The three Dark Angels stared in horrified shock as they looked from the girl-child they had been charged to find and rescue, to the boy of the streets who held a deadly-looking knife. He was going to kill her, and there was nothing they could do about it.

“No! This can’t be happening!” Kaeros cried angrily, trusting to the Weavings they had built to hide their presence - and their voices. “Just a few feet away, and we can’t interfere because of the Rules…”

“Damnit, no!” Azaen ground his teeth. He hated to feel so hopeless.

Chesni seethed silently. The rules that they, as Angels, had to follow when dealing with humans royally sucked. What she wouldn’t give to be able to simply reach out and pluck the knife from the boy’s hands…

But the Rules could be bent, if they couldn’t be broken.

Chesni punched a hole in the Weavings for her voice, and simply begged.

There it was again! Only this time, it did not die away, but rose in fervor. My spine chilled. The wind… The wind was singing. There were no words, not distinctly, no definite melody, but I knew. I knew this song.

The whispered chanting washed over me, dredging up countless horrible scenes before my eyes, scenes I had seen every day for countless years, visions of blood and pain and grief. It sang the song that every child who ever trod these bloody streets knew every word to. The song of Death.

“Chesni!” Azaen hissed, wide-eyed. “What are you doing?”

Kaeros won the battle to retain his calm, though he looked pale. “She’s singing, dolt. The Rules don’t say you can’t sing to a human… Or speak to them, if they’re ready to listen. And once he leaves the girl, we can take her and go. Smart woman you’ve got.”

Azaen just listened to the horrors and tears his Soulmate sang, and shivered as his own soul sang along.

“What’s that?” Brukal asked harshly, his generously muscled body already trembling under the strain of holding the death-lock Weaving ready to slam in place. “Why doesn’t he go for the kill, already?”

"Patience, Bruk." Jasis frowned, silver eyes dangerous and brooding. "The damn Darks found our girl too soon. But they can't do anything - the rules are on our side, for once. I don't know why they think singing will help any."

"Yeah," Brukal grunted. "This boy's a heartless bastard - I asked around. A little music won't hold him long."

The wind tore my gaze from my helpless victim, and I squinted through the driving rain. The incessant chanting filled my ears, filled my heart with the sound of terror, darkness, isolation. A sob of intense sorrow and pleading softly caressed my ears.

"Please," the faint, beautiful voice cried. "Please..."

Tears came unbidden to my eyes, but I wiped them angrily away. NO! I would not abandon my assignment, I would not let Claude's death go unavenged, just because the wind blew through the stones and sounded like music!

But my hands would not move. Could not move.

One is such a lonely number... And she is as alone as I am. More - because I have Thandre and my turf, I belong here. Where does Angel belong?

And I knew that if, when this waif died, it would not be by my hand. I could never kill someone I needed so desperately to protect. There was, after all, something I couldn't do.

I turned around and walked away.

"Damn!" Jasis roared, slamming his fist into the ground in his fury. His power spiraled outwards, guided by his rage-driven mind to find something, anything. He didn't care what. He wasn't going to lose this chance. He didn't dare lose this chance. He gave the nearby wandering streetchild a taste of the panicked frenzy he felt, and gave it a target.

Gold hair, blue eyes.

"Now, now, get her away now!" Chesni closed up the hole in the Weavings and stared at the male Dark Angels with wild eyes. "Now!"

Kaeros flinched, but didn't bother to look at her. His eyes were still glued on the children. He looked like he was going to be sick.

"Azaen -" She turned to her Soulmate, ready to charge forward and rescue the girl herself if need be.

Azaen just pointed, and Chesni followed his gaze.

"Oh, God," she whispered.

There was a crash of thunder, and explosive lightning ripped the sky wide open. A battle cry filled the night, an unnerving and strangely frightening sound... An unearthly wail to come from gentle Thandre's throat.

"Stand aside, brother!" He roared. "If you're too milkhearted to finish this, I will!!"

I winced as I slowly comprehended that the loud crack I had just heard was my body being slammed into the cobblestones as my brother shoved me aside.

The world had been shaky and fuzzy enough already, and the dizzy mixture of confusion and pain rattling around inside my skull wasn't helping.

"No!" I cried, not certain he could hear me, not knowing if he would listen. "Don't!"

"She's bewitched you!" Thandre growled, and drew his knife.

No. Deities, no. I couldn't let him do this. My left arm left me biting my lip and sucking air through gritted teeth when I tried to scramble up.

"Thandre, NO!"

My brother leaped.

My heart froze in my chest. No. No. I grabbed my knife and cursed the man who had taught me to use it so well. Then I threw the blade at the wide, easy target of Thandre's unprotected back. Fatal. I knew it. Knew it in my bones, and watched blankly as he jerked... fell... and lay still forever, his blood trickling onto the cobblestones of the city so many of our packbrothers had called 'Mother'.

Then I closed my eyes. It had to be done. Hellfire, don't let the tears come now. Oh Deities, 'Re... I'm so sorry... I'm sorry...

The tears came anyway.

Erik rubbed his eyes in the dreary, bleak gray of the early morning. How many days and nights had it been now, always on the move, never any sleep? Too long. And mornings had never been his strong point, anyway. The air smelled like damp earth, rust, and rotting muck. The sky bristled with imposing dark thunderclouds, and a chill wind blew, but at least it wasn't raining anymore.

And to hell with the Dark Angel who was suddenly standing in front of him.

"What do you want?" He asked irritably, remembering Rramaan's warning that the Deathwalkers would be no help in his search.

The Dark Angel looked shaken, but not by him.

"Guardian," he nodded politely. "I am Kaeros, of the Deathwalker Dark Angels. May I speak with you?"

For once, Erik was annoyed by the rules he had set down for Angels communicating with him. "Yes, you may speak," he snapped. Fear gnawed at him. Was his adopted daughter dead? Was that what Rramaan had been trying to tell him? If so - how did the Grey know? Anger and pain stirred behind his forcedly mild smile.

"We found the girl," Kaeros said cautiously. Erik forced his mind to be blank. "We found her, but we can't bring her to you."

Dead, then. His little girl was dead. His Angel...

"Then can you take me to her?" He had to see. He had to look at her one last time, to touch that beautiful hair, to tell her he loved her... A father had a right to bid his daughter goodbye.

"Yes." The Dark Angel looked uneasy. "Come with me." He ruffled his ink-black wings and the two of them began to walk. Kaeros glanced at the human's green eyes, then back at the pavement. "There's blood everywhere," he said quietly. "There was nothing we could do. I'm sorry."

Erik just nodded, feeling his anger at his Grey friend grow as the grief sank in.

~ He could have told me... But then I surely wouldn't have helped him find the red-haired boy. He used her, even dead, he used her for a bargaining chip! And I almost fell for it!~

They walked on in silence.

~ How did Rramaan know? Did Lucivar tell him? Those two were always as thick as thieves... Always. What did a few years of estrangement mean in the face of eternity? Did Rramaan go back to the devil's ways as soon as he saw a glimmer of opportunity?

Or was this always the plan? Was our friendship a cleverly devised sham, to give him the opportunity to be close to anything of value that might be entrusted to my care? Did Rramaan whisk her away from me, so another Grey could finish her off? Is that why the Deathwalkers imprisoned him this time?~

He brushed away tears of hurt and rage.

~ And still, he thought to use my love for her to find... Even though... Oh God, Rramaan! You, of all people, should have known not to play with a man's heart like this. You, of all people, should have known...

I'm going to kill you, Rramaan. You should have realized that. You knew me better than that. For what you've done, you will die.~

Azaen held Chesni tightly, stroking her long black hair and murmuring soothing nothings. It had been a long, long night.

"It's not your fault," he told his Soulmate again. He had lost track of how many times he had said it. "It's not your fault."

Chesni just shook her head and kept crying.

She blamed herself, Azaen knew. If she hadn't sung the song of Death, maybe the human boy wouldn't have killed his brother. Maybe no one would have died, and they would have been able to take the mixed-blood girl back to her Guardian. Maybe... Maybe...

She hadn't even tried to heal the fallen child, though not from lack of wanting to. Despite Azaen's frequent reassurances that the boy would have died anyway, that the wound was fatal... It had been the rules, not hopelessness, that had kept her away.

Healing a human without orders is not permitted unless the human, knowing who and what you are, asks you to.

Those were the rules, and they - Unfallen, bound to Heaven - were not capable of breaking them.

"It's not your fault," Azaen whispered. Maybe eventually she would believe him.

They had kept vigil all night long, while Kaeros had gone to search for the Guardian. They watched with mixed frustration and admiration as the human boy who lived had dragged his injured body between the hollow in the rubble heap where the girl had hidden, and the path anyone else would have to take to reach her.

"Your song had quite an impact on him," Azaen had said, impressed.

Chesni had shaken her head. "He was already fighting with himself. I only helped him make the right decision."

Somehow, Azaen doubted that. Chesni had a tendency to underestimate her abilities. In any case, the boy was between them and the girl. Again, the rules held them immobile.

And Dark Angels could not lie.

So they waited, and watched, and hoped that their presence would protect the girl from Greys.

*Here,* Kaeros informed them, just as he and the Guardian stepped into view.

Blood. Everywhere. The Deathwalker had been right. Erik stared blankly at the dark, stained cobblestones. Such a violent death... He wondered if she had felt any pain. No... He remembered now. Dead bodies didn't bleed as much as living ones. So she had bled, lived a little longer, and finally been allowed to die. So much terror, so much pain, so much evil for a young girl to have to endure...

Kaeros grimaced as they approached a small form in the middle of all that blood - and passed it by.

"Sorry you had to see that," he said. "Sorry she had to see that. But there was nothing we could do."

A boychild. A streetkid. Blood everywhere. From a dead streetkid. Not from Angel. A boy was dead, not Angel. Erik's heart pounded, his thoughts churned, and he dared to hope.

"And A-Angel...?"

"Over there," the Deathwalker pointed. "You may go and claim her - one of the streetkids has made himself her protector, so the rules prevent us from bringing her to you."

Following the direction of Kaeros's hand, Erik saw a hollow in the rubble heap, saw another boy lying in front of it. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

"She's alive?"

"Of course." Kaeros frowned. "Do you think I would dare to stand within sword-reach of you if she weren't?

Erik smiled. Of course Dark Angels wouldn't forget the Swordsman who had been the bane of Unfallen and Greys alike in the days of his youth.

And Angel was alive. Oh God, alive.

Kaeros looked up at something Erik couldn't see. A companion - or companions, probably, with Weavings of power to hide them from sight.

"We've done our job here," the Dark Angel said quietly. "We'll leave now, if that's alright. Unless you'd like our Healer to tend the girl's sickness? Just a fever."

"I'll care for her myself," Erik said.

Nodding, Kaeros vanished.

Erik took a deep breath. Alive. Now, he just had to get past the streetkid and take Angel home. He walked towards the hollow in the rubble heap, and stopped a short distance away.

The boy was sleeping fitfully, and shifted. Bruises colored one arm and half his face, and the bruised arm looked broken. An older-looking, infected wound cut through his shoulder.

~ What happened here?~ Erik wondered. Streetkids fought each other sometimes, but not as often as one would think. Usually, only the few who wore tattoos knew anything about fighting that went beyond instinct. So who had he fought, and why?

An idle question, and not important. His curious mind sought answers, anyway. The dead streetkid... The dead streetkid looked so much like...

Brothers. They had to be. And this one had killed his brother. Why? For Angel?

I wanted to throw up, the moment the scuff of a foot on stone woke me. I hurt everywhere, and the dizziness I had felt the past few days was worse - I was sick and getting sicker. From witchcraft? Maybe. But maybe I was just sick.

A man stood probably four paces from me. A grown man. With a sword.

Deities. I knew I had killed Lafey. What was he doing here? Was he a ghost? A demon?

I blinked, and it wasn't Lafey. It was a man with gray at his temples, green eyes, and a sword that every streetkid had heard about. He was studying me.

"I don't go down easy, Swordsman," I growled, hiding my grimace as I picked myself up. It was a lie; my legs wobbled under me and the sky tilted crazily. But I refused to just lie down and die.

The Swordsman nodded an acknowledgement and continued to study me.

He would do that often, the Swordsman would. Watch his opponents, study them, wait. Who knows what he learned in those moments? But it must have been enough, because his adversaries died, and the Swordsman lived...

I knew the story far too well. Heard it told too many times. Perhaps this was just a fever-dream. After all, what were the chances the Swordsman would EVER come back - and look at ME that way?

"I don't want to fight you, boy," he finally said.

No? Just to kill me, then.

"Then what DO you want?" I had nothing to give. No food, no pack, no turf. Just my clothes, my knife, my life, and the girl. Angel. None of which I was going to give up.

The Swordsman studied me again. And made a decision. "I want to take my daughter home."

Angel? The Swordsman's daughter? No. No.

"No." I shook my head, stopped and swallowed to keep from spewing my guts up right then and there.

"'No'?" He raised an eyebrow, and even though nothing else changed about his expression, I got the distinct feeling he was thinking about killing me.

"She's not your daughter." I don't know why I was so certain I was right. But I knew I was. Why do so many people want to kill her? IS she a witch? I killed my brother so she could be safe. I wasn't going to let a campfire-story hero kill her, either. Though it was likely he could slice me up like a haunch of meat before I could so much as move. At least it would buy her time.

Again, he studied me. Could he see right through me, straight to my soul? It felt like he could.

"You're right," he said slowly. "She's not my daughter. But she was given into my care, and I do my best to be a father to her. I want to take her home now. She needs food, water, rest."

Was he telling me the truth? Or was he just a convincing liar? It was my turn to study him.

"So, what's her name?"

"Angel." The same awed, sacred inflection the whispers in my mind used.

"Thank the Deities," I breathed, falling hard on my rear. I could NOT stand anymore. If he had given the wrong answer... I'd be dead. And so would she. "She's sick. Be careful with her."

He stepped past me and gathered Angel's sleeping form into his arms.

She stirred a little. "Erik?"

"It's alright, m'gal. I'm taking you home."

"I missed you," she said. And then she was asleep again.

He walked past me again, and paused. Studying me. Considering. Debating.

"Thank you," he said at last. And he left.

There was a lot of time to think in a forced hibernation sleep. A lot of time to review, consider, to figure out...

Rramaan knew, as he came out of the doze he had taken to restore some of his mental strength, that he had been wrong about the red-haired boy. He knew he had panicked, jumped to wrong conclusions. Of course it couldn't be the red-haired boy. Human aging processed of ten confused him, but hadn't it only been... ten years...

The red-haired boy, whose mind was filled with terror and pain and screaming... Was too old. Thirteen? Fourteen? Fifteen?

He had panicked. And because he had panicked, he had tried to force a trade with Erik. A trade for information he had no way to verify. But now, in his clarity of thought, what he could tell Erik for certain might help. And it should be given with no strings attached.

Because Erik was his friend.

Descending into the calm of Seeking, Rramaan waited to reach the quiet void where Erik's mind would be, silent and focused.

Something was missing. Searching franticly, Rramaan scanned through what he saw.

No.

The boy with the gentle brown eyes. He was missing. Gone!

Dead.

Two of the others were fading. The boy with the cold black eyes, and one of the child-minds he had not touched yet. But he knew it, as soon as he brushed against it.

Angel. The mixed-blood girl Erik had adopted.

One dead, two more dying. NO! It was all happening too fast! He had to find something stable to cling to, a calm, steady anchor. Something to help him process all of this. The one he looked for could be dead, dying, or fine. Anything. He couldn't be sure of anything anymore. Even the red-haired boy...

Desperate, he reached for Erik's mind, saw the ruins of Paris come into sharp focus. Saw the back of a Dark Angel, leading while Erik followed.

But Erik's thoughts were not silent.

* - always the plan? Was our friendship a cleverly devised sham, to give him the opportunity to be close to anything of value that might be entrusted to my care? Did Rramaan whisk her away from me, so another Grey could finish her off? Is that why the Deathwalkers imprisoned him this time?*

Rage and hurt filled Rramaan's soul. What was the Dark Angel saying? Why did Erik believe it?

Erik, the Swordsman, the true Neutral. If the rest of the world turned against you, if you were a monster, if you were the devil himself - you could always count on Erik to look at you with those calm green eyes that never forgave, and never held anything against you. To Erik, there was no such thing as 'innocent', no such thing as 'guilty'. There was you, and there were things you had done in the past - your history. You could trust Erik to look at you and see only you, to look at your history and see only cold facts, and never make a single judgment.

What was happening?

* And still he thought to use my love for her to find... Even though... Oh God, Rramaan! You, of all people, should have known not to play with a man's heart like this. You, of all people, should have known...*

There was too much pain in Erik's min, too much grief. Too much raging anger. Time to snap contact.

But Erik wasn't finished, and Rramaan wondered if the man knew he was listening.

* I'm going to kill you, Rramaan. You should have realized that. You knew me better than that. For what you've done, you will die.*

Rramaan backed away, letting the contact break as all he had counted on, depended on, washed away in a flood of confused hurt.

He was locked in a cell in a Deathwalker prison for a crime he didn't commit. He was searching for a child, a special child, that he would probably never find. And he had just lost his friend, his only friend, the only one who had ever truly understood.

And he didn't even know why.

I was terribly ill. The ground swayed dangerously beneath my feet as I lurched and stumbled in a desperate attempt to find a pack - any pack - that had a Medic. The sky kept spinning in circles, and I was coughing up blood now. Like Claude.

Now I knew it wasn't witchcraft. I had caught the Plague.

It was raining again. The hollow feeling in my stomach was a reminder that I hadn't eaten in two - three? - days. But what did food matter? Without a Medic, I wouldn't live to starve to death.

My mind was numb, and the rain felt like burning steam as it continued to pour down. The only thing I could think about was the intricate blue tattooing that would mark out the face of a Medic from the face of anyone else in the world.

Jarl, Jarl was a Medic. Kip's pack, wasn't it? But that was years ago. Kip was long dead, and Jarl was apprentice to an Herb Woman somewhere off in the plains.

Something caught as I breathed, and suddenly I was hunched over, coughing. And coughing. And hacking my lungs out. Blood dribbled down my chin. I needed air. I kept coughing instead. Fire burned in my chest, and my eyes watered. I couldn't breathe. Just kept trying to cough up air that wasn't in my lungs... Blood coming out instead.

If I'd still had a pack, even if it was just Thandre, now would be the time to find a Medic or beg for a mercy-killing.

Finally, air. Sweet, cool air I needed so badly...

I looked up, and saw a pair of silver eyes. The man whose eyes they were stood a few paces away, watching me. Why did everyone want to watch me all of a sudden? What, was it fun to watch me die by inches? Was it grotesquely amusing? I blinked looking at the man. I knew silver eyes. I'd seen them in my dreams. I was dreaming again.

"Where's the girl?" He asked me. His voice was deep and pierced through the fog that clouded my brain.

"Gone."

His clothes were of a strange material, and I stared at them. There were no holes, no patches, and they seemed to fit him perfectly. He was tall, broad in the chest and shoulders, so I wondered how important he must be to have clothes made just for him. And what an important person was doing on the streets. When I was finished wondering, my brain clicked off again, and I stared at him blankly.

"Where did she go?" He asked.

"Who?" I blinked.

"The girl."

"Oh." I was going to say more, but a rattling sound in my chest was the only warning before I started coughing again. This time, it didn't let up, and I knew a moment of fear. Bright specks of light popped out in my vision, chasing each other endlessly until they all blurred into one cohesive black fog. Shadows, shadows, everywhere...

Lucivar glared coolly at Jasis.

Jasis glared coolly back.

It wasn't the purely the fact that Lucivar had been a Light Angel before the Fall, while Jasis had been a Dark. Not purely. There was also the fact that Jasis was a loner, while Lucivar preferred to think in terms of the whole. But mostly, it was the fact that Jasis chafed at direction, balked at instruction, and rebelled outright when given orders to follow. Oh, and Jasis needed orders. He tended to get absorbed in his strange fantasies, indulging in whatever he felt like doing at the moment, and losing track of the main focus. The mission. And he had killed his last two partners.

Truly, that must have been the reason they got along so well.

"I understand that there were Dark Angels guarding the girl," The Grey Prince said in a lilting tone. "That most certainly does not excuse you. I practically gift-wrapped her for you, and you threw it all away. There's not going to be another chance to get at er, not until she's much older, and well-trained. You just lost an incredible possibility for us, Jasis. The two NewMethod Light halfbreeds we have right now are doing unbelievable things in southern Greece. You are responsible for this failure. What are you going to do?"

Jasis folded his arms, his large mist-colored wings flaring out to full size in a slightly menacing gesture.

"I was thinking I might make it up to you by breaking Kobrian. That Shemal bitch is going too easy on him. Give him to me..." He snapped and smiled.

Lucivar ran his fingers through his silver hair and sighed. Where was Rramaan? Now there was a man who understood the delicate balance between effort and reward - and between failure and consequence.

"No, Jas. Because of your failure, you are no longer in a position to be rewarded. Remember? Catch the halfbreed, and the breaking is all yours. Fail..." he shrugged and smiled inscrutably.

"Well, what do you want me to do?" Jasis huffed.

A trick question, of course. Whatever Lucivar wanted him to do could go jump off a bridge and drown. He'd agree to it, most certainly, but then he would go off and wreak astonishing amounts of havoc on something that would give Lucivar several years of a worry-line on his smooth brow from trying to straighten it out.

Like when he had appeared to a village of sheep-farmers, radiant and powerful, shouting, "This is the wrath of God!" and striking all the animals dead. Then he had sat down beside a sheep corpse, torn a leg off of it, and taken a few bloody, tearing bites while he waited for the first Dark Angel to show up.

When she did, he tore her to shreds, and nailed her wings to a post near the center of the village. "And this, humans, is the wrath of the Devil!" He had left, laughing. Oh, good times.

While Lucivar was cunningly devising a scheme to make Jasis voluntarily punish himself, a loud knock shook the door, followed quickly by two more.

"Come in!" Lucivar growled with no small amount of irritation.

Brukal pushed the door open, his muscles rippling as he shifted the burden he carried so that it would allow him to politely close the door behind him.

A strange one, Lucivar thought of Brukal. A taste and talent for violence, but a gentleman at times, too. And he'd already lasted longer than any of Jasis' other partners.

"Look what I found." He dropped his burden on the ground and kicked it a little. It was a boy.

"Look what I found." The ground rushed towards me, and the impact awakened the sensation of pain from every injured part of me, and then some. A booted foot slammed into my stomach, and I tightened my jaw to prevent a scream - something I didn't really need to do, since all the wind was knocked out of me.

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry, I begged myself and whatever Deities might happen to be listening at the moment.

After an eternity, someone's hand closed around my upper arms and lifted me up to my feet. That hurt, but not as much as being thrown against the floor.

"Brukal, why did you bring a human child here?" The one who spoke was looking at me, but not talking to me. He had the most stunningly beautiful face I'd ever seen on a man. No, that wasn't right. Handsome. That was the word. Women were beautiful, men were handsome. I wondered if I should hate him. He had silver eyes, only paler than any other silver eyes I'd seen, and hair that matched. He had wings; large, shimmering, otherworldly wings.

"Human? No. I thought so too, at first... But then I wondered why he was still functioning after having the Plague for over a week when it only took the other humans a day or two to die. He was coughing up blood, so I tested some of it. He's a halfbreed."

"A halfbreed? Him?" A third voice, incredulous, broke in. I could barely understand what they were talking about. The words jumbled around in my head and didn't make any sense.

"We could have taken them both, if we'd known! The Light girl and him!"

"And the other boy," The big man who had carried me said. "The dead one. They're brothers, no? Then we would have had three halfbreeds."

"Well, in any case, we have one now. And one was all we had been planning on. Light, or Dark?" The man with the pale eyes asked.

A tingling feeling inside me, a sensation of being invaded. I tried to shake it off, imagined a fist slamming down and crushing it.

"Ow!" The third man yelped, more in suprise than pain. "Dark."

"And do either of you have a problem with him being a boy?"

The big man shook his head.

"That's actually better," the third man said. "Boys are more fun to break."

"Then he's yours." The pale-eyed man came a few steps closer and reached out with strong, slender fingers to take hold of my chin. He turned my head from side to side, examining me critically.

"The child is skin and bones," he said with something like disapproval. "H's hurt. And either his skin is naturally a purplish shade of green, or his face is very bruised. Homely enough now, but a good Healing has been known to work wonders. Well?"

The big man said nothing, but the other licked his lips. "Will you heal him, Master?"

Warm satisfaction flickered in the pale-eyed man's face. "Of course."

A wave of nothing that was lightning and fire and ice all at once hit me and spread through me like wildfire. It had a discomforting oily feel to it.

"... My goodness..."

"I take it he meets your approval, Jasis?" The pale-eyed man smiled.

The third man licked his lips again. "He's perfect."

I didn't know how long they'd kept me in this rank, damp, dark hellhole. Time had become as muddled and confused as I was. It stank very badly here, even though the two men who'd captured me hosed the place out every time before they came in. I think it disgusted them. I did know it couldn't have been less than four risings. And surely no longer than one phase of the moon.

And I did know it wouldn't be for much longer. I wouldn't live past another moon of this. Already, my legs didn't work. Several of the bones must have been broken, and I couldn't feel anything past the knife wound in my left knee. My fingers were crushed and awkwardly shaped... The bones were starting to fuse back together... I would never be able to use my hands again. It hurt to breathe. I didn't know which of the fiery, painful knots from my lower abdomen to my throat were grossly discolored bruises, and which were blood-filled welts from knifework and burns. My back didn't work right. My jaw didn't work right.

They weren't going to decide they'd had enough fun with me and dump me out in the middle of wherever to helplessly die. They were going to kill me. It was the only thing that made sense. Finish up your fun with the kid, and when the kid's too beat-up to be fun, kill him. I didn't want to die. But what would be the point of living as a cripple? There was nothing to be done. Death could be taken as bravely as anything else, I supposed.

The door opened, and the hose made its vicious, eternal, near-drowning rounds. Then Jasis stepped in. I sucked in my breath. Partially from fear, and partially from a recurring amazement of his perfection. An angel, definitely. Why was he mixed up in this? I thought angels were supposed to be nice - and mostly, Jasis was. He never hit me, or hurt me, or anything. But he watched when the other angel, Brukal, banged me up, didn't smile, just never told Brukal to stop, never did anything to stop it... And sometimes, when Brukal was gone, Jasis would touch me. Not hurt me or anything, just... touch me. Sometimes in embarrassing places. I didn't know what he wanted, or why he did it. Then he would leave. Lately, his eyes were sad when he looked at me. I kept thinking maybe Jasis had to follow Brukal's orders, maybe he didn't want this to happen. Maybe, maybe, I could connect with him, get him to help me...

"Do you know what day today is?" Jasis' melodic, friendly voice asked, with a slightly melancholic edge.

"No," I answered weakly. Was today the day? The day they were going to kill me?

"Your kind call it fifth sixth-moon. Well, half your kind, anyway." The angel smiled without missing a beat. "So, since you've been with us for just under a moon, and today is a moon-day, Brukal and I thought we would give you... a gift. Like a celebration." He smiled again, his silver eyes warm and sincere, as if my stay here were as a voluntary, well-treated guest under Hospitality, instead of as a torture victim. Uneasiness slithered in the pit of my stomach, rolling into a ball.

Brukal stepped into the room, too, and let the door slam shut. Too solidly-muscled, too impulsively-tempered, too calculatingly cruel... His eyes were hard cold silver ice, and his smile was anything but friendly.

"Today, Bastard, your education begins. Now, I'm not much of a teacher, but I can guarantee you won't ever forget your lessons. I'll go first. Enjoy your present."

And then, amazingly, he took my chin in his grasp and shocked me with an intensely powerful blast of cold fire that washed away coherent thought... and... Healed me.

Torn flesh wove together to leave only raw red scars. Snapped bone sealed together firmly. My fingers straightened. The marks on my chest faded and smoothed. I felt... whole again. Renewed. Refreshed. But why?

Brukal staggered, caught himself against the wall.

"That's the last time you'll ever get that from me, Bastard," he growled breathlessly. It was strange to see this bulk of an angel reeling, his strength so profoundly sapped. "Enjoy it!"

"Shall I assist you, brother?" Jasis asked, his voice completely neutral, the sincere look on his face making it a simple, honest question.

"I'm fine!" Brukal snapped, pushing the wall away and walking to the door on shaking legs. He disappeared right through the barrier. Just as my brain was beginning to wonder how in the world that had happened, Jasis turned to me.

All he did was look at me, but somehow, the gentle, friendly glint was gone... I couldn't quite categorize what had replaced it. Subtly different. Cold fear gnawed at my insides. Cold certainty.

"You're going to hurt me, aren't you?" I asked softly. I still clung to the hope that somehow, he would help me, but that hope was growing ever fainter.

"Only if you want me to," he answered, his voice silky velvet.

"I don't want you to," I said quickly. A room of pointless pain was no place for a fool's bravery.

"Of course you don't. Now. But you will. With time, you will."

As I chewed over this cryptic statement in my mind, he began to touch me. Lightly, stroking, on my arms, my chest, my hips. Why? On my legs, then back up to my chest, trailing down my stomach. What did he want from me? Down my hips, up my thighs to my stomach again, then leisurely down to my groin.

I wanted to punch him, but what good would that do? He was so much taller than me, so much stronger. And... did I really want to hurt him? Did I really want him to stop? Beads of sweat formed on my skin as cold panic warred with the increasing heat my skin registered.

Frozen with fear and disbelief, I locked on to his gaze. It was almost but not quite the charming smile of a boy handing payment to a paid woman. Almost but not quite the anticipatory smile of helping yourself to the soup pot after a long, hungry day. Almost but not quite the easy grin between packbrothers around the fire for the night. I could almost hate him...

Jasis kept touching me, and now the sensations were making me uncomfortable. He had no right to touch me there. No right, but...

"Why?!" I demanded, biting hard on my lip. Jasis ignored me.

I had to get away. Away from those inviting silver eyes, those hands, away from the frightening feelings inching their way through my blood more and more every moment. Away from Brukal's hurting, healing hands, away from the blood and filth and this tiny, dark little room. I had to get out of here!

"Calm down, Lover," the caress of the angel's voice was as real as the touch of his fingers. "Breathe."

"No! No!" My kicks and punches meant nothing to him. His greater strength pinned me easily to the wall.

After a few moments, I couldn't fight him anymore my fingernails dug into his flesh, and I hated him with every pounding of my heart, but I didn't say anything. His hands slowed down. It didn't help.

"You have a choice, Lover," he murmured to me. "I can keep going. I can give you what you want. You want it, don't you? The pleasure that's just beyond your reach?"

"Deities..." I squeezed out, sucking air though my teeth, but I don't think they were listening. "Just... just..."

"Or I could give you pain, instead. Pain far beyond the pretty designs Brukal carved on your skin. Is that what you want?"

"Don't... hurt... me..."

"You can have it, Lover. Everything you're thinking right now. More. But there's something you have to do."

Nonononononono I don't want this I never wanted this I never wanted... I gritted my teeth.

"All you have to do is yield. That's simple, isn't it? You stop fighting. You join us. You rule with us, over the human scum. You help us find the gold-haired halfbreed girl. Her screams will echo in these walls forever, instead of yours. That's all, Lover. Just yield."

Mostly, I didn't know what he was talking about. But enough of it, I did. "I'm...'n... Assassin and I... don't... give up..."

"Just give us the girl, Lover. Just give us your soul. You're not an Assassin anymore."

The golden-haired girl... Angel... The low, sweet voice in the wind... My mind felt like it was going to shatter. My breaths came in forced gasps. But she had to be safe. I killed my brother so she could be safe. Maybe there was a reason to be brave, at that.

"Rot in Hell."

"Oh, Lover..." His tone was sad, but now there was a cold light behind his eyes. "Ever the fool." He smiled slightly, and I don't remember what he did next. But I was on the floor, choking and retching so much the screams wouldn't come out, my head pounding, the world around me pounding with it... Golden hair. Sapphire eyes. Thandre died for them. I wished I could, too. But I knew I wasn't going to be that lucky.

On the streets, life was dictated by fear. Fear of starvation, fear of death, fear of losing your packbrothers. Performance, survival, was a direct result of how you reacted to that fear. The brave ones who faced their fears either died on the spot, or stood a chance of living longer than most.

Here, I learned about a different kind of fear. The fear of pain. The fear of being made to do things I would rather die than do. The fear of being made to WANT to do those things. It was a very different fear than any I had ever known, and the fear ate away inside of me. I was a slave to fear.

Jasis and Brukal never gave me another date to orient myself by. Time was passing, and I had no idea how much or how little. I measured time in pain and Healing, though the Healings now were far less extensive than that first one. Bones grew back together, but without being set in their proper places. Torn flesh healed only enough to stop the latest bleeding.

I learned to hate myself, to despise my weakness and my fear. My helplessness was my fault, because I was not strong enough to stop anything they did. My body had always been my most important weapon, and now it was shattered. There was nothing left to me but fear, and pain, and hate.

Can I even begin to describe? No, words mean nothing in the light of that Hell. My courage, my strength, meant nothing. My Assassin tattoo meant nothing. Silver eyes, grey wings, chilling smiles... There was nothing else. Nothing but the fear that gripped me so tightly tears would leak from my eyes and terror insinuate itself in every breath. Nothing but the shame, the helpless anger as Jasis frowned at my latest refusal and taught me the meaning of the word 'rape'. The acidic void of hate that silently ate through my soul, the shadowed venom that learned to be quiet and cold. Nothing but the pain - pain is such an inadequate word. Having the skin of my stomach systematically burned off by Brukal's short torch, being forced to watch as he takes a knife and peels slices from the blisters that have formed underneath... Shivering with terror in the night and crying out each time a drop of my sweat trickled into the wound... There is no word to describe the screaming agony... The roar of laughter in my ears as I prayed for it to be over, for death if that's what it took... When the blood ran down my face and all I could do was embrace the bittersweetness of it...

But there was one thing. One thing I would not yield, would not let them take. Not for pain, not for pleasure. Not for Heaven, Hell, or anything in between.

One little girlchild with a bruised, starved face and gold hair, large blue eyes full of sickness and tears, raindrops clinging to her and sliding down her cheeks. A whispery, faint voice that begged - but to me, commanded - "Help me..."

A stranger I barely knew. Angel.

I would kill both of these bastards, or die trying, before I let them touch one hair off her head.

It only got worse from there.

I didn't know what I was fighting for. I couldn't remember. A long time ago, there was a reason, a long time ago I knew what it was... So I kept holding on. I would not break. Oh gods, why couldn't I? I could barely think, but somehow even a crushed jaw can utter a guttural 'no.' I couldn't remember how to say anything else. I couldn't remember how to cry. Fear was fading, giving way to a deep apathy. The hate had eaten through... It had nowhere to hold on to . Hate was. Brukal and Jasis, Jasis and Brukal. They came and went, Healed and hurt, and time blurred on into infinity.

They would not break me.

That was before it got bad.

A stroking caress from those hands, firm and powerful, smooth and beautiful, an artist's hands. Suggestion laced each movement, fire danced through my skin at every touch. His smoky, intimate voice at my ear sent shivers through me.

"Lover," e murmured, hands never ceasing their slow dance across my body. "Why do you fight me? Just give up, give in to our will, and you can be free. You'll have power, more than anything you can imagine, and anything you want. Food, drink, pleasure, servants and fine things. Wings. All you have to do is yield. It's so easy!" Fire, his hands were fire, burning into my aching, twisted bones. Fire to hold my breath still and dry my mouth.

My haggard voice was grating steel and gravel after the silk of his, but I didn't care.

"I - won't let - you. You'll never - break me."

His smile was that of a long-suffering parent facing a petulant child.

"So stubborn, Lover. But you will see reason." His hands, torturesome, tantalizing, making me feel things I did not want to feel... Making me desire things I did not want to desire... I tried to ignore him, but his every gesture, every glance, was burned into my mind forever. I could not stop trembling.

Feathers the color of mist brushed lightly against me, beautiful wings as lovely as Jasis was. An angel. The stories never mention angels who hurt, who torture, who...

His silver eyes were intoxicating, hypnotic, they were temptation itself.

"I know what you want," he whispered, his lips against my ear, his breath caressing, enticing... "Even as shattered as you are, you cannot keep from thinking of it. What do you think, Lover? You know what's coming. Wouldn't you prefer pleasure, however brief? You can have it, Lover, everything you're thinking of right now, everything you desire, everything... And all you must do is yield. I could show you ecstasy beyond your wildest imaginings, and things to make your hottest fantasies pale in comparison. You want it. I know you want it..."

My breath came rapidly, fog trying to cloud my mind. I couldn't look away from his face, couldn't fight the panic trying to surface, couldn't...

"Don't..." It came out half-whisper, half-sob. "Don't - touch - me..."

There was a loud cracking sound, followed by a wash of pain, and as the red haze cleared from my vision I realized Jasis had hit me. Hard. Blood trickled from the side of my mouth.

He licked the blood from my chin, lapping slowly, languorously, sensuously.

"Don't tell me what I can and cannot do, Lover."

A punch in my stomach knocked the air from my lungs and was followed swiftly by a knee to my groin.

Doubled over, unable to breathe, agony buzzed so loudly in my head I couldn't make out the words of Jasis' angry snarl. I was shaking so hard my teeth smacked into each other.

Vaguely, I heard Brukal's deeper voice from the doorway, but again the words were a blur. I think I whined, but I'm not sure.

Brukal laughed, and the buzz dissolved.

"You haven't even got his pants off yet! Hoo! I can't believe you. Play with him too long and he'll forget the lessons we've taught him, you know that!"

"I don't think he's forgotten." Jasis spoke to his slate-winged companion, but he never took his eyes off of me. Suddenly, he smiled. "He begged me, you know. Begged me to stop, pleaded for me not to touch him. And I'm not finished yet."

Brukal twined his fingers roughly into my hair and jerked my head around.

"Hello, Bastard," he grinned. He had a warrior's strong, square jaw and thick ropes of muscle under his dark-copper skin. Fear iced the blood in my veins and clawed in my chest, but I made myself snarl.

He only raised an eyebrow and slammed the back of my head into the stone wall three or four times. Blood streamed from my nose.

"Thank you," I sobbed, utterly and sincerely grateful that he had done nothing worse. He was very creative when it came to that.

"See, Jas? That's how you handle 'em." He turned, and I lashed out, biting what I could reach - in this case, his arm. Skin tore, blood trickled, and Brukal roared. Spinning around, his large, powerful hand slammed me back into the wall with considerable force. Consciousness blurred a moment, then stabilized in a tormented haze of pain that was barely aware of anything outside of the hurt.

But there were Brukal's eyes, darker, tarnished silver flecked with cloud-gray and bright with bloodlust. Eyes that spoke plainly of frightening things, of listening to beautiful screams and feeding off the pain and fear. They spoke of cruelty beyond what most men are capable of, delight in being the cause of suffering. And anger. And hate.

Jasis, he was a thing of dreams, of fantasies, perfection. Beautiful in a way that sent cold panic through me because I knew that I didn't have the strength to resist him. Brukal was nightmares come to life to destroy me. Evil incarnate, if there was such a thing.

Both looked at me with eyes no human could have. Fear locked my throat so that I couldn't have breathed even if the pain hadn't taken my breath away. I wasn't going to die. They wouldn't ever let me die. They could keep me on the cusp for eternity, if they wished, and I would not be able to do anything about it.

I wanted to cry. I might have. I don't know.

"Stop it! Stop looking at me like that!" Brukal roared. His voice pierced the fog around my mind, but not the meaning.

Jasis looked away, frowning. "He's not human, Bruk. He can't help it that his eyes reflect..."

"Oh, yes he can! I'll make him!"

I couldn't move. I wanted to run a million miles away and hide in a mouse-hole when the heavily-muscled angel advanced towards me, but something didn't work right.

"You're not thinking straight, brother. Perhaps when you are calmer, you -"

"Afraid of spoiling your 'Lover's' pretty looks, Jas?"

Jasis' frown deepened. "I do not care. Do as you wish."

There was a bar of white-hot metal in Brukal's hand, and he flashed a toothy grin at me. His eyes sparkled with glee.

"Lights out," he hissed, and shoved the brand forward.

The world exploded twice in quick succession. Fire and metal and hell. Red, only red, only blood and screaming and pain and screaming and blood and pain and fire and metal and hell. Then everything went dark.

Forever.

A red haze formed over everything, a sort of numbing blur that recognized random images and words, but understood none of them. There was pain, and there was Healing, which was just another kind of pain. Horror, terror, fear, rage... it was all another form of pain. There was nothing but pain.

I found a clear spot, a quiet spot, a place where everything suddenly made sense, and nothing else mattered. I found the words, the thought, the truth that helped me to cling to that place.

Pain is.

I laughed. I felt them rip my body apart, put it back together, burn it with things I would never want, never give in to, and I laughed. They would never find me, never find this new strength that would never yield, never let them win.

Pain is.

Oh, they hadn't even begun.