Even Besnik suffered the pull; Una felt the allure trembling over the connection between them and Besnik's great efforts to silence it. She had a moment's wonder over what it must have been like for the guardian when he awoke that first time, ravenous.

Una picked her way around the gory remains of Fisher, her shoes and the hem of her pants suffering in the process and becoming a lost cause altogether once she knelt next to Owen, where a puddle of his blood had begun spreading over the floor. Her assessment was quick, equally silent, delicate hands flying over his body, numbering the wounds, the gouges and tears in his shoulder and abdomen, the free-flowing blood. The fine shiver that ran the length of her body as she did so had nothing to do with revulsion.

"I'm taking you to Adam," she said when she could manage to undo the clench of her teeth. "So, you will have to plan on living at least that long."

Owen's closed eyes opened when he felt her hands on him. He blinked a few times, his vision was shaky at best. "Una?" he squinted. "Una," he cast his gaze out over the spare room and frowned, a look of puzzlement following. Then, with an exasperated sigh that would have been comical had it not been followed by a pitifully wretched cough that covered a shaking hand with yet more blood. He shook a finger at her, the motion unsteady.

"You're late."

"I plan on living a long, long time," he added, wiping at his brow and leaving a streak of red behind.

"I am--" she started with a sharp retort, but the rest faded behind the racking cough and the spray of blood that followed. Una flinched away, though every part of her demanded she lean closer.

Besnik entered, crunching carelessly through Fisher's remains to come to a hulking stop above Owen. "Fire is out," he said. When he leaned over, Una shot him a warning galnce, but the other vampire only inhaled deeply and then took a forceful step back. "Can't move him. Don't be stubborn."

"Then you go bring Adam here," Una insisted, the darkness in her eyes flaring as she looked sharply up at Besnik. A long silence accompanied the stares they exchanged, then Besnik hitched one shoulder and turned, exiting the room.

"I'm not much of a healer, as you might have guessed, Owen," Una said, the comment mostly to distract herself from the red smear along his brow and the warm cascade between the fingers she had pressed to his side.

"I always figured you a secret Mother Teresa type," he answered, watching Besnik depart. "He thinks you should kill me? Or just leave me?" Owen cleared his throat and pushed at the floor to try and get himself to a seated and upright position. "It'd be a wasted effort."

Her smile was as thin as the air filling her lungs, and she settled back on her heels, not impeding as Owen tried to rise. Una's eyes remained level upon him, stalking his progress, watching the movements of his arm for any collapse of muscle or coordination. It felt strange to be doing such a thing in an attempt to help rather than watch for tell-tale vulnerabilities that would lead her to strike. In fact, it was difficult to quell that instinct, creating an odd sensation of overlap that put tension in her thighs and shoulders. "Either-or," she said absently in answer to his question about Besnik. "I think you should just be quiet until Adam arrives, Owen."

"Adam won't be arriving," Owen said. "He cannot set foot in this apartment without my express permission, and I'll not give it. I will have bled to death or passed out again by the time he arrives, at any rate. Like I said, you're late," though his words might have implied accusation, his tone held no note of it. "What happened with Cavan, Una?"

"Late for what?" She asked, blithely ignoring his spiel about Adam. After considering whether she would have Besnik fetch the doctor regardless, she went an alternate course, tapping her connection with the guardian and rerouting him elsewhere.

"The party," he gestured with an arm that had no strength, the neat hole in his shoulder had stolen that away, so it fell limply. "You should have seen it. Pyrotechnics and everything. A real pow-wow, if you will."

"Are you going to tell me what my brother did to you that made you try and cut me off?"

When his arm moved, Una reached out to quell the motion, the unnecessary gesture lingering as a graze of her hand along his forearm when it went limp. She should have expected the sarcasm and dry delivery, but for a half-second her expression was one of confusion, her comprehension sluggish in the situation, in the midst of so much of Owen's blood. It was not at all the way she'd dreamt it before. Except the desire; the reality was exponentially enhanced.

"He says you are drawing attention to yourself." A lie curled up on her tongue until she swallowed it back in favor of the truth. "He did something. Something with my golems that overwhelmed me. I couldn't move. I couldn't think. There was blood pouring from his hand when he pushed it up against my mouth. And what do you think happened after that?" She gave the recounting in a detached manner, except for an accented flourish on the end that suggested restrained anger.

"Ah..." his lips pursed and his body was racked with quieter coughs. Then he smiled, his teeth were lined with red. "Well, I imagine he ran, didn't he? Since your letter indicated that you hadn't killed him yet," Owen sighed, glancing past Una at the scorched ground where the shadow had been dragged into the Void. "I'm sorry."

"Straight into a portal, yes. I wasn't able to make him bleed the way I wanted to." Una exhaled, inhaled, and scooted farther away. "Would you accept someone else's help? Someone besides Adam?" His apology went unaddressed.

Owen sighed, his arm giving out and so he sagged to the side again. He looked down at himself, at the parts of his body that were so stained that the red looked black. It was sticky, but nowhere near drying. Too much was still seeping past his fingers for that. "No time," he said simply. "Wards, circles. Can't teleport, can't portal. I doubt whoever you'd find is that good of a runner."

All the places Owen took stock of were places Una had already scoured, a single pass of her gaze enough to blazon the colors painted over his body in her mind. She imagined she'd feel his blood on her hands and between her fingers for weeks. The rise and fall of his chest, the way the streaks of blood warped it would last longer. Much longer.

"Well I suppose this works out well enough for you, huh?" he tried a laugh. It didn't fit. The effort of it made his body ache with a kind of exhaustion he'd not felt before, the kind that stole away all energy and willpower. But he held onto the smile, ever confident. Like he knew he'd figure something out before it was too late. "That's cruel, isn't it? I shouldn't joke like that."

"I really hate that you tried to pay me off though. I should probably make that clear. That..." he struggled for a moment, his lips parting but no sound coming out. "That sucked," the loss of blood was making his head swim. He was becoming less eloquent. It was appalling, he thought, for his last moments to be so utterly mundane.

His attempted laughter echoed in the room, echoed within Una, created a hollow space that she refused to look at that way she'd refused the apology. Helplessness wasn't something Una weathered well; she wanted to fill in each moment with an action, with anything other than his voice. "Don't," she said, but she wasn't sure which part of what he was saying that she meant to silence.

"Let's not--" she tried again, taking back the space she'd given over to him. She frowned deeply, lips tucking into a stubborn line as she hovered and listened to the faintness of his pulse. Her hand curled into a fist upon his stomach. "I want to. You have no idea how much I want to, Owen." Una hardly realized she had spoken and likely wouldn't have been able to pinpoint exactly what she meant, because there were a lot of things she wanted at the moment.

He winced out of reflex, out of anticipation of pain rather than the presence of it. Because pain was becoming a distant thing, an echo of sensation that he was already beginning to forget. "Want to what, Una?"

Owen wasn't looking at her. He was still staring at the last place he'd seen the shadow, some distant part of his mind still working together the threads of magic which bound the creature. He hated the idea of dying without knowing exactly who sent it, even though his instincts were screaming the name at him. Cavan, he thought. But Cavan was his brother, and whatever animosity he'd held toward Owen, it couldn't have warranted such betrayal.

"Want to what, Una?" he asked again, not realizing he'd already done so.

Una didn't answer, not immediately; she was transfixed by the strange rhythm of his pulse, how it rose and fell, lost its cadence and then regained it for seconds at a time. His head was turned away, and the collapse and swell of his chest as temperamental as his heartbeat. She imagined his thoughts were afloat in a peculiar sea of the nonsensical, untethered and drifting towards nothingness. If not within the next minute or two, soon.

She moved like a cat stretching its limbs, forward on all fours and then a lithe swing of one leg to straddle the mage, her hand vacating its post staunching the blood flowing from his abdomen to become an anchor at his shoulder instead. Her spine curled over him, and her knees braced against his ribs, the same intimacy in her position as on nights before, but the circumstances with a direness she?d not anticipated. Una?s lips hovered above his as if they'd repeat the same mixture of tenderness and restrained violence, but instead of landing fully against his, they spilled only a murmured, "I am sorry, as well," before dropping to this throat.

When her teeth rent through skin to pierce the veins behind, there wasn't any fury in the action as she'd imagined countless times before. They were not in an alleyway, and there was no wall behind him, or time to take satisfaction in his expression just before she tore open his throat. This was quick and quiet, minimally invasive, but Owen?s blood hit the back of Una?s throat with an intensity that made the tips of her nails dimple the skin of his shoulder.

She filled the space in front of him, demanding his attention with her presence. He wouldn't have been able to look past her, he could hardly move at that point. He was pliable, his resistance nothing more than a confused furrow of his brow. His arms were dead weight and when his head tilted back to watch her as she loomed over him, it thunked heavily against the wall and made his vision shoot with bright lights and spots. It spilled over into all his perception for a moment, so much so that he barely heard her murmured apology. His lips parted, maybe out of expectation, maybe to say something.

The sound he made was a bare rush of breath. It was quiet, short like his breathing, and he hadn't the strength to even tense up in retaliation. His mind wandered down a road as he felt his life's blood -- what little remained -- leave him. He'd been so curious to know what that would feel like. Distantly, he thought it a shame that he wouldn't be able to reflect on it in the future.

It went too quickly. Una had a macabre flashback of Owen's comment before: You're late. There was so little left that she'd only really begun to savor the moment, savor the full-bodied onslaught of him when she felt his body slackening beneath her. Her drinking slowed and stopped, though her mouth lingered against his neck until she heard Besnik behind her in the doorway.

"That's enough. He is soon dead and we should leave. Too many eyes around here." Una didn't turn as the guardian spoke, but she eventually peeled her mouth from Owen's throat and rose. She considered him for a moment, her features dark and drawn, and then turned, walking out the door and shutting it behind her. Their voices were a low thrum of sound, and then for a while there was nothing else.

Una returned in a cluster of noise and cursing as she stumbled carelessly through the wreckage of Owen?s apartment, hair whipped into a dark lather of strands scattered across her cheeks and forehead, her hands batting wildly at anything the got in the way. By the time she dropped down beside Owen again, the blade she'd grabbed from Besnik was already opening the thick vein on the inside of her elbow. She let the dark flood drop into his mouth from a distance at first, and then lowered herself alongside him and put her arm to his mouth. "Drink." Words she'd spoken only a handful of times before, they came out tinged with both acid and regret.

Owen was distantly aware of her retreat. He could her Besnik?s voice -- though at the time, he couldn't recognize it. Just a noise on the wind, overwhelmed by the rushing sound of his blood in his ears. That was fading though. The pulse that drummed in his head was fading. Growing slower, unsteady, faint. Her absence marked the end, he thought. Or he tried to think.

It was a combination of sensory impulses which, ultimately, is all life really is. A feeling of oncoming cold. A lack of feeling afterwards. A lack of thought. Fear came and passed too quickly to be named. As though some part of him knew he hadn't the time to dwell on it. Her blood was hot on his lips and the sensation woke something in him for a moment. It was a stimulus he hadn't expected; the feeling was one of fire when compared to the cold stillness that stole his strength away. He couldn't move his mouth to form words. Her command was heard and heeded, though he hadn't the presence of mind to know what it was she'd said. All he knew was there was warmth on his tongue and if he was dying, he'd like to feel something for as long as possible before the inevitable end.

Una wasn't sure what to expect. Because Owen had proven immune to several of her other gifts, she thought it just as likely that he'd die as respond to the blood she was offering him. Her gaze maintained its watchfulness, drifting over his lanky frame for any sign of movement before settling at his throat, so she caught the reflex in action as he began to swallow. It wasn't unpleasant, it came back to her then, to feel her life-force flow into another and be accepted. What history Una had making others of her kind was slim, but all the more memorable for it. She did not dwell on the fact that none of them still lived.

Besnik loomed in the doorway, his glower a palpable thing that Una quickly tired of and dismissed with a sharp cut through the air of her hand. "Don't overdo," he warned before retreating. Una answered him with a hiss of sound. Once he was gone, there was little else to do but wait.

His eyes rolled in their sockets and closed. He drew from the wound a while longer, unthinking even as he felt the cold being chased away from the tips of his fingers, his toes. His head struck the wall again as he leaned back, his features twisted in a frown of agonized confusion. It was a slow process, a meandering return to self-awareness that was not wholly complete. More like falling into and out of a deep sleep, a state of reality where the waking and unconscious worlds and the lines between were all blurred. It was from this kind of veil he drew his power from, he knew, and so he took solace in the familiarity of the unfamiliar. The strangeness of it was as close to home as he could recall.

Una withdrew her arm slowly, forearm folding tightly against her bicep, the blood flow halting almost immediately as the fissure sealed. She watched Owen intently for further signs of consciousness, of sentience. Regret and vindication went to war in her head, and her frown remained undiminished because of it.

Once his eyes closed, and his head thumped back against the wall, Una stood and left the room again, conferring quietly with Besnik, who remained behind as she left through the broken front door of Owen's apartment.