ROUGH TRADE

A steady rain had been falling since late afternoon and seemed determined to last through the night. Jim listened to the pleasant strum from his bed, watching the patterns that rippled across the darkened walls. It should have relaxed him - and did to a certain extent. That didn't mean he would be able to sleep.

"You look like the Karloff Frankenstein," Blair had told him earlier in the evening. "In the planning stages."

Jim had tried a grin but it hurt too much, tugging at facial lacerations. He glanced down at bandages inching up his arms, a fashion accessory to the ace bandage circling bruised ribs.

"That's big talk coming from an over-ripe vegetable," Jim had teased back. Blair's bruises were beginning to seque into the eggplant stage, a livid combination of purple and yellow with a touch of green. He sighed. "The truth is, I feel more like Frankenstein after the mob hit."

A frown settled over Blair's face. "None of it's working for you, the muscle relaxants or the pain killers."

"Can't even do the breathing exercises. Whenever I try to take a deep breath, it feels like something in there's going to collapse."

That Jim didn't put up a fight to hide how bad he felt hallmarked the change in their relationship that had occurred over the last two years. Not that 'hiding' had ever worked. The Master Obfuscator had a knack for cutting through the Sentinel's best orchestrated evasions. One glance into those all-seeing eyes and Jim knew it was over. In this respect, Blair was worse than his father had ever been. Occasionally, Jim had been able to get one past the old man. His Guide was a different story.

Regardless, they were both feeling far too vulnerable - too raw - to struggle with fronts for the time being. Besides, Jim had more important things to worry about. Number one being that Blair didn't want to talk. Sure, he'd made his report of what had happened. Afterwards, he'd shut down. It was typical Sandburg behavior and frustrating as hell.

The Number Two problem was that Lee Brackett was still alive. Sterling Frost had pursued the money trail, tracking Brackett through rumors of an international, underground auction to be held in the Cascade Mountains. But at this point, as far as Simon or anyone knew, it was as if Brackett and Frost had never existed. Blair believed Brackett was gone. For good. His Guide could accept Frost's word but Jim wanted proof, preferably in the form of a corpse. Inquiries to the Feds went unanswered although this time, Jim was sure they were legitimately clueless. Still, as far as he was concerned, the Rogue was alive when he should have been dead and that was a problem.

Number Three circled back to Jim's original concern: Blair wasn't talking.

"Can we just not get into this now?" Sandburg had pleaded when his Sentinel pressed. "We just got home. I need to think it through, process it first."

Let me help you, Jim wanted to beg. Didn't. Couldn't. He wouldn't force his Guide to open up ... anymore than he could force himself to stay away.

Blair watched him, peering through a fall of thick, shining curls. "You're never going to do this helpless thing very well, are you?"

From his seat on the couch, Jim shook his head.

Blair left his laptop to cross the room. He sat on the coffee table, facing him. "I'm not going anywhere. Okay?"

Jim remained silent. A fresh spring of hate for Lee Brackett welled up inside him. He understood that a large part of that rage was because justice as he understood it had been defeated and the rout would continue as long as Brackett lived. His hands moved restlessly, curling into fists. He ignored the pain of broken knuckles.

"You're a real headcase, you know that?" Blair caught Jim's wrists, turning his palms up. Open.

"I should have killed him when I had the chance." The words came out through clenched teeth.

"Check it, big guy - you gave it your best shot and then some. What else were you going to do? He was passed out and bleeding on the ground. So were you. What do you think you should have done? Rise up and stomp him? Shoot him? Maybe just gut him like a fish. That is so not your style, man. Besides, Brackett was definitely not moving when you left him. All Frost did was take out the trash." It didn't take another Sentinel to hear Jim's teeth grind. Blair's grip tightened. "Look at me, shmuck!"

Jim looked at him. Blue eyes burned into blue, smoke and ice. An eternal minute dragged between them.

"You're still alive," Blair said, his voice soft yet powerful. "I'm still alive."

"And you're hurt," Jim blazed. "You don't think I don't know that? I don't feel it?"

"Yeah, man. I know ... we both feel it. That's the way it is with us. I can feel how you're hurting now and I wish you just ... wouldn't anymore."

Startled, Jim drew back even as his hands strained to encircle Blair's arms. He held his breath, fighting the surge of emotion that threatened to engulf him.

"I'd give anything to change what happened." Blair lowered his head. He spoke with quiet but intense conviction. "I just want to undo it. For both of us."

Jim heard the guilt in his partner's voice. It confused him, made him angry. He struggled for control.

Blair leaned forward, peering up at him again. "There's only one thing I wouldn't change."

"What?"

"You, shmuck-face. God. Do I have to draw you a picture?"

Blair brushed a kiss against Jim's lips, detaching himself from his partner's grasp. "There's only one way we can go here...." He picked up the remote from the coffee table, turned and aimed. The TV flared into life. "You've just got to ask yourself - In a case like this, what would Bugs Bunny do?"

Jim watched Blair settle onto the couch, searching for a cartoon channel. They sat close enough to share body heat but Sandburg had distanced himself again somewhere on the planet Neutral with Marvin, the Vulcans and the rest of the space cadets. Which was yet another problem. From the time they'd returned to the loft, whenever their connection began to build, Blair had shut it down.

"I don't know about Bugs," Jim sighed. "But I can tell you exactly how Elmer Fudd feels."

Blair darted a full-scale Sandburg grin in his partner's direction, the kind calculated to slam-dunk the heart. "Ever notice how a lot of Bugs' solutions end up with him in drag? And Elmer going all sap-face on him?"

"Well, it's a kids' show." Slowly, Jim raised his legs to the coffee table, still sitting ramrod straight, as if he had any other choice. "They can't get but so explicit."

"You ever see 'A Fish Called Wanda'?"

"Sure."

"Filter it through Looney Tunes. Focus ... now see Jamie Lee as Bugs, John Cleese as Elmer, Kevin Kline as Daffy and Michael Palin as Porky."

Jim laughed despite himself. "You are a sick and disturbed individual. And they let you teach children?"

"Last term, nearly seventy-percent of my students were older than me. But they still required the Sandburg finishing course. Anyway, the Looney-Fish theory is hardly original."

"Just another nugget from the Sandburg vault of peculiar information, I guess. Yeah, it could finish you all right."

Blair grinned again. "Think you're up to some popcorn, tough guy?"

Jim sighed. "Not unless it's got the consistency of mush."

"Sounds appealing." Blair made a face. "Not!" He bounded up off the couch for the kitchen. Jim listened to him slamming things around - the freezer door, paper towel rack, cutlery drawer. Then he bounded back. At least, Jim noted with relief, Sandburg wasn't limping much anymore. His feet were healing well.

"Ben & Jerry's," Blair announced perching in nearly under Jim's arm.

"What flavor this time?" Trust Joel Taggart for the unique in get-well packages. Where others would send cards and/or flowers, Taggart had arrived on their doorstep with a case full of Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream in assorted flavors. "Eat up. It's good for the environment," their large and thoughtful friend had said. "We're saving rainforests here."

Blair pried off the lid and wrapped a paper towel around the container. "New York Super Fudge Chunk."

"I don't know if I'm up to chunks," Jim said with what passed for a smile these days.

"I'll do the chunks. At least the nutty chunks," he corrected. "We can share the chocolate bits. Just let 'em melt in your mouth. All you have to do is suck."

Jim raised an eyebrow. "I hear that."

Blair countered the eyebrow, raised him one more. "You letting it go?"

"Not a chance, chief."

But nothing had developed. While generally ineffective in other respects, the drugs left Jim in a constant stage of daze. It was difficult to concentrate on the simplest distraction - including the Cartoon Network. Eventually, it was easier to just go to bed where nothing developed there either.

Not that so much could happen. Jim groaned inwardly, propped up against a small mountain of pillows. Lying down was still too painful to consider, unless he went for the floor. But it was impossible to scope out the loft from that position and too hard to gain mobility if he needed it quickly.

The rain continued to pour, shadows taking on a sinister aspect as a shiver wrenched through his Guide's body. Locked in sleep, Blair stirred fretfully beside him. Whatever bothered him resurfaced in his dreams which, in the Sandburg vernacular, totally sucked. But that had been the way of it almost from day one.

"Maybe I should sleep downstairs tonight," Blair had told him not long after their partnership had taken them into the Sentinel's bed.

"Why?" It had been a long, bad week, the kind that left Jim aching for rest. The concept of being curled around his partner made sleep even more appealing. But now Sandburg was planning to defect to his old room. All of Jim's insecurities battled for dominance. He rubbed his hand over his brow, batting the bogies down much the same way Sandburg batted back an uncooperative lock of hair. "What's the problem, chief? My snoring keep you awake or what?"

"It's not you," Blair answered quickly. "It's me. Sometimes I get restless." He gave a little shrug, hanging onto himself. "It's been a rough week, man. I know the signs."

Jim nodded, encouraging. Waiting. "Restless...." He did not like that word. "I already know about restless, Sandburg. You kick, twitch, snort, fart and drool. Now you're telling me there's more?"

Finally Blair confessed, "Sometimes I have bad dreams."

Jim was glad he had learned to keep his expression neutral. He didn't usually think about it, he was just happy to have mastered the effect. Sandburg, on the other hand, was looking like a wary ten-year old. A ten-year old with stubble, yes, but he still looked like he expected to be sent to bed without dinner. In other words, he looked like Jim felt.

"Bad dreams," Jim repeated slowly, then smiled. "That's why you should never sleep alone, chief."

Too tired for further protest, Blair had climbed into bed. "If you want to kick me out later, it's okay. I'll understand. But don't say I didn't warn you."

"Just go to sleep." Jim pulled him in against his side. "I think I can deal with a bad dream."

Within forty-five minutes, Ellison lived to regret those words. He couldn't be sure what was going on in Blair's subconscious but it was trying to battle its way out on the bed.

Initially, Blair's body tensed, then he moaned, kicking himself away - literally - to curl into a tight ball on the far side of the mattress when Jim tried to hold him. Next came another moan, then a whisper followed by a short interlude of harsh, shallow breathing. Blair stretched out, face down, holding onto the bed as if he were hanging onto a precipice. The muscles in his back bunched and shivered. His feet flexed as if he were running. Alarmed, Jim tried to gather him in again, only to be rewarded with another kick and an elbow in the ribs after which Sandburg had curled himself back into a defensive, shivering ball.

It went on like that until Jim had developed a serious longing for the downstairs bed. Except he couldn't leave Blair, not like this. Eventually, Jim had stroked his shoulders. That seemed to work best. He lifted the heavy, sweat-damp hair away and lightly smoothed the tendons at the back of Blair's neck. Sandburg made a noise, a cross between a sigh and a sob, and moved towards him. Jim had put his arms around him, drawing him close, absorbing the fever-heat of his skin into his own. Blair trembled, holding him back, pressing a stubble-rough cheek to Jim's chest as if he would burrow in and hide. Then he went still. Then he slept.

Thoroughly awake, it had taken Jim much longer to nod off.

The nightmares were predictable if not cyclical. Jim learned the signs himself. He couldn't stop them from coming any more than he could stop the trauma of the day-to-day grind. He could, however, keep them from dragging Blair under.

Jim reached for him, smoothing a tangle of curls out of his face before Blair's body could begin to clench. A frown hovered on those full lips ... then disappeared. Sandburg drew in a deep breath and rolled to his side, seeking his partner even in his sleep. His hand curled over Jim's thigh as he laid his head against the Sentinel's hip, anchoring himself and finding peace. Jim wondered how many years would have to pass before such a simple gesture failed to stop his heart. A smile came to his lips and stayed. He closed his eyes. Jim could remember - nearly to the moment - when he'd fallen in love with Blair Sandburg.

Not that he'd recognized it as love at the time. He had just felt a shift in perspective and marked the moment. Everything else followed at its own rate.

Sandburg had still been in the process of salvaging anything he could from that rat-trap warehouse he'd called home and cramming it into storage or Ellison's apartment. Larry the Barbary Ape had been secured and returned to the University. Cascade was broiling under a record-breaking heat wave and the abduction and murder of three young girls had generated national attention. Every tabloid jackal had moved into the city hot on the trail of powerful network lions and syndicated newshawks.

A monster stalked the streets of Jim Ellison's city, choosing his victims in broad, steaming daylight. Jim had just been dismissed from the case with only the pain of an ax-blade headache and his own recriminations to keep him company.

"Not another word," Simon had roared at him. "For the next twenty-four hours you are relieved of duty ... You get yourself together before you come back here. Understand?"

Jim had had no choice but to obey. At the loft, he'd forced himself to consume the bulk of a Chinese take-out order. He then opened a beer and washed down more aspirin. Like the drugs did any good. It had been as effective as eating chalk.

He turned on the TV to be confronted by a news report on the murder victims' candlelight memorial. The cameras zeroed in on the mourners, close to a thousand strong, marching slowly through South Town. Families and individuals carried banners -- 'Take Back Our Streets,' 'Give Us Back the Children' and the ever popular 'Save the Children.' Posters of Melinda Jenkins, Lisa Murphy and Tracey Forester were prominently displayed. Of course the mayor was there along with several members of the city council and other officials.

The killer would be there as well, watching this spectacle unfold. He would be out on the streets, rather than watching at home on television. Satisfied with his work, no doubt. Gloating. Planning his next kill.

Jim finished his beer wondering where these people had been prior to the murders? All three girls came from less than functional families; they lived in severely high-risk neighborhoods. No one seemed to know or care about them one way or the other prior to their deaths. But that was the way of it, wasn't it? Calling children "our most precious resource" was far easier than actually taking care of them. Rhetoric always came easier than action. It was less expensive, too.

He should be out there working, not banished here to his home. And yet, what good was he now? The day's earlier rage returned. He was so sick of feeling helpless, of struggling to get nowhere. His career in the Army was finished and now it looked like his work with the Cascade P.D. was going the same way - all because of this Sentinel curse.

Jim closed his eyes but he could still see it, the sea of lights flickering down those dark, debris-strewn streets, shining up on the mourners' faces. All of them just as scared, just as confused as he felt ... except they were looking to him for answers. Answers he didn't have.

He hurled the beer bottle across the room, letting it smash against the door. It exploded with the force of a grenade against suddenly too-sensitive ears. Excruciating. Nauseating. Jim took a step forward, staggered and fell. The TV volume increased to manic levels. He wanted to turn it off but for the moment, he just couldn't get himself to move. He couldn't even stand up.

The pain continued to grow, a bright white light bulb straining to blast through his skull hurling splinters of agony through his brain to the back of his eyes. Helpless to do anything else, Jim gave himself over to it, wishing he could pass out. That wasn't happening either. No relief there. The Sentinel squeezed his eyes shut, feeling tears and sweat burn down his face with the heat of acid. He prayed for everything to just - stop.

Two years ago - July

It was dark when Blair made it back to the loft that night. He expected to find Jim home. After all, the truck was parked in its usual spot. But even though he could hear the murmur of the television inside, no light streamed from under the door. The deadbolt was unlocked and the chain was off. Only the doorknob lock secured the entrance and while he still didn't know enough about the detective's habits to say what was normal and what wasn't, he was spooked.

Correction. He had been feeling spooked since late afternoon. Not that there wasn't enough to feel weird about ... like the heat, the killings, Ellison's mood swings, salvaging his own stuff and moving - while looking for another place to live - juggling University responsibilities with Cascade PD/Sentinel/Guide stuff. Like that wasn't enough to rattle your gourd. No. On top of all the above, he felt weird.

Blair opened the door and crunched in. Curious, he looked down at his feet to find himself standing on shards of green glass. Well, he knew a broken beer bottle when he saw one. But on Jim Ellison's immaculate yes-you-could-perform-surgery-on-it floor? The rank odor of stale brew hit him next along with the stink of cheap, gone-over Chinese. Then he spotted the detective. On the floor. Near the kitchen.

"Oh, my God - Jim!" Sandburg kicked the door shut behind him. He hurled his books and pack at the couch as he ran, dropping to his knees beside the man's body. His hands were shaking as he reached for him. "Where are you hurt? Who did this to you, man?"

Ellison pulled away from him, curling into an even tighter ball.

"Jimmy, please...." Blair tried to get an arm around him, checking for wounds - for blood. "Just tell me where you're hurt."

"Turn off the TV." The words rasped out through clenched teeth.

"Okay." Blair lurched up and slammed the set off, then returned to his partner. "Jim, talk to me. Tell me what's wrong. Jim...?" He paused, trying to pull himself together, forcing the tremor from his voice. "Is it your senses? Did you overload?"

"Headache."

"Headache? You've got a migraine?"

"I. Don't. Get. Migraines." Jim's face twisted with pain. "Just headaches."

"Okay - okay ... do you need a doctor? Should I get you to the hospital?"

"No. No doctors." Jim drew in a shaky breath. He could actually breathe again with the TV off. "Why don't you just get the butcher knife out of the kitchen and finish me off?"

"Because you'd come back from the grave spouting off about house rules and make me clean it up." Blair eased Jim onto his back. He took off his oversized flannel shirt and folded it into a pillow to place under Jim's head. "I am so not into gore, man. Not outside a John Carpenter film."

"Then leave me alone."

"Come on, Jimmy. I can't do that."

"And stop calling me 'Jimmy!'"

"Okay, shmuck. Did you take anything for your head?"

"Just aspirin. Lots of aspirin. But it doesn't help. Nothing helps."

"Is there anything else? Do you have any other symptoms?"

"My hearing went off the scale. My eyes ... they're better now. Feel sick ... but that's just my head. God. It hurts so bad."

"I know...."

Cool fingers smoothed Jim's brow. For one angry moment, he wanted to lash out, "How do you know?" when it occurred to him that Blair's voice didn't hurt. It wasn't too loud, it didn't distort or hammer at him. More ... the sound of his so-called Guide seemed to extinguish all the other external stimuli. Everything fell back to its normal perspective.

"Okay. Sounds like what you've got here is your mondo hummer stressor." Blair cut through the haze of Jim's pain. "I'm going to try something - and it might just hurt at first but it should help. Just don't kill me, okay?"

Before Jim could say yea or nay, Blair's fingers pressed into the back of his skull near the base. Jim's eyes opened wide in shock. His body arched against the sudden assault and he reached back to tear the source away.

Then the pain stopped. Well, Jim corrected himself, it didn't actually stop - it just reduced so fast it took his breath away.

"You're a medic, right?" Sandburg was talking again. "You know about pressure points and all that? Well, the points you want are at the back of your head - not on top."

"Funny, Sandburg."

"Like a kick in the teeth, I know. The great thing is, it's really simple. You can do this, man."

"No."

"Well ... maybe not just now," Blair soothed. "Still, you can do it. Other things, too. I can show you. But right now I want you to take a deep breath ... and let go of me."

"What?" Jim blinked, confused.

"Just let go of my arms back here, man. You're killing the circulation. I might need to use these hands again some day."

Embarrassed, Jim released the death grip he'd fixed on Sandburg's wrists. "I'll be okay now," he growled. His pride warred with the sudden relief. He didn't want anyone to see him like this. "Leave me alone."

"No problem," Sandburg responded calmly. "All you have to do is stand up."

Jim prepared to snarl out another order. Then winced, writhing in fresh agony.

"Listen up, you stubborn, arrogant jerk. The pain's not going to stop until you relax," Sandburg whispered close to his ear. Jim detected anger this time in addition to fear and concern. "Maybe I should just get you a hammer and let you knock yourself out. That would work, too, except it might be way more permanent."

Jim expression flat-lined. "That might solve Simon's problem."

"What problem?"

"He sent me home today. Kicked me off the case."

"He did what?" Blair's voice cracked on outrage. "Oh, man! That sucks beyond belief!"

"Not his fault. I really lost it today."

"So I guess you were looking for it on the floor here?" Sandburg's voice caught on what could have been a gasp of laughter. "Look, big guy - Simon's not a total dick. At least, I don't think he is. You can beat this thing, I know you can. Just work with me, okay?"

Jim blinked slowly, trying to focus. Their positions had become reversed again, the protector had become the protected. Just like on that first day when he'd zoned out on the frisbee and nearly been run down by a garbage truck. Now, even though his mind kept shorting out, he had to admit Sandburg made sense. Like he always did in these situations. The kid was the only one who had a clue as to what was going on with him.

"Just take a deep breath - hold it. And let it go," Blair whispered, bending close to his face. Jim felt his breath against his skin like a warm breeze. "Relax. Let the pain go. See a river with the tide going out, moving away from you. Steady ... flowing.... Let the pain go away ... let it ride with the tide. Just let it go. You don't need it."

You don't deserve it, man. Stop punishing yourself, Blair wanted to tell him. This is not your fault. You're doing the best you can. You're doing better than any man. He bit into his lip, hard. Jim would not respond well to that kind of coaching.

Under his touch, Jim sighed and closed his eyes. Without the TV, the loft was illuminated by the ambient light of the moon and the streets. Black, elongated shadows stood out in sharp relief, stretching to the ceiling. The faint murmur of city sound drifted in through the windows. It was like a scene out of film noir - except this Marlowe was stretched out on the floor of his own place without a leggy blond in sight to take care of him.

Sandburg sighed. It occurred to him that it was usually the leggy blonds who caused the damage. The sidekicks got to clean it up. But at least this way, he could study the Sentinel to his heart's content. He took in the shadows that bruised Jim's eyes, the lines frustration and pain had carved into his face. The man cared so much, Jim drove himself so hard.

Blair wondered, could that be part of what caused the Sentinel ability to manifest and take hold? The caring, the sense of responsibility for others? Even while it seemed there was no one to care about him in return. Blair's heart caught and stumbled. Ellison had The Job, his loft and his truck. That was it. And man, the poor shmuck deserved so much more.

Congratulations, Sandburg.... Blair released an exasperated sigh. You have just thrown scientific perspective right out the window. No - you've wrestled it to the ground and catapulted it into the next state. Way to go, asshole.

Blair sat back, letting his hands fall in his lap. Immediately, Jim looked up, panic spiking blue eyes, searching for him.

"Shh...." He smoothed Jim's temples again, his touch as soft as a whisper. His thumbs stroked Ellison's forehead, easing the tender spot where the pain had centered. "I'm still here ... I won't leave you. No - don't try to talk now. Let's just get through this."

Better instructions than "Let me take care of you." Jim would never go for that. Ever. That understanding was as basic and natural as the gift that told him which pressure points eased pain. Others had urged him to study medicine. Even Naomi had pounded the cause off and on. And Blair had studied the art ... but his research hadn't taken him into medical school.

He had nothing against science, far from it. It was just that Western medicine continued to regard the mind and body as separate entities. Disease was something to be cured, not prevented. They cut the pain away with surgery or poisoned the illness with chemicals with no regard for the spirit. For the soul.

Sandburg's interests and gifts led him to tribal cultures to study alternative remedies. He investigated how early Egyptians used fragrant oils forming the basis of aromatherapy; he learned how hydrotherapy was practiced in ancient Greece and Rome. For Naomi, yoga was a way of life so it was only natural to seque into Do-in, Jin Shin Jyatsu and all the other massage and meditation techniques. And nearly every culture utilized some form of guided imagery. The Vedic masters emphasized the relationship between the individual spirit, body and diet. Like the Chinese and Native Americans, they made great use of herbs, massage and good old imagination. But no matter how much he learned, there was always more. Working with Jim, if he was really going to be able to help his partner, Sandburg understood he would need all his resources.

First things first. It was necessary to get past this problem before tackling anything else. Within the next half hour, Blair set about creating a cool, dark cave of shelter for the Sentinel inside his room. There was no way he would be able to get Jim up the stairs to his own bed. He placed a few drops of lavender in the infuser and let the odor fill the room, then stripped and changed the sheets. Drag/carrying Ellison into his bed was the biggest challenge but somehow, it was accomplished. Blair proceeded with a treatment of ice packs for Jim's head and neck and micro-zapped hot packs for his hands and feet, drawing the blood and the pain away from that over-worked, over-sensitized brain. Quiet should have worked - but there could be no genuine silence for hyper-active hearing. Blair kept up a little running chatter as he worked, explaining what he was doing and why. Even when his eyes were shut, Blair knew Jim followed every word. He could feel the tension that lanced through the Sentinel's body every time his Guide became quiet.

His voice was just about to give out when Jim fell asleep. Blair fought back a rush of panic before he realized Jim was sleeping ... only sleeping. At last. The Guide sank back in his chair, dizzy with relief. It was nearly 3 a.m. Time to relax. Take a deep breath of his own.

No. It just wasn't possible to cave yet. He was far too buzzed for that, kind of like a toxic caffeine high. It still shook him to remember how he'd found Jim when he first entered the loft. For one agonizing moment, he'd thought the man was dead. Blair tried to separate and process what he'd felt as he'd run to him - the need to fight for him, protect him. And later, when he understood the problem, to care for him.

Blair had never felt so focused, extended far beyond himself and his own needs. What was with this Guide business anyway? There seemed to be a far greater connection between Sentinel and Guide than he'd had reason to believe.

When he was brutally frank, it scared him to think that he might be the cause of Jim's problems now. In all honesty, there hadn't been too much to learn. The guts of the data had been purged from written records and the mystery element involved in oral tradition prevented anything but the basics from becoming common lore. Which meant, in short, the customs and rituals, the history of Sentinels and Guides was gone with the shamans and all the others that western-so-called-civilization had doomed in its quest for manifest destiny.

Blair's personal experience told him that the Guide acted as a catalyst for the Sentinel gifts. Ellison's sensory perceptions increased dramatically from their first contact. Sure, you could argue that that would have happened anyway. But the rate of growth since their initial meeting had been ... well, off the scale. Whatever the scale was. Not to mention that their second, more prolonged interaction had resulted in Ellison's first and very nearly fatal zone-out.

Shit. Sandburg shook his head. He didn't have to guess how Jim would react if he shared this little gem of information. He could just picture himself saying, "Hey - guess what? One of the reasons you're so fucked up right now is because of me. I put the amp on your Sentinel abilities. I mean, who knows, it might have happened anyway. You sure had the potential for it. But I'm feeling a connection here, too, and I know what's happening to you. More than you think."

Blair let his head fall back, lips parting in silent laughter. Would he even survive that confession? Ellison had a gun - actually, the former Ranger-now-Detective had several guns. Not that he needed them. Jim could snuff a life with his bare hands ... which would probably be way more satisfying under the circumstances.

"God, Jim, I'm really, really sorry." Blair shook his head, a rueful grin hovered on his lips. "I didn't mean for anything like this to happen. I wouldn't hurt you for the world."

Now where did that come from? Sandburg blinked. This was too much to digest. All the individual components added up to something he just wasn't prepared to handle. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Quietly, he got to his feet and made his way back into the living room. The loft was a wreck. There was still glass on the floor; crusted take out containers littered the counter. Jim wouldn't like it. If he took care of it now, they'd all be less stressed in the morning.

And cleaning up would be far easier than thinking about the things he had to think about.

A scoured kitchen and living room later, Blair returned to sit on the edge of the bed to check on Jim one last time before crashing out in the living room. Exhaustion had claimed him first, forcing him down onto the narrow space beside the Sentinel's body. He just couldn't bring himself to retreat into the living room. What if Ellison woke up? What if Jim needed him? Blair had only meant to close his eyes for a minute or ten -- power nap, so to speak -- but it was the first time he'd felt warm all day. All week. And when Ellison's arms sought him out, closing around him and urging him up to curl around his body, Blair gave himself up to it, burrowing in. Feeling safe now as well as warm.

A last flicker of logic advised that this was the kind of move most dedicated researchers would probably avoid with their doctorate material. This was a Mistake. Then he closed his eyes, falling back on instinct and the sensations of comfort and homecoming.

After all, mistakes were only opportunities in disguise.

/ / /

The next morning, Jim stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel and dried himself off. The scowl was back. Now that the pain was gone and he could stand on his own two feet again, he wanted to forget about the night before. He didn't want any reminders of how helpless he'd felt. He choked on memory thinking of how much he had needed Sandburg and how well his Guide had come through for him, how grateful he'd felt.

He also remembered how he'd awakened to find Blair sprawled across him and how good that had been once he'd crashed through the initial shock. Which had lasted all of -- what? -- five seconds?

Then Jim had awakened alone. With that discovery, he had reached out with his senses, seeking the whereabouts of his wayward loft-mate tapping into Sentinel abilities with the ease of breathing. He heard/felt the distinctive sounds of Blair in the outside corridor. The rhythm of his walk, the way he dropped the keys outside the door and fumbled with whatever he was carrying, making his way inside. Sandburg entered the loft and blundered into the kitchen, brushing against the couch as he went. Blair was a package of hyper-energy and intellect that frequently fell out of synch. It was as if the head -- and the mouth -- moved forward, carrying unwilling arms, legs and torso along for the ride. But so far so good. Sandburg was back in one piece, Jim understood, with only the bruises he'd started out with. He was surprised at how relieved he felt. But the rush of pleasure was followed by the slam of guilt. Then anger.

As usual.

No act of kindness was delivered without a price. Jim wiped the steam from the mirror. He combed his hair back to dry, then lathered his face and grabbed up his razor. He should have handled everything on his own. It would be easier then to do what had to be done ... which was get the kid out of here. Out of his life. He had to learn to control this Sentinel business himself and the sooner the better. That wouldn't be possible as long as he had Sandburg to fall back on. Jim slid the razor over his face and throat. He wondered what kind of progress the kid had made towards finding a place of his own.

Beyond the door, he could hear Blair moving around in the kitchen making breakfast. The scent of eggs and toasting bread drifted through reminding him that he still had a body and it was hungry, starving even. Jim growled. You had to hand it to him, the kid knew what buttons to push. Feed the beast and keep him tame. Except it wasn't going to work this time. He wouldn't let it work.

Suddenly, Jim's hands were shaking so hard he had to put the razor down. His fists locked on the sink, holding himself up as the aftershock of the night before hit him. God, he wanted to call out so badly. Blair was only a heartbeat away. Sandburg would help him ... Sandburg was there for him.

The tremor left him weak, gasping for breath. And absolutely furious. He would not call for help. Jim had no defense against tenderness. It made him angry. He longed for compassion as much as any human being, but he didn't know how to deal with it when it came. Somehow ... somehow he remembered things being different back in Peru, in the jungle. Life was easier with the Chopek. Cleaner. It was hard living - hand to mouth, always prey to the elements, warring tribes and cartel influences, but still.... The ghost of memory pulled at him. He'd never been happier.

Or softer. More spineless. Weak. Just like he'd been weak last night. Jim could hear his father's voice jeering at him even now. Ellison's heart hardened once more, the shields went back up.

Another little voice slipped through the fury that clouded his mind. A persistent, scolding murmur that said, Ellison, you are behaving like a shit. Stop it. What are you scared of here?

With an effort, he shook it off and concentrated on shaving. Minutes later, the phone trilled out. Blair picked it up on the first ring and answered, "Hello?"

"Sandburg." Jim's heart stopped in his throat. It was Simon. He could hear the captain's voice as clearly as if Banks stood in the bathroom with him. Not a comforting picture. Quickly, Jim lurched towards the door. He moved too fast. The floor heaved beneath his feet.

"Captain...." Jim caught the hesitation in Blair's voice a full beat before the return to cheer. "How's it going?"

"I think the question is how's it going over there?"

Jim closed his eyes. This was the moment ... Sandburg's big chance to let Banks know how valuable he was, how he'd found him the night before, scraped up the pieces and put him back together. "Not too great actually. Oh, those Sentinel abilities are important, they provide more clues and give us more to work with, but let's face it - Ellison's nothing without me to help him. We're talking your basic drowning elephant here. T-Rex in tar pit. A mindless zoning, whining, crying idiot who can't even get off his own floor to turn off the TV."

Jim shook his head, he couldn't deny any of it. So he almost dropped through the tiles when he heard Blair's answer, "It's okay, Captain."

"Sure it is," Banks snapped. "Let me talk to Ellison."

"Well, he's in the shower right now. Do you need me to get him or can he call you back?"

"In the shower? Do you know what time it is?"

"Almost noon. Well, yeah, almost one. But you gave him the day off, didn't you?" Blair paced the kitchen, holding the cordless to his ear. It was impossible for him to talk without motion. Still, Jim could feel the heat radiating out of those movements. Sandburg's anger lanced through the bathroom door, a shimmering reflection of his own. It was as if a little nova had set down in the loft.

"Jim wasn't feeling so great yesterday," Blair continued. "He had a lousy headache, man, so it took him a while to get to sleep. Gee, Captain, it was really perceptive of you to send him home like that. You know how hard he's been working on this case. He really needed the sleep."

"Uh-huh." Jim could picture Simon chewing his cigar into bits. "Sandburg, I do not respond well to suck-ups."

"How about sarcasm?"

"What?"

"Uh ... you want to talk to Jim?"

"I thought he was in the shower?"

"Well, the water's stopped. I guess he's drying off."

"Just have him call me when he gets a chance. And Sandburg?"

"Yes sir?"

"You might get him to use that towel on you. I do not need lectures from some wet behind the ears, neo-hippie flower child on how I treat my officers. Understand?"

"Yes sir."

Moving like an automation, Ellison made his way to the door. He opened it in time to hear Banks hang up, a crash of plastic on plastic that detonated throughout the loft like a small grenade. Blair held the phone away his ear, prepared, but both men winced from the force of it.

Sheepishly, Blair turned to Jim replacing the receiver. "Simon called."

"I heard."

"Yeah. That's right. You would." Blair gave a weary little sigh. Then brightened. "Breakfast's ready. How you feeling?"

Jim shook his head, numb, standing in the doorframe with the towel wrapped around his hips. Captured by the silence, Blair paused in the process of placing oven-warmed plates on the table.

"Jim," he began again. "Are you all right?"

"You lied for me."

"No I didn't." It was an automatic defense-response.

"Yes you did. You lied."

"I did not." Blair ducked his head letting his hair swing forward to hide the color that blossomed on his face. "I didn't tell him anything that wasn't true - just left out the stuff he didn't need to hear. So sit down. Your food's getting cold."

Jim crossed the room, steadier now. He sat down. Blair placed a large glass of lemon water in front of him, then proceeded to spoon eggs onto Ellison's plate.

"Drink that," he said shortly. "You need to rehydrate, purge the toxins out of your system. You ought to be drinking more water, you know. Dehydration can give a headache a real foothold."

"There's no coffee?" Jim's voice rose on an edge of panic.

"Chill out, man." Blair laughed. "Of course there's coffee. Can't start the day without it. But you need the water, too, especially now."

"I'm going to float away."

"No, but pissing's clearly an option." Blair shrugged again, grinning at Jim's expression, settling at the table. "Clears out the toxins."

"Toxins, right. Where's the bacon?"

"I tossed it."

"What? You threw it out?"

"All the way outside." Blair nodded, buttering toast which he placed on Jim's plate. "That brand you get, it's full of nitrates. We can get other bacon. And sausage, too. The good stuff. Just not today. Sorry."

"It's not the same," Jim grumbled.

"No, it isn't. Thank God." Blair took a mouthful of eggs. "Trust me on this, Jim. I think your body's returning to a more natural, a more primal state of existence. You ingest chemicals - chemicals you don't need - and it can't help but react. Well, everybody reacts to it but you're probably more sensitive than most. Add that to all the stress you've been under and you're just setting yourself up for major pain." He noted the depression settling over Jim like a cloud. "It's kind of like an allergy," he explained gently. "Sometimes they just develop. It's not your fault."

"But I like bacon."

Blair drew in a deep breath. He picked up a small bakery bag from the end of the table and set it beside Jim's plate. Ellison knew the scent with one, tiny whiff.

"Doughnuts?"

"Buttermilk. Glazed," Blair confessed. "Everybody needs their comfort food, man. You can't get behind this health-thing single handed. We don't want your system to go into shock or anything like that. But just answer me this, did you move into the loft because you really liked the place or is it because there's a 24-hour bakery across the street?"

"I'm a cop." Jim took a doughnut out of the bag, marveling almost as if he'd never seen one before. Sandburg had gotten him doughnuts. He'd cleaned the place up. Fixed breakfast. Lied for him. He picked up the water and drank it down. "We have an instinct about these things."

"Figures." Blair spread peanut butter on his toast.

"So Simon's checking me out."

"Of course." Blair took a bite of toast. Chewed, swallowed and washed it down with coffee. Attacked his eggs. "He needs you, man. Don't you ever think he doesn't."

"Yeah. But what have I got to give him?"

"For starters - about six dozen more clues they wouldn't have had if you hadn't been on the case."

"Six dozen useless clues."

"Not useless. Man, you are in total funk-mode here, aren't you? You cut through those crime scenes way faster than forensics could even begin. Now you're going to have the hard evidence you need to convict. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"It didn't help those kids."

"Please don't do this to yourself, Jim." Blair's expression softened. "The killer's still out there. He won't stop. You're the best chance those kids have got."

Jim's eyes went to ice. "What makes you so sure?"

"Because you're the one who's going to solve this case. You'll find him, stop him, convict him. It's not just the sentinel abilities. Those help for sure. But you're the pro. You're smart and experienced ... and your will is absolutely unstoppable. You won't let him get away with this."

Suddenly self-conscious, Jim took a bite of eggs.

"Besides," Blair continued. "I'm going to help you."

Ellison choked. "I don't know about that, chief. Things are getting a little rough. I don't think you should get any more involved."

"Getting rough?" Blue eyes widened, incredulous, full of humor, uniquely Sandburg. "Excuse me, but I think we passed rough on the first day." He waved a fork-full of eggs in a dismissive motion. "Anyway, that's what sidekicks are for. We help."

"Okay, Tonto. What did you have in mind?"

"Maybe what we need to do is get back to the basics," Blair said. "Just think it through sequentially. What does the killer do?"

Jim scowled. "He kills kids."

"Yeah. But how does he get them?"

"You've got to figure he's someone the kids know."

"Why?"

"Because there are no trauma marks on the bodies, no signs of struggle. That means they knew the killer and they trusted him enough to go with him willingly."

"He couldn't have gotten the drop on them somehow?" Blair asked. "Drugged them or something like that?"

"No, that would have left bruising or lacerations. They would have fallen. He would have had to have handled them in some way, carrying them, you know?" Jim used his toast to scoop the last of his eggs onto his fork. "We would have seen evidence of that. Besides, he picked them up in broad daylight. Even in South Town, you don't go carrying little girls away without someone noticing."

"We keep saying 'he' - like we know the killer's a man. How do we know that?"

"Because it fits the profile. Most serial killers are middle-class, middle-aged, white males." Jim frowned, reaching for his coffee. "That bothers you."

"It all bothers me, believe it," Blair said, finishing his juice. "The killer should be a white, middle-class, middle-aged male just like you said. But is he? The murders are sexual in nature but there's no penetration, no semen - nothing associated with your typical acting-out of sexual aggression. And it doesn't hit like some testosterone-laden power trip. There's this whole, huge ritual involved. Half-baked, if you consider the source material." He shook his head, tapping his fork against the side of his plate. "Psychopaths have a logic all their own, a logic rooted in their own symbolism. They develop idiosyncratic rituals, evolved from their own trauma. The girls died through blood loss and shock. They weren't terrorized, they were cared for. There was no anger here. At least, no anger directed towards the children. But the ritual - it's not purification. It's like ... like maybe he was trying to protect them."

"Protect them?" Jim's face went to stone. "Some freak picks up a child. Drugs her. Then proceeds to mutilate her genitals, slicing out the pleasure zones and stitching up her vagina. She bleeds to death through the part of her body that should have produced life. Then he gives her a last bath and dresses her up in white lace and pearls and brand new Mary Janes. When that's done, he lays her out on the street to be discovered by any passersby who happens to stumble across the body. That's your idea of protection?"

Jim crashed to a halt in mid rant, suddenly aware of impossibly large eyes focused on him from across the table. He watched every ounce of color fade from Blair's face, even his lips. With the next breath, the kid looked as though he would fall face first into his plate. If he could take a next breath.

"Excuse me."

The words couldn't qualify as a whisper. Blair folded his napkin and got to his feet. He started for the bathroom at a normal walk but was running before he hit the door.

"Shit!" Jim leapt up and hurried after him, re-securing the towel that threatened to drop as he ran. He caught up with his partner just as Blair dropped to his knees in front of the toilet. Jim knelt beside him, holding his shoulder and gathering his hair back from his face until Sandburg had evacuated the last several weeks worth of meals.

When it was over, Blair sat on the floor, scooting back against the tiles until he could prop himself up against the tub. Gently, Jim washed his face with a cold wash cloth, then rinsed it out. He returned to press it against the back of Blair's neck.

"I am so sorry, chief." Jim smoothed the hair away from his face. Blair's skin was still as white and clammy as marble. Eyelashes and brows looked almost black in contrast. "I was so out of line here, buddy," he went on. "I never meant to talk to you like that. I'm just - I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Blair sucked in a shaky breath. Swallowed.

"No, it's not okay. I said I'm sorry. I meant it."

"Yeah, well, it's not you, man. It's just ... oh God, it's been a rough month. All this stuff happening - you know? And last night - when I found you out there on the floor. Man, I thought you were dead. Gone. You scared the hell out of me." Blair fastened his fists on his knees, leaning forward, rocking slightly. "But that's okay ... that's okay. It turned out all right. You're okay...."

Jim collapsed to sit beside him, too numb to do much else. Wishing he could stop feeling like an idiot. It was worse than the headache. He closed his eyes and rubbed his hand over his face. Immediately, his father's voice started railing at him again, "This is how you always let yourself get taken in, Jimmy boy."

"Oh, shut up," Jim snapped.

"What?" Blair asked, alarmed.

"Forget it. I'm not talking to you, chief. Look ... you know those times when you find something out about yourself and you don't like what you see?"

"Yeah. Almost every day, man."

"Well this is one of those times for me."

"Hey, lighten up." Blair tried a smile that didn't quite take. "This is just your basic panic-puke. Stress attacks, panic attacks - I know those roads, man. Besides, I've never handled this whole female circumcision thing very well. It's still common practice in a lot of countries. But every time I think about it, my balls shrivel up to the size of peas and try to climb back up inside my body." Blue eyes turned to Jim, wide with appeal. He raised his hands as if he'd have them dance their way through his words - or banish them. But they fell back in his lap like broken wings. "It's a rite of passage in the old tribes but the meaning behind the tradition has been swallowed up by civilization. Now it's about nothing but butchery and possession. Some quasi-shaman performs the ritual with a sharpened sea shell or a piece of horn or tin. It doesn't matter. They go from girl to girl, hacking away with no form of anesthesia and no sterilization. They don't even know why they do it anymore, it's just the Way. Man, they're losing all the old arts. The mortality rate is unreal. And the pain - it's got to be like living through hell. If you survive it."

"Blair, it's okay...." Jim slipped his arm around Sandburg's shoulders, pulling him into the shelter of his body.

Blair turned into the comfort, hooking his arm around Ellison's neck. "God, Jim - if those South Town kids knew what was happening to them...."

"No, chief, they didn't know. They never felt anything."

Blair shuddered in Jim's arms, clinging to the warmth that surrounded him. This was what coming home should feel like, a place where - well, maybe they had to take you in but where they cared about you, too. Where they wouldn't make you leave or, worse, just disappear on you. Then pretend nothing had ever gone down next time they saw you. Just happy, superficial hugs and hey - how's it going, how's life?

Truth? Life bites, man. It's like an electric fan - it sucks and blows at the same time.

Suddenly embarrassed, Blair pulled away, falling back against the tub again. But Jim's arm stayed around his shoulders, holding him. Blair sighed and relaxed, leaning into his partner's body.

"We're the ones feeling it. Us and the killer." Blair scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Like he's trying to teach us a lesson. Warn us. Something.... Think how scared he must be. To take those kids and drug them and do what he does but never actually connect. And you think he knows them?"

"I think that's a pretty sure bet."

"God, this rots!"

"Amen to that, buddy." Jim took in a deep breath. He paused, then said, "Back before I chewed your head off, what did you mean when you said the killer was protecting the girls?" He smiled. "Just the Cliff Notes, okay? Not the whole text."

Blair smiled back, stronger now. "He's preserving their innocence."

"Because they're all stitched up?"

"It's a lot more than that." Blair sighed. "Look at the age. They're so young. Most tribes usually perform circumcision rituals much closer to puberty. And first communion doesn't happen until you're at least eight-years old. The killer drugs his victims to the point of death but that might be because he doesn't want them to feel anything. We like to think it's because he wants to save them from the pain of what he does or because it makes handling them easier. Less trauma for the victims. But what if it's because he just doesn't want them to feel at all?"

"Why?"

"I don't know. Maybe he wants to get them early before they get addicted."

Jim's brows knitted together. "Addicted?"

"Before they get a chance to know anything about sex. Before they can know how good it feels. Kids are sexual creatures, too, you know. They imitate what they see, explore their own bodies, check out other kids. It's natural, a primal drive, man. And that combination of instinct and curiosity is what pedophiles hook into in order to exploit their victims."

"Sandburg, are you trying to tell me something?" This close, he didn't have to be a Sentinel to feel his partner's heart skip a beat.

"Like you don't already know I like to get laid. A lot. Sometimes I feel like a walking hormone. I've been wondering if I should take up a 12-step program or something myself." He laughed nervously and shook his head. "Just kidding, man."

"I get the picture." Jim absorbed the heat of his blush. He squeezed Blair's arm, reassuring, instinctively willing him past anxiety. "So, we've got this ritual of innocence."

"Preservation of innocence," Blair corrected.

"Any way to predict what he's going to do next?"

"He - or she, to be perfectly PC - is going to find and kill another child."

Jim's sigh was almost a groan. "The profiler said the killings would escalate."

"Escalate?" A harsh laugh burst from Blair's throat. "Three killings in one month? We are so beyond escalation, man. It's like the killer's working a deadline."

"A deadline?"

"If you want to be crude about it. No pun intended, man."

They looked at each other. The connection between them shimmered, growing brighter and stronger with each passing second.

"That's it, isn't it?" Blair spoke softly, almost as if someone might be listening.

"Yeah." Blue eyes narrowed, like a hunter suddenly going on point. "That's the key. He's got a deadline."

Blair nodded, eager.

Jim got to his feet. He offered a hand up to his partner. "We're going to walk each girl through her day. Again. See what she saw. Do what she did. Look for the connection."

"The deadline." Blair followed Jim into the main room, taking two steps for every one of the Sentinel's.

Jim headed for the stairs, then lurched to a halt mid-way up. "About last night, chief." He paused, smiled and said, "Thanks."

"No problem, man. Glad to help." Blair stalled near the couch, shifting from foot to foot.

"What is it?" Jim asked.

"I might have some good news."

The tone of Sandburg's voice told Jim that was doubtful. "What?"

"I might have found another place to stay." The shifting dance continued with hands in motion now. "Mr. Ivanson, the guy who owned the warehouse, he owns some apartments, too. Not too far from the university. He says there's a vacancy and he can let me have a place cheap to make up for some of the stuff I lost."

"Where?"

"There's a couple of spots. One on Lorengo, the other's over on Granby."

"That's in South Town."

"Just on the border." The hands were flying now.

"So you're going to trade rats and drug manufacturers for thugs, pushers and hookers?" Ellison's jaw clenched in what he'd once overheard Sandburg call 'the Armageddon look.'

"I can handle myself." Blair nodded, seeking to reassure himself as well as his partner.

"Do you want to move out?"

"Well, you know - I don't want to overstay my welcome. We've still got a lot of work to do together." Blair laughed, a nervous stutter of sound. It couldn't quite cloud the increased heartrate or the slight blush of perspiration that came with the current obfuscation. Jim was becoming very familiar with the routine. "I've invaded your space long enough. And you've been great - the best. But I can dig a privacy fetish as much as anyone."

"That isn't what I asked." Jim felt the vein in his temple begin to throb. "Do you want to move out?"

Blair opened his mouth. Closed it. Then let go a breath. "No."

"Then stay," Jim snapped. "All right?" He waited for Blair's nod. "Good. Here's the first ground rule. Don't call me 'Jimmy.'" He held up a hand, forestalling the Guide's response. "Everyone who's ever called me Jimmy has ended up screwing me over. It's like a curse. We've got enough problems as it is, okay?"

"Okay." A tentative smile latched onto Blair's mouth.

"Second rule is - don't ever lie to me. I can take almost anything but that. All right?"

"Oh, man...." The smile wavered. "You know, it really depends on what you consider lying."

"This isn't open for debate. We're going to have to trust each other, chief. Lying kind of wrecks all that."

"I wouldn't ever do anything to hurt you. It's just ..."

"Don't even try, Sandburg." Jim's expression went to stone. "I'm kind of inflexible on that point."

"Yeah? Well, you're kind of inflexible on a whole lot of points if you ask me."

"You better believe it. I am a total pain in the ass. You haven't figured that out yet? Some professor you are."

"I'm not a professor."

"No, but you will be."

"Okay. Have it your way." The face that gazed up at Jim's was locked in serious pout. "Is that it, Herr Commandant? You got any more rules?"

Jim turned, hiding the grin. He jogged up the rest of the steps. "About a dozen. I've been making a list."

"A doz - a list?" Sandburg's wail followed him. "Oh, man...! Is it too late to change my mind?"

"Absolutely," he called back. "You're stuck."

And so am I, Jim conceded with the first sense of genuine contentment he had felt in months.

Present

* * *

The storm picked up. A gust of wind drove the rain against the window bringing Jim back to the present. The scent of salt was in the air like tears. He stretched, trying not to disturb Blair, still following the trail of times past and the triumph of tracking down a killer ... who did turn out to be a white, middle-aged, middle-class man. Geoff Hanley, a volunteer for an inner-city reading program whose funding was to be cut, was on a mission to save his girls from the corruption of the flesh. Jim and Blair had discovered him leading a child away from the library on yet another special field trip. They trailed him to his home.

From the beginning of their partnership, Jim had learned Blair had difficulty following procedure. It wasn't an authority hang up, it was more like an impulse/improvisation compulsion. Yes, Blair would stay by the car. Yes, he could be counted on to call for back up. It was what he did afterwards that stopped Jim's heart. Sure enough, as Jim found his way into the basement, he became aware of Sandburg pounding on Hanley's door, clipboard in hand, requesting information for a survey, trusting that the killer of three small girls would not be able to resist talking about himself and his volunteer activities. The air ducts in the ancient townhouse acted like an amplifier to Sentinel hearing.

"If you could just spare me a few minutes of your time," Blair coaxed in that ingenious you-can't-refuse-me voice. "We're particularly interested in the work you've been doing at the inner-city libraries. There's new funding that just might be available...."

Jim followed them by sound as he scoured the basement, looking for Hanley's latest, still living victim. An impossible task. "Tune everything else out," That's what Blair had taught him. "Focus on what you need to hear."

Jim needed to hear the child. But he also needed to hear Blair, too, to be sure his partner, his Guide, was all right. A lifetime could go screaming by in the seconds it took to make that kind of decision. The child was the priority here. He would have to trust Blair to take care of himself.

It worked. Once Jim had made the choice, he was able to focus and locate the girl in minutes. He followed the pulse of that tiny heartbeat into a hidden room where a row of small, white dresses hung against the wall. They shuddered, moved by the shift in air current when Jim opened the door, tiny ghosts to be. Jim counted six more garments.

It would have been so easy to zone into the horror of that miniature abattoir. Yes, Hanley had cleaned the room but the scent of past kills was strong enough to overwhelm Sentinel senses. The child, the crisis on hand, kept him alert. Jim picked her up, cradling the barely-conscious child against his shoulder, carrying her to safety.

But help was on the way. Jim sensed the change in air pressure that told him back up was coming and with them, an ambulance and paramedics. Still, upstairs in the main room, events were proceeding in a more threatening fashion. Someone else had entered the room.

"What's going on here, Geoff?" Jim heard a woman's voice, slurred by drugs and alcohol. "What have you gotten yourself into now?"

Hanley's reply was stone cold, "What do you think, mother?"

"What I always think, honey. You oughta get yourself laid." This followed by a mindless titter. "Who's your new friend? Now he looks you he could help you out there. You look like you might know your way around a mattress, darlin'."

The atmosphere charged with menace. Jim had to get up there. Now. Peering into the yard, he spotted a pair of uniformed officers on foot, making their way towards the basement door - local cops, responding to the call for help. He waved them towards him and carefully deposited the child in an officer's arms. Then turned back to that house of horrors, following the sound of chaos.

Upstairs, Hanley was talking, "You see what's she's like?"

"Hey, man...." His Guide answered softly, trying to keep the peace. "Maybe we ought to just chill. Don't let her get to you."

But Mom wasn't ready to chill. Nails like red talons latched onto her son's arm, drawing blood. Jim could smell it. "Hey!" Indignant, angry. "What are you talking like that about me for?"

Geoff tore himself away, backing across the room. Cornered. Not good. Muddy brown eyes sought out smoky blue. "He knows."

Big emphasis on the 'he' there. Jim heard/felt the increase in Blair's heartbeat. Everything was moving too fast up there and the Sentinel was moving so slowly.

"The police are on their way, man." Blair again, rattled but holding his own. He wouldn't let Hanley see how scared he was. "They'll get you out of here. You'll be all right."

"You're lying to me."

"No - I'm not. Look, it's obvious you've got problems, man. They'll make sure you get help."

"No ... no." Hanley was shaking his head, angry, beginning to cry.

"Geoff," Mom's voice was sharp. Angry. "Have you been saying things about me again? Have you been talking to people?"

"It's too late, isn't it?" It seemed Hanley was tuning his mother out. Maybe he'd taught himself to do that long ago. Or maybe he'd just heard it all before.

"Not yet. You've got a choice here, man. A window of opportunity." Blair moved closer to Hanley, trying to talk him down until Jim could get there. "It's a hard choice, yeah. But it's more than you had back when you were a kid. More than Melinda had. Or Lisa. Or Tracey."

"Confess to the police and accept the punishment? Or I could fight my way out?"

"No, no, no...." Blair swallowed. "No fighting. Fighting is so uncool. There's way too many of them. You couldn't win. You'd get hurt. And you don't want to get hurt, not any more. You go with the police, they'll take you away from here. From her. For good."

They all heard the sirens roaring up the street, screaming to a stop outside the brownstone. Blood-red light stabbed through the window like flame, searing Jim's eyes just as he reached the kitchen. He staggered and fell back. Shook it off.

"The police? Geoff ... Geoffy, what are you doing to me?" Mom was really upset now. "I don't need the police here. Not again. No more police."

"Ah, Mom. Shut up."

"Don't ..."

Blair's voice - followed by the sound of a blow. Sudden, violent. Deadly. More blood scent. Then another blow and another. Jim crashed through the kitchen door; he ran through the dining room into the living room to find Geoff still slamming Mom with the fireplace poker and Blair trying to pull him off. But the woman was gone with the first strike. There was blood everywhere. Other stuff.

Jim got them separated, tearing Hanley away - flinging that gasping, sobbing mass across the room. A tall, skinny man, Hanley was all freewheeling arms and legs and pale, shock-washed skin - where he wasn't splashed with his parent's blood. Jim shuddered with revulsion. It was like handling some kind of venomous spider.

Then he had Blair, pulling him up from the floor with one arm, checking him over. His Guide was bruised, yes, but the blood that splashed across him wasn't his. He wasn't hurt. Jim kept the gun on Hanley, making a barricade between the monster and his Guide. Sandburg held onto his jacket, keeping close, shaking. Still determined.

"Did you get the girl?" Blair had asked. "Is she okay?"

"She's fine." Jim had slipped his arm around his partner's shoulders, shaking himself. "Just fine. But next time, when I tell you to stay at the truck, you stay at the truck."

"Yeah, yeah - I know. But you had to have time to find her, man. I could see him through the front window, heading for the back. I knew he was going for the basement. I couldn't let him sneak up on you."

"So you let him sneak up on you? That makes sense."

Blair had shrugged helplessly. "I didn't plan it that way."

"Look, you don't just implement a plan - you tell me about it first. I'll give you the go ahead - or not. Okay?"

"Okay," Blair had agreed, then reaffirmed under his partner's cobalt glare. "Okay - okay!"

At that point, Simon Banks had burst onto the scene, bellowing, "What the hell's going on here?"

Ellison and Sandburg had turned to him as one, speaking in unison, "Nothing."

That had brought the Captain up short. Later celebrating the end of Hanley's reign of terror, Simon confessed, laughing, "All of a sudden, I thought I was confronted by two Daryls. Don't ever do that to me again."

Jim smiled, content with the memory. Off in the distance, he heard the faint rumble of thunder. It was still miles away but approaching fast. He looked down to find himself under the scrutiny of an intense, blue-eyed stare.

"What's the problem, big guy?" Blair asked gently. "Still can't sleep?"

"I'm okay." Jim smoothed the hair back from his partner's face, sweeping mahogany curls through his fingers. He smiled. "I was just thinking."

"About what?"

"Stuff."

"Your flair for communication never fails to stun me. It is such a turn-on." Blair yawned. "What kind of stuff?"

"Oh - like when I first knew I loved you."

Blair's voice rose in delight. "Oh, yeah?"

There was no letting it go now. "Remember right after you first moved in," Jim said. "That July ..."

"When those little girls were murdered." Blair nodded. "I'll never forget it."

Jim sighed. "I got that headache and you took care of me. Then you covered for me with Simon."

"That's it? That's when you knew?"

"That's when I started living my own life," Jim said softly.

"I don't understand."

"Me either really. But I felt the change. Like it opened me up so I could love you." Jim swallowed. He shook his head. "You've got to understand, chief, nobody'd ever done anything like that for me before. Steven and I were always at each other's throat. Whenever we'd start to get tight - be friends - Dad would toss something in the mix guaranteed to start us up again. Like throwing chum at the sharks."

"You and Steven aren't sharks, Jim. You're brothers."

"We were sharks. I was a by-the-book bully and he was a conniving little manipulator."

"Well, every family has its problems." Blair offered a smile. "Or so I've heard."

Jim grinned at him. "What do you know, psych-minor?"

"Just call me Sigmund." Blair made a face. "On second thought - don't." He stretched, rolling onto his back. "What you're talking about is called 'transference.' You re-cast and re-lived your family situation. Not deliberately. You just fell into the roll you were used to playing - and you expected Simon and me to play along. Except you forgot to clue us in."

"But I ran away from home, joined the Army for God's sake, just to get away from that."

"You escaped. And you mastered your problems yourself." Blair nodded, radiating approval and admiration. "But it took some time - it always does - and reached crisis level once we started working together. The situation was probably intensified, not just by the trauma you experienced with your Sentinel ability going online, but with the dysfunction you picked up off the Hanley case. We were neck deep in it. You needed to solve the case, sure. We all did. But that worked into needing Simon's approval, like you needed your dad's approval. And even though I was trying to help, you kept feeling me out as Steven. You kept expecting me to turn on you, betray you in some way. And when that failed to happen, you imploded. Blam!" Blair slapped his hands together. "Headache - off the scale, man!"

"'Blam' ... is that a technical term of the psychiatric profession?"

Blair chuckled, turning towards him again. "I didn't want to overwhelm you with the big words, big guy."

Jim's smile broadened, gazing down on him, cupping the back of his partner's head. Blair buried his face against Jim's hip, hiding his expression, sliding his hand up a satin-smooth thigh.

It amazed him the way his body came alive and aware every time he set eyes on the man. He'd seen Jim naked thousands of times by now and it didn't matter, it was always a thrill. Even bruised and bandaged, James Ellison defined perfection. Sleek and powerful, Blair never got enough of looking at him, those smooth, hard ridges and planes. Touching him was beyond belief. He loved the way Jim was so much larger, the way his body could surround him. Hold him, love him - drive all the fear away.

"What is it?" Jim asked. The concern was immediate and obvious. "Are you all right?"

Blair peered up at him again, eyes uncommonly bright. "Just thinking to myself, man. You are no Adonis."

Jim rolled his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. "Never pretended to be."

"Hey." A small hand dug into rock-hard muscle, attention-getting but not hard enough to hurt. The smile deepened. "Adonis was a wimp."

Blair sat up and pulled his sweatshirt off, then tossed it to the foot of the bed. Naked himself now, he scrubbed his hands through his hair, lifting it off his neck. Letting fall, shaking it out - knowing Jim liked that. He ran a hand over his chest, meeting Jim's eyes, watching them move over him, a smoldering caress.

Caught just beyond the border of sleep, Blair's heart filled with longing. He moved closer, reaching out to touch Jim's face, skimming that squared-off jaw, that perfectly shaped mouth. Jim's breath fanned against his palm. Carefully, Blair closed his hand as if he had captured a soul.

Jim took Blair's wrist and pressed his lips against the fingers of that lightly closed fist. Blair's eyes flickered shut. Something dark had lodged inside his heart, an ache that burned and frightened him at the same time. Brackett was still with him, still trying to destroy everything. Relentlessly, Blair shoved memory away. He was so sick of feeling scared.

Better to concentrate on Jim. Not an easy man to love. James Ellison had branded himself unworthy; he thought of himself only in terms of his faults even as he labored towards some unobtainable quest for perfection, driving himself further and further into isolation.

Blair had felt it from their first meeting, rushing into that examination room filled with all kinds of ideas and theories and plans. Then running out again, staggered by what he'd found. What he'd felt ... that first shock of connection. Empathy was such a bitch sometimes.

He tugged at Jim's leg. "Open up, big guy." His voice was husky with sleep and more. "I know how to relax you."

Jim started to speak but his throat closed on the words. He tried again. "Nothing's going to happen. Not with all those pills and ..."

"Shh...." Blair rolled himself in full length between Jim's legs. He peered up under a fall of midnight-washed curls. "I just want to taste you."

Jim swallowed, going wordless again. It was safer that way. Blair hadn't made any moves like this since they'd come home. Since Lee Brackett. And Jim had been too wary, too full of concern to try anything himself. He'd been so afraid that if he tried to hold him, he wouldn't ever be able to let go again.

Blair burrowed in, sliding his arms under Jim's thighs, bringing his lover's legs up over his shoulders. His hands locked onto Jim's hips, fingers fanning out, massaging the small of his back. He shook his hair down over Jim's groin, letting curls dance over his stomach, smiling at the reflexive arch that brought Jim to his lips.

Not yet. He wouldn't take him in yet. Blair nuzzled gently, just breathing him. Savoring the scent, the taste, the touch. He heard Jim catch his breath with a rush of pride, pleased with how he affected his lover's body, sending his own flesh climbing into fever-heat.

Blair pressed his face into the crease of hip and thigh, tasting with just the tip of his tongue. Teasing. Massaging with lips and tongue, alternatively kissing, laving, sucking. He felt Jim clench and shiver under his touch and went for more. But slowly, so slowly. He wanted to make this last. He wanted Jim to flood the hole inside his heart and wash all the pain away. Make him believe Brackett had never happened, that it was all a bad dream. Just another nightmare. Trance-like, Blair opened his mouth and drew the limp organ inside.

Jim's body lifted again. The muscles tightened in his thighs as he felt the first shock of hardness lance through his groin. God, this shouldn't be possible. Every ache, every pull of healing wounds worked against it. But there it was, a thread of pleasure battling through the pain and the drugs that had invaded his body. God, he needed this so much. They both needed it.

A harsh gasp of desire tore out of his throat. Jim gave himself up to it, letting his head drop back in the pillows, falling into the rhythm Blair set for them. He shifted again as Blair slipped his hands deeper, fingers gliding along the cleft of his ass, searching with purpose. Jim tossed his head, his breath going to moan. A shudder of absolute longing racked through him as the first finger eased in. He wanted Blair inside him, wanted to feel his lover's seed burn through his body. Healing him. He wanted to be inside Blair, too - claiming him, taking him beyond pain where no one would ever hurt him again. His mind grasped that image and held it close.

Outside, the storm shook the night blasting repeatedly against the windows. The fury went unnoticed. Inside the loft, all was still except for the thunder of hearts and the whisper of flesh against flesh. Lightning licked across the sky, pulsing the loft with the glimmer of heat. Jim opened his eyes to see Blair sprawled before him, sweat-slicked limbs bathed in gold. He'd seen this before and the vision never failed to stir him. The muscles along Blair's back and legs tensed and relaxed. His hips thrust against the mattress, a counterpoint to the beat in Jim's cock. But this time, the marks Brackett had left stood out in stark contrast against tawny flesh, bruises on top of bruises, the healing welts that snaked across his hip and ass. For a moment, anguish threatened to overwhelm him. Jim clenched his teeth against a snarl.

They both bore the scars of war, of battles fought and won. Jim took in a deep breath. Then released it. Pride surged forward to conquer torment. His eyes burned, drinking in the sight before him, his flesh and Blair's, wounds and all, as the pleasure built - intensified - until he couldn't keep it inside any longer. He wrapped his legs around Blair's body, struggling to touch as much of him as he could. Jim gave a cry of warning and came, soaring, hips heaving.

Afterwards, Jim fell back on sweat-drenched pillows, every sense open and on full alert. Red alert. Surely there should be sirens going off somewhere. Angels trumpeting. Drums beating? No - that was only the music of heart and blood. Jim shivered, completely open now - totally vulnerable, skating the edge of fear. God, Brackett had come so close to destroying this.

New movement captured his attention. Jim opened his eyes to see Blair flowing towards him. Straddling Jim's body, he scaled the mountain of pillows and flesh. Mesmerized, Jim inhaled the rich, musky scent of his body as Blair stretched up to lock his hands on the headboard rail. Muscles strained as he worked to keep his weight from his lover's injured flesh. Jim felt his breath on skin, the brush of soft chest hair against his body, the feathered tease of curls against his face. Blair's head dipped down, darting in to take his mouth. Closer - even closer now, those eyes growing larger, flooding Jim's field of vision until there was nothing but blue. Then Blair pressed his lips to Jim's, opening to him, feeding him a paralyzing stream of current - flooding Jim's body with the heat of their connection, waking the last of Sentinel senses, giving Ellison the gift of Taste.

Heedless of wounds, Jim pulled Blair to him. He ran his hands down Blair's shoulders, his ribs, locking at his waist and hips, pulling him up.

Blair flung his head back, lunging up at his lover's command, bringing his swollen cock to Jim's lips. Jim drank him in to the root, holding him hard. A wild cry of yearning burst from Blair's chest. His thrusts quickly grew urgent. Hard. Some ghost of sanity warned him to ease up. Except Jim was holding him tighter, taking him so deep and, oh God, he wanted it to last forever. Blair lost himself in the heat, in the bliss - in the comfort Jim offered without words - giving himself over to want and desire and love. Brackett was gone. Brackett was history. It was over.

He wanted to believe that so much.

Suddenly, Blair froze. His knuckles went white against the headboard. Blair took in a harsh, shuddering breath and climaxed with a scream, a crazed mix of love and lust, fury and pain.

Jim tore his head away, catching his partner's body as Blair collapsed. Release dissolved into shivers of grief. Blair curled into himself, a low, desperate keening rising from his throat. His shoulders hunched and the shaking began; his breath grew shorter and shorter and then he was crying. Jim gathered him into his arms, lifting him up, holding him. He didn't give himself time to think about his own pain, the sound of Blair's tears was the worst wound he'd ever felt. He couldn't let go.

"Don't shut it down," Jim begged. He cradled the smaller body against him. "Don't shut me out anymore, chief. Please. I can't take it."

Blair whimpered, unable to hold Jim back. Memory slammed him broadside, shattering the resolve that had kept him going. He didn't have the strength to send anything away.

"Oh, God ... it hurts!" Blair choked the words out.

Jim held him tighter, as if the strength of his arms would be enough to drive the hurt away. He curled in over Blair's shuddering limbs. "It's all right," he whispered. "I've got you."

"He hurt me," Blair sobbed. "He wouldn't stop hurting me."

"You're all right now. He can't hurt you anymore ... I won't let him hurt you."

Agony lodged in Jim's throat as he rocked Blair against him, letting him cry it out. He pressed his face against the top of his lover's head, crooning softly, apologizing for things that had been beyond his control ... beyond anyone's control. A game had been put in motion by a madman. Maybe that wasn't so unusual, not in their line of work. But this time the monster had hit too close to home.

"I hate this," Blair hissed through clenched teeth. "I want him dead and I hate it. I hate these feelings."

"I know," Jim growled against his hair. "He made you feel like you were to blame for what happened - for what he did."

Blair's eyes widened. He looked up. "Yeah...."

"He lied to you, chief. He used you." Jim swallowed, keeping the rage at bay. "He kept you on edge so he could break you down and control you. That was Brackett, not you. No - it's not your fault."

"It was almost like ... he made me feel like I deserved it."

"Just another lie."

"God, there was a part of me...." Blair shuddered. His voice dropped to a whisper, "I felt like I just wanted to die."

"So you could get away from him."

"Yeah." Blair glanced up at him, eyes bright with suspicion. "How did you know?"

"You're the resident shrink here, chief," Jim said gently. "You figure it out."

"It happened to you, too. Or something like it."

"Got it in one, babe. Like always."

"God, Jim...." Blair pressed his face against his partner's chest and closed his eyes. Jim rubbed his back.

"Brackett's a sociopath." Jim spoke again after some time had passed. His voice was gentle, coaxing a response. "You know what that means."

"Everything's backwards. They have no conscience. No sense of empathy," Blair recited automatically, losing himself in the safety of academia. But the words came out thin and tired, without his usual enthusiasm. "They're needed in times of war and, if we don't have enough, the government manufactures them by instigating an artificial pathology in their basic training. As long as they're restricted to a military life or sports or corporate business or sales, they preserve a beneficial function. They can only do so much damage and can actually aid society. But they've got to have a code in order to interact positively among the general population. The Golden Rule doesn't work for them. Self-preservation is their biggest motivator."

"But Lee Brackett broke his code, didn't he?"

Blair nodded listlessly.

"So he could do anything he wanted. No conditions, no restrictions. Maybe he couldn't feel, but he sure could get to us." Jim allowed some of the anger he carried to creep out. "He tied us up in knots. He came at you every way he could - but he still couldn't beat you. He couldn't break you. You took him on, chief. You fought back and you won. We won."

Blair went quiet for a time, absorbing Jim's words. The sobs had stopped, but it was more like grief had worn him out rather than he'd found control.

"He wouldn't leave me alone," Blair whispered after a long while. "He didn't really hit me all that much, not till the end. But he wouldn't leave me alone. He kept watching me. I couldn't get away from him."

Jim clenched his teeth, feeling the small body tense. Blair's hands slid up to grasp the arm that held him. Slim fingers bit into Jim's flesh like a vise.

"I thought ... I just ... I just wanted him dead," Blair confessed bitterly. "And I wanted to kill him. Except I didn't really want him dead - just wanted to keep killing him and killing him...."

Jim rubbed the back of his neck, waiting. Blair turned his head, twisting his shoulders - a wounded animal movement as if he would throw off pain. His words came out through clenched teeth, "I hate him."

"That's okay," Jim assured him, gravely. "Go ahead and hate him. You've got the right."

Blair folded in on himself again, pressing his forehead to Jim's arm. The tears returned, hard and angry, muffled against his partner's flesh. Jim held him securely, willing the poison to drain off.

Eventually, Blair lifted his head again, looking up. Focusing somewhere beyond the far wall. His eyes were swollen and his nose ran. He took a deep breath. Then another and another until his breathing began to stabilize, still holding tight to Jim.

"This is so not me."

"No," Jim corrected gently, wiping his face with a corner of the sheet. "It is you ... it's anyone who's been hurt like you were."

"It's easy for you, isn't it? This is your field." Blair's voice was harsh with self-reproach. "You know how to handle yourself with all ... with all this."

"You've got it all wrong, chief. It's never easy," Jim said calmly. "You never get used to anyone getting hurt, especially when it's someone you love. Killing Brackett, that won't change what happened. Beating yourself up because you hate what he did to you, that won't help either."

"You're not really a turn-the-other-cheek kind of guy, are you?"

"No." Jim struggled to explain. "To forgive someone ... that's not like compassion. It has to be earned. Deserved. Brackett isn't sorry for what he did, he'd do it again in a minute if he could. Don't you dare feel guilty over that asshole. I'll punch you out myself."

A tiny ghost of a smile licked at Blair's mouth but disappeared before it had a chance to develop. "I don't get it," he sighed. "You were a mess when you charged up there, really hurt. Why'd you fight him like that if you knew it wasn't going to change anything?"

"Because he had to pay. He had to know the cost of hurting you."

"So he'll think twice before he hurts anyone else?"

"No. I mean hurting you. I wasn't thinking about world peace or the job - just you." Sky blue eyes stared at him, unblinking. "You're my tribe. You're the one I come home to, the one I want. I won't let anyone hurt you. And if someone tries, he's got to pay. How's that for primal?"

Blair frowned. "Intense."

"But...?"

"But you know why he came after me."

"He thought you could make him a Sentinel. You explained that."

"That doesn't make any difference to you?"

"Why should it?"

"Because it's my fault."

"No - it's not your fault. You've got to stop thinking that," Jim snapped. He shook himself, trying to force down the anger, the fear. "I didn't remember much about Peru. Mostly, I guess I tried to forget ... not because it was all bad. It wasn't. But when my senses came online here, you had nothing to do with that. Yeah, you stirred things up. Give me some credit here - you don't think I didn't notice? They flared up right after I met you at the hospital but everything was so crazy, I didn't associate it with you. After I saw you at the university, though, I knew. I nearly got myself flattened trying to get away from you. But the Sentinel thing was already happening again, no turning back. You taught me that. And you were the only one, the only one who even tried to help me. You stood by me, nearly got yourself killed for me - so many times. Sandburg...." His voice dropped to a whisper as he struggled to break through the wall of guilt, cursing Brackett to the deepest pit of Hell. "You saved my life, chief. My work - my sanity. Such as it is. But, babe, I've got to tell you - you're making me crazy with this shit." He took in a deep breath. "Look - I can't blame you for anything - except saving my life. Okay?"

"I was a kid when I found that first reference to Sentinels." Blair huddled against Jim's chest, holding his lover's arm around him, a living security blanket.

Jim closed his eyes. 'I was a kid....' - the words shot into his heart with magnum force. Sandburg wasn't that far removed from 'kid,' a quality Jim had come to prize. It wasn't a question of years or experience, it was passion. Enthusiasm. The boundless energy with which his lover embraced everything he encountered, and brought to others - brought to Jim - displayed within the careful, protective fingers of a child finding his first firefly. Sandburg shared his treasures, he didn't hord. That was Blair.

If Brackett had destroyed that.... Tears slipped unnoticed from Jim's closed lids, sliding down his face into tangled curls.

"It wasn't like I just believed in Sentinels, it was like I knew," Blair continued softly. "I knew! I understood everything, but when I tried to explain ... there's this Watchman and he looks after you, helps you - protects you. And he won't go away, he won't leave." The words crashed to a halt. He swallowed. "Look man, I know what this sounds like. Here's this overactive kid looking for a father, right? A home. Some place to belong. It's every bastard's fantasy." He nodded, an angry little gesture. "Okay. There was some of that involved. Maybe a lot. But that's not all there is. There was more - a lot more. And I intended to prove it."

Jim squeezed his shoulders. "I know...."

"No ... no...." Blair flinched on little hiccups of pain. "You don't know!"

"Then tell me," Jim urged. "Make me understand."

"I wanted to prove it so much, I would have done anything."

"But nothing bad," Jim soothed. "You'd never deliberately hurt anyone, Blair. You couldn't."

"You still don't get it." Blair's voice dropped to an agonized whisper. "What if he found me first? What if Brackett and I ... what if we'd connected first? I would have gone with him. I'm so stupid, I would've done it. You know I would."

"You are not stupid."

"Oh, yeah? Think again, man. You know how I am."

"That's just it, I do know you," Jim insisted, rebelling at the nightmare that filled his mind. "It would never happen. Never."

Blair dropped his eyes, miserable, retreating back to himself even as he leaned into the shelter of Jim's arms.

Determined, forcing himself to be gentle, Jim took his chin in hand, lifting his head. "I don't like to think about it," he said gruffly. "You and Brackett. But even if you had met him first, it never would have worked. You're too smart. You're too good. You would've seen right through him and you would have left."

"What if he wouldn't let go?"

"Then I would have had to find you."

"Simple as that, huh?"

"No. Not simple. Hard. Everything's hard without you. But I would have found you - or you would have found me. You can't convince me that wouldn't have happened."

"What's this?" Astonishment licked over Blair's face. "You telling me you believe in fate now? In karma?"

"No, I'm telling you I believe in you. In us." Jim released a breath, trying not to shake. Then gave up on it. "God, I've never been so scared before. Brackett really did it to me - it was the worst thing, knowing he had you. Knowing what he was doing to you - how bad he hurt you."

Blair shivered, his lips drawn tight. Blue eyes burned. "He hurt you, too."

"Both of us," Jim agreed. "But he couldn't destroy us. He couldn't drive us apart or beat us down. There were so many times we could have both just given up ... and we didn't. You believed I would come for you. Like you said, not just believe - you knew it. No one's ever trusted in me like that." He inclined his head, nodding. "I was proud of both of us. You and me, we did good, chief."

Blair caught his breath. Held it.

"We can't stop these things from happening," Jim continued carefully. "The way it is now, you don't have to go looking for trouble. Trouble comes looking for you, all you have to do is step outside. All we can do is fight it. Protect yourself, protect your own - others who have no one else to turn to." Tenderly, he thumbed a tear away from a bruised cheek. "But if you've had enough, I'll understand. You say the word and we'll walk away from this. Now. Today. There's other things we can do, we'll just figure it out as we go along. Like we always do. It's your call."

"Oh, my God," Blair said in a small, bleak voice. "You're not kidding."

"No. I'm not."

"But you can't."

"Hear me, chief. And believe." Jim almost laughed. "Taking Brackett down was a major event. I don't know about you, but right about now, I'm feeling damn near invincible. I can do anything I want. Anything ... except I just don't want to do it without you ... even if I could."

"You'll never have to do anything without me."

The answer came so quickly and with such conviction, Jim started. "You mean it?" he asked.

"Yeah," Blair answered. "I do."

Jim touched his lips to Blair's, a chaste and comforting caress.

That didn't last long. Blair turned to slip his arms around his partner. Opened to him.

"Man, as long as I live, I'll never forget the way you came charging around the side of that mountain and shot that damn leash right out of Brackett's hand," he whispered breathlessly, gazing up into Jim's face. "I'll never forget the way you grabbed him up and just ... just threw him away. And then you held me. That was so ... That was superb. Primo. Fantastic! I've never been so glad to see anybody. Nothing's ever felt that good, man. The way you held me - I didn't want to ever let go."

"I'm still holding you, chief."

"Yeah, I know." Blair's eyes glistened softly. "And I'm holding you."

They looked at each other. Blair pulled Jim's head down to his again with infinite care.

"Maybe we should just think about living happily ever after," Blair said when the kiss broke. The words came hesitantly. He was still too shattered to laugh but the shy smile that filled his face was genuine. "Let's forget about the rest. About Brackett. It just gets in the way."

"You mean, let it go?" Jim asked, smiling back.

"Yeah."

"Okay. If that's what you want."

"Forever," Blair whispered. "And ever."

"Till Hell freezes over," Jim agreed, sinking back into the pillows, bringing Blair with him. His Guide settled against him, sheltered and shielding. "Are you sure you're okay with this?"

"These last couple of days...." Blair sighed. "I wasn't sure I'd be okay with anything again."

"And now?"

"I'm working on it."

"That's enough of a plan for now." Exhaustion swept over him in a wave. Jim closed his eyes. "One step at a time, chief. We'll get there."

Blair nodded, yawning, cushioned against his Sentinel's chest. He sought out a comfortable spot, sliding his feet under the pillows for warmth and started, as usual, at the brush of metal against his foot - Jim's monster Sig Sauer. "Don't worry," Jim had told him from the first night. "The safety's on."

Changing the bed the next day, Blair had discovered that Jim kept the Big Knife between the mattress and the box springs. On Ellison's side, of course. Little by little, Blair had uncovered other weapons placed strategically throughout the loft.

What next? Blair wondered as sleep rushed to claim him. Grenades in the night stand - right next to the lube?

Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea. He had a great pitching arm.

But his mother would freak if she found out. Naomi would have a cow, right on the spot. Just like Blair had on that first day.

He lifted a hand, brushing his fingers against Jim's bruised and battered face. One of the cuts near his mouth had reopened and was oozing blood. Blair leaned up to kiss it away, then settled back into Jim's arms and closed his eyes.

In the morning, Blair would worry that he'd hurt him, sleeping against those bruised ribs all night. Jim wouldn't say a thing, just take him in his arms before the scolding reached fever pitch and kiss him until he shut up about that and progressed to other demands. Then they would love each other, reaffirming their commitment with desire, moving on - working the hurt out of their bodies and their souls, striving to put the demons to rest.

But for now, Jim held him close and the man was sleeping - really sleeping. At last.

By the next breath, Blair was, too.

* * *

Epilogue

Cascade Mountains ... four months later

The sun sank out of the sky as if it had dropped for cover. Those last vivid streaks were followed by a combination of rain clouds and night that swept in over the forest, a gang scouting out new territory. There was some wind. Not much, just enough to forecast the big chill to come. Sterling Frost scraped away the top layer of leaves until he reached surface ground. He heaped the dry leaves together within a circle of wet. Then he pulled a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet, crumpled it into the center, and carefully lit it.

"What's the deal?" Lee Brackett asked. "You don't have anything smaller?"

Frost didn't answer. He piled some twigs onto the flames. When they caught, he added some bigger twigs, then some sticks until he had a committed fire going. The flames spread a small circle of warmth and light over the night-shrouded greens and browns. It glistened against the rain-saturated surfaces and went dark over the blood soaked areas.

"It's not going to work." Brackett was talking again, the tone surprisingly confident. "They'll figure out I wasn't the real Sentinel. They'll know you faked them out and then, my friend, they'll come looking for you."

"Well, then," Frost said. "That ought to make you happy."

Fragrant smoke drifted like incense towards the treetops. Brackett surveyed the ascent, watching it merge into velvet black. The rain was coming back. Good. Scavengers holed up in the rain. Rain made it harder to track. Not impossible, but enough to give him some time.

"You're still alive," he reminded himself. "Remember ... all things are possible as long as you're still alive." He'd kept that thought in mind when he'd agreed to Frost's demand that he play out the Sentinel auction. Brackett had ingested drugs that imitated Sentinel abilities and put on a show for the bidders. It wasn't the same as having his powers back, but that didn't actually matter. This was a perform-or-die inspiration.

Given a choice, Brackett elected to live over the alternative. Especially Frost's brand of alternatives. There was always a chance of escape later.

But chance hadn't saved him. Chance had led him straight into the heart of nightmare.

Which he still hoped to use to his advantage. Nightmare was his territory, too. The Rogue coughed out a sigh watching the gray man settle in before the fire. He'd realized at their first meet that baiting did no good. Frost never regarded him with anything more than the nonchalant distaste he might show for a messy road kill. Maybe it was time for a new strategy.

"Heard any news lately from Ellison and his friend?"

Frost's gaze shifted from whatever inner landscape he'd been scoping directly to Lee Brackett. "You don't need to know anything about Detective Ellison or Mr. Sandburg."

Brackett shivered despite himself - and he hated being cold. That meant he couldn't let it go. Any heat was better than nothing. "Why not?" he tried for a return to cheery intimidation. Not that it worked on Frost, it was just good practice.

"I had a brother once," Frost said. His voice was like gray silk but no where near as warm.

"Where is he?" Brackett asked.

"He's dead."

"What happened?"

"I killed him."

"Hm."

"Almost eight years old and already just like our old man. He started in on animals first. Helpless things. He took a lit cigarette to Lynnett while she was still a baby. Only three-years old. That was the end. The boy had to go."

"I remember," Brackett said. "The scars on her arm. They were old. Her brother did it?"

Frost nodded.

"Son of bitch." The Rogue grinned. "So your baby brother was your first kill? Not your parents."

"They came later."

Gray eyes swung towards the crest of the ridge. Then back. Seconds later, Brackett became aware of the patter of paws approaching, the same dog pack that had hit him the first night. He'd managed to fight them off that time. Predictably, they hadn't gone far.

"Lynnett tried to help me," Brackett said. He strived to keep the panic out of his voice and wondered if he'd brought it off. But ... did it matter? He couldn't tell. Still, he hated this loss of control, especially now. "She cared about me. I didn't mean for her to die."

"You used her and then you killed her. It's the same strategy you intended to employ on Mr. Sandburg," Frost corrected. "My advice to you is simple. Forget talking about him. Don't even think about him. If you touch yourself, don't let him creep into your fantasies. I'll know if you do."

"Yeah, sure. What're you going to do about it - kill me?"

Frost's mouth twitched in what could have been a smile. "I thought maybe burning. Those wounds look ugly. Infected."

"Okay ... that works. My stomach did a headstand on that one." He wanted to try a laugh except he could feel the hysteria beginning to build and cut it off.

Frost fell back into silence.

"Christ, man," Brackett groaned. "You're no damn fun at all. Don't you know how the game plays? You torture me, but I hold out. Still, in the end, I give you what you want - money, information. Whatever. All you have to do is ask. Get with the program. What do you want?"

"I want you to die."

"Revenge. That's it? That's all?"

"No. Not all."

Brackett snorted. "What else then? Justice?"

"There is no justice for what you did or what you tried to do." Frost tossed a handful of herbs onto the flames. "None of this is enough but it'll have to do."

Finished with the conversation, the gray man returned to watching the fire. Head lowered, he almost looked as if he were falling asleep.

Careful to move just right, Brackett sank back against the giant oak that held him prisoner, trapped in a snarl of weighted hooks and barbs. Trust Frost to add his peculiar touch to the traps Brackett had already laid out. The man had a vicious streak Brackett couldn't begin to tap. Regardless, Frost's innovations had put an immediate end to the Sentinel auction, although most agreed that the show - and the end results - had been worth the price of admission.

Most of the hooks were fist-sized, piercing in through his ribs, arms and shoulders. One gargantuan claw sank in through his body, the heart of the trap. Placement had been calculated not to spear his spine or any vital organs. Once the blood crusted around it, the wound didn't even bleed much. Still, Brackett reasoned, that would be the one to kill him. Shock, pain, blood loss, that would take him out eventually. Permanently.

If the dogs didn't get him first.

The pack had zeroed in on a possible meal right away. Animals deserted by their owners in the mountain wild and left to fend for themselves, they'd been driven away by campers and hunters until they'd learned to support themselves. By now, the pack knew the worst of Man; they knew the value of numbers, too. Every time Brackett fought them off, the effort cost him. Worse, movement caused more hooks to spring from the trap. Fish hooks now mostly, annoyances that snagged into and tore his flesh. Red Heron brand from the look of them. Frost only used the best.

Brackett closed his eyes, gauging his strength and stamina, searching for a plan. This was day three and he needed food but the very thought of eating sent a wave of nausea rolling through his body. He was cold and wet and yet his body felt parched. His wounds burned and throbbed, the flesh swollen tight around the barbs. Frost was right. The hot-cold sensation heralded infection. If he was going to make any kind of move, it would have to be soon.

Brackett opened his eyes again, gaping. Disoriented. The forest was completely black now except for the small fire that blazed just beyond the reach of warmth. Damnit. He must have passed out.

Worse news. The dogs had moved in, forming a semi-circle around him. They weren't afraid of the fire; they weren't afraid of Frost. Hell, if anything Frost looked to be part of the pack.

"I've got money," Brackett rasped out.

"So do I," Frost returned.

"Connections, property, secrets." Brackett grinned. The scar over his eye would look good once he was cleaned up and whole, adding a new element of danger to the Rogue's face. He could be irresistible again. And deadly. "Positively no scruples at all. Get me out of this and I'll be owing you big time."

"Until you plant a knife in my back."

One of the dogs leaped forward, a young one. It charged at Brackett's feet, then lunged up at his throat. Brackett raised his fist and lashed out. Then shuddered, falling into full retreat as he heard the trip-wire snap. Too late. A spray of hooks erupted, spiraling at him like fireworks, streaming a trail of silver chains. A handful missed. The rest took him in the shoulder and neck, a hard punch from a dozen flaming ice picks. Always the first reaction was to pull away - which had the effect of locking them in deeper. Agony created a starburst behind Brackett's eyelids. His howl ripped through the night, pain overriding control.

The mutt whirled away from danger at the last minute, sprinting back to the pack. Pleased with himself, the little instigator capered in circles, nosing up to the alpha dog. The big dog, a war-torn Retriever, nosed him back to his side, content to wait. He'd allow the younger pups to have a go first, give them the practice, honing the strength of his tribe. His tail drummed with approval against the leaf-covered earth.

None of this was lost on the men who watched. Frost waited, as patient as the pack leader. Brackett fretted in his bonds, working his way back from pain and shock. Searching for some kind of plan. He had to admit ... it wasn't looking good.

Maybe it was time to punch reset, shift into a new game.

"You were right," Brackett snarled, forcing the quiver from his voice. "I used her. Lynnett only did it to save you. She helped me thinking I was like you - that she was somehow reaching you. Helping you."

There. It looked as if it finally might happen. That shift in Frost's expression said he might kill him. Take him out quick and end this slow torture. Brackett could still force this hand. So it wasn't the preferred win, it was a triumph all the same.

Sterling Frost's hand bunched inside his coat pocket; he withdrew his fist slowly. Brackett caught his breath, bracing himself. An odd, tight grin fixed on his lips. He was ready.

But there was no gun, no knife. Frost displayed Blair Sandburg's bronze bull's head clip, holding it carefully between thumb and forefinger. He tossed it into the air, catching Brackett's eyes. Holding them for the eternity it took for the piece to spin back, dropping into his hand like it was going home.

"You just don't know when to quit, do you?"

Brackett blinked. Shook his head. That wasn't Frost's voice.

The Rogue strained forward as much as he dared, staring into the clear blue eyes in the face before him. He recognized that distinctive Windex color immediately. "Ellison...." He choked back the copper-fruit of fear. No. It wasn't happening. This was only a hallucination, a fever-dream.

And what a hell of a dream it was. Brackett gazed about the small clearing which had suddenly gone crowded with shadow. Jim Ellison, Sentinel, rose to his feet, decked out in jungle gear, looking like he'd just stepped off that damn Time magazine cover. The little professor, the Guide, was there, too, in Hawaiian shirt and sandals, a new age wizard with warrior backup. Other spirits strived to cross the threshold from Spirit into Brackett's reality, Sentinels and Shamans. Keen. Obviously, there was nothing wrong with his imagination.

"Mr. Sandburg," the welcome rasped from Brackett's throat. "I'd almost given up on you. You never call, never write. I was beginning to think you didn't care."

"I care."

Yes, that was Blair's voice all right. The sound of it fell against him like the afterglow of a good kill. "I'm glad to hear it," he wheezed. "Maybe we could talk, say, in some nice, cozy E.R."

"No," Ellison said.

"What - there's no room for discussion here?" Brackett coughed again and spat. "I'd reconsider if I were in your shoes. Name your price. Anything."

"There's nothing to negotiate," Sandburg said quietly. "You broke the circle, man. There's only one way to close it."

Gazing into wide, smokey blue, Brackett finally understood. It wasn't about revenge or justice, not entirely. This was sacrifice.

Absolutely. And if this were the real thing instead of a shock-induced hallucination, he might sacrifice anything to have that vibrant soul in his hands again. Fantasy brought the flush of life back to his face. Sandburg stared back at him, going pale beneath his sun-kissed flesh as if Brackett had discovered a way of sucking the blood out of him without having to use teeth. The Rogue's smile deepened. How perfectly they understood each other.

Next, predictably, Sandburg was running at him, all trepidation gone. Brackett made ready for him, tearing one of the fishhooks from his side. His hand curved around Sandburg's skull as the Guide soared toward him, fingers sliding into warm, mahogany curls, urging him on like an eager lover even as he brought the hook up to the Blair's throat.

But Ellison was faster, stepping in - catching Brackett's wrist, snapping his hand back, nearly breaking the bone. He grabbed Blair's shirt, hauling him backward, then banding his arm around his partner's waist and pulling him into the stone wall of his body. Blair's fists flailed at Brackett's head and missed. He kicked out, connecting with the steel that stabbed through the Rogue's side instead.

There was as much fury as pain in Brackett's voice. This was his fantasy, his dream. He was in charge here. Fresh blood spattered the ground; he felt it run, hot, down his side. The barb hurt like hell - and it still wasn't enough to kill him. His body jerked, convulsing. Still, he lurched forward, reaching, a strand of brown silk snarled around his fingers. Not enough.

Meanwhile, Blair clutched the forearm that was driving the air from his lungs. He struggled to get free, fighting to charge again.

"Damnit - hold still!" Jim tightened his grasp, shaking him. Then he gentled his tone, setting Blair back on his feet. You couldn't conquer fear with force. "Easy, buddy ... take it easy," he murmured in the low, soothing tone he used to comfort frightened children and animals. "He can't hurt you anymore ... he can't hurt either of us. He's a dead man, chief. He just doesn't know it yet."

Blair went still as the words finally sank home, falling back against his partner's body. Immediately, Jim loosened his grip.

"Right...." Blair swallowed, nodded. "You're right. Sorry...."

"You okay?" Jim asked.

"I felt it - what he was thinking. It all just - came back." Blair shuddered, willing his anger away. He craned his neck around to look into his Sentinel's face. "The trap - it belongs to Frost. But Brackett was thinking how he could use it on you and how he would make me watch. What he could make me do to get you free."

"Son of a bitch." Jim drew in a deep breath. The muscle in his jaw twitched.

"Well," Brackett wheezed through agony. "You know what they say - it's not easy having a good time."

"I'll bet I could entertain you." The Sentinel moved his Guide aside and stalked forward, fist closing on Brackett's throat. "What do you say?"

"No, Jim. Don't." Blair placed his hand on Jim's shoulder, restraining him with a touch. Ellison glided to a halt, still on target, locked around Brackett's throat. The Rogue could feel the strength within that grasp, begging for release.

"Listen to me, Jim, please," Blair pleaded. "This has got to stop. It has to."

"I hate him, too."

"Yeah, I know. But you said it yourself, he's already dead." Blair reached for calm - for both of them. "You needed to see it for yourself, you had to be sure. We had to be sure. So okay - mission accomplished. It's over." When Ellison refused to move, he balled his fist and slammed it into his partner's shoulder, hard enough to sting. "Jim, stop! I won't let him take any more of you. I won't let him take any more of me."

The Sentinel turned to face his Guide. "Promise?"

"Are you kidding?" Blair found a smile. "Think of the paperwork involved in a mess like this, man. Just imagine trying to explain it all. And you know we'd have to go through another psych-evaluation. How many more of those tests do we take before the department finds out what they're really dealing with? We'd both end up in a padded cell. Simon would be so pissed with us."

"What's this, professor?" Brackett asked. "You're telling me all is forgiven?"

"Forgiven?" Disbelief danced across Sandburg's face again - followed by shock - followed by laughter. "Fuck you, asswipe. Look, I didn't deserve what you did to me. The hand you were dealt, maybe you didn't deserve this - but you made your choice. You broke the code. Now you pay."

"This isn't the end, professor. Not by a long shot." Reddened eyes fixed on the Guide. Brackett licked his lips. "Catch you in the next life, sweetheart."

Jim's fingers tightened on Brackett's throat again. "Not if I catch you first."

Staring up into glass-cleaner eyes, the Rogue could have cheered. Getting Ellison to finish him was a far better play; he could become a part of the Sentinel for the rest of his life, ride that do-gooder soul straight into eternity - and still take a chunk out of Sandburg's heart. Every time Ellison looked into his partner's face, he would see the man he killed for him. Every time Blair looked at his partner, he would remember how his lover had taken the life of a tortured, dying, helpless man. That was the toll for playing good-guy.

Brackett could have laughed. He conceded, magnanimously, that 'helpless' might be a less-than-accurate description.

But the Sentinel released him and stepped back, smiling ... the coldest expression Brackett had ever seen on a human face. It caught him off guard and kept him entranced ... until he heard the snap of another trip wire bursting loose. The hooks caught him in the groin and thigh this time.

Brackett's eyes widened. A white-hot burst of pain speared through his nerve endings, spreading like blood in water. A scarlet haze colored his field of vision. He watched Ellison place his arm around Sandburg's shoulders and turn, leading him away. Blair's arm went around his partner's waist; he didn't look back. Frustration created an agony all its own, tearing out of Brackett's throat in a shuddering scream.

So ... it was going to be a slow, hard death after all. And no vital little soul to keep him company. Regardless, going down, especially like this, never made a man feel more alive. Laughter bubbled out with the blood on his lips. Anyone hearing him - seeing him - would have guessed the man had lost his mind. But Lee Brackett wasn't any more lost than he had been from day one.

Brackett opened his eyes, calculating his next move. He could almost make himself believe he still had a chance. Even as he focused on the dogs. They were closer now, the young ones hyper with excitement, high on the scent of blood. He watched them watching him back, listening to the wet sounds that spattered on the ground. Not rain. Not yet. Maybe he'd bleed to death before they tried to take him down again. A big, gray wolf-mix shook himself, sitting next to the fire, body morphing to human - gray eyes staying feral.

Frost. Now this was a fantasy he could do without.

Shadow eyes glittered in the dark. "Why aren't you dead yet?"

Brackett frowned. "I don't know," he returned. "Just stubborn, I guess."

"Even if you can't live, you want to hurt someone one last time. Take them with you when you go. That's your idea of a win."

"You play the hand you're dealt. Hey - I'm just looking for a little company for the road. You can't blame me for trying." Brackett sagged, leaning against the tree, trying to find a less miserable position. "Look, I'd fold if you let me. I'm even willing to concede defeat. Can't we work something out here?"

Frost gave him a look that clearly indicated the question wasn't worth the waste of breath to answer. The man was precise with his words; emotional reaction had been beaten out of him long ago. He got to his feet and walked towards Brackett, a shadow passing over the woods. The dog pack stirred restlessly, banding together. Keeping their distance.

Brackett swallowed, uneasy, as the gray man came to a stop before him.

"Lizard was right," Frost said. "There's no point to this anymore."

That baffled the Rogue into words. "Lizard? What the hell?"

"The Shaman keeps the Dream Gate. He can cross at will, but he wouldn't come here - except to check you out."

"Right." Brackett managed a laugh. "So I guess I'm not the only one traveling the Twilight Zone."

"No."

"I knew it. You're just as crazy as I am."

"I'd guess crazier." Frost shrugged, loosening his shoulders. "The agency ran me through a lot of tests when I came on board."

"My folks did the same for me."

"Did you love them?"

"Well, they loved me." Brackett released a sigh. "At least they're still alive."

Frost nodded silently. The two men looked at each other, up close and very personal. Time passed.

Finally, Brackett said, "So this is it?"

And Frost answered, "It is."

"Okay." Brackett nodded. Then grinned, a completely malevolent expression. "When I see your sister, I'll make sure to say hello."

Frost took in a deep breath, head canting to one side. "I was scared the first time I killed," he said. "Not scared to do the killing, but scared because he would have done it. He would have taken her away. He wouldn't have stopped hurting her until she was dead." He raised his hands and placed them on either side of Brackett's ravaged face; his fingers tightened until they locked against the back of the Rogue's skull. His thumbs smoothed dark brows, coming to rest against fever-stoked temples.

"The path you're taking, you'll never meet her again," Frost murmured. "But if you meet my brother...."

"I'll be sure to give him your best." Bracing for what was to come, Brackett captured two free-swinging hooks, sliding them between the fingers of his right hand, turning his fist into a claw.

Sterling Frost noted the gesture. He smiled, his expression as unreadable as ever.

A single star blazed in the fading darkness. It was that moment just before night gives way to day but dawn could not cleanse the ugliness that had been brought into the grove. Or the ugliness that would be left behind. Rain wouldn't wash it away. Ensuing snowfall couldn't cover it.

One of the young dogs began to whimper, distressed, until the pack leader stood, gathered his tribe and moved on. Away. There was no reason to stay for this. The kill was rotten already, the meat tainted. Poison.

When the screaming began, it lasted through dawn.