Into The Fire
by Deirdre
© March, 2005

The long black leather coat swirls around his legs, scrapes with a soft shushed sound against the bricks, creaks softly as he moves through the shadows. His boots are cat-quiet on the wet pavement. Rain mists into his thick dark hair, beads on his pale skin where his hair has parted along either side of his nape, then slips down to tickle warm skin beneath his black sweater. It's a minor discomfort, easily ignored; he has faced far worse in his long life.

Kevin stops at the corner of a run-down old apartment building, where a dark alley opens between this tenement and another. He can see nothing to distinguish this place from similar ones, but over the wet smell of pavement and leather and the stench of rotting garbage, the scent of magic is strong, ozone-sharp, and his nostrils twitch. An old streetlamp provides a dim, shuddery light, flickering as the ebb and flow of wild magic shifts through electrical circuits before curling away again into the wet night.

Almost against his will, his head turns and he looks down the alley. The light is too dim to see far within, but his nose tells him that more lies within the dark than piles of rubbish, more than an old trash dumpster, half smashed in and blood red with rust. If he listens, if he tunes out the mundane sounds of the city at night, he can hear the wet slither of something heavy moving rapidly toward him.

He doesn't flinch as the tentacle curls around the bricks, a flash of pale grey flesh shining with mucus. As monsters go, he's seen worse than this. The tentacle wraps around his ankle and twines ivy-like up his leg, moving with surprising speed. A Man would've been jerked from his feet, pulled into that dark alley into a hungry maw filled with sharp slimy teeth, and would never have made it out alive.

Good thing he isn't a Man.

The thing senses his difference and releases him, sliding back into the darkness; he can hear a faint bubbling hiss of disappointment. Perhaps fear. It is nothing but a collection of skin and muscle and teeth and reflexes, a hunter, simple and animal. He can feel no sense of intelligence from it, just hunger. It is not like the prey he seeks, cunning and intelligent, able to keep just two steps ahead of him.

But it is still a menace, and Kevin raises his hand to the corner of the building. With a leather-gloved fingertip, he sketches a series of runes over the wet bricks, and for a heartbeat, they shine bright green in the weak light before fading into nothing. It is a mark for some other hunter to heed, or perhaps, when he's finished with his task, he'll return and take care of the problem himself.

But for now, he has a job to do.

Invisible currents of magic curl around him, rippling around his body and mind like disturbed water. They feel simultaneously cool and warm and hot, spilling over his awareness. He glides through them, sorting through the sensations, looking for that one distinct signature, pale and shimmering like a thread or like a strand of his beloved's hair, that will lead him to his prey.

There. Within his mind, he catches the thread again, holds it tightly, and follows it for two more blocks, until he stands before another tenement which looks the same as the ones before. Nothing to distinguish it but the overwhelming certainty that Justin is here.

Kevin steps over the wino, stinking of alcohol and putrefaction, lying sprawled in the doorway, and enters the apartment building. Within it is hot and close, and reeks of urine and shit and sweat. He takes the main stairs two at a time, his tall, long-legged body moving effortlessly, his mind ranging far ahead of his body, following a trail only he can sense. On the second floor landing, a pale green rat chitters at him before scampering down the steps between his boots.

Third floor, and yes, oh yes. Here. Kevin strides down the hall, coattails billowing behind him like a cloak, his chin up, hands flexing. He can feel Justin's signature so close, and excitement sparkles down his spine like a lick of coldhot lightning.

When he reaches apartment seven, his hand slides into his long coat and his fingers curl around the hilt of his sword, an elaborate swirl of silver and onyx. He pulls the curving Fey blade free and kicks in the door.

The door splinters from the facing and caves in with an impressive amount of noise, certain to alert all the neighbors, but it's the least thing on his mind. No one here will care, anyway. Within, a tired lamp spreads weak yellow light over the small, cramped apartment, and he scours it with one look, automatically seeking out any possible threats. But there are none; Justin is gone already.

Beneath the one open window is a rumpled bed. On that bed lies a twist of husk-dry limbs. One-handed, Kevin shoves aside the bed with a screech of metal against wood, and leans out the window, searching, but he sees nothing in the rain-heavy darkness. He can feel the thread of Justin's essence, but an eddy of loose wild magic dissolves it. If only he had arrived a moment earlier, if only he had been just a little faster.

If only. Two words that have been the summation of two years of the hunt. He curls his free hand into a fist, smashing it against the dirty window sill. The wood splinters beneath his strength.

The wind splatters rain against his face, oddly cold. Kevin pulls back into the apartment, angry and frustrated, wiping away the wetness with the back of his hand. Anger serves no purpose, clouds the thought processes, clutters the mind, and so he lets it slide away from him. He sheathes his sword beneath his coat into the harness that hangs from his shoulders; it is a familiar, welcome weight there against his side.

He turns his attention to the bed, though he knows what he will see. Long black hair spills across the stale dirty sheets, and although the boy's face is now forever frozen in a mummified rictus of fear, Kevin knows he would've been pretty, in life. Slim and young and fair is how Justin prefers them, but that is not how he leaves them. They could be students, ravers, junkies, wannabe mages, hippies, artists, seekers of truth---anything. Justin has no preference other than gender, and his hunting grounds vary widely to throw anyone off his trail. For the Men who investigate the deaths, the very randomness of the victims works to keep them from finding him. But no matter how different his prey, Kevin can follow him, bound by strength of will, drive and purpose. He will follow him, until he catches him.

Until he kills him.

Kevin twitches the sheet over the naked body; the boy deserves at least that much. The heavy smell of sex and musk rises to him from the sheets, along with the dry, sandy, desert smell of the boy's remains. The scent is always a surprise, somehow. Kevin thinks he should be accustomed to it after all this time, but it always catches him unawares. With a frown, he turns away from the bed, striding out the door and into the wet night.

He has three days before Justin feeds again.

Tonight it isn't raining, and for that, Kevin's grateful. The breeze that fingers across his cheek and stirs his hair feels cool and moist, a welcome relief from the heat of the day, even though it smells of dusty concrete and car exhaust fumes. He misses acutely the sharp scent of resiny pines, the cool crispness of the wind blowing down from the snowy tops of the mountain peaks, the warm alive smell of his horse, the burning wood of campfires. One day he will return and fill his nose with the scents of home, but this is not that day. He stands silently against the wall of the movie theatre, watching the crowd flow by, chattering amongst themselves.

This is one of the few pockets of normalcy left within the city, where the wild magic hasn't touched. If he reaches out with his mind, he can feel the magic trying to hook claws into the skin of energy that surrounds this place, trying to rip it away, trying to get in. It's like having something big and toothy prowling hungrily in the shadowy trees at the edges of a forest clearing, knowing that it will pounce, but not when. He wonders if these others, these Men, can sense it, like something glimpsed at the corner of an eye.

The wall between the world of Man and the True World has thinned, and in some places has broken, allowing passage through to this shadowy version of the True World Kevin knows. Creatures and beings from his world have slipped into this one, blending in, hiding sometimes in plain sight. Emboldened by those passing through the wall, the preternatural creatures of this world have come forward, and the result is an uneasy peace between Man and not-Man, a fragile peace, one that threatens to break at any time.

A flutter of black catches Kevin's eye, and after banking around a streetlight, feathers gleaming blue-black, a big raven lands on the sidewalk beside him. It cocks its head at him, one black eye glittering in the red light washing from the theatre marquee, and then croaks at him. A ripple of writhing flesh and feathers, a metamorphosis that happens almost too quickly for the eye to follow, and a pale young man dressed entirely in black stands before him, grinning.

"JC," Kevin says in greeting, with a polite nod of his head.

"Been awhile, Old One," JC replies, his expression pleased. His voice is slow and honey-thick with a deep southern accent, the latest mimicry in a line of more accents, more languages than Kevin cares to count. Though he is nearly as tall as Kevin, his slimness makes him seem much smaller, a lean young man with huge kohl-ringed blue eyes and long wild dark hair, like most of his people. Silver glints brightly around his neck, on his slender wrists and fingers. Beneath the black mesh shirt, Kevin can see glimpses of smooth, pale flesh, the dark disk of a nipple, tantalizing. Black leather pants mold to his slim thighs, and his big black boots glitter with silver buckles from ankle to knee. Glitter shines on his high cheekbones and slicks across his smiling mouth.

"You look like a Goth Rommany," Kevin says with a smile of his own. He's known JC for three thousand years of Man, and JC changes easily with each rotation of the wheel of time, fitting in with others, or not, as it pleases him. "Wear much more silver and you won't be able to get your scrawny ass up in the air."

"What's the use of having pretties if you don't display them?" JC spreads his arms wide and twirls; silver beads twinkle in his curls, and the long black coat he wears swirls around his legs like a dancer's veils. Kevin knows that in its voluminous folds JC carries enough weaponry to bring down almost any threat from this side or the other. His people, though strong, are too light-boned to do well in hand-to-hand combat, so they've taken well to the weapons of both Old Ones and Men. JC is an acknowledged master of blades, and probably carries at least a dozen or more secreted in his clothing and on his person; Kevin can't blame him for taking any advantage he can. The ravens are carriers of information, and not everyone is willing to trade for their knowledge, preferring to take it by force. Given the ravens' love of weaponry and their total dedication and determination to protect their knowledge, those who tangle with them seldom live to regret their actions.

"True enough," Kevin agrees. "What brings you to me tonight? Have you something to trade?"

"Perhaps," JC says, sidling up closer. He runs a long finger up the sleeve of Kevin's coat, and looks up at him through the lace of his lashes, white teeth biting his full lower lip, as pretty a flirtation as Kevin has ever seen. Kevin captures his slim hand in his own, and brings it up to press the backs of JC's fingers to his lips. His hand is warm, his nails painted black, and he smells of cold wind and feathers.

"Nice," JC murmurs, and rises to his toes to press his lips to Kevin's, a brief touch that leaves Kevin's lips tingling, before spinning away, his heavy boots barely touching the pavement. "You like to dance, Kevin? And I'm not talking about the dances of the High Court. Dances that are less than ten millennia old." His eyes glitter with amusement.

"Feel free to mock me—and I'm certain you will—but I'm a traditionalist at heart," Kevin replies drily. "Why?"

"The boy, the pretty boy, liked to dance," JC says. "I know where he danced the night he met Justin. Interested?"

"Justin doesn't feed twice from the same trough," Kevin replies. "He's too smart for that."

Quick on his feet, JC pops up on Kevin's other side, pressing his cheek to his upper arm. "Brother said he saw him there earlier tonight." His black-lined eyes are huge and dark, peering over the edge of Kevin's shoulder. "I'd have come earlier to you with this, but I just found out about it. Interested now?"

"Yes," Kevin replies. "Of course I am. What do you want for it?" No raven ever gave away information for free, not even this one, whom he's known for so long. It would do no good to try and force him to tell what he knows, no matter that his blood sings within his veins and impatience scrabbles along his skin; JC won't be hurried.

JC laughs, soft and low and musical, and his hand on the small of Kevin's back is warm and fleeting. "Mmm. Not every debt is paid in coin, or in exchange of information. You know what I want. Fuck me, and I'll tell you."

As if he really expected any other answer, after millennia of flirtation. Kevin shakes his head, his mouth pressing into a firm line. "I won't, and you know it. Name another price, feather-boy."

JC grins, undaunted by Kevin's refusal. "Some day, you'll say yes," he says confidently. "I'm very beautiful, and I'll have you eventually." He slides beneath Kevin's arm, to stand in front of him, looking up at him speculatively. As quick as thought, he slips a hand beneath Kevin's coat, and as JC withdraws, Kevin wraps his fingers around JC's wrist, stopping the movement. The light flashes on the silver blade of his stiletto, winks in the blood-red jewel at the pommel of the slender hilt.

"I like this," JC says. "I'd prefer something...warmer, something...bigger from you," he slicks his tongue over his upper teeth, and drops a sly wink in an outrageous flirtation, "but if this is all you'll part with, I'll take it."

"It's all I'll part with." His mouth quirking in a half-smile at JC's audacity, Kevin releases JC's wrist. No other dares such familiarity with him, and he should not allow it, but JC has been toying with him for so long he'd not be able to put a stop to it now. "Seal the bargain with the information."

"Club called Mirror, Mirror. It's a Changers place, where they can go to let down their shields, be themselves. Brother saw him going in, about an hour ago. Brother Chris, so you know it's accurate information." JC's tongue is pointy and pink as he licks down the flat of the blade from base to sharp tip, his eyes dancing wickedly.

"I know you wouldn't give me false information." He ignores JC's display, and JC sighs dramatically and sheaths the dagger somewhere in the voluminous folds of his coat.

An hour. Justin might still be there. He'd not be hunting; it's still two days before the hunger will take him. If he can get to him first, he might be able to save a life—ah, his hand itches for the grip of his sword.

"That is all I have at the moment," JC says softly, pressing up closely to Kevin's chest a moment. He is so slim and light, but hot, hot, and his hands on the curve of Kevin's waist, on the long length of strong thigh, on the hard muscle of his flat stomach, are deft and quick. Were he not single-minded to his task, Kevin knows the bold caresses would make his blood run fiery and wild, for JC is beautiful—that's no idle boast on his part.

Smiling, JC withdraws, and half turns, looking over his shoulder at Kevin through wild strands of dark hair. "Perhaps next time, Old One."

His slight figure blurs and warps, and a heartbeat later, with a loud clatter of primary feathers, a big raven arcs skyward, powerful black wings blending with the night. A moment, and he is gone, sailing above the city, his sharp eyes and the eyes of his brethren watching everything below them.

Kevin watches the sky a moment, then turns and strides down the street in the direction of the club Mirror, Mirror, mentally sifting through the currents and eddies of magic and awareness like the hound of the hunt that he is.

The middle of town is given over to warehouses, most of them abandoned, looming over streets criss-crossed with old unused railroad tracks. Though urban renewal is rolling through this part of the city, the yuppie wave hasn't touched here yet, and so most buildings are half-rotted, dangerous hulks, homes to vagrants and things much, much darker. Even in broad daylight, the streets are cold and shadowed, and the adventurous, the daring, can see things moving down streets and in buildings, things that have made their homes here, creatures that most Men have heard of only in stories.

Mirror, Mirror sits at the knife's edge between renewal and decay, a surprisingly popular night spot with the young, the wealthy, the seekers of the different. And different it is; it's a club for Changers, for shapeshifters, and only a select few full-humans gain admittance. But the danger, the exclusivity, makes it all the more desirable, and so the lines to get into its doors trail down the block.

Kevin feels Mirror, Mirror before he arrives at the street corner opposite the door; the warm power of that many shapeshifters in one place rolls over him, electric heat prickling over his skin. He savors it a moment, then strengthens his mental shields, shutting out most of the sensation. That much power is too distracting; he needs to be alert, needs to be able to sift through the currents and focus on that one thread that whispers Justin's name. Closing his eyes a moment, he searches through the currents flowing around him, carding through the lines of power like a weaver searching through a tangle of yarn for one single thread. It's harder with his shields up, makes his head throb, but it must be done.

His eyes flash open as a wingtip brushes against his shoulder, and he sees the glitter of a round black eye as JC wings past him and Changes in mid-air, his long black coat swirling around him. He lands lightly on his feet in a crouch, knees bent, fingertips touching the pavement. For a heartbeat or two, he looks up at Kevin through curly strands of his hair, his dark-lined eyes gleaming with amusement. "My Lord," JC says, and flows to his feet with inhuman grace.

Kevin had heard the surprised gasps, the ‘ooh' of the people standing in line as JC Changed and landed, but JC scarcely pays it heed. This is a city of wonders, but humans never cease to be surprised by something he considers so normal. It probably isn't a good idea for JC to flaunt his powers so openly, so casually, but then everyone knows this is a Changers area, and such sights are fairly common, now. And besides, that's just why humans come here; to catch a glimpse of a Changer in action.

He's not surprised to see JC; the ravens are always on the lookout for news, for information, and they're usually in the thick of everything. And actually, Kevin is glad to see him, grateful for his loyalty and friendship. He's not so proud that he'll refuse someone guarding his back; he knows he'll have trouble focusing in the midst of so many Changers, and JC's sharp eyes and sharper blades will be welcomed.

"Even one so fair as you will have trouble getting in unless you're with one of us," JC says, and shakes his long curls out of his eyes. His teeth are very white as he grins. "So here I am."

"I appreciate your help, but I'm still not fucking you," Kevin says, though one corner of his mouth curves upward, ever so slightly.

JC's expression flows into one of exaggerated hurt, and he lays one slim hand, flashing with silver, over his heart. "I'm so hurt, that you think I'd ask such a thing."

"You asked for it not half an hour ago, so I think it's a valid statement."

"That may be," JC says with surprising primness. "But this is a freebie. Out of the goodness of my heart, so don't go spreading it around." He drops the wounded look, and leans in, his voice dropping low, pulling Kevin into a tight circle of complicity, the solemnness ruined by the slow wink of one blue eye. "I'll lose face with others of my kind if they discover I've given away help for free. Think of the scandal."

Kevin raises his hand and touches his first two fingers to his forehead, his lips, his chest. "So I swear."

JC laughs, slides a hand down Kevin's chest, then whirls away. Kevin follows him more sedately, though excitement spins down his spine, a sparklytight sensation that makes his heart beat faster within his ribs, his muscles grow more taut. He flexes his leather-clad hands, and can almost feel the grip of his sword in his palm.

He strides up the sidewalk, a loose, long-legged, liquid stride, occasionally glancing at those standing in line, hoping for a chance to get into the club. Some are obviously tourists, some so clearly wish to be one of the Changers, decked out with a preponderance of leather and fake ears and tails; JC takes note of them, laughing. "Chris would love it, and pull one or more of them into the club just out of sheer perversity," JC says, flinging the words carelessly over his shoulder, "but I'm not inclined to do so. At least, not tonight."

At the door stands a man who dwarfs even Kevin, huge arms crossed over an equally huge chest, amber eyes alert and predatory. JC wraps his fingers around Kevin's wrist and tugs; they melt through the crowd of humans waiting to get in, JC ignoring their cutting remarks with the blithe ease of long experience. The club is not exclusively for Changers, though they get preference, and this one standing guard obviously picks and chooses which humans may enter.

"Sebastian," JC says with a smile, and his voice is as sweet as wild honey.

When JC comes to stand before Sebastian—who towers over him, and smells of warm fur and cold pine forests, in spite of the scents of the city—he slides his free hand over Sebastian's brawny forearm, and smiles up at him, all sweet promise and dirty sex.

"It's the feather duster," Sebastian rumbles, and smiles down at him. His canines are long and look very sharp. "Haven't seen you for a week or two."

"Ah, my furry friend," JC says, and slides his hand over Sebastian's belly, fingers smoothing over the buckle of his belt. "I've missed you." His other hand tightens over Kevin's forearm, including them into the circle he's drawn around himself and Sebastian. That JC doesn't try for an arm around his waist, or perhaps something more intimate, surprises him. "This is my friend Kevin."

Those predator eyes slide over Kevin, and he knows Sebastian can almost track the rush of blood in his veins, can taste the breath coming from his mouth, can scent his very difference from those around him, can anticipate almost any move before he makes it.

Sebastian unfolds, and muscles bunch and glide heavily under his skin. One hand snaps upward, reflexes more than Fey-quick, and his thick fingers flick aside a heavy lock of Kevin's long black hair, exposing the fine taper of his pointed ear. Kevin seldom bothers with the glamour anymore; he has little interaction with humans, in spite of striding through their world, and a Changer can usually see—or more accurately, smell—the difference.

"I see," Sebastian says, and his head tips a little to the side, studying Kevin. The hunger slides from his eyes, replaced by interest of another kind. "Probably more than you realize," he says, and then his eyes flick back to JC.

"I thought you might," JC replies with a small smile.

Kevin isn't fooled by the doorman's rough, feral look. He knows that while Sebastian might look all brawn and no brain, nothing could be further from the truth; the bearfolk are some of the most perceptive of all the Changers, connected with the universe in ways even he cannot understand; they walk the Dreaming better than any other.

But at the moment he has no interest in the world of the Dreaming—his attention is on the mundane, on the present. He steps closer to Sebastian, the weight of his attention almost palpable. "I would ask for information, Dreamwalker. Did one such as myself pass through here, perhaps an hour or two ago? It is very important that I find him."

"Hm," Sebastian says, and his brows lower in thought. He raises one hand, and his fingers flutter a bare inch over Kevin's shoulder, his arm, as if testing something he can feel, but not see. "Like you, yet not. I almost didn't let him in, but." His mountainous shoulders move in a shrug. "If you're looking for him for either vengeance, or justice, don't shed blood inside—Lance won't like it. It's barely a week until the full moon, and control can be...difficult for some of us." He smiles again, and this one carries more of threat and less of humor; his canines look fractionally longer than they had just moments before.

Sebastian cups JC's chin in his hand, and leans down to kiss him. JC's slim body arches upward eagerly, one hand on Sebastian's waist, and his mouth moves languidly beneath Sebastian's. When he finally pulls away, he's breathless and flushed, blue eyes sparkling. "Mmm," JC hums, and his pink tongue flashes out to catch a tiny smear of blood on his lip. "You taste of honey and blood, sweetness and iron," he says. "Sometime soon, I will have you," he promises, and Sebastian's tawny eyes flash with hunger, and Kevin can scent his interest, male musk overlaid with the warmth of fur and the sharp tang of pine forests. Sebastian licks his lips, and opens the door for them.

"The full moon makes the pleasure that much greater for those of us in fur," Sebastian says, his voice a low rumble, like thunder in far away hills. "You might keep that in mind when promising favors, featherboy."

"Oh, no," JC says merrily. "Not the full moon—I'd rather not end up a midnight snack for you." He tugs Kevin through the open doorway, accompanied by Sebastian's chuckle.

"Large blades at the coat check," Sebastian says unnecessarily, and closes the door behind him, shutting out the night and closing them into the noises and heat and scents of the club.

Inside, the entryway is shadowy, and with JC at his side, close enough that Kevin can feel the brush of arm or hip against him, Kevin blinks to accustom himself to the dimness. The bass is loud enough that he can feel it in his chest, through the soles of his boots, and JC has already started bouncing to the beat of the music, his face bright and excited. Kevin spares a moment to wonder how beings with enhanced senses can stand the sheer amount of noise; it pounds in his head, and though his senses are sharper than those of men, they are dull compared to a Changer. The club is crowded, and people swirl around them like a tide, laughing, staggering, either drunk or high; the scent of alcohol and animal musk, of fur and hot blood is strong enough that Kevin rubs at his nose. Stronger still is the power that rolls over him, Changer power, warm and prickling over his skin, like the force of a thunderstorm just before breaking.

JC weaves through those standing and chatting, or swaying together to the music Kevin feels pounding through his skin and feet, and Kevin follows his feather-slim body. They don't stop at the coat check, and the girl behind the counter yells, but JC waves away her protest with a dismissive gesture, his attention on the people around them. They aren't here to dance, but to hunt, and neither will surrender weapons, no matter what the rules might say. Kevin knows that like himself, JC has an arsenal of Fey-crafted blades, black onyx and silver-twisted grips glimmering, identical to his own, made by the same Fey swordmaster. Each is worth a kingdom, the balance perfect for their owners, sharp enough to cut through steel, through concrete; skin and bone poses no challenge. Kevin finds comfort from the weight of his own long, curving blade, tucked along his side, as well as other edged weapons secreted away in belt and coat, with blades as long as his forearm. He remembers Sebastian's warning to shed no blood, and it's truly good advice, but he'd been careful to make no promises. If he finds Justin, bloodshed will be inevitable.

The entrance opens out onto the dance floor, over which spins a mirrored ball, reflecting the shine of a number of colored spotlights in little bright spots over the writhing mass of dancers, a mixed group of Changers and humans, and others. Kevin stops for a moment and watches the dancers with a soldier's eye for sizing up the strengths and weaknesses of opponents. He can easily pick out the Changers; their mostly-naked bodies move with a feral grace that no human can match, and their sinuous twisting movements look like some sort of mating ritual.

Any Changer can shift body parts at will, some with more skill than others, but Kevin sees more of animal than of man in those around him, their basic natures pulled from them by the powerful energy surrounding them, as thick and hot and vital as blood. As he watches, fur advances and recedes like the ocean tide, claws form and retract, tails whip around thighs, then shrink away, ears and in some instances, faces, shift from man to beast and back again. And every eye that slides over him has a shining wildness, a predatory gleam.

It's both beautiful and terrifying to watch, and he wonders how humans can bear the closeness of the wild that cloaks itself in human skin, for in this place, humans are completely outclassed and overmatched. They're not the chief predator here—they're prey, soft skinned, soft-bellied, with blunt teeth and nails. Perhaps that is part of the appeal of this place for them, and Kevin thinks that they trust too much in tenuous human laws to keep them from harm. This close to the full moon, he can see they are safe only by the barest of margins.

JC's sharp eyes watch the dancing, his body moving to the beat, as fluid as water. Kevin can see that Mirror, Mirror is made up of several huge interconnecting rooms, each with a bar; this room, the largest, has two bars, one at each end wall, and all are packed. Neon snakes across the upper walls in bright, colorful arabesques. Industrial sized ceiling fans spin lazily, but do little to disperse the musk, the sweat of far too many people in too small an area. Kevin wipes at his face. Sweat sheens his forehead, his upper lip, the small of his back. The heat is responsible for only part of it; unleashed power ripples and flows around him, like the tide. Justin couldn't have picked a better hiding place if he'd tried. This much unrestrained energy fucks with Kevin's head, makes it hard to focus, to find that one signature of power that belongs to Justin alone.

A man appears out of the crowd before them, as if magicked there. Chris. He's small, slim, and like JC, dressed in black, his face sharp and bright, his hair a spiky shock of black shot through with scarlet. His kohl-ringed eyes are rich brown, shining with intelligence, and his smile is sly and wicked. Though he isn't wearing a long coat as JC does, as he himself does, Kevin has no doubt that he's bristling with hidden weaponry beyond the knives he can see protruding from the tops of his knee-high boots, knives almost long enough to be called short swords.

"Chris," JC says, his voice warm with pleasure, and his hand curls around the nape of the other man's neck, pulling him closer, his mouth settling over Chris' for a moment. Kevin can almost see a soft glow surround them, built of love and trust and uncounted years together. Chris' fingers tangle in JC's long curls, and his mouth suckles hungrily at JC's.

"You taste of bear," Chris says when he pulls back, licking his lower lip. Then his gaze flicks to Kevin. "Old One. The one you seek is here. Third room back." His voice is light and melodic, easily heard even through the music's din. "Our eyes and our swords are yours tonight." His smile is as sharp and predatory as any Changer's. "Terms to be discussed later."

Kevin closes his eyes, and concentrates. It's like moving through a bog, thick and cumbersome, pulling heavily at his mind, like trying to sort out a red thread from a handful of blue ones beneath a starless, moonless night. Then JC lays a hot hand on his cheek, and Kevin pulls power from him, adding it to his own, steadying himself, and his mind reaches, closes around that one spiderweb thin strand of awareness that is Justin.

His eyes snap open. He has it, and it pulls at him, setting him into movement. From the corner of his eye, he can see JC at his side, and Chris ranges in front of him, slipping through the crowd like a shadow. Kevin slices through them like a blade, and they give way before his dark, determined face, his broad shoulders, the sight of his hand beneath his coat, fingers wrapped around the grip of his sword; they recognize instinctively a fellow predator on the hunt.

Justin's signature thunders and echoes in his head, and the taste of justice is metallic on the back of his tongue. I have followed you long enough—I will have you now, he thinks. We will end this here.

The third room opens up before him, and he can feel Justin so strongly, buzzing in his head, down his spine, even over the tide of power that surrounds them. This room is as crowded as the others, bodies writhing to the beat that pounds through the soles of his boots, against his back and chest, but dimmer than the room before. Small colored spotlights arc over the dancers, picking out isolated bits of bodies, human and animal and all things in between, before swinging away to shine on something else. It's dizzying, and disorienting, and had Kevin been depending on sight alone to locate Justin, he'd have been lost.

Chris and JC slip from his side, moving to the edges of the dance floor, flanking him, dark and intent, eyes far sharper than his own. Kevin can see Chris has a blade in his hand as long as his forearm, held point-down, close to his muscular thigh; he can see spotlights gleam red and green along the curving edge. His sharp face is intent, and every line of his body as alert as a hunting hound. JC has blended in, disappearing almost before his eyes as if he had the gift of glamour himself, but Kevin knows he's there, watching, waiting to pounce with as much ferocity as any big hunting cat; JC has spent as many years working as an assassin as he has spy and messenger and information broker.

And then he sees him: Justin.

He is tall and slim and lithe, his arms raised above his head, his hips gliding liquidly to the beat of the music, head tipped back, eyes closed. Even through the glamour that makes him look human, Kevin would know that strong profile anywhere, those crisp dark blond curls, that soft-looking pink mouth. Justin's lashes are dark fans of lace on his cheeks, and as Kevin takes a step closer, his eyes open, and fasten unerringly on him.

Kevin knows that Justin's eyes are blue, dark blue like the sky fading into night, but in a flash of wandering spotlight, they shine red, and Kevin isn't certain that it is only the spotlight that makes them so.

Justin smiles at him, sweetly, poisonously, completely unafraid, though he knows, he has to know that Kevin hunts him. Kevin watches Justin's mouth form the fluid vowels and sharp fricatives of the many syllables of Kevin's Truename, not this painfully abbreviated version of it he uses now. He knows that if he could actually hear his name in that low, slow drawl, he'd hear all smooth elisions and dropped consonants, as only Justin ever used with him, a sign of how close, how intimate they'd once been.

Kevin remembers winding his fingers in those thick curls, remembers wet hot kisses in the grass beneath spring-leaved trees, remembers golden coins of light scattering over long bare legs, a sigh, a parting of thighs, remembers sunlight catching in the gleam of dark wet flesh curving upward toward smooth concave belly. He remembers Justin standing in the stirrups of his galloping horse, arms spread and shouting with the sheer joy of freedom as they pounded across prairies, he remembers standing with Justin side by side, back to back on fields of war, armor and blades scarlet and black with blood and gore, carving swathes through their enemies. He remembers the day, the hour, the moment, when the enemy took Justin from him, but he remembers more when Justin returned to them, no longer lover, shield-brother, best friend, but changed into something Other. Evil.

He remembers the vow he made to kill this thing that wears the face, the body of one he once loved. At chrau a ewyllysia, at asgre a balf, at llygada a balog, bid, bid, bid. By blood and will, by heart and hand, by eye and tongue, let it be, let it be, let it be.

Ruthlessly he shoves aside all memories of what had been, in favor of what is now, forever unchangeable. He draws his sword with a skiff of metal against scabbard, and holds it easily in front of him.

The crowd instantly parts for them, pulling away like the tide, and Kevin knows they've been watching them, tasting the aggression, the menace, in both of them. Justin smiles again, and lowers his arms slowly, letting them hang loosely at his sides. The glamour slips from him like an unwanted garment, and he is even more beautiful in his natural state than he is passing for human. In mesh and leather he looks unarmed, but Kevin doubts that he is; Justin is no fool to go out without a blade or edged weapon somewhere about him. He was once a warrior, and no warrior is unarmed, ever.

"Kevin,"Justin says, and his voice is soft, but carries easily. "How wonderful to see you. It's been, what? Two years of Man? You are as beautiful as always." His eyes slide insolently down Kevin's body, his gaze as palpable as a caress, and Kevin feels a rush of heat prickle over his skin. Part of it is his natural reaction to Justin—always, always he has desired him—but part of it is the wash of Justin's power, reflecting what he is now. No longer Fey, but a creature twisted by darkness into one that feeds from the desire, the sexuality of others.

"I have come for you," Kevin says, and to his own surprise, his voice is steady. The desire burns away in the knowledge of what Justin is now, a predator, a murderer of those who have no defenses against him. The High Court wants him back alive, but Kevin knows he'll never get Justin back to the True World with breath in his body, and although it will cleave his heart in half to do it, he knows it would be best to end it so.

"I don't think so,"Justin says pleasantly. "I'm having far too much fun to stop, now."

Before Kevin can take a step forward, before his mouth can open to say anything else, he sees a blur of black explode from the crowd. He knows it is Chris, attacking in a moment of distraction, though he can scarcely pick out any details other than the flash of blades. Chris is inhumanly quick, almost Changer quick, his movements faster than those of a Fey, and by all logic, Justin should be sliced to ribbons before he can raise a hand to defend himself.

But Justin is now neither Fey nor Changer—he is something other, and Kevin knows that he can make no assumptions of his abilities. Unarmed against Chris, Justin slips and slides away, his lean body moving like something boneless, something liquid, evading the aggression of Chris' attack, the slash of his short swords, always managing to be just a hair's width from the whistling slash of Chris' blades.

And then Justin has found short swords from somewhere, seemingly plucked from bare air. He and Chris are moving, blades ringing together, a sharp, high sound of battle, bodies no more than a blur as they dance across the floor in a ballet of violence. The crowd drops away further to allow them to move, and though his attention is on the fight before him, Kevin is very aware of the rising tide of excitement, of bloodlust, and it is far too close to the full moon for them to maintain scrupulous control. He spares a thought to the humans who might be in the crowd, and hopes someone gets them away before there is bloodshed, before the whole club explodes into a frenzy of blood and violence, but has no time for more.

Kevin has fought alongside Chris in battle many times, and although he's good—better than good—he's still no match for what Justin has become. Justin is taller, has a longer reach, and is just enough faster, just enough more skilled, that Kevin knows Chris won't last against him much longer. Although it would be unconscionable in a duel to go two against one, this is a fight to the death, and so fairness must wing away. Kevin sees his opening and springs forward.

And then it's reflexes honed by millennia of swordfights. Kevin finds himself enveloped in the winter-cold, winter-bright mindfulness of battle. Each sensation becomes a single, perfect jewel in his awareness: the lift and stretch of his arm as it thrusts, the shock from fingers to shoulder as he absorbs the force of the blows he parries, the drag of air into his lungs, the burn of thigh muscles as Justin forces him to move more quickly to keep up. Kevin doesn't have to see Chris to know how he moves, to anticipate where he'll next be, and they move together like paired dancers. But Justin has fought with both of them at his side, has sparred with both of them, and as well as Kevin knows Chris' moves, Justin's moves, Justin knows their own. Kevin wonders briefly where JC has gone, but then Chris staggers and yells, "motherfucker" and drops back, blood spattering over the floor in big dark drops.

The hair rises at the nape of Kevin's neck. First blood. First blood, and adrenaline and rage, a heady mixture for a room filled with Changers. But Chris will have to take care of himself; Kevin has no time for him now, has no time to attend to anything but the fight before him. Justin isn't even winded, and presses him harder, his face eerily calm, though his eyes glitter brightly.

Kevin snatches a dagger from his boot and uses it to slash and block. Through sheer determination he rallies, and lunges forward in attack, driving Justin back, using everything he knows of Justin against him, automatically countering moves, subverting others, inventing new ones with cold calculation. Justin doesn't expect the backflip that separates them long enough for Kevin to plant a booted heel in the middle of Justin's left knee, and the crack of bone against bone is satisfyingly loud.

But Kevin doesn't expect the compact body that slams into him from the side, bearing him to the floor, and only the scent of cold wind and feathers keeps a blade from his attacker's neck—that, and the blinding, electrical heat that tears through the space where he had stood, making every hair on his body rise in a tingling rush. He's aware of the explosion as the magic blasts out a wall, of screams of fear and rage, and the scent of blood grows even stronger.

He and Chris separate, rolling easily to their feet, and Kevin has a moment to see another has joined the fray. He should've suspected that Justin would have an ally of sorts, to evade him for so long. This one is a human male, and Kevin has an impression of a small, slim body dressed in dark jeans and a black shirt, long dark hair, huge dark eyes and a soft, womanish mouth, before the mage's hands come up again, sketching a spell that will undoubtedly be a repeat of the bolt of energy that had sizzled over his head just a handful of heartbeats before.

A flutter of black catches his eye, and then JC spills from the rafters housing the spotlights, Changing with a flurry of flying coat, his face, sharp and beautiful and terrible, set in concentration, long blades in both hands, sharp edges catching the light in multicolored flashes.

Justin either sees or senses him, and staggers back just enough that JC lands before him, not atop him, but JC is quick to adjust his attack. His blades come up with deadly accuracy, slashing across Justin's chest, his belly, cutting deeply, slicing through Justin from belly almost to spine. Blood sprays in an arc, thick and black and glittering, and JC handsprings backwards, out of reach of Justin's retaliation.

Kevin surges forward for the kill, but the mage steps in front of Justin. His long hair, his clothing, whips in the sudden surge of energy that surrounds him, that grows to envelop Justin, curled in upon himself, arms crossed over his belly to keep his intestines from spilling out onto the floor. Kevin sees and feels the spell growing and skitters to a stop, boots sliding over the dance floor, one hand reaching out to snag Chris' shirt. He pulls Chris close to his body to keep him from barreling into the two of them and becoming caught in the spell. The power of the building magic sings along his nerves, and Kevin catches a glimpse of Justin's smile before he and his mage disappear with a thundering boom of displaced air. Kevin's hair and coat snap in the sudden gust of air that rushes toward the place where Justin and the mage had been, and he staggers a little, tightening his grip on Chris, who is much lighter and pulled toward the sudden vacuum.

"Fucking hell," Chris says, and suddenly sags in Kevin's arm. Chris' blades clatter to the floor, and the scent of his blood is strong in Kevin's nose. He looks down and sees his coat slicked with blood, and far too much of it on the floor at their feet. Justin's blades had cut deeply, but Chris had kept to his feet, had saved him from the mage's blast in spite of his own injuries. The loyalty, the self-sacrifice, doesn't surprise him. He's known Chris almost as long as he's known JC. Kevin lowers his own blade and gently, eases Chris to the floor. He's pale, so pale.

Big black boots step into his peripheral vision, and he looks up to see JC standing over him, angular face intent. "We've got to get him out," JC says softly. "There's too much blood. They can't hold their humanity long."

Kevin looks up at those around him, changing before his eyes, their animal forms drawn forth by the sheer amount of blood on the floor around them, on the three of them. He can feel the hunger, feel the restlessness, and knows that they're in great danger from the call of unstoppable instinct. The music has stuttered to a stop, and in the other rooms he can hear shouting, screaming; here, he can hear their breathing, almost hear their heartbeats, the pop and stretch of shifting muscle and bone. He can hear the yowl of cat, the growl of wolf, and his own heart beats loudly in his head.

JC sheathes his blades, reaching beneath his coat and drawing out two large handguns, holding them expertly, his hands steady and sure. His face has smoothed into a terrifying blankness, the face of one who will kill without remorse.

"The first one who fucking moves, I'll fill with silver," he says, and his voice rings clearly over the sound of the crowd drawing closer.

Kevin picks up Chris easily; he's so much lighter than he looks, and stands, shifting him to carry. Chris murmurs something in a language Kevin doesn't understand, but JC replies in the same tongue, something sharp and annoyed, though his blue eyes never stop watching the crowd. Kevin's fingers tighten on his sword grip and he looks out over the crowd, searching for an opening. By himself, he could probably fight his way free, and JC could easily take wing and escape, but with Chris injured and unable to move on his own, the odds are not in their favor. Disease and old age never touch them, and their wounds heal almost Changer-quick, but if their heads or hearts come away from their bodies, they're as dead as any mortal. From the hungry, feral looks of the Changers around them, if they're caught, their end will be painful and messy. He has no desire to end his long life as anyone's dinner.

He brings up his sword as a long, orange and black body leaps from the crowd. JC's gun swings unerringly to the target, his finger tightening on the trigger, but he doesn't fire. Ten feet of tiger, from nose to white tip of tail, a predator at the top of the food chain, sleek and deadly, stands before them, muscles rippling beneath his shining coat. Improbably green eyes blink at them, filled with human intelligence, and his lips peel back from his long fangs in a silent snarl. The tiger turns and roars at the rest of the Changers, clearly warning them off, offering his protection to Kevin and the ravens.

The crowd shifts, unsure, and the tiger, his long tail switching, muscles bunching in his shoulders, roars again, the sound deep enough, loud enough, to thrum in Kevin's bones. This time the warning works, and Kevin sees fur flowing back, giving way to skin, fangs and claws returning to teeth and nails, bodies shifting from four legs to two once again. Not everyone returns to human-normal, but enough that the odds turn in Kevin's favor once again.

"Let's go while he still has them cowed," Kevin says, and slips backward, toward the exit, Chris in his arms, dark head tipped against Kevin's shoulder. Chris is still, far too still, but Kevin can still hear the rush of air in his lungs.

JC pauses long enough to scoop up Chris' dropped blades and stash them within the folds of his coat, his gaze never leaving those around him, darting from one body to another, from one pair of hungry eyes to the next. Kevin turns and makes his way toward a door that looks as if it leads outside, JC close behind him, guarding his back, guns up and ready. The tiger paces along with them, stopping every now and again to snarl at the Changers around them when bodies don't give way quickly enough.

It seems to take forever to reach the door, the air close in his lungs, the press of power and hunger heavy against his skin. Kevin kicks open the door, and strides through, and the outside air is blessedly crisp and cool. JC slips out behind him, and the tiger is a moving shadow. JC bumps the door with his hip to close it, but Kevin's sprung the hinges, and golden light spills out into the darkness. In the distance, growing closer, Kevin can hear the wail of sirens.

A shimmer of power, and the tiger ripples into a man-shape. He's of average height, and his smooth, tanned skin stretches over a body sleek, not heavily muscled. The Changers aren't like the ravens, able to maintain clothing and objects through changes, and so he's naked, but unaffected by it, as at ease without clothing as he would be dressed in the finest robes. His face is more exotic than handsome, and his sharp eyes are that startling pale green, long cat pupils blown wide by the semi-darkness.

"Lance," JC says, and his voice sounds tired as he holsters his guns beneath his coat. "Thanks for getting us out. We owe you."

"Yes," Lance replies, and his voice is deep, with the tiger still rumbling through in a growl. "And don't think that I won't collect on that debt." Each word he speaks brings human smoothness to his voice, the animal fading away. "You've fucking wrecked my club."

"The humans?" Kevin doesn't bother to ask about Changers—they'll most likely recover with preternatural speed.

Lance turns those tiger eyes on him, and they glow pale green. His canines are still too long. "We got most of them out. Those that were hurt, we're taking care of now." He runs a hand through his blond-tipped spiky hair. "I'll have enough to explain to the authorities, without you being here. Not to mention all the favors I'll have to pull in to stay in business. Get the fuck away from here."

"The one who caused this—he'll pay in blood for the damage," JC says, and Lance laughs, a short bark of sound, humorless.

"I'd rather have cash," he says shortly. "Blood, I can get any time." His eyes flick to Chris, lax in Kevin's arms. "Make sure he lives. I want him back in my bed sometime." Lance turns in a fluid motion, and yanks the door closed behind him with a tooth-jarring scrape of metal against cement, leaving them in the darkness of the alleyway, the sirens growing ever closer.

"C'mon," JC says, and slips past them, breaking out into a run.

Kevin follows, winding through dark alleyways. They meet Changers running from the club, naked flesh gleaming in the darkness, but none offer them trouble, too intent on evading arrest, or worse. In spite of laws to the contrary, the police are still quick to shoot first and ask questions later, and any showing up at a known Changer club will be armed with silver, not lead bullets. Kevin suspects that by the time the police reach Mirror, Mirror, the Changers will be long gone, Lance will be dressed, and ready with a logical explanation of the damage the mage inflicted.

His long-legged stride eats distance, and they finally pull up and stop to rest in the shadow of a deserted train depot. The rails snake away from them, catching the gleam of the nearly-full moon. He can't hear the sirens any more, and figures they're safe from the threat of human authorities.

JC's barely winded from their run. He reaches beneath his mesh shirt and pulls out a little whistle on a silver chain. He blows four short, sharp blasts, notes barely on the edge of Kevin's hearing and then tucks it away and turns to Kevin.

"How bad is it?"

Kevin eases them down to a crouch, and cradles Chris in one arm, trying not to jostle him too much. His free hand slips under Chris' chin, bristly with a short goatee, and tips his head back to look into his face. He's as pale as milk, and Kevin's grief, his worry, is as sharp as the blade that pierced Chris. JC reaches out and smooths the backs of his fingers over Chris' cheekbone. Chris' lashes flutter, and his eyes slit open.

"You fucker," JC says, his voice rough. "If you ever tell me to run off and leave you again, I'll kill you myself."

Chris' mouth quirks up at one corner, the movement so slight that if Kevin hadn't been looking, he'd have missed it. "Since when do you ever listen to me, anyway?" Chris asks, his voice as breathy and light as a breeze.

"Never," JC says, and leans in to press his lips to Chris' forehead. His curls are matted with blood from Justin's wounds.

"Yeah," Chris whispers, and his eyes close again.

Kevin looks up at the beat of wings against the sky, and two people materialize on the platform with a flutter of long hair and long coats. One is a woman, tiny and beautiful in a dark gypsy manner, and she imperiously brushes JC aside. Her small, slim hands are deft, pushing aside clothes heavy and stinking of blood, probing into a wound that looks deep, but that slowly closes even as Kevin watches. He thinks back to Chris' battle with Justin, slowing down the action in his mind, and as he does, he can remember the dark sheen on Justin's blade after Chris yelped and swore. It must've gone all the way through Chris, belly to back, and he shivers in sympathy even as his admiration for Chris' bravery ratchets up a notch.

"He'll live to be annoying another day," she pronounces, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. Kevin's mouth quirks, because she so obviously knows Chris well.

"Thank you," Kevin says. He doesn't know this one, but the ravens are numerous, their politics and leaders as changeable and shifting as the wind, and it doesn't surprise him that he's not met her. Her eyes, huge and black and heavily-lined with kohl, slide over his body, what she can see of it with him holding Chris, and she looks up at him from beneath her lashes.

"I am Siv," she says. "You are the one to whom they've pledged themselves in service. A rare thing, for us." Her eyes tip up to his, and Kevin sees the steely determination in the velvety depths of her dark eyes. "So I hope you fully appreciate what you have."

"Believe me, Lady Siv, I fully appreciate their loyalty. They would give their lives for me, and my life is equally theirs. This one," he says, and touches Chris' face gently, "saved my life tonight yet again."

"Never forget they are mine, regardless of their promises to you. If you get one of them killed, Old One or not, shared blood or not, I'll make certain you pay. We are as long-lived as you, and our memories just as sharp." Her eyes narrow and her soft mouth sets into a firm line; he can almost feel the cold radiating from her. Her words ring true, and he knows her threat far from idle; she is too young to have stood on a battlefield with them, and has no personal loyalty to him, but she clearly has faithfulness to those who share blood with her.

Siv rises with a fluid grace and spins on her heel, striding to where JC stands, on the edge of the train platform. She is barely tall enough to reach the center of his chest, but she carries herself like the queen she undoubtedly is. JC stands before her, face set in a frown, and they start a conversation in a harsh, gutteral language Kevin doesn't recognize, but it's clear enough from her tone she's highly displeased with him, with them. JC answers in kind, his hands moving in short, sharp gestures, his long, lean body tense; he's obviously not giving ground, refusing to back down from her.

Kevin's eyes flick to the other raven, standing still, watchful. He's about Chris' size, and his gloved hands flex once when he realizes that Kevin studies him. His black eyes are cold and hostile, and he has the watchful air of countless personal guards that Kevin has seen in his life. Though the ravens are not wholly Fey, they share blood, and have ties to the Fey that go back to the founding of the world. They have acknowledged alliance with the Fey, have called them lords, but this one has no fear, no respect of him. A younger one, then; the older ones remember fighting alongside the Fey in long-ago battle, know of the sacrifices made on both sides. Kevin dismisses him without a second thought; he hasn't the time nor the inclination to teach this one proper manners.

Siv turns in a swirl of coat and hair, and without sparing another glance in his direction, Changes, and takes to the air, her bodyguard a beat behind her. JC runs a hand through his tangled hair, and pulls back with a scowl at the blood matted in it. He moves closer, still frowning.

"She's sending a jeep for us, to take Chris to our house. If she says he'll be fine, he will. He's hard to kill." JC goes to one knee beside them, his face turning to Chris. "He's been my wingbrother for a long, long time," JC says softly.

"He is a good man," Kevin replies. "And honorable. I say that in all honesty. I wouldn't hesitate to give my life for him"

"Yeah, he is. And we appreciate that, coming from you." JC smiles, and it's just a shadow of his normally flirtatious one. His head tips to the side a little, listening. "I hear them coming now."

And in a few moments, a jeep pulls in, driven by another small dark man, obviously one of Siv's. JC climbs into the back seat, and gently, Kevin moves Chris from his lap to JC's, settling him as best he can without jostling him too much. In the wan light from the jeep's dome light, Chris looks worse, not better. Alarmed, Kevin puts his hand on Chris' chest, and can feel his heart patter beneath his palm, rapidly but evenly, and knows he'll recover. It will just take time, and time, they have in abundance.

"Come with us," JC says, his voice low. "We have wine and food, and a place for you to sleep. And I know someone who's very good at getting blood off leather." His grin flashes in the pale light.

Kevin hesitates. Justin is out of reach, whisked away by his mage to heal; he doesn't think that Justin will show himself again very soon. He has nowhere else to go, nowhere else to be; he can't return to the True World, to the High Court, without either Justin, or Justin's head. Wine and hot food and a soft bed, either alone or with company, sounds something like paradise at the moment. He feels every moment of the millennia of his life, in that second. One broad shoulder lifts into a shrug, and he shuts the back door of the jeep and climbs into the front, folding his long legs into the space afforded him. Images of Justin before the enemy took him and changed him flash through his mind, and he shoves them ruthlessly away, because those days are long in the past, never to be regained.

He hears JC singing softly, a low, crooning melody that he knows is a song Nestmates sing to one another for comfort when small. Though it is meant for Chris, Kevin finds it helps to ease, if only a little, the clawing tension of his own body as well. He turns his head and watches as the night-dark streets flow by, his gaze focused on nothing his eyes can see.

Kevin closes his eyes and JC's soft voice washes over him. He will take the time to rest and heal now, because it will not be long before Justin surfaces again, before the chase begins anew. He cannot fail.

He will not.