Ali was on the back deck painting a small wooden structure?a chicken coop, to be precise?when he heard the peremptory rapping wend its way through the apartment and the open back door to where he knelt. He was neither expecting nor prepared for company: he was dappled with two shades of blue, from his hair to his battered sneakers, and the coop was only halfway done. But he couldn?t very well ignore it, as it might have been Fio or Salvador or any one of a half-dozen other people he needed to talk to. Dropping the brush into the tray and cutting the outside light, he rambled inside. The sight of Lucien Mallorek on the other side of the front door was something of a surprise. The barrister had Fio?s cello case propped against him; his arms were folded, and he was looking through a window in the walk-up?s hallway out to the glaring thirty-foot Eye of her Studio, less than a block away. His lips were compressed into a thin line.

Right. The cello. But...?I...thought you were going to have it delivered? Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Will you come in??

The barrister offered Ali a nod of his head and hoisted the cello case. As he marched across the threshold, he said, ?I wanted to take care of this personally.?

?I see.? That didn?t sound promising. Feeling very suddenly as if he were on trial, he nudged the door shut behind Mallorek.

Mallorek let his gaze drift over the building interior. The front room itself was well-designed, with blond wood floors and fixtures, a steel-framed picture window, a massive slab of a coffee table, and a screen hung so that it seemed to float away from one wall. There was a big mahogany leather couch against the far wall, a matching chair turned to face it. Despite the beauty of the design, the room looked unfinished. There was no sign, as yet, that Ali had had a chance to in; it could have been any unoccupied penthouse. At the sound of the door closing, he turned crisply to face Ali. ?Where should I leave this??

?Just...pick a corner, I suppose. I'll go get her stand and chair from the Studio tomorrow morning.? He waved a vague hand, still bemused by Mallorek?s sudden appearance. ?Would you like something to drink? I've coffee and bourbon, but not much else, I'm afraid.?

The barrister took another look around the front room, then chose to set the cello case against one corner of the room, away from the window. ?Bourbon is fine, thank you.?

Ali nodded, passed a little too close to the screen in the process of crossing the room. It turned itself on and began to project the image of a Buster Keaton short film. ?All right. Do you have a few minutes?? He ambled off down a hallway, taking his time about it to try to marshal his thoughts. This was worrisome, but it was also an opportunity. Mallorek was one of the first people he needed to speak to regarding Fio and her murky past. He founds glasses, realized he couldn?t recall whether the barrister took his alcohol with ice or without. So. One of each, and he?d take the other.

From the front room came Mallorek?s raised voice. ?Yes, I've a few moments. Interesting place you have here.?

?It's on loan from Sinjin,? Ali replied, pitching his own voice a little louder to be heard. He splashed copious amounts of bourbon into each glass. ?I hadn't any place to stay after...after Gem died.? When he returned to the front room, the other man was looking out the front window into the street, hands in his pockets.

?You have my condolences,? Mallorek said more quietly, and turned to face him.

?Thank you,? Ali said, not giving the man anything more than a polite gratitude. He held up the two tumblers of imported Kentucky small-batch reserve, one on the rocks, one neat, and quirked a brow. ?Preference??

?I prefer it neat,? Mallorek said coolly. The Eye glared at the pair of them, lit fitfully by a stuttering streetlight.

Ali passed the right-hand glass over, looked down at his clothes, and opted not to fling himself on the couch just yet. Sinjin would murder him for getting paint on it. ?You probably gathered that Fio's spent a lot of time with me lately,? he began cautiously, then could have kicked himself. The cello?s delivery alone could have told him that, on an instant's reflection.

Mallorek accepted the drink with a nod, remaining on his feet. ?Yes, I gathered as much.?

?She's been as honest and forthright with me as she's capable of being right now, I think. But it's left a lot unsaid.? Ali chose his words very carefully, hoping he was being passably smooth about it. Then again, Lucky the Lawyer ferreted out lies for a living??You're her lawyer and her friend.?

Mallorek took a sip from his glass, listening to Ali lay out his opening statement, as it were. He did not so much as blink his pale blue wolf?s eyes as he listened, though he did nod a brief encouragement to continue.

?I want to help her, protect her.? Ali considered the other man, very briefly admired his ability to play his cards so close to his chest, and went on. ?I'd like to ask you to help me fill in the gaps in what I know, regarding Fio and her past, so that I can better protect her, gain a greater understanding. I recognize that you're bound by friendship and confidentiality. But...anything you can do.?

The other man?s brows knit into a pensive furrow and his lips pressed into that forbiddingly thin line again. ?You will forgive me my skepticism of your intentions. Even beyond my responsibilities as her attorney, is my responsibility as her friend. I've seen more than one person offer to protect her and hurt her in the end.?

Oh, that was promising. Ali settled gingerly onto an arm of the couch. ?Given her past, that's reasonable.? He swallowed a mouthful of the bourbon, then glanced past Mallorek to watch one of the moons flirt with the idea of setting over the WestEnd. ?Is there some assurance I could provide??

Mallorek took another, deliberate drink before responding with another question. ?What has she told you so far??

Ali sucked in a deep breath and resisted the urge to yell at the man, I painted her bloody toenails this morning! Looked at completely objectively, this blatant mistrust and protectiveness made sense. He would absolutely want to do the same thing, if he were in Mallorek?s place. It was just difficult to be objective about much of anything right now. So, he opted to try Bombing Run Number One. ?I know that Flea is still alive,? he said as calmly as he was able.

The barrister held the glass at his side, finger tapping the lip of it absently. The revelation that he knew that Fio?s daughter lived when nearly everyone believed her dead earned him a hard assessing look from the other man, but no response.

Ali folded an arm across his chest, braced his elbow on it, sipped from the glass in hand, and looked right back. ?I've met every one of her but the one they call the Prisoner, I think. I know that Michael was a priest of this Nexus church, and that he wanted her to give up her children and go away to marry him. I know that she made him into a vampire. She is afraid, and I think she has reason to be, that Michael's been?enhanced. As she was. Which prompts this question to you, sir: Do you know for a certainty that Antony LeVey is dead??

The man took another good swallow of bourbon as Ali recounted what he had learned. At the last, he shook his head. ?I don't know if Haze is dead for good, but I haven't seen nor heard of the man in years.?

?Who lives in Grimm LeVey's mansion now??

?I don't know.? The barrister seemed to answer honestly. ?Tara would probably be the only one around Rhydin to know that anymore.?

?Fio told me that Tara inherited it, to Antony's?dismay?and that it was next door to Helston House. But she didn't tell me who lives there now, if anyone does.? He measured the level of the bourbon in Mallorek?s glass with a glance. Half full yet. Damnation. It was so much easier to ask questions of a drunk.

?I wouldn't be surprised if Tara uses it to house her miniature war machines and other toys,? Mallorek said.

Ali nodded, frowned off at the moonlit gloom past the window for a small space. Then he asked, ?She told me that her other selves have not always been with her, but could not tell me when they came to be. Can you??

That prompted the barrister to start to pace across the room, clearly weighing how much trust he was willing to give. ?I can't be sure, but I'd say sometime after Fio died...the first time.? His jaw tightened, and the last was muttered through gritted teeth. There was a longer silence afterward, with nothing more offered.

The pause finally drove Ali to show his exasperation. ?Lucien...look at me.? He spread his arms, showing off clothing ruined by splotches of paint. As the barrister turned to face him, hands clasped behind his back, Ali said, ?I am painting blue stars on a chicken coop, for a chicken that I spent four hours researching and ordering, because Missie announced that she wanted one. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to paint blue stars on a chicken coop and have them come out evenly??

?Do you have any idea how f**king absurd it is to attend your friend's funeral because she was ordered to die? Ordered by her own family, no less?? the barrister retorted, his face twisting into a wolf?s snarl.

That took him aback. ?No. I don't.? He hadn?t expected this kind of outburst, not after Mallorek?s previous careful control, but he couldn?t back down. His need to understand was too necessary. His expression hardened, skin tightening around his eyes, lips thinning. ?Why don't you tell me??

?How do I know that you won't fail her either? What makes you any different than the whole lot of them?? Mallorek swept one arm out, encompassing who knew how many people in Fio?s past.

?You know, I could tell you I'm a harder class of bastard than the rest, but you've heard that before, haven't you?? The barrister laughed humorlessly at that, shaking his head. The laughter was short-lived, fading to a sigh and a nod as Ali continued, ?I could promise you that I?m not going anywhere, but you?ve probably got a list of those, too.?

The bourbon burned going down; Ali appreciated that, for just a second. It brought a hiss to his voice. ?I could admit that I'm perilous close to falling in love with her, but I suppose she's had a trail of suitors a mile long, this Michael first among them. In the end, you'll just have to trust me. Or don't, and I'll go on as I've been doing, and there's the bloody door.?

The other man took another drink of bourbon, shaking his head again, evidently delaying his departure to satisfy his own need to understand. ?Did Fio tell you about Flea? Or did you learn that from Skid, or someone else??

At the barrister's question, Ali shook his own head. ?Fio didn't tell me. The Commander did.? The Commander, the defender, the one who was supposed to protect Fio?s multiplicity of selves. He hoped it meant something to Mallorek. Cutting a look down at his own glass, he realized he?d been hitting it a touch hard, which couldn?t possibly be helping matters.

?Why? Why did she tell you?? Who are you to deserve this, you little punk? came the clear implication.

?Because she trusts me. It really is that difficult to believe, isn't it? All these stories she's told me, it's just lies and betrayal and abuse, over and over again. No one had ever given her a bloody backrub before. When I offered, she thought I wanted to f**k her.? Ali dragged a frustrated hand through his overlong hair, wondered whether that echoed in the room as loudly as it had in his head. ?She's branded?? No. That was too far. He cut himself off, rose, and stalked limping off into the kitchen. If he were going to act a fool, he might as well get drunk while he was doing it.

He returned with the bottle, refilled his glass. The bottle of bourbon clattered against the tabletop as he set it aside. Somewhere nearby, the Rave thumped and purred to itself; on the screen, Old Stone Face narrowly avoided being crushed flat by the front of a badly built house. He fought to recover his composure.

The barrister regarded him silently, drinking from his glass, thinking who knew what thoughts, before asking him, ?What would you have me tell you??

?You said that her family ordered her to die.? Where could he possibly go from there? What did he need to know? How many questions did he have left before Mallorek shut down?

?Yes, they did.? The barrister?s answer was carried on an edged tone. The pale blue eyes closed briefly as he sought to recall a years-distant past. ?Haze was creating trouble for the family. Trying to pick them off one by one. Perish ordered Fio to die to try and stop things from getting worse.?

?Fio was married to him at that point??

Mallorek took up his pacing once more. ?No. She had already filed for divorce. I filed the papers myself. Haze swore he wasn't going to lose his sons to her.? He drained his glass of its contents. ?Fio agreed to...'go'...so long as her children would be kept safe and away from Anthony. Flea remained safe with family. Haze got the boys back.?

?How??

Another shake of Mallorek?s head. ?I can't be sure, but I think Perish let him have the boys. I drew up the papers, but what happened afterwards...? he shrugged in a frustration of his own, and continued, ?Fio knew she was going to die. Less than three months after her divorce was finalized, she had me draw up her will.? He walked over to Ali?s bottle and decanted himself a fresh measure of it.

Perish told her to die. Ali made a connection to something he?d copied down from the Studio wall: Do you know how many times I've seen Lars die? Held his lifeless body? Not again, Fionna Helston. You brought this to our door. Now you are family, and you are going to f**king act like it and do as you?re told. ?Lars was dead then too, wasn't he,? he said.

?Yes.?

He drew another connection, then: We've pretty much given up on hope. It isn't effective. ?Perish would have done anything for Lars, wouldn't she. They were both demons. She would have counted it a bargain to have him back, one vampire and two children. Fionna knew that.?

The other man set the bottle back down onto the table and paced back to the window. The Eye bored into him as he sipped, answered, ?At that time, yes. Perish would have razed all of Rhydin for Lars.?

Ali looked over at the screen, failed to see that it had blacked out into the space between shows. ?How did she...die??

?I'm not sure. I just remember the f**king funeral.?

?Tell me.? A beat. ?Please.?

?About the funeral?? The barrister turned an almost incredulous look upon Ali.

?Yes.? The look was wasted upon him; he was scowling ferociously down at the glass in his hands.

The barrister?s tone cued him to the thinness of the ice underfoot, though, when he gritted out, ?It was a Helston funeral. They had her?? He drew a deep breath, pale eyes narrowed to slits; and after a pause reiterated in a more controlled tone, ??it was a Helston funeral.? That seemed to be the only explanation needed, according to Mallorek.

Ali looked up, watched the lines slowly smoothing out on the other man's face. Outside the moon had finally set, and the paint in the forgotten tray dried to uselessness. ?All right,? he said finally, subdued. ?I'm sorry. What...how was she brought back to life? Can you tell me that??

Mallorek ran his free hand over his bearded chin. ?Shortly after she died...there was...? His brow furrowed, ?a few of Haze's lackeys...who tried to resurrect her without his knowledge. But it failed. In the end, Fio returned after she served her...'sentence.?? He offered nothing more.

Ali leaned forward in the chair, his elbows propped on his blue-streaked jeans, the melting ice in the glass spinning as it was rolled between his palms. He was silent for perhaps a minute, his gaze skipping across the room to touch on the screen, the barrister, the view out the window. None of them had any answers for him, blast it. ?One more thing,? he said at the end of that minute. ?And I'll give you peace.?

Mallorek nodded, turned away from the window where he had evidently been having another staring contest with the Eye.

?When I first introduced myself to Grace, I gave her my full name. It shocked and horrified her. She admitted to me that it was her belief that she is as she is because someone got hold of her name. Do you know anything about that, at all??

Mallorek frowned thoughtfully, as if he was searching back into his memory for something. ?I can't imagine how. Everything she signed and all public records were sealed. And as it was, it was signed as she was known.?

?Thank you,? Ali said and pushed to his feet. Limping across the room, he added, ?I?m going to have to talk to Tara.? Which was going to be a bloody laugh riot all on its own, given how little they cared for one another. He swapped the glass from right hand to left, swiped the condensation off on the hip of his jeans, and offered that hand to the other man.

Mallorek set his glass aside, took the offered hand and gave it a firm shake. ?I am trusting you to be true to your word. I will not see Fio hurt again by someone she trusts,? he said in his cool, calm voice.

?I fully expect you to nail me to the wall in that case, Master Mallorek. But it won't happen.? He held the door for the man.

His only reply to Ali?s assurance was a single nod. ?Let me know when Missie is ready for her chicken. I'll have it delivered.?

?Later this week. We wouldn't want them to expire from the paint fumes.?

"There's no trust, no faith, no honesty in men; all perjured, all forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers."
- William Shakespeare English dramatist & poet (1564 - 1616)


"Come."

The door opened with a muted click of the latch. The Barrister didn't look up from his reading as Gwyr wordlessly entered the room with a tray. The faithful manservant set out the steaming cup of black bitter brew on the man's desk along side his daily reportings.

The elder man was just as quietly making his way back to the door when Lucien set down the document his was reading and looked up from it, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Thank you, Gwyr."

"Did the Detective learn anything about the gentleman, Gov'nor?"

The Barrister's glance drift back to the report he'd been reading and nodded. "Yes he's learned some things." Lucien pushed to his feet with a deep breath and slipped his hands into his pocket as he moved to the window that looked out onto the street leading to the Marketplace.

The manservant regarded the Barrister for a moment in silence, before replying quietly. "Give it time, Sir."

"Time is the one thing I don't have the luxury of," the Barrister replied, without looking away from the scene framed within the panes of glass. "He'd already confessed he was falling in love with her."

Gwyr started for the door once more, then paused, turning back to the man still looking out the window. "What will you do if the Detective uncovers something unsavory about the man?"

The Barrister's lips pressed to a thin line as he tore his attention away from the window and looked back at Gwyr. "Fio will not be failed again."

He left the box of images on the table in the front room, as he spent the next day trawling through the Marketplace looking for some piece of equipment that would play the record on the tape for him. It wasn?t until late afternoon of the following day that he was able to pick up a VCR at a junk shop, and some sort of universal interface that allowed him to connect it to his screen. She?d gone to the market to buy dinner?she seemed to delight in feeding him, though she couldn?t cook, and often went hunting with Dante for some new delicacy during the day?when he finally summoned the wherewithal to open the box. He slid the tape into the machine, instructed his screen to interface and record the contents of the tape. He pulled the box toward himself and lifted the lid.

For the next hour, he swam dreamlike through her past. Face after face caught in hundreds of portraits looked back at him, smiled or scowled or held no expression at all. There were images in color, in black-and-white, in various shades of sepia and purple-brown. Some were printed onto metal, others onto curled and cracking paper. Some were as crisp and fresh as if they?d been taken only the day before. She was the one constant, around which the portraiture of her life was arrayed.

There were images of her and her sons and daughter at various stages of their lives: babies as newborns, babies as toddlers, formal pictures, candid pictures. Antony was present in some of them, playing with the children and looking not at all like the horror Ali knew the man to be. Some of the family pictures looked like proofs intended for display, a false face of poise and serenity presented for public view. Those bled into images of her and Antony: wedding pictures, her in that dress, him in some sort of military regalia. There were no Helstons present in any of those. Most of them were posed; but a few caught her unguarded, and her face was so troubled, so pensive and sad that it hurt him to look directly at them, to confront her past gaze with his own gaze in the now.

There were more photos of her and Antony: he found a series of images of her and her husband together. In the first, he was teasing her: she was smiling, rolling her eyes. In the last, he had turned away, and the camera?s flash froze her in an eternal instant of melancholy, her artifice stripped away and the truth revealed beneath. On a whim, he looked at the back of the last image. On it, someone had scrawled in pencil, ?You always look so sad. Let me help. R.?

Beneath those were images of her at what had to be Helston House. Parties, poker games, other gatherings: she looked so vivacious, so intelligent, flashing between bright amusement and the pensive sadness recorded in the later images. Two men in particular hovered around her in those pictures, and he took a moment to memorize their faces. He found a picture of her with her head thrown back in a captured moment of laughter, traced the lovely line of her throat with a single trembling fingertip. She seemed so whole that it simultaneously shook him, and reinforced his belief in his own duty to return her to that, to herself. She deserved it, regardless of what it might cost him.

The screen announced its completion of the copy at the same time he reached the album at the bottom of the box. Photographs were scattered on every flat surface of the couch, the table, the console like drifts of snow. The box itself was empty, the last of its secrets given up with the small blue leather album.

The screen played the recording. He watched Fionna walk into a barroom. She was young: it was the first time he?d ever seen a visible difference in her age. She wore a dark cocktail dress, pearls and black heels, a dark wool coat. A silver clip sparkled in her hair. A child?a boy of ten or eleven?led her in by the hand. One of the men he?d seen as hovering about her in the Helston pictures rose from a booth and went to meet her, bowing over the back of her graceful cellist?s hand and kissing it. The boy ran back out of the frame. She seemed oblivious to the looks and murmurs from the men still in the booth.

The copy went on in grainy black-and-white, merciless in its display of her past. She was led to the bar and given a glass of wine. The man constantly attended to her, spoke to her, teased a laugh out of her. The boy returned with her overnight bag and a cello case. One of the other men slid from the booth and slipped out of frame at a signal from the man talking to her. She swayed a little, and he put a hand on her arm. The wine, Ali realized as he went on watching. They?d drugged the wine they?d given her.

A man he recognized from the Studio walls and from the photographs as Lars came storming in, went behind the bar and took a shotgun down off the wall. He stopped to speak to the man with Fionna, and then to Fionna herself. Her smile was a bewildered, dazed, bordering on frightened. He bent her back in a hard kiss, then left with the gun.

She tried to straighten up afterward, moving unsteadily. The man whispered in her ear, scooped her up in his arms, and carried her toward the stairs. Her long hair nearly trailed the ground. The others followed. They were carrying her away to bleed her, to use her, to eventually make her into a vampire. She?d been dead from the moment she?d walked into that bar. Even knowing he was watching a recorded copy of events nearly twenty years in the past, it was all he could do not to yell at her to run.

The screen went dark, then began to replay the scene. After a pause, he bent his attention to the album, flipped it open, and forgot to breathe.

?From Perish, with love,? read the flamboyant inscription on the inside of the front cover. It was a picture album of Fio?s funeral. Lucien Mallorek?s angry refusal to speak of it made sense at the merest glimpse of the first page. They had?she was naked, on a buffet table?there were bite marks and bruises on her throat, and her wrists were torn open?her eyes were open, sunken in her face, teeth shining pearlescent through parted lips?Larook posed atop her as if he?d just?just?and people standing around with wine and canap?s in their hands?her daughter, standing there, and her sons?her children?

From Perish, with love.

He couldn?t get any air, couldn?t think. Some noise rasped through him that he couldn?t have described later even if he?d wanted to. A hundred different images of her watched him with a hundred different expressions as he threw the album aside and clawed his way to his feet. The grainy gray light still reflecting from the walls spun dizzily around him. The light flickered out, went dark; or it could have been his hands over his face.

A very young Fionna was led into Lars? bar, and watched Ali walk out.

Ali and his bourbon seated themselves across a particular table from Salvador, on a certain night in the inn. This particular table had a chessboard glued to it. The boy was straddling a chair with its back flush to the table, assembling thirty-two chess pieces roughly handcarved of ash and maple on the chessboard. Once all the pieces were set, he leaned back slightly to admire them, scratching at his jaw. Ali?s presence registered past the pondering of his first move, eventually, and he tore his eyes from the board to look at the man who?d made himself at home on the other side. ?Oh, right. You wanted to play,? he said, as if he?d completely forgotten.

Ali snorted into his glass, took the first sip?it was always the finest, that first taste of burnt caramel heaven on one?s tongue. Missie was causing a ruckus with Rekah over by the bar, but there was nothing to be done save to play riot control when the situation called for it.

The half-fae?s smirk was slow in coming. He glanced aside a moment, then refocused on Ali. Refolding his arms on the back of the chair, he leaned forward and made a brief gesture at the board. "Black okay for you?"

?That's fine.? Ali leaned back, crossed an ankle over the opposite knee and waited. Simply the look in Salvador?s rust-colored eyes was enough to tell him he was going to be thoroughly trounced in short order. Chess was a poor metaphor for his life, but it would have to serve: he wasn?t a player of games, hadn?t been in twenty years or more. How was he to commit to the sacrifice of pieces when each pawn was a friend, and the queen his beloved?

Salvador dipped a curt nod and set his attention on the board, eyes practically glued to the arrangement. Wasting no time, he got right to business with his first move. Ali pursed his lips at it, stole another sip from the glass, moved a pawn. ?I have questions to ask you, Salvador,? he said quietly.

The noise in the room was making the boy twitchy; despite that, his attention was rabidly focused on the game. He pulled the King's bishop out. "Of course you do."

?You know how I feel about her.? His attention skipped to the galoshed and tangled beauty at the bar, who was doing something possibly illegal with a pair of dolls while chattering animatedly at Rekah.

"Mm."

Ali assumed the grunt was an assent. His own fingers hovered over this piece and that, as indecisive in his game as he was in his words. ?I feel that...this business with Michael and her past life are intertwined. I don't think the one can be separated from the other.? He moved a pawn forward, finally, his forefinger lingering on the piece before lifting away. ?I feel that we're running out of time to understand any of it. All of it.?

Salvador ticked across the pieces. "I think you're giving time too much credit."

?I need to know what you Saw.? Ice rattled and clinked in Ali?s glass as he took a drink. ?I need to know that Antony LeVey hasn't had anything to do with Michael,? he continued, all of this pitched low, musing, as if he were discussing strategy with the boy.

The half-fae with the talent for psychometry had been to Fio?s Studio a multitude of times, sifting through the objects of her life to divine glimpses of her past. Salvador?s hand stilled, finger on a piece while he frowned. It was a delayed moment before he withdrew his hand. "I haven't Seen Antony. All I know of him is what I've read and what I was told."

Ali?s king's knight leaped into the fray. ?What about Michael himself??

"She made him," the boy said succinctly.

?I know that. I know that she locked him up in the tunnels under the E.C.C. Palais, meaning to come back for him afterward. But she never did.? His queen's pawn stepped into a gap.

"Mm. He uses the sewers. There's a grate in the basement of the Studio." Salvador tapped a nail against the edge of the chair backing, click click. "He touches everything in there, but?" he moved his own Queen's pawn up one step to assist. "?he never takes anything."

Ali hadn?t known about the basement grate?his startled jerk at its revelation sloshed the bourbon in his glass. ?I wonder,? he asked, the edge of a hiss in his voice, ?whether anyone's tried tracking him.?

The boy fixed Ali with a level rusty stare. "I have. Skid has. Hard to track scent through the stink of the sewers." His eye tilted back down to regard the board. "Harder to track the dead than the living."

Ali?s tossed back the remainder of the bourbon, poured himself a fresh one. ?What about the prayer book? Was it his??

"No. Not unless..." Salvador entertained a thought, then went on with, "?not unless he changed his name when he became a priest."

?Surely there's a way to find out whether that's common practice in the church.? Ali shifted in his chair, looked toward the bar. There was some sort of battle royale in progress between Missie and Rekah and the dolls. ?Where is the book now, do you know??

"Yeah. You could ask. Some priests do that. I don't know what the practice is with the E.C.C." A pause. "Sin has it."

?Has he been to speak with them?? Ali had heard from one or the other of them that Sinjin was supposed to meet with the priest Fre Pietr regarding the murders, but nothing since. His finger tapped against the glass balanced atop his knee.

"Not yet, as far as I know." Salvador castled queenside. "I'm sorry. I don't really know that much about him, except...I know what I was told and what I've Seen. I know him." This thought put a furrow in the boy?s brow. "He's clever. I'm starting to understand him, Ali. The more I know, the more it makes sense." He paused to mull that over with a deepening frown. "The less I like it. Everything blends together," he murmured. "You remember when we woke Bekah?"

Ali puts his knight forward, set his bourbon aside. ?Yes. What of it??

"This whole f***ed up situation is a lot like that one, amigo. It's in the blood."

?It's in the blood,? Ali repeated. The bloodline went from Lexa, to Fio, to Michael. Blood members of Helston House were better-treated than the vampires on the fringes. The blood members were all demonic. In the blood.

"Mm." Salvador made the first sacrifice: the king's knights jousted to the death. "Did you know that Bekah loves me?"

The question seemed an utter non sequitur. Ali blinked at Salvador, scowled. ?What?? He took the offending knight.

The boy nodded. "We had never met until that night, when we brought her back." His eyes tipped back down when Ali made his move, calculated his next.

?But...she's mad.? In the blood. This had something to do with blood. ?And you didn't feed her. I did.?

"And so did Sin."

He thought back: Gem's pale and furious face when she'd discovered his lies; his offer to give blood to Bekah, to try to atone; Sinjin matching him cut for cut on their outstretched arms, the Spaniard?s dark eyes cold and hard; Salvador's hand on Bekah, whose body had been warped into the shape of a wall-hung piece of art; Sinjin's hand on Salvador.

Salvador took a pawn with a lethally knowing little smirk. ?Think, amigo. How are vampires made??

Ali drummed his fingers on the tabletop. He?d lost, he could see it on the board at a glance. It was only a matter of time. ?Through blood exchanges.?

"Right. And when I shared what I was Seeing with Sin, when reading Bekah's portrait, what did I use?"

?Your blood. And she loves you, you say.?

The half-fae nodded in confirmation. "I know she does. I See it.? His smirk broadened. ?I think it drives her crazy. She can't hate me. You know why?"

?Why?? Ali asked, looking up from his useless fidgeting at the board.

Salvador chuckled breathily. "Whose blood brought her back, hombre? Whose blood is part of her now?"

Salvador's blood, Sinjin's blood. It's in the blood. ?Let me think,? he said suddenly. ?I need to think. Give me a minute.? Ali brought out the other knight. Her knight. In the blood. And suddenly he had it. ?You think that Michael's behaving the way he is because he's her?offspring. That he doesn't have a choice, but to love her.?

"Yeah."

?I think he's more than a vampire because he is her offspring, and something of Feyd's spells must have carried over.? The idea tripped from his lips without thought.

Salvador glanced at the board and made his next move: queen's knight to the king's column, second row. "Feyd's spells?"

?She eats food, walks in daylight. She can do without blood for a very long time indeed, haven't you noticed? Feyd was a member of Helston House. He spelled Fio to help her protect herself against her husband.? He brought his knight up to oppose it. ?Michael changed his appearance, his scent. more than once.? This meant...this meant that it was possible that Antony was not responsible for Michael?s powers. The bare possibility of relief made him lightheaded. It was the Occam?s Razor explanation: any scenario involving Antony had to be less likely, given how many years it had been since anyone had seen the necromancer.

They played in silence for a few minutes, Ali fighting his spinning head to regain his composure, before Salvador asked, "Was that all you wanted to ask me?"

He thought. Salvador had touched her portrait of her children on the wall, but he couldn?t ask about that in public, not with Flea?s continued existence a secret. ?Did you See anything about how she came to be as she is?? His queen shifted places.

"Nn?" Hold that thought, said the boy's uplifted finger. "Nice move." This left the boy to recalculate.

Taneth had joined Rekah and Missie, and the lot of them were jumping about on one of the poor battered inn couches. Missie was screaming at the top of her lungs about having a sleepover. Ali sent the boy a plea of a look. ?Any help I can get in riding herd on them, I'd appreciate. You could count it a favor owed.? A glance toward the couch, and he added, ?A big favor owed.? Not that he didn?t already owe the half-fae more than he could possibly express or repay?being brought to the realization that Antony was not, in fact, returned to be a part of the pieces set against Fionna on the board of her life was a priceless gift.

"Heh. Yeah, sure." The boy?s eyes were back on the board. He moved a bishop, backtracked to answer Ali's previous question. "She got the studio after she was turned. After she died," he amended. So?no, Salvador would not have been able to See anything prior to the founding of the studio.

Ali rubbed the glass's rim against his lower lip. ?Is that grate the only way he's getting in??

"For now. With the wards still broken, though, he could get in any way he wanted."

He took another pawn. ?I have to reset the wards before I can start work on the place, then.? Which meant... ?...I'm going to have to look through Antony's books.?

"Mm." And Ali's queen was eaten by Salvador?s rook.

He touched the rook, lifted his finger, touched it again. The loss of his queen was the death knell. ?I can't get out of this, I don't think.? His gaze razed the board as he murmured, ?What does he do, while he's in there? Did you get any hint of his intentions??

Salvador?s chin was back in his hand hand, his eyes on the board: Rodin would have been proud of the pose. He paused to consider, then answered the question with, "He doesn't really do anything. He comes. He looks through her things. He goes. It's like...it's like he belongs there.? He shifted his queen over. ?Checkmate."

?Thank Christ,? said Ali, throwing his head back to sigh exhausted at the ceiling. ?I never thought you were going to get 'round to that.?

"I think the more you check, the more likely you are to lose,? Salvador chuckled.

?I think I haven't played in at least twenty years, is what I think. Thank you. You have no idea what you've done for me.?

"De nada,? the half-fae said quietly.

This evening offered no reprieve from his restless fatigue and it drove the man back out onto the streets. Thin wisps of clouds lent a feathered haze to the ebony-blue sky that yawned over the stirring city, mimicking the dreamy glow the lanterns cast onto the streets. He craved sleep, he needed sleep. But it proved ever elusive, ever fleeting.

The man wandered through the fog, listening to the echoing cadence of his own gait. He found himself following it down the road toward the inn, hands in his pockets, thoughtful gaze turned to the night sky. He drew one last breath of the cooler evening air, then Barrister bounded up the porch steps, shoved the front door open with his shoulder and stepped inside.

Few souls populated the inn, this night, and those present kept to their own private musings. The cavernous common room was cool and dim, the lamps turned low at this late hour, the last lingering film of smoke and conversation in the air dissipating. Stubborn floor boards creaked under his boots as he made his way to the bar and exchanged a wordless nod of greeting with the unfamiliar woman behind it. It was neither a surprise nor unplanned that when he reached the bar, he was standing beside the Egyptian seated there.

The other man was slouched precariously on a barstool, a full snifter of an aromatic amber liquid on the bar in front of him. Ali looked curiously at him and said, ?I suppose you couldn?t sleep either.? His accented tone was wry. ?That, or you?ve decided to upgrade your watch to a personal level.?

Gaze of cool blues turned to light settled on the Egyptian. He offered no reaction to Ali's last remark and instead remarked in reply, ?Fancy meeting you here. I thought you?d be home at this hour.? He stepped past the man and through the break in the bar, to reach for a glass.

As the Barrister snagged a bottle of his favored scotch off the shelf, Ali answered, ?Can?t sleep. I?ve too much to think about.? The man drank deeply from the snifter. He did appear tired, with dark circles under his eyes and an extra day?s growth on his chin.

?What?s weighing on your mind then?? he queried Ali, decanting himself a good measure of the scotch. It sparkled in the glass against the dim light of the inn, warm and familiar scent washing over him. He watched the man as conversational gambits were visibly weighed and discarded over the course of several minutes. Neither of them were in any hurry, taking their time to watch a few patrons come and go through the nearly empty room.

?Someone told me last night that I was the most selfish person they?d ever known,? Ali replied at last.

The Barrister took a healthy swallow of scotch, his attention returning to Ali. A brow quirked at the remark. ?Why did this person say that to you??

The Egyptian studied him quietly, then drank off another deep draught of the liquor in his glass, sat back, and asked, ?What do you know about Michael??

It was just a transient name from the past in his memory, one without a face. However, more and more it resurfaced. A beat passed, then another as Lucien tried to match some familiarity with the name. ?I don't know a whole lot about Michael. You probably know more about him than I do,? he was finally forced to confess.

Ali blinked at him in apparent surprise. ?Let?s chat, shall we?? A nod was tipped toward the fireplace and the quiet space enclosed by the couches there.

Lucien followed the Egyptian to the hearth and settled into one of the tall wingback chairs there as the Ali sprawled arrogantly out on a couch. He sat forward in the chair, elbows resting on his knees, glass held in his hands. A thoughtful furrow marked his brow, finger tapping absently and silently against the rim of his glass as his expectant attention was turned to Ali.

?Once upon a time,? Ali began, watching the reflections of the firelight over and through the dark honey-colored liquid in his glass, ?there was a prelate of the E.C.C. named Michael Gallager. He'd been sent here to start up a congregation in the area. He met her and fell in love with her. This was not long after the divorce, I think. She felt something for him, I think, but he wanted her to leave the children and go away with him. I'm sure you can imagine her response.? The Egyptian?s cadences were slow and steady with the alcohol and the late evening hour.

The Barrister drew a deep and quiet breath and nodded, lips thinning to a forbidding line.

?I don't know what happened after that, precisely, but he came to her injured. Forced her hand. Save him, or let him die?? The Egyptian paused there, for another swallow of his drink. He traced out the faded pattern on the couch's upholstery with a long finger. ?She saved him, of course. This is Fio, after all. She shut him up in a space in the tunnels under the E.C.C.'s Palais, intending to come back for him as soon as he was recovered. Only...well. The funeral happened.? Ali watched him with thoughtful eyes.

A frown further colored the Barrister's expression in dour tones. His finger still against the side of the glass and his gaze dropped to the amber contents in his glass. Images a funeral?Her funeral...a Helston funeral...pressed through a veil of red rage that crashed through his weary fatigue.

?Perish left her a photo album of the happy event,? Ali continued, very quietly. The Egyptian's words slammed Lucien and struck him dumb. ?She hasn't seen it yet." Ali's hushed words seeped past the burning cold that gripped him. "I don't know whether she deserves to see the truth of it, or whether it would be better simply to burn the damned thing and have done with it. I've not told her about it.? There was a tired horror in Ali's expression before he masked it over again.

Perish left her a photo album of the happy event. Cold and mocking reality echoed in his head and the indignity of it drove the Barrister to his feet, a string of colorful, inaudible mutterings spilling under his breath. Restlessness, tinted in angry red pushed him from the chair and he moved over to stand in front of the fireplace. The Egyptian made no move to soothe him or ask him back to his seat to continue the tale as Lucien stood leaning against the mantle, staring into the fire burning there, incredulously shaking his head.

Not only was Fio ordered to die by her family for the sake of Helston House, but the very person who ordered the death had the audacity not only to make a picture album of it like it was a celebration to commemorate, but to leave it for her. Through the haze of darkening rage, Lucien could see Fio's body on 'glorious' display. Amid the blur of laughing and chattering faces, he saw her children's faces...Flea's face, as she stood looking up at her mother, holding onto her brothers' hands....the little girl's stoic expression seared through the blood red veil of anger.

Anger which boiled over and the Barrister gave it voice, swearing to himself. The glass in his hand served as sacrifice to Lucien's overflowing rage as it was violently thrown into the fireplace, the flaring flames that followed serving to punctuate the man's wrath.

It was a bright and early morning in the WestEnd. Ali hit the street with Dante leashed and already straining, the hound pulling so hard that he was having to stop and cough every third or fourth stride. Ali's own strides were stiff-legged with the effort to resist him. It was always like this for the first quarter-mile when Dante was on leash, and he thought nothing of it anymore. No, his thoughts were on the scrap of paper tucked in his pocket, transcribed from the tattoo on the leg of his sleeping wife. 827 Highbridge Lane, that tattoo read, and: 82 18 64. She'd never volunteered information about it. He'd never asked. That was past the Marketplace, he thought; he had a long walk ahead of him. He didn't mind, though. He had a new pair of boots to break in, those square-toed strappy motorcycle models, and he and Dante could both use the exercise.

The broken-down old whore of a quarter was washed temporarily clean and new by strong rains the night before; like cheap paste jewelry, made sparkling and pretty so long as one didn?t look too closely. The detritus in the gutters had washed away to some undisclosed downstream location, where it would be provided with a new identity and placed in a witness protection program, going on to befoul some new region of the city. The streets had shifted again during the storm. Where an abandoned car had sprawled like a passed-out drunk the evening before, a weathered police barracade now stood, yellow and black paint peeling and hanging in shreds from the boards. Beyond that, the corners turned left instead of right, with the dented fruit stand and the Psychic Deli beyond. A few blocks away, Perp Miz chimed out the wrong time, proving that some things did stay the same.

He breathed in deep, feeling the way the water-soaked air clung to his skin, his lungs, and avoided the deeper cracks in the pavement. Nestled next to that scrap of paper was a photograph of her, one of the more recent ones, culled from a box that had broken his heart. He'd lived at 220 Highbridge when he'd first moved to Rhydin, down in the Old Town. At least the bastard streets wouldn't twist they way they did here. He kept the steadily increasing sunlight ahead of himself and walked on.

WestEnd wasn't the slums, as it was so often depicted. It had a charm, and a lived-in neighborhood quality in spots. It was hardly genteel, but it was vibrant and inhabited by a vast variety of people, many of them young. Towards the warehouses and docks, true, it got a little rough. But the closer one came to the church, the more active and bright the barrio neighborhoods became. The brownstones in this section of the quarter were better kept, and a few had sparse patches of manicured green in front of them, boxes of impatiens and purple sage intermixed with native plants to provide splashes of cheerful color. Dante barked at a passing black-and-white circus clown of a cat, lunged, and was yanked up short by the leash. Ali was nearly pulled off his feet. The cat merely flirted his tail and strutted off to pose on a concrete stoop.

He crossed under the gate, past the watchtowers and into the Old Town. One of the Watchmen standing guard caught his eye and nodded a greeting. He stopped to exchange a friendly word with the gray elf, a little casual conversation, and eventually worked his way around to his subject of interest: the body found tacked to the Eye. Yes, the elf told him, the man was identified and the body claimed. Elijah something. That Viking woman took him off to be buried. Ali promised doughnuts and honey mead on his next trip through; they clasped wrists, and he headed onward into the hot spill of sunlight.

He was thinking such a plenitude of thoughts that he nearly missed the turn onto the lane when he came to it, but Dante's excited jerk to the left recalled his purpose. He followed the Highbridge toward the Marketplace, as names rattled down from the top of his heart like a plinko game, ticking over and around and down and past to lodge themselves firmly in the primitive parts of himself, where they couldn?t be easily rousted out: Sinjin, Salvador, Mishka, Rekah, Lucien, Kyrie. And Fionna, always and ever Fionna. He pulled the dog closer to the crenellated stones lining the side of the bridge. It was a market day, and traffic was heavy, wheeled conveyances fighting with rickshaws, llamas, a big rusty roustabout, a herd of sheep, and a partridge in a pear tree. At least, that was what it looked like. It could have been an alien, for all he knew.

Summer on a weekday in the Marketplace. Even from blocks away, its effects were felt, radiating outward in waves of food stalls and shops and smithies, moneychangers and farmers and buskars. On one corner a man juggled seven balls at once. On another, a pair of acrobats cavorted for spare change. Across the way, a pair of men sang bawdy songs for passersby. He and the rest of the thundering horde funneled down the bridge passed it all into the north side of the city. And there it was: 827 Highbridge.

He shut his eyes against a subtle wash of grief for a minute or so, head bent over the note. Then...in a perfect world, she would never need this again; but he believed in preparedness, and thus he fished his keyring out of his pocket, compared the key in the box to his current Studio key. The locks had been changed when he recreated the wards. As he?d expected, the two keys did not match.

?I need to replace this,? he said to the clerk. And explained, on a premonition, ?It's outdated, the locks have been changed.?

"Very good, sir.? The clerk quite plainly wanted to ask questions, but did not.

?All right.? He pocketed both the loose key and the note, and slid the box back into the wall. It seated itself and relocked with two muted clicks. ?I'll be back in a few minutes. Thank you.?

Dante's click-clicking toenails marked his passage back out to the bustling street once more, punctuated by the goodbye of the dinging bell. At an angled distance across the street, there was the locksmith's. The sign was a large red key. He stared at it, and imagined. How carefully was this planned, so that she would only have to cross the street to change the key? A deeper question surfaced, as he thought about that: how many times had she had to cross that street, after having clawed her way out of yet another grave? The hound had given up his domination game and trotted sedately at his side as they crossed the street to the shop under that big red key, and stepped in.

It was the usual sort of shop of that kind. A pegboard on one wall behind the counter boasted hundreds of key blanks: silver, nickel, iron, copper, brass. Beside them were racks with key chains and odd items: boxed locks, door knobs and the like. Tools of the trade were on a workbench in the back.

In the back, at least one man was working in the shop, but the person behind the counter was a young woman, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, with a round face. She was about six months pregnant. "Hello sir," she said as he entered. "Can I help you?? She gave a quick smile to the dog, and returned her attention to Ali.

He blinked at her. Being who and what he was?Bubasti, to whom every child is a celebration?the first thing that came out of his mouth was, ?Congratulations, madam.?

She beamed a shy and rose-cheeked smile at him with a glance away and to the back, before answering. "Thank you."

He resisted the urge to dump one of Bast's blessings on her?it would be difficult to pull off while he was trying to concentrate on the bigger issue?and got down to business. ?I need a copy of this key, please,? he said, snapping the new Studio key off his ring and offering it to her. ?And a little information, if you have it? I'm curious about something.?

She took the key from him, and turned to find the right blank off the pegboard based on the key numbers. Some things were universal, across the multiverse; apparently keys were one of them. ?If I can, sir. What are you curious about??

?Well, I'm recently married myself.? He put a smile in it, though her back was turned to him. ?My wife has been here,? he gambled, and said, ?more than once, I suspect, to have a key copied, as well. I'm curious about whether you keep any records of how often she's been by??

"We don't usually keep a list of names, unless we're called out, or they have an account..."

He slid the picture of Fionna out of his pocket and onto the counter. It was a three-quarter shot, one of the ones of an unguarded moment, where her face was both pensive and sad. Apparently, the woman had found the right blank, because she was comparing the keys down the shaft and nodding to herself. She turned and looked at the picture, and grew very still for a moment.

?Her name is Fionna Helston, and Lucien Mallorek keeps the account for her.? He pitched his voice softer and lower, his smile gone. ?She wouldn't have been in the best of shape when she came by. I suspect it would have made her memorable to you.?

Her blue eyes shot back up with that mingled look of horror, pity and question, and she called to whoever was in the back, ?Da? Da, there's a man out here you need to come talk to,? right over his explanation.

A man about his own age, or just a little older, stepped out of the back, in a dark work apron stained with grease. He was wiping his hands on a shop rag, and looking between the pair curiously. ?Help you?? he tossed off to Ali.

?Good morning.? He straightened and sighed a little. Quiet wouldn?t get him anywhere with this man. ?My name is Ali al-Amat. Fionna Helston is my wife.? He nudged the image toward the man. ?She's come in here from time to time, to have a copy of a key made.? The key itself was taken out of his pocket to join the picture. ?It's charged to Lucien Mallorek's account, when she does. As I said to the lady here, she's not in any shape to really remember what's happened, when she does this, and so she can't tell me how often she's been in to your shop to do this. I wanted to see whether you could tell me.?

The locksmith glanced down at the picture and stiffened, making a gesture with his right hand. It was familiar enough to Ali, given his travels: the man was warding himself against the evil eye. ?Elle, you go make his key in the back, girl.? He waited until his daughter was in the back before speaking again, and when he did, his expression was shuttered. Not unpleasant, but certainly not warm. ?You married her?? A little disbelief rode his voice. While he said this, he pulled an account book out from under the counter and opened it with a dull thud.

Ali resisted the urge to snarl in response, and kept his posture deliberately relaxed, his fingers curled loosely atop the tall counter. Whatever this man thought, he did what was asked of him when Fionna needed him. ?I did.? His voice was a little flat. he couldn?t help that much leaking out. ?Accept that she is not always as you see her.?

The locksmith grunted noncommittally and flipped to the section labeled "M". ?Last time she was in here was last winter. Just after the new year. Cold and wet, it was, and she was barefoot and wearing some sailor's greatcoat and trousers. Smelled like she'd been sitting in the bottom of a rum barrel for weeks. Skinny, and her hair was wild as a witch's.? He mumbled this while he searched the records. ?Time before that, she was nekkid and covered in mud and scratches and filth.? He shot a cool look up at that, then back down. ?Maybe a year before? Most times, she looks like she's stolen whatever she has on, and she's filthy and daft out of her mind. Dangerous mad.? He found what he was looking for and counted with his pointing finger in the ledger. ?Seven times, total. Seven keys, for a sum total of 3 gold 5 silver and tuppence.? He looked up, then. ?This one going on account, too??

?No.? Ali felt like someone had punched him in the stomach, his body tingling and stinging with the shock of it. ?I will pay for it. Thank you.?

?You okay?? The other man frowned his concern, shutting the book. ?You need to sit down or something??

?I'm all right. Thank you. For asking, and for letting me know. I am?? He looked away for a moment, at the wall, at Dante. When he looked back, he'd gotten his reaction mostly under control again. ?I sincerely hope that you'll never see her again, sir.?

?That's what Mr. Mallorek says, too. Every time.? The locksmith wasn't trying deliberately to be cruel, that was clear. ?Hope this time you're both right.? About that time, the woman came back with the key, setting it on the counter with a quiet glance up at her father. ?No charge for it,? the man said brusquely. ?You have a good day now, Mister...??

?Al-Amat,? he said again, and offered a hand across the counter, regardless of the state of the locksmith's own hands. The man had a good firm grip. He nodded a last thanks, scooped up the keys and the photograph. And out he went, back across the street, Dante's leash looped around his wrist, his key replaced.

In the post room, he glanced at the clerk and Joern before returning to the lock box. The guard slanted him a quiet, cautionary look, nothing overt or immediate. The clerk nodded, patently curious now, but minding his business. Ali mulled that look over as he returned to her box, replaced the key. The note stayed in his pocket.

After reseating the box he asked the clerk, ?Do you mind if I borrow this handsome gent for a moment?? Tipping his head toward the guard, he added, ?I'm trying to work up a poker game for the weekend. We'll only be right outside.?

The clerk looked uncertain for a moment, but Ali was their only customer. ?As long as you stay by the door,? he allowed, finally.

?Of course. Dante?? He nudged the dog with one knee, sent the merry little bell ringing as he stepped outside.

Joern followed him out, his broad back blocking most of the clerk's view as he planted himself on the outside of the door. He spoke quietly. ?You in any kind of trouble??

?Not that I know of, not since that business this spring. Why?? Ali settled a shoulder against the brick and considered the younger man. Joern was human, in his mid-twenties, with the sort of happy solidity that promised an impressive bulk later in life.

?Rabbie in there called that lawyer as soon as you left for the locksmith. I didn't think there was any harm in telling him your name when he asked; you've always been a straight-up guy with us. Just making sure.? He seemed a little shamefaced about even asking. ?Didn't hear what the lawyer said, but got the tone easy enough. He wasn't too happy, but told him to let you look.?

?Mm. No, there's no harm in letting Lucien know.? Here comes another fight, he thought, and said, ?I'd rather have too many people watching over her, you know? Are you on duty on Saturday??

?Nope. Got the night off.? His eyes suddenly lit. ?You serious about that poker game??

He grinned at that, despite the anger building behind his eyes. ?I couldn't very well lie to the man, now, could I? See if you can't get that bastard Treemma and a few of the others together, nine o'clock or so.?

?Where we playing? You gonna cook??

?WestEnd. The Studio remodel should be finished by then. Do you know where it is??

?That Eye where that poor bastard was hung up?? Joern did indeed know it, and looked surprised.

?That's the one. Right on the painted wall. I had to help cut him down.? The memory drained his grin away.

?Man, everyone's been talking about it. That your place??

?We live down the street, now. She used to live and work, there. That's where I'm putting in the shop.?

Joern considered, and nodded. He reached behind himself to open the door, so Rabbie could hear his next. ?All right brother. We'll see you then?we'll bring the beer but you're feeding us, a'ight??

?We all have our burdens to bear,? Ali said, and started home.

Warmth lounged with late summer ease unthreatened by the clouds overhead. Even the bird-song carried on in a lazy way. The Wood stretched ahead: vast, but strangely intimate in the close air. Along the road from Rhydin the late summer heat glimmered with the dust over the road that only wanted the storm to come lay it down. A mirage, an optical illusion perhaps born of heat and dry air, flickered over the road. It started just past the city gates, and worked its way steadily north by northwest, right up to the Abbey walls: a shimmer in the air, a darkening, a flash like a pair of mirrors, like eyes peering through from eternity, a dead man yearning through to the land of the living. The shadow sifted realities, passed through storm and ruin, and at last could not contain itself any longer. The gap between dream and the real yawned wide at the gate, and Ali stepped through.

In the courtyard lines spidered out from the lamp-post to the walls, hung with silk that sang hush-a-by to tiny currents of air. Between the sheets and skirts moved the specter of the priestess, tying up bundles of herbs to dry in the cloud-filtered twilight of early evening.

He stood at the gate and drank in great gulps of air as if he'd forgotten how?tripping through the flip side had that effect on him?and watched the ghost of a priestess flit about through his grip on the wrought-iron bars. They were such ordinary tasks that she was about: drying laundry, drying plants. Perhaps it was the air that lent it magic, that made her?in this place between places?seem less real. Her hair fell across bare shoulders, the hip-length of a shift was finished by the ankle-length of a riding skirt. The long shadows of a dying day darkened her hair, and for a moment there was a glimpse of the girl who was, barefoot and sun-kissed.

His breath drew her eyes, dark flecked with gold. She smiled, a hand run against silk as she passed around the lamp-post to stand and look back at him. Laundry day. The mundanity of it made him laugh aloud. Through the bitter chocolate of his hilarity he called, ?Good evening, madam.? Pushing open the gate, he strode blithely through as if he belonged there.

?Eventide, Ali.? Kyrie?s voice lulled him as it always did, with the promise of peace and comfort.

?And does it find you well?? He dodged a sheet or a toga, stepped under a line, paused to peruse a sheaf of lovely lavender. Seduced by it, he touched his nose to it and inhaled. He was...relaxed. It made for quite a change. He had a nasty habit of showing up and pacing about and arguing with her. The poor woman probably thought him mad.

?It does, as it seems ta fin' ye wound less tigh' than when we las' met.?

?Well...I'm here.? He grinned at her, full of good humor. ?Shall I fold sheets for you? Tell you a story? Play a game? Ask unanswerable questions??

?I could use 'elp prunin' roses.?

?Could you, now?? His brows swept right up his forehead at that. ?You do realize I haven't the foggiest idea how to do that? Not that I'm complaining, mind you.? He ducked under another sheet and came up right next to her. Hello, Kyrie. Hello, lamppost. Cotton gossiped with a nearby length of silk. Her sable eyes flickered sidelong at him as he closed the distance. ?Where are the shears? Or ought I to use my teeth?? He bared them at her in a brilliant grin. ?We could tango afterward.?

?Th'shears are jus' inside th'door, as are gloves. If I wanted ye ta use yer teeth, I would send ye ta th'nettle patch.?

He snorted like a nettled horse, at that. ?Not enough meat on those bones, I assure you. I?m too much of a carnivore for that.? And he limped off to the library tower, where gloves and shears and a bucketful of swords all kept company by the door. He ought to bring a sword out, simply to rile her, he thought. Pruning roses with a blade. How very kung fu. But no, he was moderately good, and returned with gloves that mostly fit, and another smaller pair, and shears, and that abiding devilish gleam.

Her prim smile twitched in the corners at the sight of him. ?They grow wild around the outer wall,? she told him and took the smaller gloves from him, the fingers stained and soiled from many seasons' toiling and tilling.

?I'm sorry to hear that,? he responded at once. ?You ought to persuade them to settle down and act like grownups.?

?I like 'em wild.? Her cotton skirt tsked at him as she led them out the gate. Gloves set in the crook of an elbow, she twisted up the length of her hair and knotted it back. Veering left past the gate, she reached the first expanse of climbing roses. Pulling on her gloves, she nodded to the veining blooms, the floral arteries branched into smaller capillaries. ?Every third split. Forty-five degrees, clean-cut, jus' above th'bud.?

?Every third split.? He dropped into a crouch and considered the blowsy frowsy explosion of blooms along the walls, leaning in on tented fingers to peer in and count. There were so many of them: orange blossoms, the outer edges of each petal fringed in red, galaxies of tiny suns. He focused in on the poor doomed flowers, plotting out his campaign of destruction.

?Aye.? The priestess let him have the shears, and with a slip of chilled fingers down a calf came away with a small, double-edged flat blade. She moved further along the wall, within the perimeter of conversation, and crouched. One, two, three, snick went the blade. Fiery heads rolled.

He began to cut: careful, precise, moving at a quarter her speed to begin with. They talked for a while, him pestering her with questions about her life before he knew her, her quiet laconic replies running smooth as water through the spaces between them. The clouds parted, the stars made their curtain calls.

?So, nothing at all that you regret from that life, then?? He asked her after a long parade of questions. The shears had fallen slack in one hand; the other was combing through thorns and leaves, the gloves protecting his fingers from the roses' embrace. The roses had no soul of their own for him to look at, but he felt even through the gloves the delicate tracery of life among the blooms and branches. The faint peculiar buzz of power that he associated with Haze?s magic hummed at the base of his skull. Something in the stones of the Abbey wall, he decided, encouraged the flowers to bloom this late in the season.

?O' tha' When, nae,? she was saying. ?I did only wha' I was mean' ta do. There is a reason they call it fallin' in love. It 'as its own gravity.?

?Ah. And this When, as you say?? He hesitated, then stripped off his gloves and laid them onto one knee. The shears were set aside. As soon as his bare skin touched the rosebush, the buzz intensified.

?Rough land, this. Ways are less clear. Some things take longer ta learn.? Bare shoulders lifted a shrug before resetting her posture. ?Tis 'ard ta see, er know if ye do nae know yerself. I would say I only regret tha' it 'as taken this long ta know m'self.? Time was a funny thing, he reflected. Not at all like love. No straight lines. ?Bu' I am me,? she finished, as if this summed up all. Her knife went snick and a rosebud dropped.

?How very philosophical.? One of his hands closed around a stem, fingers wound piercingly tight over the thorns. His head tilts to one side, as the buzz began to sound like voices chanting in chorus. Oddly, the pain of the thorns diminished with the rising of his co-opted magic. ?I'm glad you've that sort of strength, Kyrie.?

?Metal is strongest folded o'er an' over again.? She unfolded to stand full-height, an altitude that barely came to his shoulder. Her head tipped back to take in the expanse of the wall, and the first traipse of stars across the galactic stage. The curtain of clouds could not keep them back.

?Swords. I knew I should have brought a sword out.? He scowled as Haze?s words of barbed wire and torment welled up in him, and a shudder rocked him where he was crouched by the vine. In the next instant, the roses burst into fresh bloom, every bud on the particular plant swelling and flinging its petals out with a flourish like a hundred flamenco dancers. Beside him he heard the shift of fabric as Kyrie turned to look at him, heard her breath catch as a faint backwash of life rolled over her.

?Well.? He drew his hand back, opened it, looked down at it. The thorn-piercings were there, but they were closing sluggishly and there was no blood to speak of. He looked back at the vine. ?That was interesting. Hadn't ever tried to do that with a living thing before.?

When he looked at her once more, her cheeks had taken some of the blooms' color. ?Ta say...th'least,? she murmured, and it was only then that he realized that he'd undone fifteen minutes' work. Her laughter broke at the plain dismay on his face, a fresh spray of sound like waves against the rock.

?Why, yes,? he said in response, his voice dusty-dry. ?I do have regrets, thank you for asking.? Shaking his head, he wriggled his hands back into the gloves and returned to pruning.

?An opportunity fer more practice.? Did she sound?cheeky?

He growled something entirely inappropriate in Arabic in response, involving a goat and a camel. She understood the tone even if the language was beyond her, and the cut of her blade imperfectly covered the sound of her snicker. They worked together in companionable silence for another few minutes as more and more stars winked on overhead. Then?

?Ali.?

?Yes, madam??

?Lucien an' I saw a man who mimicked 'im in th'alley th'other nigh'. Mirrored 'im. Walked away singin' one o' his songs.?

He sucked in a single horrified breath, yellow-green eyes jerking over and up to her face. Then he was on his feet, stripping off his gloves again to take her shoulders and turn her to face him. ?When was this? What happened? What did he say?? Only dimly did it register that with the life he?d given the roses he was colder than she was, her skin warm under his grip.

?Two nigh's past. There was...? she swallowed and went on, ?shootin'. We wen' ou? th'back. Th'Mirror said nae a thin'. Just mimicked, saluted, and sang as it left. Lucien nearly fell wit' shock.?

Michael. That bastard. He was nearly paralyzed with anger. ?He didn't try to touch either of you??

?Nae.?

His fingers tightened on her shoulders, then fell away before he could hurt her. ?All right. He just...stood there. Now Lucien will understand, perhaps.? The barrister hadn?t taken this seriously enough before, he thought. Maybe that was going to change.

Kyrie didn?t know enough about Michael to make the connection. No one had explained it to her. ?This is 'bout 'is soul,? she guessed.

He'd looked away. At her statement, question, thought, he glanced back and shook his head.

?Tell me, please.?

?You've met Michael Gallagher, madam,? he informed her grimly. It was quite clearly time to explain. ?The one-time Prelate of the E.C.C. My wife's murderer. Could we go in? I find myself in need of a drink.? He looked at the corpses of fallen roses scattered all around them.

?Aye.? She left the fallen heads strewn about. Her pace was brisk. She pulled the gloves off as she rounded the corner and crossed into the courtyard. In quiet testimony that she did not live at the Abbey alone, the dried washing had been taken down and put away while they were out pruning, the lines bare but for the fragrant herbs. Past the Library door, a fire glowed with freshly banked coals. Once inside, he replaced the shears and gloves, found an empty chair and dropped into it. His fingers knotted together, his knuckles rubbed against his lips with the effort to calm himself down.

Kyrie stepped past the table, moving to the spirits cabinet and withdrawing the bottle of bourbon. Two tumblers clattered against the bottle, the fourth note the solid wood of the table. The splashes of bourbon into the glasses were a coda to the little melody. She slid one of the glasses toward him, appropriated another for herself, and cotton husked against the chair as she sat.

?Thank you.? He untangled the Gordian Knot of his fingers, accepted the glass, rolled it between his palms. The firelight lent a special sort of intimacy to the realization that either of them, Kyrie or Lucien, could have been attacked, could have been killed.

?I did nae see 'im at first,? she confessed into the quiet between them.

That called for a drink. He tilted the glass back, throat working, bourbon burning its sweet way down. Once he?d got air into his lungs he said, ?I can give you the condensed version if you like, or I can tell it in full. This is?? he pretended to a bit of a brogue in an effort to cheer himself, and failed rather badly at it, ?a bad bit of darkness and make no mistake, lass.?

?Yer tongue was made fer sharper slices of sound,? she chided him quietly. ?I 'ave th'time. Tell it true.?

?All right.? He sat back in his chair, crossing his too-long legs under it, and said, falling into the familiar cadences of commingled Oxford and Egypt: ?Once upon a time...?

(Adapted from live play with Kyrie Elision)

Ali settled into the patron side of the bar at the Red Dragon Inn just in time to watch Lucien decant a good measure of scotch into a glass and take up a casual lean on the far side. The barrister?s pale eyes roamed the room after the first swallow before registering his presence. ?Evening,? the barrister offered. ?Bourbon? Coffee? Or something else??

?I?m fine, thank you.? He rapped his knuckles on the bar, then folded his arms atop it. Where should he start the conversation? And when he did, was he going to be able to keep himself controlled?

Lucien nodded, took another healthy swallow of scotch. The remaining contents danced in the glass as he swirled it absently. His gaze never settled on anything or anyone in particular; Ali, watching, had just enough time to wonder what was driving the edginess before the barrister said quietly, ?I ran into Michael the other night.? Another healthy swallow of scotch followed immediately.

?I know you did,? Ali returned in much the same tone.

The barrister cut a glance back at him, frowning, clearly puzzling over how he had known. His finger tapped against the rim of the glass once, twice; then his expression smoothed out into stoic inscrutability again. ?Kyrie.?

?She was worried about you. She thought it had something to do with the bargain you'd made,? Ali replied. For your soul, he didn?t need to add. They both knew what he was talking about. His booted foot jigged restlessly against the rung of the barstool. ?I'm only astonished you're both in one piece.?

Lucien shrugged nonchalantly. ?I guess it wasn't our time yet. I'll have to speak with her about it.? He refilled his glass from the bottle.

?If you like. I explained the situation.? The man?s apparent determination not to respond, not to react, sitting atop knowing what Lucien had done, finally broke what was left of his restraint. He rose abruptly and stepped through the break. ?Or he's looking for ways to hurt you.? He rummaged through the cabinets behind the bar, swift and impatient.

The barrister didn?t bother to respond to either statement. Not finding what he was looking for, Ali rose, fixed Lucien with a glittering stare. ?Where is it??

A blond brow quirked. ?Where is what??

?Her knife.? He kept his tone even with an effort. ?Having met the man, how could you possibly have taken a weapon away from her, Lucien??

?What knife?? The man?s brow dropped, furrowing into a frown.

?Her knife. You took it from her. It's spider-hilted. Suliss gave it to her.?

Lucien shook his head. ?It is on the top shelf in your kitchen cabinet.?

?She said you took it from her here.?

?I took it from her on the way home from here. Missie was waving it around and showing it off. Anyone could have taken it from her and used it against her.? The barrister spoke quietly and evenly. ?I told her to tell you everything that happened.?

?She did tell me everything that happened.? He glared at the cabinets as if they might properly explain things to him.

?If you are that eager to believe I put her in such danger, if that will make you feel better?? The rest of Lucien?s remark faded behind another swallow of scotch. Shaking his head, the barrister stepped out from behind the bar. ?Fio told me about the key, and the note.?

There went the last of Ali?s control. His head came around at that, eyes widening, his voice rich with disbelief. ?And knowing that, you think I'm eager to believe you're putting her in danger??

?Well, I didn't anticipate anyone else finding out about that. I'm sure that thought has crossed your mind.?

He scrubbed a hand over his face in lieu of throttling the man. ?What thought?? He could hear himself: his voice was constricted, squeezed tight with the anger knotting up his ribcage.

Lucien spoke matter-of-factly as he eased onto the barstool. ?Didn't you get angry when you found the key and note? And realized how Michael could have found the same thing??

?I could have killed you,? he breathed, and reached out to lock his hands over the edges of the back of the bar. ?Your prattling on and on about how you just stand back and pick up the pieces. And then looking at all of that, and realizing that you set her up to be caught by him, over and over again. Like a f**king windup toy. You put it all in motion and you stepped back. Talking about how I am untrustworthy, and you did that to her, Mister bloody High-and-Mighty.? He scowled down at his white-knuckled grip on the bar, returned his glare to the barrister.

?Just like I am sitting back and watching you work your way into her life now?? Another good swallow of scotch and the barrister set the glass on the bar. ?Marking her as yours like you did the other night,? the barrister scoffed quietly. ?You did everything but lift up your leg and spray her.?

?Yes, and how many times has he put her in the ground?? Lucien?s statement sank in. He broke off what he was going to say to stare at the other man. Was this about territory? Had he been right after all?

?To have dozens of babies? Or is just one needed for you to get your hands on the trust??

His breath hitched in his chest. He twitched as if he'd been slapped. The trust? ?Did she tell you about that?? The money waiting for him in Cairo? And if she had, what else had they talked about that she hadn?t told him about afterward?

?No, she didn't,? Lucien answered him calmly.

That exonerated Grace, and stymied him for a breath. Then he remembered: two heads together in the bar, sharing spirits and quiet conversation. A clear implication. ?Alain de Muer.?

?There are other private investigators in town. More discreet than the one you hired,? Lucien contradicted him.

?I saw you cuddled up to him at the bar the other night. Don't pretend that you're not connected to him,? he spat at the barrister. ?I hired Sink because Fio told me she was dangerous. Herself. And wouldn't tell me why, when Gem had invited her into our house.?

?De Muer is a business associate. I'm building ships for him.?

?And in return, he does little favors for you, doesn't he?? He loosed his grip on the bar, turned away to find a bottle of bourbon.

?You're right.? The barrister snapped his fingers, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the nearly empty room. ?Damnit. You found me out. So damn clever, right? You?re always right.?

He stared over his shoulder for a moment, then slowly rotated in place and limped back the two steps to put himself directly across the bar from Lucien?s sardonic face. ?And why, I ask you, is it so f**king difficult for you to admit that you're wrong about me?? The amber liquor in the bottle sloshed as he thumped it onto the bartop with rather more force than necessary, and twisted the corked cap out.

?What makes you any different than the others?? Lucien asked, toying with his glass.

?I'm not leaving her.?

?Haze didn't leave her.?

His head filled up with fury at that. ?Haze brought sex slaves into their f**king children's nursery, then tried to sell her to Brutin. If that's not leaving, then I don't know what is. And don't you ever f**king compare me to him again,? he panted.

?He smothered her. Tried to control her.?

?You ask her, yourself, whether I have ever taken her choices away from her.? If he didn?t slap a lid on his anger, he was going to go over the bar at the other man.

Lucien?s breath of humorless laughter didn?t help matters. ?I can barely ask her a question without you draping yourself all over her.?

?First, you had quite the little conversation with her the other night, didn't you?? He sucked in deep breaths, his fist clenched around the neck of the bottle.

The barrister?s blue eyes flickered. He tipped the glass back to drain the remaining contents, then left it on the bar and stood. ?First time in a long time.?

?Second, when have you given me the slightest reason to trust you? At what point did you ever say, ?Well, glad to see you're happy together, good luck with that, you're going to f**king well need it.? No. No, it's been ?you're just like the others? all this time, and you've had me investigated??

Lucien made his way around the bar, evidently after more scotch. ?You ask me to take Fio's word on your behalf. Has she said anything to you, told you not to trust me??

??what?? That bit of sophistry called for a drink. He turned the bottle up and drank straight from it. The bourbon burned all the way down.

The barrister returned to his seat, bottle in hand. ?You go snooping around, asking all sorts of questions about her, move in with her, then suddenly marry her. Yes, I had you investigated.? Ali wondered, not for the first time, whether the man?s even tone was a product of years spent working in the courts. As Lucien poured a fresh glassful, he went on, ?I guess you would have rather I had sat back, set her up for him again and picked up the pieces?? The force with which the bottle of scotch hit the bartop was telling, though?the man wasn?t as calm as he appeared. ?So tell me...how do you plan to stop him? Hmm??

He was silent between swallows of bourbon. When Lucien was done, he put the bottle down and folded both hands around its neck, then looked up at the man. ?All I wanted...all I ever wanted...was for you to take me at face value. You were, are, her friend. Can you?? No, it wasn?t even worth finishing that question. The barrister clearly refused to see any connection between them; it was clear in the man?s face, set and composed, in his pale and unblinking eyes, looking at him like a silent accusation. He changed his tack. ?Kyrie is teaching me how to handle what I've learned. From Haze's books.? The woman's name carried a lot of weight with Lucien, he knew that. Perhaps it would soothe the barrister?s clear and growing mistrust of him.

?How I begin to do that when I learn through Missie that you've started going through Haze's books? When I hear from the merchant and locksmiths you've been there. You want me to take you at face value? Show me your true face. I don't want to be hearing it from someone else. Learning it from someone else.?

His gaze dropped to the barrister's tapping finger, then to his own hands throttling the neck of his bottle. Then up again, to meet those pale wolf's eyes with his own. He nodded, just once. ?All right.? It will be, he told those wolf?s eyes silently, a very cold day in Sobek?s hell before you see my true face.

?You want to be given the benefit of the doubt? Reciprocate it,? said the barrister, as if he?d heard that thought. The words hung between them, borne on alcohol fumes and stale air.

He nodded again. ?But not tonight, I think,? he said curtly. ?Goodnight.? The bottle went with him.

The winds had picked up and whipped through the empty shipyard past the opened launch doors, rattling the pulleys and blocks. The frames moaned in protestation of their peace and quiet being invaded. The ocean foamed as she crashed on the shores, pounding and railing against the dock.

The lone man stood in the open doorway with a half full glass of scotch in one hand and watched. He watched the same ocean waters that gently lapped against the beach but a few moments earlier, now spit and spray salt water into the storm laden night. Ran was indeed on a rampage, out with her net to lure or drag as many men as she could capture down to ?gir's richly decorated hall on the ocean floor.

Fio had led Lucien through the shop on the first floor of the Studio. Through Ali's shop on the first floor of Fio's Studio. The Helston led the Barrister through the collection of books and artifacts and statues and clothing, through the Egyptian's renovation up to the second floor of her Studio.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" She whispered proudly. "He's worked so hard."

Another wave crashed into the surf with a deafening roar. Off the horizon, a flash of distant lightening lit up the looming clouds, charging the night sky.

The elevator rang and the doors opened at the second floor, revealing offices and a conference room.

"Fio?" He heard the Egyptian call.
"Yes. It's me....and Lucien." She answered stepping out of the cab and waiting for the Barrister to follow.
"Business or pleasure?"
"Just a visit. Fio reminded me I haven't seen the Studio nor the shop yet."
"I see."
"And we wanted to have a conversation," Fio added. "About Flea."

Thunder boomed, echoing in the man's chest and rattling the shipyard.

"We'll have that discussion another time, Fio."
"You said you'd talk to me here."
"You said we were alone at the bar. I assumed the same here."
"Ali is my husband."

Lightening flashed, jagged bolts stretching across the dark night like cracks in a sheet of ice.

"Yes he is."
"You were never going to tell me anything, were you?"
"If my leaving means you'll talk to her, I'll go."

Another crack of lightening lit up the sky. Another rumble of thunder followed, drowning out the sound of the glass shattering against the launch door. Ran sent another wave hammering down against the shore. It retreated in an angry foaming swirl, erasing every mark that had been left on the beach by man or beast.

"No. I made a mistake coming here."

It had been two months since the fight. He had gone down into the sewers with Lucien, hunting Michael. He had hashed out theories of Michael?s strategy with the man, established a plan of attack. They had established a fragile peace?but Ali had never apologized. It weighed on his mind as he walked through the bloody cold drizzle to the inn and stepped inside.

He swiped the rain from his eyes, swept a hand over his damp hair, and looked over the common room. There was a big sheet-and-blanket fort by the hearth that took up the whole of the couch and one of the wingbacks. A number of wooden chairs were used as supports. Given that it was exactly like the one he?d found abandoned at home, it was an easy thing to guess that it was Missie?s creation. Her soft and girlish voice wafting from beneath the sheet confirmed it.

Having established that, he limped to the bar and begged a bottle of bourbon from the dwarven tender behind it. He poured a glass and called his child-wife out for a hug. He was happy to see her; he was always happy to see each of the personas collectively living in the body of Fionna Helston. But seeing the new one meant, always, that he?d just lost another. His happiness was always tempered, bittersweet.

He kissed the crown of her head and released her, met her three new friends?adult men, all of them. Like Marcus. Like those bastards Julio and Ernesto. Taneth, Rekah and Mick were, so far as he knew, her only female friends. Was there something in her that sought a father figure, perhaps??

Just as that idea sprang into being, he realized that Lucien had walked into the common room. And wasn?t that something to think about? ?Evening, Lucien.?

The barrister turned, hearing the greeting; nodded, and said, ?Evening.?

?Missie, I'm going outside. Don't start any trouble I can't clean up,? Ali didn?t quite beg her.

?You want me to come with you??

?I need to talk to Lucien for a moment, pet.? He left another kiss on her cheek, gave the barrister a significant look and jerked his head toward the door, receiving a nod in return.

Missie sighed a little. ?Okay. I am gonna color a picture for the Cat Lady.?

Wondering what, exactly, Bast did with all those offerings of wax crayon and paper kept him occupied all the way out onto the porch. Once outside, he settled himself against the railing, pulled his coat's lapel away from the battered t-shirt beneath, and extracted a cigar?a Romeo y Julieta stashed just for such emergencies as this. Cutting the cigar and lighting it was the work of a moment. The rain had washed the dank damp fishy smell out of the air; he did his best to return Rhydin to its naturally stinky state, drawing and puffing until he had a nicely baleful burn going.

A minute or two later, Lucien joined him, bringing out the bottle of bourbon, a bar towel slung casually over a shoulder. The barrister indicated the two glasses balanced on his other hand, poured one full and offered it out. ?What did you want to speak to me about, Ali??

Ali looked up from the patch of porch he was frowning at. The lamplight spilling through the window painted the cigar's smoke in shades of cloudy yellow. The drink he had brought out with him was resting on the railing beside him, but that was not going to stop him. Not tonight. He reached for the offered glass, took it, drained off half of it at a go. ?I wanted,? he wheezed, ?to apologize to you.? A lungful of air later, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and sent another roiling cloud of cigar smoke out into the dark.

He might as well have offered to behead Lucien on the spot, from the way the barrister froze. ?Apologize for what??

?You were right.? He restrained himself to a single swallow and a few puffs on the cigar before continuing. Moderation. Right. ?I shouldn't have brought it up. I absolutely shouldn't have brought it up in front of the inn. And I shouldn't have started the fight. So.? He shrugged, a little awkwardly, within the confines of the long black coat. Perhaps he should not have brought this up. Perhaps he should have let it lie. ?I?m sorry.?

There was a short silence, threaded through with the sound of the rain dripping off the porch roof. Lucien?s icy blue gaze drifted away. An unsteady sea of sound from the crowd within lapped against the window. He shook his head, drew a deep breath. ?No harm real harm came of it, Ali.?

He drew on the cigar, the taste so thick he could practically chew on it, and eyed the other man. It was kind of him to say, truly it was, but he was mistaken. He was tempted to bite the cigar in half, just thinking on it. ?He knows.? Just saying the words aloud froze his blood. Michael knew of Flea?s existence, and it was his own bloody fault.

As Ali?s soul squirmed inside the cage of his body, the barrister took a deliberate drink from his glass. ?His knowing won?t help him,? he said, very low and sure.

Ali polished the first glass off, stretched out along the railing and reached for the second, the cigar clamped between his teeth. ?Also...? he straightened with bourbon in one hand, the cigar in the other. The burning tobacco left a glowing red arc of afterimage painted against the gloom. ?Also, I realized something. When we thought that you were...lost.? He recalled again Fio?s absolute certainty that Lucien had become a vampire, that Rebekah was responsible. Even though the effect had only lasted for a night, it had been one of Lord Yhaull?s more masterful strokes of torment. ?I realized that I had lost an opportunity.?

The barrister paused in the act of taking another drink, regarding Ali expectantly. ?An opportunity??

?Yes. And now I've been given it back.? A brief grin flickered along Ali?s shadowed face. ?You're one of her oldest friends. And your recent bastard behavior aside, I suspect you were there for a reason. So. I'm willing to start over, if you are, sir.?

He had another moment of wondering whether he was doing the right thing, as the barrister drew another deep breath and dropped his gaze to the floor by his feet, lips pressed to a thin line. The rain went on telling its own quiet tale on the porch?s roof and the cobblestones beyond. It blurred the edges of the yellow-white halos around each of the lamps out on the street. It undercut the hollow clopping of a passing carriage. And still the barrister frowned at the floor.

Just as Ali reached the point of demanding the man voice his objections, Lucien pushed off the railing and extended his hand. ?I?m Lucien,? he said. ?Fio?s bastard friend. Nice to meet you.?

Ali snorted out a startled instant of humor. It turned into a snicker. Then, as he switched his bourbon from his right hand to his left, and took Lucien's hand in his own, he laughed outright. ?I'm Fio's bastard husband Ali. Pleasure to meet you, Lucien.?

?Pleasure indeed.?