[Continued from Aftermath]

Somewhere about mid-morning on a day much like any other, a young office worker walked up to Joe Black with a small packet. "This just came for you, sir," he said, and handed it over.

It was the size of a normal business envelope, but thick. It was addressed in a round, precise hand in ink that may have come from an ink-well or fountain pen. There was no return address. Nothing to indicate its origin. But Joe would know the hand.

Inside were two separate envelopes. One, addressed to "Mr. Joe Black". The other simply said, "Maria".

When Joe opened the one addressed to him, he read:

Mr. Black

I am writing to inform you that I have gone away and do not know when, or even if, I shall return.

I have resigned, Mr. Black. I am no longer a Templar. I am no longer a demon. I have refused service to both sides. I will no longer allow others to decide my fate. Nor do I, at the moment, know whom to trust or where to place my faith. So I have declared my independence.

As I do not expect either Samael or God to let this declaration go unchallenged, I have taken myself away from those who might be caught unwitting in the crossfire of the confrontation which I know will come. However, I would advise you and Miss Gutierrez to beware their attempts to embroil you in this dispute. I would also ask you to look after Maria until this is over. You might also look in on a Dr. Gary Horstman from time to time.

I hope that by absenting myself from the noise of duty and obligation and the demands of others around me I might find the truth about myself and my destiny. Who I am. What I am. What I am to be. Consider this my "forty days in the wilderness", if you will, and if I survive so long. I hope that I may one day be able to return to the world. I hope that I may one day become whole and complete.

I hope. For the first time in my life, I hope.

But before I can do this, I must confront my past, and myself. And I must leave behind all distractions, all collaterals. It is important to me that you understand that I am not running from my present life. I am but setting it aside for the moment to deal with my past life. If I survive that confrontation, I shall return to confront the life I have led since leaving Samael's service. That entails, among other things, making my peace with you.

I ask, as one last favor, that you please see that the enclosed letter reaches Maria. If she cannot read, perhaps you or Miss Gutierrez would be so good as to read it to her. I have no more secrets. I have treated her badly, and wish to make such amends I am able.

If I do not see you again, know that I have valued and respected you from the first.

Your servant,

Chasen Ashforth Burkett

A reverence for the written word instilled in him by his preacher father kept Joe from crumpling the paper in his fist. Instead, he set it carefully aside and wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose.

//Dammit, Chasen. Does everything _have_ to be some goddamn dramatic quest with you?

//You could have _asked_ me first, you know. Of course, you wouldn't have _listened_, because I'd've told you that you're wasting your time. No matter where you go or what you do, you're just going to wind up right back where you started.

//_They_ don't make us what we are. They just give us a bigger gun.

//And a badge.//

He sighed and rose from his desk, lifting his fedora from the hat rack.

"Estelle?" he said, keying the intercom. "I'm goin' out for a while. Hold my calls, please."

Not for the first time, Joe wished that the Blackbird had a phone.

Before walking out the door, he eyed the letter to Maria in his hand speculatively.

//You better not've hurt that girl, Chasen. Or making peace'll be the very _last_ thing on my mind.//

[Continued in For Lack]

The letter to Maria, written in fluent, formal Spanish, reads:

Estimada Maria,

Having given myself time to reflect upon our last meeting, I regret the manner in which I have treated you. I offer you my humblest apologies and hope that you will someday come to overlook my many faults and failings.

I must go away. I do not know when, or even if, I shall return. Know that this is not because of you, nor because of anything you have said or done. I have business which I have left unfinished for far too long. Before I can give any sort of honest consideration to your kind and generous offer, I must deal with the issues from my past. Only then will I know who I am and what I can offer you in return.

I would ask that you take especial care during this time. It is possible my enemies may try to reach me through you. I would not wish you harmed on my account. You might, perhaps, avail yourself of Mr. Black's protection until this is decided, one way or the other.

Know that I shall ever be grateful to you for the friendship and concern you have ever shown me.

Your servant,

Chasen Ashforth Burkett

Chasen Burkett straightened and faced the sun, arching his back to release the tension. He had been bending over for the better part of an hour trying to bring the row of rose bushes back into some semblance of order. They had been let go for far too long. And, while he didn't wish to turn them into a formal, regimented configuration, he felt they would flourish better with a bit of judicious pruning. The pile of discarded canes and branches beside him was considerable. As was the pile of dead-heading remnants he had carted off to the compost pile earlier in the morning.

There was something so satisfying about cutting away deadwood and giving the new shoots room to sprout and grow. Bringing a little order where chaos reigned. But not too much order. He stove only to bring the garden back to its original design, not to impose his own will. Whoever had laid it out had done a superb job of it, and he respected the artist's wishes. It was an English Cottage Garden at its best, to suit the little thatched cottage beside which it stood. He'd found the place very neglected and over-run. He struck a bargain with the owner that he would make the necessary repairs and, in turn, be allowed to stay there as long as he liked. The landlord had "liked the look of him". And, Burkett suspected, was more than a little curious what Burkett, obviously a gentleman, wanted with such a small place so far away from everything and everyone.

It was just what he needed. A neat little place in the middle of nowhere. Apparently there had once been a major coaching road that ran past the front gate. But this had been largely abandoned when the rail service came in some ten years before. So the little cottage had been neglected. Until now. Now the thatch was repaired, the door mended, the floor repaired where the rain had poured in, the windows reglazed, the chimney repointed, and the walls whitewashed, inside and out. A snug little cubby it had become, and Burkett was well-pleased with his hard work. It had been a week of mindless activity. And that was just what he'd needed.

Now, as the sun was dipping to the gentle hills to the west, Burkett collected up the garden waste. He carried it around back and tossed it into the growing pile or fermenting green and brown leavings. He was humming to himself as he came back around the outside of the fence toward the front door.

And there he stopped.

He had a visitor. A slow, arch smile curved his lips. He shook his head and came on toward the door again. "I wondered when you'd show up," he told the other.

"Curiosity got the better of me, I confess," replied the dapper young man, lounging insolently beside the green door.

"Come in," said Burkett, standing aside to let the other man pass through. "And wipe your feet."

"My, my... I'm impressed with what you've done to the place, Cipher."

Burkett shook his head again slightly in mild amusement. "What do you want?"

"Tsk!" said the assassin. "Such cynicism, Cipher." Then he canted his head to one side. "Listen, I can't go on calling you that. What if I call you 'Chasen'?"

Burkett quietly went about filling a tea kettle. "Won't that become confusing?"

"I've always gone by 'Ashforth'. Call me 'Ash', if you like."

Burkett put the kettle on the fire without looking up. "You assume I want to get to know you well enough that I'd be calling you anything."

Ash smiled. It was a smile with surprising warmth. "I can but hope," he replied, pulling a chair out from the table and making himself comfortable unbidden. "I don't suppose there's any hope that you'll come back with me."

"None at all," Burkett replied in a light tone. He brought a tea pot down from the top of the cupboard. He followed this with a tin of tea.

Ash looked around. "Tidy little place," he observed. "Very comfortable." He got up again and took an inspection tour. He noted the well-stocked larder, and the dresser* off the kitchen. This was filled with small pottery jars with tight-fitting lids. He lifted a few and peered in. Each seemed to contain some sort of powder. None was labeled, but each powder was a different organic color. He looked over at Burkett. "Pigments!" he concluded. "You've started painting again!"

Burkett laid out two cups and saucers, a bowl of honey and a small crockery pitcher.

Ash came back to the table and sat down. The kettle had begun to whistle. "I'm truly impressed, Chasen!" he said, playing with the honey-daub. "When you go native, you do a good job of it. But where did you get the money for all this?"

Burkett poured boiling water into the pot and swirled it around. "I've bartered for everything here," he said, pouring the water back into the jug beside the stone sink. "I don't need money." He spooned tea into the pot and filled it with water. Then he covered it with a knitted cozy and brought it to the table. He looked at Ash again as he sat down. "You haven't answered my question."

Ash arched an eyebrow. "I thought it was a rhetorical question," he returned. "I assumed you knew why I was here. Isn't it obvious?"

Burkett nodded, as though merely confirming a suspicion. "Samael sent you to bring me back."

Ash also nodded. "Got it in one." He leaned back in his rough-hewn but sturdy chair. "My orders were quite explicit. Bring you back."

"Or kill me?"

Ash cocked his head to one side and observed Burkett shrewdly. "Perhaps."

Burkett lifted the strainer and held it over Ash's cup. "You'd better get on with it, then," he said casually, pouring tea. "I'm not going back."

Ash heaved an exaggerated sigh. "I told him you wouldn't."

Burkett looked up. "I've quit," he said. "I don't intend to work for Samael, or his Competition." He went back to being Mum, offering honey and milk in turn. "So save your breath, and my time. Either kill me now, or leave." He sat back with his own cup. "Unless you just want to be sociable."

Ash chuckled. "You have balls, Chasen. I'll give you that."

"These are the rules of the house," Burkett continued. "No shop talk. If you want to talk about my garden or the weather or politics, you may stay. If you want to talk about Samael or religion or why I should go back with you, then you have to leave now."

Again, Ash arched a brow. "And if I choose not to?"

Burkett sipped his tea, but said nothing.

"I see," Ash said, taking up his cup. "Got any bread and butter to go with this?"

With a nod, Burkett got up and brought down a crusty loaf of bread he'd baked in the morning. He sliced it into thick pieces and laid it before Ash on a pewter platter with a knife for spreading butter. The butter came out of the cooler, a white mound under a red and white checkered cloth.

Ash sighed with satisfaction. He scooped up butter and slathered the bread generously. Then he drizzled this with honey and went at it like a starving boy. Burkett took a slice for himself, but buttered it more sedately. He reached behind him for a plate covered with another cloth. There he extracted a half-wheel of yellow-white cheese. He sliced off a bit and put it on the bread. An earthen jar produced pickled onions. Another contained some sort of relish or chutney in a savory-sweet brown sauce.

"Now this is living," Ash mumbled around a full mouth. "I could become accustomed to this."

Chasen looked across the table at him with a quizzical smile. "Could you, indeed?" he asked softly.

Ash caught his gaze.

Chasen merely smiled and spooned some relish on his bread.

Ash sipped his tea, apparently thinking better of the honey and milk. When he had finished his bread, he reached for more. As he buttered it, he asked conversationally, "What was it like, you and Mannon?"

Chasen winced a bit inside, but kept his face composed. "In what respect?" he countered.

"Well," said Ash, chewing his bread and honey, "I mean... what was it about her that caught your attention and made you rethink your options?"

Chasen considered a moment whether this was an infringement on House Rules, and decided to see where Ash was going with this before making a ruling. "I stalked her for three days, as was my custom in those days. In that time, I saw that she was making a difference in the lives of the poorest and most neglected people in New Orleans." He took a bite of his dinner and chewed it thoughtfully until it was gone. Ash did not press him to go on. "I suppose she touched a part of me that I thought had died in the war," he concluded.

Ash stirred a second cup of tea, honey and milk.

"She cared for the marginals of the world," Burkett went on. "She didn't ask for repayment. She didn't judge. She didn't shun the law-breakers or the mixed-bloods or the Untouchables. She didn't ask for credentials or references. She simply gave. Unconditionally. She loved. Unconditionally." Burkett sipped his tea. "That's very powerful."

"Ah. So... it was the power that attracted you?" Ash asked. His tone was non-confrontational, interested. He asked as a researcher might ask.

Burkett smiled. "No," he replied. "At least," he reconsidered, "not in the way I take you to mean. I was not attracted to her power, but I may have been attracted by the power of her personality." He looked at Ash. "Do you understand the difference?"

"She had Glamour," Ash concluded, with a nod. "She... bewitched you."

Burkett did not disagree immediately. He considered. A month earlier, he might have been infuriated by this suggestion. Now...

"I don't believe that she did," he replied. "But I suppose there may have been something of that in what made me stay to watch her longer." He considered further. "I don't believe she deliberately set out to 'catch' me. She didn't know I existed; of that I'm quite certain. But it may be that a certain amount of charisma is involved with anyone who works for either side. It may be a natural consequence of surrendering to a Higher Power."

"Ah..." Ash replied thoughtfully. "So you realized she wasn't just your run-of-the-mill irritant. You saw that she had Connections, and that made you reconsider killing her straight away." He leaned forward, becoming more intent. "Were you afraid of the repercussions? Was that what made you hesitate?"

"Afraid?" Burkett repeated. "No, I don't think I was afraid. Intrigued, perhaps." He poured himself more tea. "Remember, all this happened before I knew Samael truly existed, before I died. I didn't believe in him, or in her God. I wasn't afraid of death, because I believed it was simply oblivion. So what was there to fear? Judgment? Purgatory? No. You have to believe in something to be afraid. Even if it's just believing in yourself." He sipped. "I imagine I was intrigued by -her- belief. She spoke to the lost child inside me that desperately wanted to believe in something. Before I realized what I had done, however, I'd made my bargain with Samael. I thought it was only a sham, because I didn't believe. By the time I awoke, it was too late."

Ash canted his head. "Rather ironic..." he observed. He chuckled. "Poor Chasen."

Burkett looked at him over the rim of his cup. Something niggled at the back of his brain but he couldn't quite pull it out to look at it. He had to admit it was rather ironic. He had long held that, if not for Mannon, he would never have questioned his anger and lack of conscience. She had saved him. Helped him recover his lost faith. Shown him goodness and Truth, and brought her to the God of Love and Light.

Hadn't she?

"If you had never met Mannon," observed Ash casually, "you would never have joined Samael's service."

A twitch in his left eye was the only betrayal of Burkett's reaction.

"You ever wonder," Ash went on, "who really sent her into your life?" He leaned back, hands folded behind his head. "I mean, I've never actually met the lady, but with the clarity of hind-sight... are you really certain she was working for the Enemy?"

Burkett put down his cup. "Yes," he said, solidly. "I am certain."

Ash shrugged. "Well," he back-pedaled, "as I said, you know the lady better than I." He got up and helped himself to some cheese. "I just had to ask," he went on, spooning out a large pickled onion, "because from where I stand, she looks more like a fallen angel."

Burkett's fingers, wrapped around the sturdy pottery teacup, showed bits of white at the knuckles.

Ash, his back to the table, stuck a newly-carved slice of bread in his mouth. "I could be wrong," he said, his words muffled by the bread. He carried cheese and the pot of relish to the table. "But I'd hate you to miss something as you're trying to figure out exactly what happened to you." He set down the cheese and bread, and poured himself more tea. He looked around. "I don't suppose you have anything stronger..."

Burkett shook his head to the negative.

"No...I didn't think you would," Ash conceded. He went to work assembling his Ploughman's Lunch. "I'm sorry, Chasen," he said, spreading pickle relish over the bread. "She could be right as rain." He plopped the cheese into place. "But I know you're trying to work this out. Don't make the mistake of letting yourself by blinded by love." He picked up the bread and cheese. Before he dug into it, he added, "Or by hate."

Burkett considered just a moment, and then he smiled. "There is just one small flaw in your argument," he said equably.

Ash looked up with a full mouth. "What flaw?" he asked, spewing a bit of bread.

"You," Burkett replied, starting to clear up.

"Me?"

Burkett took his cup, saucer and plate to the stone sink. "You." He turned and faced Ash. "You never met Mannon. There was no Mannon in your universe. And yet here you are, working for Samael."

Ash paused.

"So we cannot blame Mannon, can we? Even if she was not quite what I thought her to be." Burkett folded his arms over his chest. "You had it right before; there is some fatal flaw in our character that causes us to 'go bad', no matter what fate offers us as an alternative." He looked down at the table. "Even with someone like Mannon as my example, I chose wrongly." He looked up again. "I'd have done, no matter what. I know that now. It was the path I was meant to tread."

Ash perked up, swallowing and washing down his meal with lukewarm tea. "Then you'll come back with me?" he inferred. "You'll come back to the path?"

At this, Burkett chuckled and shook his head indulgently. "No, young demon," he replied. "I said I -was- meant to tread it. 'Was' being the operative word. I was meant to learn from it. To grow. To understand why that path is wrong, and to leave it behind me."

Ash looked disappointed and puzzled at the same time. "But... why is it wrong?" he asked. "Why is it wrong to work for Samael?"

"Samael is interested in one thing: Dragging mankind down into the muck."

Ash nodded, as if waiting for more to enlighten him. He waited just so long without a word from Burkett, and then prompted, "And why is that wrong? Humans are only animals."

"With souls," Burkett countered.

Ash sat back. "Souls, yes. And? Why does that make it wrong to test them?"

"Because Souls are parts of The Creator," Burkett said. "His way to explore His creation."

Ash frowned. "If that were literally true, then we would never be able to lead a soul-animal astray. It would be like trying to test God."

"Ah," countered Burkett. "But how was He to get an accurate account of Creation? If He went, himself, He would only see as He sees. Instead, He freed those bits of himself--gave them Free Will--and sent them into the universes to explore and report back. Only then could He get a view that was not through His own viewpoint."

"Where did you get all this?" Ash interrupted.

"I've had time to look into things," Burkett replied cryptically, undeterred. "Some of the souls became so absorbed in the worlds they were to explore that they stayed there, continuing to inhabit their animalistic form. They forgot who they were, and what they were. They forgot they were truly pieces of God. And they were trapped."

"So they were fools." Ash concluded coldly. "Doesn't that simply mean they deserve whatever they're foolish enough to get? If they're gross, and greedy, and corrupt, why shouldn't we help them maximize their potential?"

Burkett shrugged. "We should be leading them back to the Light, not dragging them further into the Pit."

"Why?" Ash persisted. "Why is Samael's way necessarily bad, and God's way necessarily good? Who made those rules?"

"Samael's way is the way of degeneration and decay," Burkett began.

"That's the way of Nature!" countered Ash. "Everything naturally decays and breaks down to its component parts. Atrophy is the rule!"

"Of the physical," Burkett replied stubbornly. "But we're talking of souls. The natural way of the soul is to grow, to improve, to become more than it is and transcend."

Ash was silent for a moment.

"When we were living men," Burkett continued, "with no proof that God existed, that Samael existed, we could be excused for not believing in the Eternal, the Transcendent. We could be forgiven for refusing to believe there was anything after death, and that there was no reason to improve ourselves, and for living like animals."

Burkett's jawline hardened. "But we're dead, Ash, you and I. We have died and gone to Hell. And we have seen Samael. We know he exists. And we know that God exists. And we know that all those stories we were told as children, while couched in childish terms that we mostly misunderstood, were true. We truly -do- have souls that continue after the death of the body. There truly -is- a God of Love and Light. There truly -is- a better life than what we knew as physical men." He shook his head. "We should be pulling the souls up, Ash. Reminding them of who they truly are. Not pandering to their baser animal nature."

"Ah," said Ash, "but is not Samael here to help them to experience the full range of Creation?" He mirrored Burkett's stance, arms crossed over his chest. "If God sent them here to experience His Creation, giving them animal form, didn't He intend that they should -experience- animal form? Physicality, in all its many aspects? Lust, sloth, pride, greed, envy, gluttony, anger? He -knew- the spiritual attributes. Did He not send His souls here to experience what He could not? And isn't it Samael's job to see that they do just that?"

At this, Burkett started to laugh. "Well, I suppose that is one way of looking at it..." He chuckled. "I suppose you could add Gandhi's version. Wealth without work. Pleasure without conscience. Science without humanity. Knowledge without character. Politics without principle. Commerce without morality. Worship without sacrifice." He smiled again. "Quite a list. Samael is very thorough."

Ash frowned at him. "I'm trying to be serious, here," he grumbled.

Burkett nodded with a small smile. "I know. I'm sorry. You were saying?"

Ash's dark blue eyes narrowed slightly. He was young, but not so young that he thought he could prevail against amusement. Instead, he got up from his chair. "I think it's time I left... for now. I have other things to do, and you're just being silly." He stretched. "Besides, I'm sure the Enemy wants His chance with you." He patted his belly. "Thanks for the tea," he said with a contented sigh. "I enjoyed that."

Burkett regarded him with thoughtful mirth. "Anything to make you happy," he replied lightly.

Ash gave him one last dark look, and then departed rather abruptly.

Burkett gathered up the rest of the dishes, turned back to the sink with a chuckle and began the washing-up.

The Hart's Heart stood in the middle of the village, its stables at the back filled with coaching horses, hacks and palfreys at need. It was the central meeting place for all and sundry, but mostly the displaced men of the county. Burkett stood under the faded sign, with its white stag reared up in a fighting stance, and checked the street. No one about at this late hour. He removed his hat and shouldered his way inside the Inn.

No one looked up at his arrival. The smoky din went on without pause. It had taken some time, but he'd been accept as, if not a local, at least no longer of any interest. He glanced over at the huge hearth, large enough to stand in, and the haunch of pork turning on its spit. And at the man sitting in the shadows in the inglenook. He went over to the bar and requested two glasses of ale.

"Beh-er watch yersel', squire," advised the Publican. "'E's in a right fine temper tonight."

Burkett arched an enquiring brow. "Any particular reason?" he asked quietly.

The proprietor shrugged. "Trouble with th' missus, more'n likely." He looked over at the man in the corner. "Or th' bailiff..."

Burkett nodded and paid for the ale. "Thank you for the warning," he said, and picked up the glasses. "You might send a plate of that fine-looking pork over to our table in a bit."

The landlord shook his head, not saying but clearly conveying that he thought it was a bad idea and a waste of time and good meat.

Burkett skirted several tables of men who were now approaching a happy state of inebriation. As he passed, he caught scraps of conversation. Mostly they had to do with the crops in the fields or politics. Here and there someone relived his wartime service with stories of how he'd fought "the Frenchies" single-handed.

The object of his progress saw him coming, and slumped forward farther over the small table at which he sat. He was nursing a glass of beer, and Burkett could see that the landlord was right about the man's temper. His face was tight with unexpressed anger. His hands gripped the half-full tankard before him. His entire body was tense, taut. As Burkett sat down, he flashed his light blue eyes up at him suspiciously.

"So, ye came back," he observed sullenly.

Burkett nodded, setting one of the glasses of ale before him. "It doesn't do to spend your life in isolation from other people," he replied, leaving it to his companion to decide if he were speaking of himself or to the other man.

The man snorted and drained his tankard. "Some of us don' have a choice," he growled. Then, responding to Burkett's wordless enquiry, he added, "wife left, didn' she? Took the kids, an' all."

Burkett nodded, not in agreement but acknowledgment of the man's choice to share this with him. He encouraged the glass toward the other with a slight push. "Well, from what you've told me, it was only a matter of time."

The other man grunted and took a large gulp of the ale which, by the look on his face, he preferred to the landlord's beer.

"I'm sorry, Soames," Burkett said. "She's a good woman. But you must tend to your demons before she can return."

Soames shifted in his chair, and a stick that had lain across his lap slipped and nearly clattered to the floor. But he caught it before it got very far. "Demons..." he grumbled. "I have demons, an' all, an' thass th' truth."

"Yes," Burkett agreed. He sat back sipping his own ale. "The war brings demons to us all." He tipped his head back, shutting his eyes against the smoke for a moment. "But we can expel them, in time."

When he opened his eyes again, Soames was looking at him as one might study a painting to uncover its secrets. "Did you expel you'rn, then?" he asked bluntly.

Burkett smiled. He considered giving a complete answer, but decided this man didn't need to hear his whole, sad story. "Yes, I did," he answered honestly. "But it did take time." He surveyed his companion over the rim of the ale glass. "And a will to expel them."

At this, Soames dropped his inquisitive gaze and stared into his glass in angry silence.

"Oh," said Burkett, as if just now thinking of the thing which had been his purpose into coming to this place. "I had a conversation with the Squire today which might interest you."

Soames gave a dark chuckle. "An' why would I be innerested in anythin' that chinless booby has t' say?"

"It might be to your advantage," Burkett replied, leaning forward. "Seems he's having a problem with his birds. He's got a hunting party coming down from London next weekend, and something has been flushing his covies. He was in quite a state."

Soames looked up at him. "You accusin' me?" he asked, in a low, threatening tone.

"Quite the contrary," Burkett replied, thoroughly unintimidated. "He thought it was a wolf or a fox. Apparently he saw some tracks up there. He was asking me if I could think of anyone here about who could find out what the problem is, and deal with it. It came to my mind that you might put yourself forward."

Soames searched his face for a moment, probably measuring Burkett's hidden agenda. Then he leaned back in his chair. "I ain' no game-keeper," he grumbled. "I'm a farmer, pure and simple."

"And a trained marksman," Burkett countered, "courtesy of His Majesty's Fusiliers." He sipped his ale again. "You can tell the difference between wolf spoor and fox spoor, and you could drop the culprit at a hundred paces, if it came to that."

Soames sniffed. "Prolly someun's dog, in it for the sheer pleasure of it," he concluded, up-ending the glass. "Stupid bloody Townsman."

Burkett smiled, signaling the landlord for food and more ale. "The Squire couldn't tell a cat from a dog if it bit him," Burkett agreed. "But he knows his sport. He was saying his game-keeper went off and got married this spring and he needs someone to look over the place. Someone who knows the lay of the land. Knows the best covies and fishing spots. I thought of you." He emptied his glass. "He'll pay a generous wage for a good man," he added. "His covies are very dear to him..."

Soames looked up. A suspicion narrowed his eyes. "You put 'im up to this," he accused. "Though' you'd make me your special case, didja?"

Burkett shrugged. "I thought you'd do a good job," he replied. "But the idea was the Squire's. I'm only trying to bring the interested parties together. I told him I might know of someone who would fit the bill, but I never mentioned a name."

Soames was quiet for a long while.

"The war is over," Burkett said softly. "And after what they did to you, you'll never be a farmer again." He pressed on, despite Soames' dark stare. "You know how to lie in wait and hit a target from afar. It's what they trained you for. Why not use their training to better yourself? Beat them at their own game. They tried to turn you into a killing-machine. So use that training to keep out predators and poachers. Let the Squire pay you for it, if the Crown won't." He canted his head to one side. "It's a respectable trade. And there's a cottage comes with the job. Big enough for a wife and children..."

Now Soames looked at him long and hard, but his eyes softened as he considered the offer. "You really was like me, wasn' ya?" he concluded after a moment. "You really do know wha' i' was like."

Burkett nodded solemnly. "I do know," he agreed. He said nothing more, letting Soames make his own decision.

Soames bit the inside of his cheek, and set his cane off to one side. "I migh' call in on th' Squire tomorrow," he announced conversationally. "As i' happens, I know a bi' about his fields..." The start of a small smile showed itself on his thin lips. "An' about a pack o' dogs as has been troublin' the birds up that-a-way..."

Burkett smiled, and sat back in his chair as the landlord set food and drink on the table between them.

[Continued from For Lack]

It is a perfect Turner day. Fluffy clouds scud overhead, sending shafts of summer sun down to light patches of the landscape. Burkett sits quietly as he had for several previous days, his oils at his side, his easel set to the most beautiful panorama. In this case, it is a pastoral scene of sheep in the pasture beside an arching stone bridge. The stream ran like a serpent between grassy banks. In the far distance, the spire of a Norman church glows in a shaft of heavenly light.

Burkett, stripped to his white lawn shirt and black breeches, holds a brush between his teeth, a pallet smeared with colors in his left hand, and a finer detail brush in his right. It is warm and scented with summer wildflowers. The perfect day.

Burkett tilts his head to one side, regards his work, and smiles.

"Nice work."

Burkett swings his head, startled at this intrusion but not alarmed. Not yet. "Mr. Black," he observes, taking the brush from his mouth and laying it aside.

"Chasen," Joe replies, tipping the brim of his beaver hat.

Burkett regards him thoughtfully for a moment. The use of his Christian name puzzles him a bit. He had expected Black to be more formal, if they'd ever met again.

Joe tugs at the jabot around his neck. "I swear, I don't know how you people wear these things all the time..."

Burkett smiles slightly. His own stock is undone and hanging loose. He sets his paints aside and rises from his shooting-stick. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Oh... I just wanted to have a chat with you, is all."

Burkett takes in Joe's surprisingly stylish blue coat, the hammer-claw tails catching the breeze. The long trousers bespeak a man of action. But the high collar, tight jabot and vest look rather odd on the graying cowboy. Burkett suppresses a chuckle. He has to give Joe marks for effort. And he appreciates the discretion that led Black to dress the part.

"I see," he says. "Well. You must come back to the house, then." He starts to gather up his things. "I was nearly finished, in any event."

"That'd be nice, if you're sure. Wouldn't want to interrupt your work."

Burkett pauses. He studies Joe for a moment. Then he looks toward a small copse of trees up the bank. "I packed myself a cold collation. We could sit beneath the trees and talk."

"Collation...? Joe repeats.

Burkett smiles. "Lunch," he clarifies, remembering to whom he was speaking. "There is enough for two, if you will join me."

"Don't mind if I do, thank you."

Burkett nods. Gathering a small pack, he leads the way up the hill to the cool under the trees. He sits, his long legs stretching into the shade. He opens the bag and begins setting out food. "What did you wish to chat about?" he asks calmly. Slices of bread, ham, and cheese emerge. Two stoppered crockery bottles follow.

"I'll be honest with you, Chasen," says Joe, sitting back against a tree trunk and gazing out at the pastoral scenery surrounding them. "I hadn't planned on coming to look for you. When I read your letter, I thought you were wasting your time. Still do. But I didn't see the harm in it.

"Not 'till the Blackbird and I had a talk with Maria."

Burkett looks up at him, a frown creasing his brow. "And then you saw harm?"

Joe nods absently. "Yeah. Then I saw harm. Don't know that there's anything to be done about it, but I thought you should know. The girl's in love with you."

Burkett's hands still. He looks somewhere in the near distance. But says nothing. After a time, he says in a distant voice, "Yes... so she told me." He looks over at Joe. "So... it was true?"

Joe turns his head to return Burkett's gaze incredulously. "Of -course- it's true. That girl's as naturally plain-spoken as they come."

Burkett winces, and turns his head to front again. He pulls up his knees and drapes his forearms over them, hunching forward a bit. "Josiah," he begins slowly, deliberately, "I swear to you I never led her on. I never gave her any reason to hope that I returned tender feelings."

He plucks a tassel from the grass. "She was so insistent. I couldn't convince her I didn't wish her presence in my life. And then I had an... encounter. It gave me reason to believe Samael was mounting action against me for turning away from him."

He looks over at Joe again. "I... said terrible things to her. I wish I could unsay them, but I can't. But the truth of it is... I don't love her." He turns away again. "And there's nothing I can do about that. I wish that I could. She's a sweet child..."

Joe looks away again, chuckling sadly. "Lord, Chasen, I don't blame you for -that-. The girl's as single-minded as she is plain-spoken. Once she gets a notion into her head, it's there for good. She'll jump across the hoods of moving cars to follow a butterfly that catches her eye."

Burkett sighs sadly. "I never meant to hurt her."

"Yeah, I know you didn't," Joe assures him. "And I'm not here to drag you back for a shotgun wedding. Hell, neither Maria -nor- Josefina know I'm here right now, and both of'em'd likely kill me if they -did-.

"Guess I just thought I ought to make sure you understood the state Maria's in right now. And that she'll wait for you until Samael's place freezes over."

Burkett's head dips lower. Without looking up, he speaks. "How do you do it, Josiah? You and Miss Gutierrez?" He looks off into the distance again. "How can you do what you do and still... love... like that?"

Joe looks at him again. "What do you mean, 'What I do?' I'd quit over a century before we met up for the second time, not countin' that mess with the Architect."

Burkett looks at him, surprised. "Quit? But you still..." He falters, puzzled and unsure. "I thought you..."

"Thought I what? Damn, Chasen, I thought you were already clear on this. I lost my way home when I found myself in Nexus, and I decided after a while that I didn't give a damn.

"And even now that folks from back home have started paying their respects -- including your Mannon -- I'm still here. By -my- choice."

Burkett looks at him with undisguised wonder. "You... just walked away? From -that-?" He unconsciously gestures skyward. "From... God?"

"Well, Chasen, that's the other thing I came to tell you. I found out the hard way that it's not that simple.

"We don't -do- the job. We -are- the job. And we'll keep on doin' it, no matter what comfy lies we tell ourselves."

Burkett frowns. "No," he says firmly. "I reject that. I have quit. And I won't go back."

Joe sighs and shakes his head. "Suit yourself, Chasen. I've said my piece, and I don--"

"No!" Burkett breaks in. "I refuse to continue 'being the job', as you put it." He stands up and takes a few paces away. "It's all very well for you," he continues. "You do God's work. But me?" He faces away from Joe. "I will not do Samael's work. Not anymore."

He turns back, and his face is dark with determination. "I will not 'be that job' any longer

"Dammit, Chasen, will you just _listen_ to yourself?" growls Joe. "Or better yet, _look_ at yourself. When's the last time you did _Samael's_ work?" Burkett draws breath to answer. [Joe] holds up a gloved hand. "No, don't tell me about killin' Twistings. That's _everyone's_ work, saint to sinner, who likes drawin' breath. You tell me the last time you did a job that was all to _Samael's_ good, and nobody else's."

Burkett's frown deepens, but he considers a moment before trying to answer this time.

"C'mon, Chasen," he goads, blue eyes flashing in the sun. "When's the last time you set out to do _bad_?"

Burkett swallows, confused. He knows there should be a simple, ready answer to this question. But he doesn't have it. The further back in his memory he casts, the further back he has to cast. Back to... Mannon's death, when he'd finally been released from his bad bargain. But that's not far enough. Even before that, he had only done bad because it was the only way to keep Mannon safe. Not of his own intent. No, the last evil act he had committed of his own volition was accepting the contract on Mannon's life.

He looks up at Joe. "When did I last set out to do something bad?" he repeats. "I--"

"Oh, deary me," comes a melodious voice from the other side of the trees as a handsome young man saunters out of the copse. "Am I interrupting something?"

Joe looks up with a start and scowls, his hand dropping beside his waist cautiously. In a more supernatural reality, he might well already have his gun out. "Yeah, you did," says Joe, silently noting Burkett's reaction to his alternate's arrival -- for that's surely the only thing this can be, in a mundane reality. "And looks like maybe _I_ did, too."

Burkett calmly moves to place himself between Joe and Ash. "No, Josiah," he says and he passes. "You are welcome here." There might be the slightest emphasis on the word "you".

Ash smiles warmly. "Chasen, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?"

Burkett now stands directly between the two other men. "Josiah Black, Chasen Ashforth Burkett."

"Call me 'Ash'," says the other, extending a hand.

Burkett catches Ash by the wrist and holds his gaze. "Josiah, this version of myself never met Mannon DuVrais.

Joe cocks an eyebrow at Burkett, dropping his own hand back to his side. "Is that so?" he says, looking Ash up and down. "Any _other_ differences I ought to know about?"

Burkett breaks off his eye war with Ash and turns to Joe. "Just what you might think," he replies. "Ash works for Samael." He looks back at Ash. "But I would prefer you didn't kill him... here."

Joe's hand flexes by his belt, then relaxes. "All right. You're the host. Wouldn't want to be rude. And by the way, my apologies. Looks like you were right. Halfway, at least. But you already knew that before I got here."

"Right about what?" asks Ash, flicking the slightest frown in Burkett's direction before masking this with a smile.

"Oh, nothing much," Joe replies, pausing to check his pocket watch. "Burkett here... _this_ one... figured that Sam would be sendin' a stooge or three after him. I was in the middle of gettin' all philosophical on him, talkin' about how he was really just runnin' from himself and the like."

"As it happens," Burkett replies with a droll smile, "we were both right."

Joe nods. "Well, since you weren't surprised to see him, he must've already been by at least once." He turns back to Ash. "So what's the sales pitch _this_ time? A year without angst, maybe?"

A tightness around Ash's mouth betrays that this lack of respect nettles him slightly. "Really, Chasen," he chides with a forced smile. "It's rather bad form to reveal all my secrets to someone I've only just met." He tries to strike a casual pose. "Perhaps I should return the favor. Mr. Black... as I walked up I couldn't but overhear your question to my alter ego, here. Something about...setting out to do something bad?" He smiles at Burkett. "Perhaps you've forgotten to tell him what you did to that pretty little doggy girl."

Burkett frowns.

"I mean," Ash continues, checking his nails. "-I- wouldn't consider it 'bad'. If I want a woman, I take her, and never lose a moment wondering if I was wrong. If I lust, I satisfy it. But you profess to hold yourself to those out-moded concepts spewed by the Enemy." He looks up. "So... wouldn't what you did to her be considered... 'bad'?"

Joe's scowl deepens, but he turns it only slowly from Ash to Burkett. "And just what _was_ that, exactly?"

Burkett refuses to glance at Joe. He is well aware of the implications of Ash's question, and the careful way it has been phrased. And it would seem to have had the desired effect. "What happened between myself and Miss Maria was a private event. I have no intention of discussing the lady in public."

Joe rubs his chin thoughtfully. "You bleed, Chasen?"

Burkett looks at him, puzzled by the apparent non-sequitur. "I do, yes," he replies, matter of fact.

"Thought so." He leans back against the tree.

Burkett continues to peer at him for a moment. "Why do you ask, Josiah?"

Joe looks up as if interrupted from settling in for a nap. "Hmm? Oh, it's nothing, really. Just an odd thought -- a man forcing himself on a were, and not a drop of blood spilled in the process."

Burkett looks at Joe without a change of expression for a long time. But there is an unmistakable easing in his body-posture. As though a load has been lifted from his shoulders. And then his eyes soften a bit, until he is almost smiling.

"That proves nothing," Ash declares. He arches an eyebrow. "Perhaps she... wanted it. Perhaps she was in heat, eh?"

At this, Burkett calmly turns...

..and throws a punch that sends Ash sprawling to the ground.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, dear Ash," Burkett says after a moment, reaching down a hand to help him up. "I didn't follow the Marquess of Queensbury rules, did I?"

"Well, you boys look like you have a lotta catchin' up to do. Don't mind me..." Joe pulls the front brim of his hat down like a sombrero during siesta.

Ash grumbles something as he gets to his feet unassisted. "You may regret that, dear Chasen," he says darkly. He looks over at Joe. "You ever tell him how you shot him in the back?" he adds to Burkett, maliciously.

Joe lifts the brim of his hat again and eyes Ash coldly. "As a matter of fact, he did. You pull the same trick?"

At this, Ash hesitates. His skin flushes, and he bends to retrieve his own hat.

Burkett watches him, and then turns to Black with an up-raised brow. "Answer the man," he directs Ash, folding his arms over his chest.

"S'matter, boy?" says Joe, rising to his feet and stretching. "You don't seem the shy type to me."

Ash stares at him, resentment clear in his eyes. He glances at Burkett, then back at Joe. "No, as a matter of fact, I did not 'pull the same trick'."

Burkett looks at him, piercingly. "What happened?" he demanded.

Ash glares at him. "I intended to. But..."

Burkett takes a step toward him. "Talk. What happened?"

Ash looks away. "It was Joe Black who killed me."

Joe stares at Ash a moment.

Then looks at Burkett.

Then at Ash... then at Burkett yet again.

And bursts out laughing.

"Well, Hell, Chasen!" he guffaws, slapping his had across his knee. "Guess this makes us even!"

Ash glares first at Burkett, and then at Black. "I'm afraid I don't quite see the joke," he says stiffly, unconsciously rubbing his jaw.

Burkett chuckles darkly. "No... I don't imagine you do," he agrees. He turns to Black. "It would be interesting to travel all the Multiverse to see which of us, in the totality of Existance, comes out on top." He gives a small smile. "However..." he adds, wryly, "...I don't really see that I could win, no matter which way it went."

Ash looks at Burkett, his face fighting to be impassive. "Well, as I seem to have been an interruption of whatever you two were about, I shall bid my farewell." He turns to Joe with a formal nod. "Mr. Black." And then to Chasen. "Your servant, sir."

"Oh, I think not," says Burkett ironically.

Ash lifts his chin slightly. "I shall return when we may speak in private," he promises. Or perhaps he means it as a threat.

"If you so choose," Burkett replies equably.

Ash turns and, without a further word, makes his way up into the copse of trees and disappears.

Burkett turns to Joe. "I apologize for my ill-tempered other self."

Joe chuckles. "No need to apologize. We all have our dark sides, don't we?"

Burkett looks at him with a wary gaze. "Do we?" he asks. "Odd. I don't recall seeing yours."

Joe raises an eyebrow. "Maybe not. But aren't you forgetting the version of me who shot John Hardin in cold blood?"

Burkett nods, though this may not actually signify agreement. "I imagine you're correct about that." He looks off toward the trees. "However, having young Ash around takes 'facing one's own personal demons' to a new level."

"Heh. Can't argue with you there." Joe pauses. "You know, you never answered my question before Junior showed up."

Burkett jerks his attention back to Black. "What question was that?"

"When was the last time you set out to do bad?"

Burkett avoids his gaze. "Well... upon consideration, I would have to say the last time was when I accepted the contract to kill Mannon duVrais." He looks up. "And that was before I started working for Samael."

Joe nods. "All right, then. Sounds to me as though the work you've been doin' -- work that _needed_ doin', and for _good_ reasons -- just happened to benefit Samael, too. And what's more, he got you to thinkin' that _because_ your work was a help to him, you were doin' the _Devil's_ work. Joe leans back against the tree, staring up into the branches. "Kinda funny, when you think about it. You do good work, he makes you think it's all in a bad cause, you feel guilty about doin' good, and you sulk around his camp 'cause you think that's where you belong."

Burkett looks at Black for a long time without really seeing him. "You think that's what I've been doing?"

Joe shrugs. "I'm no head-shrinker, but it sure looks that way to me, Chasen. I mean, if you've been working for Samael for this long, shouldn't you have done something _bad_ by now?"

Burkett considers. "Perhaps I have," he replies thoughtfully. "Mannon says I kept her hostage all those years so that I could do evil deeds for Samael with a clean conscience." He stares toward the horizon. "I'm not sure she's so wrong. After all, I should have found a way to end her situation long before I did." He sniffs. "Hell, I should never have gotten her into that predicament in the first place." He takes a deep breath. "She made it quite clear she blames me for it... and doesn't wish to see me again." He laughs grimly. "She was quite angry with me." He straightens. "So... I'm a 'free agent', as they say. And I must decide where I will go and what I will do."

"Well, first off," says Joe, looking back at him, "you _sure_ that was her? Prince of Lies, and all that business..."

Burkett thinks a moment. "Yes, Josiah. I am certain. Finally released, and 'home', she was free to see the truth more clearly than I could." He looks very tired suddenly. "And the truth is that she finds me despicable."

Joe nods sympathetically. "Okay. So you're a 'free agent' now. Where do you think that leaves you?"

"I don't know," Burkett confesses. "That is what I came here to work out." He glances toward the trees again. "And I rather wish Samael would leave me to it," He adds testily. He eyes Joe thoughtfully once more. "As well as..." He can't seem to bring himself to say it. "...his... Nemesis." He turns away. "I can tell you this: I'm damned tired of the whole business." He turns back. "I should just like to be left alone to work in my garden and live as I should have done if I hadn't lost my way."

"Chasen," Joe sighs, "what would you do if a Twisting showed up here?" His gesture takes in the scenery before them.

Burkett looks blank. "I'd kill it, of course." He considers. "Or at least try to," he amends. "If I still have the ability..." He stops. "But if I don't..." He swallows. "I suppose it would kill me." He sits down beside Joe. "I... see your point," he says, sounding defeated. "I can't just walk away from the job. Ever." He sighs. "I suppose I always knew that." He looks over at Joe. "You were right. We ARE the job."

Joe nods. "That's all I was tryin' to say. If you're happy here, _stay_ here, Chasen. But you can't hide from who you are, here or anywhere else."

Chasen nods resignedly. "In which case, staying here only endangers those here." He looks up. "No matter where I go, I shall be a danger to those around me. So it doesn't matter where I go, does it?" He smiles, a sad, grim smile. "Well, thank you for helping me see the obvious, Josiah. I suppose I should have come to you first."

Joe returns the smile, but shakes his head. "Chasen, you've still got it backwards. You're not a _danger_ everywhere you go. You're a _defender_."

Burkett looks skeptical. "I doubt Mannon would agree with you," he says ironically. "'Captor', more like." Then he rallies. "Well, I suppose I may as well put all this aside and go back to work." He sighs.

"If that's what you want," Joe replies. "This place is as good as any to protect. Just don't stay here for the wrong reasons, is all I'm saying."

Burkett looks at him long and hard. "I'll give it some thought. But... this isn't where the Battle is going on. I hope it never is." He stands up again. "But it might be, if I shirk my responsibilities." He reaches down a hand to help Joe up. "But for now, I need some time alone to think."

Joe accepts his hand and rises to his feet. "Fair enough. But here, let me give you one more thing to think about..." He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a smeared card, holding it out to Burkett. "You know," Joe comments with a chuckle, looking at the card, "that move looks a lot more impressive when I have super-human reflexes."

Burkett looks at the card with a puzzled expression. "What is this?"

"Well, it's customary to _read_ it to find out," Joe chuckles dryly, "but all right, then. It's an invitation. The Cabrinis have had a tough year, so I've volunteered to throw their annual Christmas party for them. I'd like you to be there."

Burkett hesitates. Inside, he feels a deep wound. But how can he explain? "Josiah..." he begins. "...while I'm flattered that you would ask me, I hardly think a Christmas party is the place for me." He looks at the card, fingering it lightly. "It is, after all, in honor of... Him." He takes a breath. "And... I assume that Miss Maria will be there."

"Well, first of all, if that's the way you think of it, not _one_ of us has any right to celebrate the day," Joe observes. "Secondly, yes, Maria will be there, most likely. Might be a good time to get things straightened out between you two, don't you think?" He eyes Burkett. "Worked for _us_, didn't it?" he adds with a wry grin, recalling an earlier Christmas.

Burkett turns away again. "Too soon," he murmurs. "It's too soon." He keeps his back to Joe for a long time. Then slowly turns around. "I... will consider it." He looks every minute more tired. "But... I don't believe anything can be accomplished by seeing Maria again."

Joe frowns. "The only way to _know_ nothing'll be accomplished is not to _try_, Chasen. And... well... I didn't want to bring this part of it up, but maybe I should. She doesn't get her aging from her human side."

Burkett stares at him. "How long will she live?" he demands, baldly.

Joe shrugs and sniffs. "'bout as long as any coyote lives, the way Maggie tells it. Ten years? Fifteen? It's hard to say."

Burkett hangs his head. "I never asked her to love me," he says again. "I never wanted it. I can never love her. Not the way she wants." He slumps a little more. "Please leave, Josiah. I must consider all this. Please... just leave me to think."

Joe watches him silently for a moment, then nods slowly. "All right, Chasen. I'll leave you to it. Just one more thought: If you're tryin' to do her a kindness, this ain't it. You can't love her? Fine. I can understand that. But she's a pack creature, Chasen. Stay away, and she'll just burn herself out with grief. Come back, and yeah, she'll want to be with you... but she might just settle for bein' _near_ you, if that's all she can have."

Joe puts his hat back on. "Well, I've caused you enough trouble for one day. I'll leave you in peace. You think hard about that invitation, Chasen."

Burkett nods, feeling helpless. "Thank you, Josiah. For everything."

Burkett looked around one last time. Any sign of his existence in the little cottage, beyond the repairs and reclamation of the garden, had been obliterated. As with every place he had inhabited in the past 150-plus years, this one bore no trace of him. He simply did not put down roots. He left no more behind him than would a ghost. Wasn't that what he was? A phantom?

He lifted his valise into the back of the wagon of the farmer who had offered to take him to the coaching inn. In disposing of his business with the Squire, he had also sold back the bay gelding he had used as his transportation. Thus, he had solidified his story that he was Leaving the County. Any less a remove, and he would simply have sent the valise by coach and ridden off on his mount. "Thank you, Master Diggs," he called up to the farmer. "I believe I shall walk from here. It's a lovely day."

The farmer looked a bit skeptical, but no doubt put it down to the whims of The Gentry. "As you wish, Sir," he acquiesced. He flicked the reins and, with a gentle "walk on", set off toward the village.

Burkett watched him disappear around the stand of trees up the road, and then set out across the field. They would doubtless speculate for years on his disappearance, but there was nothing for it. One way or another, disappear was what he must do. And this, at least, had the benefit of enlivening their hours of boredom for a while. No one would think it a loss of "one of their own", so the concern would be short-lived and not terribly acute. He had no illusions about his acceptance there. But it would give them fodder over beer for weeks.

The interface in the copse shimmered slightly as he approached it. He turned to look out on the stream, the church spire in the distance. He would have liked to have finished that painting. He might have given it to Joe and Josefina, perhaps as a wedding gift. But he had other pressing issues. Not for him the life of a Gentleman. That much was clear. Joe had been right; he had a duty. He was not so certain about Joe's other assertions, but he would give it more thought later.

He took a long last look, and then turned and stepped through the interface, back into his old life. Into his duty. So doing, he left behind him the closest thing he had ever felt to "home" since he'd left Williamsburg all those years before. And the only chance he'd had for anything approaching happiness.

[Continued in Defender: New Beginning]

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