Not My Lover: Enigma

Part One

She was afraid of touch.

Afraid to touch, afraid to be touched - it was the same thing. So desperately craving that which she feared. And so alone.

So painfully alone.

It is difficult to think of Marita as she was back then. Even now, when she is beautiful and strong, it hurts to think of her as she was, manipulated and deceived by people who believed in control as a form of love - people who intended her safety, yet held her captive, body and soul. She was an enigma, a child-woman thrust into adulthood before she was ready, yet kept childlike and dependent by those who sought to guide her.

Larissa, Michael, the dark man - all of them had a hand in her paralysing fear of touch. They saw her unguarded beauty, her passionate love for others; and they sought, misguidedly, to suppress it. Rather than teaching her to fear that which was dangerous in others, they taught her to fear the humanity in herself. They were right, in a way; but they were also terribly, terribly wrong.

I can't quite bring myself to hate them, though.

After all, they loved her too.

No story has a single beginning. Mine began in 1967, when Larissa Covarrubias stumbled across a Soviet operation to defeat the Black Cancer. It began in 1971, when she offered her information to the Americans in exchange for power and asylum; when she crawled over the Soviet-Turkish border, Marita on her back. It began in 1984, when my father went into local politics, kick-starting the chain of events that would lead me to the FBI. It began in 1993, when my mother's medical insurance ran dry, and I accepted a standing offer I had long refused. It began even earlier, with Roswell, or Tunguska; and later, with Mulder.

But I will begin with none of those beginnings. I will begin where it all began for me - the moment my life became entwined with hers. That was my beginning.

She was my beginning.

And, God willing, she will be there at my end.

"Family?"

I spoke casually, conversationally, knowing perfectly well that she was. That was why I was here, after all: to find those who might have been sympathetic to the cause of the one who had died; to shed light on the affair which had led to my newest assignment. She was family; but distant enough that she might not be stricken with grief, might not resent my intrusion.

The woman looked up, brushing aside a curtain of brown hair. "Yes," she said mildly, rising awkwardly, one hand clutching the side of her chair, the other at her swollen belly. "He was my husband's uncle."

"I'm sorry." I spoke the words in their conventional tones - mildly somber, yet perfunctory - but I genuinely meant them. Michael Harrington, from all accounts, was a decent man, at least as Consortium men go; and he died protecting another. Not a bad epitaph.

"Thank you, but I didn't really know him. We live overseas." She held out a hand. "Diana Donovan."

It struck me that it was faintly ridiculous to shake hands at a wake. I took it and gave it a slight squeeze, which seemed marginally less idiotic. "Alex Krycek."

Diana nodded by way of belated greeting, letting go. I nodded to the seat, that she should sit again, and she did so with a grateful look. "Did you know Michael, Alex?" she asked, settling back, her hand resting back on her stomach. I guessed she was due any time.

"No," I admitted, a little apologetically. "I'm playing driver to Spender."

Her head jolted up, and her expression darkened. Her eyes flashing, she said in a low voice, "That man has no business being here. He did this. It's insulting."

Privately, I agreed; but I made a noncommittal sound. "Michael stole the EBE. He offered it for ransom for Mulder. I'm sure he had his reasons," I added with a sympathetic undertone - one that was deliberate, but genuine enough - "but the fact remains, he betrayed the group."

Diana watched me coolly, thoughtfulness etched into the lines of her face. I'd expected that - I'd revealed myself as someone who could be persuaded to her point of view. She was pondering whether I could be used, or whether I was worth using. "He betrayed a faction of the group," she corrected, at last. "That's not the same thing."

"You're loyal for someone who didn't know him," I challenged; but my voice was mild. The connection had been made. We were going through the motions now. Anything else would be a bonus, nothing more.

"I was married to the man he saved," she said evenly.

"You were married to Mulder?" I demanded, instantly on the alert. I knew Mulder had been married, but not that his ex-wife had remarried into the group. That changed things, but I wasn't sure how.

"Briefly. Why?"

"I've just been assigned to partner him at the FBI," I revealed. I wasn't sure if Spender wanted that to be general knowledge, but now that my intention to network was out in the open, my position needed clarifying.

"Does the FBI know that?" she said, dryly.

I grinned a little. "They will by this time tomorrow."

She was nodding. "Fox got too close this time. They want you to keep him under control." She said mirthlessly, "You must have impressed someone in Spender's camp."

"Or really pissed someone off," I retorted grimly.

She laughed at that. "So which camp are you, Alex Krycek?"

I shrugged a little. "I haven't decided. Which camp are you?"

"My own," she said, smiling a deliciously intriguing smile. She was a beautiful woman, though not really to my taste - I liked them softer than that - and I liked that she preferred an air of mystery to outright deception. Mysterious people, when they do consent to speak, usually speak the truth.

"Don't be cryptic," I reproved mildly.

She watched me, frowning a little with indecision. Finally, she said conversationally, "Michael was the one who led Fox to the X Files to begin with. Do some digging - find out why. Make up your own mind." She half-turned from me, looking into the distance, signaling the end of her willingness to discuss the matter.

"All right." I nodded my thanks, something she saw from the corner of her eye but chose not to acknowledge. I turned a little to follow her gaze. She was looking at a huddled group of mourners - not people going through the motions, but the genuinely bereaved.

There were five of them. Behind the chaise like a sentry stood a man in his thirties, tall and black. I recognised him as Spender's newly-employed right hand man - the one they called the dark man - and it suddenly occurred to me that he must have been Michael's right hand before that. Perched precariously on the arm of the chaise was a woman in her forties or fifties, her silvery-blonde hair pulled back in a severe knot. Could that one have been Michael's wife, I wondered? She fit the picture, but somehow I didn't think so. She was drawn and haggard, obviously grieving; but something was missing - something I had seen in my mother after my father's death. Some shock, some bewilderment about just how she might go on. Her grief was not that of a spouse, I was sure of it. But who she was and how she might fit into the picture, I couldn't have said.

On the chaise itself sat two men, clearly father and son, both fair, one old and one young. The younger one, I thought, was probably Diana's husband, Michael's nephew. That made the elder Michael's brother, although I guessed he was a good fifteen years older than Michael had been. They flanked a shell-shocked teenager, attentive to her, yet reserved and dignified. They had to be British, I decided.

My attention was drawn to the girl. She was clearly the center of the group - the one closest to Michael. She had the position usually assigned to the wife, but that was surely impossible. She was dressed in black from head to toe. Even her jewellery was black - onyx, I guessed, or maybe polished iron ore. The only thing disturbing her picture-perfect portrait of bereavement was a mass of blonde hair, almost to the waist. It drifted in waves over her shoulders, marring her stark attire.

"Is that the family?" I said conversationally.

"Yeah. Michael's half-brother, Maxwell Donovan - my father-in-law. He's a voting member of the group." Different surnames - they shared a mother, then. That sort of detail probably didn't matter, but mentally filing the information came as naturally as breathing. "The younger one is my husband, Edward."

"Who's the girl? Michael's daughter?"

"Marita Covarrubias." Her tone was affectionate. "His fiancee."

I stared at her in disbelief. "His fiancee? She's what, seventeen?"

"Twenty-three. Her mother is Larissa Covarrubias."

"The Soviet defector?" I queried. That must be the older woman with the silver-blonde hair. I could see the resemblance.

"That's right."

I thought on this. "Arranged marriage?"

Diana shrugged. "I guess so. We were at college together, and they got engaged pretty much as soon as she came home." She said reflectively, "I think he was good to her, though. She's pretty lost."

"Poor kid," I said pityingly.

"Yeah."

A voice intruded - a voice I already despised. It was Spender, his voice smooth and autocratic; and yet, as always, with a smug undertone. "Alex."

I turned. "Yes, Sir."

"I'm ready to leave now."

"Certainly," I said briskly. "My condolences again, Mrs Donovan," I said to Diana with bland insincerity.

"Thank you, Mr Krycek," she said indifferently, taking my cue. "Spender," she said coldly.

"Diana," he nodded. "Come, Alex." My gaze drifted to the blonde fiancee once more.

"Yes, Sir."

The packet arrived five days later.

It was three years before Diana finally admitted to sending it, but I was certain of its origins the moment it arrived. I was not so naive as to think that she trusted me at this stage, but clearly my visit to the funeral had paid off: she had thrown a little information my way in hopes of bringing me over to her side - whatever that was.

The packet contained an unlabelled pass card and a slip of paper printed with a Maryland address. Frowning, I slipped them into my pocket. I skipped out of the Hoover a couple of hours early and drove to Westminster, finding the address easily on a private road. I parked my car among many others, suddenly conscious of its shabbiness, and got out. I followed the pathway, sandstone pebbles crunching agreeably under my feet, immaculately green lawn at either side of me. I came around a neatly manicured hedge, and a house came into view. I came to a sudden halt, staring up at it in disbelief.

Here's an X File, Mulder. How did I get deposited into the middle of the English countryside?

The house - and I use the term loosely - was an old sandstone mansion. Its architecture reminded me vaguely of pictures I'd seen of seventeenth-century English churches. The grounds were immaculately kept; the drapes were heavy burgundy velvet. Feeling slightly surreal, I walked up the steps, crossed the expansive courtyard, and came to a heavy oak door adorned with a gold plaque, marked with the legend, 'Members' Entrance/Guests Use Next Door'. The door had a card swipe, and I took a punt, using the card I'd been sent to gain access.

I drew my weapon and went inside cautiously, uncertain of what I'd find or who would challenge me; but no-one did. People came and went easily, paying me no heed. I walked from room to room, absorbed each room's atmosphere, and I felt my anxiety lessen. This was not a secure facility - it was a social club.

A Consortium social club.

Although most of the guests were older and apparently wealthy, there were also men and women like me - younger sidekicks and errandboys, some with their employers, and some alone. I passed through sitting rooms, lounges and bars with varying dress codes, from casual to formal; and at last, I stopped in one and sat at the bar for a drink. There was no charge, but the waitress asked to swipe my card. A little nervously, I allowed it, and after a few minutes had passed without the ambush of security personnel, my wariness eased.

"You're new, aren't you?" the waitress said conversationally. I looked at her, raising an eyebrow, and she laughed. "You've got that awe-struck look about you. It is very beautiful here."

"It certainly is," I said, draining my drink down in a single gulp. "Who owns this place?" I wondered whether she would be suspicious of the question. I doubted it. This wasn't a Consortium chick. She was just an ordinary waitress who would probably finish her shift and go to a PTA meeting.

She looked at me, a little askance. "Do you know, I'm not really sure. It was Michael Harrington, but he died a couple of weeks ago. Sad thing really - driveby shooting, you know. His executor says everything will continue as normal. Someone in his family will get it, I expect."

I nodded, frowning. Either Maxwell Donovan or Marita Covarrubias, I guessed. I thought of the girl I'd seen at the funeral, and the almost regal way in which she held herself, even in the extremity of grief. I could see her here. She was probably a member already. "Ancestral home?" I asked, mostly because the waitress was clearly waiting for me to say something.

"I think so. It's been The Den for over thirty years, I believe." A man with an empty glass looked at her expectantly, and she excused herself. I nodded absently as she went.

I turned from the bar and watched the room, drinking, taking in the big picture. I let the atmosphere wash over me, let the comings and goings and the scents and sounds settle into a pattern, waiting for impressions to present themselves, as they usually do.

And in time, one did.

What I noticed was that, while some were content to drink alone like me, in general people were pairing up and leaving. The pairings were mostly straight, but by no means all. I didn't see any lesbian pairings - perhaps because there weren't enough women to go around. Or maybe lesbians are too sensible to get involved with the Consortium to start with, I speculated with a grin. Some of the younger partners were prostitutes, I thought, but mostly guests were leaving with one another - and clearly, there was somewhere to go.

I went to the door at the far end of the room, where the couples had gone, and passed through it. I came into a room remarkably similar to a hotel lobby, with a grand staircase winding down the center. I was stopped by a woman asking for my pass card, and I handed it over, this time with less apprehension than before.

"Mr Krycek," she said, swiping it over a barcode reader, looking at the screen. I looked at her, startled, expecting that it would be in someone else's name, but nodded. "You're entitled to the use of a room if one is available. I don't have any fantasy suites free, but I have something on the third floor. Is that all right?"

"Fine," I said absently. "Thank you."

Feeling slightly dazed, I took the key she offered and made my way up the incredible staircase, marvelling at the delicately carved banister. Incredible workmanship. I lingered, touching the wood admiringly. It was not the darkwood I would have expected of its era, but a caramel-coloured palewood. I reached my level, but I looked further up the stairs, running my hand over it, savouring it, puzzling over its origins. And then another of my senses was caught by something equally exquisite.

Marita Covarrubias.

She was on the fourth floor landing with the dark man. She wore a long white dress - something I might not have noticed particularly, but for the sharp contrast with her mane of cornsilk hair, flowing gloriously down her back. They had clearly just come out of a suite, but I didn't believe for one minute that they'd slept together. There was something else going on between them, and I couldn't put my finger on what it was. Her gaze moved over the open area automatically, passed over me without registering my presence, and moved on.

Unsettled, I turned away, and I went to my room. I found without surprise that it was an opulent bedroom, decadently furnished in deep navy and magenta. The pillows were huge and edged with heavy gold tassels. There was a tiled platform in the corner with an elegant cylindrical shower recess. There was a handcarved wooden box on the dresser, which I guessed contained condoms and the like. I opened it and found I was right.

There was a small leather folio in the bedside drawer, which was of interest, but not particularly enlightening. It outlined the exact privileges accorded to each level of membership - mine, based on the colour of my card, gave me complimentary access to most privileges but did not entitle me to bring guests; a lower level of membership required payment for use of suites and sexual services. There were more conventional recreational services, too - a gym, aquatic center, ice rink, and shooting range. There was no casino, and that didn't surprise me: group players gambled with their lives, not with their money. The Den operated twenty-four hours a day and was euphemistically termed a recreational facility.

More useful was a map of the mansion. I noted a private wing, which I presumed had been Michael Harrington's home, and details of the dress codes of the various wings. I had been in the smart casual zone; there were formal and casual zones, and also a zone discreetly named 'minimalist'. I presumed, from its proximity to spas, saunas, and the fantasy suites, that this area was nudist or close to it. There were assurances about daily sweeps for cameras and listening devices. There were rules about smoking and drinking, about the appropriate treatment of staff including courtesans, about which recreational drugs were tolerated and where. There were ground rules for an array of sexual situations, from BDSM to group sex, each marked with the statement, 'These rules are in force unless explicitly agreed otherwise by all parties, INCLUDING TOP TIER MEMBERS AND COURTESANS'. Top tier members were exempt from all rules except this one.

I lay back on the bed, mulling over what I'd read. From a social point of view, it was an amazing place. It was an anthropomorphic wonder - a manufactured haven from the minefield of navigating relationships in the Consortium. Here, the group and their subordinates could not only network, but indulge in almost any recreational or sexual taste - with courtesans or each other - without risk of information leaks or blackmail. Counting back the years, I realised that The Den had sprung up in the 1960s, presumably in response to a string of scandals and breaches arising out of the sexual revolution. The whole thing offended me on a number of levels; but it pleased me, too, with its neatness and its practicality.

I wondered why I had been given membership. Clearly, Diana - or whoever - had thought I might benefit from the access this place would provide; and her interest was probably not in my sex life. She expected me to dig, find out what I wanted to know about the group and its aims, and choose a faction. That was all right: that was my agenda, too. Whether my choice would be her faction or not, I couldn't say; but I was willing to follow her trail of breadcrumbs for a while and see where it led.

At last, I put the folio back in its place and went to the door. And then I stopped short.

There was an envelope stuck to the back of the door with my name on it. I withdrew a note, read it, and smiled broadly.

'Have a good time - but keep your eye on the ball.'

Laughing, I switched off the light, and left.

My FBI assignment was tedious.

I was already treated with some contempt in the Bureau, but that sentiment was magnified by my apparent choice to work with Spooky Mulder. Once a homage to his ability to solve impossible cases, that nickname had taken on less complimentary overtones over the last year; and I was tarnished by association.

Not that my reputation had far to fall, though: I was seen as a glorified errandboy, though my credentials left my contemporaries' for dead. Not even a Harvard education could save me from looking like a schoolboy dressed up as a man. The clean-cut dress code of the Bureau didn't work for me - it never had - and it conspired against me, reducing me to a parody. I didn't care anymore, though: I could see that my days there were necessarily numbered. Once that would have bothered me; but not now.

There was a time when the Bureau had dominated my ambition. No - not just dominated it; defined it. I'd left college with an offer of a position in the British government, and another from Harvard itself lecturing in political philosophy. I turned them both down when I got into Quantico. I had stumbled across criminology and social order during my studies; and, with youthful idealism, I wanted to Make A Difference. My father had shaken his head, no doubt thinking of all the night shifts I'd taken to supplement my scholarship, only to take an entry-level job on entry-level pay; but he only smiled and said, "That's great, son," the way he always did. I'm glad of that, because he was dead within the year.

I hadn't expected much of the Bureau. I was the only agent in my class from a top university, but there were others with something more prized - law enforcement experience. I was no more special than anyone else, and I'd recognised that. But I had hoped that my choice, and my sacrifices in making that choice, might be acknowledged. I had hoped that my background might be taken into account, that I might be placed in some area of the Bureau where my strengths might be used. I didn't mind working up from the bottom, but you've got to be placed there to work your way up. You can't do it from the professional and existential limbo of wiretapping.

But if it had been as simple as that, I would have simply walked. The jobs I had turned down were gone, but there were others. My disenchantment was not the problem. The problem was my mother, stricken with leukaemia within a year of my father's death. And that problem led me, after repeated refusals, to at last accept the approaches of Section Chief Blevins and a mysterious figure named Spender.

The specifics of the work were vague, but I understood that illegality was involved. Spender represented some arm of the US government, and his department, for want of a better term, was affiliated with the CIA and the military. Loose phrases about national security and classified information were used. I was of interest because of my academic background, they said; and while I had no doubt that was true, I was not deceived. Spender's work might well be dedicated to defense, but that didn't necessarily make it in the national interest - any political theorist will tell you that.

So I said no; and I kept on saying no until the money ran dry. And then it was too late to get a more lucrative job: it was almost Christmas, and no-one was willing to hire until New Year, and the Soviet regime had fallen, and my mother was sinking fast, and she wanted to go home to Latvia to die. So I called Spender, and I told him I would work for him after all. My mother died in Daugavpils, and I came home to life as a hired gun, and I hoped that, wherever she was, she was not too disappointed in me.

Monitoring Fox Mulder was a welcome lull in the storm. As companions went, he outclassed thugs like Luis Cardinale by miles; better yet, I was not required to undertake work outside the Bureau during this time, lest Mulder should become aware of it. I had not yet been asked to kill, but I'd injured a few people in the course of my work - something I did not relish. As for killing - that request would come, and then I would have to make a decision. I wouldn't know the answer to that dilemma until I reached it, but right now, I thought I would refuse, and flee. I had a little house in Daugavpils - not much more than a cabin - and that would do for a new beginning. I thought my mother would approve. In the meantime, I sought information - both significant and minute. The most minute of details could be crucial to solving the enigma that was the work.

I learned a great deal at The Den. I learned, through trial and error, the best times to go, and the best people to listen to. I learned a lot about Marita Covarrubias, who was indeed the owner of The Den. She worked as an aide to one of the Special Representatives to the Secretary General of the United Nations, a position apparently normally allocated to people ten years her senior. This meteoric rise was attributed, not to sleeping her way up, but to a gift for analysis that was considered almost eerie. Marita Covarrubias was the Fox Mulder of the United Nations.

I managed to stay out of Senator Matheson's bed, but I led him on for long enough to learn that the leads that resulted in Mulder's discovery of the X Files had been orchestrated by Michael Harrington. Michael and his faction - which I guessed included the Donovan family, Bill Mulder, and possibly Larissa Covarrubias - had wanted someone on the outside, putting pressure on the activities of their opposing faction, which included Spender.

Poor old Mulder was a Consortium operative, and he didn't even know it.

But I was still unclear on the agenda of the Donovan faction: they obviously wanted to prevent the hybridisation of the alien and human races, and I hadn't the ghost of an idea why. The hybrid project, after all, would ensure their survival and that of their loved ones, surrendered to the alien race as hostages in 1973.

While I pondered this problem, I continued to monitor Mulder; and it was then that I made my first kill - not in malice, but in defense of another. I killed Augustus Cole without hesitation, because it was clearly him or Mulder; but the killing - both its finality and the ease with which I did it - the killing disturbed me. I sat in a bar that night, drinking shot after shot of Benedictine, my hands shaking. Mulder found me and took me home, and then he took me to bed.

I loved Mulder. It was not the love I would find with Marita, but it was the greatest love I'd had to date. Our relationship was companionable and, I think, genuinely caring - certainly, I cared for him. For him, I think now, it was more complicated; and it pains me to know that he perceives what I did as a betrayal.

Hell, it was a betrayal. But what I knew left me with little choice.

If I had done nothing, I'd have been worse than them.

"I shouldn't have married her."

I looked up from my mail. "What was that?" I asked, bracing myself. Mulder got introspective after sex. God knew, I didn't begrudge him it; but sometimes I wished he'd just roll over and go to sleep like a normal man.

"Diana," he mused, turning and leaning up on his elbow, watching me. "I shouldn't have married her. I knew I was gay." He picked at his godawful sunflower seeds indifferently. The bowl was perched precariously on the coverlet, and I just knew they were going to wind up littered through my bed.

I set aside a bill and put it on a growing pile on the nightstand. "But did you really, Mulder?" I wondered, looking at him. I ripped open an quarto envelope emblazoned with the Harvard logo. Alumni magazine, I guessed, eyeing it critically. "I mean, it is possible to feel passion for both sexes, and you obviously felt it for her."

"I suppose. But when I was with Matheson, it was different - and that was while we were engaged. I knew better - or I should have. It felt right in a way it didn't with Diana. Do you know what I mean?"

"Not really," I said truthfully. I was flipping through the magazine when a familiar name caught my eye. Marita Covarrubias.

"You still think about women?" he asked with interest.

"I adore women," I said fervently. "They're exquisite."

"And men?" he demanded.

"They're exquisite, too. Humanity is a glorious thing, Mulder, no matter what the sex." I looked back down at the flyer. Our condolences to science alumni Marita Covarrubias (1985-1987). The New York Times reported the death of Michael Harrington on May 7. Marita and Michael were to be married next month...

Marita Covarrubias went to Harvard in 1985? What was she, fourteen?

"So what happens when you meet the woman of your dreams?" he mocked, intruding on my thoughts. "Whatcha gonna do, settle down and be straight?" There was a slight sneer in his voice.

"I'll always be bisexual, Mulder," I said with a withering look, setting the magazine aside. Sexual politics were among his current list of dead horses to flog. I, on the other hand, was indifferent to the whole thing: if I was letting the gay side down by loving women, or vice versa, I didn't give a shit. "Forsaking all others is something we've all got to do sooner or later, whether we like men, women or both. It's always a sacrifice - a discipline - because no one person will ever be everything we want or need."

"You sound like a fucking preacher."

"You asked what I was going to do if I met the woman *or* man of my dreams, and that's what I'm going to do," I countered. "I'm going to forsake all others. If you don't like it, too bad. My sex is not accountable to your politics." I shook my head disgustedly. "You're an arrogant prick sometimes."

"Aw, do you really mean that?" he asked solemnly. "Or are you just saying it?"

I burst out laughing. I couldn't help it. "No, I really mean it." I turned back to the nightstand, picked up my cup, and took a mouthful of coffee.

"Asshole."

I swallowed the mouthful hurriedly to make my comeback. "Prick."

"My prick, your asshole. Not a bad idea." Such fucking wit.

"Don't be vulgar."

He looked at me critically. "You're a prissy little thing, aren't you? First monogamy, and now I have to refer to your molten tunnel of love?"

I choked. "Jesus, Mulder, don't do that when I'm drinking." The bastard was laughing at me. Thinking of his earlier comment, I said, "Where did you meet this wife of yours, anyway?"

"Ex-wife," he corrected. "We were at college together. I'd just come out of a bad relationship with a vamp masquerading as an English rose, and we just sort of fell in together."

"Diana went to Oxford?" I said slowly. Diana had gone to college with Marita Covarrubias, by her own statement; and the magazine at my side said Marita went to Harvard. I wondered who was lying, and why.

"Yeah. She was a year behind me. She followed me home when she graduated."

I put my cup back on the nightstand, frowning a little. "It's funny how you bond with people at college, isn't it?" I observed casually, hoping I didn't sound too idiotic. "There was one guy at school with me - one of those child prodigies," I said deliberately, "you know, the ones who graduate high school at twelve. Fucking brilliant."

He fell for it. He mightn't have normally, but sex made Mulder mellow. "Yeah, we had one of those. Marita Ekaterinberg, her name was." I blinked a little, not quite believing my luck that he remembered her name. I don't think I knew about his eidetic memory at that stage. "I never met her, but Diana took her under her wing a bit. She was totally out of her depth," he added. "See, what people don't understand is that you can be ready academically without being ready emotionally, or socially," he said fiercely. I'd hit his psychology nerve, and he was off and away.

I tuned him out. Marita Covarrubias had attended both Harvard and Oxford at the same time - an impossible feat. One of them was a smokescreen, but which one? And more importantly, why?

"I mean, just think of the psychosexual implications. A child going through puberty, surrounded by bonking teenagers, with no adult role models..."

She probably went to Oxford under the false name. Mulder remembered her name, and Diana reported knowing her personally. That made sense. She had befriended Diana and presumably introduced her to Edward Donovan at some point, whom Diana would eventually marry. Maybe Marita spent her holiday breaks with the Donovans, arranged by either her mother or by Michael. Maybe she had invited Diana along.

But if Marita went to Oxford, who went to Harvard?

"...then there's the relational context. How does a teenager learn to relate as an adult if she is deprived of nurturing adult contact..."

If Marita had applied to Oxford, she'd probably applied to Harvard and Yale, too. She had accepted the offer at Oxford, but someone else accepted her Harvard offer and went in her place, with or without her knowledge - but almost certainly with the blessing of Larissa Covarrubias.

"...not appropriate, when they're that young, to leave them without role modelling..."

A false history at Harvard gave Marita an alibi - a reason for being away, as well as a diversion from her real location. But why would a fourteen-year-old prodigy need to go into hiding? Could she have done something, and been at risk of retaliation?

"Alex?"

"Sorry - I was just thinking," I said hurriedly. "What do you think are the long-term developmental implications of something like that?"

"You know, I've been thinking about that, and I keep coming back to Freudian principles..."

I was an idiot. Marita hadn't done anything. Larissa had done something, and she had smuggled her daughter off to England, with the help of Michael Harrington and the Donovan family. That combination alone suggested that whatever she had done was factional - and just might shed some light on the Donovan agenda. She had falsified the Harvard academic record to suggest that Marita was still in America at the time.

But would a non-existent student - a mere name - rate a mention in an alumni magazine?

Mulder had stopped speaking. He was watching me expectantly. "I never thought of it like that," I said ingeniously.

Who went to Harvard in Marita's stead? And did it matter? It might not...but it might. My blood was pumping, alive with purpose. If I could find out what Larissa Covarrubias had done, I might know enough to do something useful. I might find whatever Diana Donovan hoped to lead me to - whatever it was that had led her to abandon her work with Mulder. And if I could do that, maybe I could make a difference after all.

"Mulder," I said wide-eyed, "you took the words right out of my mouth."

I'd pushed the false sincerity too far, and he knew I was humouring him; but then I was touching him, and he didn't care anymore. And when we were done and he was asleep, I crept out of my bed, and I left him there.

I went to Mulder's.

I put a cross on his window in masking tape as I had seen him do, and I left a note on the floor. I waited there in the shadows, drowsing, my watch alarm set for five a.m. I had to be home before Mulder woke.

His informant arrived in the early hours of the morning, knocking, then nervously opening the door. In the dim light from the corridor, I recognised him as the dark man - Spender's right hand. That made sense, I reflected - he'd been Michael's man before that. His weapon drawn, he opened the door fully to the wall, and positioned himself with his back to it. He bent carefully and picked up the note, then rose, reading it. He looked anxiously around the apartment, and fled.

The note was an e-mail address and password - not one of mine, but one for him. It was a way for me to contact him that didn't involve the window or face-to-face contact - something Mulder would have arranged himself if he hadn't been so in love with the idea of being a shadowy crime fighter meeting with mysterious informants. As far as the dark man was concerned, his correspondent was Mulder - a deception that would not last long, but might last long enough for me to find out about Larissa Covarrubias.

I waited a while to be sure he was gone, and then I went home to Mulder. I let myself into the apartment and undressed as quietly as I could. Mulder was sprawled out over the bed, the sheets twisted around him; and, yes, the sunflower seeds were scattered everywhere. Smiling wistfully, I swept what I could onto the floor, and lay down beside him, curling my body against his; but my good humour faded. I felt the lines of my face settle into something hard and hurtful.

Never before had I used him for my own purposes.

And that made this the beginning of the end.

Whatever my future held - whether the Consortium or Daugavpils or death or some other alternative not yet known - Mulder, necessarily, would not be part of it. Not like this. I'd never really thought Mulder and I would be forever, but that didn't dull my pain at the fact.

I forced myself into a fitful sleep, but I was troubled in mind.

"I didn't know where else to go."

I stared at Mulder for a long, long moment, not sure what I could say that wasn't trite. At last, I reached out to him, took his hand, and drew him to me. I hugged him, not so much as a lover as a friend.

Some friend.

"It was on the radio," I said at last. "Duane Barry, known psychopath, takes hostage. They didn't give her name, but I recognised her description."

His voice was muffled against me. "Fucking son-of-a-bitch. I should have killed him when I had the chance."

Wordlessly, I nodded, kicking the door closed with my foot. "I know," I whispered. I held him tighter.

"I can't lose her," he rasped, his voice harsh with pain.

"You're not gonna lose her," I said in a low voice, right next to his ear. "Scully's coming home to you. I don't know how, but I know." I knew because I'd bring her home myself if I had to. To see him like this was more than I could bear.

"Yeah?" he said, pulling back to look at me, his face hopeful. His hands gripped my shoulders painfully, but I couldn't bring myself to pull away.

"Yeah."

He kissed me then, hard, his hands searching clumsily for me. "Mulder," I protested. He ignored me, groping blindly under my jacket, drawing my shirt out of my jeans and snaking up my back. A little stunned, I let him for a moment; but then I pushed him away. "Mulder!" I said, not unkindly, "This isn't about me."

He stared at me in childlike bewilderment for a long moment, but then he nodded. "No," he admitted. "I suppose it isn't." Then, hesitantly, "Do you mind?"

Frowning, I watched him for a long moment; but at last, I shook my head. "No, I don't," I relented. I could give him that much, I supposed; and it would probably be the last time I could give him anything.

And then his mouth was on mine, devouring, taking from me, and I allowed it because I loved him. He whispered the words that turned him on and turned me off, and for once I didn't mind. He fucked me hard, and I hated it hard, but I allowed that too. And I came in spite of it all, in spite of his fumbling, grieving clumsiness, in spite of my aching ass, in spite of my guilt and my sorrow. Because I loved him.

When it was over, and he was sleeping fitfully, I rose. I felt dirty and I wasn't quite sure why. Puzzling over it was stupid, I decided, when I could just fix it; so I ran a shower. I stepped in when steam began to form, the water coursing over me in a rush, and I gave myself up to the heady warmth of it gratefully.

Standing there, not bothering with soap, just relishing the cleansing heat, I was struck by random thoughts, none of them really connected. I remembered my first time with a man, and how it tortured me, how I thought I was losing the joy of loving women, and how long it was before I understood that it was possible to love both. I remembered a college friend - a woman - complaining about her boyfriend's penchant for rear-entry sex. It made her feel like he wanted to be with someone else. I'd made comforting noises, but I hadn't really understood. But I thought I understood now. Because Mulder hadn't wanted me back there.

He'd wanted Dana Scully.

I didn't think he was in love with her - I didn't think he was capable of that kind of love for a woman, even her - but I knew he loved her above all else, in a way that transcended his sexual boundaries, if anything ever could. She dominated his passions, and in his grief over her loss, she dominated even the desire he normally reserved for me. I wasn't jealous, or resentful, or even hurt - not in the circumstances.

But I still felt dirty.

So I stood there in the steaming hot water until my skin was red, and then I wrapped myself in my robe and went out onto the balcony. It was a puny balcony, for a puny apartment, and I rarely went out there - not since my mother died - but I went out there now.

We'd sat out here a lot, she and I. I'd sold the house after her medical insurance ran dry, and she'd spent the last year of her life living here with me. We got on each other's nerves in such cramped quarters - and I in particular had been on a hair-trigger, without even a bedroom of my own - but sitting on the balcony had alleviated that strain. Every time I thought I'd go nuts if I had to sleep one more night on that damn couch, she would invite me out here with a steaming cup of tea, and we would talk until it was close to dawn. And the irritation of raw nerves abrading against one another would dissipate.

I wondered what she would think of me now. She'd known about the men, I think, but we'd never discussed it. Tatiana Krycek didn't discuss sex - not directly - and I think that conservatism had a lot to do with my own. But she'd have had a lot to say about me working for Spender. It was that which I wished I could hear now. Home truths, perhaps uncomfortable ones, but truths that would guide me. The dilemma I had been anticipating was upon me, and I still had no idea of how to proceed.

I wasn't privy to precisely where Dana Scully had been taken, or where she would be taken when the exchange was made, but I had been instructed to prevent Mulder from catching up with Duane Barry. I was to leave no witnesses to my handiwork; and I was to kill Duane before he could be interrogated. I didn't think Scully would be killed, but I had heard sufficient rumours about the hybrid experiments to know that the fate that awaited her was a bad one. I was prepared to kill Duane Barry if I had to - the guy was a walking timebomb and a danger to everyone he came in contact with - but I still didn't know if I was willing to be a part of what was to happen to Dana Scully.

But if I chose Mulder and his work - if I ran, and if first I told him what I knew - I still didn't know enough for him to prevent it. And if I did as I had been told to do, I might get enough information to get her back.

But I wasn't sure that was reason enough. I didn't have enough information to do the things I wanted to do in the group, and possibly I never would. That made the price of a man's life - even Duane Barry's, and especially so soon after taking down Augustus Cole - it made that price hard to reconcile.

Either way, though, my time here was coming to a close. Soon, I would run, one way or another - either fleeing the group, or fleeing the law. If the former, I would return to Latvia; if the latter, I would go to my suite at The Den until I could work something out. I had a ticket booked for Riga, just in case. Right now I thought I would use it.

Sighing, I rose, and went to the sliding door. I paused there, looking wistfully at my mother's empty armchair, weathered and threadbare. It would be in storage the following evening, like everything else. I wondered if I would ever see it again. And I would, years later in Tangier; but right now I doubted it.

I closed the door.

There is something cliche about the last-minute intervention.

It is a sign of a poor writer, it is said, to contrive a direction-altering coincidence at the crucial moment. If so, God is a poor author indeed, because they happen in real life all the time. And that's what happened to me.

What happened was that I received a packet I'd ordered from Harvard. It was among the mail I retrieved from my maildrop at lunchtime, in anticipation of leaving for Latvia. I opened it hurriedly, and withdrew an academic transcript issued in the name of Marita Covarrubias. I scanned it, frowning. Lots of biotechnology and genetic subjects. Even the arts subjects had a definite slant, one I didn't like: 'WWII, Hitler, and Eugenics: A Historio-Ethical Analysis'. 'Medical Ethics For The Twenty First Century'. 'The Use And Abuse Of Genetics'.

There were yearbooks in the package, too - something I had not been able to afford in my own time there. I put the transcript to the bottom of the pile and opened the yearbook, flipping pages hurriedly. I passed over the formal portraits, which might have been faked, and skipped to the Science Club pages. There, in a group photo, I found a picture of the girl who had posed as Marita Covarrubias. I put my hand to my mouth in disbelief; and, belatedly, stifled a sound of shock. And in that moment, my choice was made.

I chose Marita.

That sounds melodramatic, when you consider that at this point I had not met her; but looking back on that time in my life, I believe now that I was in a holding pattern while I put all the pieces together - pieces that would lead me to her. I was, not loving her, but waiting to love her. Perhaps I'd been waiting for that all my life. Perhaps we were souls together. I am not a religious man, nor a particularly sentimental one, but I know no other way to explain why it happened the way it did.

Whatever the case - God, fate, or blind luck - I was presented with a choice. Choose Mulder and his search for Scully, save Duane Barry, and lose my access; or choose the work, with a chance now of blowing it wide open, and lose Mulder. I chose the work.

I chose Marita.

That night, as I took refuge in my suite at The Den, the blood of two men on my hands, I thought again of that yearbook. I thought of the girl who went to Harvard as Marita Covarrubias, while the girl at the funeral was at Oxford as Marita Ekaterinberg. That Marita was the Marita Diana knew, the one who had studied a melting pot of anthropology, philosophy, and politics, and who used it in her work at the United Nations. The other, the elusive scientist, of whom I was more and more sure Marita knew nothing - she haunted me. It was impossible, but there was proof.

It was another Marita.

And Marita was the only one who could lead me to her.

Part Two

This instalment is Marita's version of the events of Erlenmeyer Flask to Ascension.

Love will keep me alive.

There's a reason that philosophies like this one are not to be found in religious texts, or in the apocrypha of the ages. They're created by the modern mind as a panacea for the self-absorption of the modern age. Conventional sentiment, devoid of meaning.

In other words, they're self-deluding crap.

But I keep coming back to the words. They have become my mantra, my survival anthem. I hate them, and I despise the song from which they came, but they will not leave me. I puzzle over them contemplatively, as though a tenet of my oh-so-meagre faith. And that is in spite of the fact that their fabled love is just that - a fable. I have never loved - not like that - and sometimes I believe I never will. I feel out of time and place, a twenty- three year old woman with childish dreams and the exhaustion of a crone. For me, there can only be protection - a pathetic kind of love, perhaps, but perhaps that's all there is.

Yet for all my dreams; for all my intuitive, blind grasping for something better, my grief for Michael remains. He had protected me, and I had loved him; and when I cradled his body in the car that night, that dreadful song assaulted my senses, etching itself indelibly into my memory. The Dark Man kept the radio volume high - though just whose sobs he was trying to muffle, I couldn't have said. And after the funeral, when I endured the meaningless gestures of people who had had a hand in his death, I kept telling myself:

Love will keep me alive.

Keep saying it, Marita, and one day it might come true.

"Marita?"

The sound should have surprised me, coming as it did in an empty apartment; but it didn't. I looked around from the window, and saw the Dark Man behind me. "Hello," I said absently, and turned back to the window, tracing the course of a drop of rain with my fingertip.

"You should be more careful," he said reproachfully. "The door was off its chain. I used my key and walked straight in." I saw him remove his coat, dimly reflected in the glass, and lay it over the couch.

"You shouldn't have a key," I said dully. Was that strange, colourless voice really mine?

"I'm Michael's executor," he pointed out, coming around me to sit on the windowsill. We were five storeys up - the visual of him leaning casually against a thin layer of glass was surreal. But then, most things were surreal in that first awful month after Michael died, starting with watching him being shot to death a hundred feet away. "I'm supposed to have a key until the estate is wound up. You're not even supposed to be here yet."

"Are you going to enforce that?" I demanded in a low voice.

He shot me a withering look. "Of course not. But you should be more careful. If you can't protect yourself then you should go home to Larissa."

Suddenly, abruptly, I felt physically ill. With Michael gone, without his gentleness to cushion my anger, I felt as I had felt early on in our relationship: as though I had been sold. "Mother is the last person I want right now," I said bitterly.

The Dark Man's brow flickered, but he didn't comment; and at last, I asked incuriously, "Do you really think they'll come after me?"

He shook his head, relenting. "Unlikely. They've taken their revenge. I doubt they even know we were there that night."

I frowned, still tracing raindrops on the window, teasing delicate trails through the condensation. "Wouldn't it have been in Dana Scully's report?"

He shook his head. "She ends her report with her account of his shooting and her retrieval of Mulder."

"I wasn't kind to her that night," I said sadly. "When I told her to take Mulder and go, she looked like she'd been slapped." I hung my head. "Michael would have expected better of me."

"Marita, you were barely coherent. I doubt she blames you, and anyway, it doesn't matter. What matters is your safety. It doesn't pay to be careless."

"I suppose not." I met his gaze properly for the first time. "Was Michael careless? Is that why he died?"

The Dark Man regarded me intently, frowning; then shook his head. "Michael made a deal, knowing that he would probably die for it. He stole something - something they needed - and gave it back in exchange for Mulder's release."

"The thing he got from Scully that night," I said. "He told me that much. What did he steal?"

He held my gaze for a long, long moment - and the Dark Man was not one to use body language for emphasis. At last, he said in a low voice, "The alien genome."

My eyes widened in absolute stupefaction. I stared at him in disbelief. "Oh, my God," I said in slow horror. "No wonder they killed him."

"He died for a greater cause." His voice was kind.

"Mulder's life? What kind of a greater cause is that?" I demanded angrily.

A look of chagrin passed over his features. He said dryly, "Kill Mulder, and you risk-"

"-turning one man's quest into a crusade," I finished irritably. "I know the company line, and I know it's crap. Tell me why he's so important." The Dark Man looked nervous, and I persisted, "Michael and I were to be married. I have a right to know."

He watched me steadily, as though in indecision; at last, he asked grimly, "How much do you know about colonisation? I mean really?"

"Enough to get me killed, I would think," I hazarded. He shot me an interested look, and I shrugged helplessly. "Diana graduated a year before I did. I was lonely...spent all my time online. That was when I started hacking. First it was just stupid stuff - putting caricatures in place of photos on the faculty website, that sort of thing." His mouth twitched, and he struggled manfully to keep his solemn demeanour in place. I reminded myself to ask him one day whether it hurt to be so perpetually, intentionally dour. "But when it occurred to me to try to find out exactly what my mother had done that meant I had to go into hiding, I knew the right names and places to look."

He looked at me with new respect. "You hacked into the CIA?" I shook my head. "DOD?" I gave a mock-modest shrug at the latter, and he shook his head. "You were lucky you weren't caught."

"Not lucky," I corrected. "Smart. I did it at Maxwell Donovan's mansion while I was on holidays there. As far as Defense was concerned, I was him. I got into Project Enigma and found this database called Majestic Twelve-"

The Dark Man went visibly pale - well, as pale as he got, anyway. "You got into the MJ-12 files?"

I nodded. "Is that bad?"

"More like a fucking miracle," he said, and it occurred to me fleetingly that I'd never heard him swear before. "Go on."

I watched him curiously, wondering what he was thinking, but I complied. "I imagine it's encrypted, but since I was logged in as Max, it let me view it. It was all copy-protected, of course - to save it, I had to do screen captures, page by page. Very laborious."

"You couldn't have done the whole database that way."

"Hell, no. And Max didn't have a tape drive. I only managed to fill five floppies before he got home." I looked out the window once more, my mind drifting, as it so often did these days. The brief spark of interest he had aroused in me was flickering, dying; my hold on the present was growing gossamer- thin. I said absently, "But since I'd searched for my mother's name and Michael's, they were filled with the right kind of data." It had stopped raining, I noted thoughtfully. Michael had loved the rain.

"So what did you find out?" he demanded. I just shook my head dully, teasing fingerprints in the condensation on the glass, not really hearing him. I pressed the side of my fist to the glass and saw that it looked rather like a baby's footprint. I filled in the toes with my fingertips, pleased with myself. And by the way, was I losing my mind? And did it matter?

"Marita!" he said insistently, intruding on what passed for my thoughts.

"What?" I sighed, my tone petulant, like a child.

"Stay with me. You're stronger than this."

I was seized by a sudden, perverse impulse to start humming and rocking just to piss him off; but that in itself was a return of spirit, and I channeled it. I thought hard, struggling to remember what he'd asked me. What I'd found out, that was it. "Well, nothing about whatever my mother did that put me in danger, anyway," I conceded. "You were Michael's right hand - do you know about it?"

He shook his head. "I was in Tunisia checking up on Strughold in 1983. I know something went down, but Michael never told me about it." He went on, "If it wasn't in MJ-12, then it must have been factional."

"I agree, but I didn't know about the factional split at that stage," I explained. "All I knew was that there was a certain group which had the power to vote on and enact certain issues, and that that group included Max, Michael, Mother, Bill Mulder, and that asshole Spender. I knew that we had a deal to create an alien-human hybrid, to ensure human survival. I didn't know about the planned colonisation then."

"What on earth did you think hybridisation was for, then?" he demanded incredulously.

I gave wry shrug. "It was the eighties. Everyone was afraid of nuclear war, and MJ-12 documented the radioactive qualities of the alien race. I thought they were a benign force, giving us information so that we could survive a nuclear holocaust."

"Oh, I see. Yes, that makes sense."

"Mother let me keep on believing that when I came home and confronted her. It wasn't until Diana started making connections between Mulder's work and odd comments from Edward that I started to wonder. She made contact with me after she quit the X Files and started asking questions. Pretty soon I was asking them, too."

"Asking who?" he asked curiously.

"Well, Michael, mostly," I said, and he nodded pensively. "He fobbed me off, of course; but he came home upset on Christmas Eve in ninety-one. He'd had to kill an EBE under Security Council Resolution 1013." I frowned, remembering that awful night. Michael had never killed before, to my knowledge; and he'd had nightmares for months after.

The Dark Man's voice intruded on my thoughts. "That was when you realised they weren't such a benign force after all?"

I shook my head; said easily, "Oh, I'd suspected that for a while. I don't trust Mother," I admitted, and that was a painful thing to say, even now, "and the hybridisation program was accelerating even though the nuclear threat was easing. That explanation didn't make sense anymore." Michael's cat leaped up on the windowsill between us, and I lifted her onto my lap, still talking. "The existence of that resolution pretty much confirmed my suspicions. I knew then that hybridisation had to represent a compromise, and the invasion threat was the logical conclusion to that train of thought." The cat licked my hand affectionately. That struck me as odd - I'd always thought only dogs did that. "Michael pretty much confirmed it, and he told me about the factions - how one side, our side, wanted to delay hybridisation for as long as possible." The Dark Man was nodding. "So where does Mulder fit into all this?"

The Dark Man reached out and scratched behind the cat's ears with some affection. He was rather like a cat himself, come to think of it. It shouldn't have surprised me that he had an affinity with them. "For some time, Michael has been placing people, both within Strughold and Spender's hybrid operation and in positions of power elsewhere, in the hope of exerting pressure on the project and delaying its success. You're one of those, of course."

"Of course," I echoed.

"Mulder is another. But Mulder got a lot more important two years ago. That was when Michael decided - against all good sense, I might add - that it was worth the risk to make himself known to Mulder as an informant."

"That was when Samantha Mulder died," I said reflectively.

"That's right. We thought at that time that Spender would recruit him as his successor in Miss Mulder's place, but that didn't eventuate. He felt Mulder was too much of a loose canon." The cat stretched, shrugging off my hand, and walked elegantly onto the windowsill without a backward glance. With some amusement, I watched her position herself regally at the Dark Man's side, like a consort. "He started looking outside the operation instead - started recruiting people out of the FBI and CIA, hoping to groom someone. We believe that Alexei Krycek, who I pointed out to you at the funeral, is one of them." I made a sound of comprehension. "In some ways that outcome is better, because Mulder can put more pressure on the operation from outside. We believe Spender would kill Mulder if he had to - he's not above infanticide - but he'll protect him for as long as he can."

I nodded slowly, thoughtfully. At last, I queried softly, "Was it worth Michael's life?"

He held my gaze steadily. "He thought so."

We sat there in silence for a long moment; me staring out the window once more, him petting the cat absently. It was a companionable silence, because I genuinely liked the Dark Man, and I believe he liked me, as much as he could be said to like anyone. With the Dark Man, I always knew where I stood. That was a rare gift in my world.

He was watching me curiously. "Are you all right, Marita?"

I shot him a look, but then I slumped a little, sighing heavily. "I feel like a fraud," I said bitterly. "I wasn't in love with him."

"He knew that."

"But I did love him."

"He knew that, too." He reached out, cautiously, as one who is unused to reaching out, and squeezed my shoulder gently. I shot him a wan little smile, and he withdrew. "Michael wasn't a fool, Marita. He knew that an eighteen-year-old girl doesn't accept a proposal of marriage from a fifty- five-year-old man for romance. She does it for money, or if she has money, then she does it to be safe. And if you're really lucky, she loves you for protecting her from whatever she's running from." I wondered whether he was speaking from experience.

"My mother thought he would keep me safe," I mused. Then, morosely, "What I thought didn't come into it."

He said sharply, "Did you resent Michael, Marita?"

I stared at him. "No," I said, thunderstruck. "He took care of me."

"Then stop acting like a fucking penitent," he said impatiently. "You were a kid railroaded into an adult relationship, and you made him happy anyway."

I held his gaze for a long moment, but then I sighed, nodding, accepting this. I said wearily, "What do I do now?"

"You've got two choices, Marita. Go back to playing fetch for the Consortium, or pursue Michael's cause. See if you want to make it your own. If you want to do something for him, make it something a little more constructive than sitting in his apartment staring out a window."

"How?" I demanded. "I don't have access."

"I can get you access. Your placement in the United Nations is intended as a mere pressure point - leverage if ever the need arises. But you don't have to stay at that level. With the right mentor and the right patron, you could become a player. Make a difference."

"Who?" I said sharply, turning to face him fully.

"Me as mentor, Spender as patron. You could switch allegiances later if you wished - Donovan is one to keep in mind - but start with Spender."

"Why Spender?" I queried. "He is an odious man."

"They're all odious men, Marita. Some just wear better cologne." I laughed at that - a weak laugh, but a laugh just the same. He unbent a little, smiling at me indulgently. "He controls our placed operatives in the FBI. That means he has leverage over Mulder."

"Not to mention putting me only two rungs down from the voting circle."

The Dark Man nodded approvingly. "That's right." He shifted uncomfortably. "There's something else I need to tell you - something that may make a difference to how you proceed."

"Go on," I said apprehensively.

"Have you ever heard of The Den?"

I shrugged. "Sure. It's a Consortium social club down Westminster way. If the rumours are to believed, it does double duty as a sex club."

"That's correct." He said conversationally, "It belonged to Michael, you know."

I stared at him, thunderstruck. "What?" He said nothing; only held my gaze steadily. I sat back in utter disbelief. I said in a low, fierce voice, "Michael was not that kind of a man."

"No, he wasn't," he said mildly.

"But - why would he do such a thing?" I demanded incredulously.

He shifted again. "I'm telling this second hand - I didn't join the group until 1978 - but I presume you're aware of the Teena Mulder scandal in 1960?"

I nodded. "Teena and Spender wanted to marry. Bill Mulder was distraught - he was ready to expose the work in revenge. Everyone was taking sides. Somehow that got resolved - I'm not sure how -"

"Strughold uncovered abuses of the pathogen by a certain dictator in the Gaza Strip," he supplied. "The group realised that personal agendas were not luxuries they could afford. Bill Mulder agreed to turn a blind eye to the affair. Spender agreed not to seek to marry Teena. The men eventually became friends again, and Bill raised their children as his, as you know."

I nodded reflectively. "Story as old as time. What's that got to do with Michael?"

"The sexual revolution was dawning. Michael was worried about leaks...blackmail. The Teena Mulder affair consolidated his fears. He built The Den as a response to that problem. He viewed it as the lesser of two evils - and to be fair, he appears to have been right. There has never been a sexual scandal with that magnitude of danger since." I nodded, understanding. He said more gently, "It's yours now, Marita. You inherit that along with everything else."

I stared at him, aghast. "No...no, I don't want it."

He leaned back, crossing his arms across his chest. He didn't seem surprised by my reaction. "Why not?"

I thought hard, trying to put the mess of thoughts running through my head into some sort of order. In the end, it all came down to one thing. "I find it offensive."

He nodded thoughtfully. "All right. Let's try this for offensive. The Den employs seventy-one courtesans. Most of them are runaways whom Michael was putting through university and trying to get out of the sex industry. Thousands, over the years. People who might have died otherwise; people who went on to have productive lives. Cassandra Malloy was one of those."

"Spender's wife?" I said in astonishment.

He nodded. "Of the seventy-one there now, fifty-four are female, and thirty-two have children. If you abdicate responsibility for those people because it offends your sensibilities, who's going to take care of them? Are you going to hire a social worker to run your brothel for you?" His voice was lightly mocking.

"Can't I pay them off? Shut it down? Money is hardly a problem."

He shook his head. "You own The Den only in name, Marita. It's viewed as a Consortium asset. You are expected to keep it open. The implications of refusal are grave."

"Then why can't they run it?" I demanded angrily.

He shrugged. "They can. That's what will happen if you wash your hands of it. But are you going to leave those people in Strughold's hands? Spender's?" I shuddered. "I thought not."

"You seem to have it all figured out," I said coldly.

"Don't do that, Marita. I'm not trying to manipulate you into anything. I'm just telling it as I see it. If you tell me to, I will find someone to run it, and I will do my best for those people. But I think you'd be letting yourself down - and Michael." At my reproachful look, he conceded, "All right, perhaps I am trying to manipulate you. But can you look at me and tell me I'm wrong?" I was silent, ashamed.

He watched me for a long moment, then reached into his pocket. He handed me an anonymous pass card and a business card. "That's the address and your access card. You should see Connie Francis as soon as you can - she's the business manager. She'll make sure you know everything you need to know."

I took them reluctantly. "All right," I said in a low voice.

We were silent for a long moment. At last, the Dark Man said thoughtfully, "You know, Marita, I think you're underestimating the value of The Den. It puts you in a unique position to obtain the information you seek."

"If you're implying what I think you're implying, I don't think you should say any more," I said warningly.

"What do you think I'm implying?"

"You're implying that I should sleep my way to the truth," I said angrily.

"On the contrary. You don't have to have sex to use it to your advantage, Marita. Sometimes the greatest power lies in being unavailable."

"You're talking about teasing," I said, but I wasn't sure that was it at all. I was out of my depth on a lot of levels. I had only ever been with Michael; and for me, sex was something very simple and companionable. The complexity, the layers of interaction and manipulation the Dark Man alluded to were foreign to me.

He shook his head. "No. When you tease, the other person owns a little piece of you - even if it's only in their own mind. I'm talking about absolute control. I'm talking about owning yourself. I'm talking about being desired precisely because you belong to no-one but yourself."

My brow creased. "Are you talking about B&D?"

"Nearly. D&S - domination and submission." I thought on this. "I don't know if I can do that," I said hesitantly. "I don't know if I'm even - equipped to do it." I said haltingly, "Michael and I were - well, pretty vanilla." I flushed a little. I hadn't been brought up to speak of such things. I struggled on, "I liked it that way. There was honesty in it. I don't have a seductress in me just waiting to break out. I don't know how to do the things you're talking about."

"It's a skill, nothing more. It can be learned like any other. I can teach you, Marita - if you'll trust me."

"I do," I said unhesitatingly. "But - this? I just don't know."

He nodded slowly in acceptance of this. "Just think about it, Marita. You know where to find me."

I nodded pensively. "All right."

He rose and walked to the armchair. In the reflection I could see him putting on his coat. I turned in my chair to look at him. "Why are you doing this?" I demanded.

He looked at me with some indecision, but finally, he said, "Fifteen years ago, Michael entrusted me with a traumatised young girl. I hid her in a disused wing of The Den. She was fourteen," he said grimly. "Whatever guidance she needed to put what had happened to her to use without destroying herself, she didn't get it. She was a courtesan by sixteen, a double agent by eighteen, and dead by her own hand at twenty-seven."

"Samantha Mulder," I said softly.

He inclined his head. "I never taught her how to protect herself. Never even understood the need until it was too late." He shrugged. "I'd like to do better by you."

He turned from me then, and went to the door. I called him by name, and he turned.

I shot him a smile. "You already have."

He nodded thoughtfully, and then he left me.

"I think he's wrong."

I stroked the cheek of the infant in my arms, and looked up. Diana was watching us pensively. "Go on," I prompted.

"I think he was wrong to suggest it," she elaborated. She shifted on the bed, sitting up, leaning over to the remains of lunch on the room service trolley. She chewed on a celery stick thoughtfully. "Marita, you're very young."

"You were married at my age," I pointed out; but my voice was mild, because part of me agreed with her. At the sound of my voice, Elizabeth opened her eyes and stared at me unblinkingly. I smiled down at her warmly. She was going to be beautiful.

"I'm not talking about years. You've been with one man - and an undemanding one at that." I flushed. "It's not my wish to make you uncomfortable, Marita, but let's be frank - you're inexperienced. You don't know how to handle yourself with the kind of men you'll meet at The Den - and really, I hope you never do. I think of you like a sister, you know?" I shot her a faint smile, and she returned it. "And I wouldn't want my sister in that place."

"Well, it appears that I have no choice - at least on the admin side of things," I said wryly. "As for the rest, I just don't know." I carefully extricated a lock of my hair from the baby's curled fingers.

Diana frowned, picking at the salad bowl absently. She conceded, "It might be worth it, *maybe*, if you had something firm - some concrete goal, and that was the fastest way to achieve it." She sat back on the bed. She looked tired, and not for the first time, I wondered about the wisdom of discharging her so soon. "But just to get more of a foot in the door - no. There are better ways in, and you should wait for them to present themselves."

I nodded slowly. "It might all be a moot point, anyway. I don't think I'm even cut out for it. He says it's a skill that can be learned - that he can teach me to protect myself - but I just don't know."

Diana shrugged. "Oh, if it came down to that, he's right. He taught Edward and I," she revealed. At my look of surprise, she said, a little sheepishly, "Yeah. Max doesn't know - he'd hit the roof. But we had a concrete goal, and Michael and the Dark Man helped us." Her good humour faded, and she said softly, "It's not an easy thing to do, Marita. I haven't killed anyone, but Edward has, and he says it's a little bit the same. It's something you do because you have to do it, and it isn't the devastating thing that people think it is - but it does take something of yourself. Something you never get back."

I nodded, frowning. At last, I said softly, "Is it worth it?" I didn't just mean The Den.

Diana drew her knees up to her chest morosely. "I don't know, Marita. If we can find a way out of this mess, a way to make a real future for her -" she nodded to the baby "- and for Shane, then yeah. But more and more I think that's just a pipedream." She was suddenly very pale. "I don't know if these children are going to grow up, Rita, and that scares the hell out of me."

"They will," I said - and however stupidly glib the words seemed, I meant them. My hold on Elizabeth tightened instinctively. "I swear, Diana, they will, even if I have to make a goddamn vaccine myself." She reacted visibly, and I said, "What?"

"Nothing. It's just - you reminded me of someone. Someone I used to know." I watched her, perplexed, and at last, she said, "Samantha Mulder."

"You still think about her?" I said softly. I knew she did, but this was the first time in over a year that she'd alluded to it directly.

She said with difficulty, "I was with her in Tunis that day when she found out how close Strughold was to a successful hybrid." She shook her head, her lips drawn tight together. "I should have seen how upset she was."

I regarded her with genuine warmth. "You couldn't have stopped it, Diana," I said, not really sure whether that was true; but it probably was. "It's not like she jumped off the nearest building. She went home, put her affairs in order, and threw herself into the Grand Canyon. It was planned - probably long before Tunis. That was just the last straw."

Diana sighed, brushing her hair back from her face. "Maybe."

We stayed there in silence for a long moment, but then Elizabeth began to fuss, and Diana held out her arms. "I'll take her," she said in a more normal voice. "Shh," she hummed as I handed her over.

"I should go," I said reluctantly. "I have to go down to The Den and attend to whatever Connie Francis lays on me. And you should rest."

"Could you do me a favour?"

"Shoot." Discreetly, she began to nurse, still talking. "Get her to make out a new membership and courier me the card. Silver level. Alex Krycek." The infant moulded herself to her with a contented sigh.

"That's the second time I've heard that name today," I said mildly.

"I've got a feeling you'll hear it a lot more," she said, settling back. "He's one of Spender's boys, but he's not your usual Consortium thug. Academic background. Nice respectable young man."

"What's he doing with us, then?" I demanded.

"Paying his mom's medical bills," she smirked.

"You're joking, right?"

"Nope." She shot me a look. "He's been putting the feelers out. I get the feeling that his loyalty to Spender is, shall we say, on a trial basis."

"Really? That's very interesting," I said. "According to the Dark Man, Krycek's on the short list for possible successors to Spender - assuming he lives that long and doesn't piss anyone off." Diana laughed. I rose, stretching a little. I put my chair back by the window, where I'd found it, gazing out fleetingly at the city, thirty floors below. Damn Edward; couldn't he spring for a room with a balcony? She must be going crazy in here. Men just didn't think. "I'll get the card for you. And think again about staying with me, okay? You don't have to be stuck in a hotel room by yourself."

Diana laughed. "Will do. Thanks," she added.

"No problem. And Diana?" She looked at me expectantly. I said:

"Thanks for hearing me out."

She shot me a smile, then went back to cooing over Elizabeth.

I shut the door.

"How are you holding up?"

I looked at the woman in genuine surprise. Simple concern was an alien thing to me, it sometimes seemed. Though I was loved by many, that love was a complicated tangle of protectiveness and paternalism. There were few who just wanted to know where I was - how I was - and I felt my eyes sting with sudden tears at the woman's genuine warmth. I blinked them back in irritation. I was tired of weeping, and more tired of weeping in front of others.

"I'm - getting there," I said at last. "Thanks."

"We were all very sad to hear about Michael. He was very devoted to you. And I have to say, the circumstances distressed us all. Drive-bys are pretty much par for the course here in New York, but Maryland - you don't expect it there. Such a Catholic heartland, too."

"Even Catholic families have black sheep," I said grimly. Black sheep like Spender, I amended mentally.

"Very painful for you to have witnessed it. Have you been referred for trauma counselling? Father Donnelly isn't here at the moment, but I know he was wondering if we could help."

I shook my head. "No, Sister, but thank you. I don't think it would help. Some things just have to be endured."

"Try to be gentle with yourself for the next year or two, Marita. Others will expect you to recover before you really do. They can be very unrealistic sometimes - especially your mother," the older woman added tentatively.

"That's my mom. Champion of the stiff upper lip." I shook my head irritably. "Thank you - I'll keep it in mind."

"What can we do for you today, anyway, Marita?"

"I just wanted to see if you needed anything from me about cancelling the wedding. I was too shocked last week to even think about it."

Sister shook her head. "It's all taken care of. We've cancelled the booking, and the prenuptial enquiries with your baptismal parishes were already done. We spoke to your mother the other day, and she's handled the flowers and the reception. You don't need to worry."

"Typical," I said irritably. She looked at me sharply, and I said, "I'm sorry. That sounded ungracious. It's just - she does this, you know? Takes things out of my hands. Those things were my responsibility, and I think they might have been good for me."

She was nodding. "For closure. I understand, and I thought the same thing. But it wasn't my place to say so."

"Of course not." I sighed. "Is there anything else?"

"Only the application for dispensation from impediment to marriage - I was going to call the archdiocese today and put a halt on that."

"What's that about?" I asked curiously.

She looked at me blankly, and then her expression cleared. "That's right, you couldn't be there that day," she said in apparent recollection. I felt my eyes widen just a fraction, and I braced myself, knowing perfectly well that I had attended every parish appointment about which I had been told. I held myself very still, preparing myself not to react to whatever bombshell was about to drop. "As you know, your immigration documents identify Michael as your father." I nodded noncommittally, though I knew no such thing. I knew without doubt that Michael was not my father - he would not have committed incest - and so I concentrated on keeping my expression blandly curious as I waited for it all to fall into place. Eventually it would, I was sure of it.

"He and your mother were quite upfront about it all," Sister continued. "They explained about lying to the authorities to get you and your mother into the country, and they produced documentation showing that Michael was in Hanoi when you were conceived. We knew from our dealings with your family that he had never had any kind of adoptive relationship with you, so from our perspective, there was no problem of consanguinity or affinity. But because those documents exist, we had to get a ruling from the archbishop for you to marry, and say that we were satisfied that those documents didn't reflect a genuine issue of blood or adoptive relationship."

"I see," I said mildly. "That makes sense." I smiled winningly, my mind racing. The story held together, but I couldn't imagine why my mother and Michael had kept this from me. Thinking quickly, I said with as much shy reluctance as I could muster, "Sister, would you mind cancelling that while I'm here? That way, I know it's all done and over with. I think it would help, somehow." I hoped I didn't sound too bucolic. What I hoped was that she would have to get out the file in order to do it. Surely she would have to quote a reference number of some kind.

"Sure. I can do that." Her voice was kind. She rose and went to the filing cabinet. She withdrew a thick folder and came back to the desk. She sat down and, picking up the telephone receiver, hit a speed dial key. I tilted my head sideways to read the legend, *Covarrubias/Harrington*, and drew it towards me with a questioning look at the older woman. I worked to keep my expression mildly curious. She hesitated a moment, her brow furrowing; and I backed off, shrugging carelessly, even though my heart was pounding.

She shrugged too, then, waving a hand. I could almost hear the unspoken, 'Ah, what the hell.' I smiled again, pulling it towards me, breathing out shakily. "Thanks," I said softly.

"It's your own file, Marita. There's no harm in- Alicia!" She turned her attention back to the phone. "It's Sister Deirdre at Staten Island...oh, I'm great now that Easter's over. Father's away 'til Pentecost, so I have the run of the parish..."

I tuned her out, the dulcet tones of small- parish gossip washing over me. That would buy me a little time, but not much. I flipped through the pages quickly, passing over affidavits by my mother and Michael. Nothing written now would shed any light on what had gone before - they were too smart for that. It was original documents that were the key - documents they had gone to some lengths to conceal from me. Immigration papers...my mother's statement of defection...travel records from the CIA and United Nations for Michael from 1969 to 1971...more sworn statements (one from Maxwell Donovan, I noted idly)...a photocopy of the baptismal register from - I read the header - St Mary Magdalene parish in New York...Marks, Jeffries, Panethos, Covarrubias, Covarrubias-

I doubled back. Covarrubias, Marita Elena. Covarrubias, Elena Ekaterina. Both born April 19, 1971 in Ateni, Georgia; both baptised June 21. That meant-

I flipped back to the immigration papers. There was a photocopy of handwritten case notes from the US Consulate in Istanbul. They were in Arabic; but there was a certified translation stapled to it.

--April 23, 1971. Covarrubias, Larissa Krisztyna, and Girl 1, and Girl 2 escorted to embassy by Conrad Strughold. Mrs Covarrubias travelled over the Soviet-Turkish border on foot on April 22 w/newborn infants. Mrs Covarrubias states she is KGB operative, had previously contacted Michael Harrington (UN/CIA) re: defection, and that Harrington is en route to Istanbul, ETA 0830 Apr 24. Awaiting Pentagon confirmation. Strughold known to Consul as a mining entrepreneur based in Tunisia. Some mining interests in Virginia, USA. His involvement with Covarrubias and/or KGB is uncertain, but bears watching. Covarrubias case tentatively classified top security clearance. Entry ends.

--April 24, 1971. Asylum granted. Michael Harrington confirmed Covarrubias story. States he has been in contact with Covarrubias since a tour of duty with the United Nations in Zhezqazghan in 1968. Covarrubias formerly based in a top-secret KGB installation in Norylsk (Siberia). (Undecipherable sentence). No further questioning permitted. Covarrubias and daughters to be escorted to Washington, DC (depart Consul Friday 0630). Medical exam shows Mrs Covarrubias in poor health. Dr. speculates Mrs C. gave birth unaided; some postpartum hemorrhaging, no complications. Girl 1, Marita Elena, within normal limits. Girl 2, Elena Ekaterina, small for gestational age, seriously ill (upper respiratory tract infection). Mrs C. requests Catholic priest for baptism. Negated by CIA on security grounds. Mrs C. identifies twins' father as Michael Harrington; Harrington confirms. Inconsistent with Harrington's movements: left Zhezqazghan January 1970, has been in Hanoi ever since. Mrs C. may be attempting to portray herself as a fleeing adulteress to protect husband from KGB interrogation. Pentagon instructs our investigation be dropped. Entry ends.

"Marita?"

I stared up at her, a little disoriented. "I'm - I'm sorry, Sister. What was that?"

She was watching me curiously. "I said, you're shaking."

I closed the file. "Someone walked over my grave, I guess. It's done?" Don't react, Marita. Don't even think. Just get the hell out of there.

"Yes, it's done. Are you okay?"

I could feel my control slipping. The rigid lines of my face were hurting. They burned, like too- cold ice cracking in sudden heat. "Yeah," I managed. "I appreciate this, Sister."

She rested a hand on my shoulder. "Be kind to yourself, Marita. I'll pray for you."

I reached up and patted it absently. "Thanks," I forced out. I went on with foreboding:

"I think I'm going to need it."

"Mother!"

I threw my handbag down on the polished table, and it slid across and hit the fruit bowl with a clatter. My car keys followed, landing ungraciously at its side. I fumbled helplessly in my pocket for the brand-new pack of smokes and the cheap plastic Bic I'd bought at a truckstop. I ripped open the cigarettes and, pulling one out, threw the pack down, too. I flicked at the lighter uselessly, trying to light up. I yelled in frustration, "Mother! Where the hell are you, god damn you!"

My hands were shaking.

I finally got the cigarette lit, and drew on it gratefully. I pulled out a chair from the table with a clatter, and sank down into it. I sat there with my head in my hands, smoking. My head was pounding.

I heard a door close in the lower floor, and then the rapid, rhythmic beat of footsteps on the stairs. I looked up wearily.

"Marita! I thought I heard a car drive up."

"Mother," I said hoarsely. It was a whisper.

"Maxwell is outside having tea. Do join us."

I breathed out shakily, tendrils of smoke drifting up towards the ceiling fan, twirling merrily overhead. "Mother."

"Oh, dear, you're smoking again," she said reproachfully. "Have a peppermint before you come out. I think there's some in the kitchen."

Sudden fury gathered in me, starting in my stomach and rising to my chest like bile. There was something surreal about it all. My mother had hidden the existence of a twin from me, and she was bitching about smoker's breath? I had the feeling that the natural order of the world had been blown to pieces, free floating in weird prismic formations I'd never seen before.

I tried again. It wasn't just my hands shaking anymore - it was my whole body. "Mother."

She kept prattling. Not for the first time in my life, I wondered if she ever really saw me at all. "I have to get back to Maxwell. We'll see you when you've finished your cigarette then?"

I slumped in my chair, my head bowed in exhausted disbelief. I waved my hand at her helplessly without looking at her; and she obviously took that as acquiescence, because her footsteps receded. I stubbed out the cigarette on the underside of her beautiful table in what I knew was a maliciously infantile gesture, and buried my head in my folded arms. I don't know if I was laughing or crying. I think it might have been both.

At last, I rose, and composed myself. I went to the bathroom and washed my face and straightened my hair. I powdered my cheeks and touched up my lipstick. And all the while, I tried to convince myself to think kindly of her - at least while Maxwell was here. Elena had been small...sick. Maybe she had died very young. Maybe she never really recovered from being smuggled over the border, or from whatever my mother went through as she fled her home on foot in advanced pregnancy. In those days, didn't they sometimes hide the death of a child? Didn't they sometimes seek to protect the subsequent children? Maybe Mother genuinely thought she'd done the right thing. It helped to think so.

Yet when had my mother ever protected me from the harsher realities of life? Not for her, the "Scruffy has gone to live in a beautiful garden." Not for her, the "Uncle Anthony died in his sleep." No, Scruffy was run over by a car. Anthony was shot to death in front of his children. The kind-hearted lies and myths of childhood were alien to my mother. She was a harsh woman, and in an odd way she believed her harshness helped me to grow strong. And maybe that was true.

No, my mother would not have lied to comfort me. She only ever lied to conceal the truth. But what truth was she concealing now? What truth was so important that she and Michael had conspired to continue in its concealment more than twenty years on?

Sighing, I finished in the bathroom and went downstairs. Breathing deeply, I stepped out the door into the courtyard. "Hello, Maxwell," I said airily; and if that seemed a little forced, he would simply put it down to bereavement. Maxwell himself had aged visibly in the last couple of weeks. He and Michael had been close.

"Oh, hello, Marita," he said kindly, rising as I took my seat. "How are you?"

"Holding up," I said grimly. "Mother," I added with a nod of greeting. If she was aware of the coldness in my voice, she didn't show it; but only nodded in return and poured my tea, setting it down in front of me.

"Well," my mother said after a long moment, "I have things to do, so if you'll excuse me, I'll leave you two alone." She rose, sending us a wide, manufactured smile, and left us.

I stared after her. "That was weird," I mused, my expression doubtful. I turned to Maxwell, and then I pulled back visibly. He was furious.

His face was very pink, his mouth pulled into a tight little grimace. I thought he was on the verge of apoplexy. It was actually pretty funny, and I smothered waves of hysterical laughter that suddenly threatened. He burst out indignantly, "Dear God! Michael's body's not even cold!"

My humour faded in an instant. I stared at him in stunned bewilderment. "She *wasn't* trying to-"

"I'm forty six years older than you!" I shot him a sudden, wry grin. "You don't look it."

We both broke out into horrified laughter - thank goodness! After so much stress, it was a relief to be able to do so. I laughed 'til I ached, and by then, Maxwell was leaned back in his chair, smoking his pipe, watching me amiably.

At last, I got control of myself. "I'm so sorry, Maxwell," I said ruefully. "My mother has the sensitivity of-"

"A bull in a china shop," he finished sympathetically.

The expression aroused an unexpected pang of nostalgia. "I miss England," I said suddenly. He said nothing, only waited. I elaborated finally, "Life was simpler then."

He watched me, his brow puckered with concern; and at last, he shook his head. "You only thought it was, Marita," he said mildly. "You've been part of this since the day your mother crawled into Turkey with you on her back."

"And my sister," I said quietly.

That shocked him. He shot me a look; one of surprise, melding quickly into worried nervousness. "Don't pursue that. You'll only put yourself in danger - and her." I nodded noncommittally - I had expected a warning. He leaned forward, his expression grave. "Especially if your mother finds out you know." At that, I opened my eyes very wide; because clearly, the other woman I would endanger was not my mother. And that only left-

"Elena's alive?" I demanded breathlessly, my cheeks hot with excitement.

Maxwell grimaced. Clearly, he'd thought I knew more than I really did - which made me wonder just how much more there was. He said in a low, warning tone, "Leave it alone, Marita."

I persisted. "Is my sister alive?"

Perhaps seeing that I wouldn't let him go without giving me something - but more likely believing I had a right to know - he conceded quietly, "Yes." He glanced at my mother, watching us from the kitchen window, and he went on in an undertone:

"But if you want her to stay that way, you'll leave it alone."

"Marita?"

The Dark Man stood aside, silent permission to enter. I entered his suite and slammed the door behind me. I was shaking.

"Marita, what's the matter?"

I stared at him stupidly for a moment, then turned and went to the basin on the elevated dais. I splashed water over my face, then looked up at my reflection. There were pink spots high on my cheeks, and the lines of my face seemed suddenly haggard. I breathed out shakily.

The Dark Man was watching.

I leaned over the basin, breathing deeply, waiting for some semblance of composure to form. He was still looking at me with that worried expression, but he went to the bar, and busied himself pouring drinks. And when I came down the steps at last, he handed me mine without editorial comment. I took it, and sat on the elaborate bed, drinking gratefully.

He left me there for a few minutes, turning off his laptop and tidying a sheaf of papers on the dresser. "What's wrong?" he asked at last, sitting at my side. Briefly, I told him what had occurred.

"Did you know?" I asked finally.

The Dark Man shook his head. "I didn't come aboard until you were seven. You remember," he added with a sudden grin.

I laughed at that - a little weakly, but a laugh just the same. "I said that you were the first black man I'd ever met. Mother was mortified."

He laughed a little. "I was furious - not with you," he added hurriedly, "with her. I was pretty political back then." His smile faded. "That was 1978, so whatever happened to Elena, it must have happened before that."

"Earlier. Before I could remember anything myself," I chimed in. "Say before 1974." I felt better now - more controlled. It felt good to be proactive.

"Maybe she was surrendered to the colonists as a hostage," he hazarded. "The timeframe works. I always assumed your mother gave up your father, but I admit that was only a guess. I never thought to check one way or another." A new thought occurred to him, and he asked, "Who did you think she surrendered, anyway?"

"I didn't think she surrendered anyone," I said, bewildered.

"But they all gave up someone," he protested, his brow creasing.

"Michael didn't," I pointed out. "Neither did Max or Bill Mulder. And Spender surrendered two. I assumed it was done by ballot."

The Dark Man shook his head. "Max gave up his wife. She went willingly - she was terminally ill. She died a month later in colonist custody. That's why she's never spoken of as missing." I nodded, comprehending. "Samantha was Bill's hostage, not Spender's. If the colonists had learned Bill wasn't the children's father, they'd have demanded Teena - that was why Spender went along with it." A flicker of compassion went through me - something I'd never thought I'd feel for Spender. "Michael was the only one who truly gave up no-one, because he had no-one to give up. His only living relative was Maxwell."

"Maybe he did, though," I said thoughtfully. "If Spender and Bill Mulder lied, why not Michael and my mother? They'd already lied that he was our father once before. Maybe she said Elena was his to settle his debt along with hers."

The Dark Man frowned; nodded slowly. "That makes sense," he conceded. "And it would account for his protectiveness of you growing up."

I crossed my arms, my brow furrowed, thinking hard. "Max said she was alive," I said slowly. "He said that investigating could put both of us in danger. He implied that the danger was from within - not from the colonists." I said curiously, "Could she be here?"

He shrugged uneasily. "I don't see how. I know Cassandra and Samantha were recovered, but Spender and Teena bartered for them. They handed over a group of rebels for them. As far as I know, no-one else ever came back."

"Could my mother have bartered for Elena?"

"I don't see what she could have bartered with. And she certainly couldn't have done it without my knowledge."

"Unless she did it in 1983, when you were in Tunisia," I pointed out. "And she sent me away right after that."

"Possible," he conceded. "But this is pure conjecture, Marita. We don't even know if she's here."

We fell silent, dwelling on this; but at last, I said with awe, "I have a sister." He said nothing, but only looked at me. His expression was kind. "How could I not know that? I mean in myself?"

"Maybe you did," he mused, almost to himself. "Maybe that's what's been holding you back the last few years."

"Holding me back?" I echoed stupidly.

He shrugged a little, warming to his theme. "You've been relying on these people to keep you safe - your mother, Diana, Michael - instead of working to do whatever it is you have to do. Maybe you needed to find out about Elena before you could break free of them."

"You think I'm weak," I realised - and in an unwelcome flash of insight, I realised that it was true.

"You have been weak," he said kindly, "but you're very young. Now it's time to get strong."

"You think badly of me," I said bitterly. It wasn't a question.

"On the contrary," he asserted with real warmth. "I think very highly of you, Marita. But you're still becoming the person you were born to be."

Tears stung my eyes. "I don't -" I faltered; went on finally, "I don't know what to do."

"What do you want to do?" he said quietly.

I glanced at him, wondering what the answer really was; but in the end, there was only one thing I knew for sure just then. "I want to find my sister."

"You might regret it."

"I know that," I said mildly.

"Max is a sound man," he warned. "If he says it's unwise, he's probably right."

I turned to face him fully. "Does that mean you won't help me?"

He smiled faintly; shook his head. "No. I'll help you, Marita."

I touched his hand; gave it a companionable squeeze before withdrawing. "Thank you, my friend."

We were silent for a long moment, but then a cellphone rang. We each checked our pockets; the culprit was his. He answered it, with an apologetic look at me. He rang off.

"That was Connie Francis. I have to go talk to her."

I nodded my understanding, and rose. "I have to see her, too. I'll walk with you." I scanned the opulent room appraisingly. It was lovely, I had to admit. I still had mixed feelings about The Den, but I understood its appeal. The Dark Man reached for the door, but I stayed his hand.

"What we talked about before - about this place. I'll do it."

He shot me a look. "Are you sure?"

"No," I admitted. I bowed my head. "But you were right. I've been too safe for too long. I know too much to let it stay that way." I met his gaze once more. "I have to make a stand, and rise or fall by it."

"Can you handle it?" he said piercingly. He opened the door, and motioned for me to go ahead of him.

"I guess I'll have to."

He turned back to the door and locked it. "Don't look now, but there's Alex Krycek. Nine o'clock," he added.

I turned to the void over the huge circular staircase, passing my eyes idly over the room without meeting Krycek's gaze. He was on the stairs the next level down, looking up at me. So he knew who I was - I thought he might. I said noncommittally, "So he is."

He turned and began to walk, me at his side. On the next floor down, Krycek frowned and went in the direction of the suites. "Wonder what he's doing here. Spender didn't give him membership."

"No," I agreed. "Diana did."

The Dark Man nodded approvingly. "Good. He's worth getting on side. He's low in the chain of command, but Spender's plans for him make him an asset."

"Assuming he plays along with Spender," I said mildly.

"You don't think he will?" His expression was curious.

I shook my head. "No." I thought back to Diana's words. "He's not an ignorant thug like Cardinale. That's why Spender wants him. And that's why he'll never own him."

He nodded approvingly. "You're probably right."

"What's his profile?" I asked with interest.

"He's an interesting one. Bisexual, but otherwise very conservative. Very motivated by family and community. Patriotically American, vehemently anti-Soviet-"

"He'd get along with my mother," I said grimly.

"- but very loyal to the post-Soviet Russian states. He's written in the academic political journals about Latvia and Estonia and Chechnya and all that."

"Anything about Georgia?" I queried, interested.

"Not a lot," he shrugged. "The north-western states are more his line. He's Latvian, hence the interest." I nodded, understanding. "Mind you, I'm sure your Russian heritage could be a common denominator."

"That's true," I said casually, though in truth my interest had little to do with his possible cultivation as an ally. He interested me. He was good-looking, but then, good-looking men were not uncommon in my world. But there was something else...something I couldn't identify. He reminded me of someone, or something. I wondered what it was. And then I realised.

He was somehow different from the others in our world.

Like me.

"Anyway," the Dark Man said, "enough of that. I need to show you something before we go downstairs." He used his keys to open a door marked, 'Private Wing/No Admittance'.

"Michael's rooms," I said dully.

He shook his head in negation of this. "Not at all. He never lived here after it became The Den. I don't think he liked it here after that. No, these rooms were Samantha's."

"Samantha lived here?" I said in surprise. "I mean, later?" He knew what I meant - after she'd been a prostitute here. Courtesan, I mentally corrected. The euphemism didn't come easily, but I was their employer now. If I couldn't show some respect in my own mind, it would show in my dealings with them.

He nodded, motioning for me to enter. I complied. "She lived wherever was most expedient, but she kept rooms here all her life. Michael allowed it. He felt quite kindly towards her."

I smiled faintly, and realised wistfully that Michael already seemed like something very distant - someone I'd known a lifetime ago. I said at last, "That sounds like Michael."

"She has diaries," he was saying. "She was here in 1983. If you can find them - and there's no guarantee that you will - they might shed some light on things."

"You haven't looked for them?" I queried.

"I couldn't," he said evenly. His voice was very mild. Too mild. I wondered then if he'd been in love with her, but I didn't ask. Instead, I nodded, looking over the sitting room before me. Lovely prints on the wall; masses of cushions in all kinds of textured fabrics. It was a very feminine room. It made me sad - I'd never known Samantha, but by all accounts, she'd been a decent woman. And ultimately, of course, a martyr to the resistance. Shaking my head a little to clear it of these musings, I said at last:

"If they're here, I'll find them."

The next couple of months passed without incident. I lived at The Den, mostly for convenience. Companionship, too, I suppose; for Diana stayed in Maxwell's suite - all the voting members had suites reserved for their exclusive use, and I convinced Edward that The Den was a nicer environment than their hotel. I might not have done that if Elizabeth had been older; but I thought - hoped - than an infant wouldn't pick up on the strange dynamics of the place.

I gradually searched Samantha Mulder's suite, but so far I'd come up empty. I saw to the administrative needs of the facility. I found reasons not to see my mother. I took care of the courtesans, put them through school, and was always glad when one left for a better life. I didn't employ any more.

The Dark Man trained me, and he connected me with a handful of undemanding submissives. There was Senator Matheson, who liked to masturbate while I demanded details of his escapades with his toyboys. That was a tough one for me; I felt fiercely protective of Diana, and Matheson had had a hand in her divorce from Mulder. There was an assassin named Fordham, who would answer any question as long as he was allowed to play with my hair; and Senator McKay, who had a foot fetish. An up-and-coming FBI executive named Kersh. And Edward Donovan, who played my favourite in public, and played Scrabble with me behind closed doors. He was the only one allowed to touch me, kiss me - invade my space in any way. That was all right, because I trusted him. More than that, I trusted his unwavering devotion to Diana and their children.

So I was chaste...untouched.

But after a while, it hardly mattered.

As much as the idea of being groped by those men repulses me, there is something about their very presence that affects me almost as badly. They don't touch me, but they still get under my skin. And so does the awful, tantalising, breathless wantonness of the place. I want to be - oh, God, it's hard to write this - I want to be pushed against a wall and fucked. I want to be taken and used and I want it over and over again, hot and hard and fast, and I don't care who by. The words offend me as I write them, affront me, confront me; and yet even now, some dark part of myself throws back her head and moans. I am surrounded by flesh, by sex stripped of meaning, and the incredible power of that arouses all my darkest instincts. It infects me like a drug.

It's insidious.

And it would be so easy to give in to it - to embrace the emptiness.

But that would be giving up on everything I believe and everything I dream of. To reduce lovemaking to sex - no, I can't do that. I can't surrender my dreams of something more.

Because right now, dreams are all I have.

He touches me.

Just a single touch, and I feel my body respond. His hands on my shoulders, his breath on my neck as he pushes aside my hair. I gasp, half pressing myself to him, half pulling away, right on the knife-edge of indecision. "Marita," he breathes, his lips brushing my ear, "beautiful Marita."

At the endearment I feel my resistance melt away. With a gasp of aching longing, I whirl around, pressing myself against him with a low sigh of need. "Oh - oh, God-" I blurt incoherently.

"Marita," he rasps again, his breath hot on me. His hands are on me, moulded to me, seeking me, knowing me. He holds me close, possessively, and I give myself up to it willingly, crying out his name.

I kiss him, hard; press my mouth to his and devour his taste and his scent ravenously. The only man I've ever wanted. The only one who brings those faint embers of instinctive need and sets them alight. How could I have ever thought those embers were desire? They are nothing to this. His hands cradle my face, his lips adore me, cherish me, take me and make me his. My legs buckle, and he pushes me to the wall, pressing me there, sinking to his knees, sliding warm, firm palms under my skirt, over my thighs, drawing my panties down, leaving my stockings and garter intact; and now I know I'm dreaming, because I've never worn a garter in my life; but, God, I don't care, do it, please - please -

So warm.

His mouth, so moist, so warm, kissing me, loving me, taking my most secret places, laying them open, treating them as something precious. I cradle his head with my hands, leaning over, curling my body to reach him, to kiss him tenderly. He takes one of my hands and lays it against his cheek, and he says my name and makes it sound like love. And I'm shaking, shuddering against him, his mouth still moving over me, still giving, still loving, and then I sink to my knees before him and kiss him once more. I want his mouth between my thighs, I want his warmth inside me; but more than anything I want to kiss him, want to hold him close and make him mine. With the miracle of dreams, he's naked, we both are, and he's so warm against me, his torso so effortlessly cradled to mine, fitting to me perfectly. I lay on my back, my legs twined around him, his body held close to mine, his arms holding me close; he seeks not to enter or to plunder, but to caress and embrace; and he slides into me almost as an afterthought, his eyes never leaving mine. His presence within me is nothing, it's insignificant, it means nothing in the face of what's within that shared gaze; and yet it's everything, binding us, joining us, making us one, making us whole. And as he moves, it seems to me as though he's been there all my life, waiting. At last, I hold him tight against me with my legs, pressing him into me as far as he can go, holding him tight within me, cleaving to him with my whole being. And then I'm shuddering, the blood in my veins ice-cold and white- hot all at once, and I can feel him spilling within me, emptying himself into me, giving me as much of himself as one person can to another. His seed is warm; it finds its way within me, seeking to join, seeking to grow, seeking to become more than it is now, to become something new, a new creation. And then I realise that the miracle of life is not conception, but unity; and whatever else becomes of that seed, it has made me his. And as we fall against one another, as we come to rest, still shuddering, still gasping, still clutching one another, I cry out his name.

"Alex -"

I woke up.

I stared at the ceiling, very still, unsure of where fantasy ended and reality began. My hands were fists, clutching bright handfuls of blue velvet cushion, and I was stretched out over crumpled sheets of satin. Tentatively, I reached down to touch myself, and then I drew back with a hiss: I was excruciatingly aroused, acutely painful to the touch. I was warm and slick there, but unnaturally cold everywhere else. And I was shaking.

"Jesus," I whispered.

I threw aside the covers and rose; ran to the basin on the elevated dais and splashed my face with water. I stared at my reflection, breathing heavily, disturbed by the harsh spots of colour on my face. I'd never seen myself like this. I'd never *been* like this. I hung my head in my hands, leaning there against the basin, breathing shakily. "Oh, God."

There was a knock at the door.

"Whatever it is, Connie, it can wait," I called absently.

"It's not Connie. It's Diana."

I was nearly weeping. "God, Diana, please, can it wait?"

She sounded concerned. "Let me in, Marita."

Pulling on a robe, I stalked to the door and wrenched it open. "What?" I demanded harshly.

A look of worry flitted over her features. "Rita? Are you all right?"

I tried to fake it, but the smile just wouldn't form. Finally, I said, "No, I don't think I am." I opened the door and let her enter. She did so, and I shut it gratefully.

She took her time, putting her cellphone on the dresser and dropping down into the overstuffed armchair by the bed. I started to pour myself a scotch, then reconsidered, remembering that Diana was nursing. I poured us both an orange juice. Probably a better idea for that time of the morning, dreams or not.

I handed Diana her drink, and sat on the bed; my composure slowly making a comeback. She said quietly, "Now, are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

"Diana, I can't," I said miserably. The very thought of finding the words I'd have to use chilled me.

"It will help," she said kindly. "Really, Marita. It will all seem a lot smaller once you get it off your chest."

I stared at her. "You know," I said with vague uncertainty.

"I have a fair idea," she said gently. "I've been where you are, Marita. I've seen what this place does to people."

I nodded slowly, accepting the truth of this. I wasn't the first to be screwed up by this place - male or female. I thought Diana was probably thinking of Samantha.

"I've been having dreams," I said hesitantly, at last. "Intimate dreams." I frowned. "They - they bother me. They - frighten me."

Diana sat back, shrugging a little. "Sex is a powerful instinct," she said easily. "And you're surrounded by it. All the aches and the loneliness of being suddenly single are magnified. It's really not surprising that it's getting to you. Marita, you wouldn't be normal if it didn't affect you."

"It's insidious," I blurted. "The more I stay here, the more warped my grip on what I need is getting. I - I feel like I'm splintering." I buried my face in my hands for a long moment. "Oh, God."

"You were at the right psychological moment for this, Marita. That's all. If you can ride it out without doing anything you'll hate yourself for, you'll be fine."

"I know." I sighed wearily. "The Dark Man said that if I was unavailable, I'd be safe - but he was wrong. It's no better than the alternative, and sometimes I think it might be worse."

Diana's expression was kind - and troubled. She rose and came over to me, and drew me close. She was warm and soft against me, and it was comforting. I leant my face against her shoulder. "Not everyone wants something from you, Rita," she said gently. "Some of us just love you." She stroked my hair tenderly, and I thought fleetingly that she must be a very good mother. "And there will be others."

She held me that way for a while; but at last, I pulled away. I stared down at my hands, opening and closing them compulsively. I said morosely, "You knew this would happen, didn't you?"

"I had a pretty good idea," she said softly. "It isn't worth it, Marita. Whatever you're trying to find, whatever ideology is driving you, it's okay to walk away. There are other soldiers. You've lost so much-"

"I had a sister," I burst out.

Diana looked at me, sitting very still. "What did you say?" Her face was suddenly ashen, confirming something I had already suspected: that she had already known.

I watched her steadily, but didn't repeat it.

"How the hell did you find out about that?" she demanded at last.

"So you did know," I said coolly. "I wondered."

She had the good grace to look shamefaced; but she remained resolute. "Let it alone, Marita."

"Oh, that's rich," I said in a low voice. "This, from a woman who kept the fact that I had a sister from me. A friend," I added scathingly.

She flushed, but she didn't back down. "Did you ever stop to wonder why?" she demanded in frustration. "Why your mother and Michael and I and the others kept it from you? Marita, I know how much you think you need to know, but I promise you, some things are best left alone. Some things can turn your world upside down, with no net gain."

"I think your view is coloured by what happened in your marriage," I said pointedly. She winced, but she didn't look angry, as I would have. In a way, that angered me even more. "I'm not Fox. And I have a sister I never even knew, whose very existence was systematically hidden from me."

Diana bowed her head. She said in a low voice, "Don't do this, Marita. Please."

I held her gaze, resolute. "I have to. Don't you see that?"

"I see it - that doesn't I think you're right."

"So does that mean you're against me?" I demanded.

She hung her head in her hands for a long moment. Looking up at me with a sigh, she said with genuine warmth, "I will always be on your side, Marita. But I will not help you do this."

I looked away. I said bitterly, "I think you should leave."

"Marita-"

"Please."

From the corner of my eye, I saw her nod. She rose; said finally, "Marita, please don't hate me."

I turned to face her, and I felt my features soften a little. "I don't," I admitted, reaching out to take her hand. And I didn't. We'd been through too much together. "But right now I need you to go."

She nodded reluctantly, and then she did as I said.

"How did the meeting go?"

The Dark Man stirred his coffee thoughtfully. "Pretty much as expected. Edward got Michael's place in the voting circle." He looked tired.

"So we still have a majority?" I speculated hopefully.

He shook his head morosely. "No. A lot of our votes were in exchange for CIA favours from Michael. We got some of them back with favours from you, as you know; but our faction is a minority now, I'm afraid."

I made a sound of disgust. "Dammit!"

"There's more bad news - not catastrophic, but inconvenient," he added at my look of alarm. "Edward has to go back to Tunisia in a couple of weeks. I believe Diana and the baby are staying for a little longer, but we have to find you a new squeeze." I made a sound of annoyance.

"All right," I said wearily. A passing courtesan waved in greeting, and I shot her a quick nod and smile. "Who did you have in mind?" I asked, putting my teacup to my lips.

"I'm not really sure," he said quietly, taking a long drink from his cup. "I'm thinking about Krycek, though."

I sputtered. "What? He's not even on the inside!" Not to mention the fact that I'd never met the man, never even heard his voice; and yet I'd heard him say my name in my dreams a thousand times over.

"He's further in than you think," the Dark Man said. Then, in an undertone, "He knows something about Larissa."

I was instantly on the alert, dreams forgotten. "How so?" I demanded eagerly.

"He's been asking questions about her whereabouts in 1971 and 1983."

I watched him, my brow furrowing thoughtfully. "I didn't realise you and he were on those terms."

"We're not," the Dark Man said dryly. "We're communicating by email. He thinks I think he's Mulder."

I looked at him with some admiration. "How do you know that?"

"He left me a note at Mulder's apartment one night. I already knew from my surveillance that Mulder was at Krycek's," he added. "Young Alex's car was a couple of blocks away. It wasn't a tough call."

I snorted. "You Consortium types obviously aren't training him too well, now," I teased.

"Subterfuge of that kind is not required of him at this stage," he said evenly.

"Just as well," I snickered, ignoring his reproving look. No sense of humour. "So what are you doing about it?"

"Feeding him scraps. He's worth having on side."

"What do you think he knows?" I wondered.

The Dark Man sat back, spreading his hands expansively. "I'm not sure. But I think you could find out."

I frowned. Diana was right, I supposed; he'd just happened to enter my landscape at the right psychological moment. The dreams didn't mean anything. They could be handled. Just because dream-Alex left me breathless, didn't mean it would translate into real life. He was probably a total jerk.

I asked finally, "Do you think he can be trusted?"

The Dark Man laughed mirthlessly. "Trust no- one, as Michael used to say. But I think he's willing to use and be used."

I nodded slowly at this. "I'll think about it."

"There's something else," he said quietly. I signalled a passing waiter for another pot of tea.

I looked at him curiously. "Go on."

He watched me for a long moment. "Your name was mooted as Michael's successor last night."

I looked at him in genuine disbelief. "Me?"

He shook his head in a clear, you're-missing-the-point gesture. "Oh - it wouldn't have eventuated. You're too young, too new. The nomination was a gesture of respect to Michael, that's all." I nodded in understanding, and waited. "Your being voted down was no surprise. What was a surprise was the vehemence of your most vocal opponent."

"Who was it?" I demanded quietly.

"Your mother." He watched me closely. "Marita, I'm beginning to think that you're right about Elena. I think that maybe she's the key to something bigger. She could be the key to everything."

The waiter came then, with my tea, and we broke apart from our huddled stance. I nodded, frowning, as the waiter moved on to the table behind me. "Would you like a refill, Mr Krycek?"

My eyes widened, and I worked not to turn around. Now that I really looked, I could see him dimly reflected in the glass partition at the end of the room. "He's here a lot lately," I said in a low voice.

"He's staying here for the moment," the Dark Man said calmly.

"Krycek is living here?" I demanded.

"He was involved in the Dana Scully abduction. He had to go on the run. I gather he doesn't have anywhere much to go."

"So he's a bit lost?" I asked, instantly on the alert.

He looked at me strangely. "I wouldn't put it quite like that."

I waved a hand in negation. "No, I mean - he's short on allies. He's ripe to commit to us - to take a role in our work. No conflicting loyalties."

The Dark Man shrugged. "Well, he's still on Spender's payroll, but Spender is only using him as a hired gun. There can't be a lot of job satisfaction there. I don't think Krycek would feel particularly bound to him. And after all, he knows I'm Mulder's informant and has never turned me in."

"That's a point." I met the Dark Man's gaze with a sudden sense of purpose. "All right - introduce me." I caught Krycek's reflection in the glass once more.

"It's time we reeled him in."

"Where are you up to?"

I look away from the laptop, up at Mare; and as always, her smile invites one of my own. "Just finished transcribing the blue journal." Then, more hesitantly, "The one just after Michael died."

Her smile falters a little. "Oh," she says in a husky voice. I hold out my hand, and she takes it, squeezing tightly. "Thank you for doing that - especially with your hands," she adds, looking not at my hand, but at the hand that is not. "I couldn't have done it. Not yet." I only nod and draw her down across my lap. We sit there for long, pensive moments, her eyes scanning the monitor. Part of me wants to close it, but I won't do that to her. Not when so many people have treated her like a child already.

At last, I say lightly, "So...just the right psychological moment, huh?"

She laughs a little, and it eases my mind to hear it. "Oh, Alexi," she sighs, "I got so many things wrong back then. And I nearly drove you away," she adds remorsefully.

"You didn't," I say quietly. "You won't."

She kisses me then, just once, and I hold her tightly. There's something clinical about writing in retrospect - everything becomes small and manageable. But reading her account as she lived it makes me love her, who she was and who she has become, so much more. I never thought it was possible to love one person more than I loved her, but apparently it is.

Because I love her more every day.

"You know," she says, pulling away with a knowing smile, "Gibson and the children are in Ksar el Kabir for the day."

"I knew that," I say mildly, teasing my hand over her leg, sliding it up under her skirt - just a little. God knows, I love making love to her; but in some ways, this languid, companionable touching is just as good.

"We could fool around a little," she tells me, stroking my cheek idly; then amends thoughtfully, "or a lot."

I begin weakly, "I should-" and then my resistance dies as her lips meet mine. When she presses herself against me, I slide my hand up her back, holding her there. We have lost too many precious moments over the years to let any slip away now.

I can write tomorrow.

Part Three

This instalment is Alex's version of the events after Ascension to just before Colony.

Dedication: This chapter dedicated to the late Lee Burwasser, with whom I engaged in many spirited exchanges. Lee, your wit and fire will be missed.

No love story is complete without the first meeting.

That's what Mare says, anyway; and it has been a source of good-natured bickering for several days now. For myself, I remember our first meeting as a mildly amusing charade, in which we each gave a reasonable performance of knowing little about the other. There was curiosity, maybe a little attraction; but there were no longing gazes, and no precognitive flashes that, not too far down the track, she would be my world.

It was Gibson who finally broke the deadlock, suggesting that if Mare felt so strongly about it, perhaps we should transcribe her account of it from her journal. Well, she got it out and read it; then, a little shamefacedly, she admitted I was right. Score a small victory for the retrospective reporter. To ease the sting, I ask her where she thinks I should begin instead.

"That day in the spa," she says at once. And because I know exactly which day she means, I agree.

"What day was that?" Gibson asks with fascinated apprehension. He's afraid, in a way he wouldn't have been before the painful advent of adolescence, that the answer is something sexual. There's a perverse part of me that wants to jerk his chain a bit, and I would have done it once; but because he's my son now, I say instead:

"It was the day I called her Mare."

"It's a nonsequiter."

"What?" Diana said absently, taking aim. Her concentration was unwavering.

"It's a nonsequiter. Out of place." She squeezed the trigger, and in the same instant, a hole appeared in the cardboard target.

In the crotch.

She shot me a mischievous look, and I laughed, albeit with a slight grimace. I took the Sig from her and took aim.

"I know what a nonsequiter is," Diana said with a withering look. She nodded to the target. "What are you going for?"

"Groin. I'm gonna go straight through that hole you already made."

"Fucking showoff. What exactly is a nonsequiter?"

"It's something that's-"

"-out of place," she finished, stealing my line. "Stop being cryptic and tell me what you're blathering about." There was a residual British undertone to her voice that I found very appealing.

I fired. "The ice arena," I said, nodding to the building a little way off to the left of the shooting field. "It's out of place."

"Has it moved since we've been on the range?" she queried ingeniously.

"Don't be idiotic." I removed the empty clip from the Sig and put in a new one. "Try for a lethal spot this time."

"There are arteries in the groin, Alex. They're what make it possible for you to-"

"-rise to the occasion," I supplied. Diana had only a small number of punchlines, and by now I was acquainted with them all. "What's the feminine equivalent of misogynist?"

"No idea," she mused. "You think I'm one?"

"Fucked if I know. All I know is, you're having a grand old time shooting out the family jewels here."

"Fox had some Freudian theory about that."

"He would." I watched her curiously. "You're trying to distract me."

"From what? The ice arena? Look, if you want to play Ice Castles, go ahead." She took aim. "I'll go for the heart - happy?"

"I'd be happier if you stopped the ducking and fucking and answered the question."

"You didn't ask a question," she said, firing pensively.

"Implied question," I amended.

"Just because you imply, doesn't mean I necessarily infer." She handed over the Sig, her expression neutral. I didn't use it.

"Diana..."

"Look, what do you mean, it's out of place?" she demanded in exasperation. "We run physical readiness courses for the Group. There's a pool, there's a gym, there's a track, there's indoor and outdoor firing ranges. Tell me why one more sports facility is out of place."

"It's not cost-effective," I pointed out. "What benefits are there, really, besides cardiovascular and muscular? Those are benefits you already get from the pool and the gym, without spending the gross national product of a small country every day in refrigeration."

"It's solar powered."

"Okay." The idea of a solar-powered ice rink struck me as pretty funny, but I didn't say so. I had bigger fish to fry. "But why bother?"

Diana sighed. She turned to face me, irritation evident in the lines of her face. "Look, if you must know, Michael built it for Samantha. When the Dark Man brought her here, she was miserable. No other kids and a lifetime of awful memories. So he built her an ice rink."

"Maybe he should have brought her her mother," I said in disgust. Had he really been as naive as all that?

"Maybe so." She nodded to the firearm. "You gonna use that thing?" I shook my head and handed it back to her. She turned back to the range.

"Diana?" I said after a while.

"What is it?"

"Why the hell are you living here? I'm sure you didn't envisage rearing your daughter in a glorified brothel."

She shrugged. "She's just a baby. She doesn't know."

"But it's not what you'd call ideal."

There was a pause then. At last, she said tightly, "It's convenient."

"No more convenient than your hotel in Baltimore. And you can't tell me money's an issue - that's my excuse."

"Marita asked us to stay. That's all."

"And what she wants, you do?"

"You knew we were friends."

"I know there's tension, too. If she just wanted a gossip partner, you wouldn't be here."

She made a sound of frustration. She turned to face me once more, one hand on her hip, the other by her side, Sig pointed at the ground. "Alex, you think too much. The woman's recently been widowed. She wants her friends around her. There's no mystery here."

"Yes, she's recently widowed. So what's she doing living here? Surely there were better ways she could live out his memory than holing up in his brothel."

"Recreational facility," she corrected, but the smile that flitted across her features was weak. "She says-" her brow furrowed.

"What?"

"She *says* it's convenient," she said at last.

"But you don't believe her?" I queried, frowning.

She spoke slowly, as though choosing her words with care. "I believe that she believes it."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It's a seductive place."

"Now, that's a nonsequiter."

"Is it?"

I shot her a withering look, crossing my arms over my chest. "It's a weird place, Di."

"Don't call me Di."

"Diana. It's a weird place. It's too much of a resort to be a brothel, and too much of a brothel to be a resort. What the fuck is it?"

A sardonic grin flitted across her features. "It's Michael's ambivalence incarnate."

"Now who's being cryptic?"

She pursed her lips in irritation, raised her shooting arm, and emptied the clip into the tattered target's crotch without so much as a glance in the target's direction. Perfect shot. She was just fucking with my head now, and I didn't take the bait. I watched her steadily, and I waited. "Look," she said with a sigh. "Michael wasn't into this sort of thing, okay? He and Max came from very proper stock. It started out purely as a sex club, and then he started adding things. Things that made it more respectable. The sports facilities. The restaurant."

"Trying to redeem it."

"I guess." She held out the Sig. "Want to do any more?"

I shook my head, holding out my arm so she could see my watch. "Marita and Edward are expecting us."

She nodded, her expression weary, and we left the range together.

We were almost back at the main house when I aired the question that had been nagging at me.

"Level with me, Diana. What am I being drawn into?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"It's been nine days since the Dark Man introduced Marita and I, and my social life has taken a decided upswing."

"She's a social kind of girl."

"Bullshit. She's strictly a put-in-an-appearance type. Now suddenly she's doing dinner and evenings in the spa and friendly contests on the range. Peripheral figures come and go, but you and Ed and the Dark Man are always there. And Marita. Marita in the middle, even when she isn't there."

Diana snorted. "Marita in the middle? You better not start blathering about constellations, Alex. I'm still armed, you know."

I grinned at her amiably. "Can I have an eclipse?"

"No, you bloody well can't. Why are men so sentimental?"

We laughed a little, but then I said in a low voice, "I'm not a fool, Diana."

Her pace slowed, and she turned to look at me. "No, I very much doubt that you are."

I met her gaze. "I'm either being played or groomed. Which is it?"

"That's not for me to say."

"Did you suggest me to them?"

She hesitated; said at last, "No. The Dark Man asked my opinion of you."

"And what is your opinion?" I wondered with interest.

"That you're a sound man. That you're in it for the right reasons."

"You don't know my reasons," I retorted, but my voice was mild. In truth, I was flattered.

She shrugged. "True enough. Shall we say, then, I know you aren't in it for the wrong reasons."

"Okay." We began to walk once more. "Well, since the rules of the game are unknown, I've been working on getting to know my fellow players."

"I hadn't noticed," she said with more than a trace of sarcasm.

"Am I that transparent?"

"No - for a newcomer, you're rather good. I simply asked myself what I would do if I were in your place."

I laughed. "You and Ed are known quantities, at least as far as I need you to be for the time being," I mused, more to myself than to her. She didn't seem offended by the observation - I would have been surprised if she had. There was genuine fondness between us, but ultimately it was a friendship of utility, and she wasn't under any illusions about that fact. "But Marita is a mystery."

"Yes, she is," Diana agreed.

"You don't agree?" I challenged. I didn't really doubt her sincerity, but I hoped to draw her out.

We rounded the corner of the main house. "No, I mean it. She is - even to me. I don't think even Marita herself knows what drives her."

There didn't seem to be much to be gained from pursuing that line of discussion, so I made a noncommittal sound, and I let it go. I swiped my card and opened the door for her. "Walk with me to the spa?"

She shook her head. "Elizabeth's due to nurse. I'll meet you there shortly."

"All right," I said. "Tell me something, Diana."

"Shoot."

"Are you keeping her with you because you're nursing, or are you nursing her so you can keep her with you?" It occurred to me just a second too late that that might be an intrusive question.

If she was affronted by me asking, she didn't show it. She looked at me, a little perplexed. "A bit of both, I suppose. Why do you ask?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I just wondered."

She nodded. "I just - I miss Shane, you know? If I'd known when he was born how little I'd get to see him - if I'd known how far the work would take me from him - I just think I'd have - I don't know." She shook her head, frowning.

"Given more?" I said gently.

"Yeah."

Diffidently, I asked, "Do you regret having them? I mean, knowing what you know?"

"No. But sometimes I wonder if they'll regret me." She shrugged. "Still, that's one of those things you can't afford to think about if you want to stay sane. What's any of this for, if not for the children?"

I stopped, took her hand, turned her to face me, and kissed her cheek. She drew back, her expression a blend of pleasure and confusion. "Whatever was that for?"

"For being in it for the right reasons."

I laughed at her expression, released her, and I left her there.

"Amigo!"

A wrinkle of distaste rippled through me, but I suppressed it before it reached my face. I zipped my pants. "Hello, Luis."

Cardinale strode up to me purposefully. If he slapped my arm I thought I might have to kill him, but he didn't. "What you doing here?"

I shot him a withering look. "Same as you, asshole." I turned away from the urinal and washed my hands.

He called over his shoulder, "I thought this place would be a bit too heterosexual for your liking."

I looked him up and down in the mirror. "Well, there's not much male talent today, so I figured I'd walk on the wild side." I shook the water off my hands and headed for the door.

He zipped up and followed me out, catching the door behind me. He nodded to a couple in a corner and whistled. "That, my friend, is a walk on the wild side."

Dutifully, I followed his line of vision to a man in his thirties and a woman in her twenties. They were sitting together in one of the hot tubs, the man holding the woman across his lap. They were only kissing, but I saw what he meant. There are some people, I thought, who exuded steam.

For once, Cardinale had had an insight.

This was rare enough an occurrence to warrant a thawing in relations. "Not bad," I agreed. Who knew? If I were agreeable enough, maybe he'd go away. Miraculously, he did, mumbling something about the sauna. I waved him off absently, making a mental note not to go in there for a while. The thought of Cardinale naked was just too horrible to contemplate.

I turned and scanned the room. It was sparsely populated, though it would fill up as the afternoon wore on. A handful of people were congregated around the bar, about half of them house girls. In a corner sat Marita Covarrubias, her languid form stretched out over a luxuriously overstuffed armchair. She was in trademark black leather, blonde tresses tumbling in waves over her shoulders. Just for a moment I thought of the restrained young woman I'd seen all in white three months earlier. The contrast between then and now was marked.

I moved towards her, and as I did so, I saw that she was watching the same couple Luis had pointed out to me. Watching her in profile, I noted the way her lips were parted; saw the fast, shallow rise and fall of her breasts in time with her breathing. Her eyes were wide and bright. Watching the couple was erotic, in an oddly detached sort of way; but watching her watching them was hypnotic. I was transfixed.

I was just about to go over to her when Richard Matheson came around the bar and made a beeline in her direction. I wasn't in any mood to deal with him, so I retreated, my back to the wall. That wasn't a bad policy when Matheson was around in any case. Besides, I figured Marita would be pretty eager to drag him to her room herself in her current state. Mentally, I turned over polite ways of explaining her absence when Diana and Edward arrived.

That didn't turn out to be necessary. When Matheson touched her arm, Marita flinched, pulling away, crossing her arms over herself in an unconscious gesture of protection. Her whole body was stiff, and while I couldn't hear her, it was clear from her body language that his attention was unwelcome.

I watched the moment unfold with growing bewilderment. She had responded to him far differently to how I had expected her to. She was hot as hell - she ached to be touched. Her whole bearing had said so. Yet the moment Matheson had done so, she'd just shut down. I was willing to accept that her connection with him was based less in sex play and more in the exchange of information; nonetheless, with a certain sexual comfort zone between them, I had - without any prejudice whatsoever - expected that she would draw on that in her current state. There was something profoundly wrong with the whole picture.

I was debating whether to break the moment when she spotted me. Her features flooded with transparent relief. "Alex, dear!" she said in a high, clear voice. I didn't think she'd called me 'dear' before - or anyone else, either - but I took it for what it probably was, a gesture of favouritism to me, exclusion to him. I came over to the other side of the chair and sat on the arm, leaning over, intending to kiss her cheek. I found her lips on mine instead, and she lingered there a little longer than necessary.

I pulled away and nodded to Matheson. "Richard," I said by way of greeting. "Are you joining us?"

"Richard was just leaving," she said crisply before he could reply.

"Another time, perhaps," I said, not very enthusiastically.

"Indeed," she said with a winning smile at him, shifting close to me.

"I'll see you later, Marita," he said with a deferential nod. "Alex."

"Bye."

We watched him leave, and when the men's locker room door banged shut behind him, she relaxed visibly. She shifted away again with an apologetic look at me. I just laughed, and she laughed a little too.

"That guy gives me the creeps," I said before I stopped to think about it, then cursed my tactlessness. I waited for her to defend him - creep or not, he was still her submissive, and she was his protector.

She didn't defend him. "Me, too," she admitted. She turned to look up at me. "But how are you, Alex? Edward and I missed you this morning."

"I was out shooting with Diana. She'll be along shortly."

Marita nodded. "How'd it go?"

"On the range? I've discovered a deep-seated fear of castration."

She laughed. "Diana was in fine form, then?"

"As always."

"Did I hear my name taken in vain?" The voice of the woman in question resounded behind us.

"Diana!" Marita's voice was suffused with warmth. "How's Elizabeth?"

"Sound asleep," she said, coming around to stand before us, arms folded across her body. "It's so nice to know that the nanny will be able to spend the afternoon watching the soaps."

I snorted. "I'm sure she's filled with sympathy for your plight, what with all that time in the hot tub and all."

"Pure torture, Alex, dear. Speaking of which-" she waved a hand in the direction of the spas.

Taking the hint, I nodded to them both and headed towards the locker rooms to change. I half-turned at the men's door, expecting to see the women at the door to my left, but they were still where I'd left them, engrossed in conversation. I wondered what they were talking about.

I wondered if it was about me.

Shaking off a ripple of apprehension, I left them there.

"Have you given any more thought to my suggestion?"

"The physical readiness training?" I wondered. The water bubbled delightfully against my naked skin. The waiter had just topped up our wineglasses, and I was agreeably mellow.

"Well, I know you have your FBI training, but there are certain deficiencies in what you've been taught - hand-to-hand combat, for one." Diana drained her glass and set it on the side of the tub. I studied her with open interest. She still had some of the pregnancy curves, but she seemed unselfconscious about the fact. I liked that. It showed confidence.

"That's probably true," I agreed. "All right - I'll do it. Just tell me where and when." Before us, the women's locker room opened, and Marita stalked out, swathed in a bizarre tight black lycra-lace-and-latex number. She strode over to the bar, seemingly oblivious to the attention she had aroused.

"I'll see to it," Diana said. "I'll pair you with Karen. She's the best trainer we've got."

I nodded, not really paying attention. "Unbelievable," I murmured.

"What, Alex?" Edward enquired with interest.

I nodded in Marita's direction. "Look at those guys watching her with their tongues hanging out," I said with a wave of my hand. "They're so busy drooling over the catwoman getup, they've totally missed the fact that she's showing less flesh than you'd have seen on the beach fifty years ago." She turned away from the bar, drink in hand, and started walking in our direction. "She's the only woman here who won't strip off, and not one of them realises it." Diana watched me with a look of admiration. It didn't occur to me at the time, but I think now that I'd just passed a test in her eyes.

"Are you saying she's not erotic?" Edward was saying.

"I'm saying she's clever."

"Who's clever?" Marita said, perching herself on the side of the spa. She slid in, heels and all, and sidled up to Edward, draping herself theatrically over him on his free side.

"Only you, darling," Diana said tartly. I recognised her tone - it was the one I'd dubbed Gushing Socialite, reserved solely for such contrived situations as this one. With some irritation, I wondered when my role would become clear. This house bullshit was fast becoming tiresome. I didn't mind putting in the hours and the work, but the politics pissed me off. I decided to put a good face on it for the duration, but damn it, I was going to pin down Diana tomorrow or the day after at the latest. I wanted answers. I wanted things to start moving.

I settled my attention on Marita. The display she had put on earlier for the benefit of our onlookers was forgotten. She was listening to Ed, sipping delicately at her wine. While the others (and I) were well on the way to being pleasantly quiffed, she was stone cold sober. Sitting there, smiling faintly while Diana and Ed roared laughter, she epitomised restraint. She should have seemed out of place in such an unrestrained setting, but she didn't. In any environment, I thought, Marita would be its master. It was fascinating.

"...what do you think, Alex?"

I came to myself. "Sorry, Ed - I tuned out for a second. What was that?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter. Marita and I were disagreeing, and Diana was playing mother wolf. I was looking to you for some solidarity, but I guess I'll have to stand on my own." He gave a mock look of martyrdom, and I laughed.

A look of irritation flitted over Marita's features. "Diana's a mother wolf? So what does that make me? A cub?"

"A mare," I said after a moment's thought.

"I remind you of a breeding horse?" she said coldly, but the corners of her eyes were creased with merriment.

I gave her a withering look. "Wild and untamed."

"Wild *and* untamed? Isn't that redundant?"

"Where's your sense of romance?" I flicked water at her with my hands.

"She ate it for breakfast," Diana snorted.

"I'll have you know I have the heart of a poet," Marita retorted coolly. Diana looked contrite, and Marita, perhaps sensing the tension, added mischievously, "Or I did, until I ate that for breakfast too." I laughed uproariously then, less because of her words and more because for just a moment, I thought I had caught a glimpse of the woman beneath the facade, and I liked her very much.

"Okay, Marita's a mare," Edward said. "Diana's a she-wolf. What about Alex?" I sat back, interested.

"A rat," Diana suggested with a grin.

"Charming."

"There's nothing wrong with rats," Marita mused. "I had a pet one growing up."

"I'll bet Larissa loved that," Edward laughed.

"She didn't know."

"So was your rat like me?" I quizzed.

"Some. He had this scruffy hair on top." She yelped laughter when I splashed her.

"Not like your mane, *Mare*."

"Don't call me that."

"I'm sorry. I won't do it again. Mare."

She splashed me back, and Edward made a show of ducking. "All right, time out." We splashed him, instead.

There was a sound, a clearing of throat, and we turned. The Dark Man was standing in the doorway.

"Darling," Marita said, holding out a hand. Fleetingly, I wondered what she called him in private. He had to have a name, after all, even if it was just a working alias.

He nodded by way of greeting. "I won't stay, Marita. Connie asked me to let you to know that Maintenance have finished with your suite."

"Not another renovation, Rita?" Edward said reproachfully.

She ignored him. "Thank you for letting me know. Come and join us."

The Dark Man smiled - or at least, he did whatever it was that passed for a smile in his case. "Just for a moment." He took two glasses of wine from a passing waiter and brought them over. He handed one to Marita and sat on a chair next to the tub at her side. He looked comically overdressed. So did she, but she could pull it off.

"Thank you, darling," she said, sipping at her glass delicately. She sat back a little, shoulders back, body pushed forward. "I was just quizzing poor Alex here."

I felt my chest tighten, just a little. The sudden change in stance, the dropping of her innately reserved carriage was pronounced. There was something pretentious about her tone, and Marita wasn't a pretentious woman. I had the feeling that I had suddenly been dragged into a performance. Whatever I had been groomed (or played) for, it was going to happen now. I had been waiting for it, but I felt apprehension, too.

"Is that so?" the Dark Man enquired with interest.

"I don't know that I'd say that," I said in a mild tone. I'd play along with whatever charade they had planned, but I was going to make them work for it, too.

"What do you want, Alex?" Marita queried, ignoring my previous words completely. Unless I actively contradicted the script she had planned, she would probably continue to do so. The only way I could regain control of the situation, I thought, was to get up and walk away. Did I want to do that? I decided I didn't.

"I don't understand," I said with absolute honesty.

"You don't come here for the sex," she said calmly. "In fact, we five might be the only ones here who don't." The other three exchanged looks. "What do you want?"

If it had been just she and Diana, I might have told the truth; but I wasn't prepared to put myself at the mercy of the Dark Man or our spectators in that way; so I said mildly, crossing my arms, "You."

And at once I knew it was true.

The others watched with frank interest, and Marita nodded calmly, her gaze holding mine. "Hmm," she mused, nodding, as though thinking it over. She rose in a fluid movement, water falling from her form in a rush. She held out a hand and pulled me up. The water level was to my waist - a small mercy, because I was hard as hell. She walked around me, stopped behind me, and laid her mouth on my shoulder blade, sucking my flesh there for a long moment. She said in an autocratic voice, "Come with me."

I forced out a laugh. "I'm not one of your submissive-" I stopped short as understanding dawned. She came around me to face me again, watching me steadily. If it was an act - and I suspected even then that it was - then it was a damn good one.

"You can't have me, Alex," she said coolly. "But I can have you."

"What makes you so sure?" I demanded, horribly aware of the scrutiny of the others.

"Because you just told me." My brow creased as I recognised the truth of her words. "You can say no, of course," she pointed out. "Every submissive can do that."

"And if I say no?" I demanded.

"Then it all ends." She shook her head a little, tossing her damp hair aside. She was hypnotic. It was a fascination that went beyond the erotic - it was bigger than that, and I couldn't begin to make sense of it.

"It never began," I pointed out. I was vaguely aware of the others, watching, waiting to see which of us would win the showdown, but they were insignificant. My mind was filled with her, as though she surrounded me in a fog.

"It's your choice, Alex." She drew my name out in a hiss - the only crack in her veneer - and I breathed out, shakily. "Take it or leave it."

She had me, and she knew it. They all knew it.

But it was still my choice, damn it, and I was going to hold onto that. In any domination/submission relationship, the submissive has the power - I'm sure I read that somewhere. And I was going to do my best to hold onto mine.

I gave a single nod, and she turned her back to me; but not before I saw her look of satisfaction. "I accept," I said evenly, close to her ear, and I felt her flinch as my lips brushed her there.

That was when I knew I had the power, after all.

When we reached her room, the charade ended.

Marita opened the door, and I went in. She entered after me, closed the door, and turned the lock. Then a very strange thing happened. Her whole bearing underwent a radical transformation.

The cool Mona Lisa smile faded from her face, leaving solemnity. The unflappable ease with which she carried herself was replaced with irritation. She yanked her strappy stilettos off her feet, strode up the stairs of the dais and threw them in the bath. They made a wet slapping sound against the ceramic. She nodded towards the bed, where I saw clothes laid out. She said tersely, "Put something on."

I looked down at the jeans and shirt. "These are mine."

"The Dark Man got them from your room. Don't worry, nothing else was touched." She went into the ensuite and closed the door.

Frowning, I removed my towel from around my waist and, after a moment's deliberation, threw that in the bath, too. There was no underwear, so I pulled on my jeans. They chafed uncomfortably against my still-damp skin. I heard more wet slapping sounds from the ensuite. Presumably, Marita was stripping off the catwoman gear.

When she emerged, she was pleasingly rumpled - face nude of makeup, hair pulled back and caught in a band at the base of her neck, feet bare, body clad in track pants and a cotton shirt. Of all the Maritas I'd seen to date, I thought this one was probably the closest one to the real thing. She didn't have the clinical eroticism she'd had a few minutes earlier, but I liked her better now.

"Drink?" she said, moving to the bar, and I nodded. She poured me a Benedictine without being prompted, and I mentally raised an eyebrow. If she knew my tastes, that meant I had been studied and chosen. Definitely groomed, rather than played, then.

I kept my expression neutral when she handed it to me, and when she nodded to the overstuffed armchair at her bedside, I dropped into it without protest. She sat on the bed, not perched delicately on the side, but cross-legged like a child, leaned against the bedhead. There was a casual ease about her that I liked very much.

She watched me with open scrutiny for a few moments; said at last, "This room has been swept for listening devices just a few minutes ago. We can speak freely."

"That whole thing downstairs was a smokescreen?"

"Of course it was," she said briskly. "You don't really think I'd recruit a sub so publicly?" She drained her drink.

"Why?" I wondered. Now we were getting somewhere.

"We have a lot to talk about, you and I. We need time and space. Posing as lovers has intimate overtones that we need to avoid, but a dom and a sub? The kind of equity that conspirators require is anathema in that relationship. Spender would never suspect that."

"Okay, wait. Since when are we conspirators?" I demanded; but my voice was mild. We'd become conspirators the moment I'd walked in the room.

She didn't bother to dignify that with an answer. "Being my sub will do wonders for your working conditions, Alex. That homophobic shit Cardinale will think you're God's gift."

"You've had me investigated."

"I didn't need to. The Dark Man already knows everything there is to know."

"He doesn't know as much as you might think," I said grimly.

"On the contrary. He knows much more than sia2ra@hotmail.com bargained for." Fuck. He knew about the emails. "What does that stand for, by the way?"

I broke into a sudden grin. "Spender is a second-rate asshole."

She laughed then, genuine sounds of hilarity, and I laughed too. I felt some of the tightly-wound apprehension of the last half-hour dissipate. It was a relief.

Finally, we grew quiet. "You know," I said, "I know enough to make his life very difficult." There was no threat in my voice - it was a statement of fact.

"Alex," she sighed, "do you know what the Dark Man did before he joined the group? He was a troubleshooter for an extremist anti-apartheid pressure group. He could kill you with one finger using fewer calories than it took you to breathe in my ear - and that was a nice touch, by the way," she added with a deferential nod. She went on, "You don't want to make an enemy of the Dark Man."

"No," I relented, "you're right. I don't."

"So what do you want? Why have you been asking about my mother?"

I settled into the chair, half-turning to see her better. "I want to know how one woman can attend two universities at the same time."

"That's quite a conundrum," she said coolly.

"You managed it quite successfully. Bet it was hard explaining concurrent degrees from different continents on your resume."

Her brow creased, forming a little arc over her nose. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you were Marita Ekaterinberg," I said pensively. "You and Diana have tension between you, but definitely friendship of long standing." I was showing my hand to some degree, but at this point, that seemed to come under the heading of acceptable risk. "That means someone else was the Harvard Marita."

She sat back and breathed out in a rush. She was silent for a long moment, expression solemn. She seemed to reach a decision; said, "No games, Alex. Tell me what you know." Her brow flickered. "It's important."

"To you personally? Or the group?"

"I don't know. Maybe both."

For a moment, I considered playing does-she-know-what-I-know, then decided against it. I didn't know enough to play it well, and if I played badly I'd play myself right out of the game. So I told her what I knew, pretty much straight down the line. I told her that another Marita had attended my alma mater. That this woman had studied eugenics. That I suspected it had been done with the blessing of Larissa and Michael - her mother and her fiance.

She was silent for a while, but then she said quietly, "The woman is my twin. Elena Ekaterina Covarrubias - at least, that was the name she was given at birth. I don't know if she's known by that name now."

"Your middle name and your alias."

"My mother isn't very imaginative." She passed a weary hand over her forehead. "Alex, I only learned of my sister's existence a couple of months ago."

"I don't understand."

"I believe she was surrendered to the alien race in 1973. I was two at the time. I was never told I had a twin growing up. I found out from some papers after Michael died." Her throat contracted visibly - whether from grief or the sting of betrayal, I wasn't sure.

"If she was surrendered, what's she doing here?"

Marita frowned. "I'm not sure, but it's not without precedent. Other hostages have come back. Spender and Teena bartered for Samantha Mulder, for instance."

"Diana told me. She said she lived here - and that she died a couple of years ago." I thought of Mulder, and I felt a fleeting pang of sympathy.

"That's right. She was a resistance double - working the hybrids for Spender and Strughold, and reporting back to us. Strughold has been holding out on us - they're a lot closer to a hybrid than he'd had us believe. Samantha and Diana found out. I guess it pushed her over the edge. She committed suicide."

"Damn shame. I hear she was quite an asset."

"She was. Decent woman, too, according to Diana." She shrugged. "Anyway, if Samantha came back, there's no reason to think the same couldn't be true of Elena - particularly in light of your information. The Dark Man thinks - and I'm inclined to agree with this - that she's working on something for the resistance faction. My mother, Maxwell, and Diana all know about it, but they aren't talking."

"And you want to find her."

She suddenly looked very vulnerable. "She's my sister."

I didn't really know what to say to that, so I said, not unkindly, "There's someone I should let you meet sometime."

"Fox Mulder?" Her earlier, brisk manner returned as quickly as it had gone. "I gather you and he are not on the best of terms these days."

"Touche." I stretched out in my chair. "So why should I help you?"

"Because whatever my sister is doing, you can probably use it to get further in. That's what you want, isn't it?" Her eyes glittered with genuine curiosity - she was playing ball, but she also seemed to truly want to know.

I spread my hands expansively. "I'm just your run of the mill assassin, trying to stay alive."

"Bullshit. If that were true, you'd have turned the Dark Man in to Spender long ago."

There's something very appealing about someone who won't let you get away with anything. I grinned at her with real amusement. "All right," I said with a nod of concession. "Say I want in. Say I dig my way into whatever Elena's doing. How do I know I'm not going to get myself killed? There's knowing enough, and knowing too much. If they're keeping it even from you-" I didn't finish.

She sighed, weariness apparent in the slight droop of her shoulders. "Don't be fooled by my position, Alex. I'm, shall we say, the crown princess. Privileged, but sheltered. I'm not much further in the loop than you are," she admitted, "but I don't mean to stay that way." Her gaze held mine, her expression solemn. "I think we could help each other."

I thought about it. Whichever way I looked at it, she was right. If I said no, I would stay where I was now. That was tantamount to accepting the status quo - and that was something I wasn't prepared to do. If I did that, I may as well have gone home to Daugavpils months ago, with far less blood on my hands. "All right," I said at last. "So what's the game plan?"

"The only person we can think of who might know anything - besides the people involved - is Samantha Mulder. She kept journals all her life. She lived here in 1983, when I was bundled off to Oxford and you say Elena went to Harvard. If we can find those diaries-"

I nodded in understanding. "I presume you've checked her suite?"

"I've stripped the rooms pretty thoroughly. I don't think they're there, but I'll check again."

"I'll help with that. Do we have any other leads?"

"I didn't before tonight. Now, though, it seems to me that Elena's time at Harvard might be another angle. Might be worth a trip to Boston - see if we can track her movements from there."

"Good thinking. Can you act?"

Sudden flash of a smile. "Did you see me downstairs?"

I laughed. "Good point."

"You're thinking I could play her?" I nodded. "I don't know how she speaks, her mannerisms - I don't know." She shrugged. "Maybe."

"Then Harvard might be your department. I'll do some orientation with you before you go. I suspect it's quite different to Oxford."

"Okay," she said, rising. She took my glass from me, and her fingers brushed mine. It felt good, and it occurred to me that I hadn't been touched for a long time. Too long. "Any other questions?"

"Yeah," I said, dismissing these thoughts. "Codes of conduct. Limits. You're the top here. I'm going to be following your cues."

She looked at me blankly for a moment, but then her expression cleared. "You mean for downstairs?"

"Yeah."

She poured us both another drink, and I got to my feet and followed her to the bar. "Well, in the general areas, we just act normally. You should be a little deferential - open doors, let me walk ahead of you, that sort of thing - but no extremes. You will be just a shade over-attentive, and I'll be just a shade detached." She held out my drink.

I took it, leaning against the bar. "What about the minimalist zones?"

"In the minimalist zones, I own you. If I tell you to come, you come. If I tell you to rub my feet, you rub my feet. If I tell you to get on your knees-" she let the words hang in the air.

"I get the idea."

She favoured me with a smile. "I like you, Alex," she said, without a shred of artifice, and I smiled too. "We get along fine, and I imagine we'll continue to do so, the more time we spend together. For that very reason, it's important that our roles be exaggerated. There will be times when I will be detached to the point of boredom. Don't take it personally. For this to work, it has to be pure play for you, pure power for me. Any hint of genuine familiarity and our cover is gone."

"That's not how you behave with Edward," I pointed out. I had doubted the truth of her apparent affair with Diana's husband for a while.

"I've known Edward since I was a child. That sort of dynamic would have seemed contrived. Besides, I wasn't covering up a connection with him - I was just shoring up my position. He's a prop, nothing more."

"As is your tension with Diana."

Marita looked away. "No, that's real," she admitted, "but it stems from her refusal to tell me about my sister. We're friends, as you know, but we argue about that. A lot." She gave a short, sharp laugh. "Like most people in my life, she believes she's protecting me."

I thought on this. "Does she know that's what you want me for? To help find your sister?"

"No. She believes I'm merely putting together an informant base, under the guidance of the Dark Man."

"So we're hiding in plain sight. On all fronts." I wondered whether I minded deceiving Diana, then decided I did not. Not for this.

"Basically." She drained her drink. "As for limits - I won't be asking you to do anything overtly sexual. The sexuality of our roles will be implied rather than explicit. That's fairly usual in D&S, anyway."

"So I've heard."

She came around the bar to face me. "How's your workload with Spender at the moment? Do you have much freedom of movement?"

"I'm on call. As long as I stay within a couple of hours of DC, I can do what I like."

"Good. I'm fairly flexible myself at the moment - the man I'm an aide to at the UN is on a tour of duty in Chechnya. I'm up for a promotion in a few months' time, but for now..." she trailed off. "Can I trouble you to help me search Samantha's rooms over the next week or so?"

I nodded. "Sure. Anything else?"

"Not right now. You want to call it a night?"

"Yeah," I said. "I'm at saturation point."

"Okay." She walked towards the door, and I followed. "Oh, what you called me downstairs - Mare - don't call me that. I can be informal with you, but you should be formal with me."

"All right."

She turned the lock on the door. "I was thinking of calling you Alexi. Diminutives for men can be a power trip, you know? It might be effective-" she turned back to face me, and then she stopped short. "Alex?" she said. "What is it?"

"Nothing," I said, working to keep my expression neutral. She stared at me, clearly unbelieving, and after a long moment, I said reluctantly, "No-one's called me that since my mother died."

The clinical demeanour vanished. Her face flooded with empathy. She took my arm. "Alex, I'm sorry. I had no idea. I don't need to call you that."

I shook my head, but I didn't brush her hand away. "No, it's okay, Marita. You just threw me for a moment. Really, you can call me that if you think it helps."

"I only meant - well, pet names are like ownership, aren't they? But it isn't important." She let go of my arm. Ridiculously, I wished she hadn't.

"Marita, I said you can do it if it helps. It's up to you." I opened the door. "Night."

She gave a little smile. "Night."

I was still grinning like an idiot when she shut the door behind me.

"Anything?"

I wiped my forehead. "All I know now that I didn't know before you left is that Samantha had unusually large feet."

Marita laughed. "Take a breather. I got takeout."

"Thanks." I took the brown paper sack she offered, and sat down on the lounge. She shrugged out of her jacket and slung it onto the table, then took her place at my side.

"So why isn't the Dark Man helping us with this?" I asked between mouthfuls of gyoza.

"He and Samantha were close. It's difficult for him." She set down her sack and chopsticks on the coffee table and stretched out a little, black lace stretching over her curves in a way that was agreeable to the eye.

I gave a wry laugh. "Ah, sex. Every man's downfall," I said, thinking of Mulder - not so much with pain as mild regret. That ache was easing.

"I don't think they were lovers, but I know what you mean."

I backpedalled. "Oh, I didn't really mean that quite the way it sounded."

She turned to look at me, openly amused. "Alex, I'd hardly expect you to be opposed to sex."

"I didn't mean that, either. It's just got to be the right person."

"You're a closet romantic," she accused. There was laughter in her voice.

"No, just realistic. It's the way we're made. We people weren't meant to be alone, Marita." I paused to eat. "Don't you feel that? I mean, six months ago you were ready to get married."

She shrugged. "Michael and I weren't really like that. What you're talking about. It was simpler than that. He was...benign."

I stared at her in disbelief. "Benign?" I echoed. "You were prepared to marry benign?"

"I was very young," she said mildly. "And it really isn't any of your business."

"You're right, it isn't. I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "S'okay."

I gathered up her trash and mine, and took it to the bin behind the mini-bar. I changed the subject. "You know, Marita, we don't know what we're getting into here. Maybe you should look into learning how to protect yourself. Can you shoot?"

She nodded. "The Dark Man taught me."

"Know how to bug sweep?"

"The tech side of things won't be a problem. It's the hands-on stuff I need help with." I held up a bottle of juice and a glass in silent query, and she nodded. She leaned back on the lounge and closed her eyes.

I told her about the hand-to-hand training Diana had suggested. "It's private," I said. "You could do it with me."

She shrugged. "Why not?"

I came around the bar and walked back towards her. Her lace top had ridden up a little, baring just a sliver of flesh along her waistline, and I felt a heady wave of heat wash over me. I breathed out in a rush, set her glass on the coffee table, and sat away from her. My life was complicated enough as it was. No point in making it more so for the sake of a quick thrill.

Fortunately, she was oblivious to my discomfort. "Thank you," she said, opening her eyes and sitting forward. Flesh covered again. I gave a sigh of relief. I drank from my glass gratefully, looking straight ahead, determined not to look at her until the worst of my arousal had subsided.

When, finally, it had, I turned to look at her, and saw that she was watching me with a thoughtful expression on her face. "What is it?" I wondered.

"Nothing," she said, blinking. "Just thinking."

"Oh," I said. "Okay."

She rose, still looking at me with that watchful expression. "Let's get back to work." She held out a hand, and I took it, letting her pull me up.

The door opened. "Marita?"

We both turned, and I pulled my hand guiltily away from hers, as though our visitor, seeing it, might glean my rather-less-than-pure thoughts. It was, of course, the Dark Man, rather than a janitor or a security guard - proof positive that God is just as much a fan of B-grade drama as the rest of us.

"What is it?" Marita wondered, stepping between my body and the coffee table to get to him. She pressed against me in the process. Jesus, it just got better and better.

He glanced at me, then addressed her. "Edward's been recalled to Tunisia."

"He was recalled nearly a fortnight ago," she said. "I thought he was leaving Thursday."

The Dark Man shook his head. "No - he's been recalled now. Right now. They sent a charter for him."

Marita and I exchanged looks. "What's going on?" I demanded.

"I don't know, but I intend to find out. Can you two handle things here for a week or two?"

She nodded. "We'll be fine. Good luck."

The Dark Man nodded, turned, and opened the door. He paused. "Marita?"

"Yes?"

He glanced from her to me, then back again. "Be careful while I'm gone."

Her shoulders straightened, just a fraction. She said ingeniously, "Absolutely."

The door snicked shut behind him, and I said, my voice tinged with affront, "He *didn't* mean-"

She turned and pressed two fingers to my lips. "Of course he did." She was smiling.

We burst out laughing.

"Alex?"

The voice came thin and high, distorted through the mist. I skidded to a stop and turned, peering through the thick white fog. I made out first a slender shadow, then black clothes and blonde hair. Marita.

I glided over. "What are you doing here?"

"Diana said I might find you here. I didn't know you skated."

"I wouldn't be much of a Russian if I didn't, would I?" I stepped off the ice, treading over the rubber matting to the stands, and sat. I started to unlace my boots. "What can I do for you?"

"I just wanted to let you know Karen can fit us in week mornings at eight, if that suits you."

I eased my boots off my feet, first one, then the other, and flexed my ankles a little. "Sure."

"It's not too early for you?"

"I'll cope. Pass my shoes?"

She complied. "Okay. I'll let her know."

"Have you heard from the Dark Man?"

Marita shook her head. "Not yet. Diana hasn't heard much, either - she says there's talk of an unidentified UFO, but nothing else."

"What do you mean, an unidentified UFO?" I wiped my skates free of ice and packed them into my bag.

"I mean one we don't recognise. One that isn't authorised by us, or apparently by the Colonists either."

I looked up at her in query. "I don't understand."

"Neither do I." She shivered. I suddenly realised she was wearing only a thin top and trousers.

"Jesus, Marita," I said, standing, shrugging off my jacket. I reached around her and put it over her, and she slid her arms into it without protest, smiling up at me with real warmth. I ran my palm under her hair, over the back of her neck, and gently tugged her hair free of the collar. I straightened the collar at her neck and ran my hands down the lapels. My gaze lit on hers.

We stayed that way for a long moment, gazes held on one another. Her smile faded, and she suddenly looked very unsure. She slipped a hand up between us, resting her fingertips on my jaw. The only sound was that of long, deep breaths. Bursts of white air floated up between us, gathering and scattering in the space of moments.

Her features softened, and for a moment I thought she was going to kiss me; but instead, she whispered, "Alexi, I should go." She touched my lip with her fingers, dragging them over my flesh there, and somewhere within myself, I felt something primal stir. I was hard, of course, but it was more than that. Some part of me called to her, and I felt a stunning sense of loss when she pulled away.

I stood there, shell-shocked for a long moment, watching as she hurried off. Her shoulders were hunched, and she hugged herself, pulling my jacket around her, leaning her cheek into the lapel. I was still watching when she reached the door and turned to look at me, but when she saw me looking at her, she looked away.

Unsettled, I turned and picked up my bag. I went to my locker and opened it. I bundled the bag into the locker and tried to fight off the real grief that rose in my chest. You're an idiot, Alex, I told myself; she just left the goddamn rink, it's not like she died or anything. And then I heard her call me Alexi again, and the loss washed over me all over again, and I leaned my head against the cold metal door in frustration at my own stupidity. I stayed there for long minutes, my consciousness a maelstrom of Marita and Elena and Mulder and Samantha and my mother and...well, everything. I felt very tired.

The idea hit me all at once, so hard and fast through my consciousness that my stupid angst evaporated, forgotten. My eyes flew open, and I pushed back from the locker with a start. I turned and headed for the door in a run.

I had to see Marita.

She must have run off.

She was at the house before I caught up with her. "Marita," I called, running up the staircase behind her. She turned to look at me, still holding my jacket around her despite the temperate conditions; but her usual calm was restored.

"What is it?" she said, one hand resting delicately on the hand-carved banister.

I caught up with her, stopping at her side to catch my breath. "Back there, at the rink-"

She cut me off. "I don't want to talk about it." She started off towards her suite.

We rounded the corner. "No, it isn't that. I had an idea-"

"You fucking whore!"

The shouted epithet made us both pause. A stream of obscenities followed, punctuated by sobs. Female sobs.

We both turned in the direction of the suite on our left. I shot a look at Marita. She was already fumbling with her keys - looking for a master, I supposed. She rapped on the door. "Who's in there?"

The door opened after a long moment - just a fraction. A middle-aged man appeared, his robe loosely belted at the waist. A heavy gold chain lay nestled in the rather scraggy-looking thatch of graying hair on his chest. He peered out at us. "Sorry. We'll keep it down." His words were conciliatory; his expression was anything but.

"Sorry doesn't cut it, I'm afraid, Senator," Marita said calmly. "Who do you have with you?" She attempted to peer over his shoulder, but he pulled the door to bar her visibility.

"Nobody. Nobody!" I opened my mouth to speak, then decided against it. This was Marita's fight.

"You have a lady with you, Senator," she said severely. "That's hardly nobody. Who's there?" she called, raising her voice a little.

"It's - it's me, Miss Covarrubias. Chanel."

"Come out, please, Chanel. I need you downstairs."

"I haven't finished with her," the man said angrily.

"As a matter of fact, you have," Marita said. "You've finished here altogether. You're barred. Indefinitely."

Now he really did look conciliatory. "Now, surely we can negotiate," he said with a winning smile. But looking at Marita, I thought it was too little, too late.

"There's nothing to negotiate, Senator," she replied, smiling too. "Nobody calls my ladies whores."

"Oh, come on, Marita," he smiled, still sure he could win her over. "It won't happen again."

"No, it won't," she smiled back. "Come along, Chanel."

The girl came past the man, a little nervously. She was holding her ripped negligee together with her hand, arm crossed over her body. He made no move to let her pass, but Marita glared at him, and he moved just a little. The girl had to brush up against him to get through, and she flinched. Marita opened her phone. "Connie? Send security to room 13 on the fourth floor, please. Senator Wells is to be escorted from the building."

Satisfied that the man would be no more trouble, I started to manoeuver the bedraggled Chanel towards the stairs, then stopped, turning to look at Marita for a long moment. We couldn't bring the girl through the public stairway like that. "My room," she said, folding the flip.

"Come on, Chanel," I said, turning and motioning for her to do the same.

"Lynette," she corrected miserably. "It's really Lynette." I nodded and guided her down the hall. Marita went ahead of us and opened the door. She motioned for us to enter, came in herself, then closed the door behind us.

The girl sat down on the bed and cried steadily for quarter of an hour.

While we waited for her to cry herself out, we busied ourselves. I poured us all some brandy. Marita went to her wardrobe and got out a floral dress with a Laura Ashley tag on it. Maybe four hundred dollars' worth, I thought; but she didn't seem to give that much thought. A set of underwear from a shopping bag, still with the price tags, clearly just purchased for herself. French lace, I supposed. Another two hundred. She laid them out on the bed near the girl and settled back on the armchair. Since the only remaining chairs were a pair of iron stools on the dais, I settled for sitting on the arm of the chair at Marita's side. I handed her her drink, and she took it, looking up at me, resting a hand on my thigh. "Thank you," she whispered.

It was another five minutes before the girl was calm, and in that time, I was very aware of the two women. The impersonal appeal of the girl, pretty and vulnerable and oh, so sweet; and side-by-side with that, the other, the woman silhouetted in the warm light of the room. The adolescent attraction of weakness and the adult attraction of strength. And as I looked down at Marita, her cheek softly illuminated, I couldn't help wondering what it would be like to touch her.

With a slowing progression of sniffles, the girl grew still. I nodded to her drink on the bedside table, and she drank from it gratefully. "Thanks."

"You okay, Lynette?" Marita said gently.

"Yeah," she sniffled. "He'd just had too much to drink."

"Why did you go in with him if he was drunk?" she asked, not unkindly.

"Oh, he wasn't drunk. I mean he wasn't aggressive. He'd just had enough to drink that, you know." She took a long sip of her drink.

Clearly, that was the end of the sentence, and Marita looked bewildered. "He couldn't sustain an erection," I supplied clinically. Marita's expression cleared, and I wondered why she didn't know that. Lynette nodded, and I hazarded, "And he blamed you."

"Most of them do," she said morosely. I nodded in sympathy. I'd seen it happen.

"You do know that you have the right to refuse to see any man, don't you?" Marita said. She spoke softly, as though to an injured child.

Lynette shrugged. "I know about the policy, but it doesn't work like that. We lose shifts if we refuse men."

"Is that right," Marita said grimly. I couldn't help wishing I could be a fly on the wall at her next meeting with Connie Francis.

Lynette nodded. "Lisa - that's the one they call Bardot - she refused a guy last week. He stank like hell. Miss Francis said she'd have her little girl's place at onsite daycare revoked if she didn't get in there."

I breathed out heavily. "Jesus, that's low."

"It certainly is," Marita said in a tight little voice. I shot her a look. Part of me was angry at the goddamn privilege of her - how could she not know that these women were weak, and that that weakness was held over them? - but a bigger part felt pity. She had inherited this awful place with very little idea of what she was getting into, and she was doing the best she could. She could have sent for the girl's clothes, but she had given her six hundred dollars worth of her own, instead. I knew women with far more who would have given far less.

We sat there in silence for a while, but finally, I rose, taking all our glasses back to the bar. "Lynette," I said, "there's a bathroom through that door there that you can use."

"Thank you - both of you," she sniffled, picking up the clothes. She padded across the room like a bedraggled kitten, went in, and shut the door behind her.

Marita was watching me with a strange expression, as though she'd learned something new about me - something she liked. I held her gaze for a long moment, wondering what was on her mind, but then I drew myself up and sighed. "I should go," I said with regret. "She's probably had enough men in her personal space for one day."

"Okay." She got up and crossed the room to meet me. She caught my hand. "Will you be around today?"

I nodded. "I could meet you in the restaurant when you finish up here."

She gave a wan smile. "I'd like that." She drew me close and kissed my cheek. "Thank you," she said, lingering there, warm breaths drifting across my skin.

"For what?" I asked, pleasantly surprised.

She shrugged. "For letting me handle that guy. For being kind to that girl. I don't know. Just...thank you."

I squeezed her hand, still entwined with mine. "Okay."

"See you downstairs."

I made my way down to the restaurant and ordered a coffee. I sat there reflectively for a while, trying to get my thoughts into some kind of order. And again and again, they coalesced around Marita.

If this were a dimestore novel, I suppose I would have struggled with my growing attraction to her at this point; but it wasn't really like that. I didn't feel stricken or apprehensive. I felt peaceful - almost complacent. I wanted her; I had wanted her all along. The fascination that teased the outer fringes of my consciousness seemed like the most natural thing in the world. In that moment, if someone had predicted that she would become my wife, I would have nodded with serene agreement: "Of course. Of course she will." No doubt in my mind whatsoever.

That would come later.

"Alex?"

I looked up at her. "Hey," I said by way of greeting. "Take a seat." I rose, then sat again as she joined me. She sat, not opposite me, but at right angles to me, at the closest chair. She looked troubled.

"Lynette okay?" I asked, at last. It seemed as good an opening as any.

She shrugged. "She'll be okay. I'll be glad when she goes, though."

"Goes?" I echoed.

"She's only got a few months left 'til she finishes med school. Just as well - she's not cut out for this, Alex. Some women turn hard and some women get out, and she needs to get out."

I nodded slowly. Then, suspicions growing, I said with feigned casualness, "I suppose you're going to fire Connie Francis?"

"My authority doesn't extend that far, I'm afraid," she said grimly. "But she's been cautioned."

"I thought you owned the place," I said mildly.

"Legally. But there are, shall we say, other stakeholders."

"The Consortium."

She shot me a look. "That's right." The lines of her jaw were set hard with distaste.

"You hate it as much as I do," I said in wonder.

She gave a tight little smile. "Probably more."

I reached for her, my hand finding hers on the table impulsively. "Mare," I said gently; and then I realised what I was doing, and I pulled away abruptly. "I mean, Marita - I'm sorry -"

She shook her head. "No, Alexi, it's-" she broke off. She seemed to recognise what she was doing then, that she was accepting an overture; and her expression turned thoughtful. She watched me, a slight furrow in her brow, before she went on hesitantly, "You can call me that. If you want."

"I'd like that," I said mildly; but I had to smile. Just had to. Looking at her and seeing that slight softening around her eyes, that softness that was for me, I couldn't do anything else. And the corners of her lips turned up, too - just a little. It was a very comfortable moment.

"Mare?" I said at last. I liked how the name sounded; how it felt, passing between my lips. It was equal parts address and caress.

"Yes, Alexi?"

"Why didn't you know what she meant? About the drinking?"

She shrugged. "Well, you know, Michael wasn't much of a drinker. And in case you hadn't noticed, I'm not much of a madam, either. The pragmatics are Connie's department - a situation I mean to remedy."

She was preoccupied with her anger at Connie - so much so that she seemed oblivious to what she revealed. I stared at her. "Michael's the only man you've been with," I said, feeling shock and recognition in equal measure.

A look of affront flitted across her features, and for a moment I thought I'd made a mistake in saying so. But then, suddenly, her expression cleared. Her jaw firm, her voice tinged with an undertone of pride, she said with heartbreaking simplicity, "Yes."

I felt a flush of affection. Quite aside from any fascination, any desire I felt for her, in that moment I discovered that I genuinely liked her. It wasn't just her unexpected inexperience or any lingering innocence I might have imagined she possessed as a consequence. In that moment, without a trace of artifice, she revealed herself as someone who had nothing to prove. There are so many moments down the years that I have fallen in love with her, again and again; but if pressed to identify the first, that would be the one. Right then, I loved her, and had the waiter not interrupted us to clear the table, I might very well have done something stupid like telling her so.

"So what did you come after me for, anyway?" she asked as the waiter moved on. "You said you had an idea."

I stared at her, aghast at the extent of my own distraction. "God, I forgot all about it with the Lynette thing." She watched me, her brow furrowed in query. "What if we've been on the wrong track all along? What if Samantha's diaries aren't in the house?"

"You mean in storage? A safe somewhere?" she queried.

"In a manner of speaking," I said, mentally riffling through fragments of information in my mind. "Michael built the ice arena for Samantha. Marita, they have lockers at the ice arena."

Her eyes widened, and she rose, taking me by the hand.

"Let's go."

"Lorena? I need the locker master keys."

A middle-aged woman peered down at us over the top of a pair of ample breasts. "Sure," she said agreeably, coming down the steps and leading us into the office. She went to the desk and rummaged in a drawer. "I see you found your friend okay," she said, nodding to me.

"Yes," Mare said absently, taking the keys the older woman held out. "We - oh, the club room lockers, not the day hires."

"Oh, okay," Lorena replied, rummaging again. "Is everything okay?"

"There's been a product recall on the lock mechanism. Only some serial numbers were affected. We have to check each one."

"We've had them eight years. They seem fine."

"Yeah, I know," she said, feigning weariness. "But if we don't comply with the recall and we have a theft, our insurance won't cover it. A locker with two pairs of custom skates could cost thousands."

"I suppose. Do you want me to do it?"

Mare waved a hand. "No, I'm going in there anyway." She held out her hand expectantly, and the woman handed the keys over without protest.

"That was easy," I commented after we had left her. We walked side-by-side along the boards.

"House employees are just regular people. The only ones with any idea what they're dealing with, besides security and the defense trainers, are the courtesans."

"What the hell do they think this is?" I wondered.

"Country club for the elite and influential. We make a big show of warning them about privacy and the paparazzi. The fact that we have a few politicians around helps our cause considerably."

"Fair enough." We slipped past the Zamboni. "Have you ever skated?"

"I did a bit of ice racing at Oxford - Magdalen College had these recreational group outings. Strictly amateur, stand on the pond and hope the ice doesn't give way. Diana couldn't bear to watch. Said she had visions of fishing me out."

I laughed. "That sounds like Diana." We reached the clubroom, and I stopped, waiting. She opened the door and nodded for me to enter ahead of her. I did so, and she followed, locking the door behind us.

I looked around, taking in the noticeboards and the test application forms and the abandoned skate guards and all the usual paraphernalia. I inhaled the faint scent of mildew and feet. It was mildly unpleasant, but also familiar; and I felt sudden nostalgia. It was a strains-of-childhood moment.

Mare was leaned against the wall, her arms crossed, watching me with open amusement.

"What?" I asked mildly.

She shook her head, smiling. "Nothing. I can just see you here - or somewhere like here. Struggling with compulsory figures or something. What were you, twelve?"

"Fourteen. And I like figures. They still the mind. Good discipline."

"Rubbish. No-one likes figures."

"What would you know?" I demanded disdainfully. "You were an ice racer. Where's the skill in that?" I fought the turning up at the corners of my mouth, but it happened anyway.

"Bastard," she said with high humour. "Come on, let's check these lockers."

I watched as she used the master keys to unlock the first bank of lockers. I experienced a moment of doubt. "Even if she had a locker, Marita - what's to say it's still here? Samantha's been dead more than two years."

She shrugged uneasily, but she shook her head. "Michael and the Dark Man kept her rooms like a shrine. I'm betting they didn't send a memo down here to empty her locker."

"That's true," I conceded with reluctant hope. What had made perfect sense earlier in the day now seemed like a long shot, but it was the best idea either of us had come up with to date. I opened the top left locker, while Mare attended to the top right. "Brad Pitt."

Marita peered at the poster pinned to the inside of the door of hers. "Wilson Phillips. Who the hell's that?"

I closed my locker. "I've heard the name on the radio. She's pretty recent."

"After Samantha's time, then," she mused, moving on, and at the next locker, a skin mag tumbled out, landing neatly at her feet. She picked it up with apparent amusement. "I'm betting this one's a guy."

I shrugged. "Women read porn too. Especially women with psychosexual dysfunction," I added, remembering that Samantha had been a prostitute.

"True," she conceded, flipping through. She held it up, open at a centerfold of two men. "Probably more up your alley than hers, though." She grinned and returned it to its place.

I took it with good grace, saying wryly, "I prefer the real thing, myself," and passed on to the next locker. "Anything?"

"Random urine drug report on a twenty year old male. Must be competing."

"You gotta wonder with the quad jumps now," I mused, moving on. "When I was skating they said it couldn't be done."

"Well, some scientist proved the four-minute mile was a mathematical impossibility once, too. People grow." She opened another locker. "Nice custom boots," she mused. "Wilson New Gold Seal. More money than sense."

I frowned. "Let me see that." I went over to her, looking in as she stepped aside. I pulled out one of the skates for a closer look. "They stopped making these blades in the mid-eighties. I remember because I was really pissed about it. Look at the position of the toe pick-" I broke off at her blank expression. "Forget it, it doesn't matter. What matters is, these are old blades. They could belong to someone who started skating in 1979."

"These lockers have only been here since-" she counted back on her fingers "- 1986."

"There'd have been other lockers before that, or she might have kept them in her room. The point is, the dates fit." I handed her the skate and got out its mate. I reached further back into the locker and felt a large, bulky object with irregular edges. I drew it out impatiently. Marita took it from me before I could identify it. I brushed the dust from my hands and looked down at the thing in her hands.

"Diaries," she said with awe. She was picking at rubber bands that bound a dozen or so notebooks of varying size. "Is anything else in there? We still don't really know it's her."

"I imagine the diaries would clarify that question," I said thoughtfully, still groping around in the locker. The metal door fell in a way that blocked the glow of the electric light; I was working blind. "Sharpening stone," I guessed by feel, "skate hook...what's this?" I ran my fingers over the towel lining the bottom of the locker. There was a slight irregularity at the back, and I lifted the towel and drew out a small pile of photographs. I flipped through them. "It's her," I said at last.

"Let me see," Mare said anxiously, putting the diaries down on the bench. I handed the snapshots over in silence. I waited.

"It's Samantha," she said, after long, long moments. "And me."

"And Elena," I corrected.

"Yes," she whispered, blinking back sudden tears. "And Elena." Then, with compassion, "They were lovers."

"You don't know that," I countered; but my voice was mild, because I knew she was right.

"Look at the way they're holding each other. That's not best girlfriends. It's...intimate."

"Yes - I suppose it is."

"They look happy." I thought I heard a trace of envy in her voice.

"Yes, they do."

"That means she's a Consortium widow too. They do say twins' lives mirror each other." She sounded bitter.

"Mare..."

She looked up at me suddenly, breaking into a smile. "You know what? I'm missing the point. She's here. She's alive, and she's here." She hugged me impulsively, drew back, and kissed me lightly on the mouth.

She drew back, but we both stopped just an inch or two apart; and I could feel her warm breath on me. She suddenly looked frightened. She said in a low, imploring voice, "Oh, Alex, please don't."

I didn't, but almost in the same breath, she did; leaning in diffidently and gently taking my lips between hers. I kissed her in turn, sliding my hands up to her neck, holding her face gently between them, suddenly filled with reverence. And then I felt her hands on my arms, not pushing them away, but holding me to her.

Encouraged, I teased her lips, going slow with her until she opened for me, drawing me in, claiming me. Her eyes were gleaming, tinged dark with longing; and they were open, fixed on mine. I liked that. I didn't want her lost in blind sensation. I wanted her lost in me. For long, vibrant moments, it seemed that she was; but at last, she pulled away, and broke free of my arms. She moved a little way away, her expression nervous...hunted.

Frowning a little, I went to her, stood at her side; but did not attempt to touch. Gently, I said, "Mare, did you...did you not want me to do that? Because I thought you did." Never mind that I knew perfectly well she did, never mind that I could feel her wanting coming off her in waves, because I could also sense her fear. There was something very fragile about her just then, and I didn't want to scare her off.

"No, I did," she admitted at last. She looked at me; that was a good sign. She said hesitantly, "I just...I'm afraid."

"Of me?" I said quietly, unbelievingly.

That seemed to derail her. "No," she said vaguely. Then, with more resolve, "No, not of you."

"What, then?"

She said with utter lack of guile, "I don't know."

We stood there watching each other for a long moment; but at last, I nodded. "Okay," I sighed. "However you want it, that's how we'll play it, Mare."

She laughed sourly at that. "Nothing in my life is how I want it," she said with bitterness.

"This is," I insisted, taking her by the shoulders and looking into her eyes. I repeated for emphasis, "This is."

She watched me, and at last, nodding, she came to me; and she let me hold her in my arms.

We stood there holding one another for a long time.

"'I miss the Dark Man.

"'I wish he was here, and I wish I could talk to him about Elena. Michael was very clear about the need for secrecy, but I wish he'd let me tell the Dark Man. I feel very unsure of my ground without his guidance. Michael means well, but his attachment to Larissa Covarrubias clouds his judgement sometimes.' That was in May 1984." I turned to Marita, who lay at my side. "I wonder why he didn't want the Dark Man to know about Elena?"

"I've given up wondering why Michael did anything," she said morosely, still staring at the ceiling. She kicked off her shoes, moving a little on the bed to do so. It was the first time she'd moved since we'd returned to her suite with our bounty. She'd sat on the bed and then sank back, still wrapped in my too-big jacket like a child. But her peaceful stance belied her cloudy gaze. Mare was troubled.

"That's understandable," I said thoughtfully. Actually, I had wondered why she hadn't shown any bitterness towards Michael sooner. The man had loved her and sheltered her, that's true; but he had also deceived her profoundly. Still, I supposed, death was the great redeemer.

Mare said abruptly, "Go back to where she and Elena met." She rolled onto her side and took her drink from the nightstand where I had set it down an hour earlier. She looked at me over the top of her glass, and I saw that the cloudiness was gone from her eyes, replaced with a purposeful gleam. Whatever shocked paralysis had gripped her, it was gone now, and she was ready to get down to business. I was relieved.

"Okay." I started flipping pages. "That's the red notebook." I set the one I was holding down and took the one she offered. "Here it is. 'Michael came to see me tonight. Thank God he called ahead, or he'd have found me with Matheson.'"

"Jeez, that scum gets around," Mare said irritably. "How old is Samantha here?"

"Nineteen, I think."

"Thank God for small mercies. Go on."

"'Matheson had some interesting information about the cloning project, by the way, but I daren't write it here. It's been recorded safely and given to the Dark Man in the usual manner. He asked where I got it, and I said he didn't want to know. He looked upset. I have a horrid feeling he knows what I do here. I never wanted him, of all people, to know that.'" Mare's cheek twitched a little. She swallowed hard. Frowning, I continued, "'Michael had a girl with him. Twelve or thirteen - she wasn't precisely sure herself. Apparently he found her at a UFO crash site. She wouldn't tell me her name, but Michael says it's Elena.'"

"She stowed away," Mare mused. "Or they were taking her somewhere. Michael gets the call, and because she looks like me, he knows who she must be. That all hangs together. He either told the group she died, or never said there was a survivor at all."

I checked the dates. "This could be Groom Lake," I said thoughtfully. She looked at me, askance. I elaborated, "We studied it in political ethics. The Air Force seized close to 100,000 acres of land without due process. There was a congressional enquiry into the matter in 1984. The Air Force guy said, basically, that no, they didn't have any legal right to do it, but the decision had been made at a much higher level. He demanded, and got, a closed session before he would explain further. No-one outside that hearing knows what the justification was for the seizure, or why it was ordered at such a high level."

"Sounds like a UFO crash," Mare agreed. "So Michael tells Mother that he's found her other daughter. She wants to get to know her, and she doesn't want anyone to find out. Or maybe she's worried I'll be mistaken for Elena - by the Colonists, or by Spender or someone. Maybe all of the above."

I turned onto my side to look at her. "So she pushes you to accept the Oxford offer and says she'll take care of the paperwork refusing your Harvard offer. Then she sends Elena to Harvard as you."

"In a science program," Mare said grimly. "She was grooming her to go into the work - which she probably did. But where?"

"Spender's camp - as a resistance double, probably. That was what Samantha was doing, after all. She studied cloning and eugenics - she was preparing to go into hybrid research, but Michael and your mother had her reporting back."

She stared at me, brow furrowed, rising up on one elbow. "But that would mean half the Consortium knew she was recovered. Why would they keep it from me?"

I shrugged. "Maybe your mom thought you'd be angry about the lies. Maybe she thought it was best left alone."

Mare thought on this for a moment, her expression dubious, but then she shook her head. "No. My mother and I aren't on those terms. There must be something else." She knelt up and leaned over me to get to her drink, her hand on my hip, seemingly oblivious to my proximity. "Maybe the Colonists don't know she was recovered - maybe that's the reason for the secrecy, rather than anything to do with me."

"What were you told when you were shipped off to England?"

She pulled away and settled back down into the bed, drink in hand. "That my mother had done something that put her in danger. That it was important for me to stay hidden - hence the alias. But don't ask me why she didn't keep me as me and give Elena the alias - surely that would make more sense."

I shrugged. "Maybe she thought that the Colonists would suspect the switch. Maybe she thought sending you away was safer than keeping you there." She held out her empty glass, and I took it from her and put it on the floor beside the bed.

"That would mean she was prepared to put Elena in the firing line to shield me." She swallowed hard. "It's not a nice thought."

"But understandable. She'd raised you. She hadn't seen Elena in eleven years."

Remorse washed over her features. Her head drooped suddenly. "God."

I set the diaries aside and slung my arm over her side, teasing my hand over her shoulder blade. "Mare, you haven't done anything wrong. It isn't your fault."

She shook her head. "God, Alexi," she sighed, "what a mess."

"We're going to fix it, Marita," I said. "Whatever the hell they did, we're going to make it right."

She pulled away, a weak smile playing around her mouth. "Do you know, no-one's ever said that to me before?"

"What?" I asked, uncomprehending.

"That we're going to fix it. They say, 'I'll fix it, Marita. Don't you worry about a thing.'" She laughed, a wounded sound of irony. "I like it, Alex. It feels good to be a grownup."

"I never saw you as anything else."

She gave a wry grin. "You're in the minority."

"Marita, you are smart and funny and clever and capable and strong and - and beautiful. You don't need them, or your sister, or me to be okay. I'll help you with this, but this is your fight, and I know that, and I know that you're going to win."

She looked unaccountably close to tears. "Thank you, Alexi."

I reached out to stroke back her hair, but she stiffened. "Don't," she said in an undertone. I drew back, and I tried not to look hurt; but I mustn't have succeeded, because she reached out for my hand. "No, Alex, I don't mean it like that," she said, tugging me close to her again.

"Then how did you mean it?"

She started to speak, then stopped a couple of times. Finally, she said, "Alex, I don't always know what I want."

"Don't you?" I demanded. "Or is it that you've never been allowed to have what you want?"

She was very pale. "I don't know. Maybe."

We were silent for long moments. "Is it about what I do, who I work for?" I asked finally. "Because Marita, if you want some nice ordinary man who'll give you three kids and life in the suburbs, I can understand that. I'll back off, if you want me to."

"No," she said sharply. "No, don't do that. It isn't that." Then, hesitantly, "Could you just give me time?"

"Okay."

She leaned in and kissed me, slow and tender, and I held her close, cradling her shoulder with my palm. It was a gentle kiss, soft and reverent, giving and taking with almost chaste adoration. It was long and deep and wet, and, easing her back, I thought I could kiss her that way forever.

Our bodies, however, had other ideas.

The ache for her hit me thick and fast, and I felt warm threads of desire spiraling out through me like a drug. The gentle kiss turned fierce and hungry. She shook with need; her breaths came quick and shallow, and her hips pressed against mine, searching for me with an instinct as old as time. It was the irresistible pull of body to body, flesh to flesh, and it washed over both of us with stunning force. Our legs were entwined, and our hands searched blindly, grasping for whatever fabric or flesh they could. With an agonised gasp of longing, she pushed me away, and she said with a ragged sigh, "Please go, Alex. Please."

Mutely, I nodded, unable to speak, and I rose, moving a little unsteadily on my feet. As I reached the door, she took my hand in hers and squeezed it - such a harmless gesture - and then we were in one another's arms all over again. My mouth was on her neck, finding warm flesh there and taking it between my lips. She made high, keening sounds of need, cradling my head there with her hand. "I want you," I sighed against her. The feel of her was so bright it hurt; and the idea of ever being without her was cold.

"God! Alex," she sighed, almost on the point of weeping. "I want- I want-" and then the words were lost in her cries of need. She thrust her fingers through my hair, urging me on against her throat. She cried out, "Oh, God, please go, please go now-" and then there were tears streaming down her cheeks.

I tasted salt. I pulled back at once, shocked and bewildered. "Mare?" I said breathlessly, and I smoothed away her tears with my fingertips. "I'm so sorry," I said, and I had no idea what I'd done wrong, but I was. It hurt to see her like that.

She smiled weakly through her tears. "It's not you - I swear it's not you. Just leave me, please."

Perplexed, I kissed her forehead, and I left her there.

I didn't sleep well that night. My body ached with need, and my heart ached for Mare. I was able to attend to one ache with my hand, but that left just the other, and that was somehow worse. Every time I closed my eyes, I relived her pulling me to her and pushing me away, weeping that she wanted me and weeping that I should go. I drank and I smoked and I tossed and I turned, and I woke feeling no more refreshed than when I lay down.

I rose at dawn and headed down to the rink. I skated off the worst of my tension, but my disquiet remained. Stroking around the rink in laps, I ticked over the events of the last twenty-four hours. They were suggestive, but what they suggested was painful to contemplate. I felt physically hurt, physically ill at the possibilities presented in my mind.

I wasn't sure whether she would be at training, but she was there, looking tired and pale, her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. She wore my jacket, but she didn't offer to give it back. I was glad.

We warmed up in silence for a while, but at last, she spoke.

"They made a pact."

I looked at her questioningly.

"Samantha and Elena. They made a pact when Elena first got there that they would both try to infiltrate the hybrid project and bring it down. That they would work on a weapon against the alien invasion."

"You stayed up reading the journals?"

She shot me an agonised glance. "I couldn't sleep."

I admitted, "Neither could I."

Bright pink spots rose in her cheeks, and her eyes grew moist. Her voice tinged with humiliation, she began, "Alex-"

"It's okay," I said. "Don't." I stroked her cheek with the back of my hand, and she leaned into it, eyes closed. She gave a long, shuddering sigh, then nodded.

We heard footsteps, and she pulled away, wiping her eyes. She managed a wan smile. Karen rounded the corner, her booming voice several steps ahead of her. "Come on, people. We all warmed up?"

"No-one should be that happy this time of the morning," Mare muttered, getting to her feet, and I laughed. A little cautiously, she laughed too. She held out a hand and drew me up.

"Let's go."

"Do it, Alex!"

I stared down at Marita, thrashing beneath me.

"Do it!" she shouted again, pushing against me. I held her down, her arms stretched out over her head; but her legs were working me hard. She was strong - damn strong.

"Work her, Alex," came the firm voice of our trainer. "You're not doing her any favours by going easy."

I turned my head and hissed, "I'm not, damn it!"

Marita used the opportunity. Her knee pounded into my crotch, and it exploded in white-hot agony. She threw me over onto my back and held me down. I'd been aroused earlier on, but now that adrenaline was driven into more basic instincts. I pushed back, pushed her hard, slammed her hard into the mat and held her fast. She pushed back, wrists thrusting my hands upwards, and I fought to hold her. "Do it," she said again. "I need-" she was labouring for breath.

"What do you need?" I panted.

"I need to know," she whispered. "How far I have to go."

With all the strength I had left, I forced her wrists back down. "Not far," I gasped out. I collapsed against her, breathing heavily, relief radiating through my body. I half expected her to make a last stand, but she didn't.

"And that's a wrap. Good work, team. See you tomorrow." I waved half-heartedly at Karen, and I felt Mare do the same. I bowed my head to her shoulder. The door snicked shut, and then we were alone.

At last, after long, long moments, I lifted myself up onto my elbows. I met her gaze. We held each other that way, her eyes sea-green, clear like cut glass, staring up at me unblinkingly. She didn't smile, or frown, or speak with her eyes or her lips. She just *was*, ageless and perennial.

And how I wanted her.

I'm only a man, after all; and my body was alive with her. She'd been held against me, her presence engulfing me, her energy pulsing all around me. For long, long moments, we had been one together, feeding on one another's adrenaline, caught in parallel rays of trust and power in a way that was oddly like mating. And now, looking at her, it was like being inside her.

We stayed there, gazes held for a long, long moment; and then I closed my eyes, my breathing harsh with need. I could imagine her leaning up to me, and taking my face between her hands. I could imagine moving her body with mine; sliding hands over her body and plunging them into her hair. I could imagine her rolling me, raising herself up over me, kissing me hard, taking control. I could imagine sliding into her. And when I looked down at her once more, her eyes were shining.

"I should get off you," I said. My voice sounded ragged.

"Yeah," she breathed. She blew at a stray tendril of hair that had caught in her mouth. It didn't move, and I brushed it back, my fingers brushing her cheeks. She shot me a gorgeous smile, and that undid me.

I touched her cheeks once more with my fingertips, searching the oh, so smooth lines of her face, as if to reassure myself that she was real. I traced from the edge of her eyebrow down to her jaw, leaning in a little. She turned her face to mine, her lips parted a little, classic position to kiss and be kissed; but neither of us did so, only staying there, exploring one another in the heat of a shared breath. Last night, there had been fiery passion; but right now, I wanted only to cherish - to revere, rather than to plunder. Her hand was rising from the floor, tentatively finding my side; and when she touched me, when she breathed my name, I was glad.

"Mare," I said in wonder. "Oh, Mare."

She moved, just a fraction, soft garnet lips seeking mine.

And then I heard footsteps.

I sank my head back against her shoulder with a groan of frustration, and I heard her curse softly as the door opened. I rolled off her with a sigh. We lay there, side by side, flushed and resigned as Diana rounded the corner.

"Oh, Marita, good. Karen said I'd find you here. Heavy training session?"

I suppressed a smirk.

"Just finishing up. What is it?"

"I just wanted to talk about Elizabeth's baptism. If this is a bad time-"

Marita shook her head with a sigh. "It's fine. Just give me a few minutes to shower and change, okay?" She rose, and I took the opportunity to sit up, cross-legged like a schoolchild, my crotch concealed by my loose track pants. I wasn't hard, but I wasn't really soft, either, and there was something a bit disconcerting about having an obvious hard-on in the presence of your beloved's best friend who was also your ex-lover's ex-wife.

Mare just read this over my shoulder. She thinks it's the funniest thing I've said in ages.

"I'm beat," I said, because it was a moment where it seemed something should be said. "She gave me a run for my money."

Diana was frowning. "I'm surprised she's doing this, actually. Marita can be funny sometimes."

"About what?"

"I don't know...about being safe, I suppose."

I thought about it. I remembered the locker room at the ice arena, and what had happened last night, and I thought that made sense. "Well, she hasn't got much to worry about," I said dryly. "She's strong...strong as a man. Maybe stronger."

The animation suddenly left Diana's face. "Don't tell her that," she said sharply. She looked ashen.

"Why not?" I demanded, confused.

"Because -" she hesitated, her expression softening. "Because Rita should learn not to be so safe. She needs to learn to take risks sometimes."

I watched her dubiously. I didn't doubt the basic truthfulness of her words, but Diana Donovan wasn't the sort to casually discuss anyone's psyche with a third party. She was more discreet, more circumspect than that. I had the uncomfortable certainty that I'd missed something important. It couldn't have been clearer if she'd had the words "THAT WAS CLOSE" tattooed into her forehead.

She seemed discomforted by my scrutiny, because she looked down at her hands and started fiddling, twisting her wedding ring compulsively. I felt momentary pity, and I saw no value in pursuing the matter for the moment; so I said, "I think that's probably true."

Diana looked back up at me nervously. She nodded, slowly regaining her normal composure. "Listen, I'm sorry about coming in when I did."

So she had sensed it after all.

"Forget it," I said with resignation. "It's probably just as well."

"What do you mean?"

"It would be a mistake. She's too young."

"I was married at her age. And you're only a couple of years older."

I held her gaze. "I'm not talking about years, and you know it."

Diana's features were softer than usual, compassionate and warm. "She has a woman's heart, Alex. If she has a child's fears, it's because she's been encouraged to do so by people who wanted her to be helpless for reasons of their own."

I looked up at her, my brow furrowed; and at last, I made a decision. "She wants this," I said with certainty. "But she's scared to death." I sighed; then, with great reluctance, I gave voice to my growing fears. "Diana, was she raped?"

Diana bowed her head, her shoulders slumped sadly; and for an instant, I believed I was right. Exquisite pain crashed over me in waves, lodging deep in my belly and radiating out; but then she shook her head. "I understand why you ask, Alex, but no. Not to my knowledge, and I think she would have told me if she was."

The pain lessened, just a little. "What, then?"

"Well, Marita didn't have the healthiest of experiences."

"Of sex?"

"Of anything."

I nodded, thinking it over. "So what do you think I should do?"

Her shoulders drooped. She suddenly looked very old. "Do I look like an expert to you? My first husband was gay and my second husband is Consortium, for Chrissake."

"Sorry," I mumbled. I was suddenly quite sure she knew about my affair with Mulder. They were divorced, but it still had to bite.

She sighed. "No, I'm sorry. I'm in a foul mood and it hasn't got anything to do with you." I shrugged in acceptance of this backhanded apology. "Look, I don't know what you should do. What I do know is that you can't decide on the basis of what you *think* is best for her. Do you really think she needs yet another protector?"

"And what about you?" I flared. "Aren't you protecting her? Whatever it is that you're not telling, do you really think she's that weak?"

She laughed at that, a little sadly. "Marita?" she scoffed. "No. But I am."

"You're one of the strongest people I know."

"You don't understand," she burst out. "You damn men don't understand anything." At another time, that might have offended me; but I had the sense that the comment wasn't really about me. "My parents are dead. Fox-" she broke off, shrugging helplessly. "Rita is the only one left who - who-"

"Who knew you before?"

She nodded, pain etched into her expression in harsh lines. "I don't know if I can hurt her the way I'd have to hurt her to tell her what I know."

"She needs to know, Diana." Then, deliberately, I challenged, "Do you really think she needs yet another protector?"

I expected anger, but instead, she gave a crooked little smile. "She could do worse than you, you know, Alex," she said amiably. I smiled back - the genuine companionship in her expression was infectious. But then her smile faded, and she said grimly, "But do as I say - not as I do."

She turned then, and left me to consider.

"What happened to you?"

Mare looked at me blankly for a moment, closing the door behind me, but then her expression cleared. "Attack of the balding assassin."

"Say again?"

She sat on a stool in front of the dresser and began to brush her hair. "Have you come across a guy named Fordham?"

"Once or twice. He's quite mild-mannered, as assassins go."

"Well, he also has a hair fetish." I shifted uncomfortably. It was the first time she had spoken of what she did here in this room with her - submissives? Bottoms? Clients? What the hell did she call them, anyway? "But he didn't have the skill to be a hairdresser, so he figured he'd go kill people for a living instead."

"He did quite a number on yours," I noted. "Give me that." I took the brush from her and began to tease out the odd-looking braid.

"Thanks," she said, settling back. I pulled up another stool and sat down behind her.

"What do you do in here with them, anyway?" I asked hesitantly.

"As little as possible," she said with a twisted little grin that I could see reflected in the mirror. It was odd, seeing her reflected that way, her features swapped around the opposite way. It was like looking at a different person. Odder still to think that she saw herself that way all the time. "I stalk around in leather with a riding crop with Matheson. He sits on that wooden chair on the dais and jerks off, while I threaten to whip his hide if he doesn't tell his latest homoerotic fantasy with sufficient enthusiasm."

"He'd love that," I grinned.

"Yeah," she said, with just a trace of disgust. Her mouth curled into something hard and hurtful. "So are you going to ask me to do that for you, now, Alex?"

I kept my expression neutral, but I felt anger - and hurt. Was that what she thought of me? How fucked up was that? But I watched her in the mirror, saw the rigid way she held herself, the fear in her eyes, and then I understood, at least a little. What she'd asked wasn't really about me. It was about how she was accustomed to being treated. One way or another, Mare had been used her whole life.

I shook my head, not looking at her, deliberately keeping my attention on her hair. "I wouldn't do that to you, Mare. Not when it's not what you want." I felt her shoulders go slack and the lines of her body soften. With feigned carelessness, I wondered, "What *do* you want?"

"I want to be a woman," she said fiercely. "I don't want to play these bullshit games in this ridiculous room. Look at it, for God's sake. There's a tiled platform for a bathroom. If you use it, you're visible from every vantagepoint in the room. It's a fucking altar for prostitutes, made by men who see women as things. It's disgusting."

I agreed with her, but I didn't say so, only nodding as I worked on her hair. At last, she said in a much mellower voice, "You know, I get the creeps when that guy touches my hair."

I let go of her hair abruptly, mumbling an apology; but she turned in her seat. "No, Alexi. It's different when you do it. You don't want anything from me."

I smoothed back the hair from her forehead. "That's not entirely true, Mare. I do want you."

"But that's not why you're brushing my hair."

I shook my head. "No."

"That's the difference. It's a gift." She picked up the brush and handed it back to me. "Would you? Please?"

I did.

I love to listen to her speak.

Back then, as now, it was not something she did often. Mare has an economy with words, and in those days she revealed little. When she did speak, what she had to say was always important, always honest. I understood why she spoke so little: she had little capacity for deceit. Her silence was her only protection.

But she spoke to me.

She spoke of her upbringing, of being sheltered and loved; but also of being used and controlled. She spoke in facts, not in feelings; and yet her eyes flashed emerald when she was happy, and - far more often - aventurine when she was not. There was a simplicity about her account that was deeply moving.

It wasn't often that she spoke in this way. But somewhere along the line, brushing her hair - something that began as a mere gesture and became a ritual - somehow that became a time of rest...a safe space in which she would talk. Brushing her hair was mating without mating, intimacy without the terrors that intimacy held for her. Sometimes we would sit there, her resting back in my arms for hours, talking not to each other but to each other reflected. It might not have been the fodder of romance novels, but it was adoration and reverence, and in those moments, I felt peace.

I made no attempt to draw her out, but let her tell me whatever she chose. Her bewilderment on being exiled to England. Her loneliness, her fear and distrust of the older men there, her very private homesickness to which only Diana had been privy. She spoke bitterly of the arranged engagement into which Larissa had coerced her. She spoke resignedly of Michael's ongoing deceit about the work, and wistfully of his almost fatherly kindness. Hesitantly, she spoke of his gentleness in those early days of their relationship; of him taking her virginity when she was eighteen, and how she had feared that she would not be able to live with their relationship anymore after that. I developed an unwilling respect for Michael as she spoke; a sense that he had brought her through the fire of confusion and youth as well as anyone could have in the circumstances she lived with. Side-by-side with that was a lazily growing hatred for him, for Larissa, for the Dark Man. Little wonder fear and compromise and sex had gotten twisted up together in her mind.

"You know, I don't want pity," she said one day. I never knew what sparked that comment; but she must have seen compassion in my expression reflected before her more than once. "I'm a wealthy woman with a loving family. If I've had crosses to bear, that makes me no different to anyone else."

I wondered if she really understood how radically she had been used; how radically compromised her experience of normal relationship or sexuality or companionship had been. I don't think she fully understood that until we had children of our own. Lacking that foreknowledge, though, I only nodded noncommittally; said, "I don't pity you, Mare."

"Then what do you-" she stopped.

"Feel?" I challenged lightly, laying a hand on her shoulder. She looked at me in the mirror and gave an oh, so cautious nod. "Affinity," I said after some thought.

She put her hand over mine and turned her head a little, leaning her cheek against it. She didn't speak, and she didn't move for a long, long time.

I wondered if anyone had had affinity with her in her life.

Language is the mirror of the soul.

That particular pearl of wisdom came from my rhetoric professor, a man well-versed in the eloquence of his craft. He was a Jesuit priest, equal parts icon and heretic, and he had captured my imagination in a way no other philosopher had. He'd been on loan from Harvard Divinity School, and the faculty was in no hurry to give him back.

But if language was the mirror of the soul, I was in trouble. Because in my own mind, never before had I had a term for the sexual act. I had euphemisms by the truckload - 'wanted him', 'had her', 'needed it' - but never a term that fitted my perception. 'Fuck' was crass. 'Intercourse' was clinical, bordering on silly. 'Make sex' - a term coined by a Jordanian friend in high school - appealed to my sense of humour; but that didn't fit either. My reserve was, undoubtedly, a hangover from my mother's reticence on the subject; but that knowledge didn't bother me. There were worse parental legacies, most of which I'd been spared.

What bothered me was the thought, unbidden, that I wanted to make love to Mare. A troubling thought, because never before had I had used that phrase in the silence of my heart. But 'making love' were the only words that fitted what I wanted with her, though I had only a vague idea of what that might really mean. Wanting Mare was not a bad thing, though it complicated things more than I cared to admit. Even loving her, if it came to that, was not a bad thing: she was a woman of strength and character, and while I could do worse, I doubted I would do better. But the idea that she changed me - actively changed my perceptions - that was troubling. It was an intrusion, much like the intrusion of being penetrated - not unwelcome, but always exposing. No-one had ever touched me that way before - not even Mulder. Part of me relished it, like a breath of fresh air through my soul; but I was still troubled.

Watching her now, talking to Diana at the bar, it occurred to me that maybe I could heal her. It was a conceited thought, of course, and part of me recognised that even at the time; but still, the idea wouldn't leave me. Soft-focus images arose in my mind of laying her out in cushions on her bed, of going slow with her and pleasing her until her fears evaporated.

I shook my head a little, amused by my own naivete. Mare was right. I was a closet romantic - and an adolescent one at that. Pity about that whole hired killer thing on the side.

"Alex!"

Cardinale intruded on my thoughts, slapping me hard on the back. Asshole.

"Hello, Luis," I said. I suddenly felt very weary - not an unusual response to the appearance of my so-called partner.

"You here to see the Mistress Marita?" he said, nodding to the bar.

"Something like that."

"Pretty piece of ass you got there, Alex. Pity you got to share it with Fordham," he said with a cackle, hands at his hips, giving a little thrust.

To this day, I don't know why it bothered me the way it did. Maybe it was the contrast of his vulgarity with the beauty I'd imagined just seconds before. Maybe it was the cumulative effect of similar incidents. Maybe in that moment, I saw in him what she lived with and why she had the demons she did. Whatever the reason, I saw red, and I hauled off and punched him across the jaw. "You're not fit to eat the dirt she walks on," I spat, grabbing him by the lapels and pushing him to the wall. He pushed back, and next thing I knew, we were on the floor.

"Boys, boys, boys." Shit. Marita.

We looked up at her. She stood there over us, legs apart, hands on her hips. She lifted a shapely leg and nudged us apart with her toe. I lay there on my back, Cardinale at my side, suddenly conscious of the onlookers. So much for staying emotionally detached from her in the public sphere. I hoped Marita could get us out of it, because I had no fucking idea.

Marita rested her foot on Cardinale's throat, her heel nudging his adam's apple. It moved frenetically, bobbing up and down in time with his breathing. She bent down to face him, as though to chastise a naughty child. "Now, Senor Cardinale, let's get one thing straight. The only person allowed to discipline Alexi here is me. If I catch you on my turf again, I'll rip your fucking throat out. Do I make myself clear?"

He nodded. "Yes," he gasped, "I got it."

She took her foot away and straightened in a fluid movement. She turned to me, her expression stern. "As for you, Alexi, someone hasn't been playing nicely with others."

I stared up at her. "No, Marita."

"I can't have you boys having your petty squabbles in my house. You understand that, don't you?"

"Yes, Marita." I felt humiliation well up in me, less from Marita's scolding and more because Diana, behind her, was clearly fighting an attack of the giggles. Fuck. What a fucking mess.

"I'm going to have to punish you, Alexi. Get on your feet." I complied.

Marita nodded to the door, and, my cheeks bright with embarrassment, I followed her.

When we got to her room, Marita broke.

She leaned against the door and laughed, both hands over her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks. She sank to the floor, head buried somewhere between her knees. I watched her, perplexed.

"I can't believe you got into a fight over my honour," she sputtered, lifting her head to look at me at last.

I felt my cheeks flush with mortification. "It was a stupid thing to do."

She wiped her eyes with her hands. "The Dark Man will have some choice words, I'm sure."

"I'm surprised you don't think it was macho and presumptuous." I felt like an idiot. Of all the stupid-

"No-one's ever defended me before, Alex. I liked it."

Okay, maybe not so stupid. Anything that could make her smile like that couldn't be all bad. I managed a smile of my own; even managed a chagrined laugh when she started sputtering again.

At last, she got ahold of herself, and by then, I was sitting on the floor at her side. She sighed. "Are you okay?"

I said ruefully, "I hurt my hand."

She laughed. "Poor Alex," she said, and she got up on her knees and straddled me. She took my hand in hers, raised it to her mouth, and kissed my knuckles, taking each one between tender lips and releasing it, then moving on.

"I want better for you than this place," I said, stroking my free hand down her arm. "I don't want people looking at you like that. You're so much better than that."

She put my hand down; asked diffidently, "Are you asking me to stop doing what I do here?"

I shook my head. "No. But sometimes I wish there was another way." Her head was bowed, and I used my fingers to lift her chin so that she faced me. "We both know this isn't how you want things to be."

"I don't know how I want things to be," she said in a low voice.

I squeezed her fingers between mine. "I think you do."

She watched me for a long, long moment, her eyes thoughtful; and at last, she nodded. Hesitantly, she leaned forward and touched my face with her free hand, her brow creasing with a thousand hopes and fears, her breath hot on me. I opened my mouth - whether to speak or kiss her, I wasn't sure - but I stopped myself. Too many people had made decisions for Marita, overridden her when they should have given her freedom, and I wasn't going to be one of them. It had to be her decision.

So we stayed there, poised excruciatingly on the edge of something bigger than either of us, breathing in rhythm, gazes locked on one another. Entranced, I touched her, tracing a thumb over her eyebrow, then down her cheek, over her jaw to her chin. "Oh, Mare," I whispered, my voice thick with longing.

Her breath caught in her chest, hitching; and then she breathed out shakily. She was trembling, just a little; but it was not with fear - not this time. This time, it was desire, barely contained, overtaking her with its intensity. "Alexi," she breathed, and the sound of it was like a caress against my skin. And at last, she bridged the wafer-thin gulf between us, closing her mouth on mine, tentative, questing, yet oh, so purposeful and deliberate. Her lips were soft and warm between mine, and yet they seared against me, burning me, marking me, blazing a trail of exquisite fire across my need.

I kissed her in return, first tenderly, then ravenously; and she met me with need of her own, taking my head in her hands, pressing herself closer against me, swamping me. It was delicious. I reached up to her, my palm in the middle of her back, and I pulled her closer still, bringing her down, pressing her body against mine. I was hard, and she brushed me as she settled against me, and she gasped, pulling away for only a split second before pressing herself down against me once more.

She lowered her face to mine, ravishing my mouth with hers. I slid my hands up beneath her shirt, dragging my palms over her flesh possessively, and she shuddered, moaning into my mouth, something I felt rather than heard. I slid my fingertips over her skin near the swell of her breasts, deliberately avoiding them, and she moved impatiently, pressing herself into my hands, shifting agonisingly in my lap. Still we kissed, drowning in one another's need. Her hands were on me, sliding over my chest and my arms, gently, inquisitively. They were just palms, just warm flesh, no different to that of the handful of others who had touched me this way; and yet it was like being touched for the first time.

She rocked against my lap, her hips moving with mine, mouth sliding over my flesh. I wanted her naked, but I didn't want to let her go, so we stayed there, bodies moving together, clutching at one another, sighing one another's names. Somehow I got her shirt open, and she gave a long low moan as the air hit her there, and she pressed herself against my chest. Her mouth found my ear, my jaw, and I choked out her name. She had my shirt open and my jeans unzipped, and, God, she was touching me there for the very first time.

I slid a hand under her skirt, ripping her stockings with my fingers. I ran them over the thin satin that cradled her sex, then slid a finger under the elastic, pushing the damp fabric aside. With a cry of need, she pressed herself down into my lap; and then we were two bodies on the edge of becoming one, just a teasing stroke away from it. We were nestled together, cradling one another's faces, cherishing one another, her body opening up for me, ready to draw me in.

At last, she broke away, her face flushed with desire, and I looked at her, my eyes bright; but then my exhilaration faded. Her expression was grave...haunted. I knew what was coming next, even before she stammered, "I-I can't." Damn it, she was shuddering for me, she was slick and ready against me, her pupils were dilated with uncompromising need; but she could sit there, her warmth still pressed against my aching, questing need and say that she couldn't. I understood, but against all my better instincts, I felt real fury. It would take just a single movement to make her mine anyway, and I thought that she would probably allow it if I pressed her; but if I did that, I would lose her. I would be one more person taking from her, and I couldn't do that.

She watched me, watched me wrestle with my own darkness, and she must have seen me come back to the light, because she relaxed against me. "I'm sorry," she said at last, grief etched into her features; and looking down between us, I saw her open shirt and the way my jeans were wet with her and I felt like screaming with frustration.

I knew I should say something comforting and reassuring, but I couldn't. I didn't have that much generosity in me in that moment. I nodded, lifting her off me as gently as I could, fighting for neutrality. I went to the bathroom and stripped off my damp jeans and pants; and I stayed there, bringing myself to a miserable, unsatisfying release, until I had some semblance of self-control once more.

When I was done, I rummaged around the laundry hamper. I'd changed in her room after combat training more than once; there was bound to be something. At last, I found an old pair of track pants. I pulled them on and opened the door quietly, hoping against hope that she would be gone. I really didn't think I could deal with her just then. But she was there, lying on the bed, her eyes closed, rumpled skirt and panties lying discarded on the floor, just her shirt pulled around her, covering her to her thighs. One hand was held hard between closed legs, moving almost imperceptibly; the other she held across her body, sliding it lightly over her shoulder, hugging herself with the tenderness of a lover. She was otherwise almost totally still, her every response taut and restrained, and it occurred to me that she must be so tired of living like that. She was close, I could see it in the lines of her; but still she betrayed nothing. Her moans were almost inaudible, yet their pitch was keening, almost like grief; and then I realised she was weeping.

"Alexi," she sighed miserably, "oh, Alexi."

In that moment, all my anger melted away; because however I grieved for her, she grieved for me, and herself, much more. I finally understood just how deep her fear and her conflict ran, and I think a lot of my hope died in that moment.

She came, my name on her lips, and that should have excited me. Instead, I felt aching sadness. There was something deeply troubling about her fruitless attempts to console herself, to be her own source of comfort. What I felt was beyond pity, beyond compassion, and how I wished she would let me in. She lay there, very still, pulling her shirt around her, her eyes still closed; and I went to her, settling on the bed at her side.

"Hey," I whispered, touching her hand.

"Hey." She didn't open her eyes, but she turned onto her side, facing me. When she finally looked at me, her expression was regretful, yet resolute. I was grateful for that - I couldn't have stood it if she'd offered an apology, like she'd run her trolley into mine at the market. It was as it was, and I wasn't sorry it had happened. I only wished-

"Are you angry?" she asked diffidently.

"No." I stroked her hair back from her face. At her disbelieving look, I admitted, "I was. It's passed." She nodded pensively, and I ran a thumb over her lips. She kissed it, her expression thoughtful.

"It's never been just me before," she said at last, so quietly that I had to strain to hear. "It was my mother, and at school it was Diana, and then there was Michael. I've always had a protector. To be cut adrift like this-" she broke off.

"It's frightening," I supplied.

"Yes, it is," she agreed. "But it's also...compelling."

I nodded slowly. "I don't want to take any of that away from you, Mare." I ran my hand down her arm, slid my fingers between hers. She held them tightly. "I just want to be with you." There it was, naked truth, and it was more than a little frightening; but after all I'd seen, it was not in me to play pointless games with her, scoring points, engaging in strategy. I wanted her, ached for her, and to tell her so cost me nothing. And it could give so much.

She frowned a little, but didn't respond; and nor had I expected that she would. Instead, she turned away, and I waited sadly for her to rise and leave me; but she didn't do that, either. Instead, she pressed her body against mine, moulding herself to me, letting me spoon myself around her. And when I put my arm around her, she slid her hands over my own. "I want that too," she whispered at last.

But I no longer believed that was something she could do.

Part Four

This instalment is Marita's version of the events from just before One Breath to just before Colony.

Dedication: This chapter is for the 263 people who have waited patiently for email while I got this chapter out of my system. My bad.

I woke in his arms.

I was conscious first of substance, of his comforting weight behind me and over me and around me. My shirt had fallen open in the night, and his flesh was warm against mine, and my unreasoning terror the night before seemed so stupid in the light of day.

With excruciating shame, I remembered. I remembered straddling him, and I remembered his hands on my back, pressing my body to his. I remembered sinking down against him, riding the hard ridge in his jeans, searching his mouth with mine. My cheeks went hot with humiliation when I thought of how far we'd gone, how close we'd been, and how the inexplicable fright had risen in my chest at the very last second. I hated myself for doing that to him, and I hated myself because I wanted him inside me. I wanted him inside me more than just about anything.

Still, the dull, heavy ache for him that had settled in my belly weeks before had eased. It wasn't gone, but it was...better. Alex was with me, despite it all, and he had never once offered a word of reproach. That counted for something - it counted for a lot. Michael had been decent, but he would never have given so much in exchange for so little.

I'd said that to Alex once, not so long before, and I remember vividly the look he'd given me, bewilderment intermingling with disbelief. "Exchange?" he'd echoed. "Jesus, Marita, since when is a relationship an exchange?" I hadn't had an answer for that, and I still didn't; but now, feeling his body cradled around mine, I was beginning to understand that there could be another way.

There was a knock at the door.

"Coming," I called, extricating myself from Alex's arms with more than a touch of regret. He mumbled a little, groping the empty space with his hand, then drifted off again. Smiling down at his sleeping form, I shrugged off my crumpled shirt and pulled on a robe, tying it off around my waist.

I stopped at the dresser to look at my watch. "Six-thirty," I murmured, annoyed. "For God's sake." I reached for the door and opened it, saying, "This had better be good."

It was the Dark Man. "I need to talk to you."

I felt sudden apprehension - and, strangely, antagonism. That was new...something I'd never felt for my mentor before. I didn't question where it came from just then, but I would wonder about it later. "If this is about what happened yesterday, it can wait until a civilised hour."

He held my gaze, his expression cool. "Fine, thanks, Marita," he said deadpan. "I had a smooth flight - thank you for asking."

I flushed. "I'm sorry. It's early."

"Can I come in?" His weight was already bearing on the door, not aggressively, but with casual ease. It occurred to me for the first time how strange that was, that he would assume entry into the room of a half-dressed woman at the crack of dawn. Had Michael been invasive like that? I honestly couldn't remember.

I held the door fast. "I'm sorry, you can't. It's not convenient."

He stared at me as though I'd lost my mind. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's not convenient. Can I meet you downstairs in a little while?"

He looked at me, brow furrowed, and then he asked in a very different tone, "Marita, do you have someone with you?"

I felt horribly, horribly self-conscious; but damn if I was going to let him see it. "Yes, I do."

"Alex?" I sighed, and he persisted, "It is, isn't it?"

"I'm not prepared to discuss this with you. I'll see you downstairs."

He was still frowning when I gently closed the door.

"You need a manicure."

I stared at him with an affront that wasn't feigned. I gaped at him for a full ten seconds before demanding in a shocked tone, "I *beg* your pardon?"

"Your fingernails, Marita," he said patiently. "They're too long."

I looked down at them. They *were* too long - almost to the tips of my fingers. Long enough to tear delicate internal membranes. Shit. How could I have missed that? "Look, this isn't real BDSM," I said, striving to keep the welling defense from my voice. "They're amateurs - dirty old men who want to think they're walking on the wild side. If I ever tried fisting Matheson, he'd probably have a stroke." That thought was mildly amusing, and I suppressed a grin. I had a feeling the Dark Man wouldn't approve of the levity. I was conscious of the weight of his reproof already.

"Matheson? Please," he grimaced, "I'm eating." He pushed aside his plate. He counselled, "Play the part properly, Marita, or don't play it at all."

Of the two options, I preferred the latter, but I didn't say so; instead, I remained silent, sipping my tea. After a long pause, I said, "How was Tunisia?"

He peered at me over his coffee. Steam gathered together and drifted off as he breathed. "Less eventful than here, clearly."

My tone was conciliatory. "Look, if this is about Cardinale, he knows it was a stupid thing to do. It won't happen again. Can we leave it at that?"

The Dark Man stared at me, brow creased with disbelief. "Listen to yourself! 'Can we leave it at that', like he got into a fight in the schoolyard. He punched out his partner because of you! You think Spender's not going to hear about that?"

I set down my tea with an exasperated clatter. "So he comes across as a besotted sub. So what? Fordham would have done exactly the same thing." I didn't think that was really true, but it was plausible. More or less.

"Fordham," he said heavily, "has two wives and five mistresses. He has other loyalties. Krycek, however, has just two: Spender and you. And yesterday he showed everyone exactly which one comes first."

That made me pause. I looked away for a long moment. "Yes," I admitted, more to myself than to him. "He did."

The Dark Man set down his mug. Leaning forward on his elbows, he hissed, "You think this is romantic, Marita? Let's see how romantic it all looks when we're scraping his body off the road. Cardinale is a terrorist, for God's sake! How much do you think he'd like to get his hands on Alex right now? You, too, for humiliating him, for that matter. He'd probably rape you afterwards just for the fun of it." I gasped, sitting back as though I'd been slapped. His expression softened. "Look, I'll handle it, Marita. I've already done some damage control with Spender. But don't underestimate the significance of this."

I shook my head, still perturbed. "I - I don't. I won't."

He nodded, clearly unhappy, but resigned. "All right. I'll talk to Krycek later today."

"No, you won't. I'll talk to him." He started to protest, but I held up a hand, forestalling him. "I understand that there are implications for our work, but fundamentally it's a private matter, and it's going to stay that way." The fact that we were discussing it at all struck me as grossly invasive.

The Dark Man watched me, frowning. His unblinking scrutiny made me uncomfortable. "How deep does this go, Marita?" he demanded. "I mean, are you in love with him?"

I flushed with anger. "That's - that's a very personal question." One I wasn't equipped to answer, even if I'd been willing to do so.

"It isn't just prurient curiosity on my part. This changes things."

My anger flared. "I don't care. There are some things that you have no right to ask me. Under any circumstances." I could feel the tightness in my chest - the same tightness I'd felt the night before. The same intrusion. The Dark Man looked concerned, and I willed myself to get control. I said more calmly, "Look, there are few things in my life which are just mine - just for me and no-one else. This is one of them."

"You know, if I'd known this was going to happen, I would never have partnered him with you." His voice was tight with frustration.

"Of all the arrogant-" I stopped short. "Do you honestly think you did this? You're not pulling all the strings here, you know."

He sat back, crossing his arms across his chest. "No, you've made that abundantly clear."

There was an undertone of defeat in his voice, and that shamed me in a way that his anger had not. I gave him the only reassurance I could. "Look, you don't have to worry about me. He is a decent man."

"Yes, I think he is." He sighed heavily. "I don't disapprove of the match, Marita - I disapprove of your behaviour."

"It's not for you to disapprove of any of it." I leaned forward, holding his gaze. "Hear this: Alex is off-limits to you. You get a say in everything else, but not that. I don't belong to you."

"But you belong to him." It wasn't a question.

I sat back, a sound of frustration escaping me in a rush. "You don't get it, do you? Sixteen years, since I was just a little girl, and you still don't get it. I belong to myself. If I ever belong to him - if I even can - it will be my choice. Mine! Not because that's just the way it is."

That affected him. His shoulders slumped a little; he bowed his head for a long moment before meeting my gaze once more. "Marita, I know you've had to fight to get free of some people to get to where you are now. If I've been one of those people, I am truly sorry." I watched him, stunned into silence. I didn't think he'd ever apologised before. To anyone. He went on in a different, milder voice, "Look, do you remember when Michael got that cat?"

"She was a stray. How is she?"

"She's fine. My upholstery is demanding concessions." I laughed a little, and that broke the mood. He went on, "Michael was one of those people who collected strays - wounded things he could protect and take care of. The courtesans. Lost people like Samantha. And you." I nodded in recognition. "I've only ever wanted to guide you away from that."

"I know that," I said quietly. The antagonism I'd felt was gone; I felt the same fondness now that I'd felt for him since childhood. "But maybe that's something I need to work out for myself."

"With his help."

"No. With him at my side. There's a difference."

He frowned. "Look, you obviously need something I can't give you. I know this therapist-"

"I don't need a fucking therapist! I need to be allowed to grow up! I need to be allowed to make mistakes!"

"You don't have the luxury of mistakes!" He waved a hand at a passing waitress. "If she makes a mistake, she winds up in rehab or on welfare. If you make a mistake, you wind up like Samantha Mulder."

"That's your loss talking," I hissed, and instantly regretted it.

"That may be, but it's also true."

There was nothing I could say to that, so we sat there in silence, drinking. I had a fleeting memory of Alex in bed where I'd left him, and wished I were still there. I wished all of this would go away, if only for a day. Was I seeing it through Alex's eyes - the eyes of someone who came in from outside? Or through my own, merely stripped bare of the conventional veneer perpetuated by the people around me? Either way, I hated it. I hated it all.

At last, the Dark Man spoke. He said conversationally, "What you said before - about me butting out."

"I didn't put it quite like that."

"But it's what you meant." I shrugged by way of concession. "You couldn't have said that to me three months ago, Marita."

I recognised the truth of this. "No, I couldn't have."

"You know, if he makes you happy, Marita, I'm glad about that. Really." I gave him a small smile, and he went on:

"But I don't ever want to hear or see it in public again."

When I got to the gym, Alex was already there.

I watched him warming up in Karen's deserted studio, and I leaned against the mirror, smiling. Watching him, I couldn't help it. He was so damn beautiful. I've never paid much attention to people's bodies, but every part of his had a memory for me. I could almost feel his shoulders beneath my hands; I could almost taste his neck beneath my lips. Is this why teenagers, and grown women, too, get giddy and silly when they're in love? I'd never understood it before, but I thought I did now. Watching him, loving him, I felt rather giddy myself.

I went over and dropped to my knees at his side. I rifled my fingers through his hair. "Hey."

He turned and kissed me, just once, slow and tender. "Hey," he said. "I got your note. The Dark Man's back."

"Yeah."

He went back to his stretches, and I did the same, settling on the rubber mat, legs out before me. "He was gone a lot longer than we expected - nearly two months. Did he say why?"

"Eventually," I said sourly. "He chewed me out first."

He winced. "About Cardinale?"

"Yeah." Briefly, I told him what had occurred.

"I'm sorry, Mare. You shouldn't have to wear the heat for that. If anything, you salvaged the situation. 'If I catch you on my turf again, I'll rip your fucking throat out' - that was brilliant."

"It was kind of fun," I admitted with a grin. "Don't worry about it." He nodded, accepting this, and we warmed up in silence for a while. After a few minutes had passed, I said, "You know, the Dark Man suggested I see a therapist." My voice was more hesitant than I'd intended. In truth, I wondered what he thought of the idea.

He turned to look at me, askance. "Jesus, Marita. Is there anyone in your life who *isn't* trying to fix you?"

I thought about the night before. "Maybe I need fixing, Alex."

He shook his head. "That's bullshit, Mare. It's just growing pains."

"Don't patronise me."

"I'm not," he said, and he sounded genuinely surprised that I would think so. "I really believe that. If your development has been a little more protracted, a little more acute than most...well, that's not so surprising." He met my gaze. "There's nothing wrong with you, Marita. You're just still finding your way."

I looked at him, nonplussed. "Does anything faze you?"

"I could ask the same of you." He pulled his sweater over his head and tossed it over to his bag.

"What do you mean?"

He looked down at his ankles, devoting more focus to his stretches than was really necessary. "Mare, I know we have some really nice times - really special times-"

"Yeah, we do."

"But when I get a call and I say I have to go to work, I go out and I hurt people. Are you gonna tell me you never think about that?"

"No, I don't," I said truthfully.

"Maybe you should." He was still staring at his feet, stretches forgotten.

I sighed. "Alex, there are people who are killers - people who are dark right down inside themselves. People who kill just because they like it. People like Luis Cardinale. And then there's people like you and Edward and Max - people who do what they have to do, and sometimes that takes them to dark places." It occurred to me that I didn't know where the Dark Man fell in that equation.

"That doesn't make it okay."

"No, it doesn't. But it doesn't change who you are."

He laughed. It was a scornful, sardonic sound. I'd never heard him like that before. "I don't know who I am. I'm so far removed from the person I thought I was going to be-"

I cut him off. "I know you, Alex," I said, moving closer to him. I put my arm around his shoulders, and he touched his hand morosely to mine. "I know who you are. Maybe you're not the person you planned, but there's a lot of good in the person you are. And I don't think I'd be half the person I am now if your path hadn't crossed with mine." I looked away. "Maybe it's selfish, but even though I know it's cost you, I can't find it in myself to regret that."

He brought his hand to my chin and turned me to face him once more. "I don't regret you, Mare. Everything else, maybe, but not that."

I leaned forward, touching my lips to his. He cradled my jaw with his palm, holding me closer. "Alexi," I sighed. Reluctantly, I broke away. "Do you know, I used to dream about you? Before we met?"

"Yeah?" He broke into a smile.

I smiled too. "Yeah."

"Why?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I was just - drawn. Maybe because you were different - because you knew my world, but you were from outside it. Because you weren't like them. Maybe I was calling out for someone - the right someone - and you answered." I flushed. "That probably sounds very girly and silly."

He shook his head. "No, it doesn't." He shrugged. "I'm not particularly sentimental, Mare, but I believe in the things you're talking about. I saw them in my family, growing up. My parents had a good marriage. I might not talk about that sort of connection much, but I accept that it's there."

"Do we have what your parents had?"

He smoothed back my hair, smiling a little. "It's infinitely more complicated, but yeah...yeah, we do."

I thought about it. "I wish I'd had that. I think if my mother had ever remarried, if I'd seen her with someone, I might be more...equipped now."

He shook his head. "No offense, Mare, but from what you've told me, I don't think she'd have modelled relationships any better than she modelled anything else."

"Maybe," I shrugged, but I thought he was probably right.

He let it go. "So tell me about Tunisia."

"There's not much to tell - not really," I said. I pulled away a little and went on with my warmup. "No-one recognises the - what is it, radio signature? The thing that identifies the craft?"

"Do I look like an interplanetary air control expert to you?"

"Be serious." He shot me a broad grin, and I went on, "Whatever it is, no-one recognises it. It's not one of ours and it's not from the Colonists. That means there's a rogue EBE out there somewhere."

"Same species?"

"Presumably. It seems to be your standard UFO. The Dark Man couldn't find out much more than that, but he doesn't think anyone's holding out on him. People seem genuinely mystified. Edward's working around the clock."

He frowned. "Maybe they should be looking closer to home."

I stared at him. "Our faction? Do you really think so?"

"I don't know. Just thinking out loud. Makes more sense than an EBE on a joyride, though."

We heard footsteps. "There's Karen. We'll finish this later. Work out of Samantha's suite with me today?"

He got to his feet, held out a hand, and pulled me up.

"It's a date."

"What's all this?"

Alex's hands drifted across my shoulders, and I sank back with a sigh, smiling up at him. "Mmm...that's nice." He smiled too. "It's a prototype for a new operating system that's coming out next year. Windows 95. If it goes into widespread usage - and I think it will - it will make my job a lot easier. There are security holes you could drive a truck through."

He looked impressed. "Excellent."

"That's not what I wanted to talk to you about, though. I wanted to show you something else." I closed out the program and went into DOS. "Watch this."

He pulled up a chair and sat at my side. My fingers danced across the keyboard. "Initialising telnet," he read aloud. "What the hell is this?"

I suppressed a grin. "Just watch."

A smile spread over his features, and he gave a low whistle. He looked at me with admiration. "Tell me you didn't hack into the FBI POP server."

"All right. I didn't hack into the FBI POP server." He laughed. More seriously, I went on, "I've got a log file attached to Mulder's email."

"So we can read everything that goes through his account?"

"That's right. I have one on his home computer, as well."

"Any particular reason?"

"No, it just pays to keep an eye on these things."

He nodded, rising. "Well done. Want a coffee?"

"Hate the stuff. I'll have some tea, though." I kept paging down through the log.

"Okay," he said, walking through to the kitchenette. "Tell me, why did Samantha rate a kitchen when Michael didn't?"

"Oh, my suite is just a standard voting-circle one - room, mini-bar, ensuite. Michael never lived here, so I guess he didn't see any point in modifying it. Samantha lived here on and off all her life."

"Fair enough," he said. Industrious clattering sounds drifted in the background as he located spoons and cups. "Milk?"

"Yes please." I sat back from the laptop, my hand to my mouth. "Oh, my."

"What is it?"

"Just one of Mulder's reports to Skinner," I said, clucking with sympathy. "That poor man."

"Mulder?"

I shook my head. "Skinner. I wouldn't supervise Mulder for double the pay. Talk about a one-way career track to hell."

"Tell me about it." I heard a cupboard bang. "There's no tea, Mare."

"Damn. I thought I bought some. Don't worry about it, then."

He came out of the kitchenette and grabbed his keys off the table. "I'll go downstairs and get some if you like."

I turned to look at him. "Oh, would you?" I said, a smile spreading over my face. "Wait - you know, I saw this tin in the cupboard above the sink the other day - that could be tea."

He did an about-face, walking back to the basin. "Won't it be, uh, stale?"

I shrugged, though in honesty I hadn't the slightest idea. "If it survived the trip from India, I'm sure it can survive a couple of years in Samantha's kitchen." I reset the log on Mulder's email and closed the connection.

"Mare?"

I logged back into the Windows beta. "Mmm-hmm?"

"Mare, this isn't tea."

I looked up, and what I saw made me stare stupidly with incomprehension.

Alex was holding a long, silver cylindrical object. He looked it over, and then a long, thin spike came out the top with a whispering sound. He drew back with a whistle.

I got to my feet and went to him. "It looks like some kind of weapon. What's it made of?"

"I don't know," he said with a frown. "Titanium, maybe. There are more in here - half a dozen of them." The spike retracted, and he handed it to me. "There's a button there you can press. Be careful."

I turned it over in my hands. "I wonder what it's for? There must be something specific - otherwise you'd just use a gun or something."

"I don't know about that - it's pretty efficient. I'd use it." For just a moment I imagined him using it, then shook my head to clear it. I didn't want to see him that way. He'd proven himself better than that - at least to me.

"Maybe there's something about them in the diaries," I hazarded. "Come and we'll look."

"Good idea." He came with me back to the table, bringing the tin with him. He closed it and put it down next to the journals, hesitated, then opened it once more. He withdrew two of the weapons, handing one to me. "You know, if Samantha thought she should have them, maybe we should have them too."

I took it. "You're worried, aren't you?"

He looked uncomfortable, but finally, he nodded. "Look, this combat training business is weird. It isn't SOP, no matter what Diana says. She's preparing us for something. If she's worried, that makes me worried."

His eyes were dark. I held them with my own. "Me, too." I put the weapon in my pocket without further comment.

He picked up two of the journals and held them up. "Pink or blue?"

"I'm feeling pink today." He handed me the pink notebook and kept the blue one for himself. Taking his hand in mine, I led him to the lounge and we settled there together to read.

We were still there an hour later when he spoke. "Here's something."

"About the weapon?" I wondered, shifting in his arms to look at him.

"No - about the hybrids. Listen to this." He cleared his throat.

"'We've done it.

"'We made our first surviving hybrid clone today. I can't explain how wonderful I felt, looking at her. It made no sense, to feel so protective of something that came out of a tank rather than myself, but looking at her, I thought I would die for her if I had to. Is this how parents feel when they hold their children for the first time?'" Alex looked up from the diary. "Okay, I'm lost. Are these the hybrid experiments she was making for Strughold?"

I shook my head. "I don't think so. She wouldn't have been so happy about it if it were for Strughold. I think this is where she was cloning herself with - yes, there it is. Look further down."

He complied. "'Elena says Carolyn - that's what she named her - will need some pretty significant orientation if she's to pass as human, and an adult. I blush to confess that I hadn't even considered that, but of course, she has the mentality of a child. Once we have a few done, however, they can take over the education of their own kind.'"

"They were making an army," I said. "An army of Samanthas."

"Looks like it," he said, frowning. "Why didn't Strughold suspect anything? I mean, it's not the sort of thing you can do in secret very easily."

"I saw something about that when I was flipping through the other night. Can I have a look?" He complied, handing the book over and taking mine. "Here it is. 'Elena and I staged a huge fight today. We got to screaming at each other about embryonic nuclei.'" Alex looked at me quizzically, and I shrugged. "Don't look at me; it's over my head." I read on, "'We each went separately to Strughold to discredit the other. They tried to send us to mediation, but we wouldn't go. Damn funny. We tried to make love in my lab after everyone was gone, but we were laughing too much. Settled for a kiss and a squeeze.'" The image made me smile. They reminded me of Alex and I. "'Strughold and his people are scrambling through nine hundred pages of conflicting reports - none of which even mention the possibility of manipulating the thymine nucleotide base.'"

"Misdirection," Alex said thoughtfully. "They were playing cat-and-mouse, making him think they were at scientific loggerheads, and pointing him in the wrong direction entirely."

I leaned up to kiss him. "A bit like us, really."

He smiled against my lips. "Yeah." He nodded to the journal. "So who knows what right now?"

"Well, Strughold and Spender both know about Elena and Samantha, but not that they're working together. They think they're on their side. Michael knows what they're really up to. The Dark Man knows about Samantha but not Elena. My mother and Max know about Elena, but they might not know about Samantha."

Alex groaned. "My head hurts."

"We've still got to draft a report for the Dark Man yet."

"Don't remind me." He sighed. "What about the others? Say Bill Mulder?"

I shrugged. "Not sure. He's pretty much out of things by now - retirement on ill health - but he might know about Samantha. Teena would know, too, I suppose."

"Now, just situate me again. Are the Gregors in the equation yet?" He nudged me forward, gently, and got up. He went to the bar. "We need to make a timeline. I'm getting lost here."

"No, I don't think so. Hold on." I flipped through pages. "No, that's later. Thanks," I added, taking the drink he offered. He settled down behind me and drew me back against him once more. "Look."

"'Elena returned from the States today. About time, too - I missed her. The clones are in place, working with foetal tissue in abortion clinics as planned. What we didn't anticipate was new information, and a new alliance. For the first time in a long time, I think there may be hope.'" I looked up at him. "It's weird, reading that, knowing she was depressed. Knowing that all these ups and downs were a prelude to her death."

"It's sad," he agreed. "Poor Samantha. Poor Elena, too, for that matter." His hold on me tightened.

I felt grief, fast and fleeting, and I bowed my head. "Yeah." He stroked my cheek, and I kissed his palm, leaning into it with a sigh. I read on: "'There's a rebel faction on the other planet, opposed to hybridisation. They're purists - they oppose the dilution of their race.'" Suddenly, I stared up at him in dawning recognition. "Oh, my God."

His eyes glittered with understanding. "The UFO - the one Strughold's worrying about. It's a rebel craft."

I drained my drink. "My God."

He took my glass and set it down on the floor beside his. "This is-" he faltered, at a loss.

"I know," I breathed. "It's almost too big to-" and then I had to stop, too. I looked back to the journal. "'We know this from a group of clones known collectively as the Gregors - the ones on whom the work on our own clones was based. Some kind of deal has been made allowing the Gregors' execution. The Gregors are aware of our resistance sympathies (a fact which nearly gave Elena a heart attack), but are prepared to trade information for protection. Elena has placed them in the clinics with our own clones, and I have a decade's worth of new data. Better yet -'" the words were underlined "'- the news of the existence of a rebel faction gives me hope that the hybrid project can be stopped.'"

Alex made a sound of admiration. "They were players - both of them. Much bigger fish than either of us. It's pretty damn impressive."

"That's my sister," I said with a flush of pride. Sudden, wistful affection came over me in waves, and I looked up at him, facing him head-on. "Alex, do you really think we'll ever find her?"

He leaned in and kissed me. "I'm certain of it."

Resting there in his arms, I could almost believe that were true.

He held me every night after that.

It wasn't something we really discussed. That night after dinner, when he was about to leave me, I took his hand in mine, led him away from the door to the bed, and turned down the covers. He watched me, perplexed. I didn't look at him - I didn't dare - but I stripped off my skirt and pantyhose, slipped into bed, and lay down on the far side with my back to him. I stayed there, rigid, my shoulder blades poking stiffly against the soft cotton of my blouse. I waited, hoping to God that he wouldn't refuse me. It was hard enough to ask, and I couldn't have done it if I'd believed - really believed in my heart of hearts - that he would say no.

There was a long pause, and then I heard him unzip his jeans and shrug them off onto the floor. The mattress dipped as he slid into bed behind me and pulled the covers up over us. He put his arm around me, and I leaned back in to him, pressing him closer, twining my fingers with his. He kissed my hair.

"You want me to stay with you like this?"

I nodded. I couldn't speak.

"Tonight?"

I swallowed hard; said in a low voice, "Every night."

"Okay." He kissed my shoulder. "Goodnight, Mare."

"Goodnight, Alex."

It was settled as simply as that. Some nights he just held me, others he touched me; but he stayed away from my most intimate places. Sometimes I felt like taking his hand and putting him where I wanted him, but I didn't. He knew I wasn't ready - perhaps better than I knew myself.

I made some unsettling discoveries about myself in this time. I found that I liked to be covered...cornered. I liked it when he kissed me, hard against the wall. I liked it when he held me from behind in the bed we shared, and when we moved, his warmth spread over me, until his body almost covered mine. I liked it when he stretched me out at the gym, holding me down, and I fought him because that's what we were there to do, but my nipples were hard and my thighs were loose and, God, I wanted him. There was something I craved which was almost like domination, and that scared the hell out of me.

"It's sick," I said to him abruptly one day.

Alex looked up at me from his seat at the dresser. "Why do you say that?"

"It's like those women who grow up in abusive homes then seek out abusive men." That was a truly horrible analogy, and I didn't realise it until a second too late.

His expression darkened. "I hope you're not saying that I-"

"No, of course not," I said hastily, setting down Samantha's journal on the bedside table. "But I mean, I've spent so long trying to get free of being controlled, and now-" it was hard to say it, but I struggled on, "now I'm excited by it. It's sick."

His brow furrowed. Expression thoughtful, he closed the laptop, rose, and came over to the bed. I shifted over a little to give him room, eyelids flickering as I watched his course. He settled down at my side. "I think you're mixing up control with trust."

I turned onto my side to face him, leaning up on my elbow. "What do you mean?"

"There's nothing wrong with giving yourself over - with allowing yourself to belong to someone, Mare," he said earnestly. "It's why we were given our freedom in the first place - to give it to another."

I stared at him in bewilderment. That whole last statement - it could have been said in another language for all the sense it made. I asked at last, "But isn't that abdicating yourself?"

He shrugged. "It is if you do it once and let them do whatever they want with it. But if it's a choice you make and re-make every day - that's commitment, Mare. It's a good thing."

"So you're saying that I want to belong to you, but in a good way?" I looked at him dubiously.

"More or less. But Mare, it goes both ways."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I belong to you, too, you know."

I stared at him in amazement. "How can you say that so casually - like you're asking me to pass you the salt shaker?" He laughed a little. "No, seriously, Alex, doesn't that - isn't that hard for you?"

"No," he said. "No, Mare, it isn't. In my family, commitment was - it was just how you lived, you know? If you really care, I mean. If the person matters."

I thought about it. Alex thrived on commitment. His whole life was steeped in it. Little wonder he was so good at it - God knew, he'd had a lot of practice. Was that the difference between him and me? That people had always been so busy taking my freedom that I'd never had a chance to use it to give?

I was hopelessly ill-equipped to form a decent answer to any of this, so I leaned up and kissed him instead.

He kissed me in return, cupping my shoulder, drawing me closer, and I felt my mouth open beneath his. He leaned in to me, and I pulled back, pulling him down over me. "Alexi," I whispered, cradling his neck in my hands.

He touched my face, lightly, letting his fingertips travel along my jaw. His breath was hot, skittering along my flesh in currents as he sighed my name. He made a path through my hair with his fingers, tracing delicate circles over my scalp. For a long moment his eyes were closed, his forehead resting against mine as he hummed needy sounds into my mouth. He was smiling, and God, I loved it when he smiled for me.

His palm grazed down over the slope of my neck, tracing the lines of my body to my breast. He squeezed me there, just a little, just enough to send bright trails of need racing along my nerves. "You know, I saw how you were at training," he whispered, cradling me there, making my flesh swell and my veins pulse strong and hard. "I had you pinned down at your wrists, and you fought me so damn hard, but your eyes were so bright-"

"I wanted you," I breathed. "I always want you."

He slid his palms up over mine, linking his fingers with mine, and leaned across to kiss the back of one of my hands. He braced them on the bed at either side of my head, firm but not harsh, his gaze holding mine, searching me for a response. I drew in my breath in a rush, arching my body beneath his, and he must have taken that for agreement, because his restraint died, and he kissed me hard. It was sudden and shocking, and I thrust back my head into the pillows, and my jaw fell open to take him completely. I fed on him, moaning as he plundered my mouth. He was more insistent than I'd ever seen him before, but I was undaunted, because his hands were firm enough to hold me but light enough for me to pull away. It was still my game, but he was in control - and that thought alone was enough to make me feverish with need.

"Do you like this?" he asked. His voice was hypnotic - low and harsh and heavy with desire.

"Yes," I whispered. "Yes."

He slid his mouth beneath my jaw, sucking me in that soft, pulsing hollow of flesh on my neck, and I couldn't touch him, but I pressed myself up against him, letting my legs fall open, letting him settle in between them, my skirt hiked up around my waist. I could feel his warmth radiating through his shirt and mine. He lowered his mouth to my collarbone, then lower still, nuzzling the swell of flesh there through the fabric, still bracing my hands at my side. He teased me, coaxing my breast with the wet heat of his tongue until I was deep in his mouth, arching my back, driving up into him.

"This, Mare," he said, lifting his head, eyes dark and demanding. "Do you like this?"

"Yes," I gasped, straining back up towards him, my hands clinging to his. "Yes."

"And this," he said, sliding back up my body to face me. He pressed himself hard between my legs, his jeans chafing over the wet silk of my panties. I made a long, low sound of need, opening wider beneath him. He seemed to lose the thought then, distracted, sinking his head to my shoulder with a sigh. With a hitching sound, he looked up at me; kissed me, just once, fleeting and chaste. "Do you like this?"

"Yes," I whispered. "Oh, yes."

He began to move, teasing me, pressing his hardness into the soft flesh between my thighs and sliding over me. He made a space there, parting me, stroking me where I wanted it the most, silk and denim taking our friction and making it warm. I felt the sudden release, the slick dampness spreading over me as he moved me back and forth, hips in rhythm, mouths meeting in breaths and sighs. I gripped his hands with mine as he rode me, stretching my body to meet his. "-like this?" he managed, barely coherent between deep, hungry kisses.

"Mm-hmm," I sighed, high and keening. "Alexi."

"Which is it, Mare?" he demanded, his forehead pressed to mine, breath hot on my cheeks. The feel of him hard against me was incredible; hot and exquisite.

I arched up to him, gasping with need, barely registering his words. "What? Which is what?"

"Giving up?" he said, his hands kneading mine. "Or giving over?"

"I don't kn- oh, God, Alex!" I blurted, my body opening for him. I wound my legs around his body, pressing him down into me. I'd have taken him through the fabric if I could.

"Is it -" he faltered, leaning his head against my shoulder, nipping at my neck with his teeth "- is it giving in? Giving in to me?"

I shook my head desperately. "No," I gasped, so high it was just a whimper. "I want - I want this."

"Do you choose it?" he murmured against my neck, thrusting hard against me.

"Yes," I choked out, thrusting back, the first waves of my orgasm building. "Yes."

"Mare, oh, God, Mare."

He rocked with me, pressed deep into my flesh, body rigid and taut as I shook and cried out his name. He released my hands, and I leaned up to kiss him, long and deep and wet. "Oh! Alex," I gasped out, cradling his neck, taking him hungrily. It was the first time he'd made me come.

We lay there, sighing out one another's names, his weight comforting over mine as the shuddering ripples in my body ebbed away. He took one of my hands in his and brought it to his lips. My palms were red where we'd braced onto each other. He took the pads of flesh into his mouth and sucked them, so tenderly, so reverently. It made me want him all over again. "It isn't wanting to be controlled, Mare," he said, voice ragged and worn. "It's just wanting to be warm."

I cradled his head there against my shoulder, kissing his temple. I lingered there; whispered, "You make me warm."

He lifted his head, his eyes searching mine. "Mare," he said, his voice husky, "so beautiful, Mare." He ran tender fingertips over my face, and I leaned up to him, eyes closed. I felt adored.

We stayed there for a long time, just holding each other, but finally, he said, "That was okay - wasn't it?"

I teased my fingers through his hair. "It was more than okay." I felt heat through my veins; I felt welling hope. Maybe I was ready to-

"It was the clothes," he murmured against my neck.

"What?"

"It was the clothes. It felt safe because of the clothes. Because we could only go so far, and no further."

"Maybe," I conceded, but I felt my hope dim. He was right. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I fought them down. "I want you inside me, Alex," I said before I could stop myself. "I want to feel - full - and warm - with you-" and I couldn't say any more than that - I didn't have either the capacity or the vocabulary, and I was mortified by the exposure of saying it at all.

He lifted his head, and I was struck by the compassion in his features. "I want that too, Mare. It'll happen. I believe that."

"But - every time we try, I feel tight in my chest - it's like I can't breathe-" I broke off, and the tears did flow then - just a little.

He slid off of me, onto his side, and gathered me up against him. He held me for long moments, murmuring sounds of comfort into my hair, cradling me. At last, he said, "You can't force it, Mare. Your mind and your heart are working all this out, every day. We just have to wait."

I pulled back to look at him. "I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of being this fragile doll that everyone has to accommodate. I want to be strong." I hated the petulant way that sounded.

He stared at me, surprised. "You are strong, Mare."

"No, I'm *not*! Look at my life!"

He slid his hands into my hair, cradling me there, making me face him head-on. "You are. Being wounded is not the same as being weak, Marita."

"Then what about us?" I demanded, and the tears were rising again. "You give everything - I give nothing."

"You give more than you know," he said, and he sounded upset. He dipped his head to mine and kissed me, soft and slow. He whispered against my lips, "Do you know what it does to me to watch you fighting for us? To know that it's the hardest thing in the world for you, and yet you do it anyway? No-one's ever fought for me the way you do." He smoothed back my hair, tucking it behind my ear. From anyone else, the paternalism of the gesture would have bothered me, but he did it with such reverence that I basked in it instead. "That night that you asked me to hold you, you were so stiff and scared - but you did it. You did it anyway."

I couldn't speak; but I drew him close, and we held each other.

I thanked God that for him, for now, that was enough.

"Good morning, ladies."

Diana looked up. "Morning, Alex. Join us?"

"Thank you, Diana," he said, slipping into the seat next to me. He took my hand in his for a long moment. He wouldn't normally have done that, but the restaurant was empty. This early, it was officially closed, with only a skeleton staff to attend to the needs of the top-tier members. Diana, of course, was privy to our relationship; it had been the subject of several girl-talks by now. I squeezed his hand before letting go.

"You're up and about early," I said. When I'd left him he'd still been asleep.

"Thought I'd skate before training. Helps me warm up."

"So that's the secret of your success," Diana laughed.

Alex gave a wry laugh. "No, the secret of my success is that I don't want Karen to shout at me. When God made Karen, he forgot the volume control."

Diana sipped her coffee. "Well, you're going to be seeing more of her. There are other courses I want you to take - both of you. Espionage 101 - lock-picking, safe-cracking, forgery, customs evasion, that sort of thing. Guess who's going to be your coach?"

I raised an eyebrow. "She's a regular jill-of-all-trades."

"She'd want to be. She was a black-ops girl for Castro. She makes Cardinale look like an amateur."

Alex frowned. "What's she doing here, then?"

"Castro owes me a couple of favours," she said, grinning broadly. I wasn't sure whether she was joking or not - with Diana, it could have gone either way. "I called one in."

"For us?" I demanded, setting down my cup with a clatter.

She shrugged. "I want you to learn from the best."

Alex and I exchanged glances. "Is there something you're not telling us, Diana?" he demanded, leaning towards her over the table.

It was standard interrogation-by-intimidation, and she didn't fall for it. "Look, you're both pretty young and pretty new and you're in pretty deep. I just thought a crash-course might be in order - one from someone who knows what they're doing. Karen's the best there is."

I was about to comment when I spotted the Dark Man in the doorway. Diana saw him at the same moment, and she held out a beckoning hand. "Darling! Come join us."

I whispered, "This discussion isn't over." She sat back with a smug little smile as the Dark Man came and sat down.

"Morning, ladies; morning Krycek," he said. "I can't stay. I have to drive down to DC. Mulder's running around like a kamikaze. I've got to do some damage control."

Diana snorted. "Fox is being reckless? Gee, that's unusual."

"His behaviour is extreme, even for him. Dana Scully's critical - I don't think he even knows what he's doing half the time." I glanced at Alex, and I could see the way his cheek flickered. I groped for his hand under the table and found it. He closed his fingers around mine and held on tight.

"What's her prognosis?" he asked, voice unnaturally controlled.

"She's not going to make it," Diana supplied. "They're switching off life support today." She made a sound of annoyance. "Whoever handled her tests ought to be shot. She's engorged, for God's sake. If her doctors notice that, it's only a short step to realising her fertility was tampered with. What kind of an idiot returns an abductee before her milk's dried up?"

"It's been a shambles from start to finish," the Dark Man agreed. "She didn't need to die. Goddamn incompetent scientists."

Abruptly, Alex rose, withdrawing his hand from mine. "I have to go," he said, voice neutral. "Excuse me." He turned and stalked off.

I stared at the other two in utter disbelief. I turned on them, hissing, "Damn you both!"

They looked at each other, uncomprehending. Diana said in bewilderment, "What did we do?"

"Alex was part of Scully's abduction," I said, the anger rising in my throat. "He didn't need to hear any of that."

Diana looked contrite, but the Dark Man argued, "Marita, Krycek knew what was going to happen to her. If he can't handle it, he shouldn't be in the game."

"Yes, he did. And he can. But you didn't have to rub it in his face." I got to my feet, my cheeks flaming. "It was cruel - and I've never known either of you to be cruel."

Diana sighed. "Marita, where are you going?"

"To find him." I turned away and hurried off, heels clattering on the floor.

I was conscious of their scrutiny, but I realised that I no longer cared.

I found him where I thought I would find him - on the ice.

The cool air washed over me as I opened the door to the deserted rink. It was used by few since Samantha's death - mostly children of the staff, rather than members - and not even the manager was in yet. I let myself into the office and grabbed a jacket. I pulled it around me, shivering a little, then went out to the main arena.

He was skating around in laps, taking short sharp strokes. He went faster and faster, bent low, his figure cutting through the mist like a knife. I stood at the boards, watching him, hoping he'd see me and come over. He didn't, but about the fifth lap, he raised his head a little, and the grief I saw etched into his expression made me gasp. And there were tears, too, streaming down the sides of his face from reddened eyes. I'd never seen him shed tears before.

I glanced back to the office - I couldn't see any snow boots, and I didn't know where they were kept. Skates would take too long. I couldn't leave him like that. So I went out there, stepping on the ice unsteadily on my heels, the cold rising through my feet in a rush. I stopped in his path. He looked up and saw me. I waited.

He skidded to a stop in front of me. "Damn it, Marita, I could have knocked you down," he yelled, but I put my arms around him before he could finish, and then he was shaking, burying his head against my shoulder, clutching at my hair with his hands, twisting it between his fingers.

"Alex," I whispered. "Oh, Alex, it's okay."

He clung to me, even tighter, arms sliding desperately over my back. "I hate what I've become."

"I don't," I murmured into his cheek. I couldn't feel my legs anymore. I didn't care.

"Why? Why don't you hate me?" he demanded, pulling back to look at me, nose to nose.

He looked so wretchedly bewildered, like a child. I tasted salt in my mouth, not tears yet but the beginnings of them, and there was a driving ache deep in my belly. It hurt me to see him that way. "I only know what you are to me, Alexi," I said, cradling his neck with my hands. "If I have to take the bad with the good, if I have to take the things you do and live with them, then that's what I'll do."

His features contorted with pain. "It doesn't work like that, Mare! None of us can just stand by when someone does the things I do! If you assent to them, then they're your sins too. I can't ask you to do that! I can't ask you to take that on!"

I stared at him with dawning understanding - not only of him, but of my life. He was right. I'd grown up with killers - Michael, Edward, the Dark Man. I'd never questioned any of it. I'd been their silent accomplice. Was I willing to keep doing that? Was I? If I wasn't, then I would have to walk away from him, and that was something I could never, ever do.

"You're not asking," I said at last. "I'm offering. We're in this together." He opened his mouth to protest, and I put my hand to his lips. "Your sins are my sins."

At almost any other time, I think he would have argued; but he only closed his eyes, pain and relief intermingled in his expression. He tried to speak, faltered, then leaned in and kissed me hungrily. He clutched at me, drawing me in with desperate need. He tasted of salt, his own warm tears on his lips, and I drank them in, taking them and making them mine. He pulled back, just a fraction, his face still grazing against mine, and he sighed, "I don't deserve you, Mare."

"And I don't deserve you," I said, and neither of us could argue with that anymore, because we were both killers, we were both takers, and the cold flooding through my veins seemed to prove it. "I guess we got lucky."

"Yeah, I guess we did."

I cradled his head against my neck, and we stayed there holding one another, bound by love and by need and by guilt, and I realised I no longer knew one from the other. We were so far gone that if it took blood to keep us together, then so be it. I would damn my pathetic excuse for a soul before I'd let him face it alone. It hardly mattered, anyway.

I was beginning to see that we were already damned.

"I bet he'd fuck you hard."

Inwardly, I cringed, but I strove for neutrality. "That may be. But I thought we were talking about your fantasies, Richard." Matheson's hands drifted over my shoulders, squeezing them in a mediocre attempt at a massage. His palms were clammy and sticky. I could feel his stale, cloying breath on my neck as he peered over my shoulder, down to the gap between my bikini and the flesh between my breasts. I could feel him groping me with his gaze, and I hated him.

"Oh, but this is, Marita," he said, shifting closer to me. The wiry hairs on his chest itched at my back, and not even the bubbling water could quite disguise the way I arched away from him. "This is a personal favourite, watching you and Alex. Maybe with Diana thrown in for good measure. What do you say, Diana?"

Diana peered at him sidelong over her drink, her features wrinkled with distaste. "Screwing Marita and Alex, I can handle. It's the audience I have a problem with."

Matheson's voice dripped mock reproach. "Be nice, Diana. Fox is ancient history for both of us."

Diana turned to face him in a single, sharp movement. Water flicked off the ends of her hair. "You screwed my husband - in every possible way. Don't tell me to be nice." She muttered into her drink, "Asshole."

I intervened. "Richard, back off. Diana's off-limits."

I felt him shrug. "Then I guess that just leaves you and Alex."

That hurt - God, that hurt. I hadn't even been able to make love to Alex, and I had to listen to scum like Matheson talk about it. Talk about it like *that*. "Richard, it will be a cold day in hell before you get to see me fuck anyone."

"Then I'll have to settle for fantasy, won't I?" he said, squeezing my shoulders. He leaned in, his breath hot and humid in my ear. "Do you want to hear it?"

"Not particularly." Oh, please, no. No. I closed my eyes.

"I think he'd push you down over the side of the spa there," he said, squeezing harder. "I think he'd strip down those leather pants you wear and leave them around your ankles so you couldn't move. I think he'd put his hands on your ass and spread that pretty pink cunt-"

I tuned out. It took every ounce of will that I had, but I managed to reduce his voice to a buzzing hum in my mind. Now and then, fragments would register, progressively more ugly and coarse as time wore on. I felt my face grow hot with humiliation. I didn't want him to think of us that way. I didn't want anyone to think of us that way. I felt soiled.

Diana was watching me; obviously, acutely uncomfortable. Whatever disagreements had passed between us, I was so grateful that she stayed. Her hand closed over mine beneath the water, and I held it tightly. It wasn't until I tasted salt that I realised that there were tears slipping down my cheeks.

Finally, I pushed his hands off my shoulders and pulled away. "You're boring me, Richard. Go away."

"But we have an appointment-"

I cut him off. "I don't care. Go away."

"If I'm boring you, perhaps I should be punished-"

I turned to face him and hissed, "I said, go away."

I don't know what he saw in my face, but whatever it was, it brought him up short, made his arrogance falter. He stared at me, compelled to silence for perhaps the first time in all the time I'd known him. He held my gaze for a long moment, and then he did as he was told, pulling out of the water in a rush. I sank back, shivering uncontrollably as he stormed off to the men's locker room.

"Rita," Diana began.

I looked straight ahead, breathing deeply, willing my body to stop shaking. "Diana, I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

I opened my mouth to argue; but she shifted closer to me, leaning in, propping her head up with her hand like a schoolgirl about to whisper some girlish confidence. She said in a low voice, "Marita, do you know what Alex asked me a few months ago?" I shook my head. "He asked me if you were raped."

It hit me like a fist to my belly. "Oh, my God," I whispered, my hand pressed to my mouth. I sat there, shock coming over me in waves. "What did he tell you?"

"Nothing. He was very discreet," she said. "But I can read between the lines." Her look was kind. "You've got to get out of this, Rita."

I shook my head wretchedly. "I can't."

"Why not? Just walk away, Marita. Move back into Michael's apartment. Leave the house to Connie - I'll watch her, make sure she looks after the girls. We'll put around that this whole dominatrix kick was a bizarre grief response. We can say there were drugs involved."

"And what about Alex?"

"What about him?"

"We can be together here. We can do the work we need to do here. It's a controlled environment. We can't do that outside." At least, not without turning rogue, but that was too frightening to contemplate. "We're from opposing factions. If Spender gets wind that there's something between us - something important - he'll kill him."

"Maybe we could barter for him," Diana suggested. "Edward could use him. We could spare one of our scientists."

"No. In other circumstances, maybe, but Spender was grooming Alex as a potential successor. He'd take it as a personal slight."

"Maybe if you were careful-"

"You know better than that. We find listening devices nearly every day."

She nodded, her face grim and resigned. I was right, and she knew it. "Look, Marita," she said, "I have three men in DC that I can trust, and I can probably scrounge another two from Max. Do you want me to bring them in? They can be your submissives - purely for show. You wouldn't have to take any of this crap from them."

I grasped at her hand. "Would you?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I would."

I breathed out, a shaky sigh of relief. "Thank you, Diana." She sat there, waiting, while I grew calm. At last, I released her hand, and I shook my head. "Do you know, I'm only just starting to realise how surreal it all is?"

She looked at me, brow furrowed with confusion. "How do you mean?"

"Diana, we're sitting here talking about bartering for the man I-" I faltered, meeting her gaze and finding sympathy. I started again. "It's like he's a trinket in a shop. And I used to take that for granted - all the assumptions about people's worth and people's freedom and the value of life and all that - I bought into it all." I shook my head incredulously. "I believe in the work, Diana, but there's all this other baggage that goes with it, and I used to buy all of it. Completely." I looked away, ashamed. "That probably sounds very naive to someone who came in from outside."

"It does, but it's understandable. You were raised in it."

I looked at her once more. "And you came in. I had a part in that. I'm sorry about that, Diana."

She bowed her head, regret lighting over her features, but then she looked up again with a bittersweet smile. "I'm not. The work is hard, but it's worthwhile. And I found Edward - he's a good man. He's worth it."

"Yeah."

"Alex is a good man, too, Rita. Please don't let this place take him away from you." I shook my head.

"I don't intend to."

I made my way to my suite, my mind whirling.

Alex had asked if I was raped.

Of course he did, Marita. What the hell was he supposed to think? Did you really think he just blindly accepted all this? Did you think he didn't wonder why you are the way you are?

Did you think it didn't hurt?

In truth, I hadn't thought much about it. I worried, of course - I worried that he thought badly of me; I worried that he would tire of me with my stupid, stupid limitations. When he held me so chastely in the bed we shared, I wondered whether he resented me for what I couldn't give him, but it had never occurred to me that he might grieve for me. I had totally underestimated the depth of his compassion.

I had underestimated his worth.

An ugly realisation, but I owed him the recognition of its truth. I couldn't give my body - not yet - but I could give him that. I could give knowing what he was. I watched him with new eyes that night, thought about all the little ways that he accommodated me; and I wondered how all that looked through his eyes.

When we were getting ready for bed, I sat at the dresser and began to brush my hair. He came and sat behind me, taking the brush from me without a word. We didn't do this so much anymore - sharing a bed had gradually supplanted this as intimacy - but just once in a while, he would see me sitting there, and he would come and be with me.

What was he thinking, I wondered, as he brushed my hair? It wasn't a masculine gesture, but a feminine one - one he did very much for me rather than him. Did he make love to me in his heart when he touched me that way? Did he do it because that was the only way he could? The thought pleased me and saddened me in turns. He looked peaceful, sitting there - perhaps, then, this was the time to draw him out.

"You asked Diana if I was raped."

He looked up, meeting my gaze in the mirror. His eyelids flickered. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I did."

I watched him, and I thought that he looked sad. "I don't blame you for wondering why I am the way I am."

"Marita..."

"It hurts you," I said. "I never realised that before."

He looked back to my hair, evading me. "Mare, we don't need to have this discussion. This is something that's happening to you, and I don't want to take away from that."

"I think we should. We should because it's happening to both of us." It shamed me to think we had been together this long without me realising that. I insisted, "This hurts you. Doesn't it?"

He frowned, staring at my hair. He didn't brush it, though; just stayed there, very still. At last, he said, "I hurt because you hurt. And because you don't know how good it could be for us. I don't just mean the sex - I mean that part of you that just can't let me in - that part that shuts down and shuts me out."

I said nothing, but only waited, watching him in the mirror. At last, he looked back at me, meeting my gaze in our reflection. "You don't know how I could touch you." His voice was tinged with sadness. I turned to look, not at his reflection, but at him. "I would touch you the way a woman should be touched. I would revere you," he said, putting the brush aside. He smoothed my hair with his hands, and, sighing, I put my head back, turning it a little, longing for his touch. I felt some deep hunger in me break free of its bounds, growing lazily as he leaned over my shoulder. I turned my face to him, and his warm breath hit my cheek as he said hypnotically, "I would worship you."

He slid his hands down over my arms, his palms catching on the fabric, dragging it torturously across my aching flesh. His fingers reached my wrists, tracing tiny, lazy, gossamer-soft circles there, sliding languidly over the backs of my hands to cover them, teasing back and forth over the clefts between my fingers. He entwined his fingers with mine, holding me from behind, clasping my hands with gentle relentlessness, and I found myself holding him, responding to his pressure with pressure of my own. "I would let you touch me - really touch me," he breathed into my ear, laying his head on my shoulder from behind, "and maybe I could touch you. If only you'd let me in." I could taste salt - salt from tears I hadn't realised I'd shed, because how I wanted that; and I hated myself for my weakness. We stayed there for a long, long moment, holding one another; but then there was a hitching sound, a sudden catch in his breathing. He said thickly, painfully, "But you never will."

His arms broke free of me in a rush, and I flinched as he left me. I felt naked and cold - and alone. He kissed me, just above my ear. "I need to skate, Mare," he murmured into my hair. "I'll be back." God, he was going to weep for me. He was going to take his pain and release it alone. To spare me. Oh, dear God.

He rose abruptly, stalking to the door in long strides; and I felt some dam within me break. I wanted everything he'd said, and I wanted it with him; and at last, my wanting outstripped my fear. I got to my feet, and I cried out, "Touch me, Alex."

He turned, his hand on the doorknob, his expression shocked. I spoke nakedly, without artifice, my voice low and raw with pain and need. "Please touch me."

He watched me for a long, long moment, throat twitching, face working, lips slightly parted as though to speak. And then he came to me, his hand outstretched, raising it to my cheek but stopping just shy of me. I closed the gap, pushing my cheek into his palm, taking his skin there between my lips, cherishing it because it was his. He made a sound of need, low and raw and keening, his breaths shaky through parted lips. "Oh, Mare," he whispered, lifting his other hand, cradling my jaw with it, leaning in to lay his mouth on mine.

He paused just as our lips met, his breath hot, his eyes wide and shining and fixed on mine. He was trembling, and his chest rose and fell in rhythm with mine. "Alexi," I whispered into his mouth, and I kissed him, slow and adoring, my mouth opening beneath his. His lips were soft and caressing, his mouth warm and engulfing. I drank him in, sliding my fingers over his neck, teasing them through his sweet, soft hair. He touched my face reverently, as though I were something precious, and I felt adored.

I tasted my own salty tears, and so did he; and he pulled back a fraction. "Okay?" he asked gently.

I nodded. "I never knew it could be like this," I whispered, my lips brushing his.

"It should always be like this," he said wistfully. He smoothed back a tendril of my hair. "Like-"

"Worship," I breathed, and he nodded.

"Worship," he agreed, his mouth on mine once more. He took the lead this time, searching my mouth, tasting me, his arms sliding down to press my body against his, one hand warm and firm at my waist, the other between my shoulder blades. This kiss was masterful, possessive; and I gave myself up to it, and found that I liked it. I wanted to be his. I was his. I am his. And that realisation was not the hateful one I'd expected, because I knew that he was mine.

I slid my hands up over his shoulders, pushing back his jacket, and he released me long enough to let it fall to the floor. Holding his gaze, transfixed, I traced the contours of his arms with questing fingertips - first through his sleeve, then, lower down, skin to skin. He was warm and silky and substantial under my palms, and he made a raw sound of pure longing, the sound escaping him in a rush of breath. My senses were alive, and everything entranced me - the texture of his skin under my fingers; his oh, so long eyelashes framing eyes of mahogany, flashing as they watched me watching him; the exaggerated shape of his lips, slightly parted and inviting.

He raised his hands to my shirt, unfastening the buttons there, and I caught his hand, tracing patterns on his wrist with my fingertips as he did so. We gazed at each other, spellbound, and suddenly, we were pressed hard against one another, kissing once more, undressing forgotten, mouths tender and insistent, a lovemaking of its own. "Mare," he gasped out between kisses, "oh, God, Mare."

"Alexi," I said, huskily, my voice heavy with need. "My Alexi." He nodded agreeably, but anything he might have said was lost as our mouths met all over again. I unfastened the buttons he'd missed on my shirt, wanting to be naked to him; but then he was guiding me to the bed, kneeling on the floor before me, and I sat, sliding my fingertips over his face - forehead, cheeks, eyes, nose, jaw - memorising every contour. His eyes were unnaturally bright, and I wondered how long it had been since anyone had loved him this way - really loved him - or if anyone ever had. Could it be that he'd been as alone as I? The thought of it moved me, and I kissed his eyelids, first left, then right, lingering at each, cherishing the feel of paper-thin flesh and feathery eyelashes. He gave a low moan, thick with need. "You touch me somehow, Alex. You always have."

"You touch me," he whispered, eyes still closed, as though in concession. "I've been yours all along." Our lips met, this time hesitantly, tenderly, and he said against me, echoing my words, "Touch me, Mare."

I touched him.

I pulled his shirt over his head, and I drew him to me, pressing his body to mine, flesh against flesh. We sank back on the bed, fumbling with waistbands, casting clothes and weapons aside. Rolling him onto his back, I explored him in awed fascination, tracing the lines of him with my hands and my lips. I loved the way my palm caught on his ribs as I ran it up his torso. I loved the way the light caught the fine hairs on his arms. I loved the salty taste of his skin in the little crevice at his throat. I was enthralled.

His arm tightened around me, and I let him draw me up beside him to face him once more. His hand drifted lightly over my body, languid and teasing. I thought he would devote his attention to my breasts or between my thighs, and part of me craved that; but he didn't. Instead, he found other places - the crook of my elbow; the place where my belly was slightly curved. He held my hand with his and traced the lines of my palm with his thumb, as though fascinated by this minute detail that was uniquely mine. He looked at me, mahogany eyes gleaming with wonder, and leaned in to kiss me once more, his hand still holding mine. This kiss was slow and searching, tinged with awe, growing more and more insistent until my wanting consumed me.

He eased me onto my back, covering me with his bulk. I arched my body beneath his, sighing, relishing the way he filled my vision, the way his warmth spread over me. His intensity was contagious, and suddenly I was kissing him, hard, my mouth questing, aggressive. The heat was building within me, filling my body, radiating through my limbs and my head. It was the heat of sex and lust, but it was more - it was *him*. He filled my senses, enveloping me, body and soul; and I needed him to make that possession complete. I wound my legs around him, sliding them up his body, pressing his hips to mine. He was hard against me, and I made a low sound, long and raw. "Alex, I can't wait - please -" I broke off with a sigh of exquisite need.

"You're sure?" he breathed, and the tightness was there in my chest, just a little, but I nodded.

"I want this," I said. "I choose it."

"Oh, Mare," he breathed, and then he slid into me, melding with me, bodies becoming one; and I gasped at the precious joy of it. He moved with me, one arm curled around my shoulders, his torso pressed to mine, flesh meeting flesh, hearts beating side-by-side. He cradled my cheek with profound gentleness, with awe. "Oh, Mare."

I kissed him, so tenderly, so reverently. "My Alexi," I whispered, meeting his body stroke for stroke. With every stroke I felt freer and lighter, less afraid, less alone. The warmth gathered in my belly and radiated out, flooding my body, and then I was shaking, crying out his name, holding him deep within myself as he filled me. He sighed out my name when he came - not Marita, but Mare - and afterwards he rested his head against my neck, breathing it over and over in an erratic melody.

We didn't speak, but he gathered me up in his arms, and we stayed there, cherishing one another in the silence. There were no endearments, but he kissed my hair and stroked my face and he made me feel loved. I felt great peace, great joy.

Great fear.

He owned me now, and we both knew it, and that seemed like the most dangerous thing in the world to me. But a small fire within me burned, one that cared nothing for the danger, and that fire blazed in celebration.

Because, God help me, I loved him.

And I know now that I will love him until the day I die.

We spent our first Christmas together in Boston.

Ostensibly, it was a business trip: we went to Harvard, and I met with some of Elena's old professors under the guise of a holiday. The only one who remembered her on any personal basis was a Dr Charne-Sayrre, but even that, ultimately, turned out to be a pointless exchange of social niceties. I filed away the fact that Charne-Sayrre was a variola expert, but that was about the extent of my knowledge gain for the day. Simply too much time had passed: Marita Covarrubias, the scientist, was remembered as a brilliant mind, but no one knew or cared what had become of her. I supposed I would have had the same experience had I returned to Oxford as Marita Ekaterinberg; still, it struck me as sad.

I didn't allow myself to be too discouraged. Harvard was no longer a major lead - not in comparison to the diaries. Alex and I made the best of it: we made love by day and walked hand-in-hand through the city by night. Those were good times. Boston was the first real holiday I ever had, and it felt so good to be normal, to do normal things without looking over my shoulder all the time. It felt good to be with him - to feel his hand in mine as we walked along the Charles, or to lean against him on the steps of Sander's Theatre, or to feel him inside me, whispering that I was beautiful, that he was mine. Boston was his world before he'd joined mine, and I loved being there with him, hearing him reminisce, his eyes far away, back in a time when he was free. We stayed there for three weeks - much too long, long enough to exhaust my vacation time, long enough to be missed by the group - but it was good.

"Was it like this with Mulder?" I asked him one day. It was an idle thought spoken aloud - an ill-considered one - and when he looked at me, surprise apparent in his expression, I said hastily, "I'm sorry - I don't mean to put you on the spot-"

He squeezed my hand, shrugging off my apology. "No. It wasn't like this with Mulder. It wasn't like this with anyone."

"It wasn't?"

He shook his head. "Mulder had too much baggage."

More baggage than me? Dear God. "I have baggage."

"So do I. But we deal with it together. Mulder was hell-bent on being just him against the world."

"Whereas we're together against the world?" I said, arching an eyebrow.

I expected him to laugh, but he stopped, releasing my hand, and turned to face me. He stroked back my hair and tucked it behind my ear. "Yeah."

I smiled, slipping up my hands between us to rest on his shoulders. "I like that."

He leaned in and kissed me. "Me too." He took my hand, and we walked once more.

We were silent as day melded into dusk, but finally, he said with more than a trace of regret, "You know, we're going to have to go back to Westminster sooner or later."

"Yeah, I know," I said. "I hate that place."

His voice was heavy with venom. "One of these days, you and I are going to torch it."

"I like the sound of that."

We heard clattering footsteps behind us, and we both turned. Alex's hand went into his jacket, to his shoulder holster, but I grabbed onto his arm and tugged it down again. I said in an undertone, "It's Bonita Charne-Sayrre."

"Marita?" she called out. "I thought it was you."

We waited for her to catch up. "Dr Charne-Sayrre, hello," I said. I turned to Alex. "This is Bonita Charne-Sayrre. She was one of my professors in college. This is-" I broke off.

Neatly, he filled the gap. "Nicolai Arntzen. Good to meet you, Dr Charne-Sayrre."

"Please - Bonita."

I wasn't quite sure what to say. I was caught unprepared. "Would you like to walk with us, Bonita?"

"Oh, just for a moment. I'm meeting someone at the clock," she said, nodding to the Cambridge bank a little way off. "I'm glad I saw you, though. After you left the other day, I pulled out some of your old papers. I wondered whether you did any follow-up work into variola and thymine nucleotides - you had some interesting theories there."

Elena's research. Shit. "A little," I said cautiously. "I got some promising data, but I'm under contract to a pharmaceutical company. I can't discuss it."

"Oh, I understand. It's a sad day when knowledge is a commodity, don't you think? Still, it's the world we live in. Interesting work - I'll look forward to seeing it published."

"Thank you." I glanced sidelong at Alex, a little unnerved.

"Do you still see any of the other alumni, Marita? I remember during your last semester you spent a lot of time with that professor-in-residence - what was her name? The one visiting from Yale? Sally Kendrick?"

"I remember," I fibbed, "but no. We lost touch."

She shrugged, smiling. "I suppose it's inevitable these days. Oh - there's my friend. Be sure to stop in next time you're in Boston, won't you, Marita?"

"Oh, of course," I said. "Good to see you again."

"You too. Mr Arntzen," she added with a nod.

He nodded, smiling ingeniously. "Bonita."

We waved her off, and I breathed out in a rush. "Thank God that's over. I need to prepare for things like that." Alex shot me a sympathetic grin, his fingers tightening over mine. I mused, "Sally Kendrick from Yale. Might be worth following up."

"I don't think Elena would have maintained any of her old contacts when she went off to work for Strughold. We'd be better looking into that thymine nucleotide business - didn't Samantha mention it in her diary?"

I considered. "You're probably right. Thymine's got something to do with DNA, I think - it's like one of the building blocks. That would fit with the cloning and the hybrids."

"It would. I'll spend some time online when we get back - see what I can find out." Alex nodded to the retreating figure behind us. "That Charne-Sayrre woman knows her stuff. She might be useful down the track."

I snorted. "Yeah, as long as I can continue to pass myself off as a scientist."

"That pharmaceutical contract guff was good."

"I think fast on my feet."

"And such beautiful feet they are," he said, turning to face me, linking his free hand with mine. "You know, if we went back to our hotel I could rub them for you."

"You want to rub my feet?"

He gave a mischievous grin. "For starters."

I turned and led him back the way we came. "Let's go."

"So," I said, dropping onto the bed in exhaustion a couple of hours later. "Nicolai Arntzen?"

Alex sidled up beside me, running a hand over my thigh, teasing it up over my belly. "My middle name and my grandmother's name." He lowered his mouth to my shoulder and kissed it, sucking on my flesh there, and I felt myself wanting him all over again.

I ran my hand idly through his hair. "Nicolai isn't patronymic, though, is it?"

He looked up, resting his chin on my arm. "No. It was for my sister. She died before I was born. Her name was patronymic, but when they had me it was more important to them to honour her. My father was Czech, so it wasn't really his tradition anyway." He leaned forward to kiss me.

I drew back. "Her name was patronymic?"

"Yeah. Nicola Petyrovna."

"I never knew girls got patronymic names, too." My brow furrowed. "I don't have one."

He shrugged easily. "Your mother defected when you were three days old. She probably wanted you to have an American name."

I sat up, crossing my arms over myself. "No, that doesn't make sense. What about Elena's name? Ekaterina isn't American."

Alex sat up, too. "No, but it can pass for German. It's not in-your-face Russian like a patronymic. Remember, people weren't kind to Russians here in the seventies." I wasn't convinced, and he went on, "Look, maybe she was missing your father. Maybe it hurt too much to give you his name."

"You'd think that would make her want to honour him more. She adored Papa - she still carries his picture in her wallet, even now. And my mother isn't given to sentimental gestures."

"You'd think so - but grieving people do strange things. Anyway, maybe he didn't care for the tradition either - Covarrubias isn't a Russian name."

"No," I conceded. "It's Mediterranean. A few generations back, though."

"Well, there you go."

I searched his face for signs of doubt, and found none. "Do you really think that's all it is?"

"Absolutely," he said. "What else could it be?" I shrugged, and he leaned forward, cradling my shoulder with his palm, drawing me close. "Besides. I love your name."

"You love my name?" I said dubiously.

He eased his hand down my body, and I arched my back a little, getting closer. "It rolls off the tongue."

"You know, you shouldn't smooth talk. You don't do it very well."

He grinned. "Made you smile, though."

I grinned back. "Yeah, you did."

He lowered his head to my throat and kissed me there, and I sighed, sliding my leg between his. His thigh was up high, pressed hard against me, and I shifted, relishing the feeling. He murmured, "So are we heading back, or are we just going to elope and be done with it?"

All my arousal, all my good feeling fell away in an instant. The tightness in my chest was suddenly back at full force. My smile faltered a little, but I forced myself to stay neutral. "We should go back. Want me to ring for a flight?"

"Sure." He looked a little disappointed, but he didn't protest when I extricated myself from his arms.

Suddenly, him touching me was the last thing that I wanted.

I hated Westminster.

In fact, between Michael's murder and The Den, I was willing to extend that feeling to the whole of Maryland. That wasn't exactly a newsflash, but after nearly a month in Boston the feeling was acute. Gazing out over the rolling hills and the trees to the distant walls that fenced the compound, I felt imprisoned. For the first time in my life I had tasted freedom, and it wasn't enough. I wanted more. More time, more space, more Alex. Especially more Alex.

Diana's voice came from behind me. "They're just like little old women."

I turned away from my stance at the window. "What?"

She nodded towards Edward and Alex. "Look at them. They're like little old ladies with her."

I looked, and I couldn't resist a smile despite my disquiet. Alex was holding Elizabeth, grinning broadly. Edward was pointing at her cheek and laughing. "What the hell are they doing?"

"I don't know. Pointing out dimples or something. I left when the words got down to two syllables." We laughed, softly, in that indulgent way that women do about their men. She sighed, her gaze lighting on Edward. "It's good to have him home."

"I'll bet. When does he fly back to Tunis?"

"Next week."

We were silent for a few moments, watching them. I said hesitantly, "Diana, this wasn't just a courtesy to me, was it? Having Alex as godfather?"

Diana stared at me, surprise apparent in her face. "Not at all, Marita. I know we haven't known him that long, but he's decent. Edward and I don't know many decent people."

I supposed that was true enough. "It means a lot to me. To him, too, I know." Presently, I said, "It's a big commitment."

"Being a godparent?" she said quizzically. "You know, it's not the whole guardianship thing people think it is. You talked to the priest - it's a formative responsibility, that's all."

"No, I know - I don't mean that." The idea of me having a formative influence on a child was laughable in its own right, but I had bigger fish to fry. "But going into it together - I mean-" I broke off, my brow furrowed.

Diana's voice dropped a level. "Rita? What is it?"

I glanced up at Alex, then away again. "He - he mentioned marriage."

"Alex proposed?" She didn't sound particularly surprised at the idea, and that sent my fears soaring.

"No...no. It was just, you know, a throwaway line. But men don't joke about marriage - do they? Not unless they're thinking about it."

Diana looked uncomfortable. "Look, Marita, normally I'd agree with you; but Alex isn't your typical man. I don't think you can apply conventional women's-column wisdom to him. It might not mean anything."

"Maybe," I conceded. A shiver rippled through my body, and I shifted my shoulders, crossing my arms over my body.

Diana watched me, her brow furrowed, concerned. "Marita, this has really got you spooked, hasn't it? I mean, look - even if he is thinking about it, you must have known he was serious about you. He waited, what, four months?" I nodded. "Men don't wait like that unless it matters to them. It's a little fast, maybe, but we're all on a reduced lifespan here." I passed my hand over my brow and back over my hair. It was a nervous, clumsy gesture. "Don't you want him to be serious? I mean, am I totally misreading this? I thought you loved him."

"No - I - it isn't -" I fanned my hand over my face, feeling it grow red and warm. I tasted tears in my throat, and I could feel the tightness rising in my chest. "It's just all too much - I can't-" I broke off, my hand clasped to my mouth.

Diana's arm was around my shoulder. "I've upset you. I'm sorry." She turned me away from the men and pulled a tissue from her jacket pocket. "Come on, quickly. Before they see."

My breath caught in my throat, a pathetic, hitching sound. "I'm so afraid." I pressed the tissue hard to my eyes, stemming tears before they fell. "God, Diana. Why is this happening to me? Why can't it just be - be easy? Like for everyone else?" She passed me her wine, and I downed it in a single gulp. "I just want-" I stopped, unable to finish.

I heard Edward's voice behind me. "Hey, Alex, let's see what Diana and Marita-" and then I saw Diana look over her shoulder, shaking her head. "-bought for the baby. Come over here." Hurriedly, I dried my eyes and glanced to the mirror on Diana's dresser for reassurance. There was no sign of the recent storm.

"Come on, Rita. Don't do this to him. He doesn't deserve it." The words were harsh, but her voice was kind.

"I know," I said, breathing deeply. "I know that, Diana."

"You ready to go over to them?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Come on."

The men looked up at our approach. Alex was still holding Elizabeth. She was playing with the zipper on his jacket, steel inching along leather. He looked up from child to mother with real fondness. "She's lovely, Diana."

Diana laughed. "You're biased." She looked pleased anyway.

"I deny that. I've been saying it for months."

I still felt shaky, but I forced myself to join in the banter. "So you're merely endowed with good taste, then," I said. He held out his free hand, and after a moment's pause, I went to him and settled into the crook of his arm, letting him sling it companionably around my shoulders.

"Yeah," he said, squeezing my shoulder a little. "I am."

He went back to fussing over Elizabeth, and I watched him in profile. I could feel myself smiling. Just for a moment, what Diana had with Edward - what I had with him in that fragment of a moment - seemed so right. So warm. I could sense the peace and the companionship that life could bring me, and when he looked at me once more, I kissed him, impulsively tender. In that moment, the unreasoning terror ebbed away, cold countered by warmth, and all I knew was that I longed to be warm like that all the time.

But that night in his arms, when I thought back on it, the old, familiar fear rose in my chest and tightened around my heart once more.

I wondered whether I would ever be warm again.

"The Den saved me."

I look up at her, closing her journal and setting it aside. She's been reading over my shoulder - for how long exactly, I'm not sure. No-one else could do that - not even the children - but she's so much a part of me that she doesn't even trip my sensors anymore. I can't distinguish her scent from mine, except when I really breathe in and decide to do so. All the senses that kept me alive for all those years go by the boards with her.

Now, I turn away from the laptop, and she slips down onto my lap. I curl my arm around her waist. "How so?" I say, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

"I'd have just found another protector, Alex. If I hadn't been put somewhere that took all my fears and all my needs and stirred them up the way that place did, I would have just continued along the path, and I'd have died inside."

I agree with her, but I'm surprised that she recognises it. It's something I've never said to her - indeed, there are a lot of things about this time that we've never talked about. I wonder, sometimes, whether she resents me for dredging it all up. She's never asked me not to, but she's fidgeting a lot lately. If she weren't nursing, if we weren't trying for another baby, I think she'd be smoking again.

"Do you mind me doing this?" I ask her.

"Sometimes it's hard," she admits, "but no. I think you need to do it."

"And I think you need to read it."

That makes her pause. Slowly, she says, "Maybe that's true. Maybe I need to face up to who we were and who we've become as much as you do."

I don't know what to say. I'm competent on a laptop, but now, when she really needs me to say the right thing, the words all dry up. I tell her lamely, "You don't have anything to face up to," but I know that isn't really true.

She bows her head. "I'm not proud of the person I was then. When you met me - I was a prostitute, Alex. It doesn't matter that it was for information rather than money; it doesn't matter that they didn't really touch me. I was a whore. I was so much a whore that when someone came along that really mattered, I almost couldn't - couldn't-"

I'm floored, listening to her. Eight years together, and I've never heard her speak like this. I'm starting to think we should have talked about these years much sooner. "Mare, you were beautiful then. I worshipped you - every bit as much as I do now." If there was any question in my mind about going on with it, that question is settled now. I will finish it so that she can see what I see. So that she can embrace the woman I love, the woman that is herself.

Her voice is heavy with pain; the words come thick and fast. "No, but you don't understand, Alex; you think it was all done to me, but I made choices! I chose all of that!"

It makes me angry, hearing her bear their guilt like that. "No, don't you do that. Don't you take their manipulations and their rationalisations and say they're more truth than our truth. Their truth is dead! It died with them. And ours lives on. It lives in our marriage and our children and the life we have here. Ours endures, Mare. That counts for something."

I don't know if she's convinced, but her eyes are bright, and the beginnings of a smile flit across her features. She puts her arms around me, fiercely tender. "I love you, Alexi."

"I love you too, Mare." Suddenly one arm doesn't seem to hold her close enough.

She draws back to look at me, her forehead touching mine. "Some of the things you write about us...they're beautiful, Alex. It's like reading a love letter."

"You don't mind me doing it, then? Even though it hurts?"

She shakes her head. "No." She leans in and kisses me, warm and slow. "But will you leave it for tonight? Will you come to bed? Please?"

I stroke back her hair. "Okay. Do you want to-"

She pre-empts me. "Not tonight. Will you just hold me? Like you did back then?"

The words, 'come walk with me outside for a while' die in my throat. She thinks I was about to ask to make love to her, and that disturbs me somehow. I nod, not trusting myself to speak. She rises and holds out a hand, pulling me up, leading me to our room. I hold her as I said I would hold her, but lying there with her in the dark, I'm afraid.

Please don't pull away from me over this, Mare. Please.

Part Five

This instalment is Alex's version of the events of Colony/Endgame.

Dedication: This chapter is for my HaremXF wives, and also Bella Donna, all of whom give me such warm feedback and forgive my tardy replies.

Thank God she wrote it down.

I've relived that first time with Marita a thousand times, but I could never have written it down. What I felt that night is not something that comes easily to me in words. Reading her journal, I can feel the love infused in the things she wrote about us; and that brings me to my knees in a way that six years in hell could not. It brings me an odd kind of grief - grief for something so fragile and exquisite that it must necessarily be no more. That is, until I look at her, and realise I still have it, deeper and stronger than ever before.

Melding with her softness that night was glorious. Part of the exhilaration was just her - her breath melding with mine as she whispered my name, her face warm and serene beneath my fingertips, her eyes bright with longing as I threaded my hands through her hair. We men fill the void in a woman's body, but let me let you in on a little secret: it is we who are incomplete, not them. That's why we madden women the world over with our silence in the aftermath; that's why we sleep. It's because at last we're whole.

So that was part of it - the jubilation that every man feels, whether he will admit to it or not, at joining with the woman he loves. But part of it, I have to admit, was the stupidly, criminally naive belief that it was all behind us now. That the barriers between us were no more.

I should have known.

Twenty-three years of damage are not undone by a stolen moment in the night. Making love to her was a step - but it was only a step. I should have known that the fight had only just begun.

But I didn't. I was oblivious to her disquiet when we returned from Boston. Worse, I concealed disquiet of my own. I was falling into exactly the same trap as everyone else around her - and I couldn't see it. Somewhere, beneath layers of consciousness, I knew the truth about her, and glimmers of that knowledge were making themselves known to me, and like so many well-meaning people before me, I didn't tell her. I didn't tell her until I'd all but lost her.

I don't know exactly when my knowledge began. There was no one clue that made it all make sense. There was her extraordinary intelligence, her physical strength; there was her mother's distance and the question marks over her name. All I know is that it took a single name, a familiar name to bring forth a host of fears, fully-formed to the forefront of my consciousness. That name was Sally Kendrick, and it was a name that opened the way to a legacy of truths buried deep in the X Files - truths about Michael, about Larissa, about Marita. Truths I feared would destroy her.

But it was fear, not truth, that nearly ripped us apart.

And in the end, it was truth that saved us both.

When I woke, it was dawn.

She was sitting at the dresser, laptop open, peering intently into the screen. Faint streams of light came in the window, illuminating her hair here and there. She had it tied back in a loose knot, and threads of it trailed out at her neck and behind her ears, gleaming in the morning light, framing the slope of her neck. She was dressed already, all in black, and her slender hands moved purposefully over the keys. I was half-awake and drunk on her, and she was beautiful.

"You're up early," I said, rising and turning to hunt for my track pants. I found them, stretched, then sat down on the side of the bed to put them on. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Something like that."

I stretched my legs out before me, rubbing my eyes. She went to the minibar and poured us both glasses of juice. She brought mine over, setting it down beside me on the bedside table. "Have some vitamin C," she said. "You look like death warmed up."

"Thanks." I took it and followed her back to the dresser. "What are you doing?" I wondered, looking over her shoulder. "Backtracking over Elena?"

Her eyes gleamed in the light of the screen. "Just going over old ground."

I rested my hand on her shoulder and, leaning forward, I kissed her hair. "We'll find her, Mare."

She turned to look up at me, her expression warm, and nodded. "Yeah, we will." She nodded to the glass in my hand. "Have your drink." She lifted her own from the dresser and sipped it, holding me with watchful eyes.

I did as she said, then I took both our glasses back to the bar and returned to her side. I ran my hand lightly over the back of her neck. "I haven't seen your hair like this before. I like it."

She smiled faintly. "Thanks."

"Hey," I said, watching her, familiar warmth streaming through my body. She turned to look at me more fully, and I felt something in myself go loose and free. "I love you, Mare."

The smile grew wider, more real, less automatic. "I love you, too."

I leaned down to her, turning her on her swivel chair until she faced me. I kissed her lips, just once, and she took my hands in hers. Rising, she said, "I can't, honey. I have to go. I've got that appointment in D.C. this morning. Didn't I tell you?"

"Yeah - Michael's estate." I stroked back her hair. "You sure? Probably wouldn't take long, the way I'm feeling," I teased, raising my eyebrows at her with an amiable grin.

"That's not necessarily a mark in your favour," she laughed. "I have to go. I'm sorry."

I shrugged. "Okay," I said easily. "See you tonight?"

She leaned up and kissed my cheek. "Wouldn't miss." She pulled her hands away and headed for the door. Turning back, she blew me a kiss and left.

I watched her go, and then I lay back on the bed, a huge grin spreading over my face. Who knew it would be that easy?

She loved me. She really did.

"Alexi?"

I opened my eyes. My eyelids felt unnaturally heavy; their sockets felt dry. I turned, blinking, fighting off disorientation.

"Mare," I said at last. "I thought you were in Washington."

"I was. Have you been asleep all day?" she wondered, her voice tinged with mirth.

I frowned, looking past her hovering form to the window. The sun was low in the sky - mid-afternoon, I guessed. I struggled to sit up. "Apparently."

"You must have needed it. Benedictine?"

"Not two minutes after waking up, but thanks anyway." She nodded, going to the bar and pouring herself a glass of wine. I got up and pulled on a sweater, stretching a little, and pushed my feet into my trainers. I yawned. "I feel like I'm hung over."

"Maybe you're coming down with something," Marita suggested. She picked up the two glasses from that morning and looked at them, her brow puckered.

"God, I hope not. I hate being sick." I followed her to the bar and slid my arms around her waist from behind. I nuzzled at her neck contentedly.

"Mmm, that's nice," she whispered, arching her neck, giving me access. She put the glasses down, leaning back in to me.

"I missed you this morning," I murmured. I tugged her blouse out from where it was tucked into her trousers, soft and white between my fingers. "You changed your clothes."

"Hmm?" she said as my hand slid over the soft flesh of her belly, but then she sighed. "Oh, that's good." She turned to face me, a smile lighting over her features, and slid her hands up over my shoulders. Her fingers stroked at my neck. She turned her face up to me and touched her lips to mine.

I returned the kiss, pulling her closer, cupping my palms over her shoulder blades and down her back. "So beautiful, Mare," I whispered. I felt her body go loose against me, felt her lean in to me. "So beautiful."

"Alexi," she breathed, pulling back a little, teasing her fingers up through my hair. Her eyes were shining.

I tucked her hair back behind her ear; said with contented ease, "Love you." I leaned forward to kiss her once more.

I felt her go tense in my arms. She drew back, watching me with sudden caution. She smiled uneasily, then pulled away a little, and turned back to the bar. She picked up the glasses again, the lines of her body taut and harsh.

I watched her with growing bewilderment. Something was wrong. I moved closer, and I touched her shoulder. She bowed her head with a sigh. "Please don't, Alex."

I felt my face grow warm and flush, and my stomach go tight and hard. Just beneath the surface was fear - fear that, whatever she'd said that morning, she wasn't ready for what I had to give her. It was the same fear that had kept those words unsaid for months now - fear that would have left them unspoken if not for a moment of sleep-befuddled weakness. Now, I wondered if I'd made a terrible mistake.

I watched her fussing over the glasses for a moment, and then I spoke. "Marita, have I done something wrong?"

She turned to look at me. She suddenly looked very vulnerable. Cornered. "How could you just drop that on me, Alex?"

I sighed. "Look, I know it was sudden, but you know, you were sitting there working, and the sun was on your hair and I was half-asleep and, damn it, I just loved you, all right?" Her brow creased, and then her gaze darted from me to the bar, then back again. "If you felt this way about it, why didn't you say so this morning, Mare?"

"This - this morning?"

"I know you had to go, but surely it could have waited a few minutes. You didn't have to sit on this all day."

The lines of her face smoothed out in a rush, and she looked at me, expressionless for a long moment. A look of recognition passed over her features. She looked down at the two glasses in her hands once more, then lifted them both and held them against the light. "Alex," she said gently, turning back to the bar and setting one down, "I had a meeting in D.C. at seven-thirty this morning." She poured the dregs of the drink in her hand into the one on the bar. "I drove down. You were still asleep when I left." She turned back to me, and handed me the glass she'd emptied. There was a grainy sludge in the bottom. "You must have surprised her. She drugged you so she could get away."

I stared down into the glass, then looked back up at her, uncomprehending. "What? What are you talking about?"

Marita pushed past me and went to the laptop. She opened it and booted it. "She must have been looking for something," she said urgently, settling into her seat.

"She?" I demanded. I looked back into the glass, and it all started to fall into place. "Elena?"

She swivelled around to face me once more. "Just how many twins do you think I have?"

"Hey, this is not my fault. I'm not the one who decided to subdivide when I was a blastocyst." It was a stupid response, one guaranteed to provoke an argument, but I felt used...manipulated. And just underneath that was worry. Our suite had been breached. Our sanctuary. If Elena had done it, who else had done it as well?

Perhaps Mare considered that too, because her response was rude - and Mare isn't given to rudeness. "Fuck you, Alex," she snapped. She turned back to the computer.

I walked towards her, my voice sharp with rising anger. "Marita, have I done something wrong? I mean, you seem pretty pissed."

She swivelled back to face me again. She looked up at me, her jaw set firm, then rose in an instant, forcing her way into my space. The effect was intimidating. "No, Alex, everything's just fine. My sister was here with my..." she faltered for a moment "- with whatever the hell you are, and not only did you not realise it, you told her you loved her." She demanded in disgust, "Did you screw her, too?"

I stared at her, disbelief melding into fury. "No," I said coldly. "She said she had to go. Which makes a lot more sense now, by the way, since she bats for the other team."

"But you wanted to screw her."

Jesus, she was jealous. Unbelievable.

I took hold of her arm. "I wanted to make love," I said with emphasis, "to you." Some of my anger receded, and my grip loosened. More gently, I said, "It doesn't matter who I said the words to, Marita. I meant them for you."

Her features softened. The lines of anger were gone, replaced with wariness. She said in a low voice, "Well, I don't know what to say to that."

"And that's what you're really pissed about."

She had the good grace to look chastened. "Maybe." She turned away and went back to the bar, and started fiddling with the glasses again. I felt like stalking over and throwing them against the wall, one after the other.

At last, I spoke. "Did it occur to you that you don't have to say anything at all, Marita? That you could accept it for what it is?"

"You'd take that to mean that - that -" she stopped.

"That what?"

She was very pale. "That I didn't love you."

"Are you telling me that you don't?" My head was pounding.

She made a sound of exasperation. "I'm not telling you that!" she said, upset. "I'm telling you I don't know what to say and that you're going to put your own interpretation on it anyway!"

"Marita-"

"No, just go away, Alex! You had no business putting that on me now-" she broke off with a hiss, and she looked down at the bar. My gaze followed hers. The glass was shattered in her bloodied hand.

"Jesus, you're hurt," I said, the fight forgotten. I came over and took her hand in mine, picking the shards free.

She allowed it, her brow puckered. "I don't know my own strength," she said uneasily. She let me look over her hand for a moment, but then she pulled away. "Don't fuss, Alex. They're only shallow." She pushed past me and went to the basin on the dais, leaving me to stare down at the pieces of glass.

"She was in our room," I said at last.

"I know that," she said tersely. She rinsed her hand. The water ran streaky pink with blood.

"She was in our room, Marita! What if she's not the only one? What if they know?"

"I don't know!" she snapped, turning to face me. "My sister was here, Alex! Why are you making this about you?"

"It is about me! I know too much - and not enough. I'm a gamble with no payoff. If Spender finds out that we're together, really together, they *will* kill me." She stared up at me, stricken. "It's worth it, Marita. You're worth it - but only if this means something to you. I can wait for the rest, but I need to know that much right now."

She hung her head in her hands. "Goddammit! Just go, Alex!"

I made a sound of disgust. "That's what I thought."

I banged the door when I left her.

Why the hell did I bother?

I walked across the grounds in long strides, my hands clenched into fists at my side. My nails dug into the soft flesh there; I felt dampness there in my palms. Probably just sweat, but I wondered whether I'd drawn blood. I was certainly angry enough.

Goddamn complicated bitch. She fought and she fought and she fought. Everything was such a fucking battle. Why did I bother?

I felt angry, and more than that, I felt embarrassed. My face flushed, red and warm when I thought of how she'd pulled herself away from me. She'd acted like I'd done something wrong. I felt a nagging sense of shame, and in that moment, I hated her for that.

I pushed my way into the rink. It was deserted as usual. I could hear the murmurs of the little television from the manager's office. I waved a hand at her as I passed the glass partition; she waved back and turned back to her serial, hunkering down with her chin on her hands. You like drama, Lorena? Let me tell you 'bout my life sometime.

Bypassing the stands, I went into the club room and dropped down onto the bench. I stared down at my palms. They were red where I'd pressed my fingers into them, but the dampness was just sweat after all. Sighing, I wiped my hands on my pants and I put on my skates, but I didn't go out on the ice. Not right away. I just sat there, breathing heavily, fighting down waves of nausea and sadness.

I didn't normally come in this part of the rink. The last time had been with Marita, and that was months ago. We'd stood here, turning over Samantha's skates in our hands. Working together. Her brilliant mind, my knowledge. We achieved so much - more than either of us could have done alone. And then I'd kissed her for the first time.

How could she let that slip away? She was killing what we had - suffocating it with her silence and her distance. She was the strongest person I knew - how could she be so fucking weak? I'd thought all this was behind us now, that we could move forward - but now she seemed further away from me than ever.

I got to my feet and went out into the arena.

Stepping onto the ice, it occurred to me that I was getting a little old to be doing this. Racing around an ice rink suddenly seemed like a childish thing to do. I was in the big leagues now. Playing for keeps. And sacrificing the normal, the mundane, the comforts of routine - sacrificing those things was part of that. I'd known that for a long time now, and I'd fought it - wasn't that why I still came here every day? But I didn't know what else to do, so I skated anyway. It might not help, but if nothing else, it would clear my head.

I heard the glass door open. Air escaped the seal with a hiss, echoing through the arena. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her, pushing her way into the rink. There was a cloth dressing on her hand, and she was wearing my jacket. I felt like going over to her and stripping it from her. She wasn't mine. She didn't want to be mine. She had no right to wear that.

She came over to the boards. "Alexi."

I found my voice. "Don't call me that."

A stricken look passed over her features, but she complied. "Alex, please come and talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about," I called. She walked around the rink, following my course. I picked up speed.

"Alex!"

I skidded to a stop and faced her. "No!" I snapped. "No, Marita! I can't do this any more! I can't watch you pull away from me and say, 'That's okay, Mare, I know this is hard for you.'" I stroked over to the boards to meet her, and I leaned over the barrier, pushing into her space. "Sooner or later you are going to have to find it within yourself to meet me halfway."

She stared at me, her face flushed with fury, eyes dark. Closed to me. God, I wanted to kiss her or slap her or fuck her hard right there against the boards. Anything to make her see me and feel me and feel for me again. In that moment, I think I would even have welcomed her hatred.

Her voice was deathly quiet. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to feel! I want you to care, like you used to!"

That touched her. She blinked a couple of times, and the flush of anger faded a little. "I do, Alex. How could you think that I don't?"

"Because back there, you treated me like an intruder. You treated me like some guy who was forcing some attention on you that you didn't want. You treated me like one of your submissives."

She flinched. I'd wounded her.

She stood there, trembling a little, and she opened her mouth to speak a couple of times. She faltered, and then she turned on her heel and strode away.

I watched as she stormed into the clubroom, banging the door behind her with surprising force. That pissed me off, too. Damn it all, why did she have to go in there to cry or think or whatever the fuck she was doing? She'd have to pass me again to leave. Why couldn't she have gone back to our room, and left me alone?

I took off around the rink in a perfect fever of fury, but that didn't last for long. One lap, two, a slower third. I came to a halt in the middle of the ice, and I stood there, my arms crossed over myself, my head bowed low. The adrenaline of the argument was easing off, and the magnitude of what had happened was beginning to creep over me. It settled over me like lead weight through my limbs.

I'd lost her.

Could it be fixed? I had no idea. But I had to try. I lifted my head and turned towards the stands. And then I stopped.

Mare.

She was wearing skates - Samantha's skates, by the look of them - and she stepped onto the ice and glided over, a little cautiously. She was pale, and she had an uncertainty about her that I'd never seen from her before.

She came to a stop in front of me. My eyes held hers.

"You mean everything to me," she whispered. "That's all I can give you right now."

The tension fell away. I felt it dissipate, relief rushing through my body. I searched her face for a long moment. "Yeah?"

She nodded. Her eyes were bright. She took my hands. "I'm sorry I've been pushing you away, Alexi. I never meant to do that. I never want to do that." She leaned up diffidently to kiss my cheek, but I turned my face and met her with my lips. This kiss was light, tentative, with the caution of new lovers who haven't yet worked out all the rules.

We stood there, silent and still together, watching each other. At last, she pulled away, letting go of one of my hands, still holding the other. Tugging a little, she led me off the ice, past the boards, up into the stands. She dropped down, and I did the same. We sat there, side by side, leaned forward, elbows resting on knees like painfully shy children. Her thigh was comforting and warm against mine.

We were silent for a while, but at last, I turned to look at her. "Why is this so hard for you?" I said without rancour. "Was it this hard with Michael?"

She pressed her lips together, thinking it over. She shook her head. "No. But Michael didn't matter the way you do. Michael...Michael was something I did because it was expected of me. But you - you make demands of me, Alex." I opened my mouth to speak, but she turned her head to meet my gaze. "I don't mean like that. I don't mean you pressure me. You've been -" she suddenly looked very young. She slid her hand around mine, holding it tightly. "You've been wonderful, Alexi. I don't always act like I know that, but I do. But you make claims on my heart. You make demands on me just because of who we are together. And I don't always know what to do with that."

She looked so lost, and I felt vague, nagging shame for making her look that way. "I'm sorry this happened the way it did," I said. "I'm sorry about Elena and I'm sorry I upset you and I'm sorry I pushed."

She shook her head, putting her free hand on my arm. "You didn't do anything wrong, Alex. I was ungracious and I was unkind, and I never want to be those things with you. I'm sorry." She looked bereft. "Just don't give up on me, all right?"

Relief washed over me. "I'm not going anywhere, Mare."

"Because you love me," she said. Her voice was tentative, but not threatened like before.

I nodded. "Because I love you."

"Oh, Alex," she sighed, and she didn't return the sentiment, but her hand tightened on my arm. She leaned in, and she kissed me tenderly, and suddenly everything was all right again. Suddenly it didn't matter that the words were more confronting than she could accommodate. I meant everything to her, she'd said so; the rest could be worked out.

We stayed there, holding one another silently for a while. It was a good silence - a healing one. I was still unsettled, and I thought she was too, but the gulf had been breached. I was glad.

We were still sitting there when her cellphone shrilled. Reluctantly, I pulled away from her so she could answer it. "Marita Covarrubias," she said, opening it. There was a pause. "Yes, all right. Half an hour." She closed the flip.

"You have to go?" I said.

"We have to go," she corrected. "That was the Dark Man. He wants us to meet him in Samantha's suite. He said to get some dinner and bring it - it's going to be a late night." She shifted away from me and untied her boots.

I frowned. "Did he say why?"

"No. He just said something had come up." She eased her boots off her feet.

I picked one of them up. "Samantha's?" I said in query.

She gave a sheepish look. "I was in the club room when I decided to come and talk to you. Her locker was there. It was just easier than passing you to get to the hires."

"God, we're a pair of idiots," I said, laughing ruefully. She laughed too. I said, "Do you want me to put those back for you? You can pick up some dinner and meet me at the suite."

She rustled in her pocket and handed me the master keys. "You don't mind?"

I shook my head. "Your feet okay? No blisters?"

"No. You'd think I was born with them." She stood in her bare feet. "I'll see you up there?"

I nodded. "Sure."

I watched as she treaded cautiously along the stands. She stopped a little way along, slipped into her shoes, and continued on out of the rink. She wasn't hobbling, so the skates had been a good fit. That was something.

Frowning, I bent to untie my laces. I felt uneasy and I wasn't sure why. I pulled off one skate, then the other, and rested them beside Samantha's. And then I stopped short and picked one of them up.

-- All I know now that I didn't know when you left is that Samantha had unusually large feet.

-- Nice custom boots.

-- You'd think I was born with them.

"They're not Samantha's," I said in wonder. "They're Elena's. That's how-"

That was how she knew someone was onto her. Because she came to her locker - hers, not Samantha's - and found that the diaries weren't there. I breathed out in a rush, getting to my feet, both pairs of skates in my hands. I had to tell Marita and the Dark Man.

I started down the stands, my mind racing. Elena was onto us. Somehow she'd figured out that it was Marita, and that was why she had searched our room. That meant that she-

I stopped.

That meant that Samantha might still have a locker. One we hadn't found.

I made an about-face and ducked around the Zamboni into the club room. I put Elena's boots back into her locker, stopping to wipe the condensation from the blades. Old habits die hard. Then I went through the other lockers - the ones we hadn't searched the first time, believing we'd found what we were looking for.

I identified Samantha's locker, a few bays along, almost at once. It had a faded Polaroid of Elena stuck to the back of the door. Inside, there were skates - large ones, I noted, with dance blades - and a thin manila folder. I drew the folder out, closed the locker, and sat down on the bench.

The folder was old and tattered, spots of mildew and rust along its length where it had rested alongside the blades. Emblazoned on the front in red marker was the legend - ELENA.

I opened it.

It contained loose-leaf paper covered in Samantha's sprawling handwriting - random pieces of varying size and quality. There were crisp quarto printing sheets, and foolscap sheets brown with age. There were little notepad pages and restaurant napkins and, wonder of wonders, even a couple of McDonald's trayliners, spotted with oil and covered with a grid of creases. An image rose in my mind: Samantha, writing down her observations and speculations, maybe while Elena was in the ladies' room; and folding them up, tucking them into her pocket out of sight. That must have been an early one, then, before they were lovers. She wouldn't have risked Elena finding them in her clothes when they made love.

I pulled a very old piece from the back of the file. The edges were tattered, and they felt cool and brittle with encroaching moisture. The handwriting was less fluid than on most of the sheets - it was big and straggling, almost adolescent. This was early, I thought...maybe her earliest thoughts on meeting Elena.

'E. interests me a great deal. She is incredibly smart, both in the native sense and in the sense of factual knowledge, and she has strong scientific leanings. As far as I can make out from her confused account of her captivity with the alien race, she received no formal education. She is very strong for her age (13) and seems unaware of how unusual her physical strength really is. It makes me wonder about what happened to those who remained in alien custody after my release. What were we exposed to? At any rate, she will need guidance if she is to function in normal society. For God's sake - the girl can't even use a knife and fork.'

A leisurely wave of discomfort rolled over me. Samantha seemed to attribute Elena's strengths to the alien race - but Mare had never been in alien custody, and she shared at least the intellectual ones. Everyone seemed to take her prodigious leanings for granted, but they were there - and wasn't everyone's lack of comment on that a little odd, when you really thought about it? And as for physical strength...well, she was no superwoman, but she could take me down, which was more than any woman had at the FBI. If she really worked at it - if she did weights and track - well, who knew what she could do?

I flipped through other pages. Random fragments caught my eye. 'E. threw a cup at a plate glass window. Broke the cup - and the window. Not sure how much more I can take.' For a moment, I thought of Mare's hand, covered in blood and glass, and I shivered. 'Michael says puberty a factor. Says it will get better. I hope so.' Then, further down the same page, 'Michael says Marita shows no sign of E.'s strength. Odd. I never asked if she had. Is he hiding something?' A few pages on, Mare's name caught my eye once again. 'Larissa put E. on the contraceptive Pill. Told her it would settle her skin. Michael says modulating her hormones will help with these outbursts and the strength that goes with them. But I saw another box with Marita's name, too...is that how they know what to do? Because they've been through it with Marita already?' And, most damning of all, much further on, 'Michael and Marita are together. They look all wrong. Not like lovers. Like brother and sister. God forgive me for wondering...but is he sleeping with her so she'll stay on the Pill?'

What had that report from the embassy in Istanbul said? Something about Larissa lying about the children's paternity to protect her husband? What if she and Michael had been hiding something more sinister? Was that the terrible secret that Diana was so desperate to keep from Mare?

Eugenics, I wondered desperately. Cloning. What is a twin, after all, but a naturally-occurring clone? But Larissa had shown signs of giving birth. What if she'd made a switch? What if she'd been a KGB surrogate? What if she wasn't Marita's mother at all? There had been cases in the X Files, after all...the Adams and the Eves. Hadn't Sally Kendrick been unusually strong?

Sally Kendrick...?

I closed the folder abruptly. It made a slapping noise between my palms. I put it down on the bench beside me and rose. I paced the room. My mind was racing.

It had been there in front of me all the time. Sally Kendrick was Eve Seven - and she knew Elena. She had probably sought Elena out in her own quest for answers. And the Eve project, our response to the Russian eugenics project, had been connected with Michael Harrington - who exchanged intelligence with Larissa Covarrubias during the Soviet rule.

It all fit.

In that moment, I felt absolute affinity with Samantha Mulder. She had faced this dilemma before me. She had known what I knew now: that the women we loved were Russian Eves. She had never told Elena - I was certain of that. If she had, Elena would have this file too. This was a secret Samantha had carried to her grave, probably never knowing that Elena had found out from Sally Kendrick anyway.

But if Marita wasn't Larissa's...if Marita was somehow different...did I really want her to know that? I tried to think about it strategically, but I just couldn't. All I could think of was the effect such a revelation might have on her. She was so afraid, so fragile. One more shock and she might slip away from me forever. And I couldn't lose her. If I hadn't known that before today, I knew it now.

I decided not to share my speculations with Mare.

I arrived at Samantha's suite with an uneasy mind.

Mare was in the kitchen, fussing with takeout when I let myself in and shut the door behind me. She looked up at me, shot me a smile, then went back to what she was doing. I watched her for a moment. I felt sick, watching her, knowing what had been done to her, and what I had to do to keep it from her. Not an hour ago I'd begged her to let me in - and now I had to shut her out. At least from this.

I went to her and slid my arms around her from behind, holding her around her shoulders. She didn't pull away, but she protested, "Alex, the Dark Man will be here any-"

"I don't care," I said. "I need to hold you."

She sank back against me with a sigh. She crossed her hands over mine, holding onto me with unexpected force. I didn't want to think about it - I wanted to just revel in her, take comfort in her - but I couldn't help wondering how strong she really was. The strength Elena had demonstrated could have been merely a manifestation of puberty as Michael apparently believed...but maybe there was more. Much more. It was a frightening thought, especially when I considered the horrible legacy of the American Eves. Madness, homicidality, suicidality...my hold on her tightened.

"I don't want to lose you," I murmured. I wasn't even sure if she'd heard. I half hoped she hadn't.

"You haven't," she whispered, turning to face me. She slipped her arms around me. "You won't." She smiled at me with such fondness that the weight lifted from me - just a little.

The door opened just then, and we looked up in unison. It was the Dark Man. I had the uncomfortable sense of being sprung by a protective father, but he didn't comment. He just nodded to us in greeting and shut the door behind him. We broke apart, but Mare kept her hands loosely at my waist. In an odd way, that made things better - even more than our discussion at the rink had. It was as public an acknowledgement as our lives would allow.

She spoke. "What's happened?"

He set his briefcase down by the door. "We've had a security breach. You and I left for D.C. at five-fifty this morning. Your security codes were used at six-forty-seven."

Mare and I exchanged glances. We said at the same moment, "Elena."

He watched us, frowning. "Say again?"

"You're behind the times," I said grimly.

"She was in our room," Mare explained, extricating herself from me, and his eyelids flickered when she said 'our'. "Alex found her on my laptop. He thought she was me." Just for a moment, I remembered kissing Elena's hair, and I felt vaguely guilty. "We only put together that it was her when he mentioned it this afternoon."

"I was an idiot," I said abruptly. "She called me honey - she mustn't have known my name. God, I even said myself that I'd never seen you with your hair like that. Even half-asleep, I should have known better."

"What did she say?" he asked, coming over to the kitchen bench. He picked up the takeout and took it to the table. Mare and I followed.

"I doubt she expected me to be there, if that's what you mean. She knew about your meeting," I added over my shoulder to Mare. "She said she had to leave to drive down there. I probably scared the shit out of her."

"Did she seem surprised?" he asked, setting down our food.

"I don't know - I was getting dressed. I had my back to her. If she did, she had it under control by the time I looked at her. I'm lucky she didn't shoot me." Marita gave a wan smile, but she didn't seem amused.

"She was on the laptop?" he said. "What was she looking at?"

"She was looking at our report to you - our summary of information to date. I don't know what she saw before I woke up, of course." I held out a chair for Mare, then sat myself.

"Was anything tampered with?"

Mare shook her head. "Everything seems intact. She only looked."

The Dark Man nodded, his expression thoughtful. "So she knows that we know."

"Apparently." Mare's voice was tight; the lines of her body were tense.

"So why doesn't she make herself known?" I wondered.

The Dark Man shrugged. "Maybe she's trying to work out whether we're friends or foes."

Mare said with an air of affront, "I'm her sister."

"A sister she hasn't seen since infancy," I pointed out. "You can't blame her for being cautious."

"I suppose."

We ate in silence for a while. At last, the Dark Man said, "I have another development I need to speak to you about, as well. The two may be related."

"What's that?" I said, taking our trash back to the kitchen.

"There has been a series of arson attacks on abortion clinics," he said as I sat down again. "One in Anchorage, plus ones in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and New York. Among the missing are six doctors - one from each clinic. Each of them is one of the Dr Gregors-" Mare and I exchanged glances, and the Dark Man nodded. "Yes. The ones who worked with Samantha and Elena." He slid a sheaf of grayscale photographs over the tabletop. "The surveillance footage at the Anchorage clinic survived the fire. We got an image of the arsonist."

Mare picked them up and flipped through the pile. She held out a clear image so I could see it. "I've seen this guy. He was on the news the other day. He was picked up by a freighter on the Beaufort Sea. They said it was a miracle he survived."

The Dark Man nodded. "Very good. What you don't know is that he was not rescued from a shipwreck, but from a crashed UFO - the one Edward has been tracking. The UFO engaged with an air force fighter plane, and they both went down."

"I'm guessing this guy was the sole survivor," I said.

"That's right."

Mare spoke. "If he came from the rebel craft, does that mean he's an alien?" She spoke the words a little sheepishly, and I understood why. We knew they existed; we'd seen documents and been privy to some of the work...but there was a sense of the ridiculous about it that was too culturally ingrained.

The Dark Man nodded. "It seems that way. The form he's taken is identical to that taken by other EBEs in the past."

I blinked. "What do you mean, the form he's taken? Are you saying he can modify his appearance?"

"Within limits. They can't radically alter their body mass - they could not, for instance, take the form of a small child. But when there's no need to modify their appearance, this is the form most of them seem to take."

Mare looked from me to him, frowning. "Do we know why?"

"I must confess that I don't. It may be that they are clones - much more advanced ones than the Gregors. Or maybe they have another form again, but this is the human blueprint they're exposed to in their training - in whatever orientation they receive prior to coming to this planet. I have no idea." Just for a moment, I saw a crack in the Dark Man's all-seeing, all-knowing facade, and I caught a glimpse of how big this whole thing really was. Even our own intrigue was probably just a minor cog in a huge machine. "Whatever the case, our information suggests that they have exceptional strength."

I glanced nervously at Mare. I didn't really think she was some kind of shape-shifting alien, but the similarities sent my already-jangling alarm bells onto high alert. I changed the subject. "If he's torching the abortion clinics," I said hurriedly, "maybe he's the one carrying out the hits on the Gregors. The deal Samantha alluded to in her journals."

The Dark Man nodded. "My thoughts precisely."

Mare's eyes widened with alarm. "That means Elena could be in danger."

"Yes," the Dark Man agreed, "Elena, or the first clone. Samantha's second-in-command. What was her name?"

"Carolyn," Mare supplied.

"Yeah," I said. "They're hiding the Gregors, after all. They could get caught in the crossfire."

The Dark Man nodded. "Actually, I think one or both of them might be acting on this information in their own way. That's something that could lead us to them."

"What do you mean?" Eagerly, Mare sat forward.

"I took a look at the log you put on Mulder's email, Marita. Someone sent him the obituaries for four of the Gregors. He's been in Syracuse investigating the most recent death. I don't know who sent them, but I think it's at least possible that it was Elena."

"Trying to get some protection for the Gregors," she suggested.

"More than that. Trying to get him to take this guy down." I turned to the Dark Man. "What else do you know about this guy?"

"Not a lot," he admitted. "I can find out, but I'm in biointelligence. Colonist counterintelligence has never been my field. I'll have to be careful who I ask - what I ask - especially now."

"Why especially now?" Mare wondered.

The Dark Man leaned forward in his seat. "Samantha's journals suggested that the execution of the Gregor clones was part of a deal. If that's the case, then it's being done with the consent of both the Colonists and the voting circle. I can't be seen to undermine that."

I nodded in understanding. "How long will it take?"

"I don't know. I might have to fly to Tunisia again. It could take time."

"What can we do in the meantime?" I asked.

"I'd like you to drive up to Syracuse, Alex. See what you can find out about the victim there. You might be able to tap into his associates. I'd also like one of you to plant some listening devices in Mulder's telephone and his apartment. If Elena or Carolyn are hoping to solicit his help, we might get something that way."

"I'll handle that," Mare offered.

"Mare," I began, but she shot me a withering look.

"You can't go there, Alex," she said. "Not with your history with him. He'll kill you. If he catches me, I can play the mystery informant card." I didn't like it, but she was right; so I shrugged and held my peace.

The Dark Man nodded, a look of grim satisfaction flitting across his features. "All right. Marita, you might as well sleep. You won't be able to do anything at Mulder's until he leaves for work tomorrow."

She nodded. "I'll leave first thing. It'll only take me a couple of hours to get there."

"And me?" I said.

"You leave tonight. You might be able to get something from Dr Gregor's house. Here's the address," he said, handing me a card. He frowned, seemed to hesitate, then handed me another card as well. It contained just a telephone number. "If you're caught-"

"I know," I said. "I'm on my own."

"Not necessarily." He shot a glance at Mare. "I can't make any promises, but if you call this number, I'll do what I can." I was suddenly quite sure that this was something she'd asked of him.

"Thank you," I said, pocketing them both. "I'll go straight away." I started to rise.

Mare stayed me with her hand. "Be careful out there, Alex."

I squeezed it. "I will." Then, conscious of the Dark Man, I said lightly, "Hey. Careful's my middle name." I raised my eyebrows at her.

She laughed, and even the Dark Man raised a small smile; but they were sharing a worried look when I left them.

As it happened, I didn't leave straight away after all.

Walking to the parking lot, it occurred to me that that neither Mare nor I would be there for combat training the following day. Karen would probably have left her studio for the day, but I could always leave her a note.

I made an about-face and detoured to the gym. I pushed through the double doors into the weights area, and trod up the stairs to Karen's studio. Rounding the corner, I heard voices. Raised voices.

"He is an athlete!" I heard Karen say. "He's skated every day since he was fourteen years old." For a fleeting moment, I wondered who she was talking about, but of course, she was talking about me. I was practically the only skater in the place. "She does aerobics once a month," she was saying. "She should not be able to beat him. She shouldn't even come close."

I drew closer, and risked pushing the door ajar. In the mirror, I saw Diana and Karen at the far end of the studio in workout gear, and I suddenly realised how Diana had known what Mare and I were doing in here all those months ago. She hadn't sensed it - she'd seen it before we broke apart. I made a mental note to be more careful in here in future.

"She wouldn't be if you hadn't let her train with him! I never said you could do that!" Diana was wiping sweat from her face, still talking. "The whole idea of training him was so he could protect her! So she'd never have to protect herself!"

Karen stared at her. "Do you know how screwed-up that sounds? Leaving her helpless with the work she does?"

My thoughts precisely, but Diana's reply was enlightening. "She isn't helpless - that's the problem! If she ever had to call on it - if she ever had to use it-" she broke off.

Karen said quietly, "What is she, Diana?"

Diana looked away. "It's better if you don't know."

"Better for you, you mean."

"No - for you." Then, with foreboding, "You know, there aren't many of us left. Who know about it, I mean."

There was a long pause; the lines of Karen's body were tense. At last, she said, "She doesn't know, does she?"

Diana shook her head.

"What about him?"

"I wonder, Karen. Sometimes, I think he knows something, or senses it. It worries me."

"Are you going to have him terminated?" I held my breath - that possibility hadn't even occurred to me.

"I probably should, but no. He's Elizabeth's godfather. And I couldn't do that to Rita - she loves him." Even as I slotted the fragments into the puzzle alongside the information I already held, I felt a little rush of warmth at Diana's assertion of Mare's feelings - along with a flare of irritation that Mare couldn't tell me that herself.

"Yeah." Karen leaned back against the wall with a sigh. "What do you want me to do about the training?"

"I don't know. How's he doing?"

"He can hold his own. I think he'll be fine. Do you want me to cut them loose?"

Diana thought on this for a moment. "For physical training, yeah. Keep them going on the covert skills. Time is short."

"Why?" Karen demanded. "What do you have planned for them?"

"It's more a matter of what they might have planned for themselves."

"You think they're going to turn rogue?"

Diana shrugged uneasily. "I don't know. I would, if I were them." She looked away. "Sometimes I think that might be for the best."

"For who?"

"For everyone."

With that, Diana pushed away from the wall and walked off in the direction of the locker room, and I left them.

"How'd it go?"

Mare's voice was sleepy. "We've got a direct line in to Mulder's. That guy is the most domestically challenged man I've ever met."

I settled back, bringing the phone up onto the bed with me. "You've never met him."

"Okay, he's the most domestically challenged man I've never met, then." I laughed a little at that. Her voice grew gentle. "I miss you, Alex."

"Miss you too, Mare." Miss her - God, that was an understatement. After all that had happened the last few days, being away from her was the last thing I wanted.

She smiled - I could hear it in her voice. "When will you be back?"

"Tomorrow or the day after. I just have one more person to talk to, and then I'm done here."

There was a rustling noise. She was pulling the covers around her. "Did you find anything?"

I shook my head. "Not really. I didn't really expect to."

"No, me either," Mare admitted. We fell silent for a moment, then she said, "You in bed?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah." Then, more quietly, "I hadn't realised how much I was used to having you here. I keep-" she broke off.

"What?"

"It's silly. I keep - you know, holding myself. Like it's you." She laughed a little. "I feel silly telling you."

"I've been looking for you, too, Mare," I confessed. "My arms feel empty."

"I hate this place, Alexi. When you're here with me, all I see is the safety and the warmth we have in this room. But today, I was walking around the zones and I realised how horrible it really is. I felt like I was drowning in the deceit and the manipulation that people do here. I hate it."

I nodded in recognition. "I feel it too, Mare." I went on with slow emphasis, "The warmth is us - what we have together. It doesn't matter where we are, you know."

She was silent for a long moment.

"Alex, are you asking me to turn rogue with you?"

Was I? Even now, I'm not really sure. "I don't know. But we can't keep this up indefinitely. We're going to get caught." The discussion between Diana and Karen was fresh in my mind.

"What if I say no?" she wondered. She sounded fearful. "What if I won't? What if I can't?"

"I'm not going to leave you, if that's what you mean. I'm not giving you an ultimatum. But sooner or later, either they're going to kill me or I'm going to have to run." She breathed out into the phone - a shattered, wounded sound. "When that happens, you need to know in yourself whether you're willing to run with me."

"Alex," she whispered. "I don't - I don't know..."

I regretted raising it, hearing her quiet and fearful like that, and so soon after the fight. "Hey," I said. "Hey, we don't need to work that out now. Just think on it, okay?"

I heard a rustling that might have been a nod against her pillow. "Okay."

That was heavier ground than I'd meant to get into over the phone. I changed the subject. "Look, why don't you get away until I get back? It would do you good to be out of that place for a while."

"Where would I go, Alex?" she asked. She sounded genuinely curious.

"I - I don't know," I faltered. "There's Michael's apartment upstate. Save you the commute to work."

"I'm not at work much for the next month or so," she said. "I'm working on a submission for a congressional inquiry. I've arranged to do most of it from home." Clearly, she felt that was a good thing, but I wasn't so sure. I felt more and more that the Den wasn't a good environment for her.

"You could take a couple of days off, then," I suggested. "Go away with Diana and the baby, if she's free. Isn't there someplace you go? You know - just to be quiet and have space?"

"Well, yeah," she admitted. "There's Wolfe Pond Beach, up on the Island. I used to go there to think all the time."

"Well, there you go then," I said. "You could stay at your mom's."

"My mother's? I thought you wanted me to go somewhere that would do me *good*." Her voice was tinged with reproach.

I frowned. "Are you two fighting? I thought you just weren't talking much." A new thought occurred to me. "Is she pissed about you living at the Den?"

There was more rustling, and the creaking of mattress springs. I imagined her propping herself up on her elbow. "No, she's been curiously silent about that, actually."

"She hasn't said anything at all?" I said in disbelief. Larissa was both too conservative and too controlling to let that pass.

Mare gave a wry laugh. "All she said was that I should be careful. Be safe. Stay on the Pill."

I felt the blood drain from my face. "She said that?"

"Pretty much. I was surprised. I was braced for a lecture."

"Maybe she's finally realised you've grown up," I said, but the assertion sounded hollow.

She snorted. "That'll be the day."

I gave a thin, forced laugh. "I've got an early start, Mare. Can I call you tomorrow?"

"Sure," she said easily. "Sleep well, Alexi."

"You too, Mare. Goodnight."

"Night."

I put the phone back on the bedside table and rolled onto my back. I stared at the ceiling. In the dim light of the moon I could just make out the peeling paintwork. There was a gnawing sensation deep in my belly, inching out through my body in a leisurely, aching crawl.

Samantha was right. About Michael, about Larissa, about Mare. Michael and Marita's whole relationship had been stage-managed with the specific intention of keeping her on the Pill. Jesus Christ, no wonder she was so fucked up. Every aspect of her life had been strategised and orchestrated, right down to her sex life and the taking of her virginity when she was eighteen. Probably would have been sooner if not for New York's statutory rape laws. Larissa must have been so fucking grateful when Marita moved into the Den after Michael's death. God forbid she retreat into grief-induced celibacy and quit her pills.

I wondered how they'd gotten Elena to stay on hers. Maybe they never knew of her preference for women - it made sense that Elena might have concealed it, as part of her concealment of her relationship with Samantha. Maybe she quit them, and learned to control her strength and her emotions in other ways. It comforted me to think so. If that were so, that meant Mare could do the same - and that she needn't share in the tragic outcomes of the American Eves.

I hoped so. But there was no way to be sure, and laying there in the dark of the night, I was afraid.

"How was Syracuse?" Mare wondered as I closed the door behind me.

"A wash-out," I said. I didn't want to talk about Syracuse. All I wanted to do was hold her.

"I missed you," she said, rising from her seat at the dining table. Samantha's diaries, the laptop, and a reel-to-reel audio player were lined up neatly before her.

"I missed you," I echoed, drawing her into my arms, lingering for a long moment. "Anything interesting your end?"

She shook her head. "No. Mulder's been out of his apartment for a couple of days. I called the Hoover and Skinner's secretary said he'd been called away on a family emergency. No idea what that's about." She kissed me, then pulled away and went back to her seat.

"But you're still monitoring?"

She nodded. "We might get something off the incoming calls. You never know. I was just about to check his email."

I sat down beside her. "Want me to keep scanning the tapes?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"No problem." I took the headphones put them on my head.

They didn't stay there for long. After a few moments she spoke. "Here's something."

"What is it?" I wondered, setting the headphones down again.

"A report from Dana Scully to Walter Skinner. There's been another Gregor death. In Germantown, Maryland. A Dr Dickens. It's him, though - she attached an image." She paused, eyes darting back and forth as she read down the computer screen. "They have some CIA guy helping them. Ambrose Chapel. Scully expresses some doubt over his bona fides." She shut the program down and opened another. "Let me run him through the Federal Employee Database - see what I can come up with."

"Good thinking," I said. I pulled my chair closer and peered over her shoulder.

A standard profile appeared on the screen, and I scanned it. Abruptly, Mare sighed. "Why am I not surprised?"

"What is it?" I wondered, bewildered.

She pointed, her fingertip hovering over the screen. "This Chapel guy used to report to Michael."

"Michael? As in your Michael?"

She nodded. "His last assignment was escorting some kind of sensitive equipment to Mattawa, Washington last spring. He's been on leave ever since."

"The Fallen Angel team," I said. "It was in Mulder's files. It was supposedly an EBE, retrieved from the wreckage of a downed UFO. Michael actively sabotaged Mulder's investigation. Mulder believed the EBE had been executed when he reached Mattawa under some kind of international agreement."

"Security Council Resolution 1013," she supplied. "Maybe this Chapel guy is helping our EBE. Hell, maybe he is the EBE. Maybe Chapel died on the Fallen Angel detail and this guy's been posing as him. The Dark Man did say he could take any form."

I stared at her. "What are you saying - that the Fallen Angel wreckage was our guy as well?"

She shrugged. "Makes more sense than there being two different rogue UFOs in the space of months. I mean, they don't exactly grow on trees. And he seems to have a tendency to crash," she added with a grin.

"Maybe," I said. She had a point.

"It doesn't matter much one way or the other, really," she said. "What matters is, our guy is running around killing Gregors, and he's zeroing in on this part of the country - and we know Elena is here as well, or was a few days ago."

"We have to find the rest of the Gregors," I said. "We have to warn her."

"But how?" she asked. "Mulder's away."

"Scully," I mused. "Have you got a wiretap on Scully?"

She nodded. "The Dark Man arranged it before he left."

"Left?" I echoed. "Where did he go - Tunisia?"

She shook her head. "Not sure, but I think it was local. He took his car. He got a call, went all enigmatic, and took off. You know what he's like."

"Tell me about it," I said fervently. "So who's watching Scully - you, or his men?"

"His men - shadow ops that not even Spender knows about. They'll make contact if we get anything. They're covering Mulder, too, now." Sure enough, looking at the pile of reels at my side, I saw that the dates ended the day before. Clearly, the Dark Man had decided that we needed backup. I was glad.

"Good," I said. "Is there anything else I can do?"

Mare shook her head. "I don't think so. There's not much we can do until there's activity with Mulder or Scully." The phone rang just then. "That might be them - I haven't given anyone else this number."

I was closer, so I answered it. "Yes?"

The voice that came through the receiver was punctuated with traffic noise. Surveillance van, I thought. "Sir? It's Unit 3, at Alexandria. Is this a secure line?"

"Yes, go ahead," I said, nodding at Mare, whose eyebrows were raised in query. I held up three fingers, and she nodded in recognition.

"I've just had a call come through on Fox Mulder's line. It sounds important. Would you like me to patch the recording through?"

"Yes, please," I said, flicking the speaker button. "Go ahead, Unit 3."

Scully's voice filtered through the speaker. "Mulder, it's me. I just left my apartment and I don't think I've been followed. I'm going to be staying at the Vacation Village Motor Lodge off the I-90 in Germantown. Now, by the time you reach me, I should have some very important information for you regarding this case."

Mare and I exchanged glances. "Germantown," I said. "She's going back to look into the Dickens case."

"Say again," the operative's voice echoed through the speaker. "I didn't copy."

"It doesn't matter, Unit 3. Thank you." I rang off.

Mare was already back at the laptop, tapping keys, brow furrowed. I came and stood at her side. "I've got an address here - from her report to Skinner," she said. "3243 Edmonton."

"Was that where this Dickens guy died?"

She shook her head. "No - it was on his briefcase. Where he worked, maybe."

"That's an industrial district, I think," I said. "I don't think there'd be an abortion clinic out there."

"It's the only Germantown lead we have."

I sighed. "Okay. Let's go."

"What a mess."

Mare stepped gingerly around a green puddle on the concrete floor. It looked like antifreeze. You had to clean that up after you put it in your car, I remembered - it tasted sweet, so animals liked it, but they died horribly afterwards. But why would there be antifreeze inside an abandoned warehouse?

Mare was a step ahead of me, physically and otherwise. "Look out for those green pools," she called over her shoulder. "They're acid."

"How do you know?" I wondered, side-stepping a bench with a centrifuge on it. The centrifuge was broken. So was the bench.

"Scully mentioned it in her report. It ate through one of her shoes."

"Okay. Mental note not to step in acid, then." I moved cautiously around some black steel barrels. "Someone's turned this place over already."

"Apparently," she said. "But the real question is, did they find what they were looking for?"

I snorted. "I'll let you know when I work out what *we're* looking for."

"We'll know it when we see it," she said mildly, but I didn't think she was as certain as she sounded.

"I hope so."

Ahead of me, Mare stopped short with a sound of disgust. "My God."

I stopped too. "What is it?"

She stooped, then rose, holding up a sealed plastic bag for my perusal. It had a tube coming out of the top. There was a mess of blood and green tissue inside, and something that looked horribly like a foetus in shape. It was twitching. Just for an instant, I felt overwhelming sadness and pity, so deep that I rocked on my feet.

We both stared at it for a long moment, and at last, she spoke. "Please tell me that isn't what I think it is."

"It can't be human. Nothing human could live in that."

"You call that living?" she demanded. "Poor thing."

"Maybe we should kill it," I suggested. "I doubt it's got much to look forward to."

"I don't think I can," she said.

"I don't think I can, either," I admitted. Killing an adult was one thing. Killing something that tiny and helpless was quite another. "Maybe it's already dead. It's detached from whatever that tube was connected to, after all. Maybe it's in rigor mortis." It helped to think so.

She put it down where she'd found it. "Maybe." There was a sound outside the warehouse, and she grabbed for my hand. I caught it, and drew her back into the shadows behind the barrels. She whispered, "What was that?"

"Not sure," I said. I drew my weapon.

The door opened, and a figure slipped in. Light flitted over a familiar face before the door snicked shut behind her. Beside me, Mare relaxed a little. "It's Dana Scully."

I felt a momentary pang. It was the first time I'd seen Scully since her ordeal, in which I'd had a substantial role. I felt fleeting satisfaction that she'd survived it. Her hair was longer and thicker than before, and although she was thinner than I remembered, she wasn't gaunt or pale. That pleased me.

We watched as she picked her way through the mess. She inspected the same bag Mare had dropped. She stared at it, and she jolted visibly when she saw the twitching thing inside it.

Just then, there was a sound - a movement behind one of the barrels on the other side of the room. Instinctively, Mare and I inched further back, but Scully took off after the sound. "Wait!" she called. Then, more dimly, "Stop! Federal Agent! Put your hands against the wall!"

"You won't shoot me," we heard a man say.

I braved a look through the gap in the door as he turned around. After a moment, I drew back. "It's him," I whispered. "One of the Gregors."

"We are the last remaining," we heard him tell Scully. "Unless you protect us, we're already dead."

Mare and I looked at one another in the dim light. "Go," I whispered. "We're not going to be able to get to them with her around." She nodded. We slipped out the door without a sound.

"What now?" Mare asked, looking over her shoulder as we drove away. We passed the federal marshalls coming the other way.

"Mulder," I suggested. "We might get something from his phone taps, or the email. Scully's going to have to explain herself to Skinner pretty quick - protective custody doesn't come cheap."

"More hack work then," she said with a sigh.

"That's about the size of it," I said ruefully. "It's going to be a long night."

But as it happened, we got answers sooner than either of us could have anticipated.

We stopped for dinner in Silver Spring, so it was late by the time we got back to Westminster. Mare had only just checked Mulder's email, and reported that the Gregors were in safe custody in Tileston, when the phone rang. She was closer that time, so she answered, and she listened for several moments before looking up at me, her hand covering the mouthpiece.

"What's happened?" I wondered, crossing the room to stand beside her.

"The executioner guy," she said. "The one who's after the Gregors. He's got Scully. Mulder's frantic."

"He's back, then?"

She nodded. "Yeah. He's got a woman with him. He seems to think she's Samantha. I assume that's the family crisis."

I raised my eyebrows. "Carolyn?"

"Most likely." She let go of the mouthpiece and said into it, "Okay. Patch the recording through, please." She flipped the switch to speaker, and a woman's voice filled the room.

-- "I know this is hard for you, Fox."

-- "No, it's not hard. It's unbelievable."

"That stinks," I said in a low voice - low enough to follow what was happening on the recording. "Thinking he's got her back when she's long dead. That poor bastard."

Mare nodded. "Yeah, it's tough." Her tone was kind. I supposed she of all people knew what it was to search for a sister.

-- "No, no, you've explained only what you had to! I know next to nothing about these people you call your parents or about the man who wants to kill them."

"The Gregors?" I whispered. Marita shrugged.

-- "The men you've been seeking are the progeny of two original visitors, clones who have been attempting to establish a colony here since the late 1940's." Mulder's voice came, muffled, and then she continued, "The community, by necessity, is dispersed. There are clones identical to my parents living in virtually every part of the country. Through hybridization, they've been working to erase that aspect which has forced the community to scatter...their identical natures."

"That explains a lot," Mare said, frowning.

-- "And this man...why has he been sent to kill them?"

-- "The experiments weren't sanctioned. It was considered a dilution of their species, a pollution of their race. So a bounty hunter was dispatched to destroy them and terminate the colony."

"We know all this," Mare said abruptly. She spoke into the phone. "All right, that's fine, Unit 3. Keep us posted on the Scully situation." She rang off.

"Well, we had it mostly right, then," I said. "This executioner - what did she call him? A bounty hunter? He's after the Gregors for their unsanctioned work. Carolyn went to Mulder to try and flush the Bounty Hunter out, but now the Bounty Hunter knows about her instead."

"So he took Scully to try and barter for Carolyn," Mare supplied. "And meanwhile Elena is still as far away as ever."

"She's probably in hiding," I said. "I don't think we'll find her until all this dies down. And that may be just as well, for her safety - and yours."

She sighed, a sound of defeat. "It's just so frustrating, Alexi." Pulling away, she passed through the living area into the alcove that served as Samantha's bedroom. She sat down on the bed, her shoulders slumped. The lines of her face were tired and drawn.

I followed her and sat down beside her. "Mare, you can't give up. We're closer than ever. She was in this very room, for God's sake." I put my arm around her shoulders, and she leaned against me, sighing again.

"Why did she take so long?" she said at last.

"I don't understand."

"We've had those diaries for nearly six months now, Alex. Why hasn't she sought me out before?"

I shrugged. "She probably only just found out they were gone. I doubt she checks the locker every day. She's probably been away somewhere - maybe working with Strughold in Tunisia. She probably only came back because of this business with the Bounty Hunter."

Mare nodded, pulling away a little. "Maybe," she conceded. "Do you think she could be hiding out on the grounds somewhere?"

I shook my head. "No. Maybe before she searched our room, but she'd have left right after that. She must have known we'd put together that it was her."

"But how? I mean, she can't have foreseen-" she broke off, faltered, then went on awkwardly, "well, the way we argued about it."

"No," I agreed. "I'm sure she didn't realise that it - that - that it was a first," I stumbled. "But there was the different clothes, different hair - she must have known there was a risk. I doubt she would have stayed to assess the fallout."

"True," she murmured, and then she fell silent. It was the first time we'd alluded to what had happened between us that day.

"It's frightening," I said at last. "Knowing someone was in our room."

"Yeah," she said. "Mind you, she probably feels the same about us."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we're working out of Samantha's suite. I'm sure Samantha's suite was just as intimate to them as ours is to us." She patted the bed with her hand. "They probably made love on this very bed."

"I suppose. I never thought about it that way." I thought on this. "Do you think she visited here?"

"Probably," Mare said, "but if she did, she covered her tracks. I've bug swept since then and haven't found anything." She seemed fairly complacent about it all. Clearly, she'd already considered this possibility and dismissed it as irrelevant.

"Where would she go, then? Where is she now?"

"I don't know. Maybe trying to get the Gregors-" she stopped, looking at me in recognition. "They're at the Federal stockade."

I got to my feet and held out my hand. She took it, and I pulled her up.

"Let's go."

"Something's wrong."

Mare's voice intruded on my thoughts. I looked up from the road atlas and saw that the car had slowed to a crawl. Beside me, she was peering out over the steering wheel, and I followed her gaze. I saw the faint glow of flashing red and blue lights emanating from the distant figure of the Federal stockade.

"Crime scene," I said. "Looks like she's been and gone."

"Either that, or the Bounty Hunter got the Gregors," she said grimly.

I squinted, trying to make out more detail. "There's an ambulance and a coroner's van," I said as we drew closer. "I'm plumping for the Bounty Hunter." Or else Elena had been killed trying to spring the Gregors, but I didn't say so.

"Looks like it," she agreed. "Turn on the scanner. We might get something off the radio coming out of Tileston PD." She turned the car around and drove back the way we'd come.

I did as she said, still looking over maps. "I wonder if there's been any developments about Scully," I said.

She picked up her phone. "I'll call the Dark Man's boys and see." She hit a speed dial number and waited.

I watched her. "Who do they think we are, anyway?"

"They don't," she said with a sardonic grin. "They're paid not to think. Oh! - Unit 3, this is Unit 1. Can I get an update on the Samantha Mulder situation?"

She was silent for a few moments, but then, quite suddenly, she slumped in her seat. It was as though she were a marionette whose strings had been abruptly severed. She nodded with vague sounds of comprehension for a few moments, and then she rang off. She pulled over to the side of the road and switched off the ignition, resting her head in her hands. "Damn it," she said, her voice muffled through her hands. "Damn, damn, damn."

I watched her for a few moments. "What's happened?"

"It's over," she said in defeat.

I said it again. "What's happened?"

She lifted her head from her hands to look at me. Her face was red, and her eyes were bright with tears. When she spoke, her voice was tinged with fatigue and frustration. "They did a trade - Carolyn for Scully. They're dragging around Memorial Bridge in Bethesda now - it looks like Carolyn's gone."

"The Bounty Hunter killed her?" I demanded. "Why?"

She wiped her eyes. "He might not have intended to. There was a struggle. But let's face it - if he got to the last of the Gregors already, he wouldn't need Carolyn anymore."

"No, I suppose not," I said reluctantly. "So he did get the Gregors, then?"

She nodded. "Yeah. They're gone. Just puddles of green acid in each cell." She sniffled a little.

I pulled her into the crook of my arm. "Oh, Mare."

She gave a long, shuddering sigh. "We're never going to find her, Alex." Then, her voice so low I had to strain to hear it, "Maybe we should just drop the whole thing."

I pulled away to look at her in surprise. "What's brought this on?"

She shook her head miserably. "I don't know. We just seem to be so near and yet so far. It's like it isn't meant to be."

I smoothed back the hair from her forehead, frowning. It wasn't like Mare to be this dispirited. "Let's just wait for Mulder's report to come through the system," I said. "We can pick up the trail from there. He could have found something in Scranton or Syracuse that we don't know about."

She sighed. "Maybe. I just feel like-"

"Like what?"

"Like she's part of...you know. Where I've been. Not where I'm going."

I held her gaze. Wondering what she was trying to say. "Where are you going, Mare?"

She shook her head again, looking away from me. She leaned her head against the car window. "I don't know, Alexi. I just don't know."

We sat there for a long time. At last, I said, "Is it with me?"

She turned to face me again, and she still looked wretched and worn, but there was a shadow of a smile there, too. She nodded. "Yeah. It's with you."

"That's worth something, then, isn't it?" Pitifully little, perhaps, compared to all she'd lost...but something.

"It's worth everything." She reached over and squeezed my hand. "Would you take me home, Alex?"

I did.

Down the years, I have been credited, rightly or wrongly, with being a superb liar. For myself, I doubt that's the case. Certainly, I have never been able to lie to Mare. That night, when finally I held her, all the love and fear and worry I'd been holding in since the fight came rushing to the fore. It left me in an outpouring of desire and desperation and need.

"What?" she whispered at last, pulling away from my ravenous kisses. "Alexi, what is it?" She held me back, just a little, her palm on my chest until, reluctantly, I pulled away.

"I don't - I -" I slumped, head bowed, at a loss. She watched me for a long moment, and then she drew my head down to her shoulder, holding me there against her warmth. I circled my arm around her waist. "I just - I need to hold you, Mare."

She kissed my brow, lines of worry etched in her expression. "Is it about the fight?"

"In a way." That wasn't completely true, but it wasn't a lie, either.

"Do we need to talk about it?"

I shook my head. "There's nothing to say." I traced my hand over the swell of her breast and cradled her there. My breath hitched. I felt rising pressure - in my throat, in my heart - and I didn't really know why. "I just need to show you - show you -" and I broke off then, because it was an incomplete thought, a fragment, and I honestly had no idea what I was trying to say.

"What you can't say," she said. "What you think I don't want you to say."

I stared up at her in comprehension. She'd got it - she'd understood the thing that stuck in my throat and fuelled my desire even before I did. The thing that left me wound tight with frustrated urgency and need.

"You can say it, Alex," she whispered. "When we're like this, you can say it."

I felt a pang. In that moment I felt utterly transparent - as though she could see straight into my heart. "I love you, Marita," I said, voice low and raw. "God, I love you."

"I know." Her eyes were bright. Her lips closed over mine, and she whispered against my mouth, "Show me, Alex." She tugged a little, drawing me down to her. "Show me."

I moved with her, fitting my body to hers. I slid my hand down between us, testing her. I gave a little hiss of surprise when I found her ready. I'd hardly touched her. "You're so damn-" wet, I thought, but I didn't say it.

"I want it, Alex," she sighed. Utterly high on desire, utterly vulnerable. "I want it so much. All - all of it." she broke off, and I understood that she didn't mean just the sex. "I just get scared."

I rested my forehead against hers. "There's nothing to be afraid of. What we have is good, Mare. Maybe the only good thing there is in the world for people like us."

"I know," she said. "I know that, Alexi." Then I found her warmth, and Jesus! It felt good to be there - to be part of her. To be whole.

For the first time in a long time, I felt free.

"Hello, stranger."

I looked up from my drink. "Hello, Diana."

I felt a short, sharp stab of resentment at the sight of her. I hadn't forgotten her easy discussion of the possibility of my execution. I knew it wasn't personal, and I'd probably have done the same. And unlike Diana, I probably would have erred on the side of caution and gone through with it. Still, it didn't fill me with goodwill.

"I haven't seen you for a few days," she said, dropping down on the stool beside me. She caught the bartender's eye. "Cointreau, straight, please. He'll have another."

"Thanks," I said, letting him top up my drink without protest. "I've been away."

"Yeah, Marita said." She took her drink, inspected the little pink straw, and dropped it on the bar with a look of disgust. "Who the hell serves liqueur with a straw?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?" I wondered. Diana snorted, but didn't make a comeback. Unusual for her. "How are you holding up? Mare said you'd been up at the Vineyard."

"Yeah. I'm okay - drained. Bill and Teena are both pretty cut up about it all."

"I'll bet." I drank a little. "Did you see Mulder?"

Diana shook her head. "I made sure we didn't cross paths. I didn't want to have to lie to him, to say I was sorry and all that when I knew perfectly well she'd been dead for ages. It would have been too horrible."

"I can understand that. Did you take Elizabeth?"

"Yeah. I think it helped, having the baby there. They fussed over her - it was better than everyone sitting around being sad."

"Sad?" I said, surprised. "But surely they knew the woman wasn't really Samantha." I was careful not to call Carolyn by name. I didn't want Diana to know how much I knew.

Diana pressed her lips into a thin, disapproving line. "Apparently not. It seems that our cigarette smoking friend thought he was being kind by withholding the fact that she killed herself. They thought she was still in deep cover."

I stared at her. "How did he manage that?"

"Well, we've lost touch a bit the last few years, since I remarried," she explained. "And they've both stayed pretty removed from the Group since Bill retired. So they never found out. It didn't unravel until Bill phoned Spender to tell him his daughter had turned up - that was when Spender told them the truth. And by then, of course, the woman had taken off with Fox and gotten herself killed anyway."

"That's disgusting," I said, but I felt like a hypocrite. After all, I was keeping some pretty important secrets from the woman I loved myself.

"Yes, it is. Teena's furious. Says she never wants to see him again."

"She's said that before."

"I think she means it this time."

"Don't blame her." I finished my drink. "Poor old Mulder. He thinks the woman was Samantha, I suppose?"

Diana nodded. "Yes. They couldn't really have told him anything else, and I think they feel it's best if he uses this episode to come to terms with her death. Maybe he can find some peace and move on."

"I hope so," I said. "Is he still on bereavement leave?"

"Yes," she said. That explained why his report hadn't come through yet, then. "No-one seems to know where he is, but I think the time to himself will do him good." I nodded, and her mood brightened. "Enough about Fox. What about you? What have you been up to?"

"Just ordinary stuff," I said, and for the most part - since Carolyn's death - that was the truth. "Mare and I have both had a lull on the work front, so we're just hanging out...reading...watching TV. Quiet times."

"You're rebuilding," she supplied. I looked at her in query. "Alex, you must realise that women talk."

I shot her a rueful grin. "What did she tell you?"

"Not a lot. I know you had a fight. I know it was a big one."

"I said something she wasn't ready to hear."

"I see." I thought she did.

"Anyway...we're getting through it. Rebuilding, like you said."

"I'm glad." She said, deliberately casual, "Has she said anything about this business with Fox?"

I watched her out of the corner of my eye. She was trying to find out what we knew. Whether we had made the connection between Carolyn's death, the Gregors, and Elena. Just for an instant, I wondered whether she knew where Elena was, but I dismissed the idea at once. If Elena had any sense she'd be working totally alone at this point. Besides - if Diana were in touch with Elena, then Elena would have told her that we had the diaries. She would already know that those connections had been made.

"What do you mean?" I said finally.

"Well, you know," she said, fumbling. "He's part of your past."

"You're not suggesting that she's jealous." I didn't think she was suggesting anything of the sort, but I thought saying so might unsettle her and make her let something slip.

"No," she said hastily. "Actually, I think Fox is far less important than you think he is."

"Say again?" I said, momentarily sidetracked.

"Well, I think you hold onto the memory of Fox because of what he symbolises - the life you left behind. Not because of who he was to you." I didn't entirely understand what she meant back then, but I do now. She was right. And she understood it so completely because she did it herself - with Mulder, and maybe with Mare, as well.

"Maybe that's true," I said. Then, deliberately on the offensive, I said, "Or maybe you spend too much time trying to second-guess people."

She stared at me. "Where did that come from?"

I drained my drink. "Well, you seem to spend a lot of time predicting the future and trying to mould it to your specifications."

She turned to face me fully, frowning. "Alex, is this about Rita's sister?"

I ignored her, changing tack before she could rally. "Did you know Marita is smoking again, Diana?"

"Wha- no, I didn't know that." There were pink spots on her cheeks. She was confused - exasperated.

"There's a link between smoking, the Pill, and pulmonary embolism," I said. "You haven't had to worry about birth control since you got married, so you might not know that - but it's true." She drew back in her seat a little. The lines of her face fell away, leaving a blank slate. She was shutting down - working not to betray anything. Firmly on the defensive. Perfect.

"I don't - I don't understand where you're going with this. You're talking in riddles."

I moved in for the kill. "Her doctor's gonna take her off them, Diana. It's only a matter of time. If you don't want to deal with the consequences of that, then you better have a backup plan for me when that happens."

She was very pale. "What do you know?"

"I know enough." Telling her I knew about the Eves might sign my death warrant, but the threat I'd pointed out to her was real enough. And what if we ever wanted children?

"Then you know it's best this way. You know it would hurt her to know. More than not knowing." She leaned in, voice persuasively low. She was getting back in control. I'd have to push her again, before she regained her composure. "Are you really going to tell her what they did to her to make yourself feel better, Alex? Are you really that selfish?"

"I might not have a choice! Elena was in this house!" I was showing my hand, but at this point, that was a chance I was willing to take. If it pushed her over the edge, if it made her tell me what she knew-

"Elena was here?" she hissed. "When?"

"A couple of weeks ago. Before I went away. She's long gone now."

Diana was beyond pale now - she looked physically ill. "Does the Dark Man know?"

I frowned a little, puzzled by her reaction. "Yeah - we told him before he left. Haven't seen him for a while. I think he's running his own inquiry."

"That's pretty normal for the Dark Man," she said uneasily. She rummaged in her purse and put a twenty on the bar. Her hands were steady, but the fact that she paid revealed how unsettled she really was. The drinks went on her swipe card. She didn't have to pay.

Her manner worried me. I wanted information - I didn't want to scare her to death. I tried to diffuse the situation. "Does that guy have a name?" I wondered, striving for levity.

"I'd tell you, but I'd have to kill you." The banter was forced.

"That's not funny." A month ago, maybe, but not now.

"It isn't meant to be. I have to go."

She turned and hurried away, leaving me bewildered.

I never did find out the Dark Man's name. To this day, Mare refuses to tell me what it is (although she has said more than once that I'd recognise it if she did). But I did find out something else about him that night, and that was that he was vulnerable too.

Mare and I were fooling around in bed - just tickling and teasing. Desire was growing at a leisurely pace, and we would have gotten down to business sooner or later if not for a knock at the door.

I lifted my head from the small of her back. "It's one in the morning," I said in disgust. "What the-"

"I'll get rid of them," Mare said, rising up onto her elbows. She added over her shoulder, "You can keep licking there, if you like." Grinning, I took the hint, and she called, "Go away. It can wait 'til morning."

"Marita, let me in," came a familiar voice, muffled through the door. "I'm getting blood on your carpet."

"Blood?" she said, rising abruptly, bumping me in the process.

"Ow," I said, rising too. I pulled my robe around myself and then handed her hers, rubbing the bridge of my nose with my free hand.

"Sorry," she said. She kissed it with a rueful grin. She donned the robe I'd given her, hurried to the door, and opened it. "What's happened?"

"Just let me in." The Dark Man pushed his way in as soon as the door was open far enough. He half-staggered, and he caught Mare's arm to steady himself. I caught hold of his other side, but he shrugged us off as soon as his vertigo passed. As he straightened, I got a better look at him. Blood was oozing from a half-congealed head wound. Someone had worked him over big time.

Mare led him onto the dais, and I pulled up one of the stools. He sat, and she pried his car keys from his hand. She handed them to me. I put them on the vanity, saying, "You didn't drive like this, did you?"

"From D.C.," he said. "Sorry to get you out of bed."

Mare shook her head, dismissing this. "We weren't asleep."

I reflected with some amusement that that sounded worse, and clearly the Dark Man caught the inference, because he shot me an apologetic look. I shrugged it off, saying, "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

He sat there and let Mare fuss over him for a while. I doubted anyone else could have gotten away with it, but he allowed it from her. It occurred to me that she must have been a very endearing child to have that lingering effect on him.

"So who was it?" she asked at last, dabbing his forehead with antiseptic.

"Your old boss," he said, nodding to me. "AD Skinner."

I stared at him in utter disbelief. "Skinner," I echoed. "Why?"

"He wanted to know where Mulder went."

I thought on this. "You didn't kill the old bastard, did you? I rather liked him."

The Dark Man shook his head. "He's alive. Just a little the worse for wear. I gave as good as I got."

Mare favoured him with an indulgent smile. "I'll bet you did. So come on, spill the beans."

He met her gaze. "What makes you think I have any beans to spill?"

His tone was ingenious, which was hilarious, considering the source. I said as much. "As lovely as Mare's Florence Nightingale impersonation may be," I said grimly, "I'm betting you would've just slapped on a sticking plaster if you didn't have something to tell us."

He offered a rare grin. "True enough."

"That's going to need stitches," Mare said, casting a critical gaze over the cut on his head. "So what have you got for us?" She turned and got a needle and what looked like a spool of thread in a sealed packet from the cabinet, and wiped the needle with rubbing alcohol.

I watched her in disbelief. "You're not going to stitch it yourself, are you?"

"Of course I am," she said. Her tone was matter-of-fact. Totally oblivious to the Dr Kildare factor. "I do it all the time."

"Hardly all the time," the Dark Man protested.

"I pulled a bullet out of his shoulder once," she said proudly. "He doesn't get into trouble much, but when he does, he does it good."

"And I was only kidding about Florence Nightingale," I marvelled. Mare approached the Dark Man with the needle, and I turned away. "So talk."

"Well, Mulder found out that Carolyn - *fuck*, Marita, have you got salt on that thing?"

"Whinge, whinge, whinge."

"It feels like a fucking upholstery needle!"

"Fine. See if I patch you up next time you get into a punch-up."

I turned to look at them again, and winced. She wasn't finished. "Priorities, people?"

The Dark Man made an exasperated sound. "Fine. Mulder found out, or worked out that Carolyn wasn't really Samantha. He went chasing after the Bounty Hunter to find out what happened to the real Samantha. That's why he hasn't been at work."

I frowned. "Where are they now?"

"Battling it out in Alaska." The Dark Man's voice was neutral even as Mare sewed him up. The only hint of any pain he might be feeling was in his whitened knuckles. I marvelled at his self-control. It was pretty damn impressive - if a little frightening.

"Alaska?" There was worry in Mare's voice. "He could be after Elena or the Samantha clones."

"I don't think so," the Dark Man said. "They're in Deadhorse, right up in the Arctic. The Bounty Hunter is trying to salvage his ship by the look of it." He conceded, "He did take out an abortion clinic in Rockville before he left - one with some clones in it - but my impression is that he was just trying to stop Mulder's investigation."

Mare nodded, visibly relieved. "So why did Skinner want the location?"

"Well, it seems Mulder ditched Scully, and-"

"I know just how she feels," I said fervently.

"-she wants go after him. Skinner played heavy on her behalf."

I went to the bar and poured the Dark Man a brandy. "Touching," I said with more than a trace of sarcasm. I handed it to him, but Mare took it deftly from his hand.

"Alcohol or painkillers?" she said. "You can't have both." He scowled at her and held out his hand, and she handed it back with a sigh.

"Thank you." He took a sip and sat back a little. "So assuming Mulder makes it out alive - and for what it's worth, I think he will, because I don't think the Bounty Hunter will want Spender offside - he should be back in the next week or so and we can go through his report."

"Can't we get anything off Scully's?" Mare wondered. "The longer we wait, the colder the trail gets."

The Dark Man shook his head. "They seem to be comparing reports before they lodge them now. I don't think she'll lodge hers until he comes back."

I nodded. I'd expected that. I pointed out, "Things will be hot for Elena now."

"They would be, if she were silly enough to go back to work, but she won't. Now that Spender knows about the unsanctioned Samantha clones, he must have guessed that she's running something on the side. He won't give her the luxury of explaining herself. And I don't think he'd really want her to explain herself. I don't think he wants to hear that Samantha betrayed him."

"Makes sense," Mare said. "Does he know that Samantha and Elena were working together?"

"Knows, or guessed. He hasn't said much, but from what I can piece together, both he and Larissa knew there was a relationship between Samantha and Elena, so when these clones popped up it didn't take much of a leap to work out that Elena was part of it."

Mare was instantly on the alert. "He's spoken to my mother?"

The Dark Man nodded. "One of my men tracked him to Staten Island just after all this blew up. I don't know what was said - he couldn't get that close without being detected."

"Maybe he was trying to find out if she knew where Elena was," Mare suggested.

"Most likely," I said. But privately, I thought it was at least possible that Larissa and Spender were colluding to flush Elena out. There was a ruthlessness about Larissa that I didn't like. If she would orchestrate what amounted to the sexual exploitation of her daughter in order to protect her secret, who knew what else she would do? But of course, I could say nothing of this.

I thought on this again later, after the Dark Man had retired to his suite, after Mare had dropped off to sleep in my arms. It wasn't the first time I'd lain awake well into the night - lately it was a common occurrence.

Not for the first time, I tried to see it from Larissa's point of view. It wasn't so much goodwill on my part as a need to work out where she was coming from - and what she might do next. I supposed that to Larissa, delivering Marita into the hands (and bed) of her best friend, her trusted friend and protector, was the least of all possible evils. Certainly Michael had been kind to Marita. The logic was impeccable. In a warped kind of way, it made perfect sense - maybe the same kind of sense as Spender concealing Samantha's death from the Mulders.

And yet...and yet.

It made sense, but it was all wrong - that was what it really came down to. And by choosing to share in that path, wasn't I wrong too?

No. My mind recoiled from the parallel. I was withholding information from Mare, yes. But I hadn't manipulated her. I hadn't used her body against her. I wasn't like them.

I wasn't.

My loyalty was with her. Not Larissa. Not Elena. Not the Project or the Russians or the Eves. Her. And that meant I was nothing like them.

Nothing like them at all.

"It never rains, but it pours."

The onslaught, in this case, was not of water but of paperwork. Samantha's bed was a mess of files. I looked up from the one on my lap to the Dark Man. "Tell me about it. When did you say you wanted this report by?"

"Next Thursday, wasn't it?" Marita said, propping herself up on her elbows beside me.

"Sunday fortnight," I said, "I heard that distinctly."

"Now that you mention it, I'm sure I heard a month from Wednesday."

"All right, knock it off," he said, draping his coat on the table. Marita just laughed. He came into the alcove and sat in the chair beside the bed. "So what do you have? Anything coherent?"

I shook my head. "Not really, but there are lots of fragments that might lead somewhere." I held up a page, covered in highlighting and my notes cramped into the margins. "There's a lot to cover, and it will take a bit of work to pull it all together into something we can use."

Mare nodded. "There's a lot of cross-referencing between his work and ours. Mulder wasn't looking for the same things we're looking for."

The Dark Man looked unsatisfied, but he recognised, as we did, that it was the only way. There were no short cuts in the work we did. Short cuts meant that things got missed. "Well, take as long as you need to do it properly," he said. "I've got a few hours tomorrow - I'll come and wade through it with you."

"I'll save Syracuse and Tileston for you," I offered with a smirk. They were the thickest files of the lot.

"You're all heart, Alex," he said with a withering look. "I'll be around today - I have a meeting with Diana down in the restaurant. Do you want me to bring you up some lunch?"

Mare shook her head. "We'll be fine, but thank you."

"What's the meeting with Diana?" I wondered. I hadn't forgotten the incident in the bar. She'd been away ever since.

"Not sure. She didn't say." He looked at his watch. "I have to head down there. Do you need anything from me before I go?"

"No, we've got enough to keep us going for a week," I said. "We might head over to Germantown later - it's the only lab we know of that wasn't torched. If we're lucky there might still be some papers lying around. You never know."

"All right. Do you need backup?"

Mare shook her head. "No. The Bounty Hunter got what he wanted. He got the Gregors. He and his ship are long gone."

"All right, then," the Dark Man said. "I'll see you both later."

We watched him go, and then I put my file on the floor and gently lifted hers from her hand. "Alexi," she protested, "I need to-"

"No, you don't," I said. "Not right now. You know what they say about all work and no play."

"Alex, I have UN submissions to work on as well. We can't stop."

"Yes, we can. We've been working all morning. We can stop for a few minutes." I leaned across the bed to kiss her. She gave a reproachful sigh, but she returned the kiss, and soon she was working my shirt buttons free.

When we were done, she sat up, sweeping back a mass of blonde hair away from her face. "What a mess."

I looked at the scattered files around us and was forced to concur. "Next time, we go to our own bed."

"Next time, I tell you to get back to work," she retorted. "A few minutes, indeed." She held up her watch for my inspection.

I gave a self-satisfied grin. "When you're good, you're good."

"You're a legend in your own mind," she laughed, kissing me. I pouted. She amended, "And mine," and I shot her a good-natured grin. She rose, pulling on her now-crumpled clothes. "Can I leave this to you? I want to shower and change before we go to Germantown."

"Oh, sure. Leave me the dirty work."

Her look was conciliatory. "Tell you what - you do that and I'll do Germantown on my own. How's that?"

"I can't see any reason why not."

She bent and kissed me, still fastening her buttons. "Okay. I'll see you later."

"Later," I agreed, and then she was gone.

I watched her leave, and then I rose from the bed. I stooped to pick up my clothes - first my shirt, then my trousers. I grabbed onto the bedpost to pull myself back up, and that was when my fingertips closed on something odd.

I straightened, frowning. I ran my fingers over the area. It was soft and pliant - some kind of putty or woodfiller. It filled a perfectly round area beneath my fingertip - too regular to be a natural knot in the wood. My chest suddenly felt very tight, fear closing like a hand around my heart. I didn't even need to look inside to know to near certainty that the hole contained a listening device.

I groaned in dismay. I dropped my clothes on the bed and ran to the ensuite. Heart pounding, I rummaged in Samantha's vanity, found a pair of eyebrow tweezers there, and went back to the alcove. I used them to pick out the putty plugging the hole, and as I'd expected, I found a bug anchored inside. I tugged it free and rested it on my palm.

How long had it been there, I wondered? And who had put it there? No-one knew we were using this suite - no-one but Mare, the Dark Man, and me. And, if she had indeed come back here, just possibly Elena.

Elena. Of course. She had a vested interest in our work, after all. Some of my worry eased. It was bad that the suite had been breached, but Elena, at least, was unlikely to kill us. Looking over the device, I saw that it wasn't one of the standard issue ones used among Spender's people - that was a good sign.

I got dressed as quickly as I could. Marita would want to know about this. I leaned down to pull on my shoes, and my gaze fell on one of the scattered case reports - Mulder's report of Carolyn's death. Two words in particular caught my eye: 'retractable spike'. Frowning, I picked it up.

'Suspect held victim, Jane Doe 95-2517 (previously wrongly identified as Samantha Mulder), and held a weapon to her throat. Weapon is a metallic cylinder with a retractable spike. Victim had previously stated that this weapon could be used to kill the suspect by stabbing him in the base of the neck with it. Indicated that suspect is unusually resilient and that this was the only effective method of killing him. Victim also indicated that suspect's blood was toxic (cf autopsy report, SAC Weiss; cf forensic report, SAC Scully (shoes); cf coroner's report, Jane Doe 95-2517).' I looked up from the report in recognition. That was what the weapons were for - the ones Mare and I had found. They were to kill the Bounty Hunter.

I read on. 'Victim attempted to overpower suspect with an ice pick, but was unsuccessful. Suspect then threatened victim with the words, "Where is she?" Must consider the possibility that victim had a female partner or partners in her activities. Certainly this is borne out by my findings at the abortion clinic in Rockville, MD.'

I felt a chill. We'd thought the Bounty Hunter was after the Gregors - but it sounded as though he might be after someone else - one of the Samantha clones, maybe. Frowning, I looked around, searching for Mulder's report on Rockville. I found it behind me, half under the pillow. A fragment leaped out at me like a neon sign amid the sea of black print: '"She is the one you must protect. The one from whom we all came."' The original prototype was Samantha - but Samantha was dead. That left Elena - the scientist who made them.

We'd had it all wrong. The Bounty Hunter was after Elena.

Where was Elena now? I wondered desperately. Where would she go? With the Gregors dead and her clones scattered, she would be in hiding, trying to salvage the work. And that meant she would go to the only laboratory not destroyed by fire - Germantown. The one she knew was intact, because we'd said so in this very room. And where Elena went, the Bounty Hunter would follow.

And Marita was there.

Our suite was empty.

The shower stall was still heavy with condensation, and the clothes she'd been wearing lay crumpled in the laundry hamper. She'd been and gone.

"Dammit!" I hissed. I pulled my cellphone from my jacket and hit speed dial for Mare. I waited, fumbling through the desk drawer for the remaining stilettos. I had one in my jacket already, but I slipped another into the knife holster strapped to my shin for good measure.

"The customer handset you are calling is switched off, or not in a mobile service area."

"Shit!" I rang off in disgust. Turning, I raced out of our suite, into the hall. My initial urgency was rapidly being replaced by full-fledged panic. My blood was pumping; my head was pounding. I rounded the corner, barreled down the stairs, and ran straight into Diana and the Dark Man.

"Alex! Thank God we caught you in time," Diana said. Relief was etched into her features.

I shook my head, pushing past them at a run. "No, you didn't," I said over my shoulder. "She's already gone out there."

Diana breathed out in a rush. "She could be walking straight into a firestorm," she said, running to catch up, the Dark Man at her side. "Have you tried her cellphone?"

I nodded. "No service. That end of Germantown is pretty industrial - that might be blocking the signal."

"She might not even be there yet," the Dark Man said. "How long ago did she leave?"

"I don't know - ten, fifteen minutes. Not long."

He nodded. "We'll take my car. I could run faster than yours." I was in no mood to banter, so I merely nodded, taking the keys he offered as we went out the door, and I ran ahead. I had his car unlocked and the engine running by the time they caught up.

I drove in silence for a few moments, but at the first set of lights, I turned and pinned Diana down with my stare. "Truth time, Diana. How did you know?"

She kicked off her heels. It struck me as a strange thing to do, in the circumstances. "I thought Carolyn was working on her own. Last I heard, Elena was in Tunisia. I haven't spoken to her in months."

"But you knew Elena and Samantha were together," I said. "You knew they were cloning her."

"Yes. But I didn't know exactly what for. And I didn't know they were helping the Gregors. When you told me Elena was in town, though..."

"You realised she and Carolyn were in it together."

"Yeah." She opened her purse and withdrew a hair elastic. She pulled her hair back into a severe ponytail. Another strange thing to do, but now I recognised it for what it was. She was gearing up for a fight. "I started trying my contacts," she said. "Finally I found one of the clones - a survivor from the Maryland clinic. She told me."

"Told you what?"

"The reason the Bounty Hunter wants her. She betrayed him."

"Elena?" I demanded, distracted momentarily from my fears for Mare. "How?"

The Dark Man took up the tale from the back seat. "It seems the Bounty Hunter found out Elena was shielding the Gregors - a long time ago now. Nearly two years. He made a deal with her - she would facilitate the elimination of the Gregors and in exchange he wouldn't betray her to the group. So she did."

"With Michael's help," I hazarded.

"Yes," he said. "How did you know?" I told them of Mare's speculations about the Fallen Angel case.

"I see," he said when I was done. "Yes - Michael and Elena and Carolyn were in it together. They double-crossed the Gregors."

"But then they double-crossed the Bounty Hunter," I said. "How?"

"They gained his trust. Finally he gave them information about the biochemistry of his race - their vulnerabilities. They were supposed to use it to sabotage the work on the hybrids."

"But they used it to work on a bioweapon, like Elena and Samantha agreed when they were kids," I guessed.

Diana nodded. "That's right. He found out when he took Anchorage. Elena never told him about Anchorage - he found that on his own. They were working on it there."

"So he torched it and came after Elena and Carolyn," I said. "And Carolyn used Mulder to try to stop him before he could get to them."

"Got it in one."

We fell silent. At last, Diana said, "What's she wearing?"

I stared at her. "What?"

"For identification. There's Marita, there's Elena, and there's a shapeshifter. We need to know which one's which."

"I don't - I don't know what she's wearing."

"What are you, blind?"

"She had a shower," I said, flushing. I omitted the detail of why she'd needed one. "I didn't see her before she left." I felt real fury - mostly self-directed. What in God's name had possessed me to let her go there alone? I blurted, "Dammit, hasn't anyone gotten through to her yet?"

"Still trying," the Dark Man said. "I'm still not getting a signal."

Diana was checking her gun. "Are we all familiar with this guy's strengths and weaknesses?"

I gripped the steering wheel, striving for calm. "Base of the neck. His blood is toxic."

"To be precise, it's the brainstem. About the size of a dime. Get it right, and his blood is toxic for a matter of a minute or two - until he dies. Once he dies, the toxicity eases. Get it wrong, though..."

"Get it wrong, and you can end up like Agent Weiss." Weiss was a Syracuse field agent who'd been killed during Mulder's investigation.

Diana nodded. "For that reason, you don't want to shoot unless you can get in a mortal wound. That's where your hand-to-hand combat training comes into play, Alex. If you need to fight him, you're aiming to bruise - not cut. You can't kill him that way, but a good kick in the solar plexus will buy you a few seconds to take a shot. Got it?"

"You've fought these things before."

"Fought, but never won. It's very hard to hit an area that small on a moving target." My heart sank. Diana was a first-class shot.

"It's ringing," the Dark Man said abruptly from the seat. He handed the phone over to Diana, who gave it to me. I wedged it between my shoulder and my ear so I could drive.

"Marita Covarrubias," her voice came through the phone. I damn near swerved off the road in relief.

"Mare, it's me. Where are you?"

"Germantown. I'm just pulling up at the warehouse."

"You can't go in there, Mare," I said, weaving in and out of traffic. "We've got new information. The Bounty Hunter might be in there."

"Here?" she demanded. "Why?"

"I'll explain when we get there, but he's switched targets. He's after Elena. He might think you're her." I didn't tell her Elena might be in there. That information could send her racing headlong inside.

"Why would he think that? Why would he even be here? If he's been tracking her, he'd know she's long gone."

"Mare, will you just wait for us to reach you? Stay in the car, keep it locked? Please?"

There was a long pause. She said, very quietly, "Alex, is my sister in there?"

I was silent, swallowing hard. I felt very cold.

"She is, isn't she?"

"Mare, I love you," I said, lowering my voice. I don't know if Diana heard or not, but either way, she discreetly looked away. "Please, don't go in there. Please."

"Oh, Alex." Her breath came in a shuddering sigh. From nowhere, she said, "Did I ever tell you I worked out why my mother chose her? You know - instead of me?"

"No," I said, puzzled by the nonsequiter. "You didn't."

"It's because she was the weaker one. Mother prizes strength, you know." There were tears in her voice. "I have to go in there. I can't leave her to fight him by herself."

There was warmth rising in my face - sadness, fear, pity. "No, you don't," I insisted. "You don't have anything to atone for, Mare. She isn't weak anymore. She's strong, and she's been running from him for a long time. Let her deal with it." I said desperately, "Just wait. We'll all go in together."

"I can't. I'm sorry."

"Mare," I argued. "Mare!"

It was too late. She'd hung up.

I stared out at the road, putting the phone down onto the seat. "She - she's gone in there," I said. "She-" I couldn't go on.

"We should hurry," Diana said. Her voice was kind.

The Dark Man spoke. "You've been in there, Alex. What's it like?"

"Dark," I said, finding my voice. "The power's been cut. Large windows give a lot of light on the perimeter, but not further in." I cleared my throat, swallowing hard, and forced myself to focus. "It's three storeys. Standard grid layout - center corridor with rooms on either side and a staircase at each end."

"All right," Diana said. "We take a floor each - you can take the ground floor," she said over her shoulder to the Dark Man, "I'll take the second, and Alex can take the third. When one of us finds him, we call out to the others. Then those two take a stairwell each and we cut him off. Whoever finds Elena or Marita, bring them."

"Calling out?" I said. "Won't that draw attention to ourselves?"

"There's no point being subtle with this guy. He won't be. And if it distracts him from the twins, so much the better." It was a few seconds before I realised she meant Elena and Marita.

"This is it," I said, bringing the car to a skidding halt in front of the warehouse. "Luck, everyone."

I didn't wait for a reply.

It was bad in here.

It was dark, and the sound of my footfalls echoed in my ears. I clattered up the stairwell, following it around corners at each floor. The higher I climbed, the more my panic seemed to escalate as well. By the time the door to the third floor came into view, with its peeling paint and a rusted metal sign that declared THREE in faded letters, the blood roared in my ears.

Just as I reached the door and shoved it open, I heard a cry of fear - a woman's cry, high and keening. It was a little way off on the same level, but too far away for me to be sure whether it was Mare. I flinched, breath hitching with unimaginable fear, and then there was a long, low wail of pain.

I pushed past the door and forced my way into the corridor, but my movements felt sluggish...impotent. I might have called her name. I'm not sure. The Bounty Hunter emerged from a doorway about halfway down. Sunlight streamed through the opening, and I could see a stiletto in his hand. The spike was exposed and stained with red. He saw me, turned, and ran in the other direction. I watched him, rooted to the spot, as he disappeared down the other stairwell.

The woman's cry came again, and suddenly I could move again. I raced down there in a frenzy of panic, breaths coming in rapid bursts. I rounded the corner through the door, and then I saw her, slumped on the floor by the window.

My heart stopped. For one endless moment, I stared at her, transfixed. It was a life-changing moment - a moment where all I had and all I'd done and all I knew came together in a single instant. I suspect that death will be a little like that moment.

She watched me. Blood was seeping out along her belly, and she was terribly pale. She met my gaze, and recognition flooded her features. "Alex."

The spell broke. Suddenly, I could breathe again - breathe, and grieve. I clasped my hand over my mouth. "Mare," said hoarsely, running to her side. I dropped down beside her. "Oh, God, Mare, don't leave me, don't-" I pulled her against me, my face red and warm, tears very close. "Oh, God."

She was pushing at me, pushing me back so I could see her. "Not Marita."

A little part of me will always hate myself for the rush of relief I felt in that moment.

"Elena?"

Her jaw was tense, and her hands were clenched against the pain, but she managed a wan smile. "I thought when you loved someone you could tell the difference."

I smoothed back her hair. God, the resemblance. It was uncanny. "I think that only happens in the movies."

Laughter bubbled up out of her mouth. A thin trail of blood trickled from the corner of her lips. "You should go and help her," she said. Her breaths were coming in erratic wheezes. "You must want to."

I shook my head. "Marita wouldn't want you to be alone." I couldn't leave her. The very idea made me feel ill, deep down in my stomach. It would be like leaving Mare. "Diana and the Dark Man love her. I trust them to find her."

"I told her to go," she said. "I told her to get away. I want her to live."

"She will," I said. "So will you."

Elena shook her head. "The end's been coming," she said, labourious and slow. "It's been coming for a while. Poor Carolyn was all I had left, you know. Since Samantha died - and then Michael - I've been - I've been so alone." I wiped the blood from her mouth, and she managed a smile in reply. "Spender blamed me for Samantha. Blamed our...our lifestyle." Her lip curled a little. "Mother didn't approve either. Michael was the only one left to protect me, and he was estranged from the group himself, that last year. And then - then they killed him." Tears slipped down her cheeks. "So many people gone. I'm the last one left." Her face crumpled a little, and she wept, "You and Marita are just at the beginning. You don't know how high the cost is yet."

"We're learning that pretty fast," I said sadly. "Damn it, Elena, this isn't fair."

She shook her head. "I want to be with Samantha. I loved her so goddamn much. These last couple of years without her..." Incredibly, she smiled. "You know, I always wanted to be...to be the one to save the world. Not just to do my little bit and die and never know if it helped. I wanted to be the one who finished the work - saw it succeed. You know?" I nodded. Understanding perfectly. "Now...I don't want that burden, Alex. I don't want to fight anymore." The blood trickling from her mouth was faster and thicker and darker now. "Marita is the strong one. Who knows? One day when all this is over, maybe she'll still be standing."

"Maybe. I hope so."

"Me too." Her face contorted with sudden, wracking pain. "You have to kill this guy," she blurted. "He knows what we are. If he gets that information out-"

"She'll never be safe again." She nodded. "Elena," I said urgently, "what happens if she stops the pills?"

"I don't...I don't know. I never dared. Sally told me not to." She groped for my arm. "Alex, you have to tell her there are more of us."

More? Oh, God. "No. No, I can't do that."

Her eyelids were drooping. She blinked them. Fighting for consciousness. "You have to."

"It would destroy her." There were tears rising in my throat. I knew it wasn't Mare there in my arms, I *knew* it, and yet-

"It would set her free." She gripped my hand. "Promise me."

It was a lie - I knew it was a lie before I said it - but I didn't have the heart to say no. "I'll tell her," I said. "I'll tell her, Elena." My tears were coming thick and fast; the lines between Elena and Marita were becoming blurred in my mind. I cradled her against me. "I'm sorry. God, Mare, I'm sorry."

I stayed there, weeping over her in the streaming light.

I was relieved when she died.

I hated myself for it, but as soon as it was over, I let her down as gently as I could, and I ran. I left her there, abandoned her like a faithless lover, and I fled out the doorway, down the hall.

"Alex!" I heard Diana cry out. "I've got him on Two! Cut him off from the north!"

I ran down the stairs, still wiping my eyes with my hands, and forced my way in the door the next floor down. About halfway down the corridor, Diana was pinned to the floor, the Bounty Hunter thrashing over her, his hands tight around her throat. She gouged at his face with her hands, and he drew back, just for an instant. It was enough. She got in one swift knee to his stomach and managed to roll free.

I pulled my stiletto from my jacket and advanced on them, my gaze trained on his. Agony was fast making way for anger. I wanted this guy. I wanted him bad.

He turned away, heading for the south stairwell. But then the Dark Man appeared in the doorway, and he turned back again, slipping into one of the storerooms to the side.

"No!" Diana cried. "Rita's in there!"

That was all the impetus I needed. I ran to the doorway, Diana and the Dark Man close on my heels, and then I faltered. The others came to a sudden halt behind me, staring with me at what we saw there in the light.

Two Maritas.

"Mare," I said breathlessly. I looked at their clothes, searching for some way to tell them apart. Both wore black. I couldn't see any telltale clues. Had I seen her wear those jeans, I wondered? Had I seen her wear those shoes? I cursed my lack of attention.

I stepped forward, my stiletto in my hand. I pointed it downwards, walking towards them, very slowly. They stood a few feet apart, holding my gaze as I approached them. As I walked, my footfalls reverberating in my ears, I hated them both. Him for making me choose. Her for making me love so much. Hurt so much. Hurt over hurt over hurt. Just for a second, it seemed like more hurt than any one person could bear.

"Alex," said the one on my right. There was fear in her voice - but fear of me, or of the other one? If I tried to second-guess this, I'd get it wrong. I had to work on instinct.

"Alex," said the one on my left. "Thank God you're here."

"Alex, she wants to kill me. She hurt my sister."

"She's lying, Alex. It was her!"

"Alex, Alex, you know me, please-"

"I love you, Alex, please don't do this." That was the one on my left.

That decided me. I stalked forward to the Marita on my right, raising the stiletto, and grabbed her by the shoulder with my hand. She flinched, and I shoved her. "Down!" I yelled, whirling over her body to stab the other in the back of the neck.

She looked at me with supreme surprise, eyes wide, and my eyes stung as she began to bleed. I thrust myself down over Marita, pulling my jacket over our heads, holding her against the floor. She was shaking.

We stayed there for long, long moments. I could feel her, slumped there beneath me against the wooden floorboards, limbs limp and fluid. "Oh, God," she moaned in a wounded, hurting voice. She turned her face to mine, groping blindly for me, and I found flesh there in the dark. I kissed it. It tasted of tears. "Oh, God."

At last, I heard Diana's voice, muffled through leather. "Alex? Rita? It's safe, I think."

Cautiously, I pulled back my jacket. There was some residual acid in the air - my eyes watered a little - but I nodded. "It seems okay." I sat up, and Marita did the same.

I looked over to where the other Marita had been. She (he, I corrected, he) was just a lump of green tissue. Blonde strands of hair emerged from the mess. Staring at it, I felt sick.

"Oh, my God," Mare whispered.

I pulled her close. "It's okay, it's okay," I said. "I'm sorry I frightened you."

She slumped against me, her face deep in my chest, arms wrapped around my waist. "I thought - I thought you were going to-"

"I know. I'm so sorry. I'd never hurt you, Mare."

"Elena?" she whispered, tilting her head up to face me.

I stroked back her hair. "She's gone, Mare." Her face crumpled, and I said, "I was with her. She died in my arms. She said she loved you, and she said she wanted to be with Samantha - she said -" and then my eyes were wet. "I held her - it was like she was you-"

"Oh, Alex." Tears streamed down her cheeks. She sank against me, weeping piteously, and I held her tight.

We stayed there, clinging to each other for a long time; but finally, her hitching sobs began to die away, trailing off into sniffles and hiccups. The Dark Man cleared his throat. We looked up at him, and he said, "I know this is difficult for you both, but we need to get out of here." His voice was surprisingly gentle.

I looked at Mare. Her face was upturned, facing me in the fading sunlight, wet and etched with grief. She nodded, and reluctantly, she broke away. She took the hand Diana offered her and got to her feet, a little unsteadily. Diana drew her into the crook of her arm.

I rose as well, and started off in the direction of the stairwell, but Mare's voice stopped me. "Alex?"

I turned, holding her gaze.

"How did you know, Alex? How did you know which one was me?"

I looked at her, stricken, and all at once I felt the chaos of anger and grief and fear rise in my chest. I burst out, "You would never have said what she said, Marita!" She was suddenly very white. "Not even if it were true."

The animation fell out of her face in an instant. Like she'd donned a mask. "You're wrong, Alex," she said. "But I won't say it to someone who'd use it to stab me in the back."

"What do you think that was like for me, Marita?" I demanded. "To have to make that choice? What do you think it was like for me to take a spike and shove it into your neck?" She stared at me in dawning horror, and suddenly the despair broke through my voice. "It doesn't matter that it wasn't really you. I had to live it and - and feel it! I lost you twice, and the fact that by the grace of God you're still standing here doesn't change that!" Her eyes were suddenly red and wet again, and I felt like a jerk for laying that on her now. The discomforted look that passed between Diana and the Dark Man seemed to confirm it.

"Look," I said awkwardly, "we don't have time for this. We've got to get Elena out of here."

"Fine," she said. She seemed to have retreated into Diana's embrace.

More gently, I said, "I know someone at a crematorium - someone who'll look the other way. It's not ideal, but it's better than-" dumping her in a furnace or a river somewhere, I thought, but I didn't say it.

"Thank you," she said colourlessly.

"I'll take care of it," I said. "You and Diana go home."

She shook her head, shrugging free of Diana's arm, coming to meet me. "She's my sister. We'll do it together."

"All right." She turned towards the stairwell, but I caught her wrist. "Mare, I'm sorry."

She took my hand in hers, but the warmth I felt there didn't reach her eyes. "Me, too."

We went upstairs, and we saw to Elena together.

When I finish, the house is in darkness.

I'm not sure when the lights went off. Mare doesn't like to disturb me when I'm writing, but it's not like her to go to bed without saying goodnight. Perhaps she fell asleep with the baby.

I hear a door open and small feet padding down the hall. I'm aware of it, but surreptitious sounds don't make me jump for my gun the way they used to. The look on Gibson's face when I pulled a weapon on him was enough to cure me of that. I still carry one, of course - some habits never change - but my vigilance is tempered now.

Elizabeth emerges and slips into the kitchen. She probably doesn't realise that she's been seen - half an hour earlier I would have noted and dismissed the sounds without a conscious thought. I hear the refrigerator door open and close, and then she passes back into the lounge once more.

"You okay, Bethie?"

She looks up, visibly startled, then relaxes. Coffee-coloured hair trails down her back, and for just a moment I have a clear memory of her mother. A short, sharp stab of grief passes through me, then evaporates in an instant. I swallow hard as she ambles over, drink in hand.

"Don't call me Bethie," she says. "Just getting some water." She peers over my shoulder at the laptop, and I half-close it so she can't see. "What are you writing about?"

"Right now? The time that Mare's sister died."

"Oh." Elizabeth considers. "Was Mummy there?"

"Yeah, your mom was there. She was pretty brave." I say in a conspiratorial whisper, "This guy was giving us trouble, and she kicked his ass."

She giggles. "Where was I?"

"You were safe at home with your papa. You were only a baby."

"I wish I had been there."

The naivete of it makes me smile. "She wouldn't have wanted you there, Beth."

"Why not?" she demands, all eight years of her drawn up into one indignant reply.

"Because when you're in danger, sometimes you have to do ugly things, and she wouldn't have wanted you to see that."

She frowns. "Like killing bad people?" Not for the first time, I wonder how much she knows - and how much Gibson has told her.

I don't like telling her this, but I opened the subject, so I have only myself to blame. I say reluctantly, "If they're trying to kill you or someone you love, yeah."

"Did Mummy ever kill anyone?"

"No, she didn't." As far as I know, that's the truth.

"Oh." I'm not sure whether she's relieved or disappointed. It's hard to tell with kids sometimes - especially this one. She takes a drink from her glass. After a minute or two, she asks, "Why do you write it all down?"

"Well, it started like a letter to someone. Someone we know in America - you know Walter? The one who sent us those things that belonged to your mom." Either of the boys would be on my lap by now, but Elizabeth wouldn't like that. She's thawed considerably, but she'll never see me as her father.

"Her FBI badge. I remember." Diana's badge - God, she even sleeps with that thing sometimes.

"Yeah. We wrote to him and told him a lot of things - things he needed to know, and things about why we did some of the things we did. I guess we found that it was good to write. It was good to remember your mom, and it was good to look back on things and work out why they happened they way they did."

"Oh," she says. "Can I read it?"

I think on this for a moment. "One day, when you're older." I make a mental note to edit out the sex.

"How old?"

"I don't know. Gibson's age, maybe."

"Okay." She drains her glass, turns away, and takes it back into the kitchen. Pad, pad, pad. One of the cats meows and trots out after her.

When she returns, she heads back towards the hall. On impulse, I say, "You look like her, Elizabeth."

She turns to face me, a pretty smile spreading across her face. "I do?"

"Yeah."

She comes over and kisses my cheek. "Goodnight, Alex."

"Goodnight, Beth."

Author's Note: Needless to say, you won't reach either Alex or X at sia2ra@hotmail.com. I took the user ID myself just to be safe, but I won't be checking it. Sorry *g*. I can't remember whether hotmail was in operation in 1994 - I know it was by 1996 - so please forgive me if I've made a continuity error there. I'm pretty sure I still have better continuity than Chris Carter.

I think it's necessary, in the interests of good communication with my friends in the BDSM fic community, to clarify something about this story. I think it's pretty clear in the text anyway, but I want to say it for the record. Although domination/submission issues are touched on, this is not a story about D&S. It's a story (in part) about sexual dysfunction compounded by a sexually dysfunctional environment. D&S is not to blame for Marita's issues - in fact, had she been in a true D&S environment with its strong boundaries and self-awareness, those issues might have been resolved. The faux-D&S she practiced at the Den compounded her problems precisely because of the lack of those boundaries and a lack of adherence to D&S principles by its participants. As Mare herself put it in Chapter 4, they weren't really D&S participants - they were dirty old men who wanted to believe they were walking on the wild side, and therein lay much of the problem. The Den was ultimately a sexually exploitative environment for all concerned. That said, the faux-D&S angle was probably the least destructive way she could have functioned in the Den (and the Dark Man seemed to have an insight into that himself in Ch 2). I think in its own obscure way that it helped her by conceptually teasing out the difference between being controlled and choosing to give of one's self as an expression of trust, as we saw in Ch 4. (True D&S, of course, is very much the latter). Certainly that was my intention and my implication, but I wasn't able to spell that out explicitly within the fic without intruding into Alex and Marita's story. So I felt it was important to clarify that here. Thanks for bearing with me. -- Deslea