PROLOGUE

The werewolf, the kitsune, the centaur, the phoenix, the Dragonrider, and the dragon.

Legend speaks highly of this motley band of supernatural creatures. Some of them complete opposites from one another; some of them unable to reach their full potential without the other. But if there is one thing they all have in common, it is that none of them can survive without each other.

Legend also speaks of the falling out of this motley band of supernatural creatures and the subsequent end of the world.

This is not that story.

Rather, this is the story of how six beings—six completely, utterly different beings—that really shouldn't be able to work together so well . . . work together.

To save the world? To destroy the world? To do nothing of the sort? Perhaps.

But great is their power and pure are their hearts. There is darkness in their life, for no one can truly escape the cruelties of the world, but they are pure enough. The Legend—that is what it is called for it has no other name—speaks of their bravery and compassion and strength, how they sacrifice everything they have to 'do the right thing,' how no other(s) can live up to their legacy.

Of course, if you ask me, they're all rather dumb.

But you're not asking me. Nobody is. I am simply chronicling their story because, yes, even though they are all imbeciles and morons and incorrigible maniacs . . . they made me realize something. They made me realize the true meaning of courage, friendship . . . and love.

A bit too Hallmark for my taste, but what does it matter, right? I'm thousands of years old. I can be sappy if I want to be.

 

~ * ~

 

A/N: This story consists of some "strong" language and will eventually have some male homosexual smut worded by an author who's probably got mental issues. And thinks everything she says is hilarious (even though that is so obviously untrue).

Still interested? Read on! Hope you enjoy it.

The prologue bored you? Read on! It gets better . . . ?

Not interested AT ALL? . . . Read on! Hope you enjoy hating every single word you read?

Seriously though, whatever you do, thank you for taking the time to read even this much. Means a lot to me.

2: Chapter 1

STEPHEN

Well, that's weird.

Is that a guitar being played? No. It can't be. The only person I know who plays guitar is—

“C'mon, Steph, up and at 'em, big guy!” I do my very best not to perk up at the sound of that particular voice, instead concentrating on lifting my eyelids and focusing my bleary eyes enough to catch sight of the digital alarm clock on my nightstand. 11:03 A.M. It's 11:03 A.M.

Then I realize it's 11:03 A.M.

“Oh, my God.”

“There we go.”

“I am so late!” I toss my covers aside, scrambling to get out of bed.

“Whoa, hey, hey. I've been gone for a week and this is the kind of greeting I get from my best friend?”

“Quin, I don't have time for this!” I throw myself across my room, wrenching open the doors to my wardrobe, lurching inside, and tugging on whatever my hands come into contact with first.

“Pfft, you've got plenty of time, Cap.” Quin follows me into my walk-in closet, leaning casually against the doorjamb, arms folded in front of his chest and guitar slung across his back. “Calm down and talk to me, huh? It's not like—”

“Quin,” I huff out, exasperated. “I need to get dressed for—” Wait. I straighten up, taking a good look at the shirt I'd just unceremoniously yanked down from a hanger. Except it's not really a shirt. “Quin?”

“Um . . . yes?”

“What are my curtains doing in my closet?”

“Uh . . . hanging out?” He attempts to crack a smile. “Get it? Hanging—They're hanging ou—'cause they were, uh, hanging. From the hangers. Thus the, um . . .”

I blink at him for a good five seconds, simply unable to do much else.

Then I'm pushing past him and back out into my bedroom. And sure enough, all the curtains have been removed from my windows. I'm sad—and perhaps just a tad bit scared—to admit that this is actually one of my milder mornings.

But then again, living with five other (non-human) people does tend to conjure up some . . . pretty interesting days.

“Quin,” I sigh, defeated. What use is rushing now? I'm already, oh, a good three hours late. “I rather liked the curtains where they were.”

I can practically hear his eyes rolling in his head. “Yes, well, you shouldn't. They are horrifyingly ugly. Has anyone ever told you that you have terrible taste in décor?” Quin says, coming up beside me. “Plus, they were in the way when I was climbing in through your window, and it would've been silly to take down the curtains from just one window—”

“Why were you climbing in through my window?”

“I may or may not have forgotten my keys before I left—”

“So your solution is to scale up the side of my three-story house—”

“Well, see, but your room is on the second floor, so—”

I grab the nearest thing within my reach—a pillow laying at the foot of my bed—and thwack him across the head with it. He stumbles back a few steps, spluttering and indignant.

“Really, Cap? Is this any way to treat your primary caregiver?” He snatches the pillow out of my hands.

I groan, shuffling over to collapse face-down in my bed and pointedly deciding not to point out that I pay for everything around here. I mean, it is my house. “Remind me again why I let you live here,” I mumble, my voice coming out muffled.

“See, all I heard right there was 'I love you, Quin, I should be nicer to you and buy you'—oomph! Okay, seriously, why do you have so many pillows?” There's the sound of what I can only guess is the sound of a guitar being set down on the desk in the corner of my room and then the sensation of Quin dropping onto my mattress beside me, bouncing with the force of it. “Come on, I made you breakfast!”

“I was supposed to have breakfast with my father three hours ago,”I lament.

“So what?” My mattress shifts underneath me as Quin starfishes himself all over it, and, consequentially, myself as well. “So you missed an hour of stilted, awkward small talk and bland food with your dad. Hell, you should be thanking me for turning off your alarm—”

I prop myself up on my elbows and whirl around to glare disbelievingly at Quin. “You did what?”

“Oh. Um, uh . . . Oh, no.” Quin rolls off the bed as I make a grab for him. “You are just positively ungrateful, y'know that, Cap?” His face, all mock hurt and pouty lips, pops back up over the edge of my bed. I launch another pillow at it. I miss. “C'mon, I know you missed me, Cap!”

I flop onto my back to stare at the ceiling. “The party we threw celebrating your absence says otherwise.”

Quin harrumphs, and I catch him dusting himself off as he gets to his feet out of the corner of my eye. “Well, then. Looks like no blueberry waffles for you.”

I almost forgot myself for a moment, remembering that I'm supposed to be mad at him just in time to smooth my expression into one of indifference. “You made me blueberry waffles?”

“Well, not anymore.”

I can't help it, I break into a grin. “Thanks, Quin.”

He huffs an exasperated sigh, but there's no denying the pleased little twinkle in his eye. “Leave it to food to get you feeling grateful. Is that all I am to you? A chef to slave night and day over your stove for you?”

“Only reason I keep you around,” I say, getting out of bed.

“Y'know, soon enough we're gonna have to add another hole to your belts—oomph! Goddamn it, Steph!”

Stepping around the pillows littering my bedroom floor, I make my way out—

“Steph, wait.”

I halt, turning partway to face Quin, half expecting to end up with a face full of pillow. Only to find myself embraced in a bone-crushing hug. I relax immediately, losing myself in the familiar scent of coffee and autumn leaves and simply Quin as I return the hug.

“I'm sorry,” he says, and I frown, befuddled.

“Why?”

“For last night.”

I pull back to scrutinize Quin's face through narrowed eyes. “What did you do?” I ask slowly.

He rolls his eyes. “I didn't do anything, Cap, not like that, but I'm glad to know that you think so positively about me.”

“Well, can you blame me? With you, it's always something—”

“He clears his throat to cut me off, pointed glower in place. “Well, if you'd let me finish.”

I smile, but hold my tongue.

“ I just—what I meant was that, I, uh, I'm sorry for . . . not being here.”

I knit my brow, more confused than ever. “Why would you be sorry for—”

“I know. About the fight you had with your dad.”

I'm back to narrowed eyes of suspicion. “I thought I told you to never bug my phones again.”

“It was one time, Cap!”

“And a total invasion of privacy—”

“Da-da-da! Not the point,” he interrupts, holding up a hand. “The point is, I . . . I should've been here. For Belle. For you.”

“Quin, it's okay—”

“No.” His voice is terse, sharp, strained. “No, it's not. Sure, last I saw her, the chemo seemed to be helping, but the conditions are far from preferable. And Victor—” He stops short suddenly. “I get it,” he continues after a long pause, voice quiet now, “I get it, he's your dad and you love him. But goddamn it, Steph.”

I don't need Quin to say anything more.

“I know,” I sigh. “I . . . I wish he'd visit her too, even just once,” I admit quietly, remembering far too vividly the phone conversation we had last night and the same damn argument we've been having ever since Mom was diagnosed with lung cancer.

Dad, is business really more important than your own family? Your wife?

It's not a matter of importance, Stephen. It's a matter of realizing that—

That what? That she's—That she's gonna die? So you're just gonna give up on her, just like that?

. . . I'm sorry, Stephen.

Yeah. So am I, Dad.

But then Quin's got my hand sin his own warm, calloused ones and everything's a little bit brighter. Not okay, far from it. But better. Definitely better. “Hey. Breakfast's getting cold.” He flashes me a tired and small, yet brilliant all the same, smile. And my heart stutters.

“It's good to have you back,” I say, returning a smile of my own.

“I knew you missed me,” he says with a wink. Then with a jerk of his head, he motions for me to follow him out of my room, down the hall to the spiral staircase, and towards the kitchen.

Halfway there, a voice, distinctly British in accent and as rumbly as thunder on a stormy night, drifts through the air towards us as it descends down the stairs. “Such lovely scents drift from the—” The newcomer stops short halfway down. “Quinten? Quinten!” And then he jumps over the railing and lands right atop of Quin.

There's a collective “oomph!” as the two collapse on the ground.

Worried, because Sebastian tends not to realize his own strength, I kneel down beside the pair and verily disentangle him from Quin. I'm not successful.

So much for my hopes of a 'mild morning.'

“'Tis quite the surprise to see you back so soon, my friend! You were thoroughly missed!”

Quin doesn't reply. Probably because he can't really breathe in the hold that Sebastian's got him in.

“Sebastian, I know you're excited, but . . .” I motion towards Quin's purple face, which is getting increasingly darker by the second.

“Oh!” The large man, all bulging muscles and brute strength, releases Quin. “My deepest apologies! Are you well, my friend?”

Quin wheezes, thumbs weakly held up.

Sebastian Emmerson. Probably one of the most energetic people I know, and always so cheerful. I'm all for being optimistic, but he could smile his way through a zombie apocalypse. He definitely wasn't what I expected a Londoner to be when we first met. He's got the looks of an Adonis though, long blonde hair and blue eyes, glowing skin and a smile that's constantly threatening to split his face in half.

“Your presence truly brings light back into this household!”

And, for some strange, strange reason, he talks like he should be wearing knight's armor and saving princesses in the medieval era.

There's the jingling of a dog collar as Maximilian, a year-old German shepherd with the fluffiest coat I've ever had the pleasure of brushing, comes bounding down the stairs and begins to slather his slobber all over Quin's face. He barks excitedly, obviously overjoyed that his favorite person—according to Quin, anyway—is back.

“Did I just hear someone say Quin's back?” yet another voice calls from the second floor.

“Oh, forget Rey. I thought we were engage din some much more interesting activities—”

“Lionel, stop it. I know you missed Quin just as much as I did.”

“Oh, come on, Cass!” groans Lionel. Then, “Rey, you cock-blocker! Your as sis mine!” And Lionel, always one to keep his word, appears—clad in nothing but a pair of sweats—with the intent of murdering Quin. Or at the very least maim him.

The latter, having regained his bearings, calls out, “It' snot my fault your boyfriend likes me better than he does you.”

When they begin tossing each other into walls, I know it's just their way of showing affection. But I certainly don't approve of how they choose to do that.

Fortunately, so very fortunately, Cass shows up and proceeds to placate Lionel. Except it doesn't go very well (“But, babe, you heard what he said! He was totally making a pass at you!”).

Cassius Cole is a quiet, reserved man, never one to raise his voice or come to physical blows with anyone—the complete antithesis of the crude, sassy, sarcastic Lionel Steele. Probably why they're so perfect together. Opposites attract and all that.

“So I see he's back,' somebody says over my shoulder, and I jump.

I turn to face the voice. “Oh, Julia. Morning.”

Julia Cookie Do (Quin and Lionel have given her no end of hell for her name) never ceases to amaze me with her skillful stealth and lethal beauty. Even now, with no make-up on and sleek black hair held up with a pair of chopsticks, she still manages to look stunning. Her calculating gaze soaks in the sight of Lionel being held back by Cass and shouting “Damn it, Cass, I'm trying to defend your honor!” while Quin bravely cowers behind Sebastian's bulky form, and take sit all in stride.

She snorts delicately and her lips quirk up just slightly. “Tell him it's been boring without him,” she says coolly, and I can't help the grin that seizes my lips.

“Will do,” I call out as she turns away and begins making her way towards the kitchen, her hips swaying with every step.

“Really, Sebs? Really? I don't—When did—When did this become a thing?” Quin says from where he's been thrown over Sebastian's shoulder. “Because I clearly remember asking you to protect me, not treat me like a sack of potatoes.” The blonde Englishman simply ignores Quin and proceeds to carry him through the swinging door of the kitchen, Max on his heels, Cassius and Lionel not far behind.

Stepping in after them, I just barely manage to duck and avoid a flying egg that promptly splatters against the wall behind me.

“Whoops—sorry, Cap! That was meant for Quin, not you, I swear.”

I sigh, scarily used to such antics, though still baffled as to how he could get his hands on an egg so quickly. “I'm not cleaning that up, Lionel.” I settle in a vacant seat at the circular kitchen table next to Cass, grabbing the newspaper. Sebastian plops Quin down beside the coffee machine, then takes his own seat. “And don't call me that.”

“What, 'Cap'? Oh, come on.” Lionel grins widely at me from beside Cass, sitting with his chair facing the wrong way. “How many people do you know live up to Quin's preposterous standards of bad-assery to actually be dubbed 'Captain Awesome' by the man himself?”

“It's a ridiculous name.”

“I'm Mr. Fabulous.”

Pause. “Yeah, okay, you win.”

“Hey,” says Quin, currently in the process of pouring himself a cup of coffee (unsurprising—he inhales that stuff like it's oxygen), “I, for one, like those names. They suit you two.”

I beam at him. “Did you just compliment us there, Quin?”

“Don't get used to it,” he huffs.

“In what universe is a manly man like me getting called fabulous a compliment?” Lionel grouches, to which no one responds.

“So to what region of the planet Earth did you explore this time round, Quinten?” Sebastian asks, piling a large helping of waffles onto his plate, then dousing it in half a bottle of syrup.

And just like every time the subject is brought up, a spike of hurt shoots through my chest.

Quinten Rey has to be one of the most unstable, manic, and annoying men I know. Yet just as brilliant. There's always a spark in him, an infectious flame of life; he's curious about everything and easily bored once he's quelled his curiosity. Probably why he's always disappearing for weeks, sometimes months at a time, to travel the world, nothing but a scrawly note on the fridge to let us know when he'll be back.

I begin stuffing my face with bacon and eggs just to distract myself while awaiting his reply. I impale a waffle with my fork, using maybe just a tad bit more force than is deemed necessary.

Max paws at my leg, not really begging for food, but almost as if he were trying to comfort me. I smile and pass him a strip of bacon.

I look up from my meal and some article about a breakthrough archaeological discovery on dinosaurs to find Quin's moved to join us at the table, nursing his steaming mug of caffeine. I furrow my brow. He's taking it black to day.

His Adam's apple bobs distractingly with every gulp. “It's nowhere you've heard of,” he eventually answers, which only sounds like a cop-out answer to me, setting his already half-empty mug down with a thunk.

I frown at him. “Quin, what aren't you telling us?”

He feigns a look of hurt and grabs at his chest. “Cap, your distrust wounds me.”

“Quin, if you'd just talk to us, maybe we could help—” Cass starts.

“Look, would you people just, get off my case?” The hand on his chest comes up to flutter dismissively in the air. “It was nothing but another wild goose chase,” Quin grumbles bitterly, the fingers of his other hand tapping an erratic rhythm into his coffee mug. “I didn't find it.”

None of us bother to ask him to clarify what “it” is. After the first two times we tried and all we got was a vague, “It's not important,” we figured out that the smart thing to do would be to just drop it. Doesn't really stop us from asking about it anyway, though.

Quin grabs a strip of bacon off my plate while his own remains untouched.

“Hey!” I bat at his hand, glaring at him. “You've got your own food!” I point out, but there's no heat in my voice. He flashes me a discreet, grateful smile for the change of topic, there and gone in a second.

“Uh, I made it,” he says with his mouth full. I grimace at the sight. “When you make breakfast, you can eat off any plate you want.”

“You know I can't cook, Quin.”

“Aha!” He points a finger at me, crumbs spraying everywhere. “He said it. You heard him, lady and gentlemen. You best remember this moment next time you decide to surprise me with breakfast in bed on my birthday. A birthday that I explicitly told you I did not want to celebrate.”

“I apologized for that.” I duck my head, still embarrassed about the incident that occurred years ago even now.

“Who puts a toaster in a microwave?” Lionel asks so very helpfully.

“That's not what happened, and you know it!”

Before Quin gets a chance to remind me of what happened next (I'd poured wine on the fire, thinking it was orange juice. But it's not my fault! Who puts wine in an orange juice container?), somebody rings the doorbell, effectively ending the conversation.

“I'll get it,” I offer just a little too quickly, vaulting out of my seat and stumbling over my own two feet in my haste to get to the door.

I can hear Quin cursing the poorly-timed visitor and he pushes past me as I attempt to regain my balance. “I'll do it,” he grumbles. “Meanwhile, put a shirt on. Much as I enjoy the view, Cap . . .”

“Ugh, keep it in your pants, Rey,” instructs Lionel.

Julia has to physically manhandle Sebastian to keep him from taking off his own shirt, his reasoning for doing so being something along the lines of “But I rather like Stephen's idea! The human body is a beautiful thing that should be admired, not hidden away!”

This is one of those moments where Quin just needs to shut up.

Shooting up the flight of stairs, I barge into my room and proceed to rifle through my closet for a clean shirt to pull on. Only to find that my wardrobe is, in fact, scattered all over my bedroom floor.

(“Quin, why is it that every time you get home, my room ends up in disarray?”

“That—That's a good question, Cap. My answer may or may not have something to do with how I have no clean laundry left and the washing machine tries to devour me every time I go near it.”

“You say that about almost every household appliance I have.”

“I'm telling you, Cap, monsters they are.”)

I'm not sure why I put up with this.

“STEPH! BRING YOUR WALLET!” Quin shouts up the stairs. “COOKIES!” he informs me just as I'm opening my mouth to ask why.

I snatch up my worn leather wallet from the nightstand (there's really no point in trying to dissuade Quin from stuffing himself silly with the things) and trot down the steps to the front door where Quin is currently debating the “goody level” of Thin Mints and Samoa girl scout cookies with Sebastian, who had, unsurprisingly, come running at the mentioning of such desserts.

“—offer a refreshing coolness that the Samoas lack!”

“It is caramel and toasted coconut—what're you, crazy? Who needs cool when you could have gooey caramel sweetness?”

“'Tis not the same! The chocolate—”

The girl scout fidgets nervously on the front porch, tugging helplessly at one of her long red braids. “Um, misters, you could buy both—”

“Those Samoas could kick Thin Mints' ass—er, asthma! And their butts too!”

“Such a claim should not go unchallenged!”

“Oh, what, so you wanna throw a couple of boxes of cookies in a ring together, watch 'em fight it out?”

“Ah, yes, wise is your methods.”

“What? Wait, what? No—what? They're cookies, Sebs, they can't—”

“Dare you back down from this challenge?”

“It's not a challenge—they're—oh, for fu—” Quin glances down at the girl. “Er, fudge's sake. For fudge's sake. Just—”

“Can't you see you're scaring the poor girl?” I chide, coming up behind the pair. I give both of them a good, solid slap tot he back of their heads before kneeling down in front of the girl. “Are these two men giving you a hard time?”

She shakes her head. “No, not—not really. My little brothers fight like that sometimes.”

“Hey!” Quin exclaims at the same time that Sebastian claps him on the back and laughs, “Ah, 'tis the joys of brotherhood!”

The girl glances between the two of them. “They're brothers?” she asks me.

“NO,” Quin denies sternly.

“But they care about each other very much,” I tell her.

She nods sagely. Or as sagely as an eleven-year-old can manage. “I have two daddies who care about each other very much too.”

Quin makes a strangled choking sound in the back of his throat.

“Two fathers, you say? I do not understand,” Sebastian says, knitting his brow. Then understanding dawns on his face. “Ah, like the good Cassius and his mate Lionel!”

The girl stares up at Sebastian. “Golly, you're big.”

I cough to cover up a laugh. “We'll take two boxes of each—”

“Five,” Quin pipes up.

“Three boxes of Thin Mints and three boxes of Samoas,” I finish, fishing out the appropriate amount of bills from my wallet and handing them over. She in turn drops six boxes of cookies in my open arms.

The girl beams at me. “Thank you, mister!” And then she trots on down the porch, little red wagon dragging behind her.

“I didn't think they still sold cookies with little red wagons,” I muse to myself.

“Who cares?” snorts Quin, already making a grab for the cookies. I hold them up and out of reach. “Oh, come on, Cap!”

“Such tiny stature,” Sebastian chuckles, easily getting hold of a box of Thin Mints.

“I'm compact, damn it!”

I shake my head when Quin attempts to dislodge the cookies from my hand. “No. Not until you've had some real food and some rest.” He opens his mouth to protest, but I interrupt. “Coffee is not real food.” He clamps his mouth shut, then opens it again. “No.”

“You didn't even know what I was gonna say!”

“Quin, when did you get back?”

He shrugs. “I dunno, maybe around three, four in the morning?”

I glance at my watch. Quarter past eleven. “And have you slept at all since then?”

“Um, I dunno?”

I sigh, already knowing I won't like what he's about to say next. “Quin.”

“Okay, well, it depends.”

“On what?” I ask warily.

“Does taking a little nap while making breakfast count?”

I see right through his half-truth. “You passed out with the stove on?”

“Okay, Cap, that's not what I said—”

I hold up a hand to stop him. This has happened so many times, I am really, truly surprised he hasn't managed to burn the house to a crisp yet. Or himself, for that matter. I rub a hand over my face. “Kitchen. Now.”

He doesn't move. I look to Sebastian. Without prompting, he wraps his arms around Quin's midsection and then lifts.

“Wha—hey! Oh, this—this is unfair, this is just plain wrong.” Quin glares at me from over Sebastian's shoulder, but it lacks any real intimidation due to the fact that, well, he's thrown over Sebastian's shoulder. “Put me down, Emmerson, or I swear to god, I will—”

But we don't get to hear the rest of his threat because at that moment, a very worrying hissing sound floats out from the kitchen.

“Lionel, don't—”

“Stop worrying, Cass, it's fine.”

“Lionel, your stupidity truly knows no bounds,” Julia says, already ducking out of the kitchen and making an astute retreat to her room on the second floor. “I think you can safely add a new oven to your grocery list now, Cap,” she tells me as she walks past, a sympathetic lilt to her voice.

A clatter, a pop, a boom, and a string of very colorful curses later: “Holy fuck. What the—oh, come on, Cass, don't look at me like that. You could've done a better job of trying to stop me and—ow! What was that for?”

“Lionel, if you plan on sleeping in a bed tonight, I highly suggest you stop talking.”

“Ooh, feisty. I like 'em—ow, ow, okay, okay!”

I sigh.

“Can I have those cookies now, Cap?”

I'm really not sure when I agreed to become nanny to a houseful of oversized children. Oversized children that may very well, quite literally, be the death of me.

“Uh, is the sink water supposed to be that brown?”

Max lets out a single, solitary bark.

What does it say about my life when I've already got the plumber on speed dial?

3: Chapter 2

QUINTEN

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Etrys! Where the hell are you?"

I can hear him calling. I need to save him. He's dying. But I can't get to him. I don't know where he is. Why? Why don't I know? I always know. I watch as men drop like flies on the large ship, some toppling over the railing and falling into the ocean blue. I hear them scream as their lives are cut short by a blade, an arrow, a lungful of water.

"Etrys!" he cries, but his voice is growing fainter, weaker. He's fading.

"Damn it, Etrys!" he screams. "I trusted you!"

 

~ * ~

 

"Um, sir, I'm going to have to ask you to please remove yourself from the inside of that washing machine."

Lionel remains silent.

"Sir, I can still see you."

Lionel remains silent, his hands still covering his face in the manner of a parent playing peek-a-boo with their child.

The sales attendant looks to me, her 'Lisa' nameplate reflecting the ceiling lights and nearly blinding me, exasperation and uncertainty clear on her face.

Damn it. And here I thought I was doing such a good job of pretending that I wasn't at all associated with the asswaffle curled up in the interior of a household appliance like some freakazoid contortionist. I hold up my hands, palms facing outwards. "Oh, no. No. Don't look at me. I can't help you here," I inform her. Because, really, I can't. Anymore humiliation and I might just go through with my plan of stuffing myself into the dryer next to Steele and letting it tumble dry me to death.

The attendant turns back to the lump in the washing machine. "Sir—"

"Steele, if you don't get your bony ass out of there in the next ten seconds, I'll stick my foot in it."

I jump at the sound of Jules's voice, but Lionel remains silent and unfazed. Jules huffs a tired sigh, her perfectly plucked eyebrows drawing together in irritation. "Lionel—"

"Aha! I have spotted you, Lionel!" Sebs's voice booms from behind us. He strides over, steps quick and purposeful, then grabs Steele by the collar of his shirt and drags him out of the washing machine.

He lands on the floor in a heap, swearing a blue streak as he rolls to his feet.

"'Tis my turn to hide now, yes?"

"No," Steele growls, brushing himself off. "No, that was—I demand a rematch!"

Sebs frowns, looking far too serious for a grown man playing hide-and-seek in an IKEA store. "But is it not the rules of the game for the seeker to take the role of the hider once he has found the previous hider?"

"No way," he denies. "These idiots," Lionel gestures toward us, including the awkwardly fidgeting sales attendant, "totally blew my cover. Nuh-uh, I want—ow!" He rubs the spot where Jules's open palm had just connected with the back of his head.

"Đồ ngốc." She turns to 'Lisa.' "I apologize for their behavior," she says with a sickeningly saccharine smile, her innocent demeanor belying her murderous intentions towards Steele. She leans in to whisper conspiratorially to the sales attendant. "They're a bit . . ." She trails off, tapping a slender manicured finger against her temple.

"'Twas a fair match!"

"Fair, my furry canine ass! If it weren't for them, you'd never have found me!"

"You dare doubt my seeking skills?"

'Lisa' blinks widely at the bickering pair before nodding slowly in understanding. "I see. Um, so is there anything else I can, uh, help you with today?"

"Yes, a gun would be nice. Maybe a rope and a sturdy wooden beam," I tell her.

Jules shoots me a glare, clearly warning me to shut it or she'll show me exactly why she's known as the Lynx in the assassin community.

Which is, well, just hilarious to me, considering she's a kitsune.

Although the whole assassin part—yeah, no, definitely not so funny. Maybe because she could most certainly castrate me with nothing more than a bottle cap. Okay, that's stretching it a bit.

It might take the whole bottle.

"No, that'll be all," says Jules, and the attendant nods once, relief so evident on her face (really, who can blame her?), before scurrying off to probably find a private room and bang her head against the wall while bemoaning the injustice and madness of the world.

Or maybe I'm just projecting.

Jules whips around to face Lionel and Sebs, a small, deadly fire simmering behind the sheen of her eyes.

"Um, so I'll just go find Cass—"

"Oh, no, you don't, Rey." She snags me by the collar of my shirt and yanks me back to stand next to her, almost knocking me over with the force of her pull, and all without taking her eyes off of the idiots now having a (thankfully) silent standoff with one another. She marches over to stand between them, dragging a stumbling me along with her.

I can't believe this. I try to do nice things for people, I really do. But my psyche is simply not equipped to handle a trip to the furniture store to buy a new oven turned crime investigation.

Well, that is, assuming the cops ever find their bodies. Julia Do didn't gain the title of Master Assassin by leaving corpses lying around willy-nilly.

I've still got the sneaking suspicion that she's hidden a body somewhere in the mansion walls of Steph's home. I just haven't been able to prove it yet.

"We came here to get an oven and by god, we are going to get that oven." She clamps a hand on Sebs's arm, then Steele's, releasing me from her bone-crushing grip, and I rub at my throat where my shirt had pressed just a bit too tightly against it. "Now unless you two pigs want to find yourself beheaded and being offered up to the beast, I highly suggest you make yourself useful and help me find a goddamn oven."

It's a slow day today; a Monday. Several people pass by as they browse the kitchen appliances, but not many. Definitely not enough to have to worry about any witnesses.

The pair nod mutely at Jules and let themselves be pulled down the rows of ovens and cooktops and refrigerators.

When Cass spots us, and his boyfriend being man-handled like some rag doll, he only pushes his glasses higher up on his nose and mutters a "Why am dating this man?"

To which Steele's super werewolf hearing picks up on and he decides to respond with, "Because you love me," and a cheeky smile.

"You two are sickening, really, I—I honestly do not know how I put up with it," I grumble.

"And how is your complete and total infatuation with Rosai any better?"

I trip over what must've been a loose tile in the floor or something. "I am not infatuated with anyone!"

"Really?" he drawls. "Cass, back me up here."

A shoulder rises and falls in a small half-shrug. "I kind of have to agree with him, Quin."

I jab a finger at the surgeon's chest. "No. No, don't—just no. Don't you dare take his side."

"Look," Steele starts, giving me a slap on the back, "I say go for it. I think you two would—ow! The hell was that for?!" he shrieks suddenly, gaping at Jules.

"No cheating."

"I'm not cheating, I'm just trying to speed the process up a bit and—"

"Wait, what—cheating? What the hell?" I turn to Cass for an explanation but he only looks away, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"My friends, let us not bicker and fight over such petty matters—"

"Oh, really, Mr. I-Can-Too-Play-Hide-and-Seek?" I scoff.

"'Twas a fair match!" Sebs exclaims, reiterating his statement from earlier. "My seeking skills can outmatch any man's!"

"Look, just—not the point here, damn it. What's this about cheating?" I demand, turning to Jules now.

She only shakes her head. "Can they really be this oblivious?" she grumbles to no one in particular, which, well, rude much? I'm right here. And I'm pretty sure she's talking about me. Pretty sure.

It's hard to tell with these people.

"Apparently, they can," Cass mumbles.

"You people are all crazy. You know what? That's it, I'm moving out. I'm serious this time, I am going to go home and pack my bags and—what, are you, are you laughing? Stop that. Stop that right now. What, you don't believe me?"

"Rey," Lionel chuckles, reaching out an arm to wrap around my shoulders, though the angle is awkward since his other arm is still being held in an iron grasp, "you better figure it out soon. Got a lot of money riding on it happening by the end of this month."

"WHAT IS 'IT'?"

 

~ * ~

 

"But I'm bored, Steph."

"Yes, and I'm busy, Quin," he responds, parroting my tone. There's the sound of papers rustling on the other end of the phone. "I have a meeting in ten minutes, Quin. I really don't have the time for this—"

"You picked up the phone."

"Yes, because you went and used your floopy-floop magic to make all the phones in this dang building start ringing. All of them."

"Floopy-floop?"

"Quin."

"Bit much?"

"Conspiracy Nut Guy was convinced that it was some kind of signal sent by aliens or something."

I try my very best not to laugh, but I only manage to get coffee up my nose.

"Are you okay?" Steph asks, one part amused and three parts concerned.

"Yeah, no, fine," I choke out, then cough, clear my throat. "No, totally good over here." I prop my feet up on the kitchen table as Sebs and Cass stand uselessly around the sleek black oven sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, clueless expressions plastered on their faces. "You guys sure you don't want my help?"

"No," they reply unanimously, sternly, immediately, which, well, ouch.

"I really don't understand why you people will not let me help. Lionel's the one who broke it, not me!"

"Wait, broke w—oh. You—You went and bought a new oven for me?" Steph says with more surprise than the situation truly warrants.

"Okay, well, technically, you bought it since we used your credit card—"

"What? But I have my wallet right—" A pause. "Quin, you need to stop taking my things without asking," he sighs exasperatedly.

"What happened to 'mi casa es su casa'?"

"Quin."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I promise. Scout's honor."

"Why don't I believe you?"

"'Cause you're a very smart man?"

"Flattery won't get you anywhere, Quin."

"Well, I beg to differ."

"Oh, take it somewhere else, would ya? Some people are trying to eat here," groans Lionel, flicking a spoonful of mashed potatoes at me. I duck and it splatters against the wall behind me.

"We had breakfast literally an hour ago."

"Well, I've got a high metabolism."

Max whines, pawing at Lionel's leg. "Oh, you know I can't resist you," Steele says, scooping up a large portion of his mashed potatoes and feeding it to the German shepherd.

There's an unintelligible mumbling on the other end of the line before Steph says, "Quin, I really do have to go—"

"Oh, c'mon, Cap! It's one meeting. Blow it off, live a little!"

"Quin—"

"It's fashion. What possible reason could there be to meet?"

"My job really isn't as easy as you make it out to be, Quin."

I groan. "Fine, fine, go to your stupid meeting. God forbid there be any excitement in your life."

"My oven exploded this morning. I think I have enough excitement in my life."

"Okay, explosion is a bit of an exaggeration, don't you think?"

Steph laughs, and a warmth blooms in my chest at hearing the sound. "See you for lunch?"

"Yeah," I reply, not even bothering to hide my smile. "Sushi?"

"Ew." And I can clearly picture his nose scrunching up and brow crinkling in disgust. "How 'bout that new diner joint that just opened up down the street from Rosy Genesis?" he suggests instead, Rosai's Rosy Genesis being the name of his father's fashion house business.

"You're buying."

"When do I not?"

"Well—"

"Hot dogs from street corner stands do not count. Especially when they result in spending the night by the toilet."

"You wound me, Cap."

He laughs again, deep and gravelly and masculine. "Oh, and Quin?"

"Yeah?"

"Get your feet off my table." Then he hangs up.

"I'm supposed to be the all-knowing one, damn it," I grumble to myself, sliding my feet off the kitchen table.

 

~ * ~

 

"For the last time, Quin, you don't order cereal in a diner."

"Jerry Seinfeld did it."

"Jerry Seinfeld is a comedian."

"How dare you, I am just as funny as he is."

"Missing the point, Quin."

"I just want some Cap'n Crunch. Is that really too much to ask?"

Steph sighs, running a hand down his face.

"Do you two want me to come back later?" the waitress asks, snapping her gum and tapping her pen against her notepad.

"Yes."

"No."

Steph and I speak simultaneously, and there's all but a second of silence before we break out into a fit of giggles.

The waitress smiles at us. "It's nice to see couples like you two nowadays," she says. "How long you two been dating?"

Aaaaand now it's awkward.

"Oh. Um, we're, uh, we're not dating," Steph corrects her, all the laughter gone from his sky-blue eyes as he picks at the edge of a napkin. "Just friends."

"Yep. Just friends."

She glances between the two of us before nodding slowly, though I don't think she really believes us.

Why does everybody think we're dating? Sure, there's the whole thing where we eat lunch together every day and we visit art museums and the zoo and text each other almost constantly throughout the day—oh, and there is that thing where I may just be madly in love with my straight-as-an-arrow best friend, Stephen Rosai.

But we're not dating.

Doesn't matter how much I want to be. Doesn't matter that we are—or were literally fucking soulmates.

Because I don't have a soul. Not anymore.

"I'll just have a cup of coffee and he'll have a plate of spaghetti," I eventually say, the silence beginning to drag on way too long for comfort. The waitress jots down our order before trotting off to the kitchen.

Cue even awkwarder silence.

I search my brain for something, anything, to say, to fill the uneasy silence.

"So Max did this crazy stunt—"

"This funny thing happened at work—"

We both start and stop at the same time, then chuckle, but it is infinitely less comfortable than it was before.

Just—goddamn it all.

I clear my throat and run a hand through my hair. "Um, so. Yeah."

"Yeah."

I huff, letting my hand flop down to the table. "Look, I know that my homosexuality doesn't make you uncomfortable in the slightest, you've made that very clear over the years we've known each other, but this isn't—I don't—" I groan, interrupting myself. Covering my face with my hands, I prop my elbows on the diner table.

"Okay, lemme start over." I inhale deeply before uncovering my face, though I pointedly avoid making eye contact with Steph. "I don't want you thinking that I'm gonna come onto you or do anything that would make you uncomfortable. Because I wouldn't. I don't—I'm not interested, you're not interested—obviously, I—it wasn't really necessary to point that out, but just, I don't want things to be awkward between us. So, are we okay?" I chance a glance up at him, but he's refusing to look me in the eye as well.

"Yeah. You're not interested. Got it. We're okay."

I heave a sigh of relief, and though his tone strikes me as just a tad off, I don't really pay it much mind.

When his meal is set on the table, I snatch up his fork before he can and twirl a large helping of noodles into my mouth.

He shoots me a look and grabs the silver utensil back from me. "You know, sometimes, I feel like you don't order anything to eat just so you can have an excuse to eat my food."

I snap my fingers, morphing my expression into one of disappointment. "Damn. And I would've gotten away with it too, if it weren't for your meddling mind."

Not my funniest moment, but he cracks a smile at that, and fuck, if I could just see him grin at me like that every day, I'd be one helluva happy dragon.

4: Chapter 3

LIONEL

"Gangway, me bucko!"

I just barely manage to hop out of the way of the sliding ladder and avoid being turned into roadkill. Bookstorekill. Whatever.

"Damn it, Rey! It was my turn seven minutes ago!"

He slides back, coming to a smooth stop just to the left of me. I cross my arms and glower up at him.

"You," he says, pointing a finger, dusty from flipping through ancient, old tomes, at me, "are a dirty, dirty liar."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am NOT."

"Are T—"

"Boys, boys!"

We both jump at the sound of Preston's voice and I whip around to face him. A satisfying thump sounds from behind me as Quin loses his balance on the ladder and topples to the ground. Verbal obscenities soon follow.

"Oh, yeah, thanks for the help, guys. Really, 'preciate it."

I only laugh harder. Preston sighs, running a hand just as antique as the books in his store down his face.

"Quinten, my boy, I have asked you time and again to treat my books with care."

"I am!" he replies indignantly, though his voice comes out a bit strained as he attempts to fight me off the ladder.

"Yes. I can see that by how my very own personal collection of Edgar Allan Poe's works is scattered about the bookstore. And stuck on the ceiling fans."

Quin and I both cease our struggling, his open palm pushing against the side of my face, my foot shoving at his stomach, and glance up.

Sure enough, books are hanging from all five ceiling fans in the store.

"Huh." I look to Quin. "So, uh, that happened." I double check just to make sure I'm not seeing things. "That actually happened."

He hops off the bottom rung of the ladder and I follow suit, ladder sailing rights being the last thing on my mind.

"I thought it was a dream."

"So did I," he says, looking just as in awe as I am.

"Do I even want to ask?" says Preston.

Quin and I share a look. "Um, that depends." He scratches the back of his head. "How mad would you be if I told you that I may have just somewhat possibly turned your bookstore upside-down when you were out?"

There's a beat of silence. Then, "You did what?"

"Look, it wasn't my fault!" He snaps around to face me and jabs an accusatory finger at my chest. "He made me do it!"

I gasp, clutching at my chest. "Traitor!" I turn to address Preston. "I was drunk, I didn't know what I was doing!" He remains unfazed. "C'mon, Uncle Preston, have a heart!"

"I am most assuredly not your uncle."

"You're Sebs's uncle. Close enough."

"I was gone for five minutes."

"It felt much longer than that," Quin mumbles to himself. Then his face brightens up considerably. "I told you that sobriety spell would work," he states smugly.

"What, I was supposed to trust you doing magic when you were drunk? That's how we got into this whole mess in the first place!"

"Still worked."

"My mouth still tastes like ass."

"Yeah, um, that was never a side effect of the spell."

"Then why does—"

"Maybe 'cause your lips seem to be permanently attached to Preston's ass."

Okay, I kinda walked into that one.

But it's not true. I am not a fucking suck-up.

"Quinten, Lionel, please lock up the store for me while I go jump off the Empire State Building."

"Oh, c'mon, Pres!" I spread my arms in a gesture of apology. "We put it right side up again!" I point out.

"Yeah, and we got rid of the monkey too." Quin seems to consider something. "Er, yeah. Yeah, we did. Pretty sure. Seventy-two percent. Maybe sixty-eight."

I shuffle closer to him and nudge him sharply with my elbow. "Shut up," I hiss. The old man looks like he's about to have an aneurysm if that pulsing vein in his forehead is anything to go by. "Did we really get rid of the monkey?" I whisper eventually, curiosity outweighing fear for my life.

". . . I don't think so."

Then, almost as if on cue, the unmistakable shrieking ooh-ooh-ah of a monkey floats towards us from the reading area in the far back corner of the store. And the ensuing thump-thump-thumps of books falling to the ground isn't very reassuring.

"I am giving you boys eight minutes to make this right. If," he fixes us with a stern glare that only promises bad, bad things for us, "If my store is not put back the way it was by that time, I can guarantee that you boys will personally know what it means to be turned inside-out."

For three blessed seconds, Rey is silent. Then, "Well, actually, we turned your store upside-down, not—"

"Dude!"

 

~ * ~

 

"Well, that was fun."

"Fun? We're lucky the old kook didn't fire us."

"Fire us? I'm not the one who conjured up a friggin' monster-monkey thing with three eyes. On its ass."

"And I'm not the one who decided it was a good idea to get drunk at work," Rey counters.

There's all but four seconds of silent debating between us—all for morality's sake, of course—before we decide to turn on our heels and head in the opposite direction of home towards the nearest bar.

"What's one more drink between friends, right? It couldn't hurt."

I scoff. "We are most definitely not friends, Rey."

We're both lying, of course.

5: Chapter 4

JEXICA

I take a small sip of my drink—a dry Manhattan—and surreptitiously inspect my surroundings. I've found that if I send warning glares towards all the women who attempt to approach me, others catch on and leave me well enough alone. I steal a glance at my watch for the umpteenth time.

Where the hell is he?

Then I spot him, weaving his way through the throng of drunkards and gay couples exchanging heated kisses on the dance floor. Finally. I leave my stool at the bar and join him in the little corner booth where he seems to be fending off a large, burly man and his unwanted advances. With a discreet word being spoken, my eyes flash gold, and the man freezes for a second before excusing himself and making a beeline for the nearest restroom.

I smirk. Humans. So easily undone by magic.

The man seems relieved to finally be alone and downs a shot of what I assume is tequila. I almost regret having to impose on him when it's so clear he just wants to be alone. Almost.

I settle down in the booth seat across from him, and I'm overwhelmed by the pure, raw magic radiating from his person. Even from the other end of the bar it was impressive, but sitting so close . . . it's intoxicating.

He doesn't take notice of me, just continues throwing alcohol down his throat. I clear my throat and his stormy gray eyes glance up at me from under long, dark eyelashes. "You realize this is a gay bar, don't you?" he asks, words already slightly slurred.

I simply smile sweetly at him. "Oh, yes, I do." There's a pause as he waits for me to explain why a woman is talking to him in a place that caters specifically to homosexuals. But instead of doing so, I offer to buy him a drink.

He glances around the bar, as if searching for someone. The male companion he appeared with perhaps. But he shouldn't prove to be too much of a problem as of yet. I made sure of that. The man before me studies me quizzically before speaking, slowly enunciating every word as if talking to a young child or a particularly stupid person. "Sorry, but I'm gay."

I continue smiling. "Yes, I'm aware. This is a gay bar, ya know."

Obviously exasperated and tired (if the bags under his eyes are anything to judge by) but curious nonetheless, he quirks an eyebrow in question. "So what the hell do you want?"

I lean in and begin speaking in a conspiratorial tone, as if about to share a juicy secret, and he mirrors my actions. "I am here, Etrys, to talk about your Crystal." At this, his eyes widen and his eyebrows disappear under his hairline with astonishing speed. But he quickly recomposes himself and the shock is replaced with suspicion, all narrowed eyes and flashing irises.

"Who are you?" I can feel his magic simmering just underneath the surface of his skin, ready to explode and even possibly kill me should the need arise.

Sickeningly saccharine smile still plastered on my face, I extend a hand. "I am Jexica." He eyes my hand warily before taking it in his. A small, involuntary gasp escapes my mouth at the sudden jolt of energy that results from our magics mingling together. Magnificent.

He pulls away, unnerved by my reaction, and continues studying me, analyzing me. "I'm Quin. But I guess you already knew that." There's a tense silence as we take a moment to size each other up. Years of experience has prepared me for anything and everything that any regular sorcerer could possibly throw at me.

But, then again, Etrys is no ordinary sorcerer.

I can sense his reluctance to converse with me, but it's apparent that his curiosity has gotten the better of him. "You've got five minutes," he growls under his breath. "Then I'm leaving. And if you stop me or follow me or bother me ever again," here he leans in, and for the first time in a long time, I remember what it's like to be scared, "you won't live to regret it."

"How 'bout that drink first?" I suggest, my voice coming out much steadier than I thought it would.

His eyes flash dangerously, and a slight thrill runs through me. Because fear, whether it be from my enemies . . . or myself, is a beautiful, beautiful thing.

6: Chapter 5

STEPHEN

I hear the tell-tale jingle of keys from outside the door. I immediately jump to my feet, just barely keeping myself from tumbling down the stairs, angry and ready to scold Quin for getting home at three in the fucking morning.

Yes, I swear from time to time. When the situation warrants it. Such as right now.

I take the steps two at a time until I'm standing before the front door. Taking longer than usual (and repeatedly dropping the keys onto the ground, I'm sure), he finally stumbles into the house, tripping over the threshold. I rush over to catch him before he falls flat on his face, but he pushes me away.

"Where have you been?" I practically shout at him. "I've been calling you for hours now!"

"And his incessant worry has been quite maddening," Sebastian calls from the rec room where he is currently engaged in a game of Mario Kart with Julia.

Quin shoots me a look so vehemently venomous, I take a couple of steps back from the sheer intensity of it.

"I ha' t'kill a three-eyed—hic—three-eyed m'nkey t'day, leave m'alone," he slurs, a sneer marring his features.

"Are you drunk?" I question accusingly, incredulous. He was working today, wasn't he?

"What's it to you?" he spits out and turns to walk away, movements slow and sluggish from the inebriation.

And then Lionel shows up.

"Lionel!" A nugget of guilt settles in my chest when it hits me that I haven't spared even a thought for Lionel's well-being. "Where were you? Were you with Quin? I should have called you, that would've been smart. I—"

"Whoa, whoa, Cap, calm down," he says. "Preston kinda, uh, let us off early today. So we stopped to get a drink on the way home." Well, that's an understatement.

Cass appears on the second floor landing, rubbing his eyes. "Lionel?" he mumbles drowsily, voice thick with sleep.

"I'll be right up, babe. Go back to bed." Cass grunts noncommittally and trudges back to his room.

My eyes flicker to Quin, who is currently twirling the coat rack around while humming a waltz. "And this?" I ask, gesturing to the sight.

"I really don't know how he got this drunk," Lionel says to me. "You know how it is. One drink turns into two, two turns into seven, seven turns into alcohol poisoning."

Yeah. Don't I know it.

Senseless drinking. One of Quin's more unpleasant vices.

Said drunkard spins in a slow circle, arms held out for balance, the coat rack momentarily forgotten. "What the hell happened to all the flamingos?"

"Oookay, I think it's time we got you into bed," says Lionel, an eyebrow arched in amusement.

I beat him to it, grabbing Quin's wrist ("Ow-uh, Steph, that hurts"). "I'll do it," I inform him curtly. "Thank you for getting him home, Lionel."

"Heh, you shouldn't thank me, Cap. It's my fault he's so wasted." He smiles in a way that conveys just how little he regrets the role he played in Quin's current state of plastered-ness.

Quin bats at the hand gripping his wrist. "God, you're like a . . . a . . . wrist-crushing . . . something."

I squint. "Hey, is your head okay?"

"What?" Lionel vacantly reaches an arm up to the back of his skull. It comes away bloody. "Huh. How 'bout that."

Releasing Quin, I'm by his side instantaneously, carefully tilting his head forward and down to get a better look at the injury. "What happened?"

"Um," he replies articulately.

"We should get you checked out."

He swats at me. "It's fine, Cap, really. Just a little scratch. I'll be fine."

"You could have a concussion!" I point out worriedly.

"Okay, you are really not living up to your name right now, Captain Awesome," says Lionel. "Would you stop mothering me and just—" He gesticulates pointlessly for a moment. "I don't really know where I was going with that sentence," he finally admits.

I huff and roll my eyes. "At least let Casshave a look at it," I tell him.

His eyes widen and he jerks back. "No, no way, are you crazy?"

"He's a surgeon, he can—"

"No, Cap. The guy's got enough on his plate, he doesn't need to be worrying about his asshole boyfriend too."

"Fine," I concede with a sigh, "but at least let me have a look at it."

His head tilts to the side. "Yeah, sure, why not?" He kicks the still-open front door shut. "I'll be in the rec room." He pauses. "You got your couch cushions cleaned, right? Because I am not going through a repeat of the Itching Powder Debacle ever again."

I have no idea what he's talking about. But ignorance is bliss, right?

"I'm putting Quin to bed. But when I come back out, I am taking a look at your head," I inform him sternly.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he grumbles, already retreating to the other room.

As I drag Quin up the stairs, I can't help but notice that he is unusually quiet. I've learned that a drunk Quin is a loud Quin (which is why karaoke is now banned from this household).

Reaching his door, I shove it open and stagger inside. I pull Quin to his bed and he flops onto the surface, bouncing with the force of it. He murmurs something into the covers while I begin removing his shoes.

"What was that?" I ask absently.

It's slow work, but he manages to roll over onto his back, almost kicking me in the face. "I wish I never met you."

I lean back and away, the words hitting me like a physical blow to the chest. And I'm suddenly reminded of the first time we met, that look on his face. As if I'd done him some great wrong simply by existing.

Suffice it to say, I never really got over that.

After that, things got better, slowly—oh, so slowly—things gradually got better between us despite our rocky start. But that look will forever be ingrained into my brain.

I don't really know what to say, and even if I did, I doubt I'd be able to get it through the lump in my throat, so I remain silent as I move on to the task of removing his second shoe.

"No, no—Steph, stop."

I do. I swallow once, then twice. "I'll, um—" My voice comes out throaty and hoarse, so I clear it before starting again. "I'll just let you, um, go to sleep then."

"No, no, wait," he calls out. I freeze, already halfway to the door, but I don't turn around. "Yer not—Yer not und'rst'nding. I need—hic—I need . . ." His voice trails off and the tiniest snoring begins. Deeming it safe to leave now, I walk out of Quin's room, softly shutting the door behind me.

There are more important things to be worrying about than Quin's obvious disinterest in me. As anything more than a friend, at least.

Once downstairs, I find Lionel thoroughly scrutinizing my couch, Sebastian and Julia sitting on the rug in the middle of the rec room and shoving at each other in the hopes of throwing the other off their game.

"Lionel, I can assure you, there's no itching powder or whatever on the couch. I just bought it yesterday. If you were home, you'd realize that."

"I was home yesterday. It was Sunday. You know I don't get out of bed for anything less than an alien invasion on Sundays."

"Look, just—sit, will you? I promise, it's fine."

He directs his sharp gaze at me. "Prove it," he challenges.

I roll my eyes and move over to sit myself down on the cushions. "See?" I say, spreading my arms. "It's fine." He doesn't move. I sigh, then proceed to roll myself around all over the surface of the couch—and make a complete fool of myself. "There, see?" I reiterate, ignoring Julia's amused smirk and Sebastian's boisterous laughter. Though not doing a very good job of it seeing how my cheeks are practically aflame.

Lionel cautiously settles down beside me on the edge of the seat, eyes full of distrust for the leather furnishing. I grab him by the shoulders and turn him so he's facing away from me, then immediately begin inspecting his head wound. Only to find that there's nothing to inspect. Only dried blood.

I furrow my brow. "Lionel, your head's fine." Sometimes I forget that he's a werewolf with an impossibly fast healing rate. Or that I'm in love with a dragon. Or that I'm living with a houseful of beings that really should not exist in the rational world.

Julia whips around, brown eyes flashing dangerously. "Was there something wrong with it in the first place?" Sebastian takes this opportunity to toss a mushroom at her character—which happens to be the unexpected Princess Peach.

Lionel twists his neck around to study me. "Um, okay, that's a good thing, right? 'Cause right now, you're not making it sound like a good thing."

"But the blood," I say, retracting my hands. "What happened, Lionel?"

He shrugs. "Your guess is as good as mine."

This catches Sebastian's attention. "Blood? My friend, this matter is not one you should be taking so lightly."

"You don't know how this happened?" I ask.

"No, not really." Lionel stands up. "Just blacked out at one point. Woke up on the bar's bathroom floor, which, quite frankly, was really gross." He stretches, back popping, and groans.

"Lionel, someone tried to hurt you."

"You say that as if that's an unusual occurrence." I gape at him. He rolls his eyes. "Look, Cap, I think you and I both know that our lives won't ever be normal. Nor will there ever be a time that somebody doesn't want to kill us or kidnap us or torture us. And sure, sometimes, they might just succeed. But this, Cap?" He points to the back of his head. "This is nothing compared to what I went through before I moved in here. So stop worrying."

He shakes his head, a wry smile on his face. "If this is how you react to a little blow to the head, I'd hate to see what you do when you find out about the three-eyed monkey Quin and I had to kill today. Son of a bitch was tough too." He rubs at the back of his legs and scrunches up his face. "Bastard left some pretty nasty bite marks on me."

Still gaping at him.

Lionel must be drunker than I thought. Because Quin could not have been serious when he said he had to kill a monkey today. A monkey with three eyes, no less.

Lionel slants his eyes at me. "Oh. I wasn't supposed to say that. Shit." He purses his lips. "Yeah, okay, um, this conversation never happened, okay? And if it did happen, if it absolutely had to have happened 'cause you feel like you need to talk to Quin about this, then I wasn't a part of it, okay?"

"Lionel—"

"Yeah, no, so not doing this right now. I need to take a shower because now that it's been brought to my attention, the texture of dried blood is really disgusting." And with that, he scampers off up the stairs, the sound of running water soon following.

Those two are going to give me a premature heart attack one day.

I turn to the other two occupants of the room. "You two don't have anything to say about this?" I demand, a note of hysteria in my voice, audible even to my own ears.

"Because he's right," Julia says quietly, eyes resolutely trained on the plasma TV screen. "As long as he's here, alive and talking, there's really nothing to worry about." Slim shoulders rise and fall in a small shrug.

"You—You agree with him? Since it's such a regular occurrence, we should just ignore it?" I splutter, incredulous.

"We simply think it unnecessary to worry over such matters," says Sebastian. "'Tis for naught."

"You can't be serious."

"Stop worrying. Don't blame yourself." A slim, feminine hand comes to rest on my shoulder. "You couldn't stop them from acting like idiots even if you shoved them in strait jackets and locked them in a padded room." A look of wry affection passes over her face before it smooths back over into impassiveness. "Those two aren't averse to resorting to more . . . immoral tactics to get what they want."

She's right, of course. I pinch the bridge of my nose when there's an alarming clattering noise from the upstairs bathroom and Lionel's cry of "Oh, come on, not again!" seems to reverberate throughout the house.

Julia gives me one final sympathetic pat on the back. "I'll go get the spare showerhead."

7: Chapter 6

QUINTEN

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Explosions boom from overhead, muffled by the vast expanse of water enveloping me.

Breathing isn't a problem. Not for me at least.

But for him . . .

I twist around in the murky darkness, straining my eyes in the black, black blue, silently begging whatever deity may dwell up in that goddamned sky to just let me catch one glimpse of that golden blonde hair. Just one glimpse.

Because I don't think I can go another lifetime without him.

 

~ * ~

 

I jolt awake, my eyes flying open.

Just a dream, I remind myself. Just a dream.

For one terrifying moment, I'm almost certain I pissed myself. Because, I mean, it happens from time to time . . . when the nightmares get too much. Or when bastard housemates decide to place your hand in a warm bowl of water when you're unconscious and unaware to their simple—yet dastardly all the same—prank.

Just how juvenile can that green-eyed bastard be? Though I may have penciled into my calendar somewhere to "laxative his ass" (quite literally), it's only because he started it.

Muttering a quick spell to get rid of the headache I can sense slowly creeping in (Oh, you think you're sneaky, don't you, Mr. Hangover?), I roll out of bed. And collapse on the ground in a tangled heap of my blankets.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

So. Bodily motor skills are dysfunctional.

That's usually the case when I'm up at 9:32 A.M. Sans coffee.

Oh, coffee. That sounds absolutely fantastic right now. Well, not that it ever doesn't sound absolutely fantastic.

I roll over onto my back and smack my lips, then grimace.

Unholy Mother of Fuck, when did I find the time to shove a skunk's ass up my mouth?

I drag myself to my feet, grabbing onto the edge of my bed—which I don't really remember getting into (hell, I don't remember anything past watching monster monkey guts splatter all over Preston's face), but is thankfully devoid of any strange, naked men—for leverage. First things first, I need to rinse my mouth out with two bottles of Listerine. Then I can get some much-needed coffee before getting dressed.

Because I am long overdue for a visit.

 

~ * ~

 

Bright blue eyes framed by stray wisps of blonde hair stare up at me.

I stare back.

The blue eyes blink first, then crinkle up at the edges when she smiles. "Have you been taking good care of my baby?"

"I—Mom!"

My lips twitch and my eyes flicker up to Steph, sitting across from me on the other side of the hospital bed. And sure enough, the blush he's sporting could put a tomato to shame.

"I don't know why you're getting so embarrassed, Stephen," she says. "I was talking about Maximilian."

Lionel guffaws, and I can't help the snicker that escapes my own mouth.

"Would I ever let you down?" I say, my lips quirked.

"I don't know where my son would be without you."

"Wha—where I would be without him?" Steph exclaims, almost aghast. "He broke my oven!"

Belle fixes him with a stern glare, but there's no mistaking the laughter in her eyes. "Now, now, Steph. I've taught you better than to go and spread lies like that." She winks at the heap sprawled across the foot of her bed. "I heard Lionel did it."

He grins, raising one solitary hand. "Guilty."

I shake my head in mock disappointment, clicking my tongue as I do. "I honestly do not know what's gotten into your son, Belle."

She sighs, feigning the same disappointment, and I grab her hand in a show of sympathy. "I don't know either, Quin."

"You two are evil," Steph says, crossing his arms and practically pouting.

Belle laughs, and usually the sound would ring loud and silvery, like her namesake. But nowadays, it just seems to be . . . lacking. It then soon devolves into a coughing fit, but she brushes away our attempts to come to her aid.

A stab of guilt pierces my chest.

Belle's normally glowing skin now has a sickly pallor to it, and dark circles ring her eyes. Her hair's thinning out too, and she's definitely lost weight since I last saw her.

Since I last saw her. Five weeks ago.

Of course, to her, and everybody else, it's only been one week. But that really doesn't make me feel any better. At all.

I look away from those piercing blue eyes that always seem to be able to see right through me, but not quick enough to miss the frown that appears on Belle's face. So I guess this is where Steph gets his own X-ray vision ability to see into my soul.

The ringing of a phone breaks through my thoughts, startling me.

"Hello?" Steph answers while Lionel reaches for the Jell-O cup on Belle's tray. She slaps his hand away and he pouts. "What, now?" I make a grab for the green Jell-O and get the same treatment for my trouble, but I'm more distracted by the agitated tone coloring Steph's words. "I can't. You know I can't. I told you I was visiting Mom today."

This time, when I wrap my hands around the plastic cup, there's no hand to stop me. I look askance at Belle, but there's no anger or resentment on her face. Just a sad, almost . . . resigned set to her jaw.

"I'm not doing this with you right now, Dad." Steph's lips press themselves into a tight, thin line as Victor's deep, gravelly tones mumble an unintelligible reply on the other end of the line. "Fine." Then Steph hangs up, without even a good-bye.

Which might not seem like a big deal to most people, but this is Steph. His life would be nothing without the triple-P.

Perfect, Polite, Proper.

He simply does not hang up on a person without some sort of farewell. That just—That just does not happen with Stephen Rosai.

Especially not to his own father.

I glance at Lionel to find him sitting up now, rigid and tense, fists clenching and unclenching repeatedly. I twist on my stool so that I'm facing him more directly and nudge him with my foot. Our eyes meet, and I don't need him to speak to let me know what he's thinking.

Because I'm thinking the same exact thing.

Later, I mouth at him, and I get nothing but a small, curt nod of his head in response. But it's a nod.

"I have to go," Steph says, clasping one of Belle's hands in both his own. "I'm so sorry, Mom. I told him—"

"I know, honey," she interjects, offering him a small, understanding smile. "It's fine. Go."

Steph shakes his head, leaning forward until his forehead presses against their conjoined hands. Lionel shifts on the mattress until he can reach over and place his own hand over where Belle's shin is under the hospital blanket. She gives my hand, which happens to still be gripping hers, a reassuring squeeze. Which I can't help but feel is all sorts of wrong since she's the one who needs the comforting.

"Sometimes I just feel like—" Steph seems to catch himself for a moment. "I don't understand why he refuses to see you."

"Your father means well, Stephen. You shouldn't hold this against him."

Steph raises his head up and bewilderment flashes in his eyes. "He means well? Means well? Mom, he is your husband, and yet he can't even spare five minutes to come and visit you in the Goddamn hospital! I can't just—"

"Stephen." Her tone is sharp and stern, but not unkind. "You know I don't like you swearing, nor do I like you speaking that way about your father." She pulls her hand out of his and raises it up to cup his face. "He is my husband, Stephen," she says, her voice softer now, "and I know he has his reasons for not being here. But in time, he'll come. Just have faith."

There's a long, long moment where nobody says anything. Then Steph nods, leaning down to give his mom a kiss on the forehead. He looks to me and Lionel. "Will you two be okay here?" he asks, but I can hear the real question underneath. Can I trust you to not do or say anything stupid when I'm gone?

I roll my eyes. "Go already. Don't worry. We're not gonna kidnap your mom and take her skydiving or anything like that."

"Is that supposed to be reassuring? Because it's really not, Quin."

"Oh, go already, you worrywart," laughs Belle, her previously solemn attitude seeming to evaporate in the blink of an eye. "We'll be fine. Won't we, boys?" She winks at me and I wink right back.

"Oh, God, why is there winking? No winking, please."

I take hold of Steph's shoulders and maneuver him around so that he's facing the doorway, then give him a slight shove. "Go!" I order, the edges of my lips twitching up into an unbidden smile. "Your mother is a capable, independent woman who does not need her overbearing son coddling her."

"Overbearing? Your coffee machine is going to pay for that one—"

The rest of his retort is cut off when the door slides shut. Which is a blessing in and of itself. If he continued saying what I think he was gonna say, I'd be having nightmares of coffee-less mornings for the rest of my life.

I return to Belle's bedside and plop into the stool once more. "Belle, we need to talk."

"About how you and my son are ridiculously head over heels for each other?"

I choke on my spit while Lionel bursts out laughing, using this moment as a distraction to make another grab for the Jell-O. He's not successful.

"I—what—no!" I exclaim. See, it's moments like these that I think call for wild flailing of the arms. "No," I repeat, more forcefully this time. "We are not doing this right now, Belle. I am not going to have a conversation with my best friend's mother about our non-existent attractions for each other. No. That is just—no. Not happening."

"Aw, Belle, you're embarrassing him," Lionel says through a mouthful of pancakes that Belle had left uneaten. "He's blushing. Isn't he precious?"

I swat at his head, but he ducks the blow effortlessly. "Belle, I'm serious. Steele and I need to talk to you." He pauses in his chewing, his jaw now working for a completely different reason.

Belle narrows her eyes at me. "If this is about Victor—"

"Fuck, yeah, it's about Victor," Steele grumbles, the fork in his hand clattering onto the hospital tray. "Belle, you can't just be okay with—"

She cuts him off with a whack to the arm. "No swearing."

I roll my eyes. "Belle—"

"And definitely no discussing such depressing matters."

I groan, resting my face in my hands. "I guess he gets his stubbornness from you too," I mutter.

She sighs, ruffling my hair. "Boys, I know you mean well. Really, I do. But this is something for me and Victor to discuss on our own."

I drop my arms, frustrated and exasperated. "Oh, no, you're right, of course, of course." I pause, feigning consideration as I make a show of tapping my finger against my chin. "Oh, wait. Except for the part where you can't really discuss anything if the bastard isn't ever around," I point out, dropping the act and opting to scowl at the wall.

"Quin, don't do this," she says, her voice soft but strained.

"Do what?" I snap. "Remind you just how much of an asshole your husband is? Remind you that your marriage is falling apart—has been falling apart ever since the five of us came into your life?" The second the words leave my mouth, I wish I could take them back, a sharp ache of regret throbbing deep in my chest. But I can't seem to stop. "He doesn't love you anymore, Belle."

"That's not true," she practically whispers, her voice barely audible.

Steele places a hand on my shoulder—to placate me or get me to stop, I don't know, and I don't care—but it doesn't ease my anger in the slightest. "Dude, look, I'm not saying I don't agree with you, but shut up. Seriously. Shut up."

I simply shrug him off. "Oh, come on, Belle!" I jump up, unable to sit still any longer, and begin pacing, my hands gesticulating wildly as I talk. "Get your head out of your ass! That man—"

"That man is my husband." She fixes me with a stern expression, her voice brooking no argument. "And I won't lay here and take this from you. Not you, Quin."

I scoff, running a hand through my hair. "I need some air," I mutter before shoving open the door and striding out.

So. I'm kind of an asshole. Nothing new there.

Once outside, with the sun shining down on me and soft breeze blowing past, I fish out my lighter and a pack of smokes from my pocket. Placing a cigarette in my mouth, I light it and inhale.

Fuck, but I needed that.

"Dude. What the hell is wrong with you?"

I startle, almost dropping my cigarette. "Son of a bitch-fuck," I hiss, glowering at Lionel. "Would you make some noise when you walk, goddamn it?"

"Belle is in there on the verge of tears, asswaffle." He crosses his arms, meeting my gaze evenly.

I blow smoke in his face, but he remains unmoving, unfazed. I run a hand down my face, self-loathing a tangible and strangling lump in my throat, making it hard to breathe. The smoking probably doesn't help.

"When I said that I wanted to talk to her about Victor, I didn't mean I wanted to make a dying woman cry—"

"Don't you think I know that?" I glance up sharply at him. "Don't you think I hate myself enough for what I said?"

"No," he replies immediately, certainty a hard edge in his voice, and I recoil from the word as if it'd hurt me physically. He's right, of course. There's no denying it, not to myself. Especially not to myself. "Belle's practically your mom, man. Hell, she's been a mom to every fucked up person living in Steph's mansion." He huffs, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans, seeming to take a moment to compose himself.

"But, look, man. I'm not saying I forgive you. 'Cause I don't. But you know Steph hates it when you blame yourself for shit," he says, looking down, scuffing his shoe against the ground, and my eyebrows are dangerously close to floating straight off my head now.

"Is that your way of saying you hate it too?"

"Shut up," he growls, but he doesn't deny it.

One side of my lips kicks up into a half-smile. "Aw, you do care."

He kicks my shin. "Just go in there and apologize already, asshat."

 

~ * ~

 

I stand before Belle's hospital room door, most definitely not fidgeting with the small wooden box in my hands and stalling for as long as possible.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, would you just go in already?"

I attempt to project daggers at Lionel with my eyes, but they only bounce off him without doing any lasting damage.

"What the hell's your problem now?" he groans.

Like I'm going to admit that I'm afraid I'll mess things up even more than I already have.

I'm good at that. Messing things up, breaking things, ruining things. I'm not good at apologies.

"Maybe I should just come back la—"

"Oh, for fuck's—" Interrupting himself, Steele yanks open the door and unceremoniously thrusts me into the room. Then gives me a very unwelcome slap to the ass. "For good luck!" he informs me with the cheesiest smile I've ever seen plastered on his face and both thumbs held up. Then the door shuts.

But not before I mime strangling him. And ripping his head off.

Bracing myself, I slowly turn on my heel so that I'm facing Belle. "Um. So."

She arches a single eyebrow. "So."

I clear my throat. "Um. Something." Her lips twitch and I quickly amend my not-a-sentence. "Something. I got you something."

Curiosity flickers across her face, but it's soon replaced with suspicion. "What is it?"

I shuffle over to her bedside and place the rectangular box in her hand. It's nothing special, really, decorated with simple yet elegant designs etched onto its surface. She opens it up, and a soft, tinkling melody fills the silence of the room.

She gasps, her eyes widening slightly. "This . . ."

"Yeah." I scratch at the back of my head.

"But I thought you'd burned it."

My stance shifts from embarrassed to defensive in a split second. "I told you, I didn't set your goddamn house on fire," I grumble, but there's no real heat in my words.

Her old house just happened to be yet another victim of our friendly neighborhood arsonist. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

She laughs, shaking her head. "Quin, this is amazing. How did you . . . ?"

I shrug. Guess we're back to embarrassed now. "Steph drew me a picture, played me the melody. Took a while, but I found an exact replica in one of those sleazy pawn shops." I decide not to mention how the rat bastard who owned the shop had me shelling out fifty bucks for the damn thing. "I know it's not the same thing but you can't really tell the difference and I'm sorry about what happened earlier and I was gonna give this to you for your birthday next week but I decided, hey, why not now, you know?"

Her lips quirk up in amusement, not missing the apology that I'd slipped oh-so-casually into my babbling. "I know."

The lump in my throat dissolves.

 

~ * ~

 

"No. You can't make me," I say into the couch cushions, lying on my stomach.

A hand pinches my side. "A little cardio wouldn't hurt, you know."

I twist my head around to fix Jules with my best withering glare. It has no effect on her. I groan, turning my face back into the cushions. "That is an utter and complete lie. I have the body of a twenty-five-year-old model."

She snorts delicately. "More like 2500."

Without looking up, I toss a throw pillow at her. Without looking up, I know she dodged it.

"You're the one who asked for my help," she reminds me, the couch shifting as she settles her weight down on it.

"Yes," I concede, "yes, I did. I asked for you to help me improve my self-defense skills, not turn my muscles into spaghetti."

"Gym. Two minutes."

"Ten."

"One minute and fifty-eight seconds."

"I hate you."

"Fifty-five seconds."

"Is your clock fast? 'Cause it seems fast."

"Forty-three."

"Okay, you are definitely speeding up now. Stop that, stop that right now."

"Thirty."

I flop over onto my back to glower at her. She meets my gaze with steely eyes and a quirked eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Seventeen."

I grab a throw pillow and press it into my face. Maybe if I hold it there long enough and hard enough, I'll suffocate to death.

"I don't feel so good," I tell her, using my most convincing voice. Which isn't that hard since I really don't feel good.

There's this strange churning in my stomach, and my head feels like it's about to explode. No amount of aspirin or magic seems to have any effect on it. My bones seem to creak with every movement, my muscles ache as if I'd just run the length of the equator wearing ankle weights and lugging a hundred-pound bag of rocks on my back. I feel like I'm 3072 years old.

Not the first time I've felt my age.

But this is different. Because now the pounding in my head seems like an almost tangible force in my skull, wrapping around my thoughts, crushing them, confining them, confining me. Trapping me.

The sensation of a knife being run through the side of my head comes sharp and strong, leaving me gasping and trembling.

"Rey?" I hear faintly. I think it's Jules's voice. I'm not sure. I'm not sure of anything anymore except the pain.

My body is on fire. I'm burning. Burning, charring, blistering. Turning into ashes.

I cry out when my insides seem to be trying to force themselves out of my body, pushing themselves against the walls of my flesh, my skin.

"Quin!"

I try to scream again, but my throat won't work. My lungs are collapsing in on themselves. Breath. Air. Need it. Need—

"Quin!"

My last coherent thought is a plea for unconsciousness to just take me already. And thank fuck when it does.

8: Chapter 7

JULIA

Years of being an assassin, hiding in the shadows, growing up as a killer—none of it has prepared me for this. Learning how to decapitate a grown man with a stapler at the age of five sure as hell isn't of any practical use here. Decades of martial arts training—aikodo, jujutsu, kendo and kenjutsu, kung fu, vovinam—can't possibly help me in this situation.

But being born a kitsune, of magic. That helps—only marginally so, but it's something. Even if nobody ever really taught me how to be a kitsune.

I could try to convince myself that I'm seeing double, that maybe taking down that 200-pound brute the night before took more of a toll on me than I thought. But I'm too good for that.

No. There's no mistaking it. There are now two Quintens sprawled out on the rec room floor.

I hate magic.

I crouch down on my knees to inspect the second Quin. He looks exactly the same, down to the diagonal scar on the left side of his neck. Except for the beard. The second Quin's got a beard, neat and trimmed and reminiscent of the fictional character Tony Stark's own beard.

Not that I'd ever admit to knowing this. Deadly assassins simply don't read comics. If knowledge of this got out, it'd soil my dastardly name.

He's naked too, so the dragon tattoo emblazoned on the right side of his chest is easily visible, beautiful and intricate and wholly identical to Quin's own. Purple scales, body coiled into a tight circle, wings spread into large arcs, each tip meeting at the bottom of its body. But unlike Quin's dragon, which only has black empty space for eyes, there are blue irises in this one.

His body twitches and I ready myself for an attack. But it doesn't come. He remains unconscious. I turn my attention to his face and pry open an eyelid. Blue irises.

Quin, the original Quin, groans, and I make my way to his side.

He blinks up at me, confused and disoriented. "Mom?"

I stare at him for a moment. "No. It's Julia. Do you remember me?"

It takes a while, but eventually he nods. "I . . . Yeah. Yeah, I do. Sorry."

I shake my head. "Don't worry about it." I place an arm around his shoulders, help him get into a sitting position. "Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?"

"Um, no, I don't—I don't think so and holy FUCK, who the hell is THAT?!"

I probably should've eased him into that. "Rey, calm down—"

"Calm down? CALM DOWN? Are you fucking KIDDING ME?" He shoves at me, scrambling back and away like a crab. He narrows his eyes. "Did you do this? Is this your sick way of getting my ass into the gym? Because if it is, okay, fine, I'll run, I'll lift, I'll spar, I'll do anything, just—oh, GOD, just MAKE IT GO AWAY."

"Rey—"

"How'd you even do that? You can't possibly have the means or the brains to clone me so quickly and completely and—oh, shit, uh, no offense, I mean, of course, you're beautiful and gorgeous and amazing and please don't rip my balls off." He raises an arm in front of his face, as if that'll ward off any attempts to castrate him.

Not that I'm going to do that. But it's a close call. A very . . . very close call.

"If you'd shut up for five minutes, Rey, maybe I'd have a chance to explain what's going on before you go pointing fingers."

"Well, can you?"

My eyes flicker to the still prone and unconscious nude body five feet away, then back. "No," I admit.

"Jesus Christ, Jules, how long was I out?"

"Ten minutes." Eight minutes and forty-seven seconds, to be exact about it. Or, as Quin puts it, to be completely anal and a show-off about it.

"What happened before that?"

"I couldn't really tell," I say, going back over to inspect Quin's doppelganger. "There was too much light, I couldn't make out much. He just seemed to . . . pull himself out of you," I eventually settle on.

"Oh, yeah, no, real descriptive, Jules, thanks. Heap o' help, really."

I glower at him. "Do you think this is any easier on me?" I ask, rhetorical.

Of course, Rey answers anyway. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do, seeing how the guy is a complete, exact copy of ME." He seems to consider something for a moment, then rubs at his jaw. "Why can't I grow a beard?" he mutters to himself.

I abruptly stand up, then walk over to the drawers beside the couch and begin sifting through their contents.

"What the fuck are you doing now?"

I don't look up. "Searching for my cyanide pills."

". . . You keep cyanide pills in the rec room drawers?"

Or maybe I'll just die from an aneurysm. Hell, if all else fails, I've got a gun taped under the coffee table (and behind the couch and in a secret compartment under the kitchen sink and under a dummy board in the stairs).

 

~ * ~

 

The doorbell rings, probably Lionel and Steph back from grocery shopping (usually not a two-man job, but it's never a good idea to trust Lionel to venture out alone). Quin and I share a look, then hiss a curse in unison. "Shit."

"Okay, you get him into the—"

"What, me? I just got fucking duplicated—"

"I swear to god, Rey—"

Ding-dong.

"Jesus Christ, why is he naked—"

"I don't know, Rey, he came out of you—"

"Oh, god, please stop, that sounds so fucking wrong in so many ways—"

Ding-dong. Knock knock knock.

Frustrated (because I've hidden countless bodies before and there is simply no reason that this one should be any different—objectively speaking), I drop the doppelganger's legs and Quin staggers under the full weight of its body. "Holy fuck, woulda been nice if you'd fucking warned me—"

I don't hear the rest of his sentence, walking briskly out of the rec room and towards the front door. I swing it open and Lionel storms in, enviable chestnut hair flying out behind him.

"Don't you two have keys?" I ask, foolishly expecting an answer.

"I can't believe this! Cap, I can't do this. I refuse to live here anymore."

Steph steps in after him, quietly closing the door. I turn to him. "What—"

"What happened?" Lionel exclaims, cutting me off. A small spike of irritation pulses through me. I don't do well with interruptions. "What happened? I'll tell you what fucking happened. That bastard Rey went and—" An unpleasant rumbling noise emanates from his stomach. "Excuse me for one second," he growls, then practically flies up the stairs, his feet a blur of movement.

I look to Steph, hoping he can offer a more intelligible explanation. He does.

"Laxative brownies."

It's not right to laugh when one of your closest friends is cooped up in the bathroom with diarrhea. But damn it. Potty humor, while crude, is always amusing. Even Steph, though he ducks his head to hide it, is smiling.

"Oh, god, it's like a fucking flamethrower in my ass!" Lionel's anguished cry can be heard.

"Those two will end up killing each other one day," I say, and will deny anything resembling an undertone of affection.

"Maybe we can get a discount for their funerals. You know, like a two-for-one."

I crack a smile at that. "I never realized you were so thrifty, Cap."

He groans. "Oh, not you too. How did such a harebrained nickname like Captain Awesome catch on so quickly and completely?"

"I can't possibly have this much shit in my body!"

"Um, Jules, a little help in here?"

Shit. "A minute!" I call out towards the general vicinity of the rec room.

"Is that Quin?" Steph glances at me. "Is something wrong?"

"You know him," I say with a small shrug. "He goes crying for help when he gets a paper cut. It's probably nothing."

Of course, Steph being Steph, completely ignores me and begins trekking towards the sound of Rey's voice.

"Oh, my GOD."

"Oh, um, fuck, okay, Steph, before you freak out—"

"Quin, please, please tell me you did not kill this man while having sex with him."

"What—wait, what? No! Are you—just look at him—"

"No, thank you."

"Okay, probably a good idea seeing how the guy looks exactly like me and—"

"He what—oh, my GOD."

I step into the room just in time to see Steph quickly tilt his head back to stare at the ceiling, adamantly avoiding looking at Quin's naked clone. And blushing profusely.

"Julia, please tell me what's going on."

"Don't freak out on me, Cap." I place a hand on his shoulder, refusing to let Lionel's "Oh, god, the smell! This can't be normal. This is toxic. That bastard poisoned me!" distract me or faze me in the slightest. "We can fix this."

"Yes, that sounds like a good idea. Clothes too. Let's put some clothes on him."

I nod in agreement. There's only so much nakedness I can take in one given day.

 

~ * ~

 

"I think he's bigger than you, Rey."

"What—are you kidding me? He is most definitely not. If anything, he's smaller than—no, actually, not important. What is important is why the hell have you been eyeing my junk?"

"I've gotta compare myself to somebody."

"What, feeling inadequate in bed?"

"Oh, fuck you, lizard."

"Right back at ya, ya fleabag freak."

"I told you, that was all Max—"

Maximilian, sprawled out on the couch, sits up, ears twitching, and barks defensively. Sitting next to him, I reach over and run a soothing hand through his fur.

Quin scoffs. "You really are an asshole, blaming the poor, innocent dog—"

"Enough!"

The two idiots finally shut up and I pinch the bridge of my nose. "We need help."

"No shit, Einsteinette." I shoot Lionel a look, but he only sinks lower into the couch, arms folded in front of his chest.

"I've already called Preston," says Steph from beyond the doorway to the rec room.

"Damn it, Steph, would you just get in here?" Rey calls out.

"No, not until you put some clothes on that man."

Quin rolls his eyes, also sinking further into the couch. "No, no way. I am not letting some clone freak wear my clothes."

My hand twitches towards the gun taped on the wall behind the couch and Max nuzzles it, almost as if sensing my sudden suicidal urges.

"I'm really not comfortable being in a room when you're naked, Quin."

"But I'm not—"

"He looks like you. Close enough."

Rey groans, muttering something about making a noose out of the phone cord. I'd be right there with him except, well, all our phones are wireless.

"Hey, you guys, I just saw Preston walk in, is something the m—" Cass stops short, surveying the scene with wide eyes. Then the shock melts into something resembling exasperation as he addresses Quin and Lionel. "What'd you two do?"

"Oh, what, he looks like me so it's suddenly my fault?"

"Babe, tell him how big my dick is!"

"Yes, and no." Cass runs a hand down his face. "Your . . . endowment is really something I'd rather not discuss with our friends, Lionel."

"Um, can we get back to the matter at hand, please? Y'know. The imposter freak lying naked on the couch," Rey grouses.

"Oh, what, can't handle ten seconds out of the spotlight?"

"One more word, Steele, and I'll rip the wolf right out of you."

"You can't do that!" Lionel glances at Preston. "Can he?"

"No."

"HA!"

"Damn it, Pres!"

"Or perhaps he can. I don't know, I don't care." Preston moves to stand beside the other Quin, setting his bag of bottles and trinkets and whatever the hell else on the coffee table.

"HA!"

"Damn it, Pres!"

I come to stand by the elderly man's side, ready to assist should the need arise. "Besides the beard," he asks me, "is there anything else different about him?"

"His eyes are blue."

Preston's eyebrows seem to arch off his head and he cocks his head to the side. "Really now?" he mumbles under his breath.

"Is that important?" I inquire.

He narrows his eyes, nodding slowly. "Perhaps." He reaches into his bag and retrieves a small packet of smelling salts.

I grab his wrist, stopping him. "Is that really a good idea?"

He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. "I don't know. But there's little we can find out if we don't talk to him."

I consider his words for a long, long moment, then nod my approval. I step back, muscles coiled tight, preparing myself for whatever may come when the figure wakes. Even Quin and Lionel are quiet now, a tense air of silence enveloping the occupants of the room.

Preston rips the packet open and brings it over to the duplicate's nose. His face jerks to the side and he snorts. I tense. But he doesn't wake.

Preston frowns, tearing open another one and repeating the same process. Still nothing.

"Strange," he mutters. "I suppose we'll just have to—"

Without warning, the nude figure on the couch shoots upright with a loud gasp, eyelids flying open. Everybody jumps back; I get into a fighting stance, legs spread, knees bent, arms at the ready. The doppelganger just sits there, inhaling noisily and exhaling just as loudly, as if breathing for the very first time.

"What—" He's interrupted by a coughing fit before trying again. "Who—Where am I?"

"Do you know who you are?" I reply instead with a question.

He swings his legs over the edge of the couch to plant his feet on the ground, seemingly unbothered by his nudity. Or maybe he just doesn't notice.

"I . . . No."

"Do you remember anything before you got here?"

He shakes his head.

"Great. Perfect. He's useless. I say we knock him out and toss his body in a dumpster somewhere." The clone stares blankly at Quin. "Oh, god, stop that, stop that right now, that is beyond creepy."

"I don't understand what's happening right now."

"Don't worry 'bout him," Lionel says, waving a dismissive hand at Quin. "He's just jealous that you have a beard and he doesn't."

"I am not!"

Lionel looks to me for confirmation. I nod. "Jealous."

"You two are just out to make my life miserable and—"

"Do you remember anything about yourself?" I interject.

The duplicate shakes his head once more.

"Again, useless. Dumpster. C'mon, somebody back me up here."

"Shut it, Rey." I turn to Preston. "What do you suggest we do now?"

The elderly man tugs at his shoulder-length gray hair consideringly. "There's really not much we can do except keep him here and watch over—"

Suddenly, abruptly, the doppelganger doubles over, grabbing at his chest, the glowing tattoo. Immediately after, or perhaps at the same time, Quin cries out, hands scrabbling at his own chest, at the light shining through the fabric of his shirt.

Steph comes rushing in, and straight to Quin's side. "Quin! Quin, what's wrong?"

The glow only brightens, like the light that had appeared right before the duplicate did, and the sound of a clock . . . a clock tick-tick-ticking fills the room, my ears, my head. Then the ear-splitting shatter of breaking glass and one final, terrifying, blood-curdling scream.

Eventually, silence.

9: Chapter 8

JEXICA

"How did you get in here?"

I sip at my drink and cross my legs. I hate coming here. The neighborhood is filled with thieves and criminals and crackheads, every corner littered with prostitutes. It reeks of desperation and poverty, crushed dreams and hopelessness.

"You forget who I am," I say smoothly.

"You mean what you are," the girl spits out. I simply smile. But inside, I am fuming. This mortal human, who lives in a run-down apartment complete with moldy ceilings and leaky faucets, has the audacity to speak to me this way?

"Don't forget, darling dearest," I purr, calm tone of voice belying my fury, "I can and will kill you if I do so please."

She scowls at me. "What do you want?"

"I've already executed phase one, but I need more information on him," I reply. I don't have to clarify who I'm talking about. We both know she knows.

She settles at the other end of the couch, putting as much distance between us as she can. I smirk—I never tire of making these people squirm—before closing my eyes and inhaling deeply.

Ah, the smell of fear. Delicious.

"I've told you everything I know," she snaps, obstinately keeping up a courageous front even as sweat pools on her forehead.

I down the last of my drink and toss the glass to the side. It shatters when it connects with the wall, and I notice with pleasure when she flinches.

"Well, I need more," I tell her.

"Why don't you just ask the Fragment?"

A soft growl, barely audible, emanates from deep in my chest. "Because I don't trust him."

"And you trust me?" she asks, bemused.

I scoff. "Don't flatter yourself."

"And how exactly do you expect me to acquire this information you seek?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Tch. Must you really ask? Just how stupid are you? Stephen Rosai is your brother, you insufferable girl. Getting closeshouldn't be an issue."

Her face reddens and her hands ball into tight fists. "Look, you mutant, I'm not—"

Her words are cut off when in one swift move, I have her pinned up against the nearby wall by her neck. She claws at my hand, choked and garbled sounds escaping from her constricted windpipe.

"Must I remind you," I drawl lazily, "just how powerless you are compared to me?" And just to further prove my point, I tighten my hold around her throat, my nails digging into the back of her neck. She feebly flails her legs around, eyes almost bulging out of her head. I eventually release her, and she falls to the ground in a heap, coughing and gasping for oxygen.

I look down my nose at her. Pathetic. And she calls herself a Dragonslayer. "You get me what I want, darling dearest. I won't ask you again."

"Whoa, am I interrupting something here?"

I whirl around, berating myself for not having sensed his presence. Very few people can take me by surprise, and the fact that he has that ability is frustrating to no end.

I glower at him, but his bright blue eyes never waver. "What are you doing here?" I sneer with hardly concealed disdain. "Shouldn't you be playing mind games with your other half?"

"He's not really my other half, though," he muses, tapping his chin, eyes studying the ceiling. "He's more like my other three-quarters."

"What are you doing here?" I repeat, my patience waning thin.

"Oh, don't be like that, Jex—"

"Don't call me that."

"I know you missed me," he sings, cocking his head to the side, a lopsided smile plastered on his face.

The side of my lip twitches up in disgust. "You sicken me."

"Y'know," he sighs, "one of these days, you will succumb to my charms." I remain unimpressed. He frowns. "Fine, ya wanna know why I'm here? Your little lover nerd is busy fawning over Etrys and hogging his company. The original Etrys, I mean." He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the pockets of his jeans.

"You can't smoke in here—"

"I've done my job," he goes on to say, completely ignoring the girl and lighting his cigarette with a small exhalation of fire. "I let your creepy boyfriend use my part of the Crystal to bring Etrys back to your little hellhole. He tried to stop it, went so far as to pull out his own and smash it against the ground." He chuckles, almost as if in amused disbelief, taking a long drag from his little cancer stick. "Hurt like hell too, but, hey, all for the sake of your new plan, right?"

"What new plan?"

"You moron!" I snarl at him.

He only beams at me, eyes dancing with mischief and glee. "Oops."

I reluctantly tear my eyes away from the man, still unable to trust him for even one second out of my sight, and look down at the girl on the floor. She climbs to her feet achingly slow, a hand held tenderly around her throat.

"What is he talking about?"

"That is none of your business," I tell her.

She scowls at me, a look that seems to always be accompanied with my presence. "I have everything at stake here," she says, voice scratchy and hoarse. "If you two plan on jeopardizing my success at revenge, then—"

"Jesus, do you need, like, a cough drop or something?" the man asks, reclining on the couch and looking for all the world as if he were sunbathing on the beach.

"I am not," the girl grits out,"in the mood for jokes, you fucking—"

He rolls his eyes. "Fine, fine," he accedes, waving his hand carelessly. "So there's been a change in plans," he says with a shrug.

"What?" the girl growls angrily. "And why the hell wasn't I informed?"

"Jesus, you two areuptight."

"Would you cut the crap, dragon?"

He only smiles at her. "'Dragon'? How impersonal, I'm hurt, truly. C'mon, where's the camaraderie? The companionship? I would've thought we'd at least be on a last-name basis by now."

"You're nothing but a Fragment of Etrys," I tell him. "You don't have a last name."

He rolls his eyes once more, head moving with the action. "Semantics," he dismisses easily. He shifts on the couch so that his feet are propped up against the back and his head is hanging upside-down, hair just brushing against the ground. "We've decided that we don't want him deadquite just yet."

Understanding fills the girl's eyes. "Because of his Crystal."

"Because of his—our—Crystal," he confirms.

"I thought you said getting it would be impossible," she reminds us suspiciously, gaze flickering between me and him through narrowed eyes.

"We've found his weakness," I answer before the Fragment can. "But once we're through with him, you can do with him as you please."

"Ooh, kinky."

I glare at the man. "This is serious. You'd do well to treat it as such."

"Oh, lighten up," he says, pushing his legs against the wall and flipping over onto his feet. He turns to face us. "Why pull out the big guns if you won't let 'em have a little fun?" There's a short moment of silence before: "And, yeah, the big guns mean me."

I have to hold myself in check, my fingers twitching with the unbidden urge to just kill him already.

"Why do you want his Crystal?" the girl asks.

"You know why," the Fragment says, falling back onto the couch, legs sprawling open lazily, arms slinging haphazardly across the back of the couch.

"You know I can't let you do that."

He raises an eyebrow at her. "And what're you gonna do? Kill me? You wouldn't really do that to your dearly awesome brother, would you?"

"You're not my brother," she snaps, clenching her fists.

"Not yet I'm not," he replies cryptically with an equally abstruse smile.

"You can't be serious," she says, her tone laced with disbelief.

"As a funeral, baby doll."

"You actually think your other half will still be alive to marry Stephen after I'm through with him? Considering he'll even still want to after I tell him what that bastard dragon did to me?"

His eyes harden and his tone takes on a rare serious note. "I may be separated from him right now, but make no mistake. Etrys and I are one and the same. He is me and I am him. And I can truthfully tell you right now that I had nothing to do with that." A flicker of some indescribable emotion flashes through the girl's eyes, there and gone in a second. "But believe what you want, Claire," he finishes.

"Don't talk to me like you know me," she seethes, her earlier animosity returning full force.

"You'll get your revenge," I cut in, not wanting the situation to grow out of hand. "Do not worry."

She turns to me, pupils so dilated, her eyes look black. "I'm a Slayer," she proclaims. "It is my job to rid the world of dragons and whatever powers their Crystals possess." Here she glances pointedly at the Fragment. "All of them."

"And you will. After we're done getting what we need from it," I assure her, eyes flitting only momentarily to the man.

Her gaze turns downcast, inner turmoil over whether or not to trust me displayed so clearly in her brown eyes. "Fine," she eventually spits out. "But if you get in my way, then—"

"I've heard it all before, darling," says the man. "There is absolutely nothing you can say to scare me." He halters consideringly. "Unless it's that I'm going to go bald in another lifetime." He shivers in stupidly genuine horror.

I don't respond to him in any way, opting instead to speak to the girl. "Remember what we talked about," I say. And with that, I leave the wretched place, glad to finally escape the stench of urine and decaying wood, the Fragment tagging along behind me with a cheeky farewell to the girl Dragonslayer.

Once outside, he tips an imaginary hat at me before sardonically telling me that he's going "out," but he'll be back in time for dinner. As he walks off, silhouette fading in and out of sight as he walks down the deserted sidewalk lit only by the streetlights lining it, I call out silently into the night for my dear Aurelia.

She immediately appears, wings flapping soundlessly through the air as she comes to perch on my shoulder. Her falcon eyes peer questioningly at me as she ruffles her feathers, always so ready to listen and obey. A perfect symbol of trustworthiness and obedience.

"Follow him," I command her.

Without a moment's hesitation, she takes off after the Fragment.

10: Chapter 9

A/N: So. Preemptive apology here. This isn't my best writing. But my muse seems to have ditched me for the moment.

I think she ran off with that bastard of a hunky inspirational figure to the beach. To sunbathe or inspire other beach-goers? No idea. There aren't any "Handling Disloyal Muses for Dummies" books out there.

Whatever the case, I hope you still enjoy the chapter. And be assured that when I find that bitch, I'll belt out an "awesome-sauce amazeballs" chapter (the words my little cousin used to cheer me up) to make up for it.

 

~ * ~

 

STEPHEN

Quin has many looks. Too many to really keep track of, but from the moment I met him, I made it my life's purpose to catalogue each and every one of them.

There's the one he gets when he's especially focused on something—his brow furrows, a row of straight, white teeth mangle his bottom lip, and his nose scrunches up ever so slightly. Then there's that cool, blank, emotionless slate he wears when he's vulnerable and defensive and maybe even hurting, but unable—or more, unwilling to talk to anyone about it.

There's the look he gets when he's cooking, that soft, small smile on his lips, eyes bright and crinkling at the edges. Happy. There's the look he gets when he's craving a drink or a cigarette, a twitch of the eye, a fist clenched just a little too tightly, lips pressed into a thin line.

There's also one he gets when he locks himself down in the basement and begins tinkering around with whatever it is that he does—mixing chemicals, stirring concoctions, brewing potions. Or maybe he's surrounded by an innumerable amount of books, flitting from one to the other like some beautiful, manic butterfly eager and hungry for the sweet knowledge being offered up to him from the thin pages. Or perhaps he's taking things apart just to put them back together again, making them better, improving them, adding new, flashy, superfluous features to them.

I'm down there with him more often than not, just watching him work, drawing, or playing fetch with Max when the German shepherd's not preoccupied with fulfilling his role as Quin's unofficial (and surprisingly competent) assistant.

The look in his eyes when he's working—bright and wild and completely disconnected from the rest of the world—never ceases to make my hands itch for a pencil and a sketchbook, to capture that look forever on paper. I've got a whole notebook filled with just Quin, the different faces he has, both the ones I strive to see and the ones I wish I could erase away as easily as I do with pencil marks on paper. His eyes, his rare, real smiles, his toned but not overly muscular arms that bare themselves every time he wears that damned skin-tight tank top that drives me absolutely crazy with . . . something.

I just never thought I'd see him naked.

Oh, sure, it's not like I never thought about it. Quin is an attractive man, in that roguishly charming way—dark brown hair not too long but not too short either, bangs constantly falling into his eyes and having to be blown away by pursed lips. And don't even get me started on those lips. Or those eyes—a stormy, fearsome gray when he's angry; pale and sparkling when he's smiling.

But those are thoughts that haunt my dreams. And I sure as hell didn't think it'd happen like this.

I bury my face in my hands, doing my very best to ignore Quin and Lionel's bickering about the former's . . . equipment.

"Steph?"

I jolt, glancing up sharply. I relax when I realize it's Cass. Then I tense up again when I realize it's Cass. I jump to my feet, stopping him from walking past me and the doorway into the rec room. He glances at me, puzzled and . . . ragged. His eyes seem exceptionally hollow and sunken; prominent lines bracket his mouth, but they're not from laughter.

"Rough day?"

He runs a hand through his hair, down his face. "Amelia Cohen," he whispers eventually, brokenly, shaking his head. "Her heart transplant wouldn't take, the immunosuppressants weren't helping, and there wasn't enough time to—" He cuts off with a choked groan. "She was only thirteen." I squeeze his shoulder, unable to offer comfort in words. I don't think there are any in the English language adequate enough.

A long moment passes where neither of us speak, we just stand face-to-face, me with my hand on his shoulder and him with his head hanging down. Then he slowly lifts it up and offers me a tired smile. I smile back as reassuringly as I can.

"So yeah. Rough day. But thanks for askin', Cap."

I bite back the urge to groan yet again. "That name makes me feel like I should be running around in underpants with a bright red cape trailing behind me."

Cass chuckles then, softly and lacking energy, but it's something. "I'm sure Quin would highly appreciate that sight."

I twist my face into an expression of mock horror. "What, and risk getting photographed for future blackmail?"

Cass shakes his head. "Blackmail? I think you and I both know any and all pictures will be up on the internet for all to see the second they're taken." The mock horror turns genuine.

Max barks from inside the rec room, and Cass makes to move towards it but I steer him away. He narrows his eyes at me in justified wariness.

"Cap, what're you hiding from me?"

"What—who—me? Nothing. Nothing, Cass, nothing at all. I just—"

"I've never seen someone lie as badly as you do. Except in movies. And books."

This time I do groan aloud. "Look, it's really not something you want to deal with right now, okay? You've had a rough day, Cass. Just go run a bubble bath or something and go to bed. Trust me."

He scrutinizes me for all of twelve seconds before pulling away and trudging towards the rec room. Towards Quin's naked clone. I go after him but stop short of the doorway once more. I was raised right, dang it, and I appreciate some modesty.

"Hey, you guys, I just saw Preston walk in, is something the m—" A beat of silence. "What'd you two do?"

The poor man really does not deserve to have to deal with this.

I rub at my eyes and sag against the wall beside the doorway. I know I should be in there. I mean, there's a strange, naked man in my home—a man who's a complete duplicate of Quin, no less—and there's this ever-present knot in my gut telling me that something bad is going to happen, that I need to watch him at all costs.

But I can't bring myself to watch him when he's nude.

It's stupid and it's childish and it's prudish, but I can't help it. I didn't get my first kiss 'til I was eighteen—and it was a wholly unpleasant experience. The girl was drunk, smelly, and her strawberry lip gloss didn't appeal to me in the slightest. Plus, she was . . . a she.

I figured out I was gay ages ago. I'm just not exactly out yet.

Well, Mom knows, but that doesn't count. She seems to know everything.

I'm startled out of my stupor by a broken, ragged cry from the rec room. Quin's broken, ragged cry. And I just know, somehow, someway, that it's Quin. My Quin. Not the clone. My thought train derails itself, veering off into who-knows-where, decimated. I rush into the room, eyes taking in as much as possible, to gauge what damage has been done. To gauge just how much I have to hurt that doppelganger.

But that seems to have already been settled for me because he looks to be in just as much pain as Quin is. I stride over to Quin, kneel down beside him where he's laying on the ground, eyes squeezed shut in pain, fingers clawing at his chest, tearing at the fabric of his shirt. And it's . . . glowing.

"Quin! Quin, what's wrong?"

His shirt now nothing but a tattered mess scattered around him, his nails begin scratching against bare skin. Afraid that he'll hurt himself, I grab at his wrists, pinning them down at his side, but he keeps thrashing about, dislodging my hold on him. Eventually, I just straddle his hips.

His eyes fly open suddenly and I fall over to the side in shock. Because they aren't his eyes anymore. They're just . . . empty chasms. Black holes that seem to suck in everything around them and crush it. My breath, my words, my ability to move.

All I can do is lay here, motionless.

Then the tattoo on the right side of his chest, the tattoo of his dragon form, seems to just . . . break open down the middle. A craggy, jagged line appears, cutting down its center. Something . . . There's something in there. Something trying to force itself out and I try to look away, but I can't.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

A clock. Is that a clock?

It's . . . It's coming from Quin's chest. No. No, it . . . the thing coming out of his chest. He reaches his hands up, seems to brace himself, then grabs onto its edge and yanks it out. He screams, loud and chilling and absolutely horrifying.

It's a flower. A crystal flower.

Then it shatters and seems to explode in a blinding conflagration of light.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

 

~ * ~

 

"Five Kamikaze shooters."

I raise my eyebrow at him even as I go about preparing his order. "Not the usual vodka martini?"

He scoffs, leaning heavily against the bar counter and slouching in the barstool. "Bad day."

I nod, sneaking a glance at him. "Wanna talk about it?"

He smiles, the first time since he's walked in today, and shakes his head. "Nothing to talk about," he replies with a shrug. I place the shots before him and he downs them all in one go, face pinching up when he slams down the last one.

My eyebrow only arches higher. "You sure?"

He just gives me a lop-sided grin. "Yeah. I'll be fine. Those jeans of yours sure are helping," he says, exaggerating the way his eyes roam down my body.

I blush anyways. How can I not? He . . . does things to me. I flick my towel at him and he laughs, deep and gravelly and—

"Hey, Rosai! Need your help over here!"

I jump, then smile apologetically at the man sitting across from me. "Sorry," I tell him, motioning towards the sound of the other bartender's voice, "I've gotta—"

He waves me off, then begins fiddling with the empty shot glasses.

Half an hour later, I step out of the bar and into the crisp night air. I rub at my left cheek, at the bruise I got trying to break up one of the rowdier bar fights I've had the displeasure of seeing in the years I've been a bartender. I sigh, and a puff of air appears before my face. Right now, all I want to do is go home, throw on some sweatpants, curl up on the couch, and watch some Saturday Night Live until I fall asleep.

"Hey, Muscles."

I startle, whirling around to face the voice. I instantly relax upon realizing who it is, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets. I beam at him, thoughts of the bar fight and my sore cheek already vaporizing.

"Hey," I say in greeting, then frown. "What're you doing here?"

He grins, stepping forward. Instead of answering my question, he replies with, "Lemme buy you a drink."

I laugh, shaking my head. "You know I don't drink, Quin."

"Yes, which is complete and utter blasphemy. What kind of bartender doesn't drink?"

"I just got off a five-hour long shift. I'd really rather not set foot into another bar."

His smile doesn't falter. "Dinner then."

I roll my eyes. "It's almost midnight. Little late for dinner, don't you think?"

He tosses his arms up in exasperation. "Y'know, Rosai, I try and I try, but you are making this wooing thing very hard on me."

"Maybe you're just bad at wooing," I tell him with a shrug.

He folds his arms in front of his chest. "I am oozing with charm, how dare you."

"Uh-huh."

"Oh, you don't believe me?" He arches an eyebrow. "One date with me would blow any and all previous dates you've had combined right out of the water."

"Oh, I'm sure."

"It would!" he insists, coming to stand beside me and slinging an arm around my shoulders. With his free hand, he raises it up, as if envisioning some giant marquee sign in the night sky. "Just imagine it, Steph. I'd take you to the classiest restaurant money can afford—"

"And where would this money come from?"

"—or maybe a picnic on a rooftop somewhere—y'know, when it's not so cold," he continues without missing a beat. "I'd make all your favorites too—"

"How could you possibly know what my favorite foods are?" I ask. We've only known each other for a month or two, and all our conversing has been done in the bar when there's a lull in customers or I have a small break.

"—lamb chops, a refreshing fruit salad, lemonade, that bacon noodle soup monstrosity that can't possibly be edible, and some good ol' apple pie," he finishes.

I gape at him. "I . . . How do you—"

His smile doesn't diminish, but it seems to soften around the edges as he looks at me. "It's me, Cap."

I furrow my brow. "I think you've had a bit too much to drink, Quin."

He positions himself in front of me, placing his hands on my hips, and I swear that I can feel the heat of his body even through all these layers of clothing.

I've never really taken his flirting seriously. Quin flirts like he breathes air, effortlessly and without thinking. The attention's nice and the banter's fun, but I'm not stupid. I know better than to let myself get fooled into thinking this could be anything more, anything serious.

But the way he's looking at me.

"We first met on a ship. Your ship."

I try to take a step back but he follows me, hands still planted firmly on my hips. "I don't have a ship, Quin. You're drunk."

"No," he tells me firmly, shaking his head, his hair swinging with the force of it. "I know you remember."

"Quin," I say, helpless and just utterly confused, "I don't know what you're talking about."

He leans in impossibly closer, pressing his body flush against mine, and my breath catches in my throat. "You do," he breathes, lips inches away from my own. He grabs my hand and places it on his chest, to the right, and a flicker of . . . something passes through me. With his other, he reaches up to stroke my left cheek. And the pain disappears.

"Etrys," I say before I even realize I'm saying it.

He grins at me, elated. "Yeah. Yeah, baby. It's me."

 

~ * ~

 

The first thing I register upon waking is voices. Familiar voices. They don't make any sense, not yet, not so soon after just waking up. But it doesn't matter because I already know who they are. So I know I'm safe.

Cass's soothing baritone washes through my haze of half-sleep. Something about somebody going missing. Missing . . . Who's missing?

". . . can't really . . . supposed to do . . . Quin's not . . ."

Quin. The name sparks a small nigglet of worry and anxiousness in my chest, but I don't—God, my head feels like it's been stuffed full of cotton.

". . . can't just sit around like some . . . dead . . . crazy?!" That's Lionel's voice. I think. No, definitely.

". . . Cap . . ." Julia. Is she talking about me? ". . . he'll flip when . . . I could keep . . ."

The tendrils of unconsciousness cling to me, attempt to drag me back down into slumber, but I fight it. Something tells me I have to. Something that makes my palms sweat, my head pound, my heart palpitate.

"What's going on?" I try to say. It comes out more like, "Ergh."

"Steph?" The back of someone's hand presses itself gently against my forehead. ". . . feeling?" I don't catch the first part of the sentence, but it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what they're asking.

"Quin," I mutter, struggling to keep my eyelids open for more than just seconds at a time.

The ensuing tension is so thick, I can practically feel it pressing against my chest, my throat, constricting my breathing.

"Quin," I repeat, more clearly this time, my eyes focusing enough to make out a pair of hazel eyes. Cass's eyes.

"Cap . . . must . . . tired. You . . . rest," he says, his voice floating in and out of intelligibility.

I shake my head. Bad mistake, since it only worsens the headache. But I don't care. "Quin," I reiterate, more forcefully. Why won't anybody tell me what happened to Quin?

I keep getting flashes and snit-bits of . . . of Quin screaming and glowing and . . . something breaking.

"Quin's fine, you need to rest," Cass informs me. Somebody scoffs behind him.

"You're lying," I say, and I'm suddenly aware of just how sore and scratchy my throat is.

"Cap, you're sick. You've got a fever, you—"

I attempt to sit up even as my muscles scream at me to lie down again. "Don't care, where's—" My stomach does a very uncomfortable flip-flop and before I know it, I'm barfing into a conveniently placed bucket. The vomit burns acridly in my nose and only aggravates my already tender throat. A hand runs itself soothingly up and down my back as I dry heave, gripping the edge of the bed I'm lying on.

"Here." A cup of water is presented to me and I sip greedily, rinsing my mouth out as best as possible before taking a deep, long drink. I fall back onto the bed, eyes closed, aching and tired and powerless to do anything.

"What—" My voice comes out too raspy to understand and I try to clear it before starting again. "What happened?" I ask without opening my eyes.

There's a long moment of silence before Cass speaks. "You passed out. You've got a fever of 105 degrees and I think we should get you to the hospital as soon as—"

"No." I open my eyes and some small part of me is thankful that the lights are dimmed. "What happened to Quin?"

Cass's carefully calm demeanor seems to crack for just a split second before he turns away to fiddle with a bottle of Tylenol. He spills a couple of pills into the palm of his hand and holds them out to me. I have the abrupt urge to slap them out of his hand and demand to know why he's evading my questions. But I don't. I just take the pills and down them with the refilled cup of water on my nightstand.

My nightstand. My room. I didn't really think to check where I was until now.

"Quin's gone missing."

"Lionel!" Cass hisses.

I almost forgot Lionel was in the room, he's so quiet. Unnaturally quiet, leaning against the door, head down, eyes shielded by his hair, arms crossed.

I blink at him. "What do you mean?"

"He's gone."

Cass puts his hands on my shoulders, pushing me back down onto the bed. I hadn't even realized I'd sat up. "Steph, please, you're in no condition to—"

"He just disappeared. Along with his clone. Then you just . . . got sick."

I wrestle with the sheets, attempt to get them untangled from my limbs. "What the heck are we doing sitting around?" I demand a bit too breathlessly for my liking. Maybe Cass is right. If a battle with my bedsheets has got me short of breath, what could I possibly do to help Quin?

I push away the doubt slowly creeping in, along with all the gruesome scenarios of Quin hurt and bleeding and dying somewhere. Or worse.

Cass stops me, manhandling me back under the covers. "Steph, you are going to stay in bed and you are going to rest," he orders sternly, tone of voice tolerating no argument. "Don't make me get Julia and have her put you under."

I'd really rather not find out how exactly Julia would go about doing that.

I eventually relent, though reluctantly, and settle back into bed. "Then what—"

"Julia and Sebastian are with Preston, and they're working on it," he replies, face steely but not unkind. "Please, Steph, rest. You know Quin wouldn't want to see you like this."

Using Quin against me like that is a cheap trick, and he knows it, but it works. I nod, letting my eyes fall closed and hating how readily my body relaxes back into the soft mattress of my bed. Because I am tired. So tired . . .

"Lionel, I thought we agreed to keep quiet about—"

"Yeah, well, I guess I can't keep my cool as well as you do when one of my best friends just fucking disappeared right in front of my eyes—"

Cass shushes at him, probably because he doesn't want me to hear. But it's pointless. I'm too tired to even consider eavesdropping. Really, sleep just seems so very, very attractive right now . . .

 

~ * ~

 

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, you look very, very attractive."

"I'm serious, Lionel."

"And so am I, Cap."

I fidget and readjust my bowtie as I stare into the mirror at myself. "Really?"

Lionel rolls his eyes behind me, visible only because of the mirror. "Seriously, Cap, are you gonna freak out every single time you get married?"

I frown at him. "I'd really rather not be reminded of my past lives," I tell him.

His lips twitch, amusement creeping onto his features. "Really, Cap? You find out your husband—"

"We're not married yet."

"—is a dragon and you're totally fine with that," he continues seamlessly, "but find out you die and come back to life every couple of centuries and you freak out?"

"I don't 'come back to life,' Lionel." I run a hand through my hair and he swats at my hand, glowering at my reflection ("Do you know how long it took to do your hair?

"Did you really just say that?"

"Shut up. I just don't want Jules to kick my ass when she sees that you've ruined all her hard work.").

"Semantics, Cap, semantics." He steps back and turns me around to face him, beaming at me. "Now stop looking so nervous and start looking happy, damn it. My rep as your best man is at stake here."

"Maybe I should've asked Cass to be my best man."

"Probably," he agrees easily, dusting off my shoulders.

The door to the dressing room opens and Sebastian pops his head in. "'Tis a beautiful ceremony, my friend!" He rushes in to embrace me in a crushing bear hug, then gives me a noogie—something he'd picked up from Lionel and Quin.

"Aw, Sebs, c'mon, man!" groans Lionel, tossing his hands up in the air. "Great. Just—perfect. Say good-bye to my beautiful ass, guys. Once Jules is done with it, it'll be nothing more than a mutilated, concave piece of flesh hanging off my back."

I grimace at the visual his description provides me. "Really, Lionel, don't you think you're exaggerating? I'm sure she—"

"Cap, I know it's early, but—" Julia stops dead in her tracks. "Trời Æ¡i, giết tôi ngay bây giờ," she mutters under her breath, eyes closed as if in meditation. Lionel finds shelter behind Sebastian's broad back.

"It wasn't my fault, Jules, I swear!"

"Lionel." Her eyes open and she levels her gaze with the top of his head, the only part of him that's visible. "Shut up."

I think I understand now why Julia's always insisted we start preparing for the wedding at dawn.

 

~ * ~

 

Another dream.

I don't bother opening my eyes. I don't think I can, honestly. My eyelids feel like lead weights on my face.

I don't understand what these dreams mean. I don't really think I want to understand. At least not now. Right now, I just want Quin back, safe and sound and not duplicated.

A hand strokes through my hair, probably Cass or even Julia. And while I'm grateful for the gesture, I can't help but wish that—

"Hey, Cap," a voice whispers, most decidedly male and not Julia's. I hum noncommittally in response. "I need you to open your eyes."

I grunt a non-verbal "no."

"C'mon, Muscles." The hand moves down to stroke my cheek. Weird. Cass wouldn't do that. Would he? My mind's too muddled to really care. "Lemme see those baby blues of yours."

Baby blues.

For one fleeting second, the words and the voice sound so much like Quin that hope bubbles up in my chest. I almost open my eyes, but I don't think I can handle the disappointment. They remain firmly shut.

"C'mon. It's me, baby. It's Quin."

Oh, God, is this another dream? Is that it? Great. Even unconscious, I can't seem to get any reprieve from thoughts of Quin, marrying Quin. Oh, God, I dreamt that I married him. I groan, (slowly) rolling over onto my side. Quin could be hurt and tortured and in pain and I'm dreaming of picnics and weddings and—

"Damn it, Rosai. What's it gonna take to get you to open your eyes?" Then, without warning, a pair of warm, soft lips press themselves against mine. It's short and it's chaste, but bells go off in my head, shrieking at me that this is wrong.

My eyes fly open and I jerk back to come face-to-face with two very blue, very not gray eyes. My gaze flickers down to the lips framed by a neatly trimmed beard—the soft lips that Quin can't possibly have, not with the way he's always worrying them with his teeth—and I open my mouth to call for help.

But then a hand is clamped over my mouth. "Look, just—gimme a chance to talk, okay? Just give me five minutes—all I'm asking for, five—and if you still wanna kick my ass or lock me up or whatever the hell, then fine, okay? Fine. Just, five minutes. Please."

I just know I'm going to regret this. But I nod.

11: Chapter 10

QUINTEN

 “It's quiet. Too quiet.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“A strange, beautiful being is lurking in the darkness, the shadows. A lone werewolf—”

“I don't think you quite understand what the word 'beautiful' means.”

“Dude, would you just—just, shut up. You're ruining my dramatic voiceover.”

“Was I now? 'Cause I thought you were doing a perfectly fine job of ruining it yourself.”

“Oh, shaddup,” he grumbles, but the way he swats at me betrays the insincerity of his anger. “I'm bored. There's nothing to do on this goddamn ship.”

I roll my eyes. “What, you think I'm having any fun hiding as stowaways on a giant ship occupied by a crew of sailors that could, and would, kick both our asses into the ocean the second they discover us? With a seasick werewolf, no less?”

He pouts, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I threw up once.”

“Yeah, and it was one time too many. On the back of my head,” I remind him, wrinkling my nose because I swear I can still smell it in my hair. “How the fuck did you even—”

“Hey, Cap'n!”

“Wha—oh, Zeke. How are you?”

I freeze, exchanging a worried glance with Lionel. The voices are right at the top of the stairs leading down to the orlop deck. I resist the urge to slam my head against a nearby barrel of gunpowder. Never mind that the discovery of our presence had been inevitable from the very start—we'd been doing such a good job of staying hidden, almost a whole three days after the ship set sail. Probably because Sebs isn't here to give us away with his innate inability to keep quiet, I muse—but then regret it 'cause, well, Sebs.

Goddamn it, where the fuck is that loud-mouthed idiot anyhow? Hell, when is he?

“I'm doin' alright, Cap,” says the crew member—Zack?—and there's a pregnant pause. Lionel and I take this as our cue to begin moving away from the stairs and towards the bow of the ship. “Well, Cap, the, uh, the rest of the crew and I, well, we . . .”

“What is it?” the captain asks. I pause, curiosity getting the best of me for just a second. I mean, I haven't seen hide nor hair of this captain that these crew members (well, the raucous, boisterous ones that pass by above, anyway) speak so highly of. He can't be that great. Though if his voice is anything to go by—

“Stop daydreaming and move, would ya, Rey?” Lionel hisses, shoving me quite unnecessarily.

In retort, I jab his ribcage with my elbow, but grudgingly continue to crawl ever so slowly towards the front of the ship. “Push me again, Steele, and I'll magic your ass into a mouse.” I halt again, considering. “Hell, you're already halfway there.”

He scoffs, but there's a very noticeable lack of Quin-shoving. “I look nothing like a mouse,” he counters with an air of indignation.

“Really? Your ears say otherwise.”

“Hey!” he exclaims, hands coming up to cover his ears. “You're not serious, are you? My ears aren't that big. Are they? You fucker. Are they?”

I almost strangle him. “For chrissake, lower your goddamn voice!” I susurrate as quietly as possible.

“Cap . . . did you hear that?”

Oh, fuck me.

 

 

~ * ~

 

“Methinks he's coming to, Master.”

“Are the straps secure?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Hand me my penlight, Gill.”

“Yes, Master.”

A light is shined into my eyes, blinding me. Really, it's more irritating than anything else. I try to shield my eyes, but my arms and legs are, well, being restrained.

I turn my head to the side, groaning irately. “For fuck's sake, would you get that damn thing out of my face?”

“No needs to get so testy, little iguana.”

“Quiet, Gill.”

“Yes, Master.”

I slam my head back against the cold surface I'm strapped to. An examination table? I shiver, but it's not from the cold. Great. Perfect. Some psychopath wants to cut me up. The throbbing in my head and chest aren't doing me any good.

I reach deep down inside me for that ever-present mass of tingling warmth to help alleviate the—the—to help—

It's gone.

Fuck, that's—that's not right. That can't be possible, that's—My clock. Where's my clock? I begin struggling against my restraints, my mind also fighting against the surely drug-induced haze clouding my thoughts. I need my Crystal, I can't—Without it, I can't get my soul back, I can't have—

“You need to relax, or this is going to hurt.”

My eyes snap over to look at the masked man standing to the side, needle in hand. Very, very large needle in hand.

“Oh, Unholy Mother of Fuck. You're gonna jab that monstrosity into me?” I squirm, trying futilely to wiggle my way out of the leather bands keeping me in place. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me!” I shout at the ceiling. “Why not just go and lock me up in those Persian boats? Y'know, make a real nasty show of it.”

There's a long, long moment of silence where the man just stares at me. Then, “Scaphism seems like a rather drastic alternative to your current situation.”

I groan, squeezing my eyes shut and relaxing my right arm as much as possible. “God, I hate needles.”

An ache settles in my chest then, an ache to just be home again, sparring in the gym with Jules, blowing up the basement with Cass, maybe microwaving some popcorn for movie night and muscling my way through Sebs's godawful taste in cinematic films, or just to see Max skid around the mansion after a neon green tennis ball while Steph yells for Lionel and me to take it outside. An ache that settles deep, deep down where my Crystal should be. My clock.

“I am not doing this to torture you, Etrys. I'm doing this to help you.”

Hold on to that Crystal of yours, Etrys, if you ever hope to get your soul back.

“I don't think you quite understand what the word 'help' means,” I laugh, suddenly reminded of another time, another conversation. The man desists rubbing alcohol on my arm for a moment, bemused. I just giggle. “Don't worry, dictionaries aren't hard to come by, I'm sure I can get you one without any trouble.” I think it's the hysteria. Being kidnapped and imprisoned isn't something I've ever really gotten used to.

Maybe it's time I do.

The needle pierces my skin, a sharp pain shooting up the entire length of my arm. An involuntary hiss escapes my mouth, sounding much too close to a whimper for my (and my pride's) comfort.

“There, see? Didn't hurt at all.”

I spit at him. Because fuck, yeah, it did hurt.

The adaro, Masked Man's little yes-man, whom I actually haven't bothered to really look at 'til now, begins laughing—a gurgling, snorting, high-pitched noise that just grates on my eardrums. “Ooh, youse going to gets it now,” it giggles, a sing-song lilt to its nails-on-chalkboard voice.

It's smaller than any adaro I've ever seen, abnormally small, back hunched over and curved. The horn protruding from the center of its head is more crooked than a barrel of fish hooks (a phrase I'd learned when Lionel was going through his Texan cowboy phase), eyes nothing but beady red dots on its scaly face. The dorsal-fin-shaped growth on the back of its head is a craggy, unsightly thing that only adds to its overall appearance of . . . ugly. Shit-faced ugly.

“Don't you have rainbows to be sliding down or something?” I say, an unsettling slur permeating my words. My arm feels like it's on fire now, and the inferno seems to be spreading, spreading, spreading . . .

“I highly suggest you refrain from such immature actions in the future, Etrys,” says the masked man, wiping his face with a clean white handkerchief he'd pulled from the top pocket of his lab coat. “Or I will be forced to resort to much more . . . persuasive means to get you to cooperate.”

“Now, um, just to clarify. By persuasive, do you mean dig-knives-under-my-fingernails-and-gouge-my-eyeballs-out-with-blunt-spoons persuasive, or violate-my-body-and-do-unspeakably-taboo-things-to-my-person persuasive? 'Cause I've had my fair share of both. And I think it's only common courtesy to extend me the privilege of mentally and physically bracing myself for what may—”

“It seems her sources do not lie,” Masked Man interjects, arching a single perfectly plucked eyebrow. “You do talk excessively.” Her sources. That . . . That's important. Need to—Need to remember that. Remember, remember, remember . . .

“Heehee, big mouth. Master says youse gots a big mouth,” the adaro says and WOW, when did he get so close?

“Hey, unicorn bighorn, there's this thing—a new invention, it's great, really, you should try it—called toothpaste. Your luck will definitely improve with the ladies if your breath doesn't, y'know, burn their scales off.”

The adaro flares its gills and side fins at me, snarling threateningly. Which, truthfully, only made it look uglier rather than, well, threatening.

Masked Man gives it a pat on the head before ordering it to step back from the “specimen.” It's never flattering to be referred to as a lab experiment. Some might say it borders on unnerving and terrifying. But what do I know? I've only been sliced open and had my bodily organs removed, like, a total of seven times.

“Seven? I had expected a higher number, considering your age.”

Great. Now my mind-thinks are verbalizing themselves without my permission.

“'Mind-thinks'?” the man hums. “Perhaps I should get you a thesaurus.”

“Stop it,” I growl to myself because goddamn, whatever he injected into me, it totally and completely decimated my mind filter.

“You said that aloud as well—”

“I know,” I snap. Fuck, I just—Christ, but I'm angry. And sure, for good reason too, but this . . . this is different. Drug-induced different.

“How are you feeling?” the man asks. I don't bother replying. I can't. The fire's in my throat now, in my throat now, in my throat now . . . “Good,” he says, smiling widely to reveal a row of pearly white, razor-sharp teeth.. “Now close your eyes, Etrys. Let me show you what real magic is.”

The fire's in my head now, in my head now, in my head now . . .

 

 

~ * ~

 

Steele waves his arms at me, all frantic energy and flaily limbs. I just stare at him, panic overtaking me and blanking my mind. He grabs my shoulders, shaking me roughly, before resuming the agitated arm-flapping.

Oh, god. What do I do? What are we doing? Charades? Are we playing charades? “Offensively inaccurate sign language?” I guess.

“That was definitely a voice.”

“Yes, I heard it too. It's pretty late . . . Who would be down there?”

“Not a clue, Cap.”

Lionel slaps me hard across the face, and the sound of it rings deafeningly in my ears. There's no denying that it's a very effective method of snapping me back to reality. There's also no denying that it's a very effective method of getting our asses caught and tossed into the fucking ocean.

“You idiot!” I whisper-shout, jostling him in my haste to crawl faster towards . . . towards . . . “Oh, fucking hell,” I mutter, sliding a hand down my face.

There's nowhere to hide.

“We are so boned,” groans Lionel.

“Doomed,” I bemoan.

“Absolutely done for.”

“Sitting ducks.”

“. . . Er, I'm comin' up blank. Hold on, I need to—”

“What the f—is that a fucking thesaurus? Those things don't even exist yet!”

“How do you know? You don't even know what year it is, not without your chrysanthemum.”

“Crystal. It's called a Crystal. It has a good six letters less than chrysanthemum. How can you possibly not remember that?”

His hand comes up to flutter dismissively at me. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, you broke your precious rock and we got pinballed into who-the-fuck-knows-when. Sebs could be dead for all we know, Cass could be panicking and setting fire to a whole goddamn third-world country right now, and Jules . . . well, she's probably doing okay, but, I mean, she's Jules, of course she's doing—”

“Would you stop flapping your gums all over the place for a friggin' minute?” I interrupt, snatching the thesaurus out of his hand—where did he even keep that thing? Why is he carrying around that thing?—and tossing it to the side. Screw the laws of time. I've already fucked up big time by not only shattering my Crystal but subsequently losing the goddamn thing. I'm pretty sure a book of synonyms and antonyms lying around on a ship in whenever-the-fuck won't make much of a difference.

It might. Probably not though. Maybe. It's a gamble.

“I think it's forward, Cap,” comes the voice of Zeke the Sailor.

Lionel begins tugging on his hair, distraught and panicking. “Why did we even get on this ship? I can't swim, Quin! You know I can't!” It's true. He can't even doggie paddle. Is that irony? 'Cause it smells like irony. Doggy-scented irony.

I glance at him, a decision already being formed in my mind. Because I can swim.

I'm already standing up before Lionel can stop me. “Hey, what the hell are you—” I tug off one of my boots and toss it at his head. He promptly quiets. But it won't last long. I scramble towards the sound of the voices and at the first human-y silhouette that enters my vision, I immediately trip.

Well, pretend to, anyway.

A couple of barrels go down with me, rolling and thumping and basically making as much noise as could possibly be made.

“Is somebody there?” a voice shouts. The crew member.

“No!” I shout out, voice taking on a ghostly quality. “'Tis nobody but the ghost of Davy Jones! Come for to haunt—oomph!”

So engrossed in my impersonation am I that I am oblivious to the teetering barrel off to my side. It somehow ends up landing on my chest and the air is forced out of me in a single rush. I spend a good minute laying there, winded, trying to get my breath back. Somebody comes to kneel down before me, hands prodding and poking.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

I push the hands away, gradually managing to sit up. “I'm fine, you idiot, would you stop touching—WOW.”

The man—is he really though? Is he really a man?—blinks at me, confused. “What?” he asks, almost self-consciously. “Is—Is there something on my face?”

“Yes,” I reply almost immediately. I think it's called perfection and oh, my GOD, if I said that out loud, I am going to strangle myself.

. . .

I think . . . I think I'm safe.

“What is it?” he says eventually, eyes guarded.

“Huh? What? Oh, it's not—I didn't mean—it's nothing,” I say, my words stumbling and tripping over one another to get out of my mouth. I mentally kick myself.

Suave. I'm suave, damn it. Pretty faces don't have this effect on me.

“What is it, Cap? Are you hurt? What happened?”

“I'm fine, Zeke,” says the captain, studying me warily, all traces of the flustered, bashful angelface from earlier dissipating and being replaced with the commanding, collected Captain.

Am I swooning? Oh, for fuck's sake, I'm swooning.

'Zeke' soon comes into view, clambering over the toppled barrels to come kneel beside the captain. He also begins analyzing me, eyes narrowed into tiny slits. “A stowaway,” he states, not even bothering to phrase it as a question.

“It would appear so,” I say, nodding as gravely as I can. I'm ignored.

“So,” says Zeke in his gruff, haggard voice, eyes gleaming with just the faintest hint of what can only be described as bloodlust, “whataya suggest we do with him, Cap?”

“I say we feed him, let no bodily harm come to him, and let him go on his merry way,” I suggest.

“Don't speak unless spoken to, ya li'l rat bastard.”

I frown. Okay. So the animosity doesn't seem to be very lacking here. That's cool, that's fine. I'll just—I can employ a new tactic.

New tactic. Um.

I turn to the captain. “Cap—can I call you Cap?—you look like a wonderful, compassionate man. Surely you can—”

CRACK.

“EZEKIEL!”

I lay on the floor, dazed and helpless, head throbbing from the impact of the hilt of Zeke's sword against my skull. “Wow, ow, just—fucking ow.” I raise a hand and gingerly try to feel out what damage has been done. But then I get distracted by the stars on the ceiling. “Why are there stars on the ceiling?”

“Cap, I'm—”

“This is not how we deal with stowaways, Zeke. Not on my ship.”

“But he was—” He stops short suddenly. Probably from that hard glare the captain's giving him. Well, from what I can see through the cartoon birds flapping around my head, it looks like a hard glare.

“Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, sir,” comes Zeke's grumbled reply.

I'd have much more fun basking in this little moment—I mean, who wouldn't when someone like Captain Muscles over here comes to your rescue—not that I need rescuing, of course not, no, never—but it's nice. Really nice. And I may or may not be developing a kink for this Captain Commanding voice of his.

I also may or may not be bleeding all over the floor right now.

“Somebody mind helping me up here? Y'know, preferably before I die of major hemorrhage.”

 

~ * ~

 

It's a bribe. To get me to cooperate. It's gotta be.

I've learned a number of things in my life. But five things—only five—have truly stuck with me.

One, everybody's out to get me. And that's not me being the charmingly self-centered bastard that I am—that is me stating a fact. The last dragon in all of existence—the world, the galaxy, the friggin' universe—goes for quite a price on the black magic market. For far too many reasons to name. The main one being a case of I-only-want-it-'cause-it's-the-last-one.

“Hand me the drill, Gill.”

“Yes, Master.”

Ignore it, just ignore it, ignore the screaming.

Two, good things don't come without a price.

A tortured howl of blood-curdling misery fills my head, the thick stone walls encasing me and imprisoning me doing nothing to lessen the intensity of the sound. Christ, I need a drink. And a smoke. And some Samoa girl scout cookies. Preferably with milk.

The door opens. “Me sees youse still hasn't slept in the bed yet,” the adaro says, setting a tray of breakfast food (that very markedly does not hold any cookies and milk) down on the table in the center of the cell. “It wouldn't do fer youse to be ungrateful, lizard.”

I don't bother gracing the thing with a verbal response. Just remain curled up in my dark little corner of the prison cell. But I do raise my head to meet its eyes.

“Oh, comes now, little lizard! Mistress has provided youse with the most expensives, well furnished room in Hers mansion. Shes has given you a big, beautifuls bed and a closet filled with the prettiest, shiniest clotheses. Yet youse reject Hers kindness,” it finishes with a hiss, red eyes flashing. “If it was ups to me, I would has you dead and youse head on a stick.”

I say nothing.

“Youse think youse so tough? Youse do not understands the word, little lizard. I has seen things . . . things youse cannots even imagine. I wills not hesitates to hurt youse, lizard.”

“Gill! Stop dawdling and come help me with this mutt!” Raines, the masked man, calls from somewhere outside my cell. The sound of a struggling canine accompanies his voice—growling and barking, yelping and whimpering. The whir of a drill. And the sounds strike a nerve inside me.

The werewolf howls. A cry for help.

Without really thinking—without letting myself think about it—I'm already up and moving towards the door. But the second my foot crosses the threshold, the collar around my neck beeps once—a signal. Twice—a warning. Thrice—basically, a you're fucked.

Electricity, with a current of a whopping 150 milliamps, courses through my body. Pain, indescribable pain. I fall to the floor, a jerky, twitchy mess of limbs and legs. Eyes—My vision is the next to go. I can't—no, it's okay, it's not like—it's not like I need to breathe anyway, right?

Seven seconds.

It lasts seven seconds. The agony remains though. That doesn't go away.

“Youse was warned,” a voice giggles. I don't bother—I can't bother to place it. Everything—god, everything hurts. An ache that settles deep in my bones, heavy on my lungs, tight on my muscles. I need to just—just numb myself. Numb myself. Numb myself.

SMACK.

My head jerks to the side with the force of the slap.

“Me suggests that youse doesn't tries to escape again, understands?”

My vision's coming back—a bit wavy, somewhat blurry—but it's coming back. My survival instincts kick in, screaming at me to just shut my big mouth and remain docile. It's a reasonable request.

But then again, when have I ever listened to reason?

“I wasn't trying to escape, you moron.” I turn my head to the side, to look down the dank, dark hallway leading towards the sound of the werewolf. Hold on. Just hold on. “Just thought I'd give the shock collar a friendly little test run—”

SMACK.

Jesus, that stings.

“Do youse still wants to say something nows?”

“Gill! Where the hell are you?!”

I just grin up at the adaro, its rotting-fish-corpse smell enveloping me. I open my mouth and, keeping as straight a face as possible, say, “Won't Mr. Master Man over there find it a bit . . . fishy if you're gone for too long?”

A beat of silence passes. Then, “When I's through with youse, youse won't be jokings no more.”

Totally worth it.